“I thought you were already in the army,” said the Duke.
“So I am; — was on Sir Bartholomew Bone’s staff in Canada for two years, and have seen as much of what I call home service as any man going. One of my chief objects is to take up the army.”
“It seems that you have taken it up.”
“I mean in Parliament, your Grace. I am very fairly off as regards private means, and would stand all the racket of the expense of a contest myself, — if there were one. But the difficulty is to get a seat, and, of course, if it can be privately managed, it is very comfortable.” The Duke looked at him again, — this time without bowing. But the Major, who was not observant, rushed on to his destruction. “We all know that Silverbridge will soon be vacant. Let me assure your Grace that if it might be consistent with your Grace’s plans in other respects to turn your kind countenance towards me, you would find that you would have a supporter than whom none would be more staunch, and perhaps I may say, one who in the House would not be the least useful!” That portion of the Major’s speech which referred to the Duke’s kind countenance had been learned by heart, and was thrown trippingly off the tongue with a kind of twang. The Major had perceived that he had not been at once interrupted when he began to open the budget of his political aspirations, and had allowed himself to indulge in pleasing auguries. “Nothing ask and nothing have,” had been adopted as the motto of his life, and more than once he had expressed to Captain Gunner his conviction that, — “By George, if you’ve only cheek enough, there is nothing you cannot get.” On this emergency the Major certainly was not deficient in cheek. “If I might be allowed to consider myself your Grace’s candidate, I should indeed be a happy man,” said the Major.
“I think, sir,” said the Duke, “that your proposition is the most unbecoming and the most impertinent that ever was addressed to me.” The Major’s mouth fell, and he stared with all his eyes as he looked up into the Duke’s face. “Good afternoon,” said the Duke, turning quickly round and walking away. The Major stood for a while transfixed to the place, and, cold as was the weather, was bathed in perspiration. A keen sense of having “put his foot into it” almost crushed him for a time. Then he assured himself that, after all, the Duke “could not eat him,” and with that consolatory reflection he crept back to the house and up to his own room.
To put the man down had of course been an easy task to the Duke, but he was not satisfied with that. To the Major it seemed that the Duke had passed on with easy indifference; — but in truth he was very far from being easy. The man’s insolent request had wounded him at many points. It was grievous to him that he should have as a guest in his own house a man whom he had been forced to insult. It was grievous to him that he himself should not have been held in personal respect high enough to protect him from such an insult. It was grievous to him that he should be openly addressed, — addressed by an absolute stranger, — as a borough-mongering lord, who would not scruple to give away a seat in Parliament as seats were given away in former days. And it was especially grievous to him that all these misfortunes should have come upon him as a part of the results of his wife’s manner of exercising his hospitality. If this was to be Prime Minister he certainly would not be Prime Minister much longer! Had any aspirant to political life ever dared so to address Lord Brock, or Lord De Terrier, or Mr. Mildmay, the old Premiers whom he remembered? He thought not. They had managed differently. They had been able to defend themselves from such attacks by personal dignity. And would it have been possible that any man should have dared so to speak to his uncle, the late Duke? He thought not. As he shut himself up in his own room he grieved inwardly with a deep grief. After a while he walked off to his wife’s room, still perturbed in spirit. The perturbation had indeed increased from minute to minute. He would rather give up politics altogether and shut himself up in absolute seclusion than find himself subject to the insolence of any Pountney that might address him. With his wife he found Mrs. Finn. Now for this lady personally he entertained what for him was a warm regard. In various matters of much importance he and she had been brought together, and she had, to his thinking, invariably behaved well. And an intimacy had been established which had enabled him to be at ease with her, — so that her presence was often a comfort to him. But at the present moment he had not wished to find any one with his wife, and felt that she was in his way. “Perhaps I am disturbing you,” he said in a tone of voice that was solemn and almost funereal.
“Not at all,” said the Duchess, who was in high spirits. “I want to get your promise now about Silverbridge. Don’t mind her. Of course she knows everything.” To be told that any body knew everything was another shock to him. “I have just got a letter from Mr. Lopez.” Could it be right that his wife should be corresponding on such a subject with a person so little known as this Mr. Lopez? “May I tell him that he shall have your interest when the seat is vacant?”
“Certainly not,” said the Duke, with a scowl that was terrible even to his wife. “I wished to speak to you, but I wished to speak to you alone.”
“I beg a thousand pardons,” said Mrs. Finn, preparing to go.
“Don’t stir, Marie,” said the Duchess; “he is going to be cross.”
“If Mrs. Finn will allow me, with every feeling of the most perfect respect and sincerest regard, to ask her to leave me with you for a few minutes, I shall be obliged. And if, with her usual hearty kindness, she will pardon my abruptness — ” Then he could not go on, his emotion being too great; but he put out his hand, and taking hers raised it to his lips and kissed it. The moment had become too solemn for any further hesitation as to the lady’s going. The Duchess for a moment was struck dumb, and Mrs. Finn, of course, left the room.
“In the name of heaven, Plantagenet, what is the matter?”
“Who is Major Pountney?”
“Who is Major Pountney! How on earth should I know? He is — Major Pountney. He is about everywhere.”
“Do not let him be asked into any house of mine again. But that is a trifle.”
“Anything about Major Pountney must, I should think, be a trifle. Have tidings come that the heavens are going to fall? Nothing short of that could make you so solemn.”
“In the first place, Glencora, let me ask you not to speak to me again about the seat for Silverbridge. I am not at present prepared to argue the matter with you, but I have resolved that I will know nothing about the election. As soon as the seat is vacant, if it should be vacated, I shall take care that my determination be known in Silverbridge.”
“Why should you abandon your privileges in that way? It is sheer weakness.”
“The interference of any peer is unconstitutional.”
“There is Braxon,” said the Duchess energetically, “where the Marquis of Crumber returns the member regularly, in spite of all their Reform bills; and Bamford, and Cobblersborough; — and look at Lord Lumley with a whole county in his pocket, not to speak of two boroughs! What nonsense, Plantagenet! Anything is constitutional, or anything is unconstitutional, just as you choose to look at it.” It was clear that the Duchess had really studied the subject carefully.
“Very well, my dear, let it be nonsense. I only beg to assure you that it is my intention, and I request you to act accordingly. And there is another thing I have to say to you. I shall be sorry to interfere in any way with the pleasure which you may derive from society, but as long as I am burdened with the office which has been imposed upon me, I will not again entertain any guests in my own house.”
“Plantagenet!”
“You cannot turn the people out who are here now; but I beg that they may be allowed to go as the time comes, and that their places may not be filled by further invitations.”
“But further invitations have gone out ever so long ago, and have been accepted. You must be ill, my dear.”
“Ill at ease, — yes. At any rate let none others be sent out.” Then he remembered a kindly purpose which he had formed early in the day, and
fell back upon that. “I should, however, be glad if you would ask Lady Rosina De Courcy to remain here.” The Duchess stared at him, really thinking now that something was amiss with him. “The whole thing is a failure and I will have no more of it. It is degrading me.” Then without allowing her a moment in which to answer him, he marched back to his own room.
But even here his spirit was not as yet at rest. That Major must not go unpunished. Though he hated all fuss and noise he must do something. So he wrote as follows to the Major: —
The Duke of Omnium trusts that Major Pountney will not find it inconvenient to leave Gatherum Castle shortly. Should Major Pountney wish to remain at the Castle over the night, the Duke of Omnium hopes that he will not object to be served with his dinner and with his breakfast in his own room. A carriage and horses will be ready for Major Pountney’s use, to take him to Silverbridge, as soon as Major Pountney may express to the servants his wish to that effect.
Gatherum Castle, –– December, 18––.
This note the Duke sent by the hands of his own servant, having said enough to the man as to the carriage and the possible dinner in the Major’s bedroom, to make the man understand almost exactly what had occurred. A note from the Major was brought to the Duke while he was dressing. The Duke having glanced at the note threw it into the fire; and the Major that evening eat his dinner at the Palliser Arms Inn at Silverbridge.
CHAPTER XXVIII
The Duchess Is Much Troubled
It is hardly possible that one man should turn another out of his house without many people knowing it; and when the one person is a Prime Minister and the other such a Major as Major Pountney, the affair is apt to be talked about very widely. The Duke of course never opened his mouth on the subject, except in answer to questions from the Duchess; but all the servants knew it. “Pritchard tells me that you have sent that wretched man out of the house with a flea in his ear,” said the Duchess.
“I sent him out of the house, certainly.”
“He was hardly worth your anger.”
“He is not at all worth my anger; — but I could not sit down to dinner with a man who had insulted me.”
“What did he say, Plantagenet? I know it was something about Silverbridge.” To this question the Duke gave no answer, but in respect to Silverbridge he was stern as adamant. Two days after the departure of the Major it was known to Silverbridge generally that in the event of there being an election the Duke’s agent would not as usual suggest a nominee. There was a paragraph on the subject in the County paper, and another in the London “Evening Pulpit.” The Duke of Omnium, — that he might show his respect to the law, not only as to the letter of the law, but as to the spirit also, — had made it known to his tenantry in and round Silverbridge generally that he would in no way influence their choice of a candidate in the event of an election. But these newspapers did not say a word about Major Pountney.
The clubs of course knew all about it, and no man at any club ever knew more than Captain Gunner. Soon after Christmas he met his friend the Major on the steps of the new military club, The Active Service, which was declared by many men in the army to have left all the other military clubs “absolutely nowhere.” “Halloa, Punt!” he said, “you seem to have made a mess of it at last down at the Duchess’s.”
“I wonder what you know about it.”
“You had to come away pretty quick, I take it.”
“Of course I came away pretty quick.” So much as that the Major was aware must be known. There were details which he could deny safely, as it would be impossible that they should be supported by evidence, but there were matters which must be admitted. “I’ll bet a fiver that beyond that you know nothing about it.”
“The Duke ordered you off, I take it.”
“After a fashion he did. There are circumstances in which a man cannot help himself.” This was diplomatical, because it left the Captain to suppose that the Duke was the man who could not help himself.
“Of course I was not there,” said Gunner, “and I can’t absolutely know, but I suppose you had been interfering with the Duchess about Silverbridge. Glencora will bear a great deal, — but since she has taken up politics, by George, you had better not touch her there.” At last it came to be believed that the Major had been turned out by the order of the Duchess, because he had ventured to put himself forward as an opponent to Ferdinand Lopez, and the Major felt himself really grateful to his friend the Captain for this arrangement of the story. And there came at last to be mixed up with the story some half-understood innuendo that the Major’s jealousy against Lopez had been of a double nature, — in reference both to the Duchess and the borough, — so that he escaped from much of that disgrace which naturally attaches itself to a man who has been kicked out of another man’s house. There was a mystery; — and when there is a mystery a man should never be condemned. Where there is a woman in the case a man cannot be expected to tell the truth. As for calling out or in any way punishing the Prime Minister, that of course was out of the question. And so it went on till at last the Major was almost proud of what he had done, and talked about it willingly with mysterious hints, in which practice made him perfect.
But with the Duchess the affair was very serious, so much so that she was driven to call in advice, — not only from her constant friend, Mrs. Finn, but afterwards from Barrington Erle, from Phineas Finn, and lastly even from the Duke of St. Bungay, to whom she was hardly willing to subject herself, the Duke being the special friend of her husband. But the matter became so important to her that she was unable to trifle with it. At Gatherum the expulsion of Major Pountney soon became a forgotten affair. When the Duchess learned the truth she quite approved of the expulsion, only hinting to Barrington Erle that the act of kicking out should have been more absolutely practical. And the loss of Silverbridge, though it hurt her sorely, could be endured. She must write to her friend Ferdinand Lopez, when the time should come, excusing herself as best she might, and must lose the exquisite delight of making a Member of Parliament out of her own hand. The newspapers, however, had taken that matter up in the proper spirit, and political capital might to some extent be made of it. The loss of Silverbridge, though it bruised, broke no bones. But the Duke had again expressed himself with unusual sternness respecting her ducal hospitalities, and had reiterated the declaration of his intention to live out the remainder of his period of office in republican simplicity. “We have tried it and it has failed, and let there be an end of it,” he said to her. Simple and direct disobedience to such an order was as little in her way as simple or direct obedience. She knew her husband well, and knew how he could be managed and how he could not be managed. When he declared that there should be an “end of it,” — meaning an end of the very system by which she hoped to perpetuate his power, — she did not dare to argue with him. And yet he was so wrong! The trial had been no failure. The thing had been done and well done, and had succeeded. Was failure to be presumed because one impertinent puppy had found his way into the house? And then to abandon the system at once, whether it had failed or whether it had succeeded, would be to call the attention of all the world to an acknowledged failure, — to a failure so disreputable that its acknowledgment must lead to the loss of everything! It was known now, — so argued the Duchess to herself, — that she had devoted herself to the work of cementing and consolidating the Coalition by the graceful hospitality which the wealth of herself and her husband enabled her to dispense. She had made herself a Prime Ministress by the manner in which she opened her saloons, her banqueting halls, and her gardens. It had never been done before, and now it had been well done. There had been no failure. And yet everything was to be broken down because his nerves had received a shock!
“Let it die out,” Mrs. Finn had said. “The people will come here and will go away, and then, when you are up in London, you will soon fall into your old ways.” But this did not suit the new ambition of the Duchess. She had so fed her mind with daring hopes that she could no
t bear that it should “die out.” She had arranged a course of things in her own mind by which she should come to be known as the great Prime Minister’s wife; and she had, perhaps unconsciously, applied the epithet more to herself than to her husband. She, too, wished to be written of in memoirs, and to make a niche for herself in history. And now she was told that she was to let it “die out!”
“I suppose he is a little bilious,” Barrington Erle had said. “Don’t you think he’ll forget all about it when he gets up to London?” The Duchess was sure that her husband would not forget anything. He never did forget anything. “I want him to be told,” said the Duchess, “that everybody thinks that he is doing very well. I don’t mean about politics exactly, but as to keeping the party together. Don’t you think that we have succeeded?” Barrington Erle thought that upon the whole they had succeeded; but suggested at the same time that there were seeds of weakness. “Sir Orlando and Sir Timothy Beeswax are not sound, you know,” said Barrington Erle. “He can’t make them sounder by shutting himself up like a hermit,” said the Duchess. Barrington Erle, who had peculiar privileges of his own, promised that if he could by any means make an occasion, he would let the Duke know that their side of the Coalition was more than contented with the way in which he did his work.
“You don’t think we’ve made a mess of it?” she said to Phineas, asking him a question. “I don’t think that the Duke has made a mess of it, — or you,” said Phineas, who had come to love the Duchess because his wife loved her. “But it won’t go on for ever, Duchess.” “You know what I’ve done,” said the Duchess, who took it for granted that Mr. Finn knew all that his wife knew. “Has it answered?” Phineas was silent for a moment. “Of course you will tell me the truth. You won’t be so bad as to flatter me now that I am so much in earnest.” “I almost think,” said Phineas, “that the time has gone by for what one may call drawing-room influences. They used to be very great. Old Lord Brock used them extensively, though by no means as your Grace has done. But the spirit of the world has changed since then.” “The spirit of the world never changes,” said the Duchess, in her soreness.
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