The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  “Recommend her Majesty to give it to myself!” said the Prime Minister.

  “You will find it to be her Majesty’s wish. It has been very common. Sir Robert Walpole had it.”

  “I am not Sir Robert Walpole.” The Duke named other examples of Prime Ministers who had been gartered by themselves. But our Prime Minister declared it to be out of the question. No honour of that description should be conferred upon him as long as he held his present position. The old Duke was much in earnest, and there was a great deal said on the subject, — but at last it became clear, not only to him, but to the members of the Cabinet generally, and then to the outside world, that the Prime Minister would not consent to accept the vacant honour.

  For nearly a month after this the question subsided. A Minister is not bound to bestow a Garter the day after it becomes vacant. There are other Knights to guard the throne, and one may be spared for a short interval. But during that interval many eyes were turned towards the stall in St. George’s Chapel. A good thing should be given away like a clap of thunder if envy, hatred, and malice are to be avoided. A broad blue ribbon across the chest is of all decorations the most becoming, or, at any rate, the most desired. And there was, I fear, an impression on the minds of some men that the Duke in such matters was weak and might be persuaded. Then there came to him an application in the form of a letter from the new Marquis of Mount Fidgett, — a man whom he had never seen, and of whom he had never heard. The new Marquis had hitherto resided in Italy, and men only knew of him that he was odious to his uncle. But he had inherited all the Fichy Fidgett estates, and was now possessed of immense wealth and great honour. He ventured, he said, to represent to the Prime Minister that for generations past the Marquises of Mount Fidgett had been honoured by the Garter. His political status in the country was exactly that enjoyed by his late uncle; but he intended that his political career should be very different. He was quite prepared to support the Coalition. “What is he that he should expect to be made a Knight of the Garter?” said our Duke to the old Duke.

  “He is the Marquis of Mount Fidgett, and next to yourself, perhaps, the richest peer of Great Britain.”

  “Have riches anything to do with it?”

  “Something certainly. You would not name a pauper peer.”

  “Yes; — if he was a man whose career had been highly honourable to the country. Such a man, of course, could not be a pauper, but I do not think his want of wealth should stand in the way of his being honoured by the Garter.”

  “Wealth, rank, and territorial influence have been generally thought to have something to do with it.”

  “And character nothing!”

  “My dear Duke, I have not said so.”

  “Something very much like it, my friend, if you advocate the claim of the Marquis of Mount Fidgett. Did you approve of the selection of the late Marquis?”

  “I was in the Cabinet at the time, and will therefore say nothing against it. But I have never heard anything against this man’s character.”

  “Nor in favour of it. To my thinking he has as much claim, and no more, as that man who just opened the door. He was never seen in the Lower House.”

  “Surely that cannot signify.”

  “You think, then, that he should have it?”

  “You know what I think,” said the elder statesman thoughtfully. “In my opinion there is no doubt that you would best consult the honour of the country by allowing her Majesty to bestow this act of grace upon a subject who has deserved so well from her Majesty as yourself.”

  “It is quite impossible.”

  “It seems to me,” said the Duke, not appearing to notice the refusal of his friend, “that in this peculiar position you should allow yourself to be persuaded to lay aside your own feeling. No man of high character is desirous of securing to himself decorations which he may bestow upon others.”

  “Just so.”

  “But here the decoration bestowed upon the chief whom we all follow, would confer a wider honour upon many than it could do if given to any one else.”

  “The same may be said of any Prime Minister.”

  “Not so. A commoner, without high permanent rank or large fortune, is not lowered in the world’s esteem by not being of the Order. You will permit me to say — that a Duke of Omnium has not reached that position which he ought to enjoy unless he be a Knight of the Garter.” It must be borne in mind that the old Duke, who used this argument, had himself worn the ribbon for the last thirty years. “But if — “

  “Well; — well.”

  “But if you are, — I must call it obstinate.”

  “I am obstinate in that respect.”

  “Then,” said the Duke of St. Bungay, “I should recommend her Majesty to give it to the Marquis.”

  “Never,” said the Prime Minister, with very unaccustomed energy. “I will never sanction the payment of such a price for services which should never be bought or sold.”

  “It would give no offence.”

  “That is not enough, my friend. Here is a man of whom I only know that he has bought a great many marble statues. He has done nothing for his country, and nothing for his sovereign.”

  “If you are determined to look to what you call desert alone, I would name Lord Drummond.” The Prime Minister frowned and looked unhappy. It was quite true that Lord Drummond had contradicted him, and that he had felt the injury grievously. “Lord Drummond has been very true to us.”

  “Yes; — true to us! What is that?”

  “He is in every respect a man of character, and well looked upon in the country. There would be some enmity and a good deal of envy — which might be avoided by either of the courses I have proposed; but those courses you will not take. I take it for granted that you are anxious to secure the support of those who generally act with Lord Drummond.”

  “I don’t know that I am.” The old Duke shrugged his shoulders. “What I mean is, that I do not think that we ought to pay an increased price for their support. His lordship is very well as the Head of an Office; but he is not nearly so great a man as my friend Lord Cantrip.”

  “Cantrip would not join us. There is no evil in politics so great as that of seeming to buy the men who will not come without buying. These rewards are fairly given for political support.”

  “I had not, in truth, thought of Lord Cantrip.”

  “He does not expect it any more than my butler.”

  “I only named him as having a claim stronger than any that Lord Drummond can put forward. I have a man in my mind to whom I think such an honour is fairly due. What do you say to Lord Earlybird?” The old Duke opened his mouth and lifted up his hands in unaffected surprise.

  The Earl of Earlybird was an old man of a very peculiar character. He had never opened his mouth in the House of Lords and had never sat in the House of Commons. The political world knew him not at all. He had a house in town, but very rarely lived there. Early Park, in the parish of Bird, had been his residence since he first came to the title forty years ago, and had been the scene of all his labours. He was a nobleman possessed of a moderate fortune, and, as men said of him, of a moderate intellect. He had married early in life and was blessed with a large family. But he had certainly not been an idle man. For nearly half a century he had devoted himself to the improvement of the labouring classes, especially in reference to their abodes and education, and had gradually, without any desire on his own part, worked himself up into public notice. He was not an eloquent man, but he would take the chair at meeting after meeting, and sit with admirable patience for long hours to hear the eloquence of others. He was a man very simple in his tastes, and had brought up his family to follow his habits. He had therefore been able to do munificent things with moderate means, and in the long course of years had failed in hiding his munificence from the public. Lord Earlybird, till after middle life, had not been much considered, but gradually there had grown up a feeling that there were not very many better men in the country. He was a fat, bald-h
eaded old man, who was always pulling his spectacles on and off, nearly blind, very awkward, and altogether indifferent to appearance. Probably he had no more idea of the Garter in his own mind than he had of a Cardinal’s hat. But he had grown into fame, and had not escaped the notice of the Prime Minister.

  “Do you know anything against Lord Earlybird?” asked the Prime Minister.

  “Certainly nothing against him, Duke.”

  “Nor anything in his favour?”

  “I know him very well, — I think I may say intimately. There isn’t a better man breathing.”

  “An honour to the peerage!” said the Prime Minister.

  “An honour to humanity rather,” said the other, “as being of all men the least selfish and most philanthropical.”

  “What more can be said of a man?”

  “But according to my view he is not the sort of person whom one would wish to see made a Knight of the Garter. If he had the ribbon he would never wear it.”

  “The honour surely does not consist in its outward sign. I am entitled to wear some kind of coronet, but I do not walk about with it on my head. He is a man of a great heart and of many virtues. Surely the country, and her Majesty on behalf of the country, should delight to honour such a man.”

  “I really doubt whether you look at the matter in the right light,” said the ancient statesman, who was in truth frightened at what was being proposed. “You must not be angry with me if I speak plainly.”

  “My friend, I do not think that it is within your power to make me angry.”

  “Well then, — I will get you for a moment to listen to my view on the matter. There are certain great prizes in the gift of the Crown and of the Ministers of the Crown, — the greatest of which are now traditionally at the disposal of the Prime Minister. These are always given to party friends. I may perhaps agree with you that party support should not be looked to alone. Let us acknowledge that character and services should be taken into account. But the very theory of our Government will be overset by a reversal of the rule which I have attempted to describe. You will offend all your own friends, and only incur the ridicule of your opponents. It is no doubt desirable that the high seats of the country should be filled by men of both parties. I would not wish to see every Lord-Lieutenant of a county a Whig.” In his enthusiasm the old Duke went back to his old phraseology. “But I know that my opponents when their turn comes will appoint their friends to the Lieutenancies, and that so the balance will be maintained. If you or I appoint their friends, they won’t appoint ours. Lord Earlybird’s proxy has been in the hands of the Conservative Leader of the House of Lords ever since he succeeded his father.” Then the old man paused, but his friend waited to listen whether the lecture were finished before he spoke, and the Duke of St. Bungay continued. “And, moreover, though Lord Earlybird is a very good man, — so much so that many of us may well envy him, — he is not just the man fitted for this destination. A Knight of the Garter should be a man prone to show himself, a public man, one whose work in the country has brought him face to face with his fellows. There is an aptness, a propriety, a fitness in these things which one can understand perhaps better than explain.”

  “Those fitnesses and aptnesses change, I think, from day to day. There was a time when a knight should be a fighting man.”

  “That has gone by.”

  “And the aptnesses and fitnesses in accordance with which the sovereign of the day was induced to grace with the Garter such a man as the late Marquis of Mount Fidgett have, I hope, gone by. You will admit that?”

  “There is no such man proposed.”

  “And other fitnesses and aptnesses will go by, till the time will come when the man to be selected as Lieutenant of a county will be the man whose selection will be most beneficial to the county, and Knights of the Garter will be chosen for their real virtues.”

  “I think you are Quixotic. A Prime Minister is of all men bound to follow the traditions of his country, or, when he leaves them, to leave them with very gradual steps.”

  “And if he break that law and throw over all that thraldom; — what then?”

  “He will lose the confidence which has made him what he is.”

  “It is well that I know the penalty. It is hardly heavy enough to enforce strict obedience. As for the matter in dispute, it had better stand over yet for a few days.” When the Prime Minister said this the old Duke knew very well that he intended to have his own way.

  And so it was. A week passed by, and then the younger Duke wrote to the elder Duke saying that he had given to the matter all the consideration in his power, and that he had at last resolved to recommend her Majesty to bestow the ribbon on Lord Earlybird. He would not, however, take any step for a few days so that his friend might have an opportunity of making further remonstrance if he pleased. No further remonstrance was made, and Lord Earlybird, much to his own amazement, was nominated to the vacant Garter.

  The appointment was one certainly not popular with any of the Prime Minister’s friends. With some, such as Lord Drummond, it indicated a determination on the part of the Duke to declare his freedom from all those bonds which had hitherto been binding on the Heads of Government. Had the Duke selected himself, certainly no offence would have been given. Had the Marquis of Mount Fidgett been the happy man, excuses would have been made. But it was unpardonable to Lord Drummond that he should have been passed over and that the Garter should have been given to Lord Earlybird. To the poor old Duke the offence was of a different nature. He had intended to use a very strong word when he told his friend that his proposed conduct would be Quixotic. The Duke of Omnium would surely know that the Duke of St. Bungay could not support a Quixotic Prime Minister. And yet the younger Duke, the Telemachus of the last two years, — after hearing that word, — had rebelled against his Mentor, and had obstinately adhered to his Quixotism! The greed of power had fallen upon the man, — so said the dear old Duke to himself, — and the man’s fall was certain. Alas, alas; had he been allowed to go before the poison had entered his veins, how much less would have been his suffering!

  CHAPTER LXV

  “There Must Be Time”

  At the end of the third week in July, when the Session was still sitting, and when no day had been absolutely as yet fixed for the escape of members, Mr. Wharton received a letter from his friend Arthur Fletcher which certainly surprised him very much, and which left him for a day or two unable to decide what answer ought to be given. It will be remembered that Ferdinand Lopez destroyed himself in March, now three months since. The act had been more than a nine days’ wonder, having been kept in the memory of many men by the sedulous efforts of Quintus Slide, and by the fact that the name of so great a man as the Prime Minister was concerned in the matter. But gradually the feeling about Ferdinand Lopez had died away, and his fate, though it had outlived the nominal nine days, had sunk into general oblivion before the end of the ninth week. The Prime Minister had not forgotten the man, nor had Quintus Slide. The name was still common in the columns of the “People’s Banner,” and was never mentioned without being read by the unfortunate Duke. But others had ceased to talk of Ferdinand Lopez.

  To the mind, however, of Arthur Fletcher the fact of the man’s death was always present. A dreadful incubus had come upon his life, blighting all his prospects, obscuring all his sun by a great cloud, covering up all his hopes, and changing for him all his outlook into the world. It was not only that Emily Wharton should not have become his wife, but that the woman whom he loved with so perfect a love should have been sacrificed to so vile a creature as this man. He never blamed her, — but looked upon his fate as Fate. Then on a sudden he heard that the incubus was removed. The man who had made him and her wretched had by a sudden stroke been taken away and annihilated. There was nothing now between him and her, — but a memory. He could certainly forgive, if she could forget.

  Of course he had felt at the first moment that time must pass by. He had become certain that her mad love for
the man had perished. He had been made sure that she had repented her own deed in sackcloth and ashes. It had been acknowledged to him by her father that she had been anxious to be separated from her husband, if her husband would consent to such a separation. And then, remembering as he did his last interview with her, having in his mind as he did every circumstance of that caress which he had given her, — down to the very quiver of the fingers he had pressed, — he could not but flatter himself that at last he had touched her heart. But there must be time! The conventions of the world operate on all hearts, especially on the female heart, and teach that new vows, too quickly given, are disgraceful. The world has seemed to decide that a widow should take two years before she can bestow herself on a second man without a touch of scandal. But the two years is to include everything, the courtship of the second as well as the burial of the first, — and not only the courtship, but the preparation of the dresses and the wedding itself. And then this case was different from all others. Of course there must be time, but surely not here a full period of two years! Why should the life of two young persons be so wasted, if it were the case that they loved each other? There was horror here, remorse, pity, perhaps pardon; but there was no love, — none of that love which is always for a time increased in its fervour by the loss of the loved object; none of that passionate devotion which must at first make the very idea of another man’s love intolerable. There had been a great escape, — an escape which could not but be inwardly acknowledged, however little prone the tongue might be to confess it. Of course there must be time; — but how much time? He argued it in his mind daily, and at each daily argument the time considered by him to be appropriate was shortened. Three months had passed and he had not yet seen her. He had resolved that he would not even attempt to see her till her father should consent. But surely a period had passed sufficient to justify him in applying for that permission. And then he bethought himself that it would be best in applying for that permission to tell everything to Mr. Wharton. He well knew that he would be telling no secret. Mr. Wharton knew the state of his feelings as well as he knew it himself. If ever there was a case in which time might be abridged, this was one; and therefore he wrote his letter, — as follows: —