And I would have you remember also that the work of a member of Parliament can seldom be of that brilliant nature which is of itself charming; and that the young member should think of such brilliancy as being possible to him only at a distance. It should be your first care to sit and listen so that the forms and methods of the House may as it were soak into you gradually. And then you must bear in mind that speaking in the House is but a very small part of a member’s work, perhaps that part which he may lay aside altogether with the least strain on his conscience. A good member of Parliament will be good upstairs in the Committee Rooms, good down-stairs to make and to keep a House, good to vote, for his party if it may be nothing better, but for the measures also which he believes to be for the good of his country.
Gradually, if you will give your thoughts to it, and above all your time, the theory of legislation will sink into your mind, and you will find that there will come upon you the ineffable delight of having served your country to the best of your ability.
It is the only pleasure in life which has been enjoyed without alloy by your affectionate father,
Omnium.
The Duke in writing this letter was able for a few moments to forget Mrs. Finn, and to enjoy the work which he had on hand.
CHAPTER XVI
“Poor Boy”
The new member for Silverbridge, when he entered the House to take the oath, was supported on the right and left by two staunch old Tories. Mr. Monk had seen him a few minutes previously, — Mr. Monk who of all Liberals was the firmest and than whom no one had been more staunch to the Duke, — and had congratulated him on his election, expressing at the same time some gentle regrets. “I only wish you could have come among us on the other side,” he said.
“But I couldn’t,” said the young Lord.
“I am sure nothing but a conscientious feeling would have separated you from your father’s friends,” said the old Liberal. And then they were parted, and the member for Silverbridge was bustled up to the table between two staunch Tories.
Of what else was done on that occasion nothing shall be said here. No political work was required from him, except that of helping for an hour or two to crowd the Government benches. But we will follow him as he left the House. There were one or two others quite as anxious as to his political career as any staunch old Liberal. At any rate one other. He had promised that as soon as he could get away from the House he would go to Belgrave Square and tell Lady Mabel Grex all about it. When he reached the square it was past seven, but Lady Mabel and Miss Cassewary were still in the drawing-room.
“There seemed to be a great deal of bustle, and I didn’t understand much about it,” said the member.
“But you heard the speeches?” These were the speeches made on the proposing and seconding of the address.
“Oh, yes; — Lupton did it very well. Lord George didn’t seem to be quite so good. Then Sir Timothy Beeswax made a speech, and then Mr. Monk. After that I saw other fellows going away, so I bolted too.”
“If I were a member of Parliament I would never leave it while the House was sitting,” said Miss Cassewary.
“If all were like that there wouldn’t be seats for them to sit upon,” said Silverbridge.
“A persistent member will always find a seat,” continued the positive old lady.
“I am sure that Lord Silverbridge means to do his duty,” said Lady Mabel.
“Oh yes; — I’ve thought a good deal about it, and I mean to try. As long as a man isn’t called upon to speak I don’t see why it shouldn’t be easy enough.”
“I’m so glad to hear you say so! Of course after a little time you will speak. I should so like to hear you make your first speech.”
“If I thought you were there, I’m sure I should not make it at all.”
Just at this period Miss Cassewary, saying something as to the necessity of dressing, and cautioning her young friend that there was not much time to be lost, left the room.
“Dressing does not take me more than ten minutes,” said Lady Mabel.
Miss Cassewary declared this to be nonsense, but she nevertheless left the room. Whether she would have done so if Lord Silverbridge had not been Lord Silverbridge, but had been some young man with whom it would not have been expedient that Lady Mabel should fall in love, may perhaps be doubted. But then it may be taken as certain that under such circumstances Lady Mabel herself would not have remained. She had quite realised the duties of life, had had her little romance, — and had acknowledged that it was foolish.
“I do so hope that you will do well,” she said, going back to the parliamentary duties.
“I don’t think I shall ever do much. I shall never be like my father.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“There never was anybody like him. I am always amusing myself, but he never cared for amusement.”
“You are very young.”
“As far as I can learn he was just as he is now at my age. My mother has told me that long before she married him he used to spend all his time in the House. I wonder whether you would mind reading the letter he wrote me when he heard of my election.”
Then he took the epistle out of his pocket and handed it to Lady Mabel.
“He means all that he says.”
“He always does that.”
“And he really hopes that you will put your shoulder to the wheel; — even though you must do so in opposition to him.”
“That makes no difference. I think my father is a very fine fellow.”
“Shall you do all that he tells you?”
“Well; — I suppose not; — except that he advises me to hold my tongue. I think that I shall do that. I mean to go down there, you know, and I daresay I shall be much the same as others.”
“Has he talked to you much about it?”
“No; — he never talks much. Every now and then he will give me a downright lecture, or he will write me a letter like that; but he never talks to any of us.”
“How very odd.”
“Yes; he is odd. He seems to be fretful when we are with him. A good many things make him unhappy.”
“Your poor mother’s death.”
“That first; — and then there are other things. I suppose he didn’t like the way I came to an end at Oxford.”
“You were a boy then.”
“Of course I was very sorry for it, — though I hated Oxford. It was neither one thing nor another. You were your own master and yet you were not.”
“Now you must be your own master.”
“I suppose so.”
“You must marry, and become a lord of the Treasury. When I was a child I acted as a child. You know all about that.”
“Oh yes. And now I must throw off childish things. You mean that I mustn’t paint any man’s house? Eh, Lady Mab.”
“That and the rest of it. You are a legislator now.”
“So is Popplecourt, who took his seat in the House of Lords two or three months ago. He’s the biggest young fool I know out. He couldn’t even paint a house.”
“He is not an elected legislator. It makes all the difference. I quite agree with what the Duke says. Lord Popplecourt can’t help himself. Whether he’s an idle young scamp or not, he must be a legislator. But when a man goes in for it himself, as you have done, he should make up his mind to be useful.”
“I shall vote with my party of course.”
“More than that; much more than that. If you didn’t care for politics you couldn’t have taken a line of your own.” When she said this she knew that he had been talked into what he had done by Tregear, — by Tregear, who had ambition, and intelligence, and capacity for forming an opinion of his own. “If you do not do it for your own sake, you will for the sake of those who, — who, — who are your friends,” she said at last, not feeling quite able to tell him that he must do it for the sake of those who loved him.
“There are not very many I suppose who care about it.”
“Your
father.”
“Oh yes, — my father.”
“And Tregear.”
“Tregear has got his own fish to fry.”
“Are there none others? Do you think we care nothing about it here?”
“Miss Cassewary?”
“Well; — Miss Cassewary! A man might have a worse friend than Miss Cassewary; — and my father.”
“I don’t suppose Lord Grex cares a straw about me.”
“Indeed he does, — a great many straws. And so do I. Do you think I don’t care a straw about it?”
“I don’t know why you should.”
“Because it is my nature to be earnest. A girl comes out into the world so young that she becomes serious, and steady as it were, so much sooner than a man does.”
“I always think that nobody is so full of chaff as you are, Lady Mab.”
“I am not chaffing now in recommending you to go to work in the world like a man.”
As she said this they were sitting on the same sofa, but with some space between them. When Miss Cassewary had left the room Lord Silverbridge was standing, but after a little he had fallen into the seat, at the extreme corner, and had gradually come a little nearer to her. Now in her energy she put out her hand, meaning perhaps to touch lightly the sleeve of his coat, meaning perhaps not quite to touch him at all. But as she did so he put out his hand and took hold of hers.
She drew it away, not seeming to allow it to remain in his grasp for a moment; but she did so, not angrily, or hurriedly, or with any flurry. She did it as though it were natural that he should take her hand and as natural that she should recover it.
“Indeed I have hardly more than ten minutes left for dressing,” she said, rising from her seat.
“If you will say that you care about it, you yourself, I will do my best.” As he made this declaration blushes covered his cheeks and forehead.
“I do care about it, — very much; I myself,” said Lady Mabel, not blushing at all. Then there was a knock at the door, and Lady Mabel’s maid, putting her head in, declared that my Lord had come in and had already been some time in his dressing-room. “Good-bye, Lord Silverbridge,” she said quite gaily, and rather more aloud than would have been necessary, had she not intended that the maid also should hear her.
“Poor boy!” she said to herself as she was dressing. “Poor boy!” Then, when the evening was over she spoke to herself again about him. “Dear sweet boy!” And then she sat and thought. How was it that she was so old a woman, while he was so little more than a child? How fair he was, how far removed from conceit, how capable of being made into a man — in the process of time! What might not be expected from him if he could be kept in good hands for the next ten years! But in whose hands? What would she be in ten years, she who already seemed to know the town and all its belongings so well? And yet she was as young in years as he. He, as she knew, had passed his twenty-second birthday, — and so had she. That was all. It might be good for her that she should marry him. She was ambitious. And such a marriage would satisfy her ambition. Through her father’s fault, and her brother’s, she was likely to be poor. This man would certainly be rich. Many of those who were buzzing around her from day to day, were distasteful to her. From among them she knew that she could not take a husband, let their rank and wealth be what it might. She was too fastidious, too proud, too prone to think that things should be with her as she liked them! This last was in all things pleasant to her. Though he was but a boy, there was a certain boyish manliness about him. The very way in which he had grasped at her hand and had then blushed ruby-red at his own daring, had gone far with her. How gracious he was to look at! Dear sweet boy! Love him? No; — she did not know that she loved him. That dream was over. She was sure however that she liked him.
But how would it be with him? It might be well for her to become his wife, but could it be well for him that he should become her husband? Did she not feel that it would be better for him that he should become a man before he married at all? Perhaps so; — but then if she desisted would others desist? If she did not put out her bait would there not be other hooks, — others and worse? Would not such a one, so soft, so easy, so prone to be caught and so desirable for the catching, be sure to be made prey of by some snare?
But could she love him? That a woman should not marry a man without loving him, she partly knew. But she thought she knew also that there must be exceptions. She would do her very best to love him. That other man should be banished from her very thoughts. She would be such a wife to him that he should never know that he lacked anything. Poor boy! Sweet dear boy! He, as he went away to his dinner, had his thoughts also about her. Of all the girls he knew she was the jolliest, — and of all his friends she was the pleasantest. As she was anxious that he should go to work in the House of Commons he would go to work there. As for loving her! Well; — of course he must marry someone, and why not Lady Mab as well as any one else?
CHAPTER XVII
The Derby
An attendance at the Newmarket Second Spring Meeting had unfortunately not been compatible with the Silverbridge election. Major Tifto had therefore been obliged to look after the affair alone. “A very useful mare,” as Tifto had been in the habit of calling a leggy, thoroughbred, meagre-looking brute named Coalition, was on this occasion confided to the Major’s sole care and judgment. But Coalition failed, as coalitions always do, and Tifto had to report to his noble patron that they had not pulled off the event. It had been a match for four hundred pounds, made indeed by Lord Silverbridge, but made at the suggestion of Tifto; — and now Tifto wrote in a very bad humour about it. It had been altogether his Lordship’s fault in submitting to carry two pounds more than Tifto had thought to be fair and equitable. The match had been lost. Would Lord Silverbridge be so good as to pay the money to Mr. Green Griffin and debit him, Tifto, with the share of his loss?
We must acknowledge that the unpleasant tone of the Major’s letter was due quite as much to the ill-usage he had received in reference to that journey to Silverbridge, as to the loss of the race. Within that little body there was a high-mounting heart, and that heart had been greatly wounded by his Lordship’s treatment. Tifto had felt himself to have been treated like a servant. Hardly an excuse had even been made. He had been simply told that he was not wanted. He was apt sometimes to tell himself that he knew on which side his bread was buttered. But perhaps he hardly knew how best to keep the butter going. There was a little pride about him which was antagonistic to the best interests of such a trade as his. Perhaps it was well that he should inwardly suffer when injured. But it could not be well that he should declare to such men as Nidderdale, and Dolly Longstaff, and Popplecourt that he didn’t mean to put up with that sort of thing. He certainly should not have spoken in this strain before Tregear. Of all men living he hated and feared him the most. And he knew that no other man loved Silverbridge as did Tregear. Had he been thinking of his bread-and-butter, instead of giving way to the mighty anger of his little bosom, he would have hardly declared openly at the club that he would let Lord Silverbridge know that he did not mean to stand any man’s airs. But these extravagances were due perhaps to whisky-and-water, and that kind of intoxication which comes to certain men from momentary triumphs. Tifto could always be got to make a fool of himself when surrounded by three or four men of rank who, for the occasion, would talk to him as an equal. He almost declared that Coalition had lost his match because he had not been taken down to Silverbridge.
“Tifto is in a deuce of a way with you,” said Dolly Longstaff to the young member.
“I know all about it,” said Silverbridge, who had had an interview with his partner since the race.
“If you don’t take care he’ll dismiss you.”
Silverbridge did not care much about this, knowing that words of wisdom did not ordinarily fall from the mouth of Dolly Longstaff. But he was more moved when his friend Tregear spoke to him. “I wish you knew the kind of things that fellow Tifto says behind your b
ack.”
“As if I cared!”
“But you ought to care.”
“Do you care what every fellow says about you?”
“I care very much what those say whom I choose to live with me. Whatever Tifto might say about me would be quite indifferent to me, because we have nothing in common. But you and he are bound together.”
“We have a horse or two in common; that’s all.”
“But that is a great deal. The truth is he’s a nasty, brawling, boasting, ill-conditioned little reptile.”
Silverbridge of course did not acknowledge that this was true. But he felt it, and almost repented of his trust in Tifto. But still Prime Minister stood very well for the Derby. He was second favourite, the odds against him being only four to one. The glory of being part owner of a probable winner of the Derby was so much to him that he could not bring himself to be altogether angry with Tifto. There was no doubt that the horse’s present condition was due entirely to Tifto’s care. Tifto spent in these few days just before the race the greatest part of his time in the close vicinity of the horse, only running up to London now and then, as a fish comes up to the surface, for a breath of air. It was impossible that Lord Silverbridge should separate himself from the Major, — at any rate till after the Epsom meeting.
The Palliser Novels Page 416