The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  “I was so sorry, Lord Silverbridge,” said Sir Timothy, “that you could not accede to our little request.”

  “I did not quite see my way,” said Silverbridge, with his eye upon Isabel.

  “So I understood, but I hope that things will make themselves clearer to you shortly. There is nothing that I desire so much as the support of young men such as yourself, — the very cream, I may say, of the whole country. It is to the young conservative thoughtfulness and the truly British spirit of our springing aristocracy that I look for that reaction which I am sure will at last carry us safely over the rocks and shoals of communistic propensities.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder if it did,” said Silverbridge. They didn’t think that he was going to remain down there talking politics to an old humbug like Sir Timothy when the sun, and moon, and all the stars had gone up into the drawing-room! For at that moment Isabel was making her way to the door.

  But Sir Timothy had buttonholed him. “Of course it is late now to say anything further about the address. We have arranged that. Not quite as I would have wished, for I had set my heart upon initiating you into the rapturous pleasure of parliamentary debate. But I hope that a good time is coming. And pray remember this, Lord Silverbridge; — there is no member sitting on our side of the House, and I need hardly say on the other, whom I would go farther to oblige than your father’s son.”

  “I’m sure that’s very kind,” said Silverbridge, absolutely using a little force as he disengaged himself. Then he at once followed the ladies upstairs, passing the poet on the stairs. “You have hardly spoken to me,” he whispered to Isabel. He knew that to whisper to her now, with the eyes of many upon him, with the ears of many open, was an absurdity; but he could not refrain himself.

  “There are so many to be, — entertained, as people say! I don’t think I ought to have to entertain you,” she answered, laughing. No one heard her but Silverbridge, yet she did not seem to whisper. She left him, however, at once, and was soon engaged in conversation with Sir Timothy.

  A convivial lunch I hold to be altogether bad, but the worst of its many evils is that vacillating mind which does not know when to take its owner off. Silverbridge was on this occasion quite determined not to take himself off at all. As it was only a lunch the people must go, and then he would be left with Isabel. But the vacillation of the others was distressing to him. Mr. Lupton went, and poor Dolly got away apparently without a word. But the Beeswaxes and the Gotobeds would not go, and the poet sat staring immovably. In the meanwhile Silverbridge endeavoured to make the time pass lightly by talking to Mrs. Boncassen. He had been so determined to accept Isabel with all her adjuncts that he had come almost to like Mrs. Boncassen, and would certainly have taken her part violently had any one spoken ill of her in his presence.

  Then suddenly he found that the room was nearly empty. The Beeswaxes and the Gotobeds were gone; and at last the poet himself, with a final glare of admiration at Isabel, had taken his departure. When Silverbridge looked round, Isabel also was gone. Then too Mrs. Boncassen had left the room suddenly. At the same instant Mr. Boncassen entered by another door, and the two men were alone together. “My dear Lord Silverbridge,” said the father, “I want to have a few words with you.” Of course there was nothing for him but to submit. “You remember what you said to me down at Matching?”

  “Oh yes; I remember that.”

  “You did me the great honour of expressing a wish to make my child your wife.”

  “I was asking for a very great favour.”

  “That also; — for there is no greater favour I could do to any man than to give him my daughter. Nevertheless, you were doing me a great honour, — and you did it, as you do everything, with an honest grace that went far to win my heart. I am not at all surprised, sir, that you should have won hers.” The young man as he heard this could only blush and look foolish. “If I know my girl, neither your money nor your title would go for anything.”

  “I think much more of her love, Mr. Boncassen, than I do of anything else in the world.”

  “But love, my Lord, may be a great misfortune.” As he said this the tone of his voice was altered, and there was a melancholy solemnity not only in his words but in his countenance. “I take it that young people when they love rarely think of more than the present moment. If they did so the bloom would be gone from their romance. But others have to do this for them. If Isabel had come to me saying that she loved a poor man, there would not have been much to disquiet me. A poor man may earn bread for himself and his wife, and if he failed I could have found them bread. Nor, had she loved somewhat below her own degree, should I have opposed her. So long as her husband had been an educated man, there might have been no future punishment to fear.”

  “I don’t think she could have done that,” said Silverbridge.

  “At any rate she has not done so. But how am I to look upon this that she has done?”

  “I’ll do my best for her, Mr. Boncassen.”

  “I believe you would. But even your love can’t make her an Englishwoman. You can make her a Duchess.”

  “Not that, sir.”

  “But you can’t give her a parentage fit for a Duchess; — not fit at least in the opinion of those with whom you will pass your life, with whom, — or perhaps without whom, — she will be destined to pass her life, if she becomes your wife! Unfortunately it does not suffice that you should think it fit. Though you loved each other as well as any man and woman that ever were brought into each other’s arms by the beneficence of God, you cannot make her happy, — unless you can assure her the respect of those around her.”

  “All the world will respect her.”

  “Her conduct, — yes. I think the world, your world, would learn to do that. I do not think it could help itself. But that would not suffice. I may respect the man who cleans my boots. But he would be a wretched man if he were thrown on me for society. I would not give him my society. Will your Duchesses and your Countesses give her theirs?”

  “Certainly they will.”

  “I do not ask for it as thinking it to be of more value than that of others; but were she to become your wife she would be so abnormally placed as to require it for her comfort. She would have become a lady of high rank, — not because she loves rank, but because she loves you.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” said Silverbridge, hardly himself knowing why he became impetuous.

  “But having removed herself into that position, being as she would be, a Countess, or a Duchess, or what not, how could she be happy if she were excluded from the community of Countesses and Duchesses?”

  “They are not like that,” said Silverbridge.

  “I will not say that they are, but I do not know. Having Anglican tendencies, I have been wont to contradict my countrymen when they have told me of the narrow exclusiveness of your nobles. Having found your nobles and your commoners all alike in their courtesy, — which is a cold word; in their hospitable friendships, — I would now not only contradict, but would laugh to scorn any such charge,” — so far he spoke somewhat loudly, and then dropped his voice as he concluded, — “were it anything less than the happiness of my child that is in question.”

  “What am I to say, sir? I only know this; I am not going to lose her.”

  “You are a fine fellow. I was going to say that I wished you were an American, so that Isabel need not lose you. But, my boy, I have told you that I do not know how it might be. Of all whom you know, who could best tell me the truth on such a subject? Who is there whose age will have given him experience, whose rank will have made him familiar with this matter, who from friendship to you would be least likely to decide against your wishes, who from his own native honesty would be most sure to tell the truth?”

  “You mean my father,” said Silverbridge.

  “I do mean your father. Happily he has taken no dislike to the girl herself. I have seen enough of him to feel sure that he is devoted to his own children.”

  “Indeed h
e is.”

  “A just and a liberal man; — one I should say not carried away by prejudices! Well, — my girl and I have just put our heads together, and we have come to a conclusion. If the Duke of Omnium will tell us that she would be safe as your wife, — safe from the contempt of those around her, — you shall have her. And I shall rejoice to give her to you, — not because you are Lord Silverbridge, not because of your rank and wealth; but because you are — that individual human being whom I now hold by the hand.”

  When the American had come to an end, Silverbridge was too much moved to make any immediate answer. He had an idea in his own mind that the appeal was not altogether fair. His father was a just man, — just, affectionate, and liberal. But then it will so often happen that fathers do not want their sons to marry those very girls on whom the sons have set their hearts. He could only say that he would speak to his father again on the subject. “Let him tell me that he is contented,” said Mr. Boncassen, “and I will tell him that I am contented. Now, my friend, good-bye.” Silverbridge begged that he might be allowed to see Isabel before he was turned out; but Isabel had left the house in company with her mother.

  CHAPTER LXXI

  “What Am I to Say, Sir?”

  When Silverbridge left Mr. Boncassen’s house he was resolved to go to his father without an hour’s delay, and represent to the Duke exactly how the case stood. He would be urgent, piteous, submissive, and eloquent. In any other matter he would promise to make whatever arrangements his father might desire. He would make his father understand that all his happiness depended on this marriage. When once married he would settle down, even at Gatherum Castle if the Duke should wish it. He would not think of race-horses, he would desert the Beargarden, he would learn blue-books by heart, and only do as much shooting and hunting as would become a young nobleman in his position. All this he would say as eagerly and as pleasantly as it might be said. But he would add to all this an assurance of his unchangeable intention. It was his purpose to marry Isabel Boncassen. If he could do this with his father’s good will, — so best. But at any rate he would marry her!

  The world at this time was altogether busy with political rumours; and it was supposed that Sir Timothy Beeswax would do something very clever. It was supposed also that he would sever himself from some of his present companions. On that point everybody was agreed, — and on that point only everybody was right. Lord Drummond, who was the titular Prime Minister, and Sir Timothy, had, during a considerable part of the last Session, and through the whole vacation, so belarded each other with praise in all their public expressions that it was quite manifest that they had quarrelled. When any body of statesmen make public asseverations by one or various voices, that there is no discord among them, not a dissentient voice on any subject, people are apt to suppose that they cannot hang together much longer. It is the man who has no peace at home that declares abroad that his wife is an angel. He who lives on comfortable terms with the partner of his troubles can afford to acknowledge the ordinary rubs of life. Old Mr. Mildmay, who was Prime Minister for so many years, and whom his party worshipped, used to say that he had never found a gentleman who had quite agreed with him all round; but Sir Timothy has always been in exact accord with all his colleagues, — till he has left them, or they him. Never had there been such concord as of late, — and men, clubs, and newspapers now protested that as a natural consequence there would soon be a break-up.

  But not on that account would it perhaps be necessary that Sir Timothy should resign, — or not necessary that his resignation should be permanent. The Conservative majority had dwindled, — but still there was a majority. It certainly was the case that Lord Drummond could not get on without Sir Timothy. But might it not be possible that Sir Timothy should get on without Lord Drummond? If so he must begin his action in this direction by resigning. He would have to place his resignation, no doubt with infinite regret, in the hands of Lord Drummond. But if such a step were to be taken now, just as Parliament was about to assemble, what would become of the Queen’s speech, of the address, and of the noble peers and noble and other commoners who were to propose and second it in the two Houses of Parliament? There were those who said that such a trick played at the last moment would be very shabby. But then again there were those who foresaw that the shabbiness would be made to rest anywhere rather than on the shoulders of Sir Timothy. If it should turn out that he had striven manfully to make things run smoothly; — that the Premier’s incompetence, or the Chancellor’s obstinacy, or this or that Secretary’s peculiarity of temper had done it all; — might not Sir Timothy then be able to emerge from the confused flood, and swim along pleasantly with his head higher than ever above the waters?

  In these great matters parliamentary management goes for so much! If a man be really clever and handy at his trade, if he can work hard and knows what he is about, if he can give and take and be not thin-skinned or sore-bored, if he can ask pardon for a peccadillo and seem to be sorry with a good grace, if above all things he be able to surround himself with the prestige of success, then so much will be forgiven him! Great gifts of eloquence are hardly wanted, or a deep-seated patriotism which is capable of strong indignation. A party has to be managed, and he who can manage it best, will probably be its best leader. The subordinate task of legislation and of executive government may well fall into the inferior hands of less astute practitioners. It was admitted on both sides that there was no man like Sir Timothy for managing the House or coercing a party, and there was therefore a general feeling that it would be a pity that Sir Timothy should be squeezed out. He knew all the little secrets of the business; — could arrange, let the cause be what it might, to get a full House for himself and his friends, and empty benches for his opponents, — could foresee a thousand little things to which even a Walpole would have been blind, which a Pitt would not have condescended to regard, but with which his familiarity made him a very comfortable leader of the House of Commons. There were various ideas prevalent as to the politics of the coming Session; but the prevailing idea was in favour of Sir Timothy.

  The Duke was at Longroyston, the seat of his old political ally the Duke of St. Bungay, and had been absent from Sunday the 6th till the morning of Friday the 11th, on which day Parliament was to meet. On that morning at about noon a letter came to the son saying that his father had returned and would be glad to see him. Silverbridge was going to the House on that day and was not without his own political anxieties. If Lord Drummond remained in, he thought that he must, for the present, stand by the party which he had adopted. If, however, Sir Timothy should become Prime Minister there would be a loophole for escape. There were some three or four besides himself who detested Sir Timothy, and in such case he might perhaps have company in his desertion. All this was on his mind; but through all this he was aware that there was a matter of much deeper moment which required his energies. When his father’s message was brought to him he told himself at once that now was the time for his eloquence.

  “Well, Silverbridge,” said the Duke, “how are matters going on with you?” There seemed to be something in his father’s manner more than ordinarily jocund and good-humoured.

  “With me, sir?”

  “I don’t mean to ask any party secrets. If you and Sir Timothy understand each other, of course you will be discreet.”

  “I can’t be discreet, sir, because I don’t know anything about him.”

  “When I heard,” said the Duke smiling, “of your being in close conference with Sir Timothy — “

  “I, sir?”

  “Yes, you. Mr. Boncassen told me that you and he were so deeply taken up with each other at his house, that nobody could get a word with either of you.”

  “Have you seen Mr. Boncassen?” asked the son, whose attention was immediately diverted from his father’s political badinage.

  “Yes; — I have seen him. I happened to meet him where I was dining last Sunday, and he walked home with me. He was so intent upon what he was sayi
ng that I fear he allowed me to take him out of his way.”

  “What was he talking about?” said Silverbridge. All his preparations, all his eloquence, all his method, now seemed to have departed from him.