‘Oh, John,’ said the mother, ‘to hear a man like you talk like that is absurd. She’d jump at him if he looked at her with half an eye.’
‘What she may do,’ he continued saying, without appearing to listen to his mother, ‘I cannot say. But that he will ask her to be his wife is as certain as that I stand here.’
CHAPTER 72
‘He thinks that our days are numbered’
All the details of the new County Suffrage Bill were settled at Matching during the recess between Mr Monk, Phineas Finn, and a very experienced gentleman from the Treasury, one Mr Prime, who was supposed to know more about such things than any man living, and was consequently called Constitution Charlie. He was an elderly man, over sixty years of age, who remembered the first Reform Bill, and had been engaged in the doctoring of constituencies ever since.26The bill, if passed, would be mainly his bill, and yet the world would never hear his name as connected with it. Let us hope that he was comfortable at Matching, and that he found his consolation in the smiles of the Duchess. During this time the old Duke was away, and even the Prime Minister was absent for some days. He would fain have busied himself about the bill himself, but was hardly allowed by his colleagues to have any hand in framing it The great points of the measure had of course been arranged in the Cabinet, – where, however, Mr Monk’s views had been adopted almost without a change. It may not perhaps be too much to assume that one or two members of the Cabinet did not quite understand the full scope of every suggested clause. The effects which causes will produce, the dangers which may be expected from this or that change, the manner in which this or that proposition will come out in the washing, do not strike even Cabinet Ministers at a glance. A little study in a man’s own cabinet, after the reading perhaps of a few leading articles, and perhaps a short conversation with an astute friend or two, will enable a statesman to be strong at a given time for, or even, if necessary, against a measure, who has listened in silence, and has perhaps given his personal assent, to the original suggestion. I doubt whether Lord Drummond, when he sat silent in the Cabinet, had realized those fears which weighed upon him so strongly afterwards, or had then foreseen that the adoption of a nearly similar franchise for the counties and boroughs must inevitably lead to the American system of numerical representation. But when time had been given him, and he and Sir Timothy had talked it all over, the mind of no man was ever clearer than that of Lord Drummond.
The Prime Minister, with the diligence which belonged to him, had mastered all the details of Mr Monk’s bill before it was discussed in the Cabinet, and yet he found that his assistance was hardly needed in the absolute preparation. Had they allowed him he would have done it all himself. But it was assumed that he would not trouble himself with such work, and he perceived that he was not wanted. Nothing of moment was settled without a reference to him. He required that everything should be explained as it went on, down to the extension of every borough boundary; but he knew that he was not doing it himself, and that Mr Monk and Constitution Charlie had the prize between them.
Nor did he dare to ask Mr Monk what would be the fate of the bill. To devote all one’s time and mind and industry to a measure which one knows will fall to the ground must be sad. Work under such circumstances must be very grievous. But such is often the fate of statesmen. Whether Mr Monk laboured under such a conviction the Prime Minister did not know, though he saw his friend and colleague almost daily. In truth no one dared to tell him exactly what he thought. Even the old Duke had become partially reticent, and taken himself off to his own woods at Long Royston. To Phineas Finn the Prime Minister would sometimes say a word, but would say even that timidly. On any abstract question, such as that which he had discussed when they had been walking together, he could talk freely enough. But on the matter of the day, those affairs which were of infinite importance to himself, and on which one would suppose he would take delight in speaking to a trusted colleague, he could not bring himself to be open. ‘It must be a long bill, I suppose?’ he said to Phineas one day.
‘I’m afraid so, Duke. It will run, I fear, to over a hundred clauses.’
‘It will take you the best part of the Session to get through it?’
‘If we can have the second reading early in March, we hope to send it up to you in the first week in June. That will give us ample time.’
‘Yes; – yes. I suppose so.’ But he did not dare to ask Phineas Finn whether he thought that the House of Commons would assent to the second reading. It was known at this time that the Prime Minister was painfully anxious as to the fate of the Ministry. It seemed to be but the other day that everybody connected with the Government was living in fear lest he should resign. His threats in that direction had always been made to his old friend the Duke of St Bungay; but a great man cannot whisper his thoughts without having them carried in the air. In all the clubs it had been declared that that was the rock by which the Coalition would probably be wrecked. The newspapers had repeated the story, and the People’s Banner had assured the world that if it were so the Duke of Omnium would thus do for his country the only good service which it was possible that he should render it. That was at the time when Sir Orlando was mutinous and when Lopez had destroyed himself. But now no such threat came from the Duke, and the People’s Banner was already accusing him of clinging to power with pertinacious and unconstitutional tenacity. Had not Sir Orlando deserted him? Was it not well known that Lord Drummond and Sir Timothy Beeswax were only restrained from doing so by a mistaken loyalty?
Everybody came up to town, Mr Monk having his bill in his pocket, and the Queen’s speech was read, promising the County Suffrage Bill. The address was voted with a very few words from either side. The battle was not to be fought then. Indeed, the state of things was so abnormal that there could hardly be said to be any sides in the House. A stranger in the gallery, not knowing the condition of affairs, would have thought that no minister had for many years commanded so large a majority, as the crowd of members was always on the Government side of the House; but the opposition which Mr Monk expected would, he knew, come from those who sat around him, behind him, and even at his very elbow. About a week after Parliament met the bill was read for the first time, and the second reading was appointed for an early day in March.
The Duke had suggested to Mr Monk the expedience of some further delay, giving as his reason the necessity of getting through certain routine work, should the rejection of the bill create the confusion of a resignation. No one who knew the Duke could ever suspect him of giving a false reason. But it seemed that in this the Prime Minister was allowing himself to be harassed by fears of the future. Mr Monk thought that any delay would be injurious and open to suspicion after what had been said and done, and was urgent in his arguments. The Duke gave way, but he did so almost sullenly, signifying his acquiescence with haughty silence. ‘I am sorry,’ said Mr Monk, ‘to differ from your Grace, but my opinion in the matter is so strong that I do not dare to abstain from expressing it.’ The Duke bowed again and smiled. He had intended that the smile should be acquiescent, but it had been as cold as steel. He knew that he was misbehaving, but was not sufficiently master of his own manner to be gracious. He told himself on the spot, – though he was quite wrong in so telling himself, – that he had now made an enemy also of Mr Monk, and through Mr Monk of Phineas Finn. And now he felt that he had no friend left in whom to trust, – for the old Duke had become cold and indifferent The old Duke, he thought, was tired of his work and anxious for rest. It was the old Duke who had brought him into this hornets’ nest; had fixed upon his back the unwilling load; had compelled him to assume the place which now to lose would be a disgrace, – and the old Duke was now deserting him! He was sore all over, angry with everyone, ungracious even with his private Secretary and his wife, – and especially miserable because he was thoroughly aware of his own faults. And yet, through it all, there was present to him a desire to fight on to the very last. Let his colleagues do what they might, and sa
y what they might, he would remain Prime Minister of England as long as he was supported by a majority of the House of Commons.
‘I do not know any greater step than this,’ Phineas said to him pleasantly one day, speaking of their new measure, ‘towards that millennium of which we were talking at Matching, if we can only accomplish it.’
‘Those moral speculations, Mr Finn,’ he said, ‘will hardly bear the wear and tear of real life.’ The words of the answer, combined with the manner in which they were spoken, were stern and almost uncivil. Phineas, at any rate, had done nothing to offend him. The Duke paused, trying to find some expression by which he might correct the injury he had done; but, not finding any, passed on without further speech. Phineas shrugged his shoulders and went his way, telling himself that he had received one further injunction not to put his trust in princes.27
‘We shall be beaten certainly,’ said Mr Monk to Phineas, not long afterwards.
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘I smell it in the air. I see it in men’s faces.’
‘And yet it’s a moderate bill. They’ll have to pass something stronger before long if they throw it out now.’
‘It’s not the bill that they’ll reject, but us. We have served our turn, and we ought to go.’
‘The House is tired of the Duke?’
‘The Duke is so good a man that I hardly like to admit even that; – but I fear it is so. He is fretful and he makes enemies.’
‘I sometimes think that he is ill.’
‘He is ill at ease and sick at heart. He cannot hide his chagrin, and then is doubly wretched because he has betrayed it I do not know that I ever respected and, at the same time, pitied a man more thoroughly’
‘He snubbed me awfully yesterday,’ said Phineas, laughing.
‘He cannot help himself. He snubs me at every word that he speaks, and yet I believe that he is most anxious to be civil to me. His ministry has been of great service to the country. For myself, I shall never regret having joined it But I think that to him it has been a continual sorrow.’
The system on which the Duchess had commenced her career as wife of the Prime Minister had now been completely abandoned. In the first place, she had herself become so weary of it that she had been unable to continue the exertion. She had, too, become in some degree ashamed of her failures. The names of Major Pountney and Mr Lopez were not now pleasant to her ears, nor did she look back with satisfaction on the courtesies she had lavished on Sir Orlando or the smiles she had given to Sir Timothy Beeswax. ‘I’ve known a good many vulgar people in my time,’ she said one day to Mrs Finn, ‘but none ever so vulgar as our ministerial supporters. You don’t remember Mr Bott, my dear. He was before your time; – one of the arithmetical men, and a great friend of Plantagenet’s. He was very bad, but there have come up worse since him. Sometimes, I think, I like a little vulgarity for a change; but, upon my honour, when we get rid of all this it will be a pleasure to go back to ladies and gentlemen.’ This the Duchess said in her extreme bitterness.
‘It seems to me that you have pretty well got rid of “all this” already.’
‘But I haven’t got anybody else in their place. I have almost made up my mind not to ask anyone into the house for the next twelve months. I used to think that nothing would ever knock me up, but now I feel that I’m almost done for. I hardly dare open my mouth to Plantagenet. The Duke of St Bungay has cut me. Mr Monk looks as ominous as an owl; and your husband hasn’t a word to say left. Barrington Erle hides his face and passes by when he sees me. Mr Rattler did try to comfort me the other day by saying that everything was at sixes and sevens, and I really took it almost as a compliment to be spoken to. Don’t you think Plantagenet is ill?’
‘He is careworn.’
‘A man may be worn by care till there comes to be nothing left of him. But he never speaks of giving up now. The old Bishop of St Austell talks of resigning, and he has already made up his mind who is to have the see. He used to consult the Duke about all these things, but I don’t think he ever consults anyone now. He never forgave the Duke about Lord Earlybird. Certainly, if a man wants to quarrel with all his friends, and to double the hatred of all his enemies, he had better become Prime Minister.’
‘Are you really sorry that such was his fate, Lady Glen?’
‘Ah, – I sometimes ask myself that question, but I never get at an answer. I should have thought him a poltroon if he had declined. It is to be the greatest man in the greatest country in the world. Do ever so little and the men who write history must write about you. And no man has ever tried to be nobler than he till – till –’
‘Make no exception. If he be careworn and ill and weary his manners cannot be the same as they were, but his purity is the same as ever.’
‘I don’t know that it would remain so. I believe in him, Marie, more than in any man, – but I believe in none thoroughly. There is a devil creeps in upon them when their hands are strengthened. I do not know what I would have wished. Whenever I do wish, I always wish wrong. Ah, me; when I think of all those people I had down at Gatherum, – of the trouble I took, and of the glorious anticipations in which I revelled, I do feel ashamed of myself. Do you remember when I was determined that that wretch should be member for Silverbridge?’
‘You haven’t seen her since, Duchess?’
‘No; but I mean to see her. I couldn’t make her first husband member, and therefore the man who is member is to be her second husband. But I’m almost sick of schemes. Oh dear, I wish I knew something that was really pleasant to do. I have never really enjoyed anything since I was in love, and I only liked that because it was wicked.’
The Duchess was wrong in saying that the Duke of St Bungay had cut them. The old man still remembered the kiss and still remembered the pledge. But he had found it very difficult to maintain his old relations with his friend. It was his opinion that the Coalition had done all that was wanted from it, and that now had come the time when they might retire gracefully. It is, no doubt, hard for a Prime Minister to find an excuse for going. But if the Duke of Omnium would have been content to acknowledge that he was not the man to alter the County Suffrage, an excuse might have been found that would have been injurious to no one. Mr Monk and Mr Gresham might have joined, and the present Prime Minister might have resigned, explaining that he had done all that he had been appointed to accomplish. He had, however, yielded at once to Mr Monk, and now it was to be feared that the House of Commons would not accept the bill from his hands. In such a state of things, – especially after that disagreement about Lord Earlybird, – it was difficult for the old Duke to tender his advice. He was at every Cabinet Council; he always came when his presence was required; he was invariably good-humoured; – but it seemed to him that his work was done. He could hardly volunteer to tell his chief and his colleague that he would certainly be beaten in the House of Commons, and that therefore there was little more now to be done than to arrange the circumstances of their retirement. Nevertheless, as the period for the second reading of the bill came on, he resolved that he would discuss the matter with his friend. He owed it to himself to do so, and he also owed it to the man whom he had certainly placed in his present position. On himself politics had imposed a burden very much lighter than that which they had inflicted on his more energetic and much less practical colleague. Through his long life he had either been in office, or in such a position that men were sure that he would soon return to it. He had taken it, when it had come, willingly, and had always left it without a regret. As a man cuts in and out at a whist table, and enjoys both the game and the rest from the game, so had the Duke of St Bungay been well pleased in either position. He was patriotic, but his patriotism did not disturb his digestion. He had been ambitious, – but moderately ambitious, and his ambition had been gratified. It never occurred to him to be unhappy because he or his party were beaten on a measure. When President of the Council, he could do his duty and enjoy London life. When in opposition, he could ling
er in Italy till May and devote his leisure to his trees and his bullocks. He was always esteemed, always self-satisfied, and always Duke of St Bungay. But with our Duke it was very different. Patriotism with him was a fever, and the public service an exacting mistress. As long as this had been all he had still been happy. Not trusting much in himself, he had never aspired to great power. But now, now at last, ambition had laid hold of him, – and the feeling, not perhaps uncommon with such men, that personal dishonour would be attached to political failure. What would his future life be if he had so carried himself in his great office as to have shown himself to be unfit to resume it? Hitherto any office had sufficed him in which he might be useful; – but now he must either be Prime Minister, or a silent, obscure, and humbled man!
DEAR DUKE,
I will be with you to-morrow morning at 11 a.m., if you can give me half-an-hour.
Yours affectionately,
ST. B.
The Prime Minister received this note one afternoon, a day or two before that appointed for the second reading, and meeting his friend within an hour in the House of Lords, confirmed the appointment. ‘Shall I not rather come to you?’ he said. But the old Duke, who lived in St James’s Square, declared that Carlton Terrace would be in his way to Downing Street, and so the matter was settled. Exactly at eleven the two Ministers met. ‘I don’t like troubling you,’ said the old man, ‘when I know that you have so much to think of.’
THE PRIME MINISTER Page 75