The Duke and Duchess with their children and personal servants reached Gatherum Castle the day before the first crowd of visitors was expected. It was on a lovely autumn afternoon, and the Duke, who had endeavoured to make himself pleasant during the journey, had suggested that as soon as the heat would allow them they would saunter about the grounds and see what was being done. They could dine late, at half-past eight or nine, so that they might be walking from seven to eight. But the Duchess when she reached the Castle declined to fall into this arrangement. The journey had been hot and dusty and she was a little cross. They reached the place about five, and then she declared that she would have a cup of tea and lie down; she was too tired to walk; and the sun, she said, was still scorchingly hot. He then asked that the children might go with him; but the two little girls were weary and travel-worn, and the two boys, the elder of whom was home from Eton and the younger from some minor Eton, were already out about the place after their own pleasures. So the Duke started for his walk alone.
The Duchess certainly did not wish to have to inspect the works in conjunction with her husband. She knew how much there was that she ought still to do herself, how many things that she herself ought to see. But she could neither do anything nor see anything to any purpose under his wing. As to lying down, that she knew to be quite out of the question. She had already found out that the life which she had adopted was one of incessant work. But she was neither weak nor idle. She was quite prepared to work,—if only she might work after her own fashion and with companions chosen by herself. Had not her husband been so perverse, she would have travelled down with Mrs. Finn, whose coming was now postponed for two days, and Locock would have been with her. The Duke had given directions which made it necessary that Locock's coming should be postponed for a day, and this was another grievance. She was put out a good deal, and began to speculate whether her husband was doing it on purpose to torment her. Nevertheless, as soon as she knew that he was out of the way, she went to her work. She could not go out among the tents and lawns and conservatories, as she would probably meet him. But she gave orders as to bedchambers, saw to the adornments of the reception-rooms, had an eye to the banners and martial trophies suspended in the vast hall, and the busts and statues which adorned the corners, looked in on the plate which was being prepared for the great dining-room, and superintended the moving about of chairs, sofas, and tables generally. "You may take it as certain, Mrs. Pritchard," she said to the housekeeper, "that there will never be less than forty for the next two months."
"Forty to sleep, my lady?" To Pritchard the Duchess had for many years been Lady Glencora, and she perhaps understood that her mistress liked the old appellation.
"Yes, forty to sleep, and forty to eat, and forty to drink. But that's nothing. Forty to push through twenty-four hours every day! Do you think you've got everything that you want?"
"It depends, my lady, how long each of 'em stays."
"One night! No,—say two nights on an average."
"That makes shifting the beds very often;—doesn't it, my lady?"
"Send up to Puddick's for sheets to-morrow. Why wasn't that thought of before?"
"It was, my lady,—and I think we shall do. We've got the steam-washery put up."
"Towels!" suggested the Duchess.
"Oh yes, my lady. Puddick's did send a great many things;—a whole waggon load there was come from the station. But the tablecloths ain't, none of 'em, long enough for the big table." The Duchess's face fell. "Of course there must be two. On them very long tables, my lady, there always is two."
"Why didn't you tell me, so that I could have had them made? It's impossible,—impossible that one brain should think of it all. Are you sure you've got enough hands in the kitchen?"
"Well, my lady;—we couldn't do with more; and they ain't an atom of use,—only just in the way,—if you don't know something about 'em. I suppose Mr. Millepois will be down soon." This name, which Mrs. Pritchard called Milleypoise, indicated a French cook who was as yet unknown at the Castle.
"He'll be here to-night."
"I wish he could have been here a day or two sooner, my lady, so as just to see about him."
"And how should we have got our dinner in town? He won't make any difficulties. The confectioner did come?"
"Yes, my lady; and to tell the truth out at once, he was that drunk last night that—; oh, dear, we didn't know what to do with him."
"I don't mind that before the affair begins. I don't suppose he'll get tipsy while he has to work for all these people. You've plenty of eggs?"
These questions went on so rapidly that in addition to the asking of them the Duchess was able to go through all the rooms before she dressed for dinner, and in every room she saw something to speak of, noting either perfection or imperfection. In the meantime the Duke had gone out alone. It was still hot, but he had made up his mind that he would enjoy his first holiday out of town by walking about his own grounds, and he would not allow the heat to interrupt him. He went out through the vast hall, and the huge front door, which was so huge and so grand that it was very seldom used. But it was now open by chance, owing to some incident of this festival time, and he passed through it and stood upon the grand terrace, with the well-known and much-lauded portico over head. Up to the terrace, though it was very high, there ran a road, constructed upon arches, so that grand guests could drive almost into the house. The Duke, who was never grand himself, as he stood there looking at the far-stretching view before him, could not remember that he had ever but once before placed himself on that spot. Of what use had been the portico, and the marbles, and the huge pile of stone,—of what use the enormous hall just behind him, cutting the house in two, declaring aloud by its own aspect and proportions that it had been built altogether for show and in no degree for use or comfort? And now as he stood there he could already see that men were at work about the place, that ground had been moved here, and grass laid down there, and a new gravel road constructed in another place. Was it not possible that his friends should be entertained without all these changes in the gardens? Then he perceived the tents, and descending from the terrace and turning to the left towards the end of the house he came upon a new conservatory. The exotics with which it was to be filled were at this moment being brought in on great barrows. He stood for a moment and looked, but said not a word to the men. They gazed at him but evidently did not know him. How should they know him,—him, who was so seldom there, and who when there never showed himself about the place? Then he went farther afield from the house and came across more and more men. A great ha-ha fence had been made, enclosing on three sides a large flat and turfed parallelogram of ground, taken out of the park and open at one end to the gardens, containing, as he thought, about an acre. "What are you doing this for?" he said to one of the labourers. The man stared at him, and at first seemed hardly inclined to make him an answer. "It be for the quality to shoot their bows and harrows," he said at last, as he continued the easy task of patting with his spade the completed work. He evidently regarded this stranger as an intruder who was not entitled to ask questions, even if he were permitted to wander about the grounds.
From one place he went on to another and found changes, and new erections, and some device for throwing away money everywhere. It angered him to think that there was so little of simplicity left in the world that a man could not entertain his friends without such a fuss as this. His mind applied itself frequently to the consideration of the money, not that he grudged the loss of it, but the spending of it in such a cause. And then perhaps there occurred to him an idea that all this should not have been done without a word of consent from himself. Had she come to him with some scheme for changing everything about the place, making him think that the alterations were a matter of taste or of mere personal pleasure, he would probably have given his assent at once, thinking nothing of the money. But all this was sheer display. Then he walked up and saw the flag waving over the Castle, indicating that he, the Lord Lieutenant of the County, was present there on his own soil. That was right. That was as it should be, because the flag was waving in compliance with an acknowledged ordinance. Of all that properly belonged to his rank and station he could be very proud, and would allow no diminution of that outward respect to which they were entitled. Were they to be trenched on by his fault in his person, the rights of others to their enjoyment would be endangered, and the benefits accruing to his country from established marks of reverence would be imperilled. But here was an assumed and preposterous grandeur that was as much within the reach of some rich swindler or of some prosperous haberdasher as of himself,—having, too, a look of raw newness about it which was very distasteful to him. And then, too, he knew that nothing of all this would have been done unless he had become Prime Minister. Why on earth should a man's grounds be knocked about because he becomes Prime Minister? He walked on arguing this within his own bosom, till he had worked himself almost up to anger. It was clear that he must henceforth take things more into his own hands, or he would be made to be absurd before the world. Indifference he knew he could bear. Harsh criticism he thought he could endure. But to ridicule he was aware that he was pervious. Suppose the papers were to say of him that he built a new conservatory and made an archery ground for the sake of maintaining the Coalition!
When he got back to the house he found his wife alone in the small room in which they intended to dine. After all her labours she was now reclining for the few minutes her husband's absence might allow her, knowing that after dinner there were a score of letters for her to write. "I don't think," said she, "I was ever so tired in my life."
"It isn't such a very long journey after all."
"But it's a very big house, and I've been, I think, into every room since I have been here, and I've moved most of the furniture in the drawing-rooms with my own hand, and I've counted the pounds of butter, and inspected the sheets and tablecloths."
"Was that necessary, Glencora?"
"If I had gone to bed instead, the world, I suppose, would have gone on, and Sir Orlando Drought would still have led the House of Commons;—but things should be looked after, I suppose."
"There are people to do it. You are like Martha, troubling yourself with many things."
"I always felt that Martha was very ill-used. If there were no Marthas there would never be anything fit to eat. But it's odd how sure a wife is to be scolded. If I did nothing at all, that wouldn't please a busy, hard-working man like you."
"I don't know that I have scolded,—not as yet."
"Are you going to begin?"
"Not to scold, my dear. Looking back, can you remember that I ever scolded you?"
"I can remember a great many times when you ought."
"But to tell you the truth, I don't like all that you have done here. I cannot see that it was necessary."
"People make changes in their gardens without necessity sometimes."
"But these changes are made because of your guests. Had they been made to gratify your own taste I would have said nothing,—although even in that case I think you might have told me what you proposed to do."
"What;—when you are so burdened with work that you do not know how to turn?"
"I am never so burdened that I cannot turn to you. But, as you know, that is not what I complain of. If it were done for yourself, though it were the wildest vagary, I would learn to like it. But it distresses me to think that what might have been good enough for our friends before should be thought to be insufficient because of the office I hold. There is a—a—a—I was almost going to say vulgarity about it which distresses me."
"Vulgarity!" she exclaimed, jumping up from her sofa.
"I retract the word. I would not for the world say anything that should annoy you;—but pray, pray do not go on with it." Then again he left her.
Vulgarity! There was no other word in the language so hard to bear as that. He had, indeed, been careful to say that he did not accuse her of vulgarity,—but nevertheless the accusation had been made. Could you call your friend a liar more plainly than by saying to him that you would not say that he lied? They dined together, the two boys, also, dining with them, but very little was said at dinner. The horrid word was clinging to the lady's ears, and the remembrance of having uttered the word was heavy on the man's conscience. He had told himself very plainly that the thing was vulgar, but he had not meant to use the word. When uttered it came even upon himself as a surprise. But it had been uttered; and, let what apology there may be made, a word uttered cannot be retracted. As he looked across the table at his wife, he saw that the word had been taken in deep dudgeon.
She escaped, to the writing of her letters she said, almost before the meal was done. "Vulgarity!" She uttered the word aloud to herself, as she sat herself down in the little room up-stairs which she had assigned to herself for her own use. But though she was very angry with him, she did not, even in her own mind, contradict him. Perhaps it was vulgar. But why shouldn't she be vulgar, if she could most surely get what she wanted by vulgarity? What was the meaning of the word vulgarity? Of course she was prepared to do things,—was daily doing things,—which would have been odious to her had not her husband been a public man. She submitted, without unwillingness, to constant contact with disagreeable people. She lavished her smiles,—so she now said to herself,—on butchers and tinkers. What she said, what she read, what she wrote, what she did, whither she went, to whom she was kind and to whom unkind,—was it not all said and done and arranged with reference to his and her own popularity? When a man wants to be Prime Minister he has to submit to vulgarity, and must give up his ambition if the task be too disagreeable to him. The Duchess thought that that had been understood, at any rate ever since the days of Coriolanus. "The old Duke kept out of it," she said to herself, "and chose to live in the other way. He had his choice. He wants it to be done. And when I do it for him because he can't do it for himself, he calls it by an ugly name!" Then it occurred to her that the world tells lies every day,—telling on the whole much more lies than truth,—but that the world has wisely agreed that the world shall not be accused of lying. One doesn't venture to express open disbelief even of one's wife; and with the world at large a word spoken, whether lie or not, is presumed to be true of course,—because spoken. Jones has said it, and therefore Smith,—who has known the lie to be a lie,—has asserted his assured belief, lying again. But in this way the world is able to live pleasantly. How was she to live pleasantly if her husband accused her of vulgarity? Of course it was all vulgar, but why should he tell her so? She did not do it from any pleasure that she got from it.
The letters remained long unwritten, and then there came a moment in which she resolved that they should not be written. The work was very hard, and what good would come from it? Why should she make her hands dirty, so that even her husband accused her of vulgarity? Would it not be better to give it all up, and be a great woman, une grande dame, of another kind,—difficult of access, sparing of her favours, aristocratic to the backbone,—a very Duchess of duchesses? The role would be one very easy to play. It required rank, money, and a little manner,—and these she possessed. The old Duke had done it with ease, without the slightest trouble to himself, and had been treated almost like a god because he had secluded himself. She could make the change even yet,—and as her husband told her that she was vulgar, she thought she would make it.
But at last, before she had abandoned her desk and paper, there had come to her another thought. Nothing to her was so distasteful as failure. She had known that there would be difficulties, and had assured herself that she would be firm and brave in overcoming them. Was not this accusation of vulgarity simply one of the difficulties which she had to overcome? Was her courage already gone from her? Was she so weak that a single word should knock her over,—and a word evidently repented of as soon as uttered? Vulgar! Well;—let her be vulgar as long as she gained her object. There had been no penalty of everlasting punishment denounced against vulgarity. And then a higher idea touched her, not without effect,—an idea which she could not analyse, but which was hardly on that account the less effective. She did believe thoroughly in her husband, to the extent of thinking him the fittest man in all the country to be its Prime Minister. His fame was dear to her. Her nature was loyal; and though she might, perhaps, in her younger days have been able to lean upon him with a more loving heart had he been other than he was, brighter, more gay, given to pleasures, and fond of trifles, still, she could recognise merits with which her sympathy was imperfect. It was good that he should be England's Prime Minister, and therefore she would do all she could to keep him in that place. The vulgarity was a necessary essential. He might not acknowledge this,—might even, if the choice were left to him, refuse to be Prime Minister on such terms. But she need not, therefore, give way. Having in this way thought it all out, she took up her pen and completed the batch of letters before she allowed herself to go to bed.
When the guests began to arrive our friend the Duchess had apparently got through her little difficulties, for she received them with that open, genial hospitality which is so delightful as coming evidently from the heart. There had not been another word between her and her husband as to the manner in which the thing was to be done, and she had determined that the offensive word should pass altogether out of her memory. The first comer was Mrs. Finn,—who came indeed rather as an assistant hostess than as a mere guest, and to her the Duchess uttered a few half-playful hints as to her troubles. "Considering the time, haven't we done marvels? Because it does look nice,—doesn't it? There are no dirt heaps about, and it's all as green as though it had been there since the Conquest. He doesn't like it because it looks new. And we've got forty-five bedrooms made up. The servants are all turned out over the stables somewhere,—quite comfortable, I assure you. Indeed they like it. And by knocking down the ends of two passages we've brought everything together. And the rooms are all numbered just like an inn. It was the only way. And I keep one book myself, and Locock has another. I have everybody's room, and where it is, and how long the tenant is to be allowed to occupy it. And here's the way everybody is to take everybody down to dinner for the next fortnight. Of course that must be altered, but it is easier when we have a sort of settled basis. And I have some private notes as to who should flirt with whom."
"You'd better not let that lie about."
"Nobody could understand a word of it if they had it. A. B. always means X. Y. Z. And this is the code of the Gatherum Archery Ground. I never drew a bow in my life,—not a real bow in the flesh, that is, my dear,—and yet I've made 'em all out, and had them printed. The way to make a thing go down is to give it some special importance. And I've gone through the bill of fare for the first week with Millepois, who is a perfect gentleman,—perfect." Then she gave a little sigh as she remembered that word from her husband, which had so wounded her. "I used to think that Plantagenet worked hard when he was doing his decimal coinage; but I don't think he ever stuck to it as I have done."
"What does the Duke say to it all?"
"Ah; well, upon the whole he behaves like an angel. He behaves so well that half my time I think I'll shut it all up and have done with it,—for his sake. And then, the other half, I'm determined to go on with it,—also for his sake."
"He has not been displeased?"
"Ask no questions, my dear, and you'll hear no stories. You haven't been married twice without knowing that women can't have everything smooth. He only said one word. It was rather hard to bear, but it has passed away."
That afternoon there was quite a crowd. Among the first comers were Mr. and Mrs. Roby, and Mr. and Mrs. Rattler. And there were Sir Orlando and Lady Drought, Lord Ramsden, and Sir Timothy Beeswax. These gentlemen with their wives represented, for the time, the Ministry of which the Duke was the head, and had been asked in order that their fealty and submission might be thus riveted. There were also there Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, with Lord Thrift and his daughter Angelica, who had belonged to former Ministries,—one on the Liberal and the other on the Conservative side,—and who were now among the Duke's guests, in order that they and others might see how wide the Duke wished to open his hands. And there was our friend Ferdinand Lopez, who had certainly made the best use of his opportunities in securing for himself so great a social advantage as an invitation to Gatherum Castle. How could any father, who was simply a barrister, refuse to receive as his son-in-law a man who had been a guest at the Duke of Omnium's country house? And then there were certain people from the neighbourhood;—Frank Gresham of Greshamsbury, with his wife and daughter, the master of the hounds in those parts, a rich squire of old blood, and head of the family to which one of the aspirant Prime Ministers of the day belonged. And Lord Chiltern, another master of fox hounds, two counties off,—and also an old friend of ours,—had been asked to meet him, and had brought his wife. And there was Lady Rosina De Courcy, an old maid, the sister of the present Earl De Courcy, who lived not far off and had been accustomed to come to Gatherum Castle on state occasions for the last thirty years,—the only relic in those parts of a family which had lived there for many years in great pride of place; for her elder brother, the Earl, was a ruined man, and her younger brothers were living with their wives abroad, and her sisters had married, rather lowly in the world, and her mother now was dead, and Lady Rosina lived alone in a little cottage outside the old park palings, and still held fast within her bosom all the old pride of the De Courcys. And then there were Captain Gunner and Major Pountney, two middle-aged young men, presumably belonging to the army, whom the Duchess had lately enlisted among her followers as being useful in their way. They could eat their dinners without being shy, dance on occasions, though very unwillingly, talk a little, and run on messages;—and they knew the peerage by heart, and could tell the details of every unfortunate marriage for the last twenty years. Each thought himself, especially since this last promotion, to be indispensably necessary to the formation of London society, and was comfortable in a conviction that he had thoroughly succeeded in life by acquiring the privilege of sitting down to dinner three times a week with peers and peeresses.
The list of guests has by no means been made as complete here as it was to be found in the county newspapers, and in the "Morning Post" of the time; but enough of names has been given to show of what nature was the party. "The Duchess has got rather a rough lot to begin with," said the Major to the Captain.
"Oh, yes. I knew that. She wanted me to be useful, so of course I came. I shall stay here this week, and then be back in September." Up to this moment Captain Gunner had not received any invitation for September, but then there was no reason why he should not do so.
"I've been getting up that archery code with her," said Pountney, "and I was pledged to come down and set it going. That little Gresham girl isn't a bad looking thing."
"Rather flabby," said Captain Gunner.
"Very nice colour. She'll have a lot of money, you know."
"There's a brother," said the Captain.
"Oh, yes; there's a brother, who will have the Greshamsbury property, but she's to have her mother's money. There's a very odd story about all that, you know." Then the Major told the story, and told every particular of it wrongly. "A man might do worse than look there," said the Major. A man might have done worse, because Miss Gresham was a very nice girl; but of course the Major was all wrong about the money.
"Well;—now you've tried it, what do you think about it?" This question was put by Sir Timothy to Sir Orlando as they sat in a corner of the archery ground, under the shelter of a tent, looking on while Major Pountney taught Mrs. Boffin how to fix an arrow to her bowstring. It was quite understood that Sir Timothy was inimical to the Coalition though he still belonged to it, and that he would assist in breaking it up if only there were a fair chance of his belonging to the party which would remain in power. Sir Timothy had been badly treated, and did not forget it. Now Sir Orlando had also of late shown some symptoms of a disturbed ambition. He was the Leader of the House of Commons, and it had become an almost recognised law of the Constitution that the Leader of the House of Commons should be the First Minister of the Crown. It was at least understood by many that such was Sir Orlando's reading of the laws of the Constitution.
"We've got along, you know," said Sir Orlando.
"Yes;—yes. We've got along. Can you imagine any possible concatenation of circumstances in which we should not get along? There's always too much good sense in the House for an absolute collapse. But are you contented?"
"I won't say I'm not," said the cautious baronet. "I didn't look for very great things from a Coalition, and I didn't look for very great things from the Duke."
"It seems to me that the one achievement to which we've all looked has been the reaching the end of the Session in safety. We've done that certainly."
"It is a great thing to do, Sir Timothy. Of course the main work of Parliament is to raise supplies;—and, when that has been done with ease, when all the money wanted has been voted without a break-down, of course Ministers are very glad to get rid of the Parliament. It is as much a matter of course that a Minister should dislike Parliament now as that a Stuart King should have done so two hundred and fifty years ago. To get a Session over and done with is an achievement and a delight."
"No Ministry can go on long on that far niente principle, and no minister who accedes to it will remain long in any ministry." Sir Timothy in saying this might be alluding to the Duke, or the reference might be to Sir Orlando himself. "Of course, I'm not in the Cabinet, and am not entitled to say a word; but I think that if I were in the Cabinet, and if I were anxious,—which I confess I'm not,—for a continuation of the present state of things, I should endeavour to obtain from the Duke some idea of his policy for the next Session." Sir Orlando was a man of certain parts. He could speak volubly,—and yet slowly,—so that reporters and others could hear him. He was patient, both in the House and in his office, and had the great gift of doing what he was told by men who understood things better than he did himself. He never went very far astray in his official business, because he always obeyed the clerks and followed precedents. He had been a useful man,—and would still have remained so had he not been lifted a little too high. Had he been only one in the ruck on the Treasury Bench he would have been useful to the end; but special honour and special place had been assigned to him, and therefore he desired still bigger things. The Duke's mediocrity of talent and of energy and of general governing power had been so often mentioned of late in Sir Orlando's hearing, that Sir Orlando had gradually come to think that he was the Duke's equal in the Cabinet, and that perhaps it behoved him to lead the Duke. At the commencement of their joint operations he had held the Duke in some awe, and perhaps something of that feeling in reference to the Duke personally still restrained him. The Dukes of Omnium had always been big people. But still it might be his duty to say a word to the Duke. Sir Orlando assured himself that if ever convinced of the propriety of doing so, he could say a word even to the Duke of Omnium. "I am confident that we should not go on quite as we are at present," said Sir Timothy as he closed the conversation.
"Where did they pick him up?" said the Major to the Captain, pointing with his head to Ferdinand Lopez, who was shooting with Angelica Thrift and Mr. Boffin and one of the Duke's private secretaries.
"The Duchess found him somewhere. He's one of those fabulously rich fellows out of the City who make a hundred thousand pounds at a blow. They say his people were grandees of Spain."
"Does anybody know him?" asked the Major.
"Everybody soon will know him," answered the Captain. "I think I heard that he's going to stand for some place in the Duke's interest. He don't look the sort of fellow I like; but he's got money and he comes here, and he's good looking,—and therefore he'll be a success." In answer to this the Major only grunted. The Major was a year or two older than the Captain, and therefore less willing even than his friend to admit the claims of new comers to social honours.
Just at this moment the Duchess walked across the ground up to the shooters, accompanied by Mrs. Finn and Lady Chiltern. She had not been seen in the gardens before that day, and of course a little concourse was made round her. The Major and the Captain, who had been driven away by the success of Ferdinand Lopez, returned with their sweetest smiles. Mr. Boffin put down his treatise on the nature of Franchises, which he was studying in order that he might lead an opposition against the Ministry next Session, and even Sir Timothy Beeswax, who had done his work with Sir Orlando, joined the throng.
"Now I do hope," said the Duchess, "that you are all shooting by the new code. That is, and is to be, the Gatherum Archery Code, and I shall break my heart if anybody rebels."
"There are one or two men," said Major Pountney very gravely, "who won't take the trouble to understand it."
"Mr. Lopez," said the Duchess, pointing with her finger at our friend, "are you that rebel?"
"I fear I did suggest—" began Mr. Lopez.
"I will have no suggestions,—nothing but obedience. Here are Sir Timothy Beeswax and Mr. Boffin, and Sir Orlando Drought is not far off; and here is Mr. Rattler, than whom no authority on such a subject can be better. Ask them whether in other matters suggestions are wanted."
"Of course not," said Major Pountney.
"Now, Mr. Lopez, will you or will you not be guided by a strict and close interpretation of the Gatherum Code? Because, if not, I'm afraid we shall feel constrained to accept your resignation."
"I won't resign, and I will obey," said Lopez.
"A good ministerial reply," said the Duchess. "I don't doubt but that in time you'll ascend to high office and become a pillar of the Gatherum constitution. How does he shoot, Miss Thrift?"
"He will shoot very well indeed, Duchess, if he goes on and practises," said Angelica, whose life for the last seven years had been devoted to archery. Major Pountney retired far away into the park, a full quarter of a mile off, and smoked a cigar under a tree. Was it for this that he had absolutely given up a month to drawing out this code of rules, going backwards and forwards two or three times to the printers in his desire to carry out the Duchess's wishes? "Women are sod––––ungrateful!" he said aloud in his solitude, as he turned himself on the hard ground. "And some men are sod––––lucky!" This fellow, Lopez, had absolutely been allowed to make a good score off his own intractable disobedience.
The Duchess's little joke about the Ministers generally, and the advantages of submission on their part to their chief, was thought by some who heard it not to have been made in good taste. The joke was just such a joke as the Duchess would be sure to make,—meaning very little but still not altogether pointless. It was levelled rather at her husband than at her husband's colleagues who were present, and was so understood by those who really knew her,—as did Mrs. Finn, and Mr. Warburton, the private secretary. But Sir Orlando and Sir Timothy and Mr. Rattler, who were all within hearing, thought that the Duchess had intended to allude to the servile nature of their position; and Mr. Boffin, who heard it, rejoiced within himself, comforting himself with the reflection that his withers were unwrung, and thinking with what pleasure he might carry the anecdote into the farthest corners of the clubs. Poor Duchess! 'Tis pitiful to think that after such Herculean labours she should injure the cause by one slight unconsidered word, more, perhaps, than she had advanced it by all her energy.
During this time the Duke was at the Castle, but he showed himself seldom to his guests,—so acting, as the reader will I hope understand, from no sense of the importance of his own personal presence, but influenced by a conviction that a public man should not waste his time. He breakfasted in his own room, because he could thus eat his breakfast in ten minutes. He read all the papers in solitude, because he was thus enabled to give his mind to their contents. Life had always been too serious to him to be wasted. Every afternoon he walked for the sake of exercise, and would have accepted any companion if any companion had especially offered himself. But he went off by some side-door, finding the side-door to be convenient, and therefore when seen by others was supposed to desire to remain unseen. "I had no idea there was so much pride about the Duke," Mr. Boffin said to his old colleague, Sir Orlando. "Is it pride?" asked Sir Orlando. "It may be shyness," said the wise Boffin. "The two things are so alike you can never tell the difference. But the man who is cursed by either should hardly be a Prime Minister."
It was on the day after this that Sir Orlando thought that the moment had come in which it was his duty to say that salutary word to the Duke which it was clearly necessary that some colleague should say, and which no colleague could have so good a right to say as he who was the Leader of the House of Commons. He understood clearly that though they were gathered together then at Gatherum Castle for festive purposes, yet that no time was unfit for the discussion of State matters. Does not all the world know that when in autumn the Bismarcks of the world, or they who are bigger than Bismarcks, meet at this or that delicious haunt of salubrity, the affairs of the world are then settled in little conclaves, with greater ease, rapidity, and certainty than in large parliaments or the dull chambers of public offices? Emperor meets Emperor, and King meets King, and as they wander among rural glades in fraternal intimacy, wars are arranged, and swelling territories are enjoyed in anticipation. Sir Orlando hitherto had known all this, but had hardly as yet enjoyed it. He had been long in office, but these sweet confidences can of their very nature belong only to a very few. But now the time had manifestly come.
It was Sunday afternoon, and Sir Orlando caught the Duke in the very act of leaving the house for his walk. There was no archery, and many of the inmates of the Castle were asleep. There had been a question as to the propriety of Sabbath archery, in discussing which reference had been made to Laud's book of sports, and the growing idea that the National Gallery should be opened on the Lord's-day. But the Duchess would not have the archery. "We are just the people who shouldn't prejudge the question," said the Duchess. The Duchess with various ladies, with the Pountneys and Gunners, and other obedient male followers, had been to church. None of the Ministers had of course been able to leave the swollen pouches which are always sent out from London on Saturday night, probably,—we cannot but think,—as arranged excuses for such defalcation, and had passed their mornings comfortably dozing over new novels. The Duke, always right in his purpose but generally wrong in his practice, had stayed at home working all the morning, thereby scandalising the strict, and had gone to church alone in the afternoon, thereby offending the social. The church was close to the house, and he had gone back to change his coat and hat, and to get his stick. But as he was stealing out of the little side-gate, Sir Orlando was down upon him. "If your Grace is going for a walk, and will admit of company, I shall be delighted to attend you," said Sir Orlando. The Duke professed himself to be well pleased, and in truth was pleased. He would be glad to increase his personal intimacy with his colleagues if it might be done pleasantly.
They had gone nearly a mile across the park, watching the stately movements of the herds of deer, and talking of this and that trifle, before Sir Orlando could bring about an opportunity for uttering his word. At last he did it somewhat abruptly. "I think upon the whole we did pretty well last Session," he said, standing still under an old oak-tree.
"Pretty well," re-echoed the Duke.
"And I suppose we have not much to be afraid of next Session?"
"I am afraid of nothing," said the Duke.
"But—;" then Sir Orlando hesitated. The Duke, however, said not a word to help him on. Sir Orlando thought that the Duke looked more ducal than he had ever seen him look before. Sir Orlando remembered the old Duke, and suddenly found that the uncle and nephew were very like each other. But it does not become the Leader of the House of Commons to be afraid of any one. "Don't you think," continued Sir Orlando, "we should try and arrange among ourselves something of a policy? I am not quite sure that a ministry without a distinct course of action before it can long enjoy the confidence of the country. Take the last half century. There have been various policies, commanding more or less of general assent; free trade—." Here Sir Orlando gave a kindly wave of his hand, showing that on behalf of his companion he was willing to place at the head of the list a policy which had not always commanded his own assent;—"continued reform in Parliament, to which I have, with my whole heart, given my poor assistance." The Duke remembered how the bathers' clothes were stolen, and that Sir Orlando had been one of the most nimble-fingered of the thieves. "No popery, Irish grievances, the ballot, retrenchment, efficiency of the public service, all have had their time."
"Things to be done offer themselves, I suppose, because they are in themselves desirable; not because it is desirable to have something to do."
"Just so;—no doubt. But still, if you will think of it, no ministry can endure without a policy. During the latter part of the last Session it was understood that we had to get ourselves in harness together, and nothing more was expected from us; but I think we should be prepared with a distinct policy for the coming year. I fear that nothing can be done in Ireland."
"Mr. Finn has ideas—."
"Ah, yes;—well, your Grace. Mr. Finn is a very clever young man certainly; but I don't think we can support ourselves by his plan of Irish reform." Sir Orlando had been a little carried away by his own eloquence and the Duke's tameness, and had interrupted the Duke. The Duke again looked ducal, but on this occasion Sir Orlando did not observe his countenance. "For myself, I think, I am in favour of increased armaments. I have been applying my mind to the subject, and I think I see that the people of this country do not object to a slightly rising scale of estimates in that direction. Of course there is the countysuffrage—"
"I will think of what you have been saying," said the Duke.
"As to the county suffrage—"
"I will think it over," said the Duke. "You see that oak. That is the largest tree we have here at Gatherum; and I doubt whether there be a larger one in this part of England." The Duke's voice and words were not uncourteous, but there was something in them which hindered Sir Orlando from referring again on that occasion to county suffrages or increased armaments.
When the party had been about a week collected at Gatherum Castle, Ferdinand Lopez had manifestly become the favourite of the Duchess for the time, and had, at her instance, promised to remain there for some further days. He had hardly spoken to the Duke since he had been in the house,—but then but few of that motley assembly did talk much with the Duke. Gunner and Pountney had gone away,—the Captain having declared his dislike of the upstart Portuguese to be so strong that he could not stay in the same house with him any longer, and the Major, who was of stronger mind, having resolved that he would put the intruder down. "It is horrible to think what power money has in these days," said the Captain. The Captain had shaken the dust of Gatherum altogether from his feet, but the Major had so arranged that a bed was to be found for him again in October,—for another happy week; but he was not to return till bidden by the Duchess. "You won't forget;—now will you, Duchess?" he said, imploring her to remember him as he took his leave. "I did take a deal of trouble about the code;—didn't I?" "They don't seem to me to care for the code," said the Duchess, "but, nevertheless, I'll remember."
"Who, in the name of all that's wonderful, was that I saw you with in the garden?" the Duchess said to her husband one afternoon.
"It was Lady Rosina De Courcy, I suppose."
"Heaven and earth!—what a companion for you to choose."
"Why not?—why shouldn't I talk to Lady Rosina De Courcy?"
"I'm not jealous a bit, if you mean that. I don't think Lady Rosina will steal your heart from me. But why you should pick her out of all the people here, when there are so many would think their fortunes made if you would only take a turn with them, I cannot imagine."
"But I don't want to make any one's fortune," said the Duke; "and certainly not in that way."
"What could you be saying to her?"
"She was talking about her family. I rather like Lady Rosina. She is living all alone, it seems, and almost in poverty. Perhaps there is nothing so sad in the world as the female scions of a noble but impoverished stock."
"Nothing so dull, certainly."
"People are not dull to me, if they are real. I pity that poor lady. She is proud of her blood and yet not ashamed of her poverty."
"Whatever might come of her blood, she has been all her life willing enough to get rid of her poverty. It isn't above three years since she was trying her best to marry that brewer at Silverbridge. I wish you could give your time a little to some of the other people."
"To go and shoot arrows?"
"No;—I don't want you to shoot arrows. You might act the part of host without shooting. Can't you walk about with anybody except Lady Rosina De Courcy?"
"I was walking about with Sir Orlando Drought last Sunday, and I very much prefer Lady Rosina."
"There has been no quarrel?" asked the Duchess sharply.
"Oh dear, no."
"Of course he's an empty-headed idiot. Everybody has always known that. And he's put above his place in the House. But it wouldn't do to quarrel with him now."
"I don't think I am a quarrelsome man, Cora. I don't remember at this moment that I have ever quarrelled with anybody to your knowledge. But I may perhaps be permittedto—"
"Snub a man, you mean. Well, I wouldn't even snub Sir Orlando very much, if I were you; though I can understand that it might be both pleasant and easy."
"I wish you wouldn't put slang phrases into my mouth, Cora. If I think that a man intrudes upon me, I am of course bound to let him know my opinion."
"Sir Orlando has—intruded!"
"By no means. He is in a position which justifies his saying many things to me which another might not say. But then, again, he is a man whose opinion does not go far with me, and I have not the knack of seeming to agree with a man while I let his words pass idly by me."
"That is quite true, Plantagenet."
"And, therefore, I was uncomfortable with Sir Orlando, while I was able to sympathise with Lady Rosina."
"What do you think of Ferdinand Lopez?" asked the Duchess, with studied abruptness.
"Think of Mr. Lopez! I haven't thought of him at all. Why should I think of him?"
"I want you to think of him. I think he's a very pleasant fellow, and I'm sure he's a rising man."
"You might think the latter, and perhaps feel sure of the former."
"Very well. Then, to oblige you, I'll think the latter and feel sure of the former. I suppose it's true that Mr. Grey is going on this mission to Persia?" Mr. Grey was the Duke's intimate friend, and was at this time member for the neighbouring borough of Silverbridge.
"I think he will go. I've no doubt about it. He is to go after Christmas."
"And will give up his seat?"
The Duke did not answer her immediately. It had only just been decided,—decided by his friend himself,—that the seat should be given up when the journey to Persia was undertaken. Mr. Grey, somewhat in opposition to the Duke's advice, had resolved that he could not be in Persia and do his duty in the House of Commons at the same time. But this resolution had only now been made known to the Duke, and he was rather puzzled to think how the Duchess had been able to be so quick upon him. He had, indeed, kept the matter back from the Duchess, feeling that she would have something to say about it, which might possibly be unpleasant, as soon as the tidings should reach her. "Yes," he said, "I think he will give up his seat. That is his purpose, though I think it is unnecessary."
"Let Mr. Lopez have it."
"Mr. Lopez!"
"Yes;—he is a clever man, a rising man, a man that is sure to do well, and who will be of use to you. Just take the trouble to talk to him. It is assistance of that kind that you want. You Ministers go on shuffling the old cards till they are so worn out and dirty that one can hardly tell the pips on them."
"I am one of the dirty old cards myself," said the Duke.
"That's nonsense, you know. A man who is at the head of affairs as you are can't be included among the pack I am speaking of. What you want is new blood, or new wood, or new metal, or whatever you may choose to call it. Take my advice and try this man. He isn't a pauper. It isn't money that he wants."
"Cora, your geese are all swans."
"That's not fair. I have never brought to you a goose yet. My swans have been swans. Who was it brought you and your pet swan of all, Mr. Grey, together? I won't name any names, but it is your swans have been geese."
"It is not for me to return a member for Silverbridge." When he said this, she gave him a look which almost upset even his gravity, a look which was almost the same as asking him whether he would not—"tell that to the marines." "You don't quite understand these things, Cora," he continued. "The influence which owners of property may have in boroughs is decreasing every day, and there arises the question whether a conscientious man will any longer use such influence."
"I don't think you'd like to see a man from Silverbridge opposing you in the House."
"I may have to bear worse even than that."
"Well;—there it is. The man is here and you have the opportunity of knowing him. Of course I have not hinted at the matter to him. If there were any Palliser wanted the borough I wouldn't say a word. What more patriotic thing can a patron do with his borough than to select a man who is unknown to him, not related to him, a perfect stranger, merely for his worth?"
"But I do not know what may be the worth of Mr. Lopez."
"I will guarantee that," said the Duchess. Whereupon the Duke laughed, and then left her.
The Duchess had spoken with absolute truth when she told her husband that she had not said a word to Mr. Lopez about Silverbridge, but it was not long before she did say a word. On that same day she found herself alone with him in the garden,—or so much alone as to be able to speak with him privately. He had certainly made the best use of his time since he had been at the Castle, having secured the good-will of many of the ladies, and the displeasure of most of the men. "You have never been in Parliament, I think," said the Duchess.
"I have never even tried to get there."
"Perhaps you dislike the idea of that kind of life."
"No, indeed," he said. "So far from it, that I regard it as the highest kind of life there is in England. A seat in Parliament gives a man a status in this country which it has never done elsewhere."
"Then why don't you try it?"
"Because I've got into another groove. I've become essentially a city man,—one of those who take up the trade of making money generally."
"And does that content you?"
"No, Duchess;—certainly not. Instead of contenting me it disgusts me. Not but that I like the money,—only it is so insufficient a use of one's life. I suppose I shall try to get into Parliament some day. Seats in Parliament don't grow like blackberries on bushes."
"Pretty nearly," said the Duchess.
"Not in my part of the country. These good things seem to be appointed to fall in the way of some men, and not of others. If there were a general election going on to-morrow, I should not know how to look for a seat."
"They are to be found sometimes even without a general election," said the Duchess.
"Are you alluding to anything now?"
"Well;—yes, I am. But I'm very discreet, and do not like to do more than allude. I fancy that Mr. Grey, the member for Silverbridge, is going to Persia. Mr. Grey is a Member of Parliament. Members of Parliament ought to be in London and not in Persia. It is generally supposed that no man in England is more prone to do what he ought to do than Mr. Grey. Therefore, Mr. Grey will cease to be Member for Silverbridge. That's logic; isn't it?"
"Has your Grace any logic equally strong to prove that I can follow him in the borough?"
"No;—or if I have, the logic that I should use in that matter must for the present be kept to myself." She certainly had a little syllogism in her head as to the Duke ruling the borough, the Duke's wife ruling the Duke, and therefore the Duke's wife ruling the borough; but she did not think it prudent to utter this on the present occasion. "I think it much better that men in Parliament should be unmarried," said the Duchess.
"But I am going to be married," said he.
"Going to be married, are you?"
"I have no right to say so, because the lady's father has rejected me." Then he told her the whole story, and so told it as to secure her entire sympathy. In telling it he never said that he was a rich man, he never boasted that that search after wealth of which he had spoken, had been successful; but he gave her to understand that there was no objection to him at all on the score of money. "You may have heard of the family," he said.
"I have heard of the Whartons of course, and know that there is a baronet,—but I know nothing more of them. He is not a man of large property, I think."
"My Miss Wharton,—the one I would fain call mine,—is the daughter of a London barrister. He, I believe, is rich."
"Then she will be an heiress."
"I suppose so;—but that consideration has had no weight with me. I have always regarded myself as the architect of my own fortune, and have no wish to owe my material comfort to a wife."
"Sheer love!" suggested the Duchess.
"Yes, I think so. It's very ridiculous; is it not?"
"And why does the rich barrister object?"
"The rich barrister, Duchess, is an out and out old Tory, who thinks that his daughter ought to marry no one but an English Tory. I am not exactly that."
"A man does not hamper his daughter in these days by politics, when she is falling in love."
"There are other cognate reasons. He does not like a foreigner. Now I am an Englishman, but I have a foreign name. He does not think that a name so grandly Saxon as Wharton should be changed to one so meanly Latin as Lopez."
"The lady does not object to the Latinity?"
"I fancy not."
"Or to the bearer of it?"
"Ah;—there I must not boast. But in simple truth there is only the father's ill-will between us."
"With plenty of money on both sides?" asked the Duchess. Lopez shrugged his shoulders. A shrug at such a time may mean anything, but the Duchess took this shrug as signifying that the question was so surely settled as to admit of no difficulty. "Then," said the Duchess, "the old gentleman may as well give way at once. Of course his daughter will be too many for him." In this way the Duchess of Omnium became the fast friend of Ferdinand Lopez.
Towards the end of September Everett Wharton and Ferdinand Lopez were in town together, and as no one else was in town,—so at least they both professed to say,—they saw a good deal of each other. Lopez, as we know, had spent a portion of the preceding month at Gatherum Castle, and had made good use of his time, but Everett Wharton had been less fortunate. He had been a little cross with his father, and perhaps a little cross with all the Whartons generally, who did not, he thought, make quite enough of him. In the event of "anything happening" to that ne'er-do-well nephew, he himself would be the heir; and he reflected not unfrequently that something very probably might happen to the nephew. He did not often see this particular cousin, but he always heard of him as being drunk, overwhelmed with debt and difficulty, and altogether in that position of life in which it is probable that something will "happen." There was always of course the danger that the young man might marry and have a child;—but in the meantime surely he, Everett Wharton, should have been as much thought of on the banks of the Wye as Arthur Fletcher. He had been asked down to Wharton Hall,—but he had been asked in a way which he had not thought to be flattering and had declined to go. Then there had been a plan for joining Arthur Fletcher in a certain shooting, but that had failed in consequence of a few words between himself and Arthur respecting Lopez. Arthur had wanted him to say that Lopez was an unpardonable intruder,—but he had taken the part of Lopez, and therefore, when the time came round, he had nothing to do with the shooting. He had stayed in town till the middle of August, and had then started by himself across the continent with some keen intention of studying German politics; but he had found perhaps that German politics do not manifest themselves in the autumn, or that a foreign country cannot be well studied in solitude,—and he had returned.
Late in the summer, just before his father and sister had left town, he had had some words with the old barrister. There had been a few bills to be paid, and Everett's allowance had been insufficient. It often was insufficient, and then ready money for his German tour was absolutely necessary. Mr. Wharton might probably have said less about the money had not his son accompanied his petition by a further allusion to Parliament. "There are some fellows at last really getting themselves together at the Progress, and of course it will be necessary to know who will be ready to come forward at the next general election."
"I think I know one who won't," said the father, "judging from the manner in which he seems at present to manage his own money affairs." There was more severity in this than the old man had intended, for he had often thought within his own bosom whether it would not be well that he should encourage his son to stand for some seat. And the money that he had now been asked to advance had not been very much,—not more, in truth, than he expected to be called upon to pay in addition to the modest sum which he professed to allow his son. He was a rich man, who was not in truth made unhappy by parting with his money. But there had been, he thought, an impudence in the conjoint attack which it was his duty to punish. Therefore he had given his son very little encouragement.
"Of course, sir, if you tell me that you are not inclined to pay anything beyond the allowance you make me, there is an end of it."
"I rather think that you have just asked me to pay a considerable sum beyond your allowance, and that I have consented." Everett argued the matter no further, but he permitted his mind to entertain an idea that he was ill-used by his father. The time would come when he would probably be heir not only to his father's money, but also to the Wharton title and the Wharton property,—when his position in the country would really be, as he frequently told himself, quite considerable. Was it possible that he should refrain from blaming his father for not allowing him to obtain, early in life, that parliamentary education which would fit him to be an ornament to the House of Commons, and a safeguard to his country in future years?
Now he and Lopez were at the Progress together, and they were almost the only men in the club. Lopez was quite contented with his own present sojourn in London. He had not only been at Gatherum Castle but was going there again. And then he had brilliant hopes before him,—so brilliant that they began, he thought, to assume the shape of certainties. He had corresponded with the Duchess, and he had gathered from her somewhat dubious words that the Duke would probably accede to her wishes in the matter of Silverbridge. The vacancy had not yet been declared. Mr. Grey was deterred, no doubt by certain high State purposes, from applying for the stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds, and thereby releasing himself from his seat in Parliament, and enabling himself to perform, with a clear conscience, duties in a distant part of the world which he did not feel to be compatible with that seat. The seekers after seats were, no doubt, already on the track; but the Duchess had thought that as far as the Duke's good word went, it might possibly be given in favour of Mr. Lopez. The happy aspirant had taken this to be almost as good as a promise. There were also certain pecuniary speculations on foot, which could not be kept quite quiet even in September, as to which he did not like to trust entirely to the unaided energy of Mr. Sextus Parker, or to the boasted alliance of Mr. Mills Happerton. Sextus Parker's whole heart and soul were now in the matter, but Mr. Mills Happerton, an undoubted partner in Hunky and Sons, had blown a little coldly on the affair. But in spite of this Ferdinand Lopez was happy. Was it probable that Mr. Wharton should continue his opposition to a marriage which would make his daughter the wife of a member of Parliament and of a special friend of the Duchess of Omnium?
He had said a word about his own prospects in reference to the marriage, but Everett had been at first too full of his own affairs to attend much to a matter which was comparatively so trifling. "Upon my word," he said, "I am beginning to feel angry with the governor, which is a kind of thing I don't like at all."
"I can understand that when he's angry with you, you shouldn't like it."
"I don't mind that half so much. He'll come round. However unjust he may be now, at the moment, he's the last man in the world to do an injustice in his will. I have thorough confidence in him. But I find myself driven into hostility to him by a conviction that he won't let me take any real step in life, till my life has been half frittered away."
"You're thinking of Parliament."
"Of course I am. I don't say you ain't an Englishman, but you are not quite enough of an Englishman to understand what Parliament is to us."
"I hope to be,—some of these days," said Lopez.
"Perhaps you may. I won't say but what you may get yourself educated to it when you've been married a dozen years to an English wife, and have half-a-dozen English children of your own. But, in the meantime, look at my position. I am twenty-eight years old."
"I am four years your senior."
"It does not matter a straw to you," continued Everett. "But a few years are everything with me. I have a right to suppose that I may be able to represent the county,—say in twenty years. I shall probably then be the head of the family and a rich man. Consider what a parliamentary education would be to me! And then it is just the life for which I have laid myself out, and in which I could make myself useful. You don't sympathise with me, but you might understand me."
"I do both. I think of going into the House myself."
"You!"
"Yes; I do."
"You must have changed your ideas very much then within the last month or two."
"I have changed my ideas. My one chief object in life is, as you know, to marry your sister; and if I were a Member of Parliament I think that some difficulties would be cleared away."
"But there won't be an election for the next three years at any rate," said Everett Wharton, staring at his friend. "You don't mean to keep Emily waiting for a dissolution?"
"There are occasional vacancies," said Lopez.
"Is there a chance of anything of that kind falling in your way?"
"I think there is. I can't quite tell you all the particulars because other people are concerned, but I don't think it improbable that I may be in the House before—; well, say in three months' time."
"In three months' time!" exclaimed Everett, whose mouth was watering at the prospects of his friend. "That is what comes from going to stay with the Prime Minister, I suppose." Lopez shrugged his shoulders. "Upon my word I can't understand you," continued the other. "It was only the other day you were arguing in this very room as to the absurdity of a parliamentary career,—pitching into me, by George, like the very mischief, because I had said something in its favour,—and now you are going in for it yourself in some sort of mysterious way that a fellow can't understand." It was quite clear that Everett Wharton thought himself ill-used by his friend's success.
"There is no mystery;—only I can't tell people's names."
"What is the borough?"
"I cannot tell you that at present."
"Are you sure there will be a vacancy?"
"I think I am sure."
"And that you will be invited to stand?"
"I am not sure of that."
"Of course anybody can stand whether invited or not."
"If I come forward for this place I shall do so on the very best interest. Don't mention it. I tell you because I already regard my connection with you as being so close as to call upon me to tell you anything of that kind."
"And yet you do not tell me the details."
"I tell you all that I can in honour tell."
Everett Wharton certainly felt aggrieved by his friend's news, and plainly showed that he did so. It was so hard that if a stray seat in Parliament were going a-begging, it should be thrown in the way of this man who didn't care for it, and couldn't use it to any good purpose, instead of in his own way! Why should any one want Ferdinand Lopez to be in Parliament? Ferdinand Lopez had paid no attention to the great political questions of the Commonwealth. He knew nothing of Labour and Capital, of Unions, Strikes, and Lock-outs. But because he was rich, and, by being rich, had made his way among great people, he was to have a seat in Parliament! As for the wealth, it might be at his own command also,—if only his father could be got to see the matter in a proper light. And as for the friendship of great people,—Prime Ministers, Duchesses, and such like,—Everett Wharton was quite confident that he was at any rate as well qualified to shine among them as Ferdinand Lopez. He was of too good a nature to be stirred to injustice against his friend by the soreness of this feeling. He did not wish to rob his friend of his wealth, of his Duchesses, or of his embryo seat in Parliament. But for the moment there came upon him a doubt whether Ferdinand was so very clever, or so peculiarly gentlemanlike or in any way very remarkable, and almost a conviction that he was very far from being good-looking.
They dined together, and quite late in the evening they strolled out into St. James's Park. There was nobody in London, and there was nothing for either of them to do, and therefore they agreed to walk round the park, dark and gloomy as they knew the park would be. Lopez had seen and had quite understood the bitterness of spirit by which Everett had been oppressed, and with that peculiarly imperturbable good humour which made a part of his character bore it all, even with tenderness. He was a man, as are many of his race, who could bear contradictions, unjust suspicions, and social ill-treatment without a shadow of resentment, but who, if he had a purpose, could carry it out without a shadow of a scruple. Everett Wharton had on this occasion made himself very unpleasant, and Lopez had borne with him as an angel would hardly have done; but should Wharton ever stand in his friend's way, his friend would sacrifice him without compunction. As it was, Lopez bore with him, simply noting in his own mind that Everett Wharton was a greater ass than he had taken him to be. It was Wharton's idea that they should walk round the park, and Lopez for a time had discouraged the suggestion. "It is a wretchedly dark place at night, and you don't know whom you may meet there."
"You don't mean to say that you are afraid to walk round St. James's Park with me, because it's dark!" said Wharton.
"I certainly should be afraid by myself, but I don't know that I am afraid with you. But what's the good?"
"It's better than sitting here doing nothing, without a soul to speak to. I've already smoked half-a-dozen cigars, till I'm so muddled I don't know what I'm about. It's so hot one can't walk in the day, and this is just the time for exercise." Lopez yielded, being willing to yield in almost anything at present to the brother of Emily Wharton; and, though the thing seemed to him to be very foolish, they entered the park by St. James's Palace, and started to walk round it, turning to the right and going in front of Buckingham Palace. As they went on Wharton still continued his accusation against his father and said also some sharp things against Lopez himself, till his companion began to think that the wine he had drunk had been as bad as the cigars. "I can't understand your wanting to go into Parliament," he said. "What do you know about it?"
"If I get there, I can learn like anybody else, I suppose."
"Half of those who go there don't learn. They are, as it were, born to it, and they do very well to support this party or that."
"And why shouldn't I support this party,—or that?"
"I don't suppose you know which party you would support,—except that you'd vote for the Duke, if, as I suppose, you are to get in under the Duke's influence. If I went into the House I should go with a fixed and settled purpose of my own."
"I'm not there yet," said Lopez, willing to drop the subject.
"It will be a great expense to you, and will stand altogether in the way of your profession. As far as Emily is concerned, I should think my father would be dead against it."
"Then he would be unreasonable."
"Not at all, if he thought you would injure your professional prospects. It is ad––––piece of folly; that's the long and the short of it."
This certainly was very uncivil, and it almost made Lopez angry. But he had made up his mind that his friend was a little the worse for the wine he had drunk, and therefore he did not resent even this. "Never mind politics and Parliament now," he said, "but let us get home. I am beginning to be sick of this. It's so awfully dark, and whenever I do hear a step, I think somebody is coming to rob us. Let us get on a bit."
"What the deuce are you afraid of?" said Everett. They had then come up the greater part of the length of the Birdcage Walk, and the lights at Storey's Gate were just visible, but the road on which they were then walking was very dark. The trees were black over their head, and not a step was heard near them. At this time it was just midnight. Now, certainly, among the faults which might be justly attributed to Lopez, personal cowardice could not be reckoned. On this evening he had twice spoken of being afraid, but the fear had simply been that which ordinary caution indicates; and his object had been that of hindering Wharton in the first place from coming into the park, and then of getting him out of it as quickly as possible.
"Come along," said Lopez.
"By George, you are in a blue funk," said the other. "I can hear your teeth chattering." Lopez, who was beginning to be angry, walked on and said nothing. It was too absurd, he thought, for real anger, but he kept a little in front of Wharton, intending to show that he was displeased. "You had better run away at once," said Wharton.
"Upon my word, I shall begin to think that you're tipsy," said Lopez.
"Tipsy!" said the other. "How dare you say such a thing to me? You never in your life saw me in the least altered by any thing I had drunk."
Lopez knew that at any rate this was untrue. "I've seen you as drunk as Cloe before now," said he.
"That's a lie," said Everett Wharton.
"Come, Wharton," said the other, "do not disgrace yourself by conduct such as that. Something has put you out, and you do not know what you are saying. I can hardly imagine that you should wish to insult me."
"It was you who insulted me. You said I was drunk. When you said it you knew it was untrue."
Lopez walked on a little way in silence, thinking over this most absurd quarrel. Then he turned round and spoke. "This is all the greatest nonsense I ever heard in the world. I'll go on and go to bed, and to-morrow morning you'll think better of it. But pray remember that under no circumstances should you call a man a liar, unless on cool consideration you are determined to quarrel with him for lying, and determined also to see the quarrel out."