THE PRIME MINISTER (106 page)

He had been very rough with her, – had not once attempted to touch her hand or even her arm, had spoken no soft word to her, speaking of his own love as a
thing too certain to need further words; and he had declared himself to be so assured of her love that there was no favour for him now to ask, nothing for which he was bound to pray as a lover. All that was past. He had simply declared it to be her duty to marry him, and had told her so with much sternness. He had walked fast, compelling her to accompany him, had frowned at her, and had more than
once stamped his foot upon the ground. During the whole interview she had been so near to weeping that she could hardly speak. Once or twice she had almost thought him to be cruel; – but he had forced her to acknowledge to herself that all that he had said was true and unanswerable. Had he pressed her for an answer at the moment she would not have known in what words to couch a refusal. And yet as
she made her way alone back to the house she assured herself that she would have refused.

He had given her four-and-twenty hours, and at the end of that time she would be bound to give him her answer, – an answer which must then be final. And as she said this to herself she found that she was admitting a doubt She hardly knew how not to doubt, knowing, as she did, that all whom she loved were
on one side, while on the other was nothing but the stubbornness of her own convictions. But still the conviction was left to her. Over and over again she declared to herself that it was not fit, meaning thereby to assure herself that a higher duty even than that which she owed to her friends, demanded
from her that she should be true to her convictions. She met him that day at dinner, but he
hardly spoke to her. They sat together in the same room during the evening, but she hardly once heard his voice. It seemed to her that he avoided even looking at her. When they separated for the night, he parted from her almost as though they had been strangers. Surely he was angry with her because she was stubborn, – thought evil of her because she would not do as others wished her! She lay awake
during the long night thinking of it all. If it might be so! Oh; – if it might be so! If it might be done without utter ruin to her own self-respect as a woman!

In the morning she was down early, – not having anything to say, with no clear purpose as yet before her, – but still with a feeling that perhaps that morning might alter all things for her. He was the latest of the party, not coming
in for prayers as did all the others, but taking his seat when the others had half finished their breakfast. As he sat down he gave a general half-uttered greeting to them all, but spoke no special word to any of them. It chanced that his seat was next to hers, but to her he did not address himself at all. Then the meal was over, and the chairs were withdrawn, and the party grouped itself about with
vague, uncertain movements, as men and women do before they leave the breakfast table for the work of the day. She meditated her escape, but felt that she could not leave the room before Lady Wharton or Mrs Fletcher, – who had remained at Wharton to keep her mother company for a while. At last they went; – but then, just as she was escaping, he put his hand upon her and reminded her of her appointment.
‘I shall be in the hall in a quarter of an hour,’ he said. ‘Will you meet me there?’ Then she bowed her head to him and passed on.

She was there at the time named, and found him standing by the hall door, waiting for her. His hat was already on his head and his back was almost turned to her. He opened the door, and, allowing her to pass out first, led the way to the shrubbery. He did not speak
to her till he had closed behind her the little iron gate which separated the walk from the garden, and then he turned upon her with one word. ‘Well?’ he said. She was silent for a moment, and then he repeated his eager question: ‘Well; – well?’

‘I should disgrace you,’ she said, not firmly as before, but whispering the words.

He waited for no other assent. The form of the words told him that
he had won the day. In a moment his arms were round her, and her veil was off, and his lips were pressed to hers; – and when she could see his countenance the whole form of his face was altered to her. It was bright as it used to be bright in old days, and he was smiling on her as he used to smile. ‘My own,’ he said; – ‘my wife – my own!’ And she had no longer the power to deny him. ‘Not yet, Arthur;
not yet,’ was all that she could say.

The ex-Prime Minister did not carry out his purpose of leaving London in the middle of the season and travelling either to Italy or Norway. He was away from London at Whitsuntide longer perhaps than he might have been if still in office, and during this period regarded himself as a man from whose hands all work had been taken, – as one who had been found
unfit to carry any longer a burden serviceably; but before June was over he and the Duchess were back in London, and gradually he allowed himself to open his mouth on this or that subject in the House of Lords, – not pitching into everybody all round, as his wife had recommended, – but expressing an opinion now and again, generally in support of his friends, with the dignity which should belong to
a retired Prime Minister. The Duchess too recovered much of her good temper, – as far at least as the outward show went One or two who knew her, especially Mrs Finn, were aware that her hatred and her ideas of revenge were not laid aside; but she went on from day to day anathematizing her special enemies, and abstained from reproaching her husband for his pusillanimity. Then came the question as
to the autumn. ‘Let’s have everybody down at Gatherum, just as we had before,’ said the Duchess.

The proposition almost took away the Duke’s breath. ‘Why do you want a crowd, like that?’

‘Just to show them that we are not beaten because we are turned out.’

‘But, inasmuch as we were turned out, we were beaten. And what has a gathering of people at my private house to do with a political manoeuvre?
Do you especially want to go to Gatherum?’

‘I hate the place. You know I do.’

‘Then why should you propose to go there?’ He hardly yet knew his wife well enough to understand that the suggestion had been a joke. ‘If you don’t wish to go abroad– ’

‘I hate going abroad.’

‘Then we’ll remain at Matching. You don’t hate Matching.’

‘Ah dear! There are memories there too. But you like it.’

‘My
books are there.’

‘Blue-books,’ said the Duchess.

‘And there is plenty of room if you wish to have friends.’

‘I suppose we must have somebody. You can’t live without your Mentor.’

‘You can ask whom you please,’ he said almost fretfully.

‘Lady Rosina, of course,’ suggested the Duchess. Then he turned to the papers before him, and wouldn’t say another word. The matter ended in a party much
as usual being collected at Matching about the middle of October, – Telemachus having spent the early part of the autumn with Mentor
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at Long Royston. There might perhaps be a dozen guests in the house, and among them of course were Phineas Finn and his wife. And Mr Grey was there, having come back from his eastern mission, – whose unfortunate abandonment of his seat at Silverbridge had caused
so many troubles, – and Mrs Grey, who in days now long passed had been almost as necessary to Lady Glencora, as was now her later friend Mrs Finn, – and the Cantrips, and for a short time the St Bungays. But Lady Rosina De Courcy on this occasion was not present. There were few there whom my patient readers have not seen at Matching before; but among those few was Arthur Fletcher.

‘So it is to
be,’ said the Duchess to the member for Silverbridge one morning. She had by this time become intimate with ‘her member’, as she would sometimes call him in joke, and had concerned herself much as to his matrimonial prospects.

‘Yes, Duchess; it is to be, – unless some unforeseen circumstance should arise.’

‘What circumstance?’

‘Ladies and gentlemen sometimes do change their minds; – but in
this case I do not think it likely.’

‘And why ain’t you being married now, Mr Fletcher?’

‘We have agreed to postpone it till next year; – so that we may be quite sure of our own minds.’

‘I know you are laughing at me; but nevertheless I am very glad that it is settled. Pray tell her from me that I shall call again as soon as ever she is Mrs Fletcher, though I don’t think she repaid either of
the last two visits I made her.’

‘You must make excuses for her, Duchess.’

‘Of course. I know. After all she is a most fortunate woman. And as for you, – I regard you as a hero among lovers.’

‘I’m getting used to it,’ she said one day to Mrs Finn.

‘Of course you’ll get used to it. We get used to anything that chance sends us in a marvellously short time.’

‘What I mean is that I can go to
bed, and sleep, and get up and eat my meals without missing the sound of the trumpets so much as I did at first. I remember hearing of people who lived in a mill, and couldn’t sleep when the mill stopped. It was like that with me when our mill stopped at first. I had got myself so used to the excitement of it, that I could hardly live without it.’

‘You might have all the excitement still, if
you pleased. You need not be dead to politics because your husband is not Prime Minister.’

‘No; never again, – unless he should come back. If anyone had told me ten years ago that I should have taken an interest in this or that man being in the Government, I should have laughed him to scorn. It did not seem possible to me then that I should care what became of such men as Sir Timothy Beeswax
and Mr Roby. But I did get to be anxious about it when Plantagenet was shifted from one office to another.’

‘Of course you did. Do you think I am not anxious about Phineas?’

‘But when he became Prime Minister, I gave myself up to it altogether. I shall never forget what I felt when he came to me and told me that perhaps it might be so; – but told me also that he would escape from it if it were
possible. I was the Lady Macbeth of the occasion all over, – whereas he was so scrupulous, so burdened with conscience! As for me, I would have taken it by any means. Then it
was that the old Duke played the part of the three witches to a nicety. Well, there hasn’t been any absolute murder, and I haven’t quite gone mad.’

‘Nor need you be afraid, though all the woods of Gatherum should come to
Matching.’
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‘God forbid! I will never see anything of Gatherum again. What annoys me most is, and always was, that he wouldn’t understand what I felt about it; – how proud I was that he should be Prime Minister, how anxious that he should be great and noble in his office; – how I worked for him, and not at all for any pleasure of my own.’

‘I think he did feel it.’

‘No; – not as I did. At last
he liked the power, – or rather feared the disgrace of losing it But he had no idea of the personal grandeur of the place. He never understood that to be Prime Minister in England is as much as to be an Emperor in France, and much more than being President in America. Oh, how I did labour for him, – and how he did scold me for it with those quiet little stinging words of his! I was vulgar!’

‘Is that a quiet word?’

‘Yes; – as he used it; – and indiscreet, and ignorant, and stupid. I bore it all, though sometimes I was dying with vexation. Now it’s all over, and here we are as humdrum as anyone else. And the Beeswaxes, and the Robys, and the Droughts, and the Pountneys, and the Lopezes, have all passed over the scene! Do you remember that Pountney affair, and how he turned the poor
man out of the house?’

‘It served him right.’

‘It would have served them all right to be turned out, – only they were there for a purpose. I did like it in a way, and it makes me sad to think that the feeling can never come again. Even if they should have him back again, it would be a very lame affair to me then. I can never again rouse myself to the effort of preparing food and lodging for
half the Parliament and their wives. I shall never again think that I can help to rule England by coaxing unpleasant men. It is done and gone, and can never come back again.’

Not long after this the Duke took Mr Monk, who had come down to Matching for a few days, out to the very spot on which he had sat when he indulged himself in lecturing Phineas Finn on Conservatism
and Liberalism generally,
and then asked the Chancellor of the Exchequer what he thought of the present state of public affairs. He himself had supported Mr Gresham’s government, and did not belong to it because he could not at present reconcile himself to filling any office. Mr Monk did not scruple to say that in his opinion the present legitimate division of parties was preferable to the Coalition which had existed for
three years. ‘In such an arrangement,’ said Mr Monk, ‘there must always be a certain amount of distrust, and such a feeling is fatal to any great work.’

‘I think I distrusted no one till separation came, – and when it did come it was not caused by me.’

‘I am not blaming anyone now,’ said the other, ‘but men who have been brought up with opinions altogether different, even with different instincts
as to politics, who from their mother’s milk have been nourished on codes of thought altogether opposed to each other, cannot work together with confidence even though they may desire the same thing. The very ideas which are sweet as honey to the one are bitter as gall to the other;’

‘You think, then, that we made a great mistake?’

‘I will not say that,’ said Mr Monk. ‘There was a difficulty
at the time, and that difficulty was overcome. The Government was carried on, and was on the whole respected. History will give you credit for patriotism, patience, and courage. No man could have done it better than you did; – probably no other man of the day so well.’

‘But it was not a great part to play?’ The Duke in his nervousness, as he said this, could not avoid the use of that questioning
tone which requires an answer.

‘Great enough to satisfy the heart of a man who has fortified himself against the evil side of ambition. After all, what is it that the Prime Minister of such a country as this should chiefly regard? Is it not the prosperity of the country? It is not often that we want great measures, or new arrangements that shall be vital to the country. Politicians now look for
grievances, not because the grievances are heavy, but trusting that the honour of abolishing them may be great. It is the old story of the needy knife-grinder who, if left to himself, would have no grievance of which to complain.’
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