THE PRIME MINISTER (45 page)

‘I desired you not to speak to Mr Sprugeon,’ he thundered forth.

‘That’s all very well, Plantagenet, but if you desire me to hold my tongue altogether, what am I to do?’

‘What business is this of yours?’

‘I suppose I may have my political sympathies as well as another. Really you are becoming so autocratic that I shall have to go in for women’s rights.’

‘You mean me to understand then that
you intend to put yourself in opposition to me.’

‘What a fuss you make about it all!’ she said. ‘Nothing that one can do is right! You make me wish that I was a milkmaid or a farmer’s wife.’ So saying she bounced out of the room, leaving the Duke sick at heart, low in spirit, and doubtful whether he were right or wrong in his attempts to manage his wife. Surely he must be right in feeling
that
in his high office a clearer conduct and cleaner way of walking was expected from him than from other men!
Noblesse oblige!
To his uncle the privilege of returning a member to Parliament had been a thing of course; and when the radical newspapers of the day abused his uncle, his uncle took that abuse as a thing of course. The old Duke acted after his kind, and did not care what others said of
him. And he himself, when he first came to his dukedom, was not as he was now. Duties, though they were heavy enough, were lighter then. Serious matters were less serious. There was this and that matter of public policy on which he was intent, but, thinking humbly of himself, he had not yet learned to conceive that he must fit his public conduct in all things to a straight rule of patriotic justice.
Now it was different with him, and though the change was painful, he felt it to be imperative. He would fain have been as other men, but he could not But in this change it was so needful to him that he should carry with him the full sympathies of one person; – that she who was the nearest to him of all should act with him! And now she had not only disobeyed him, but had told him, as some grocer’s
wife might tell her husband, that he was ‘making a fuss about it all’!

And then, as he thought of the scene which has been described, he could not quite approve of himself. He knew that he was too self-conscious, – that he was thinking too much about his own conduct and the conduct of others to him. The phrase had been odious to him, but still he could not acquit himself of ‘making a fuss’. Of
one thing only was he sure, – that a grievous calamity had befallen him when circumstances compelled him to become the Queen’s Prime Minister.

He said nothing further to his wife till they were in London together, and then he was tempted to caress her again, to be loving to her, and to show her that he had forgiven her. But she was brusque to him, as though she did not wish to be forgiven. ‘Cora,’
he said, ‘do not separate yourself from me.’

‘Separate myself! What on earth do you mean? I have not dreamed of such a thing.’ The Duchess answered him as though he had alluded to some actual separation.

‘I do not mean that. God forbid that a misfortune such as that should ever happen! Do not disjoin yourself from me in all these troubles.’

‘What am I to do when you scold me? You must know
pretty well by this time that I don’t like to be scolded. “I desired you not to speak to Mr Sprugeon!”’ As she repeated his words she imitated his manner and voice closely. ‘I shouldn’t dream of addressing the children with such magnificence of anger. “What business is it of yours!” No woman likes that sort of thing, and I’m not sure that I am acquainted with any woman who likes it much less than–Glencora,
Duchess of Omnium.’ As she said these last words in a low whisper, she curtseyed down to the ground.

‘You know how anxious I am,’ he began, ‘that you should share everything with me, – even in politics. But in all things there must at last be one voice that shall be the ruling voice.’

‘And that is to be yours, – of course.’

‘In such a matter as this it must be.’

‘And, therefore, I like to
do a little business of my own behind your back. It’s human nature, and you’ve got to put up with it. I wish you had a better wife. I dare say there are many who would be better. There’s the Duchess of St Bungay who never troubles her husband about politics, but only scolds him because the wind blows from the east. It is just possible there might be worse.’

‘Oh, Glencora!’

‘You had better make
the best you can of your bargain and not expect too much from her. And don’t ride over her with a very high horse. And let her have her own way a little if you really believe that she has your interest at heart.’

After this he was quite aware that she had got the better of him altogether. On that occasion he smiled and kissed her, and went his way. But he was by no means satisfied. That he should
be thwarted by her, ate into his very heart; – and it was a wretched thing to him that he could not make her understand his feeling in this respect. If it were to go on he must throw up everything.
Ruat coelum, fiat
–
¹⁵
proper subordination from his wife in regard to public matters! No wife had a fuller allowance of privilege, or more complete power in her hands, as to things fit for women’s management.
But it was intolerable to him that she should seek to interfere with him in matters of a public nature. And she was constantly doing so. She had always this or that aspirant for office on hand; – this or that job to be carried, though the jobs were not perhaps much in themselves; – this or that affair to be managed by her own political allies, such as
Barrington Erle and Phineas Finn. And in his
heart he suspected her of a design of managing the Government in her own way, with her own particular friend, Mrs Finn, for her Prime Minister. If he could in no other way put an end to such evils as these, he must put an end to his own political life.
Ruat cœlum, fiat justitia
. Now ‘justitia’ to him was not compatible with feminine interference in his own special work.

It may therefore be understood
that things were not going very smoothly with the Duke and Duchess; and it may also be understood why the Duchess had had very little to say to Mr Lopez about the election. She was aware that she owed something to Mr Lopez, whom she had certainly encouraged to stand for the borough, and she had therefore sent her card to his wife and was prepared to invite them both to her parties; – but
just at present she was a little tired of Ferdinand Lopez, and perhaps unjustly disposed to couple him with that unfortunate wretch, Major Pountney.

Arthur Fletcher, in his letter to Mrs Lopez, had told her that when he found out who was to be his antagonist at Silverbridge, it was too late for him to give up the contest. He was, he said, bound in faith to continue it by what had passed between himself and others. But in truth he had not reached this conclusion without some persuasion from others.
He had been at Longbarns with his brother when he first heard that Lopez intended to stand, and he at once signified his desire to give way. The information reached him from Mr Frank Gresham, of Greshambury, a gentleman connected with the De Courcys who was now supposed to represent the De Courcy interest in the county, and who had first suggested to Arthur that he should come forward. It was
held at Longbarns that Arthur was bound in honour to Mr Gresham and to Mr Gresham’s friends, and to this opinion he had yielded.

Since Emily Wharton’s marriage her name had never been mentioned at Longbarns in Arthur’s presence. When he was away, – and of course his life was chiefly passed in London, – old Mrs Fletcher was free enough in her abuse of the silly creature who had allowed herself
to be taken out of her own rank by a Portuguese Jew. But she had been made to understand by her elder son, the lord of Longbarns, that not a word was to be said when Arthur was there. ‘I think he ought to be taught to forget her,’ Mrs Fletcher had said. But John in his own quiet but imperious way, had declared that there were some men to whom such lessons could not be taught, and that Arthur was
one of them. ‘Is he never to get a wife, then?’ Mrs Fletcher had asked. John wouldn’t pretend to answer that question, but was quite sure that his brother would not be tempted into other matrimonial arrangements by anything that could be said against Emily Lopez. When Mrs Fletcher declared in her extreme anger that Arthur was a fool for his trouble, John did not contradict her, but declared that the
folly was of a nature to require tender treatment.

Matters were in this condition at Longbarns when Arthur communicated to his brother the contents of Mr Gresham’s letter, and expressed his own purpose of giving up Silverbridge. ‘I don’t quite see that,’ said John.

‘No; – and it is impossible that you should be expected to see it I don’t quite know how to talk about it even to you, though I
think you are about the softest-hearted fellow out.’

‘I don’t acknowledge the soft heart; – but go on.’

‘I don’t want to interfere with that man. I have a sort of feeling that as he has got her he might as well have the seat too.’

‘The seat, as you call it, is not there for his gratification or for yours. The seat is there in order that the people of Silverbridge may be represented in Parliament.’

‘Let them get somebody else. I don’t want to put myself in opposition to him, and I certainly do not want to oppose her.’

‘They can’t change their candidate in that way at a day’s notice. You would be throwing Gresham over, and, if you ask me, I think that is a thing you have no right to do. This objection of yours is sentimental, and there is nothing of which a man should be so much in dread
as sentimentalism. It is not your fault that you oppose Mr Lopez. You were in the field first, and you must go on with it.’ John
Fletcher, when he spoke in this way, was, at Longbarns, always supposed to be right; and on the present occasion he, as usual, prevailed. Then Arthur Fletcher wrote his letter to the lady. He would not have liked to have had it known that the composition and copying
of that little note had cost him an hour. He had wished that she should understand his feelings, and yet it was necessary that he should address her in words that should be perfectly free from affection or emotion. He must let her know that, though he wrote to her, the letter was for her husband as well as for herself, and he must do this in a manner which would not imply any fear that his writing
to her would be taken amiss. The letter when completed was at any rate simple and true; and yet, as we know, it was taken very much amiss.

Arthur Fletcher had by no means recovered from the blow he had received that day when Emily had told him everything down by the river side; but then, it must be said of him, that he had no intention of recovery. He was as a man who, having taken a burden on
his back, declares to himself that he will, for certain reasons, carry it throughout his life. The man knows that with the burden he cannot walk as men walk who are unencumbered, but for those reasons of his he has chosen to lade himself, and having done so he abandons regret and submits to his circumstances. So had it been with him. He would make no attempt to throw off the load. It was now far
back in his life, as much at least as three years, since he at first assured himself of his desire to make Emily Wharton the companion of his life. From that day she had been the pivot on which his whole existence had moved. She had refused his offers more than once, but had done so with so much tender kindness, that, though he had found himself to be wounded and bruised, he had never abandoned his
object Her father and all his own friends encouraged him. He was continually told that her coldness was due to the simple fact that she had not yet learned to give her heart away. And so he had persevered, being ever thoroughly intent on his purpose, till he was told by herself that her love was given to this other man.

Then he knew that it behoved him to set some altered course of life before
him. He could not shoot his rival or knock him over the head, nor could he carry off his girl, as used to be done in rougher times. There was nothing now for a man in such a catastrophe as this
but submission. But he might submit and shake off his burden, or submit and carry it hopelessly. He told himself that he would do the latter. She had been his goddess, and he would not now worship at another
shrine. And then ideas came into his head, – not hopes, or purposes, or a belief even in any possibility, – but vague ideas, mere castles in the air, that a time might come in which it might be in his power to serve her, and to prove to her beyond doubting what had been the nature of his love. Like others of his family, he thought ill of Lopez, believing the man to be an adventurer, one who
would too probably fall into misfortune, however high he might now seem to hold his head. He was certainly a man not standing on the solid basis of land, or of Three per Cents, – those solidities to which such as the Whartons and Fletchers are wont to trust. No doubt, should there be such fall, the man’s wife would have other help than that of her rejected lover. She had a father, brother, and cousins,
who would also be there to aid her. The idea was, therefore; but a castle in the air. And yet it was dear to him. At any rate he resolved that he would live for it, and that the woman should still be his goddess, though she was the wife of another man, and might now perhaps never even be seen by him. Then there came upon him, immediately almost after her marriage, the necessity of writing to
her. The task was one which, of course, he did not perform lightly.

He never said a word of this to anybody else; – but his brother understood it all, and in a somewhat silent fashion fully sympathized with him. John could not talk to him about love, or mark passages of poetry for him to read, or deal with him at all romantically; but he could take care that his brother had the best horses to
ride, and the warmest corner out shooting, and that everything in the house should be done for his brother’s comfort. As the squire looked and spoke at Longbarns, others looked and spoke, – so that everybody knew that Mr Arthur was to be contradicted in nothing. Had he, just at this period, ordered a tree in the park to be cut down, it would, I think, have been cut down, without reference to the
master! But, perhaps, John’s power was most felt in the way in which he repressed the expressions of his mother’s high indignation. ‘Mean slut!’ she once said, speaking of Emily in her eldest son’s hearing. For the girl, to her thinking, had been mean and had been a slut. She had not known, – so Mrs Fletcher thought, – what birth and blood required of her.