HAROLD SMITH IN THE CABINET.
For a few days the whole Harold Smith party held their heads very
high. It was not only that their man had been made a cabinet
minister; but a rumour had got abroad that Lord Brock, in selecting
him, had amazingly strengthened his party, and done much to cure the
wounds which his own arrogance and lack of judgment had inflicted
on the body politic of his government. So said the Harold-Smithians,
much elated. And when we consider what Harold had himself achieved,
we need not be surprised that he himself was somewhat elated also.
It must be a proud day for any man when he first walks into a
cabinet. But when a humble-minded man thinks of such a phase of life,
his mind becomes lost in wondering what a cabinet is. Are they gods
that attend there or men? Do they sit on chairs, or hang about on
clouds? When they speak, is the music of the spheres audible in their
Olympian mansion, making heaven drowsy with its harmony? In what way
do they congregate? In what order do they address each other? Are the
voices of all the deities free and equal? Is plodding Themis from
the Home Department, or Ceres from the Colonies, heard with as rapt
attention as powerful Pallas of the Foreign Office, the goddess that
is never seen without her lance and helmet? Does our Whitehall Mars
make eyes there at bright young Venus of the Privy Seal, disgusting
that quaint tinkering Vulcan, who is blowing his bellows at our
Exchequer, not altogether unsuccessfully? Old Saturn of the Woolsack
sits there mute, we will say, a relic of other days, as seated in
this divan. The hall in which he rules is now elsewhere. Is our
Mercury of the Post Office ever ready to fly nimbly from globe to
globe, as great Jove may order him, while Neptune, unaccustomed to
the waves, offers needful assistance to the Apollo of the India
Board? How Juno sits apart, glum and huffy, uncared for, Council
President though she be, great in name, but despised among gods—that
we can guess. If Bacchus and Cupid share Trade and the Board of Works
between them, the fitness of things will have been as fully consulted
as is usual. And modest Diana of the Petty Bag, latest summoned to
these banquets of ambrosia,—does she not cling retiring near the
doors, hardly able as yet to make her low voice heard among her
brother deities? But Jove, great Jove—old Jove, the King of Olympus,
hero among gods and men, how does he carry himself in these councils
summoned by his voice? Does he lie there at his ease, with his purple
cloak cut from the firmament around his shoulders? Is his thunderbolt
ever at his hand to reduce a recreant god to order? Can he proclaim
silence in that immortal hall? Is it not there, as elsewhere, in all
places, and among all nations, that a king of gods and a king of men
is and will be king, rules and will rule, over those who are smaller
than himself?
Harold Smith, when he was summoned to the august hall of divine
councils, did feel himself to be a proud man; but we may perhaps
conclude that at the first meeting or two he did not attempt to take
a very leading part. Some of my readers may have sat at vestries, and
will remember how mild, and for the most part, mute, is a new-comer
at their board. He agrees generally, with abated enthusiasm; but
should he differ, he apologizes for the liberty. But anon, when the
voices of his colleagues have become habitual in his ears—when the
strangeness of the room is gone, and the table before him is known
and trusted—he throws off his awe and dismay, and electrifies his
brotherhood by the vehemence of his declamation and the violence of
his thumping. So let us suppose it will be with Harold Smith, perhaps
in the second or third season of his cabinet practice. Alas! alas!
that such pleasures should be so fleeting!
And then, too, there came upon him a blow which somewhat modified his
triumph—a cruel, dastard blow, from a hand which should have been
friendly to him, from one to whom he had fondly looked to buoy him
up in the great course that was before him. It had been said by his
friends that in obtaining Harold Smith’s services the Prime Minister
had infused new young healthy blood into his body. Harold himself had
liked the phrase, and had seen at a glance how it might have been
made to tell by some friendly Supplehouse or the like. But why should
a Supplehouse out of Elysium be friendly to a Harold Smith within it?
Men lapped in Elysium, steeped to the neck in bliss, must expect to
see their friends fall off from them. Human nature cannot stand it.
If I want to get anything from my old friend Jones, I like to see him
shoved up into a high place. But if Jones, even in his high place,
can do nothing for me, then his exaltation above my head is an insult
and an injury. Who ever believes his own dear intimate companion to
be fit for the highest promotion? Mr. Supplehouse had known Mr. Smith
too closely to think much of his young blood.
Consequently, there appeared an article in the _Jupiter_, which was
by no means complimentary to the ministry in general. It harped a
good deal on the young blood view of the question, and seemed to
insinuate that Harold Smith was not much better than diluted water.
“The Prime Minister,” the article said, “having lately recruited
his impaired vigour by a new infusion of aristocratic influence of
the highest moral tone, had again added to himself another tower of
strength chosen from among the people. What might he not hope, now
that he possessed the services of Lord Brittleback and Mr. Harold
Smith! Renovated in a Medea’s caldron of such potency, all his effete
limbs—and it must be acknowledged that some of them had become very
effete—would come forth young and round and robust. A new energy
would diffuse itself through every department; India would be saved
and quieted; the ambition of France would be tamed; even-handed
reform would remodel our courts of law and parliamentary elections;
and Utopia would be realized. Such, it seems, is the result expected
in the ministry from Mr. Harold Smith’s young blood!”
This was cruel enough, but even this was hardly so cruel as the words
with which the article ended. By that time irony had been dropped,
and the writer spoke out earnestly his opinion upon the matter. “We
beg to assure Lord Brock,” said the article, “that such alliances as
these will not save him from the speedy fall with which his arrogance
and want of judgment threaten to overwhelm it. As regards himself we
shall be sorry to hear of his resignation. He is in many respects the
best statesman that we possess for the emergencies of the present
period. But if he be so ill-judged as to rest on such men as Mr.
Harold Smith and Lord Brittleback for his assistants in the work
which is before him, he must not expect that the country will support
him. Mr. Harold Smith is not made of the stuff from which cabinet
ministers should be formed.”
Mr. Harold Smith, as he read this, seated at his breakfast-table,
recognized, or said that he recognized, the hand of Mr. Supplehouse
in every touch. That phrase about the effete limbs was Supplehouse
all over, as was also the realization of Utopia. “When he wants to
be witty, he always talks about Utopia,” said Mr. Harold Smith—to
himself: for Mrs. Harold was not usually present in the flesh at
these matutinal meals.
And then he went down to his office, and saw in the glance of every
man that he met an announcement that that article in the _Jupiter_
had been read. His private secretary tittered in evident allusion to
the article, and the way in which Buggins took his coat made it clear
that it was well known in the messengers’ lobby. “He won’t have to
fill up my vacancy when I go,” Buggins was saying to himself. And
then in the course of the morning came the cabinet council, the
second that he had attended, and he read in the countenance of every
god and goddess there assembled that their chief was thought to have
made another mistake. If Mr. Supplehouse could have been induced to
write in another strain, then indeed that new blood might have been
felt to have been efficacious.
All this was a great drawback to his happiness, but still it could
not rob him of the fact of his position. Lord Brock could not ask him
to resign because the _Jupiter_ had written against him; nor was Lord
Brock the man to desert a new colleague for such a reason. So Harold
Smith girded his loins, and went about the duties of the Petty Bag
with new zeal. “Upon my word, the _Jupiter_ is right,” said young
Robarts to himself, as he finished his fourth dozen of private notes
explanatory of everything in and about the Petty Bag Office. Harold
Smith required that his private secretary’s notes should be so
terribly precise.
But nevertheless, in spite of his drawbacks, Harold Smith was happy
in his new honours, and Mrs. Harold Smith enjoyed them also. She
certainly, among her acquaintance, did quiz the new cabinet minister
not a little, and it may be a question whether she was not as hard
upon him as the writer in the _Jupiter_. She whispered a great deal
to Miss Dunstable about new blood, and talked of going down to
Westminster Bridge to see whether the Thames were really on fire. But
though she laughed, she triumphed, and though she flattered herself
that she bore her honours without any outward sign, the world knew
that she was triumphing, and ridiculed her elation.
About this time she also gave a party—not a pure-minded
conversazione like Mrs. Proudie, but a downright wicked worldly
dance, at which there were fiddles, ices, and champagne sufficient to
run away with the first quarter’s salary accruing to Harold from the
Petty Bag Office. To us this ball is chiefly memorable from the fact
that Lady Lufton was among the guests. Immediately on her arrival in
town she received cards from Mrs. H. Smith for herself and Griselda,
and was about to send back a reply at once declining the honour.
What had she to do at the house of Mr. Sowerby’s sister? But it
so happened that at that moment her son was with her, and as he
expressed a wish that she should go, she yielded. Had there been
nothing in his tone of persuasion more than ordinary,—had it merely
had reference to herself,—she would have smiled on him for his kind
solicitude, have made out some occasion for kissing his forehead as
she thanked him, and would still have declined. But he had reminded
her both of himself and Griselda. “You might as well go, mother, for
the sake of meeting me,” he said; “Mrs. Harold caught me the other
day, and would not liberate me till I had given her a promise.”
“That is an attraction certainly,” said Lady Lufton. “I do like going
to a house when I know that you will be there.”
“And now that Miss Grantly is with you—you owe it to her to do the
best you can for her.”
“I certainly do, Ludovic; and I have to thank you for reminding me
of my duty so gallantly.” And so she said that she would go to Mrs.
Harold Smith’s. Poor lady! She gave much more weight to those few
words about Miss Grantly than they deserved. It rejoiced her heart
to think that her son was anxious to meet Griselda—that he should
perpetrate this little _ruse_ in order to gain his wish. But he had
spoken out of the mere emptiness of his mind, without thought of what
he was saying, excepting that he wished to please his mother.
But nevertheless he went to Mrs. Harold Smith’s, and when there he
did dance more than once with Griselda Grantly—to the manifest
discomfiture of Lord Dumbello. He came in late, and at the moment
Lord Dumbello was moving slowly up the room, with Griselda on his
arm, while Lady Lufton was sitting near looking on with unhappy eyes.
And then Griselda sat down, and Lord Dumbello stood mute at her
elbow.
“Ludovic,” whispered his mother, “Griselda is absolutely bored by
that man, who follows her like a ghost. Do go and rescue her.”
He did go and rescue her, and afterwards danced with her for the
best part of an hour consecutively. He knew that the world gave Lord
Dumbello the credit of admiring the young lady, and was quite alive
to the pleasure of filling his brother nobleman’s heart with jealousy
and anger. Moreover, Griselda was in his eyes very beautiful, and had
she been one whit more animated, or had his mother’s tactics been but
a thought better concealed, Griselda might have been asked that night
to share the vacant throne at Lufton, in spite of all that had been
said and sworn in the drawing-room of Framley Parsonage.
It must be remembered that our gallant, gay Lothario had passed some
considerable number of days with Miss Grantly in his mother’s house,
and the danger of such contiguity must be remembered also. Lord
Lufton was by no means a man capable of seeing beauty unmoved or of
spending hours with a young lady without some approach to tenderness.
Had there been no such approach, it is probable that Lady Lufton
would not have pursued the matter. But, according to her ideas on
such subjects, her son Ludovic had on some occasions shown quite
sufficient partiality for Miss Grantly to justify her in her hopes,
and to lead her to think that nothing but opportunity was wanted.
Now, at this ball of Mrs. Smith’s, he did, for a while, seem to be
taking advantage of such opportunity, and his mother’s heart was
glad. If things should turn out well on this evening she would
forgive Mrs. Harold Smith all her sins.
And for a while it looked as though things would turn out well. Not
that it must be supposed that Lord Lufton had come there with any
intention of making love to Griselda, or that he ever had any fixed
thought that he was doing so. Young men in such matters are so often
without any fixed thoughts! They are such absolute moths. They amuse
themselves with the light of the beautiful candle, fluttering about,
on and off, in and out of the flame with dazzled eyes, till in a rash
moment they rush in too near the wick, and then fall with singed
wings and crippled legs, burnt up and reduced to tinder by the
consuming fire of matrimony. Happy marriages, men say, are made in
heaven, and I believe it. Most marriages are fairly happy, in spite
of Sir Cresswell Cresswell; and yet how little care is taken on earth
towards such a result!
“I hope my mother is using you well?” said Lord Lufton to Griselda,
as they were standing together in a doorway between the dances.
“Oh, yes: she is very kind.”
“You have been rash to trust yourself in the hands of so very staid
and demure a person. And, indeed, you owe your presence here at Mrs.
Harold Smith’s first cabinet ball altogether to me. I don’t know
whether you are aware of that.”
“Oh, yes: Lady Lufton told me.”
“And are you grateful or otherwise? Have I done you an injury or a
benefit? Which do you find best, sitting with a novel in the corner
of a sofa in Bruton Street, or pretending to dance polkas here with
Lord Dumbello?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t stood up with Lord Dumbello
all the evening. We were going to dance a quadrille, but we didn’t.”
“Exactly; just what I say;—pretending to do it. Even that’s a good
deal for Lord Dumbello; isn’t it?” And then Lord Lufton, not being a
pretender himself, put his arm round her waist, and away they went up
and down the room, and across and about, with an energy which showed
that what Griselda lacked in her tongue she made up with her feet.
Lord Dumbello, in the meantime, stood by, observant, thinking to
himself that Lord Lufton was a glib-tongued, empty-headed ass, and
reflecting that if his rival were to break the tendons of his leg in
one of those rapid evolutions, or suddenly come by any other dreadful
misfortune, such as the loss of all his property, absolute blindness,
or chronic lumbago, it would only serve him right. And in that frame
of mind he went to bed, in spite of the prayer which no doubt he said
as to his forgiveness of other people’s trespasses.
And then, when they were again standing, Lord Lufton, in the little
intervals between his violent gasps for fresh breath, asked Griselda
if she liked London. “Pretty well,” said Griselda, gasping also a
little herself.
“I am afraid—you were very dull—down at Framley.”
“Oh, no;—I liked it—particularly.”
“It was a great bore when you went—away, I know. There wasn’t a
soul—about the house worth speaking to.” And they remained silent
for a minute till their lungs had become quiescent.
“Not a soul,” he continued—not of falsehood prepense, for he was not
in fact thinking of what he was saying. It did not occur to him at
the moment that he had truly found Griselda’s going a great relief,
and that he had been able to do more in the way of conversation with
Lucy Robarts in one hour than with Miss Grantly during a month of
intercourse in the same house. But, nevertheless, we should not be
hard upon him. All is fair in love and war; and if this was not love,
it was the usual thing that stands as a counterpart for it.
“Not a soul,” said Lord Lufton. “I was very nearly hanging myself in
the park next morning;—only it rained.”
“What nonsense! You had your mother to talk to.”
“Oh, my mother,—yes; and you may tell me too, if you please, that
Captain Culpepper was there. I do love my mother dearly; but do you
think that she could make up for your absence?” And his voice was
very tender, and so were his eyes.
“And Miss Robarts; I thought you admired her very much?”
“What, Lucy Robarts?” said Lord Lufton, feeling that Lucy’s name
was more than he at present knew how to manage. Indeed that name
destroyed all the life there was in that little flirtation. “I do
like Lucy Robarts, certainly. She is very clever; but it so happened
that I saw little or nothing of her after you were gone.”
To this Griselda made no answer, but drew herself up, and looked
as cold as Diana when she froze Orion in the cave. Nor could she
be got to give more than monosyllabic answers to the three or four
succeeding attempts at conversation which Lord Lufton made. And then
they danced again, but Griselda’s steps were by no means so lively as
before.
What took place between them on that occasion was very little more
than what has been here related. There may have been an ice or a
glass of lemonade into the bargain, and perhaps the faintest possible
attempt at hand-pressing. But if so, it was all on one side. To such
overtures as that Griselda Grantly was as cold as any Diana.
But little as all this was, it was sufficient to fill Lady Lufton’s
mind and heart. No mother with six daughters was ever more anxious
to get them off her hands, than Lady Lufton was to see her son
married,—married, that is, to some girl of the right sort. And now
it really did seem as though he were actually going to comply with
her wishes. She had watched him during the whole evening, painfully
endeavouring not to be observed in doing so. She had seen Lord
Dumbello’s failure and wrath, and she had seen her son’s victory and
pride. Could it be the case that he had already said something, which
was still allowed to be indecisive only through Griselda’s coldness?
Might it not be the case, that by some judicious aid on her part,
that indecision might be turned into certainty, and that coldness
into warmth? But then any such interference requires so delicate a
touch,—as Lady Lufton was well aware.
“Have you had a pleasant evening?” Lady Lufton said, when she and
Griselda were seated together with their feet on the fender of her
ladyship’s dressing-room. Lady Lufton had especially invited her
guest into this, her most private sanctum, to which as a rule none
had admittance but her daughter, and sometimes Fanny Robarts. But
to what sanctum might not such a daughter-in-law as Griselda have
admittance?
“Oh, yes—very,” said Griselda.
“It seemed to me that you bestowed most of your smiles upon Ludovic.”
And Lady Lufton put on a look of good pleasure that such should have
been the case.
“Oh! I don’t know,” said Griselda: “I did dance with him two or three
times.”
“Not once too often to please me, my dear. I like to see Ludovic
dancing with my friends.”
“I am sure I am very much obliged to you, Lady Lufton.”
“Not at all, my dear. I don’t know where he could get so nice a
partner.” And then she paused a moment, not feeling how far she might
go. In the meantime Griselda sat still, staring at the hot coals.
“Indeed, I know that he admires you very much,” continued Lady
Lufton.
“Oh! no, I am sure he doesn’t,” said Griselda; and then there was
another pause.
“I can only say this,” said Lady Lufton, “that if he does do so—and
I believe he does—it would give me very great pleasure. For you
know, my dear, that I am very fond of you myself.”
“Oh! thank you,” said Griselda, and stared at the coals more
perseveringly than before.
“He is a young man of a most excellent disposition—though he is my
own son, I will say that—and if there should be anything between you
and him—”
“There isn’t, indeed, Lady Lufton.”
“But if there ever should be, I should be delighted to think that
Ludovic had made so good a choice.”
“But there will never be anything of the sort, I’m sure, Lady Lufton.
He is not thinking of such a thing in the least.”
“Well, perhaps he may, some day. And now, good-night, my dear.”
“Good-night, Lady Lufton.” And Griselda kissed her with the utmost
composure, and betook herself to her own bedroom. Before she retired
to sleep she looked carefully to her different articles of dress,
discovering what amount of damage the evening’s wear and tear might
have inflicted.