The Horns
The first months of the Session went on very much as the last Session
had gone. The ministry did nothing brilliant. As far as the outer
world could see, they seemed to be firm enough. There was no opposing
party in the House strong enough to get a vote against them on any
subject. Outsiders, who only studied politics in the columns of their
newspapers, imagined the Coalition to be very strong. But they who
were inside, members themselves, and the club quidnuncs who were
always rubbing their shoulders against members, knew better. The
opposition to the Coalition was within the Coalition itself. Sir
Orlando Drought had not been allowed to build his four ships, and was
consequently eager in his fears that the country would be invaded
by the combined forces of Germany and France, that India would be
sold by those powers to Russia, that Canada would be annexed to the
States, that a great independent Roman Catholic hierarchy would be
established in Ireland, and that Malta and Gibraltar would be taken
away from us;--all which evils would be averted by the building of
four big ships. A wet blanket of so terrible a size was in itself
pernicious to the Cabinet, and heartrending to the poor Duke. But Sir
Orlando could do worse even than this. As he was not to build his
four ships, neither should Mr. Monk be allowed to readjust the county
suffrage. When the skeleton of Mr. Monk's scheme was discussed in the
Cabinet, Sir Orlando would not agree to it. The gentlemen, he said,
who had joined the present Government with him, would never consent
to a measure which would be so utterly destructive of the county
interest. If Mr. Monk insisted on his measure in its proposed form,
he must, with very great regret, place his resignation in the Duke's
hands, and he believed that his friends would find themselves
compelled to follow the same course. Then our Duke consulted the
old Duke. The old Duke's advice was the same as ever. The Queen's
Government was the main object. The present ministry enjoyed the
support of the country, and he considered it the duty of the First
Lord of the Treasury to remain at his post. The country was in no
hurry, and the question of suffrages in the counties might be well
delayed. Then he added a little counsel which might be called quite
private, as it was certainly intended for no other ears than those
of his younger friend. "Give Sir Orlando rope enough and he'll hang
himself. His own party are becoming tired of him. If you quarrel with
him this Session, Drummond, and Ramsden, and Beeswax, would go out
with him, and the Government would be broken up; but next Session you
may get rid of him safely."
"I wish it were broken up," said the Prime Minister.
"You have your duty to do by the country and by the Queen, and you
mustn't regard your own wishes. Next Session let Monk be ready with
his Bill again,--the same measure exactly. Let Sir Orlando resign
then if he will. Should he do so I doubt whether any one would go
with him. Drummond does not like him much better than you and I do."
The poor Prime Minister was forced to obey. The old Duke was his
only trusted counsellor, and he found himself constrained by his
conscience to do as that counsellor counselled him. When, however,
Sir Orlando, in his place as Leader of the House, in answer to some
question from a hot and disappointed Radical, averred that the whole
of her Majesty's Government had been quite in unison on this question
of the county suffrage, he was hardly able to restrain himself. "If
there be differences of opinion they must be kept in the background,"
said the Duke of St. Bungay. "Nothing can justify a direct
falsehood," said the Duke of Omnium. Thus it came to pass that the
only real measure which the Government had in hand was one by which
Phineas Finn hoped so to increase the power of Irish municipalities
as to make the Home Rulers believe that a certain amount of Home Rule
was being conceded to them. It was not a great measure, and poor
Phineas himself hardly believed in it. And thus the Duke's ministry
came to be called the Faineants.
But the Duchess, though she had been much snubbed, still persevered.
Now and again she would declare herself to be broken-hearted, and
would say that things might go their own way, that she would send in
her resignation, that she would retire into private life and milk
cows, that she would shake hands with no more parliamentary cads and
"caddesses,"--a word which her Grace condescended to coin for her own
use; that she would spend the next three years in travelling about
the world; and lastly, that, let there come of it whatever might, Sir
Orlando Drought should never again be invited into any house of which
she was the mistress. This last threat, which was perhaps the most
indiscreet of them all, she absolutely made good,--thereby adding
very greatly to her husband's difficulties.
But by the middle of June the parties at the house in Carlton Terrace
were as frequent and as large as ever. Indeed it was all party with
her. The Duchess possessed a pretty little villa down at Richmond, on
the river, called The Horns, and gave parties there when there were
none in London. She had picnics, and flower parties, and tea parties,
and afternoons, and evenings, on the lawn,--till half London was
always on its way to Richmond or back again. How she worked! And yet
from day to day she swore that the world was ungrateful, and that she
would work no more! I think that the world was ungrateful. Everybody
went. She was so far successful that nobody thought of despising
her parties. It was quite the thing to go to the Duchess's, whether
at Richmond or in London. But people abused her and laughed at
her. They said that she intrigued to get political support for her
husband,--and, worse than that, they said that she failed. She
did not fail altogether. The world was not taken captive as she
had intended. Young members of Parliament did not become hotly
enthusiastic in support of her and her husband as she had hoped that
they would do. She had not become an institution of granite, as her
dreams had fondly told her might be possible;--for there had been
moments in which she had almost thought that she could rule England
by giving dinner and supper parties, by ices and champagne. But in a
dull, phlegmatic way, they who ate the ices and drank the champagne
were true to her. There was a feeling abroad that "Glencora" was
a "good sort of fellow" and ought to be supported. And when the
ridicule became too strong, or the abuse too sharp, men would take
up the cudgels for her, and fight her battles;--a little too openly,
perhaps, as they would do it under her eyes, and in her hearing, and
would tell her what they had done, mistaking on such occasions her
good humour for sympathy. There was just enough of success to prevent
that abandonment of her project which she so often threatened, but
not enough to make her triumphant. She was too clever not to see
that she was ridiculed. She knew that men called her Glencora among
themselves. She was herself quite alive to the fact that she herself
was wanting in dignity, and that with all the means at her disposal,
with all her courage and all her talent, she did not quite play the
part of the really great lady. But she did not fail to tell herself
that labour continued would at last be successful, and she was strong
to bear the buffets of the ill-natured. She did not think that she
brought first-class materials to her work, but she believed,--a
belief as erroneous as, alas, it is common,--that first-rate results
might be achieved by second-rate means. "We had such a battle about
your Grace last night," Captain Gunner said to her.
"And were you my knight?"
"Indeed I was. I never heard such nonsense."
"What were they saying?"
"Oh, the old story;--that you were like Martha, busying yourself
about many things."
"Why shouldn't I busy myself about many things? It is a pity, Captain
Gunner, that some of you men have not something to busy yourselves
about." All this was unpleasant. She could on such an occasion make
up her mind to drop any Captain Gunner who had ventured to take too
much upon himself; but she felt that in the efforts which she had
made after popularity, she had submitted herself to unpleasant
familiarities;--and though persistent in her course, she was still
angry with herself.
When she had begun her campaign as the Prime Minister's wife, one
of her difficulties had been with regard to money. An abnormal
expenditure became necessary, for which her husband's express
sanction must be obtained, and steps taken in which his personal
assistance would be necessary;--but this had been done, and there
was now no further impediment in that direction. It seemed to be
understood that she was to spend what money she pleased. There had
been various contests between them, but in every contest she had
gained something. He had been majestically indignant with her in
reference to the candidature at Silverbridge,--but, as is usual with
many of us, had been unable to maintain his anger about two things
at the same time. Or, rather, in the majesty of his anger about her
interference, he had disdained to descend to the smaller faults of
her extravagance. He had seemed to concede everything else to her,
on condition that he should be allowed to be imperious in reference
to the borough. In that matter she had given way, never having
opened her mouth about it after that one unfortunate word to Mr.
Sprugeon. But, having done so, she was entitled to squander her
thousands without remorse,--and she squandered them. "It is your
five-and-twenty thousand pounds, my dear," she once said to Mrs.
Finn, who often took upon herself to question the prudence of all
this expenditure. This referred to a certain sum of money which
had been left by the old Duke to Madame Goesler, as she was then
called,--a legacy which that lady had repudiated. The money had,
in truth, been given away to a relation of the Duke's by the joint
consent of the lady and of the Duke himself, but the Duchess was
pleased to refer to it occasionally as a still existing property.
"My five-and-twenty thousand pounds, as you call it, would not go
very far."
"What's the use of money if you don't spend it? The Duke would go
on collecting it and buying more property, which always means more
trouble,--not because he is avaricious, but because for the time
that comes easier than spending. Supposing he had married a woman
without a shilling, he would still have been a rich man. As it is,
my property was more even than his own. If we can do any good by
spending the money, why shouldn't it be spent?"
"If you can do any good!"
"It all comes round to that. It isn't because I like always to live
in a windmill! I have come to hate it. At this moment I would give
worlds to be down at Matching with no one but the children, and to
go about in a straw hat and a muslin gown. I have a fancy that I
could sit under a tree and read a sermon, and think it the sweetest
recreation. But I've made the attempt to do all this, and it is so
mean to fail!"
"But where is to be the end of it?"
"There shall be no end as long as he is Prime Minister. He is the
first man in England. Some people would say the first in Europe,--or
in the world. A Prince should entertain like a Prince."
"He need not be always entertaining."
"Hospitality should run from a man with his wealth and his position,
like water from a fountain. As his hand is known to be full, so it
should be known to be open. When the delight of his friends is in
question he should know nothing of cost. Pearls should drop from him
as from a fairy. But I don't think you understand me."
"Not when the pearls are to be picked up by Captain Gunners, Lady
Glen."
"I can't make the men any better,--nor yet the women. They are poor
mean creatures. The world is made up of such. I don't know that
Captain Gunner is worse than Sir Orlando Drought or Sir Timothy
Beeswax. People seen by the mind are exactly different to things seen
by the eye. They grow smaller and smaller as you come nearer down to
them, whereas things become bigger. I remember when I used to think
that members of the Cabinet were almost gods, and now they seem to be
no bigger than the shoeblacks,--only less picturesque. He told me the
other day of the time when he gave up going into power for the sake
of taking me abroad. Ah me! how much was happening then,--and how
much has happened since that! We didn't know you then."
"He has been a good husband to you."
"And I have been a good wife to him! I have never had him for an
hour out of my heart since that, or ever for a moment forgotten his
interest. I can't live with him because he shuts himself up reading
blue-books, and is always at his office or in the House;--but I would
if I could. Am I not doing it all for him? You don't think that the
Captain Gunners are particularly pleasant to me! Think of your life
and of mine. You have had lovers."
"One in my life,--when I was quite entitled to have one."
"Well; I am Duchess of Omnium, and I am the wife of the Prime
Minister, and I had a larger property of my own than any other young
woman that ever was born; and I am myself too,--Glencora M'Cluskie
that was, and I've made for myself a character that I'm not ashamed
of. But I'd be the curate's wife to-morrow, and make puddings, if I
could only have my own husband and my own children with me. What's
the use of it all? I like you better than anybody else, but you do
nothing but scold me." Still the parties went on, and the Duchess
laboured hard among her guests, and wore her jewels, and stood on
her feet all the night, night after night, being civil to one person,
bright to a second, confidential to a third, and sarcastic to an
unfortunate fourth;--and in the morning she would work hard with
her lists, seeing who had come to her and who had stayed away, and
arranging who should be asked and who should be omitted.
In the meantime the Duke altogether avoided these things. At
first he had been content to show himself, and escape as soon as
possible;--but now he was never seen at all in his own house, except
at certain heavy dinners. To Richmond he never went at all, and in
his own house in town very rarely even passed through the door that
led into the reception rooms. He had not time for ordinary society.
So said the Duchess. And many, perhaps the majority of those who
frequented the house, really believed that his official duties were
too onerous to leave him time for conversation. But in truth the
hours went heavily with him as he sat alone in his study, sighing for
some sweet parliamentary task, and regretting the days in which he
was privileged to sit in the House of Commons till two o'clock in the
morning, in the hope that he might get a clause or two passed in his
Bill for decimal coinage.
It was at the Horns at an afternoon party, given there in the gardens
by the Duchess, early in July, that Arthur Fletcher first saw Emily
after her marriage, and Lopez after the occurrence in Silverbridge.
As it happened he came out upon the lawn close after them, and found
them speaking to the Duchess as they passed on. She had put herself
out of the way to be civil to Mr. and Mrs. Lopez, feeling that she
had in some degree injured him in reference to the election, and had
therefore invited both him and his wife on more than one occasion.
Arthur Fletcher was there as a young man well known in the world,
and as a supporter of the Duke's Government. The Duchess had taken
up Arthur Fletcher,--as she was wont to take up new men, and had
personally become tired of Lopez. Of course she had heard of the
election, and had been told that Lopez had behaved badly. Of Mr.
Lopez she did not know enough to care anything, one way or the
other;--but she still encouraged him because she had caused him
disappointment. She had now detained them a minute on the terrace
before the windows while she said a word, and Arthur Fletcher became
one of the little party before he knew whom he was meeting. "I am
delighted," she said, "that you two Silverbridge heroes should meet
together here as friends." It was almost incumbent on her to say
something, though it would have been better for her not to have
alluded to their heroism. Mrs. Lopez put out her hand, and Arthur
Fletcher of course took it. Then the two men bowed slightly to each
other, raising their hats. Arthur paused a moment with them, as they
passed on from the Duchess, thinking that he would say something in
a friendly tone. But he was silenced by the frown on the husband's
face, and was almost constrained to go away without a word. It was
very difficult for him even to be silent, as her greeting had been
kind. But yet it was impossible for him to ignore the displeasure
displayed in the man's countenance. So he touched his hat, and asking
her to remember him affectionately to her father, turned off the path
and went away.
"Why did you shake hands with that man?" said Lopez. It was the first
time since their marriage that his voice had been that of an angry
man and an offended husband.
"Why not, Ferdinand? He and I are very old friends, and we have not
quarrelled."
"You must take up your husband's friendships and your husband's
quarrels. Did I not tell you that he had insulted you?"
"He never insulted me."
"Emily, you must allow me to be the judge of that. He insulted you,
and then he behaved like a poltroon down at Silverbridge, and I will
not have you know him any more. When I say so I suppose that will be
enough." He waited for a reply, but she said nothing. "I ask you to
tell me that you will obey me in this."
"Of course he will not come to my house, nor should I think of going
to his, if you disapproved."
"Going to his house! He is unmarried."
"Supposing he had a wife! Ferdinand, perhaps it will be better that
you and I should not talk about him."
"By G----," said Lopez, "there shall be no subject on which I will be
afraid to talk to my own wife. I insist on your assuring me that you
will never speak to him again."
He had taken her along one of the upper walks because it was
desolate, and he could there speak to her, as he thought, without
being heard. She had, almost unconsciously, made a faint attempt
to lead him down upon the lawn, no doubt feeling averse to private
conversation at the moment; but he had persevered, and had resented
the little effort. The idea in his mind that she was unwilling
to hear him abuse Arthur Fletcher, unwilling to renounce the man,
anxious to escape his order for such renunciation, added fuel to his
jealousy. It was not enough for him that she had rejected this man
and had accepted him. The man had been her lover, and she should be
made to denounce the man. It might be necessary for him to control
his feelings before old Wharton;--but he knew enough of his wife to
be sure that she would not speak evil of him or betray him to her
father. Her loyalty to him, which he could understand though not
appreciate, enabled him to be a tyrant to her. So now he repeated his
order to her, pausing in the path, with a voice unintentionally loud,
and frowning down upon her as he spoke. "You must tell me, Emily,
that you will never speak to him again."
She was silent, looking up into his face, not with tremulous eyes,
but with infinite woe written in them, had he been able to read the
writing. She knew that he was disgracing himself, and yet he was
the man whom she loved! "If you bid me not to speak to him, I will
not;--but he must know the reason why."
"He shall know nothing from you. You do not mean to say that you
would write to him?"
"Papa must tell him."
"I will not have it so. In this matter, Emily, I will be master,--as
it is fit that I should be. I will not have you talk to your father
about Mr. Fletcher."
"Why not, Ferdinand?"
"Because I have so decided. He is an old family friend. I can
understand that, and do not therefore wish to interfere between him
and your father. But he has taken upon himself to write an insolent
letter to you as my wife, and to interfere in my affairs. As to what
should be done between you and him I must be the judge, and not your
father."
"And must I not speak to papa about it?"
"No!"
"Ferdinand, you make too little, I think, of the associations and
affections of a whole life."
"I will hear nothing about affection," he said angrily.
"You cannot mean that--that--you doubt me?"
"Certainly not. I think too much of myself and too little of him." It
did not occur to him to tell her that he thought too well of her for
that. "But the man who has offended me must be held to have offended
you also."
"You might say the same if it were my father."
He paused at this, but only for a moment. "Certainly I might. It is
not probable, but no doubt I might do so. If your father were to
quarrel with me, you would not, I suppose, hesitate between us?"
"Nothing on earth could divide me from you."
"Nor me from you. In this very matter I am only taking your part,
if you did but know it." They had now passed on, and had met other
persons, having made their way through a little shrubbery on to a
further lawn; and she had hoped, as they were surrounded by people,
that he would allow the matter to drop. She had been unable as yet
to make up her mind as to what she would say if he pressed her hard.
But if it could be passed by,--if nothing more were demanded from
her,--she would endeavour to forget it all, saying to herself that
it had come from sudden passion. But he was too resolute for such a
termination as that, and too keenly alive to the expediency of making
her thoroughly subject to him. So he turned her round and took her
back through the shrubbery, and in the middle of it stopped her again
and renewed his demand. "Promise me that you will not speak again to
Mr. Fletcher."
"Then I must tell papa."
"No;--you shall tell him nothing."
"Ferdinand, if you exact a promise from me that I will not speak to
Mr. Fletcher or bow to him should circumstances bring us together as
they did just now, I must explain to my father why I have done so."
"You will wilfully disobey me?"
"In that I must." He glared at her, almost as though he were going to
strike her, but she bore his look without flinching. "I have left all
my old friends, Ferdinand, and have given myself heart and soul to
you. No woman did so with a truer love or more devoted intention of
doing her duty to her husband. Your affairs shall be my affairs."
"Well; yes; rather."
She was endeavouring to assure him of her truth, but could understand
the sneer which was conveyed in his acknowledgement. "But you cannot,
nor can I for your sake, abolish the things which have been."
"I wish to abolish nothing that has been. I speak of the future."
"Between our family and that of Mr. Fletcher there has been old
friendship which is still very dear to my father,--the memory of
which is still very dear to me. At your request I am willing to put
all that aside from me. There is no reason why I should ever see
any of the Fletchers again. Our lives will be apart. Should we meet
our greeting would be very slight. The separation can be effected
without words. But if you demand an absolute promise,--I must tell my
father."
"We will go home at once," he said instantly, and aloud. And home
they went, back to London, without exchanging a word on the journey.
He was absolutely black with rage, and she was content to remain
silent. The promise was not given, nor, indeed, was it exacted under
the conditions which the wife had imposed upon it. He was most
desirous to make her subject to his will in all things, and quite
prepared to exercise tyranny over her to any extent,--so that her
father should know nothing of it. He could not afford to quarrel with
Mr. Wharton. "You had better go to bed," he said, when he got her
back to town;--and she went, if not to bed, at any rate into her own
room.