The End of the Session
The Duke of St. Bungay had been very much disappointed. He had
contradicted with a repetition of noes the assertion of the Duchess
that he had been the Warwick who had placed the Prime Minister's
crown on the head of the Duke of Omnium, but no doubt he felt in his
heart that he had done so much towards it that his advice respecting
the vacant Garter, when given with so much weight, should have been
followed. He was an old man, and had known the secrets of Cabinet
Councils when his younger friend was a little boy. He had given
advice to Lord John, and had been one of the first to congratulate
Sir Robert Peel when that statesman became a free-trader. He had sat
in conclave with THE Duke, and had listened to the bold Liberalism
of old Earl Grey, both in the Lower and the Upper House. He had
been always great in council, never giving his advice unasked, nor
throwing his pearls before swine, and cautious at all times to avoid
excesses on this side or on that. He had never allowed himself a
hobby horse of his own to ride, had never been ambitious, had never
sought to be the ostensible leader of men. But he did now think that
when, with all his experience, he spoke very much in earnest, some
attention should be paid to what he said. When he had described a
certain line of conduct as Quixotic he had been very much in earnest.
He did not usually indulge in strong language, and Quixotic, when
applied to the conduct of a Prime Minister, was, to his ideas, very
strong. The thing described as Quixotic had now been done, and the
Duke of St. Bungay was a disappointed man.
For an hour or two he thought that he must gently secede from all
private councils with the Prime Minister. To resign, or to put
impediments in the way of his own chief, did not belong to his
character. That line of strategy had come into fashion since he had
learnt his political rudiments, and was very odious to him. But in
all party compacts there must be inner parties, peculiar bonds, and
confidences stricter, stronger, and also sweeter than those which
bind together the twenty or thirty gentlemen who form a Government.
From those closer ties which had hitherto bound him to the Duke of
Omnium he thought, for a while, that he must divorce himself. Surely
on such a subject as the nomination of a Knight of the Garter his
advice might have been taken,--if only because it had come from him!
And so he kept himself apart for a day or two, and even in the House
of Lords ceased to whisper kindly, cheerful words into the ears of
his next neighbour.
But various remembrances crowded in upon him by degrees, compelling
him to moderate and at last to abandon his purpose. Among these the
first was the memory of the kiss which he had given the Duchess. The
woman had told him that she loved him, that he was one of the very
few whom she did love,--and the word had gone straight into his old
heart. She had bade him not to desert her; and he had not only given
her his promise, but he had converted that promise to a sacred pledge
by a kiss. He had known well why she had exacted the promise. The
turmoil in her husband's mind, the agony which he sometimes endured
when people spoke ill of him, the aversion which he had at first
genuinely felt to an office for which he hardly thought himself fit,
and now the gradual love of power created by the exercise of power,
had all been seen by her, and had created that solicitude which had
induced her to ask for the promise. The old Duke had known them both
well, but had hardly as yet given the Duchess credit for so true a
devotion to her husband. It now seemed to him that though she had
failed to love the man, she had given her entire heart to the Prime
Minister. He sympathised with her altogether, and, at any rate could
not go back from his promise.
And then he remembered, too, that if this man did anything amiss in
the high office which he had been made to fill, he who had induced
him to fill it was responsible. What right had he, the Duke of St.
Bungay, to be angry because his friend was not all-wise at all
points? Let the Droughts and the Drummonds and the Beeswaxes
quarrel among themselves or with their colleagues. He belonged to a
different school, in the teachings of which there was less perhaps
of excitement and more of long-suffering;--but surely, also, more
of nobility. He was, at any rate, too old to change, and he would
therefore be true to his friend through evil and through good. Having
thought this all out he again whispered some cheery word to the Prime
Minister, as they sat listening to the denunciations of Lord Fawn, a
Liberal lord, much used to business, but who had not been received
into the Coalition. The first whisper and the second whisper the
Prime Minister received very coldly. He had fully appreciated the
discontinuance of the whispers, and was aware of the cause. He had
made a selection on his own unassisted judgment in opposition to his
old friend's advice, and this was the result. Let it be so! All his
friends were turning away from him and he would have to stand alone.
If so, he would stand alone till the pendulum of the House of Commons
had told him that it was time for him to retire. But gradually the
determined good-humour of the old man prevailed. "He has a wonderful
gift of saying nothing with second-rate dignity," whispered the
repentant friend, speaking of Lord Fawn.
"A very honest man," said the Prime Minister in return.
"A sort of bastard honesty,--by precept out of stupidity. There is
no real conviction in it, begotten by thought." This little bit of
criticism, harsh as it was, had the effect, and the Prime Minister
became less miserable than he had been.
But Lord Drummond forgave nothing. He still held his office, but more
than once he was seen in private conference with both Sir Orlando and
Mr. Boffin. He did not attempt to conceal his anger. Lord Earlybird!
An old woman! One whom no other man in England would have thought
of making a Knight of the Garter! It was not, he said, personal
disappointment in himself. There were half-a-dozen peers whom he
would willingly have seen so graced without the slightest chagrin.
But this must have been done simply to show the Duke's power, and to
let the world understand that he owed nothing and would pay nothing
to his supporters. It was almost a disgrace, said Lord Drummond, to
belong to a Government the Head of which could so commit himself! The
Session was nearly at an end, and Lord Drummond thought that no step
could be conveniently taken now. But it was quite clear to him that
this state of things could not be continued. It was observed that
Lord Drummond and the Prime Minister never spoke to each other in
the House, and that the Secretary of State for the Colonies,--that
being the office which he held,--never rose in his place after Lord
Earlybird's nomination, unless to say a word or two as to his own
peculiar duties. It was very soon known to all the world that there
was war to the knife between Lord Drummond and the Prime Minister.
And, strange to say, there seemed to be some feeling of general
discontent on this very trifling subject. When Aristides has been
much too just the oyster-shells become numerous. It was said that the
Duke had been guilty of pretentious love of virtue in taking Lord
Earlybird out of his own path of life and forcing him to write K.G.
after his name. There came out an article, of course in the "People's
Banner," headed, "Our Prime Minister's Good Works," in which poor
Lord Earlybird was ridiculed in a very unbecoming manner, and in
which it was asserted that the thing was done as a counterpoise to
the iniquity displayed in "hounding Ferdinand Lopez to his death."
Whenever Ferdinand Lopez was mentioned he had always been hounded.
And then the article went on to declare that either the Prime
Minister had quarrelled with all his colleagues, or else that all his
colleagues had quarrelled with the Prime Minister. Mr. Slide did not
care which it might be, but, whichever it might be, the poor country
had to suffer when such a state of things was permitted. It was
notorious that neither the Duke of St. Bungay nor Lord Drummond would
now even speak to their own chief, so thoroughly were they disgusted
with his conduct. Indeed it seemed that the only ally the Prime
Minister had in his own Cabinet was the Irish adventurer, Mr.
Phineas Finn. Lord Earlybird never read a word of all this, and was
altogether undisturbed as he sat in his chair in Exeter Hall,--or
just at this time of the year more frequently in the provinces. But
the Duke of Omnium read it all. After what had passed he did not dare
to show it to his brother Duke. He did not dare to tell his friend
that it was said in the newspapers that they did not speak to each
other. But every word from Mr. Slide's pen settled on his own memory,
and added to his torments. It came to be a fixed idea in the Duke's
mind that Mr. Slide was a gadfly sent to the earth for the express
purpose of worrying him.
And as a matter of course the Prime Minister in his own mind blamed
himself for what he had done. It is the chief torment of a person
constituted as he was that strong as may be the determination to do
a thing, fixed as may be the conviction that that thing ought to be
done, no sooner has it been perfected than the objections of others,
which before had been inefficacious, become suddenly endowed with
truth and force. He did not like being told by Mr. Slide that he
ought not to have set his Cabinet against him, but when he had in
fact done so, then he believed what Mr. Slide told him. As soon
almost as the irrevocable letter had been winged on its way to Lord
Earlybird, he saw the absurdity of sending it. Who was he that he
should venture to set aside all the traditions of office? A Pitt or
a Peel or a Palmerston might have done so, because they had been
abnormally strong. They had been Prime Ministers by the work of their
own hands, holding their powers against the whole world. But he,--he
told himself daily that he was only there by sufferance, because at
the moment no one else could be found to take it. In such a condition
should he not have been bound by the traditions of office, bound
by the advice of one so experienced and so true as the Duke of St.
Bungay? And for whom had he broken through these traditions and
thrown away this advice? For a man who had no power whatever to help
him or any other Minister of the Crown;--for one whose every pursuit
in life was at variance with the acquisition of such honours as that
now thrust upon him! He could see his own obstinacy, and could even
hate the pretentious love of virtue which he had himself displayed.
"Have you seen Lord Earlybird with his ribbon?" his wife said to him.
"I do not know Lord Earlybird by sight," he replied angrily.
"Nor any one else either. But he would have come and shown himself to
you, if he had had a spark of gratitude in his composition. As far as
I can learn you have sacrificed the Ministry for his sake."
"I did my duty as best I knew how to do it," said the Duke, almost
with ferocity, "and it little becomes you to taunt me with any
deficiency."
"Plantagenet!"
"I am driven," he said, "almost beyond myself, and it kills me when
you take part against me."
"Take part against you! Surely there was very little in what I said."
And yet, as she spoke, she repented bitterly that she had at the
moment allowed herself to relapse into the sort of badinage which
had been usual with her before she had understood the extent of his
sufferings. "If I trouble you by what I say, I will certainly hold my
tongue."
"Don't repeat to me what that man says in the newspaper."
"You shouldn't regard the man, Plantagenet. You shouldn't allow the
paper to come into your hands."
"Am I to be afraid of seeing what men say of me? Never! But you need
not repeat it, at any rate if it be false." She had not seen the
article in question or she certainly would not have repeated the
accusation which it contained. "I have quarrelled with no colleague.
If such a one as Lord Drummond chooses to think himself injured, am
I to stoop to him? Nothing strikes me so much in all this as the
ill-nature of the world at large. When they used to bait a bear tied
to a stake, every one around would cheer the dogs and help to torment
the helpless animal. It is much the same now, only they have a man
instead of a bear for their pleasure."
"I will never help the dogs again," she said, coming up to him and
clinging within the embrace of his arm.
He knew that he had been Quixotic, and he would sit in his chair
repeating the word to himself aloud, till he himself began to fear
that he would do it in company. But the thing had been done and
could not be undone. He had had the bestowal of one Garter, and he
had given it to Lord Earlybird! It was,--he told himself, but not
correctly,--the only thing that he had done on his own undivided
responsibility since he had been Prime Minister.
The last days of July had passed, and it had been at last decided
that the Session should close on the 11th of August. Now the 11th
of August was thought to be a great deal too near the 12th to allow
of such an arrangement being considered satisfactory. A great many
members were very angry at the arrangement. It had been said all
through June and into July that it was to be an early Session, and
yet things had been so mismanaged that when the end came everything
could not be finished without keeping members of Parliament in town
up to the 11th of August! In the memory of present legislators there
had never been anything so awkward. The fault, if there was a fault,
was attributable to Mr. Monk. In all probability the delay was
unavoidable. A minister cannot control long-winded gentlemen, and
when gentlemen are very long-winded there must be delay. No doubt a
strong minister can exercise some control, and it is certain that
long-winded gentlemen find an unusual scope for their breath when the
reigning dynasty is weak. In that way Mr. Monk and the Duke may have
been responsible, but they were blamed as though they, for their own
special amusement, detained gentlemen in town. Indeed the gentlemen
were not detained. They grumbled and growled and then fled,--but
their grumblings and growlings were heard even after their departure.
"Well;--what do you think of it all?" the Duke said one day to Mr.
Monk, at the Treasury, affecting an air of cheery good-humour.
"I think," said Mr. Monk, "that the country is very prosperous.
I don't know that I ever remember trade to have been more evenly
satisfactory."
"Ah, yes. That's very well for the country, and ought, I suppose, to
satisfy us."
"It satisfies me," said Mr. Monk.
"And me, in a way. But if you were walking about in a very tight pair
of boots, in an agony with your feet, would you be able just then to
relish the news that agricultural wages in that parish had gone up
sixpence a week?"
"I'd take my boots off, and then try," said Mr. Monk.
"That's just what I'm thinking of doing. If I had my boots off all
that prosperity would be so pleasant to me! But you see you can't
take your boots off in company. And it may be that you have a walk
before you, and that no boots will be worse for your feet even than
tight ones."
"We'll have our boots off soon, Duke," said Mr. Monk, speaking of the
recess.
"And when shall we be quit of them altogether? Joking apart, they
have to be worn if the country requires it."
"Certainly, Duke."
"And it may be that you and I think that upon the whole they may be
worn with advantage. What does the country say to that?"
"The country has never said the reverse. We have not had a majority
against us this Session on any Government question."
"But we have had narrowing majorities. What will the House do as
to the Lords' amendments on the Bankruptcy Bill?" There was a Bill
that had gone down from the House of Commons, but had not originated
with the Government. It had, however, been fostered by Ministers in
the House of Lords, and had been sent back with certain amendments
for which the Lord Chancellor had made himself responsible. It was
therefore now almost a Government measure. The manipulation of this
measure had been one of the causes of the prolonged sitting of the
Houses.
"Grogram says they will take the amendments."
"And if they don't?"
"Why then," said Mr. Monk, "the Lords must take our rejection."
"And we shall have been beaten," said the Duke.
"Undoubtedly."
"And beaten simply because the House desires to beat us. I am told
that Sir Timothy Beeswax intends to speak and vote against the
amendments."
"What,--Sir Timothy on one side, and Sir Gregory on the other?"
"So Lord Ramsden tells me," said the Duke. "If it be so, what are we
to do?"
"Certainly not go out in August," said Mr. Monk.
When the time came for the consideration of the Lords' amendments
in the House of Commons,--and it did not come till the 8th of
August,--the matter was exactly as the Duke had said. Sir Gregory
Grogram, with a great deal of earnestness, supported the Lords'
amendment,--as he was in honour bound to do. The amendment had come
from his chief, the Lord Chancellor, and had indeed been discussed
with Sir Gregory before it had been proposed. He was very much in
earnest;--but it was evident from Sir Gregory's earnestness that
he expected a violent opposition. Immediately after him rose Sir
Timothy. Now Sir Timothy was a pretentious man, who assumed to be not
only an advocate but a lawyer. And he assumed also to be a political
magnate. He went into the matter at great length. He began by saying
that it was not a party question. The Bill, which he had had the
honour of supporting before it went from their own House, had been
a private Bill. As such it had received a general support from the
Government. It had been materially altered in the other House under
the auspices of his noble friend on the woolsack, but from those
alterations he was obliged to dissent. Then he said some very heavy
things against the Lord Chancellor, and increased in acerbity as
he described what he called the altered mind of his honourable
and learned friend the Attorney-General. He then made some very
uncomplimentary allusions to the Prime Minister, whom he accused
of being more than ordinarily reserved with his subordinates. The
speech was manifestly arranged and delivered with the express view of
damaging the Coalition, of which at the time he himself made a part.
Men observed that things were very much altered when such a course as
that was taken in the House of Commons. But that was the course taken
on this occasion by Sir Timothy Beeswax, and was so far taken with
success that the Lords' amendments were rejected and the Government
was beaten in a thin House, by a large majority,--composed partly of
its own men. "What am I to do?" asked the Prime Minister of the old
Duke.
The old Duke's answer was exactly the same as that given by Mr. Monk.
"We cannot resign in August." And then he went on. "We must wait
and see how things go at the beginning of next Session. The chief
question is whether Sir Timothy should not be asked to resign."
Then the Session was at an end, and they who had been staunch to the
last got out of town as quick as the trains could carry them.