The dark deep hints that had reached Mr. Ferrars at the beginning of
1834 were the harbingers of startling events. In the spring it began to
be rumoured among the initiated, that the mighty Reform Cabinet with its
colossal majority, and its testimonial goblets of gold, raised by the
penny subscriptions of the grateful people, was in convulsions, and
before the month of July had elapsed Lord Grey had resigned, under
circumstances which exhibited the entire demoralisation of his party.
Except Zenobia, every one was of the opinion that the King acted wisely
in entrusting the reconstruction of the Whig ministry to his late
Secretary of State, Lord Melbourne. Nevertheless, it could no longer be
concealed, nay, it was invariably admitted, that the political situation
had been largely and most unexpectedly changed, and that there was a
prospect, dim, perhaps, yet not undefinable, of the conduct of
public affairs again falling to the alternate management of two rival
constitutional parties.
Zenobia was so full of hope, and almost of triumph, that she induced
her lord in the autumn to assemble their political friends at one of his
great seats, and Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars were urgently invited to join the
party. But, after some hesitation, they declined this proposal. Had Mr.
Ferrars been as sanguine as his wife, he would perhaps have overcome
his strong disinclination to re-enter the world, but though no longer
despairing of a Tory revival, he was of opinion that a considerable
period, even several years, must elapse before its occurrence. Strange
to say, he found no difficulty in following his own humour through any
contrary disposition on the part of Mrs. Ferrars. With all her ambition
and passionate love of society, she was unwilling to return to that
stage, where she once had blazed, in a subdued and almost subordinate
position. In fact, it was an affair of the wardrobe. The queen of
costumes, whose fanciful and gorgeous attire even Zenobia was wont to
praise, could not endure a reappearance in old dresses. “I do not so
much care about my jewels, William,” she said to her husband, “but one
must have new dresses.”
It was a still mild day in November, a month which in the country, and
especially on the light soils, has many charms, and the whole Ferrars
family were returning home after an afternoon ramble on the chase. The
leaf had changed but had not fallen, and the vast spiral masses of the
dark green juniper effectively contrasted with the rich brown foliage of
the beech, varied occasionally by the scarlet leaves of the wild cherry
tree, that always mingles with these woods. Around the house were some
lime trees of large size, and at this period of the year their foliage,
still perfect, was literally quite golden. They seemed like trees in
some fairy tale of imprisoned princesses or wandering cavaliers, and
such they would remain, until the fatal night that brings the first
frost.
“There is a parcel from London,” said the servant to Mr. Ferrars, as
they entered the house. “It is on your desk.”
A parcel from London was one of the great events of their life. What
could it be? Perhaps some proofs, probably some books. Mr. Ferrars
entered his room alone. It was a very small brown paper parcel,
evidently not books. He opened it hastily, and disencumbered its
contents of several coverings. The contents took the form of a letter--a
single letter.
The handwriting was recognised, and he read the letter with an agitated
countenance, and then he opened the door of his room, and called loudly
for his wife, who was by his side in a few moments.
“A letter, my love, from Barron,” he cried. “The King has dismissed
Lord Melbourne and sent for the Duke of Wellington, who has accepted the
conduct of affairs.”
“You must go to town directly,” said his wife. “He offered you the
Cabinet in 1832. No person has such a strong claim on him as you have.”
“It does not appear that he is exactly prime minister,” said Mr.
Ferrars, looking again at the letter. “They have sent for Peel, who is
at Rome, but the Duke is to conduct the government till he arrives.”
“You must go to town immediately,” repeated Mrs. Ferrars. “There is not
a moment to be lost. Send down to the Horse Shoe and secure an inside
place in the Salisbury coach. It reaches this place at nine to-morrow
morning. I will have everything ready. You must take a portmanteau and
a carpet-bag. I wonder if you could get a bedroom at the Rodneys’. It
would be so nice to be among old friends; they must feel for you. And
then it will be near the Carlton, which is a great thing. I wonder how
he will form his cabinet. What a pity he is not here!”
“It is a wonderful event, but the difficulties must be immense,”
observed Ferrars.
“Oh! you always see difficulties. I see none. The King is with us, the
country is disgusted. It is what I always said would be; the reaction is
complete.”
“Well, we had better now go and tell the children,” said Ferrars. “I
leave you all here for the first time,” and he seemed to sigh.
“Well, I hope we shall soon join you,” said Mrs. Ferrars. “It is the
very best time for hiring a house. What I have set my heart upon is the
Green Park. It will be near your office and not too near. I am sure I
could not live again in a street.”
The children were informed that public events of importance had
occurred, that the King had changed his ministry, and that papa must go
up to town immediately and see the Duke of Wellington. The eyes of Mrs.
Ferrars danced with excitement as she communicated to them all this
intelligence, and much more, with a volubility in which of late years
she had rarely indulged. Mr. Ferrars looked grave and said little.
Then he patted Endymion on the head, and kissed Myra, who returned his
embrace with a warmth unusual with her.
The whole household soon became in a state of bustle with the
preparations for the early departure of Mr. Ferrars. It seemed difficult
to comprehend how filling a portmanteau and a carpet-bag could induce
such excited and continuous exertions. But then there was so much to
remember, and then there was always something forgotten. Mrs. Ferrars
was in her bedroom surrounded by all her maids; Mr. Ferrars was in his
study looking out some papers which it was necessary to take with him.
The children were alone.
“I wonder if we shall be restored to our greatness,” said Myra to
Endymion.
“Well, I shall be sorry to leave the old place; I have been happy here.”
“I have not,” said Myra; “and I do not think I could have borne this
life had it not been for you.”
“It will be a wonderful change,” said Endymion.
“If it comes; I fear papa is not daring enough. However, if we get out
of this hole, it will be something.”
Tea-time brought them all together again, but when the meal was over,
none of the usual occupations of the evening were pursued; no work, no
books, no reading aloud. Mr. Ferrars was to get up very early, and that
was a reason for all retiring soon. And yet neither the husband nor
the wife really cared to sleep. Mrs. Ferrars sate by the fire in his
dressing-room, speculating on all possible combinations, and infusing
into him all her suggestions and all her schemes. She was still prudent,
and still would have preferred a great government--India if possible;
but had made up her mind that he must accept the cabinet. Considering
what had occurred in 1832, she thought he was bound in honour to do so.
Her husband listened rather than conversed, and seemed lost in thought.
At last he rose, and, embracing her with much affection, said, “You
forget I am to rise with the lark. I shall write to you every day.
Best and dearest of women, you have always been right, and all my good
fortune has come from you.”