The prosperity of the country was so signal, while Mr. Vigo was
unceasingly directing millions of our accumulated capital, and promises
of still more, into the “new channel,” that it seemed beyond belief
that any change of administration could even occur, at least in the
experience of the existing generation. The minister to whose happy
destiny it had fallen to gratify the large appetites and reckless
consuming powers of a class now first known in our social hierarchy
as “Navvies,” was hailed as a second Pitt. The countenance of the
opposition was habitually dejected, with the exception of those members
of it on whom Mr. Vigo graciously conferred shares, and Lady Montfort
taunted Mr. Sidney Wilton with inquiries, why he and his friends had
not made railroads, instead of inventing nonsense about cheap bread.
Job Thornberry made wonderful speeches in favour of total and immediate
repeal of the corn laws, and the Liberal party, while they cheered him,
privately expressed their regret that such a capital speaker, who might
be anything, was not a practical man. Low prices, abundant harvests,
and a thriving commerce had rendered all appeals, varied even by the
persuasive ingenuity of Thornberry, a wearisome irritation; and, though
the League had transplanted itself from Manchester to the metropolis,
and hired theatres for their rhetoric, the close of 1845 found them
nearly reduced to silence.
Mr. Bertie Tremaine, who was always studying the spirit of the age,
announced to the initiated that Mr. Vigo had something of the character
and structure of Napoleon, and that he himself began to believe, that
an insular nation, with such an enormous appetite, was not adapted
to cosmopolitan principles, which were naturally of a character more
spiritual and abstract. Mr. Bertie Tremaine asked Mr. Vigo to dinner,
and introduced him to several distinguished youths of extreme opinions,
who were dining off gold plate. Mr. Vigo was much flattered by his
visit; his host made much of him; and he heard many things on the
principles of government, and even of society, in the largest sense of
the expression, which astonished and amused him. In the course of the
evening he varied the conversation--one which became the classic library
and busts of the surrounding statesmen--by promising to most of the
guests allotments of shares in a new company, not yet launched, but
whose securities were already at a high premium.
Endymion, in the meantime, pursued the even tenor of his way. Guided
by the experience, unrivalled knowledge, and consummate tact of Lord
Roehampton, he habitually made inquiries, or brought forward motions,
which were evidently inconvenient or embarrassing to the ministry; and
the very circumstance, that he was almost always replied to by the prime
minister, elevated him in the estimation of the House as much as the
pertinence of his questions, and the accurate information on which he
founded his motions. He had not taken the House with a rush like Job
Thornberry, but, at the end of three sessions, he was a personage
universally looked upon as one who was “certain to have office.”
There was another new member who had also made way, though slowly, and
that was Mr. Trenchard; he had distinguished himself on a difficult
committee, on which he had guided a perplexed minister, who was
chairman, through many intricacies. Mr. Trenchard watched the operations
of Mr. Vigo, with a calm, cold scrutiny, and ventured one day to impart
his conviction to Endymion that there were breakers ahead. “Vigo is
exhausting the floating capital of the country,” he said, and he offered
to give him all the necessary details, if he would call the attention of
the House to the matter. Endymion declined to do this, chiefly because
he wished to devote himself to foreign affairs, and thought the House
would hardly brook his interference also in finance. So he strongly
advised Trenchard himself to undertake the task. Trenchard was modest,
and a little timid about speaking; so it was settled that he should
consult the leaders on the question, and particularly the gentleman who
it was supposed would be their Chancellor of the Exchequer, if ever
they were again called upon to form a ministry. This right honourable
individual listened to Trenchard with the impatience which became a man
of great experience addressed by a novice, and concluded the interview
by saying, that he thought “there was nothing in it;” at the same
time, he would turn it in his mind, and consult some practical men.
Accordingly the ex- and future minister consulted Mr. Vigo, who assured
him that he was quite right; that “there was nothing in it,” and that
the floating capital of the country was inexhaustible.
In the midst of all this physical prosperity, one fine day in August,
parliament having just been prorogued, an unknown dealer in potatoes
wrote to the Secretary of State, and informed him that he had reason to
think that a murrain had fallen over the whole of the potato crops
in England, and that, if it extended to Ireland, the most serious
consequences must ensue.
This mysterious but universal sickness of a single root changed the
history of the world.
“There is no gambling like politics,” said Lord Roehampton, as he
glanced at the “Times,” at Princedown; “four cabinets in one week; the
government must be more sick than the potatoes.”
“Berengaria always says,” said Lord Montfort, “that you should see
Princedown in summer. I, on the contrary, maintain it is essentially a
winter residence, for, if there ever be a sunbeam in England, Princedown
always catches it. Now to-day, one might fancy one’s self at Cannes.”
Lord Montfort was quite right, but even the most wilful and selfish of
men was generally obliged to pass his Christmas at his northern
castle. Montforts had passed their Christmas in that grim and mighty
dwelling-place for centuries. Even he was not strong enough to contend
against such tradition. Besides, every one loves power, even if they do
not know what to do with it. There are such things as memberships for
counties, which, if public feeling be not outraged, are hereditary, and
adjacent boroughs, which, with a little management and much expense,
become reasonable and loyal. If the flag were rarely to wave on the
proud keep of Montfort, all these satisfactory circumstances would be
greatly disturbed and baffled; and if the ancient ensign did not promise
welcome and hospitality at Christmas, some of the principal uses even of
Earls of Montfort might be questioned.
There was another reason, besides the distance and the clime, why Lord
Montfort disliked the glorious pile which every Englishman envied him
for possession. The mighty domain of Montfort was an estate in strict
settlement. Its lord could do nothing but enjoy its convenience and its
beauty, and expend its revenues. Nothing could be sold or bought, not
the slightest alteration--according to Lord Montfort--be made, without
applying to trustees for their sanction. Lord Montfort spoke of this
pitiable state of affairs as if he were describing the serfdom of the
Middle Ages. “If I were to pull this bell-rope, and it came down,” he
would say, “I should have to apply to the trustees before it could be
arranged.”
Such a humiliating state of affairs had induced his lordship, on the
very first occasion, to expend half a million of accumulations, which
were at his own disposal, in the purchase of Princedown, which certainly
was a very different residence from Montfort Castle, alike in its clime
and character.
Princedown was situate in a southern county, hardly on a southern
coast, for it was ten miles from the sea, though enchanting views of the
Channel were frequent and exquisite. It was a palace built in old days
upon the Downs, but sheltered and screened from every hostile wind. The
full warmth of the south fell upon the vast but fantastic pile of the
Renaissance style, said to have been built by that gifted but mysterious
individual, John of Padua. The gardens were wonderful, terrace upon
terrace, and on each terrace a tall fountain. But the most peculiar
feature was the park, which was undulating and extensive, but its timber
entirely ilex: single trees of an age and size not common in that tree,
and groups and clumps of ilex, but always ilex. Beyond the park, and
extending far into the horizon, was Princedown forest, the dominion of
the red deer.
The Roehamptons and Endymion were the only permanent visitors at
Princedown at this moment, but every day brought guests who stayed
eight-and-forty hours, and then flitted. Lady Montfort, like the manager
of a theatre, took care that there should be a succession of novelties
to please or to surprise the wayward audience for whom she had to cater.
On the whole, Lord Montfort was, for him, in an extremely good humour;
never very ill; Princedown was the only place where he never was very
ill; he was a little excited, too, by the state of politics, though
he did not exactly know why; “though, I suppose,” he would say to Lord
Roehampton, “if you do come in again, there will be no more nonsense
about O’Connell and all that sort of thing. If you are prudent on
that head, and carry a moderate fixed duty, not too high, say ten
shillings--that would satisfy everybody--I do not see why the thing
might not go on as long as you liked.”
Mr. Waldershare came down, exuberant with endless combinations
of persons and parties. He foresaw in all these changes that most
providential consummation, the end of the middle class.
Mr. Waldershare had become quite a favourite with Lord Montfort, who
delighted to talk with him about the Duke of Modena, and imbibe his
original views of English History. “Only,” Lord Montfort would observe,
“the Montforts have so much Church property, and I fancy the Duke of
Modena would want us to disgorge.”
St. Barbe had been invited, and made his appearance. There had been a
degree of estrangement between him and his patron. St. Barbe was very
jealous; he was indeed jealous of everybody and everything, and of late
there was a certain Doctor Comeley, an Oxford don of the new school, who
had been introduced to Lord Montfort, and was initiating him in all
the mysteries of Neology. This celebrated divine, who, in a sweet silky
voice, quoted Socrates instead of St. Paul, and was opposed to all
symbols and formulas as essentially unphilosophical, had become the hero
of “the little dinners” at Montfort House, where St. Barbe had been so
long wont to shine, and who in consequence himself had become every day
more severely orthodox.
“Perhaps we may meet to-day,” said Endymion one morning to St. Barbe in
Pall Mall as they were separating. “There is a little dinner at Montfort
House.”
“Confound your little dinners!” exclaimed the indignant St. Barbe; “I
hope never to go to another little dinner, and especially at Montfort
House. I do not want to be asked to dinner to tumble and play tricks to
amuse my host. I want to be amused myself. One cannot be silent at these
little dinners, and the consequence is, you say all the good things
which are in your next number, and when it comes out, people say they
have heard them before. No, sir, if Lord Montfort, or any other lord,
wishes me to dine with him, let him ask me to a banquet of his own
order, and where I may hold my tongue like the rest of his aristocratic
guests.”
Mr. Trenchard had come down and brought the news that the ministry had
resigned, and that the Queen had sent for the leader of the opposition,
who was in Scotland.
“I suppose we shall have to go to town,” said Lady Roehampton to her
brother, in a room, busy and full. “It is so difficult to be alone
here,” she continued in a whisper; “let us get into the gardens.” And
they escaped. And then, when they were out of hearing and of sight of
any one, she said, “This is a most critical time of your life, Endymion;
it makes me very anxious. I look upon it as certain that you will be in
office, and in all probability under my lord. He has said nothing to me
about it, but I feel quite assured it will happen. It will be a great
event. Poor papa began by being an under-secretary of state!” she
continued in a moody tone, half speaking to herself, “and all seemed so
fair then, but he had no root. What I want, Endymion, is that you should
have a root. There is too much chance and favour in your lot. They will
fail you some day, some day too when I may not be by you. Even this
great opening, which is at hand, would never have been at your command,
but for a mysterious gift on which you never could have counted.”
“It is very true, Myra, but what then?”
“Why, then, I think we should guard against such contingencies. You know
what is in my mind; we have spoken of it before, and not once only. I
want you to marry, and you know whom.”
“Marriage is a serious affair!” said Endymion, with a distressed look.
“The most serious. It is the principal event for good or for evil in all
lives. Had I not married, and married as I did, we should not have been
here--and where, I dare not think.”
“Yes; but you made a happy marriage; one of the happiest that was ever
known, I think.”
“And I wish you, Endymion, to make the same. I did not marry for love,
though love came, and I brought happiness to one who made me happy. But
had it been otherwise, if there had been no sympathy, or prospect of
sympathy, I still should have married, for it was the only chance of
saving you.”
“Dearest sister! Everything I have, I owe to you.”
“It is not much,” said Myra, “but I wish to make it much. Power in every
form, and in excess, is at your disposal if you be wise. There is a
woman, I think with every charm, who loves you; her fortune may have
no limit; she is a member of one of the most powerful families in
England--a noble family I may say, for my lord told me last night
that Mr. Neuchatel would be instantly raised to the peerage, and
you hesitate! By all the misery of the past--which never can be
forgotten--for Heaven’s sake, be wise; do not palter with such a
chance.”
“If all be as you say, Myra, and I have no reason but your word to
believe it is so--if, for example, of which I never saw any evidence,
Mr. Neuchatel would approve, or even tolerate, this alliance--I have too
deep and sincere a regard for his daughter, founded on much kindness
to both of us, to mock her with the offer of a heart which she has not
gained.”
“You say you have a deep and sincere regard for Adriana,” said his
sister. “Why, what better basis for enduring happiness can there be?
You are not a man to marry for romantic sentiment, and pass your life
in writing sonnets to your wife till you find her charms and your
inspiration alike exhausted; you are already wedded to the State, you
have been nurtured in the thoughts of great affairs from your very
childhood, and even in the darkest hour of our horrible adversity. You
are a man born for power and high condition, whose name in time ought to
rank with those of the great statesmen of the continent, the true lords
of Europe. Power, and power alone, should be your absorbing object, and
all the accidents and incidents of life should only be considered with
reference to that main result.”
“Well, I am only five-and-twenty after all. There is time yet to
consider this.”
“Great men should think of Opportunity, and not of Time. Time is the
excuse of feeble and puzzled spirits. They make time the sleeping
partner of their lives to accomplish what ought to be achieved by their
own will. In this case, there certainly is no time like the present. The
opportunity is unrivalled. All your friends would, without an exception,
be delighted if you now were wise.”
“I hardly think my friends have given it a thought,” said Endymion, a
little flushed.
“There is nothing that would please Lady Montfort more.”
He turned pale. “How do you know that?” he inquired.
“She told me so, and offered to help me in bringing about the result.”
“Very kind of her! Well, dearest Myra, you and Lord Roehampton have
much to think of at this anxious moment. Let this matter drop. We have
discussed it before, and we have discussed it enough. It is more than
pain for me to differ from you on any point, but I cannot offer to
Adriana a heart which belongs to another.”