Very shortly after the prorogation of parliament, an incident occurred
which materially affected the position of Endymion. Lord Roehampton had
a serious illness. Having a fine constitution, he apparently completely
rallied from the attack, and little was known of it by the public. The
world also, at that moment, was as usual much dispersed and distracted;
dispersed in many climes, and distracted by the fatigue and hardships
they annually endure, and which they call relaxation. Even the
colleagues of the great statesman were scattered, and before they
had realised that he had been seriously ill, they read of him in the
fulfilment of his official duties. But there was no mistake as to his
state under his own roof. Lord Roehampton had, throughout the later
period of his life, been in the habit of working at night. It was
only at night that he could command that abstraction necessary for the
consideration of great affairs. He was also a real worker. He wrote his
own despatches, whenever they referred to matters of moment. He left to
the permanent staff of his office little but the fulfilment of duties
which, though heavy and multifarious, were duties of routine. The
composition of these despatches was a source to Lord Roehampton of much
gratification and excitement. They were of European fame, and their
terse argument, their clear determination, and often their happy irony,
were acknowledged in all the cabinets, and duly apprehended.
The physicians impressed upon Lady Roehampton that this night-work
must absolutely cease. A neglect of their advice must lead to serious
consequences; following it, there was no reason why her husband should
not live for years, and continue to serve the State. Lord Roehampton
must leave the House of Commons; he must altogether change the order
of his life; he must seek more amusement in society, and yet keep early
hours; and then he would find himself fresh and vigorous in the morning,
and his work would rather benefit than distress him. It was all an
affair of habit.
Lady Roehampton threw all her energies into this matter. She entertained
for her lord a reverential affection, and his life to her seemed a
precious deposit, of which she was the trustee. She succeeded where the
physicians would probably have failed. Towards the end of the year Lord
Roehampton was called up to the House of Lords for one of his baronies,
and Endymion was informed that when parliament met, he would have to
represent the Foreign Office in the House of Commons.
Waldershare heartily congratulated him. “You have got what I most
wished to have in the world; but I will not envy you, for envy is a vile
passion. You have the good fortune to serve a genial chief. I had to
deal with a Harley,--cold, suspicious, ambiguous, pretending to be
profound, and always in a state of perplexity.”
It was not a very agreeable session. The potato famine did something
more than repeal the corn laws. It proved that there was no floating
capital left in the country; and when the Barings and Rothschilds
combined, almost as much from public spirit as from private speculation,
to raise a loan of a few millions for the minister, they absolutely
found the public purse was exhausted, and had to supply the greater
portion of the amount from their own resources. In one of the many
financial debates that consequently occurred, Trenchard established
himself by a clear and comprehensive view of the position of affairs,
and by modestly reminding the House, that a year ago he had predicted
the present condition of things, and indicated its inevitable cause.
This was the great speech on a great night, and Mr. Bertie Tremaine
walked home with Trenchard. It was observed that Mr. Bertie Tremaine
always walked home with the member who had made the speech of the
evening.
“Your friends did not behave well to you,” he said in a hollow voice to
Trenchard. “They ought to have made you Secretary of the Treasury. Think
of this. It is an important post, and may lead to anything; and, so far
as I am concerned, it would give me real pleasure to see it.”
But besides the disquietude of domestic affairs, famine and failures
competing in horrible catastrophe and the Bank Act suspended, as
the year advanced matters on the Continent became not less dark and
troubled. Italy was mysteriously agitated; the pope announced himself
a reformer; there were disturbances in Milan, Ancona, and Ferrara; the
Austrians threatened the occupation of several States, and Sardinia
offered to defend His Holiness from the Austrians. In addition to all
this, there were reform banquets in France, a civil war in Switzerland,
and the King of Prussia thought it prudent to present his subjects with
a Constitution.
The Count of Ferroll about this time made a visit to England. He was
always a welcome guest there, and had received the greatest distinction
which England could bestow upon a foreigner; he had been elected an
honorary member of White’s. “You may have troubles here,” he said to
Lady Montfort, “but they will pass; you will have mealy potatoes
again and plenty of bank notes, but we shall not get off so cheaply.
Everything is quite rotten throughout the Continent. This year is
tranquillity to what the next will be. There is not a throne in Europe
worth a year’s purchase. My worthy master wants me to return home and be
minister; I am to fashion for him a new constitution. I will never have
anything to do with new constitutions; their inventors are always
the first victims. Instead of making a constitution, he should make
a country, and convert his heterogeneous domains into a patriotic
dominion.”
“But how is that to be done?”
“There is only one way; by blood and iron.”
“My dear count, you shock me!”
“I shall have to shock you a great deal more before the inevitable is
brought about.”
“Well, I am glad that there is something,” said Lady Montfort, “which is
inevitable. I hope it will come soon. I am sure this country is ruined.
What with cheap bread at famine prices and these railroads, we seem
quite finished. I thought one operation was to counteract the other; but
they appear both to turn out equally fatal.”
Endymion had now one of those rare opportunities which, if men be equal
to them, greatly affect their future career. As the session advanced,
debates on foreign affairs became frequent and deeply interesting. So
far as the ministry was concerned, the burthen of these fell on the
Under-Secretary of State. He was never wanting. The House felt that he
had not only the adequate knowledge, but that it was knowledge perfectly
digested; that his remarks and conduct were those of a man who had
given constant thought to his duties, and was master of his subject. His
oratorical gifts also began to be recognised. The power and melody
of his voice had been before remarked, and that is a gift which much
contributes to success in a popular assembly. He was ready without being
too fluent. There were light and shade in his delivery. He repressed his
power of sarcasm; but if unjustly and inaccurately attacked, he could be
keen. Over his temper he had a complete control; if, indeed, his entire
insensibility to violent language on the part of an opponent was not
organic. All acknowledged his courtesy, and both sides sympathised with
a young man who proved himself equal to no ordinary difficulties. In a
word, Endymion was popular, and that popularity was not diminished by
the fact of his being the brother of Lady Roehampton, who exercised
great influence in society, and who was much beloved.
As the year advanced external affairs became daily more serious, and
the country congratulated itself that its interests were entrusted to
a minister of the experience and capacity of Lord Roehampton. That
statesman seemed never better than when the gale ran high. Affairs in
France began to assume the complexion that the Count of Ferroll had
prophetically announced. If a crash occurred in that quarter, Lord
Roehampton felt that all Europe might be in a blaze. Affairs were never
more serious than at the turn of the year. Lord Roehampton told his wife
that their holidays must be spent in St. James’ Square, for he could not
leave London; but he wished her to go to Gaydene, where they had been
invited by Mr. Sidney Wilton to pass their Christmas as usual. Nothing,
however, would induce her to quit his side. He seemed quite well, but
the pressure of affairs was extreme; and sometimes, against all her
remonstrances, he was again working at night. Such remonstrances on
other subjects would probably have been successful, for her influence
over him was extreme. But to a minister responsible for the interests
of a great country they are vain, futile, impossible. One might as well
remonstrate with an officer on the field of battle on the danger he was
incurring. She said to him one night in his library, where she paid him
a little visit before she retired, “My heart, I know it is no use my
saying anything, and yet--remember your promise. This night-work makes
me very unhappy.”
“I remember my promise, and I will try not to work at night again in a
hurry, but I must finish this despatch. If I did not, I could not sleep,
and you know sleep is what I require.”
“Good night, then.”
He looked up with his winning smile, and held out his lips. “Kiss me,”
he said; “I never felt better.”
Lady Roehampton after a time slumbered; how long she knew not, but when
she woke, her lord was not at her side. She struck a light and looked at
her watch. It was past three o’clock; she jumped out of bed, and, merely
in her slippers and her _robe de chambre_, descended to the library. It
was a large, long room, and Lord Roehampton worked at the extreme end
of it. The candles were nearly burnt out. As she approached him, she
perceived that he was leaning back in his chair. When she reached him,
she observed he was awake, but he did not seem to recognise her. A
dreadful feeling came over her. She took his hand. It was quite cold.
Her intellect for an instant seemed to desert her. She looked round her
with an air void almost of intelligence, and then rushing to the bell
she continued ringing it till some of the household appeared. A medical
man was near at hand, and in a few minutes arrived, but it was a
bootless visit. All was over, and all had been over, he said, “for some
time.”