The Palliser Novels (452 page)

“I suppose I never was one of them.”

“But I can talk upon anything,” continued the Duke, “as long as the talker talks in good faith and does not say things that should not be said, or deal with matters that are offensive. I could talk for an hour about bankers’ accounts, but I should not expect a stranger to ask me the state of my own. She has almost persuaded me to send to Mr. Sprout of Silverbridge and get some cork soles myself.”

“Don’t do anything of the kind,” said the Duchess with animation; — as though she had secret knowledge that cork soles were specially fatal to the family of the Pallisers.

“Why not, my dear?”

“He was the man who especially, above all others, threw me over at Silverbridge.” Then again there came upon his brow that angry frown which during the last few days had been dissipated by the innocence of Lady Rosina’s conversation. “Of course I don’t mean to ask you to take any interest in the borough again. You have said that you wouldn’t, and you are always as good as your word.”

“I hope so.”

“But I certainly would not employ a tradesman just at your elbow who has directly opposed what was generally understood in the town to be your interests.”

“What did Mr. Sprout do? This is the first I have heard of it.”

“He got Mr. Du Boung to stand against Mr. Lopez.”

“I am very glad for the sake of the borough that Mr. Lopez did not get in.”

“So am I. But that is nothing to do with it. Mr. Sprout knew at any rate what my wishes were, and went directly against them.”

“You were not entitled to have wishes in the matter, Glencora.”

“That’s all very well; — but I had, and he knew it. As for the future, of course, the thing is over. But you have done everything for the borough.”

“You mean that the borough has done much for me.”

“I know what I mean very well; — and I shall take it very ill if a shilling out of the Castle ever goes into Mr. Sprout’s pocket again.”

It is needless to trouble the reader at length with the sermon which he preached her on the occasion, — showing the utter corruption which must come from the mixing up of politics with trade, or with the scorn which she threw into the few words with which she interrupted him from time to time. “Whether a man makes good shoes, and at a reasonable price, and charges for them honestly, — that is what you have to consider,” said the Duke impressively.

“I’d rather pay double for bad shoes to a man who did not thwart me.”

“You should not condescend to be thwarted in such a matter. You lower yourself by admitting such a feeling.” And yet he writhed himself under the lashes of Mr. Slide!

“I know an enemy when I see him,” said the Duchess, “and as long as I live I’ll treat an enemy as an enemy.”

There was ever so much of it, in the course of which the Duke declared his purpose of sending at once to Mr. Sprout for ever so many cork soles, and the Duchess, — most imprudently, — declared her purpose of ruining Mr. Sprout. There was something in this threat which grated terribly against the Duke’s sense of honour; — that his wife should threaten to ruin a poor tradesman, that she should do so in reference to the political affairs of the borough which he all but owned, — that she should do so in declared opposition to him! Of course he ought to have known that her sin consisted simply in her determination to vex him at the moment. A more good-natured woman did not live; — or one less prone to ruin any one. But any reference to the Silverbridge election brought back upon him the remembrance of the cruel attacks which had been made upon him, and rendered him for the time moody, morose, and wretched. So they again parted ill friends, and hardly spoke when they met at dinner.

The next morning there reached Matching a letter which greatly added to his bitterness of spirit against the world in general and against her in particular. The letter, though marked “private,” had been opened, as were all his letters, by Mr. Warburton, but the private Secretary thought it necessary to show the letter to the Prime Minister. He, when he had read it, told Warburton that it did not signify, and maintained for half-an-hour an attitude of quiescence. Then he walked forth, having the letter hidden in his hand, and finding his wife alone, gave it her to read. “See what you have brought upon me,” he said, “by your interference and disobedience.” The letter was as
follows: —
 

Manchester Square, August 3, 187 — .

My Lord Duke
,

I consider myself entitled to complain to your Grace of the conduct with which I was treated at the last election at Silverbridge, whereby I was led into very heavy expenditure without the least chance of being returned for the borough. I am aware that I had no direct conversation with your Grace on the subject, and that your Grace can plead that, as between man and man, I had no authority from yourself for supposing that I should receive your Grace’s support. But I was distinctly asked by the Duchess to stand, and was assured by her that if I did so I should have all the assistance that your Grace’s influence could procure for me; — and it was also explained to me that your Grace’s official position made it inexpedient that your Grace on this special occasion should have any personal conference with your own candidate. Under these circumstances I submit to your Grace that I am entitled to complain of the hardship I have suffered.

I had not been long in the borough before I found that my position was hopeless. Influential men in the town who had been represented to me as being altogether devoted to your Grace’s interests started a third candidate, — a Liberal as myself, — and the natural consequence was that neither of us succeeded, though my return as your Grace’s candidate would have been certain had not this been done. That all this was preconcerted there can be no doubt, but, before the mine was sprung on me, — immediately, indeed, on my arrival, if I remember rightly, — an application was made to me for £500, so that the money might be exacted before the truth was known to me. Of course I should not have paid the £500 had I known that your Grace’s usual agents in the town, — I may name Mr. Sprout especially, — were prepared to act against me. But I did pay the money, and I think your Grace will agree with me that a very opprobrious term might be applied without injustice to the transaction.

My Lord Duke, I am a poor man; — ambitious I will own, whether that be a sin or a virtue, — and willing, perhaps, to incur expenditure which can hardly be justified in pursuit of certain public objects. But I must say, with the most lively respect for your Grace personally, that I do not feel inclined to sit down tamely under such a loss as this. I should not have dreamed of interfering in the election at Silverbridge had not the Duchess exhorted me to do so. I would not even have run the risk of a doubtful contest. But I came forward at the suggestion of the Duchess, backed by her personal assurance that the seat was certain as being in your Grace’s hands. It was no doubt understood that your Grace would not yourself interfere, but it was equally well understood that your Grace’s influence was for the time deputed to the Duchess. The Duchess herself will, I am sure, confirm my statement that I had her direct authority for regarding myself as your Grace’s candidate.

I can of course bring an action against Mr. Wise, the gentleman to whom I paid the money, but I feel that as a gentleman I should not do so without reference to your Grace, as circumstances might possibly be brought out in evidence, — I will not say prejudicial to your Grace, — but which would be unbecoming. I cannot, however, think that your Grace will be willing that a poor man like myself, in his search for an entrance into public life, should be mulcted to so heavy an extent in consequence of an error on the part of the Duchess. Should your Grace be able to assist me in my view of getting into Parliament for any other seat I shall be willing to abide the loss I have incurred. I hardly, however, dare to hope for such assistance. In this case I think your Grace ought to see that I am reimbursed.

I have the honour to be,
My Lord Duke,
Your Grace’s very faithful Servant,

Ferdinand Lopez
.
 

The Duke stood over her in her own room upstairs, with his back to the fireplace and his eyes fixed upon her while she was reading this letter. He gave her ample time, and she did not read it very quickly. Much of it indeed she perused twice, turning very red in the face as she did so. She was thus studious partly because the letter astounded even her, and partly because she wanted time to consider how she would meet his wrath. “Well,” said he, “what do you say to that?”

“The man is a blackguard, — of course.”

“He is so; — though I do not know that I wish to hear him called such a name by your lips. Let him be what he may he was your friend.”

“He was my acquaintance.”

“He was the man whom you selected to be your candidate for the borough in opposition to my wishes, and whom you continued to support in direct disobedience to my orders.”

“Surely, Plantagenet, we have had all that about disobedience out before.”

“You cannot have such things ‘out,’ — as you call it. Evil-doing will not bury itself out of the way and be done with. Do you feel no shame at having your name mentioned a score of times with reprobation as that man mentions it; — at being written about by such a man as that?”

“Do you want to make me roll in the gutter because I mistook him for a gentleman?”

“That was not all, — nor half. In your eagerness to serve such a miserable creature as this you forgot my entreaties, my commands, my position! I explained to you why I, of all men, and you, of all women, as a part of me, should not do this thing; and yet you did it, mistaking such a cur as that for a man! What am I to do? How am I to free myself from the impediments which you make for me? My enemies I can overcome, — but I cannot escape the pitfalls which are made for me by my own wife. I can only retire into private life and hope to console myself with my children and my books.”

There was a reality of tragedy about him which for the moment overcame her. She had no joke ready, no sarcasm, no feminine counter-grumble. Little as she agreed with him when he spoke of the necessity of retiring into private life because a man had written to him such a letter as this, incapable as she was of understanding fully the nature of the irritation which tormented him, still she knew that he was suffering, and acknowledged to herself that she had been the cause of the agony. “I am sorry,” she ejaculated at last. “What more can I say?”

“What am I to do? What can be said to the man? Warburton read the letter, and gave it me in silence. He could see the terrible difficulty.”

“Tear it in pieces, and then let there be an end of it.”

“I do not feel sure but that he has right on his side. He is, as you say, certainly a blackguard, or he would not make such a claim. He is taking advantage of the mistake made by a good-natured woman through her folly and her vanity;” — as he said this the Duchess gave an absurd little pout, but luckily he did not see it, — “and he knows very well that he is doing so. But still he has a show of justice on his side. There was, I suppose, no chance for him at Silverbridge after I had made myself fully understood. The money was absolutely wasted. It was your persuasion and then your continued encouragement that led him on to spend the money.”

“Pay it then. The loss will not hurt you.”

“Ah; — if we could but get out of our difficulties by paying! Suppose that I do pay it. I begin to think that I must pay it; — that after all I cannot allow such a plea to remain unanswered. But when it is paid; — what then? Do you think such a payment made by the Queen’s Minister will not be known to all the newspapers, and that I shall escape the charge of having bribed the man to hold his tongue?”

“It will be no bribe if you pay him because you think you ought.”

“But how shall I excuse it? There are things done which are holy as the heavens, — which are clear before God as the light of the sun, which leave no stain on the conscience, and which yet the malignity of man can invest with the very blackness of hell! I shall know why I pay this £500. Because she who of all the world is the nearest and the dearest to me,” — she looked up into his face with amazement, as he stood stretching out both his arms in his energy, — “has in her impetuous folly committed a grievous blunder, from which she would not allow her husband to save her, this sum must be paid to the wretched craven. But I cannot tell the world that. I cannot say abroad that this small sacrifice of money was the justest means of retrieving the injury which you had done.”

“Say it abroad. Say it everywhere.”

“No, Glencora.”

“Do you think that I would have you spare me if it was my fault? And how would it hurt me? Will it be new to any one that I have done a foolish thing? Will the newspapers disturb my peace? I sometimes think, Plantagenet, that I should have been the man, my skin is so thick; and that you should have been the woman, yours is so tender.”

“But it is not so.”

“Take the advantage, nevertheless, of my toughness. Send him the £500 without a word, — or make Warburton do so, or Mr. Moreton. Make no secret of it. Then if the papers talk about
it — “

“A question might be asked about it in the House.”

“Or if questioned in any way, — say that I did it. Tell the exact truth. You are always saying that nothing but truth ever serves. Let the truth serve now. I shall not blench. Your saying it all in the House of Lords won’t wound me half so much as your looking at me as you did just now.”

“Did I wound you? God knows I would not hurt you willingly.”

“Never mind. Go on. I know you think that I have brought it all on myself by my own wickedness. Pay this man the money, and then if anything be said about it, explain that it was my fault, and say that you paid the money because I had done wrong.”

When he came in she had been seated on a sofa, which she constantly used herself, and he had stood over her, masterful, imperious, and almost tyrannical. She had felt his tyranny, but had resented it less than usual, — or rather had been less determined in holding her own against him and asserting herself as his equal, — because she confessed to herself that she had injured him. She had, she thought, done but little, but that which she had done had produced this injury. So she had sat and endured the oppression of his standing posture. But now he sat down by her, very close to her, and put his hand upon her shoulder, — almost round her waist.