The Palliser Novels (508 page)

“I suppose it’s all right about Cream Cheese?” asked the Lord.

“Well; it ought to be.” And now the Major spoke like an oracle, leaning forward on the table, uttering his words in a low voice, but very plainly, so that not a syllable might be lost. “When you remember how he ran at the Craven with 9 st. 12 lb. on him, that it took Archbishop all he knew to beat him with only 9 st. 2 lb., and what the lot at Chester are likely to be, I don’t think that there can be seven to one against him. I should be very glad to take it off your hands, only the figures are a little too heavy for me.”

“I suppose Sunflower’ll be the best animal there?”

“Not a doubt of it, if he’s all right, and if his temper will stand. Think what a course Chester is for an ill-conditioned brute like that! And then he’s the most uncertain horse in training. There are times he won’t feed. From what I hear, I shouldn’t wonder if he don’t turn up at all.”

“Solomon says he’s all right.”

“You won’t get Solomon to take four to one against him, nor yet four and a half. I suppose you’ll go down, my Lord?”

“Well, yes; if there’s nothing else doing just then. I don’t know how it may be about this electioneering business. I shall go and smoke upstairs.”

At the Beargarden there were, — I was going to say, two smoking-rooms; but in truth the house was a smoking-room all over. It was, however, the custom of those who habitually played cards, to have their cigars and coffee upstairs. Into this sanctum Major Tifto had not yet been introduced, but now he was taken there under Lord Silverbridge’s wing. There were already four or five assembled, among whom was Mr. Adolphus Longstaff, a young man of about thirty-five years of age, who spent very much of his time at the Beargarden. “Do you know my friend Tifto?” said the Lord. “Tifto, this is Mr. Longstaff, whom men within the walls of this asylum sometimes call Dolly.” Whereupon the Major bowed and smiled graciously.

“I have heard of Major Tifto,” said Dolly.

“Who has not?” said Lord Nidderdale, another middle-aged young man, who made one of the company. Again the Major bowed.

“Last season I was always intending to get down to your country and have a day with the Tiftoes,” said Dolly. “Don’t they call your hounds the Tiftoes?”

“They shall be called so if you like,” said the Major. “And why didn’t you come?”

“It always was such a grind.”

“Train down from Paddington every day at half-past ten.”

“That’s all very well if you happen to be up. Well, Silverbridge, how’s the Prime Minister?”

“How is he, Tifto?” asked the noble partner.

“I don’t think there’s a man in England just at present enjoying a very much better state of health,” said the Major pleasantly.

“Safe to run?” asked Dolly.

“Safe to run! Why shouldn’t he be safe to run?”

“I mean sure to start.”

“I think we mean him to start, don’t we, Silverbridge?” said the Major.

There was something perhaps in the tone in which the last remark was made which jarred a little against the young lord’s dignity. At any rate he got up and declared his purpose of going to the opera. He should look in, he said, and hear a song from Mdlle Stuffa. Mdlle Stuffa was the nightingale of the season, and Lord Silverbridge, when he had nothing else to do, would sometimes think that he was fond of music. Soon after he was gone Major Tifto had some whisky-and-water, lit his third cigar, and began to feel the glory of belonging to the Beargarden. With Lord Silverbridge, to whom it was essentially necessary that he should make himself agreeable at all times, he was somewhat overweighted as it were. Though he attempted an easy familiarity, he was a little afraid of Lord Silverbridge. With Dolly Longstaff he felt that he might be comfortable, — not, perhaps, understanding that gentleman’s character. With Lord Nidderdale he had previously been acquainted, and had found him to be good-natured. So, as he sipped his whisky, he became confidential and comfortable.

“I never thought so much about her good looks,” he said. They were talking of the singer, the charms of whose voice had carried Lord Silverbridge away.

“Did you ever see her off the stage?” asked Nidderdale.

“Oh dear yes.”

“She does not go about very much, I fancy,” said someone.

“I dare say not,” said Tifto. “But she and I have had a day or two together, for all that.”

“You must have been very much favoured,” said Dolly.

“We’ve been pals ever since she has been over here,” said Tifto, with an enormous lie.

“How do you get on with her husband?” asked Dolly, — in the simplest voice, as though not in the least surprised at his companion’s statement.

“Husband!” exclaimed the Major; who was not possessed of sufficient presence of mind to suppress all signs of his ignorance.

“Ah,” said Dolly; “you are not probably aware that your pal has been married to Mr. Thomas Jones for the last year and a half.” Soon after that Major Tifto left the club, — with considerably enhanced respect for Mr. Longstaff.

Lord Silverbridge had engaged himself to be with his father the next morning at half-past nine, and he entered the breakfast-room a very few minutes after that hour. He had made up his mind as to what he would say to his father. He meant to call himself a Conservative, and to go into the House of Commons under that denomination. All the men among whom he lived were Conservatives. It was a matter on which, as he thought, his father could have no right to control him. Down in Barsetshire, as well as up in London, there was some little difference of opinion in this matter. The people of Silverbridge declared that they would prefer to have a Conservative member, as indeed they had one for the last Session. They had loyally returned the Duke himself while he was a commoner, but they had returned him as being part and parcel of the Omnium appendages. That was all over now. As a constituency they were not endowed with advanced views, and thought that a Conservative would suit them best. That being so, and as they had been told that the Duke’s son was a Conservative, they fancied that by electing him they would be pleasing everybody. But, in truth, by so doing they would by no means please the Duke. He had told them on previous occasions that they might elect whom they pleased, and felt no anger because they had elected a Conservative. They might send up to Parliament the most antediluvian old Tory they could find in England if they wished, only not his son, not a Palliser as a Tory or Conservative. And then, though the little town had gone back in the ways of the world, the county, or the Duke’s division of the county, had made so much progress, that a Liberal candidate recommended by him would almost certainly be returned. It was just the occasion on which a Palliser should show himself ready to serve his country. There would be an expense, but he would think nothing of expense in such a matter. Ten thousand pounds spent on such an object would not vex him. The very contest would have given him new life. All this Lord Silverbridge understood, but had said to himself and to all his friends that it was a matter in which he did not intend to be controlled.

The Duke had passed a very unhappy night. He had told himself that any such marriage as that spoken of was out of the question. He believed that the matter might be so represented to his girl as to make her feel that it was out of the question. He hardly doubted but that he could stamp it out. Though he should have to take her away into some further corner of the world, he would stamp it out. But she, when this foolish passion of hers should have been thus stamped out, could never be the pure, the bright, the unsullied, unsoiled thing, of the possession of which he had thought so much. He had never spoken of his hopes about her even to his wife, but in the silence of his very silent life he had thought much of the day when he would give her to some noble youth, — noble with all gifts of nobility, including rank and wealth, — who might be fit to receive her. Now, even though no one else should know it, — and all would know it, — she would be the girl who had condescended to love young Tregear.

His own Duchess, she whose loss to him now was as though he had lost half his limbs, — had not she in the same way loved a Tregear, or worse than a Tregear, in her early days? Ah yes! And though his Cora had been so much to him, had he not often felt, had he not been feeling all his days, that Fate had robbed him of the sweetest joy that is given to man, in that she had not come to him loving him with her early spring of love, as she had loved that poor ne’er-do-well? How infinite had been his regrets. How often had he told himself that, with all that Fortune had given him, still Fortune had been unjust to him because he had been robbed of that. Not to save his life could he have whispered a word of this to any one, but he had felt it. He had felt it for years. Dear as she had been, she had not been quite what she should have been but for that. And now this girl of his, who was so much dearer to him than anything else left to him, was doing exactly as her mother had done. The young man might be stamped out. He might be made to vanish as that other young man had vanished. But the fact that he had been there, cherished in the girl’s heart, — that could not be stamped out.

He struggled gallantly to acquit the memory of his wife. He could best do that by leaning with the full weight of his mind on the presumed iniquity of Mrs. Finn. Had he not known from the first that the woman was an adventuress? And had he not declared to himself over and over again that between such a one and himself there should be no intercourse, no common feeling? He had allowed himself to be talked into an intimacy, to be talked almost into an affection. And this was the result!

And how should he treat this matter in his coming interview with his son; — or should he make an allusion to it? At first it seemed as though it would be impossible for him to give his mind to that other subject. How could he enforce the merits of political Liberalism, and the duty of adhering to the old family party, while his mind was entirely preoccupied with his daughter? It had suddenly become almost indifferent to him whether Silverbridge should be a Conservative or a Liberal. But as he dressed he told himself that, as a man, he ought to be able to do a plain duty, marked out for him as this had been by his own judgment, without regard to personal suffering. The hedger and ditcher must make his hedge and clean his ditch even though he be tormented by rheumatism. His duty by his son he must do, even though his heart were torn to pieces.

During breakfast he tried to be gracious, and condescended to ask his son a question about Prime Minister. Racing was an amusement to which English noblemen had been addicted for many ages, and had been held to be serviceable rather than disgraceful, if conducted in a noble fashion. He did not credit Tifto with much nobility. He knew but little about the Major. He would much have preferred that his son should have owned a horse alone, if he must have anything to do with ownership. “Would it not be better to buy the other share?” asked the Duke.

“It would take a deal of money, sir. The Major would ask a couple of thousand, I should think.”

“That is a great deal.”

“And then the Major is a very useful man. He thoroughly understands the turf.”

“I hope he doesn’t live by it?”

“Oh no; he doesn’t live by it. That is, he has a great many irons in the fire.”

“I do not mind a young man owning a horse, if he can afford the expense, — as you perhaps can do; but I hope you don’t bet.”

“Nothing to speak of.”

“Nothing to speak of is so apt to grow into that which has to be spoken of.” So much the father said at breakfast, hardly giving his mind to the matter discussed, — his mind being on other things. But when their breakfast was eaten, then it was necessary that he should begin. “Silverbridge,” he said, “I hope you have thought better of what we were talking about as to these coming elections.”

“Well, sir; — of course I have thought about it.”

“And you can do as I would have you?”

“You see, sir, a man’s political opinion is a kind of thing he can’t get rid of.”

“You can hardly as yet have any very confirmed political opinion. You are still young, and I do not suppose that you have thought much about politics.”

“Well, sir; I think I have. I’ve got my own ideas. We’ve got to protect our position as well as we can against the Radicals and Communists.”

“I cannot admit that at all, Silverbridge. There is no great political party in this country anxious either for Communism or for revolution. But, putting all that aside for the present, do you think that a man’s political opinions should be held in regard to his own individual interests, or to the much wider interests of others, whom we call the public?”

“To his own interest,” said the young man with decision.

“It is simply self-protection then?”

“His own and his class. The people will look after themselves, and we must look after ourselves. We are so few and they are so many, that we shall have quite enough to do.”

Then the Duke gave his son a somewhat lengthy political lecture, which was intended to teach him that the greatest benefit of the greatest number was the object to which all political studies should tend. The son listened to it with attention, and when it was over, expressed his opinion that there was a great deal in what his father had said. “I trust, if you will consider it,” said the Duke, “that you will not find yourself obliged to desert the school of politics in which your father has not been an inactive supporter, and to which your family has belonged for many generations.”

“I could not call myself a Liberal,” said the young politician.

“Why not?”

“Because I am a Conservative.”

“And you won’t stand for the county on the Liberal interest?”

“I should be obliged to tell them that I should always give a Conservative vote.”

“Then you refuse to do what I ask?”

“I do not know how I can help refusing. If you wanted me to grow a couple of inches taller I couldn’t do it, even though I should be ever so anxious to oblige you.”

“But a very young man, as you are, may have so much deference for his elders as to be induced to believe that he has been in error.”