The Palliser Novels (517 page)

There might still be safety for him in that confident assertion of “not a moment;” but had there been anything of that conspiracy of which he had certainly at first judged her to be guilty? She had told her story, and had then appealed to Lady Mary for evidence. After five minutes of perfect stillness, — but five minutes of misery, five minutes during which great beads of perspiration broke out from him and stood upon his brow, he had to confess to himself that he did not want any evidence. He did believe her story. When he allowed himself to think she had been in league with Tregear he had wronged her. He wiped away the beads from his brow, and again repeated to himself those words which were now his only comfort, “There should not have been a moment; — not a moment!”

It was thus and only thus that he was enabled to assure himself that there need be no acknowledgment of wrong done on his part. Having settled this in his own mind he forced himself to attend a meeting at which his assistance had been asked as to a complex question on Law Reform. The Duke endeavoured to give himself up entirely to the matter; but through it all there was the picture before him of Mrs. Finn waiting for an answer to her letter. If he should confirm himself in his opinion that he had been right, then would any answer be necessary? He might just acknowledge the letter, after the fashion which has come up in official life, than which silence is an insult much more bearable. But he did not wish to insult, nor to punish her further. He would willingly have withdrawn the punishment under which she was groaning could he have done so without self-abasement. Or he might write as she had done, — advocating his own cause with all his strength, using that last one strong argument, — “there should not have been a moment.” But there would be something repulsive to his personal dignity in the continued correspondence which this would produce. “The Duke of Omnium regrets to say, in answer to Mrs. Finn’s letter, that he thinks no good can be attained by a prolonged correspondence.” Such, or of such kind, he thought must be his answer. But would this be a fair return for the solicitude shown by her to his uncle, for the love which had made her so patient a friend to his wife, for the nobility of her own conduct in many things? Then his mind reverted to certain jewels, — supposed to be of enormous value, — which were still in his possession though they were the property of this woman. They had been left to her by his uncle, and she had obstinately refused to take them. Now they were lying packed in the cellars of certain bankers, — but still they were in his custody. What should he now do in this matter? Hitherto, perhaps once in every six months, he had notified to her that he was keeping them as her curator, and she had always repeated that it was a charge from which she could not relieve him. It had become almost a joke between them. But how could he joke with a woman with whom he had quarrelled after this internecine fashion?

What if he were to consult Lady Cantrip? He could not do so without a pang that would be very bitter to him, — but any agony would be better than that arising from a fear that he had been unjust to one who had deserved well of him. No doubt Lady Cantrip would see it in the same light as he had done. And then he would be able to support himself by the assurance that that which he had judged to be right was approved of by one whom the world would acknowledge to be a good judge on such a matter.

When he got home he found his son’s letter telling him of the election at Silverbridge. There was something in it which softened his heart to the young man, — or perhaps it was that in the midst of his many discomforts he wished to find something which at least was not painful to him. That his son and his heir should insist on entering political life in opposition to him was of course a source of pain; but, putting that aside, the thing had been done pleasantly enough, and the young member’s letter had been written with some good feeling. So he answered the letter as pleasantly as he knew how.
 

My dear Silverbridge
,

I am glad that you are in Parliament and am glad also that you should have been returned by the old borough; though I would that you could have reconciled yourself to adhering to the politics of your family. But there is nothing disgraceful in such a change, and I am able to congratulate you as a father should a son and to wish you long life and success as a legislator.

There are one or two things I would ask you to remember; — and firstly this, that as you have voluntarily undertaken certain duties you are bound as an honest man to perform them as scrupulously as though you were paid for doing them. There was no obligation in you to seek the post; — but having sought it and acquired it you cannot neglect the work attached to it without being untrue to the covenant you have made. It is necessary that a young member of Parliament should bear this in his mind, and especially a member who has not worked his way up to notoriety outside the House, because to him there will be great facility for idleness and neglect.

And then I would have you always remember the purport for which there is a Parliament elected in this happy and free country. It is not that some men may shine there, that some may acquire power, or that all may plume themselves on being the elect of the nation. It often appears to me that some members of Parliament so regard their success in life, — as the fellows of our colleges do too often, thinking that their fellowships were awarded for their comfort and not for the furtherance of any object as education or religion. I have known gentlemen who have felt that in becoming members of Parliament they had achieved an object for themselves instead of thinking that they had put themselves in the way of achieving something for others. A member of Parliament should feel himself to be the servant of his country, — and like every other servant, he should serve. If this be distasteful to a man he need not go into Parliament. If the harness gall him he need not wear it. But if he takes the trappings, then he should draw the coach. You are there as the guardian of your fellow-countrymen, — that they may be safe, that they may be prosperous, that they may be well governed and lightly burdened, — above all that they may be free. If you cannot feel this to be your duty, you should not be there at all.

And I would have you remember also that the work of a member of Parliament can seldom be of that brilliant nature which is of itself charming; and that the young member should think of such brilliancy as being possible to him only at a distance. It should be your first care to sit and listen so that the forms and methods of the House may as it were soak into you gradually. And then you must bear in mind that speaking in the House is but a very small part of a member’s work, perhaps that part which he may lay aside altogether with the least strain on his conscience. A good member of Parliament will be good upstairs in the Committee Rooms, good down-stairs to make and to keep a House, good to vote, for his party if it may be nothing better, but for the measures also which he believes to be for the good of his country.

Gradually, if you will give your thoughts to it, and above all your time, the theory of legislation will sink into your mind, and you will find that there will come upon you the ineffable delight of having served your country to the best of your ability.

It is the only pleasure in life which has been enjoyed without alloy by your affectionate father,

Omnium
.
 

The Duke in writing this letter was able for a few moments to forget Mrs. Finn, and to enjoy the work which he had on hand.

The new member for Silverbridge, when he entered the House to take the oath, was supported on the right and left by two staunch old Tories. Mr. Monk had seen him a few minutes previously, — Mr. Monk who of all Liberals was the firmest and than whom no one had been more staunch to the Duke, — and had congratulated him on his election, expressing at the same time some gentle regrets. “I only wish you could have come among us on the other side,” he said.

“But I couldn’t,” said the young Lord.

“I am sure nothing but a conscientious feeling would have separated you from your father’s friends,” said the old Liberal. And then they were parted, and the member for Silverbridge was bustled up to the table between two staunch Tories.

Of what else was done on that occasion nothing shall be said here. No political work was required from him, except that of helping for an hour or two to crowd the Government benches. But we will follow him as he left the House. There were one or two others quite as anxious as to his political career as any staunch old Liberal. At any rate one other. He had promised that as soon as he could get away from the House he would go to Belgrave Square and tell Lady Mabel Grex all about it. When he reached the square it was past seven, but Lady Mabel and Miss Cassewary were still in the drawing-room.

“There seemed to be a great deal of bustle, and I didn’t understand much about it,” said the member.

“But you heard the speeches?” These were the speeches made on the proposing and seconding of the address.

“Oh, yes; — Lupton did it very well. Lord George didn’t seem to be quite so good. Then Sir Timothy Beeswax made a speech, and then Mr. Monk. After that I saw other fellows going away, so I bolted too.”

“If I were a member of Parliament I would never leave it while the House was sitting,” said Miss Cassewary.

“If all were like that there wouldn’t be seats for them to sit upon,” said Silverbridge.

“A persistent member will always find a seat,” continued the positive old lady.

“I am sure that Lord Silverbridge means to do his duty,” said Lady Mabel.

“Oh yes; — I’ve thought a good deal about it, and I mean to try. As long as a man isn’t called upon to speak I don’t see why it shouldn’t be easy enough.”

“I’m so glad to hear you say so! Of course after a little time you will speak. I should so like to hear you make your first speech.”

“If I thought you were there, I’m sure I should not make it at all.”

Just at this period Miss Cassewary, saying something as to the necessity of dressing, and cautioning her young friend that there was not much time to be lost, left the room.

“Dressing does not take me more than ten minutes,” said Lady Mabel.

Miss Cassewary declared this to be nonsense, but she nevertheless left the room. Whether she would have done so if Lord Silverbridge had not been Lord Silverbridge, but had been some young man with whom it would not have been expedient that Lady Mabel should fall in love, may perhaps be doubted. But then it may be taken as certain that under such circumstances Lady Mabel herself would not have remained. She had quite realised the duties of life, had had her little romance, — and had acknowledged that it was foolish.

“I do so hope that you will do well,” she said, going back to the parliamentary duties.

“I don’t think I shall ever do much. I shall never be like my father.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“There never was anybody like him. I am always amusing myself, but he never cared for amusement.”

“You are very young.”

“As far as I can learn he was just as he is now at my age. My mother has told me that long before she married him he used to spend all his time in the House. I wonder whether you would mind reading the letter he wrote me when he heard of my election.”

Then he took the epistle out of his pocket and handed it to Lady Mabel.

“He means all that he says.”

“He always does that.”

“And he really hopes that you will put your shoulder to the wheel; — even though you must do so in opposition to him.”

“That makes no difference. I think my father is a very fine fellow.”

“Shall you do all that he tells you?”

“Well; — I suppose not; — except that he advises me to hold my tongue. I think that I shall do that. I mean to go down there, you know, and I daresay I shall be much the same as others.”

“Has he talked to you much about it?”

“No; — he never talks much. Every now and then he will give me a downright lecture, or he will write me a letter like that; but he never talks to any of us.”

“How very odd.”

“Yes; he is odd. He seems to be fretful when we are with him. A good many things make him unhappy.”

“Your poor mother’s death.”

“That first; — and then there are other things. I suppose he didn’t like the way I came to an end at Oxford.”

“You were a boy then.”

“Of course I was very sorry for it, — though I hated Oxford. It was neither one thing nor another. You were your own master and yet you were not.”

“Now you must be your own master.”

“I suppose so.”

“You must marry, and become a lord of the Treasury. When I was a child I acted as a child. You know all about that.”

“Oh yes. And now I must throw off childish things. You mean that I mustn’t paint any man’s house? Eh, Lady Mab.”

“That and the rest of it. You are a legislator now.”

“So is Popplecourt, who took his seat in the House of Lords two or three months ago. He’s the biggest young fool I know out. He couldn’t even paint a house.”

“He is not an elected legislator. It makes all the difference. I quite agree with what the Duke says. Lord Popplecourt can’t help himself. Whether he’s an idle young scamp or not, he must be a legislator. But when a man goes in for it himself, as you have done, he should make up his mind to be useful.”

“I shall vote with my party of course.”

“More than that; much more than that. If you didn’t care for politics you couldn’t have taken a line of your own.” When she said this she knew that he had been talked into what he had done by Tregear, — by Tregear, who had ambition, and intelligence, and capacity for forming an opinion of his own. “If you do not do it for your own sake, you will for the sake of those who, — who, — who are your friends,” she said at last, not feeling quite able to tell him that he must do it for the sake of those who loved him.

“There are not very many I suppose who care about it.”

“Your father.”

“Oh yes, — my father.”