The Palliser Novels (578 page)

“Now it is all done and gone I own to a certain regard for the Major. He was true to me till he thought I snubbed him. I would not let him go down to Silverbridge with me. I always thought that I drove the poor Major to his malpractices.”

At this moment Dolly Longstaff sauntered into the room and came up to them. It may be remembered that Dolly had declared his purpose of emigrating. As soon as he heard that the Duke’s heir had serious thoughts of marrying the lady whom he loved he withdrew at once from the contest, but, as he did so, he acknowledged that there could be no longer a home for him in the country which Isabel was to inhabit as the wife of another man. Gradually, however, better thoughts returned to him. After all, what was she but a “pert poppet”? He determined that marriage “clips a fellow’s wings confoundedly,” and so he set himself to enjoy life after his old fashion. There was perhaps a little swagger as he threw himself into a chair and addressed the happy lover. “I’ll be shot if I didn’t meet Tifto at the corner of the street.”

“Tifto!”

“Yes, Tifto. He looked awfully seedy, with a greatcoat buttoned up to his chin, a shabby hat and old gloves.”

“Did he speak to you?” asked Silverbridge.

“No; — nor I to him. He hadn’t time to think whether he would speak or not, and you may be sure I didn’t.”

Nothing further was said about the man, but Silverbridge was uneasy and silent. When his cigar was finished he got up, saying that he should go back to the House. As he left the club he looked about him as though expecting to see his old friend, and when he had passed through the first street and had got into the Haymarket there he was! The Major came up to him, touched his hat, asked to be allowed to say a few words. “I don’t think it can do any good,” said Silverbridge. The man had not attempted to shake hands with him, or affected familiarity; but seemed to be thoroughly humiliated. “I don’t think I can be of any service to you, and therefore I had rather decline.”

“I don’t want you to be of any service, my Lord.”

“Then what’s the good?”

“I have something to say. May I come to you to-morrow?”

Then Silverbridge allowed himself to make an appointment, and an hour was named at which Tifto might call in Carlton Terrace. He felt that he almost owed some reparation to the wretched man, — whom he had unfortunately admitted among his friends, whom he had used, and to whom he had been uncourteous. Exactly at the hour named the Major was shown into his room.

Dolly had said that he was shabby, — but the man was altered rather than shabby. He still had rings on his fingers and studs in his shirt, and a jewelled pin in his cravat; — but he had shaven off his moustache and the tuft from his chin, and his hair had been cut short, and in spite of his jewellery there was a hang-dog look about him. “I’ve got something that I particularly want to say to you, my Lord.” Silverbridge would not shake hands with him, but could not refrain from offering him a chair.

“Well; — you can say it now.”

“Yes; — but it isn’t so very easy to be said. There are some things, though you want to say them ever so, you don’t quite know how to do it.”

“You have your choice, Major Tifto. You can speak or hold your tongue.”

Then there was a pause, during which Silverbridge sat with his hands in his pockets trying to look unconcerned. “But if you’ve got it here, and feel it as I do,” — the poor man as he said this put his hand upon his heart, — “you can’t sleep in your bed till it’s out. I did that thing that they said I did.”

“What thing?”

“Why, the nail! It was I lamed the horse.”

“I am sorry for it. I can say nothing else.”

“You ain’t so sorry for it as I am. Oh no; you can never be that, my Lord. After all, what does it matter to you?”

“Very little. I meant that I was sorry for your sake.”

“I believe you are, my Lord. For though you could be rough you was always kind. Now I will tell you everything, and then you can do as you please.”

“I wish to do nothing. As far as I am concerned the matter is over. It made me sick of horses, and I do not wish to have to think of it again.”

“Nevertheless, my Lord, I’ve got to tell it. It was Green who put me up to it. He did it just for the plunder. As God is my judge it was not for the money I did it.”

“Then it was revenge.”

“It was the devil got hold of me, my Lord. Up to that I had always been square, — square as a die! I got to think that your Lordship was upsetting. I don’t know whether your Lordship remembers, but you did put me down once or twice rather uncommon.”

“I hope I was not unjust.”

“I don’t say you was, my Lord. But I got a feeling on me that you wanted to get rid of me, and I all the time doing the best I could for the ‘orses. I did do the best I could up to that very morning at Doncaster. Well; — it was Green put me up to it. I don’t say I was to get nothing; but it wasn’t so much more than I could have got by the ‘orse winning. And I’ve lost pretty nearly all that I did get. Do you remember, my Lord,” — and now the Major sank his voice to a whisper, — “when I come up to your bedroom that morning?”

“I remember it.”

“The first time?”

“Yes; I remember it.”

“Because I came twice, my Lord. When I came first it hadn’t been done. You turned me out.”

“That is true, Major Tifto.”

“You was very rough then. Wasn’t you rough?”

“A man’s bedroom is generally supposed to be private.”

“Yes, my Lord, — that’s true. I ought to have sent your man in first. I came then to confess it all, before it was done.”

“Then why couldn’t you let the horse alone?”

“I was in their hands. And then you was so rough with me! So I said to myself I might as well do it; — and I did it.”

“What do you want me to say? As far as my forgiveness goes, you have it!”

“That’s saying a great deal, my Lord, — a great deal,” said Tifto, now in tears. “But I ain’t said it all yet. He’s here; in London!”

“Who’s here?”

“Green. He’s here. He doesn’t think that I know, but I could lay my hand on him to-morrow.”

“There is no human being alive, Major Tifto, whose presence or absence could be a matter of more indifference to me.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, my Lord. I’ll go before any judge, or magistrate, or police-officer in the country, and tell the truth. I won’t ask even for a pardon. They shall punish me and him too. I’m in that state of mind that any change would be for the better. But he, — he ought to have it heavy.”

“It won’t be done by me, Major Tifto. Look here, Major Tifto; you have come here to confess that you have done me a great injury?”

“Yes, I have.”

“And you say you are sorry for it.”

“Indeed I am.”

“And I have forgiven you. There is only one way in which you can show your gratitude. Hold your tongue about it. Let it be as a thing done and gone. The money has been paid. The horse has been sold. The whole thing has gone out of my mind, and I don’t want to have it brought back again.”

“And nothing is to be done to Green!”

“I should say nothing, — on that score.”

“And he has got they say five-and-twenty thousand pounds clear money.”

“It is a pity, but it cannot be helped. I will have nothing further to do with it. Of course I cannot bind you, but I have told you my wishes.” The poor wretch was silent, but still it seemed as though he did not wish to go quite yet. “If you have said what you have got to say, Major Tifto, I may as well tell you that my time is engaged.”

“And must that be all?”

“What else?”

“I am in such a state of mind, Lord Silverbridge, that it would be a satisfaction to tell it all, even against myself.”

“I can’t prevent you.”

Then Tifto got up from his chair, as though he were going. “I wish I knew what I was going to do with myself.”

“I don’t know that I can help you, Major Tifto.”

“I suppose not, my Lord. I haven’t twenty pounds left in all the world. It’s the only thing that wasn’t square that ever I did in all my life. Your Lordship couldn’t do anything for me? We was very much together at one time, my Lord.”

“Yes, Major Tifto, we were.”

“Of course I was a villain. But it was only once; and your Lordship was so rough to me! I am not saying but what I was a villain. Think of what I did for myself by that one piece of wickedness! Master of hounds! member of the club! And the horse would have run in my name and won the Leger! And everybody knew as your Lordship and me was together in him!” Then he burst out into a paroxysm of tears and sobbing.

The young Lord certainly could not take the man into partnership again, nor could he restore to him either the hounds or his club, — or his clean hands. Nor did he know in what way he could serve the man, except by putting his hand into his pocket, — which he did. Tifto accepted the gratuity, and ultimately became an annual pensioner on his former noble partner, living on the allowance made him in some obscure corner of South Wales.

Frank Tregear had come up to town at the end of February. He remained in London, with an understanding that he was not to see Lady Mary again till the Easter holidays. He was then to pay a visit to Matching, and to enter in, it may be presumed, on the full fruition of his advantages as accepted suitor. All this had been arranged with a good deal of precision, — as though there had still been a hope left that Lady Mary might change her mind. Of course there was no such hope. When the Duke asked the young man to dine with him, when he invited him to drink that memorable glass of wine, when the young man was allowed, in the presence of the Boncassens, to sit next Lady Mary, it was of course settled. But the father probably found some relief in yielding by slow degrees. “I would rather that there should be no correspondence till then,” he had said both to Tregear and to his daughter. And they had promised there should be no correspondence. At Easter they would meet. After Easter Mary was to come up to London to be present at her brother’s wedding, to which also Tregear had been formally invited; and it was hoped that then something might be settled as to their own marriage. Tregear, with the surgeon’s permission, took his seat in Parliament. He was introduced by two leading Members on the Conservative side, but immediately afterwards found himself seated next to his friend Silverbridge on the top bench behind the ministers. The House was very full, as there was a feverish report abroad that Sir Timothy Beeswax intended to make a statement. No one quite knew what the statement was to be; but every politician in the House and out of it thought that he knew that the statement would be a bid for higher power on the part of Sir Timothy himself. If there had been dissensions in the Cabinet, the secret of them had been well kept. To Tregear who was not as yet familiar with the House there was no special appearance of activity; but Silverbridge could see that there was more than wonted animation. That the Treasury bench should be full at this time was a thing of custom. A whole broadside of questions would be fired off, one after another, like a rattle of musketry down the ranks, when as nearly as possible the report of each gun is made to follow close upon that of the gun before, — with this exception, that in such case each little sound is intended to be as like as possible to the preceding; whereas with the rattle of the questions and answers, each question and each answer becomes a little more authoritative and less courteous than the last. The Treasury bench was ready for its usual responsive firing, as the questioners were of course in their places. The opposition front bench was also crowded, and those behind were nearly equally full. There were many Peers in the gallery, and a general feeling of sensation prevailed. All this Silverbridge had been long enough in the House to appreciate; — but to Tregear the House was simply the House.

“It’s odd enough we should have a row the very first day you come,” said Silverbridge.

“You think there will be a row?”

“Beeswax has something special to say. He’s not here yet, you see. They’ve left about six inches for him there between Roper and Sir Orlando. You’ll have the privilege of looking just down on the top of his head when he does come. I shan’t stay much longer after that.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t mean to-day. But I should not have been here now, — in this very place I mean, — but I want to stick to you just at first. I shall move down below the gangway; and not improbably creep over to the other side before long.”

“You don’t mean it?”

“I think I shall. I begin to feel I’ve made a mistake.”

“In coming to this side at all?”

“I think I have. After all it is not very important.”

“What is not important? I think it very important.”

“Perhaps it may be to you, and perhaps you may be able to keep it up. But the more I think of it the less excuse I seem to have for deserting the old ways of the family. What is there in those fellows down there to make a fellow feel that he ought to bind himself to them neck and heels?”

“Their principles.”

“Yes, their principles! I believe I have some vague idea as to supporting property and land and all that kind of thing. I don’t know that anybody wants to attack anything.”

“Somebody soon would want to attack it if there were no defenders.”

“I suppose there is an outside power, — the people, or public opinion, or whatever they choose to call it. And the country will have to go very much as that outside power chooses. Here, in Parliament, everybody will be as Conservative as the outside will let them. I don’t think it matters on which side you sit; — but it does matter that you shouldn’t have to act with those who go against the grain with you.”

“I never heard a worse political argument in my life.”

“I dare say not. However, here’s Sir Timothy. When he looks in that way, all buckram, deportment, and solemnity, I know he’s going to pitch into somebody.”

At this moment the Leader of the House came in from behind the Speaker’s chair and took his place between Mr. Roper and Sir Orlando Drought. Silverbridge had been right in saying that Sir Timothy’s air was solemn. When a man has to declare a solemn purpose on a solemn occasion in a solemn place, it is needful that he should be solemn himself. And though the solemnity which befits a man best will be that which the importance of the moment may produce, without thought given by himself to his own outward person, still, who is there can refrain himself from some attempt? Who can boast, who that has been versed in the ways and duties of high places, that he has kept himself free from all study of grace, of feature, of attitude, of gait — or even of dress? For most of our bishops, for most of our judges, of our statesmen, our orators, our generals, for many even of our doctors and our parsons, even our attorneys, our tax-gatherers, and certainly our butlers and our coachmen, Mr. Turveydrop, the great professor of deportment, has done much. But there should always be the art to underlie and protect the art; — the art that can hide the art. The really clever archbishop, — the really potent chief justice, the man who, as a politician, will succeed in becoming a king of men, should know how to carry his buckram without showing it. It was in this that Sir Timothy perhaps failed a little. There are men who look as though they were born to wear blue ribbons. It has come, probably, from study, but it seems to be natural. Sir Timothy did not impose on those who looked at him as do these men. You could see a little of the paint, you could hear the crumple of the starch and the padding; you could trace something of uneasiness in the would-be composed grandeur of the brow. “Turveydrop!” the spectator would say to himself. But after all it may be a question whether a man be open to reproach for not doing that well which the greatest among us, — if we could find one great enough, — would not do at all.