“Where’s the niceness then? If a man has his time at his command and has studied the art of legislation it may be nice, because he will be doing his duty;—or if he wants to get into the government ruck like your brother-in-law, it may be nice;—or if he be an idle man with a large fortune it may be nice to have some place to go to. But why it should be nice for Ferdinand Lopez I cannot understand. Everett has some idea in his head when he talks about Parliament—though I cannot say that I agree with him.” It may easily be understood that after this Emily would say nothing further in Manchester Square as to her husband’s prospects at Silverbridge.
Lopez was at Silverbridge for a couple of days, and then returned, as his wife thought, by no means confident of success. He remained in town nearly a week, and during that time he managed to see the Duchess. He had written to her saying that he would do himself the honour of calling on her, and when he came was admitted. But the account he gave to his wife of the visit did not express much satisfaction. It was quite late in the evening before he told her whither he had been. He had intended to keep the matter to himself, and at last spoke of it—guided by the feeling which induces all men to tell their secrets to their wives—because it was a comfort to him to talk to someone who would not openly contradict him. “She’s a sly creature after all,” he said.
“I had always thought that she was too open rather than sly,” said his wife.
“People always try to get a character just opposite to what they deserve. When I hear that a man is always to be believed, I know that he is the most dangerous liar going. She hummed and hawed and would not say a word about the borough. She went so far as to tell me that I wasn’t to say a word about it to her.”
“Wasn’t that best if her husband wished her not to talk of it?”
“It is all humbug and falsehood to the very bottom. She knows that I am spending money about it, and she ought to be on the square with me. She ought to tell me what she can do and what she can’t. When I asked her whether Sprugeon might be trusted, she said that she really wished that I wouldn’t say anything more to her about it. I call that dishonest and sly. I shouldn’t at all wonder but that Fletcher has been with the Duke. If I find that out, won’t I expose them both!”
XXXII
“What Business Is It of Yours?”
Things had not gone altogether smoothly with the Duchess herself since the breaking up of the party at Gatherum Castle—nor perhaps quite smoothly with the Duke. It was now March. The House was again sitting, and they were both in London—but till they came to town they had remained at the Castle, and that huge mansion had not been found to be more comfortable by either of them as it became empty. For a time the Duchess had been cowed by her husband’s stern decision; but as he again became gentle to her—almost seeming by his manner to apologise for his unwonted roughness—she plucked up her spirit and declared to herself that she would not give up the battle. All that she did—was it not for his sake? And why should she not have her ambition in life as well as he his? And had she not succeeded in all that she had done? Could it be right that she should be asked to abandon everything, to own herself to have been defeated, to be shown to have failed before all the world, because such a one as Major Pountney had made a fool of himself? She attributed it all to Major Pountney;—very wrongly. When a man’s mind is veering towards some decision, some conclusion which he has been perhaps slow in reaching, it is probably a little thing which at last fixes his mind and clenches his thoughts. The Duke had been gradually teaching himself to hate the crowd around him and to reprobate his wife’s strategy, before he had known that there was a Major Pountney under his roof. Others had offended him, and first and foremost among them his own colleague, Sir Orlando. The Duchess hardly read his character aright, and certainly did not understand his present motives, when she thought that all might be forgotten as soon as the disagreeable savour of the Major should have passed away.
But in nothing, as she thought, had her husband been so silly as in his abandonment of Silverbridge. When she heard that the day was fixed for declaring the vacancy, she ventured to ask him a question. His manner to her lately had been more than urbane, more than affectionate;—it had almost been that of a lover. He had petted her and caressed her when they met, and once even said that nothing should really trouble him as long as he had her with him. Such a speech as that never in his life had he made before to her! So she plucked up her courage and asked her question—not exactly on that occasion, but soon afterwards; “May not I say a word to Sprugeon about the election?”
“Not a word!” And he looked at her as he had looked on that day when he had told her of the Major’s sins. She tossed her head and pouted her lips and walked on without speaking. If it was to be so, then indeed would she have failed. And, therefore, though in his general manner he was loving to her, things were not going smooth with her.
And things were not going smooth with him because there
