The Prime Minister

said to him which seemed to imply that this was his wife’s doings. It was then about the middle of February, and arrangements were in process for the removal of the family to London. The Duke had already been up to London for the meeting of Parliament, and had now come back to Gatherum, purporting to return to London with his wife. Then it was that it was hinted to him that her Grace was still anxious as to the election⁠—and had manifested her anxiety. The rumour hurt him, though he did not in the least believe it. It showed to him, as he thought, not that his wife had been false to him⁠—as in truth she had been⁠—but that even her name could not be kept free from slander. And when he spoke to her on the subject, he did so rather with the view of proving to her how necessary it was that she should keep herself altogether aloof from such matters, than with any wish to make further inquiry. But he elicited the whole truth. “It is so hard to kill an old established evil,” he said.

“What evil have you failed to kill now?”

“Those people at Silverbridge still say that I want to return a member for them.”

“Oh; that’s the evil! You know I think that instead of killing an evil, you have murdered an excellent institution.” This at any rate was very imprudent on the part of the Duchess. After that disobedient word spoken to Mr. Sprugeon, she should have been more on her guard.

“As to that, Glencora, I must judge for myself.”

“Oh yes⁠—you have been jury, and judge, and executioner.”

“I have done as I thought right to do. I am sorry that I should fail to carry you with me in such a matter, but even failing in that I must do my duty. You will at any rate agree with me that when I say the thing should be done, it should be done.”

“If you wanted to destroy the house, and cut down all the trees, and turn the place into a wilderness, I suppose you would only have to speak. Of course I know it would be wrong that I should have an opinion. As ‘man’ you are of course to have your own way.” She was in one of her most aggravating moods. Though he might compel her to obey, he could not compel her to hold her tongue.

“Glencora, I don’t think you know how much you add to my troubles, or you would not speak to me like that.”

“What am I to say? It seems to me that any more suicidal thing than throwing away the borough never was done. Who will thank you? What additional support will you get? How will it increase your power? It’s like King Lear throwing off his clothes in the storm because his daughters turned him out. And you didn’t do it because you thought it right.”

“Yes, I did,” he said, scowling.

“You did it because Major Pountney disgusted you. You kicked him out. Why wouldn’t that satisfy you without sacrificing the borough? It isn’t what I think or say about it, but that everybody is thinking and saying the same thing.”

“I choose that it shall be so.”

“Very well.”

“And I don’t choose that your name shall be mixed up in it. They say in Silverbridge that you are canvassing for Mr. Lopez.”

“Who says so?”

“I presume it’s not true.”

“Who says so, Plantagenet?”

“It matters not who has said so, if it be untrue. I presume it to be false.”

“Of course it is false.” Then the Duchess remembered her word to Mr. Sprugeon, and the cowardice of the lie was heavy on her. I doubt whether she would have been so shocked by the idea of a falsehood as to have been kept back from it had she before resolved that it would save her; but she was not in her practice a false woman, her courage being too high for falsehood. It now seemed to her that by this lie she was owning herself to be quelled and brought into absolute subjection by her husband. So she burst out into truth. “Now I think of it, I did say a word to Mr. Sprugeon. I told him that⁠—that I hoped Mr. Lopez would be returned. I don’t know whether you call that canvassing.”

“I desired you not to speak to Mr. Sprugeon,” he thundered forth.

“That’s all very well, Plantagenet, but if you desire me to hold my tongue altogether, what am I to do?”

“What business is this of yours?”

“I suppose I may have my political sympathies as well as another. Really you are becoming so autocratic that I shall have to go in for women’s rights.”

“You mean me to understand then that you intend to put yourself in opposition to me.”

“What a fuss you make about it all!” she said. “Nothing that one can do is right! You make me wish that I was a milkmaid or a farmer’s wife.” So saying she bounced out of the room, leaving the Duke sick at heart, low in spirit, and doubtful whether he were right or wrong in his attempts to manage his wife. Surely he must be right in feeling that in his high office a clearer conduct and cleaner way of walking was expected from him than from other men! Noblesse oblige! To his uncle the privilege of returning a member to Parliament had been a thing of course; and when the Radical newspapers of the day abused his uncle, his uncle took that abuse as a thing of course. The old Duke acted after his kind, and did not care what others said of him. And he himself, when he first came to his dukedom, was not as he was now. Duties, though they were heavy enough, were lighter then. Serious matters were less serious. There was this and that matter of public policy on which he was intent, but, thinking humbly of himself, he had not yet