And then, as he thought of the scene which has been described, he could not quite approve of himself. He knew that he was too self-conscious—that he was thinking too much about his own conduct and the conduct of others to him. The phrase had been odious to him, but still he could not acquit himself of “making a fuss.” Of one thing only was he sure—that a grievous calamity had befallen him when circumstances compelled him to become the Queen’s Prime Minister.
He said nothing further to his wife till they were in London together, and then he was tempted to caress her again, to be loving to her, and to show her that he had forgiven her. But she was brusque to him, as though she did not wish to be forgiven. “Cora,” he said, “do not separate yourself from me.”
“Separate myself! What on earth do you mean? I have not dreamed of such a thing.” The Duchess answered him as though he had alluded to some actual separation.
“I do not mean that. God forbid that a misfortune such as that should ever happen! Do not disjoin yourself from me in all these troubles.”
“What am I to do when you scold me? You must know pretty well by this time that I don’t like to be scolded. ‘I desired you not to speak to Mr. Sprugeon!’ ” As she repeated his words she imitated his manner and voice closely. “I shouldn’t dream of addressing the children with such magnificence of anger. ‘What business is it of yours?’ No woman likes that sort of thing, and I’m not sure that I am acquainted with any woman who likes it much less than—Glencora, Duchess of Omnium.” As she said these last words in a low whisper, she curtseyed down to the ground.
“You know how anxious I am,” he began, “that you should share everything with me—even in politics. But in all things there must at last be one voice that shall be the ruling voice.”
“And that is to be yours—of course.”
“In such a matter as this it must be.”
“And, therefore, I like to do a little business of my own behind your back. It’s human nature, and you’ve got to put up with it. I wish you had a better wife. I dare say there are many who would be better. There’s the Duchess of St. Bungay who never troubles her husband about politics, but only scolds him because the wind blows from the east. It is just possible there might be worse.”
“Oh, Glencora!”
“You had better make the best you can of your bargain and not expect too much from her. And don’t ride over her with a very high horse. And let her have her own way a little if you really believe that she has your interest at heart.”
After this he was quite aware that she had got the better of him altogether. On that occasion he smiled and kissed her, and went his way. But he was by no means satisfied. That he should be thwarted by her, ate into his very heart;—and it was a wretched thing to him that he could not make her understand his feeling in this respect. If it were to go on he must throw up everything. Ruat coelum, fiat—proper subordination from his wife in regard to public matters! No wife had a fuller allowance of privilege, or more complete power in her hands, as to things fit for women’s management. But it was intolerable to him that she should seek to interfere with him in matters of a public nature. And she was constantly doing so. She had always this or that aspirant for office on hand;—this or that job to be carried, though the jobs were not perhaps much in themselves;—this or that affair to be managed by her own political allies, such as Barrington Erle and Phineas Finn. And in his heart he suspected her of a design of managing the Government in her own way, with her own particular friend, Mrs. Finn, for her Prime Minister. If he could in no other way put an end to such evils as these, he must put an end to his own political life. Ruat caelum, fiat justitia. Now “justitia” to him was not compatible with feminine interference in his own special work.
It may therefore be understood that things were not going very smoothly with the Duke and Duchess; and it may also be understood why the Duchess had had very little to say to Mr. Lopez about the election. She was aware that she owed something to Mr. Lopez, whom she had certainly encouraged to stand for the borough, and she had therefore sent her card to his wife and was prepared to invite them both to her parties;—but just at present she was a little tired of Ferdinand Lopez, and perhaps unjustly disposed to couple him with that unfortunate wretch, Major Pountney.
XXXIII
Showing That a Man Should Not Howl
Arthur Fletcher, in his letter to Mrs. Lopez, had told her that when he found out who was to be his antagonist at Silverbridge, it was too late for him to give up the contest. He was, he said, bound in faith to continue it by what had
