The Prime Minister

weakly organised to take the office of Prime Minister. He had expected the man to be more manly⁠—had perhaps expected him to be less conscientiously scrupulous. But now, as the thing had been done, it must be maintained. Who else was there to take the office? Mr. Gresham would not. To keep Mr. Daubeny out was the very essence of the Duke of St. Bungay’s life⁠—the turning-point of his political creed, the one grand duty the idea of which was always present to him. And he had, moreover, a most true and most affectionate regard for the man whom he now supported, appreciating the sweetness of his character⁠—believing still in the Minister’s patriotism, intelligence, devotion, and honesty; though he was forced to own to himself that the strength of a man’s heart was wanting.

“Yes,” said Warburton; “he did mention it.”

“Does it trouble him?”

“Perhaps you had better speak to him about it.” Both the old Duke and the private Secretary were as fearful and nervous about the Prime Minister as a mother is for a weakly child. They could hardly tell their opinions to each other, but they understood one another, and between them they coddled their Prime Minister. They were specially nervous as to what might be done by the Prime Minister’s wife, nervous as to what was done by everyone who came in contact with him. It had been once suggested by the private Secretary that Lady Rosina should be sent for, as she had a soothing effect upon the Prime Minister’s spirit.

“Has it irritated him?” asked the Duke.

“Well;⁠—yes, it has;⁠—a little, you know. I think your Grace had better speak to him;⁠—and not perhaps mention my name.” The Duke of St. Bungay nodded his head, and said that he would speak to the great man and would not mention anyone’s name.

And he did speak. “Has anyone said anything to you about it?” asked the Prime Minister.

“I saw it in the Evening Pulpit myself. I have not heard it mentioned anywhere.”

“I did pay the man’s expenses.”

“You did!”

“Yes⁠—when the election was over, and, as far as I can remember, some time after it was over. He wrote to me saying that he had incurred such and such expenses, and asking me to repay him. I sent him a cheque for the amount.”

“But why?”

“I was bound in honour to do it.”

“But why?”

There was a short pause before this second question was answered. “The man had been induced to stand by representations made to him from my house. He had been, I fear, promised certain support which certainly was not given him when the time came.”

“You had not promised it?”

“No;⁠—not I.”

“Was it the Duchess?”

“Upon the whole, my friend, I think I would rather not discuss it further, even with you. It is right that you should know that I did pay the money⁠—and also why I paid it. It may also be necessary that we should consider whether there may be any further probable result from my doing so. But the money has been paid, by me myself⁠—and was paid for the reason I have stated.”

“A question might be asked in the House.”

“If so, it must be answered as I have answered you. I certainly shall not shirk any responsibility that may be attached to me.”

“You would not like Warburton to write a line to the newspaper?”

“What;⁠—to the People’s Banner!”

“It began there, did it? No, not to the People’s Banner, but to the Evening Pulpit. He could say, you know, that the money was paid by you, and that the payment had been made because your agents had misapprehended your instructions.”

“It would not be true,” said the Prime Minister, slowly.

“As far as I can understand that was what occurred,” said the other Duke.

“My instructions were not misapprehended. They were disobeyed. I think that perhaps we had better say no more about it.”

“Do not think that I wish to press you,” said the old man, tenderly; “but I fear that something ought to be done;⁠—I mean for your own comfort.”

“My comfort!” said the Prime Minister. “That has vanished long ago;⁠—and my peace of mind, and my happiness.”

“There has been nothing done which cannot be explained with perfect truth. There has been no impropriety.”

“I do not know.”

“The money was paid simply from an overnice sense of honour.”

“It cannot be explained. I cannot explain it even to you, and how then can I do it to all the gaping fools of the country who are ready to trample upon a man simply because he is in some way conspicuous among them?”

After that the old Duke again spoke to Mr. Warburton, but Mr. Warburton was very loyal to his chief. “Could one do anything by speaking to the Duchess?” said the old Duke.

“I think not.”

“I suppose it was her Grace who did it all.”

“I cannot say. My own impression is that he had better wait till the Houses meet, and then, if any question is asked, let it be answered. He himself would do it in the House of Lords, or Mr. Finn or Barrington Erle, in our House. It would surely be enough to explain that his Grace had been made to believe that the man had received encouragement at Silverbridge from his own agents, which he himself had not intended should be given, and that therefore he had thought it right to pay the money. After such an explanation what more could anyone say?”

“You might do it yourself.”

“I never speak.”

“But in such a case as that you might do so; and then there would be no necessity for him to talk to another person on the matter.”

So the affair was left for the present, though the allusions to it in the People’s Banner were still continued. Nor did any other of the Prime Minister’s colleagues dare to speak to him on the subject. Barrington Erle and Phineas Finn talked of it among themselves, but they did not mention it even to the Duchess. She would have gone to her husband at