preferred work to archery, or even to hunting, and who discussed the evils of direct taxation absolutely in the drawing-room. The Duchess was assured that the country could not be governed by the support of such men as these, and was very glad to get back to Gatherum—whither also came Phineas Finn with his wife, and the
St. Bungay people, and Barrington Erle, and
Mr. Monk, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, with Lord and Lady Cantrip, and Lord and Lady Drummond—Lord Drummond being the only representative of the other or coalesced party. And Major Pountney was there, having been urgent with the Duchess—and having fully explained to his friend Captain Gunner that he had acceded to the wishes of his hostess only on the assurance of her Grace that the house would not be again troubled by the presence of Ferdinand Lopez. Such assurances were common between the two friends, but were innocent, as, of course, neither believed the other. And Lady Rosina was again there—with many others. The melancholy poverty of Lady Rosina had captivated the Duke. “She shall come and live here, if you like,” the Duchess had said in answer to a request from her husband on his new friend’s behalf—“I’ve no doubt she will be willing.” The place was not crowded as it had been before; but still about thirty guests sat down to dinner daily, and Locock, Millepois, and
Mrs. Pritchard were all kept hard at work. Nor was our Duchess idle. She was always making up the party—meaning the coalition—doing something to strengthen the buttresses, writing little letters to little people, who, little as they were, might become big by amalgamation. “One has always to be binding one’s fagot,” she said to
Mrs. Finn, having read her Aesop not altogether in vain. “Where should we have been without you?” she had whispered to Sir Orlando Drought when that gentleman was leaving Gatherum at the termination of his second visit. She had particularly disliked Sir Orlando, and was aware that her husband had on this occasion been hardly as gracious as he should have been, in true policy, to so powerful a colleague. Her husband had been peculiarly shy of Sir Orlando since the day on which they had walked together in the park—and, consequently, the Duchess had whispered to him. “Don’t bind your fagot too conspicuously,”
Mrs. Finn had said to her. Then the Duchess had fallen to a seat almost exhausted by labour, mingled with regrets, and by the doubts which from time to time pervaded even her audacious spirit. “I’m not a god,” she said, “or a Pitt, or an Italian with a long name beginning with
M., that I should be able to do these things without ever making a mistake. And yet they must be done. And as for him—he does not help me in the least. He wanders about among the clouds of the multiplication table, and thinks that a majority will drop into his mouth because he does not shut it. Can you tie the fagot any better?” “I think I would leave it untied,” said
Mrs. Finn. “You would not do anything of the kind. You’d be just as fussy as I am.” And thus the game was carried on at Gatherum Castle from week to week.
“But you won’t leave him?” This was said to Phineas Finn by his wife a day or two before Christmas, and the question was intended to ask whether Phineas thought of giving up his place.
“Not if I can help it.”
“You like the work.”
“That has but little to do with the question, unfortunately. I certainly like having something to do. I like earning money.”
“I don’t know why you like that especially,” said the wife, laughing.
“I do at any rate—and, in a certain sense, I like authority. But in serving with the Duke I find a lack of that sympathy which one should have with one’s chief. He would never say a word to me unless I spoke to him. And when I do speak, though he is studiously civil—much too courteous—I know that he is bored. He has nothing to say to me about the country. When he has anything to communicate, he prefers to write a minute for Warburton, who then writes to Morton—and so it reaches me.”
“Doesn’t it do as well?”
“It may do with me. There are reasons which bind me to him, which will not bind other men. Men don’t talk to me about it, because they know that I am bound to him through you. But I am aware of the feeling which exists. You can’t be really loyal to a king if you never see him—if he be always locked up in some almost divine recess.”
“A king may make himself too common, Phineas.”
“No doubt. A king has to know where to draw the line. But the Duke draws no intentional line at all. He is not by nature gregarious or communicative, and is therefore hardly fitted to be the head of a ministry.”
“It will break her heart if anything goes wrong.”
“She ought to remember that Ministries seldom live very long,” said Phineas. “But she’ll recover even if she does break her heart. She is too full of vitality to be much repressed by any calamity. Have you heard what is to be done about Silverbridge?”
“The Duchess wants to get it for this man, Ferdinand Lopez.”
“But it has not been promised yet?”
“The seat is not vacant,” said Mrs. Finn, “and I don’t know when it will be vacant. I think there is a hitch about it—and I think the Duchess is going to be made very angry.”
Throughout the autumn the Duke had been an unhappy man. While the absolute work of the Session had lasted he had found something to console him; but now, though he was surrounded by private secretaries, and though dispatch-boxes went and came twice a day, though there were dozens of letters as to which he had to give some instruction—yet, there was in
