“He’s the best fellow in the world,” said Mr. Fothergill, who felt, perhaps, that that coming revelation about Mr. Green Walker’s uncle might not be of use to them; “but the fact is one gets tired of the same men always. One does not like partridge every day. As for me, I have nothing to do with it myself; but I would certainly like to change the dish.”
“If we’re merely to do as we are bid, and have no voice of our own, I don’t see what’s the good of going to the shop at all,” said Mr. Sowerby.
“Not the least use,” said Mr. Supplehouse. “We are false to our constituents in submitting to such a dominion.”
“Let’s have a change, then,” said Mr. Sowerby. “The matter’s pretty much in our own hands.”
“Altogether,” said Mr. Green Walker. “That’s what my uncle always says.”
“The Manchester men will only be too happy for the chance,” said Harold Smith.
“And as for the high and dry gentlemen,” said Mr. Sowerby, “it’s not very likely that they will object to pick up the fruit when we shake the tree.”
“As to picking up the fruit, that’s as may be,” said Mr. Supplehouse. Was he not the man to save the nation; and if so, why should he not pick up the fruit himself? Had not the greatest power in the country pointed him out as such a saviour? What though the country at the present moment needed no more saving, might there not, nevertheless, be a good time coming? Were there not rumours of other wars still prevalent—if indeed the actual war then going on was being brought to a close without his assistance by some other species of salvation? He thought of that country to which he had pointed, and of that friend of his enemies, and remembered that there might be still work for a mighty saviour. The public mind was now awake, and understood what it was about. When a man gets into his head an idea that the public voice calls for him, it is astonishing how greet becomes his trust in the wisdom of the public. Vox populi, vox Dei. “Has it not been so always?” he says to himself, as he gets up and as he goes to bed. And then Mr. Supplehouse felt that he was the master mind there at Gatherum Castle, and that those there were all puppets in his hand. It is such a pleasant thing to feel that one’s friends are puppets, and that the strings are in one’s own possession. But what if Mr. Supplehouse himself were a puppet? Some months afterwards, when the much-belaboured head of affairs was in very truth made to retire, when unkind shells were thrown in against him in great numbers, when he exclaimed, “Et tu, Brute!” till the words were stereotyped upon his lips, all men in all places talked much about the great Gatherum Castle confederation. The Duke of Omnium, the world said, had taken into his high consideration the state of affairs, and seeing with his eagle’s eye that the welfare of his countrymen at large required that some great step should be initiated, he had at once summoned to his mansion many members of the Lower House, and some also of the House of Lords,—mention was here especially made of the all-venerable and all-wise Lord Boanerges; and men went on to say that there, in deep conclave, he had made known to them his views. It was thus agreed that the head of affairs, Whig as he was, must fall. The country required it, and the duke did his duty. This was the beginning, the world said, of that celebrated confederation, by which the ministry was overturned, and—as the Goody Twoshoes added—the country saved. But the Jupiter took all the credit to itself; and the Jupiter was not far wrong. All the credit was due to the Jupiter—in that, as in everything else.
In the meantime the Duke of Omnium entertained his guests in the quiet princely style, but did not condescend to have much conversation on politics either with Mr. Supplehouse or with Mr. Harold Smith. And as for Lord Boanerges, he spent the morning on which the above-described conversation took place in teaching Miss Dunstable to blow soap-bubbles on scientific principles.
“Dear, dear!” said Miss Dunstable, as sparks of knowledge came flying in upon her mind. “I always thought that a soap-bubble was a soap-bubble, and I never asked the reason why. One doesn’t, you know, my lord.”
“Pardon me, Miss Dunstable,” said the old lord, “one does; but nine hundred and ninety-nine do not.”
“And the nine hundred and ninety-nine have the best of it,” said Miss Dunstable. “What pleasure can one have in a ghost after one has seen the phosphorus rubbed on?”
“Quite true, my dear lady. ‘If ignorance be bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise.’ It all lies in the ‘if.’“
Then Miss Dunstable began to sing:—
“‘What tho’ I trace each herb and flower
That sips the morning dew—’
—you know the rest, my lord.” Lord Boanerges did know almost everything, but he did not know that; and so Miss Dunstable went on:—
“‘Did I not own Jehovah’s power
How vain were all I knew.’“
“Exactly, exactly, Miss Dunstable,” said his lordship; “but why not own the power and trace the flower as well? perhaps one might help the other.” Upon the whole, I am afraid that Lord Boanerges got the best of it. But, then, that is his line. He has been getting the best of it all his life.
It was observed by all that the duke was especially attentive to young Mr. Frank Gresham, the gentleman on whom and on whose wife Miss Dunstable had seized so vehemently. This Mr. Gresham was the richest commoner in the county, and it was rumoured that at the next election he would be one of the members for the East Riding. Now the duke had little or nothing to do with the East Riding, and it was well known that young Gresham would be brought forward as a strong Conservative. But, nevertheless, his acres were so extensive and his money so plentiful that he was worth a duke’s notice. Mr. Sowerby, also, was almost more than civil to him, as was natural, seeing that this very young man by a mere scratch of his pen could turn a scrap of paper into a banknote of almost fabulous value.
“So you have the East Barsetshire hounds at Boxall Hill; have you not?” said the duke.
“The hounds are there,” said Frank. “But I am not the master.”
“Oh! I understood—”
“My father has them. But he finds Boxall Hill more centrical than Greshamsbury. The dogs and horses have to go shorter distances.”
“Boxall Hill is very centrical.”
“Oh, exactly!”
“And your young gorse coverts are doing well?”
“Pretty well—gorse won’t thrive everywhere, I find. I wish it would.”
“That’s just what I say to Fothergill; and then where there’s much woodland you can’t get the vermin to leave it.”
“But we haven’t a tree at Boxall Hill,” said Mrs. Gresham.
“Ah, yes; you’re new there, certainly; you’ve enough of it at Greshamsbury in all conscience. There’s a larger extent of wood there than we have; isn’t there, Fothergill?” Mr. Fothergill said that the Greshamsbury woods were very extensive, but that, perhaps, he thought—
“Oh, ah! I know,” said the duke. “The Black Forest in its old days was nothing to Gatherum woods, according to Fothergill. And then, again, nothing in East Barsetshire could be equal to anything in West Barsetshire. Isn’t that it; eh, Fothergill?” Mr. Fothergill professed that he had been brought up in that faith and intended to die in it.
“Your exotics at Boxall Hill are very fine, magnificent!” said Mr. Sowerby.
“I’d sooner have one full-grown oak standing in its pride alone,” said young Gresham, rather grandiloquently, “than all the exotics in the world.”
“They’ll come in due time,” said the duke.
“But the due time won’t be in my days. And so they’re going to cut down Chaldicotes Forest, are they, Mr. Sowerby?”
“Well, I can’t tell you that. They