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Lady Montfort had to communicate all this to Endymion. “You will meet the agent at dinner, but he did not give me a ray of hope. Go now; indeed, I have kept you too long. I am so stricken that I can scarcely command my senses. Only think of our borough being stolen from us by Lord Beaumaris! I have brought you no luck, Endymion; I have done you nothing but mischief; I am miserable. If you had attached yourself to Lady Beaumaris, you might have been a member of parliament.”

CHAPTER LXIX

In the meantime, the great news being no longer a secret, the utmost excitement prevailed in the world of politics. The Tories had quite made up their minds that the ministry would have resigned, and were sanguine, under such circumstances, of the result. The parliament, which the ministry was going to dissolve, was one which had been elected by their counsel and under their auspices. It was unusual, almost unconstitutional, thus to terminate the body they had created. Nevertheless, the Whigs, never too delicate in such matters, thought they had a chance, and determined not to lose it. One thing they immediately succeeded in, and that was, frightening their opponents. A dissolution with the Tories in opposition was not pleasant to that party; but a dissolution with a cry of “Cheap bread!” amid a partially starving population, was not exactly the conjuncture of providential circumstances which had long been watched and wished for, and cherished and coddled and proclaimed and promised, by the energetic army of Conservative wire-pullers.

Mr. Tadpole was very restless at the crowded Carlton, speaking to every one, unhesitatingly answering every question, alike cajoling and dictatorial, and yet, all the time, watching the door of the morning room with unquiet anxiety.

“They will never be able to get up the steam, Sir Thomas; the Chartists are against them. The Chartists will never submit to anything that is cheap. In spite of their wild fancies, they are real John Bulls. I beg your pardon, but I see a gentleman I must speak to,” and he rushed towards the door as Waldershare entered.

“Well, what is your news?” asked Mr. Tadpole, affecting unconcern.

“I come here for news,” said Waldershare. “This is my Academus, and you, Tadpole, are my Plato.”

“Well, if you want the words of a wise man, listen to me. If I had a great friend, which Mr. Waldershare probably has, who wants a great place, these are times in which such a man should show his power.”

“I have a great friend whom I wish to have a great place,” said Waldershare, “and I think he is quite ready to show his power, if he knew exactly how to exercise it.”

“What I am saying to you is not known to a single person in this room, and to only one out of it, but you may depend upon what I say. Lord Montfort’s cousin retires from Northborough to sit for the county. They think they can nominate his successor as a matter of course. A delusion; your friend Lord Beaumaris can command the seat.”

“Well, I think you can depend on Beaumaris,” said Waldershare, much interested.

“I depend upon you,” said Mr. Tadpole, with a glance of affectionate credulity. “The party already owes you much. This will be a crowning service.”

“Beaumaris is rather a queer man to deal with,” said Waldershare; “he requires gentle handling.”

“All the world says he consults you on everything.”

“All the world, as usual, is wrong,” said Waldershare. “Lord Beaumaris consults no one except Lady Beaumaris.”

“Well then we shall do,” rejoined Mr. Tadpole triumphantly. “Our man that I want him to return is a connection of Lady Beaumaris, a Mr. Rodney, very anxious to get into parliament, and rich. I do not know who he is exactly, but it is a good name; say a cousin of Lord Rodney until the election is over, and then they may settle it as they like.”

“A Mr. Rodney,” said Waldershare musingly; “well, if I hear anything I will let you know. I suppose you are in pretty good spirits?”

“I should like a little sunshine. A cold spring, and now a wet summer, and the certainty of a shocking harvest combined with manufacturing distress spreading daily, is not pleasant, but the English are a discriminating people. They will hardly persuade them that Sir Robert has occasioned the bad harvests.”

“The present men are clearly responsible for all that,” said Waldershare.

There was a reception at Lady Roehampton’s this evening. Very few Tories attended it, but Lady Beaumaris was there. She never lost an opportunity of showing by her presence how grateful she was to Myra for the kindness which had greeted Imogene when she first entered society. Endymion, as was his custom when the opportunity offered, rather hung about Lady Beaumaris. She always welcomed him with unaffected cordiality and evident pleasure. He talked to her, and then gave way to others, and then came and talked to her again, and then he proposed to take her to have a cup of tea, and she assented to the proposal with a brightening eye and a bewitching smile.

“I suppose your friends are very triumphant, Lady Beaumaris?” said Endymion.

“Yes; they naturally are very excited. I confess I am not myself.”

“But you ought to be,” said Endymion. “You will have an immense position. I should think Lord Beaumaris would have any office he chose, and yours will be the chief house of the party.”

“I do not know that Lord Beaumaris would care to have office, and I hardly think any office would suit him. As for myself, I am obliged to be ambitious, but I have no ambition, or rather I would say, I think I was happier when we all seemed to be on the same side.”

“Well, those were happy days,” said Endymion, “and these are happy days. And few things make me happier than to see Lady Beaumaris admired and appreciated by every one.”

“I wish you would not call me Lady Beaumaris. That may be, and indeed perhaps is, necessary in society, but when we are alone, I prefer being called by a name which once you always and kindly used.”

“I shall always love the name,” said Endymion, “and,” he added with some hesitation, “shall always love her who bears it.”

She involuntarily pressed his arm, though very slightly; and then in rather a hushed and hurried tone she said, “They were talking about you at dinner to-day. I fear this change of government, if there is to be one, will be injurious to you—losing your private secretaryship to Mr. Wilton, and perhaps other things?”

“Fortune of war,” said Endymion; “we must bear these haps. But the truth is, I think it is not unlikely that there may be a change in my life which may be incompatible with retaining my secretaryship under any circumstances.”

“You are not going to be married?” she said quickly.

“Not the slightest idea of such an event.”

“You are too young to marry.”

“Well, I am older than you.”

“Yes; but men and women are different in that matter. Besides, you have too many fair friends to marry, at least at present. What would Lady Roehampton say?”

“Well, I have sometimes thought my sister wished me to marry.”

“But then there are others who are not sisters, but who are equally interested in your welfare,” said Lady Beaumaris, looking up into his face with her wondrous eyes; but the lashes were so long, that it was impossible to decide whether the glance was an anxious one or one half of mockery.

“Well, I do not think I shall ever marry,” said Endymion. “The change in my life I was alluding to is one by no means of a romantic character. I have some thoughts of trying my luck on the hustings, and getting into parliament.”

“That would be delightful,” said Lady Beaumaris. “Do you know that it has been one of my dreams that you should be in parliament?”

“Ah! dearest Imogene, for you said I might call you Imogene, you must take care what you say. Remember we are unhappily in different camps. You must not wish me success in my enterprise; quite the reverse; it is more than probable that you will have to exert all your influence against me; yes, canvass against me, and wear hostile ribbons, and use all your irresistible charms to array electors against me, or to detach them from my ranks.”

“Even in jest, you ought not to say such things,” said Lady Beaumaris.

“But I am not in jest, I am in dreadful earnest. Only this morning I was offered a seat, which they told me was secure; but when I inquired into all the circumstances, I found the interest of Lord Beaumaris so great, that it would be folly for me to attempt it.”

“What seat?” inquired Lady Beaumaris in a low voice.

“Northborough,” said Endymion, “now held by Lord Montfort’s cousin, who is to come in for his county. The seat was offered to me, and I was told I was to be returned without opposition.”

“Lady Montfort offered it to you?” asked Imogene.

“She interested herself for me, and Lord Montfort approved the suggestion. It was described to me as a family seat, but when I looked into the matter, I found that Lord Beaumaris was more powerful than Lord Montfort.”

“I thought that Lady Montfort was irresistible,” said Imogene; “she carries all before her in society.”

“Society and politics have much to do with each other, but they are not identical. In the present case, Lady Montfort is powerless.”

“And have you formally abandoned the seat?” inquired Lady Beaumaris.

“Not formally abandoned it; that was not necessary, but I have dismissed it from my mind, and for some time have been trying to find another seat, but hitherto without success. In short, in these days it is no longer possible to step into parliament as if you were stepping into a club.”

“If I could do anything, however little?” said Imogene. “Perhaps Lady Montfort would not like me to interfere?”

“Why not?”

“Oh! I do not know,” and then after some hesitation she added, “Is she jealous?”

“Jealous! why should she be jealous?”

“Perhaps she has had no cause.”

“You know Lady Montfort. She is a woman of quick and brilliant feeling, the best of friends and a dauntless foe. Her kindness to me from the first moment I made her acquaintance has been inexpressible, and I sincerely believe she is most anxious to serve me. But our party is not very popular at present; there is no doubt the country is against us. It is tired of us. I feel myself the general election will be disastrous. Liberal seats are not abundant just now, quite the reverse, and though Lady Montfort has done more than any one could under the circumstances, I feel persuaded, though you think her irresistible, she will not succeed.”

“I hardly know her,” said Imogene. “The world considers her irresistible, and I think you do. Nevertheless, I wish she could have had her way in this matter, and I think it quite a pity that Northborough has turned out not to be a family seat.”

CHAPTER LXX

There was a dinner-party at Mr. Neuchatel’s, to which none were asked but the high government clique. It was the last dinner before the dissolution: “The dinner of consolation, or hope,” said Lord Roehampton. Lady Montfort was to be one of the guests. She was dressed, and her carriage in the courtyard, and she had just gone in to see her lord before she departed.

Lord Montfort was extremely fond of jewels, and held that you could not see them to advantage, or fairly judge of their water or colour, except on a beautiful woman. When his wife was in grand toilette, and he was under the same roof, he liked her to call on him in her way to her carriage, that he might see her flashing rivieres and tiaras, the lustre of her huge pearls, and the splendour of her emeralds and sapphires and rubies.

“Well, Berengaria,” he said in a playful tone, “you look divine. Never dine out again in a high dress. It distresses me. Bertolini was the only man who ever caught the tournure of your shoulders, and yet I am not altogether satisfied with his work. So, you are going to dine with that good Neuchatel. Remember me kindly to him. There are few men I like better. He is so sensible, knows so much, and so much of what is going on. I should have liked very much to have dined with him, but he is aware of my unfortunate state. Besides, my dear, if I were better I should not have enough strength for his dinners. They are really banquets; I cannot stand those ortolans stuffed with truffles and those truffles stuffed with ortolans. Perhaps he will come and dine with us some day off a joint.”

“The Queen of Mesopotamia will be here next week, Simon, and we must really give her what you call a joint, and then we can ask the Neuchatels and a few other people.”

“I was in hopes the dissolution would have carried everybody away,” said Lord Montfort rather woefully. “I wish the Queen of Mesopotamia were a candidate for some borough; I think she would rather like it.”

“Well, we could not return her, Simon; do not touch on the subject. But what have you got to amuse to-day?”

“Oh! I shall do very well. I have got the head of the French detective police to dine with me, and another man or two. Besides, I have got here a most amusing book, ‘Topsy Turvy;’ it comes out in numbers. I like books that come out in numbers, as there is a little suspense, and you cannot deprive yourself of all interest by glancing at the last page of the last volume. I think you must read ‘Topsy Turvy,’ Berengaria. I am mistaken if you do not hear of it. It is very cynical, which authors, who know a little of the world, are apt to be, and everything is exaggerated, which is another of their faults when they are only a trifle acquainted with manners. A little knowledge of the world is a very dangerous thing, especially in literature. But it is clever, and the man writes a capital style; and style is everything, especially in fiction.”

“And what is the name of the writer, Simon?”

“You never heard of it; I never did; but my secretary, who lives much in Bohemia, and is a member of the Cosmopolitan and knows everything, tells me he has written some things before, but they did not succeed. His name is St. Barbe. I should like to ask him to dinner if I knew how to get at him.”

“Well, adieu! Simon,” and, with an agitated heart, though apparent calmness, she touched his forehead with her lips. “I expect an unsatisfactory dinner.”

“Adieu! and if you meet poor Ferrars, which I dare say you will, tell him to keep up his spirits. The world is a wheel, and it will all come round right.”

The dinner ought not to have been unsatisfactory, for though there was no novelty among the guests, they were all clever and distinguished persons and united by entire sympathy. Several of the ministers were there, and the Roehamptons, and Mr. Sidney Wilton, and Endymion was also a guest. But the general tone was a little affected and unnatural; forced gaiety, and a levity which displeased Lady Montfort, who fancied she was unhappy because the country was going to be ruined, but whose real cause of dissatisfaction at the bottom of her heart was the affair of “the family seat.” Her hero, Lord Roehampton, particularly did not please her to-day. She thought him flippant and in bad taste, merely because he would not look dismal and talk gloomily.

“I think we shall do very well,” he said. “What cry can be better than that of ‘Cheap bread?’ It gives one an appetite at once.”

“But the Corn-Law League says your bread will not be cheap,” said Melchior Neuchatel.

“I wonder whether the League has really any power in the constituencies,” said Lord Roehampton. “I doubt it. They may have in time, but then in the interval trade will revive. I have just been reading Mr. Thornberry’s speech. We shall hear more of that man. You will not be troubled about any of your seats?” he said, in a lower tone of sympathy, addressing Mrs. Neuchatel, who was his immediate neighbour.

“Our seats?” said Mrs. Neuchatel, as if waking from a dream. “Oh, I know nothing about them, nor do I understand why there is a dissolution. I trust that parliament will not be dissolved without voting the money for the observation of the transit of Venus.”

“I think the Roman Catholic vote will carry us through,” said a minister.

“Talking of Roman Catholics,” said Mr. Wilton, “is it true that Penruddock has gone over to Rome?”

“No truth in it,” replied a colleague. “He has gone to Rome—there is no doubt of that, and he has been there some time, but only for distraction. He had overworked himself.”

“He might have been a Dean if he had been a practical man,” whispered Lady Montfort to Mr. Neuchatel, “and on the high road to a bishopric.”

“That is what we want, Lady Montfort,” said Mr. Neuchatel; “we want a few practical men. If we had a practical man as Chancellor of the Exchequer, we should not be in the scrape in which we now are.”

“It is not likely that Penruddock will leave the Church with a change of government possibly impending. We could do nothing for him with his views, but he will wait for Peel.”

“Oh! Peel will never stand those high-fliers. He put the Church into a Lay Commission during his last government.”

“Penruddock will never give up Anglicanism while there is a chance of becoming a Laud. When that chance vanishes, trust my word, Penruddock will make his bow to the Vatican.”

“Well, I must say,” said Lord Roehampton, “if I were a clergyman I should be a Roman Catholic.”

“Then you could not marry. What a compliment to Lady Roehampton!”

“Nay; it is because I could not marry that I am not a clergyman.”

Endymion had taken Adriana down to dinner. She looked very well, and was more talkative than usual.

“I fear it will be a very great confusion—this general election,” she said. “Papa was telling us that you think of being a candidate.”

“I am a candidate, but without a seat to captivate at present,” said Endymion; “but I am not without hopes of making some arrangement.”

“Well, you must tell me what your colours are.”

“And will you wear them?”

“Most certainly; and I will work you a banner if you be victorious.”

“I think I must win with such a prospect.”

“I hope you will win in everything.”

When the ladies retired, Berengaria came and sate by the side of Lady Roehampton.

“What a dreary dinner!” she said.

“Do you think so?”

“Well, perhaps it was my own fault. Perhaps I am not in good cue, but everything seems to me to go wrong.”

“Things sometimes do go wrong, but then they get right.”

“Well, I do not think anything will ever get right with me.”

“Dear Lady Montfort, how can you say such things? You who have, and have always had, the world at your feet—and always will have.”

“I do not know what you mean by having the world at my feet. It seems to me that I have no power whatever—I can do nothing. I am vexed about this business of your brother. Our people are so stupid. They have no resource. When I go to them and ask for a seat, I expect a seat, as I would a shawl at Howell and James’ if I asked for one. Instead of that they only make difficulties. What our party wants is a Mr. Tadpole; he out-manoeuvres them in every corner.”

“Well, I shall be deeply disappointed—deeply pained,” said Lady Roehampton, “if Endymion is not in this parliament, but if we fail I will not utterly despair. I will continue to do what I have done all my life, exert my utmost will and power to advance him.”

“I thought I had will and power,” said Lady Montfort, “but the conceit is taken out of me. Your brother was to me a source of great interest, from the first moment that I knew him. His future was an object in life, and I thought I could mould it. What a mistake! Instead of making his fortune I have only dissipated his life.”

“You have been to him the kindest and the most valuable of friends, and he feels it.”

“It is no use being kind, and I am valuable to no one. I often think if I disappeared to-morrow no one would miss me.”

“You are in a morbid mood, dear lady. To-morrow perhaps everything will be right, and then you will feel that you are surrounded by devoted friends, and by a husband who adores you.”

Lady Montfort gave a scrutinising glance at Lady Roehampton as she said this, then shook her head. “Ah! there it is, dear Myra. You judge from your own happiness; you do not know Lord Montfort. You know how I love him, but I am perfectly convinced he prefers my letters to my society.”

“You see what it is to be a Madame de Sevigne,” said Lady Roehampton, trying to give a playful tone to the conversation.

“You jest,” said Lady Montfort; “I am quite serious. No one can deceive me; would that they could! I have the fatal gift of reading persons, and penetrating motives, however deep or complicated their character, and what I tell you about Lord Montfort is unhappily too true.”

In the meantime, while this interesting conversation was taking place, the gentleman who had been the object of Lady Montfort’s eulogium, the gentleman who always out-manoeuvred her friends at every corner, was, though it was approaching midnight, walking up and down Carlton Terrace with an agitated and indignant countenance, and not alone.

“I tell you, Mr. Waldershare, I know it; I have it almost from Lord Beaumaris himself; he has declined to support our man, and no doubt will give his influence to the enemy.”

“I do not believe that Lord Beaumaris has made any engagement whatever.”

“A pretty state of affairs!” exclaimed Mr. Tadpole. “I do not know what the world has come to. Here are gentlemen expecting high places in the Household, and under-secretaryships of state, and actually giving away our seats to our opponents.”

“There is some family engagement about this seat between the Houses of Beaumaris and Montfort, and Lord Beaumaris, who is a young man, and who does not know as much about these things as you and I do, naturally wants not to make a mistake. But he has promised nothing and nobody. I know, I might almost say I saw the letter, that he wrote to Lord Montfort this day, asking for an interview to-morrow morning on the matter, and Lord Montfort has given him an appointment for to-morrow. This I know.”

“Well, I must leave it to you,” said Mr. Tadpole. “You must remember what we are fighting for. The constitution is at stake.”

“And the Church,” said Waldershare.

“And the landed interest, you may rely upon it,” said Mr. Tadpole.

“And your Lordship of the Treasury in posse, Tadpole. Truly it is a great stake.”