<p><SPAN name="c72" id="c72"></SPAN> </p>
<p> </p>
<h3>CHAPTER LXXII</h3>
<h3>"He Thinks That Our Days Are Numbered"<br/> </h3>
<p>All the details of the new County Suffrage Bill were settled at
Matching during the recess between Mr. Monk, Phineas Finn, and a very
experienced gentleman from the Treasury, one Mr. Prime, who was
supposed to know more about such things than any man living, and was
consequently called Constitution Charlie. He was an elderly man, over
sixty years of age, who remembered the first Reform Bill, and had
been engaged in the doctoring of constituencies ever since. The Bill,
if passed, would be mainly his Bill, and yet the world would never
hear his name as connected with it. Let us hope that he was
comfortable at Matching, and that he found his consolation in the
smiles of the Duchess. During this time the old Duke was away, and
even the Prime Minister was absent for some days. He would fain have
busied himself about the Bill himself, but was hardly allowed by his
colleagues to have any hand in framing it. The great points of the
measure had of course been arranged in the Cabinet,—where, however,
Mr. Monk's views had been adopted almost without a change. It may not
perhaps be too much to assume that one or two members of the Cabinet
did not quite understand the full scope of every suggested clause.
The effects which clauses will produce, the dangers which may be
expected from this or that change, the manner in which this or that
proposition will come out in the washing, do not strike even Cabinet
Ministers at a glance. A little study in a man's own cabinet, after
the reading perhaps of a few leading articles, and perhaps a short
conversation with an astute friend or two, will enable a statesman to
be strong at a given time for, or even, if necessary, against a
measure, who has listened in silence, and has perhaps given his
personal assent, to the original suggestion. I doubt whether Lord
Drummond, when he sat silent in the Cabinet, had realised those fears
which weighed upon him so strongly afterwards, or had then foreseen
that the adoption of a nearly similar franchise for the counties and
boroughs must inevitably lead to the American system of numerical
representation. But when time had been given him, and he and Sir
Timothy had talked it all over, the mind of no man was ever clearer
than that of Lord Drummond.</p>
<p>The Prime Minister, with the diligence which belonged to him, had
mastered all the details of Mr. Monk's Bill before it was discussed
in the Cabinet, and yet he found that his assistance was hardly
needed in the absolute preparation. Had they allowed him he would
have done it all himself. But it was assumed that he would not
trouble himself with such work, and he perceived that he was not
wanted. Nothing of moment was settled without a reference to him. He
required that everything should be explained as it went on, down to
the extension of every borough boundary; but he knew that he was not
doing it himself, and that Mr. Monk and Constitution Charlie had the
prize between them.</p>
<p>Nor did he dare to ask Mr. Monk what would be the fate of the Bill.
To devote all one's time and mind and industry to a measure which one
knows will fall to the ground must be sad. Work under such
circumstances must be very grievous. But such is often the fate of
statesmen. Whether Mr. Monk laboured under such a conviction the
Prime Minister did not know, though he saw his friend and colleague
almost daily. In truth no one dared to tell him exactly what he
thought. Even the old Duke had become partially reticent, and taken
himself off to his own woods at Long Royston. To Phineas Finn the
Prime Minister would sometimes say a word, but would say even that
timidly. On any abstract question, such as that which he had
discussed when they had been walking together, he could talk freely
enough. But on the matter of the day, those affairs which were of
infinite importance to himself, and on which one would suppose he
would take delight in speaking to a trusted colleague, he could not
bring himself to be open. "It must be a long Bill, I suppose?" he
said to Phineas one day.</p>
<p>"I'm afraid so, Duke. It will run, I fear, to over a hundred
clauses."</p>
<p>"It will take you the best part of the Session to get through it?"</p>
<p>"If we can have the second reading early in March, we hope to send it
up to you in the first week in June. That will give us ample time."</p>
<p>"Yes;—yes. I suppose so." But he did not dare to ask Phineas Finn
whether he thought that the House of Commons would assent to the
second reading. It was known at this time that the Prime Minister was
painfully anxious as to the fate of the Ministry. It seemed to be but
the other day that everybody connected with the Government was living
in fear lest he should resign. His threats in that direction had
always been made to his old friend the Duke of St. Bungay; but a
great man cannot whisper his thoughts without having them carried in
the air. In all the clubs it had been declared that that was the rock
by which the Coalition would probably be wrecked. The newspapers had
repeated the story, and the "People's Banner" had assured the world
that if it were so the Duke of Omnium would thus do for his country
the only good service which it was possible that he should render it.
That was at the time when Sir Orlando was mutinous and when Lopez had
destroyed himself. But now no such threat came from the Duke, and the
"People's Banner" was already accusing him of clinging to power with
pertinacious and unconstitutional tenacity. Had not Sir Orlando
deserted him? Was it not well known that Lord Drummond and Sir
Timothy Beeswax were only restrained from doing so by a mistaken
loyalty?</p>
<p>Everybody came up to town, Mr. Monk having his Bill in his pocket,
and the Queen's speech was read, promising the County Suffrage Bill.
The address was voted with a very few words from either side. The
battle was not to be fought then. Indeed, the state of things was so
abnormal that there could hardly be said to be any sides in the
House. A stranger in the gallery, not knowing the condition of
affairs, would have thought that no minister had for many years
commanded so large a majority, as the crowd of members was always on
the Government side of the House; but the opposition which Mr. Monk
expected would, he knew, come from those who sat around him, behind
him, and even at his very elbow. About a week after Parliament met
the Bill was read for the first time, and the second reading was
appointed for an early day in March.</p>
<p>The Duke had suggested to Mr. Monk the expedience of some further
delay, giving as his reason the necessity of getting through certain
routine work, should the rejection of the Bill create the confusion
of a resignation. No one who knew the Duke could ever suspect him of
giving a false reason. But it seemed that in this the Prime Minister
was allowing himself to be harassed by fears of the future. Mr. Monk
thought that any delay would be injurious and open to suspicion after
what had been said and done, and was urgent in his arguments. The
Duke gave way, but he did so almost sullenly, signifying his
acquiescence with haughty silence. "I am sorry," said Mr. Monk, "to
differ from your Grace, but my opinion in the matter is so strong
that I do not dare to abstain from expressing it." The Duke bowed
again and smiled. He had intended that the smile should be
acquiescent, but it had been as cold as steel. He knew that he was
misbehaving, but was not sufficiently master of his own manner to be
gracious. He told himself on the spot,—though he was quite wrong in
so telling himself,—that he had now made an enemy also of Mr. Monk,
and through Mr. Monk of Phineas Finn. And now he felt that he had no
friend left in whom to trust,—for the old Duke had become cold and
indifferent. The old Duke, he thought, was tired of his work and
anxious for rest. It was the old Duke who had brought him into this
hornets' nest; had fixed upon his back the unwilling load; had
compelled him to assume the place which now to lose would be a
disgrace,—and the old Duke was now deserting him! He was sore all
over, angry with every one, ungracious even with his private
Secretary and his wife,—and especially miserable because he was
thoroughly aware of his own faults. And yet, through it all, there
was present to him a desire to fight on to the very last. Let his
colleagues do what they might, and say what they might, he would
remain Prime Minister of England as long as he was supported by a
majority of the House of Commons.</p>
<p>"I do not know any greater step than this," Phineas said to him
pleasantly one day, speaking of their new measure, "towards that
millennium of which we were talking at Matching, if we can only
accomplish it."</p>
<p>"Those moral speculations, Mr. Finn," he said, "will hardly bear the
wear and tear of real life." The words of the answer, combined with
the manner in which they were spoken, were stern and almost uncivil.
Phineas, at any rate, had done nothing to offend him. The Duke
paused, trying to find some expression by which he might correct the
injury he had done; but, not finding any, passed on without further
speech. Phineas shrugged his shoulders and went his way, telling
himself that he had received one further injunction not to put his
trust in princes.</p>
<p>"We shall be beaten, certainly," said Mr. Monk to Phineas, not long
afterwards.</p>
<p>"What makes you so sure?"</p>
<p>"I smell it in the air. I see it in men's faces."</p>
<p>"And yet it's a moderate Bill. They'll have to pass something
stronger before long if they throw it out now."</p>
<p>"It's not the Bill that they'll reject, but us. We have served our
turn, and we ought to go."</p>
<p>"The House is tired of the Duke?"</p>
<p>"The Duke is so good a man that I hardly like to admit even
that;—but I fear it is so. He is fretful and he makes enemies."</p>
<p>"I sometimes think that he is ill."</p>
<p>"He is ill at ease and sick at heart. He cannot hide his chagrin, and
then is doubly wretched because he has betrayed it. I do not know
that I ever respected and, at the same time, pitied a man more
thoroughly."</p>
<p>"He snubbed me awfully yesterday," said Phineas, laughing.</p>
<p>"He cannot help himself. He snubs me at every word that he speaks,
and yet I believe that he is most anxious to be civil to me. His
ministry has been of great service to the country. For myself, I
shall never regret having joined it. But I think that to him it has
been a continual sorrow."</p>
<p>The system on which the Duchess had commenced her career as wife of
the Prime Minister had now been completely abandoned. In the first
place, she had herself become so weary of it that she had been unable
to continue the exertion. She had, too, become in some degree ashamed
of her failures. The names of Major Pountney and Mr. Lopez were not
now pleasant to her ears, nor did she look back with satisfaction on
the courtesies she had lavished on Sir Orlando or the smiles she had
given to Sir Timothy Beeswax. "I've known a good many vulgar people
in my time," she said one day to Mrs. Finn, "but none ever so vulgar
as our ministerial supporters. You don't remember Mr. Bott, my dear.
He was before your time;—one of the arithmetical men, and a great
friend of Plantagenet's. He was very bad, but there have come up
worse since him. Sometimes, I think, I like a little vulgarity for a
change; but, upon my honour, when we get rid of all this it will be a
pleasure to go back to ladies and gentlemen." This the Duchess said
in her extreme bitterness.</p>
<p>"It seems to me that you have pretty well got rid of 'all this'
already."</p>
<p>"But I haven't got anybody else in their place. I have almost made up
my mind not to ask any one into the house for the next twelve months.
I used to think that nothing would ever knock me up, but now I feel
that I'm almost done for. I hardly dare open my mouth to Plantagenet.
The Duke of St. Bungay has cut me. Mr. Monk looks as ominous as an
owl; and your husband hasn't a word to say left. Barrington Erle
hides his face and passes by when he sees me. Mr. Rattler did try to
comfort me the other day by saying that everything was at sixes and
sevens, and I really took it almost as a compliment to be spoken to.
Don't you think Plantagenet is ill?"</p>
<p>"He is careworn."</p>
<p>"A man may be worn by care till there comes to be nothing left of
him. But he never speaks of giving up now. The old Bishop of St.
Austell talks of resigning, and he has already made up his mind who
is to have the see. He used to consult the Duke about all these
things, but I don't think he ever consults any one now. He never
forgave the Duke about Lord Earlybird. Certainly, if a man wants to
quarrel with all his friends, and to double the hatred of all his
enemies, he had better become Prime Minister."</p>
<p>"Are you really sorry that such was his fate, Lady Glen?"</p>
<p>"Ah,—I sometimes ask myself that question, but I never get at an
answer. I should have thought him a poltroon if he had declined. It
is to be the greatest man in the greatest country in the world. Do
ever so little and the men who write history must write about you.
And no man has ever tried to be nobler than he
till,—<span class="nowrap">till—."</span></p>
<p>"Make no exception. If he be careworn and ill and weary, his manners
cannot be the same as they were, but his purity is the same as ever."</p>
<p>"I don't know that it would remain so. I believe in him, Marie, more
than in any man,—but I believe in none thoroughly. There is a devil
creeps in upon them when their hands are strengthened. I do not know
what I would have wished. Whenever I do wish, I always wish wrong.
Ah, me; when I think of all those people I had down at Gatherum,—of
the trouble I took, and of the glorious anticipations in which I
revelled, I do feel ashamed of myself. Do you remember when I was
determined that that wretch should be member for Silverbridge?"</p>
<p>"You haven't seen her since, Duchess?"</p>
<p>"No; but I mean to see her. I couldn't make her first husband member,
and therefore the man who is member is to be her second husband. But
I'm almost sick of schemes. Oh, dear, I wish I knew something that
was really pleasant to do. I have never really enjoyed anything since
I was in love, and I only liked that because it was wicked."</p>
<p>The Duchess was wrong in saying that the Duke of St. Bungay had cut
them. The old man still remembered the kiss and still remembered the
pledge. But he had found it very difficult to maintain his old
relations with his friend. It was his opinion that the Coalition had
done all that was wanted from it, and that now had come the time when
they might retire gracefully. It is, no doubt, hard for a Prime
Minister to find an excuse for going. But if the Duke of Omnium would
have been content to acknowledge that he was not the man to alter the
County Suffrage, an excuse might have been found that would have been
injurious to no one. Mr. Monk and Mr. Gresham might have joined, and
the present Prime Minister might have resigned, explaining that he
had done all that he had been appointed to accomplish. He had,
however, yielded at once to Mr. Monk, and now it was to be feared
that the House of Commons would not accept the Bill from his hands.
In such a state of things,—especially after that disagreement about
Lord Earlybird,—it was difficult for the old Duke to tender his
advice. He was at every Cabinet Council; he always came when his
presence was required; he was invariably good-humoured;—but it
seemed to him that his work was done. He could hardly volunteer to
tell his chief and his colleague that he would certainly be beaten in
the House of Commons, and that therefore there was little more now to
be done than to arrange the circumstances of their retirement.
Nevertheless, as the period for the second reading of the Bill came
on, he resolved that he would discuss the matter with his friend. He
owed it to himself to do so, and he also owed it to the man whom he
had certainly placed in his present position. On himself politics had
imposed a burden very much lighter than that which they had inflicted
on his more energetic and much less practical colleague. Through his
long life he had either been in office, or in such a position that
men were sure that he would soon return to it. He had taken it, when
it had come, willingly, and had always left it without a regret. As a
man cuts in and out at a whist table, and enjoys both the game and
the rest from the game, so had the Duke of St. Bungay been well
pleased in either position. He was patriotic, but his patriotism did
not disturb his digestion. He had been ambitious,—but moderately
ambitious, and his ambition had been gratified. It never occurred to
him to be unhappy because he or his party were beaten on a measure.
When President of the Council, he could do his duty and enjoy London
life. When in opposition, he could linger in Italy till May and
devote his leisure to his trees and his bullocks. He was always
esteemed, always self-satisfied, and always Duke of St. Bungay. But
with our Duke it was very different. Patriotism with him was a fever,
and the public service an exacting mistress. As long as this had been
all he had still been happy. Not trusting much in himself, he had
never aspired to great power. But now, now at last, ambition had laid
hold of him,—and the feeling, not perhaps uncommon with such men,
that personal dishonour would be attached to political failure. What
would his future life be if he had so carried himself in his great
office as to have shown himself to be unfit to resume it? Hitherto
any office had sufficed him in which he might be useful;—but now he
must either be Prime Minister, or a silent, obscure, and humbled
man!<br/> </p>
<blockquote>
<p class="noindent"><span class="smallcaps">Dear Duke</span>,</p>
<p>I will be with you to-morrow morning at 11
<span class="smallcaps">a.m.</span>, if you
can give me half-an-hour.</p>
<p class="ind10">Yours affectionately,</p>
<p class="ind15"><span class="smallcaps">St.
B.</span><br/> </p>
</blockquote>
<p>The Prime Minister received this note one afternoon, a day or two
before that appointed for the second reading, and meeting his friend
within an hour in the House of Lords, confirmed the appointment.
"Shall I not rather come to you?" he said. But the old Duke, who
lived in St. James's Square, declared that Carlton Terrace would be
in his way to Downing Street; and so the matter was settled. Exactly
at eleven the two Ministers met. "I don't like troubling you," said
the old man, "when I know that you have so much to think of."</p>
<p>"On the contrary, I have but little to think of,—and my thoughts
must be very much engaged, indeed, when they shall be too full to
admit of my seeing you."</p>
<p>"Of course we are all anxious about this Bill." The Prime Minister
smiled. Anxious! Yes, indeed. His anxiety was of such a nature that
it kept him awake all night, and never for a moment left his mind
free by day. "And of course we must be prepared as to what shall be
done either in the event of success or of failure."</p>
<p>"You might as well read that," said the other. "It only reached me
this morning, or I should have told you of it." The letter was a
communication from the Solicitor-General containing his resignation.
He had now studied the County Suffrage Bill closely, and regretted to
say that he could not give it a conscientious support. It was a
matter of sincerest sorrow to him that relations so pleasant should
be broken, but he must resign his place, unless, indeed, the clauses
as to redistribution could be withdrawn. Of course he did not say
this as expecting that any such concession would be made to his
opinion, but merely as indicating the matter on which his objection
was so strong as to over-rule all other considerations. All this he
explained at great length.</p>
<p>"The pleasantness of the relations must have been on one side," said
the veteran. "He ought to have gone long since."</p>
<p>"And Lord Drummond has already as good as said that unless we will
abandon the same clauses, he must oppose the Bill in the Lords."</p>
<p>"And resign, of course."</p>
<p>"He meant that, I presume. Lord Ramsden has not spoken to me."</p>
<p>"The clauses will not stick in his throat. Nor ought they. If the
lawyers have their own way about law they should be contented."</p>
<p>"The question is, whether in these circumstances we should postpone
the second reading?" asked the Prime Minister.</p>
<p>"Certainly not," said the other Duke. "As to the Solicitor-General
you will have no difficulty. Sir Timothy was only placed there as a
concession to his party. Drummond will no doubt continue to hold his
office till we see what is done in the Lower House. If the second
reading be lost there,—why then his lordship can go with the rest of
us."</p>
<p>"Rattler says we shall have a majority. He and Roby are quite agreed
about it. Between them they must know," said the Prime Minister,
unintentionally pleading for himself.</p>
<p>"They ought to know, if any men do;—but the crisis is exceptional. I
suppose you think that if the second reading is lost we should
resign?"</p>
<p>"Oh,—certainly."</p>
<p>"Or, after that, if the Bill be much mutilated in Committee? I don't
know that I shall personally break my own heart about the Bill. The
existing difference in the suffrages is rather in accordance with my
prejudices. But the country desires the measure, and I suppose we
cannot consent to any such material alteration as these men suggest."
As he spoke he laid his hand on Sir Timothy's letter.</p>
<p>"Mr. Monk would not hear of it," said the Prime Minister.</p>
<p>"Of course not. And you and I in this measure must stick to Mr. Monk.
My great, indeed my only strong desire in the matter, is to act in
strict unison with you."</p>
<p>"You are always good and true, Duke."</p>
<p>"For my own part I shall not in the least regret to find in all this
an opportunity of resigning. We have done our work, and if, as I
believe, a majority of the House would again support either Gresham
or Monk as the head of the entire Liberal party, I think that that
arrangement would be for the welfare of the country."</p>
<p>"Why should it make any difference to you? Why should you not return
to the Council?"</p>
<p>"I should not do so;—certainly not at once; probably never. But
you,—who are in the very prime of your
<span class="nowrap">life—"</span></p>
<p>The Prime Minister did not smile now. He knit his brows and a dark
shadow came across his face. "I don't think I could do that," he
said. "Cæsar could hardly have led a legion under Pompey."</p>
<p>"It has been done, greatly to the service of the country, and without
the slightest loss of honour or character in him who did it."</p>
<p>"We need hardly talk of that, Duke. You think then that we shall
fail;—fail, I mean, in the House of Commons. I do not know that
failure in our House should be regarded as fatal."</p>
<p>"In three cases we should fail. The loss of any material clause in
Committee would be as bad as the loss of the Bill."</p>
<p>"Oh, yes."</p>
<p>"And then, in spite of Messrs. Rattler and Roby,—who have been wrong
before and may be wrong now,—we may lose the second reading."</p>
<p>"And the third chance against us?"</p>
<p>"You would not probably try to carry on the Bill with a very small
majority."</p>
<p>"Not with three or four."</p>
<p>"Nor, I think, with six or seven. It would be useless. My own belief
is that we shall never carry the Bill into Committee."</p>
<p>"I have always known you to be right, Duke."</p>
<p>"I think that general opinion has set in that direction, and general
opinion is generally right. Having come to that conclusion I thought
it best to tell you, in order that we might have our house in order."
The Duke of Omnium, who with all his haughtiness and all his reserve,
was the simplest man in the world and the least apt to pretend to be
that which he was not, sighed deeply when he heard this. "For my own
part," continued his elder, "I feel no regret that it should be so."</p>
<p>"It is the first large measure that we have tried to carry."</p>
<p>"We did not come in to carry large measures, my friend. Look back and
see how many large measures Pitt carried,—but he took the country
safely through its most dangerous crisis."</p>
<p>"What have we done?"</p>
<p>"Carried on the Queen's Government prosperously for three years. Is
that nothing for a minister to do? I have never been a friend of
great measures, knowing that when they come fast, one after another,
more is broken in the rattle than is repaired by the reform. We have
done what Parliament and the country expected us to do, and to my
poor judgment we have done it well."</p>
<p>"I do not feel much self-satisfaction, Duke. Well;—we must see it
out, and if it is as you anticipate, I shall be ready. Of course I
have prepared myself for it. And if, of late, my mind has been less
turned to retirement than it used to be, it has only been because I
have become wedded to this measure, and have wished that it should be
carried under our auspices." Then the old Duke took his leave, and
the Prime Minister was left alone to consider the announcement that
had been made to him.</p>
<p>He had said that he had prepared himself, but, in so saying, he had
hardly known himself. Hitherto, though he had been troubled by many
doubts, he had still hoped. The report made to him by Mr. Rattler,
backed as it had been by Mr. Roby's assurances, had almost sufficed
to give him confidence. But Mr. Rattler and Mr. Roby combined were as
nothing to the Duke of St. Bungay. The Prime Minister knew now,—he
felt that he knew, that his days were numbered. The resignation of
that lingering old bishop was not completed, and the person in whom
he believed would not have the see. He had meditated the making of a
peer or two, having hitherto been very cautious in that respect, but
he would do nothing of the kind if called upon by the House of
Commons to resign with an uncompleted measure. But his thoughts soon
ran away from the present to the future. What was now to come of
himself? How should he use his future life,—he who as yet had not
passed his forty-seventh year? He regretted much having made that
apparently pretentious speech about Cæsar, though he knew his old
friend well enough to be sure that it would never be used against
him. Who was he that he should class himself among the big ones of
the world? A man may indeed measure small things by great, but the
measurer should be careful to declare his own littleness when he
illustrates his position by that of the topping ones of the earth.
But the thing said had been true. Let the Pompey be who he might, he,
the little Cæsar of the day, could never now command another legion.</p>
<p>He had once told Phineas Finn that he regretted that he had abstained
from the ordinary amusements of English gentlemen. But he had
abstained also from their ordinary occupations,—except so far as
politics is one of them. He cared nothing for oxen or for furrows. In
regard to his own land he hardly knew whether the farms were large or
small. He had been a scholar, and after a certain fitful fashion he
had maintained his scholarship, but the literature to which he had
been really attached had been that of blue-books and newspapers. What
was he to do with himself when called upon to resign? And he
understood,—or thought that he understood,—his position too well to
expect that after a while, with the usual interval, he might return
to power. He had been Prime Minister, not as the leading politician
on either side, not as the king of a party, but,—so he told
himself,—as a stop-gap. There could be nothing for him now till the
insipidity of life should gradually fade away into the grave.</p>
<p>After a while he got up and went off to his wife's apartment, the
room in which she used to prepare her triumphs and where now she
contemplated her disappointments. "I have had the Duke with me," he
said.</p>
<p>"What;—at last?"</p>
<p>"I do not know that he could have done any good by coming sooner."</p>
<p>"And what does his Grace say?"</p>
<p>"He thinks that our days are numbered."</p>
<p>"Psha!—is that all? I could have told him that ever so long ago. It
was hardly necessary that he should disturb himself at last to come
and tell us such well-ventilated news. There isn't a porter at one of
the clubs who doesn't know it."</p>
<p>"Then there will be the less surprise,—and to those who are
concerned perhaps the less mortification."</p>
<p>"Did he tell you who was to succeed you?" asked the Duchess.</p>
<p>"Not precisely."</p>
<p>"He ought to have done that, as I am sure he knows. Everybody knows
except you, Plantagenet."</p>
<p>"If you know, you can tell me."</p>
<p>"Of course, I can. It will be Mr. Monk."</p>
<p>"With all my heart, Glencora. Mr. Monk is a very good man."</p>
<p>"I wonder whether he'll do anything for us. Think how destitute we
shall be! What if I were to ask him for a place! Would he not give it
us?"</p>
<p>"Will it make you unhappy, Cora?"</p>
<p>"What;—your going?"</p>
<p>"Yes;—the change altogether."</p>
<p>She looked him in the face for a moment before she answered, with a
peculiar smile in her eyes to which he was well used,—a smile half
ludicrous and half pathetic,—having in it also a dash of sarcasm. "I
can dare to tell the truth," she said, "which you can't. I can be
honest and straightforward. Yes, it will make me unhappy. And you?"</p>
<p>"Do you think that I cannot be honest too,—at any rate to you? It
does fret me. I do not like to think that I shall be without work."</p>
<p>"Yes;—Othello's occupation will be gone,—for awhile; for awhile."
Then she came up to him and put both her hands on his breast. "But
yet, Othello, I shall not be all unhappy."</p>
<p>"Where will be your contentment?"</p>
<p>"In you. It was making you ill. Rough people, whom the tenderness of
your nature could not well endure, trod upon you, and worried you
with their teeth and wounded you everywhere. I could have turned at
them again with my teeth, and given them worry for worry;—but you
could not. Now you will be saved from them, and so I shall not be
discontented." All this she said looking up into his face, still with
that smile which was half pathetic and half ludicrous.</p>
<p>"Then I will be contented too," he said as he kissed her.</p>
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