Framley Parsonage, Anthony Trollope [popular e readers txt] 📗

a majority in Parliament, generous as had been the promises of support disinterestedly made to them by the gods. This indeed was manifest, and therefore they were going to the country, although they had been deliberately warned by a very prominent scion of Olympus that if they did do so that disinterested support must be withdrawn. This threat did not seem to weigh much, and by two o’clock on the day following Miss Dunstable’s party, the fiat was presumed to have gone forth. The rumour had begun with Tom Towers, but by that time it had reached Buggins at the Petty Bag Office.

“It won’t make no difference to hus, sir; will it, Mr. Robarts?” said Buggins, as he leaned respectfully against the wall near the door, in the room of the private secretary at that establishment.

A good deal of conversation, miscellaneous, special, and political, went on between young Robarts and Buggins in the course of the day; as was natural, seeing that they were thrown in these evil times very much upon each other. The Lord Petty Bag of the present ministry was not such a one as Harold Smith. He was a giant indifferent to his private notes, and careless as to the duties even of patronage; he rarely visited the office, and as there were no other clerks in the establishment⁠—owing to a root and branch reform carried out in the short reign of Harold Smith⁠—to whom could young Robarts talk, if not to Buggins?

“No; I suppose not,” said Robarts, as he completed on his blotting-paper an elaborate picture of a Turk seated on his divan.

“ ’Cause, you see, sir, we’re in the Upper ’Ouse, now;⁠—as I always thinks we hought to be. I don’t think it ain’t constitutional for the Petty Bag to be in the Commons, Mr. Robarts. Hany ways, it never usen’t.”

“They’re changing all those sort of things nowadays, Buggins,” said Robarts, giving the final touch to the Turk’s smoke.

“Well; I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Robarts: I think I’ll go. I can’t stand all these changes. I’m turned of sixty now, and don’t want any ’stifflicates. I think I’ll take my pension and walk. The hoffice ain’t the same place at all since it come down among the Commons.” And then Buggins retired sighing, to console himself with a pot of porter behind a large open office ledger, set up on end on a small table in the little lobby outside the private secretary’s room. Buggins sighed again as he saw that the date made visible in the open book was almost as old as his own appointment; for such a book as this lasted long in the Petty Bag Office. A peer of high degree had been Lord Petty Bag in those days; one whom a messenger’s heart could respect with infinite veneration, as he made his unaccustomed visits to the office with much solemnity⁠—perhaps four times during the season. The Lord Petty Bag then was highly regarded by his staff, and his coming among them was talked about for some hours previously and for some days afterwards; but Harold Smith had bustled in and out like the managing clerk in a Manchester house. “The service is going to the dogs,” said Buggins to himself, as he put down the porter pot and looked up over the book at a gentleman who presented himself at the door.

“Mr. Robarts in his room?” said Buggins, repeating the gentleman’s words. “Yes, Mr. Sowerby; you’ll find him there; first door to the left.” And then, remembering that the visitor was a county member⁠—a position which Buggins regarded as next to that of a peer⁠—he got up, and, opening the private secretary’s door, ushered in the visitor.

Young Robarts and Mr. Sowerby had, of course, become acquainted in the days of Harold Smith’s reign. During that short time the member for East Barset had on most days dropped in at the Petty Bag Office for a minute or two, finding out what the energetic cabinet minister was doing, chatting on semiofficial subjects, and teaching the private secretary to laugh at his master. There was nothing, therefore, in his present visit which need appear to be singular, or which required any immediate special explanation. He sat himself down in his ordinary way, and began to speak of the subject of the day.

“We’re all to go,” said Sowerby.

“So I hear,” said the private secretary. “It will give me no trouble, for, as the respectable Buggins says, we’re in the Upper House now.”

“What a delightful time those lucky dogs of lords do have!” said Sowerby. “No constituents, no turning out, no fighting, no necessity for political opinions⁠—and, as a rule, no such opinions at all!”

“I suppose you’re tolerably safe in East Barsetshire?” said Robarts. “The duke has it pretty much his own way there.”

“Yes; the duke does have it pretty much his own way. By the by, where is your brother?”

“At home,” said Robarts; “at least I presume so.”

“At Framley or at Barchester? I believe he was in residence at Barchester not long since.”

“He’s at Framley now, I know. I got a letter only yesterday from his wife, with a commission. He was there, and Lord Lufton had just left.”

“Yes; Lufton was down. He started for Norway this morning. I want to see your brother. You have not heard from him yourself, have you?”

“No; not lately. Mark is a bad correspondent. He would not do at all for a private secretary.”

“At any rate, not to Harold Smith. But you are sure I should not catch him at Barchester?”

“Send down by telegraph, and he would meet you.”

“I don’t want to do that. A telegraph message makes such a fuss in the country, frightening people’s wives, and setting all the horses about the place galloping.”

“What is it about?”

“Nothing of any great consequence. I didn’t know whether he might have told you. I’ll write down by tonight’s post, and then he can meet me at Barchester tomorrow. Or do you write. There’s nothing I hate so much as letter-writing;⁠—just tell him