“Because I had thought you might have concluded otherwise from your own experience at Bridport this morning.”
Grey got angrily to his feet, rage and shame flushing his face, and it needed Ferguson and the Duke to restore him to some semblance of calm. Indeed, it may well be that it was to complete this that His Grace decided there and then that they should follow Grey's advice and go by way of Taunton, Bridgwater, and Bristol to Gloucester. He was, like all weak men, of conspicuous mental short-sightedness. The matter of the moment was ever of greater importance to him than any result that might attend it in the future.
He insisted that Wilding and Grey should shake hands before the breaking up of that most astounding council, and as he had done last night, he now again imposed upon them his commands that they must not allow this matter to go further.
Mr. Wilding paved the way for peace by making an apology within limitations.
“If, in my zeal to serve Your Grace to the best of my ability, I have said that which Lord Grey thinks fit to resent, I would bid him consider my motive rather than my actual words.”
But when all had gone save Ferguson, the chaplain approached the preoccupied and distressed Duke with counsel that Mr. Wilding should be sent away from the army.
“Else there'll be trouble 'twixt him and Grey,” the plotting parson foretold. “We'll be having a repetition of the unfortunate Fletcher and Dare affair, and I think that has cost Your Grace enough already.”
“Do you suggest that I dismiss Wilding?” cried the Duke. “You know his influence, and the bad impression his removal would leave.”
Ferguson stroked his long lean jaw. “No, no,” said he; “all I suggest is that you find Mr. Wilding work to do elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?” the Duke questioned. “Where else?”