She expostulated vehemently, passionately; the goal was so near,
so very near; he could not turn back now! At any rate, he could
not resist Miss Nightingale. A compromise was arranged. Very
reluctantly, he exchanged the turmoil of the House of Commons for
the dignity of the House of Lords, and he remained at the War
Office. She was delighted. 'One fight more, the best and the
last,' she said.
For several more months the fight did indeed go on. But the
strain upon him was greater even than she perhaps could realise.
Besides the intestine war in his office, he had to face a
constant battle in the Cabinet with Mr. Gladstone--a more
redoubtable antagonist even than Ben Hawes--over the estimates.
His health grew worse and worse. He was attacked by faintingfits;
and there were some days when he could only just keep himself
going by gulps of brandy. Miss Nightingale spurred him forward
with her encouragements and her admonitions, her zeal and her
example. But at last his spirit began to sink as well as his
body. He could no longer hope; he could no longer desire; it was
useless, all useless; it was utterly impossible. He had failed.
The dreadful moment came when the truth was forced upon him: he
would never be able to reform the War Office. But a yet more
dreadful moment lay behind; he must go to Miss Nightingale and
tell her that he was a failure, a beaten man.
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