THE PRIME MINISTER

by DAVID SKILTON

  At the time with which we are now concerned Ferdinand Lopez was thirty-three years old, and as he had begun life early he had been long before the world. It was known of him that he had been at a good English private school, and it was reported, on the solitary evidence of one who had there been his schoolfellow, that a rumour was current in the school that his school bills were paid by an old gentleman who was not related to him. Thence, at the age of seventeen, he had been sent to a German university, and at the age of twenty-one had appeared in London, in a stockbroker’s office, where he was soon known as an accomplished linguist, and as a very clever fellow, – precocious, not given to many pleasures, apt for work, but considered hardly trustworthy by employers, not as being dishonest, but as having a taste for being a master rather than a servant. Indeed his period of servitude was very short. It was not in his nature to be active on behalf of others. He was soon active for himself, and at one time it was supposed that he was making a fortune. Then it was known that he had left his regular business, and it was supposed that he had lost all that he had ever made or had ever possessed. But nobody, not even his own bankers or his own lawyer, – not even the old woman who looked after his linen, – ever really knew the state of his affairs.

  He was certainly a handsome man, – his beauty being of a sort which men are apt to deny and women to admit lavishly. He was nearly six feet tall, very dark, and very thin, with regular, well-cut features indicating little to the physiognomist unless it be the great gift of self-possession. His hair was cut short, and he wore no beard beyond an absolutely black moustache. His teeth were perfect in form and whiteness, – a characteristic which, though it may be a valued item in a general catalogue of personal attraction, does not generally recommend a man to the unconscious judgment of his acquaintance. But about the mouth and chin of this man there was a something of softness, perhaps in the play of the lips, perhaps in the dimple, which in some degree lessened the feeling of hardness which was produced by the square brow and bold, unflinching, combative eyes. They who knew him and liked him were reconciled by the lower face. The greater number who knew him and did not like him, felt and resented, – even though in nine cases out of ten they might express no resentment even to themselves, – the pugnacity of his steady glance.

  For he was essentially one of those men who are always, in the inner workings of their minds, defending themselves and attacking others. He could not give a penny to a woman at a crossing without a look which argued at full length her injustice in making her demand, and his freedom from all liability let him walk the crossing as often as he might. He could not seat himself in a railway carriage without a lesson to his opposite neighbour that in all the mutual affairs of travelling, arrangement of feet, disposition of bags, and opening of windows, it would be that neighbour’s duty to submit and his to exact. It was, however, for the spirit rather than for the thing itself that he combated. The woman with the broom got her penny. The opposite gentleman when once by a glance he had expressed submission was allowed his own way with his legs and with the window. I would not say that Ferdinand Lopez was prone to do ill-natured things; but he was imperious, and he had learned to carry his empire in his eye.

  The reader must submit to be told one or two further and still smaller details respecting the man, and then the man shall be allowed to make his own way. No one of those around him knew how much care he took to dress himself well, or how careful he was that no one should know it His very tailor regarded him as being simply extravagant in the number of his coats and trousers, and his friends looked upon him as one of those fortunate beings to whose nature belongs a facility of being well dressed, or almost an impossibility of being ill dressed. We all know the man, – a little man generally, who moves seldom and softly, – who looks always as though he had just been sent home in a bandbox. Ferdinand Lopez was not a little man, and moved freely enough; but never, at any moment, – going into the city or coming out of it, on horseback or on foot, at home over his book or after the mazes of the dance, – was he dressed otherwise than with perfect care. Money and time did it, but folk thought that it grew with him, as did his hair and his nails. And he always rode a horse which charmed good judges of what a park nag should be; – not a prancing, restless, giggling, sideway-going, useless garran, but an animal well made, well bitted, with perfect paces, on whom a rider if it pleased him could be as quiet as a statue on a monument. It often did please Ferdinand Lopez to be quiet on horseback; and yet he did not look like a statue, for it was acknowledged through all London that he was a good horseman. He lived luxuriously too, – though whether at his ease or not nobody knew, – for he kept a brougham of his own, and during the hunting season he had two horses down at Leighton. There had once been a belief abroad that he was ruined, but they who interest themselves in such matters had found out, – or at any rate believed that they had found out, – that he paid his tailor regularly: and now there prevailed an opinion that Ferdinand Lopez was a monied man.

  It was known to some few that he occupied rooms in a flat at Westminster, – but to very few exactly where the rooms were situate. Among all his friends no one was known to have entered them. In a moderate way he was given to hospitality, – that is to infrequent but, when the occasion came, to graceful hospitality. Some club, however, or tavern, or perhaps, in the summer, some river bank would be chosen as the scene of these festivities. To a few, – if, as suggested, amidst summer flowers on the water’s edge to men and women mixed, – he would be a courtly and efficient host; for he had the rare gift of doing such things well.

  Hunting was over, and the east wind was still blowing, and a great portion of the London world was out of town taking its Easter holiday, when, on an unpleasant morning, Ferdinand Lopez travelled into the city by the Metropolitan railway from Westminster Bridge. It was his custom to go thither when he did go, – not daily like a man of business, but as chance might require, like a capitalist or a man of pleasure, – in his own brougham. But on this occasion he walked down to the river side, and then walked from the Mansion House into a dingy little court called Little Tankard Yard, near the Bank of England, and going through a narrow dark long passage got into a little office at the back of a building, in which there sat at a desk a greasy gentleman with a new hat on one side of his head, who might perhaps be about forty years old. The place was very dark, and the man was turning over the leaves of a ledger. A stranger to city ways might probably have said that he was idle, but he was no doubt filling his mind with that erudition which would enable him to earn his bread. On the other side of the desk there was a little boy copying letters. These were Mr Sextus Parker, – commonly called Sexty Parker, – and his clerk. Mr Parker was a gentleman very well known and at the present moment favourably esteemed on the Stock Exchange. ‘What, Lopez!’ said he. ‘Uncommon glad to see you. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Just come inside, – will you?’ said Lopez. Now within Mr Parker’s very small office there was a smaller office, in which there were a safe, a small rickety Pembroke table,1 two chairs, and an old washing-stand with a tumbled towel. Lopez led the way into this sanctum as though he knew the place well, and Sexty Parker followed him.

  ‘Beastly day, isn’t it?’ said Sexty.

  ‘Yes, – a nasty east wind.’

  ‘Cutting one in two, with a hot sun at the same time. One ought to hybernate at this time of the year.’

  ‘Then why don’t you hybernate?’ said Lopez.

  ‘Business is too good. That’s about it. A man has to stick to it when it does come. Everybody can’t do like you; – give up regular work, and make a better thing of an hour now and an hour then, just as it pleases you. I shouldn’t dare go in for that kind of thing.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you or anyone else know what I go in for,’ said Lopez, with a look that indicated offence.

  ‘Nor don’t care,’ said Sexty; – ‘only hope it’s something good, for your sake.’ Sexty Parker had known Mr Lopez well, now for some years, and
being an overbearing man himself, – somewhat even of a bully if the truth be spoken, – and by no means apt to give way unless hard pressed, had often tried his ‘hand’ on his friend, as he himself would have said. But I doubt whether he could remember any instance in which he could congratulate himself on success. He was trying his hand again now, but did it with a faltering voice, having caught a glance of his friend’s eye.

  ‘I dare say not,’ said Lopez. Then he continued without changing his voice or the nature of the glance of his eye. ‘I’ll tell you what I want you to do now. I want your name to this bill for three months.’

  Sexty Parker opened his mouth and his eyes, and took the bit of paper that was tendered to him. It was a promissory note for £750, which, if signed by him, would at the end of the specified period make him liable for that sum were it not otherwise paid. His friend Mr Lopez was indeed applying to him for the assistance of his name in raising a loan to the amount of the sum named. This was a kind of favour which a man should ask almost on his knees, – and which, if so asked, Mr Sextus Parker would certainly refuse. And here was Ferdinand Lopez asking it, – whom Sextus Parker had latterly regarded as an opulent man, – and asking it not at all on his knees, but, as one might say, at the muzzle of a pistol. ‘Accommodation bill!’ said Sexty. ‘Why, you ain’t hard up; are you?’

  ‘I’m not going just at present to tell you much about my affairs, and yet I expect you to do what I ask you. I don’t suppose you doubt my ability to raise £750.’

  ‘Oh, dear no,’ said Sexty, who had been looked at and who had not borne the inspection well.

  ‘And I don’t suppose you would refuse me even if I were hard up, as you call it.’ There had been affairs before between the two men in which Lopez had probably been the stronger, and the memory of them, added to the inspection which was still going on, was heavy upon poor Sexty.

  ‘Oh, dear no; – I wasn’t thinking of refusing. I suppose a fellow may be a little surprised at such a thing.’

  ‘I don’t know why you need be surprised, as such things are very common. I happen to have taken a share in a loan a little beyond my immediate means, and therefore want a few hundreds. There is no one I can ask with a better grace than you. If you ain’t – afraid about it, just sign it’

  ‘Oh, I ain’t afraid,’ said Sexty, taking his pen and writing his name across the bill. But even before the signature was finished, when his eye was taken away from the face of his companion and fixed upon the disagreeable piece of paper beneath his hand, he repented of what he was doing. He almost arrested his signature half-way. He did hesitate, but had not pluck enough to stop his hand. ‘It does seem to be a d—d odd transaction all the same,’ he said as he leaned back in his chair.

  ‘It’s the commonest thing in the world,’ said Lopez picking up the bill in a leisurely way, folding it and putting it into his pocket-book. ‘Have our names never been together on a bit of paper before?’

  ‘When we both had something to make by it’

  ‘You’ve nothing to make and nothing to lose by this. Good day and many thanks; – though I don’t think so much of the affair as you seem to do.’ Then Ferdinand Lopez took his departure, and Sexty Parker was left alone in his bewilderment.

  ‘By George, – that’s queer,’ he said to himself. ‘Who’d have thought of Lopez being hard up for a few hundred pounds? But it must be all right. He wouldn’t have come in that fashion, if it hadn’t been all right. I oughtn’t to have done it though! A man ought never to do that kind of thing; – never, – never!’ And Mr Sextus Parker was much discontented with himself, so that when he got home that evening to the wife of his bosom and his little family at Ponders End, he by no means made himself agreeable to them. For that sum of £750 sat upon his bosom as he ate his supper, and lay upon his chest as he slept, – like a nightmare.

  CHAPTER 2

  Everett Wharton

  On that same day Lopez dined with his friend Everett Wharton at a new club, called the Progress, of which they were both members. The Progress was certainly a new club, having as yet been open hardly more than three years; but still it was old enough to have seen many of the hopes of its early youth become dim with age and inaction. For the Progress had intended to do great things for the Liberal party, – or rather for political liberality in general, – and had in truth done little or nothing. It had been got up with considerable enthusiasm, and for a while certain fiery politicians had believed that through the instrumentality of this institution men of genius, and spirit, and natural power, but without wealth, – meaning always themselves, – would be supplied with sure seats in Parliament and a probable share in the Government. But no such results had been achieved. There had been a want of something, – some deficiency felt but not yet defined, – which had hitherto been fatal. The young men said it was because no old stager who knew the way of pulling the wires would come forward and put the club in the proper groove. The old men said it was because the young men were pretentious puppies. It was, however, not to be doubted that the party of Progress had become slack, and that the Liberal politicians of the country, although a special new club had been opened for the furtherance of their views, were not at present making much way. ‘What we want is organization,’ said one of the leading young men. But the organization was not as yet forthcoming.

  The club, nevertheless, went on its way, like other clubs, and men dined and smoked and played billiards and pretended to read. Some few energetic members still hoped that a good day would come in which their grand ideas might be realized, – but as regarded the members generally, they were content to eat and drink and play billiards. It was a fairly good club, – with a sprinkling of Liberal lordlings, a couple of dozen of members of Parliament who had been made to believe that they would neglect their party duties unless they paid their money, and the usual assortment of barristers, attorneys, city merchants, and idle men. It was good enough, at any rate, for Ferdinand Lopez, who was particular about his dinner, and had an opinion of his own about wines. He had been heard to assert that, for real quiet comfort, there was not a club in London equal to it; but his hearers were not aware that in past days he had been black-balled at the T— and the G—.2 These were accidents which Lopez had a gift of keeping in the background. His present companion, Everett Wharton, had, as well as himself, been an original member; – and Wharton had been one of those who had hoped to find in the club a stepping-stone to high political life, and who now talked often with idle energy of the need of organization.

  ‘For myself,’ said Lopez, ‘I can conceive no vainer object of ambition than a seat in the British Parliament. What does any man gain by it? The few who are successful work very hard for little pay and no thanks, – or nearly equally hard for no pay and as little thanks. The many who fail sit idly for hours, undergoing the weary task of listening to platitudes, and enjoy in return the now absolutely valueless privilege of having M.P. written on their letters.’

  ‘Somebody must make laws for the country.’

  ‘I don’t see the necessity. I think the country would do uncommonly well if it were to know that no old law would be altered or new law made for the next twenty years.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have repealed the corn laws?’

  ‘There are no corn laws to repeal now.’

  ‘Nor modify the income tax?’

  ‘I would modify nothing. But at any rate, whether laws are to be altered or to be left, it is a comfort to me that I need not put my finger into that pie. There is one benefit indeed in being in the House.’

  ‘You can’t be arrested.’

  ‘Well; – that, as far as it goes; and one other. It assists a man in getting a seat as the director of certain companies. People are still such asses that they trust a Board of Directors made up of members of Parliament, and therefore of course members are made welcome. But if you want to get into the House, why don’t you arrange it with your father, instead of waiting for what the club may do for you?’

  ‘M
y father wouldn’t pay a shilling for such a purpose. He was never in the House himself.’

  ‘And therefore despises it’

  ‘A little of that, perhaps. No man ever worked harder than he did, or, in his way, more successfully; and having seen one after another of his juniors become members of Parliament, while he stuck to the attorneys, there is perhaps a little jealousy about it’

  ‘From what I see of the way you live at home, I should think your father would do anything for you, – with proper management. There is no doubt, I suppose, that he could afford it?’

  ‘My father never in his life said anything to me about his own money affairs, though he says a great deal about mine. No man ever was closer than my father. But I believe that he could afford almost anything.’

  ‘I wish I had such a father,’ said Ferdinand Lopez. ‘I think that I should succeed in ascertaining the extent of his capabilities, and in making some use of them too.’

  Wharton nearly asked his friend, – almost summoned courage to ask him, – whether his father had done much for him. They were very intimate; and on one subject, in which Lopez was much interested, their confidence had been very close. But the younger and the weaker man of the two could not quite bring himself to the point of making an inquiry which he thought would be disagreeable. Lopez had never before, in all their intercourse, hinted at the possibility of his having or having had filial aspirations. He had been as though he had been created self-sufficient, independent of mother’s milk or father’s money. Now the question might have been asked almost naturally. But it was not asked.

  Everett Wharton was a trouble to his father, – but not an agonizing trouble, as are some sons. His faults were not of a nature to rob his father’s cup of all its sweetness and to bring his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.3 Old Wharton had never had to ask himself whether he should now, at length, let his son fall into the lowest abysses, or whether he should yet again struggle to put him on his legs, again forgive him, again pay his debts, again endeavour to forget dishonour, and place it all to the score of thoughtless youth. Had it been so, I think that, if not on the first or second fall, certainly on the third, the young man would have gone into the abyss; for Mr Wharton was a stern man, and capable of coming to a clear conclusion on things that were nearest and even dearest to himself But Everett Wharton had simply shown himself to be inefficient to earn his own bread. He had never declined even to do this, – but had simply been inefficient. He had not declared, either by words or actions, that as his father was a rich man, and as he was an only son, he would therefore do nothing. But he had tried his hand thrice, and in each case, after but short trial, had assured his father and his friends that the thing had not suited him. Leaving Oxford without a degree, – for the reading of the schools did not suit him, – he had gone into a banking-house, by no means as a mere clerk, but with an expressed proposition from his father, backed by the assent of a partner, that he should work his way up to wealth and a great commercial position. But six months taught him that banking was ‘an abomination’, and he at once went into a course of reading with a barrister. He remained at this till he was called, – for a man may be called with very little continuous work. But after he was called the solitude of his chambers was too much for him, and at twenty-five he found that the Stock Exchange was the mart in the world for such talents and energies as he possessed. What was the nature of his failure during the year that he went into the city, was known only to himself and his father, – unless Ferdinand Lopez knew something of it also. But at six-and-twenty the Stock Exchange was also abandoned; and now, at eight-and-twenty, Everett Wharton had discovered that a parliamentary career was that for which nature and his special genius had intended him. He had probably suggested this to his father, and had met with some cold rebuff.