THE PRIME MINISTER

by DAVID SKILTON

  Mrs Roby had a husband, but Mr Roby had not been asked to dine in the Square on this occasion. Mrs Roby dined in the Square very often, but Mr Roby very seldom, – not probably above once a year, on some special occasion. He and Mr Wharton had married sisters, but they were quite unlike in character, and had never become friends. Mrs Wharton had been nearly twenty years younger than her husband; Mrs Roby had been six or seven years younger than her sister; and Mr Roby was a year or two younger than his wife. The two men therefore belonged to different periods of life, Mr Roby at the present time being a florid youth of forty. He had a moderate fortune, inherited from his mother, of which he was sufficiently careful; but he loved races, and read sporting papers; he was addicted to hunting and billiards; he shot pigeons, and, – so Mr Wharton had declared calumniously more than once to an intimate friend, – had not an H in his vocabulary. The poor man did drop an aspirate now and again; but he knew his defect and strove hard, and with fair average success, to overcome it. But Mr Wharton did not love him, and they were not friends. Perhaps neither did Mrs Roby love him very ardently. She was at any rate almost always willing to leave her own house to come to the Square, and on such occasions Mr Roby was always willing to dine at the Nimrod, the club which it delighted him to frequent.

  Mr Wharton, on entering his own house, met his son on the staircase. ‘Do you dine at home to-day, Everett?’

  ‘Well, sir; no, sir. I don’t think I do. I think I half promised to dine with a fellow at the club.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’d make things meet more easily about the end of the year if you dined oftener here, where you have nothing to pay, and less frequently at the club, where you pay for everything?’

  ‘But what I should save you would lose, sir. That’s the way I look at it.’

  ‘Then I advise you to look at it the other way, and leave me to take care of myself Come in here, I want to speak to you.’ Everett followed his father into a dingy back parlour, which was fitted up with book shelves and was generally called the study, but which was gloomy and comfortless because it was seldom used. ‘I have had your friend Lopez with me at my chambers to-day. I don’t like your friend Lopez.’

  ‘I am sorry for that, sir.’

  ‘He is a man as to whom I should wish to have a good deal of evidence before I would trust him to be what he seems to be. I dare say he’s clever.’

  ‘I think he’s more than clever.’

  ‘I dare say; – and well instructed in some respects.’

  ‘I believe him to be a thorough linguist, sir.’

  ‘I dare say. I remember a waiter at an hotel in Holborn who could speak seven languages. It’s an accomplishment very necessary for a Courier or a Queen’s Messenger.’

  ‘You don’t mean to say, sir, that you disregard foreign languages?’

  ‘I have said nothing of the kind. But in my estimation they don’t stand in the place of principles, or a profession, or birth, or country. I fancy there has been some conversation between you about your sister.’

  ‘Certainly there has.’

  ‘A young man should be very chary how he speaks to another man, to a stranger, about his sister. A sister’s name should be too sacred for club talk.’

  ‘Club talk! Good heavens, sir; you don’t think that I have spoken of Emily in that way? There isn’t a man in London has a higher respect for his sister than I have for mine. This man, by no means in a light way, but with all seriousness, has told me that he was attached to Emily; and I, believing him to be a gentleman and well to do in the world, have referred him to you. Can that have been wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know how he’s “to do”, as you call it. I haven’t asked, and I don’t mean to ask. But I doubt his being a gentleman. He is not an English gentleman. What was his father?’

  ‘I haven’t the least idea.’

  ‘Or his mother?’

  ‘He has never mentioned her to me.’

  ‘Nor his family; nor anything of their antecedents? He is a man fallen out of the moon. All that is nothing to us as passing acquaintances. Between men such ignorance should I think bar absolute intimacy; – but that may be a matter of taste. But it should be held to be utterly antagonistic to any such alliance as that of marriage. He seems to be a friend of yours. You had better make him understand that it is quite out of the question. I have told him so, and you had better repeat it.’ So saying, Mr Wharton went upstairs to dress, and Everett, having received his father’s instructions, went away to the club.

  When Mr Wharton reached the drawing-room, he found Mrs Roby alone, and he at once resolved to discuss the matter with her before he spoke to his daughter. ‘Harriet,’ he said abruptly, ‘do you know anything of one Mr Lopez?’

  ‘Mr Lopez! Oh yes, I know him.’

  ‘Do you mean that he is an intimate friend?’

  ‘As friends go in London, he is. He comes to our house, and I think that he hunts with Dick.’ Dick was Mr Roby.

  ‘That’s a recommendation.’

  ‘Well, Mr Wharton, I hardly know what you mean by that,’ said Mrs Roby, smiling. ‘I don’t think my husband will do Mr Lopez any harm; and I am sure Mr Lopez won’t do my husband any.’

  ‘I dare say not. But that’s not the question. Roby can take care of himself.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘And so I dare say can Mr Lopez.’ At this moment Emily entered the room. ‘My dear,’ said her father, ‘I am speaking to your aunt. Would you mind going downstairs and waiting for us? Tell them we shall be ready for dinner in ten minutes.’ Then Emily passed out of the room, and Mrs Roby assumed a grave demeanour. ‘The man we are speaking of has been to me and has made an offer for Emily.’ As he said this he looked anxiously into his sister-in-law’s face, in order that he might tell from that how far she favoured the idea of such a marriage, – and he thought that he perceived at once that she was not averse to it. ‘You know it is quite out of the question,’ he continued.

  ‘I don’t know why it should be out of the question. But of course your opinion would have great weight with Emily.’

  ‘Great weight! Well; – I should hope so. If not, I do not know whose opinion is to have weight In the first place the man is a foreigner.’

  ‘Oh no; – he is English. But if he were a foreigner many English girls marry foreigners.’

  ‘My daughter shall not; – not with my permission. You have not encouraged him, I hope.’

  ‘I have not interfered at all,’ said Mrs Roby. But this was a lie. Mrs Roby had interfered. Mrs Roby, in discussing the merits and character of the lover with the young lady, had always lent herself to the lover’s aid, – and had condescended to accept from the lover various presents which she could hardly have taken had she been hostile to him.

  ‘And now tell me about herself. Has she seen him often?’

  ‘Why, Mr Wharton, he has dined here, in the house, over and over again. I thought that you were encouraging him.’

  ‘Heavens and earth!’

  ‘Of course she has seen him. When a man dines at a house he is bound to call. Of course he has called, – I don’t know how often. And she has met him round the corner.’ – ‘Round the corner’, in Manchester Square, meant Mrs Roby’s house in Berkeley Street. – ‘Last Sunday they were at the Zoo together. Dick got them tickets. I thought you knew all about it.’

  ‘Do you mean that my daughter went to the Zoological Gardens alone with this man?’ the father asked in dismay.

  ‘Dick was with them. I should have gone, only I had a headache. Did you not know she went?’

  ‘Yes; – I heard about the Gardens. But I heard nothing of the man.’

  ‘I thought, Mr Wharton, you were all in his favour.’

  ‘I am not at all in his favour. I dislike him particularly. For anything I know he may have sold pencils about the streets like any other Jew-boy.’

  ‘He goes to church, just as you do, – that is, if he goes anywhere; which I dare say he does about as often as yourself, M
r Wharton.’ Now Mr Wharton, though he was a thorough and perhaps a bigoted member of the Church of England, was not fond of going to church.

  ‘Do you mean to tell me,’ he said, pressing his hands together, and looking very seriously into his sister-in-law’s face; ‘do you mean to tell me that she – likes him?’

  ‘Yes; – I think she does like him.’

  ‘You don’t mean to say – she’s in love with him?’

  ‘She has never told me that she is. Young ladies are shy of making such assertions as to their own feelings before the due time for doing so has come. I think she prefers him to anybody else; and that were he to propose to herself, she would give him her consent to go to you.’

  ‘He shall never enter this house again,’ said Mr Wharton passionately.

  ‘You must arrange that with her. If you have so strong an objection to him, I wonder that you should have had him here at all.’

  ‘How was I to know? God bless my soul! – just because a man was allowed to dine here once or twice! Upon my word, it’s too bad!’

  ‘Papa, won’t you and aunt come down to dinner?’ said Emily, opening the door gently. Then they went down to dinner, and during the meal nothing was said about Mr Lopez. But they were not very merry together, and poor Emily felt sure that her own affairs had been discussed in a troublesome manner.

  CHAPTER 5

  ‘No one knows anything about him’

  Neither at dinner, on that evening at Manchester Square, nor after dinner, as long as Mrs Roby remained in the house, was a word said about Lopez by Mr Wharton. He remained longer than usual with his bottle of port wine in the dining-room; and when he went upstairs, he sat himself down and fell asleep, almost without a sign. He did not ask for a song, nor did Emily offer to sing. But as soon as Mrs Roby was gone, – and Mrs Roby went home, round the corner, somewhat earlier than usual, – then Mr Wharton woke up instantly and made inquiry of his daughter.

  There had, however, been a few words spoken on the subject between Mrs Roby and her niece, which had served to prepare Emily for what was coming. ‘Lopez has been to your father,’ said Mrs Roby, in a voice not specially encouraging for such an occasion. Then she paused a moment; but her niece said nothing, and she continued, ‘Yes, – and your father has been blaming me, – as if I had done anything! If he did not mean you to choose for yourself, why didn’t he keep a closer look-out?’

  ‘I haven’t chosen anyone, Aunt Harriet.’

  ‘Well; – to speak fairly, I thought you had; and I have nothing to say against your choice. As young men go, I think Mr Lopez is as good as the best of them. I don’t know why you shouldn’t have him. Of course you’ll have money, but then I suppose he makes a large income himself. As to Mr Fletcher, you don’t care a bit about him.’

  ‘Not in that way, certainly.’

  ‘No doubt your papa will have it out with you just now; so you had better make up your mind what you will say to him. If you really like the man, I don’t see why you shouldn’t say so, and stick to it. He has made a regular offer, and girls in these days are not expected to be their father’s slaves.’ Emily said nothing further to her aunt on that occasion, but finding that she must in truth ‘have it out’ with her father presently, gave herself up to reflection. It might probably be the case that the whole condition of her future life would depend on the way in which she might now ‘have it out’ with her father.

  I would not wish the reader to be prejudiced against Miss Wharton by the not unnatural feeling which may perhaps be felt in regard to the aunt Mrs Roby was pleased with little intrigues, was addicted to the amusement of fostering love affairs, was fond of being thought to be useful in such matters, and was not averse to having presents given to her. She had married a vulgar man; and, though she had not become like the man, she had become vulgar. She was not an eligible companion for Mr Wharton’s daughter, – a matter as to which the father had not given himself proper opportunities of learning the facts. An aunt in his close neighbourhood was so great a comfort to him, – so ready and so natural an assistance to him in his difficulties! But Emily Wharton was not in the least like her aunt, nor had Mrs Wharton been at all like Mrs Roby. No doubt the contact was dangerous. Injury had perhaps already been done. It may be that some slightest soil had already marred the pure white of the girl’s natural character. But if so, the stain was as yet too impalpable to be visible to ordinary eyes.

  Emily Wharton was a tall, fair girl, with grey eyes, rather exceeding the average proportions as well as height of women. Her features were regular and handsome, and her form was perfect; but it was by her manner and her voice that she conquered, rather than by her beauty, – by those gifts and by a clearness of intellect joined with that feminine sweetness which has its most frequent foundation in self-denial. Those who knew her well, and had become attached to her, were apt to endow her with all virtues, and to give her credit for a loveliness which strangers did not find on her face. But as we do not light up our houses with our brightest lamps for all comers, so neither did she emit from her eyes their brightest sparks till special occasion for such shining had arisen. To those who were allowed to love her no woman was more lovable. There was innate in her an appreciation of her own position as a woman, and with it a principle of self-denial as a human being, which it was beyond the power of any Mrs Roby to destroy or even to defile by small stains.

  Like other girls she had been taught to presume that it was her destiny to be married, and like other girls she had thought much about her destiny. A young man generally regards it as his destiny either to succeed or to fail in the world, and he thinks about that. To him marriage, when it comes, is an accident to which he has hardly as yet given a thought. But to the girl the matrimony which is or is not to be her destiny contains within itself the only success or failure which she anticipates. The young man may become Lord Chancellor, or at any rate earn his bread comfortably as a county court judge. But the girl can look forward to little else than the chance of having a good man for her husband; – a good man, or if her tastes lie in that direction, a rich man. Emily Wharton had doubtless thought about these things, and she sincerely believed that she had found the good man in Ferdinand Lopez.

  The man, certainly, was one strangely endowed with the power of creating a belief. When going to Mr Wharton at his chambers, he had not intended to cheat the lawyer into any erroneous idea about his family, but he had resolved that he would so discuss the questions of his own condition, which would probably be raised, as to leave upon the old man’s mind an unfounded conviction that, in regard to money and income, he had no reason to fear question. Not a word had been said about his money or his income. And Mr Wharton had felt himself bound to abstain from allusion to such matters from an assured feeling that he could not in that direction plant an enduring objection. In this way Lopez had carried his point with Mr Wharton. He had convinced Mrs Roby that among all the girl’s attractions the greatest attraction for him was the fact that she was Mrs Roby’s niece. He had made Emily herself believe that the one strong passion of his life was his love for her, and this he had done without ever haying asked for her love. And he had even taken the trouble to allure Dick, and had listened to and had talked whole pages out of Bell’s Life. On his own behalf it must be acknowledged that he did love the girl, as well perhaps as he was capable of loving anyone; – but he had found out many particulars as to Mr Wharton’s money before he had allowed himself to love her.

  As soon as Mrs Roby had gathered up her knitting, and declared, as she always did on such occasions, that she could go round the corner without having anyone to look after her, Mr Wharton began. ‘Emily, my dear, come here.’ Then she came and sat on a footstool at his feet, and looked up into his face. ‘Do you know what I am going to speak to you about, my darling?’

  ‘Yes, papa; I think I do. It is about – Mr Lopez.’

  ‘Your aunt has told you, I suppose. Yes; it is about Mr Lopez. I have been very much astonished to-day by Mr Lopez, –
a man of whom I have seen very little and know less. He came to me to-day and asked for my permission – to address you.’ She sat perfectly quiet, still looking at him, but she did not say a word. ‘Of course I did not give him permission.’

  ‘Why of course, papa?’

  ‘Because he is a stranger and a foreigner. Would you have wished me to tell him that he might come?’

  ‘Yes, papa.’ He was sitting on a sofa, and shrank back a little from her as she made this free avowal. ‘In that case I could have judged for myself I suppose every girl would like to do that.’

  ‘But should you have accepted him?’

  ‘I think I should have consulted you before I did that. But I should have wished to accept him. Papa, I do love him. I have never said so before to anyone. I would not say so to you now, if he had not – spoken to you as he has done.’

  ‘Emily, it must not be.’

  ‘Why not, papa? If you say it shall not be so, it shall not. I will do as you bid me.’ Then he put out his hand and caressed her, stroking down her hair. ‘But I think you ought to tell me why it must not be, – as I do love him.’

  ‘He is a foreigner.’

  ‘But is he? And why should not a foreigner be as good as an Englishman? His name is foreign, but he talks English and lives as an Englishman.’

  ‘He has no relatives, no family, no belongings. He is what we call an adventurer. Marriage, my dear, is a most serious thing.’

  ‘Yes, papa, I know that.’