THE PRIME MINISTER

by DAVID SKILTON

  ‘Well, Phineas; how do you like the Phœnix?’28 Phineas Finn had flown back to London at the instigation probably of Mr Rattler, and was now standing at the window of Brooks’s club with Barrington Erle. It was near nine one Thursday evening, and they were both about to return to the House.

  ‘I don’t like the Castle, if you mean that’

  ‘Tyrone isn’t troublesome surely?’ The Marquis of Tyrone was the Lord Lieutenant of the day, and had in his time been a very strong Conservative.

  ‘He finds me troublesome, I fear.’

  ‘I don’t wonder at that, Phineas.’

  ‘How should it be otherwise? What can he and I have in sympathy with one another? He has been brought up with all an Orangeman’s hatred for a Papist. Now that he is in high office, he can abandon the display of the feeling, – perhaps the feeling itself as regards the country at large. He knows that it doesn’t become a Lord Lieutenant to be Orange. But how can he put himself into a boat with me?’

  ‘All that kind of thing vanishes when a man is in office.’

  ‘Yes, as a rule; because men go together into office with the same general predilections. Is it too hot to walk down?’

  ‘I’ll walk a little way, – till you make me hot by arguing.’

  ‘I haven’t an argument left in me,’ said Phineas. ‘Of course everything over there seems easy enough now, – so easy that Lord Tyrone evidently imagines that the good times are coming back in which governors may govern and not be governed.’

  ‘You are pretty quiet in Ireland now, I suppose; – no martial law, suspension of the habeas corpus, or anything of that kind, just at present?’

  ‘No; thank goodness!’ said Phineas.

  ‘I’m not quite sure whether a general suspension of the habeas corpus would not upon the whole be the most comfortable state of things for Irishmen themselves. But whether good or bad, you’ve nothing of that kind of thing now. You’ve no great measure that you wish to pass?’

  ‘But they’ve a great measure that they wish to pass.’

  ‘They know better than that. They don’t want to kill their golden goose.’

  ‘The people, who are infinitely ignorant of all political work, do want it. There are counties in which, if you were to poll the people, Home Rule would carry nearly every voter, – except the members themselves.’

  ‘You wouldn’t give it them?’

  ‘Certainly not; – any more than I would allow a son to ruin himself because he asked me. But I would endeavour to teach them that they can get nothing by Home Rule, – that their taxes would be heavier, their property less secure, their lives less safe, their general position more debased, and their chances of national success more remote than ever.’

  ‘You can never teach them, except by the slow lesson of habit. The Heptarchy29 didn’t mould itself into a nation in a day.’

  ‘Men were governed then, and could be and were moulded. I feel sure that even in Ireland there is a stratum of men, above the working peasants, who would understand, and make those below them understand, the position of the country, if they could only be got to give up fighting about religion. Even now Home Rule is regarded by the multitude as a weapon to be used against Protestantism on behalf of the Pope.’

  ‘I suppose the Pope is the great sinner?’

  ‘They got over the Pope in France, – even in early days, before religion had become a farce in the country. They have done so in Italy.’30

  ‘Yes; – they’ve got over the Pope in Italy certainly.’

  ‘And yet,’ said Phineas, ‘the bulk of the people are staunch Catholics. Of course the same attempt to maintain a temporal influence, with the hope of recovering temporal power, is made in other countries. But while we see the attempt failing elsewhere, – so that we know that the power of the Church is going to the wall, – yet in Ireland it is infinitely stronger now than it was fifty, or even twenty years ago.’

  ‘Because we have been removing restraints on Papal aggression,31 while other nations have been imposing restraints. There are those at Rome who believe all England to be Romish at heart, because here in England a Roman Catholic can say what he will, and print what he will.’

  ‘And yet,’ said Phineas, ‘all England does not return one Catholic to the House, while we have Jews in plenty. You have a Jew among your English judges, but at present not a single Roman Catholic. What do you suppose are the comparative numbers of the population here in England?’

  ‘And you are going to cure all this; – while Tyrone thinks it ought to be left as it is? I rather agree with Tyrone.’

  ‘No,’ said Phineas wearily; ‘I doubt whether I shall ever cure anything, or even make any real attempt. My patriotism just goes far enough to make me unhappy, and Lord Tyrone thinks that while Dublin ladies dance at the Castle, and the list of agrarian murders is kept low, the country is admirably managed. I don’t quite agree with him; – that’s all.’

  Then there arose a legal difficulty, which caused much trouble to the Coalition Ministry. There fell vacant a certain seat on the bench of judges, – a seat of considerable dignity and importance, but not quite of the highest rank. Sir Gregory Grogram, who was a rich, energetic man, determined to have a peerage, and convinced that, should the Coalition fall to pieces, the Liberal element would be in the ascendant, – so that the woolsack would then be opened to him, – declined to occupy the place. Sir Timothy Beeswax, the Solicitor-General, saw that it was exactly suited for him, and had no hesitation in expressing his opinion to that effect. But the place was not given to Sir Timothy. It was explained to Sir Timothy that the old rule, – or rather custom, – of offering certain high positions to the law officers of the Crown had been abrogated. Some Prime Minister, or, more probably, some collection of Cabinet Ministers, had asserted the custom to be a bad one, – and, as far as right went, Sir Timothy was declared not to have a leg to stand upon. He was informed that his services in the House were too valuable to be so lost. Some people said that his temper was against him. Others were of opinion that he had risen from the ranks too quickly, and that Lord Ramsden, who had come from the same party, thought that Sir Timothy had not yet won his spurs. The Solicitor-General resigned in a huff, and then withdrew his resignation. Sir Gregory thought the withdrawal should not be accepted, having found Sir Timothy to be an unsympathetic colleague. Our Duke consulted the old Duke, among whose theories of official life forbearance to all colleagues and subordinates was conspicuous. The withdrawal was, therefore, allowed, – but the Coalition could not after that be said to be strong in regard to its Law Officers.

  But the first concerted attack against the Ministry was made in reference to the budget. Mr Monk, who had consented to undertake the duties of Chancellor of the Exchequer under the urgent entreaties of the two dukes, was of course late with his budget. It was April before the Coalition had been formed. The budget when produced had been very popular. Budgets, like babies, are always little loves when first born. But as their infancy passes away, they also become subject to many stripes. The details are less pleasing than was the whole in the hands of the nurse. There was a certain ‘interest’, very influential both by general wealth and by the presence of many members in the House, which thought that Mr Monk had disregarded its just claims. Mr Monk had refused to relieve the Brewers from their licences. Now the Brewers had for some years been agitating about their licences, – and it is acknowledged in politics that any measure is to be carried, or to be left out in the cold unearned and neglected, according to the number of deputations which may be got to press a Minister on the subject Now the Brewers had had deputation after deputation to many Chancellors of the Exchequer; and these deputations had been most respectable, – we may almost say imperative. It was quite usual for a deputation to have four or five County members among its body, all Brewers; and the average wealth of a deputation of Brewers would buy up half London. All the Brewers in the House had been among the supporters of the Coalition, the number of Liberal and Conservative
brewers having been about equal. But now there was a fear that the ‘interest’ might put itself into opposition. Mr Monk had been firm. More than one of the Ministry had wished to yield; – but he had discussed the matter with his Chief, and they were both very firm. The Duke had never doubted. Mr Monk had never doubted. From day to day certain organs of the Press expressed an opinion, gradually increasing in strength, that however strong might be the Coalition as a body, it was weak as to finance. This was hard, because not very many years ago the Duke himself had been known as a particularly strong Minister of Finance. An amendment was moved in Committee as to the Brewers’ Licences, and there was almost a general opinion that the Coalition would be broken up. Mr Monk would certainly not remain in office if the Brewers were to be relieved from their licences.

  Then it was that Phineas Finn was recalled from Ireland in red-hot haste. The measure was debated for a couple of nights, and Mr Monk carried his point The Brewers’ Licences were allowed to remain, as one great gentleman from Burton declared, a ‘disgrace to the fiscal sagacity of the country’. The Coalition was so far victorious; – but there arose a general feeling that its strength had been impaired.

  CHAPTER 13

  Mr Wharton Complains

  ‘I think you have betrayed me.’ This accusation was brought by Mr Wharton against Mrs Roby in that lady’s drawing-room, and was occasioned by a report that had been made to the old lawyer by his daughter. He was very angry and almost violent; – so much so that by his manner he gave a considerable advantage to the lady whom he was accusing.

  Mrs Roby undoubtedly had betrayed her brother-in-law. She had been false to the trust reposed in her. He had explained his wishes to her in regard to his daughter, to whom she had in some sort assumed to stand in place of a mother, and she, while pretending to act in accordance with his wishes, had directly opposed them. But it was not likely that he would be able to prove her treachery though he might be sure of it. He had desired that his girl should see as little as possible of Ferdinand Lopez, but had hesitated to give a positive order that she should not meet him. He had indeed himself taken her to a dinner party at which he knew that she would meet him. But Mrs Roby had betrayed him. Since the dinner party she had arranged a meeting at her own house on behalf of the lover, – as to which arrangement Emily Wharton had herself been altogether innocent. Emily had met the man in her aunt’s house, not expecting to meet him, and the lover had had an opportunity of speaking his mind freely. She also had spoken hers freely. She would not engage herself to him without her father’s consent. With that consent she would do so, – oh, so willingly! She did not coy her love.32 He might be certain that she would give herself to no one else. Her heart was entirely his. But she had pledged herself to her father, and on no consideration would she break that pledge. She went on to say that after what had passed she thought that they had better not meet. In such meetings there could be no satisfaction, and must be much pain. But he had her full permission to use any arguments that he could use with her father. On the evening of that day she told her father all that had passed, – omitting no detail either of what she had said or of what had been said to her – adding a positive assurance of obedience, but doing so with a severe solemnity and apparent consciousness of ill-usage which almost broke her father’s heart. ‘Your aunt must have had him there on purpose,’ Mr Wharton had said. But Emily would neither accuse nor defend her aunt. ‘I at least knew nothing of it,’ she said. ‘I know that,’ Mr Wharton had ejaculated. ‘I know that I don’t accuse you of anything, my dear, – except of thinking that you understand the world better than I do.’ Then Emily had retired and Mr Wharton had been left to pass half the night in a perplexed reverie, feeling that he would be forced ultimately to give way, and yet certain that by doing so he would endanger his child’s happiness.

  He was very angry with his sister-in-law, and on the next day, early in the morning, he attacked her. ‘I think you have betrayed me,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean by that, Mr Wharton?’

  ‘You have had this man here on purpose that he might make love to Emily.’

  ‘I have done no such thing. You told me yourself that they were not to be kept apart. He comes here, and it would be very odd indeed if I were to tell the servants that he is not to be admitted. If you want to quarrel with me, of course you can. I have always endeavoured to be a good friend to Emily.’

  ‘It is not being a good friend to her, bringing her and this adventurer together.’

  ‘I don’t know why you call him an adventurer. But you are so very odd in your ideas! He is received everywhere, and is always at the Duchess of Omnium’s.’

  ‘I don’t care a fig about the Duchess.’

  ‘I dare say not Only the Duke happens to be Prime Minister, and his house is considered to have the very best society that England, or indeed Europe, can give. And I think it is something in a young man’s favour when it is known that he associates with such persons as the Duke of Omnium. I believe that most fathers would have a regard to the company which a man keeps when they think of their daughter’s marrying.’

  ‘I ain’t thinking of her marrying. I don’t want her to marry; – not this man at least. And I fancy the Duchess of Omnium is just as likely to have scamps in her drawing-room as any other lady in London.’

  ‘And do such men as Mr Happerton associate with scamps?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about Mr Happerton, – and I don’t care anything about him.’

  ‘He has £20,000 a year out of his business. And does Everett associate with scamps?’

  ‘Very likely.’

  ‘I never knew anyone so much prejudiced as you are, Mr Wharton. When you have a point to carry there’s nothing you won’t say. I suppose it comes from being in the courts.’

  ‘The long and the short of it is this,’ said the lawyer; ‘if I find that Emily is brought here to meet Mr Lopez, I must forbid her to come at all.’

  ‘You must do as you please about that. But to tell you the truth, Mr Wharton, I think the mischief is done. Such a girl as Emily, when she has taken it into her head to love a man, is not likely to give him up.’

  ‘She has promised to have nothing to say to him without my sanction.’

  ‘We all know what that means. You’ll have to give way. You’ll find that it will be so. The stern parent who dooms his daughter to perpetual seclusion because she won’t marry the man he likes, doesn’t belong to this age.’

  ‘Who talks about seclusion?’

  ‘Do you suppose that she’ll give up the man she loves because you don’t like him? Is that the way girls live nowadays? She won’t run away with him, because she’s not one of that sort; but unless you’re harder-hearted than I take you to be, she’ll make your life a burden to you. And as for betraying you, that’s nonsense. You’ve no right to say it. I’m not going to quarrel with you whatever you may say, but you’ve no right to say it’

  Mr Wharton as he went away to Lincoln’s Inn, bewailed himself because he knew that he was not hard-hearted. What his sister-in-law had said to him in that respect was true enough. If he could only rid himself of a certain internal ague which made him feel that his life was, indeed, a burden to him while his daughter was unhappy, he need only remain passive and simply not give the permission without which his daughter would not ever engage herself to this man. But the ague troubled every hour of his present life. That sister-in-law of his was a silly, vulgar, worldly, and most untrustworthy woman; – but she had understood what she was saying.

  And there had been something in that argument about the Duchess of Omnium’s parties, and Mr Happerton, which had its effect. If the man did live with the great and wealthy, it must be because they thought well of him and of his position. The fact of his being a ‘nasty foreigner’, and probably of Jewish descent, remained. To him, Wharton, the man must always be distasteful. But he could hardly maintain his opposition to one of whom the choice spirits of the world thought well. And he tried to be f
air on the subject. It might be that it was a prejudice. Others probably did not find a man to be odious because he was of foreign extraction and known by a foreign name. Others would not suspect a man of being of Jewish blood because he was swarthy, or even object to him if he were a Jew by descent But it was wonderful to him that his girl should like such a man, – should like such a man well enough to choose him as the one companion of her life. She had been brought up to prefer English men, and English thinking, and English ways, – and English ways, too, somewhat of a past time. He thought as did Brabantio, that it could not be that without magic his daughter who had shunned –

  The wealthy curled darlings of our nation,

  Would ever have, to incur a general mock,

  Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom

  Of such a thing as –33

  this distasteful Portuguese.

  That evening he said nothing further to his daughter, but sat with her, silent and disconsolate. Later in the evening, after she had gone to her room, Everett came in while the old man was still walking up and down the drawing-room. ‘Where have you been,’ asked the father, – not caring a straw as to any reply when he asked the question, but roused almost to anger by the answer when it came.