THE PRIME MINISTER

by DAVID SKILTON

  ‘I have been dining with Lopez at the club.’

  ‘I believe you live with that man.’

  ‘Is there any reason, sir, why I should not?’

  ‘You know that there is good reason why there should be no peculiar intimacy. But I don’t suppose that my wishes, or your sister’s welfare, will interest you.’

  ‘That is severe, sir.’

  ‘I am not such a fool as to suppose that you are to quarrel with a man because I don’t approve his addressing your sister; but I do think that while this is going on, and while he perseveres in opposition to my distinct refusal, you need not associate with him in any special manner.’

  ‘I don’t understand your objection to him, sir.’

  ‘I dare say not. There are a great many things you don’t understand. But I do object.’

  ‘He’s a very rising man. Mr Roby was saying to me just now –’

  ‘Who cares a straw what a fool like Roby says?’

  ‘I don’t mean Uncle Dick, but his brother, – who, I suppose, is somebody in the world. He was saying to me just now that he wondered why Lopez does not go into the House; – that he would be sure to get a seat if he chose, and safe to make a mark when he got there.’

  ‘I dare say he could get into the House. I don’t know any well-to-do blackguard of whom you might not predict as much. A seat in the House of Commons doesn’t make a man a gentleman, as far as I can see.’

  ‘I think everyone allows that Ferdinand Lopez is a gentleman.’

  ‘Who was his father?’

  ‘I didn’t happen to know him, sir.’

  ‘And who was his mother? I don’t suppose you will credit anything because I say it, but as far as my experience goes, a man doesn’t often become a gentleman in the first generation. A man may be very worthy, very clever, very rich, – very well worth knowing, if you will; – but when one talks of admitting a man into close family communion by marriage, one would, I fancy, wish to know something of his father and mother.’ Then Everett escaped, and Mr Wharton was again left to his own meditations. Oh, what a peril, what a trouble, what a labyrinth of difficulties was a daughter! He must either be known as a stern, hard-hearted parent, utterly indifferent to his child’s feelings, using with tyranny the power over her which came to him only from her sense of filial duty, – or else he must give up his own judgment, and yield to her in a matter as to which he believed that such yielding would be most pernicious to her own interests.

  Hitherto he really knew nothing of the man’s means; – nor, if he could have his own way, did he want such information. But, as things were going now, he began to feel that if he could hear anything averse to the man he might thus strengthen his hands against him. On the following day he went into the city, and called on an old friend, a banker, – one whom he had known for nearly half a century, and of whom, therefore, he was not afraid to ask a question. For Mr Wharton was a man not prone, in the ordinary intercourse of life, either to ask or to answer questions. ‘You don’t know anything, do you, of a man named Ferdinand Lopez?’

  ‘I have heard of him. But why do you ask?’

  ‘Well; I have a reason for asking. I don’t know that I quite wish to say what my reason is.’

  ‘I have heard of him as connected with Hunky’s house,’ said the banker, – ‘or rather with one of the partners in the house.’

  ‘Is he a man of means?’

  ‘I imagine him to be so; – but I know nothing. He has rather large dealings, I take it, in foreign stocks. Is he after my old friend, Miss Wharton?’

  ‘Well; – yes.’

  ‘You had better get more information than I can give you. But, of course, before anything of that kind was done you would see that money was settled.’ This was all he heard in the city, and this was not satisfactory. He had not liked to tell his friend that he wished to hear that the foreigner was a needy adventurer, – altogether untrustworthy; but that had really been his desire. Then he thought of the £60,000 which he himself destined for his girl. If the man were to his liking there would be money enough. Though he had been careful to save money, he was not a greedy man, even for his children. Should his daughter insist on marrying this man, he could take care that she should never want a sufficient income.

  As a first step, – a thing to be done almost at once, – he must take her away from London. It was now July, and the custom of the family was that the house in Manchester Square should be left for two months, and that the flitting should take place about the middle of August Mr Wharton usually liked to postpone the flitting, as he also liked to hasten the return. But now it was a question whether he had not better start at once, – start somewhither, and probably for a much longer period than the usual vacation. Should he take the bull by the horns, and declare his purpose of living for the next twelvemonth at—; well, it did not much matter where; Dresden, he thought, was a long way off, and would do as well as any place. Then it occurred to him that his cousin, Sir Alured was in town, and that he had better see his cousin before he came to any decision. They were, as usual, expected at Wharton Hall this autumn, and that arrangement could not be abandoned without explanation.

  Sir Alured Wharton was a baronet, with a handsome old family place on the Wye, in Herefordshire, whose forefathers had been baronets since baronets were first created,34 and whose earlier forefathers had lived at Wharton Hall much before that time. It may be imagined, therefore, that Sir Alured was proud of his name, of his estate, and of his rank. But there were drawbacks to his happiness. As regarded his name, it was to descend to a nephew whom he specially disliked, – and with good cause. As to his estate, delightful as it was in many respects, it was hardly sufficient to maintain his position with that plentiful hospitality which he would have loved; – and other property he had none. And as to his rank, he had almost become ashamed of it, since, – as he was wont to declare was now the case, – every prosperous tallow-chandler throughout the country was made a baronet as a matter of course. So he lived at home through the year with his wife and daughters, not pretending to the luxury of a season in London for which his modest three or four thousand a year did not suffice; – and so living, apart from all the friction of clubs, parliaments, and mixed society, he did veritably believe that his dear country was going utterly to the dogs. He was so staunch in politics, that during the doings of the last quarter of a century, – from the repeal of the Corn Laws down to the Ballot,35 – he had honestly declared one side to be as bad as the other. Thus he felt that all his happiness was to be drawn from the past. There was nothing of joy or glory to which he could look forward either on behalf of his country or his family. His nephew, – and alas, his heir, – was a needy spendthrift, with whom he would hold no communication. The family settlement for his wife and daughters would leave them but poorly off, and though he did struggle to save something, the duty of living as Sir Alured Wharton of Wharton Hall should live made those struggles very ineffective. He was a melancholy, proud, ignorant man, who could not endure a personal liberty, and who thought the assertion of social equality on the part of men of lower rank to amount to the taking of personal liberty; – who read little or nothing, and thought that he knew the history of his country because he was aware that Charles I had had his head cut off, and that the Georges had come from Hanover. If Charles I had never had his head cut off, and if the Georges had never come from Hanover, the Whartons would now probably be great people and Britain a great nation. But the Evil One had been allowed to prevail, and everything had gone astray, and Sir Alured now had nothing of this world to console him but a hazy retrospect of past glories, and a delight in the beauty of his own river, his own park, and his own house. Sir Alured, with all his foibles and with all his faults, was a pure-minded, simple gentleman, who could not tell a lie, who could not do a wrong, and who was earnest in his desire to make those who were dependent on him comfortable, and, if possible, happy. Once a year he came up to London for a week, to see his lawyers, and get measured for a
coat, and go to the dentist. These were the excuses which he gave, but it was fancied by some that his wig was the great moving cause. Sir Alured and Mr Wharton were second cousins, and close friends. Sir Alured trusted his cousin altogether in all things, believing him to be the great legal luminary of Great Britain, and Mr Wharton returned his cousin’s affection, entertaining something akin to reverence for the man who was the head of his family. He dearly loved Sir Alured, – and loved Sir Alured’s wife and two daughters. Nevertheless, the second week at Wharton Hall became always tedious to him, and the fourth, fifth, and sixth weeks frightful with ennui.

  Perhaps it was with some unconscious dread of this tedium that he made a sudden suggestion to Sir Alured in reference to Dresden. Sir Alured had come to him at his chambers, and the two old men were sitting together near the open window. Sir Alured delighted in the privilege of sitting there, which seemed to confer upon him something of an insight into the inner ways of London life beyond what he could get at his hotel or his wigmaker’s. ‘Go to Dresden; – for the winter!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Not only for the winter. We should go at once.’

  ‘Not before you come to Wharton!’ said the amazed baronet.

  Mr Wharton replied in a low, sad voice, ‘In that case we should not go down to Herefordshire at all.’ The baronet looked hurt as well as unhappy. ‘Yes, I know what you will say, and how kind you are.’

  ‘It isn’t kindness at all. You always come. It would be breaking up everything.’

  ‘Everything has to be broken up sooner or later. One feels that as one grows older.’

  ‘You and I, Abel, are just of an age. Why should you talk to me like this? You are strong enough, whatever I am. Why shouldn’t you come? Dresden! I never heard of such a thing. I suppose it’s some nonsense of Emily’s.’

  Then Mr Wharton told his whole story. ‘Nonsense of Emily’s!’ he began. ‘Yes, it is nonsense, – worse than you think. But she doesn’t want to go abroad.’ The father’s plaint needn’t be repeated to the reader as it was told to the baronet. Though it was necessary that he should explain himself, yet he tried to be reticent. Sir Alured listened in silence. He loved his cousin Emily, and, knowing that she would be rich, knowing her advantages of birth, and recognizing her beauty, had expected that she would make a match creditable to the Wharton family. But a Portuguese Jew! A man who had never been even known to allude to his own father! For by degrees Mr Wharton had been driven to confess all the sins of the lover, though he had endeavoured to conceal the extent of his daughter’s love.

  ‘Do you mean that Emily – favours him?’

  ‘I am afraid so.’

  ‘And would she, – would she – do anything without your sanction?’ He was always thinking of the disgrace attaching to himself by reason of his nephew’s vileness, and now, if a daughter of the family should also go astray, so as to be exiled from the bosom of the Whartons, how manifest would it be that all the glory was departing from their house!36

  ‘No! She will do nothing without my sanction. She has given her word, – which is gospel.’ As he spoke the old lawyer struck his hand upon the table.

  ‘Then why should you run away to Dresden?’

  ‘Because she is unhappy. She will not marry him, – or even see him, if I forbid it. But she is near him.’

  ‘Herefordshire is a long way off,’ said the baronet, pleading.

  ‘Change of scene is what she should have,’ said the father.

  ‘There can’t be more of a change than she’d get at Wharton. She always did like Wharton. It was there that she met Arthur Fletcher.’ The father only shook his head as Arthur Fletcher’s name was mentioned. ‘Well, – that is sad. I always thought she’d give way about Arthur at last’

  ‘It is impossible to understand a young woman,’ said the lawyer. With such an English gentleman as Arthur Fletcher on one side, and with his Portuguese Jew on the other, it was to him Hyperion to a Satyr.37 A darkness had fallen over his girl’s eyes, and for a time her power of judgment had left her.

  ‘But I don’t see why Wharton should not do just as well as Dresden,’ continued the baronet.

  Mr Wharton found himself quite unable to make his cousin understand that the greater disruption caused by a residence abroad, the feeling that a new kind of life had been considered necessary for her, and that she must submit to the new kind of life, might be gradually effective, while the journeyings and scenes which had been common to her year after year would have no effect. Nevertheless he gave way. They could hardly start to Germany at once, but the visit to Wharton might be accelerated; and the details of the residence abroad might be there arranged. It was fixed, therefore, that Mr Wharton and Emily should go down to Wharton Hall at any rate before the end of July.

  ‘Why do you go earlier than usual, papa?’ Emily asked him afterwards.

  ‘Because I think it best,’ he replied angrily. She ought at any rate to understand the reason.

  ‘Of course I shall be ready, papa. You know that I always like Wharton. There is no place on earth I like so much, and this year it will be especially pleasant to me to go out of town. But –’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I can’t bear to think that I shall be taking you away.’

  ‘I’ve got to bear worse things than that, my dear.’

  ‘Oh, papa, do not speak to me like that! Of course I know what you mean. There is no real reason for your going. If you wish it I will promise you that I will not see him.’ He only shook his head, – meaning to imply that a promise which could go no farther than that would not make him happy. ‘It will be just the same, papa, – either here, or at Wharton, or elsewhere. You need not be afraid of me.’

  ‘I am not afraid of you; – but I am afraid for you. I fear for your happiness, – and for my own.’

  ‘So do I, papa. But what can be done? I suppose sometimes people must be unhappy. I can’t change myself, and I can’t change you. I find myself to be as much bound to Mr Lopez as though I were his wife.’

  ‘No, no! you shouldn’t say so. You’ve no right to say so.’

  ‘But I have given you a promise, and I certainly will keep it. If we must be unhappy, still we need not, – need not quarrel; need we, papa?’ Then she came up to him and kissed him, – whereupon he went out of the room wiping his eyes.

  That evening he again spoke to her, saying merely a word. ‘I think, my dear, we’ll have it fixed that we go on the 30th. Sir Alured seemed to wish it.’

  ‘Very well, papa; – I shall be quite ready.’

  CHAPTER 14

  A Lover’s Perseverance

  Ferdinand Lopez learned immediately through Mrs Roby that the early departure for Herefordshire had been fixed. ‘I should go to him and speak to him very plainly,’ said Mrs Roby. ‘He can’t bite you.’

  ‘I’m not in the least afraid of his biting me.’

  ‘You can talk so well! I should tell him everything, especially about money, – which I’m sure is all right.’

  ‘Yes, – that is all right,’ said Lopez, smiling.

  ‘And about your people.’

  ‘Which, I’ve no doubt you think is all wrong.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it,’ said Mrs Roby, ‘and I don’t much care. He has old-world notions. At any rate you should say something, so that he should not be able to complain to her that you had kept him in the dark. If there is anything to be known, it’s much better to have it known.’

  ‘But there is nothing to be known.’

  ‘Then tell him nothing; – but still tell it to him. After that you must trust to her. I don’t suppose she’d go off with you.’

  ‘I’m sure she wouldn’t.’

  ‘But she’s as obstinate as a mule. She’ll get the better of him if you really mean it.’ He assured her that he really did mean it, and determined that he would take her advice as to seeing, or endeavouring to see, Mr Wharton once again. But before doing so he thought it to be expedient to put his house into order, so
that he might be able to make a statement of his affairs if asked to do so. Whether they were flourishing or the reverse, it might be necessary that he should have to speak of them, – with, at any rate, apparent candour.

  The reader may, perhaps, remember that in the month of April Ferdinand Lopez had managed to extract a certain signature from his unfortunate city friend, Sexty Parker, which made that gentleman responsible for the payment of a considerable sum of money before the end of July. The transaction had been one of an unmixed painful nature to Mr Parker. As soon as he came to think of it, after Lopez had left him, he could not prevail upon himself to forgive himself for his folly. That he, – he, Sextus Parker, – should have been induced by a few empty words to give his name for seven hundred and fifty pounds without any consideration or possibility of benefit! And the more he thought of it the more sure he was that the money was lost. The next day he confirmed his own fears, and before a week was gone he had written down the sum as gone. He told nobody. He did not like to confess his folly. But he made some inquiry about his friend, – which was absolutely futile. No one that he knew seemed to know anything of the man’s affairs. But he saw his friend from time to time in the city, shining as only successful men do shine, and he heard of him as one whose name was becoming known in the city. Still he suffered grievously. His money was surely gone. A man does not fly a kite38 in that fashion till things with him have reached a bad pass.

  So it was with Mr Parker all through May and to the end of June, – the load ever growing heavier and heavier as the time became nearer. Then, while he was still afflicted with a heaviness of spirits which had never left him since that fatal day, who but Ferdinand Lopez should walk into his office, wearing the gayest smile and with a hat splendid as hats are splendid only in the city. And nothing could be more ‘jolly’ than his friend’s manner, – so much so that Sexty was almost lifted up into temporary jollity himself. Lopez, seating himself, almost at once began to describe a certain speculation into which he was going rather deeply, and as to which he invited his friend Parker’s co-operation. He was intending, evidently, not to ask, but to confer a favour.