THE PRIME MINISTER

by DAVID SKILTON

  ‘Do you want to make me roll in the gutter because I mistook him for a gentleman?’

  ‘That was not all, – nor half. In your eagerness to serve such a miserable creature as this you forgot my entreaties, my commands, my position! I explained to you why I, of all men, and you, of all women, as a part of me, should not do this thing; and yet you did it, mistaking such a cur as that for a man! What am I to do? How am I to free myself from the impediments which you make for me? My enemies I can overcome, – but I cannot escape the pitfalls which are made for me by my own wife. I can only retire into private life and hope to console myself with my children and my books.’

  There was a reality of tragedy about him which for the moment overcame her. She had no joke ready, no sarcasm, no feminine counter-grumble. Little as she agreed with him when he spoke of the necessity of retiring into private life because a man had written to him such a letter as this, incapable as she was of understanding fully the nature of the irritation which tormented him, still she knew that he was suffering, and acknowledged to herself that she had been the cause of the agony. ‘I am sorry,’ she ejaculated at last. ‘What more can I say?’

  ‘What am I to do? What can be said to the man? Warburton read the letter, and gave it me in silence. He could see the terrible difficulty.’

  ‘Tear it in pieces, and then let there be an end of it’

  ‘I do not feel sure but that he has right on his side. He is, as you say, certainly a blackguard, or he would not make such a claim. He is taking advantage of the mistake made by a good-natured woman through her folly and her vanity;’ – as he said this the Duchess gave an absurd little pout, but luckily he did not see it, – ‘and he knows very well that he is doing so. But still he has a show of justice on his side. There was, I suppose, no chance for him at Silverbridge after I had made myself fully understood. The money was absolutely wasted. It was your persuasion and then your continued encouragement that led him on to spend the money.’

  ‘Pay it then. The loss will not hurt you.’

  ‘Ah; – if we could but get out of our difficulties by paying! Suppose that I do pay it I begin to think that I must pay it; – that after all I cannot allow such a plea to remain unanswered. But when it is paid; – what then? Do you think such a payment made by the Queen’s Minister will not be known to all the newspapers, and that I shall escape the charge of having bribed the man to hold his tongue?’

  ‘It will be no bribe if you pay him because you think you ought’

  ‘But how shall I excuse it? There are things done which are holy as the heavens, – which are clear before God as the light of the sun, which leave no stain on the conscience, and which yet the malignity of man can invest with the very blackness of hell! I shall know why I pay this £500. Because she who of all the world is the nearest and the dearest to me,’ – she looked up into his face with amazement, as he stood stretching out both his arms in his energy, – ‘has in her impetuous folly committed a grievous blunder, from which she would not allow her husband to save her, this sum must be paid to the wretched craven. But I cannot tell the world that I cannot say abroad that this small sacrifice of money was the justest means of retrieving the injury which you had done.’

  ‘Say it abroad. Say it everywhere.’

  ‘No, Glencora.’

  ‘Do you think that I would have you spare me if it was my fault? And how would it hurt me? Will it be new to anyone that I have done a foolish thing? Will the newspapers disturb my peace? I sometimes think, Plantagenet, that I should have been the man, my skin is so thick; and that you should have been the woman, yours is so tender.’

  ‘But it is not so.’

  ‘Take the advantage, nevertheless, of my toughness. Send him the £500 without a word, – or make Warburton do so, or Mr Moreton. Make no secret of it. Then if the papers talk about it –’

  ‘A question might be asked about it in the House.’

  ‘Or if questioned in any way, – say that I did it Tell the exact truth. You are always saying that nothing but truth ever serves. Let the truth serve now. I shall not blench. Your saying it all in the House of Lords won’t wound me half so much as your looking at me as you did just now.’

  ‘Did I wound you? God knows I would not hurt you willingly.’

  ‘Never mind. Go on. I know you think that I have brought it all on myself by my own wickedness. Pay this man the money, and then if anything be said about it, explain that it was my fault, and say that you paid the money because I had done wrong.’

  When he came in she had been seated on a sofa, which she constantly used herself, and he had stood over her, masterful, imperious, and almost tyrannical. She had felt his tyranny, but had resented it less than usual, – or rather had been less determined in holding her own against him and asserting herself as his equal, – because she confessed to herself that she had injured him. She had, she thought, done but little, but that which she had done had produced this injury. So she had sat and endured the oppression of his standing posture. But now he sat down by her, very close to her, and put his hand upon her shoulder, – almost round her waist.

  ‘Cora,’ he said, ‘you do not quite understand it’

  ‘I never understand anything, I think,’ she answered.

  ‘Not in this case, – perhaps never, – what it is that a husband feels about his wife. Do you think that I could say a word against you, even to a friend?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I never did. I never could. If my anger were at the hottest I would not confess to a human being that you were not perfect, – except to yourself.’

  ‘Oh, thank you! If you were to scold me vicariously I should feel it less.’

  ‘Do not joke with me now, for I am so much in earnest! And if I could not consent that your conduct should be called in question even by a friend, do you suppose it possible that I could contrive an escape from public censure by laying the blame publicly on you?’

  ‘Stick to the truth; – that’s what you always say.’

  ‘I certainly shall stick to the truth. A man and his wife are one. For what she does he is responsible.’

  ‘They couldn’t hang you, you know, because I committed a murder.’

  ‘I should be willing that they should do so. No; – if I pay this money I shall take the consequences. I shall not do it in any way under the rose. But I wish you would remember –’

  ‘Remember what? I know I shall never forget all this trouble about that dirty little town, which I never will enter again as long as I live.’

  ‘I wish you would think that in all that you do you are dealing with my feelings, with my heartstrings, with my reputation. You cannot divide yourself from me; nor, for the value of it all, would I wish that such division were possible. You say that I am thin-skinned.’

  ‘Certainly you are. What people call a delicate organization, – whereas I am rough and thick and monstrously commonplace.’

  ‘Then should you too be thin-skinned for my sake.’

  ‘I wish I could make you thick-skinned for your own. It’s the only way to be decently comfortable in such a coarse, rough-and-tumble world as this is.’

  ‘Let us both do our best,’ he said, now putting his arm round her and kissing her. ‘I think I shall send the man his money at once. It is the least of two evils. And now let there never be a word more about it between us.’

  Then he left her and went back, – not to the study in which he was wont, when at Matching, to work with his private Secretary, – but to a small inner closet of his own, in which many a bitter moment was spent while he thought over that abortive system of decimal coinage by which he had once hoped to make himself one of the great benefactors of his nation, revolving in his mind the troubles which his wife brought upon him, and regretting the golden inanity of the coronet which in the very prime of life had expelled him from the House of Commons. Here he seated himself, and for an hour neither stirred from his seat, nor touched a pen, nor opened a book. He was trying to cal
culate in his mind what might be the consequences of paying the money to Mr Lopez. But when the calculation slipped from him, – as it did, – then he demanded of himself whether strict high-minded justice did not call upon him to pay the money let the consequences be what they might And here his mind was truer to him, and he was able to fix himself to a purpose, – though the resolution to which he came was not, perhaps, wise.

  When the hour was over he went to his desk, drew a cheque for £500 in favour of Ferdinand Lopez, and then caused his Secretary to send it in the following note:

  Matching, August 4,187 –.

  SIR,

  The Duke of Omnium has read the letter you have addressed to him, dated the 3rd instant. The Duke of Omnium, feeling that you may have been induced to undertake the late contest at Silverbridge by misrepresentations made to you at Gatherum Castle, directs me to enclose a cheque for £500, that being the sum stated by you to have been expended in carrying on the contest at Silverbridge.

  I am, sir,

  Your obedient servant,

  ARTHUR WARBURTON.

  Ferdinand Lopez, Esq.

  CHAPTER 43

  Kauri Gum2

  The reader will no doubt think that Ferdinand Lopez must have been very hardly driven indeed by circumstances before he would have made such an appeal to the Duke as that given in the last chapter. But it was not want of money only that had brought it about. It may be remembered that the £500 had already been once repaid him by his father-in-law, – that special sum having been given to him for that special purpose. And Lopez, when he wrote to the Duke, assured himself that if, by any miracle, his letter should produce pecuniary results in the shape of a payment from the Duke, he would refund the money so obtained to Mr Wharton. But when he wrote the letter he did not expect to get money, – nor, indeed, did he expect that aid towards another seat, to which he alluded at the close of his letter. He expected probably nothing but to vex the Duke, and to drive the Duke into a correspondence with him.

  Though this man had lived nearly all his life in England, he had not quite acquired that knowledge of the way in which things are done which is so general among men of a certain class, and so rare among those beneath them. He had not understood that the Duchess’s promise of her assistance at Silverbridge might be taken by him for what it was worth, and that her aid might be used as far as it went, – but, that in the event of its failing him, he was bound in honour to take the result without complaining, whatever that result might be. He felt that a grievous injury had been done him, and that it behoved him to resent that injury, – even though it were against a woman. He just knew that he could not very well write to the Duchess herself, – though there was sometimes present to his mind a plan for attacking her in public, and telling her what evil she had done him. He had half resolved that he would do so in her own garden at The Horns; – but on that occasion the apparition of Arthur Fletcher had disturbed him, and he had vented his. anger in another direction. But still his wrath against the Duke and Duchess remained, and he was wont to indulge it with very violent language as he sat upon one of the chairs in Sexty Parker’s office, talking somewhat loudly of his own position, of the things that he would do, and of the injury done him. Sexty Parker sympathized with him to the full, – especially as that first £500, which he had received from Mr Wharton, had gone into Sexty’s coffers. At that time Lopez and Sexty were together committed to large speculations in the guano trade, and Sexty’s mind was by no means easy in the early periods of the day. As he went into town by his train he would think of his wife and family and of the terrible things that might happen to them. But yet, up to this period, money had always been forthcoming from Lopez when absolutely wanted, and Sexty was quite alive to the fact that he was living with a freedom of expenditure in his own household that he had never known before, and that without apparent damage. Whenever, therefore, at some critical moment, a much-needed sum of money was produced, Sexty would become light-hearted, triumphant, and very sympathetic. ‘Well; – I never heard such a story,’ he had said when Lopez was insisting on his wrongs. ‘That’s what the Dukes and Duchesses call honour among thieves! Well, Ferdy, my boy, if you stand that you’ll stand anything.’ In these latter days Sexty had become very intimate indeed with his partner.

  ‘I don’t mean to stand it,’ Lopez had replied, and then on the spot had written the letter which he had dated from Manchester Square. He had certainly contrived to make that letter as oppressive as possible. He had been clever enough to put into it words which were sure to wound the poor Duke and to confound the Duchess. And having written it he was very careful to keep the first draft, so that if occasion came he might use it again and push his vengeance farther. But he certainly had not expected such a result as it produced.

  When he received the private Secretary’s letter with the money he was sitting opposite to his father-in-law at breakfast, while his wife was making the tea. Not many of his letters came to Manchester Square. Sexty Parker’s office or his club were more convenient addresses; but in this case he had thought that Manchester Square would have a better sound and appearance. When he opened the letter the cheque of course appeared bearing the Duke’s own signature. He had seen that and the amount before he had read the letter, and as he saw it his eye travelled quickly across the table to his father-in-law’s face. Mr Wharton might certainly have seen the cheque and even the amount, probably also the signature, without the slightest suspicion as to the nature of the payment made. As it was, he was eating his toast, and had thought nothing about the letter. Lopez, having concealed the cheque, read the few words which the private Secretary had written, and then put the document with its contents into his pocket ‘So you think, sir, of going down to Herefordshire on the 15th,’ he said in a very cheery voice. The cheery voice was still pleasant to the old man, but the young wife had already come to distrust it. She had learned, though she was hardly conscious how the lesson had come to her, that a certain tone of cheeriness indicated, if not deceit, at any rate the concealment of something. It grated against her spirit; and when this tone reached her ears a frown or look of sorrow would cross her brow. And her husband also had perceived that it was so, and knew at such times that he was rebuked. He was hardly aware what doings, and especially what feelings, were imputed to him as faults, – not understanding the lines which separated right from wrong; but he knew that he was often condemned by his wife, and he lived in fear that he should also be condemned by his wife’s father. Had it been his wife only he thought that he could soon have quenched her condemnation. He would soon have made her tired of showing her disapproval. But he had put himself into the old man’s house, where the old man could see not only him but his treatment of his wife, and the old man’s good-will and good opinion were essential to him. Yet he could not restrain one glance of anger at her when he saw that look upon her face.

  ‘I suppose I shall,’ said the barrister. ‘I must go somewhere. My going need not disturb you.’

  ‘I think we have made up our mind,’ said Lopez, ‘to take a cottage at Dovercourt. It is not a very lively place, nor yet fashionable. But it is very healthy, and I can run up to town easily. Unfortunately my business won’t let me be altogether away this autumn.’

  ‘I wish my business would keep me,’ said the barrister.

  ‘I did not understand that you had made up your mind to go to Dovercourt,’ said Emily. He had spoken to Mr Wharton of their joint action in the matter, and as the place had only once been named by him to her, she resented what seemed to be a falsehood. She knew that she was to be taken or left as it suited him. If he had said boldly, – ‘We’ll go to Dovercourt. That’s what I’ve settled on. That’s what will suit me,’ she would have been contented. She quite understood that he meant to have his own way in such things. But it seemed to her that he wanted to be a tyrant without having the courage necessary for tyranny.

  ‘I thought you seemed to like it,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t dislike it at all’


  ‘Then, as it suits my business, we might as well consider it settled.’ So saying, he left the room and went off to the city. The old man was still sipping his tea and lingering over his breakfast in a way that was not usual with him. He was generally anxious to get away to Lincoln’s Inn, and on most mornings had left the house before his son-in-law. Emily of course remained with him, sitting silent in her place opposite to the teapot, meditating perhaps on her prospects of happiness at Dovercourt, – a place of which she had never heard even the name two days ago, and in which it was hardly possible that she should find even an acquaintance. In former years these autumn months, passed in Herefordshire, had been the delight of her life.

  Mr Wharton also had seen the cloud on his daughter’s face, and had understood the nature of the little dialogue about Dovercourt. And he was aware, – had been aware since they had both come into his house, – that the young wife’s manner and tone to her husband was not that of perfect conjugal sympathy. He had already said to himself more than once that she had made her bed for herself, and must lie upon it. She was the man’s wife, and must take her husband as he was. If she suffered under this man’s mode and manner of life, he, as her father, could not assist her, – could do nothing for her, unless the man should become absolutely cruel. He had settled that within his own mind already; – but yet his heart yearned towards her, and when he thought that she was unhappy he longed to comfort her and tell her that she still had a father. But the time had not come as yet in which he could comfort her by sympathizing with her against her husband. There had never fallen from her lips a syllable of complaint. When she had spoken to him a chance word respecting her husband, it had always carried with it some tone of affection. But still he longed to say to her something which might tell her that his heart was soft towards her. ‘Do you like the idea of going to this place?’ he said.