THE PRIME MINISTER

by DAVID SKILTON

  The house was full to the very corners of the galleries. Of course it was known to everybody that the question was to be asked and to be answered. There were some who thought that the matter was so serious that the Prime Minister could not get over it. Others had heard in the clubs that Lady Glen, as the Duchess was still called, was to be made the scapegoat. Men of all classes were open-mouthed in their denunciation of the meanness of Lopez, – though no one but Mr Wharton knew half his villainy, as he alone knew that the expenses had been paid twice over. In one corner of the reporter’s gallery sat Mr Slide, pencil in hand, prepared to revert to his old work on so momentous an occasion. It was a great day for him. He by his own unassisted energy had brought a Prime Minister to book, and had created all this turmoil. It might be his happy lot to be the means of turning that Prime Minister out of office. It was he who had watched over the nation! The Duchess had been most anxious to be present, – but had not ventured to come without asking her husband’s leave, which he had most peremptorily refused to give. ‘I cannot understand, Glencora, how you can suggest such a thing,’ he had said.

  ‘You make so much of everything,’ she had replied petulantly; but she had remained at home. The ladies’ gallery was, however, quite full. Mrs Finn was there, of course, anxious not only for her friend, but eager to hear how her husband would acquit himself in his task. The wives and daughters of all the ministers were there, – excepting the wife of the Prime Minister. There never had been, in the memory of them all, a matter that was so interesting to them for it was the only matter they remembered in which a woman’s conduct might probably be called in question in the House of Commons. And the seats appropriated to peers were so crammed that above a dozen greyheaded old lords were standing in the passage which divides them from the common strangers. After all it was not, in truth, much of an affair. A very little man indeed had calumniated the conduct of a minister of the Crown, till it had been thought well that the minister should defend himself No one really believed that the Duke had committed any great offence. At the worst it was no more than indiscretion, which was noticeable only because a Prime Minister should never be indiscreet. Had the taxation of the whole country for the next year been in dispute there would have been no such interest felt Had the welfare of the Indian Empire occupied the House, the House would have been empty. But the hope that a certain woman’s name would have to be mentioned, crammed it from the floor to the ceiling.

  The reader need not be told that that name was not mentioned. Our old friend Phineas, on rising to his legs, first apologized for doing so in place of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. But perhaps the House would accept a statement from him, as the noble Duke at the head of the Government had asked him to make it. Then he made his statement. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘no falser accusation than this had ever been brought forward against a minister of the Crown, for it specially charged his noble friend with resorting to the employment of unconstitutional practices to bolster up his parliamentary support, whereas it was known by everybody that there would have been no matter for accusation at all had not the Duke of his own motion abandoned a recognized privilege, because, in his opinion, the exercise of that privilege was opposed to the spirit of the Constitution. Had the noble Duke simply nominated a candidate, as candidates had been nominated at Silverbridge for centuries past, that candidate would have been returned with absolute certainty, and there would have been no word spoken on the subject. It was not, perhaps, for him, who had the honour of serving under his Grace, and who, as being a part of his Grace’s Government, was for the time one with his Grace, to expatiate at length on the nobility of the sacrifice here made. But they all knew there at what rate was valued a seat in that House. Thank God that privilege could not now be rated at any money price. It could not be bought and sold. But this privilege which his noble friend had so magnanimously resigned from purely patriotic motives, was, he believed, still in existence, and he would ask those few who were still in the happy, or, perhaps, he had better say in the envied, position of being able to send their friends to that House, what was their estimation of the conduct of the Duke in this matter? It might be that there were one or two such present, and who now heard him, – or, perhaps, one or two who owed their seats to the exercise of such a privilege. They might marvel at the magnitude of the surrender. They might even question the sagacity of the man who could abandon so much without a price. But he hardly thought that even they would regard it as unconstitutional.

  ‘This was what the Prime Minister had done, – acting not as Prime Minister, but as an English nobleman, in the management of his own property and privileges. And now he would come to the gist of the accusation made; in making which, the thing which the Duke had really done had been altogether ignored. When the vacancy had been declared by the acceptance of the Chiltern Hundreds by a gentleman whose absence from the House they all regretted, the Duke had signified to his agents his intention of retiring altogether from the exercise of any privilege or power in the matter. But the Duke was then, as he was also now, and would, it was to be hoped, long continue to be, Prime Minister of England. He need hardly remind gentlemen in that House that the Prime Minister was not in a position to devote his undivided time to the management of his own property, or even to the interests of the Borough of Silver-bridge. That his Grace had been earnest in his instructions to his agents, the sequel fully proved; but that earnestness his agents had misinterpreted.’

  Then there was heard a voice in the House, ‘What agents?’ and from another voice, ‘Name them.’ For there were present some who thought it to be shameful that the excitement of the occasion should be lowered by keeping back all allusion to the Duchess.

  ‘I have not distinguished,’ said Phineas, assuming an indignant tone, ‘the honourable gentlemen from whom those questions have come, and therefore I have the less compunction in telling them that it is no part of my duty on this occasion to gratify a morbid and an indecent curiosity.’ Then there was a cry of ‘Order’, and an appeal to the Speaker. Certain gentlemen wished to know whether indecent was parliamentary. The Speaker, with some hesitation, expressed his opinion that the word, as then used, was not open to objection from him. He thought that it was within the scope of a member’s rights to charge another member with indecent curiosity. ‘If,’ said Phineas, rising again to his legs, for he had sat down for a moment, ‘the gentleman who called for a name will rise in his place and repeat the demand, I will recall the word indecent and substitute another, – or others. I will tell him that he is one who, regardless of the real conduct of the Prime Minister, either as a man or as a servant of the Crown, is only anxious to inflict an unmanly wound in order that he may be gratified by seeing the pain which he inflicts.’ Then he paused, but as no further question was asked, he continued his statement. ‘A candidate had been brought forward,’ he said, ‘by those interested in the Duke’s affairs. A man whom he would not name, but who, he trusted, would never succeed in his ambition to occupy a seat in that House, had been brought forward, and certain tradesmen in Silverbridge had been asked to support him as the Duke’s nominee. There was no doubt about it The House perhaps could understand that the local adherents and neighbours of a man so high in rank and wealth as the Duke of Omnium would not gladly see the privileges of their lord diminished. Perhaps, too, it occurred to them that a Prime Minister could not have his eye everywhere. There would always be worthy men in boroughs who liked to exercise some secpnd-hand authority. At any rate it was the case that this candidate was encouraged. Then the Duke had heard it, and had put his foot upon the little mutiny, and had stamped it out at once. He might perhaps here,’ he said, ‘congratulate the House on the acquisition it had received by the failure of that candidate. So far, at any rate,’ he thought, ‘it must be admitted that the Duke had been free from blame; – but now he came to the gravamen of the charge.’ The gravamen of the charge is so well known to the reader that the simple account which Phineas gave of it need not be repeated. The Duke
had paid the money, when asked for it, because he felt that the man had been injured by incorrect representations made to him. ‘I need hardly pause to stigmatize the meanness of that application,’ said Phineas, ‘but I may perhaps conclude by saying that whether the last act done by the Duke in this matter was or was not indiscreet, I shall probably have the House with me when I say that it savours much more strongly of nobility than of indiscretion.’

  When Phineas Finn sat down no one arose to say another word on the subject. It was afterwards felt that it would only have been graceful had Sir Orlando risen and expressed his opinion that the House had heard the statement just made with perfect satisfaction. But he did not do so, and after a short pause the ordinary business of the day was recommenced. Then there was a speedy descent from the galleries, and the ladies trooped out of their cage, and the greyheaded old peers went back to their own chamber, and the members themselves quickly jostled out through the doors, and Mr Monk was left to explain his proposed alteration in the dog tax to a thin House of seventy or eighty members.

  The thing was then over, and people were astonished that so great a thing should be over with so little fuss. It really seemed that after Phineas Finn’s speech there was nothing more to be said on the matter. Everybody of course knew that the Duchess had been the chief of the agents to whom he had alluded, but they had known as much as that before. It was, however, felt by everybody that the matter had been brought to an end. The game, such as it was, had been played out. Perhaps the only person who heard Mr Finn’s speech throughout, and still hoped that the spark could be again fanned into a flame, was Quintus Slide. He went out and wrote another article about the Duchess. If a man was so unable to rule his affairs at home, he was certainly unfit to be Prime Minister. But even Quintus Slide, as he wrote his article, felt that he was hoping against hope. The charge might be referred to hereafter as one that had never been satisfactorily cleared up. That game is always open to the opponents of a minister. After the lapse of a few months an old accusation can be serviceably used, whether at the time it was proved or disproved. Mr Slide published his article, but he felt that for the present the Silverbridge election papers had better be put by among the properties of the People’s Banner, and brought out, if necessary, for further use at some future time.

  ‘Mr Finn,’ said the Duke, ‘I feel indebted to you for the trouble you have taken.’

  ‘It was only a pleasant duty.’

  ‘I am grateful to you for the manner in which it was performed.’ This was all the Duke said, and Phineas felt it to be cold. The Duke, in truth, was grateful; but gratitude with him always failed to exhibit itself readily. From the world at large Phineas Finn received great praise for the manner in which he had performed his task.

  CHAPTER 58

  ‘Quite settled’

  The abuse which was now publicly heaped on the name of Ferdinand Lopez hit the man very hard; but not so hard perhaps as his rejection by Lady Eustace. That was an episode in his life of which even he felt ashamed, and of which he was unable to shake the disgrace from his memory. He had no inner appreciation whatsoever of what was really good or what was really had in a man’s conduct He did not know that he had done evil in applying to the Duke for the money. He had only meant to attack the Duke; and when the money had come it had been regarded as justifiable prey. And when after receiving the Duke’s money, he had kept also Mr Wharton’s money, he had justified himself again by reminding himself that Mr Wharton certainly owed him much more than that. In a sense he was what is called a gentleman. He knew how to speak, and how to look, how to use a knife and fork, how to dress himself, and how to walk. But he had not the faintest notion of the feelings of a gentleman. He had, however, a very keen conception of the evil of being generally ill spoken of. Even now, though he was making up his mind to leave England for a long term of years, he understood the disadvantage of leaving it under so heavy a cloud; – and he understood also that the cloud might possibly impede his going altogether. Even in Coleman Street they were looking black upon him, and Mr Hartlepod went so far as to say to Lopez himself, that, ‘by Jove he had put his foot in it’. He had endeavoured to be courageous under his burden, and every day walked into the offices of the Mining Company, endeavouring to look as though he had committed no fault of which he had to be ashamed. But after the second day he found that nothing was said to him of the affairs of the Company, and on the fourth day Mr Hartlepod informed him that the time allowed for paying up his shares had passed by, and that another local manager would be appointed. ‘The time is not over till to-morrow,’ said Lopez angrily. ‘I tell you what I am told to tell you,’ said Mr Hartlepod. ‘You will only waste your time by coming here any more.’

  He had not once seen Mr Wharton since the statement made in Parliament, although he had lived in the same house with him. Everett Wharton had come home, and they two had met; – but the meeting had been stormy. ‘It seems to me, Lopez, that you are a scoundrel,’ Everett said to him one day, after having heard the whole story, – or rather many stories, – from his father. This took place not in Manchester Square, but at the club, where Everett had endeavoured to cut his brother-in-law. It need hardly be said that at this time Lopez was not popular at his club. On the next day a meeting of the whole club was to be held that the propriety of expelling him might be discussed. But he had resolved that he would not be cowed, that he would still show himself, and still defend his conduct. He did not know, however, that Everett Wharton had already made known to the Committee of the club all the facts of the double payment

  He had addressed Everett in that solicitude to which a man should never be reduced of seeking to be recognized by at any rate one acquaintance, – and now his brother-in-law had called him a scoundrel in the presence of other men. He raised his arm as though to use the cane in his hand, but he was cowed by the feeling that all there were his adversaries. ‘How dare you use that language to me!’ he said very weakly.

  ‘It is the language that I must use if you speak to me.’

  ‘I am your brother-in-law, and that restrains me.’

  ‘Unfortunately you are.’

  ‘And am living in your father’s house.’

  ‘That, again, is a misfortune which it appears difficult to remedy. You have been told to go, and you won’t go.’

  ‘Your ingratitude, sir, is marvellous! Who saved your life when you were attacked in the park, and were too drunk to take care of yourself? Who has stood your friend with your close-fisted old father when you have lost money at play that you could not pay? But you are one of those who would turn away from any benefactor in his misfortune.’

  ‘I must certainly turn away from a man who has disgraced himself as you have done,’ said Everett, leaving the room. Lopez threw himself into an easy-chair, and rang the bell loudly for a cup of coffee, and lit a cigar. He had not been turned out of the club as yet, and the servant at any rate was bound to attend to him.

  That night he waited up for his father-in-law in Manchester Square. He would certainly go to Guatemala now, – if it were not too late. He would go though he were forced to leave his wife behind him, and thus surrender any further hope for money from Mr Wharton beyond the sum which he would receive as the price of his banishment It was true that the fortnight allowed to him by the Company was only at an end that day, and that, therefore, the following morning might be taken as the last day named for the payment of the money. No doubt, also, Mr Wharton’s bill at a few days’ date would be accepted if that gentleman could not at the moment give a cheque for so large a sum as was required. And the appointment had been distinctly promised to him with no other stipulation than that the money required for the shares should be paid. He did not believe in Mr Hartlepod’s threat. It was impossible, he thought, that he should be treated in so infamous a manner merely because he had had his election expenses repaid him by the Duke of Omnium! He would, therefore, ask for the money, and – renounce the society of his wife.

  As he made
this resolve something like real love returned to his heart, and he became for a while sick with regret. He assured himself that he had loved her, and that he could love her still; – but why had she not been true to him? Why had she clung to her father instead of clinging to her husband? Why had she not learned his ways, – as a wife is bound to learn the ways of the man she marries? Why had she not helped him in his devices, fallen into his plans, been regardful of his fortunes, and made herself one with him? There had been present to him at times an idea that if he could take her away with him to that distant country to which he thought to go, and thus remove her from the upas influence of her father’s roof-tree,18 she would then fall into his views and become his wife indeed. Then he would again be tender to her, again love her, again endeavour to make the world soft to her. But it was too late now for that. He had failed in everything as far as England was concerned, and it was chiefly by her fault that he had failed. He would consent to leave her, – but, as he thought of it in his solitude, his eyes became moist with regret.

  In these days Mr Wharton never came home till about midnight, and then passed rapidly through the hall to his own room, – and in the morning had his breakfast brought to him in the same room, so that he might not even see his son-in-law. His daughter would go to him when at breakfast, and there, together for some half-hour, they would endeavour to look forward to their future fate. But hitherto they had never been able to look forward in accord, as she still persisted in declaring that if her husband bade her to go with him, – she would go. On this night Lopez sat up in the dining-room, and as soon as he heard Mr Wharton’s key in the door, he placed himself in the hall. ‘I wish to speak to you to-night, sir,’ he said. ‘Would you object to come in for a few moments?’ Then Mr Wharton followed him into the room. ‘As we live now,’ continued Lopez, ‘I have not much opportunity of speaking to you, even on business.’