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THE PKIME MUSTISTEK.

THE PEIME MINISTER

ANTHONY TROLLOPE,

AUTHOR OF

"vicar of bullhampton,"

"sir harry hotspur,"

" doctor thorne,"

"orley farm,"

ETC.

NEW EDITION.

LONDON :
CHAPMAN & HALL, 193 PICCADILLY,

1878,

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

Price 2/- Picture Boards.

DOCTOR THORNE.

THE MACDERMOTS

RACHEL RAY,

THE KELLYS.

TALES OF ALL COUNTRIES.

CASTLE RICHMOND.

THE BERTRAMS.

MISS MACKENZIE.

THE BELTON ESTATE.

LOTTA SCHMIDT.

AN EDITOR'S TALES.

LA VENDEE.

LADY ANNA.

VICAR OF BULLHAMPTON

Price Half-a-Crown%

ORLEY FARM.

CAN YOU FORGIVE HER?

PHINEAS FINN.

HE KNEW HE WAS RIGHT.

RALPH THE HEIR,
EUSTACE DIAMONDS.
PHINEAS REDUX.
THE PRIME MINISTER.

The above can be had in sets o/sj vols., bound in cloth, price 70/-

LONDON : CHAPMAN & HALL, 193 PICCADILLY.

ER.h jALE
COLLEGE

LIBRARY

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

*a<j«

I. Ferdinand Lopez •,••••».

II. Everett Wharton . • • • <

UJ. Mr. Abel "Wharton, q.c. •

IV. Mrs. Roby

V. " No onb KNOWS anything about hix." .

VI. An old friend goes to Windsor . ,

VII. Anotheb old fuend •

, 39

VIII. The begdxning op a new career . ,

IX. Mrs. Dick's dinner party. — No. i.

X. Mrs. Dick's dinner party. — No. XL

XI. Carlton Terracb

XII. The gathering op clouds • •

. 75

XIII. Mr. Wharton complains . • •

, 80

XIV. A lover's perseverance . . •

, 89

XV. Arthur Fletcher • • • •

. 95

XVI. Never run away! . • • •

. 101

XVII. Good-bye

. 109

XVIII. The Duke of Omnium thinks of himsel

. 113

XIX. Vulgarity . . ■.' ■

. 121

XX. Sir Orlando's policy . . ••■; \ . ■ .

. 127

XXI. The Duchess's new swan • •

. 135

XXII. St. James's Park . . ;.'•'» . "

. 140

XXIII. Surrender . . . . •

. 151

XXIV. Thb Marriage . . ...

. 158

XXV. The beginndxg of the honeymoon .

. 163

XXVI. Thj end of thb honeymoon .

, 170

VI CONTENTS.

CHAWBa 9AQ*

XXVII. The Duke's misery . . . • • • • 175

XXVIII. The Duchess is much troubled • • • • 186

XXIX. The two candidates por Silverbridoe • • • 190

XXX. " Yes;— a lie!" 197

XXXI. "Yes; with a horsewhip in my hand." • • • 204

XXXII. "What business is it op yours?" • • • 210

XXXIII. Showing that a man should not howl . • • 217

XXXIV. The Silverbridoe election •••••• 222

XXXV. Lopez back in London ...... 233

XXXVI. The Jolly Blackbird . . • • • • 241

XXXVII. The Horns . , 246

XXXVIII. Sir Orlando retires » 254

XXXIX. " Get round him." 261

XL. "Come and try it." ..*•••• 266

XLI. The value op a thick skin 272

XLII. Retribution 277

XLIII. Kauri Gum 289

XLIV. Mr. Wharton intends to make a new will • . 295

XLV. Mrs. Sexty Parker ...*.•• 301

XL VI. "He wants to get rich too quick." . . • 307

XLVII. As for love! 314

XL VIII. "Has he ill-treated you?" 323

XLIX. Wherb is Guatemala? , 32S

L. Mr. Slide's revenge 334

LI. Coddling the Prime Minister 342

LII. "I CAN SLEEP HERE TO-NIGHT, I BUPPOSB." . • 350

LIII. Mr. Hartlepod 357

LIV. Lizzie . . . 364

LV. Mrs. Parker's sorrows 372

LVI. What the Dughess thought op her husband • 377

LVII. The explanation 38*

LVTII. "Quite settled." 391

LIX. The pirst and thb last •••••• 398

LX. The Tenway Junction 403

LXI. The widow and her priends 410

LXII. Phineas Finn has a book to read • • • .417

LXIII. The Duchess and her priend

LXIV. The new k.g 430

|LXV. There must bb timb ' . . • • • . • 437

LXVI. The end op the session 442

LXVII. Mrs. Lopez prepares to movb • • • 449
LXVIII. The Prime Minister's political creed . • .455

LXIX. Mrs. Parker's fate 463

LXX. At Wharton ♦ • . 468

G6ttffttffS,

Vll

CHAPrm

LXXI. The ladies at Longbarns doubt
LXXII. " He thinks that our days are numbered.'
LXXIII. Only the Duke of Omnium
LXXIV. " I am disgraced and shamed" .
LXXV. The great Wharton alliance .
LXXVI. Who will it bb?
LXXVIL The Duchess in Manchester Square
LXXVIII. The new Ministry ....
LXXIX. The Wharton wedding . . .
LXXX. The last meeting at Matching •

PAOB

476
481
492
500
509
516
522
527
534
542

THE PRIME MINISTER.

CHAPTEE I.

FERDINAND LOPEZ. *

It is certainly of service to a man to know who were his grand-
fathers and who were his grandmothers if he entertain an am-
bition to move in the upper circles of society, and also of service
to be able to speak of them as of persons who were themselves
somebodies in their time. No doubt we all entertain great respect
for those who by their own energies have raised themselves in the
world; and when we hear that the son of a washerwoman has
become Lord Chancellor or Archbishop of Canterbury we do,
theoretically and abstractedly, feel a higher reverence for such self-
made magnate than for one who has been as it were born into
forensic or ecclesiastical purple. But not the less must the off-
spring of the washerwoman have had very much trouble on the
subject of his birth, unless he has been, when young as well as
when old, a very great man indeed. After the goal has been
absolutely reached, and the honour and the titles and the wealth
actually won, a man may talk with some humour, even with some
affection, of the maternal tub; — but while the struggle is going
on, with the conviction strong upon the struggler that he cannot
be altogether successful unless he be esteemed a gentleman, not to
be ashamed, not to conceal the old family circumstances, not at
any rate to bo silent, is difficult. And the difficulty is certainly
not less if fortunate circumstances rather than hard work and
intrinsic merit have raised above his natural place an aspirant
to high social position. Can it be expected that such a one when
dining with a duchess shall speak of his father's small shop, or
bring into the light of day his grandfather's cobbler's awl ? And
yet it is so difficult to be altogether silent ! It may not be necessary
for any of us to be always talking of our own parentage. AVe may
be generally reticent as to our uncles and aunts, and may drop
even our brothers and sisters in our ordinary conversation. But
if a man never mentions his belongings among those with whom

2 tHE PEIME MINISTER.

he lives, he becomes mysterious, and almost open to suspicion, it
begins to be known that nobody knows anything of such a man,
and even friends become afraid. It is certainly convenient to be
able to allude, if it be but once in a year, to some blood relation.

Ferdinand Lopez, who in other respects had much in his circum-
stances on which to congratulate himself, suffered trouble in his
mind respecting his ancestors such as I have endeavoured to describe.
He did not know very much himself, but what little he did know
he kept altogether to himself. He had no father or mother, no
uncle, aunt, brother or sister, no cousin even whom he could men-
tion in a cursory way to his dearest friend. He suffered, no doubt ;
■ — but with Spartan consistency he so hid his trouble from the world
that no one knew that he suffered. Those with whom he lived,
and who speculated often and wondered much as to who he was,
never dreamed that the silent man's reticence was a burden to him-
self. At no special conjuncture of his life, at no period which could
be marked with the finger of the observer, did he glaringly abstain
from any statement which at the moment might be natural. He
never hesitated, blushed, or palpably laboured at concealment ; but
the fact remained that though a great many men and not a few
women knew Ferdinand Lopez very well, none of them knew
whence he had come, or what was his family.

He was a man, however, naturally reticent, who never alluded to
his own affairs unless in pursuit of some object the way to which
was clear before his eyes. Silence therefore on a matter which is
common in the mouths of most men was less difficult to him than
to another, and the result less embarrassing. Dear old Jones, who
tells his friends at the club of every pound that he loses or wins at
the races, who boasts of Mary's favours and mourns over Lucy's
coldness almost in public, who issues bulletins on the state of his
purse, his stomach, his stable, and his debts, could not with any
amount of care keep from us the fact that his father was an attorney's
clerk, and made his first money by discounting small bills. Every-
body knows it, and Jones, who likes popularity, grieves at the
unfortunate publicity. But Jones is relieved from a burden which
would have broken his poor shoulders, and which even Ferdinand
Lopez, who is a strong man, often finds it hard to bear without
wincing.

It was admittod on all sides that Ferdinand Lopez was a
tleman." Johnson says that any other derivation of this difficult
word than that which causes it to signify " a man of ancestry " is
whimsical. There are many, who in defining the term for their
own use, still adhere to Johnson's dictum ; — but they adhere to it
with certain unexpressed allowances for possible exceptions. The
ohances are very much in favour of the well-born man, but excep-
tions may exist. It was not generally believed that Ferdinand
Lopez was well born ; — but he was a gentleman. And this most
precious rank was acceded to him although he was employed, — or
at least had been employed, —on business which does not of itself

FEEDINAND L0PE2. 8

give such a warrant of position as is supposed to be afforded by the
bar and the church, by the military services and by physic. He
had been on the Stock Exchange, and still in some manner, not
clearly understood by his friends, did business in the City.

At the time with which we are now concerned Ferdinand Lopez
was thirty- three years old, and as he had begun life early he had
been long before the world. It was known of him that he had
been at a good English private school, and it was reported, on the
solitary evidence of one who had there been his schoolfellow, that
a rumour was current in the school that his school bills were paid
by an old gentleman who was not related to him. Thence at the
age of seventeen he had been sent to a German University, and at
the age of twenty- one had appeared in London, in a stockbroker's
office, where he was soon known as an accomplished linguist, and
as a very clever fellow, — precocious, not given to many pleasures,
apt for work, but hardly trustworthy by employers, not as being
dishonest, but as having a taste for being a master rather than a
servant. Indeed his period of servitude was very short. It was
not in his nature to be active on behalf of others. He was soon
active for himself, and at one time it was supposed that he was
making a fortune. Then it was known that he had left his regular
business, and it was supposed that he had lost all that he had ever
made or had ever possessed. But nobody, not even his own
bankers or his own lawyer, — not even the old woman who looked
after his linen, — ever really knew the state of his affairs.

He was certainly a handsome man, — his beauty being of a sort
which men are apt to deny and women to admit lavishly.- He was
nearly six feet tall, very dark, and very thin, with regular, well-
cut features indicating little to the physiognomist unless it be the
great gift of self-possession. His hair was cut short, and he wore
no beard beyond an absolutely black moustache. His teeth were
perfect in form and whiteness, — a characteristic which, though it
may be a valued item in a general catalogue of personal attraction,
does not generally recommend a man to the unconscious judgment
of his acquaintance. But about the mouth and chin of this man
there was a something of softness, perhaps in the^)lay of the lips,
perhaps in the dimple, which in some degree lessened the feeling
of hardness which was produced by the square brow and bold,
unflinching, combative eyes. They who knew him and liked him
were reconciled by the lower face. The greater number who knew
him and did not like him felt and resented, — even though in nine
cases out of ten they might express no resentment even to them-
selves,— the pugnacity of his steady glance.

For he was essentially one of those men who are always, in the
inner workings of their minds, defending themselves and attacking
others. He could not give a penny to a woman at a crossing with-
out a look which argued at full length her injustice in making her
demand, and his freedom from all liability let him walk the cross-
ing as often as he might. He could not seat himself in a railway

4 THE PRIME MINISTER.

carriage without a lesson to his opposite neighbour that in all the
mutual affairs of travelling, arrangement of feet, disposition of
bags, and opening of windows, it would be that neighbour's duty
to submit and his to exact. It was, however, for the spirit rather
than for the thing itself that he combated. The woman with the
broom got her penny. The opposite gentleman when once by a
glance he had expressed submission was allowed his own way with
his legs and with the window. I would not say that Ferdinand
Lopez was prone to do ill-natured things ; but he was imperious,
and he had learned to carry his empire in his eye.

The reader must submit to be told one or two further and still
smaller details respecting the man, and then the man shall be
allowed to make his own way. No one of those around him knew
how much care he took to dress himself well, or how careful he
was that no one should know it. His very tailor regarded him as
being simply extravagant in the number of his coats and trousers,
and his friends looked upon him as one of those fortunate beings
to whose nature belongs a facility of being well dressed, or almost
an impossibility of being ill dressed. We all know the man, — a
little man generally who moves seldom and softly, — who looks
always as though he had just been sent home in a bandbox. Fer-
dinand Lopez was not a little man, and moved freely enough ; but
never, at any moment, — going into the city or coming out of it, on
horseback or on foot, at home over his book or after the mazes of
the dance, — was he dressed otherwise than with perfect care.
Money and time did it, but folk thought that it grew with him, as
did his hair and his nails. And he always rode a horse which
charmed good judges of what a park nag should be ; — not a pranc-
ing, restless, giggling, side- way- going, useless garran, but an
animal well made, well bitted, with perfect paces, on whom a rider
if it pleased him could be as quiet as a statue on a monument. It
often did please Ferdinand Lopez to be quiet on horseback ; and yet
he did not look like a statue, for it was acknowledged through
all London that he was a good horseman. He lived luxurio;.
too, — though whether at his ease or not nobody knew, — for he
kept a brougham of his own, and during the hunting season he
had two horses down at Leighton. There had once been a belief
abroad that he was ruined, but they who interest themsolvos in
such matters had found out, — or at any rate believed that they had
foun J out, — that he paid his tailor regularly : and now there pre-
vailed an opinion that Ferdinand Lopez was a monied man.

It was known to some few that he occupied rooms in a flat at
Westminster, — but to very few exactly where the rooms were
situate. Among all his friends no one was known to have entered
them. In a moderate way ho was given to hospitality, — that is to
infrequent but, when the occasion came, to graceful hospitality.
Some club, however, or tavern, or perhaps, in the summer, some
river bank would be chosen as the scene of these festivities. To a
few — if, as suggested, amidst summer flowers on the water's edge

FEEDINAND LOPEZ. 5

to men and women mixed, — he would be a courtly and efficient
host ; for he had the rare gift of doing such things well.

Hunting was over, and the east wind was still blowing, and a
great portion of the London world was out of town taking its
Easter holiday, when, on an unpleasant morning, Ferdinand Lopez
travelled into the city by the Metropolitan railway from Westmin-
ster Bridge. It was his custom to go thither when he did go, — not
daily like a man of business, but as chance might require, like a
capitalist or a man of pleasure, — in his own brougham. But on
this occasion he walked down to the river side, and then walked
from the Mansion House into a dingy little court called Little
Tankard Yard, near the Bank of England, and going through a
narrow dark long passage got into a littlo office at the back of a
building, in which there sat at a desk a greasy gentleman with a
new hat on one side of his head, who might perhaps be about forty
years old. The place was very dark, and the man was turning
over the leaves of a ledger. A stranger to city ways might pro-
bably have said that he was idle, but he was no doubt filling his
mind with that erudition which would enable him to earn hi3 bread.
On the other side of the desk there was a little boy copying letters.
These were Mr. Sextus Parker, — commonly called Sexty Parker, —
and his clerk. Mr. Parker was a gentleman very well known
and at the present moment favourably esteemed on the Stock
Exchange. " What, Lopez !" said he. " Uncommon glad to see
you. What can I do for you ?"

" Just come inside, — will you ?" said Lopez. Now within Mr.
Parker's very small office there was a smaller office in which there
were a safe, a small rickety Pembroke table, two chairs, and an old
washing-stand with a tumbled towel. Lopez led the way into this
sanctum as though he knew the place well, and Sexty Parker
followed him.

" Beastly day, isn't it ?" said Sexty.

" Yes, — a nasty east wind."

" Cutting one in two, with a hot sun at the same time. One
ought to hybernate at this time of the year."

" Then why don't you hybernate ?" said Lopez.

" Business is too good. That's about it. A man has to stick to
it when it does come. Everybody can't do like you ; — give up
regular work, and make a better thing of an hour now and an hour
then, just as it pleases you. I shouldn't dare go in for that kind
of thing."

11 1 don't suppose you or any one else know what I go in for,"
said Lopez, with a look that indicated offence.

" Nor don't care," said Sexty ; — " only hope it's something good
for your sake." Sexty Parker had known Mr. Lopez well, now
for some years, and being an overbearing man himself, — somewhat
even of a bully if the truth be spoken, — and by no means apt to
give way unless hard pressed, had often tried his " hand" on his
friend, as he hims^f would have said. But I doubt whether he

6 THE PRIME MINISTER.

could remember any instance in which he could congratulate him-
self on success. He was trying his hand again now, but did it
with a faltering voice, having caught a glance of his friend's eye.

"I dare say not," said Lopez. Then he continued without
changing his voice or the nature of the glance of his eye, "I'll
tell you what I want you to do now. I want your name to this
bill for three months."

Sexty Parker opened his mouth and his eyes, and took the bit of
paper that was tendered to him. It was a promissory note for £750,
which, if signed by him, would at the end of the specified period
make him liable for that sum were it not otherwise paid. His
friend Mr. Lopez was indeed applying to him for the assistance of
his name in raising a loan to the amount of the sum named. This
was a kind of favour which a man should ask almost on his knees,
— and which, if so asked, Mr. Sextus Parker would certainly refuse.
And here was Ferdinand Lopez asking it, — whom Sextus Parker
had latterly regarded as an opulent man, — and asking it not at all
on his knees, but, as one might say, at the muzzle of a pistol.
" Accommodation bill ! " said Sexty. "Why, you ain't hard up ;
are you?"

" I'm not going just at present to tell you much about my affairs,
and yet I expect you to do what I ask you. I don't suppose you
doubt my ability to raise £750."

11 Oh, dear no," said Sexiy, who had been looked at and who had
not borne the inspection well.

" And I don't suppose you would refuse me even if I were hard
up as you call it." There had been affairs before between the two
men in which Lopez had probably been the stronger, and the
memory of them, added to the inspection which was still going on,
was heavy upon poor Sexty.

11 Oh, dear no ; — I wasn't thinking of refusing. I suppose a fel-
low may be a little surprised at such a thing."

"I don't know why you need" be surprised, as such things are
very common. I happen to have taken a share in a loan a little
beyond my immediate means, and therefore want a few hundreds.
There is no one I can ask with a better grace than you. If you
ain't — afraid about it, just sign it."

11 Oh, I ain't afraid," said Sexty, taking his pen and writing his
name across the bill. But even before the signature was fini
when his eye was taken away from the face of his companion and
fixed upon the disagreeable piece of paper beneath his hand, ho re-
pented of what ho was doing. He almost arrested his signature
half-way. He did hesitato, but had not pluck enough to stop his

hand. " It does seem to be a d d odd transaction all the same,"

he said as he leaned back in his chair.

" It's the commonest thing in the world," said Lopez picking up
the bill in a leisurely way, folding it and putting it into his pocket-
book. "Hay© our names never bee" together on a bit of paper
before?"

EVERETT WHARTON. 7

" When we both had something to make by it."

"You've nothing to make and nothing to lose by this. Good
day and many thanks ; — though I don't think so much of the affair
Sis you seem to do." Then Ferdinand Lopez took his departure
and Sexty Parker was left alone in his bewilderment.

" By George, — that's queer," he said to himself. " Who'd have
thought of Lopez being hard up for a few hundred pounds ? But
it must be all right. He wouldn't have come in that fashion, if it
hadn't been all right. I oughtn't to have done it though ? A man
ought never to do that kind of thing ; — never, — never ! " And
Mr. Sextus Parker was much discontented with himself, so that
when he got home that evening to the wife of his bosom and his
little family at Ponders End, he by no means made himself agree-
able to them. For that sum of £750 sat upon his bosom as he
ate his supper, and lay upon his chest as he slept,— like a night-
mare.

CHAPTER II.

EVERETT WHARTON,

On that same day Lopez dined with his friend Everett Wharton at
a new club called the Progress, of which they were both members.
The Progress was certainly a new club, having as yet been open
hardly more than three years ; but still it was old enough to have
seen many of the hopes of its early youth become dim with age and
inaction. For the Progress had intended to do great things for the
liberal party, — or rather for political liberality in general, — and
had in truth done little or nothing. It had been got up with con-
siderable enthusiasm, and for a while certain fiery politicians had
believed that through the instrumentality of this institution men
of genius, and spirit, and natural power, but without wealth, —
meaning always themselves, — would bo supplied with sure seats in
parliament and a probable share in the Government. But no such
results had been achieved. There had been a want of something,
— some deficiency felt but not yet defined, — which had hitherto
been fatal. The young men said it was because no old stager who
knew the way of pulling the wires would come forward and put the
club in the proper groove. The old men said it was because the
young men were pretentious puppies. It was, however, not to be
doubted that the party of Progress had become slack, and that the
liberal politicians of the country, although a special new club had
been opened for the furtherance of their views, were not at present
making much way. " What we want is organization," said one of
the leading young men. But the organization was not as yet forth-
coming.
The club, nevertheless, went on its way, like other clubs, and

8 THE PBIME MINISTER.

men dined and smoked and played billiards and pretended to read.
Some few energetic members still hoped that a good day would
come in which their grand ideas might be realised, — but as regarded
the members generally, they were content to eat and drink and
play billiards. It was a fairly good club, — with a sprinkling of
liberal lordlings, a couple of dozen of members of Parliament who
had been made to believe that they would neglect their party duties
unless they paid their money, and the usual assortment of barris-
ters, attorneys, city merchants and idle men. It was good enough
at any rate for Ferdinand Lopez, who was particular about his
dinner, and had an opinion of his own about wines. He had been
heard to assert that, for real quiet comfort, there was not a club in
London equal to it; but his hearers were not aware that in past

days he had been black-balled at the T and the G .

These were accidents which Lopez had a gift of keeping in the
back-ground. His present companion, Everett Wharton, had, as
well as himself, been an original member ; — and Wharton had been
one of those who had hoped to find in the club a stepping-stone to
high political life, and who ns>w talked often with idle energy of tho
need of organization.

" For myself," said Lopez, " I can conceive no vainer object of
ambition than a seat in the British Parliament. What does any
man gain by it ? The few who are successful work very hard for
little pay and no thanks, — or nearly equally hard for no pay and as
little thanks. The many who fail sit idly for hours, undergoing
the weary task of listening to platitudes, and enjoy in return the
now absolutely valueless privilege of having M.P. written on their
letters."

" Somebody must make laws for the country."

"I don't see the necessity. I think the country would do un-
commonly well if it were to know that no old law would be altered
or new law made for the next twenty years."

"You wouldn't have repealed the corn laws ? "

" There are no corn laws to repeal now."

"Nor modify the income tax ? "

f* I would modify nothing. But at any rate, whether laws aro
to be altered or to be left, it is a comfort to me that I need not put
my finger into that pie. There is one benefit indeed in being in the
House."

" You can't be arrested."

"Well; — that, as far as it goes; and one other. It ass:
man in getting a seat as the director of certain Companies. People
aro still such asses that they trust a Board of Directors made up of
membors of Parliament, and therefore of course me
welcome. But if you want to get into the House why don
arrange it with your father, instead of waiting for what the club
may do for you ?"

" My father wouldn't pay a shilling for such a purpose. Ho wag
never in the House himself."

EYEEETT WHARTON. 9

14 And therefor© despises it."

" A little of that, perhaps. No man ever worked harder than
he did, or, in his way, more successfully ; and having seen one
after another of his juniors become members of Parliament, while
he stuck to the attorneys, there is perhaps a little jealousy
about it."

• ' From what I see of the way you live at home, I should
think your father would do anything for you, — with proper
management. There is no doubt, I suppose, that he could afford it ? "

" My father never in his life said anything to me about his own
money affairs, though he says a great deal about mine. No man
ever was closer than my father. But I believe that he could afford
almost anything."

"I wish I had such a father," said Ferdinand Lopez. "I
think that I should succeed in ascertaining the extent of his capa-
bilities, and in making some use of them too."

"Wharton nearly asked his friend, — almost summoned courage to
ask him, — whether his father had done much for him. They were
very intimate; and on one subject, in which Lopez was much inte-
rested, their confidence had been very close. But the younger and
the weaker man of the two could not quite bring himself to the
point of making an inquiry which he thought would be disagree-
able. Lopez had never before, in all their intercourse, hinted at
the possibility of his having or having had filial aspirations. He
had been as though he had been created self-sufficient, indepen-
dent of mother's milk or father's money. Now the question might
have been asked almost naturally. But it was not asked.

Everett Wharton was a trouble to his father, — but not an agoniz-
ing trouble, as are some sons. His faults were not of a nature to
rob his father's cup of all its sweetness and to bring his grey hairs
with sorrow to the grave. Old Wharton had never had to ask him-
self whether he should now, at length, let his son fall into the
lowest abysses, or whether he should yet again struggle to put him
on his legs, again forgive him, again pay Ms debts, again endea-
vour to forget dishonour, and place it all to the score of thought-
less youth. Had it been eo, I think that, if not on the first or
second fall, certainly on the third, the young man would have
gone into the abyss ; for Mr. Wharton was a stern man, and
capable of coming to a clear conclusion on things that were nearest
and even dearest to himself. But Everett Wharton had simply
shown himself to be inefficient to earn his own bread. He had
never declined even to do this, — but had simply been inefficient.
He had not declared either by words or actions that as his father
was a rich man, and as he was an only son, he would therefore do
nothing. But he had tried his hand thrice, and in each case, after
but short trial, had assured his father and his friends that the
thing had not suited him. Leaving Oxford without a degree, —
for the reading of the schools did not suit him, — he had gone
into a banking-house, by no means as a mere clerk, but with an

10 THE PRIME MINISTER.

expressed proposition from his father, backed by the assent of a
partner, that he should work his way up to wealth and a great
commercial position. But six months taught him that banking
was " an abomination," and he at once went into a course of read-
ing with a barrister. He remained at this till he was called,— for
a man may be called with very little continuous work. But after
he was called the solitude of his chambers was too much for hiin,
and at twenty-five he found that the Stock Exchange was the
mart in the world for such talents and energies as he possessed.
What was the nature of his failure during the year that he went
into the city, was known only to himself and his father, — unless
Ferdinand Lopez knew something of it also. But at six-and-
twenty the Stock Exchange was also abandoned ; and now, at
eight- and- twenty, Everett Wharton had discovered that a parlia-
mentary career was that for which nature and his special genius
had intended him. He had probably suggested this to his father,
and had met with some cold rebuff.

Everett Wharton was a good-looking, manly fellow, six feet
high, with broad shoulders, with light hair, wearing a large silky
bushy beard, which made him look older than his years, who
neither by his speech nor by his appearance would ever be taken
for a fool, but who showed by the very actions of his body as well
as by the play of his face, that he lacked firmness of purpose. He
certainly was no fool. He had read much, and, though he gene-
rally forgot what he read, there were left with him from his read-
ings certain nebulous lights begotten by other men's thinking
which enabled him to talk on most subjects. It cannot be said of
him that he did much thinking for himself; — but he thought that
he thought. He believed of himself that he had gone rather deep
into politics, and that he was entitled to call many statesmen
because they did not see the things which he saw. He had the
great question of labour, and all that refers to unions, strikes,
and lock-outs, quite at his fingers' ends. Ho knew how the Church
of England should be disestablished and recomposed. He was
quite clear on questions of finance, and saw to a " t" how pro-
gress should be made towards communism, so that no violence
should disturb that progress, and that in the due course of cen-
turies all desiro for personal property should bo conquered and
annihilated by a philanthropy so general as hardly to be accounted
a virtue. In the meantime ho could never contrive to pay his
tailor's bill regularly out of the allowance of £400 a year which his
father made him, and was always dreaming of the comforts of a
handsome income.

Ho was a popular man certainly, — very popular with women, to
whom he was always courteous, and generally liked by men, to
whom he was genial and good-natured. Though he was not him-
self aware of the fact, he was very dear to his father, who in his
own silent way almost admired and certainly liked the openness
and guileless freedom of a character which was very opposite to

EVEEETT WHAKTON. 11

Hs own. The father, though he had never said a word to flatter
the son, did in truth give his offspring credit for greater talent
than he possessed, and, even when appearing to scorn them, would
listen to the young man's diatribes almost with satisfaction. And
Everett was very dear also to a sister, who was the only other
living member of this branch of the Wharton family. Much will
be said of her in these pages, and it is hoped that the reader may
take an interest in her fate. But here, in speaking of the brother,
it may suffice to say, that the sister, who was endowed with infi-
nitely finer gifts than his, did give credit to the somewhat preten-
tious claims of her less noble brother.

Indeed it had been perhaps a misfortune with Everett Wharton
that some people had believed in him, — and a further misfortune
that some others had thought it worth their while to pretend to
believe in him. Among the latter might probably be reckoned the
friend with whom he was now dining at the Progress. A man
may flatter another, as Lopez occasionally did flatter Wharton,
without preconcerted falsehood. It suits one man to be well with
another, and the one learns gradually and perhaps unconsciously
the way to take advantage of the foibles of the other. Now it was
most material to Lopez that he should stand well with all the
members of the Wharton family, as he aspired to the hand of the
daughter of the house. Of her regard he already thought himself
nearly sure. Of the father's sanction to such a marriage he had
reason to be almost more than doubtful. But the brother was his
friend, — and in such circumstances a man is almost justified • in
flattering a brother.

" I'll tell you what it is, Lopez," said Wharton, as they strolled
out of the club together, a little after ten o'clock, " the men of the
present day won't give themselves the trouble to occupy their
minds with matters which have, or should have, real interest.
Pope knew all about it when he said that ' The proper study of
mankind is man.' But people don't read Pope now, or if they do
they don't take the trouble to understand him."

" Men are too busy making money, my dear fellow."

" That's just it. Money's a very nice thing."

" Very nice," said Lopez.

"But the search after it is debasing. If a man could make
money for four, or six, or even eight hours a day, and then wash
his mind of the pursuit, as a clerk in an office washes the copies
and ledgers out of his mind, then- — "

" He would never make money in that way, — and keep it."

" And therefore the whole thing is debasing. A man ceases to
care for the great interests of the world, or even to bo aware of
their existence, when his whole soul is in Spanish bonds. They
wanted to make a banker of mo, but I found that it would kill
me."

" It would kill me, I think, if I had to confine myself to Spanish
bonds,"

12 THE PKIME MINISTEB.

" You know what I mean. You at any rate can understand me,
though I fear you are too far gone to abandon the idea of making
a fortune."

" I would abandon it to-morrow if I could come into a fortune
ready made. A man must at any rate eat."

"Yes ; — he must oat. But I am not quite sure," said Wharton
thoughtfully, " that he need think about what he eats."

"Unless the beef is sent up without horse radish!" It had
happened that when the two men sat down to their dinner the
insufficient quantity of that vegetable supplied by the steward of
the club had been all consumed, and Wharton had complained of
the grievance.

"A man has a right to that for which he has paid," said
Wharton, with mock solemnity, "and if he passes over laches of
that nature without observation he does an injury to humanity at
large. I'm not going to be caught in a trap, you know, because
I like horse radish with my beef. Well, I can't go farther out
of my way, as I have; a deal of reading to do before I court my
Morpheus. If you'll take my advice you'll go straight to tho
governor. Whatever Emily may feel I don't think she'll say much
to encourage you unless you go about it after that fashion. She
has prim notions of her own, which perhaps are not after all so
much amiss when a man wants to marry a girl."

" God forbid that I should think that anything about your
sister was amiss ! "

"I don't think there is much myself. Women are generally
superficial, — but some are honestly superficial and some dishonestly.
Emily at any rate is honest."

" Stop half a moment." Then they sauntered arm in arm down
the broad pavement leading from Pall Mall to tho Duko of York's
column. " I wish I could make out your father more clearly.
Ho is always civil to me, but he has a cold way of looking at me
which makes me think I am not in his good books."

" He is like that to everybody."

"I never seem to get beyond the skin with him. You must
have heard him speak of mo in my absence ?"

"lie never says very much about any body."

" But a word would let me know how the land lies. You know
mo well enough to be aware that I am the last man to be curious
as to what others think of me. Indeed I do not care about it as
much as a man should do. I am utterly indifferent to the opinion
of the world at large, and would never object to the company of a
pleasant person bocauso the pleasant person abused me behind my
back. What I value is tho pleasantness of the man and r
liking or disliking for myself. But here the dearest aim of my
life is concerned, and I might be guided either this way or th
my great advantage, by knowing whether I stand well or ill with
him."

" You have dined three times within the last three months in

EVEEETT WHAETON. 18

Manchester Square, and I don't know any other man, — certainly
no other young man, — who has had such strong proof of intimacy
from my father."

" Yes, and I know my advantages. But I have been there as
your friend, not as his."

11 He doesn't care twopence about my friends. I wanted to give
Charlie Skate a dinner, but my father wouldn't have him at any
price."

" Charlie Skate is out at elbows, and bets at billiards. I am
respectable, — or at any rate your father thinks so. Your father
is more anxious about you than you are aware of, and wishes to
make his house pleasant to you as long as he can do so to your
advantage. As far as you are concerned he rather approves of me,
fancying that my turn for making money is stronger than my turn
for spending it. Nevertheless, he looks upon me as a friend of
yours rather than his own. Though he has given me three
dinners in three months, — and I own the greatness of his hospi-
tality,— I don't suppose he ever said a word in my favour. I wish
I knew what he does say."

" He says he knows nothing about you."

"Oh; — that's it, is it? Then he can know no harm. When
next he says so ask him of how many of the men who dine at his
house he can say as much. Good night ; — I won't keep you any
longer. But I can tell you this ; — if between us we can manage
to handle him rightly, you may get your seat in Parliament

and I may get my wife ; that is, of course, if she will have

me."

Then they parted, but Lopez remained in the pathway walking
up and down by the side of the old military club, thinking of
things. He certainly knew his friend, the younger Wharton, in-
timately, appreciating the man's good qualities, and being fully
aware of the man's weakness. By his questions he had extracted
quite enough to assure himself that Emily's father would be
adverse to his proposition. He had not felt much doubt before,
but now he was certain. "He doesn't know much about me," he
said musing to himself. " Well, no; he doesn't ; — and there isn't
very much that I can tell him. Of course he's wise, — as wisdom
goes. But then, wise men do do foolish things at intervals. The
discreetest of city bankers are talked out of their money ; the most
scrupulous of matrons are talked out of their virtue ; the most
experienced of statesmen are talked out of their principles. And
who can really calculate chances ? Men who lead forlorn hopes
generally push through without being wounded ; — and the fifth
or sixth heir comes to a title." So much he said, palpably,
though to himself, with his inner voice. Then,— impalpably, with
no even inner voice, — he asked himself what chance he might
have of prevailing with the girl herself; and he almost ventured
to tell himself that in that direction he need not despair.

In yery truth he loyed the girl and reverenced her, believing

14 THE PRIME MINISTER.

her to be better and higher and nobler then other human beings,—
as a man does when he is in love ; and so believing, he had those
doubts as to his own success which such reverence produces.

CHAPTER in.

MR. ABEL WHARTON, Q.C.

Lopez was not a man to let grass grow under his feet when he had
anything to do. When he was tired of walking backwards and for-
wards over the same bit of pavement, subject all the while to a
cold east wind, he went home and thought of the same matter
while he lay in bed. Even were he to get the girl's assurances of
love, without the father's consent he might find himself farther
from his object than ever. Mr. Wharton was a man of old
fashions, who would think himself ill-used and his daughter ill-
used, and who would think also that a general offence would have
been committed against good social manners, if his daughter were
to be asked for her hand without his previous consent. Should he
absolutely refuse, — why then the battle, though it would be a
desperate battle, might perhaps be fought with other strategy ;
but, giving to the matter his best consideration, Lopez thought it
expedient to go at once to the father. In doing this he would have
no silly tremors. Whatever he might feel in speaking to the girl,
he had sufficient self-confidence to be able to ask the father, if not
with assurance at any rate without trepidation. It was, he thought,
probable that the father, at the first attack, would neither altogether
accede, or altogether refuse. The disposition of the man was averse
to the probability of an absolute reply at the first moment. The
lover imagined that it might be possible for him to take advantage
of the period of doubt which would thus be created.

Mr. Wharton was and had for a great many years been a barris-
ter practising in the Equity Courts, — or rather in one Equity Court,
for throughout a life's work now extending to nearly fifty years,
he had hardly ever gone out of the single Vice- Chancellor's Court
which was much better known by Mr. Wharton's name than by that
of tho less eminent judge who now sat there. His had been I
peculiar, a very toilsome, but yet probably a very satisfactory life.
Ho had begun his practice early, and had worked in a stuff gown
till ho was nearly sixty. At that time he had amassed a large for-
tune, mainly from his profession, but partly also by the careful use
of his own small patrimony and by his wife's money. Men knew that
he was rich, but no one knew the extent of his wealth. When he
submitted to take a silk gown, he declared among his friends that
he did bo as a step preparatory to his retirement. The altered

MR. ABEL WHARTON, Q.C. 15

method of work would not suit him at his age, nor, — as he said, — ■
would it be profitable. He would take his silk as an honour for his
declining years, so that he might become a bencher at his Inn.
But he had now been working for the last twelve or fourteen years
with his silk gown, — almost as hard as in younger days, and with
pecuniary results almost as serviceable ; and though from month to
month he declared his intention of taking no fresh briefs, and though
he did now occasionally refuse work, still he was there with his
mind as clear as ever, and with his body apparently as little affected
by fatigue.

Mr. Wharton had not married till he was forty, and his wife had
now been two years dead. He had had six children, — of whom but
two were now left to make a household for his old age. He had
been nearly fifty when his youngest daughter was born, and was
therefore now an old father of a young child. But he was one of
those men who, as in youth they are never very young, so in age
are they never very old. He could still ride his cob in the park
jauntily ; and did so carefully every morning in his life, after an
early cup of tea and before his breakfast. And he could walk
home from his chambers every day, and on Sundays could do the
round of the parks on foot. Twice a week, on Wednesdays and
Saturdays, he dined at that old law club, the Eldon, and played
whist after dinner till twelve o'clock. This was the great dissipa-
tion and, I think, the chief charm of his life. In the middle of
August he and his daughter usually went for a month to Whar-
ton Hall in Herefordshire, the seat of his cousin Sir Alured
Wharton ; — and this was the one duty of his life which was a
burthen to him. But he had been made to believe that it was
essential to his health, and to his wife's, and then to his girl's
health, that he should every summer leave town for a time, — and
where else was he to go ? Sir Alured was a relation and a gentle-
man. Emily liked Wharton Hall. It was the proper thing. lie
hated Wharton Hall, but then he did not know any place out of
London that he would not hate worse. He had once been induced
to go up the Rhine, but had never repeated the experiment of
foreign travel. Emily sometimes went abroad with her cousins,
during which periods it was supposed that the old lawyer spent a
good deal of his time at the Eldon. He was a spare, thin, strongly
made man, with spare light brown hair, hardly yet grizzled, with
small grey whiskers, clear eyes, bushy eyebrows, with a long ugly
nose, on which young barristers had been heard to declare that you
might hang a small kettle, and with considerable vehemence of
talk when he was opposed in argument. For, with all his well-
known coolness of temper, Mr. Wharton could become very hot in an
argument, when the nature of the case in hand required heat. On
one subject all who knew him were agreed. Ho was a thorough
lawyer. Many doubted his eloquence, and some declared that he
had known well the extent of his own powers in abstaining from
eeeking the higher honours of his profession ; but no one doubted

16 THE PRIME MINISTEEo

his law. He had once written a book,— on the mortgage of stocks
in trade ; bnt that had been in early life, and he had never since
dabbled in literature.

He was certainly a man of whom men were generally afraid.
At the whist-table no one would venture to scold him. In the
court no one ever contradicted him. In his own house, though he was
very quiet, the servants dreaded to offend him, and were attentive
to his slightest behests. When he condescended to ride with any
acquaintance in the park, it was always acknowledged that old
Wharton was to regulate the pace. His name was Abel, and all his
life he had been known as able Abe ; — a silent, far-seeing, close-
fisted, just old man, who was not, however, by any means deficient
in sympathy either with the sufferings or with the joys of humanity.

It was Easter time and the courts were not sitting, but Mr.
Wharton was in his chamber as a matter of course at ten o'clock.
He knew no real homely comforts elsewhere, — unless at the whist-
table at the Eldon. He ate and drank and slept in his own house
in Manchester Square, but he could hardly be said to live there.
It was not there that his mind was awake, and that the powers of
the man were exercised. When he came up from the dining-room
to join his daughter after dinner he would get her to sing him a
song, and would then seat himself with a book. But he never read
in his own house, invariably falling into a sweet and placid slum-
ber, from which he was never disturbed till his daughter kissed him
as she went to bed. Then he would walk about the room, and
look at his watch, and shuffle uneasily through half an hour till
his conscience allowed him to take himself to his chamber. He
was a man of no pursuits in his own house. But from ten in the
morning till five, or often till six, in the evening, his mind was
active in some work. It was not now all law as it used to be. In
the drawer of the old piece of furniture which stood just at the
right hand of his own arm-chair there were various books hidden
away, which he was sometimes ashamed to have seen by his clients,
— poetry and novels and even fairy tales. For there was nothing
Mr. Wharton could not read in his chambers, though there was
nothing that he could read in his own house. He had a large
pleasant room in which to sit, looking out from the ground floor of
Stone Buildings onto the gardens belonging to the Inn, — and hero,
in the centre of the' ^metropolis, but in perfect quiet as far as the
outside world was concerned, he had lived and still lived his life.

At about noon on the day following that on which Lopez had
made his sudden swoop on Mr. Parker and had then dined with
Everett Wharton ho called at Stone Buildings and was shown into
tho lawyer's room, His quick eyo at once discovered the book
which Mr. Wharton, half hid away, and saw upon it Mr. Mudie's
suspicious ticket. Barristers certainly never get their law books
from Mudie, and Lopez at once knew that his hoped-for father-in-
law had been reading a novel. He had not suspected such weak-
ness, but argued well from it for the business he had in hand.

ME. ABEL WHARTON, Q.C. 17

There must be a soft spot to be found about the heart of an old
lawyer who spent his mornings in such occupation. "How do
you do, sir ? " said Mr. Wharton rising from his seat. "I hope I
Bee you well, sir." Though he had been reading a novel his tono
and manner were very cold. Lopez had never been in Stone
Buildings before, and was not quite sure that he might not havo
committed some offence in coming there. " Take a seat, Mr. Lopez.
Is there anything I can do for you in my way ? "

There was a great deal that could be done " in his way" as
father ; — but how was it to be introduced and the case made clear ?
Lopez did not know whether the old man had as yet ever suspected
such a feeling as that which he now intended to declare. He had
been intimate at the house in Manchester Square, and had cer-
tainly ingratiated himself very closely with a certain Mrs. Eoby,
who had been Mrs. Wharton's sister and constant companion, who
lived in Berkeley Street, close round the corner from Manchester
Square, and spent very much of her time with Emily Wharton.
They were together daily, as though Mrs. Eoby had assumed the part
of a second mother, and Lopez was well aware that Mrs. Eoby knew
of his love. If there was real confidence between Mrs. Eoby and
the old lawyer, the old lawyer must know it also ; — but as to that
Lopez felt that he was in the dark.

The task of speaking to an old father is not unpleasant when the
lover knows that he has been smiled upon, and, in fact, approved
for the last six months. He is going to be patted on the back, and
made much of, and received into the family. He is to be told that
his Mary or his Augusta has been the best daughter in the world
and will therefore certainly be the best wife, and he himself will
probably on that special occasion be spoken of with unqualified
praise, — and all will be pleasant. But the subject is one very diffi-
cult to broach when no previous light has been thrown on it.
Ferdinand Lopez, however, was not the man to stand shivering on
the brink when a plunge was necessary, — and therefore he made his
plunge. " Mr. Wharton, I have taken the liberty to call upon you
hero, because I want to speak to you about your daughter."

"About my daughter!" The old man's surprise was quite
genuine. Of course when he had given himself a moment to think
he knew what must be the nature of his visitor's communication.
But up to that moment he had never mixed his daughter and
^Ferdinand Lopez in his thoughts together. And now, the idea
having come upon him, ho looked at the aspirant with severe and
unpleasant eyes. It was manifest to the aspirant that the first
flash of the thing was painful to the father.

"Yes, sir. I know how great is my presumption. But, yet,
having ventured, I will hardly say to entertain a hope, but to have
come to such a state that I can only be happy by hoping, I have
thought it best to come to you at once."
" Does she know anything of this ? "
t( Of my visit to you ? Nothing."

1§ THE PRIME MINISTER.

" Of your intentions ; — of your suit generally ? Am I to under-
stand that this has any sanction from her ? n
"None at all."

" Have you told her anything of it ? "

" Not a word. I come to ask you for your permission to address
her."

1 ' You mean that she has no knowledge whatever of your, — your
preference for her."

' ' I cannot say that. It is hardly possible that I should have
learned to love her as I do without some consciousness on her part
that it is so."

1 ' What I mean is, without any beating about the bush, — have
you been making love to her ? "

'* Who is to say in what making love consists, Mr. Wharton F "

1 ' D it, sir, a gentleman knows. A gentleman knows

whether he has been playing on a girl's feelings, and a gentleman
when he is asked as I have asked you will at any rate tell the truth.
I don't want any definitions. Have you beenmaking love to her ? "
"I think, Mr. Wharton, that I have behaVed like a gentleman;
and that you will acknowledge at least so much when you come to
know exactly what I have done and what I have not done. I havo
endeavoured to commend myself to your daughter, but I have never
spoken a word of love to her."

" Does Everett know of all this ?"
"Yes."

" And has he encouraged it ?"

11 lie knows of it, because he is my most intimate friend. Who-
ever the lady might have been I should have told him. He is
attached to me, and would not I think, on his own account, object
to call me his brother. I spoke to him yesterday on the matter
very plainly, and he told me that I ought certainly to see you
first. I quite agreed with him, and therefore I am here. Thero
has certainly been nothing in his conduct to make you angry, and
I do not think that there has been anything in mine."

There was a dignity of demeanour and a quiet assured courage
which had its effect upon the old lawyer. Ho felt that he e
not storm and talk in ambiguous language of what a "gentle-
man " would or would not do. He might disapprove of this man
altogether as a son-in-law, — and at the present moment he thought
that he did, — but still the man was entitled to a civil answer.
How were lovers to approach the ladies of their love in any man-
ner more respectful than this? "Mr. Lopez," he said, "you
must forgive me if I say, that you are comparatively a stranger
to us."

" That is an accident which would be easily cured if your will
in that direction were as good as mine."

" But, perhaps, it isn't. One has to be explicit in these matters.
A (laughter's happiness is a very serious consideration ;— and some
people, among whom I confess that I am one, consider that like

MB. ABEL WHABTON, Q.C. 19

Bhould marry like. I should wish, to see my daughter marry, —
net only in my own sphere, neither higher nor lower, — but with
some one of my own class."

"I hardly know, Mr. "Wharton, whether that is intended to
exclude me."

"Well, — to tell you the truth I know nothing about you. I
don't know who your father was, — whether he was an English-
man, whether he was a Christian, whether he was a Protestant, —
not even whether he was a gentleman. These are questions which
I should not dream of asking under any other circumstances ; —
would be matters with which I should have no possible concern, if
you were simply an acquaintance. But when you talk to a man
about his daughter ! "

" I acknowledge freely y»ur right of inquiry."

"And I know nothing of your means; — nothing whatever. I
understand that you live as a man of fortune, but I presume that
you earn your bread. I know nothing of the way in which you
earn it, nothing of the certainty or amount of your means."

1 ' Those things are of course matters for inquiry ; but may I
presume that you have no objection which satisfactory answers to
such questions may not remove ?"

"I shall never willingly give my daughter to anyone who is
not the son of an English gentleman. It may be a prejudice, but
that is my feeling."

"My father was certainly not an English gentleman. He was
a Portuguese." In admitting this, and in thus subjecting himself
at once to one clearly-stated ground of objection, — the objection
being one which though admitted carried with itself neither fault
nor disgrace, — Lopez felt that he had got a certain advantage.
He could not get over the fact that he was the son of a Portuguese
parent, but by admitting that openly he thought he might avoid
present discussion on matters which might, perhaps, be more dis-
agreeable, but to which he need not allude if the accident of his
birth were to be taken by the father as settling the question.
"My mother was an English lady," he added, "but my father
certainly was not an Englishman. I never had the common hap-
piness of knowing either of them. I was an orphan before I un-
derstood what it was to have a parent."

This was said with a pathos which for the moment stopped the
expression of any further harsh criticism from the lawyer. Mr.
"Wharton could not instantly repeat his objection to a parentage
wrhich was matter for such melancholy reflections ; but he felt at
the same time that as he had luckily landed himself on a positive
and undeniable ground of objection to a match which was dis-
tasteful to him, it would be unwise for him to go to other matters
in which he might be less successful. By doing so, he would
seem to abandon the ground which he had already made good.
He thought it probable that the man might have an adequate
income, and yet he did not wish to welcome him as a son-in-law.

20 THE PRIME MINISTER,

He thought it possible that the Portuguese father might be a
Portuguese noblemau, and therefore one whom he would be driven
to admit to have been in some sort a gentleman ; — but yet this
man who was now in his presence and whom he continued to
scan with the closest observation, was not what he called a gentle-
man. The foreign blood was proved, and that would suffice. As
he looked at Lopez he thought that he detected Jewish signs, but
he was afraid to make any allusion to religion, lest Lopez should
declare that his ancestors had been noted as Christians since St.
James first preached in the Peninsula.

"I was educated altogether in England," continued Lopez, " till
I was sent to a German university in the idea that the languages
of the continent are not generally well learned in this countiy. I
can never be sufficiently thankful to my guardian for doing so."

" I dare say. I dare say. Prench and German are very useful.
I have a prejudice of my own in favour of Greek and Latin."

" But I rather fancy I picked up more Greek and Latin at Bohn
than I should have got here, had I stuck to nothing else."

" I dare say; — I dare say. You may be an admirable Crichton
for what I know."

' ' I have not intended to make any boast, sir, but simply to
vindicate those who had the care of my education. If you have
no objection except that founded on my birth, which is an
accident "

" When one man is a peer and another a ploughman, that is an
accident. One doesn't find fault with the ploughman, but one
doesn't ask him to dinner."

"But my accident," said Lopez smiling, "is one which you
would hardly discover unless you were told. Had I called myself
Talbot you would not know but that I was as good an Englishman
as yourself."

"A man of course maybe taken in by falsehoods," said the
lawyer.

"If you have no other objection than that raised, I hope you
will allow me to visit in Manchester Square."

" There may be ten thousand other objections, Mr. Lopez, but I
really think that the ono is enough. Of course I know nothing of
my daughter's feelings. I should imagine that the matter is as
strange to her as it is to me. But I cannot give you anything like
encouragement. If I am ever to have a son-in-law I should wish
to have an English son-in-law. I do not even know what your
profession is."

11 1 am engaged in foreign loans."

" Very precarious I should think. A sort of gambling ; isn't it ? "

"It is the business by which many of the greatest mercantile
houses in the city have been made."

" I dare say ; I dare say ; — and by which they come to ruin. I
have the greatest respect in the world for mercantile enterprise,
and hpy*3! had as much to do as most men with mercantile ques-

MR. ABEL WHARTON, Q.C. 21

tions. But I ain't sure that I wish to marry my daughter in the
city. Of course it's all prejudice. I won't deny that on general
subjects I can give as much latitude as any man; but when one's
own hearth is attacked ."

"Surely such a proposition as mine, Mr. Wharton, is no
attack!"

" In my sense it is. When a man proposes to assault and invade
the very kernel of another man's heart, to share with him and
indeed to take from him the very dearest of his possessions, to
become part and parcel with him either for infinite good or infinite
evil, then a man has a right to guard even his prejudices as
precious bulwarks." Mr. Wharton as he said this was walking
about the room with his hands in his trowsers pockets. " I have
always been for absolute toleration in matters of religion, — have
always advocated admission of Eoman Catholics and Jews into
Parliament, and even to the Bench. In ordinary life I never
question a man's religion. It is nothing to me whether he believes
in Mahomet, or has no belief at all. But when a man comes to
me for my daughter "

" I have always belonged to the Church of England," said
Ferdinand Lopez.

" Lopez is at any rate a bad name to go to a Protestant church
with, and I don't want my daughter to bear it. I am very frank
with you, as in such a matter men ought to understand each other.
Personally I have liked you well enough and have been glad to see
you at my house. Everett and you have seemed to be friends, and
I have had no objection to make. But marrying into a family is a
very serious thing indeed."

" No man feels that more strongly than I do, Mr. Wharton."

" There had better be an end of it."

" Even though I should be happy enough to obtain her favour ?"

'* I can't think that she cares about you. I don't think it for a
moment. You say you haven't spoken to her, and I am sure she's
not a girl to throw herself at a man's head. I don't approve it,
and I think it had better fall to the ground. It must fall to the
ground."

" I wish you would give me a reason."

" Because you are not English."

" But I am English. My father was a foreigner."

" It doesn't suit my ideas. I suppose I may have my own ideas
about my own family, Mr. Lopez ? I feel perfectly certain that my
child will do nothing to displease me, and this would displease mo.
If we were to talk for an hour I could say nothing further."

" I hope that I may be able to present things to you in an as-
pect so altered," said Lopez as he prepared to take his leave, " as
to make you change your mind."

"Possibly; — possibly," said Wharton, "but I do not think it
probable. Good morning to you, sir. If I have said anything that
has seemed to be unkind put it down to my anxiety f*»a #**her and

22 THE PRIME MINISTER.

not to my conduct as a man." Then the door was closed behind
his visitor, and Mr. Wharton was left walkiDg up and down his
room alone. He was by no means satisfied with himself. He felt
that he had been rude and at the same'time not decisive. He had
not explained to the man as he would wish to have done, that it
was monstrous and out of the question that a daughter of the
Whartons, one of the oldest families in England, should be given
to a friendless Portuguese, — a probable Jew, — about whom nobody
knew anything. Then he remembered that sooner or later his girl
would have at least £60,000, a fact of which no human being but
himself was aware. Would it not be well that somebody should be
made aware of it, so that his girl might have the chance of suitors
preferable to this swarthy son of Judah ? He began to be afraid,
as he thought of it, that he was not managing his matters well.
How would it be with him if he should find that the girl was really
in love with this swarthy son of Judah ? He had never inquired
about his girl's heart, though there was one to whom he hoped
that his girl's heart might some day be given. He almost made
up his mind to go home at once, so anxious was he. But the
prospect of having to spend an entire afternoon in Manchester
Square was too much for him, and he remained in his chamber
till the usual hour.

Lopez as he returned from Lincoln's Inn, westward to his club,
was, on the whole, contented with the interview. He had expected
opposition. He had not thought that the cherry would fall easily
into his mouth. But the conversation generally had not taken
those turns which he had thought would be most detrimental to
him.

CHAPTER IV.

MRS. ROBY.

Mr. WnARTON as he walked home remembered that Mrs. Roby
was to dine at his house on that evening. During the remainder
of the day, after tho departure of Lopez, he had been unable to take
his mind from the consideration of the proposition made to him.
He had tried the novel, and he had tried Huggins v. the Trustees
of tho Charity of St. Ambox, a case of undeniable importance in
which he was engaged on the part of Huggins, but neither was
sufficiently powerful to divert his thoughts. Throughout the morn-
ing he was imagining what he would say to Emily about this lover
of hers, — in what way he would commence the conversation, and
how ho would express his own opinion should he find thafc she was
in any degree favourable to the man. Should she altogether ignore
tho man's pretensions; there would be no difficulty. But if she
hesitated, — if, as was certainly possible, she should show any par-

MES. EOBY. 23

tiality for the man, then there would be a knot which would require
untying. Hitherto the intercourse between the father and daugh-
ter had been simple and pleasant. He had given her everything
she asked for, and she had obeyed him in all the very few matters
as to which he had demanded obedience. Questions of discipline,
as far as there had been any discipline, had generally been left to
Mrs Eoby. Mrs. Eoby was to dine in Manchester Square to-day,
and perhaps it would be well that he should have a few words with
Mrs. Eoby before he spoke to his daughter.

Mrs. Eoby had a husband, but Mr. Eoby had not been asked to
dine in the Square on this occasion. Mrs. Eoby dined in tho
square very often, but Mr. Eoby 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. Eoby had been six or seven
years younger than her sister ; and Mr. Eoby was a year or two
younger than his wife. The two men therefore belonged to differ-
ent periods of life, Mr. Eoby 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 voca-
bulary. 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. Eoby 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. Eoby 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 tho
end of the year if you dined oftener hero where you have nothing
to pay, and less frequently at the club where you pay for every-
thing?"

" 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 tho 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 havo had your friend Lopez with me at my chambers to-day. I
don't like your friend kopeg,"

24 THE PRIME MINISTER.

"I am sorry for that, sir."

" lie 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 neces-
sary for a Courier or a Queen's Messenger."

" You don't mean to say, sir, that you disregard foreign lan-
guages ? "

11 1 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."

II Certainly there has."

" A young man should be very chary how he speaks to another
man, to a stranger, about liis 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 ?'

II I haven't the least idea."
" Or his mother ?"

11 He has never mentioned her to me."

11 Nor his family; nor anything of their antecedents? He ,is a
man fallen out of the moon. All that is nothing to us as \
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 alii a
that of marriage. He seems to be a friend of yours. You had
better make him understand that it is quito out of the question.
I have told him so, and you had better repeat it." So saying, Mr.
Wharton went up-stairs to dress, and Everett, having reeei\
father's instructions, wont away to the club.

When Mr. Wharton reached the drawing-room, ho found Mrs.
Eoby alone, and he at once resolved to discuss the matter with her
before ho 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 ?"

MRS. ROBY. 25

" As friends go in London, he is. He comes to our house, and
I think that ho hunts with Dick." Dick was Mr. Eoby.

"That's a recommendation."

"Well, Mr. Wharton, I hardly know what you mean by that,"
said Mrs. Eoby, 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. Eoby can take
care of himself."

" Quite so."

11 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 down -stairs and waiting
for us? Tell them we shall be ready for dinner in ten minutes."
Then Emily passed out of the room, and Mrs. Eoby 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 mar-
riage,— 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. Eoby. But this was a
lie. Mrs. Eoby had interfered. Mrs. Eoby, 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 h«
is bound to call. Of course he has called, — I don't know how often.
And she has met him round the corner." — " Eound the corner,"
in Manchester Square, meant Mrs. Eoby's house in Borkeley Street.
— " Last Sunday they wore 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 P" the father asked in dismay.

2& THE PRIME MINISTER.

"Dick was with them. I should have gone, only I had a head-
ache. 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 any-
where ; which I dare say he does about as often as yourself, Mr.
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.

11 Do you mean to tell me," he said, pressing his hands together,
and looking very seriously into his sister-in-law's face; " do yo?
mean to tell mo that she — likes him ? "

11 Yes ; — I think she does like him."

" You don't mean to say — she's in love with him P"

" 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 giyo 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 havo 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 tho door gently. Then they went down to dinnor,
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 V.

M NO ONE KNOWS ANYTHING ABOUT HIM."

Neither at dinner, on that evening at Manchester Square, nor
after dinnor, as long as Mrs. Eoby remained in the house, was a
word said about Lopez by Mr. Wharton. Ho remained longer
than usual with his bottle of port- wine in the dining-room j an<J

"NO one knows anything about him." 27

when he went up-stairs, 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. Eoby was gone, —and Mrs. Eoby
■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. Eoby and her niece which had served to prepare
Emily for what was coming. "Lopez has been to your father,"
said Mrs. Eoby, 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 any one, 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 bo prejudiced against Miss
Wharton by the not unnatural feeling which may perhaps be felt
in regard to the aunt. Mrs. Eoby 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. Eoby. 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 cha-
racter. But if so, the stain was as yet too impalpable to be visiblo
to ordinary eyes.

28 THE PRIME MINISTER.

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 lovo-
able. 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. Eoby 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 bo 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 Eerdinand 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 ques-
tions 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. lie had convinced Mrs. Eoby that
among all the girl's attractions the greatest attraction for him was
the fact that she was Mrs. Roby's niece, lie had mado Emily
herself believe that the one strong passion of his life was his love
for her, and this he had done without ever having asked for her
love. And he had even taken the trouble to allure Dick, and had

"no one KfcOWfl anything about him." 29

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 any one; — but he had
found out many particulars as to Mr. Wharton's money before he
bad allowed himself to love her.

As soon as Mrs. Eoby had gathered up her knitting, and declared,
as she always did on such occasions, that she could go round the
corner without having any one 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 any one. 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."

" One is bound to be very careful. How can I give you to a
man I know nothing about, —an adventurer ? What would they
say in Herefordshire ? "

" I don't know why they should say anything, but if they did I
shouldn't much care."

" I should, my dear. I should care very much. One is bound

80 $HE PEIME MINISTEB.

to think of one's family. Suppose it should turn out afterwards
that he was— disreputable ! "

" You may say that of any man, papa.'*

" But when a man has connections, a father and mother, or
uncles and aunts, people that everybody knows about, then there
is some guarantee of security. Did you ever hear this man speak
of his father ? "

" I don't know that I ever did."

"Or his mother, — or his family? Don't you think that is
suspicious ?"

" I will ask him, papa, if you wish."

" No, I would have you ask him nothing. I would not wish
that there should be opportunity for such asking. If there has
been intimacy between you, such information should have come
naturally, — as a thing of course. You have made him no pro-
mise ?"

" Oh no, papa."

" Nor spoken to him — of your regard for him ? ,y

"Never; — not a word. Nor he to me, — except in such words
as one understands even though they say nothing."

" I wish he had never seen you."

" Is he a bad man, papa ? "

u Who knows ? I cannot tell. He may be ever so bad. How
is one to know whether a man be bad or good when one knows
nothing about him ? " At this point the father got up and walked
about the room. " The long and the short of it is that you must
not see him any more."

"Did you tell him so?"

" Yes; — well; I don't know whether I said exactly that, but I
told him that the whole thing must come to an end. And it must.
Luckily it seems that nothing has been said on either side."

" But, papa ; is there to be no reason ?"

" Haven't I given reasons ? I will not have my daughter
encourage an adventurer, — a man of whom nobody knows anything.
That is reason sufficient."

11 He has a business, and he lives with gentlemen. He is
Everett's friend. He is well educated; — oh, so much better than
most men that one meets. And he is clever. Papa, I wish you
knew him better than you do."

" I do not want to know him better."

" Is not that prejudice, papa P "

"My dear Emily," said Mr. Wharton, striving to wax into
anger that he might be firm against her, "I don't think
becomes you to ask your father such a question as tliat. You
ought to boliove that it is the chief object of my life to do the best
I can for my children."

" I am sure it is."

" And you ought to feel that as I have hod a long experience in
the world my judgment about a young man might be trusted."

"no one knows anything about him." 81

That was a statement which Miss Wharton was not prepared to
admit. She had already professed herself willing to submit to
her father's judgment, and did not now by any means contemplate
rebellion against parental authority. But she did feel that on a
matter so vital to her she had a right to plead her cause before
judgment should be given, and she was not slow to assure herself,
even as this interview went on, that her love for the man was
strong enough to entitle her to assure her father that her happi-
ness depended on his reversal of the sentence already pronounced.
"You know, papa, that I trust you," she said. "And I have
promised you that I will not disobey you. If you tell me that I
am never to see Mr. Lopez again, I will not see him."

11 You are a good girl. You were always a good girl."

" But I think that you ought to hear me." Then he stood still
with his hands in his trowsers pockets looking at her. He did not
want to hear a word, but he felt that he would be a tyrant if he
refused. " If you tell me that I am not to see him, I shall not see
him. But I shall be very unhappy. I do love him, and I shall
never love any one else in the same way."

" That is nonsense, Emily. There is Arthur Fletcher."

" I am sure you will never ask me to marry a man I do not
love, and I shall never love Arthur Fletcher. If this is to be as
you say, it will make me very, very wretched. It is right that
you should know the truth. If it is only because Mr. Lopez has
a foreign name "

" It isn't only that ; no one knows anything about him, or
where to inquire even."

1 ' I think you should inquire, papa, and be quite certain before
you pronounce such a sentence against me. It will be a crushing
blow." He looked at her, and saw that there was a fixed purpose
in her countenance of which he had never before seen similar
signs. " You claim a right to my obedience, and I acknowledge
it. I am sure you believe me when I promise not to see him with-
out your permission."

" I do believe you. Of course I believe you."

11 But if I do that for you, papa, I think that you ought to be
very sure, on my account, that I haven't to bear such unhappi-
ness for nothing. You'll think about it, papa, — will you not,
before you quite decide ? " She leaned against him as she spoke,
and he kissed her. " Good night, now, papa. You will think
about it ? "

■ « I will. I will. Of course I will."

And he began the process of thinking about it immediately, —
before the door was closed behind her. But what was there to
think about ? Nothing that she had said altered in the least his
idea about the man. He was as convinced as ever that unless
there was much to conceal there would not be so much conceal-
ment. But a feeling began to grow upon him already that his
daughter had a mode of pleading with him which he would not

32 THE PRIME MINISTER.

ultimately be able to resist. He had the power, he knew, of
putting an end to the thing altogether. He had only to say
resolutely and unchangeably that the thing shouldn't be, and it
wouldn't be. If he could steel his heart against his daughter's
sorrow for, say, a twelvemonth, the victory would be won. But
he already began to fear that he lacked the power to steel his heart
against his daughter.

CHAPTER VI.

AN OLD FRIEND GOES TO WINDSOR.

" And what are they going to make you now ?"

This question was asked of her husband by a lady with whom
perhaps the readers of this volume may have already formed some
acquaintance. Chronicles of her early life have been written, at
any rate copiously. The lady was the Duchess of Omnium, and
her husband was of course the Duke. In order that the nature of
the question asked by the duchess may be explained, it must be
stated that just at this time the political affairs of the nation had
got themselves tied up into one of those truly desperate knots from
which even the wisdom and experience of septuagenarian states-
men can see no unravelment. The heads of parties were at a
stand-still. In the House of Commons there was, so to say. no
majority on either side. The minds of members were so i
that, according to the best calculation that could be made, there
would be a majority of about ten against any possiblo Cabinet.
There would certainly be a majority against either of those well-
tried but, at this moment, little -trusted Prime Ministers, Mr.
Gresham and Mr. Daubeny. There were certain men, nominally
belonging to this or to the other party, who would certainly within
a week of the nomination of a Cabinet in the House, oppose the
Cabinet which they ought to support. Mr. Daubeny had b
power, — nay, was in power though he had twice resigned. Mr.
Gresham had been twice sent for to Windsor, and had on one
occasion undertaken and on another had refused to undertake to
form a Ministry. Mr. Daubeny had tried two or three combina-
tions, and had been at his wits' end. He was no doubt still in
power, — could appoint bishops, and make peers, and give
ribbons. But he couldn't pass a law, and certainly continued to
hold his present uncomfortable position by no will of his own. Bat
a Prime Minister eannot escape till he has succeeded in finding a
successor; and though the successor be found and oonseD
make an attempt, tho old unfortunate cannot bo allowed to go free
when that attempt is shown to be a failure, He has not absolutely

AN OLD FRIEND GOES TO WINDSOR. 83

given tip tho keys of his boxes, and no one will take them from
him. Even a sovereign can abdicate ; but the Prime Minister oi' a
constitutional government is in bonds. The reader may therefore
understand that the Duchess was asking her husband what place
among the political rulers of the country had been offered to him
by the last aspirant to the leadership of the Government.

But the reader should understand more than this, and may per-
haps do so, if he has ever seen those former chronicles to which
allusion has been made. The Duke, before he became a duke, had
held very high office, having been Chancellor of the Exchequer.
When he was transferred, perforce, to the House of Lords, he had,
— as is not uncommon in such cases, — accepted a lower political
station. This had displeased the Duchess, who was ambitious both
on her own behalf and that of her lord, — and who thought that a
Duke of Omnium should be nothing in the Government if not at
any rate near the top. But after that, with the simple and single
object of doing some special piece of work for the nation, — some-
thing which he fancied that nobody else would do if he didn't do it,
— his Grace, of his own motion, at his own solicitation, had encoun-
tered further official degradation, very much to the disgust of the
Duchess. And it was not the way with her Grace to hide such
sorrows in the depth of her bosom. When affronted she would
speak out, whether to her husband, or to another, — using irony
rather than argument to support her cause and to vindicate her
ways. The shafts of ridicule hurled by her against her husband in
regard to his voluntary abasement had been many and sharp.
They stung him, but never for a moment influenced him. And
though they stung him, they did not even anger him. It was her
nature to say such things, — and he knew that they came rather
from her uncontrolled spirit than from any malice. She was his
wife too, and he had an idea that of little injuries of that sort
there should be no end of bearing on the part of a husband. Some-
times he would endeavour to explain to her the motives which ac-
tuated him ; but he had come to fear that they were and must ever
be unintelligible to her. But he credited her with less than her real
intelligence. She did understand the nature of his work and his
reasons for doing it; and, after her own fashion, did what she con-
ceived to be her own work in endeavouring to create within his bosom
a desire for higher things. " Surely," she said to herself, " if a man
of his rank is to be a minister he should be a great minister ; — at
any rate as great as his circumstances will make him. A man
never can save his country by degrading himself." In this he
would probably have agreed; but his idea of degradation and hers
hardly tallied.

When therefore she asked him what they were going to make
him, it was as though some sarcastic housekeeper in a great esta-
blishment should ask the butler,-^-some butler too prone to yield in
such matters, — whether the master had appointed him lately to the
cleaning of shoes or the carrying of coals. Since these knots had

31 THE PRIME MINISTER.

become so very tight, and since the journeys to "Windsor had become
so very frequent, her Grace had asked many such questions, and had
received but very indifferent replies. The Duke had sometimes
declared that the matter was not ripe enough to allow him to' make
any answer. "Of course," said the Duchess, "you should ]
the secret. The editors of the evening papers haven't known it for
above an hour." At another time he told her that he had under-
taken to give Mr. Gresham his assistance in any way in which it
might be asked. "Joint Under-Secretary with Lord Fawn, I
should say," answered the Duchess. Then he told her that he be-
lieved an attempt would be made at a mixed ministry, but that ho
did not in the least know to whom the work of doing so would be
confided. " You will bo about the last man who will be told,"
replied the Duchess. Now, at this moment, he had, as she knew,
come direct from the house of Mr. Gresham, and she asked her
question in her usual spirit. " And what are they going to make
you now ? "

But he did not answer the question in his usual manner. He
would customarily smile gently at her badinage, and perhaps say a
word intended to show that he was not in the least moved by her
raillery. But in this instance he was very grave, and stood before
her a moment making no answer at all, looking at her in a sad and
almost solemn manner. • ' They have told you that they can do
without you," she said, breaking out almost into a passion. " I
knew how it would be. Men are always valued by others as they
value themselves."

"I wish it were so," he replied. "I should sleep easier to-
night."

"What is it, Plantagenet ? " she exclaimed, jumping up from
her chair.

"I never cared for your ridicule hitherto, Cora; but now I feel
that I want your sympathy."

" If you are going to do anything, — to do really anything, you
shall have it. Oh, how you shall have it ! "

" I have received her Majesty's orders to go down to Windsor at
once. I must start within half-an-hour."

" You are going to be Prime Minister ! " she exclaimed. As she
spoke she threw her arms up, and then rushed into his emb:
Never since their first union had she been so demonstrative either
of love or admiration. " Oh, Plantagenet," she said, " if I can only
do anything I will slave for you." As he put his arm round
waist he already felt the pleasantness of her altered way to him.
She had never worshipped him yet, and therefore her worship i
it did come had all the delight to him which it ordinarily has to tho
newly married hero.

" Stop a moment, Cora. I do not know how it may be yet. But
this I know, that if without cowardice I could avoid this task, I
would certainly avoid it."

"Oh no! And there would be cowardice; of course there

AN OLD FRIEND GOES TO WINDSOR. 35

Itonld," said the Duchess, not much caring what might be the
bonds which bound him to the task so long as he should certainly
feel himself to be bound.

"He has told me that he thinks it my duty to make the
attempt."

"Who is he?"

•" Mr. Grresham. I do not know that I should have felt myself
bound by him, but the Duke said so also." This duke was our
duke's old friend, the Duke of St. Bungay.

" Was he there? And who else ?"

" No one else. It is no case for exultation, Cora, for the chances
are that I shall fail. The Duke has promised to help me, on con-
dition that one or two he has named are included, and that one or
two whom he has also named are not. In each case I should my-
self have done exactly as he proposes."

"And Mr. Gresham?" _

" He will retire. That is a matter of course. He will intend to
support us ; but all that is veiled in the obscurity which is always,
I think, darker as to the future of politics than any other future.
Clouds arise, one knows not why or whence, and create darkness
when one expected light. But as yet, you must understand, nothing'is
settled. I cannot even say what answer I may make to her Majesty,
til1 I know what commands her Majesty may lay upon me."

4 You must keep a hold of it now, Plantagenet," said the Duchess
clenching her own fist.

" I will not even close a finger on it with any personal ambition,"
said the Duke. " If I could be relieved from the burden this mo-
ment it would be an ease to my heart. I remember once," he
said, — and as he spoke he again put his arm around her waist,
"when I was debarred from taking office by a domestic circum-
stance."

"I remember that too," she said, speaking very gently and
looking up at him.

" It was a grief to me at the time, though it turned out so well,
—because the office then suggested to me was one which I thought
I could fill with credit to the country. I believed in myself then as
far as that work went. But for this attempt I have no belief in
myself. I doubt whether I have any gift for governing men."

" It will come."

" It may be that I must try ; — and it may be that I must break
my heart because I fail. But I shall make the attempt if I am
directed to do so in any manner that shall seem feasible. I must
be off now. The Duke is to be here this evening. They had
better have dinner ready for me whenever I may be able to eat it."
Then he took his departure before she could say another word.

When the Duchess was alone she took to thinking of the whole
thing in a manner which they who best knew her would have
thought to be very unusual with her. She already possessed all
that rank and wealth could give her, and together with those good

36 (THE PEIME MINISTER.

things a peculiar position of her own, of which she was proud,
and which she had made her own not by her wealth or rank, but
by a certain fearless energy and power of raillery which never
deserted her. Many feared her and she was afraid of none, and
many also loved her, — whom she also loved, for her nature was affec-
tionate. She was happy with her children, happy with her friends,
in the enjoyment of perfect health, and capable of taking an
exaggerated interest in anything that might come uppermost for
the moment. One would have been inclined to say that politics
were altogether unnecessary to her, and that as Duchess of
Omnium, lately known as Lady Glencora Palliser, she had a
wider and a pleasanter influence than could belong to any woman
as wife of a Prime Minister. And shte was essentially one of those
women who are not contented to be known simply as the wives of
their husbands. She had a celebrity of her own, quite independent
of his position, and which could not be enhanced by any glory or
any power added to him. Nevertheless when he left her to go
down to the Queen with the prospect of being called upon to act
as chief of the incoming ministry, her heart throbbed with excite-
ment. It had come at last, and he would be, to her thinking, the
leading man in the greatest kingdom in the world.

But she felt in regard to him somewhat as did Lady Macbeth
towards her lord.

" What them "vrould'st highly,
That would'st thou holily."

She knew him to be full of scruples, unable to bend when aught
was to bo got by bending, unwilling to domineer when men might
be brought to subjection only by domination. The first duty
never could be taught to him. To win support by smiles when
his heart was bitter within him would never be within the pc w r
of her husband. He could never be brought to buy an enemy by
political gifts, — would never be prone to silence his keenest oppo-
nent by making him his right hand supporter. But tho other
lesson was easier and might she thought be learned. Power is so
pleasant that men quickly learn to be greedy in the enjoyment of
it, and to flatter themselves that patriotism requires them to be
imperious. She would be constant with him day and night to
make him understand that his duty to his country required him to
be in very truth its chief ruler. And then with some knowledge
of things as they are, — and also with much ignorance, — she
reflected that he had at his command a means of obtaining popu-
larity and securing power, which had not belonged to his im-
mediate predecessors, and had perhaps never to the same extent
been at the command of any minister in England. Ilis wealth as
puke of Omnium had been great ; but hers, as available for
immediate purposes, had been greater even than his. After some
fashion, of which she was profoundly ignorant, her own property
was separated from his and reserved to herself and her children

AN OLD FBIEND GOES TO WINDSOB. 37

Since her marriage she had never said a word to him about her
money, — unless it were to ask that something out of the common
course might he spent on some, generally absurd, object. But
now had come the time for squandering money. She was not only
rich but she had a popularity that was exclusively her own. The
new Prime Minister and the new Prime Minister's wife should
entertain after a fashion that had never yet been known even
among the nobility of England. Both in town and country those
great mansions should bo kept open which were now rarely much
used because she had found them dull, cold, and comfortless.
In London there should not bo a member of Parliament whom she
would not herself know and influence by her flattery and grace, —
or if there were men whom she could not influence, they should
live as men tabooed and unfortunate. Money mattered nothing.
Their income was enormous, and for a series of years, — for half-a-
dozon years if the game could be kept up so long, — they could
spend treble what they called their income without real injury to
their children. Visions passed through her brain of wondrous
things which might be done, — if only her husband would be true
to his own greatness.

The Duke had left her at about two. She did not stir out of the
house that day, but in the course of the afternoon she wrote a lino
to a friend who lived not very far from her. The Duchess dwelt
in Carlton Terrace, and her friend in Park Lane. The note was as
follows : —

"DearM.,
" Come to me at once. I am too excited to go to you.

" Yours,

"G."

This was addressed to one Mrs. Finn, a lady as to whom chro-
nicles also have been written, and who has been known to the
readers of such chronicles as a friend dearly loved by the Duchess.
As quickly as she could put on her carriage garments and get her-
self taken to Carlton Terrace Mrs. Finn was there. "Well, my
dear, how do you think it's all settled at last?" said the Duchess.
It will probably b« felt that the new Prime Minister's wife was
indiscreet, and hardly worthy of the confidence placed in her by
her husband. But surely we all have some one friend to whom
we tell everything, and with the Duchess Mrs. Finn was thatono
friend.

11 Is the Duke to be Prime Minister?"
" How on earth should you have guessed that ?"
"What else could make you so excited ? Besides it is by no
means strange. I understand that they have gone on trying the
two old stagers till it is useless to try them any longer ; and if
there is to be a fresh man no one would be more likely than the
Duke."

88 THE PRIME MINISTER.

"Do you think so?"

"Certainly. Why not?"

" He has frittered away his political position by such meaning-
less concessions. And then he had never done anything to put
himself forward, — at any rate since he left the House of Commons.
Perhaps I haven't read things right,— but I was surprised, very
much surprised."

"And gratified?"

M Oh yes. I can tell you everything because you will neither
misunderstand me, nor tell tales of me. Yes,— I shall like him to
be Prime Minister, though I know that I shall have a bad time of
it myself."

"Whjrabadtime?"

"He is so hard to manage? Of course I don't mean about
politics. Of course it must be a mixed kind of thing at first, and
I don't care a straw whether it run to Eadicalism or Toryism.
The country goes on its own way, either for better or for worse,
whichever of them are in. I don't think it makes any difference
as to what sort of laws are passed. ' But among ourselves, in our
set, it makes a deal of difference who get the garters, and the
counties, who are made barons and then earls, and whose name
stands at the head of everything."

" That is your way of looking at politics ?"

" I own it to you ; — and I must teach it to him."

"You never will do that, Lady Glen."

" Never is a long word. I mean to try. For look back and tell
me of any Prime Minister who has become sick of his power.
They become sick of the want of power when it's falling away
from them, — and then they affect to disdain and put aside the
thing they can no longer enjoy. Love of power is a kind of
feeling which comes to a man as he grows older."

" Politics with the Duke have been simple patriotism," said
Mrs. Finn.

"The patriotism may remain, my dear, but not the simplicity.
I don't want him to sell his country to Germany, or to turn it
into an American republic in order that he may be president. Bat
when he gets the reins in his hands, I want him to keep them there.
If he's so much honester than other people, of course he's the best
man for the place. We must make him believe that tho very i
ence of the country depends on his firmness."

" To tell you the truth, Lady Glen, I don't think you'll ever
make the Duke believe anything. What he believes, he believes
either from very old habit, or from the working of his own mind."

"You're always singing his praises, Marie."

" I don't know that there is any special praise in what I say ;
but as far as I can see, it is the man's character."

" Mr. Finn will come in, of course," said the Duchess.

" Mr. Finn will be like the Duke in one thing. He'll take his
own way as to being in or out quite independently of his wife."

ANOTHER OLD FRIEND. 89

You'd like him to be in office ?"

* No, indeed I Why should I ? He would be more often at the

iOuse, and keep later hours, and be always away all the morning

into the bargain. But I shall like him to do as he likes himself."

" Fancy thinking of all that. I'd sit up all night every night
of my life, — I'd listen to every debate in the House myself, — to
have Plantagenet Prime Minister. I like to be busy. Well now,
if it does come off "

" It isn't settled then?"

"How can one hope that a single journey will settle it, when
those other men have been going backwards and forwards between
Windsor and London like buckets in a well for the last three
weeks ? But if it is settled I mean to have a cabinet of my own,
and I mean that you shall do the foreign affairs."

" You'd better let me be at the exchequer. I'm very good at
accounts."

11 I'll do that myself. The accounts that I intend to set agoing
would frighten any one less audacious. And I mean to be my own
home -secretary, and to keep my own conscience, — and to be my
own master of the ceremonies certainly. I think a small cabinet
gets on best. Do you know ; — I should like to put the Queen
down."

" What on earth do you mean ?"

" No treason ; nothing of that kind. But I should like to make
Buckingham Palace second-rate; and I'm not quite sure but I
can. I dare say you don't quite understand me."

" I don't think that I do, Lady Glen."

" You will some of these days. Come in to-morrow before
lunch. I suppose I shall know all about it then, and shall have
found that my basket of crockery has been kicked over and every
thing smashed,"

CHAPTEB YII.

ANOTHER OLD FRIEND.

At about nine the Duke had returned, and was eating his very
simple dinner in the breakfast-room, — a beefsteak and a potato,
with a glass of sherry and Apollinaris water. No man more
easily satisfied as to what he eat and drank lived in London in
those days. As regarded the esting and drinking ho dined alone,
but his wife sat with him and waited on him., having sent the ser-
vant out of the room. "I have told her Majesty that I would do
the best I could," said the Duke.

" Then you are Prime Minister."

Not at all. Mr. Daubeny is Prime Minister. I have under-

40 THE PRIME MINISTER.

taken to form a ministry, if I find it practicable, with the assist-
ance of such friands as I possess. I never felt before that I hpft
to lean so entirely on others as I do now."

" Lean on yourself only. Be enough for yourself."

"Those are empty words, Cora; — words that are quite empty.
In one sense a man should always be enough for himself, lie
should have enough of principle and enough of conscience to
restrain him from doing what he knows to be wrong. But can a
shipbuilder build his ship single-handed, or the watchmaker make
his watch without assistance ? On former occasions such as this,
I could say, with little or no help from without, whether I would
or would not undertake the work that was proposed to me, because
I had only a bit of the ship to build, or a wheel of the watch to
make. My own efficacy for my present task depends entirely on
the co-operation of others, and unfortunately upon that of some
others with whom I have no sympathy, nor have they with me."

" Leave them out," said the Duchess boldly.

1 ' But they are men who will not be left out, and whose services
the country has a right to expect."

"Then bring them in, and think no more about it. It is no
good crying for pain that cannot be cured."

" Co-operation is difficult without community of feeling. I find
myself to be too stubborn-hearted for the place. It was nothing to
me to sit in the same Cabinet with a man I disliked when I had

not put him there myself. But now . As I have travelled up

I have almost felt that I could not do it ! I did not know before
how much I might dislike a man."

" Who is the one man ?"

"Nay; — whoever he be, he will have to be a friend now, and
therefore I will not name him, even to you. But it is not one
only. If it were one, absolutely marked and recognised, I might
avoid him. But my friends, real friends, are so few ! Who is
there besides the Duke on whom I can lean with both confidence
and love ? "

" Lord Cantrip."

"Hardly so, Cora. But Lord Cantrip goes out with Mr. Gres-
ham. They will always cling together."

" You used to like Mr. Mildmay."

" Mr. Mildmay, — yes ! If there could be a Mr. Mildmay in tho
Cabinet, this trouble would not come upon my shoulders."

• ' Then I'm very glad that there can't be a Mr. Mildmay. Why
shouldn't thero be as good fish iii ihe sea as ever were caught out
of it ? "

" When you've got a good fish you like to make as much of it
as you can."

"I suppose Mr. Monk will join you."

" I think wo shall ask him. Bui I am not prepared to discuss
men's names as yet."

"You must discuss them with tho Duke immediately,"

ANOTHER OLD FRIEND. 41

" Probably ; — but I bad better discuss them with him before I
fix my own mind by naming them even to you."

"You'll bring Mr. Finn in, Plantagenet P "

"Mr. Finn!"

" Yes; — Phineas Finn,— the man who was tried."

" My dear Cora, we haven't come down to that yet. We need
not at any rate trouble ourselves about the small fishes till we aro
sure that we can get big fishes to join us."

"I don't know why he should be a small fish. No man has
done better than he has ; and if you want a man to stick to
you "

"I don't want a man to stick to me. I want a man to stick to
his country."

"You were talking about sympathy."

"Well, yes ; — I was. But do not name any one else just at pre-
sent. The^Duke will be here soon, and Iwould be alone till he comes."

" There is one thing I want to say, Plantagenet."

"What is it?"

" One favour I want to ask."

" Pray do not ask anything for any man just at present."

" It is not anything for any man."

" Nor for any woman."

" It is for a woman,— but one whom I think you would wish to
oblige."

" Who is it ?" Then she curtseyed, smiling at him drolly, and
put her hand upon her breast. " Something for you ! What on
earth can you want that I can do for you ? "

"Will you do it,— if it be reasonable ? "

" If I think it reasonable, I certainly will do it."

Then her manner changed altogether and she became serious and
almost solemn. " If, as I suppose all the great places about her
Majesty be changed, I should like to be Mistress of the Eobes."

"You!" said he, almost startled out of his usual quiet de-
meanour.

" Why not I ? Is not my rank high enough ?"

"You burden yourself with the intricacies and subserviences,
with the tedium and pomposities of Court life ! Cora, you do not
know what you are talking about, or what you are proposing for
yourself."

" If I am willing to try to undertake a duty why should I be
debarred from it any more than you ? "

' ' Because I have put myself into a groove, and ground myself
into a mould, and clipped and pared and pinched myself all round,
— very ineffectually as I fear, — to fit myself for this thing. You
have lived as free as air. You have disdained, — and though I may
have grumbled I have still been proud to see you disdain, — to wrap
yourself in the swaddling bandages of Court life. You have ridiculed
all those who havo been near her Majesty as Court ladies."

" The individuals, Plantagenet ,porhaps; but not the office. I

42 THE PRIME MINISTER.

am getting older now, and I do not see why I should not begin a
new life," She had been somewhat quelled by his unexpected
energy, and was at the mordent hardly able to answer him with her
usual spirit.

"Do not think of it, my dear. You asked whether your rank
was high enough. It must be so, as there is, as it happens, none
higher. But your position, should it come to pass that your hus-
band is the head of the Government, will be too high. I may say
that in no condition should I wish my wife to be subject to other
restraint than that which is common to all married women. I
should not choose that she should have any duties unconnected
with our joint family and home. But as First Minister of the
Crown I would altogether object to her holding an office believed to
be at my disposal." She looked at him with her large eyes wide
open, and then left him without a word. She had no other way of
showing her displeasure, for she knew that when he spoke as he
had spoken now all argument was unavailing.
, The Duke remained an hour alone before he was joined by the
other Duke, during which he did not for a moment apply his mind
to the subject which might be thought to be most prominent in his
thoughts, — the filling up namely of a list of his new government.
All that he could do in that direction without further assistance
had been already done very easily. There were four or five certain
names, — names that is of certain political friends, and three or four
almost equally certain of men who had been political enemies but
who would now clearly be asked to join the ministry. Sir Gregory
Grogram, the late Attorney- General, would of course be asked to
resume his place ; but Sir Timothy Beeswax, who was up to this
moment Solicitor- General for the Conservatives, would also be in-
vited to retain that which he held. Many details were kuown, not
only to the two dukes who were about to patch up the ministry
between them, but to the political world at large,— and were tacts
upon which the newspapers were able to display their wonderful
foresight and general omniscience with their usual confidence. And
as to the points which wore in doubt, — whether or not for instance
that consistent old Tory Sir Orlando Drought should bo asked to
put up with the Post-oiBco or should bo allowed to remain at the
Colonies, — the younger Duke did not care to trouble him soli' till
the elder should have come to his assistance. But his own p
and his questionable capacity for filling it, — that occupied all his
mind. If nominally first he would be really first. Of so much it
seemed to him that his honour required him to assure himself. To
bo a faineant ruler was in direct antagonism both to his
and his predilections. To call himself by a great name before the
world, and then to be something infinitely less than that name,
would be to him a degradation. But though ho felt fixed as to
that, he was by no means assured as to that other point, which to
most men firm in their resolves as he was, and backed up as he had
been by the confidence of others, would be causo of small hesitation.

ANOTHER OLD FRIEND. 43

He did doubt ills ability to fill that place which it would now be his
duty to occupy. He more than doubted. He told himself again
and again that there was wanting to him a certain noble capacity
for commanding support and homage from other men. With things
and facts he could deal, but human beings had not opened them-
eelves to him. But now it was too late ! and yet, — as he said to his
wife, — to fail would break his heart ! No ambition had prompted
him. He was sure of himself there. One only consideration had
forced him into this great danger, and that had been the assurance of
others that it was his manifest duty to encounter it. And now
there was clearly no escape, — no escape compatible with that clean-
handed truth from which it was not possible for him to swerve.
He might create difficulties in order that through them a way
might still be opened to him of restoring to the Queen the commis-
sion which had been entrusted to him. He might insist on this or
that impossible concession. But the memory of escape such as that
would break his heart as surely as the failure.

When the Duke was announced he rose to greet his old friend
almost with fervour. " It is a shame," he said, " to bring you out
so late. I ought to have gone to you."

"Not at all. It is always the rule in these cases that the man
who has most to do should fix himself as well as he can where
others may be able to find him." The Duke of St. Bungay was an
old man, between seventy and eighty, with hair nearly white, and
Who on entering the room had to unfold himself out of various coats
and comforters. But he wa3 in full possession not only of his in-
tellects but of his bodily power, showing, as many politicians do
show, that the cares of the nation may sit upon a man's shoulders
for many years without breaking or even bending them. For the
Duke had belonged to ministries nearly for the last half century.
As the chronicles have also dealt with him no further records of his
past life shall now be given.

He had said something about the Queen, expressing gracious
wishes for the comfort of her Majesty in all these matters, some-
thing of the inconvenience of these political journeys to and fro,
something also of the delicacy and difficulty of the operations on
hand which were enhanced by the necessity of bringing men
together as cordial allies who had hitherto acted with bitter ani-
mosity one to another, before the younger Duke said a word. *l We
may as well," said the elder, "make out some small provisional
list, and you can ask those you name to be with you early to-
morrow. But perhaps you have already made a list."

" No indeed. I have not even had a pencil in my hand."

" We may as well begin then," said the elder facing the table
when he saw that his less-experienced companion made no attempt
ftt beginning.

** There i** something horrible to me in the idea of writing down
men's names for such a work as this, just as boys at school used to
draw out the elevens for a cricket match." The old stager turned

44 THE PBIME MINISTER.

round and stared at the younger politician. " The thing itself is so
momentous that one ought to have aid from heaven."

Plantagenet Palliser was the last man from whom the Duke of
St. Bungay would have expected romance at any time, and, least of
all, at such a time as this. "Aid from heaven you may have," he
said, " by saying your prayers; and I don't doubt you ask it for
this and all other things generally. But an angel won't come to
tell you who ought to be Chancellor of the Exchequer."

" No angel will, and therefore I wish that I could wash my hands
of it." His old friend still stared at him. " It is like sacrilege to
me, attempting this without feeling one's own fitness for the work.
It unmans me, — this necessity of doing that which I know I cannot
do with fitting judgment."

" Your mind has been a little too hard at work to-day."

11 It hasn't been at work at all. I've had nothing to do, and
have been unable really to think of work. But I feel that chance
circumstances have put me into a position for which I am unfit, and
which yet I have been unable to avoid. How much better would it
be that you should do this alone, — you yourself."

"Utterly out of the question. I do know and think that I
always have known my own powers. Neither has my aptitude in
debate nor my capacity for work justified me in '.looking to the
premiership. But that, forgive me, is now not worthy of consi-
deration. It is because you do work and can work, and because
you have fitted yourself for that continued course of lucid explana-
tion which we now call debate, that men on both sides have called
upon you as the best man to come forward in this difficulty. Ex-
cuse me, my friend, again if I say that I expect to find your man-
liness equal to your capacity."

" If I could only escape from it ! "

"Psha; — nonsense! said the old Duke, getting up. " Thero
is such a thing as a conscience with so fine an edge that it will allow
a man to do nothing. You've got to serve your country. On such
assistance as I can give you you know that you may depend with
absolute assurance. Now let us get to work. I suppose you
would wish that I should take tho chair at the Council."

" Certainly; — of course," said the Duke of Omnium, turning to
the table. The one practical suggestion had fixed him, and from
that moment he gave himself to the work in hand with all his
energies. It was not very difficult nor did it take them a very long
time. If the future Prime Minister had not his names at his
fingers' ends, the future President of the Council had them. Eight
men were soon named whom it was thought well that the Duke of
Omnium should consult" early in the morning as to their willing-
ness to fill certain places. " Each one of them may have some other
one or some two whom he may insist on bringing with him," said
tho elder Duke ; "and though of course you cannot yield to the
pressure in every such case, it will be wise to allow yourself scope
for somo amount of concession, You'll find they'll shake down after

THE BEGINNING OF A NEW CAREER. 45

the usual amount of resistance and compliance. No ;— don't you
leave your house to-morrow to see anybody unless it be Mr. Dau-
beny or her Majesty. I'll come to you at two, and if her Grace
will give me luncheon I'll lunch with her. Good night, and don't
think too much of the bigness of the thing. I remember dear old
Lord Brock telling me how much more difficult it was to find a good
coachman than a good Secretary of State." The Duke of Omnium,
as he sat thinking of things for the next hour in his chair, suc-
ceeded only in proving to himself that Lord Brock never ought to
have been Prime Minister of England after having ventured to
make so poor a joke on so solemn a subject.

CHAPTER Vm.

TIIE BEGINNING OE A NEW CAREER.

By the time that the Easter holidays were over, — holidays which
had been used so conveniently for the making of a new govern-
ment,— the work of getting a team together had been accomplished
by the united energy of the two dukes and other friends. The
filling up of the great places had been by no means so difficult or
so tedious, — nor indeed the cause of half so many heartburns, — as
the completion of the list of the subordinates. Noblesse oblige.
The Secretaries of State, and the Chancellors, and the Eirst Lords,
selected from this or the other party, felt that the eyes of mankind
were upon them, and that it behoved them to assume a virtue if
they had it not. They were habitually indifferent to self- exalta-
tion, and allowed themselves to be thrust into this or that unfitting
hole, professing that the Queen's Government and the good of the
country were their only considerations. Lord Thrift made way for
Sir Orlando Drought at the Admiralty, because it was felt on all
sides that Sir Orlando could not join the new composite party with-
out high place. And the same grace was shown in regard to Lord
Drummond, who remained at the Colonies, keeping the office to
which he had been lately transferred under Mr. Daubeny. And
Sir Gregory Grogram said not aword,'whatever he may have thought,
when he was told that Mr. Daubeny's Lord Chancellor, Lord
Eamsden, was to keep the seals. Sir Gregory did, no doubt, think .
very much about it ; for legal offices have a signification differing
much from that which attaches itself to places simply political. A
Lord Chancellor becomes a peer, and on going out of office enjoys
a large pension. When the woolsack has been reached there comes
an end of doubt, and a beginning of ease. Sir Gregory was not a
young man, and this was a terrible blow. But he bore it manfully,
saying not a word when the Duke spoke to him ; but he became

46 THE PRIME MINISTER.

convinced from that moment that no more inefficient lawyer ever sat
upon the English bench, or a more presumptuous politician in the
British Parliament, than Lord Ramsden.

The real struggle, however, lay in the appropriate distribution of
the Rattlers and the Eobys, the Fitzgibbons and the Macphersons
among the subordinate offices of State. Mr. Macpherson and Mr.
Roby, with a host of others who had belonged to Mr. Daubeny,
were prepared, as they declared from the first, to lend their i
ance to the Duke. They had consulted Mr. Daubeny on .the sub-
ject, and Mr. Daubeny told them that their duty lay in that direc-
tion. At the first blush of the matter the arrangement took the
form of a gracious tender from themselves to a statesman called
upon to act in very difficult circumstances, — and they were thanked
accordingly by the Duke with something of real cordial gratitude.
But when the actual adjustment of things was in hand, the Duke,
having but little power of assuming a soft countenance and using
soft words while his heart was bitter, felt on more than one occa-
sion inclined to withdraw his thanks. He was astounded not so
much by the pretensions as by the unblushing assertion of these
pretensions in reference to places which he had been innocent
enough to think were always bestowed at any rate without direct
application. He had measured himself rightly when ho told the
older duke in one of those anxious conversations which had been held
before the attempt was made, that long as he had been in office
himself he did not know what was the way of bestowing office.
" Two gentlemen have been here this morning," he said one day to
the Duke of St. Bungay, "one on the heels of the other, each
assuring me not only that the whole stability of the enterprise
depends on my giving a certain office to him, — but actually telling
me to my face that I had promised it to him ! " The old statesman
laughed. " To be told within the same half- hour by two men that I
had made promises to each of them inconsistent with each other ! "

" Who were the two men ? "

" Mr. Rattlor and Mr. Roby."

"I am assured that they are inseparable since the work was
begun. They always had a leaning to each other, and now I hear
they pass their time between the steps of the Carlton and Reform
Clubs."

11 But what am I to do P One must be Patronage Secretary, no
doubt."

" They're both good men in their way, you know."

11 But why do they come to me with their mouths open, like dogs
craving a bone ? It used not to be so. Of course men were always
anxious for office as they are now."

" Well ; yes. We've heard of that before to-day, I think."

" But 1 don't think any man ever ventured to ask Mr. Mildmay."

"Timohad done much for him in consolidating his authority,
and perhaps the present world is less reticent in its eagerness than
it was in his younger days. I doubt, however, whether it is more

THE BEGINNING OP A NEW CAREER. 47

dishonest, and whether struggles were not made quite as disgrace-
ful to the strugglers as anything that is done now. You can't
alter the men, and you must use them." The younger Duke sat
down and sighed over the degenerate patriotism of the age.

But at last even the Eattlers and Kobys were fixed, if not satis-
fied, and a complete list of the ministry appeared in all the news-
papers. Though the thing had been long a doing, still it had
come suddenly, — so that at the first proposition to form a coalition
ministry, the newspapers had hardly known whether to assist or
to oppose the scheme. There was no doubt, in the minds of all
these editors and contributors, the teaching of a tradition that co-
alitions of this kind have been generally feeble, sometimes dis-
astrous, and on occasions even disgraceful. When a man, perhaps
through a long political life, has bound himself to a certain code
of opinions, how can he change that code at a moment ? And
when at the same moment, together with the change, he secures
power, patronage, and pay, how shall the public voice absolve
him ? But then again men, who have by the work of their lives
grown into a certain position in the country and have uncon-
sciously but not therefore less actually made themselves indis-
pensable either to this side in politics or to that, cannot free
themselves altogether from the responsibility of managing them
when a period comes such as that now reached. This also the
newspapers perceived ; and having, since the commencement of
the session, been very loud in exposing the disgraceful collapse of
government affairs, could hardly refuse their support to any
attempt at a feasible arrangement. When it was first known that
the Duke of Omnium had consented to make the attempt, they
had both on one side and the other been loud in his praise, going
so far as to say that he was the only man in England who could
do the work. It was probably this encouragement which had
enabled the new Premier to go on with an undertaking which was
personally distasteful to him, and for which from day to day he
believed himself to be less and less fit. But when the newspapers
told him that he was the only man for the occasion, how could he
be justified in crediting himself in preference to them ?

The work in Parliament began under the new auspices with
great tranquillity. That there would soon come causes of hot
blood, — the English Church, the county suffrage, the income tax,
and further education questions, — all men knew who knew any-
thing. But for the moment, for the month even, perhaps for the
session, there was to be peace, with full latitude for the perform-
ance of routine duties. There was so to say no opposition, and at
first it seemed that one special bench in the House of Commons
would remain unoccupied. But after a day or two, — on ono of
which Mr. Daubeny had been seen sitting just below the gangway,
— that gentleman returned to the place usually held by the Prime
Minister's rival, saying with a smile that it might be for the con-
venience of the House that the seat should be utilised. Mr,

48 THE PRIME MINISTER.

Gresham at this time had, with declared purpose, asked and ob-
tained the Speaker's leave of absence and was abroad. Who
should lead the House? That had been a great question, caused
by the fact that the Prime Minister was in the House of Lords ; —
and what office should the leader hold ? Mr. Monk had consented
to take the Exchequer, but the right to sit opposite to the Treasury-
Box and to consider himself for the time the principal spirit in
that chamber was at last assigned to Sir Orlando Drought. ' ' It
will never do," said Mr. Eattler to Mr. Eoby. "I don't mean to
say anything against Drought, who has always been a very useful
man to your party ;— but he lacks something of the position."

"The fact is," said Eoby, "that we've trusted to two men so
long that we don't know how to suppose any one else big enough
to fill their places. Monk wouldn't have done. The House
doesn't care about Monk."

" I always thought it should be Wilson, and so I told the Duke.
He had an idea that it should be one of your men."

"I think he's right there," said Eoby. "There ought to be
something like a fair division. Individuals might be content, but
the party would be dissatisfied. For myself, I'd have sooner stayed
out as an independent member, but Daubeny said that he thought
I was bound to make myself useful."

"I told the Duke from the beginning," said Eattler, "that I
didn't think that I could be of any service to him. Of course I
would support him, but I had been too thoroughly a party man for
a new movement of this kind. But he said just the same ; — that
he considered I was bound to join him. I asked Gresham, and
when Gresham said so too, of course I had no help for it."

Neither of these excellent public servants had told a lie in this.
Some such conversations as those reported had passed ; — but a
man doesn't lie when he exaggerates an emphasis, or even when
he gives by a tone a meaning to a man's words exactly opposite to
that which another tone would convey. Or, if he does lie m doing
so, he does not know that ho lies. Mr. Eattler had gone back to
his old office at the Treasury and Mr. Eoby had been forced to
content himself with the Secretaryship at the Admiralty. But, as
the old Duko had said, they were close friends, and prepared to
fight together any battle which might keep them in their present
position.

Many of the cares of office the Prime Minister did succor 1 in
shuffling off altogether on to the shoulders. of his elder friend.
He would not concorn himself with the appointment of ladies,
about whom ho said he knew nothing, and as to whose fitness and
claims ho professed himself to be as ignorant as tho office mes-
senger. The offers were of course made in tho usual f c >i
though coming direct from tho Queen, through the Prime Mi i
— but tho selections were in truth effected by tho old 1 hike in

council with an illustrious personage. The matter affected

our Duko —only in bo far that fe$ could not get out of his nr*"*

THE BEGINNING OP A NEW 6AHEEB. 40

that strango application from his own wife. " That she should
have even dreamed of it !" he would say to himself, not yet having
acquired sufficient experience of his fellow creatures to be aware
how wonderfully temptations will affect even those who appear to
be least subject to them. The town horse, used to gaudy trap-
pings, no doubt despises the work of his country brother ; but
yet, now and again, there comes upon him a sudden desire to
plough. The desire for ploughing had come upon the Duchess,
but the Duke could not understand it.

He perceived, however, in spite of the multiplicity of his official
work, that his refusal sat heavily on his wife's breast, and that,
though she spoke no further word, she brooded over her injury.
And his heart was sad within him when ho thought that he had
vexed her, — loving her as he did with all his heart, but with a
heart that was never demonstrative. When she was unhappy he
was miserable, though he would hardly know the cause of his
misery. Her ridicule and raillery he could bear, though they
stung him; but her sorrow, if ever she were sorrowful, or her
sullenness, if ever she were sullen, upset him altogether. He was
in truth so soft of heart that he could not bear the discomfort of
the one person in the world who seemed to him to be near to him.
He had expressly asked her for her sympathy in the business he
had on hand, — thereby going much beyond his usual coldness
of manner. She, with an eagerness which might have been
expected from her, had promised that she would slave for him, if
slavery were necessary. Then she had made her request, had

been refused, and was now moody. " The Duchess of is to

be Mistress of the Kobes," he said to her one day. He had gone
to her, up to her own room, before he dressed for dinner, having
devoted much more time than as Prime Minister he ought to have
done to a resolution that he would make things straight with her,
and to the best way of doing it.

" So I am told. She ought to know her way about the place, as
I remember she was at the same work when I was a girl of
eleven."

" That's not so very long ago, Cora."

" Silverbridge is older now than I was then, and I think that
makes it a very long time ago." Lord Silverbridge was the Duke's
eldest son.

" But what does it matter ? If she began her career in the time
of George the Fourth what is it to you ?"

' • Nothing on earth, — only that she did in truth begin her career
in the time of George the Third. I'm sure she's nearer sixty than
fifty."

" I'm glad to see you remember your dates so well."

"It's a pity she should not remember hers in the way she
dresses," said the Duchess.

This was marvellous to him, — that his wife who as Lady
Glencora Palliser had been eo conspicuous for a wild disregard of

BO THE PRIME MINISTER.

social rules as to be looked upon by many as an enemy of her own
class, should be so depressed by not being allowed to be the
Queen's head servant as to descend to personal invective ! " I'm
afraid," said he, attempting to smile, "that it won't come within
the compass of my office to effect or even to propose any radical
change in her Grace's apparel. But don't you think that you and
I can afford to ignore, all that ?"

" I can certainly. She may be an antiquated Eve for me."

"I hope, Cora, you are not still disappointed because I did not
agree with you when you spoke about the place for yourself."

" Not because you did not agree with me, — but because you did
not think me fit to be trusted with any judgment of my o\tn. I
don't know why I'm always to be looked upon as different from
other women, — as though I were half a savage."

"You are what you have made yourself, and I have always
rejoiced that you are as you are, fresh, untrammelled, without
many prejudices which afflict other ladies, and free from bonds by
which they are cramped and confined. Of course such a turn of
character is subject to certain dangers of its own."

" There is no doubt about the dangers. The chances are that
when I see her Grace I shall tell her what I think about her."

"You will I am sure say nothing unkind to a lady who is sup-
posed to be in the place she now fills by my authority. But do
not let us quarrel about an old woman."

" I won't quarrel with you even about a young one."

"I cannot be at ease within myself while I think you ar9
resenting my refusal. You do not know how constantly I cany
you about with me."

" You carry a very unnecessary burden then," she said. But
he could tell at once from the altered tone of her voice, and from
the light of her eye as he glanced into her face, that her anger
about "The Bobes " was appeased.

" I have done as you asked about a friend of yours," he said.
This occurred just before the final and perfected list of the new
men had appeared in all the newspapers.

" What friend ? "

" Mr. Finn is to go to Ireland."

" Go to Ireland ! — How do you mean ? "

"It is looked upon as being very great promotion. Indeed I
am told that he is considered to be the luckiest man in all tho
scramble."

" You don't mean as Chief Secretary P"

" Yes, I do. He certainly couldn't go as Lord Lieutenant."

" But they said that Damngton Erie was going to Ireland."

"Well; yes. I don't know that you'd be interested 1
the ins and outs of it. But Mr. Erie declined. It seems that
Mr. Erie is after all the one man in Parliament modest ei
not to consider himself to be lit for any place that can be Offered
to him."

" Poor Barrington 1 He does not like the idea of crossing the

THE BEGINNING OP A NEW CAREER. 51

Channel so often. I quite sympathise with him. And so Phineas
is to be Secretary-for Ireland ! Not in the Cabinet ?"

"No ; — not in the Cabinet. It is not by any means usual that
he should be."

" That is promotion, and I am glad ! Poor Phineas ! I hope
they won't murder him, or anything of that kind. They do
murder people, you know, sometimes."

" He's an Irishman himself."

" That's just the reason why they should. He must put up with
that of course. I wonder whether she'll like going. They'll be
able to spend money, which they always like, over there. He
comes backwards arid forwards every week, — doesn't he ?"

" Not quite that, I believe."

" I shall miss her, if she has to stay away long. I know you
don't like her."

" I do like her. She has always behaved well, both to me and to
my uncle."

II She was an angel to him, — and to you too if you only knew it.
I dare say you're sending him to Ireland so as to get her away
from me." This she said with a smile, as though not meaning it
altogether, but yet half meaning it.

II I have asked him to undertake the office," said the Duke
solemnly, " because I am told that he is fit for it. But I did have
some pleasure in proposing it to him beoause I thought that it
would please you."

"It does please me, and I won't be cross anymore, and the

Duchess of may wear her clothes just as she pleases, or go

without them. And as for Mrs. Pinn, I don't see why she should
be with him always when he goes. You can quite understand how
necessary she is to me. But she is in truth the only woman in
London, to whom I can say what I think. And it is a comfort, you
know, to have some one."

In this way the domestic peace of the Prime Minister was
readjusted, and that sympathy and co-operation for which he had
first asked was accorded to him. It may be a question whether on
the whole the Duchess did not work harder than he did. She did
not at first dare to expound to him those grand ideas which
she had conceived in regard to magnificence and hospitality. She
said nothing of any extraordinary expenditure of money. But she
set herself to work after her own fashion, making to him sugges-
tions as to dinners and evening receptions, to which he objected
only on the score of time. " You must eat your dinner some-
where," she said, "and you need only come in just before we sit
down, and go into your own room if you please without coming
up-stairs at all. I can at any rate do that part of it for you." And
she did do that part of it with marvellous energy all through tho
month of May, — so that by the end of the month, within six weeks
of the- time at which she first heard of the Coalition Ministry all
the world had begun to talk of the Prime Minister's dinners, and
of the receptions given by the Prime Minister's wife.

52 THE PRIME MINISTER.

CHAPTER IX.

MRS. DICK'S DINNER PARTY.— N"0. I.

OVr readers must not forget the troubles of poor Emily Wharton
amidst the gorgeous festivities of the new Prime Minister.
Throughout April and May she did not once see Ferdinand Lopez.
It may be remembered that on the night when the matter was
discussed between her and her father, she promised him that she
would not do so without his permission, — saying, however, at tho
same time very openly that her happiness depended on such per-
mission being given to her. Eor two or three weeks not a word
further was said between her and her father on the subject, and
he had endeavoured to banish the subject from his mind, — feeling
no doubt that if nothing further were ever said it would be so
much the better. But then his daughter referred to the matter, —
very plainly, with a simple question, and without disguise of her
own feeling, but still in a manner which he could not bring
himself to rebuke. " Aunt Harriet has asked mo once or twico to
go there of an evening, when you have been out. I have declined
because I thought Mr. Lopez would bo there. Must I tell her that
I am not to meet Mr. Lopez, papa ? "

" If she has him there on purpose to throw him in your way, I
shall think very badly of her."

" But he has been in the habit of being there, papa. Of course if
you are decided about this, it is better that I should not see him."

" Did I not tell you that I was decided ? "

" You said you would make some further inquiry and speak to
me again." Now Mr. Wharton had made inquiry, but had learned
nothing to reassure himself ; — neither had he been able to learn m\y
fact, putting his fmger on which he could point out to his daughter
clearly that the marriage would be unsuitable for her. Of tho
man's ability and position, as certainly also of his manners, the
world at large seemed to speak well. He had been black-balled at
two clubs, but apparently without any defined reason. He lived
as though he possessed a handsome income, and yet was in no
degree fast or flashy. He was supposed to be an intimate friend of
Mr. Mills Happerton, one of the partners in the world-famous
commercial house of Hunky and Sons, which dealt in millions.
Indeed there had been at one time a rumour that ho was going to
bo taken into the house of Hunky and Sons as a junior par.
It was evident that many people had been favourably impres
by his outward demeanour, by his mode of talk, and by his w;i>
living. But no one kuew anything about him. With regal
his material position Mr. Wharton could of course ask direct
questions if he pleased, and require evidence as to alleged pro-
perty. But he felt that by doing so he would abandon his right to
object to the man as being a Portuguese stranger, and he did not

MRS. DICK'S DINNER PARTY. — NO. I. 53

wish to have Ferdinand Lopez as a son-in-law, even though he
should be a partner in Hunky and Sons, and able to maintain a
gorgeous palace at South Kensington.

" I have made inquiry."

" Well, papa ?"

" I don't know anything about him. Nobody knows anything
about him."

" Could you not ask hi:nself anything you want to know ? If I
might see him I would ask him."

" That would not do at all."

" It comes to this, papa, that I am to sever myself from a man
to whom I am attached, and whom you must admit that I have
been allowed to meet from day to day with no caution that his
intimacy was unpleasant to you, because he is called — Lopez."

" It isn't that at all. There are English people of that name ;
but he isn't an Englishman."

'■* Of course if you say so, papa, it must be so. I have told Aunt
Ilarriet that I consider myself to be prohibited from meeting Mr.
Lopez by what you have said; but I think, papa, you are a little
— cruel to me."

" Cruel to you ! " said Mr. Wharton, almost bursting into tears.

" I am as ready to obey as a child; — but, not being a child, I
think I ought to have a reason." To this Mr. Wharton made no
further immediate answer, but pulled his hair, and shuffled his feet
about, and then escaped out of the room.

A few days afterwards his sister-in-law attacked him. " Are
we to understand, Mr. Wharton, that Emily is not to meet Mr.
Lopez again ? It makes it very unpleasant, because he had been
intimate at our house."

" I never said a word about her not meeting him. Of course I
do not wish that any meeting should be contrived between them."

" As it stands now it is prejudicial to her. Of course it cannot
but be observed, and it is so odd that a young lady should be for-
bidden to meet a certain man. It looks so unpleasant for her, — as
though she had misbehaved herself."

" I have never thought so for a moment."

" Of course you have not. How could you have thought so,
Mr. Wharton ? "

11 1 say that I never did."

"What must he think when he knows, — as of course he does
know, — that she has been forbidden to meet him ? It must make
him fancy that he is very much made of. All that is so very bad
for a giri ! Indeed it is, Mr. Wharton." Of course there was
absolute dishonesty in all this on the part of Mrs. Eoby. She was
true enough to Emily's lover, — too true to him ; but she was false to
Emily's father. If Emi !y would have yielded to her she would have
arranged meetings at her own house between the lovers altogether
in opposition to the father. Nevertheless there was a show of
reason about what she said which Mr. Wharton was unablo to over'

5i THE PRIME MINISTER.

come. And at the same time there was a reality about his girl's
sorrow which overcame him. He had never hitherto consulted any
one about anything in his family, having always found his own in-
formation and intellect sufficient for his own affairs. But now he
felt grievously in want of some pillar, — some female pillar on which
he could lean. He did not know all Mrs. Eoby's iniquities ; but
still he felt that she was not the pillar of which he was in need.
There was no such pillar for his use, and he was driven to acknow-
ledge to himself that in this distressing position he must be guided
by his own strength, and his own lights. He thought it all out as
well as he could in his own chamber, allowing his book or his brief
to lie idle beside him for many a half-hour. But he was much
puzzled both as to the extent of his own authority and the manner
in which it should be used. He certainly had not desired his
daughter not to meet the man. He could understand that unless
some affront had been offered such an edict enforced as to the con-
duct of a young lady would induce all her acquaintance to suppose
that she was either very much in love or else very prone to mis-
behave herself. He feared, indeed, that she was very much in
love, but it would not be prudent to tell her secret to all the world.
Perhaps it would be better that she should meet him, — always with
the understanding that she was not to accept from him any
peculiar attention. If she would be obedient in one particular,
she would probably be so in the other; — and, indeed, he did not at
all doubt her obedience. She would obey, but would take care to
show him that she was made miserable by obeying. Ho began to
foresee that he had a bad time before him.

And then as he still sat idle, thinking of it all, his mind wan-
dered off to another view of the subject. Could he be happy, or
even comfortable, if she were unhappy ? Of course he endeavoured
to convince himself that if he were bold, determined, and dicta-
torial with her, it would only be in order that her future happiness
might be secured. A parent is often bound to disregard tho
immediate comfort of a child. But thon was he sure that ho was
right ? He of course had his own way of looking at life, but was
it reasonable that he should force his girl to look at things with his
eyes ? The man was distasteful to him as being unlike his idea of
an English gentleman, and as being without those far-reaching
fibres and roots by which he thought that the solidity and stability
of a human tree should be assured. But the world was oh
around him every day. Koyalty was marrying out of its d
Peers' sons were looking only for money. And, more than that,
peers' daughters were bestowing themselves on Jews and shop-
keepers. Had he not bettor make the usual inquiry about tho
man's means, and, if satisfied on that head, let the girl do .
would ? Added to all this there was growing on him a fooling that
ultimately youth would as usual triumph over age, and that he
would be beaten. If that were so, why worry himself, or why
worry her T

MRS. DICK'S DINNER PARTY. — NO. I. 55

On the day after Mrs. Eoby's attack upon him he again saw that
lady, having on this occasion sent round to ask her to come to
him. " I want you to understand that I put no embargo on Emily
as to meeting Mr. Lopez. I can trust her fully. I do not wish.
her to encourage his attentions, but I by no means wish her to
avoid him."

" Am I to tell Emily what you say ?"

" I will tell her myself. I think it better to say as much to you,
as you seemed to be embarrassed by the fear that they might
happen to see each other in your drawing-room."

11 It was rather awkward ; — wasn't it ?"

14 1 have spoken now because you seemed to think so." His
manner to her was not very pleasant, but Mrs. Eoby had known
him for many years, and did not care very much for his manner.
She had an object to gain, and could put up with a good deal for
the sake of her object.

11 Very well. Then I shall know how to act. But, Mr. Wharton,
I must say this, you know Emily has a will of her own, and you
must not hold me responsible for anything that may occur." As
soon as he heard this he almost resolved to withdraw the concession
he had made ; — but he did not do so.

Very soon after this there came a special invitation from Mr.
and Mrs. Eoby, asking the "Whartons, father and daughter, to dine
with them round the corner. It was quite a special invitation,
because it came in the form of a card, — which was unusual be-
tween the two families. But the dinner was too, in some degree,
a special dinner, — as Emily was enabled to explain to her father,
the whole speciality having been fully detailed to herself by her
aunt. Mr. Eoby, whose belongings were not generally aristo-
cratic, had one great connection with whom, after many years of
quarrelling, he had lately come into amity. This was his half-
brother, considerably older than himself, and was no other than
that Mr. Eoby who was now Secretary to the Admiralty, and who
in the last Conservative government had been one of the Secretaries
to the Treasury. The old Mr. Eoby of all, now long since gathered
to his fathers, had had two wives and two sons. The elder son
had not been left as well ofT as friends, or perhaps as he himself,
could have wished. But he had risen in the world by his wits,
had made his way into Parliament, and had become, as all readers
of these chronicles know, a staff of great strength to his party.
But he had always been a poor man. His periods of office had
been much shorter than those of his friend Eattler, and his other
sources of income had not been certain. His younger half-brother,
who, as far as the great world was concerned, had none of his
elder brother's advantages, had been endowed with some fortune
from his mother, and, — in an evil hour for both of them, — had lent
the politician money. As one consequence of this transaction, they
had not spoken to eacla other for years. On this quarrel Mrs.
Eoby was always harping with her own husband, — not taking his

56 THE PEIME MINISTER.

part. Her Eoby, her Dick, had indeed the means of supporting
her with fair comfort, but had, of his own, no power of introducing
her to that sort of society for which her soul craved. But Mr.
Thomas Eoby was a great man, — though unfortunately poor, —
and moved in high circles. Because they had lent their money, —
which no doubt was lost for ever, — why should they also lose the
advantages of such a connection ? Would it not be wiser rather to
take the debt as a basis whereon to found a claim for special
fraternal observation and kindred social intercourse ? Dick, who
was fond of his money, would not for a long time look at tho
matter in this light, but harassed his brother from time to time by
applications which were quite useless, and which by the acerbity
of their language altogether shut Mrs. Eoby out from the good
things which might have accrued to her from so distinguished a
brother-in-law. But when it came to pass that Thomas Eoby was
confirmed in office by the coalition which has been mentioned,
Mrs. Dick became very energetic. She went herself to the official
hero and told him how desirous she was of peace. Nothing more
should bo said about the money, — at any rate for the present. Let
brothers be brothers. And so it came to pass that the Secretary to
the Admiralty with his wife were to dine in Berkeley Street, and
that Mr. Wharton was asked to meet them.

" I don't particularly want to meet Mr. Thomas Eoby," the old
barrister said.

'• They want you to come," said Emily, " because there has been
some family reconciliation. You usually do go once or twice a year."

" I suppose it may as well be done," said Mr. Wharton.

" I think, papa, that they mean to ask Mr. Lopez," said Emily
demurely.

1 ' I told you before that I don't want to have you banished from
your aunt's home by any man," said the father. So the matter
was settled, and the invitation was accepted. This was just at
the end of May, at which time people were beginning to say that
the coalition was a success, and some wise men to predict that at
last fortuitous parliamentary atoms had so come together by acci-
dental connection, that a ministry had been formed which might
endure for a dozen years. Indeed there was no reason why there
should be any end to a ministry built on such a foundation. Of
course this was very comfortable to such men as Mr. Eoby, so
that the Admiralty Secretary when he entered his sister-in-law's
drawing-room was suffused with that rosy hue of human bliss
which a feeling of triumph bestows. "Yes," said he, in answer to
some would-be facetious remark from his brother, " I think wo
havo weathered that storm pretty well. It does seem rather odd,
my sitting cheek by jowl with Mr. Monk and gentlemen of that
kidney; but they don't bite. I've got one of our own set at the
head of our own office, and he leads the House. I think upon the
whole we've got a little the best of it." This was listened to by
Mr , Wharton with great disgust,— for Mr. Wharton was a Tory of

MRS. DICK'S DINNER PARTY. — NO. I. 67

the old school, who hated compromises, and abhorred in his heart
the class of politicians to whom politics were a profession rather
than a creed.

Mr. Roby Senior, having escaped from the House, was of course
the last, and had indeed kept all the other guests waiting half an
hour, — as becomes a parliamentary magnate in the heat of the
session. Mr. Wharton, who had been early, saw all the other
guests arrive, and among them Mr. Ferdinand Lopez. There was
also Mr. Mills Happerton, — partner in Hunky and Sons,— with
his wife, respecting whom Mr. Wharton at once concluded that
he was there as being the friend of Ferdinand Lopez. If so,
how much influence must Ferdinand Lopez have in that house !
Nevertheless, Mr. Mills Happerton was in his way a great man,
and a credit to Mrs. Roby. And there were Sir Damask and Lady
Monogram, who were people moving quite in the first circles. Sir
Damask shot pigeons, and so did also Dick Roby, — whence had
perhaps arisen an intimacy. But Lady Monogram was not at
all a person to dine with Mrs. Dick Roby without other cause than
this. But a great official among one's acquaintance can do so
much for one ! It was probable that Lady Monogram's presence
was among the first fruits of the happy family reconciliation that
had taken place. Then there was Mrs. Leslie, a pretty widow,
rather poor, who was glad to receive civilities from Mrs. Roby, and
was Emily Wharton's pet aversion. Mrs. Leslie had said imper-
tinent things to her about Ferdinand Lopez, and she had snubbed
Mrs. Leslie. But Mrs. Leslie was serviceable to Mrs. Roby, and
had now been asked to her great dinner party.

But the two most illustrious guests have not yet been mentioned.
Mrs. Roby had secured a lord, — an absolute peer of Parliament !
This was no less a man than Lord Mongrober, whose father had
been a great judge in the early part of the century, and had been
made a peer. The Mongrober estates were not supposed to be
large, nor was the Mongrober influence at this time extensive.
But this nobleman was seen about a good deal in society when the
dinners given were supposed to be worth eating. He was a fat,
silent, red-faced, elderly gentleman, who said very little, and who
when he did speak seemed always to be in an ill-humour. He
would now and then make ill-natured remarks about his friends'
wines, as suggesting '68 when a man would boast of his '48 claret;
and whon costly dainties were supplied for his use, would remark
that such and such a dish was very well at some other time of the
year. So that ladies attentive to their tables and hosts proud of
their cellars would almost shake in their shoes before Lord Mon-
grober. And it may also be said that Lord Mongrober never gave
any chance of retaliation by return dinners. There lived not the
man or woman who had dined with Lord Mongrober. But yet the
Robys of London were glad to entertain him ; and the Mrs. Robys,
when he was coming, would urge their cooks to superhuman
energies by the mention of his name.

58 fHE PRIME MINISTER/

And there was Lady Eustace ! Of Lady Eustace it was impos-
sible to say whether her beauty, her wit, her wealth, or the
remarkable history of her past life, most recommended her to such
hosts and hostesses as Mr. and Mrs. Eoby. As her history may be
already known to some, no details of it shall be repeated here.
At this moment she was free from all marital persecution, and was
very much run after by a certain set in society. There were others
again who declared that no decent man or woman ought to meet
her. On the score of lovers there was really little or nothing to
be said against her; but she had implicated herself in an unfor-
tunate second marriage, and then there was that old story about
the jewels ! But there was no doubt about her money and her
good looks, and some considered her to be clever. These com-
pleted the list of Mrs. Eoby's great dinner party.

Mr. Wharton, who had arrived early, could not but take notice
that Lopez, who soon followed him into the room, had at once fallen
into conversation with Emily, as though there had never been any
difficulty in the matter. The father, standing on the rug and pre-
tending to answer the remarks made to him by Dick Eoby, could
see that Emily said but little. The man, however, was so much at
his ease that there was no necessity for her to exert herself. Mr.
Wharton hated him for being at his ease. Had he appeared to
have been rebuffed by the circumstances of his position the preju-
dices of the old man would have been lessened. By degrees the
guests came. Lord Mongrober stood also on the rug, dumb, with a
look of intense impatience for his food, hardly ever condescending
to answer the little attempts at conversation made by Mrs. Dick.
Lady Eustace gushed into the room, kissing Mrs. Dick and after-
wards kissing her great friend of the moment, Mrs. Leslie, who fol-
lowed. Sho then looked as though she meant to kiss Lord Mon-
grober, whom she playfully and almost familiarly addressed. But
Lord Mongrober only grunted. Then came Sir Damask and Lady
Monogram, and Dick at once began about his pigeons. Sir Damask,
who was tho most good-natured man in the world, interested him-
self at once and became energetic, but Lady Monogram looked
round tho room carefully, and seeing Lady Eustace turned up her
nose, nor did sho care much for meeting Lord Mongrober. If she
nad been taken in as to the Admiralty Eobys, then would she let
the junior Eobys know what she thought about it. Mills Happer-
ton with his wife caused the frown on Lady Monogram's brow to
loosen itself a little, for, so great was the wealth and power of tho
nouso of Ilunky and Sons, that Mr. Mills Ha; is no doubt

a feature at any dinner party. Then came tho Admiralty Secretary
with his wife, and tho ordor for dinner was given.

MRS. DICK'S DINNER PARTY. — NO. IT; 69

CHAPTER X.

MRS. DICK'S DINNER PARTY.— NO. II.

Dick walked down-stairs with Lady Monogram. There had been
some doubt whether of right he should not have taken Lady-
Eustace, but it was held by Mrs. Dick that her ladyship had some-
what impaired her rights by the eccentricities of her career, and
also that she would amiably pardon any little wrong against her of
that kind, — whereas Lady Monogram was a person to be much
considered. Then followed Sir Damask with Lady Eustace. They
seemed to be paired so well together that there could be no doubt
about them. The ministerial Eoby, who was really the hero of the
night, took Mrs. Happerton, and our friend Mr. Wharton took tho
Secretary's wife. All that had been easy, — so easy that fate had
good-naturedly arranged things which are sometimes difficult of
management. But then there came an embarrassment. Of course it
would in a usual way be right that a married man as was Mr,
Happerton should be assigned to the widow Mrs. Leslie, and that
the only two " young " people,— in the usual sense of the word, —
should go down to dinner together. But Mrs. Eoby was at first
afraid of Mr. Wharton, and planned it otherwise. When, however,
the last moment came she plucked up' courage, gave Mrs. Leslie to
the great commercial man, and with a brave smile asked Lopez to
give his arm to the lady he loved. It is sometimes so hard to
manage these " little things," said she to Lord Mongrober as she
put her hand upon his arm. His lordship had been kept standing
in that odious drawing-room for more than half an hour waiting
for a man whom he regarded as a poor Treasury hack, and was by no
means in a good humour. Dick Roby's wine wTas no doubt good,
but he was not prepared to purchase it at such a price as this.
"Things always get confused when you have waited an hour for
anyone," — he said. "What can one do, you know, when the
House is sitting ? " said the lady apologetically. " Of course you
lords can get away, but then you have nothing to do." Lord Mon-
grober grunted, meaning to imply by his grunt that any one would
be very much mistaken who supposed that he had any work to do
because he was a peer of Parliament.

Lopez and Emily were seated next to each other, and immediately
opposite to them was Mr. Wharton. Certainly nothing fraudulent
had been intended on this occasion, — or it would have been arranged
that the father should sit on the same side of the table with the
lover, so that he should see nothing of what was going on. But it
seemed to Mr. Wharton as though he had been positively swindled
by his sister-in-law. There they sat opposite to him, talking to
each other apparently with thoroughly mutual confidence, the very
two persons whom he most especially desired to keep apart. He
had not a word to say to either of the ladies near him. He endea-

60 THE PEIME MINISTER.

voured to keep his eyes away from his daughter as much as possible,
and to divert his ears from their conversation ; — but he could not
but look and he could not but listen. Not that he really heard a
sentence. Emily's voice hardly reached him, and Lopez under-
stood the game he was playing much too well to allow his voice to
travel. And he looked as though his position were the most com-
monplace in the world, and as though he had nothing of more than
ordinary interest to say to his neighbour. Mr. Wharton, as ho sat
there, almost made up his mind that he would leave his practice, give
up his chambers, abandon even his club, and take his daughter atonce
to, — to ; — it did not matter where, so that the place should be very
distant from Manchester Square. There could be no other remedy
for this evil.

Lopez, though he talked throughout the whole of dinner, — turn-
ing sometimes indeed to Mrs. Leslie who sat at his left hand, — said
very little that all the world might not have heard. But he did say
one such word. " It has been so dreary to me, the last month !
Emily of course had no answer to make to this. She could not tell
him that her desolation had been infinitely worse than his, and that
she had sometimes felt as though her very heart would break. " I
wonder whether it must always be like this with me," he said, — and
then he went back to the theatres, and other ordinary conversation.

" I suppose you've got to the bottom of that champagne you used
to have," said Lord Mongrober roaring across the table to his
host, holding his glass in his hand, and with strong marks of dis-
approbation on his face,

"The very same wine as we were drinking when your lordship
last did me the honour of dining here," said Dick. Lord Mongrober
raised his eyebrows, shook his head and put down the gL:

" Shall we try another bottle ? " asked Mrs. Dick with solicitude.

" Oh no ; — it'd be all the same, I know. I'll just take a
dry sherry if you have it." The man came with the decanter.
" No, dry sherry ; — dry sherry," said his lordship. The man was
oonfounded, Mrs. Dick was at her wits' ends, and everything was
in confusion. Lord Mongrober was not the man to bo kept wai
by a government subordinate without exacting some penalty
such ill-treatment.

" 'Is lordship is a little out of sorts," whispered Dick to Lady
Monogram.

" Very much out of sorts it seems."

" And the worst of it is there isn't a better glass of wino in Lon-
don, and 'is lordship knows it."

"I suppose that's what he comes for," said Lady Monogram,
being quite as uncivil in her way as the nobleman.

" 'E's like a good many others. He knows where he can get a
good dinner. After all there's no attraction like that. Of con:
'ansome woman won't admit that, Lady Monogram."

" I will not admit it at any rate. Mr. Rob v."

"J3 ut I don't doubt Monogram is as careful as anyone else to

MRS. DICK'S DINNER PARTY.— NO. II. 61

get the best cook he can, and takes a good deal of trouble about his
wine too. Mongrober is very unfair about that champagne. It
came out of Madame Cliquot's cellars before the war, and I gaye
Sprott and Burlingkammer 110a. for it."

"Indeed!"

"I don't think there are a dozen men in London can give you
such a glass of wine as that. What do you say about that cham-
pagne, Monogram?"

" Very tidy wine," said Sir Damask.

"I should think it is. I gave 110s. for it before the war. 'Is
lordship's got a fit of the gout coming, I suppose."

But Sir Damask was engaged with his neighbour Lady Eustace.
11 Of all things I should so like to see a pigeon match," said Lady
Eustace. "I have heard about them all my life. Only I suppose
it isn't quite proper for a lady."

" Oh, dear, yes."

11 The darling little pigeons ! They do sometimes escape, don't
they ? I hope they escape sometimes. I'll go any day you'll make
up a party, — if Lady Monogram will join us." Sir Damask said
that ho would arrange it, making up his mind, however, at the same
time that this last stipulation, if insisted on, would make the thing-
impracticable.

Boby the ministerialist, sitting at the end of the table between
his sister-in-law and Mrs, Happerton, was very confidential re-
specting the Government and parliamentary affairs in general.
" Yes, indeed ; — of course it's a coalition, but I don't see why we
shouldn't go on very well. As to the Duke, I've always had the
greatest possible respect for him. The truth is there's nothing
special to be done at the present moment, and there's no reason
why we shouldn't agree and divide the good things between us.
The Duke has got some craze of his own about decimal coinage.
He'll amuse himself with that ; but it won't come to anything, and
it won't hurt us."

"Isn't the Duchess giving a great many parties ?" asked Mrs.
Happerton.

" Well ; — yes. That kind of thing used to be done in old Lady
Brock's time, and the Duchess is repeating it. There's no end to
their money, you know. But it's rather a bore for the persons who
have to go." The ministerial Boby knew well how he would make
his sister-in-law's mouth water by such an allusion as this to the
great privilege of entering the Prime Minister's mansion in Carlton
Terrace.

" I suppose you in the Government are always asked."

u We are expected to go too, and are watched pretty close. Lady
Glen, as we used to call her, has the eyes of Argus. And of coursn
we who used to be on the other side are especially bound to pay hej
observance."

11 Don't you like the Duchess ? " asked Mrs. Happerton.

" Oh, yes j — I like her very well. She's mad, you know,— mad

62 THE PRIME MINISTER.

as a hatter, — and no one can ever guess what freak may come next.
One always feels that shell do something sooner or later that will
startle all the world."

''There was a queer story once, — wasn't there?" asked Mrs.
Dick.

" I never quite believed that," said Eoby. " It was something
about some lover she had before she was married. She went off to
Switzerland. But the Duke, — he was Mr. Palliser then, — followed
her very soon and it all came right."

" When ladies are going to be duchesses, things do come right;
don't they ?" said Mrs. Happerton.

On the other side of Mrs. Happerton was Mr. Wharton, quite
unable to talk to his right-hand neighbour, the Secretary's wife.
The elder Mrs. Eoby had not, indeed, much to say for herself, and
he during the whole dinner was in misery. He had resolved that
there should be no intimacy of any kind between his daughter and
Ferdinand Lopez, — nothing more than the merest acquaintance ;
and there they were, talking together before his very eyes, with
more evident signs of understanding each other than were exhibited
by any other two persons at the table. And yet he had no just ground
of complaint against either of them. If people dine together at the
same house, it may -of course happen that they shall sit next to
each other. And if people sit next to each other at dinner it ia
expected that they shall talk. Nobody could accuse Emily of flirt-
ing ; but then she was a girl who under no circumstances would
condescend to flirt. But she had declared boldly to her father that
she loved this man, and there she was in close conversation with
him ! Would it not be better for him to give up any further trouble,
and let her marry the man ? She would certainly do so sooner or
later.

When the ladies went up-stairs that misery was over for a time,
but Mr. Wharton was still not happy. Dick came round and took
his wife's chair, so that he sat betwoen the lord and his brother.
Lopez and Happerton fell into city conversation, and Sir Damask
tried to amuse himself with Mr. Wharton. But the task was hope-
less,— as it always is when the elements of a party have been ill-
mixed. Mr. Wharton had not even heard of the new Aldershot
coach which Sir Damask had just started with Colonel Luskin and
Sir Alfonso Blackbird. And when Sir Damask declared that he
drove the coach up and down twice a week himself, Mr. Wharton
at any rate aifected to believe that such a thing was impoi
Then when Sir Damask gave him his opinion as to the cause of the
failure of a certain horse at Northampton, Mr. Wharton gave him
no encouragement whatover. " I never was at a race-course in my
life," said the barrister. After that Sir Damask drank his wine in
silence.

" You remember that claret, my lord ? " said Dick, thinking that
eomo little compensation was due to him for what had been said
about the champagne.

JIBS. DICK'S DINNER PAEtfY. — NO. II. b8

But Lord Mongrober' s dinner had not yet had the effect of molli-
fying the man sufficiently for Dick's purposes. "Oh, yes, I
remember the wine. You call it '57, don't you ? "

" And it is '57 ;— '57, Leoville." >

" "Very likely, — very likely. If it hadn't been heated before tho
£re "

" It hasn't been near the fire," said Dick.

" Or put into a hot decanter "

u Nothing of the kind."

" Or treated after some other damnable fashion, it would be very
good wine, I dare say."

"You are hard to please, my lord, to-day," said Dick, who was
put beyond his bearing.

"What is a man to say ? If you will talk about your wine I can
only tell you what I think. Any man may get good wine,— that
is if he can afford to pay the piice, — but it isn't one out often who
knows how to put it on the table." Dick felt this to be very hard.
"When a man pays 110s. a dozen for his champagne, and then gives
it to guests like Lord Montgrober who are not even expected to
loturn the favour, then that man ought to be allowed to talk
about his wine without fear of rebuke. One doesn't have an agree-
ment to that effect written down on parchment and sealed ; but it
is as well understood and ought to be as faithfully kept as any
legal contract. Dick, who could on occasions be awakened to a
touch of manliness, gave the bottle a shove and threw himself
back in his chair. "If you ask me, I can only tell you," repeated
Lord Mongrober.

" I don't believe you over had a bottle of wine put before you
in better order in all your life," said Dick. His lordship's face
became very square and very rod as he looked round at his host.
"And as for talking about my wine, of course I talk to a man
about what he understands. I talk to Monogram about pigeons,
to Tom there about politics, to 'Apperton and Lopez about the
price of consols, and to you about wine. If I asked you what you
thought of the last new book, your lordship would be a little sur-
prised." Lord Mongrober grunted and looked redder and squarer
than, ever; but he made no attempt at reply, and the victory
was evidently left with Dick, — very much to the general exalta-
tion of his character. And he was proud of himself. " We had
a little tiff, me and Mongrober," he said to his wife that night.
" 'E's a very good fellow, and of course he's a lord and all that.
But he has to be put down occasionally, and, by George, I did it
to-night. You ask Lopez."

There were two drawing-rooms up-stairs, opening into each other,
but still distinct. Emily had escaped into the back room, avoiding
the gushing sentiments and equivocal morals of Lady Eustace and
Mis. Leslie, — and here she was followed by Ferdinand Lopez.
Mr. Wharton was in the front room, and though on entering it he
did look round furtively for his daughter, he was ashamed to

6-4 THE PRIME MINISTER.

wander about in order that he might watch her. And there were
others in the back room, — Dick and Monogram standing on the
rug, and the elder Mrs. Eoby seated in a corner ; — so that there
was nothing peculiar in the position of the two lovers.

" Must I understand," said he, " that I am banished from Man-
chester Square ?"

" Has papa banished you ?"

" That's what I want you to tell me."

" I know you had an interview with him, Mr. Lopez."

"Yes. I had."

"And you must know best what he told you."

" He would explain himself better to you than he did to me."

" I doubt that very much. Papa, when he has anything to say
generally says it plainly. However, I do think that he did intend
to banish you. I do not know why I should not tell you the truth."

" I do not know either."

" I think he did — intend to banish you."

"And you?"

"I shall be guided by him in all things, — as far as I can."

" Then I am banished by you also ?"

" I did not say so. But if papa says that you are not to come
there, of course I cannot ask you to do so."

" But I may see you here ?"

u Mr. Lopez, I will not be asked some questions. I will not
indeed."

" You know why I ask them. You know that to me you aro
more than all the world." She stood still for a moment after
hearing this, and then without any reply walked away into the
other room. She felt half ashamed of herself in that she had not
rebuked him for speaking to her in that fashion after his interview
with her father, and yet his words had filled her heart with delight.
He had never before plainly declared his love to her, — though she
had been driven by her father's questions to declare her own love
to herself. She was quite sure of herself, — that the man w.
would always be to her the one being whom she would pn
all others. Her fate was in her father's hands. If he chose to
make her wretched he must do so. But on one point she had quite
made up her mind. She would make no concealment. To tie
world at large she had nothing to say on the matter. But with
her father there should be no attempt on her part to keep back the
truth. Were he to question her on the subject she would tell him,
as far as her memory would servo her, the very words which Lopez
had spoken to her this evening. She would ask nothing from
him. He had already told her that the man was to bo rejected,
and bad refused to givo anjr other reason than his dislike to the
absence of any English connection. She would not again ask even
for a reason. But she would make her father understand that
though she obeyed him she regarded the exorcise of his authority
as tyrannical and irrational.

MR. DICK S DINNER PARTY. NO. II. ■ 00

They left; the house before any of the other guests and walked
round the corner together into the Square. " What a very vulgar
set of people !" said Mr. Wharton as soon as they were down the
steps.

" Some of them" were," said Emily, making a mental reservation
of her own.

"Upon my word I don't know where to make the exception.
Why on earth any one should want to know such a person as
Lord Mongrober I can't understand. What does he bring into
society?"

"A title."

" But what does that do of itself? He is an insolent, bloated
brute."

" Papa, you are using strong language to-night."

1 ' And that Lady Eustace ! Heaven and earth ! Am I to be
told that that creature is a lady ?"

They had now come to their own door, and while that was being
opened and as they went up into their own drawing-room nothing
was said, but then Emily began again. ' ' I wonder why you go
to Aunt Harriet's at all. You don't like the people ?"

" I didn't like any of them to-day."

11 Why do you go there ? You don't like Aunt Harriet herself.
You don't like Uncle Dick. You don't like Mr. Lopez."

" Certainly I do not."

" I don't know who it is you do like."

" I like Mr. Fletcher."

" It's no use saying that to me, papa."

"You ask me a question, and I choose to answer it. I like
Arthur Fletcher, because he is a gentleman, — because he is a gen-
tleman of the class to which I belong myself; because he works ;
because I know all about him so that I can be sure of him ;
because he had a decent father and mother ; because I am safe
with him, being quite sure that he will say to me neither awkward
things nor impertinent things. He will not talk to me about
driving a mail coach like that foolish baronet, nor tell me the price
of all his wines like your uncle." Nor would Ferdinand Lopez
do so, thought Emily to herself. " But in all such matters, my
dear, the great thing is like to like. I have spoken of a young
person, merely because I wish you to understand that I can sym-
pathise with others besides those of my own age. But to-night
there was no one there at all like myself, — or, as I hope, like you.
That man Eoby is a chattering ass. How such a man can be
useful to any government I can't conceive. Happerton was the
best, but what had he to say for himself ? I've always thought
that there was very little wit wanted to make a fortune in the
city." In this frame of mind Mr. Wharton went off to bed, but
not a word more was spoken about Ferdinand Lopez.

66 THE PRIME MiKISTES.

CHAPTER XI.

CARLTON TERRACE.

Certainly the thing was done very well by Lady Glen,— as many
in the political world persisted in calling her even in these days.
She had not as yet quite carried out her plan, — the doing of which
would have required her to reconcile her husband to some excessive
abnormal expenditure, and to have obtained from him a deliberate
sanction for appropriation and probable sale of property. She never
could find the proper moment for doing this, having, with all her
courage, — low down in some corner of her heart, — a wholesome
fear of a certain quiet power which her husband possessed. She
could not bring herself to make her proposition ; — but she almost
acted as though it had been made and approved. Her house was
always gorgeous with flowers. Of course there would be the bill ;
— and he, when he saw the exotics, and the whole place turned
into a bower of ever fresh blooming floral glories, must know that
there would be the bill. And when he found that there was an
archducal dinner-party every week, and an almost imperial recep-
tion twice a week ; that at these receptions a banquet was always
provided ; when he was asked whether she might buy a magnificent
pair of bay carriage-horses, as to which she assured him that
nothing so lovely had ever as yet been seen stepping in the streets
of London, — of course he must know that the bills would come.
It was better, perhaps, to do it in this way, than to make any
direct proposition. And then, early in June/ she spoke to him as
to the guests to be invited to Gatherum Castle in August. ' ' Do
you want to go to Gatherum in August P" he asked in surprise.
For she hated the place, and had hardly been content to spend ten
days there every year at Christmas.

" I think it should be done," she said solemnly. " One cannot
quite consider just now what one likes oneself."

"Why not?"

" You would hardly go to a small place like Matching in your
present position. There are so many people whom you should en-
tertain ! You would probably have two or threo of the foreign
ministers down for a time."

" We always used to find plenty of room at Matching."

" But you did not always use to bo Prime Minister. It is only
for such a time as this that such a house as Gatherum is service-
able."

He was silent for a moment, thinking about it, and the:
way without another word. She was probably right. There was the
huge pile of magnificent buildings ; and somebody, at any ta
thought that it behoved a Duke of Omnium to live in such a
If it ought to be done at any time, it ought to be dor
that his wife had been right. " Very well, Then let u& go there."

CARLTON TERRACE. 6?

"I'll manage it all," said the Duchess, — "I and Locock."
Locock was the house-steward.

"I remember once," said the Duke, and he smiled as he spoke
with a peculiarly sweet expression, which would at times come
across his generally inexpressive face, — "I remember once that
some First Minister of the Crown gave evidence as to the amount
of his salary, saying that his place entailed upon him expenses
higher than his stipend would defray. I begin to think that my
experience will be the same."

" Does that fret you ?"

" No, Cora ; — it certainly does not fret me, or I should not allow
it. But I think there should be a limit. No man is ever rich
enough to squander."

Though they were to squander her fortune, — the money which
she had brought, —for the next ten years at a much greater rate
than she contemplated, they might do so without touching the
Palliser property. Of that she was quite sure. And the squan-
dering was to be all for his glory, — so that he might retain his
position as a popular Prime Minister. For an instant it occurred
to her that she would tell him all this. But she checked herself,
and the idea of what she had been about to say brought the blood
into her face. Never yet had she in talking to him alluded to her
own wealth. " Of course we are spending money," she said. " If
you give me a hint to hold my hand, I will hold it."

He had looked at her, and read it all in her face. " God
knows," he said, " you've a right to do it if it pleases you."

" For your sake ! " Then he stooped down and kissed her twice,
and left her to arrange her parties as she pleased. After that she
congratulated herself that she had not made the direct proposition,
knowing that she might now do pretty much what she pleased.

Then there were solemn cabinets held, at which she presided, and
Mrs. Finn and Locock assisted. At other cabinets it is supposed
that, let a leader be ever so autocratic by disposition and superior by
intelligence, still he must not unfrequently yield to the opinion of
his colleagues. But in this cabinet the Duchess always had her
own way, though she was very persistent in asking for counsel.
Locock was frightened about the money. Hitherto money had
come without a word, out of the common, spoken to the Duke.
The Duke had always signed certain cheques, but they had been
normal cheques ; and the money in its natural course had flown in
to meet them; — but now he must be asked to sign abnormal
cheques. That, indeed, had already been done , but still the
money had been there. A large balance, such as had always
stood to his credit, would stand a bigger racket than had yet been
made. But Locock was quite sure that the balance ought not to be
much further reduced, — and that steps must be taken. Something
must be sold ! The idea of selling anything was dreadful to the
mind of Locock ! Or else money must be borrowed I Now the
management of the Palliser property had always been conducted on

68 THE PRIME MINISTER.

principles antagonistic to borrowing. " But nis Grace has never
spent his income," said the Duchess. That was true. But the money,
as it showed a tendency to heap itself up, had been used for the
purchase of other bits of property, or for the amelioration of the
estates generally. " You don't mean to say that we can't get money
if we want it ! " Locock was profuse in his assurances that any
amount of money could be obtained, — only that something must
be done. " Then let something be done," said the Duchess, going
on with her general plans. " Many people are rich," said the
Duchess afterwards to her friend, "and some people are very rich
indeed ; but nobody seems to be rich enough to have ready money
to do just what he wishes. It all goes into a grand sum total,
which is never to be touched without a feeling of sacrifice. I
suppose you have always enough for everything." It was well
known that the present Mrs. Finn, as Madame Groesler, had been
a wealthy woman.

" Indeed, no ; — very far from that. I haven't a shilling."

"What has happened?" asked the Duchess, pretending to be
frightened.

11 You forget that I've got a husband of my own, and that he
has to be consulted."

" That must be nonsense. But don't you think women are fools
to marry when they've got anything of their own, and could be
their own mistresses ? I couldn't have been. I was made to
marry before I was old enough to assert myself."

"And how well they did for you ? "

" Pas si mal. — He's Prime Minister, which is a great thing, and
I begin to find myself filled to the full with political ambition. I
feel myself to be a Lady Macbeth, prepared for the murder of any
Duncan or any Daubeny who may stand in my lord's way. In the
meantime, like Lady Macbeth herself, we must attend to the
banqueting. Her lord appeared and misbehaved himself; my lord
won't show himself at all, — which I think is worse."

Our old friend Phineas Finn, who had now reached a higher place
in politics than even his political dreams had assigned to him, though
he was a Member of Parliament, was much away from London in
these days. New brooms sweep clean ; and official new brooms, I
think, sweep cleaner than any other. Who has not watched at
k the commencement of a Ministry some Secretary, some Lord, or
some Commissioner, who intends bv' fresh Herculean labours to
cleanse the Augean stables just committed to his care ? Who does
not know the gentleman at the Home Office, who means to reform
the police and put an end to malefactors ; or the new Minister at
the Board of Works, who is to make London beautiful as by a
magician's stroke, — or, above all, the new First Lord, who is
resolvod that he will really build us a fleet, purge the dockyards, and
Bave us kill' a million a year at the samo time ? Phineas Finn was
bent on unriddling the Irish sphinx. Surely something might bo
done to prove to his susceptible countrymen that at the present

CARLTON TERRACE. 69

moment no "curse could be laid upon them so heavy as that of
having to rule themselves apart from England ; and he thought
that this might be the easier, as he became from day to day more
thoroughly convinced that those Home Eulers who were all around
him in the House were altogether of the same opinion. Had somo
inscrutable decree of fate ordained and made it certain, — with a
certainty not to be disturbed, — that no candidate could be returned
to Parliament who would not assert the earth to be triangular, there
would rise immediately a clamorous assertion of triangularity
among political aspirants. The test would be innocent. Candi-
dates have swallowed, and daily do swallow, many a worse one.
As might be this doctrine of a great triangle, so is the doctrine of
Home Eule. Why is a gentleman of property to be kept out in
the cold by some O'Mullins because he will not mutter an un-
meaning shibboleth? "Triangular? Yes, — or lozenge- shaped
if you please ; but, gentlemen, I am the man for Tipperary."
Phineas Finn having seen, or thought that he had seen, all this,
began, from the very first moment of his appointment, to consider
painfully within himself whether the genuine services of an honest
and patriotic man might not compass some remedy for the present
ill-boding ferment of th9 country. What was it that the Irish
really did want ; — what that they wanted, and had not got, and
which might with propriety be conceded to them ? What was it
that the English really would refuse to sanction, even though it
might not be wanted ? He found himself beating about among rocks
as to Catholic education and Papal interference, the passage among
which might be made clearer to him in Irish atmosphere than in
that of Westminster. Therefore he was away a good deal in these
days, travelling backwards and forwards as he might be wanted
for any debate. But as his wife did not accompany him on these
fitful journeys, she was able to give her time very much to the
Duchess.

The Duchess was on the whole very successful with her parties.
There were people who complained that she had everybody; that
there was no selection whatever as to politics, principles, rank,
morals, — or even manners. But in such a work as the Duchess
had now taken in hand, it was impossible that she should escape
censure. They who really knew what was being done were awaro
that nobody was asked to that house without an idea that his or
her presence might be desirable, — in however remote a degree.
Paragraphs in newspapers go for much, and therefore the writers
and editors of such paragraphs were there, — sometimes with their
wives. Mr. Broune, of the " Breakfast Table," was to be seen there
constantly, with his wife Lady Carbury, and poor old Booker of
the "Literary Chronicle." City men can make a budget popular or
the reverse, and therefore the Mills Happertons of the day were
welcome. Rising barristers might be wanted to become Solicitors-
General. The pet Orpheus of the hour, the young tragic actor
who was thought to have a real Hamlet within him, the old painter

70 THE PBIME MINISTEB.

who was growing rich on his reputation, and the young painter
who was still strong with hope, even the little trilling poet though
he trilled never so faintly, and the somewhat wooden novelist, all
had tongues of their own, and certain modes of expression, which
might assist or injure the Palliser Coalition, — as the Duke's
Ministry was now called.

1 ' Who is that man ? I've seen him here before. The Duchess was
talking to him ever so long just now." The question was asked by
Mr. Eattler of Mr. Eoby. About half an hour before this time
Mr. Eattler had essayed to get a few words with the Duchess, begin-
ning with the communication of some small political secret. But the
Duchess did not care much for the Eattlers attached to her husband's
Government. They were men whose services could be had for a
certain payment, — and when paid for were, the Duchess thought,
at the Premier's command without further trouble. Of course
they came to the receptions, and were entitled to a smile apiece as
they entered. But they were entitled to nothing more, and on this
occasion Eattler had felt himself to be snubbed. It did not occur
to him to abuse the Duchess. The Duchess was too necessary for
abuse,— just at present. But any friend of the Duchess, — any
favourite for the moment, — was, of course, open to remark.

"He is a man named Lopez," said Eoby, " a friend of Hap-
perton ; — a very clever fellow they say."

" Did you ever see him anywhere else ? "

11 Well, yes ; — I have met him at dinner."

"He was never in the House. What does he doP" Eattler
was distressed to think that any drone should have made its way
into the hive of working bees.

i( Oh ; — money, I fancy."

11 He's not a partner in Hunky's, is he ?"

" I fancy not. I think I should have known if he was."

" She ought to remember that people make a use of coming
here," said Eattler. She was, of course, the Duchess. " It's not
like a private house. And whatever influence outsiders get by
coming, so much she loses. Somebody ought to explain that to
her."

" I don't think you or I could do that," replied Mr Eoby.

" I'll tell the Duke in a minute," said Eattler. Perhaps he
thought he could tell the Duke, but we may be allowed to doubt
whether his prowess would not have fallen below the necessary
pitch when ho met the Duke's eye.

Lopez was there for the third time, about the middle of June,
and had certainly contrived to make himself personally known to
the Duchess. There had been a deputation from the City to the
Prime Minister asking for a subsidised mail, via Sun Francisco, to
Japan, and Lopez, though ho had no interest in Japan, had con-
trived to be one of the number. He had contrived also, as the
deputation was departing, to say a word on his own account to
the Minister, and had ingratiated himself. The Duko had re-

OABLTON TERRACE. 71

membered him, and had suggested that he should have a card.
And now he was among the flowers and greatness, the beauty, the
politics, and the fashion of the Duchess's gatherings for the third
time. "It is very well done, — very well, indeed," said Mr. Boffin
to him. Lopez had been dining with Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, and had
now again encountered his late host and hostess. Mr. Boffin was a
gentleman who had belonged to the late Ministry, but had somewhat
out-Heroded Herod in his Conservatism, so as to have been consi-
dered to be unfit for the Coalition. Of course he was proud of his own
staunchness, and a little inclined to criticise the lax principles of
men who, for the sake of carrying on her Majesty's Government,
could be Conservatives one day and Liberals the next. He was a
laborious, honest man, — but hardly of calibre sufficient not to regret
his own honesty in such an emergency as the present. It is easy for
most of us to keep our hands from picking and stealing when pick-
ing and stealing plainly lead to prison diet and prison garments.
But when silks and satins come of it, and with the silks and satins
general respect, the net result of honesty does not seem to be so
secure. Whence will come the reward, and when ? On whom
the punishment, and where ? A man will not, surely, be damned
for belonging to a Coalition Ministry ! Boffin was a little puzzled
as he thought on all this, but in the meantime was very proud of
his own consistency.

" I think it is so lovely ! " said Mrs. Boffin. " You look down
through an Elysium of rhododendrons into a Paradise of mirrors.
I don't think there was ever anything like it in London before."

" I don't know that we ever had anybody at the same time rich
enough to do this kind of thing as it is done now," said Boffin,
M and powerful enough to get such people together. If the country
can be ruled by flowers and looking-glasses, of course it is very
well."

" Flowers and looking-glasses won't prevent the country being
ruled well," said Lopez.

"I'm not so sure of that," continued Boffin. "We all know
what bread and the games came to in Borne."

" What did they come to ? " asked Mrs. Boffin.

" To a man burning Borne, my dear, for his amusement, dressed
in a satin petticoat and a wreath of roses."

" I don't think the Duke will dress himself like that," said Mrs.
Boffin.

"And I don't think," said Lopez, " that the graceful expendi-
ture of wealth in a rich man's house has any tendency to demoralize
the people."

" The attempt here," said Boffin severely, " is to demoralize the
rulers of the people. I am glad to have come once to see how the
thing is done; but as an independent member of the House of
Commons I should not wish to be known to frequent the saloon of
the Duchess." Then Mr. Boffin took away Mrs. Boffin, much to
that lady's regret.

72 THE PRIME MINISTER.

"This is fairy land," said Lopez to the Duchess, as he left the
room.

"Come and be a fairy then," she answered, very graciously.
" We are always on the wing about this hour on Wednesday
night." The words contained a general invitation for the season,
and were esteemed by Lopez as an indication of great favour. It
must be acknowledged of the Duchess that she was prone to make
favourites, perhaps without adequate cause ; though it must be
conceded to her that she rarely altogether threw off from her any
one whom she had once taken to her good graces. It must also be
confessed that when she had allowed herself to hate either a man or
a woman, she generally hated on to the end. No Paradise could
be too charming for her friends ; no Pandemonium too frightful
for her enemies. In reference to Mr. Lopez she would have said,
if interrogated, that she had taken the man up in obedience to her
husband. But in truth she had liked the look and the voice of the
man. Her husband before now had recommended men to her
notice and kindness, whom at the first trial she had rejected from
her good-will, and whom she had continued to reject ever after-
wards, let her husband's urgency be what it might.

Another old friend, of whom former chronicles were not silent,
was at the Duchess's that night, and there came across Mrs. Finn.
This was Barrington Erie, a politician of long standing, who was
still looked upon by many as a young man, because he had always
been known as a young man, and because he had never done any-
thing to compromise his position in that respect. He had not
married, or settled himself down in a house of his own, or become
subject to gout, or given up being careful about the fitting of his
clothes. No doubt the grey hairs were getting the better of the
black hairs, both on his head and face, and marks of coming crows'
feet were to be seen if you looked close at him, and he had become
careful about his great- coat and umbrella. He was in truth much
nearer fifty than forty ; — nevertheless he was felt in the House and
among Cabinet Ministers, and among the wives of members and
Cabinet Ministers, to be a young man still. And when he was
invited to become Secretary for Ireland it was generally felt that he
was too young for the place. He declined it, however ; and when
he went to the Post-office, the gentlemen there all felt that they
had had a boy put over them. Phineas Finn, who had become
Secretary for Ireland, was in truth ten years his junior. But Phi-
neas Finn had been twice married, and had gone throiigh other
phases of life, such as make a man old. " How does Phineas like
it?" Erie asked. Phineas Finn and Barrington Erie had gone
through some political struggles together, and had been very
intimate.

" I hope not very much," said the lady.

" Why so ? Because he's away so much ?"

"No ; — not that. I should not grudge his absence if the work
satisfied him. But I know him so well. The more he takes to it

CABLTON TERRACE. 73

now, — the more sanguine he is as to some special thing to be done,
— the more bitter will be the disappointment when he is disap-
pointed. For there never really is anything special to be done ; —
is there, Mr. Erie?"

" I think there is always a little too much zeal about Finn."

" Of course there is. And then with zeal there always, goes a
thin skin, — and unjustifiable expectations, and biting despair, and
contempt of others, and all the elements of unhappiness."

" That is a sad programme for your husband."

11 He has recuperative faculties which bring him round at last ; —
but I really doubt whether he was made for a politician in this
country. You remember Lord Brock ?"

"Dear old Brock ; — of course I do. How should I not, if you
remember him ?"

" Young men are boys at college, rowing in boats, when women
have been ever so long out in the world. He was the very model
of an English statesman. He loved his country dearly, and wished
her to be, as he believed her to be, first among nations. Bat ho
had no belief in perpetuating her greatness by any grand improve-
ments. Let things take their way naturally, — with a slight direc-
tion hither or thither as things might require. That was his
method of ruling. He believed in men rather than measures. As
long as he had loyalty around him, he could be personally happy,
and quite confident as to the country. He never broke his heart
because he could not carry this or that reform. What would have
hurt him would have been to be worsted in personal conflict. But
he could always hold his own, and he was always happy. Your man
with a thin skin, a vehement ambition, a scrupulous conscience,
and a sanguine desire for rapid improvement, is never a happy,
and seldom a fortunate politician."

" Mrs. Finn, you understand it all better than any one else that
I ever knew."

M I have been watching it a long time, and of course very closely
since I have been married."

"But you have an eye trained to see it all. What a useful
member you would have been in a government ! "

1 ' But I should never have had patience to sit all night upon that
bench in the House of Commons. How men can do it ! They
mustn't read. They can't think because of the speaking. It
doesn't do for them to talk. I don't believe they ever listen. It
isn't in human nature to listen hour after hour to such platitudes.
I believe they fall into a habit of half wakeful sleeping which
carries them through the hours ; but even that can't be pleasant.
I look upon the Treasury Bench in July as a sort of casual-ward
which we know to be necessary, but is almost too horrid to be con-
templated."

" Men do get bread and skilly there certainly ; but, Mrs. Finn,
we can go into the library and smoking-room."

"Oh, yes j— and a clerk in, an office can read the newspapers

74 THE PRIME MINISTER.

instead of doing his duty. But there is a certain surveillance
exercised, and a certain quantity of work exacted. I have met
Lords of the Treasury out at dinner on Mondays and Thursdays,
bat we all regard them as boys who have shirked out of school. I
think upon the whole, Mr. Erie, we women have the best of it."

" I don't suppose you will go in for your ' rights.' "

" Not by Act of Parliament, or by platform meeting. I have a
great idea of a woman's rights ; but that is the way, I think, to
throw them away. What do you think of the Duchess's evening

• ' Lady Glen is in her way as great a woman as you are ; —
perhaps greater, because nothing ever stops her."

" Whereas I have scruples."

" Her Grace has none. She has feelings and conyictions which
keep her straight, but no scruples. Look at her now talking to
Sir Orlando Drought, a man whom she both hates and despises.
I am sure she is looking forward to some happy time in which the*
Duke may pitch Sir Orlando overboard, and rule supreme, with
me or some other subordinate leading the House of Commons
simply as lieutenant. Such a time will never come, but that is her
idea. But she is talking to Sir Orlando now as if she were pouring
her full confidence into his ear, and Sir Orlando is believing her.
Sir Orlando is in a seventh heaven, and she is measuring his
credulity inch by inch."

" She makes the place very bright."

"And is spending an enormous deal of money," said Barrington
Erie.

" What does it matter?"

" Well, no ; — if the Duke likes it. I had an idea that the Duke
would not like the display of the thing. There he is. Do you see
him in the corner with his brother duke. He doesn't look as if he
were happy ; does he ? No one would think he was the master of
everything here. He has got himself hidden almost behind the
screen. I'm sure he doesn't like it."

" He tries to like whatever she likes," said Mrs. Finn.

As her husband was away in Ireland, Mrs. Einn was staying in
the house in Carlton Gardens. The Duchess at present required
so much of her time that this was found to be convenient. When,
therefore, the guests on the present occasion had all gone tho
Duchess and Mrs. Finn were left together. "Did you ever see
anything so hopeless as he is ?" said the Duchess.

" Who is hopeless ?"

' ' Heavens and earth ! Plantagenet; — who else ? Is there another
man in the world would come into his own house, among his own
guests, and speak only to one person ? And, then, think of it !
Popularity is the staff on which alone Ministers can lean in this
country with security."

" Political but not social popularity."

"You know as well as I do that the two go together. We've
seen enough of that even in our day. What broke up Mr. Ore-

THE GATHERING OP CLOUDS. 75

sham's Ministry? If he had stayed away people might have
thought that he was reading blue-books, or calculating coinage, or
preparing a speech. That would have been much better. But he
comes in and sits for half an hour whispering to another duke ! I
hate dukes."

" He talks to the Duke of St. Bungay because there is no one
he trusts so much. A few years ago it would have been Mr.
Mildmay."

" My dear," said the Duchess angrily, " you treat me as though
I were a child. Of course I know why he chooses that old man out
of all the crowd. I don't suppose he does it from any stupid
pride of rank. I know very well what set of ideas govern him.
But that isn't the point. He has to reflect what others think of
it, and to endeavour to do what will please them. There was I
telling tarradiddles by the yard to that old oaf, Sir Orlando
Drought, when a confidential word from Plantagenet would have
had ten times more effect. And why can't he speak a word to the
people's wives ? They wouldn't bite him. He has got to say a
few words to you sometimes, — to whom it doesn't signify, my
dear "

" I don't know about that."

"But he never speaks to another woman. He was here this
evening for exactly forty minutes, and he didn't open his lips to a
female creature. I watched him. How on earth am I to pull him
through if he goes on in that way ? Yes, Locock, I'll go to bed,
and I don't think I'll get up for a week."

CHAPTER XII.

THE GATHERING OF CLOUDS.

Throughout June and the first week of July the affairs of the
Ministry went on successfully, in spite of the social sins of the
Duke and the occasional despair of the Duchess. There had been
many politicians who had thought, or had, at any rate, predicted,
that the Coalition Ministry would not live a month. There had
been men, such as Lord Fawn on one side and Mr. Boffin on the
other, who had found themselves stranded disagreeably, — with no
certain position, — unwilling to sit immediately behind a Tr<
bench from which they were excluded, and too shy to place them-
selves immediately opposite. Seats beneath the gangway were, of
course, open to such of them as were members of the Lower House,
and those seats had to be used ; but they were not accustomed to
sit beneath the gangway. These gentlemen had expected that the
seeds of weakness, of which they had perceived the scattering,

76 THE PRIME MINISTER.

would grow at once into an enormous crop of blunders, diffi-
culties, and complications ; but, for a while, the Ministry were
saved from these dangers either by the energy of the Prime
Minister, or the popularity of his wife, or perhaps by the sagacity
of the elder Duke ; — so that there grew up an idea that the Coali-
tion was really the proper thing. In one respect it certainly was
successful. The Home Eulers, or Irish party generally, were left
without an inch of standing ground. Their " support was not
needed, and therefore they were not courted. For the moment
there was not even a necessity to pretend that Home Rule was
anything but an absurdity from beginning to end ; — so much so
that one or two leading Home Eulers, men who had taken up the
cause not only that they might become Members of Parliament,
but with some further ideas of speech-making and popularity,
declared that the Coalition had been formed merely with a view of
putting down Ireland. This capability of dispensing with a gene-
rally untractable element of support was felt to be a great comfort.
Then, too, there was a set in the House, — at that moment not a
very numerous set, — who had been troublesome friends to the old
Liberal party, and which the Coalition was able, if not to ignore,
at any rate to disregard. These were the staunch economists, and
argumentative philosophical Radicals, — men of standing and
repute, who are always in doubtful times individually nattered by
Ministers, who have great privileges accorded to them of speaking
and dividing, and who are not unfrequently even thanked for their
rods by the very owners of the backs which bear the scourges.
These men could not be quite set aside by the Coalition as were the
Home Rulers. It was not even yet, perhaps, wise to count them
out, or to leave them to talk to benches absolutely empty ; — but the
tone of flattery with which they had been addressed became
gradually less warm ; and when the scourges were wielded, minis-
terial backs took themselves out of the way. There grew up un-
consciously a feeling of security against attack which v\*as dis-
tasteful to these gentlemen, and was in itself perhaps a little dan-
gerous. Gentlemen bound to support the Government, when they
perceived that there was comparatively but little to do, and that
that little might be easily done, became careless, and, perhaps, a
little contemptuous. So that the great popular orator, Mr.
Turnbull, found himself compelled to rise in his seat, and ask
whether the noble Duke at the head of the Government thought
aimself strong enough to rule without attention to Parliamentary
details. The question was asked with an air of inexorable severity,
and was intended to have deep signification. Mi*. Turnbull had
disliked the Coalition from the beginning ; but then Mr. Turnbull
always disliked everything. He had so accustomed himself to
wield the constitutional cat-of-nine-tails, that heaven will hardly
be happy to him unless he be allowed to flog the cherul
Though the party with which ho was presumed to act had gene-
rally been in power since he had been in the House, he had never

THE GATHERING OF CLOUDS. 77

allowed himself to agree with a Minister on any point. And as ho
had never been satisfied with a liberal Government, it was not
probable that he should endure a Coalition in silence. At the end
of a rather lengthy speech, he repeated his question, and then sat
down, taking his place with all that constitutional indignation
which becomes the parliamentary flagellator of the day. The little
jokes with which Sir Orlando answered him were very well in their
way. Mr. Turnbull did not care much whether he were answered
or not. Perhaps the jauntiness of Sir Orlando, which implied that
the Coalition was too strong to regard attack, somewhat irritated
outsiders. But there certainly grew up from that moment a
feeling among such men as Erie and Battler that care was neces-
sary, that the House, taken as a whole, was not in a condition to
be manipulated with easy freedom, and that Sir Orlando must bo
made to understand that he was not strong enough to depend upon
jauntiness. The jaunty statesman must be very sure of his personal
following. There was a general opinion that Sir Orlando had not
brought the Coalition well out of the first real attack which had
been made upon it.

" Well, Phineas ; how do you like the Phoenix ? " 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 Barring-
ton Erie. 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.

78 THE PBIME MINISTER.

" 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."

rt 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 Eule 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 Eule, — 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 Heptarchy 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 righting about religion. Even now Home Eule is
regarded by the multitude as a weapon to be used against Protes-
tantism on behalf of the Pope."

" I suppose the Pope is the great sinner?"

" They got over the Pope in Prance, — even in early days, before
religion had become a farce in the country. They have done so in
Italy."

" Yes ; — they've got over the Pope in Italy certainly."

" And yet," said Phineas, " the bulk of the people are staunch
Catholics. Cf 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,
while other nations have been imposing restraints. There are
those at Eome who believe all England to be Eomish at heart,
because here in England a Eoman Catholic can say what he will,
and print what he will."

11 And yet," said Phineas, "all England does not return one
Catholic to the House, while we have Jews in plenty. Yon have
a Jew among your English judges, but at present not a single

1HE GATHERING OF CLOUDS. ?9

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 col-
lection 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 Bamsden, 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 un-
sympathetic 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 under-
take 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
- away, they also become subject to many stripes. The'

g than was the whole in the hands of tht muse.
wm a certain " inturedt," very influential buth by general

80 THE PRIME MINISTER.

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 uncarried 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 impe-
rative. 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 rt dis-
grace 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 XIII.

MR. WHARTON COMPLAINS.

"I THINK you have betrayed me." This accusation was brought
by Mr. Wharton against Mrs. Boby 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 j

MR. WHARTON COMPLAINS.

-H30 much so that by his manner he gave a considerable advantage
to the lady whom he was accusing.

Mrs. Eoby 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 pretend-
ing 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. Eoby 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 with-
out her father's consent. With that consent she would do so, — oh,
so willingly ! She did not coy her love. 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 con-
sideration 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. Bat 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 happi-
ness.

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

82 THE PRIME MINISTERS

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."

11 1 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 some-
thing 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 r"

" I don't know anything about Mr. Happerton, — and I don't caro
anything about him."

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

" Very likely."

"I never know any one 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."

u 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."

11 She has promised to have nothing to say to him without my
sanction."

"Wo 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."

M Who talks t>bout 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 now-a-days ? 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 non-

MR. WHARTON COMPLAINS. 83

sense. 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 per-
mission 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 un-
trustworthy 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 fair 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 gnardage to the sooty bosom
Of such a thing as " —

this distasteful Portuguese.

That evening he said nothing further to his daughter, but sat
with hoi-, 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, bat roused almost to anger by the answer
when it came.

" 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."

84 THE PRIME MINISTER.

"That is severe, sir."

" I am not such a fool as to suppose that you are to quarrel with
a mail because I don't approve his addressing your sister ; but I do
think that while this is going on, and wnile 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. Eoby was saying to me just
now "

" Who cares a straw what a fool like Eoby 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 every one allows that Ferdinand Lope2 is a gentle-
man."

"Who was his father?"

11 1 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 ee<
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
called on an old friend, a banker, — one whom he had known for
nearly half a century, and of whom, therefore, ho 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.

MB. WHABT0N COMPLAINS. 85

" 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 Whar-
ton Hall this autumn, and that arrangement could not be aban-
doned 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, and whose earlier fore-
fathers 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 sufli-

86 THE PRIME MINISTER.

cient 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, — 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 some-
thing, 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 per-
sonal 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 ne 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. Thc*e 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 frionds. Sir Alured trusted his cousin
altogether in all things, believing him to be the great legal lumi-
nary 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

MB. WHARTON COMPLAINS. 87

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 re-
peated 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 recognising her beauty, had expected that she would make a
match creditable to the Wharton family. Bat a Portuguese Jew !
A man who had never been even known to allude to his own
father ! Eor 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 sanc-
tion ? " 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 !

" 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 Dresdeu ? "

88 THE PRIME MINISTER,

" Because she is unhappy. She will not marry him, — or even
Bee 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 this Portuguese Jew on the other, it was to him Hyperion
to a Satyr. 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 jour-
neyings 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
liko Wharton. There is no place on earth I like so much, and
this year it will be especially pleasant to mo 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." Ho 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 olsewhere. 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

a lover's perseverance. 89

you. I fiiid myself to be as much bound to Mr. Lopez as though
1 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, — where-
upon 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 XIV.
A lover's perseverance.

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

"I'm not in the least afraid of his biting me."

11 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. Eoby, " 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 mnst 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 en-
deavouring 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

90 THE PRIME MINISTER.

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 for-
give 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 pos-
sibility 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 know 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 ho suffered
grievously. His money was surely gone. A man does not fly a
kite 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 Fer-
dinand Lopez should walk into his office, wearing the gayest smile
and with a hat splendid a 3 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.

" I rather think that steady business is best," said Parker. " I
hope it's all right about that £750."

• ' Ah ; yes ; — I m eant to have told you. I didn't want the money,
as it turned out, for much above a fortnight, and as there was no
use in letting the~bill run out, I settled it. So saying he took out
a pocket-book, extracted the bill, and showod it to S \ v. 8
heart fluttered in his bosom. There was his name still on the bit
of paper, and it might still be used. Having it shown to him after
this fashion in its mid career, of course he had strong ground for
hope. But he could not bring himself to put out his hand for it.
" As to what you say about steady business, of course tint's very
well," said Lopez. "It depends upon whether a man wants to
make a small income or a large fortune." He still held the bill as
though he were going to fold it up again, and the importance of it
was so present to Sexty's mind that he could hardly digest the
argument about the steady business. ' ' I own that I am not satisfied
with the former," continued Lopez, "and that I go in for the

a lover's perseverance. 91

fortune." As he spoke lie tore the bill into three or four bits, appa-
rently without thinking of it, and let the fragments fall upon the
floor. It was as though a mountain had been taken off Sexty's
bosom. He felt almost inclined to send out for a bottle of cham-
pagne on the moment, and the arguments of his friend rang in his
ears with quite a different sound. The allurements of a steady in-
come paled before his eyes, and he too began to tell himself, as he
had often told himself before, that if he would only keep his eyes
open and his heart high there was no reason why he too should not
become a city millionaire. But on that occasion Lopez left him
soon, without saying very much about his favourite speculation. In
a few days, however, the same matter was brought before Sexty's
eyes from another direction. He learned from a side wind that the
house of Hunky and Sons was concerned largely in this business,
— or at any rate he thought that he had so learned. The ease
with which Lopez had destroyed that bill six weeks before it was
due had had great effect upon him. Those arguments about a large
fortune or a small income still clung to him. Lopez had come to
him about the business in the first instance, but it was now neces-
sary that he should go to Lopez. He was, however, very cautious.
He managed to happen to meet Lopez in the street, and introduced
the subject in his own slap-dash, aery manner, — the result of
which was, that he had gone rather deep into two or three American
mines before the end of July. But he had already made some
money out of them, and, though he would find himself sometimes
trembling before he had taken his daily allowance of port wine and
brandy and water, still he was buoyant, and hopeful of living in a
park, with a palace at the West End, and a seat in Parliament.
Knowing also as he did, that his friend Lopez was intimate with
the Duchess of Omnium, he had much immediate satisfaction in the
intimacy which these relations created. He was getting in the
thin edge of the wedge, and would calculate as he went home to
Ponder's End how long it must be before he could ask his friend to
propose him at some West End club. On one halcyon summer
evening Lopez had dined with him at Ponder's End, had smiled on
Mrs. Parker, and played with the hopeful little Parkers. On that
occasion Sexty had assured his wife that he regarded his friendship
with Ferdinand Lopez as the most fortunate circumstance of his life.
"Do be careful, Sexty," the poor woman had said. But Parker
had simply told her that she understood nothing about business.
On that evening Lopez had thoroughly imbued him with the con-
viction that if you will only set your mind that way, it is quite as
easy to amass a large fortune as to earn a small income.

About a week before the departure of the Whartons for Here-
fordshire, Lopez, in compliance with Mrs. Eoby's councils, called
at the chambers in Stone Buildings. It is difficult to say that you
will not see a man, when the man is standing just on the other
side of an open door ; — nor, in this case, was Mr. Wharton quite
clear that he had better decline to see the man. But while he was

92 THE PRIME MINISTER.

doubting,— at any rate before lie had resolved upon denying his
presence, — the man was there, inside his room. Mr. Wharton got
up from his chair, hesitated a moment, and then gave his hand to
the intruder in that half- unwilling, unsatisfactory manner which
most of us have experienced when shaking hands with some cold-
blooded, ungenial acquaintance. "Well, Mr. Lopez, — what can I
do for you P " he said, as he re-seated himself. He looked as
though he were at his ease and master of the situation. He had
control over himself sufficient for assuming such a manner. But
his heart was not high within his bosom. The more he looked at
the man the less he liked him.

"There is one thing, and one thing only, you can do for me,"
said Lopez. His voice was peculiarly sweet, and when he spoke
his words seemed to mean more than when they came from other
mouths. But Mr. Wharton did not like sweet voices and mellow,
soft words, — at least not from men's mouths.

" I do not think that I can do anything for you, Mr. Lopez," he
said. There was a slight pause, during which the visitor put down
his hat and seemed to hesitate. " I think your coming here can
be of no avail. Did I not explain myself when I saw you
before?"

11 But, I fear, I did not explain myself. I hardly told my story."

"You can tell it, of course, — if you think the telling will do
you any good."

"I was not able to say then, as I can say now, that your
daughter had accepted my love."

" You ought not to have spoken to my daughter on the subject
after what passed between us. I told you my mind frankly."

"Ah, Mr. Wharton, how was obedience in such a matter pos-
sible ? What would you yourself think of a man who in such a
position would be obedient ? I did not seek her secretly. I did
nothing underhand. Before I had once directly asked her for her
love, I came to you."

"What's the use of that, if you go to her immediately after-
wards in manifest opposition to my wishes ? You found yourself
bound, as would any gentleman, to ask a father's leave, and when
it was refused, you went on just as though it had been granted !
Don't you call that a mockery ? "

"I can say now, sir, what I could not say then. We love each
other. And I am as sure of her as I am of myself when I a
that we shall be true to each other. You must know her well
enough to be sure of that also."

"I am sure of nothing but of this; — that I will not give her
my consent to become your wife."

" What is your objection, Mr. Wharton ? "

" I explained it before as far as I found myself called upon to
explain it."

" Are we both to bo sacrificed for some reason that we neither of
us understand f "

A LOVERS PERSEVERANCE. 93

"How dare you take upon yourself to say that she doesn't
understand ! Because I refuse to be more explicit to you, a
stranger, do you suppose that I am equally silent to my own
child r"

11 In regard to money and social rank I am able to place your
daughter as my wife in a position as good as she now holds as
Miss Wharton."

"I care nothing about money, Mr. Lopez, and our ideas of
social rank are perhaps different. I have nothing further to say
to you, and I*do not think that you can have anything further to
say to me that can be of any avail." Then, having finished his
speech, he got up from his chair and stood upright, thereby de-
manding of his visitor that he should depart.

" I think it no more than honest, Mr. Wharton, to declare this
one thing. I regard myself as irrevocably engaged to your
daughter ; and she, although she has refused to bind herself to me
by that special word, is, I am certain, as firmly fixed in her choice
as I am in mine. My happiness, as a matter of course, can bo
nothing to you."

" Not much," said the lawyer, with angry impatience.

Lopez smiled, but he put down the word in his memory and
determined that he would treasure it there. "Not much, at any
rate as yet," he said. " But her happiness must be much to you."

"It is everything. But in thinking of her happiness I must
look beyond what might be the satisfaction of the present day.
You must excuse me, Mr. Lopez, if I say that I would rather not
discuss the matter with you any further." Then he rang the bell
and passed quickly into an inner room. When the clerk came
Lopez of course marched out of the chambers and went his way.

Mr. Wharton had been very firm, and yet he was shaken. It
was by degrees becoming a fixed idea in his mind that the man's
material prosperity was assured. He was afraid even to allude to
the subject when talking to the man himself, lest he should bo
overwhelmed by evidence on that subject. Then the man's manner,
though it was distasteful to Wharton himself, would, he well knew,
recommend him to others. He was good looking, he lived with
people who were highly regarded, he could speak up for himself,
and he was a favoured guest at Carlton House Terrace. So great
had been the fame of the Duchess and her hospitality during the
last two months, that the fact of the man's success in this respect
had come home even to Mr. Wharton. He feared that the world
would be against him, and he already began to dread the joint
opposition of the world and his own child. The world of this day
did not, ho thought, care whether its daughters' husbands had or
had not any fathers or mothers. The world as it was now didn't
care whether its sons-in-law were Christian or Jewish; — whether
they had the fair skin and bold eyes and uncertain words of an
English gentleman, or the swarthy colour and false grimace and glib
tongue of some inferior Latin race. But he cared for these things ;

94 THE PRIME MINISTER.

— and it was dreadful to him to think that his daughter should
not care for them. ' ' I suppose I had better die and leave them to
look after themselves/' he said, as he returned to his arm-chair.

Lopez himself was not altogether ill-satisfied with the interview,
not having expected that Mr. Wharton would have given way at
once, and bestowed upon him then and there the kind father- in-
law's "bless you, — bless you!" Something yet had to be done
before the blessing would come, or the girl, — or the money. He
had to-day asserted his own material success, speaking of himself
as of a moneyed man, — and the statement had been received with
no contradiction, — even without the suggestion of a doubt. He did
not therefore suppose that the difficulty was over ; but he was
clever enough to perceive that the aversion to him on another
score might help to tide him over that difficulty. And if once he
could call the girl his wife, he did not doubt but that he could
build himself up with the old barrister's money. After leaving
Lincoln's Inn he went at once to Berkeley Street, and was soon
closeted with Mrs. Eoby. ' ' You can get her here before they go ? "
he said.

" She wouldn't come ; — and if we arranged it without letting her
know that you were to be here, she would tell her father. She
hasn't a particle of female intrigue in her."

" So much the better," said the lover.

" That's all very well for you to say, but when a man makes
such a tyrant of himself as Mr. "Wharton is doing, a girl is bound
to look after herself. If it was me I'd go off with my young man
before I'd stand such treatment."

" You could give her a letter."

"She'd only show it to .her father. She is so perverse that I
sometimes feel inclined to say that I'll have nothing further to do
with her."

" You'll give her a message at any rate ? "

"Yes, — I can do that;— because I can do it in a way that won't
seem to make it important."

" But I want my message to be veiy important. Toll her that
I've seen her father, and have ofFered to explain all my affairs to
him, — so that he may know that there is nothing to fear on her
behalf."

" It isn't any thought of money that is troubling him."

" But tell her what I say. He, however, would listen to nothing.
Then I assured him that no consideration on earth would induce
me to surrender her, and that I was as sure of her as I am of
myself. Tell her that; — and tell hor that I think she owes it to
me to say one word to me before she goes into the country." __

ARTHUB FLETCHER. 95

CHAPTER XV.

ARTHUR FLETCHER.

It may, I think, be a question whether the two old men acted wisely
in having Arthur Fletcher at Wharton Hall when Emily arrived
there. The story of his love for Miss "Wharton, as far as it had as yet
gone, must be shortly told. He had been the second son, as he was
now the second brother, of a Herefordshire squire endowed with much
larger property than that belonging to Sir Alured. John Fletcher,
Esq. , of'Longbarns, some twelve miles from Wharton, was a consider-
able man in Herefordshire. This present squire had married Sir
Alured's eldest daughter, and the younger brother had, almost since
they were children together, been known to be in love with Emily
Wharton. All the Fletchers and everything belonging to them were
almost worshipped at Wharton Hall. There had been marriages be-
tween the two families certainly as far back as the time of Henry VII. ,
and they were accustomed to speak, if not of alliances, at any rate
of friendships, much anterior to that. As regards family, therefore,
the pretensions of a Fletcher would always be held to be good by a
Wharton. But this Fletcher was the very pearl of the Fletcher
tribe. Though a younger brother, he had a very pleasant little
fortune of his own. Though born to comfortable circumstances, he
had worked so hard in his young days as to have already made for
himself a name at the bar. He was a fair-haired, handsome fellow,
with sharp, eager eyes, with an aquiline nose, and just that shape
of mouth and chin which such men as Abel Wharton regarded as
characteristic of good blood. He was rather thin, about five feet
ten in height, and had the character of being one of the best horse-
men in the county. He was one of the most popular men in He-
refordshire, and at Longbarns was almost as much thought of as
the squire himself. He certainly was not the man to be taken, from
his appearance, for a forlorn lover. He looked like one of those
happy sons of the gods who are born to success. No young man of
his age was more courted both by men and women. There was no
one who in his youth had suffered fewer troubles from those causes
of trouble which visit English young men, — occasional impe-
cuniosity, sternness of parents, native shyness, fear of ridicule, in-
ability of speech, and a general pervading sense of inferiority com-
bined with an ardent desire to rise to a feeling of conscious superi-
ority. So much had been done for him by nature that he was never
called upon to pretend to anything. Throughout the county those
were the lucky men, — and those too were the happy girls, — who
were allowed to call him Arthur. And yet this paragon was vainly
in love with Emily Wharton, who, in the way of love, would have
nothing to say to him, preferring, — as her father once said in his
extremest wrath, — a greasy Jew adventurer out of the gutter !
And now it had been thought expedient to have him down to

96 TEE PRIME MIKISTER.

Wharton, although the lawyers' regular summer vacation had not
yet commenced. But there was some excuse made for this, over
and above the emergency of his own love, in the fact that his bro-
ther John with. Mrs. Fletcher was also to bo at the Hall, — so that
there was gathered there a great family party of the "Whartons and
Fletchers; for there was present there also old Mrs. Fletcher, a
magnificently aristocratic and high-minded old lady, with snow-
white hair, and lace worth fifty guineas a yard, who was as anxious
as everybody else that her younger son should marry Emily "Whar-
ton. Something of the truth as to Emily Wharton's £60,000 was,
of course, known to the Longbarns people. Not that I would have
it inferred that they wanted their darling to sell himself for money.
The Fletchers were great people, with, great spirits, too good in
every way for such baseness. But when love, old friendship, good
birth, together with every other propriety as to age, manners, and
conduct, can be joined to money, such a combination will always
be thought pleasant.

When Arthur reached the Hall it was felt to be necessary that a
word should be said to him as to that wretched interloper, Ferdi-
nand Lopez. Arthur had not of late been often in Manchester Square.
Though always most cordially welcomed there by old Wharton, and
treated with every kindness by Emily Wharton short of that love
which he desired, he had during the last three or four months ab-
stained from frequenting the house. During the past winter, and
early in the spring, he had pressed his suit, — but had been rejected,
with warmest assurances of all friendship short of love. It had
then been arranged between him and the elder Whartons that they
should all meet down at the Hall, and there had been sympathetic
expressions of hope that all might yet be well. But at that time
little or nothing had been known of Ferdinand Lopez.

But now the old baronet spoke to him, the father having deputed
the loathsome task to his friend, — being unwilling himself even to
hint his daughter's disgrace. " Oh, yes, I've heard of him.
Arthur Fletcher. " I met him with Everett, and I don't think I
ever took a stronger dislike to a man. Everett seems very fond of
him." Tho baronet mournfully shook his head. It was sad to find
that Whartons could go so far astray. " He goes to Carlton House
Terrace, — to tho Duchess's," continued the young man.

'* I don't think that that is very much in his favour," said tho
baronet.

" I don't know that it is, sir ;— only they try to catch all fish in
that net that are of any use."

" Do you go there, Arthur ?"

' ' I should if I were asked, I suppose. I don't know who wouldn't.
You see it's a Coalition affair, so that everybody is able to feel that
he is supporting his party by going to the Duchess's."

M I hate Coalitions," said the baronet. "I think they are dis-
graceful."

" Well ; — yes ; I don't know. The coach has to be driven some-

Arthur fletcheb. 97

how. You mustn't stick in the mud, you know. And after all, sir,
the Duke of Omnium is a respectable man, though he is a Liberal.
A Duke of Omnium can't want to send the country to the dogs."
The old man shook his head. He did not understand much about
it, but he felt convinced that the Duke and his colleagues were
sending the country to the dogs whatever might be their wishes.
"I shan't think of politics for the next ten years, and so I don't
trouble myself about the Duchess's parties, but I suppose I should
go if I were asked."

Sir Alured felt that he had not as yet begun even to approach
the difficult subject. " I'm glad you don't like that man," he said.

' ' I don't like him at all. Tell me, Sir Alured ; — why is he always
going to Manchester Square P"

"Ah; — that is it."

" He has been there constantly ; — has he not P"

"No ; — no. I don't think that. Mr. Wharton doesn't love him
a bit better than you do. My cousin thinks him a most objection-
able young man."

"But Emily?"

■ ' Ah . That's where it is."

" You don't mean to say she — cares about that man !"

" He has been encouraged by that aunt of hers, who, as far as I
can make out, is a very unfit sort of person to be much with such
a girl as our dear Emily. I never saw her but once, and then I
didn't like her at all."

" A vulgar, good-natured woman. But what can she have done ?
She can't have twisted Emily round her finger."

"I don't suppose there is very much in it, but I thought it better
to tell you. Girls take fancies into their heads, — just for a time."

" He's a handsome fellow, too," said Arthur Fletcher, musing in
his sorrow.

" My cousin says he's a nasty Jew-looking man."

" He's not that, Sir Alured. He's a handsome man, with a fine
voice ; — dark, and not just like an Englishman ; but still I can
fancy . That's bad news for me, Sir Alured."

" I think she'll forget all about him down here."

"She never forgets anything. I shall ask her, straight away.
She knows my feeling about her, and I haven't a doubt but she'll
tell me. She's too honest to be able to lie. Has he got any
money?"

" My cousin seems to think that he's rich."

"I suppose he is. Oh, Lord ! That's a blow. I wish I could
have the pleasure of shooting him as a man might a few years ago.
But what would be the good ? The girl would only hate me the
more after it. The best thing to do would be to shoot myself."

" Don't talk like that, Arthur."

11 1 shan't throw up the sponge as long as there's a chance loft,
Sir Alured. But it will go badly with me if I'm beat at last. I
shouldn't have thought it possible that I should haye felt anything

98 THE PRIME MINISTER.

so much." Then he pulled his hair, and thrust his hand into his
waistcoat ; and turned away, so that his old friend might not see
the tear in his eye.

His old friend also was much moved. It was dreadful to him
that the happiness of a Fletcher, and the comfort of the Whartons
generally, should be marred by a man with such a name as Fer-
dinand Lopez. ' ' She'll never marry him without her father's con-
sent," said Sir Alured.

" If she means it of course he'll consent."

" That I'm sure he won't. He doesn't like the man a bit better
than you do." Fletcher shook his head. "And he's as fond of
you as though you were already his son."

' ' What does it matter ? If a girl sets her heart on marrying a
man, of course she will marry him. If he had no money it might

be different. But if he's well off, of course he'll succeed. Well ;

I suppose other men have borne the same sort of thing before and
it hasn't killed them."

" Let us hope, my boy. I think of her quite as much as of you."

" Yes, — we can hope. I shan't give it up. As for her, I dare
say she knows what will suit her best. I've nothing to say against
the man, — excepting that I should like to cut him into four
quarters."

" But a foreigner ! "

" Girls don't think about that, — not as you do and Mr. Whar-
ton. And I think they like dark, greasy men with slippery voices,
who are up to dodges and full of secrets. Well, sir, I shall go to
her at once and have it out."

u You'll speak to my cousin ?"

" Certainly I will. He has always been one of the best friends
I ever had in my life. I know it hasn't been his fault. But what
can a man do ? Girls won't marry this man or that because they're
told."

Fletcher did speak to Emily's father, and learned more from him
than had been told him by Sir Alured. Indeed he learned the
whole truth. Lopez had been twice with the? father pr
his suit and had been twice repulsed, with as absolute denial as
words could convey. Emily, however, had declared her own
feeling openly, expressing her wish to many the odious man,
promising not to do so without her father's consent, but evidently
feeling that that consent ought not to be withheld from her. All this
Mr. WTharton told very plainly, walking with Arthur a little before
dinner along a shaded, lonelyjpath, which for half a mile ran along
the very marge of the Wye at the bottom of the park. And then
he went on to speak other words which seemed to rob his young
friend of all hope. The old man was walking slowly, with his hands
clasped behind his back and with his eyes fixed on the path as he
went; — and he spoke slowly, evidently weighing his words as he
uttered them, bringing home to his khearer a conviction that the
matter discussed was one of supreme importance to the speaker,—

ARTHUR FLETCHER. 99

as to winch he had thought much, so as to be fltok. to threes his
settled resolutions. "I've told you all now, Arthur; — only this.
I do not know how long I may be able to resist this man's claim
if it be backed by Emily's entreaties. I am thinking very much
about it. I do not know that I have really been able to think of
anything else for the last two months. It is all the world to me, —
what she and Everett do with themselves ; and what she may do in
this matter of marriage is of infinitely greater importance than
anything that can befall him. If he makes a mistake, it may be

put right. But with a woman's marrying , vestigia nulla

retrorsum. She has put off all her old bonds and taken new ones,
which must be her bonds for life. Feeling this very strongly, and
disliking this man greatly,— disliking him that is to say in the
view of this close relation, — I have felt myself to be justified in so
far opposing my child by the use of a high hand. I have refused
my sanction to the marriage both to him and to her, — though in
truth I have been hard set to find any adequate reason for doing
so. I have no right to fashion my girl's life by my prejudices. My
life has been lived. Hers is to come. In this matter I should be
cruel and unnatural were I to allow myself to be governed by any
selfish inclination. Though I were to know that she would be lost
to me for ever, I must give way, — if once brought to a conviction
that by not giving way I should sacrifice her young happiness. In
this matter, Arthur, I must not even think of you, though I love
you well. I must consider only my child's welfare ;— and in doing
so I must try to sift my own feelings and my own judgment, and
ascertain, if it be possible, whether my distaste to the man is
reasonable or irrational ; — whether I should serve her or sacrifice
her by obstinacy of refusal. I can speak to you more plainly than
to her. Indeed I have laid bare to you my whole heart and my
whole mind. You have all my wishes, but you will understand
that I do not promise you my continued assistance." When he
had so spoken he put out his hand and pressed his companion's
arm. Then he turned slowly into a little by-path which led across
the park up to the house, and left Arthur Fletcher standing alone
by the river's bank.

And so by degrees the blow had come full home to him. He had
been twioe refused. Then rumours had reached him, — not at first that
he had a rival, but that there was a man who might possibly become
so. And now this rivalry, and its success, were declared to him
•plainly. He told himself from this moment that he had not a
chance. Looking forward he could see it all. He understood the
girl's character sufficiently to be sure that she would not be wafted
about, from one lover to another, by change of scene. Taking her
to Dresden, — or to New Zealand, — would only confirm in her
passion such a girl as Emily Wharton. Nothing could shake her
but the ascertained unworthiness of the man, — and not that unless
it were ascertained beneath her own eyes. And then years must
pass by before she would yield to another lover. There was a

100 THE PRIME MINISTER.

further question, too, "which he did not fail to ask himself. "Wag
the man necessarily unworthy because his name was Lopez, and
because he had not come of English blood ?

As he strove to think of this, if not coolly yet rationally, he sat
himself down on the river's side and began to pitch stones off the
path in among the rocks, among which at that spot the water
made its way rapidly. There had been moments in which he had
been almost ashamed of his love, — and now he did not know
whether to be most ashamed or most proud of it. But ho recog-
nised the fact that it was crucifying him, and that it would continue
to crucify him. He knew himself in London to be a popular man,
— one of those for whom, according to general opinion, girls should
Hgh, rather than one who should break his heart sighing for a girl,
lie had often told himself that it was beneath his manliness to be
despondent; that he should let such a trouble run from him like
water from a duck's back, consoling himself with the reflection that
if the girl had such bad taste she could hardly be worthy of him.
He had almost tried to belong to that school which throws the heart
away and rules by the head alone. He knew that others, — perhaps
not those who knew him best, but who nevertheless were the com-
panions of many of his hours, — gave him credit for such power.
Why should a man afflict himself by the inward burden of an un-
satisfied craving, and allow his heart to sink into his very feet
because a girl would not smile when he wooed her? " If she 'be
not fair for me, what care I how fair she be ! " He had repeated
the lines to himself a score of times, and had been ashamed of him-
self because he could not make them come true to himself.

They had not come true in the least. There he was, Arthur
Fletcher, whom all the world courted, with his heart in his very
boots ! There was a miserable load within him, absolutely palpable
to his outward feeling, — a very physical pain, — which he could not
shake off. As he threw the stones into the water he told himself that
it must be so with him always. Though the world did pet him,
though he was liked at his club, and courted in the hunting-field,
and loved at balls and archery meetings, and reputed by old men
to be a rising star, he told himself that he was so maimed and
mutilated as to be only half a man. He could not reason about it.
Nature had afflicted him with a oertain weakness. One man has a
hump ; — another can hardly see out of his imperfect eyes ; — a third
can barely utter a few disjointed words. It was his fate to be con-
structed with some weak arrangement of the blood vessels which
left him in this plight. "The whole damned thing is nothing to
me," he said bursting out into absolute tears, after vainly trying
to reassure himself by a recollection of the good things which the
world still had in store for him.

Then he strove to console himself by thinking that he might tako
s, pride in his love even though it were so intolerable a burden to
him. Was it not something to be able to love as he loved F V?
it not something at any rate that she to whom he had condescended

NEVER RUN AWAY I 101

to stoop was worthy of all love ? But even here lie could get no
comfort, — being in truth unable to see very clearly into the condi-
tion of the thing. It was a disgrace to him, — to him within his
own bosom, — that she should have preferred to him such a one as
Ferdinand Lopez, and this disgrace he exaggerated, ignoring the
fact that the girl herself might be deficient in judgment, or led
away in her love by falsehood and counterfeit attractions. To him
she was such a goddess that she must be right, — and therefore his
own inferiority to such a one as Ferdinand Lopez was proved. lie
could take no pride in his rejected love. He would rid himself of
it at a moment's notice if he knew the way. He would throw him-
self at the feet of some second-rate, tawdry, well-born, well-known
beauty of the day, — only that there was not now left to him
strength to pretend the feeling that would be necessary. Then he
heard steps, and jumping up from his seat, stood just in the way
of Emily Wharton and her cousin Mary. "Ain't you going to
dress for dinner, young man ? " said the latter.

"I shall have time if you have, any way," said Arthur endea-
vouring to pluck up his spirits.

"That's nice of him; — isn't it?" said Mary. "Why we are
dressed. What more do you want ? We came out to look for you,
though we didn't mean to come as far as this. It's past seven
now, and we are supposed to dine at a quarter past."

" Five minutes will do for me."

" But you've got to get to the house. You needn't be in a tre-
mendous hurry because papa has only just come in from hay-
making. They've got up the last load, and there has been the
usual ceremony. Emily and I have been looking at them."

" I wish I'd been here all the time," said Emily. " I do so hate
London in July."

" So do I," said Arthur, — "in July and all other times."

" You hate London ! " said Mary.

' ' Yes, — and Herefordshire, — and other places generally. If I've
got to dress I'd better get across the park as quick as I can go,"
and so he left them. Mary turned round and looked at her cousin,
but at the moment said nothing. Arthur's passion was well known
to Mary Wharton, but Mary had as yet heard nothing of Ferdinand
Lopez.

CHAPTER XYI.

NEVER RUN AWAY !

During the whole of that evening there was a forced attempt on
the part of all the party at Wharton Hall to be merry, — which, how-
ever, as is the case whenever such attempts are forced, was a failure.

102 THE PRIME MINISTER.

There had been a haymaking harvest-home which was supposed to
give the special occasion for mirth, as Sir Alured farmed the land
around the park himself, and was great in hay. " I don't think it
pays very well," he said with a gentle smile, " but I like to employ
some of the people myself. I think the old people find it easier
with me than with the tenants."

"I shouldn't wonder," said his cousin; — "but that's charity;
not employment."

" No, no," exclaimed the baronet. " They work for their wages
and do their best. Powell sees to that." Powell was the bailiff,
who knew the length of his master's foot to a quarter of an inch,
and was quite aware that the Wharton haymakers were not to be
overtasked. "Powell doesn't keep any cats about the place, but
what catch mice. But I am not quite sure that haymaking does
pay."

11 How do the tenants manage ? "

" Of course they look to things closer. You wouldn't wish me
to let the land up to the house door."

" I think," said old Mrs. Fletcher, " that a landlord should con-
sent to lose a little by his own farming. It does good in the long
run." Both Mr. Wharton and Sir Alured felt that this might be
very well at Longbarns, though it could hardly be afforded at
Wharton.

"I don't think I lose much by my farming," said the squire of
Longbarns. "I have about four hundred acres on hand, and I
keep my accounts pretty regularly."

" Johnson is a very good man I dare say," said the baronet.

"Like most of the others," continued the squire, "he's very
well as long as he's looked after. I think I know as much about
it as Johnson. Of course I don't expect a farmer's profit ; but I do
expect my rent, and I get it."

" I don't think I manage it quite in that way," said the baronet
in a melancholy tone.

"I'm afraid not," said the barrister.

" John is as hard upon the men as any one of the tenants," said
John's wife, Mrs. Fletcher of Longbarns.

" I'm not hard at all," said John, " and you understand nothing
about it. I'm paying three shillings a week more to every man,
and eighteen pence a week more to every woman, than I did three
years ago."

" That's because of the Unions," said the barrister.

" I don't care a straw for the Unions. If the Unions interfered
with my comfort I'd let the land and leave the place."

" Oh, John ! " ejaculated John's mother.

" I would not consent to be made a slave even for the sake of the
country. But the wages had to be raised, — and having raised them
I expect to get proper value for my money. If anything has to
be given away, let it be given away, — so that the people should
know what it is that they receive."

NEVER RUN AWAY \ 108

" That's just what we don't want to do here," said Lady Wharton,
who did not often join in any of these arguments.

1 ' You're wrong, my lady," said her stepson. ' 'You're only breed-
ing idleness when you teach people to think that they are earning
wages without working for their money. Whatever you do with
'em let 'em know and feel the truth. It'll be the best in the long
run."

"I'm sometimes happy when I think that I shan't live to
see the long run," said the baronet. This was the manner in which
they tried to be merry that evening after dinner at Wharton Hall.
The two girls sat listening to their seniors in contented silence, —
listening or perhaps thinking of their own peculiar troubles, while
Arthur Fletcher held some book in his hand which he strove to read
with all his might.

There was not one there in the room who did not know that it was
the wish of the united families that Arthur Fletcher should marry
Emily Wharton, and also that Emily had refused him. To Arthur
of course the feeling that it was so could not but be an additional
vexation ; but the knowledge had grown up and had become com-
mon in the two families without any power on his part to prevent
so disagreeable a condition of affairs. There was not one in that
room, unless it was Mary Wharton, who was not more or less angry
with Emily, thinking her to be perverse and unreasonable. Even
to Mary her cousin's strange obstinacy was matter of surprise
and sorrow, — for to her Arthur Fletcher was one of those demi-
gods, who should never be refused, who are not expected to do
more than express a wish and be accepted. Her own heart had not
strayed that way because she thought but little of herself, knowing
herself to be portionless, and believing from long thought on the
subject that it was not her destiny to be the wife of any man. She
regarded Arthur Fletcher as being of all men the most loveable, —
though, knowing her own condition, she did not dream of loving
him. It did not become her to be angry with another girl on such
a cause ; — but she was amazed that Arthur Fletcher should sigh in
vain.

The girl's folly and perverseness on this head were known to
them all,— but as yet her greater folly and worse perverseness, her
vitiated taste and dreadful partiality for the Portuguese adventurer,
were known but to the two old men and to poor Arthur himself.
When that sternly magnificent old lady, Mrs. Fletcher, — whose
ancestors had been Welsh kings in the time of the Eomans, — when
she should hear this story, the roof of the old hall would hardly be
able to hold her wrath and her dismay ! The old kings had died
away, but the Fletchers, and the Yaughans, — of whom she had
been one, — and the Whartons remained, a peculiar people in an age
that was then surrendering itself to quick perdition, and with
peculiar duties. Among these duties, the chiefest of them incum-
bent on females was that of so restraining their affections that they
ehould neyer damage the good cause by leaving it. They might

104 THE PRIME MINISTER.

marry within the pale,— or remain single, as might be their lot.
She would not take upon herself to say that Emily Wharton was
bound to accept Arthur Fletcher, merely because such a marriage
was fitting, — although she did think that there was much perverse-
ness in the girl, who might have taught herself, had she not been
stubborn, to comply with the wishes of the families. But to love one
below herself, a man without a rather, a foreigner, a black Portu-
guese nameless Jew, merely because he had a bright eye, and a
hook nose, and a glib tongue, — that a girl from the Whartons

should do this ! It was so unnatural to Mrs. Fletcher that it

would be hardly possible to her to be civil to the girl after she had
heard that her mind and taste were so astray. All this Sir Alured
knew and the barrister knew it, — and they feared her indigna-
tion the more because they sympathised with the old lady's
feelings.

"Emily Wharton doesn't seem to me to be a bit more gracious
than she used to be," Mrs. Fletcher said to Lady Wharton that
night. The two old ladies were sitting together up-stairs, and Mrs.
John Fletcher was with them. In such conferences Mrs. Fletcher
always domineered, — to the perfect contentment of old Lady
Wharton, but not equally so to that of her daughter-in-law.

"I'm afraid she is not very happy," said Lady Wharton.

"She has everything that ought to make a girl happy, and I
don't know what it is she wants. It makes me quite angry to see
her so discontented. She doesn't say a word, but sits there as glum
as death. If I were Arthur I would leave her for six months, and
never speak to her during the time."

"I suppose, mother," said the younger Mrs. Fletcher, — who
called her husband's mother, mother, and her own mother, mamma,
— " a girl needn't marry a man unless she likes him."

" But she should try to like him if it is suitable in other respects.
I don't mean to take any trouble about it. Arthur needn't beg for
any favour. Only I wouldn't have come here if I had thought that
she had intended to sit silent like that always."

"It makes her unhappy, I suppose," said Lady Wharton,
" because she can't do what we all want."

" Fall, lall ! She'd have wanted it herself if nobody else had
wished it. I'm surprised that Arthur should be so much taken
with her,"

" You'd better say nothing more about it, mother."

" I don't mean to say anything more about it. It's nothing to
me. Arthur can do very well in the world without Emily Wharton.
Only a girl like that will sometimes make a disgraceful match ;
and we should all feel that."

" I don't think Emily will do anything disgraceful," said Lady
Wharton. And so they parted.

In the mean time the two brothers were smoking their pipes in
the housekeeper's room, which, at Wharton, when the Fletchers or
Everett were th'Oj was freely used for that purpose.

NEVEB EUN AWAY ! 105

" Isn't it rather quaint of you," said the elder brother, " coming
down here in the middle of term time ?"

" It doesn't matter much."

" I should have thought it would matter; — that is, if you mean
to go on with it."

" I'm not going to make a slave of myself about it, if you mean
that. I don't suppose I shall ever marry, — and as for rising to be
a swell in the profession, I don't care about it."

"You used to care about it, — very much. You used to say
that if you didn't get to the top it shouldn't be your own fault."

" And I have worked ; — and I eta work. But things get changed
somehow. I've half a mind to give it all up, — to raise a lot of
money, and to start off with a resolution to see every corner of the
world. I suppose a man could do it in about thirty years if he
lived so long. It's the kind of thing would suit me."

"Exactly. I don't know any fellow who has been more into
society, and therefore you are exactly the man to live alone for the
rest of your life. You've always worked hard, I will say that
for you ; — and therefore you're just the man to be contented with
idleness. You've always been ambitious and self-confident, and
therefore it will suit you to a T, to be nobody and to do nothing."
Arthur sat silent, smoking his pipe with all his might, and his
brother continued, — " Besides,— you read sometimes, I fancy."

"I should read all the more."

" Yery likely. But what you have read, in the old plays, for
instance, must have taught you that when a man is cut up about
a woman, — which I suppose is your case just at present, — he never
does get over it. He never gets all right after a time, — does he ?
Such a one had better go and turn monk at once, as the world is
over for him altogether; — isn't it? Men don't recover after a
month or two, and go on just the same. You've never seen that
kind of thing yourself?"

" I'm not going to cut my throat or turn monk either."

"No. There are so many steamboats and railways now that
travelling seems easier. Suppose you go as far as St. Petersburg,
and see if that does you any good. If it don't, you needn't go on,
because it will be hopeless. If it does, — why, you can come back,
because the second journey will do the rest."

" There never was anything, John, that wasn't matter for chaff
with you."

'] And I hope there never will be. People understand it when
logic would be thrown away. I suppose the truth is the girl cares
for somebody else." Arthur nodded his head. "Who is it P Any
one I know?"

"I think not."

" Any one you know ?"

" I have met the man."

"Decent ?"

"Disgustingly indecent, I should say." John looked very

106 THE PKIME MINISTEB.

black, for even -with, him the feeling abont the Whartons ante the
Vaughans and the Fletchers was very strong. " He's a man I
should say you wouldn't let into Longbarns."

" There might be various reasons for that. It might be that you
wouldn't care to meet him."

" Well ; — no, — I don't suppose I should. But without that you
wouldn't like him. I don't think he's an Englishman."

"A foreigner !"

" He has got a foreign name."

11 An Italian nobleman ?"

" I don't think he's noble in any country."

"Who the d is he?"

" His name is Lopez."

"Everett's friend?"

"Yes; — Everett's friend. I ain't very much obliged to Master
Everett for what he has done."

"I've seen the man. Indeed, I may say I know him, — fori
dined with him once in Manchester Square. Old Wharton himself
must have asked him there."

" He was there as Everett's friend. I only heard all this to-day,
you know ; — though I had heard about it before."

"•And therefore you want to set out on your travels. As far as
I saw I should say he is a clever fellow."

" I don't doubt that."

" And a gentleman."

" I don't know that he is not," said Arthur. " I've no right to
say a word against him. Erom what Wharton says I suppose he's
rich."

"He's good looking too;— at least he's the sort of man that
women like to look at."

"Just so. I've no cause of quarrel with him, — nor with her.
But ."

" Yes, my friend, I see it all," said the elder brother. " I think
I know all about it. But running away is not the thing. One
may be pretty nearly sure that one is right when one says that a
man shouldn t run away from anything."

" The thing is to be happy if you can," said Arthur.

" No ; — that is not the thing. I'm not much of a philosopher,
but as far as I can see there are two philosophies in the world.
The one is to make one's self happy, and the other is to make other
people happy. The latter answers the best."

" I can't add to her happiness by hanging about London."

" That's a quibble. It isn't her happiness wo are talking about,
— nor yet your hanging about London. Gird yourself up and go
on with what you've got to do. Put your work before
feelings. What does a poor man do, who goes out hedging and
ditching with a. dead child lying in his house ? If you get a blow
in the face, return it if it ought to be returned, but never complain
of the pain. If you must have your vitals eaten into,— have

NEVER F.UN AWAY ! 107

them featen into like a man. But, mind you, — these ain't your
vitals."

11 It goes pretty near."

"These ain't your vitals. A man gets cured of it,— almost
always. I believe always ; though some men get hit so hard they
can never bring themselves to try it again. But tell me this.
Has old Wharton given his consent ?"

" No. He has refused," said Arthur with strong emphasis.

" How is it to be, then ?"

" He has dealt very fairly by me. He has done all he could to
get rid of the man,— both with him and with her. He has told
Emily that he will have nothing to do with the man. And she
will do nothing without his sanction."

" Then it will remain just as it is."

11 No, John ; it will not. He has gone on to say that though he
has refused, — and has refused roughly enough, — he must give way
if he sees that she has really set her heart upon him. And she
has."

" Has she told you so ?"

"No; — but he has told me. I shall have it out with her to-
morrow, if I can. And then I shall be off."

14 You'll be here for shooting on the 1st ? "

" No. I dare say you're right in what you say about sticking
to my work. It does seem unmanly to run away because of a
girl."

" Because of anything ! Stop and face it, whatever it is."

" Just so ; — but I can't stop and face her. It would do no good.
For all our sakes I should be better away. I can get shooting
with Musgrave and Carnegie in Perthshire. I dare say I shall go
there and take a share with them."

" That's better than going into all the quarters of the globe."

" I didn't mean that I was to surrender and start at once. You
take a fellow up so short. I shall do very well, I've no doubt, and
shall be hunting here as jolly as ever at Christmas. But a fellow
must say it all to somebody." The elder brother put his hand out
and laid it affectionately upon the younger one's arm. " I'm not
going to whimper about tfre world like a whipped dog. The worst
of it is so many people have known of this."

"You mean down here."

"Oh; — everywhere. I have never told them. It has been a
kind of family affair and thought to be fit for general dis-
cussions."

" That'll wear away."

" In the mean time it's a bore. But that shall be the end of it.
Don't you say another word to me about it, and I won't to you.
And tell mother not to, or Sarah." Sarah was John Fletcher's
wife. "It has got to be dropped, and let us drop it as quickly as
we can. If she does marry this man I don't suppose she'll be
much at Longbarns or "Wharton."

108 THE PBIME MINISTEB.

"Not at Longbarns certainly, I should say," replied John.
"Fancy mother having to curtsey to her as Mrs. Lopez ! And I
doubt whether Sir Alured would like him. He isn't of our sort.
He's too clever, too cosmopolitan, — a sort of man whitewashed of all
prejudices, who wouldn't mind whether he ate horseflesh or beef if
horseflesh were as good as beef, and never had an association in his
life. I'm not sure that he's not on the safest side. Good night, old
fellow. Pluck up, and send us plenty of grouse if you do go to
Scotland."

John Fletcher, as I hope may have been already seen, was by no
means a weak man or an indifferent brother. He was warm-
hearted, sharp-witted, and, though perhaps a little self-opinionated,
considered throughout the county to be one of the most prudent
in it. Indeed no one ever ventured to doubt his wisdom on all
practical matters, — save his mother, who seeing him almost every
day, had a stronger bias towards her younger son. "Arthur has
been hit hard about that girl," he said to his wife that night.

" Emily Wharton ? "

"Yes ; — your cousin Emily. Don't say anything to him, but be
as good to him as you know how."

" Good to Arthur ! Am not I always good to him ? "

" Be a little more than usually tender with him. It makes one
almost cry to see such a fellow hurt like that. I can understand it,
though I never had anything of it myself."

" You never had, John," said the wife leaning close upon the
husband's breast as she spoke. " It all came very easily to you ; —
too easily perhaps."

"If any girl had ever refused me, I should have taken her at
her word, I can tell you. There would have been no second ' hop ■
to that ball."

" Then I suppose I was right to catch it the first time ? "

" I don't say how that may be."

" I was right. Oh, dear me !— Suppose I had doubted, just for
once, and you had gone off. You would have tried once more ; —
wouldn't you ? "

" You'd have gone about like a broken-winged old hen, and
have softened me that way."

" And now poor Arthur has had his wing broken."

" You mustn't let on to know that it's broken, and the wing will
be healed in due time. But what fools girls are ! "

" Indeed they are, John ; — particularly me."

" Fancy a girl like Emily Wharton," said he, not condescending
to notice her little joke, " throwing over a fellow like Arthur for a
greasy, black foreigner. "

" A foreigner ! "

"Yes; — a man named Lopez. Don't say anything about it at
present. Won't she live to find out the difference, and to know
what she has done ! I can tell her of one that won't pity her."

GOOD-BYE, 109

CHAPTER XVII.

GOOD-BYE.

Arthur Fletcher received his brother's teaching as true, and
took his brother's advice in good part ; — so that, before the morning
following, he had resolved that however deep the wound might be,
he would so live before the world, that the world should not see his
wound. What people already knew they must know, — but they
should learn nothing further either by words or signs from him.
He would, as he had said to his brother, "have it out with
Emily ; " and then, if she told him plainly that she loved the man,
he would bid her adieu, simply expressing regret that their course
for life should be divided. He was confident that she would tell
him the entire truth. She would be restrained neither by false
modesty, nor by any assumed unwillingness to discuss her own
affairs with a friend so true to her as he had been. He knew her
well enough to be sure that she recognised the value of his love
though she could not bring herself to accept it. There are rejected
lovers who, merely because they are lovers, become subject to the
scorn and even to the disgust of the girls they love. But again
there are men who, even when they are rejected, are almost loved,
who are considered to be worthy of all reverence, almost of worship ;
— and yet the worshippers will not love them. Not analyzing all
this, but somewhat conscious of the light in which this girl regarded
him, he knew that what he might say would be treated with deference.
As to shaking her, — as to talking her out of one purpose and into
another, — that to him did not for a moment seem to be practicable.
There was no hope of that. He hardly knew why he should en-
deavour to say a word to her before he left Wharton. And yet he
felt that it must be said. Were he to allow her to be married to
this man, without any further previous word between them, it
would appear that he had resolved to quarrel with her for ever.
But now, at this very moment of time, as ho lay in his bed, as he
dressed himself in the morning, as he sauntered about among the
new hay-stacks with his pipe in his mouth after breakfast, he
came to some conclusion in his mind very much averse to such
quarrelling.

He had loved her with all his heart. It had not been a mere
drawing-room love begotten between a couple of waltzes, and
fostered by five minutes in a crush. He knew himself to be a man
of the world, and he did not wish to be other than he was. He
could talk among men as men talked, and act as men acted ; — and
he could do the same with women. But there was one person who
had been to him above all, and round everything, and under every-
thing. There had been a private nook within him into which there
had been no entranco but for the one image. There had been a
holy of holies, which he had guarded within himself, keeping it

110 THE PRIME MINISTER.

free from all outer contamination for his own use. He had
cherished the idea of a clear fountain of ever-running water which
would at last be his, always ready for the comfort of his own lips.
Now all his hope was shattered, his trust was gone, and his longing
disappointed. But the person was the same person though she
could not be his. The nook was there, though she would not fill
it. The holy of holies was not less holy, though he himself might
not dare to lift the curtain. The fountain would still run, — still
the clearest fountain of all, — though he might not put his lips to it.
He would never allow himsel f to think of it with lessened reverence,
or with changed ideas as to her nature.

And then as he stood leaning against a ladder which still kept its
place against one of the hay-ricks, and filled his second pipe uncon-
sciously, he had to realise to himself the probable condition of his
future life. Of course she would marry this man with very little
further delay. Her father had already declared himself to be too weak
to interfere much longer with her wishes. Of course Mr. Wharton
would give way. He had himself declared that he would give way.
And then,— what sort of life would be her life ? No one knew
anything about the man. There was an idea that he was rich, —
but wealth such as his, wealth that is subject to speculation, will
fly away at a moment's notice. He might be cruel, a mere adven-
turer, or a thorough ruffian for all that was known of him. There
should, thought Arthur Fletcher to himself, be more stability in
the giving and taking of wives than could be reckoned upon here.
He became old in that half hour, taking home to himself and appre-
ciating many saws of wisdom and finger- directions of experience
which hitherto had been to him matters almost of ridicule/ But he
could only come to this conclusion, — that as she was still to be to
him his holy of holies though he nr'ght not lay his hand upon the
altar, his fountain though he might not drink of it, the one imago
which alone could have filled that nook, he would not cease to
regard her happiness when she should have become tho wife of
this stranger. With the stranger himself he never could bo on
friendly terms ; — but for the stranger's wife there should always
be a friend, if the friend were needed.

About an hour before lunch John Fletcher, who had been hang-
ing about the house all the morning in a manner very unusual to
him, caught Emily Wharton as she was passing through tho hall,
and told her that Arthur was in a cortain part of the grounds and
wished to speak to her. " Alone ?" she asked. " Yes, certainly
alone." u Ought I to go to him, John ? " she asked again. " Cer-
tainly I think you ought." Then he had done his commission and
was able to apply himself to whatever business he had on hand.

Emily at once put on her hat, took her parasol, and left the
house. There was something distasteful to her in the idea of this
gums out at a lover's bidding, to meet him ; but like all Whartons
and all Fletchers, she trusted John Fletcher. And then she was aware
that there were circumstances which might make such a meeting

GOOD-BYE. Ill

as this serviceable. She knew nothing of what had taken place
during the last four- and- twenty hours. She had no idea that in
consequence of words spoken to him by her father and his brother,
Arthur Fletcher was about to abandon his suit. There would have
been no doubt about her going to meet him had she thought this.
She supposed that she would have to hear again the old story. If
so, she would hear it, and would then have an opportunity of telling
him that her heart had been given entirely to another. She knew
all that she owed to him. After a fashion she did love him. He was
entitled to all kindest consideration from her hands. But he should
bo told the truth.

As she entered the shrubbery he came out to meet her, giving
her his hand with a frank, easy air and a pleasant smile. His
smile was as bright as the ripple of the sea, and his eye would then
gleam, and the slightest sparkle of his white teeth would be seen
between his lips, and the dimple of his chin would show itself
deeper than at other times. " It is very good of you. I thought
you'd come. John asked you, I suppose."

"Yes; — ho told me you were here, and he said I ought to
come."

" I don't know about ought, but I think it better. Will you
mind walking on, as I've got something that I want to say P " Then
he turned and she turned with him into the little wood. " I'm not
going to bother you any more, my darling," he said. "You are
still my darling, though I will not call you so after this." Her
heart sank almost in her bosom as she heard this, — though it was
exactly what she would have wished to hear. But now there must
be some close understanding between them and some tenderness.
She knew how much she had owed him, how good he had been to
her, how true had been his love ; and she felt that words would fail
her to say that which ought to be said. " So you have given your-
self to — one Ferdinand Lopez ! "

• l Yes," she said, in a hard, dry voice. " Yes ; I have. I do not
know who told you ; but I have."

"Your father told me. It was better, — was it not? — that I
should know. You are not sorry that I should know ? "

"It is better."

"lam not going to say a word against him."

"No;— do not do that."

" Nor against you. I am simply here now to let you know that
1 retire."

"You will not quarrel with me, Arthur ? "

" Quarrel with you ! I could not quarrel with you, if I would.
No ; — there shall be no quarrel. But I do not suppose we shall
see each other very often.

"I hope we may."

" Sometimes, perhaps. A man should not, I think, affect to be
friends with a successful rival. I dare say he is an excellent fellow,
but how is it possible that he and I should get on together ? But

112 THE PRIME MINISTER.

you will always have one, — one besides him, — who will love you
best in this world."

"No;— no; — no."

"It must be so. There will be nothing wrong in that. Every
one has some dearest friend, and you will always be mine. If any-
thing of evil should ever happen to you, — which of course there

won't, — there would be some one who would -. But I don't

want to talk buncum ; I only want you to believe me. Good-bye,
and God bless you." Then he put out his right hand, holding his
hat under his left arm.

" You are not going away ? "

" To-morrow, perhaps. But I will say my real good-bye to you
here, now, to-day. I hope you may be happy. I hope it with all
my heart. Good-bye. God bless you ! "

" Oh, Arthur ! " Then she put her hand in his.

" Oh, I have loved you so dearly. It has been with my whole
heart. You have never quite understood me, but it has been as
true as heaven. I have thought sometimes that had I been a little
less earnest about it, I should have been a little less stupid. A
man shouldn't let it get the better of him, as I have done. Say
good-bye to me, Emily."

" Good-bye," she said, still leaving her hand in his.

"I suppose that's about all. Don't let them quarrel with you
here if you can help it. Of course at Longbarns they won't like it
for a time. Oh, — if it could have been different ! " Then he
dropped her hand, and turning his back quickly upon her, went
away along the path.

She had expected and had almost wished that he should kiss her.
A girl's cheek is never so holy to herself as it is to her lover, — if he
do love her. There would have been something of reconciliation,
something of a promise of future kindness in a kiss, which even
Ferdinand would not have grudged. It would, for her, have robbed
the parting of that bitterness of pain which his words had given to
it. As to all that he had made no calculation ; but the bitterness
was there for him, and he could have done nothing that would have
expelled it.

She wept bitterly as she returned to the house. There might
have been cause for joy. It was clear enough that her father,
though he had shown no sign to her of yielding, was nevertheless
prepared to yield. It was her father who had caused Arthur
Fletcher to take himself off, as a lover really dismissed. But, at
this moment, she could not bring herself to look at that aspect of
the affair. Her mind would revert to all those choicest moments
in her early years in which she had been happy with Arthur
Fletcher ; in which she had first learned to love him, and had then
taught herself to understand by some confused and perph
that she did not love him as men and women love. But why should
she not so have loved him ? "SYould she not have done so could she
then have understood how true and firm he was P And then, in-

THE DUKE OF OMNIUM THINKS OF HIMSELF. 113

dependently of herself, throwing herself aside for the time as she
was bound to do when thinking of one so good to her as Arthur
Fletcher, she found that no personal joy could drown the grief
which she shared with him. For a moment the idea of a compari-
son between the men forced itself upon her, — but she droye it from
her as she hurried back to the house.

CHAPTEK XVIII.

TnE DUKE OF OMNIUM THINKS OF HIMSELF.

The blaze made by the Duchess of Omnium during the three
months of the season up in London had been very great, but it
was little in comparison with the social coruscation expected to be
achieved at Gatherum Castle, — little at least as far as public report
went, and the general opinion of the day. No doubt the house in
Carlton Gardens had been thrown open as the house of no Prime
Minister, perhaps of no duke, had been opened before in this
country; but it had been done by degrees, and had not been
accompanied by such a blowing of trumpets as was sounded with
reference to the entertainments at Gatherum. I would not have
it supposed that the trumpets were blown by the direct order of the
Duchess. The trumpets were blown by the customary trumpeters
as it became known that great things were to be done, — all news-
papers and very many tongues lending their assistance, till the
sounds of the instruments almost frightened the Duchess herself.
" Isn't it odd," she said to her friend, Mrs. Finn, " that one can't
have a few friends down in the country without such a fuss about
it as the people are making?" Mrs. Finn did not think that it
was odd, and so she said. Thousands of pounds were being spent
in a very conspicuous way. Invitations to the place even for a
couple of days, — for twenty-four hours, — had been begged for
abjectly. It was understood everywhere that the Prime Minister
wa3 bidding for greatness and popularity. Of course the trumpets
were blown very loudly. "If people don't take care," said the
Duchess, " I'll put everybody off and have the whole place shut
up. I'd do it for sixpence, now."

Perhaps of all the persons, much or little concerned, the one who
heard the least of the trumpets, — or rather who was the last to
hear them, — was the Duke himself. He could not fail to see
something in the newspapers, but what he did see did not attract
him so frequently or so strongly as it did others. It was a pity,
he thought, that a man's social and private life should be made
subject to so many remarks, but this misfortune was one of those
to which wealth and rank are liable. He had long recognized that

114 1HE PRIME MINISTER.

fact, and for a time endeavoured to believe that his intended
sojourn at Gatherum Castle was not more public than are the
autumn doings of other dukes and other prime ministers. But
gradually the trumpets did reach even his ears. Blind as he -was
to many things himself, he always had near to him that other duke
who was never blind to anything. " You are going to do great
things at Gatherum this year," said the Duke.

" Nothing particular, I hope," said the Prime Minister, with an
inward trepidation, — for gradually there had crept upon him a
fear that his wife was making a mistake.

" I thought it was going to be very particular."

"It's Glencora's doing."

"I don't doubt but that her Grace is right. Don't suppose
that I am criticizing your hospitality. We are to be at Gatherum
ourselves about the end of the month. It will be the first time I
shall have seen the place since your uncle's time."

The Prime Minister at this moment was sitting in his own par-
ticular room at the Treasury Chambers, and before the entrance
of his friend had been conscientiously endeavouring to define for
himself, not a future policy, but the past policy of the last month
or two. It had not been for him a very happy occupation. He
had become the Head of the Government, — and had' not failed, for
there he was, still the Head of the Government, with a majority
at his back, and the six months' vacation before him. They who
were entitled to speak to him confidentially as to his position were
almost vehement in declaring his success. Mr. Battler, about a
week ago, had not seen any reason why the Ministry should not
endure at least for the next four years. Mr. Boby, from the other
side, was equally confident. But, on looking back at what he
hud done, and indeed on looking forward into his future
intentions, he could not see why he, of all men, should be
Prime Minister. He had once been Chancellor of the Exchequer,
filling that office through two halcyon sessions, and he had known
the reason why he had held it. He had ventured to assure him-
self at the time that he was the best man whom his party could
then have found for that office, and he had been satisfied. But he
had none of that satisfaction now. There were men under him.
who were really at work. The Lord Chancellor had legal reforms
on foot. Mr. Monk was busy, heart and soul, in regard to
income tax and brewers' licences, — making our poor Prime
Minister's mouth water. Lord Drummond was active among the
colonies. Phineas Finn had at any rate his ideas about Ireland.
But with the Prime Minister, — so at least the Duke told himself,
— it was all a blank. The policy confided to him and expected at
his hands was that of keeping together a Coalition Ministry. That
was a task that did not satisfy him. And now, gradually, — very
slowly indeed at first, but still with a sure step, — there was
creeping upon him the idea that this power of cohesion was sought
for, and perhaps found, not in his political capacity, but in his

1'HB DUKE OF OMNIUM TiiliNKS OF rfl^SlSUK lio

tank and wealth. It might, in fact, be the case that it was his
Wife the Duchess, — that Lady Glencora, of whose wild impulses and
general impracticability he had always been in dread, — that she
with her dinner parties and receptions, with her crowded saloons,
her music, her picnics, and social temptations, was Prime Minister
rather than he himself. It might be that this had been under-
stood by the coalesced parties, — by everybody, in fact, except
himself. It had, perhaps, been found that in the state of things
then existing, a ministry could be best kept together, not by
parliamentary capacity, but by social arrangements, such as his
Duchess, and his Duchess alone, could carry out. She and she
only would have the spirit and the money and the sort of cleverness
required. In such a state of things he of course, as her husband,
must be the nominal Prime Minister.

There was no anger in his bosom as he thought of this. It
would be hardly just to say that there was jealousy. His nature
was essentially free from jealousy. But there was shame, — and
self- accusation at having accepted so great an office with so little
fixed purpose as to great work. It might be his duty to subordinate
even his pride to the service of his country, and to consent to be
a faineant minister, a gilded Treasury log, because by remaining
in that position he would enable the Government to be carried on.
Bat how base the position, how mean, how repugnant to that
grand idea of public work which had hitherto been the motive
power of all his life ! How would he continue to live if this thing
were to go on from year to year, — he pretending to govern while
others governed, — stalking about from one public hall to another
in a blue ribbon, taking the highest place at all tables, receiving
mock reverence, and known to all men as faineant First Lord of
the Treasury ? Now, as he had been thinking of all this, the most
trusted of his friends had come to him, and had at once alluded to
the very circumstances which had been pressing so heavily on his
mind. " I was delighted," continued the elder Duke, * ' when I heard
that you had determined to go to Gatherum Castle this year."

"Ha man has a big house I suppose he ought to live in it, some-
times."

11 Certainly. It was for such purposes as this now intended
that your uncle built it. He never became a public man, and
therefore, though he went there, every year I believe, he never
really used it."

"He hated it, — in his heart. And so do I. And so does
Grlencora. I don't see why any man should have his private life
interrupted by being made to keep a huge caravansary open for
persons he doesn't care a straw about."

" You would not like to live alone."

" Alone, — with my wife and children, — I would certainly, during
a portion of the year at least."

"I doubt whether such a life, even for a month, even for a week
is compatible with your duties. You would hardly find it possible

110 THE PRIME SlINISTEB.

Could you do without your private secretaries ? Would you know
enough of what is going on, if you did not discuss matters with
others ? A man cannot be both private and public at the same
time."

" And therefore one has to be chopped up, like ' a reed out of the
river,' as the poet said, ' and yet not give sweet music after-
wards.' " The Duke of St. Bungay said' nothing in answer to this,
as he did not understand the chopping of the reed. " I'm afraid
I've been wrong about this collection of people down at Gatherum,"
continued the younger Duke. " Glencora is impulsive, and has
overdone the thing. Just look at that." And he handed a letter
to his friend. The old Duke put on his spectacles and read the
letter through, — which ran as follows ; —

"Private."
"My Loed Duke,—

" I do not doubt but that your Grace is aware of my position
in regard to the public press of the country, and I beg to assure
your Grace that my present proposition is made, not on account of
the great honour and pleasure which would be conferred upon myself
should your Grace accede to it, but because I feel assured that I
might so be best enabled to discharge an important duty for the
benefit of the public generally.

"Your Grace is about to receive the whole fashionable world of
England and many distinguished foreign ambassadors at your
ancestral halls, not solely for social delight, — for a man in your
Grace's high position is not able to think only of a pleasant life, —
but in order that the prestige of your combined Ministry may bo
so best maintained. That your Grace is thereby doing a duty to
your country no man who understands the country can doubt. But
it must be the case that the country at large should interest itself in
your festivities, and should demand to have accounts of the gala
doings of your ducal palace. Your Grace will probably agi
me that these records could be better given by one empowered by
yourself to give them, by one who had been present, and who would
writo in your Grace's interest, than by some interloper who would
receive his tale only at second hand.

"It is my purport now to inform your Grace that should I be
honoured by an invitation to your Grace's party at Gatherum, I
should obey such a call with the greatest alacrity, and would
devote my pen and the public organ which is at my disposal to
your Grace's service with the readiest good- will.
11 1 have the honour to be,

"My Lord Duke,

" Your Grace's most obedient

" And very humble Servant,

"Quietus Slide."

The old Duke, when he had read the letter, laughed heartily
" Isn't that a terribly bad sign of the times ?" said the younger.

THE DUKE OP OMNIUM THINKS OF HIMSELF. 117

•' Well ; — hardly that, I think. The man is both a fool and a
blackguard ; but I don't think we are therefore to suppose that
there are many fools and blackguards like him. I wonder what ho
really has^wanled."

" He has wanted me to ask him to Gatherum."

" He can hardly have expected that. I don't think he can have
been such a fool. He may have thought that there was a possible
off chance, and that he would not lose even that for want of asking.
Of course you won't notice it."

" I have asked Warburfcon to write to him, saying that he cannot
be received at my house. I have all letters answered unless they
seem to have come from insane persons. "Would it not shock you
if your private arrangements were invaded in that way ?"
, " He can't invade you."

" Yes he can. He does. That is an invasion. And whether he
is there or not, he can and will write about my house. And though
no one else will make himself such a fool as he has done by his
letter, nevertheless even that is a sign of what others are doing.
You yourself were saying just now that we were going to do some-
thing,— something particular, you said."

" It was your word, and I echoed it. I suppose you are going
to have a great many people ?"

" I am afraid Glencora has overdone it. I don't know why I
should trouble you by saying so, but it makes me uneasy."

" I can't see why."

" I fear she has got some idea into her head of astounding the
world by display."

" I think she has got an idea of conquering the world by gra-
ciousness and hospitality."

"It is as bad. It is, indeed, the same thing. Why should she
want to conquer what we call the world ? She ought to want to
entertain my friends because they are my friends ; and if from my
public position I have more so-called friends than would trouble
me in a happier condition of private life, why, then, she must
entertain more people. There should be nothing beyond that.
The idea of conquering people, as you call it, by feeding them, is
to me abominable. If it goes on it will drive me mad. I shall
have to give up everything, because I cannot bear the burden."
This he said with more excitement, with stronger passion, than his
friend had ever seen in him before; so much so that the old
Duke was frightened. "I ought never to have been where I am,"
said the Prime Minister, getting up from his chair and walking
about the room.

"Allow me to assure you that in that you are decidedly mis-
taken," said his Grace of St. Bungay.

"I cannot make even you see the inside of my heart in such a
mattor as this," said his Grace of Omnium.

" I think I do. It may be that in saying so I claim for myself
r power than I possess, but T think I do. But lot your Le.ii fc

118 THE PKIME MINISTEH.

Bay what it may on the subject, I am sure of this, — toiat when the
Sovereign, by the advice of two outgoing Ministers, and with the
unequivocally expressed assent of the House of Commons, calls on
a man to serve her and the country, that man cannot be justified
in refusing, merely by doubts about his own fitness. If your health
is failing you, you may know it, and say so. Or it may bo that
your honour, — your faith to others, — should forbid you to accept
the position. But of your own general fitness you must take the
verdict given by such general consent. They have seen clearer
than you have done what is required, and know better than you
can know how that which is wanted is to be secured."
" If I am to be here and do nothing, must I remain ?"
" A man cannot keep together the Government of a country and
do nothing. Do not trouble yourself about this crowd at Gatherum.
The Duchess, easily, almost without exertion, will do that which to
you, or to me either, would be impossible. Let her have her
way, and take no notice of the Quintus Slides." The Prime Minis-
ter smiled, as though this repeated allusion to Mr. Slide's letter had
brought back his good humour, and said nothing further then as
to his difficulties. There were a few words to be spoken as to some
future Cabinet meeting, something perhaps to be settled as to some
man's work or position, a hint to be given, and a lesson to be learned,
— for of these inner Cabinet Councils between these two statesmen
there was frequent use ; and then the Duke of St. Bungay took his
leave.

Our Duke, as soon as his friend had left him, rang for his private
secretary, and went to work diligently as though nothing had dis-
turbed him. I do not know that his labours on that occasion were
of a very high order. Unless there be some special effort of law-
making before the country, some reform bill to be passed, some
attempt at education to be made, some fetters to be forged or to be
relaxed, a Prime Minister is not driven hard by the work of his
portfolio, — as are his oolleagues. But many mon were in want of
many things, and contrived by many means to make their wants
known to the Prime Minister. A dean would fain be a bishop, or
a judge a chief justice, or a commissioner a chairman, or a secretary
a commissioner. Knights would fain be baronets, baronets barons,
and baron 8 earls. In one guise or another the wants of gentlemen
were made known, and there was work to be done. A ribbon can-
not be given away without breaking the hearts of, perhaps, three
gentlemen and of their wives and daughters. And then ho went
down to the House of Lords, — for the last time this Session as far
as work was concerned. On the morrow legislative work would be
over, and the gentlemen of Parliament would bo sent to their country
houses, and to their pleasant country joys.

It had beon arranged that on the day after the prorogation of Par-
liament the Duchess of Omnium should go down to Gatherum to
prepare for the coming of the people, which was to commence about
throe days later, taking her ministers, Mrs. Finn and Locock, with

THE DUKE OP OMNIUM THINKS OP HIMSELF. 119

her ; and that her husband with his private secretaries and dispatch
boxes was to go for those three days to Matching, a smaller place
than Gatherum, but one to which they were much better accus-
tomed. If, as the Duchess thought to be not unlikely, the Duko
should prolong his stay for a few days at Matching, she felt con-
fident that she would be able to bear the burden of the Castle on
her own shoulders. She had thought it to be very probable that
he would prolong his stay at Matching, and if the absence were not
too long, this might be well explained to the assembled company.
In the Duchess's estimation a Prime Minister would lose nothing by
pleading the nature of his business as an excuse for such absence,
— or by having such a plea made for him. Of course he must
appear at last. But as to that she had no fear. His timidity, and
his conscience also, would both be too potent to allow him to shirk
the nuisance of Gatherum altogether. He would come ; she was
sure ; but she did not much care how long he deferred his coming.
She was, therefore, not a little surprised when he announced to
her an alteration in his plans. This he did not many hours after
the Duke of St. Bungay had left him at the Treasury Chambers.
"I think I shall go down with you at once to Gatherum," he
said.

" What is the meaning of that P " The Duchess was not skilled
in hiding her feelings, at any rate from him, and declared to him
at once by her voice and eye that the proposed change was not
gratifying to her.

" It will be better. I had thought that I would get a quiet day
or two at Matching. But as the thing has to be done, it may as
well be done at first. A man ought to receive his own guests.
I can't say that I look forward to any great pleasure in doing so
on this occasion; — but I shall do it." It was very easy to under-
stand also the tone of his voice. There was in it something of
offended dignity, something of future marital intentions, — some-
thing also of the weakness of distress.

She did not want him to come at once to Gatherum. A great
deal of money was being spent, and the absolute spending was not
yet quite perfected. There might still be possibility of interference.
The tents were not all pitched. The lamps were not as yet all hung
in the conservatories. Waggons would still be coming in and work-
men still be going out. He would think less of what had been done
if he could be kept from seeing it while it was being done. And
the greater crowd which would be gathered there by the end of the
first week would carry off the vastness of the preparations. As to
money, he had given her almost carte blanche, having at one vacil-
latory period of his Prime Ministership been talked by her into
some agreement with her own plans. And in regard to money ho
would say to himself that he ought not to interfere with any whim
of hers on that score, unless he thought it right to crush the whim
on some other score. Half what he possessed had been hers, and
even if during this year he were to spend more than his income,—

120 THE PRIME MINISTER.

if he were to double or even treble the expenditure of past years,-—
he could not consume the additions to his wealth which had accrued
and heaped themselves up since his marriage. He had therefore
written a line to his banker, and a line to his lawyer, and he had
nimself seen Locock, and his wife's hands had been loosened. " I
didn't think, your Grace," said Locock, "that his Grace would be
so very, — very, — very — ." " "Very what, Locock?" " So very
free, your Grace." The Duchess, as she thought of it, declared to
herself that her husband was the truest nobleman in all England.
She revered, admired, and almost loved him. She knew him to be
infinitely better than herself. But she could hardly sympathise
with him, and was quite sure that he did not sympathise with her.
He was so good about the money ! But'yet it was necessary that he
should be kept in the dark as to the spending of a good deal of it.
Now he was going to upset a portion of her plans by coming to
Gatherum before he was wanted. She knew him to be obstinate,
but it might be possible to turn him back to his old purpose by
clever manipulation.

" Of course it would be much nicer for me," she said.

"That alone would be sufficient."

" Thanks, dear. But we had arranged for people to come at first
whom I thought you would not specially care to meet. Sir Orlando
and Mr. Rattler will be there with their wives."

"I have become quite used to Sir Orlando and Mr. Battler."

' ' No doubt, and therefore I wanted to spare you something of
their company. The Duke, whom you really do like, isn't coming
yet. I thought, too, you would have your work to finish off."

" I fear it is of a kind that won't bear finishing off. However, I
have made up my mind, and have already told Locock to send word
to the people at Matching to say that I shall not be thore yet.
How long will all this last at Gatherum ? "

"Who can say?"

" I should have' thought you could. People are not coming, I
suppose, for an indefinite time."

" As one set leaves, one asks others."

"Haven't you asked enough as yet? I should like to know
when we may expect to get away from the place."

" You needn't stay till the end, you know."

" But you must."

"Certainly."

"And I should wish you to go with me, when we do go to
Matching."

"Oh, Plantagenet," said the wife, "what a Derby and Joan
kind of thing you like to have it ! "

" Yes, I do. The Derby and Joan kind of thing is what I like."

" Only Derby is to be in an office all day, and in Parliament all
night, — and Joan is to stay at home."

"Would you wish me not to be in an office, and not to be in
Parliament9 But don't let us misunderstand each other. You

VULGABITY. 121

are doing the best you can to further what you think to be my
interests."

" I am," said the Duchess.

" I love you the better for it, day by day." This so surprised
her, that as she took him by the arm, her eyes were rilled with
tears. " I know that you are working for me quite as hard as I
work myself, and that you are doing so with the pure ambition of
seeing your husband a great man."

" And myself a great man's wife."

" It is the same thing. But I would not have you overdo your
work. I would not have you make yourself conspicuous by anything
like display. There are ill-natured people who will say things that
you do not expect, and to which I should be more sensitive than I
ought to be. Spare me such pain as this, if you can." He still
held her hand as he spoke, and she answered him only by nodding
her head. " I will go down with you to Gatherum on Friday."
Then he left her.

CHAPTER XIX.

VULGARITY.

The Duke and Duchess with their children and personal servants
reached Gatherum Castle the day before the first crowd of visitors
was expected. It was on a lovely autumn afternoon, and the
Duke, who had endeavoured to make himself pleasant during the
journey, had suggested that as soon as the heat would allow them
they would saunter about the grounds and see what was being done.
They could dine late, at half-past eight or nine, so that they might
be walking from seven to eight. But the Duchess when she reached
the Castle declined to fall into this arrangement. The journey had
been hot and dusty and she was a little cross. They reached the
place about* five, and then she declared that she would have a cup
of tea and lie down ; she was too tired to walk ; and the sun, sho
said, was still scorchingly hot. He then asked that the children
might go with him ; but the two little girls were weary and travel-
worn, and the two boys, the elder of whom was home from Eton
and the younger from some minor Eton, were already out about
the place after their own pleasures. So the Duke started for his
walk alone.

The Duchess certainly did not wish to have to inspect the works
in conjunction with her husband. She knew how much there was
that she ought still to do herself, how many things that she herself
ought to see. But she could neither do anything nor see anything
to any purpose under his wing. As to lying down, that she knew
to be quite out of the question. She had already found out that

122 THE PBIME MINISTER.

the life vhich she had adopted was one of incessant work. But she
was neither weak nor idle. She was quite prepared to work, — if
only she might work after her own fashion and with companions
chosen by herself. Had not her husband been so perverse, she
would have travelled down with Mrs. Finn, whose coming was now
postponed for two days, and Locock would have been with her.
The Duke had given directions which made it necessary that
Locock's coming should be postponed for a day, and this was another
grievance/ She was put out a good deal, and began to speculate
whether her husband was doing it on purpose to torment her.
Nevertheless, as soon as she knew that he was out of the way, she
went to her work. She could not go out among the tents and
lawns and conservatories, as she would probably meet him. But
she gave orders as to bedchambers, saw to the adornments of the
reception-rooms, had an eye to the banners and martial trophies
suspended in the vast hall, and the busts and statues which adorned
the corners, looked in on the plate which was being prepared for
the great dining-room, and superintended the moving about of
chairs, sofas, and tables generally. " You may take it as certain,
Mrs. Pritchard," she said to the housekeeper, " that there will never
be less than forty for the next two months."

" Forty to sleep, my lady P " To Pritchard the Duchess had for
many years been Lady Glencora, and she perhaps understood that
her mistress liked the old appellation.

" Yes, forty to sleep, and forty to eat, and forty to drink. But
that's nothing. Forty to push through twenty-four hours every
day ! Do you think you've got everything that you want ? *

" It depends, my lady, how long each of 'em stays."

11 One night ! No, — say two nights on an average."

"That makes shifting the beds very often ;-— doesn't it, my
lady?"

• ' Send up to Puddick's for sheets to-morrow. "Why wasn't that
thought of beforo?"

"It was, my lady, — and I think we shall do. We've got the
steam-washery put up."

** Towels ! " suggested the Duchess.

" Oh yes, my lady. Puddick's did send a great many things ; — a
whole waggon load there was come from the station. But the
table cloths ain't, none of 'em, long enough for the big table." The
Duchess's face fell. " Of course there must be two. On them very
long tables, my lady, there always is two."

" "Why didn't you tell me, so that I could have had them made ?
It's impossible, — impossible that one brain should think of it all.
Are you sure you've got enough hands in the kitchen ?"

11 Well, my lady ; — wo couldn't do with more ; and they ain't an
atom of use, — only just in the way, — if you don't know something
about 'em. I suppose Mr. Millepois will bo down soon." This
name, which Mrs. Pritchard called Milleypoise, indicated a French
cook who was as yet unknown at the Castle.

VTJLGAKITY. 123

" He'll be here to-night."

u I wish he could have been here a day or two sooner, my lady,
eo as just to see about him."

' ' And how should we have got our dinner in town? He won't
make any difficulties. The confectioner did come ? "

" Yes, my lady ; and to tell the truth out at once, he was that

drunk last night that ; oh, dear, we didn't know what to do

with him."

" I don't mind that before the affair begins. I don't suppose
he'll get tipsy while he has to work for all these people. You've
plenty of eggs ? "

These questions went on so rapidly that in addition to the asking
of them the Duchess was able to go through all the rooms before
she dressed for dinner, and in every room she saw something to
speak of, noting either perfection or imperfection. In the mean-
time the Duke had gone out alone. It was still hot, but he had
made up his mind that he would enjoy his first holiday out of town
by walking about his own grounds, and he would not allow the
heat to interrupt him. He went out through the vast hall, and the
huge front door, which was so huge and so grand that it was very
seldom used. But it was now open by chance, owing to some inci-
dent of this festival time, and he passed through it and stood upon
the grand terrace, with the well-known and much-lauded portico
over head. Up to the terrace, though it was very high, there ran
a road, constructed upon arches, so that grand guests could drive
almost into the house. The Duke, who was never grand himself,
as he stood there looking at the far-stretching view before him,
could not remember that he had ever but once before placed himself
on that spot. Of what use had been the portico, and the marbles,
and the huge pile of stone, — Of what use the enormous hall just
behind him, cutting the house in two, declaring aloud by its own
aspect and proportions that it had been built altogether for show
and in no degree for use or comfort ? And now as he stood there he
could already see that men were at work about the place, that
ground had been moved here, and grass laid down there, and a new
gravel road constructed in another place. Was it not possible that
his friends should be entertained without all these changes in the
gardens ? Then he perceived the tents, and descending from the
terrace and turning to the left towards the end of the house he came
upon a new conservatory. The exotics with which it was to be
filled were at this moment being brought in on great barrows. He
stood for a moment and looked, but said not a word to the men.
They gazed at him but evidently did not know him. How should
they know him,— him, who was so seldom there, and who when
there never showed himself about the place ? Then he went farther
afield from the house and came across more and more men. A
great ha-ha fence had been made, enclosing on three sides a large
flat and turfed parallelogram of ground, taken out of the park and
open at one end to the gardens, containing, as he thought, about

124 THE PRIME MINISTER.

an acre. " What are you doing this for ? " he said to one of the
labourers. The man stared at him and at first seemed hardly in-
clined to make him an answer. "It be for the quality to shoot
their bows and harrows," he said at last, as he continued the easy
task of patting with his spade the completed work. He evidently
regarded this stranger as an intruder who was not entitled to
ask questions, even if he were permitted to wander about the
grounds.

From one place he went on to another and found changes, and
new erections, and some device for throwing away money every-
where. It angered him to think that there was so little of sim-
plicity left in the world that a man could not entertain his friends
without such a fuss as this. His mind applied itself frequently to
the consideration of the money, not that he grudged the loss of it,
but the spending of it in such a cause. And then perhaps there
occurred to him an idea that all this should not have been done
without a word of consent from himself. Had she come to him with
some scheme for changing everything about the place, making
him think that the alterations were a matter of taste or of mere
personal pleasure, he would probably have given his assent at once,
thinking nothing of the money. But all this was sheer display.
Then he walked up and saw the flag waving over the Castle, indi-
cating that he, the Lord'Lieutenant of the County, was present there
on his own soil. That was right. That was as it should be, because
the flag was waving in compliance with an acknowledged ordinance.
Of all that properly belonged to his rank and station he could be
very proud, and would allow no diminution of that outward respect
to which they were entitled. Were they to be trenched on by his
fault in his person, the rights of others to their enjoyment would
be endangered, and the benefits accruing to his country from estab-
lished marks of reverence would be imperilled. But here was an
assumed and preposterous grandeur that was as much within the
reach of some rich swindler or of some prosperous haberdasher a?
of himself, — having, too, a look of raw newness about it which was
very distasteful to him. And then, too, he knew that nothing of
all this would have been done unless he had become Prime Minister.
Why, on earth, should a man's grounds be knocked about because
he becomes Prime Minister ? Ho walked on arguing this within his
own bosom, till he had worked himself almost up to anger. It waa
clear that he must henceforth take things more into his own hands,
or he would be made to bo absurd beforo the world. Indifference
he know he could bear. Harsh criticism he thought he could en-
dure. But to ridicule he was aware that he was pervious. Suppose
the papers were to say of him that he built a new conservatory and
made an archery ground for the sake of maintaining the Coalition !

When he got back to the house he found his wife alone in the
small room in which they intended to dine. After all her labours she
was now reclining for the few minutes her husband's absence might
allow her, knowing that after dinner there wore a score of letters

VULGARITY.

125

for her to write. " I don't think," said she, " I was ever so tired
in my life."

" It isn't such a very long journey after all."

"But it's a very big house, and I've been, I think, into every
room since I have been here, and I've moved most of the furniture
in the drawing-rooms with my own hand, and I've counted the
pounds of butter, and inspected the sheets and tablecloths."

" Was that necessary, Glencora ? "

" If I had gone to bed instead, the world, I suppose, would have
gone on, and Sir Orlando Drought would still have led the House
of Commons ; — but things should be looked after, I suppose."

"There are people to do it. You are like Martha, troubling
yourself with many things."

" I always felt that Martha was very ill-used. If there were no
Marthas there would never be anything fit to eat. But it's odd how
sure a wife is to be scolded. If I did nothing at all, that wouldn't
please a busy, hard-working man like you."

" I don't know that I have scolded, — not as yet."

11 Are you going to begin ? "

" Not to scold, my dear. Looking back, can you remember that
I ever scolded you P "

" I can remember a great many times when you ought."

"But to tell you the truth I don't like all that you have done
here. I cannot see that it was necessary."

" People make changes in their gardens without necessity some-
times."

" But these changes are made because of your guests. Had they
been made to gratify your own taste I would have said nothing, —
although even in that case I think you might have told me what
you proposed to do."

" What;— when you are so burdened with work that you do not
know how to turn ? "

" I am never so burdened that I cannot turn to you. But, as
you know, that is not what I complain of. If it were done for
yourself, though it were the wildest vagary, I would learn to like
it. But it distresses me to think that what might have been good
enough for our friends before should be thought to be insufficient
because of the office I hold. There is a — a — a — I was almost going
to say vulgarity about it which distresses me."

" Vulgarity ! " she exclaimed, jumping up from her sofa.

"I retract the word. I would not for the world say anything
that should annoy you ; — but pray, pray do not go on with it."
Then again he left her.

Vulgarity ! There was no other word in the language so hard to
bear as that. He had, indeed, been careful to say that he did not
accuse hor of vulgarity, — but nevertheless the accusation had been
made. Could you call your friend a liar more plainly than by
saying to him that you would not say that ho lied ? They dined
together, the two boys, also, dining with them, but very little was

126 THE PRIME MINISTER.

said at dinner. The horrid word was clinging to the lady's ears,
and the remembrance of having uttered the word was heavy on the
man's conscience. He had told himself very plainly that the thing
was vulgar, but he had not meant to use the word. When uttered
it came even upon himself as a surprise. But it had been uttered ;
and, let what apology there may be made, a word uttered cannot be
retracted. As he looked across the table at his wife, he saw that
the word had been taken in deep dudgeon.

She escaped, to the writing of her letters she said, almost before
the meal was done. " Vulgarity ! " She uttered the word aloud
to herself, as she sat herself down in the little room up-stairs which
she had assigned to herself for her own use. But though she was
very angry with him, she did not, even in her own mind, contra-
dict him. Perhaps it was vulgar. But why shouldn't she be
vulgar, if she could most surely get what she wanted by vulgarity ?
"What was the meaning of the word vulgarity ? Of course she was
prepared to do things. — was daily doing things, — which would have
been odious to her had not her husband been a public man. She
submitted, without unwillingness, to constant contact with dis-
agreeable people. She lavished her smiles, — so she now said to
herself, — on butchers and tinkers. What she said, what she read,
what she wrote, what she did, whither she went, to whom she was
kind and to whom unkind, — was it not all said and done and
arranged with reference to his and her own popularity ? When a man
wants to be Prime Minister he has to submit to vulgarity, and
must give up his ambition if the task be too disagreeable to him. The
Duchess thought that that had been understood, at any rate ever since
the days of Coriolanus. " The old Duke kept out of it," she said
to herself, ' ' and chose to live in the other way. He had his choice.
He wants it to be done. And when I do it for him because he can't
do it for himself, he calls it by an ugly name ! " Then it occurred
to her that the world tells lies every day, — telling on the whole
much more lies than truth, — but that the world has wisely agreed
that the world shall not be accused of lying. One doesn't venture
to express open disbelief even of one's wife ; and with the world at
large a word spoken, whether lie or not, is presumed to be true of
course, — because spoken. Jones has said it, and therefore Smith,
— who has known the lie to be a lie, — has asserted his assured
belief, lying again. But in this way the world is able to live
pleasantly. How was she to live pleasantly if her husband accused
her of vulgarity? Of course it was all vulgar, but why should he tell
her so ? She did not do it from any pleasure that she got from it.

The letters remained long unwritten, and then there came a
moment in which she resolved that they should not bo written.
The work was very hard, and what good would come from it ?
Why should she make her hands dirty, so that even her husband
accused her of vulgarity ? Would it not be better to give it all
up, and be a great woman, une grande dame, of another kind, —
difficult of access, sparing of her favours, aristocratic to the back-

SIR OELAiNDOS POLICY. 12?

bone, — a very Duchess of duchesses. The role would be one very-
easy to play. It required rank, money, and a little manner, — and
these she possessed. The old Duke had done it with ease, without
the slightest trouble to himself, and had been treated almost like a
god because he had secluded himself. She could make the change
even yet, — and as her husband told her that she was vulgar, she
thought she would make it.

But at last, before she had abandoned her desk and paper, there
had come to her another thought. Nothing to her was so distaste-
ful as failure. She had known that there would be difficulties, and
had assured herself that she would be firm and brave in overcoming
them. Was not this accusation of vulgarity simply one of the
difficulties which she had to overcome ? Was her courage already
gone from her ? Was she so weak that a single word should knock
her over, — and a word evidently repented of as soon as uttered ?
Vulgar ! Well; — let her be vulgar as long as she gained her object.
There had been no penalty of everlasting punishment denounced
against vulgarity. And then a higher idea touched her, not with-
out effect, — an idea which she could not analyze, but which was
hardly on that account the less effective. She did believe tho-
roughly in her husband, to the extent of thinking him the fittest
man in all the country to be its Prime Minister. His fame was
dear to her. Her nature was loyal ; and though she might, per-
haps, in her younger days have been able to lean upon him with a
more loving heart had he been other than he was, brighter, more
gay, given to pleasures, and fond of trifles, still, she could recognise
merits ipith. which her sympathy was imperfect. It was good that
he should be England's Prime Minister, and therefore she would
do all she could to keep him in that place. The vulgarity was a
necessary essential. He might not acknowledge this, — might even,
if the choice were left to him, refuse to be Prime Minister on such
terms. But she need not, therefore, give way. Having in this
way thought it all out, she took up her pen and completed the
batch of letters before she allowed herself to go to bed.

CHAPTER XX.

SIK ORLANDO'S POLICY/.

When the guests began to arrive our friend the Duchess had
apparently got through her little difficulties, for she received them
with that open, genial hospitality which is so delightful as coming
evidently from the heart. There had not been another word
between her and her husband as to the manner in which the thing
was to be done, and she had determined that the offensive word
should pass altogether out of her memory. The first comer was

128 THE PRIME MINISTER.

Mrs. Finn, — who came indeed rather as an assistant hostess than
as a mere guest, and to her the Duchess uttered a few half playful
hints as to her troubles. " Considering the time haven't we done
marvels? Because it does look nice, — doesn't it? There are no
dirt heaps about, and it's all as green as though it had been there
since the conquest. He doesn't like it because it looks new. And
we've got forty-five bedrooms made up. The servants are all turned
out over the stables somewhere, — quite comfortable, I assure you.
Indeed they like it. And by knocking down the ends of two
passages we've brought everything together. And the rooms are
all numbered just like an inn. It was the only way. And I keep
one book myself, and Locock has another. I have everybody's
room, and where it is, and how long the tenant is to be allowed to
occupy it. And here's the way everybody is to take everybody
down to dinner for the next fortnight. Of course that must be
altered, but it is easier when we have a sort of settled basis. And
I have some private notes as to who should flirt with whom."

" You'd better not let that lie about."

"Nobody could understand a word of it if they had it. A. B.
always means X. Y. Z. And this is the code of" the Gatherum
Archery Ground. I never drew a bow in my life, — not a real bow
in the flesh, that is, my dear, — and yet I'vo made 'em all out, and
had them printed. The way to make a thing go down is to give it
some special importance. And I've gone through the bill of fare
for the first week with Millepois, who is a perfect gentleman, —
perfect." Then she gave a little sigh as she remembered that word
from her husband, which had so wounded her. " I used to think
that Plantagenet worked hard when he was doing his decimal
coinage ; but I don't think he ever stuck to it as I have done."

" What does the Duke say to it all P"

"Ah; well, upon the whole he behaves like an angel. ITo
behaves so well that half my time I think I'll shut it all up and
have done with it, — for his sako. And then, the other half, I'm
determined to go on with it, — also for his sake."

" He has not been displeased ? "

"Ask no questions, my dear, and you'll hear no stories. You
haven't been married twice without knowing that women can't
have everything smooth. Ho only said one word. It was rather
hard to bear, but it has passed away."

That afternoon there was quite a crowd. Among the first comers
were Mr. and Mrs. Roby, and Mr. and Mrs. Rattler. And there
were Sir Orlando and Lady Drought, Lord Rainsden, and Sir
Timothy Beeswax. These gentlemen with their wives represented,
for the time, the ministry of which the Duko was the head, and
had been asked in order that their fealty and submission might be
thus riveted. There were also there Mr. and Mrs. Boffin, with
Lord Thrift and his daughter Angelica, who had belonged to former
ministries, — one on the liberal and the other on the conservative
side, — and who were now among the Duke's guests, in order that

sir Orlando's policy. 129

they and others might see how wide the Duke wished to open his
liands. And there was our friend Ferdinand Lopez, who had cer-
tainly made the best use of his opportunities in securing for him-
self so great a social advantage as an invitation to Gatherum Castle.
How could any father, who was simply a barrister, refuse to receive
as his son-in-law a man who had been a guest at the Duke of
Omnium's country house ? And then there were certain people
from the neighbourhood ; — Frank Gresham of Greshambury, with
his wife and daughter, the master of the hounds in those parts, a
rich squire of old blood, and head of the family to which one of the
aspirant Prime Ministers of the day belonged. And Lord Chiltern,
another master of fox hounds, two counties off, — and also an old
friend of ours, — had been asked to meet him, and had brought his
wife. And there was Lady Eosina de Oourcy, an old maid, the
sister of the present Earl de Courcy, who lived not far off and had
been accustomed to come to Gatherum Castle on state occasions
for the last thirty years, — the only relic in those parts of a family
which had lived there for many years in great pride of place; for
her elder brother, the Earl, was a ruined man, and her younger
brothers were living with their wives abroad, and her sisters had
married, rather lowly in the world, and her mother now was dead,
and Lady Eosina lived alone in a little cottage outside the old
park palings, and still held fast within her bosom all the old pride
of the De Courcys. And then there were Captain Gunner and
Major Pountney, two middle-aged young men, presumably belong-
ing to the army, whom the Duchess had lately enlisted among
her followers as being useful in their way. They could eat their
dinners without being shy, dance on occasions, though very un-
willingly, talk a little, and run on messages; — and they knew
the peerage by heart, and could tell the details of every unfortu-
nate marriage for the last twenty years. Each thought him-
self, especially since this last promotion, to be indispensably
necessary to the formation of London society, and was comfortable
in a conviction that he had thoroughly succeeded in life by
acquiring the privilege of sitting down to dinner three times a
week with peers and peeresses.

The list of guests has by no means been made as complete here as
it was to be found in the county newspapers, and in the " Morning
Post" of the time ; but enough of names has been given to show
of what nature was the party. "The Duchess has got rather a
rough lot to begin with," said the Major to the Captain.

"Oh, yes. I knew that. She wanted me to be useful, so of
course I came. I shall stay here this week, and then be back in
September." Up to this moment Captain Gunner had not received
any invitation for September, but then there was no reason why he
should not do so.

" I've been getting up that archery code with her," said Pount-
ney, " and I was pledged to come down and set it going. That
little Gresham girl isn't a bad looking thing."

180 TfiE PRIME MINISTEB.

" Katner flabby," said Captain Gunner.

" Yery nice colour. She'll have a lot of money, you know."

" There's a brother," said the Captain.

"Oh, yes; there's a brother, who will have the Greshambury
property, but she's to have her mother's money. There's a very
odd story about all that, you know." Then the Major told the
story, and told every particular of it wrongly. " A man might do
worse than look there," said the Major. A man might have done
worse, because Miss Gresham was a very nice girl ; but of course
the Major was all wrong about the money.

1 ' Well ; — now you've tried it, what do you think about it ? " This
question was put by Sir Timothy to Sir Orlando as they sat in a
corner of the archery ground, under the shelter of a tent, looking
on while Major Pountney taught Mrs. Boffin how to fix an arrow
on to her bow string. It was quite understood that Sir Timothy
was inimical to the Coalition though he still belonged to it, and
that he would assist in breaking it up if only there were a fair
chance of his belonging to the party which would remain in power.
Sir Timothy had been badly treated, and did not forget it. Now
Sir Orlando had also of late shown some symptoms of a disturbed
ambition. He was the leader of the House of Commons, and it had
become an almost recognised law of the Constitution that the leader
of the House of Commons should be the First Minister of the
Crown. It was at least understood by many that such was Sir
Orlando's reading of the laws of the Constitution.

tt "^Ye'ye got along, you know," said Sir Orlando.

"Yes;— yes. We've got along. Can you imagine any possible
concatenation of circumstances in which we should not get along ?
There's always too much good sense in the House for an absolute
collapse. But are you contented ? "

"I won't say I'm not," said the cautious baronet. "I didn't
look for very great things from a Coalition, and I didn't look for
very great things from the Duke."

" It seems to me that the one achievement to which we've all
looked has been the reaching the end of the Session in safety.
We've done that certainly."

"It is a great thing to do, Sir Timothy. Of course the main
work of Parliament is to raise supplies; — and, when that has been
done with ease, when all the money wanted has been voted without
a break- down, of course Ministers are very glad to get rid of the
Parliament. It is as much a matter of course that a Minister
should dislike Parliament now as that a Stuart King should have
done so two hundred and fifty years ago. To get a Session over
and done with is an achievement and a delight."

"No ministry can go on long on that far niente principle, and
no minister who accedes to it will remain long in any mini
Sir Timothy in saying this might be alluding to the Duke, or the
reference might be to Sir Orlando himself. " Of course I'm not
in the Cabinet, and am not entitled to say a word ; but I think

SIR ORLANDO S POLICY.

131

that if I were in the Cabinet, and if I were anxious, — which
I confess I'm not, — for a continuation of the present state of
things, I should endeavour to obtain from the Duke some idea of
his policy for the next Session." Sir Orlando was a man of certain
parts. He could speak volubly, — and yet slowly, — so that
reporters and others could hear him. He was patient, both in the
House and in his office, and had the great gift of doing what he
was told by men who understood things better than he did him-
self. He never went very far astray in his official business,
because he always obeyed the clerks and followed -precedents.
He had been a useful man, — and would still have remained so
had he not been lifted a little too high. Had he been only one in
the ruck on the Treasury Bench he would have been useful to the
end ; but special honour and special place had been assigned to
him, and therefore he desired still bigger things. The Duke's
mediocrity of talent and of energy and of general governing power
had been so often mentioned of late in Sir Orlando's hearing, that
Sir Orlando had gradually come to think that he was the Duke's
equal in the Cabinet, and that perhaps it behoved him to lead the
Duke. At the commencement of their joint operations he had
held the Duke in some awe, and perhaps something of that feeling
in reference to the Duke personally still restrained him. The Dukes
of Omnium had always been big people. But still it might be
his duty to say a word to the Duke. Sir Orlando assured himself
that if ever convinced of the propriety of doing so. he could say a
word even to the Duke of Omnium. " I am confident that we
should not go on quite as we are at present," said Sir Timothy as
he closed the conversation.

" "Where did they pick him up ?" said the Major to the Captain,
pointing with his head to Ferdinand Lopez, who was shooting with
Angelica Thrift and Mr. Boffin and one of the Duke's private
secretaries.

" The Duchess found him somewhere. He's one of those fabu-
lously rich fellows out of the city who make a hundred thousand
pounds at a blow. They say his people were grandees of Spain."

" Does anybody know him ?" asked the Major.

"Everybody soon will know him," answered the Captain. " I
think I heard that he's going to stand for some place in the Duke's
interest. He don't look the sort of fellow I like ; but he's got
money and he comes here, and he's good looking, — and therefore
he'll be a success." In answer to this the Major only grunted.
The Major was a year or two older than the Captain, and there-
fore less willing even than his friend to admit the claims of new
comers to social honours.

Just at this moment the Duchess walked across the ground up
to the shooters, accompanied by Mrs. Finn and Lady Chiltern.
She had not been seen in the gardens before that day, and of
course a little concourse was made round her. The Major and
the Captain, who had been driven away by the success of Ferdinand

182 THE PRIME MINISTER.

Lopez, returned with their sweetest smiles. Mr. Boffin put down
his treatise on the nature of Franchises, which he was studying in
order that he might lead an opposition against the Ministry next
Session, and even Sir Timothy Beeswax, who had done his work
with Sir Orlando, joined the throng.

"Now I do hope," said the Duchess, "that you are all shooting
by the new code. That is, and is to be, the Gatherum Archery
Code, and I shall break my heart if anybody rebels."

" There are one or two men," said Major Pountney very gravely,
" who won'fc take the trouble to understand it."

" Mr. Lopez," said the Duchess, pointing with her finger at our
friend, " are you that rebel ?"

" I fear I did suggest " began Mr. Lopez.

" I will have no suggestions, — nothing but obedience. Here are
Sir Timothy Beeswax and Mr. Boffin, and Sir Orlando Drought is
not far off; and here is Mr. Rattler, than whom no authority on
such a subject can be better. Ask them whether in other matters
suggestions are wanted."

" Of course not," said Major Pountney.

" Now, Mr. Lopez, will you or will you not be guided by a
strict and close interpretation of the Gatherum Code ? Because,
if not, I'm afraid we shall feel constrained to accept your resigna-
tion."

"I won't resign, and I will obey," said Lopez.

" A good ministerial reply," said the Duchess. " I don't doubt
but that in time you'll ascend to high office and become a pillar of
the Gatherum constitution. How does he shoot, Miss Thrift ?"

"He will shoot very well indeed, Duchess, if ho goes on and
practises," said Angelica, whose life for the last seven years had
been devoted to archery. Major Pountney retired far away into
the park, a full quarter of a mile off, and smoked a cigar under a
tree. Was it for this that he had absolutely given up a month to
drawing out this code of rules, going backwards and forwards two
or three times to the printers in his desire to carry out the

Duchess's wishes? Women are so d ungrateful!" he said

aloud in his solitude, as he turned himself on the hard ground.

"And some men are so d lucky!" This fellow, Lopez, had

absolutely been allowed to make a good score off his own intract-
able disobedience.

The Duchess's little joke about the Ministers generally, and
the advantages of submission on their part to their chief, v. as
thought by some who heard it not to have been made in good taste.
The joke was just such a joke as the Duchess would be sure to
make, — meaning*very little but still not altogether pointle
was levelled rather at her husband than at her husband's col-
leagues who were present, and was so understood by those who
really knew her, — as did Mrs. Finn, and Mr. Warburton, tho
private secretary. But Sir Orlando and Sir Timothy and Mr.
llattler, who were all within hearing, thought that tho Duchess

BIB OKLANDO S POLICY. 133

had intended to allude to the servile nature of their position ,* and
Mr. Boffin, who heard it, rejoiced within himself, comforting him-
self with the reflection that his withers were unwrung, and think-
ing with what pleasure he might carry the anecdote into the
farthest corners of the clubs. Poor Duchess ! 'Tis pitiful to think
that after such Herculean labours she should injure the cause by
one slight unconsidered word, more, perhaps, than she had ad-
vanced it by all her energy.

During this time the Duke was at the Castle, but he showed
himself seldom to his guests, — so acting, as the reader will I hope
understand, from no sense of the importance of his own personal
presence, but influenced by a conviction that a public man should
not waste his time. He breakfasted in his own room, because
he could thus eat his breakfast in ten minutes. He read all the
papers in solitude, because he was thus enabled to give his mind to
their contents. Life had always been too serious to him to be
wasted. Every afternoon he walked for the sake of exercise, and
would have accepted any companion if any companion had espe-
cially offered himself. But he went off by some side-door, finding
the side-door to be convenient, and therefore when seen by others
was supposed to desire to remain unseen. "I had no idea there
was so much pride about the Duke," Mr. Boffin said to his old
colleague, Sir Orlando. "Is it pride ?" asked Sir Orlando. " It
may be shyness," said the wise Boffin. "The two things are so
alike you can never tell the difference. But the man who is
cursed by either should hardly be a Prime Minister."

It was on the day after this that Sir Orlando thought that the
moment had come in which it was his duty to say that salutary
word to the Duke, which it was clearly necessary that some col-
league should say, and which no colleague could have so good a
right to say as he who was the Leader of the House of Commons.
He understood clearly that though they were gathered together
then at Gatherum Castle for festive purposes, yet that no time
was unfit for the discussion of State matters. Doe3 not all the
world know that when in autumn the Bismarcks of the world, or
they who are bigger than Bismarcks, meet at this or that delicious
haunt of salubrity, the affairs of the world are then settled in little
conclaves, with greater ease, rapidity, and certainty than in largo
parliaments or the dull chambers of public offices ? Emperor
meets Emperor, and King meets King, and as they wander among
rural glades in fraternal intimacy, wars are arranged, and swell-
ing territories are enjoyed in anticipation. Sir Orlando hitherto
" had known all this, but had hardly as yet enjoyed it. He had
been long in office, but these sweet confidences can of their very
nature belong only to a very few. But now the time had mani-
festly come.

It was Sunday afternoon, and Sir Orlando caught the Duke in
the very act of leaving the house for his walk. There was no
archery, and many of the inmates of the Castlo were asleep.

184 THE PRIME MINISTER.

There had been a question as to the propriety of Sabbath archery, in
discussing which reference had been made to Laud's book of sports,
and the growing idea that the National Gallery should be opened
on the Lord's-day. But the Duchess would not have the archery.
" We are just the people who shouldn't prejudge the question,"
said the Duchess. The Duchess with various ladies, with the
Pountneys and Gunners, and other obedient male followers, had
been to church. None of the Ministers had of course been able
to leave the swollen pouches which are always sent out from
London on Saturday night, probably, — we cannot but think, —
as arranged excuses for such defalcation, and had passed their
mornings comfortably dosing over new novels. The Duke, always
right in his purpose but generally wrong in his practice, had
stayed at home working all the morning, thereby scandalising
the strict, and had gone to church alone in the afternoon, thereby
offending the social. The church was close to the house, and he
had gone back to change his coat and hat, and to get his stick.
But as he was stealing out of the little side-gate, Sir Orlando
was down upon him. " If your Grace is going for a walk, and
will admit of company, I shall be delighted to attend you," said
Sir Orlando. The Duke professed himself to be well pleased, and
in truth was pleased. He would be glad to increase his personal
inlimacy with his colleagues if it might be done pleasantly.

They had gone nearly a mile across the park, watching the
stately movements of the herds of deer, and talking of this and
that trifle, before Sir Orlando could bring about an opportunity for
uttering his word. At last he did it somewhat abruptly. " I
think upon tb^ whole wo did pretty well last Session," he said,
standing still under an old oak-tree.

'* Pretty well," re-echoed the Duke.

"And I suppose wo have not much to be afraid of next Ses-
sion ? "

" I am afraid of nothing," said the Duke.

" But ;" then Sir Orlando hesitated. The Duke, however,

said not a word to help him on. Sir Orlando thought that the
Duke looked more ducal than he had ever seen him look before.
Sir Orlando remembered the old Duke, and suddenly found that
the uncle and nephew were very like oach other. But it does not
become the leader of the House of Commons to be afraid of any
one. u Don't you think," continued Sir Orlando, " we should try
and arrange among ourselves something of a policy ? I am not
quite sure that a ministry without a distinct course of action before
it can long enjoy the confidence of the country. Take the last
half century. There have been various policies, commanding more

or less of general assent; free trade ." Here Sir Orlando gave

a kindly wave of his hand, showing that on behalf of his com-
panion he was willing to place at the head of the list a policy
which had not always commanded his own assent; — "continued
yeform in Parliament, to which I have, with my whole heart,

THE DUCHESS'S NEW SWAN. 135

given my poor assistance." The Duke remembered how the
bathers' clothes were stolen, and that Sir Orlando had been one
of the most nimble-fingered of the thieves. " No popery, Irish
grievances, the ballot, retrenchment, efficiency of the public service,
all have had their time."

" Things to be done offer themselves, I suppose, because they
are in themselves desirable ; not because it is desirable to have
something to do."

"Just so; — no doubt. But still, if you will think of it, no
ministry can endure without a policy. During the latter part of
the last Session it was understood that we had to get ourselves in
harness together, and nothing more was expected from us ; but I
think we should be prepared with a distinct policy for the coming
year. I fear that nothing can be done in Ireland."

" Mr. Finn has ideas ."

11 Ah, yes ; — well, your Grace. Mr. Finn is a very clever young
man certainly ; but I don't think we can support ourselves by his
plan of Irish reform." Sir Orlando had been a little carried away
by his own eloquence and the Duke's tameness, and had inter-
rupted the Duke. The Duke again looked ducal, but on this
occasion Sir Orlando did not observe his countenance. ' ' For my-
self, I think, I am in favour of increased armaments. I have been
applying my mind to the subject, and I think I see that the people
of this country do not object to a slightly rising scale of estimates
in that direction. Of course there is the county suffrage "

M I will think of what you have been saying," said the Duke.

" As to the county suffrage "

"I will think it over," said the Duke. "You see that oak.
That is the largest tree we have here at Gatherum ; and I doubt
whether there be a larger one in this part of England." The
Duke's voice and words were not uncourteous, but there was
something in them which hindered Sir Orlando from referring
again on that occasion to county suffrages or increased arma-
ments.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE DUCHESS'S NEW SWAN.

When the party had been about a week collected at Gfatherum
Castle Ferdinand Lopez had manifestly become the favourite of
the Duchess for the time, and had, at her instance, promisod to
remain there for some further days. He had hardly spoken to the
Duke since he had been in the house, — but then but few of that
motley assembly did talk much with the Duke. Gunner and
Pountney had gone away, — the Captain having declared his dislike
of the upstart Portuguese to be so strong that he could not stay in

136 THE PRIME MINISTER.

the same house with him any longer, and the Major, who was of
stronger mind, having resolved that he would put the intruder
down. "It is horrible to think what power money has in these
days," said the Captain. The Captain had shaken the dust of
Gatherum altogether from his feet, but the Major had so arranged
that a bed was to be found for him again in October, — for another
happy week ; but he was not to return till bidden by the Duchess.
" You won't forget ; — now will you, Duchess ?" he said, imploring
her to remember him as he took his leave. " I did take a deal of
trouble about the code ; — didn't I ?" " They don't seem to me to
care for the code," said the Duchess, " but, nevertheless, I'll
remember."

1 ' Who, in the name of all that's wonderful, was that I saw you with
in the garden ? " the Duchess said to her husband one afternoon.

" It was Lady Eosina De Courcy, I suppose ! "

" Heaven and earth ! — what a companion for you to choose."

" "Why not ? — why shouldn't I talk to Lady Eosina De Courcy ?

"I'm not jealous a bit, if you mean that. I don't think Lady
Eosina will steal your heart from me. But why you should pick
her out of all the people here, when there are so many would
think their fortunes made if you would only take a turn with
them, I cannot imagine."

"But I don't want to make any one's fortune," said the Duke ;
" and certainly not in that way."

" What could you be saying to her ?"

" She was talking about her family. I rather like Lady Eosina.
She is living all alone, it seems, and almost in poverty. Perhaps
there is nothing so sad in the world as the female scions of a noble
but impoverished stock."

" Nothing so dull certainly."

"People are not dull to me, if they are real." I pity that poor
lady. She is proud of her blood and yet not ashamed of her
poverty."

"Whatever might como of her blood, she has been all her life
willing enough to get rid of her poverty. It isn't above three
years since she was trying her best to marry that brewer at Silyer-
bridge. I wish you could give your time a little to some of the
other people."

" To go and shoot arrows P"

" No ; — I don't want you to shoot arrows. You might act the
part of host without shooting. Can't you walk about with anybody
except Lady Eosina De Courcy ?"

" I was walking about with Sir Orlando Drought last Sunday,
and I very much prefer Lady Eosina."

" There has been no quarrel?" asked the Duchess sharply.

" Oh dear no."

"Of course he's an empty-headed idiot. Everybody has always
known that. And he's put above his place iu the llouse. But it
wouldn't do to quarrel with him now,"

THE DUCHESS'S NEW SWAN. 137

" I don't think I am a quarrelsome man, Cora. I don't remem-
ber at this moment that I have ever quarrelled with anybody to
your knowledge. But I may perhaps be permitted to "

"Snub a man, you mean. Well: I wouldn't even snub Sir
Orlando very much, if I were you ; though I can understand that
it might be both pleasant and easy."

" I wish you wouldn't put slang phrases into my mouth, Cora.
If I think that a man intrudes upon me, I am of course bound to
let him know my opinion."

" Sir Orlando has — intruded ! "

"By no means. He is in a position which justifies his saying
many things to me which another might not say. But then, again,
he is a man whose opinion does not go far with me, and I have not
the knack of seeming to agree with a man while I let his words
pass idly by me."

" That is quite true, Plantagenet."

"And, therefore, I was uncomfortable with Sir Orlando, while
I was able to sympathise with Lady Eosina."

" What do you think of Ferdinand Lopez ? " asked the Duchess,
with studied abruptness.

" Think of Mr. Lopez ! I haven't thought of him at all. Why
should I think of him ? "

" I want you to think of him. I think he's a very pleasant
fellow, and I'm sure he's a rising man."

"You might think the latter, and perhaps feel sure of the
former."

" Very well. Then, to oblige you, I'll think the latter and feel
sure of the former. I suppose it's true that Mr. Grey is going on
this mission to Persia ?" Mr. Grey was the Duke's intimate friend,
and was at this time member for the neighbouring borough of
Silvcrbridge.

"I think ho will go. I've no doubt about it. He is to go after
Christmas."

1 ' And will give up his seat ? "

The Duke did not answer her immediately. It had only just
been decided, — decided by his friend himself, — that the seat should
be given up when the journey to Persia was undertaken. Mr.
Grey, somewhat in opposition to the Duke's advice, had resolved
that he could not be in Persia and do his duty in the House of
Commons at the same time. But this resolution had only now
been made known to the Duke, and he was rather puzzled to
think how the Duchess had been able to be so quick upon him.
He had, indeed, kept the matter back from the Duchess, feeling
that she would have something to say about it, which might pos-
sibly be unpleasant, as soon as the tidings should reach her.
" Yes," he said, " I think he will give up his seat. That is his
purpose, though I think it is unnecessary."

" Let Mr. Lopez have it,"

"Mr. Loj-ezJ"

188 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" Yes ; — he is a clever man, a rising man, a man that is snre to
do well, and who will be of use to you. Just take the trouble to
talk to him. It is assistance of that kind that you want. You
Ministers go on shuffling the old cards till they are so worn out
and dirty that one can hardly tell the pips on them."

" I am one of the dirty old cards myself," said the Duke.

" That's nonsense, you know. A man who is at the head of affairs
as you are can't be included among the pack I am speaking of. What
you want is new blood, or new wood, or new metal, or whatever
vou may choose to call it. Take my advice and try this man. He
isn't a pauper. It isn't money that he wants."
^ " Cora, your geese are all swans."

"That's not fair. I have never brought to you a goose yet.
My swans have been swans. Who was it brought you and your
pet swan of all, Mr. Grey, together ? I won't name any names,
but it is your swans have been geese."

" It is not for me to return a member for Silverbridge." When
he said this, she gave him a look which almost upset even his
gravity, a look which was almost the same as asking him whether
he would not — " tell that to the marines." " You don't quite un-
derstand these things, Cora," he continued. " The influence
which owners of property may have in boroughs is decreasing
every day, and there arises the question whether a conscientious
man will any longer use such influence."

"I don't think: you'd like to see a man from Silverbridge
opposing you in the House."

" I may have to bear worse even than that."

" Well ; — there it is. The man is here and you have the oppor-
tunity of knowing him. Of course I "have not hinted at the
matter to him. If there were any Palliser wanted the borough I
Wouldn't say a word. What more patriotic thing can a patron do
with his borough than to select a man who is unknown to him,
not related to him, a perfect stranger, merely for his worth ? "

" But I do not know what may be the worth of Mr. Lopez."

"I will guarantee that," said the Duchess. Whereupon the
Duke laughed, and then left her.

Tho Duchess had spoken with absolute truth when she told her
husband that she had not said a word to Mr. Lopez about Silver-
bridge, but it was not long before she did say a word. On that
same day she found herself alone with him in the garden, — or so
much alone as to be able to speak with him privately. He had
certainly made the best use of his time since he had been at the
Castle, having secured the good- will of many of the ladies, and the
displeasure of most of the men. ' ' You have never been in Parlia-
ment, I think," said the Duchess.

" I have never even tried to get there."

" Perhaps you dislike the idea of that kind of life."

" No, indeed," he said. " So far from it, that I regard it as the
highest kind of life there is in England. A seat in Parliament

THE DUCHESS'S NEW SWAN. 139

gives a man a status in this country which it has never done else-
where."

" Then why don't you try it P"

w Because I've got into another groove. I've become essentially
a city man, — one of those who take up the trade of making money
generally."

' ' And does that content you ? "

"No, Duchess; — certainly not. Instead of contenting me it
disgusts me. Not but that I like the money,— only it is so in-
sufficient a use of one's life. I suppose I shall try to get into
Parliament some day. Seats in Parliament don't grow like black-
berries on bushes."

" Pretty nearly," said the Duchess.

11 Not in my part of the country. These good things seem to be
appointed to fall in the way of some men, and not of others. If
there were a general election going on to-morrow, I should not
know how to look for a seat."

" They are to be found sometimes even without a general elec-
tion," said the Duchess.

" Are you alluding to anything now ? "

" Well; — yes, I am. But I'm very discreet, and do not like to
do more than allude. I fancy that Mr. Grey, the member for
Silverbridge, is going to Persia. Mr. Grey is a Member of Parlia-
ment. Members of Parliament ought to be in London and not in
Persia. It is generally supposed that no man in England is more
prone to do what he ought to do than Mr. Grey. Therefore, Mr.
Grey will cease to be Member for Silverbridge. That's logic ;
isn't it?"

" Has your Grace any logic equally strong to prove that I can
follow him in the borough ?"

" No ; — or if I have, the logic that I should use in that matter
must for the present be kept to myself." She certainly had a little
syllogism in her head as to the Duke ruling the borough, the
Duke's wife ruling the Duke, and therefore the Duke's wife ruling
the borough ; but she did not think it prudent to utter this on the
present occasion. " I think it much better that men in Parliament
should be unmarried," said the Duchess.

" But I am going to be married," said he.

'* Going to be married, are you ? "

" I have no right to say so, because the lady's father has rejected
me." Then he told her the whole story, and so told it as to secure
her entire sympathy. In telling it he never said that he was a rich
man, he never boasted that that search after wealth of which he
had spoken, had been successful ; but he gave her to understand
that there was no objection to him at all on the score of money.
" You may have heard of the family," he said.

"I have heard of the Whartons of course, and know that thero
is a baronet, — but I know nothing more of them. He is not a man
of large property, I think,"

140 • THE PEIMB MINISTER.

" My Miss Wharton, — the one I would fain call mine, — is the
daughter of a London barrister. He I believe is rich."

" Then she will be an heiress."

" I suppose so ; — but that consideration has had no weight with
me. I have always regarded myself as the architect of my own
fortune, and have no wish to owe my material comfort to a wife. '

" Sheer love ! " suggested the Duchess.

" Yes, I think so. It's very ridiculous ; is it not ? "

" And why does the rich barrister object ? "

" The rich barrister, Duchess, is an out and out old Tory, who
thinks that his daughter ought to marry no one but an English
Tory. I am not exactly that."

" A man does not hamper his daughter in thes9 days by politics,
when she is falling ir: love."

" There are other cognate reasons. He does not like a foreigner.
Now I am an Englishman, but I have a foreign name. He does
not think that a name so grandly Saxon as Wharton should be
changed to one so meanly Latin as Lopez."

11 The lady does not object to the Latinity ? "

"I fancy not."

" Or to the bearer of it ? "

" Ah; — there I must not boast. But in simple truth there is
only .the father's ill-will between us."

"With plenty of money on both sides?" asked the Duchess.
Lopez shrugged his shoulders. A shrug at such a time may mean
anything, but the Duchess took this shrug as signifying that that
question was so surely settled as to admit of no difficulty. " Then,"
said the Duchess, "the old gentleman may as well give way at
once. Of course his daughter will be too many for him." In this
way the Duchess of Omnium became the fast friend of Ferdinand
Lopez.

CHAPTER XXII.

ST. JAMES'S FAKE.

Towards the end of September Everett Wharton and Ferdinand
Lopez were in town together, and as no one else was in town, — so
at least they both professed to say, — they saw a good deal of each
other. Lopez, as we know, had spent a portion of the preceding
month at Gatherum Castle, and had made good use of his time, but
Everett Wharton had been less fortunate. He had been a little
cross with his father, and perhaps a little cross with all the Whar-
tons generally, who did not, he thought, make quite enough of
him. In the event of " anything happening " to that ne'er-do-well
nephew, ho himself would bo the heir; and ho reflected not ud fre-
quently that something very probably might happen to the nephew.

ST. JAMES'S PAKE. l4i

He did not often see this particular cousin, but he always heard of
him as being drunk, overwhelmed with debt and difficulty, and
altogether in that position of life in which it is probable that some-
thing will " happen." There was always of course the danger that
the young man might marry and have a child ; — but in the mean-
time surely he, Everett Wharton, should have been as much thought
of on the banks of the Wye as Arthur Fletcher. He had been
asked down to Wharton Hall, — but he had been asked in a way
which he had not thought to be flattering and had declined to go.
Then there had been a plan for joining Arthur Fletcher in a certain
shooting, but that had failed in consequence of a few words between
himself and Arthur respecting Lopez. Arthur had wanted him to
say that Lopez was an unpardonable intruder, — but he had taken
the part of Lopez, and therefore, when the time came round, he
had nothing to do with the shooting. He had stayed in town till
the middle of August, and had then started by himself across the
continent with some keen intention of studying German politics ;
but he had found perhaps that German politics do not manifest
themselves in the autumn, or that a foreign country cannot be well
etudied in solitude, — and he had returned.

Late in the summer, just before his father and sister had left
town, he had had some words with the old barrister. There had
been a few bills to be paid, and Everett's allowance had been
insufficient. It often was insufficient, and then ready money for
his German tour was absolutely necessary. Mr. Wharton might
probably have said less about the money had not his son accom-
panied his petition by a further allusion to Parliament. ■ ' There
are some fellows at last really getting themselves together at the
Progress, and of course it will be necessary to know who will be
ready to come forward at the next general election."

"I think I know one who won't," said the father, "judging
from the manner in which he seems at present to manage his own
money affairs." There was more severity in this than the old man
had intended, for he had often thought within his own bosom
whether it would not be well that he should encourage his son to
stand for some seat. And the money that he had now been asked
to advance had not been very much, — not more, in truth, than he
expected to be called upon to pay in addition to the modest sum
which he professed to allow his son. He was a rich man, who was
not in truth made unhappy by parting with his money. But there
had been, he thought, an impudence in the conjoint attack which
it ¥ a3 his duty to punish. Therefore he had given his son very
little encouragement.

" Of course, sir, if you tell me that you are not inclined to pay
anything beyond the allowance you make me, there is an end
of it."

" I rather think that you have just asked me to pay a consider-
able sum beyond your allowance, and that I have consented."
Everett argued the matter no further, but he permitted his mind

14^ THE PEIME MINISTER.

to entertain an idea that he was ill-used by his father. The time
would come when he would probably be heir not only to his father's
money, but also to the Wharton title and the Wharton property, —
when his position in the country would really be, as he frequently
told himself, quite considerable. Was it possible that he should
refrain from blaming his father for not allowing him to obtain,
early in life, that parliamentary education which would fit him to
be an ornament to the House of Commons, and a safeguard to his
country in future years ?

Now he and Lopez were at the Progress together, and they were
almost the only men in the club. Lopez was quite contented with
his own present sojourn in London. He had not only been at
Gatherum Castle but was going there again. And then he had
brilliant hopes before him, — so brilliant that they began, he
thought, to assume the shape of certainties. He had corresponded
with the Duchess, and he had gathered from her somewhat dubious
words that the Duke would probably accede to her wishes in the
matter of Silverbridge. The vacancy had not yet been declared.
Mr. Grey was deterred, no doubt by certain high State purposes,
from applying for the stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds,
and thereby releasing himself from his seat in Parliament, and
enabling himself to perform, with a clear conscience, duties in a
distant part of the world which he did not feel to be compatible
with that seat. The seekers after seats were, no doubt, already
on the track; but the Duchess had thought that as far as the
Duke's good word went, it might possibly be given in favour
of Mr. Lopez. The happy aspirant had taken this to be almost
as good as a promise. There were also certain pecuniary specu-
lations on foot, which could not be kept quite quiet even in
September, as to which he did not like to trust entirely to the
unaided energy of Mr. Sextus Parker, or to the boasted alliance of
Mr. Mills Happerton. Sextus Parker's whole heart and soul were
now in the matter, but Mr. Mills Happerton, an undoubted partner
in Hunky and Sons, had blown a little coldly on the affair. But
in spite of this Ferdinand Lopez was happy. Was it probable that
Mr. Wharton should continue his opposition to a marriage which
would make his daughter the wife of a member of Parliament and
of a special friend of the Duchess of Omnium ?

He had said a word about his own prospects in reference to the
marriage, but Everett had been at first too full of his own affairs
to attend much to a matter which was comparatively so trilling.
"Upon my word," he said, "I am beginning to feel angry with
the governor, which is a kind of thing I don't like at all."

" I can understand that when he's angry with you, you shouldn't
like it."

" I don't mind that half so much. He'll come round. However
unjust he may be now, at the moment, he's the last man in the
world to do an injustice in his will. I have thorough confidence in
him. But I find myself driven into hostility to him by a convio-

St. James's Pa±ui. 143

tion that he won't let me take any real step in life, till my life has
been half frittered away."

" You're thinking of Parliament."

"Of course I am. I don't say you ain't an Englishman, but
you are not quite enough of an Englishman to understand what
Parliament is to us."

" I hope to be, — some of these days," said Lopez.

"Perhaps you may. I won't say but what you may get your-
self educated to it when you've been married a dozen years to an
English wife, and have half-a-dozen English children of your own.
But, in the meantime, look at my position. I am twenty-eight
years old."

" I am four years your senior."

" It does not matter a straw to you," continued Everett. " But
a few years are everything with me. I have a right to suppose
that I may be able to represent the county, — say in twenty years.
I shall probably then be the head of the family and a rich man.
Consider what a parliamentary education would be to me ! And
then it is just the life for which I have laid myself out, and in
which I could make myself useful. You don't sympathise with me,
but you might understand me."

" I do both. I think of going into the House myself."

" You ! "

"Yes; I do."

" You must have changed your ideas very much then within
the last month or two."

" I have changed my ideas. My one chief object in life is, as
you know, to marry your sister ; and if I were a Member of Par-
liament I think that some difficulties would be cleared away."

" But there won't be an election for the next three years at any
rate," said Everett Wharton, staring at his friend. "You don't
mean to keep Emily waiting for a dissolution ? "

" There are occasional vacancies," said Lopez.

" Is there a chance of anything of that kind falling in your way ? "

"I think there is. I can't quite tell you all the particulars
because other people are concerned, but I don't think it impro-
bable that I may be in the House before— ; well, say in three
months' time."

" In three months' time ! " exclaimed Everett, whose mouth was
watering at the prospects of his friend. "That is what comes
from going to stay with the Prime Minister, I suppose." Lopez
shrugged his shoulders. "Upon my word I can't understand
you," continued the other. " It was only the other day you were
arguing in this very room as to the absurdity of a parliamentary
career, — pitching into me, by George, like the very mischief, because
I had said something in its favour, — and now you are going in for
it yourself in some sort of mysterious way that a fellow can't under-
stand." It was quite clear that Everett Wharton thought himself
ill used by his friend's success,

i44 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" There is no mystery ; — only I can't tell people's names***

"What is the borough ? "

" I cannot tell you that at present."

' ' Are you sure there will be a vacancy ? "

'* I think I am sure."

" And that you will be invited to stand ? "

" I am not sure of that."

" Of course anybody can stand whether invited or not."

" If I come forward for this place I shall do so on the very best
interest. Don't mention it. I tell you because I already regard
my connection with you as being so close as to call upon me to tell
you anything of that kind."

' ' And yet you do not tell me the details."

" I tell you all that I can in honour tell."

Everett Wharton certainly felt aggrieved by his friend's news,
and plainly showed that he did so. It was so hard that if a stray
seat in Parliament were going a begging, it should be thrown in
the way of this man who didn't care for it, and couldn't use it to
any good purpose, instead of in his own way ! Why should any-
one want Ferdinand Lopez to be in Parliament? Ferdinand Lopez
had paid no attention to the great political questions of the Com-
monwealth, lie knew nothing of Labour and Capital, of Unions,
Strikes, and Lock-outs. But because he was rich, and, by being
rich, had made his way among great people, he was to have a seat
in Parliament ! As for the wealth, it might be at his own com-
mand also, — if only his father could be got to see the matter in a
proper light. And as for the friendship of great people, — Prime
Ministers, Duchesses, and such like, — Everett Wharton was quite
confident that he was at any rate as well qualified to shine among
them as Ferdinand Lopez. He was of too good a nature to bo stirred
to injustice against his friend by the soreness of this feeling. He did
not wish to rob his friend of his wealth, of his Duchesses, or of his
embryo seat in Parliament. But for the moment there came upon
him a doubt whether Ferdinand was so very clever, or so peculiarly
gentlemanlike or in any way very remarkable, and almost a con-
viction that he was very far from boing good-looking.

They dined togother, and quite late in the evening they strolled
out into St. James's Park. There was nobody in London, and there
was nothing for either of them to do, and therefore the>
walk round the park, dark and gloomy as they knew the park would
be. Lopez bad seen and had quite understood the bitterness of
spirit by which Everett had been oppressed, and with that pecu-
liarly imperturbable good humour which made a part of his cha-
racter bore it all, even with tenderness. He was a man, as are
many of his race, who could bear contradictions, unjust suspicions,
and social ill-treatment without a shadow of resentment, but who,
if he had a purpose, could carry it out without a shadow of a
scruple. Everett Wharton had on this occasion made himself very
unpleasant, and Lopez had borne with him as an angel would

141

hardly liave done ; but should Wharton ever stand in his friend's
way, his friend would sacrifice him without compunction. As
it was Lopez bore with him, simply noting in his own mind that
Everett Wharton was a greater ass than he had taken him to be.
It was Wharton's idea that they should walk round the park,
and Lopez for a time had discouraged the suggestion. " It is a
wretchedly dark place at night, and you don't know whom you
may meet there."

" You don't mean to say that you are afraid to walk round St.
James's Park with me, because it's dark ! " said Wharton.

" I certainty should be afraid by myself, but I don't know that I
am afraid with you. But what's the good ? "

" It's better than sitting here doing nothing, without a soul to
speak to. I've already smoked half-a-dozen cigars, till I'm so
muddled I don't know what I'm about. It's so hot one can't walk
in the day, and this is just the time for exercise." Lopez yielded,
being willing to yield in almost anything at present to the brother
of Emily Wharton ; and, though the thing seemed to him to bo
very foolish, they entered the park by St. James's Palace, and
started to walk round it, turning to the right and going in front of
Buckingham Palace. As they went on Wharton still continued
his accusation against his father and said also some sharp things
against Lopez himself, till his companion began to think that the
wine he had drunk had been as bad as the cigars. " I can't under-
stand your wanting to go into Parliament," he said. " What do
you know about it ? "

" If I get there I can learn like anybody else, I suppose."

" Half of those who go there don't learn. They are, as it were,
born to it, and they do very well to support this party or that."

" And why shouldn't I support this party, — or that ? "

"I don't suppose you know which party you would support, —
except that you'd vote for the Duke, if, as I suppose, you are to
get in under the Duke's influence. If I went into the House I
should go with a fixed and settled purpose of my own."

" I'm not there yet," said Lopez, willing to drop the subject.

" It will be a great expense to you, and will stand altogether
in the way of your profession. As far as Emily is concerned, I
should think my father would be dead against it."

" Then he would be unreasonable."

" Not at all, if he thought you would injure your professional

prospects. It is a d piece of folly ; that's the long and the

short of it."

This certainly was very uncivil, and it almost made Lopez angry.
But he had made up his mind that his friend was a little the worse
for the wine he had drunk, and therefore he did not resent even
this. "Never mind politics and Parliament now," he said,. " but
let us get home. I am beginning to be sick of this. It's so awfully
dark, and whenever I do hear a step, I think somebody is coming
to rob us. Let us get on a bit."

146 THE PEIME MINISTER.

"What the deuce are you afraid of?" said Everett. They had
then come up the greater part of the length of the Bird- Cage
Walk, and the lights at Storey's Gate were just -visible, but the
road on which they were then walking was very dark. The trees
were black over their head, and not a step was heard near them.
At this time it was just midnight. Now, certainly, among the
faults which might be justly attributed to Lopez, personal
cowardice could not be reckoned. On this evening he had twice
spoken of being afraid, but the fear had simply been that which
ordinary caution indicates ; and his object had been that of hinder-
ing Wharton in the first place from coming into the park, and then
of getting him out of it as quickly as possible.

" Come along," said Lopez.

"By George, you are in a blue funk," said the other. " I can
hear your teeth chattering." Lopez, who was beginning to be
angry, walked on and said nothing. It was too absurd, he thought,
for real anger, but he kept a little in front of Wharton, intending
to show that he was displeased. "You had better run away at
once," said Wharton.

" Upon my word, I shall begin to think that you're tipsy," said
Lopez.

" Tipsy ! " said the other. " How dare you say such a thing to
me ? You never in your life saw me in the least altered by any
thing I had drunk."

Lopez knew that at any rate this was untrue. " I've seen you
as drunk as Cloe before now," said he.

" That's a lie," said Everett Wharton.

" Come, Wharton," said the other, " do not disgrace yourself by
conduct such as that. Something has put you out, and you do not
know what you are saying. I can hardly imagine that you should
wish to insult me."

" It was you who insulted me. You said I was drunk. When
you said it you knew it was untrue."

Lopez walked on a little way in silence, thinking over this most
absurd quarrel. Then he turned round and spoke. "This is all
the greatest nonsense I ever heard in the world. I'll go on and go
to bed, and to-morrow morning you'll think better of it. But pray
remember that under no circumstances should you call a man a
liar, unless on cool consideration you are determined to quarrel
with him for lying, and determined also to 6ee the quarrel out."

" I am quite ready to see this quarrel out.'

" Good night," said Lopez, starting off at a quick pace. They
were then close to the turn in the park, and Lopez went on till he
had nearly reached the park front of the new offices. As he had
walked he had listened to the footfall of his friend, and after a
while had perceived, or had thought that he perceived, that the
sound was discontinued. It seemed to him that Wharton had
altogether lost his senses ; — the insult to himself had been so de-
termined and so absolutely groundless ! He had striven his best

ST. James's park. 147

to conquer the man's ill-humour by good-natured forbearance, and
had only suggested that Wharton was perhaps tipsy in order to
give him some excuse. But if his companion were really drunk,
as he now began to think, could it be right to leave him unpro-
tected in the park? The man's manner had been strange tho
whole evening, but there had been no sign of the effect of wine till
after they had left the club. But Lopez had heard of men who had
been apparently sober, becoming drunk as soon as they got out
into the air. It might have been so in this case, though Wharton's
voice and gait had not been those of a drunken man. At any rate,
he would turn back and look after him ; and as he did turn back,
he resolved that whatever Wharton might say to him on this night
he would not notice. He was too wise to raise a further impedi-
ment to his marriage by quarrelling with Emily's brother.

As soon as he paused he was sure that he heard footsteps behind
him which were not those of Everett Wharton. Indeed, he was sura
that he heard the footsteps of more than one person. He stood
still for a moment to listen, and then he distinctly heard a rush
and a scuffle. He ran back to the spot at which he had left his
friend, and at first thought that he perceived a mob of people in
the dusk. But as he got nearer, he saw that there were a man and
two women. Wharton was on the ground, on his back, and tho
man was apparently kneeling on his neck and head while the
women were rifling his pockets. Lopez, hardly^ knowing how he
was acting, was upon them in a moment, flying in the first place at
the man, who had jumped up to meet him as he came. He received
at once a heavy blow on his head from some weapon, which, however,
his hat so far stopped as to save him from being felled or stunned,
and then he felt another blow from behind on the ear, which he
afterwards conceived to have been given him by one of the women.
But before he could well look about him, or well know how the
whole thing had happened, the man and the two women had taken
to their legs, and Wharton was standing on his feet leaning
against the iron railings.

The whole thing had occupied a very short space of time, and
yet the effects were very grave. At the first moment Lopez looked
round and endeavoured to listen, hoping that some assistance
might be near, — some policeman, or, if not that, some wanderer
by night who might be honest enough to help him. But he could
hear or see no one. In this condition of things it was not possible
for him to pursue the ruffians, as he could not leave his friend
leaning against the park-rails. It was at once manifest to him that
Wharton had been much hurt, or at any rate incapacitated for im-
mediate exertion, by the blows he had received; — and as he put
his hand up to hi 3 own head, from which in the scuffle his hat had
fallen, he was not certain that he was not severely hurt himself.
Lopez could see that Wharton was very pale, that his cravat had
been almost wrenched from his neck by pressure, that his waist-
coat was torn open and the front of his shirt soiled, — and he could

148 THE PRIME MINISTER.

Bee also that a fragment of the watch-chain was hanging loose,
showing that the watch was gone. "Are you hurt much?" ho
said, coming close up and taking a tender hold of his friend's arm.
Wharton smiled and shook his head, but spoke not a word. He
was in truth more shaken, stunned, and bewildered than actually
injured. The ruffian's fist had been at his throat, twisting his
cravat, and for half a minute he had felt that he was choked. As
he had struggled while one woman pulled at his watch and the
other searched for his purse, — struggling, alas ! unsuccessfully, —
the man had endeavoured to quiet him by kneeling on his chest,
strangling him with his own necktie, and pressing hard on his
gullet. It is a treatment which, after a few seconds of vigorous
practice, is apt to leave the patient for a while disconcerted and
unwilling to speak. " Say a word if you can," whispered Lopez,
looking into the other man's face with anxious eyes.

At the moment there came across Wharton's mind a remem-
brance that he had behaved very badly to his friend, and some sort
of vague misty doubt whether all this evil had not befallen him
because of his misconduct. But he knew at the same time that
Lopez was not responsible for the evil, and dismayed as he had
been, still he recalled enough of the nature of the struggle in
which he had been engaged, to be aware that Lopez had befriended
him gallantly. lie could not even yet speak ; but he saw the
blood trickling down his friend's temple and forehead, and lifting
up his hand, touched the spot with his fingers. Lopez also put
his hand up, and drew it away covered with blood. " Oh," said
he, " that dons not signify in the least. I got a knock, I know,
and I am afraid I have lost my hat, but I'm not hurt."

"Oh, dear!" The word was uttered with a low sigh. Then
there was a pause, during which Lopez supported the sufferer.
" I thought that it was all over with me at one moment."

''You will be better now."

11 Oh, yes. My watch is gone J"

" I fear it is," said Lopez.

"And my purse," said Wharton, collecting his strength
together sufficiently to search for his treasures. k* I had eight £6
notes in it."

" Never mind your money or your watch if your bones are not
broken."

" It's a bore all the same to lose every shilling that one has."
Then they walked very slowly away towards the steps at tho Duke
of York's column, Wharton regaining his strength as ho
but still able to progress but leisurely. Lopez had not found
his hat, and, being covered with blood, was, as far as appea
went, in a worse plight than the other. At the foot of th<
they met a policeman, to whom they told their story, and who, as a
matter of course, was filled with an immediate desire to arres
both. To the policeman's mind it was most distressing that a bloody-
faced man without a hat, with a companion almost too weak to

st. james's park. 149

walk, should not be conveyed to a police- statioa. But after ten
minutes' parley, during which Wharton sat on the bottom step and
Lopez explained all the circumstances, he consented to get them a
cab, to take their address, and then to go alone to the station and
make his report. That the thieves had got off with their plunder
was only too manifest. Lopez took the injured man home to the
house in Manchester Square, and then returned in the same cab,
hatless, to his own lodgings.

As he returned he applied his mind to think how he could turn
the events of the evening to his own use. He did not believe that
Everett Wharton was severely hurt. Indeed there might be a ques-
tion whether in the morning his own injury would not be the most
severe. But the immediate effect on the flustered and despoiled
unfortunate one had been great enough to justify Lopez in taking
strong steps if strong steps could in any way benefit himself. Would
it be best to publish this affair on the house-tops, or to bury it in
the shade, as nearly as it might be buried ? He had determined
in his own mind that his friend certainly had been tipsy. In no
other way could his conduct be understood. And a row with a
tipsy man at midnight in the park is not, at first sight, creditable.
But it could be made to have a better appearance if told by him-
self, than if published from other quarters. The old housekeeper
at Manchester Square must know something about it, and would,
of course, tell what she knew, and the loss of the money and the
watch must in all probability be made known. Before he had
reached his own door, he had quite made up his mind that he him-
self would tell the story after his own fashion.

And he told it, before he went to bed that night. He washed
the blood from his face and head, and cut away a part of the clotted
hair, and then wrote a letter to old Mr. Wharton at Wharton Hall.
And between three and four o'clock in the morning he went out
and posted his letter in the nearest pillar, so that it might go down
by the day mail and certainly be preceded by no other written
tidings. The letter which he sent was as follows ; —

"Dear Mr. Wharton,

" I regret to have to send you an account of a rather serious
accident which has happened to Everett. I am now writing at
3 a.m., having just taken him home, and it occurred at about
midnight. You may be quite sure that there is no danger or I
should have advertised you by telegram.

"There is nothing doing in town, and therefore, as the night
was fine, we, very foolishly, agreed to walk round St. James's Park
late after dinner. It is a kind of thing that nobody does ; — but we
did it. When we had nearly got round I was in a hurry, whereas
Everett was for strolling slowly, and so I went on before him. But
I was hardly two hundred yards in front of him before he was
attacked by three persons, a man and two women. The man I
presume came upon him from behind, but he has not sufficiently

150 THE PRIME MINISTEE.

collected his thoughts to remember exactly what occurred. I heard
the scuffle and of course turned back,— and was luckily in time to
get up before he was seriously hurt. I think the man would other-
wise have strangled him. I am sorry to say that he lost both his
watch and purse.

" He undoubtedly has been very much shaken, and altogether
'knocked out of time,' as people say. Excuse the phrase, because
I think it will best explain what I want you to understand. The
man's hand at his throat must have stopped his breathing for some
seconds. He certainly has received no permanent injury, but I
should not wonder if he should be unwell for some days. I tell
you all exactly as it occurred, as it strikes me that you may like
to run up to town for a day just to look at him. But you need not
do so on the score of any danger. Of course he will see a doctor
to-morrow. There did not seem to be any necessity for calling one
up to-night. We did give notice to the police as we were coming
home, but I fear the ruffians had ample time for escape. He was
too weak, and I was too fully employed with him, to think of pur-
suing them at the time.

" Of course he is at Manchester Square.

11 Most faithfully yours,

"FEEDrffAND Lopez."

He did not say a word about Emily, but he knew that Emily
would see the letter and would perceive that he had been the means
of preserving her brother ; and, in regard to the old barrister him-
self, Lopez thought that the old man could not but feel grateful for
his conduct. He had in truth behaved very well to Everett. H«
had received a heavy blow on the head in young Wharton's defence,
— of which he was determined to make good use, though he had
thought it expedient to say nothing about the blow in his letter.
Surely it would all help. Surely the paternal mind would be
softened towards him when the father should be made to under-
stand how great had been his service to the son. That Everett
would make little of what had been done for him he did not in the
least fear. Everett Wharton was sometimes silly but was never
ungenerous.

In spite of his night's work Lopez was in Manchester Square
before nine on the following morning, and on the side of his brow
he bore a great patch of black plaster. " My head is very thick,"
he said laughing, when Everett asked after his wound. "But it
would have gone badly with me if the ruffian had struck an inch
lower. I suppose my hat saved me, though I remember very
little. Yes, old fellow, I have written to your father, and I think
ho will come up. It was better that it should be so."

" There is nothing the matter with mo," said Everett.

" One didn't quite know last night whether there was or no. At
nny rate his coming won't hurt you. It's always well to have your
banker near you, when your funds are low."

SURRENDER. 151

Then after a pause Everett made his apology, — " I know I made
a great ass of myself last night."

"Don't think about it."

" I used a word I shouldn't have used, and I beg your pardon."

" Not another word, Everett. Between you and me things can't
go wrong. "Wo love each other too well."

CHAPTER XXin.

SURRENDER.

The letter given in the previous chapter was received at Wharton
Hall late in the evening of the day on which it was written, and
was discussed among all the Whartons that night. Of course there
was no doubt as to the father's going up to town on the morrow.
The letter was just such a letter as would surely make a man run
to his son's bedside. Had the son written himself it would have
been different ; but the fact that the letter had come from another
man seemed to be evidence that the poor sufferer could not write.
Perhaps the urgency with which Lopez had sent off his dispatch,
getting his account of the fray ready for the very early day mail,
though the fray had not taken place till midnight, did not impress
them sufficiently when they accepted this as evidence of Everett's
dangerous condition. At this conference at Wharton very little
was said about Lopez, but there was a general feeling that he had
behaved well. ' ' It was very odd that they should have parted in
the park," said Sir Alured. " But very lucky that they should not
have parted sooner," said John Fletcher. If a grain of suspicion
against Lopez might have been set afloat in their minds by Sir
Alured's suggestion, it was altogether dissipated by John Fletcher's
reply; — for everybody there knew that John Fletcher carried
common sense for the two families. Of course they all hated
Ferdinand Lopez, but nothing could be extracted from the inci-
dent, as far as its details were yet known to them, which could be
turned to his injury.

While they sat together discussing the matter in the drawing-
room Emily Wharton hardly said a word. She uttered a little
shriek when the account of the affair was first read to her, and
then listened with silent attention to what was said around her.
When there had seemed for a moment to be a doubt, — or rather a
question, for there had been no doubt, — whether her father should
go at once to London, she had spoken just a word. " Of course you
will go, papa." After that she said nothing till she came to him in
his own room. " Of course I will go with you, to-morrow, papa."

" I don't think that will be necessary."

" Oh, yes. Think how wretched I should bo."

152 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" I would telegraph to you immediately."

" And I shouldn't believe the telegraph. Don't you know how
it always is ? Besides we have been more than the usual time. We
were to go to town in ten days, and you would not think of
returning to fetch me. Of course 1 will go with you. I have
already begun to pack my things, and Jane is now at it." Her
father, not knowing how to oppose her, yielded, and Emily before
she went to bed had made the ladies of the house aware that she
also intended to start the next morning at eight o'clock.

During the first part of the journey very little was said botwoen
Mr. Wharton and Emily. There were other persons in the car-
riage, and she, though she had determined in some vague way
that she would speak some words to her father before she reached
their own house, had still wanted time to resolve what those words
should be. But before she had reached Gloucester she had made
up her mind, and going on from Gloucester she found herself for a
time alone with her father. She was sitting opposite to him, and
after conversing for a while she touched his knee with her hand.
" Papa," she said, " I suppose I must now have to meet Mr. Lopez
in Manchester Square ? "

"Whv should you have to meet Mr. Lopez in Manchester
Square?"

• ' Of course he will come there to see Everett. After what has
occurred you can hardly forbid him the house. He has saved
Everett's life."

" I don't know that he has done anything of the kind," said
Mr. Wharton, who was vacillating between different opinions. He
did in his heart believe that the Portuguese whom he so hated had
saved his son from the thieves, and he also had almost come to the
conviction that he must give his daughter to the man, — but at the
same time he could not as yet bring himself to abandon his oppo-
sition to the marriage.

** Perhaps you think the story is not true."

" I don't doubt the story in the least. Of course one man sticks
to another in such an affair, and I have no doubt that Mr. Lopez
behaved as any English gentleman would."

" Any English gentleman, papa, would have to come afterwards
and see the friend he had saved. Don't you think so ? "

" Oh, yes ;— he might call."

11 And Mr. Lopez will have an additional reason for calling, —
and I know he will come. Don't you think he will come ? "

'■* I don't want to think anything about it," said the father.

"But I want you to think about it, papa. Papa, I know you
are not indifferent to my happiness."

" I hope you know it."

"I do know it. I am quite sure of it. And therefore I don't
think you ought to be afraid to talk to me about what must concern
my happiness so greatly. As far as my own self and my own will
are concerned I consider myself given away to Mr. Lopez already.

SURRENDER. 153

Nothing but his marrying some other woman, — or his death, —
would make me think of myself otherwise than as belonging to
him. I am not a bit ashamed of owning my love — to you ; nor
to him, if the opportunity were allowed me. I don't think there
should be concealment about anything so important between people
who are dear to each other. I have told you that I will do what-
ever you bid me about him. If you say that I shall not speak to
him or see him, I will not speak to him or see him — willingly,
You certainly need not be afraid that I should marry him without
your leave."

"lam not in the least afraid of it."

" But I think you should think over what you are doing. And
I am quite sure of this, — that you must tell me what I am to do
in regard to receiving Mr. Lopez in Manchester Square." Mr.
Wharton listened attentively to what his daughter said to him,
shaking his head from time to time as though almost equally dis-
tracted by her passive obedience and by her passionate protesta-
tions of love ; but he said nothing. When she had completed her
supplication he threw himself back in his seat and after awhile
took his book. It may be doubted whether he read much, for the
question as to his girl's happiness was quite as near his heart as
she could wish it to be.

It was late in the afternoon before they reached Manchester
Square, and they were both happy to find that they were not
troubled by Mr. Lopez at the first moment. Everett was at home
and in bed, and had not indeed as yet recovered the effect of the
man's knuckles at his windpipe ; but he was well enough to assure
his father and sister that they need not have disturbed themselves
or hurried their return from Herefordshire on his account. ' ' To tell
the truth," said he, "Ferdinand Lopez was hurt worse than I was."

" He said nothing of being hurt himself," said Mr. Wharton.

" How was he hurt ?" asked Emily in the quietest, stillest voice.

" The fact is," said Everett, beginning to tell the whole story
after his own fashion, " if he hadn't been at hand then, there would
have been an end of me. We had separated, you know, "

"What could make two men separate from each other in the
darkness of St. James's Park?"

" Well, — to tell the truth we had quarrelled. I had made an ass
of myself. You need not go into that any further, except that you
should know that it was all my fault. Of course it wasn't a real
quarrel," — when he said this Emily, who was sitting close to his
bed-head, pressed his arm under the clothes with her hand, — " but
I had said something rough, and he had gone on just to put au
end to it."

" It was uncommonly foolish," said old Wharton. " It was very
foolish going round the park at all at that time of night."

" No doubt, sir ; — but it was my doing. And if he had not gone
with me, I should have gone alone." Here there was another
pressure. " I was a little low in spirits, and wanted the walk."

154 SHE PRIME MINISTER

" But how is he hurt ? " asked the father.

" The man who was kneeling on me and squeezing the life out
of me jumped up when he heard Lopez coming, and struck him
over the head with a bludgeon. I heard the blow, though I was
pretty well done for at the time myself. I don't think they hit me,
but they got something round my neck, and I was half strangled
before I knew what they were doing. Poor Lopez bled horribly,
but he says he is none the worse for it." Here there was another
little pressure under the bed-clothes; for Emily felt that her
brother was pleading for her in every word that he said.

About ten on the following morning Lopez came and asked for
Mr. Wharton. He was shown into the study, where he found the
old man, and at once began to give his account of the whole con-
cern in an easy, unconcerned manner. He had the large black
patch on the side of his head, which had been so put on as almost
to become him. But it was so conspicuous as to force a question
respecting it from Mr. Wharton. " I am afraid you got rather a
sharp knock yourself, Mr. Lopez ? "

" I did get a knock, certainly; — but the odd part of it is that I
knew nothing about it till I found the blood in my eyes after they
had decamped. But I lost my hat, and there is a rather long cut
just above the temple. It hasn't done me the slightest harm. The
worst of it was that they got off with Everett's watch and
money."

" Had he much money ? "

11 Forty pounds ! " And Lopez shook his head, thereby signifying
that forty pounds at the present moment was more than Everett
Wharton could afford to lose. Upon the whole he carried himself
very well, ingratiating himself with the father, raising no question
about the daughter, and saying as little as possible of himself. He
asked whether he could go up and see his friend, and of course was
allowed to do so. A minute before he entered the room Emily
left it. They did not see each other. At any rate he did not see
her. But there was a feeling with both of them that the other was
close, — and there was something present to them, almost amount-
ing to conviction, that the accident of the park robbery would be
good for them.

" He certainly did save Everett's life," Emily said to her father
the next day.

"Whether he did or not, he did his best," said Mr. Wharton.

" When one's dearest relation is concerned," said Emily, " and
when his life has been saved, one feels that one has to be grateful
even if it has been an accident. I hope he knows, at any rate, that
I am grateful."

The old man had not been a week in London before he knew
that he had absolutely lost the game. Mrs. Eoby came back to
her house round the corner, ostensibly with the object of assisting
her relatives in nursing Everett, — a purpose for which she certainly
was not needed ; but, as the matter progressed, Mr. Wharton was

„ SUBEENDEE. 155

not "without suspicion that her return had been arranged by Ferdi-
nand Lopez. She took upon herself, at any rate, to be loud in the
praise of the man who had saved the life of her " darling nephew,"
—and to see that others also should be loud in his praise. In a
little time all London had heard of the affair, and it had been dis-
cussed out of London. Down at Gatherum Castle the matter had
been known, or partly known, — but the telling of it had always
been to the great honour and glory of the hero. Major Pountney
had almost broken his heart over it, and Captain Gunner, writing
to his friend from the Curragh, had asserted his knowledge that it
was all a " got-up thing" between the two men. The " Breakfast
Table" and the "Evening Pulpit" had been loud in praise of
Lopez; but the "People's Banner," under the management of
Mr. Quintus Slide, had naturally thrown much suspicion on the
incident when it became known to the Editor that Eerdinand
Lopez had been entertained by the Duke and Duchess of Omnium.
' ' We have always felt some slight doubts as to the details of the.
affair said to have happened about a fortnight ago, just at mid-
night, in St. James's Park. We should be glad to know whether
the policemen have succeeded in tracing any of the stolen property,
or whether any real attempt to trace it has been made." This was
one of the paragraphs, and it was hinted still more plainly after-
wards that Everett Wharton, being short of money, had arranged
the plan with the view of opening his father's purse. But the
general effect was certainly serviceable to Lopez. Emily Wharton
did believe him to be a hero. Everett was beyond measure grateful
to him, — not only for having saved him from the thieves, but also
for having told nothing of his previous folly. Mrs. Eoby always
alluded to the matter as if, for all coming ages, every Wharton
ought to acknowledge that gratitude to a Lopez was the very first
duty of life. The old man felt the absurdity of much of this, but
still it affected him. When Lopez came he could not be rough to
the man who had done a service to his son. And then he found
himself compelled to do something. He must either take his
daughter away, or he must yield. But his power of taking his
daughter away seemed to be less than it had been. There was an
air of quiet, unmerited suffering about her, which quelled him.
And so he yielded.

It was after this fashion. Whether affected by the violence of
the attack made on him, or from other cause, Everett had been
unwell after the affair, and had kept his room for a fortnight.
During this time Lopez came to see him daily, and daily Emily
Wharton had to take herself out of the man's way, and hide herself
from the man's sight. This she did with much tact and with lady-
like quietness, but not without an air of martyrdom, which cut her
father to the quick. "My dear," he said to her one evening, as
she was preparing to leave the drawing-room on hearing his knock,
" stop and see him if you like it,"

"Papa!"

156 THE PRIME MINISTER.

"I don't want to make you wretched. If I could have died
first, and got out of the way, perhaps it would have been better."

" Papa, you will kill me if you speak in that way ! If there is
anything to say to him, do you say it." And then she escaped.

Well ! It was an added bitterness, but no doubt it was his duty.
If he did intend to consent to the marriage, it certainly was for
him to signify that consent to the man. It would not be sufficient
that he should get out of the way and leave his girl to act for her-
self as though she had no friend in the world. The surrender
which he had made to his daughter had come from a sudden im-
pulse at the moment, but it could not now be withdrawn. So he
stood out on the staircase, and when Lopez came up on his way to
Everett's bedroom, he took him by the arm and led him into the
drawing-room. "Mr. Lopez," he said, "you know that I have
not been willing to welcome you into my house as a son-in-law.
There are reasons on my mind, — perhaps prejudices, — which are
strong against it. They are as strong now as ever. But she
wishes it, and I have the utmost reliance on her constancy."

" So have I," said Lopez.

" Stop a moment, if you please, sir. In such a position a father's
thought is only as to his daughter's happiness and prosperity. It
is not his own that he should consider. I hear you well spoken
of in the outer world, and I do not know that I have a right to
demand of my daughter that she should tear you from her affec-
tions, because— because you are not just such as I would have her
husband to be. You have my permission to see her." Then
before Lopez could say a word, he left the room, and took his
hat and hurried away to his club.

As he went he was aware that he had made no terms at all ; —
but then he was inclined to think that no terms should be made.
There seemed to be a general understanding that Lopez was doing
well in the world, — in a profession of the working of which Mr.
Wharton himself knew absolutely nothing. He had a large for-
tune at his own bestowal, — intended for his daughter, — which would
have been forthcoming at the moment and paid down on the nail,
had she married Arthur Fletcher. The very way in which the
money should be invested and tied up and made to be safe and
comfortable to the Fletcher- cum- Wharton interests generally, had
been fully settled among them. But now this other mai
stranger, this Portuguese, had entered in upon the inheritance.
But the stranger ,. the Portuguese, must wait. Mr. Wharton knew
himself to be an old man. She was his child, and ho would not
wrong her. But she should have her money closely settled upon
herself on his death, — and on her children, should she then have
any. It should be done by his will. He would say nothing about
money to Lopez, and if Lopez should, as was probable, ask m
daughter's fortune, he would answer to this effect. Thus he
almost resolved that he would give his daughter to the man with-
out any inquiry as to the man's means. The thing had to be done,

SURRENDER. 157

and he would take no further trouble about it. The comfort of
his life was gone. His home would no longer be a home to him.
His daughter could not now be his companion. The sooner that
death came to him the better, but till death should come he must
console himself as well as he could by playing whist at the Eldon.
It was after this fashion that Mr. Wharton thought of the coming
marriage between his daughter and her lover.

"I have your father's consent to marry your sister," said
Ferdinand immediately on entering Everett's room.

" I knew it must come soon," said the invalid.

" I cannot say that it has been given in the most gracious
manner, — but it has been given very clearly. I have his express
permission to see her. Those were his last words."

Then there was a sending of notes between the sick-room and
the sick man's sister's room. Everett wrote and Ferdinand wrote,
and Emily wrote, — short lines each of them, — a few words scrawled.
The last from Emily was as follows: — "Let him go into the
drawing-room. E. W." And so Ferdinand went down, to meet his
love, — to encounter her for the first time as her recognised future
husband and engaged lover. Passionate, declared, and thorough
as was her love for this man, the familiar intercourse between them
had hitherto been very limited. There had been little, — we may
perhaps say none, — of that dalliance between them which is so
delightful to the man and so wondrous to the girl till custom
has staled the edge of it. He had never sat with his arm round*
her waist. He had rarely held even her hand in his for a happy
recognised pause of a few seconds. He had never kissed even
her brow. And there she was now, standing before him, all his
own, absolutely given to him, with the fullest assurance of love
on her part, and with the declared consent of her father. Even
he had been a little confused as he opened the door, — even he, as
he paused to close it behind him, had had to think how he would
address her, and perhaps had thought in vain. But he had not
a moment for any thought after entering the room. Whether it
was his doing or hers he hardly knew ; but she was in his arms,
and her lips were pressed to his, and his arm was tight round her
waist, holding her close to his breast. It seemed as though all
that was wanting had been understood in a moment, and as though
they had lived together and loved for the last twelve months with
the fullest mutual confidence. And she was the first to speak ; —

11 Ferdinand, I am so happy ! Are you happy ? "

" My love ; my darling ! "

" You have never doubted me, I know, — since you first knew it."

" Doubted you, my girl I"

11 That I would be firm ! And now papa has been good to me,
and how quickly one's sorrow is over. I am yours, my love, for
ever and ever. You knew it before, but I like to tell you. I
will be true to you in everything ! Oh, my love !"

He had but little to say to her, but we know that for "lovera

158 JHE PRIME MINISTEB.

lacking matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss." In such moments
silence charms, and almost any words are unsuitable except those
soft, bird-like murmurings of love which, sweet as they are to the
ear, can hardly be so written as to be sweet to the reader.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE MARRIAGE.

The engagement was made in October, and the marriage took place
in the latter part of November. When Lopez pressed for an early
day, — which he did very strongly, — Emily raised no difficulties in
the way of his wishes. The father, foolishly enough, would at first
have postponed it, and made himself so unpleasant to Lopez by
his manner of doing this, that the bride was driven to take her
lover's part. As the thing was to be done, what was to be gained
by delay? It could not be made a joy to him; nor, looking
at the matter as he looked at it, could he make a joy even of
her presence during the few intervening weeks. Lopez proposed
to take his bride into Italy for the winter months, and to stay
there at any rate through December and January, alleging that he
must be back in town by the beginning of February ; — and this
was taken as a fair plea for hastening the marriage.

When the matter was settled, he went back to Gatherum Castle,
as he had arranged to do with the Duchess, and managed to
interest her Grace in all his proceedings. She promised that she
would call on his bride in town, and even w^nt so far as to send
her a costly wedding present. " You are sure she has got money ?"
said the Duchess.

" I am not sure of anything," said Lopez, — "except this, that I
do not mean to ask a single question about it. If he says nothing
to me about money, I certainly shall say nothing to him. My
feeling is this, Duchess ; I am not marrying Miss Wharton for her
money. The money, if there be any, has had nothing to do with
it. But of course it will be a pleasure added if it be there." The
Duchess complimented him, and told him that this was exactly as
it should be.

But there was some delay as to the seat for Silverbridge. Mr.
Grey's departure for Persia had been postponed,— the Duchess
thought only for a month or six weeks. The Duke, however, was
of opinion that Mr. Grey should not vacate his seat till the day of
his going was at any rate fixed. The Duke, moreover, had not
made any promise of supporting his wife's favourite. " Don't set
your heart upon it too much, Mr. Lopez," the Duchess had said ;
" but you may be sure I will not forget you." Then it had been

*HE MARRTAGE. 169

settled between them that the marriage should not he postponed,
or the proposed trip to Italy abandoned, because of the probable
vacancy at Silverbridge. Should the vacancy occur during his
absence, and should the Duke consent, he could return at once.
All this occurred in the last week or two before his marriage.

There were various little incidents which did not tend to make
the happiness of Emily Wharton complete. She wrote to her
cousin Mary "Wharton, and also to Lady Wharton ; — and her
father wrote to Sir Alured ; but the folk at Wharton Hall did not
give in their adherence. Old Mrs. Fletcher was still there, but
John Fletcher had gone home to Longbarns. The obduracy of the
Whartons might probably be owing to these two accidents. Mrs.
Fletcher declared aloud, as soon as the tidings reached her, that
she never wished to see or hear anything more of Emily Wharton.
" She must be a girl," said Mrs. Fletcher, " of an ingrained vulgar
taste." Sir Alured, whose letter from Mr. Wharton had been very
short, replied as shortly to his cousin. "Dear Abel, — We all hope
that Emily will be happy, though of course we regret the marriage."
The father, though he had not himself written triumphantly, or
even hopefully, — as fathers are wont to write when their daughters
are given away in marriage, — was wounded by the curtness and
unkindness of the baronet's reply, and at the moment declared
to himself that he would never go to Herefordshire any more.
But on the following day there came a worse blow than Sir
Alured's single line. Emily, not in the least doubting but that
her request would be received with the usual ready assent, had
asked Mary Wharton to be one of her bridesmaids. It must be
supposed that the answer to this was written, if not under the dic-
tation, at any rate under the inspiration, of Mrs. Fletcher. It was
as follows ; —

" Dear Emily,

" Of course we all wish you to be very happy in your mar-
riage, but equally of course we are all disappointed. We had
taught ourselves to think that you would have bound yourself
closer with us down here, in stead of separating yourself entirely
from us.

"Under all the circumstances mamma thinks it would not be
wise for me to go up to London as one of your bridesmaids.
" Your affectionate Cousin,

11 Mary Wharton-."

This letter made poor Emily very angry for a day or two. " It
is as unreasonable as it is ill-natured," she said to her brother.

"What else could you expect from a stiffnecked, prejudiced set
of provincial ignoramuses ? "

"What Mary says is not true. She did not think that I was

foing to bind myself closer with them, as she calls it. I have
een quite open with her, and have always told her that I could
not be Arthur Fletcher's wife."

160 THE PRIME MINISTER.

' Why on earth should you marry to please them ?"
" Because they don't know Ferdinand they are determined to
insult him. It is an insult never to mention even his name. And
to refuse to come to my marriage ! The world is wide and there is
room for us and them ; but it makes me unhappy, — very unhappy,
— that I should have to break with them." And then the tears
came into her eyes. It was intended, no doubt, to be a complete
breach, for not a single wedding present was sent from Wharton
Hall to the bride. But from Longbarns, — from John Fletcher
himself, — there did come an elaborate coffee-pot, which, in spite
of its inutility and ugliness, was very valuable to Emily.

But there was one other of her old Herefordshire friends who
received the tiding-3 of her marriage without quarrelling with her.
She herself had written to her old lover.

" My dear Arthur,

"There has been so much true friendship and affection
between us that I do not like that you should hear from any one
but myself the news that I am going to be married to Mr. Lopez.
We are to be married on the 28th of November, — this day month.

" Yours affectionately,

" Emily Wharton."

To this she received a very short reply ; —

"Dear Emily,

*' I am as I always have been.

" Yours,

"A. F."

He sent her no present, nor did he say a word to her beyond
this; but in her anger against the Herefordshire people she
never included Arthur Fletcher. She pored over the little note
a score of times, and wept over it, and treasured it up among her
inmost treasures, and told herself that it was a thousand pities.
She could talk, and did talk, to Ferdinand about the Whartons,
and about old Mrs. Fletcher, and described to him the arrogance
and the stiffness and the ignorance of the Herefordshire squire-
archy generally; but she never spoke to him of Arthur Fir
— except in that one narrative of her past life, in which, girl-like,
she told her lover of the one other lover who had loved her.

But these things of course gave a certain melancholy to the
m which perhaps was increased by the season of the year, —
by the November fogs, and by the emptiness and general sadness
of the town. And added to* this was the melancholy of old Mr.
Wharton himself. After he had given his consent to the marriage
ho admitted a certain amount of intimacy with his son-in-law,
asking him to dinner, and discussing with him matters of general
interest, — but never, in truth, opening his heart to him. Indeed,

IHE MARRIAGE. 161

how can any man open his heart to one whom he dislikes ? At
best he can only pretend to open his heart, and even this Mr.
Wharton would not do. And very soon after the engagement
Lopez left London and went to the Duke's place in the country.
His objects in doing this and his aspirations in regard to a seat in
Parliament were all made known to his future wife, — but he said
not a word on the subject to her father ; and she, acting under
his instructions, was equally reticent. " He will get to know me
in time," he said to her, " and his manner will be softened towards
me. But till that time shall come, I can hardly expect him to
take a real interest in my welfare."

When Lopez left London not a word had been said between him
and his father-in-law as to money. Mr. Wharton was content with
such silence, not wishing to make any promise as to immediate in-
come from himself, pretending to look at the matter as though
he should say that, as his daughter had made for herself her own bed,
she must lie on it, such as it might be. And this silence certainly
suited Ferdinand Lopez at the time. To tell the truth of him, —
though he was not absolutely pennyless, he was altogether pro-
perty less. He had been speculating in money without capital,
and though he had now and again been successful, he had also
now and again failed. He had contrived that his name should be
mentioned here and there with the names of well-known wealtky
commercial men, and had for the last twelvemonths made up a
somewhat intimate alliance with that very sound commercial man,
Mr. Mills Happerton. But his dealings with Mr. Sextus Parker
were in truth much more confidential than those with Mr. Mills
Happerton, and at the present moment poor Sexty Parker was
alternately between triumph and despair as things went this way
or that.

It was not, therefore, surprising that Ferdinand Lopez should
volunteer no statements to the old lawyer about money, and that
he should make no inquiries. He was quite confident that Mr.
Wharton had the wealth which was supposed to belong to him,
and was willing to trust to his power of obtaining a fair portion of
it as soon as he should in truth be Mr. Wharton's son-in-law.
Situated as he was, of course he must run some risk. And then,
too, he had spoken of himself with a grain of truth when he had
told the Duchess that he was not marrying for money. Ferdinand
Lopez was not an honest man or a good man. He was a self-
seeking, intriguing adventurer, who did not know honesty from
dishonesty when he saw them together. But he had at any rate
this good about him, that he did love the girl whom he was about
to marry. He was willing to cheat all the world, — so that he
might succeed, and make a fortune, and become a big and a rich
man ; but he did not wish to cheat her. It was his ambition now
to carry her up with him, and he thought how he might best teach
her to assist him in doing so, — how he might win her to help him
in his cheating, especially in regard to her own father. For to

162 THE PRIME MINISTER.

himself, to his own thinking, that which we call cheating was not
dishonesty. To his thinking there was something bold, grand,
picturesque, and almost beautiful in the battle which such a one
as himself must wage with the world before he could make his
way up in it. He would not pick a pocket, or turn a false card,
or, as he thought, forge a name. That which he did, and desired
to do, took with him the name of speculation. "When he persuaded
poor Sexty Parker to hazard his all, knowing well that he induced
the unfortunate man to believe what was false, and to trust what
was utterly untrustworthy, he did not himself think that he was
going beyond the lines of fair enterprise. Now, in his marriage,
he had in truth joined himself to real wealth. Could he only com-
mand at once that which he thought ought to be his wife's share
of the lawyer's money, he did not doubt but that he could make a
rapid fortune. It would not do for him to seem to be desirous of
the money a day before the time; — but, when the time should
come, would not his wife help him in his great career ? But before
she could do so she must be made to understand something of the
nature of that career, and of the need of such aid.

Of course there arose the question where they should live. But
he was ready with an immediate answer to this question. He had
been to look at a flat, — a set of rooms, — in the Belgrave Mansions,
in Pimlico, or Belgravia you ought more probably to call it. He
proposed to take them furnished till they could look about at their
leisure and get a house that should suit them. Would she like a
flat ? She would have liked a cellar with him, and so she told him.
Then they went to look at the flat, and old Mr. "Wharton con-
descended to go with them. Though his heart was not in the
business, still he thought that he was bound to look after his
daughter's comfort. " They are very handsome rooms," said Mr.
Wharton, looking round upon the rather gorgeous furniture.

" Oh, Ferdinand, are they not too grand ? said Emily.

" Perhaps they are a little more than we quite want just at pre-
sent," he said. " But I'll tell you, sir, just how it has happened.
A man I know wanted to let them for one year, just as they are,
and offered them to me for £450, — if I could pay the money in
advance, at the moment. And so I paid it."

11 You have taken them, then P " said Mr. Wharton.

" Is it all settled ?" said Emily, almost with disappointment.

" I have paid the money, and I have so far taken them. But it
is by no means settled. You have only to say you don't like them,
and you shall never be asked to put your foot in them again."

" But I do like them," she whispered to him.

• ( The truth is, sir, that there is not the slightest difficulty in part-
ing with them. So that when the chance came in my way 1 1 h< »ught
it best to secure the thing. It had all to be done, so to
hour. My friend, — as far as he was a friend, for I don't know
much about him — wanted the money and wanted to 1
here they are, and Emily can do as she likes." Of course the

THE BEGINNING OP THE HONEYMOON. 163

rooms were regarded from that moment as the home for the next
twelve months of Mr. and Mrs. Ferdinand Lopez.

And then they were married. The marriage was by no means a
gay affair, the chief management of it falling into the hands of
Mrs. Dick Eoby. Mrs. Dick indeed provided not only the break-
fast,— or saw rather that it was provided, for of conrse Mr. Wharton
paid the bill, — bnt the four bridesmaids also, and all the company.
They were married in the church in Yere Street, then went back
to the house in Manchester Square, and within a couple of hours
were on their road to Dover. Through it all not a word was said
about money. At the last moment, — when he was free from fear
as to any questions about his own affairs, — Lopez had hoped that
the old man would say something. " You will find so many thou-
sand pounds at your bankers ; " — or, " You may look to me for so
many hundreds a year." But there was not a word. The girl
had come to him without the assurance of a single shilling. In
his great endeavour to get her he had been successful. As he
thought of this in the carriage, he pressed his arm close round
her waist. If the worst were to come to the worst, he would fight
the world for her. But if this old man should bo stubborn, close-
fisted, and absolutely resolved to bestow all his money upon his
son because of this marriage, — ah ! — how should he be able to
bear such a wrong as that ?

Half-a-dozen times during that journey to Dover he resolved to
think nothing further about it, at any rate for a fortnight ; and yet,
before he reached Dover, he had said a word to her. ' ' I wonder
what your father means to do about money ? He never told you ? "

" Not a word."

" It is very odd that he should never have said anything."

" Does it matter, dear ?"

" Not in the least. But of course I have to talk about every-
thing to you ; — and it is odd."

CHAPTER XXV.

THE BEGINNING OP THE HONEYMOON.

On the morning of his marriage, before he went to the altar, Lopez
made one or two resolutions as to his future conduct. The first
was that he would give himself a fortnight from his marriage day
in which he would not even think of money. He had made cer-
tain arrangements, in the course of which he had caused Scxtus
Parker to stare with surprise and to sweat with dismay, but which
nevertheless were successfully concluded. Bills wore drawn to
run oyer to February, and ready money to a moderate extent was

164 THE PRIME MINISTER.

forthcoming, and fiscal tranquillity was insured for a certain short
period. The confidence which Sextus Parker had once felt in his
friend's own resources was somewhat on the decline, but he still
believed in his friend's skill and genius, and, after due inquiry,
he believed entirely in his friend's father-in-law. Sextus Parker
still thought that things would come round. Ferdinand, — he always
now called hi3 friend by his Christian name, — Ferdinand was beauti-
fully, seraphically confident. And Sexty, who had been in a manner
magnetised by Ferdinand, was confident too — at certain periods of
the day. He was very confident when he had had his two or three
glasses of sherry at luncheon, and he was often delightfully con-
fident with his cigar and brandy- and- water at night. But there
were periods in the morning in which he would shake with fear
and sweat with dismay.

But Lopez himself, having with his friend's assistance arranged
his affairs comfortably for a month or two, had, as a first resolu-
tion, promised himself a fortnight's freedom from all carking cares.
His second resolution had been that at the end of the fortnight he
would commence his operations on Mr. Wharton. Up to the last
moment he had hoped, — had almost expected, — that a sum of
money would have been paid to him. Even a couple of thousand
pounds for the time would have been of great use to him ; — but no
tender of any kind had been made. Not a word had been said.
Things could not of course go on in that way. He was not
going to play the coward with his father-in-law. Then he be-
thought himself how he would act if his father-in-law were
sternly to refuse to do anything for him, and he assured himself
that in such circumstances he would make himself very dis-
agreeable to his father-in-law. And then his third resolution
had reference to his wife. She must be instructed in his ways.
She must learn to look at the world with his eyes. She must be
taught the great importance of money, — not in a griping, hard-
fisted, prosaic spirit ; but that sho might participate in that feeling
of his own which had in it so much that was grand, so much that
was delightful, so much that was picturesque. He would never
ask her to be parsimonious, — never even to be economical. He
would take a glory in seeing her well dressed and well attended,
with her own carriage and her own jewels. But she must learn
that the enjoyment of these things must be built upon a convic-
tion that the most important pursuit in the world was the ac-
quiring of money. And she must be made to understand, first of
all, that she had a right to at any rate a half of her father's for-
tune. He had perceived that she had much infiuenco with her
father, and she must be taught to use this influence unscrupu-
lously on her husband's behalf.

We have already seen that under the pressure of his thoughts
he did break his first resolution within an hour or two of his
marriage. It is easy for a man to say that he will banish care, so
that he may enjoy to the full the delights of the moment. But

THE BEGINNING OP THE HONEYMOON. 165

this is a power "which none but a savage possesses, — or perhaps an
Irishman. "We have learned the lesson from the divines, the
philosophers, and the poets. Post equitem sedet atra cura. Thus
was Ferdinand Lopez mounted high on his horse, — for he had
triumphed greatly in his marriage, and really felt that the world
could give him no delight so great as to have her beside him, and
her as his own. But the inky devil sat close upon his shoulders.
Where would he be at the end of three months if Mr. Wharton
would do nothing for him, — and if a certain venture in guano, to
which he had tempted Sexty Parker, should not turn out the right
way ? He believed in the guano and he believed in Mr. Wharton,
but it is a terrible thing to have one's whole position in the world
hanging upon either an unwilling father-in-law or a probable rise
in the value of manure ! And then how would he reconcile himself
to her if both father-in-law and guano should go against him, and
how should he endure her misery ?

The inky devil had forced him to ask the question even before
they had reached Dover. " Does it matter ?" she had asked. Then
for the time he had repudiated his'solicitude, and had declared that
no question of money was of much consequence to him, — thereby
making his future task with her so much the more difficult. After
that he said nothing to her on the subject on that their wedding
day, — but he could not prevent himself from thinking of it. Had
he gone to the depth of ruin without a wife, what would it have
mattered ? For years past he had been at the same kind of work,
— but while he was unmarried there had been a charm in the very
danger. And as a single man he had succeeded, being sometimes
utterly impecunious, but still with a capacity of living. Now he
had laden himself with a burden of which the very intensity of his
love immensely increased the weight. As for not thinking of it,
that was impossible. Of course she must help him. Of course she
must be taught how imperative it was that she should help him at
once. "Is there anything troubles you?" she said, as she sat
leaning against him after their dinner in the hotel at Dover.

" What should trouble me on such a day as this ? "

" If there is anything, tell it me. I do not mean to say now, at
this moment, — unless you wish it. Whatever may be your troubles,
it shall be my greatest happiness, as it is my first duty, to lessen
them if I can."

The promise was very well. It all went in the right direction.
It showed him that she was at any rate prepared to take a part in
the joint work of their life. But, nevertheless, she should bo spared
for the moment. " When there is trouble, you shall be told every-
thing," he said, pressing his lips to her brow, " but there is nothing
that need trouble you yet." He smiled as he said this, but there was
something in the tone of his voice which told her that there would
be trouble.

Wlv n he was in Paris he received a letter from Parker, to whom
he had been obliged to intrust a running address, but from whom

166 THE PRIME MINISTER,

he had enforced a promise that there should b*> uo letmr-vmting
unless under very pressing circumstances. The circumstances had
not been pressing. The letter contained only one paragraph of any
importance, and that was due to what Lopez tried to regard as
fidgety cowardice on the part of his ally. " Please to bear in mind
that I can't and won't arrange for the bills for £1,500 due 3rd
February." That was the paragraph. Who had asked him to
arrange for these bills ? And yet Lopez was well aware that he
intended that poor Sexty should " arrange" for them, in the event
of his failure to make arrangements with Mr. "Wharton.

At last he was quite unable to let the fortnight pass by without
beginning the lessons which his wife had to learn. As for that first
intention as to driving his cares out of his own mind for that time,
he had long since abandoned even the attempt. It was necessary
to him that a considerable sum of money should be extracted from
the father-in-law, at any rate before the end of January, and a
week or even a day might be of importance. They had hurried on
southwards from Paris, and before the end of the first week had
passed over the Simplon, and were at a pleasant inn on the shores
of Como. Everything in their travels had been as yet delightful to
Emily. This man, of whom she knew in truth so little, had certain
good gifts, — gifts of intellect, gifts of temper, gifts of voice and
manner and outward appearance, — which had hitherto satisfied her.
A husband who is also an eager lover must be delightful to a young
bride. And hitherto no lover could have been more tender than
Lopez. Every word and every act, every look and every touch,
had been loving. Had she known the world better she might have
felt, perhaps, that something was expected where so much was
given. Perhaps a rougher manner, with some little touch of marital
self-assertion, might be a safer commencement of married life, —
safer to the wife as coming from her husband. Arthur Flotcher by
this time would have asked her to bring him his slippers, taking
infinite pride in having his little behests obeyed by so sweet a
servitor. That also would have been pleasant to her had her heart
in the first instance followed his image ; but now also the idolatry
of Ferdinand Lopez had been very pleasant.

But the moment for the first lesson had come. " Your father has
not written to you since you started ? " he said.

"Not a line. He has not known our address. He is never very
good at letter- writing. I did write to him from Paris, and I scribbled
a few words to Everett yesterday."

11 It is very odd that he should never have written to me."

11 Did you expect him to write P "

" To tell you the truth, I rather did. Not that I should have
dreamed of his corresponding with mo had he spoken to me on a
certain subject. But as, on that subject, he never opened his
mouth to me, I almost thought he would write."

11 Do you mean about money ? " she asked in a very low voice.

"Well;— yes; I do mean about money. Things hitherto have

THE BEGINNING OF THE HONEYMOON. 167

gone so very strangely between us. Sit down, dear, till we have a
real domestic talk."

" Tell me everything," she said, as she nestled herself close to
his side.

"You know how it was at first between him and me. He
objected to me violently, — I mean openly, to my face. But he
based his objection solely on my nationality, — nationality and
blood. As to my condition in the world, fortune, or income, he
never asked a word. That was strange."

" I suppose he thought he knew."

" He could not have thought he knew, dearest. But it was not
for me to force the subject upon him. You can see that."

11 1 am sure whatever you did was right, Ferdinand."

" He is indisputably a rich man, — one who might be supposed
to be able and willing to give an only daughter a considerable
fortune. Now I certainly had never thought of marrying for
money." Here she rubbed her face upon his arm. " I felt that it
was not for me to speak of money. If he chose to be reticent, I
could be so equally. Had he asked me, I should have told him that
I had no fortune, but was making a large though precarious income.
It would then be for him to declare what he intended to do. That
would, I think, have been preferable. As it is we are all in doubt.
In my position a knowledge of what your father intends to do
would be most valuable to me."

" Should you not ask him ? "

" I believe there has always been a perfect confidence between
you and him ? "

" Certainly, — as to all our ways of living. But he never said a
word to me about money in his life."

" And yet, my darling, money is most important."

" Of course it is. I know that, Ferdinand."

" Would you mind asking ? " She did not answer him at once,
but sat thinking. And he also paused before he went on with his
lesson. But, in order that the lesson should be efficacious, it would
be as well that he should tell her as much as he could even at this
first lecture. " To tell you the truth this is quite essential to me
at present, — very much more than I had thought it would be when
we fixed the day for our marriage." Her mind within her recoiled
at this, though she was very careful that he should not feel any
such motion in her body. " My business is precarious."

"What is your business, Ferdinand?" Poor girl! That she
should have been allowed to marry a man, and then have to ask
such a question !

"It is generally commercial. I buy and sell on speculation.
The world, which is shy of new words, has not yet given it a
name. I am a good deal at present in the South American trade."
She listened, but received no glimmering of an idea from his words.
"When we were engaged everything was as bright as roses
with me.'*

168 THE PEIME MINISTEB.

" Why did you not tell me this before, — so that we might have
been more prudent ? "

11 Such prudence would have been horrid to me. But the fact is
that I should not now have spoken to you at all, but that since we
left England I have had letters from a sort of partner of mine. In
our business things will go astray sometimes. It would be of great
service to me if I could learn what are your father's intentions."

" You want him to give you some money at once."

" It would not be unusual, dear, — when there is money to be
given. But I want you specially to ask him what he him self would
propose to do. He knows already that I have taken a home for
you and paid for it, and he knows——. But it does not signify
going into that."

" Tell me everything."

" Ke is aware that there are many expenses. Of course if he
were a poor man there would not be a word about it. I can with
absolute truth declare that had he been penniless it would have
made no difference as to my suit to you. But it would possibly
have made some difference as to our after plans. He is a thorough
man of the world, and he must know all that. I am sure he must
feel that something is due to you, — and to me as your husband.
But he is odd-tempered, and, as I have not spoken to him, he
chooses to be silent to me. Now, my darling, you and I cannot
afford to wait to see who can be silent the longest."

" What do you want me to do ? "

11 To write to him."

" And ask him for money ? "

"Not exactly in that way. I think you should say that we
should be glad to know what he intends to do, also saying that a
certain sum of money would at present be of use to me."

" Would it not be better from you ? I only ask, Ferdinand. I
never have even spoken to him about money, and of course ho
would know that you had dictated what I said."

" No doubt he would. It is natural that I should do so. I hope
the time may come when I may write quite freely to your father
myself, but hitherto ho has hardly been courteous to me. I would
rather that you should write, — if you do not mind it. Write your
own letter, and show it me. If there is anything too much or any-
thing too little I will tell you."

And so tho first lesson vas taught. The poor young wife did not
at all like the lesson. Even within her own bosom she found no
fault with her husband. But she began to understand that tho life
bofore her was not to be a life of roses. The first word spoken to
her in the train, before it reached Dover, had explained something
of this to her. She had felt at once that there would be troublo
about money. And now, though she did not at all understand
what might be the nature of those troubles, though she had derived
no information whatever from her husband's hints about tho South
American trade, though she was as ignorant as ever of his affairs,

THE BEGINNING 0? THE HONEYMOON. 169

yet she felt that the troubles would come soon. But never for
a moment did it seem to her that he had been unjust in bringing
her into troubled waters. They had loyed each other, and there-
fore, whatever might be the troubles, it was right that they should
marry each other. There was not a spark of anger against him in
her bosom ; — but she was unhappy.

He demanded from her the writing of the letter almost imme-
diately after the conversation which has been given above, and of
course the letter was written, — written and recopied, for the para-
graph about the money was, of course, at last of his wording. And
she could not make the remainder of the letter pleasant. The feeling
that she was making a demand for money on her father ran through
it all. But the reader need only see the passage in which Ferdinand
Lopez made his demand, — through her hand.

"Ferdinand has been speaking to me about my fortune." It
had gone much against the grain with her to write these words
" my fortune." " But I have no fortune," she said. He insisted
however, explaining to her that she was entitled to use these words
by her father's undoubted wealth. And so, with an aching heart,
she wrote them. " Ferdinand has been speaking to me about my
fortune. Of course I told him that I knew nothing, and that as
he had never spoken to me about money before our marriage, I
had never asked about it. He says that it would be of great
service to him to know what are your intentions ; and also that he
hopes you may find it convenient to allow him to draw upon you
for some portion of it at present. He says that £3,000 would be
of great use to him in his business." That was the paragraph,
and the work of writing it was so distasteful to her that she could
hardly bring herself to form the letters. It seemed as though she
were seizing the advantage of the first moment of her freedom to
take a violent liberty with her father.

"It is altogether his own fault, my pet," he said to her. " I
have the greatest respect in the world for your father, but he has
allowed himself to fall into the habit of keeping all his affairs
secret from his children ; and, of course as they go out into the
world, this secrecy must in some degree be invaded. There is
precisely the same thing going on between him and Everett ; only
Everett is a great deal rougher to him than you are likely to be.
He never will let Everett know whether he is to regard himself as
a rich man or a poor man."

" He gives him an allowance."

* ' Because he cannot help himself. To you he does not do even
as much as that, because he can help himself. I have chosen to
leave it to him and he has done nothing. But this is not quite
fair, and he must be told so. I don't think he could be told in
more dutiful language."

Emily did not like the idea of telling her father anything which
he might not like to hear ; but her husband's behests were to her
in these, her early married days, quite imperative.

170 SHE PBIMB auNISTEB.

CHAPTEE XXYI.

THE END OE THE HONEYMOON.

Mrs. Lopez had begged her father to address his reply to her at
Florence, where, — as she explained to him, — they expected to find
themselves within a fortnight from the date of her writing. They
had reached the lake about the end of November, when the weather
had still been fine, but they intended to pass the winter months
of December and January within the warmth of the cities. That
intervening fortnight was to her a period of painful anticipation.
She feared to see her father's handwriting, feeling almost sure
that he would be bitterly angry with her. During this time her
husband frequently spoke to her about the letter, — about her own
letter and her father's expected reply. It was necessary that she
should learn her lesson, and she could only do so by having the
subject of money made familiar to her ears. It was not a part
of his plan to tell her anything of the means by which he hoped
to make himself a wealthy man. The less she knew of that the
better. But the fact that her father absolutely owed to him a
large amount of money as her fortune could not be made too clear
to her. He was very desirous to do this in such a manner as not
to make her think that he was accusing her, — or that he would
accuse her if the money were not forthcoming. But she must
learn the fact, and must be imbued with the conviction that her
husband would be the most ill-treated of men unless the money
were forthcoming. " I am a little nervous about it too," said he,
alluding to the expected letter; — "not so much as to the money
itself, though that is important ; but as to his conduct. If he
chooses simply to ignore us after our marriage he will be behaving
very badly." She had no answer to make to this. She could not
defend her father, because by doing so she would offend her hus-
band. And yet her whole life-long trust in her father could not
allow her to think it possible that he should behave ill to them.

On their arrival at Florence he went at once to the post-office,
but there was as yet no letter. The fortnight, however, which had
been named had only just run itself out. They went on from day to
day inspecting buildings, looking at pictures, making for themselves
a taste in marble and bronze, visiting the lovely villages which
cluster on the hills round the city, — doing precisely in this respect
as do all young married couples who devote a part of their honey-
moon to Florence ; — but in all their little journeyinga and in all
their work of pleasure the inky devil sat not only behind him but
behind her also. The heavy care of life was already beginning to
work furrows on her face. She would already sit, knitting her
brow, as she thought of coming troubles. Would not her lather
certainly refuse ? And would not her husband then begin to bo
less loving and less gracious to herself ?

THE END OF THE HONEYMOON* 171

Every day for a week he called at the post-office when he went
ont with her, and still the letter did not come. "It can hardly be
possible," he said at last to her, " that he should decline to answer
nis own daughter's letter."

" Perhaps he is ill," she replied.

"If there were anything of that kind Everett would tell
us."

" Perhaps he has gone back to Herefordshire ? "

"Of course his letter would go after him. I own it is very
singular to me that he should not write. It looks as though he
were determined to cast you off from him altogether because you
have married against his wishes."

"Not that, Ferdinand ; — do not say that ! "

"Well; we shall see."

And on the next day they did see. He went to the post-office
before breakfast, and on this day he returned with a letter in his
hand. She was sitting waiting for him with a book in her lap,
and saw the letter at once. "Is it from papa?" she said. He
nodded his head as he handed it to her. " Open it and read it,
Ferdinand. I have got to be so nervous about it, that I cannot do
it. It seems to be so important."

" Yes ; — it is important," he said with a grim smile, and then
he opened the letter. She watched his face closely as he read it,
and at first she could tell nothing from it. Then, in that moment,
it first occurred to her that he had a wonderful command of his
features. All this, however, lasted but half a minute. Then he
chucked the letter, lightly, in among the tea-cups, and coming to
her took her closely in his arms and almost hurt her by the vio-
lence of his repeated kisses.

"Has he written kindly?" she said, as soon as she could find
her breath to speak.

" By George, he's a brick after all. I own I did not think it.
My darling, how much I owe you for all the trouble I have given
you."

"Oh, Ferdinand! if he has been good to you I shall be so
happy."

"He has been awfully good. Ha, ha, ha!" And then he
began walking about the room as he laughed in an unnatural
way. "Upon my word it is a pity we didn't say four thousand, or
five. Think of his taking me just at my word. It's a great deal
better than I expected ; that's all I can say. And at the present
moment it is of the utmost importance to me."

All this did not take above a minute or two, but during that
minute or two she had been so bewildered by his manner as almost
to fancy that the expressions of his delight had been ironical. He
had been so unlike himself as she had known him that she almost
doubted the reality of his joy. But when she took the letter and
read it, she found that his joy was true enough. The letter was
Very short, and was as follows j —

172 the prime minister.

" My dear Emily,

"What you have said under your husband's instruction
about money, I find upon consideration to be fair enough. I think
he should have spoken to me before his marriage ; but then again
perhaps I ought to have spoken to him. As it is, I am willing to
give him the sum he requires, and I will pay £3,000 to his account,
if he would tell me where he would have it lodged. Then I shall
think I have done my duty by him. What I shall do with the
remainder of any money that I may have, I do not think he is
entitled to ask.

" Everett is well again, and as idle as ever. Your aunt Roby
is making a fool of herself at Harrogate. I have heard nothing
from Herefordshire. Everything is very quiet and lonely here.

" Your affectionate father,

"A. Wharton."

As he had dined at the Eldon every day since his daughter had
left him, and had played on an average a dozen rubbers of whist
daily, he was not justified in complaining of the loneliness of
London.

The letter seemed to Emily herself to be very cold, and had not her
husband rejoiced over it so warmly she would have considered it to
be unsatisfactory. No doubt the £3,000 would be given ; but that,
as far as she could understand her father's words, was to be the
whole of her fortune. She had never known anything of her
father's affairs or of his intentions, but she had certainly supposed
that her fortune would be very much more than this. She had
learned in some indirect way that a large sum of money would
have gone with her hand to Arthur Fletcher, could she have
brought herself to marry that suitor favoured by her family. And
now, having learned, as she had learned, that money was of vital
importance to her husband, she was dismayed at what seemed to
her to be parental parsimony. But ho was overjoyed, — so much so
that for a while he lost that restraiut over himself which was
habitual to him. He ate his breakfast in a state of exultation, and
talked, — not alluding specially to this £3,000, — as though he had
the command of almost unlimited means. He ordered a carriage
and drove her out, and bought presents for her, — things as to
which they had both before decided that they should not be bought
because of the expense. " Pray don't spend your money for me,"
she said to him. "It is nice to have you giving me things, but it
would be nicer to me even than that to think that I could save you
expense."

But he was not in a mood to be denied. ' • You don't understand , "
he said. "I don't want to be saved from little extravagances of
this sort. Owing to circumstances your father's money was at this
moment of importance to me ; — but ho has answered to the whip
and the money is there, and that trouble is over. We can enjoy our-
selves now. Other troubles will spring up, no doubt, before long."

THE END OP THE HONEYMOON. 173

She did not quite like being told that her father had " answered
to the whip," — but she was willing to believe that it was a phrase
common among men to which it would be prudish', to make objection.
There was, also, something in her husband's elation which was dis-
tasteful to her. Could it be that reverses of fortune with reference to
moderate sums of money, such as this which was now coming into
his hands, would always affect him in the same way ? Was it not
almost unmanly, or at any rate was it not undignified ? And yet
she tried to make the best of it, and lent herself to his holiday
mood as well as she was able. " Shall I write and thank papa ?"
she said that evening.

" I have been thinking of that," he said. " You can write if you
like, and of course you will. But I also will write, and had better
do so a post or two before you. As he has come round I suppose I
ought to show myself civil. What he says about the rest of his
money is of course absurd. I shall ask him nothing about it, but
no doubt after a bit he will make permanent arrangements."
Everything in the business wounded her more or less. She now
perceived that he regarded this £3,000 only as the first instalment
of what he might get, and that his joy was due simply to this tem-
porary success. And then he called her father absurd to her face.
For a moment she thought that she would defend her father ; but
she could not as yet bring herself to question her husband's words
even on such a subject as that.

He did write to Mr. Wharton, but in doing so he altogether laid
aside that flighty manner which for a while had annoyed her.
He thoroughly understood that the wording of the letter might be
very important to him, and he took much trouble with it. It must
be now the great work of his life to ingratiate himself with this old
man, so that, at any rate at the old man's death, he might possess
at least half of the old man's money. He must take care that there
should be no division between his wife and her father of such a
nature as to make the father think that his son ought to enjoy any
special privilege of primogeniture or of male inheritance. And if
it could be so managed that the daughter should, before the old
man's death, become his favourite child, that also would be well.
He was therefore very careful about the letter, which was as
follows ; —

" My dear Mr. Wharton,

" I cannot let your letter to Emily pass without thanking
you myself for the very liberal response made by you to what was
of course a request from myself. Let me in the first place assure
you that had you, before our marriage, made any inquiry about
my money affairs I would have told you everything with accuracy;
but as you did not do so I thought that I should seem to intrude
upon you, if I introduced the subject. It is too long for a letter,
but whenever you may like to allude to it, you will find that I will
be quite open with you.

174 THE PRIME MINISTER.

"I am engaged in business which often requires the use of
a considerable amount of capital. It has so happened that
even since we were married the immediate use of a sum of money-
became essential to me to save me from sacrificing a cargo of guano
which will be of greatly increased value in three months' time, but
which otherwise must have gone for what it would now fetch.
Your kindness will see me through that difficulty.

1 ' Of course there is something precarious in such a business
as mine ; — but I am endeavouring to make it less so from day to
day, and hope very shortly to bring it into that humdrum groove
which best befits a married man. Should I ask further assistance
from you in doing this, perhaps you will not refuse it if I can
succeed in making the matter clear to you. As it is I thank you
sincerely for what you have done. I will ask you to pay the
£3,000 you have so kindly promised, to my account at Messrs.
Hunky and Sons, Lombard Street. They are not regular bankers,
but I have an account there.

"We are wandering about and enjoying ourselves mightily in
the properly romantic manner. Emily sometimes seems to think
that she would like to give up business, and London, and all sub-
lunary troubles, in order that she might settle herself for life under
an Italian sky. But the idea does not generally remain with her
very long. Already she is beginning to show symptoms of home
sickness in regard to Manchester Square.

"Yours always most faithfully,

"Ferdinand Lopez."

To this letter Lopez received no reply ; — nor did he expect one.
Between Emily and her father a few letters passed, not very long ;
nor, as regarded those from Mr. Wharton, were they very interest-
ing. In none of them however, was there any mention of money.
But early in January Lopez received a most pressing, — we might
almost say an agonizing letter from his friend Parker. The gist of
the letter was to make Lopez understand that Parker must at once
sell certain interests in a coming cargo of guano, — at whatever
sacrifice, — unless he could bo certified as to that money which must
be paid in February, and which he, Parker, must pay, should
Ferdinand Lopez be at that moment unable to meet his bond. The
answer sent to Parker shall be given to the reader.

"My dear old awfully silly, and absurdly
impatient Friend,
" You aro always like a toad under a harrow, and that
without the slightest cause. I have money lying at Hunky's
more than double enough for the bills. Why can't you trust a
man ? If you won't trust me in saying so, you can go to Mills
Happerton and ask him. But, remember, I shall be very much
annoyed if you do so, — and that such an inquiry cannot but be
injurious to mo. If, however, you won't believe me, you can go

THE DtJKE*S MISER*. 175

and ask. At any rate don't meddle with the guano. We should
lose over £1,000 each of us, if you were to do so. By George, a
man should neither marry, nor( leave London for a day, if he has
to do with a fellow so nervous as you are. As it is I think I shall
be back a week or two before my time* is properly up, lest you and
one or two others should think that I have levanted altogether.

"I have no hesitation in saying that more fortunes are lost in
business by trembling cowardice than by any amount of imprudence
or extravagance. My hair stands on end when you talk of parting
with guano in December because there are bills which have to be
met in February. Pluck up your heart, man, and look around, and
see what is done by men with good courage.

"Yours always,

"Ferdinand Lopez."

These were the only communications between our married couple
and their friends at home with which I need trouble my readers.
Nor need I tell any further tales of their honeymoon. If the time
was not one of complete and unalloyed joy to Emily, — and we
must fear that it was not, — it is to be remembered that but very
little complete and unalloyed joy is allowed to sojourners in this
vale of tears, even though they have been but two months married.
In the first week in February they appeared in the Belgrave
mansion, and Emily Lopez took possession of her new home with a
heart as full of love for her husband as it had been when she walked
out of the church in Yere Street, though it may be that some of her
sweetest illusions had already been dispelled.

CHAPTER XXVIL

the duke's misery.

"We must go back for a while to Gatherum Castle and see the
guests whom the Duchess had collected there for her Christmas
festivities. The hospitality of the Duke's house had been main-
tained almost throughout the autumn. Just at the end of October
they went to Matching, for what the Duchess called a quiet month,
— which, however, at the Duke's urgent request became six weeks.
But even here the house was full all the time, though from de-
ficiency of bedrooms the guests were very much less numerous.
But at Matching the Duchess had been uneasy and almost cross.
Mrs. Finn had gone with her husband to Ireland, and she had
taught herself to fancy that she could not live without Mrs. Finn.
And her husband had insisted upon having round him politicians of

176 THE PRIME MINISTER.

his own sort, men who really preferred work to archery, or even to
hunting, and who discussed the evils of direct taxation absolutely
in the drawing-room. The Duchess was assured that the country
could not be governed by the support of such men as these, and
was very glad to get back to Gatherum, — whither also came
Phineas Finn with his wife, and the St. Bungay people, and Bar-
rington Erie, and Mr. Monk, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, with
Lord and Lady Cantrip, and Lord and Lady Drummond, — Lord
Drummond being the only representative of the other or coalesced
party. And Major Pountney was there, having been urgent with
the Duchess, — and having fully explained to his friend Captain
Gunner that he had acceded to the wishes of his hostess only on
the assurance of her Grace that the house would not be again
troubled by the presence of Ferdinand Lopez. Such assurances
were common between the two friends, but were innocent, as, of
course, neither believed the other. And Lady Eosina was again
there, — with many others. The melancholy poverty of Lady
Bosina had captivated the Duke. " She shall come and live here,
if you like," the Duchess had said in answer to a request from her
husband on his new friend's behalf, — " I've no doubt she will be
willing." The place was not crowded as it had been before ; but
still about thirty guests sat down to dinner daily, and Locock,
Millepois, and Mrs. Pritchard were all kept hard at work. Xor
was our Duchess idle. She was always making up the party, —
meaning the coalition, — doing something to strengthen the but-
tresses, writing little letters to little people, who, little as they
were, might become big by amalgamation. " One has always to
bo binding one's fagot," she said to Mrs. Finn, having read her
iEsop not altogether in vain. " Where should we have been with-
out you?" she had whispered to Sir Orlando Drought when that
gentleman was leaving Gatherum at the termination of his second
visit. She had particularly disliked Sir Orlando, and was aware
that her husband had on this occasion been hardly as gracious as
he should have been, in true policy, to so powerful a colleague.
Her husband had been peculiarly shy of Sir Orlando sinco the day
on which they had walked together in the park, — and, consequently,
the Duchess had whispered to him. "Don't bind your fagot too
conspicuously," Mrs. Finn had said to her. Then the Duchess
had fallen to a seat almost exhausted by labour, mingled with re-
grets, and by tho doubts which from time to time pervaded even
her audacious spirit. "I'm not a god," she said, "or a Pitt, or
an Italian with a long name beginning with M., that I should be
ablo to do these things without ever making a mistake. And yet
they must be done. And as for him, — he does not help me in the
loast. lie wanders about among the clouds of the multiplication
table, aud thinks that a majority will drop into his mouth h
ho doe3 not shut it. Can you tio the fagot any better :
think I would leave it untied," said Mrs. Finn. " You would not
do anything of tho kind. You'd be just as fussy as I am," And

THE DUKE'S MISERY. 177

thus the game was carried on at Gatherum Castle from week to
week.

"But you won't leave him?" This was said to Phineas Finn
by his wife a day or two before Christmas, and the question was
intended to ask whether Phineas thought of giving up his place.

" Not if I can help it."

" You like the work."

" That has but little to do with the question, unfortunately. I
certainty like having something to do. I like earning money."

"I don't know why you like that, especially," said the wife
laughing.

"I do at any rate, — and, in a certain sense, I like authority.
But in serving with the Duke I find a lack of that sympathy which
one should have with one's chief. He would never say a word to
me unless I spoke to him. And when I do speak, though ho is
studiously civil, — much too courteous, — I know that he is bored.
He has nothing to say to me about the country. When he has
anything to communicate, he prefers to write a minute for War-
burton, who then writes to Morton, — and so it reaches me."

"Doesn't it do as well?"

" It may do with me. There are reasons which bind me to him
which will not bind other men. Men don't talk to me about it,
because they know that I am bound to him through you. But I
am aware of the feeling which exists. You can't be really loyal
to a king if you never see him, — if he be always locked up in some
almost divine recess."

" A king may make himself too common, Phineas."

" No doubt. A king has to know where to draw the line. But
the Duke draws no intentional line at all. He is not by nature
gregarious or communicative, and is therefore hardly fitted to be
the head of a ministry."

"It will break, her heart if anything goes wrong."

" She ought to remember that Ministries seldom live very long,"
said Phineas. "But she'll recover even if she does break her heart.
She is too full of vitality to be much repressed by any calamity.
Have you heard what is to be done about Silverbridge ? "

" The Duchess wants to get it for this man, Ferdinand Lopez."

" But it has not been promised yet ? "

"The seat is not vacant," said Mrs. Finn, " and I don't know
when it will be vacant. I think there is a hitch about it, — and I
think the Duchess is going to be made very angry."

Throughout the autumn the Duke had been an unhapj)y man.
While the absolute work of the Session had lasted he had found
something to console him; but now, though he was surrounded
by private secretaries, and though dispatch-boxes went and came
twice a day, though there were dozens of letters as to which he
had to give some instruction, — yet, there was in truth nothing for
him to do. It seemed to him that all the real work of the Govern-
ment had been filched from him by his colleagues, and that he was

178 THE PRIME MINISTER.

stuck up in pretended authority, — a kind of wooden Prima
Minister, froni whom no real ministration was demanded. His
first fear had been that he was himself unfit ; — but now he was
uneasy, fearing that others thought him to be unfit. There was
Mr. Monk with his budget, and Lord Drummond with his three or
four dozen half rebellious colonies, and Sir Orlando Drought with
the House to lead and a ship to build, and Phineas Finn with his
scheme of municipal Home Eule for Ireland, and Lord Eamsden
with a codified Statute Book, — all full of work, all with something
special to be done. But for him, — he had to arrange who should
attend the Queen, what ribbons should be given away, and what
middle-aged young man should move the address. He sighed as
he thought of those happy days in which he used to fear that his
mind and body would both give way under the pressure of decimal
coinage.

But Phineas Finn had read the Duke's character rightly in
saying that he was neither gregarious nor communicative, and
therefore but little fitted to rule Englishmen. He had thought
that it was so himself, and now from day to day he was becoming
more assured of his own deficiency. He could not throw himself
into cordial relations with the Sir Orlando Droughts, or even with
the Mr. Monks. But, though he bad never wished to be put into
his present high office, now that he was there he dreaded the
sense of failure which would follow his descent from it. It is this
feeling rather than genuine ambition, rather than the love of
power or patronage or pay, which induces men to cling to place.
The absence of real work, and the quantity of mock work, both
alike made the life wearisome to him ; but he could not endure the
idea that it should be written in history that he had allowed him-
self to be made a faineant Prime Minister, and then had failed even
in that. History would forget what he had done as a working
Minister in recording the feebleness of the Ministry which would
bear his name.

The one man with whom ho could talk freely, and from whom
he could tako advice, was now with him, here at his Castle. He
was shy at first even with the Duke of St. Bungay, but that shyness
he could generally overcome, after a few words. But though ho
Was always sure of his old friend's sympathy and of his old friend's
wisdom, yet ho doubted his old friend's capacity to understand
himself. The young Duke felt tho old Duke to be thicker-skinned
than himself and therefore unable to appreciate the thorns which
so sorely worried his own llosh. " They talk to me about a policy,"
said the host. They were closeted at this time in the Prime
Minister's own sanctum, and there yet remained an hour before
they need dress for dinner.

" Who talks about a policy ?"

"Sir Orlando Drought especially." For the Duke of Omnium
had never forgotten the arrogance of that advice given in the
park.

The duke's misery. 170

" Sir Orlando is of course entitled to speak, though I do not
know that he is likely to say anything very well worth the
hearing. What is his special policy ? "

"If he had any, of course I would hear him. It is not that
he wants any special thing to be done, but he thinks that I should
get up some special thing in order that Parliament may be
satisfied."

"If you wanted to create a majority that might be true. Just
listen to him and have done with it."

" I cannot go on in that way. I cannot submit to what amounts
to complaint from the gentlemen who are acting with me. Nor
would they submit long to my silence. I am beginning to feel
that I have been wrong."

M I don't think you have been wrong at all."
" A man is wrong if he attempts to carry a weight too great for
his strength."

" A certain nervous sensitiveness, from which you should free
yourself as from a disease, is your only source of weakness. Think
about your business as a shoemaker thinks of his. Do your best, and
then let your customers judge for themselves. Caveat emptor.
A man should never endeavour to price himself, but should accept
the price which others put on him, — only being careful that he
should learn what that price is. Your policy should be to keep
your government together by a strong majority. After all, the
making of new laws is too often but an unfortunate necessity laid
on us by the impatience of the people. A lengthened period of
quiet and therefore good government with a minimum of new laws
would be the greatest benefit the country could receive. When I
recommended you to comply with the Queen's behest I did so
because I thought that you might inaugurate such a period more
certainly than any other one man." This old duke was quite
content with a state of things such as he described. He had been
a Cabinet Minister for more than half his life. He liked being a
Cabinet Minister. He thought it well for the country generally
that his party should be in power, — and if not his party in its
entirety, then as much of his party as might be possible. He
did not expect to be written of as a Pitt or a Somers ; but he
thought that memoirs would speak of him as a useful nobleman, — •
and he was contented. He was not only not ambitious himself,
but the effervescence and general turbulence of ambition in other
men was distasteful to him. Loyalty was second nature to him,
and the power of submitting to defeat without either shame or
sorrow had become perfect with him by long practice. He would
have made his brother duke such as he was himself, — had not his
brother duke been so lamentably thin-skinned.

" I suppose we must try it for another Session P" said the Duke
of Omnium with a lachrymose voice.

" Of course we must, — and for others after that, I both hope and
trust," said the Duke of St. Bungay getting up. "If I don't go

180 THE PRIME MINISTER.

■up -stairs I shall be late, and then her Grace will look at me with
unforgiving eyes."

On the following day after lunch the Prime Minister took a
walk with Lady Bosina De Courcy. He had fallen into a habit of
walking with Lady Eosina almost every day of his life, till the
people in the Castle began to believe that Lady Eosina was the
mistress of some deep policy of her own. For there were many-
there who did in truth think that statecraft could never be absent
from a minister's mind, day or night. But in truth Lady Eosina
chiefly made herself agreeable to the Prime Minister by never
making any most distant allusion to public affairs. It might
be doubted whether she even knew that the man who paid her so
much honour was the Head of the British Government as well as
the Duke of Omnium. She was a tall, thin, shrivelled-up old
woman, — not very old, fifty perhaps, but looking at least ten years
more, — very melancholy, and sometimes very cross. She had
been notably religious, but that was gradually wearing off as she
advanced in years. The rigid strictness of Sabbatarian practice
requires the full energy of middle life. She had been left entirely
alone in the world, with a very small income, and not many friends
who were in any way interested in her existence. But she knew
herself to be Lady Eosina De Courcy, and felt that the possession
of that name ought to be more to her than money and friends, or
even than brothers and sisters. " The weather is not frightening
you," said the Duke. Snow had fallen, and the paths, even where
they had been swept, were wet and sloppy.

" Weather never frightens me, your Grace. I always have
thick boots ; — I am very particular about that; — and cork soles."

" Cork soles are admirable."

" I think I owe my life to cork soles," said Lady Eosina enthu-
siastically. ' ' There is a man named Sprout in Silverbridge who
makes them. Did your Grace ever try him for boots ? "

" I don't think I ever did," said the Prime Minister.

"Then you had better. He's very good and very' cheap too.
Those London tradesmen never think they can charge you enough.
I find I can wear Sprout's boots the whole winter through and
then have them resoled. I don't suppose you ever think of such
things ? "

" I like to have my feet dry."

11 1 have got to calculate what they cost." They then passed
Major Pountney, who was coming and going between the stables
and the house, and who took off his hat and who saluted the host
and his companion with perhaps more flowing courtesy than was
necessary. " I never have found out what that gentleman's name
is yet," said Lady Eosina.

M Pountney, I think. I believe they call him Major Pountney.'*

" Oh, Pountney ! There are Pountneys in Leicestershire. Per-
haps he is one of them Y "

"I don't know where he comes from," said the Duke, — "nor

THE DUKE'S MISERY. 181

to tell the truth where he goes to." Lady Eosina looked up at
him with an interested air. ' • He seems to be one of those idle
men who get into people's houses heaven knows why, and neyer do
anything."

" I suppose you asked him ? " said Lady Eosina.

11 The Duchess did, I dare say."

"How odd it would be if she were to suppose that you had
asked him."

" The Duchess, no doubt, knows all about it." Then there was
a little pause. " She is obliged to have all sorts of people," said
the Duke apologetically.

" I suppose so, — when you have so many coming and going. I
am sorry to say that my time is up to-morrow, so that I shall
make way for somebody else."

"I hope you won't think of going, Lady Eosina, — unless you
are engaged elsewhere. We are delighted to have you."

" The Duchess has been very kind, but "

" The Duchess I fear is almost too much engaged to see as much
of her guests individually as she ought to do. To me your being
here is a great pleasure."

" You are too good to me, — much too good. But I shall have
stayed out my time, and I think, Duke, I will go to-morrow. I
am very methodical, you know, and always act by rule. I have
walked my two miles now, and I will go in. If you do want boots
with cork sole3 mind you go to Sprout's. Dear me ; there is that
Major Pountney again. That is four times he has been up and
down that path since we have been walking here."

Lady Eosina went in, and the Duke turned back, thinking of
his friend and perhaps thinking of the cork soles of which she had
to be so careful and which were so important to her comfort. It
could not be that he fancied Lady Eosina to be clever, nor can we
imagine that her conversation satisfied any of those wants to which
he and all of us are subject. But nevertheless he liked Lady
Eosina and was never bored by her. She was natural, and she
wanted nothing from him. When she talked about cork soles she
meant cork soles. And then she did not tread on any of his
numerous corns. As he walked on he determined that he would
induce his wife to persuade Lady Eosina to stay a little longer at
the Castle. In meditating upon this he made another turn in the
grounds and again came upon Major Pountney as that gentleman
was returning from the stables. " Avery cold afternoon," he said,
feeling it to be ungracious to pass one of his own guests in his
own grounds without a word of salutation.

" Very cold indeed, your Grace, — very cold." The Duke had
intended to pass on, but the Major managed to stop him by standing
in the pathway. The Major did not in the least know his man,
He had heard that tho Duke was shy, and therefore thought that
ho was timid. He had not hitherto been spoken to by tho Duko,—

a condition of things which ho attributed to tho Duke's shynesa and

182 THE PRIME MINISTER.

timidity. But, with much thought on the subject, he had resolved
that he would have a few words with his host, and had therefore
passed backwards and forwards between the house and the stables
rather frequently. "Very cold, indeed, but yet we've had beau-
tiful weather. I don't know when I have enjoyed myself so much
altogether as I have at Gatherum Castle." The Duke bowed, and
made a little but a vain effort to get on. "A splendid pile ! " said
the Major, stretching his hand gracefully towards the building.

" It is a big house," said the Duke.

" A noble mansion ; — perhaps the noblest mansion in the three
kingdoms," said Major Pountney. " I have seen a great many of
the best country residences in England, but nothing that at all
equals Gatherum." Then the Duke made a little effort at pro-
gression, but was still stopped by the daring Major. " By-the-bye,
your Grace, if your Grace has a few minutes to spare, — just half a
minute, — I wish you would allow me to say something." The
Duke assumed a look of disturbance, but he bowed and walked on,
allowing the Major to walk by his side. "I have the greatest
possible desire, my Lord Duke, to enter public life."

" I thought you were already in the army," said the Duke.

" So I am ; — was on Sir Bartholomew Bone's staff in Canada for
two years, and have seen as much of what I call home service as
any man going. One of my chief objects is to take up the army.,,

" It seems that you have taken it up."

"I mean in Parliament, your Grace. I am very fairly off as
regards private means, and would stand all the racket of the
expense of a contest myself, — if there were one. But the difficulty
is to get a seat, and, of course, if it can be privately managed, it is
very comfortable." The Duke looked at him again, — this time
without bowing. But the Major, who was not observant, rushed on
to his destruction. %t We all know that Silverbridge will soon be
vacant. Let me assure your Grace that if it might be consistent
with your Grace's plans in other respects to turn your kind counte-
nance towards me, you would find that you would have a supporter
than whom none would be more staunch, and perhaps I may say
one, who in the House would not be the least useful ! " That
portion of the Major's speech which referred to the Duke's kind
countenance had been learned by heart, and was thrown trippingly
off the tongue with a kind «f twang. The Major had perceived
that he had not been at once interrupted when he began to open the
budget of his political aspirations, and had allowed himself to indulge
in pleasing auguries. " Nothing ask and nothing have," had been
adopted as the motto of his life, and more than once he had ex-
pressed to Captain Gunning his conviction that, — "By George, if
you've only cheek enough, mere is nothing you cannot get." On
this emergency the Major certainly was not deficient in cheek. " If
I might bo allowed to consider myself your Grace's candidate, I
should indeed be a happy man," said the Major.

"I think, sir," said the Duke, "that your proposition is the

the duke's misery. 183

most unbecoming and the most impertinent that ever was addressed
to me." The Major's mouth fell, and he stared with all his eyes as
he looked up into the Duke's face. "Good afternoon," said the
Duke, turning quickly round and walking away. The Major stood
for a while transfixed to the place, and, cold as was the weather,
was bathed in perspiration. A. keen sense of having " put his foot
into it " almost crushed him for a time. Then he assured himself
that, after all, the Duke " could not eat him," and with that con-
solatory reflection he crept back to the house and up to his own
room.

To put the man down had of course been an easy task to tho
Duke, but he was not satisfied with that. To the Major it seemed
that the Duke had passed on with easy indifference ; — but in truth
he was very far from being easy. The man's insolent request had
wounded him at many points. It was grievous to him that he
should have as a guest in his own house a man whom he had been
forced to insult. It was grievous to him that he himself should not
have been held in personal respect high enough to protect him from
such an insult. It was grievous to him that he should be openly
addressed, — addressed by an absolute stranger, — as a borough-
mongering lord, who would not scruple to give away a seat in
Parliament as seats were given away in former days. And it was
especially grievous to him that all these misfortunes should have
come upon him as a part of the results of his wife's manner of
exercising his hospitality. If this was to be Prime Minister he
certainly would not be Prime Minister much longer ! Had any
aspirant to political life ever dared so to address Lord Brock, or
Lord De Terrier, or Mr. Mildmay, the old Premiers whom he
remembered? He thought not. They had managed differently.
They had been able to defend themselves from such attacks by
personal dignity. And would it have been possible that any man
should have dared so to speak to his uncle, the late Duke ? He
thought not. As he shut himself up in his own room he grieved
inwardly with a deep grief. After a while he walked off to his
wife's room, still perturbed in spirit. The perturbation had indeed
increased from minute to minute. He would rather give up politics
altogether and shut himself up in absolute seclusion than find
himself subject to the insolence of any Pountney that might address
him. With his wife he found Mrs. Finn. Now for this lady person-
ally he entertained what for him was a warm regard. In various
matters of much importance he and she had been brought together,
and she had, to his thinking, invariably behaved well. And an
intimacy had been established which had enabled him to be at ease
with her, — so that her presence was often a comfort to him. But
at the present moment he had not wished to find any one with hie
wife, and felt that she was in his way. M Perhaps I am disturbing
you," he said in a tone of voice that was solemn and almost
funereal.

"Not at all," said the Duchess, who was in high spirits. "I

184 THE PRIME MINISTER.

want to get your promise now about Silverbridge. Don't mind
her. Of course she knows everything." To be told that anybody
knew everything was another shock to him. " I have just got a
letter from Mr. Lopez." Could it be right that his wife should be
corresponding on such a subject with a person so little known as
this Mr. Lopez ? " May I tell him that he shall have your interest
when the seat is vacant ? "

"Certainly not," said the Duke, with a scowl that was terrible
even to his wife. " I wished to speak to you, but I wished to speak
to you alone."

" I beg a thousand pardons," said Mrs. Finn, preparing to go.

"Don't stir, Marie," said the Duchess; "he is going to be
cross."

" If Mrs. Finn will allow me, with every feeling of the most
perfect respect and sincerest regard, to ask her to leave me with
you for a few minutes, I shall be obliged. And if, with her usual

hearty kindness, she will pardon my abruptness " Then he

could not go on, his emotion being too great ; but he put out his
hand, and taking hers raised it to his lips and kissed it. The
moment had become too solemn for any further hesitation as to
the lady's going. The Duchess for a moment was struck dumb,
and Mrs. Finn, of course, left the room.

" In the name of heaven, Plantagenet, what is the matter ?"

" Who is Major Pountney ?"

" Who is Major Pountney ! How on earth should I know ? He
is Major Pountney. He is about everywhere."

" Do not let him be asked into any house of mine again. But
that is a trifle."

"Anything about Major Pountney must, I should think, be a
trifle. Have tidings come that the heavens are going to fall?
Nothing short of that could make you so solemn."

' ' In the first place, Glencora, let me ask you not to speak to me
again about the seat for Silverbridge. I am not at present prepared
to argue the matter with you, but I have resolved that I will know
nothing about the election. As soon as the seat is vacant, if it
should be vacated, I shall take care that my determination be
known in Silverbridge."

1 ' Why should you abandon your privileges in that way ? It is
sheer weakness."

" The interference of any peer is unconstitutional."

" There is Braxon," said the Duchess energetically, " where the
Marquis of Crumber returns the member regularly, in spite of all
their Reform bills ; and Bamford, and Cobblersborough ; — and look
at Lord Lumley with a whole county in his pocket, not to speak of
two boroughs ! What nonsense, Plantagenet ! Anything is con-
stitutional, or anything is unconstitutional, just as you choose to
look at it." It was clear that the Duchess had really studied the
subject carefully.

" Very well, my dear, let it be nonsense. J only beg to assure

the duke's misery. 185

you that it is my intention, and I request you to act accordingly. And
there is another thing I have to say to you. I shall be sorry to
interfere in any way with the pleasure which you may derive from
society, but as long as I am burdened with the office which has
been imposed upon me, I will not again entertain any guests in
my own house."

" Plantagenet! "

" You cannot turn the people out who are here now ; but I beg
that they may be allowed to go as the time comes, and that their
places may not be filled by further invitations."

" But farther invitations have gone out ever so long ago, and
have been accepted. You must be ill, my dear."

"Ill at ease, — yes. At any rate let none others be sent out."
Then he remembered a kindly purpose which he had formed early
in the day, and fell back upon that. ' ' I should, however, be glad
if you would ask Lady Eosina De Courcy to remain here." The
Duchess stared at him, really thinking now that something was
amiss with him. " The whole thing is a failure and I will have no
more of it. It is degrading me." Then without allowing her a
moment in which to answer him, he marched back to his own
room.

But even here his spirit was not as yet at rest. That Major
must not go unpunished. Though he hated all fuss and noise he
must do something. So he wrote as follows to the Major ; — " The
Duke of Omnium trusts that Major Pountney will not find it
inconvenient to leave Gatherum Castle shortly. Should Major
Pountney wish to remain at the Castle over the night, the Duke of
Omnium hopes that he will not object to be served with his dinner
and with his breakfast in his own room. A carriage and horses
will be ready for Major Pountney 's use, to take him to Silverbridge,
as soon as Major Pountney may express to the servants his wish to
that effect.

" Gatherum Castle, December, 18 — ."

This note the Duke sent by the hands of his own servant, having
said enough to the man as to the carriage and the possible dinner
in the Major's bedroom, to make the man understand almost exactly
what had occurred. A note from the Major was brought to the
Duke while he was dressing. The Duke having glanced at the
note threw it into the fire; and the Major that evening eat his
dinner at the Palliser's Arms Inn at Silverbridge.

186 THE PRIME MINISTER.

CHAPTER XXVIIL

THE DUCHESS IS MUCH TROUBLED.

It is hardly possible that one man should turn another out of his
house without many people knowing it ; and when the one person
is a Prime Minister and the other such a Major as Major Pountney,
the affair is apt to be talked about very widely. The Duke of course
never opened his mouth on the subject, except in answer to ques-
tions from the Duchess ; but all the servants knew it. " Pritchard
tells me that you have sent that wretched man out of the house
with a flea in his ear," said the Duchess.

" I sent him out of the house, certainly."

** He was hardly worth your anger."

" He is not at all worth my anger ; — but I could not sit down to
dinner with a man who had insulted me."

"What did he say, Plantagenet ? I know it was something
about Silverbridge." To this question the Duke gave no answer,
but in respect to Silverbridge he was stern as adamant. Two days
after the departure of the Major it was known to Silverbridge
generally that in the event of there being an election the Duke's
agent would not as usual suggest a nominee. There was a para-
graph on the subject in the County paper, and another in the
London " Evening Pulpit." The Duke of Omnium, — that he might
show his respect to the law, not only as to the letter of the law,
but as to the spirit also, — had made it known to his tenantry in
and round Silverbridge generally that he would in no way influence
their choice of a candidate in the event of an election. But these
newspapers did not say a word about Major Pountney.

The clubs of course knew all about it, and no man at any club
ever knew more than Captain Gunner. Soon after Christmas he
met his friend the Major on the steps of the new military club, The
Active Service, which was declared by many men in the army
to have left all the other military clubs "absolutely nowhere.
" Halloa, Punt !" he said, " you seem to have made a mess of it at
last down at the Duchess's."

" I wonder what you know about it."

" You had to come away pretty quick, I take it."

"Of course I came away pretty quick." So much as that the
Major was aware must be known. There were details which he
could deny safely, as it would be impossible that they should be
supported by evidence, but there were matters which must be
admitted. "I'll bet a fiver that beyond that you know nothing
about it."

" The Duke ordered you off, I take it."

" After a fashion he did. There are circumstances in which a
man cannot help himself." This was diplomatical, because it left

THE DUOHESS 19 MUCH TBOUBLED. 187

the Captain to suppose that the Duke was the man who could not
help himself.

" Of course I was not there," said Gunner, " and I can't abso-
lutely know, but I suppose you had been interfering with the
Duchess about Silverbridge. Glencora will bear a great deal, — but
since she has taken up politics, by George, you had better not
touch her there." At last it came to be believed that the Major
had been turned out by the order of the Duchess, because he had
ventured to put himself forward as an opponent to Ferdinand
Lopez, and the Major felt himself really grateful to his friend the
Captain for this arrangement of the story. And there came at last
to be mixed up with the story some half-understood inuendo that
the Major's jealousy against Lopez had been of a double nature, —
in reference both to the Duchess and the borough, — so that he
escaped from much of that disgrace which naturally attaches itself
to a man who has been kicked out of another man's house. There
was a mystery ; — and when there is a mystery a man should never
be condemned. Where there is a woman in the case a man cannot
be expected to tell the truth. As for calling out or in any way
punishing the Prime Minister, that of course was out of the ques-
tion. And so it went on till at last the Major was almost proud of
what he had done, and talked about it willingly with mysterious
hints, in which practice made him perfect.

But with the Duchess the affair was very serious, so much so
that she was driven to call in advice, — not only from her constant
friend, Mrs. Finn, but afterwards from Barrington Erie, from
Phineas Finn, and lastly even from the Duke of St. Bungay, to whom
she was hardly willing to subject herself, the Duke being the special
friend of her husband. But the matter became so important to her
that she was unable to trifle with it. At Gatherum the expulsion
of Major Pountney soon became a forgotten affair. When the
Duchess learned the truth she quite approved of the expulsion,
only hinting to Barrington Erie that the act of kicking out should
have been more absolutely practical. And the loss of Silverbridge,
though it hurt her sorely, could be endured. She must write to
her friend Ferdinand Lopez, when the time should come, excusing
herself as best she might, and must lose the exquisite delight of
making a Member of Parliament out of her own hand. The news-
papers, however, had taken that matter up in the proper spirit,
and political capital might to some extent be made of it. The loss
of Silverbridge, though it bruised, broke no bones. But the Duke
had again expressed himself with unusual sternness respecting her
ducal hospitalities, and had reiterated the declaration of his inten-
tion to live out the remainder of his period of office in republican
simplicity. "We have tried it and it has failed, and let there be
an end of it," he said to her. Simple and direct disobedience
to such an order was as little in her way as simple or direct
obedience. She knew her husband well, and knew how he could
be managed and how he could not be managed. When he declared

188 THE PRIME MINISTER.

that there should be an "end of it," — meaning an end of the very
system by which she hoped to perpetuate his power, she did not
dare to argue with him. And yet he was so wrong ! The trial had
been no failure. The thing had been done and well done, and had
succeeded. Was failure to be presumed because one impertinent
puppy had found his way into the house ? And then to abandoo
the system at once, whether it had failed or whether it had suc-
ceeded, would be to call the attention of all the world to an acknow-
ledged failure, — to a failure so disreputable that its acknowledgment
must lead to the loss of everything ! It was known now, — so argued
the Duchess to herself,— that she had devoted herself to the work
of cementing and consolidating the Coalition by the graceful hospi-
tality which the wealth of herself and her husband enabled her to
dispense. She had made herself a Prime Ministress by the manner
in which she opened her saloons, her banqueting halls, and her
gardens. It had never been done before, and now it had been well
done. There had been no failure. And yet everything was to be
broken down because his nerves had received a shock !

" Let it die out," Mrs. Einn had said. " The people will come
here and will go away, and then, when you are up in London, you
will soon fall into your old ways." But this did not suit the new
ambition of the Duchess. She had so fed her mind with daring
hopes that she could not bear that "it should die out." She had
arranged a course of things in her own mind by which she should
come to be known as the great Prime Minister's wife; and she
had, perhaps unconsciously, applied the epithet more to herself
than to her husband. She, too, wished to be written of in memoirs,
and to make a niche for herself in history. And now she was told
that she was to let it " die out ! "

"I suppose he is a little bilious," Barrington Erie had said.
"Don't you think he'll forget all about it when he gets up to
London ? " The Duchess was sure that her husband would not
forget anything. He never did forget anything. " I want him to
be told," said the Duchess, " that everybody thinks that he is doing
very well. I don't mean about politics exactly, but as to keeping
the party together. Don't you think that we have succeeded ? "
Barrington Erie thought that upon the whole they had suci i
but suggested at the same time that there were seeds of weakness.
** Sir Orlando and Sir Timothy Beeswax are not sound, you know,"
said Barrington Erie. " He can't make them sounder by shutting
himself up like a hermit," said the Duchess. Barrington Erie,
who had peculiar privileges of his own, promised that if he could
by any means make an occasion, he would let the Duke know that.
their side of the Coalition was more than contented with the way
in which he did his work.

" You don't think we've made a mess of it ?" she said to Phineas,
asking him a question. " I don't think that the Duke has made a
mess of it, — or you," said Phineas, who had come to love the
Duchess because his wife loved her. " But it won't go en for evor,

THE DUCHESS IS MUCH TROUBLED. 189

Duchess." " You know what I've done," said the Duchess, who
took it for granted that Mr. Finn knew all that his wife knew.
"Has it answered?" Phineas was silent for a moment. "Of
course you will tell me the truth. You won't be so bad as to
flatter me now that I am so much in earnest." " I almost think,"
said Phineas, "that the time has gone by for what one may call
drawing-room influences. They used to be very great. Old Lord
Brock used them extensively, though by no means as your Grace
has done. But the spirit of the world has changed since then."
" The spirit of the world never changes," said the Duchess, in her
soreness.

But her strongest dependence was on the old Duke. The party
at the Castle was almost broken up when she consulted him. She
had been so far true to her husband as not to ask another guest to
the house since his command; — but they who had been asked
before came and went as had been arranged. Then, when the
place was nearly empty, and when Locock and Millepois and
Pritchard were wondering among themselves at this general col-
lapse, she asked her husband's leave to invite their old friend again
for a day or two. "I do so want to see him, and I think he'll
come," said the Duchess. The Duke gave his permission with a
ready smile, — not because the proposed visitor was his own confi-
dential friend, but because it suited his spirit to grant such a
request as to any one after the order that he had given. Had she
named Major Pountney, I think he would have smiled and acceded.

The Duke came, and to him she poured out her whole soul.
" It has been for him and for his honour that I have done it; —
that men and women might know how really gracious he is, and
how good. Of course, there has been money spent, but he can
afford it without hurting the children. It has been so necessary
that with a Coalition people should know each other ! There was
some little absurd row here. A man who was a mere nobody, one
of the travelling butterfly men that fill up spaces and talk to girls,
got hold of him and was impertinent. He is so thin-skinned that
he could not shake the creature into the dust as you would have
done. It annoyed him, — that, and, I think, seeing so many strange
faces, — so that he came to me and declared, that as long as he re-
mained in office he would not have another person in the house,
either here or in London. He meant it literally, and he meant me
to understand it literally. I had to get special leave before I
could ask so dear an old friend as your Grace."

" I don't think he would object to me," said the Duke,
laughing.

" Of course not. He was only too glad to think you would
come. But he took the request as being quite the proper thing.
It will kill me if this is to be carried out. After all that I have
done, I could show myself nowhere. And it will be so in-
jurious to him ! Could not you tell him, Duke ? No one else
in the world can tell him but you, Nothing unfair haa been

190 THE £RIME MINISTER.

attempted. No job has been done. I have endeavoured to make
his house pleasant to people, in order that they might look upon
him with grace and favour. Is that wrong ? Is that unbecoming
a wife?"

The old Duke patted her on the head as though she were a little
girl, and was more comforting to her than her other counsellors.
He would say nothing to her husband now ; — but they must both
be up in London at the meeting of Parliament, and then he would
tell his friend that, in his opinion, no sudden change should be
made. " This husband of yours is a very peculiar man ; " he said
smiling. " His honesty is not like the honesty of other men. It
is more downright ; — more absolutely honest ; less capable of
bearing even the shadow which the stain from another's dishonesty
might throw upon it. Give him credit for all that, and remember
that you cannot find everything combined in the same person.
He is very practical in some things, but the question is, whether
he is not too scrupulous to be practical in all things.'' At the
close of the interview the Duchess kissed him and promised to be
guided by him. The occurrences of the last few weeks had
softened the Duchess much.

CHAPTER XXIX.

THE TWO CANDIDATES FOR SILVERBRIDGE.

On his arrival in London Ferdinand Lopez found a letter waiting
for him from the Duchess. This came into his hand immediately
on his reaching the rooms in Belgrave Mansion, and was of course
the first object of his care. " That contains my fate," he said to
his wife, putting his hand down upon the letter. He had talked
to her much of the chance that had como in his way, and had
shown himself to be very ambitious of the honour offered to him.
She of course had sympathised with him, and was willing to think
all good things both of the Duchess and of the Duke, if they would
between them put her husband into Parliament. He paused a
moment, still holding the letter under his hand. " You would
hardly think that I should be such a coward that I don't like to
open it," he said.

"You've got to do it."

" Unless I make you do it for me," he said, holding out the
letter to her. " You will have to learn how weak I am. When

I am really anxious I become like a child."

"I do not think you are ever weak," she said, caressing him.

II If there were a thing to be done you would do it at once. But
I'll open it if you like." Then he tore off the envelope with an air

THE TWO CANDIDATES VOR SILVERSRIDGE. 191

of comic importance and stood for a few minutes while he
read it.

" What I first perceive is that there has been a row about it," he
said.

" A row about it ! What sort of a row ? "

"My dear friend the Duchess has not quite hit it off with my
less dear friend the Duke."

w She does not say so ?"

" Oh dear, no ! My friend the Duchess is much too discreet for
that; — but I can see that it has been so."

"Are you to be the new member ? If that is arranged I don't
care a bit about the Duke and Duchess."

" These things do not settle themselves quite so easily as that.
I am not to have the seat at any rate without fighting for it.
There's tho letter."

The Duchess's letter to her new adherent shall be given, but it
must first be understood that many different ideas had passed
through the writer's mind between the writing of the letter and
the order given by the Prime Minister to his wife concerning the
borough. She of course became aware at once that Mr. Lopez
must be informed that she could not do for him what she had sug-
gested that she would do. But there was no necessity of writing at
the instant. Mr. Grey had not yet vacated the seat, and Mr.
Lopez was away on his travels. The month of January was
passed in comparative quiet at the Castle, and during that time it
became known at Silverbridge that the election would be open.
The Duke would not even make a suggestion, and would neither
express, nor feel, resentment should a member be returned alto-
gether hostile to his Ministry. By degrees the Duchess accus-
tomed herself to this condition of affairs, and as the consternation
caused by her husband's very imperious conduct wore off, she
began to ask herself whether even yet she need quite give up the
game. She could not make a Member of Parliament altogether
out of her own hand, as she had once fondly hoped she might do ;
but still she might do something. She would in nothing disobey
her husband, but if Mr. Lopez were to stand for Silverbridge, it
could not but be known in the borough that Mr. Lopez was her
friend. Therefore she wrote the following letter ; —

"Gatherum, January, 18—.

"My dear Mr. Lopez,

" I remember that you said that you would be home at this
time, and therefore I write to you about the borough. Things are
changed since you went away, and, I fear, not changed for your
advantage.

"We understand that Mr. Grey will apply for the Chiltern
Hundreds at the end of March, and that the election will take
place in April. No candidate will appear as favoured from henco.
We used to run a favourite, and our favourite would sometimes

192 THE FRIME MINISTER.

win, — would sometimes even have a walk over ; but those good
times are gone. All the good times are going, I think. There is
no reason that I know why you should not stand as well as any
one else. You can be early in the field ; — because it is only now
known that there will be no Gatherum interest. And I fancy
it had already leaked out that you would have been the favourite
if there had been a favourite ; — which might be beneficial.

1 ' I need hardly say that I do not wish my name to be men-
tioned in the matter.

" Sincerely yours,

"Glencora Omnium.

Cf Sprugeon, the ironmonger, would, I do not doubt, be proud to
nominate you."

" I don't understand much about it," said Emily.

* ' I dare say not. It is not meant that any novice should under-
stand much about it. Of course you will not mention her Grace's
letter."

" Certainly not."

11 She intends to do the very best she can for me. I have no
doubt that some understrapper from the Castle has had some com-
munication with Mr. Sprugeon. The fact is that the Duke won't
be seen in it, but that the Duchess does not mean that the borough
shall quite slip through their fingers."

"Shall you try it?"

" If I do I must send an agent down to see Mr. Sprugeon on the
sly, and the sooner I do so the better. I wonder what your father
will say about it ? "

II He is an old Conservative."

" But would he not like his son-in-law to be in Parliament ?"

"I don't know that he would care about it very much. He
seems always to laugh at people who want to get into Parliament.
But if you have set your heart upon it, Ferdinand "

" I have not set my heart on spending a groat deal of money.
When I first thought of Silverbridge the oxpense would have been
almost nothing. It would have been a walk over, as the Duchess,
calls it. But now there will certainly be a contest."

" Give it up, if you cannot afford it."

" Nothing venture nothing have. You don't think your father
would help me in doing it ? It would add almost as much to your

Eosition as to mine." Emily shook her head. She had ah
eard her father ridicule the folly of men who spent more than
thoy could afford in the vanity of writing two letters after their
name, and she now explained that it had always been so with him.
" You would not mind asking him," he said.

II I will ask him if you wish it, certainly." Ever since their
marriage ho had been teaching her, — intentionally teaching her, —
that it would be the duty of both of them to get all they could

THE TWO CANDIDATES FOR StLVERBKIDGE. 193

from her father. She had learned the lesson, bnt it had been very-
distasteful to her. It had not induced her to think ill of her hus-
band. She was too much engrossed with him, too much in love
with him for that. But she was beginning to feel that the world
in general was hard and greedy and uncomfortable. If it was
proper that a father should give his daughter money when she was
married, why did not her father do so without waiting to be asked ?
And yet, if he were unwilling to do so, would it not be better to
leave him to his pleasure in the matter ? But now she began to
perceive that her father was to be regarded as a milch cow, and
that she was to be the dairy-maid. Her husband at times would
become terribly anxious on the subject. On receiving the promise
of £3,000 he had been elated, but since that he had continually
talked of what more her father onght to do for them.

11 Perhaps I had better take the bull by tho horns," he said,
" and do it myself. Then I shall find out whether he really has
our interest at heart, or whether he looks on you as a stranger
because you've gone away from him."

" I don't think he will look upon me as a stranger."

" We'll see," said Lopez.

It was not long before he made the experiment. He had called
himself a coward as to the opening of the Duchess's letter, but he
had in truth always courage for perils of this nature. On the day
of their arrival they dined with Mr. Wharton in Manchester
Square, and certainly the old man had received his daughter with
great delight. He had been courteous also to Lopez, and Emily,
amidst the pleasure of his welcome, had forgotten some of her
troubles. The three were alone together, and when Emily had
asked after her brother, Mr. Wharton had laughed and said that
Everett was an ass. "You have not quarrelled with him ? " she
said. He ridiculed the idea of any quarrel, but again said that
Everett was an ass.

After dinner Mr. Wharton and Lopez were left together, as the
old man, whether alone or in company, always sat for half an hour
sipping port wine after the manner of his forefathers. Lopez had
already determined that he would not let the opportunity escape
him, and began his attack at once. "I have been invited, sir,"
he said with his sweetest smile, " to stand for Silverbridge."

"You too!" said Mr. Wharton. But, though there was a
certain amount of satire in the exclamation, it had been good-
humoured satire.

" Yes, sir. We all get bit sooner or later, I suppose."

" I never was bit."

' ' Your sagacity and philosophy have been the wonder of tho
world, sir. There can be no doubt that in my profession a seat in
the House would be of the greatest possible advantage to me. It
enables a man to do a great many things which he could not
touch without it."

" It may be so. I don't know anything about it."

194 THE FRIME MINISTER.

" And then it is a great honour."

" That depends on how you get it, and how you use it; — very
much also on whether you are fit for it."

" I shall get it honestly if I do get it. I hope I may use it well.
And as for my fitness, I must leave that to be ascertained when I
am there. I am sorry to say there will probably be a contest."

" I suppose so. A seat in Parliament without a contest does
not drop into every young man's mouth."

" It very nearly dropped into mine." Then he told his father-
in-law almost all the particulars of the offer which had been made
him, and of the manner in which the seat was now suggested to
him. He somewhat hesitated in the use of the name of the
Duchess, leaving an impression on Mr. Wharton that the offer
had in truth come from the Duke. " Should there be a contest,
would you help me?"

" In what way ? I could not canvass at Silverbridge, if you
mean that."

" I was not thinking of giving you personal trouble."

" I don't know a soul in the place. I shouldn't know that there
was such a place except that it returns a member of Parliament."

" I meant with money, sir."

"To pay the election bills! No; certainly not. Why should
I?"

"For Emily's sake."

" I don't think it would do Emily any good, or you either. It
would certainly do me none. It is a kind of luxury that a man
should not attempt to enjoy unless he can afford it easily."

"A luxury !"

"Yes, a luxury; just as much as a four-in-hand coach or a
yacht. Men go into Parliament because it gives them fashion,
position, and power."

"I should go to serve my country."

"Success in your profession I thought you said was your
object. Of course you must do as you please. If you ask me for
advice, I advise you not to try it. But certainly I will not help
you with money. That ass Everett is quarrelling with me at this
moment bocause I won't give him money to go and stand some-
where."

" Not at Silverbridge ! "

" I'm sure I can't say. But don't lot me do him an injury. To
give him his due, he is more reasonable than you, and only wants
a promise from mo that I will pay electioneering bills for him at
the next general election. I have refused him, — though for reasons
which I need not mention I think him better fitted for Parliament
than you. I must certainly also rofuse you. I cannot imagine
any circumstances which would induce me to pay a shilling to
getting you into Parliament. If you won't drink any more wine
We'll join Emily up-stairs."

Xhis had been yery plain speaking, and by no means comfortable

THE TWO CANDIDATES FOR SILVERBRIDGE. 195

to Lopez. What of personal discourtesy there had been in the
lawyer's words, — and they had not certainly been flattering, — he
could throw off from him as meaning nothing. As he could not
afford to quarrel with his father-in-law, he thought it probable
that he might have to bear a good deal of incivility from the old
man. He was quite prepared to bear it as long as he could see a
chance of a reward ; — though, should there be no such chance he
would be ready to avenge it. But there had been a decision in the
present refusal which made him quite sure that it would be vain
to repeat his request. " I shall find out, sir," he said, "whether
it may probably be a costly affair, and if so I shall give it up.
You are rather hard upon me as to my motives."

" I only repeated what you told me yourself."

" I am quite sure of my own intentions, and know that I need
not be ashamed of them."

"Not if you have plenty of money. It all depends on that.
If you have plenty of money, and your fancy goes that way, it is
all very well. Come, we'll go up-stairs."

The next day he saw Everett Wharton, who welcomed him back
with warm affection. " He'll do nothing for me ;— nothing at all.
I am almost beginning to doubt whether he'll ever speak to me
again."

"Nonsense !"

" I tell you everything, you know," said Everett. " In January
I lost a little money at whist. They got plunging at the club, and
I was in it. I had to tell him, of course. He keeps me so short
that I can't stand any blow without going to him like a school-
boy."

"Was it much?"

« No ;— to him no more than half-a-crown to you. I had to ask
him for a hundred and fifty."

" He refused it!"

" No ;— he didn't do that. Had it been ten times as much, if I
owed the money, he would pay it. But he blew me up, and talked
about gambling, — and — and "

"I should have taken that as a matter of course."

" But I'm not a gambler. A man now and then may fall into
a thing of that kind, and if he's decently well off and don't do it
often he can bear it."

" I thought your quarrel had been altogether about Parliament."

" Oh no ! He has been always the same about that. Ho told
me that I was going head -foremost to the dogs, and I couldn't
stand that. I shouldn't bo surprised if he hasn't lost more at cards
than I have during the last two years." Lopez made an offer to
act as go-between, to effect a reconciliation ; but Everett declined
the offer. "It would be making too much of an absurdity," ho
said. " When he wants to see me, I suppose he'll send for me.n

Lopez did dispatch an agent down to Mr. Sprugeon at Silver-
bridge, and the agent found that Mr. Sprugeon was a very discreet

196 THE PRIME MINISTER.1

man. Mr. Sprugeon at first knew little or nothing,— seemed
hardly to be aware that there was a member of Parliament for
Silverbridge, and declared himself to be indifferent as to the parlia-
mentary character of the borough. But at last he melted a little,
and by degrees, over a glass of hot brandy and water with the
agent at the Palliser Arms, confessed to a shade of an opinion
that the return of Mr. Lopez for the borough would not be dis-
agreeable to some person or persons who did not live quite a
hundred miles away. The instructions given by Lopez to his
agent were of the most cautious kind. The agent was merely to
feel the ground, make a few inquiries, and do nothing. His client
did not intend to stand unless he could see the way to almost
certain success with very little outlay. But the agent, perhaps
liking the job, did a little outstep his employer's orders. Mi*.
Sprugeon, when the frost of his first modesty had been thawed,
introduced the agent to Mr. Sprout, the maker of cork soles, and
Mr. Sprugeon and Mr. Sprout between them had soon decided that
Mr. Ferdinand Lopez should be run for the borough as the
" Castle " candidate. " The Duke won't interfere," said Sprugeon ;
"and, of course, the Duke's man of business can't do anything
openly; — but the Duke's people will know." Then Mr. Sprout
told the agent that there was already another candidate in the
field, and in a whisper communicated the gentleman's name.
When the agent got back to London, he gave Lopez to understand
that he must certainly put himself forward. The borough expected
him. Sprugeon and Sprout considered themselves pledged to bring
him forward and support him, — on behalf of the Castle. Sprugeon
was quite sure that the Castle influence was predominant. The
Duke's name had never been mentioned at Silverbridge, — hardly
even that of the Duchess. Since the Duke's declaration " The Castle"
had taken the part which the old Duke used to play. The agent
was quite sure that no one could get in for Silverbridge without
having the Castle on his side. No doubt the Duke's declaration
had had the ill effect of bringing up a competitor, and thus of
causing expense. That could not now be holped. The agent was
of opinion that the Duke had had no alternative. The agent
hinted that times were changing, and that though dukes were
still dukes, and could still exercise ducal influences, they were
driven by those changes to act in an altered form. The proclama-
tion had been especially necessary because the Duke was Prime
Minister. The agent did not think that Mr. Lopez should be in
the least angry with the Duke. Everything would be done that
the Castle could do, and Lopez would be no doubt returned, —
though, unfortunately, not without some expense. How much
would it cost ? Any accurate answer to such a question would be
impossible, but probably about £600. It might be £800 ;— could
not possibly bo above £1000. Lopez winced as he heard these
sums named, but ho did not decline the contest.
Then the name of the opposition candidate was whispered to

"yes;— a lie!" 197

Xopez. vj It was Arthur Fletcher ! Lopez started, and asked some
question as to Mr. Fletcher's interest in the neighbourhood. The
Fletchers were connected with the De Courcys, and as soon as
the declaration of the Duke had been made known, the De Courcy
interest had aroused itself, and had invited that rising young
barrister, Arthur Fletcher, to stand for the borough on strictly
conservative views. Arthur Fletcher had acceded, and a printed
declaration of his purpose and political principles had been just
published. "I havo beaten him once," said Lopez to himself,
"and I think I can beat him again."

CHAPTEE XXX.

"yes;— a lie!" -

" So you went to Happerton after all," said Lopez to his ally, Mr.
Sextus Parker. "You couldn't believe me when I told you the
money was all right ! What a cur you are ! "

" That's right ;— abuse me."

" Well, it was horrid. Didn't I tell you that it must necessarily
injure me with the house ? How are two fellows to get on together
unless they can put some trust in each other ? Even if I did run
you into a difficulty, do you really think I'm ruffian enough to tell
you that the money was there if it were untrue ? "

Sexty looked like a cur and felt like a cur, as he was being thus
abused. He was not angry with his friend for calling him bad
names, but only anxious to excuse himself. " I was out of sorts,"
he said, " and so d d hippish I didn't know what I was about."

" Brandy and soda ! " suggested Lopez.

" Perhaps a little of that ; — though, by Jove, it isn't often I do
that kind of thing. I don't know a fellow who works harder for
his wife and children than I do. But when one sees such things
all round one, — a fellow utterly smashed here who had a string of
hunters yesterday, and another fellow buying a house in Piccadilly
and pulling it down because it isn't big enough, who was contented
with a little box at Hornsey last summer, one doesn't quite know
how to keep one's legs."

"If you want to learn a lesson look at the two men, and see
where the difference lies. The one has had some heart about him,
and the other has been a coward."

Parker scratched his head, balanced himself on the hind legs of
his stool, and tacitly acknowledged the truth of all that his enter-
prising friend said to him. " Has old Wharton come down well ?"
at last he asked.

" I havo never said a word to old Wharton about money," Lopez

198 THE PRIME MINISTER.

replied, — "except ae to the cost of this election I was telling
you of."

" And he wouldn't do anything in that ? n

" He doesn't approve of the thing itself. I don't doubt but that
the old gentleman and I shall understand each other before long."

" You've got the length of his foot."

" But I don't mean to drive him. I can get along without that.
He's an old man, and he can't take his money along with him
when he goes the great journey."

11 There's a brother, Lopez, — isn't there ? '

"Yes, — there's a brother; but Wharton has enough for two;
and if he were to put either out of his will it wouldn't be my wife.
Old men don't like parting with their money, and he's like other
old men. If it were not so I shouldn't bother myself coming into
the city at all."

" Has he enough for that, Lopez ? "

" I suppose he's worth a quarter of a million."

u By Jove ! And where did he get it ? "

" Perseverance, sir. Put by a shilling a day, and let it have its
natural increase, and see what it will come to at the end of fifty
years. I suppose old Wharton has been putting by two or three
thousand out of his professional income, at any rate for the last
thirty years, and never for a moment forgetting its natural
increase. That's one way to make a fortune."

" It ain't rapid enough for you and me, Lopez."

■ ' No. That was the old-fashioned way, and the most sure. But,
as you say, it is not rapid enough ; and it robs a man of the power
of enjoying his money when he has made it. But it's a very good
thing to be closely connected with a man who has already done that
kind of thing. There's no doubt about the money when it is there.
It does not take to itself wings and fly away."

" But the man who has it sticks to it uncommon hard."

11 Of course he does ; — but he can't tako it away with him."

" He can leave it to hospitals, Lopez. That's the devil ! "

" Sexty, my boy, I see you have taken an outlook into human
life which does you credit. Yes, he can leave it to hospitals. But
why does he leave it to hospitals ?"

" Something of being afraid about his soul, I suppose."

"No; I don't believe in that. Such a man as this, who has
been hard-fisted all his life, and who has had his eyes thoroughly
open, who has made his own money in the sharp intercourse of
man to man, and who keeps it to the last gasp, — he doesn't believe
that he'll do his soul any good by giving it to hospitals when he
can't keep it himself any longer. His mind has freed itself from
those cobwebs long since. He gives his money to hospitals because
the last pleasure of which he is capable is that of spiting his rela-
tions. And it is a great pleasure to an old man, when his relations
have been disgusted with him for being old and loving his money.
I rather think I should do it myself."

a yES J— A LIE V* 199

_ "I'd give myself a chance of going to heaven, I think," sai<J
Parker.

"Don't you know that men will rob and cheat on their death-
beds, and say their prayers all ^the time ? Old Wharton won ,
leave his money to hospitals if he's well handled by those about
him."

11 And you'll handle him well ; — eh, Lopez ?"

" I won't quarrel with him, or tell him that he's a curmudgeon
because he doesn't do all that I want him. He's over seventy, and
he can't carry his money with him."

All this left so vivid an impression of the wisdom of his friend
on the mind of Sextus Parker, that in spite of the harrowing fears
by which he had been tormented on more than on& occasion
already, he allowed himself to be persuaded into certain fiscal
arrangements, by which Lopez would find himself put at ease with
reference to money at any rate for the next four months. He had
at once told himself that this election would cost him £1,000.
"When various sums were mentioned in reference to such an affair,
safety could alone be found in taking the outside sum ; — perhaps
might generally be more surely found by adding fifty per cent, to
that. He knew that he was wrong about the election, but he
assured himself that he had had no alternative. The misfortune
had been that the Duke should have made his proclamation about
the borough immediately after the offer made by the Duchess.
He had been almost forced to send the agent down to inquire ; —
and the agent, when making his inquiries, had compromised him.
He must go on with it now. Perhaps some idea of the pleasant-
ness of increased intimacy with the Duchess of Omnium encou-
raged him in this way of thinking. The Duchess was up in town
in February, and Lopez left a card in Carlton Terrace. On the
very next day the card of the Duchess was left for Mrs. Lopez at
the Belgrave Mansions.

Lopez went into the city every day, leaving home at about eleven
o'clock, and not returning much before dinner. The young wife
at first found that she hardly knew what to do with her time.
Her aunt, Mrs. Eoby, was distasteful to her. She had already
learned from her husband that he had but little respect for
Mrs. Eoby. " You remember the sapphire brooch," he had said
once. " That was part of the price I had to pay for being allowed
to approach you." He was sitting at the time with his arm round
her waist, looking out on beautiful scenery and talking of his old
difficulties. She could not find it in her heart to be angry with
him, but the idea brought to her mind was disagreeable to her.
And she was thoroughly angry with Mrs. Eoby. Of course in
these days Mrs. Eoby came to see her, and of course when she was
up in Manchester Square, she went to the house round the corner,
— but there was no close intimacy between the aunt and the niece.
And many of her father's friends, — whom she regarded as the
Herefordshire set,— were very cold to her. She had not made her-

200 THE PRIME MINISTER.

self a glory to Herefordshire, and, — as all these people said, — had
broken the heart of the best Herefordshire young man of the day.
This made a great falling- off in her acquaintance, which was the
more felt as she had never been, as a girl, devoted to a large circle
of dearest female friends. She whom she had loved best had been
Mary Wharton, and Mary Wharton had refused to be her brides-
maid almost without an expression of regret. She saw her father
occasionally. Once he came and dined with them at their rooms,
on which occasion Lopez struggled hard to make up a well- sounding
party. There were Uoby from the Admiralty, and the Happertons,
and Sir Timothy Beeswax, with whom Lopez had become acquainted
at Gatherum, and old Lord Mongrober. But the barrister, who
had dined out a good deal in his time, perceived the effort. Who,
that ever with difficulty scraped his dinner guests together, was
able afterwards to obliterate the signs of the struggle ? It was,
however, a first attempt, and Lopez, whose courage was good,
thought that he might do better before long. If he could get into
the House and make his mark there people then would dine with
him fast enough. But while this was going on Emily's life was
rather dull. He had provided her with a brougham, and every-
thing around her was even luxurious, but there came upon her
gradually a feeling that by her marriage she had divided herself
from her own people. She did not for a moment allow this feeling
to interfere with her loyalty to him. Had she not known that this
division would surely take place ? Had she not married him
because she loved him better than her own people ? So she sat
herself down to read Dante, — for they had studied Italian together
during their honeymoon, and she had found that he knew the
language well. And she was busy with her needle. And she
already began to anticipate the happiness which would come to
her when a child of his should be lying in her arms.

She was of course much interested about the election. Nothing
could as yet be done, because as yet there was no vacancy ; but
still the subject was discussed daily between them. " Who do you
think is going to stand against me P " he said one day with a smile.
"Avery old friend of yours." She knew at once who the man
was, and the blood came to her face. " I think he might as well
have left it alone, you know," he said.

" Did he know ? " she asked in a whisper.

" Know ; — of course he know. He is doing it on purpose. But
I beat him once, old girl, didn't I? And I'll beat him again."
She liked him to call her old girl. She loved the perfect intimacy
with which he treated her. But there was something which grated
against her feelings in this allusion by him to the other man who
had loved her. Of course she had told him the whole story. Sho
had conceived it to be her duty to do so. But then the thing should
have been over. It was necessary, perhaps, that he should tell her
who was his opponent. It was impossible that she should not
know when the fight came. But she did not like to hear him boast

" YES J— A LIE ! w 201

that lie had beaten Arthur Fletcher once, and that he would beat
him again. By doing so ho likened tho sweet fragrance of her
love to the dirty turmoil of an electioneering contest.

He did not understand, — how should he ? — that though she had
never loved Arthur Fletcher, had never been able to bring herself
to love him when all her friends had wished it, her feelings to him
were nevertheless those of affectionate friendship ; — that she re-
garded him as being perfect in his way, a thorough gentleman, a
man who would not for worlds tell a lie, as most generous among
the generous, most noble among the noble. When the other
Whartons had thrown her off, he had not been cold to her. That
very day, as soon as her husband had left her, she looked again at
that little note. "I am as I always have been!" And she
remembered that farewell down by the banks of the Wye. "You
will always have one, — one besides him, — who will love you best
in the world." They were dangerous words for her to remember ;
but in recalling them to her memory she had often assured herself
that they should not be dangerous to her. She was too sure of her
own heart to be afraid of danger. She had loved the one man and
had not loved the other ; — but yet, now, when her husband talked
of beating this man again, she could not but remember the words.

She did not think, — or rather had not thought, — that Arthur
Fletcher would willingly stand against her husband. It had
occurred to her at once that he must first have become a candidate
without knowing who would be his opponent. But Ferdinand had
assured her as a matter of fact that Fletcher had known all about
it. "I suppose in politics men are different," she said to herself.
Her husband had evidently supposed that Arthur Fletcher had
proposed himself as a candidate for Silverbridge, with the express
object of doing an injury to the man who had carried off his love.
And she repeated to herself her husband's words, "He is doing
it on purpose." She did not like to differ from her husband, but
she could hardly bring herself to believe that revenge of this kind
should have recommended itself to Arthur Fletcher.

Some little time after this, when she had been settled in London
about a month, a letter was brought her, and she at once recog-
nised Arthur Fletcher's writing. She was alone at the time, and
it occurred to her at first that perhaps she ought not to open any
communication from him without showing it to her husband. But
then it seemed that such a hesitation would imply a doubt of the
man, and almost a doubt of herself. Why should she fear what
any man might write to her ? So she opened the letter, and read
it, — with infinite pleasure. It was as follows ; —

" My dear Mrs. Lopez,

" I think it best to make an explanation to you as to a
certain coincidence which might possibly be misunderstood unless
explained. I find that your husband and I are to be opponents
at Silverbridge. I wish to say that I had pledged myself to tbs

202 THE PEIME MINISTER.

borough before I had heard his name as connected with it. I have
very old associations with the neighbourhood, and was invited to
stand by friends who had known me all my life as soon as it was
understood that there would be an open contest. I cannot retire
now without breaking faith with my party, nor do I know that
there is any reason why I should do so. I should not, however,
have come forward had I known that Mr. Lopez was to stand. I
think you had better tell him so, and tell him also, with my com-
pliments, that I hope we may fight our political battle with mutual
good-fellowship and good-feeling.

" Yours very sincerely,

" Arthur Fletcher."

Emily was very much pleased by this letter, and yet she wept
over it. She felt that she understood accurately all the motives
that were at work within the man's breast when he was writing it.
As to its truth,— of course the letter was gospel to her. Oh, — if
the man could become her husband's friend how sweet it would
be ! Of course she wished, thoroughly wished, that her husband
should succeed at Silverbridge. But she could understand that
such a contest as this might be carried on without personal animo-
sity. The letter was so like Arthur Fletcher, — so good, so noble,
so generous, so true ! The moment her husband came in she
showed it to him with delight. " I was sure," she said as he
was reading the letter, " that he had not known that you were to
stand/'

" He knew it as well as I did," he replied, and as he spoke there
came a dark scowl across his brow. " His writing to you is a
piece of infernal impudence."

"Oh, Ferdinand!"

" You don't understand, but I do. He deserves to be horse-
whipped for daring to write to you, and if I can come across him
he shall have it."

" Oh,— for heaven's sake ! "

" A man who was your rejected lover, — who has been trying to
marry you for the last two years, presuming to commence a cor-
respondence with you without your husband's sanction ! "

" He meant you to see it. He says I am to tell you."

"Psha! That is simple cowardice. He meant you not to tell
me ; and then when you had answered him without telling me, he
would have had the whip-hand of you."

11 Oh, Ferdinand, what evil thoughts you have ! "

" You are a child, my dear, and must allow me to dictate to you
what you ought to think in such a matter as this. I tell you he
knew all about my candidature, and that what he has said here to
the contrary is a mere lie ; — yes, a lie." He repeated the word
because he saw that she shrank at hearing it; but he did not
understand why she shrank, — that the idea of such an accusation
against Arthur Fletcher was intolerable to her. "I have never

" YES J — A LIE ! M

heard of such a thing," he continued. " Do you suppose it is
common for men who have been thrown over to write to the ladies
who have rejected them immediately after their marriage ? "

11 Do not the circumstances justify it ?"

"No; — they make it infinitely worse. He should have felt
himself to be debarred from writing to you, both as being my wife
and as being the wife of the man whom he intends to oppose at
Silverbridge."

This he said with so much anger that he frightened her. " It
is not my fault," she said.

" No ; it is not your fault. But you should regard it as a great
fault committed by him."

"What am I to do?"

" Give me the letter. You, of course, can do nothing."

" You will not quarrel with him ? "

" Certainly I will. I have quarrelled with him already. Do
you think I will allow any man to insult my wife without quarrel-
ling with him ? What I shall do I cannot yet say, and whatever
I may do, you had better not know. I never thought much of
these Herefordshire swells who believe themselves to be the very
cream of the earth, and now I think less of them than ever."

He was then silent, and slowly she took herself out of the room,
and went away to dress. All this was very terrible. He had
never been rough to her before, and she could not at all understand
why he had been so rough to her now. Surely it was impossible
that he should be jealous because her old lover had written to her
such a letter as that which she had shown him ! And then she
was almost stunned by the opinions he had expressed about
Fletcher, opinions which she knew, — was sure that she knew, — to
be absolutely erroneous. A liar ! Oh, heavens ! And then the
letter itself was so ingenuous and so honest ! Anxious as she was
to do all that her husband bade her, she could not be guided by
him in this matter. And then she remembered his words : ' ' You
must allow me to dictate to you what you ought to think."
Could it be that marriage meant as much as that, — that a husband
was to claim to dictate to his wife what opinions she was to form
about this and that person, — about a person she had known so
well, whom he had never known ? Surely she could only think in
accordance with her own experience and her own intelligence !
She was certain that Arthur Fletcher was no liur, Not even
her own husband could make her think that.

204 THE PRIME MINISTER.

CHAPTER XXXI.

" YES ;-— "WITH A HORSEWHIP IN MY HAND."

Emily Lopez, when she crept out of her own room and joined her
husband just before dinner, was hardly able to speak to him, 60
thoroughly was she dismayed, and troubled, and horrified, by the
manner in which he had taken Arthur Fletcher's letter. While
she had been alone she had thought it all over, anxious if possible
to bring herself into sympathy with her husband ; but the more
she thought of it the more evident did it become to her that he
was altogether wrong. He was so wrong that it seemed to her
that she would be a hypocrite if she pretended to agree with
him. There were half-a-dozen accusations conveyed against Mr.
Fletcher by her husband's view of the matter. He was a liar,
giving a false account of his candidature ; — and he was a coward ;
and an enemy to her, who had laid a plot by which he had hoped
to make her act fraudulently towards her own husband, who had
endeavoured to creep into a correspondence with her, and so to
compromise her ! All this, which her husband's mind had so
easily conceived, was not only impossible to her, but so horrible
that she could not refrain from disgust at her husband's con-
ception. The letter had been left with him, but she remembered
every word of it. She was sure that it was an honest p
meaning no more than had been said, — simply intending to explain
to her that he would not willingly have stood in the way of a friend
whom he had loved, by interfering with her husband's prospects.
And yet she was told that she was to think as her husband bade
her think ! She could not think so. She could not say that she
thought so. If her husband would not credit her judgment, let the
matter be referred to her father. Ferdinand would at any rate
acknowledge that her father could understand such a matter even
if she could not.

During dinner he said nothing on the subject, nor did she.
They were attended by a page in buttons whom ho had hired to
wait upon her, and tho meal passed off almost in silence. She
looked up at him frequently and saw that his brow was still black.
As soon as they were alone she spoke to him, having studied
during dinner what words she would first say: "Are you going
down to the club to-night ? " He had told her that tho niu
this election had been taken up at the Progress, and that possibly
he might have to meet two or three persons there on this evening.
There had been a proposition that the club should bear a part of
the expenditure, and he was very solicitous that such an arrange-
ment should bo made.
< "No," said he, "I shall not go out to-night. I am not suffi-
ciently light-hearted."

" "What makes you heavy-hearted, Ferdinand ?"

«YESJ — WITH A HORSEWHIP IN MY HAND." 205

" I should have thought you would have known."

"I suppose I do know, — but I don't know why it should. I
don't know why you should be displeased. At any rate, I have
done nothing wrong."

"No; — not as to the letter. But it astonishes me that you
should be so — so bound to this man that "

11 Bound to him, Ferdinand !"

"No; — you are bound to me. But that you have so much
regard for him as not to see that he has grossly insulted you."

" I have a regard for him."

" And vou dare to tell me so ? "

" Dare ! What should I be if I had any feeling which I did not
dare to tell you? There is no harm in regarding a man with
friendly feelings whom I have now known since I was a child, and
whom all my family have loved."

" Your family wanted you to marry him ! "

" They did. But I have married you, because I loved you. But
I need not think badly of an old friend, because I did not love him.
"Why should you be angry with him ? What can you have to be
afraid of? " Then she came and sat on his knee and caressed him.

"It is he that shall be afraid of me," said Lopez. "Let him
give the borough up if he means what he says."

" Who could ask him to do that ? "

" Not you, — certainly."

« Oh, no."

" I can ask him."

" Could you, Ferdinand ?"

" Yes ;— with a horsewhip in my hand."

"Indeed, indeed you do not know him. Will you do this;—
will you tell my father everything, and leave it to him to say
whether Mr. Fletcher has behaved badly to you ? "

" Certainly not. I will not have any interference from your
father between you and me. If I had listened to your father you
would not have been here now. Your father is not as yet a friend
of mine. When he comes to know what I can do for myself, and
that I can rise higher than these Herefordshire people, then per-
haps he may become my friend. But I will consult him in
nothing so peculiar to myself as my own wife. And you must
understand that in coming to me all obligation from you to him
became extinct. Of course he is your father ; but in such a
matter as this he has no more to say to you than any stranger."
After that he hardly spoke to her ; but sat for an hour with a book
in his hand, and then rose and said that he would go down to the
club. " There is so much villainy about," he said, " that a man
if he means to do anything must keep himself on the watch."

When she was alone she at once burst into tears ; but she soon
dried her eyes, and putting down her work, settled herself to think
of it all. What did it mean ? Why was he thus changed to her ?
Could it be that he was the same Ferdinand to whom she bad

208 THE PEIME MINISTER.

given herself, without a doubt as to his personal merit ? Every
word that he had spoken since she had shown him the letter from
Arthur Fletcher had been injurious to her, and offensive. It
almost seemed as though he had determined to show himself to be
a tyrant to her, and had only put off playing the part till the first
convenient opportunity after their honeymoon. But through all
this, her ideas were loyal to him. She would obey him in all
things where obedience was possible, and would love him better
than all the world. Oh yes ; — for was he not her husband ?
"Were he to prove himself the worst of men she would still love
him. It had been for better or for worse ; and as she had repeated
the words to herself, she had sworn that if the worst should come,
she would still be true.

But she could not bring herself to say that Arthur Fletcher had
behaved badly. She could not lie. She knew well that his
conduct had been noble and generous. Then unconsciously and
involuntarily, — or rather in opposition to her own will and inward
efforts, — her mind would draw comparisons between her husband
and Arthur Fletcher. There was some peculiar gift, or grace, or
acquirement belonging without dispute to the one, and which the
other lacked. What was it ? She had heard her father say when
talking of gentlemen, — of that race of gentlemen with whom it had
been his lot to live, — that you could not make a silk purse out of
a sow's ear. The use of the proverb had offended her much, for she
had known well whom he had then regarded as a silk purse and
whom as a sow's ear. But now she perceived that there had been
truth in all this, though she was as anxious as ever to think well
of her husband, and to endow him with all possible virtues. She
had once ventured to form a doctrine for herself, to preach to
herself a sermon of her own, and to tell herself that this gift of
gentle blood and of gentle nurture, of which her father thought so
much, and to which something of divinity was attributed down in
Herefordshire, was after all but a weak, spiritless quality. It
could exist without intellect, without heart, and with very
moderate culture. It was compatible with many littlenesses and
with many vices. As for that love of honest, courageous truth
which her father was wont to attribute to it, she regarded his
theory as based upon legends, as in earlier years was the theory of
the courage, and constancy, and loyalty of the knights of those
days. The beau ideal of a man which she then pictured to herself
was graced, first with intelligence, then with affection, and lastly
with ambition. She knew no reason why such a hero as her fancy
created should be born of lords and ladies rather than of working
mechanics, should be English rather than Spanish or French.
The man could not be her hero without education, without
butes to be attained no doubt more easily by tho rich than by the
poor; but, with that granted, with those attained, she did not see
why she, or why the world, should go back beyond the man's own
self. Such had been her theories as to men and their attributes,

"YES;— WITH A HORSEWHIP IN MY HAND.*' 20?

and acting on that, she had given herself and all her happiness
into the keeping of Ferdinand Lopez. Now, there was gradually-
coming upon her a change in her convictions, — a change|that
was most unwelcome, that she strove to reject, — one which she
would not acknowledge that she had adopted even while adopting
it. But now, — ay, from the very hour of her marriage, — she had
commenced to learn what it was that her father had meant when
he spoke of the pleasure of living with gentlemen. Arthur Fletcher
certainly was a gentleman. He would not have entertained the
suspicion which her husband had expressed. He could not have
failed to believe such assertions as had been made. He could
never have suggested to his own wife that another man had
endeavoured to entrap her into a secret correspondence. She
seemed to hear the tones of Arthur Fletcher's voice, as those of
her husband still rang in her ear when he bade her remember that
she was now removed from her father's control. Every now and
then the tears would come to her eyes, and she would sit
pondering, listless, and low in heart. Then she would suddenly
rouse herself with a shake, and take up her book with a resolve
that she would read steadily, would assure herself as she did so
that her husband should still be her hero. The intelligence at any
rate was there, and, in spite of his roughness, the affection which
she craved. And the ambition, too, was there. But, alas, alas !
why should such vile suspicions have fouled his mind ?

He was late that night, but when he came he kissed her brow
as she lay in bed, and she knew that his temper was again smooth.
She feigned to be sleepy, though not asleep, as she just put her
hand up to his cheek. She did not wish to speak to him again
that night, but she was glad to know that in the morning he would
smile on her. " Be early at breakfast," he said to her as he left
her the next morning, "for I'm going down to Silverbridge
to-day."

Then she started up. " To-day ! "

"Yes;— by the 11.20. There is plenty of time, only don't be
unusually late."

Of course she was something more than usually early, and when
she came out she found him reading his paper. "It's all settled
now," he said. "Grey has applied for the Hundreds, and Mr.
Battler is to move for the new writ to-morrow. It has come rather
sudden at last, as these things always do after long delays. But
they say the suddenness is rather in my favour."

" When will the election take place ? "

" I suppose in about a fortnight; — perhaps a little longer."

" And must you be at Silverbridge all that time ?"

"Oh dear no. I shall stay there to-night, and perhaps to-
morrow night. Of course I shall telegraph to you directly I find
how it is to be. I shall see the principal inhabitants, and probably
make a speech or two."

" I do so wish I could hear you,"

208 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" You'd find it awfully dull work, my girl. And T shall find it
awfully dull too. I do not imagine that Mr. Sprugeon and Mr.
Sprout will be pleasant companions. Well ; I shall stay there a
day or two and settle when I am to go down for the absolute can-
vass. I shall have to go with my hat in my hand to every blessed
inhabitant in that dirty little town, and ask them all to bo kind
enough to drop in a paper for the most humble of their servants,
Ferdinand Lopez."

" I suppose all candidates have to do the same."

"Oh yes; — your friend, Master Fletcher, will have to do it."
She winced at this. Arthur Fletcher was her friend, but at the
present moment he ought not so to have spoken of him. "And
from all I hear, he is just the sort of fellow that will like the doing
of it. It is odious to me to ask a fellow that I despise for any-
thing."

" Why should you despise them ? "

"Low, ignorant, greasy cads, who have no idea of the real
meaning of political privileges; — men who would all sell their
votes for thirty shillings each, if that game had not been made a
little too hot ! "

" If they are like that I would not represent them."

" Oh yes, you would ; — when you came to understand the world.
It's a fine thing to be in Parliament, and that is the way to get in.
However, on this visit I shall only see the great men of the town,
— the Sprouts and Sprugeons."

" Shall you go to Castle Gatherum ? "

" Oh, heavens, no ! I may go anywhere now rather than there.
Tho Duke is supposed to be in absolute ignorance of the very names
of the candidates, or whether there are candidates. I don't sup-
pose that the word Silverbridge will be even whispered in his ear
till the thing is over."

" But you are to get in by his friendship."

"Or by hers; — at least I hope so. I have no doubt that the
Sprouts and the Sprugeons have been given to understand by tho
Lococks and the Pritchards what are the Duchess's wishes, and
that it has also been intimated in some subtle way that the Duke
is willing to oblige the Duchess. There are ever so many
you know, of killing a cat."

" And the expense ?" suggested Emily.

"Oh, — ah ; the expense. When you come to talk of the expense
things are not so pleasant. I never saw such a set of meani
asses in my life as those men at the club. They talk and talk, but
there is not one of them who knows how to do anything. Now at
the club over the way they do arrange matters. It's a common
cause, and I don't see what right they have to expect that one man
should bear all the expense. I've a deuced good mind to leave
them in the lurch."

" Don't do it, Ferdinand, if you can't afford it."

11 1 shall go on with it now. I can't help feeling that I've been

"YESJ WITH A HORSEWHIP IN MY HAND." 209

a little let in among them. When the Duchess first promised me
it was to be a simple walk over. Now that they've got their can-
didate, they go back from that and open the thing to any comer.
I can't tell you what I think of Fletcher for taking advantage of
such a chance. And then the political committee at the club coolly
say that they've got no money. It isn't honest, you know."

"I don't understand all that," said Emily sadly. Every word
that he said about Fletcher cut her to the heart;— not because it
grieved her that Fletcher should be abused, but that her husband
should condescend to abuse him. She escaped from further con-
flict at the moment by proclaiming her ignorance of the whole
matter ; but she knew enough of it to be well aware that Arthur
Fletcher had as good a right to stand as her husband, and that her
husband lowered himself by personal animosity to the man. Then
Lopez took his departure. "Oh, Ferdinand," she said, "I do so
hope you may be successful."

" I don't think he can have a chance. From what people say,
ho must be a fool to try. That is, if the Castle is true to me. I
shall know more about it when I come back."

That afternoon she dined with her father, and there met Mrs.
Eoby. It was of course known that Lopez had gone down to
Silverbridge', and Emily learned in Manchester Square that Everett
had gone with him. " From all I hear, they're two fools for their
pains," said the lawyer.

"Why, papa ?"

•■ The Duke has given the thing up."

" But still his interest remains."

"No such thing! If there is an honest man in England it is
the Duke of Omnium, and when he says a thing he means it.
Left to themselves, the people of a little town like Silverbridge aro
sure to return a Conservative. They are half of them small
farmers, and of course will go that way if not made to go the other.
If the club mean to pay the cost "

" The club will pay nothing, papa."

"Then I can only hope that Lopez is doing well in his busi-
ness ! " After that nothing further was said about the election,
but she perceived that her father was altogether opposed to the
idea of her husband being in Parliament, and that his sympathies
and even his wishes were on the other side. When Mrs. Eoby
suggested that it would be a very nice thing for them all to have
Ferdinand in Parliament, — she always called him Ferdinand now,
— Mr. Whaxton railed at her. " Why should it be a nice thing ? I
wonder whether you have any idea of a meaning in your head
when you say that. Do you suppose that a man gets £1,000 a year
by going into Parliament ?"

" Laws, Mr. Wharton ; how uncivil you are ! Of course I know
that members of Parliament ain't paid."

"Where's the niceness then ? If a man has his time at his com-
mand and has studied the art of legislation it may be nice, because

210 THE PRIME MINISTER

he will be doing his duty ; — or if he wants to get into the govern-
ment ruck like your brother-in-law, it may be nice ; — or if he be
an idle man with a large fortune it may be nice to have some place
to go to. But why it should be nice for Ferdinand Lopez I cannot
understand. Everett has some idea in his head when he talks
about Parliament, — though I cannot say that I agree with him."
It may easily be understood that after this Emily would say
nothing further in Manchester Square as to her husband's prospects
at Silverbridge.

Lopez was at Silverbridge for a couple of days, and then returned,
as Ms wife thought, by no means confident of success. He re-
mained in town nearly a week, and during that time he managed
to see the Duchess. He had written to her saying that he would
do himself the honour of calling on her, and when he came was
admitted. But the account he gave to his wife of the visit did not
express much satisfaction. It was quite late in the evening before
he told her whither he had been. He had intended to keep the
matter to himself, and at last spoke of it,— guided by the feeling
which induces all men to tell their secrets to their wives, — because
it was a comfort to him to talk to some one who would not openly
contradict him. " She's a sly creature after all," he said.

" I had always thought that she was too open rather than sly,"
said his wife.

" People always try to get a character just opposite to what they
deserve. When I hear that a man is always to be believed, I know
that he is the most dangerous liar going. She hummed and hawed
and would not say a word about the borough. She went so far as
to tell me that I wasn't to say a word about it to her."

" Wasn't that best if her husband wished her not to talk of it ? "

" It is all humbug and falsehood to the very bottom. She knows
that I am spending money about it, and she ought to be on the
square with me. She ought to tell me what she can do and what
she can't. When I asked her whether Sprugeon might be trusted,
she said that she really wished that I wouldn't say anything more
to her about it. I call that dishonest and sly. I shouldn't at all
wonder but that Pletcher has been with the Duke. If I find that
out, won't I expose them both ? "

OHAPTEE XXXH.

"WHAT BUSINESS IS IT OF YOURS?"

TniNGS had not gone altogether smoothly with the Duchess
herself since the breaking up of the party at Gatherum Castle, —
nor perhaps quite smoothly with the Duke. It was now March.

l< WHAT BUSINESS IS IT OF YOTJKS ? "■ 211

The House was again sitting, and they were both in London, — bnt
till they came to town they had remained at the Castle, and that
huge mansion had not been found to be more comfortable by either
of them as it became empty. For a time the Duchess had been
cowed by her husband's stern decision ; but as he again became
gentle to her, — almost seeming by his manner to apologize for his
unwonted roughness, — she plucked up her spirit and declared to
herself that she would not give up the battle. All that she did, —
was it not for his sake ? And why should she not have her
ambition in life as well as he his ? And had she not succeeded in
all that she had done ? Could it be right that sho should be asked
to abandon everything, to own herself to have been defeated, to be
shown to have failed before all the world, because such a one as
Major Pountney had made a fool of himself? She attributed it
all to Major Pountney ; — very wrongly. When a man's mind is
veering towards some decision, some conclusion which he has been
perhaps slow in reaching, it is probably a little thing which at last
4ixes his mind and clenches his thoughts. The Duke had been
gradually teaching himself to hate the crowd around him and to
reprobate his wife's strategy, before he had known that there was a
Major Pountney under his roof. Others had offended him, and
first and foremost among them his own colleague, Sir Orlando.
The Duchess hardly read his character aright, and certainly did
not understand his present motives, when she thought that all
might be forgotten as soon as the disagreeable savour of the Major
should have passed away.

But in nothing, as she thought, had her husband been so silly as
in his abandonment of Silverbridge. "When she heard that the day
was fixed for declaring the vacancy, she ventured to ask him a
question. His manner to her lately had been more than urbane,
more than affectionate ; — it had almost been that of a lover. He
had petted her and caressed her when they met, and once even
said that nothing should really trouble him as long as he had her
with him. Such a speech as that never in his life had he made
before to her ! So she plucked up her courage and asked her
question, — not exactly on that occasion, but soon afterwards ;
"May not I say a word to Sprugeon about the election ? "

" Not a word ! " And he looked at her as he had looked on that
day when he had told her of the Major's sins. She tossed her
head and pouted her lips and walked on without speaking. If it
was to be so, then indeed would she have failed. And, therefore,
though in his general manner he was loving to her, things were
not going smooth with her.

And things were not going smooth with him because there
had reached him a most troublous dispatch from Sir Orlando
Drought only two days before the Cabinet meeting at which
the points to be made in the Queen's speech were to be decided.
It had been already agreed that a proposition should be made to
Parliament by the Government, for an extension of the county

212 fcHE PRIME MINISTER,

suffrage, with some slight redistribution of seats. The town3 with
less than 20,000 inhabitants were to take in some increased portions
of the country parishes around. But there was not enough of a
policy in this to satisfy Sir Orlando, nor was the conduct of the
bill through the House to be placed in his hands. That was to be
intrusted to Mr. Monk, and Mr. Monk would be, if not nominally
the leader, yet the chief man of the Government in the House of
Commons. This was displeasing to Sir Orlando, and he had,
therefore, demanded from the Prime Minister more of a " policy."
Sir Orlando's present idea of a policy was the building four bigger
ships of war than had ever been built before, — with larger guns,
and more men, and thicker iron plates, and, above all, with a greater
expenditure of money. He had even gone so far as to say, though
not in his semi-official letter to the Prime Minister, that he thought
that "The Salvation of the Empire" should be the cry of the
Coalition party. "After all," he said, "what the people care
about is the Salvation of the Empire ! " Sir Orlando was at the
head of the Admiralty; and if glory was to be achieved by the
four ships, it would rest first on the head of Sir Orlando.

Now the Duke thought that the Empire was safe, and had been
throughout his political life averse to increasing the army and
navy estimates. He regarded the four ships as altogether un-
necessary,— and when reminded that he might in this way con-
solidate the Coalition, said that he would rather do without the
Coalition and the four ships than have to do with both of them
together, — an opinion which was thought by some to be almost
traitorous to the party as now organised. The secrets of Cabinets
are not to be disclosed lightly, but it came to be understood, — as
what is done at Cabinet meetings generally does come to be under-
stood,— that there was something like a disagreement. The Prime
Minister, the Duke of St. Bungay, and Mr. Monk were alt< ,
against the four ships.. Sir Orlando was supported by Lord
Drummond and another of his old friends. At the advice of the
elder Duke, a paragraph was hatched, in which it was declared
that her Majesty, M having regard to the safety of the nation and
the possible, though happily not probable, chances of war, thought
that the present strength of the navy should bo considered." " It
will give him scope for a new gun -boat on an altered principle,"
said the Duke of St. Bungay. But the Prime Minister, could he
have had his own way, would havo given Sir Orlando no scope
whatever. He would havo lot tho Coalition have gone to the dogs
and have fallen himself into infinite political ruin, but that he did
not dare that men should hereafter say of him that this attempt at
government had failed because he was stubborn, imperious, and
self-confident. He had known when ho took his present place that
he must yield to others ; but he had not known how terrible it is
to have to yield when a principle is in question, — how great is the
Buffering when a man finds himself compelled to do that which
he thinks should not be done ! Therefore, though he had been

11 WHAT BUSINESS IS IT OF YOURS ? " 213

strangely loving to his wife, the time had not gone smoothly with
him.

In direct disobedience to her husband the Duchess did speak a
word to Mr. Sprugeon. When at the Castle she was frequently
driven through Silverbridge, and on one occasion had her carriage
stopped at the ironmonger's door. Out came Mr. Sprugeon, and
there were at first half-a-dozen standing by who could hear what
she said. Millepois, the cook, wanted to have some new kind of
iron plate erected in the kitchen. Of course she had provided
herself beforehand with her excuse. As a rule, when the cook
wanted anything done, he did not send word to the tradesman
by the Duchess. But on this occasion the Duchess was personally
most anxious. Se wanted to see how the iron plate would work.
It was to be a particular kind of iron plate. Then, having
watched her opportunity, she said her word, " I suppose we shall
be safe with Mr. Lopez." When Mr. Sprugeon was about to
reply, she shook her head and went on about the iron plate. This
would be quite enough to let Mr. Sprugeon understand that she
was still anxious about the borough. Mr. Sprugeon was an
intelligent man, and possessed of discretion to a certain extent.
As soon as he saw the little frown and the shake of the head, he
understood it all. He and the Duchess had a secret together.
Would not everything about the Castle in which a morsel of iron
was employed want renewing ? And would not the Duchess take
care that it should all be renewed by Sprugeon ? But then he
must be active, and his activity would be of no avail unless others
helped him. So he whispered a word to Sprout, and it soon became
known that the Castle interest was all alive.

But unfortunately the Duke was also on the alert. The Duke
had been very much in earnest when he *made up his mind that
the old custom should be abandoned at Silverbridge and had
endeavoured to impress that determination of his upon his wife.
The Duke knew more about his property and was better ac-
quainted with its details than his wife or others believed. He
heard that in spite of all his orders the Castle interest was being
maintained, and a word was said to him which seemed to imply
that this was his wife's doing3. It was then about the middle of
February, and arrangements were in process for the removal of
the family to London. The Duke had already been up to London
for the meeting of Parliament, and had now come back to
Gatherum, purporting to return to London with his wife. Then
it was that it was hinted to him that her Graco was still anxious
as to the election, — and had manifested her anxiety. The rumour
hurt him, though he did not in the least believe it. It showed to
him, as he thought, not that his wife had been false to him, — as in
truth she had been, — but that even her name could not be kept
free from slander. And when he spoke to her on the subject, ho did
bo rather with the view of proving to her how necessary it was that
8he should keep herself altogether aloof from such matters, than

214 THE PRIME MINISTER.

with any wish to make further inquiry. But he elicited the whole
truth. "It is so hard to kill an old established evil," he said.

" What evil have you failed to kill now ? "

" Those people at Silverbridge still say that I want to return a
member for them."

"Oh; that's the evil! You know I think that instead of
killing [an evil, you have murdered an excellent institution."
This at any rate was very imprudent on the part of jthe Duchess.
After that disobedient word spoken to Mr. Sprugeon, she should
have been more on her guard.

" As to that, Glencora, I must judge for myself."

" Oh yes, — you have been jury, and judge, and executioner."

" I have done as I thought right to do. I am sorry that I should
fail to carry you with me in such a matter, but even failing in that
I must do my duty. You will at any rate agree with me that
when I say the thing should be done, it should be done."

" If you wanted to destroy the house, and cut down all the trees,
and turn the place into a wilderness, I suppose you would only
have to speak. Of course I know it would be wrong that I should
have an opinion. As ' man ' you are of course to have your own
way." She was in one of her most aggravating moods. Though
he might compel her to obey, he could not compel her to hold her
tonguo.

" Glencora, I don't think you know how much you add to my
troubles, or you would not speak to me like that."

"What am I to say? It seems to me that any more suicidal
thing than throwing away the borough never was done. Who will
thank you ? What additional support will you get ? How will it
increase your power ? It's like King Lear throwing off his clothes
in the storm because his daughters turned him out. And you
didn't do it because you thought it right."

" Yes, I did," he said scowling.

"You did it because Major Pountney" disgusted you. You
kicked him out. Why wouldn't that satisfy you without sacrificing
the borough? It isn't what I think or say about it, but that
everybody is thinking and saying the same thing."

" I choose that it shall be so."

" Very well."

"And I don't choose that your name shall be mixed up in it.
Thoy say in Silver bridgo that you are canvassing for Mr. Lopez."

"Who says so?"

" I presume it's not true."

" Who says so, Plantagenet P "

" It matters not who has said so, if it be untrue. I presume it
to be false."

" Of course it is false." Then the Duchess remembered her
word to Mr. Sprugeon, and the cowardice of the lie was heavy on
her. I doubt whether she would have been so shocked by the
idea of a falsehood as to have been kept back from it had she

"WHAT BUSINESS IS IT OP YOURS?" 215

before resolved that it would save her; but she was not in her
practice a false woman, her courage being too high for falsehood.
It now seemed to her that by this lie she was owning herself to be
quelled and brought into absolute subjection by her husband. So
she burst out into truth. " Now I think of it I did say a word to
Mr. Sprugeon. I told him that — that I hoped Mr. Lopez would
be returned. I don't know whether you call that canvassing."

"I desired you not to speak to Mr. Sprugeon," he thundered
forth.

" That's all very well, Plantagenet, but if you desire me to hold
my tongue altogether, what am I to do ? "

"What business is this of yours ?"

"I suppose I may have my political sympathies as well as
another. Eeally you are becoming so autocratic that I shall have
to go in for women's rights."

" You mean me to understand then that you intend to put your-
self in opposition to me."

" What a fuss you make about it all ! " she said. " Nothing that
one can do is right ! You make me wish that I was a milkmaid
or a farmer's wife." So saying she bounced out of the room,
leaving the Duke sick at heart, low in spirit, and doubtful whether
he were right or wrong in his attempts to manage his wife. Surely
he must be right in feeling that in his high office a clearer conduct
and cleaner way of walking was expected from him than from
other men ! Noblesse oblige ! To his uncle the privilege of re-
turning a member to Parliament had been a thing of course ; and
when the radical newspapers of the day abused his uncle, his undo
took that abuse as a thing of course. The old Duke acted after
his kind, and did not care what others said of him. And he him-
self, when he first came to his dukedom, was not as he was now.
Duties, though they were heavy enough, were lighter then.
Serious matters were less serious. There was this and that matter
of public policy on which he was intent, but, thinking humbly of
himself, he had not yet learned to conceive that he must fit his
public conduct in all things to a straight rule of patriotic justice.
Now it was different with him, and though the change was painful,
he felt it to be imperative. He would fain have been as other
men, but he could not. But in this change it was so needful to
him that he should carry with him the full sympathies of one
person ; — that she who was the nearest to him of all should act
with him ! And now she had not only disobeyed him, but had
told him, as some grocer's wife might tell her husband, that he
was " making a fuss about it all ! "

And then, as he thought of the scene which has been described,
he could not quite approve of himself. He knew that he was too
self-conscious, — that he was thinking too much about hi
conduct and the conduct of others to him.
odious to him, but still he could not

fuss." Of one thing only was

10 mucn aoout ms own
The phi

it hn.

216 TIIE PKIMB MINISTER.

had befallen him when circumstances compelled him to become the
Queen's Prime Minister.

He said nothing further to his wife till they were in London
together, and then he was tempted to caress her again, to be loving
to her, and to show her that he had forgiven her. But she was
brusque to him, as though she did not wish to be forgiven.
" Cora," he said, " do not separate yourself from me."

1 ' Separate myself ! "What on earth do you mean ? I have not
dreamed of such a thing." The Duchess answered him as though
he had alluded to some actual separation.

' ' I do not mean that. God forbid that a misfortune such as that
should ever happen ! Do not disjoin yourself from me in all these
troubles."

" What am I to do when you scold me ? You must know pretty
well by this time that I don't like to be scolded. ' I desired you
not to speak to Mr. Sprugeon! ' " As she repeated his words she
imitated his manner and voice closely. "I shouldn't dream of
addressing the children with such magnificence of anger. ' "What
business is it of yours ! ' No woman likes that sort of thing, and
I'm not sure that I am acquainted with any woman who likes it
much less than — Glencora, Duchess of Omnium." As she said
these last words in a low whisper, she curtseyed down to the
ground.

" You know how anxious I am," he began, "that you should
share everything with me,— even in politics. But in all things
there must at last be one voice that shall be the ruling voice."

" And that is to be yours, — of course."

11 In such a matter as this it must be."

" And, therefore, I like to do a little business of my own behind
your back. It's human nature, and you've got to put up with it.
I wish you had a better wife. I dare say there are many who
would be better. There's the Duchess of St. Bungay who never
troubles her husband about politics, but only scolds him because
the wind blows from the east. It is just possible there might be
worse."

"Oh, Glencora!"

" You had better make the best you can of your bargain and
not expect too much from her. And don't ride over her with a
very high horse. And let her have her own way a little if you
really believe that she has your interest at heart."

After this ho was quite aware that she had got the better of him
altogether. On that occasion he smiled and kissed her, and went
his way. But ho was by no means satisfied. That he should bo
thwarted by her, ato into his very heart; — and it was a wretched
thing to him that he could not make her understand his feeling in
this respect. If it wero to go on he must throw up everything,
lluat caelum, fiat — proper subordination from his wife in regard to
public matters ! No wife had a fuller allowance of privilege, or
moro complete power in her hands, as to things fit for womou's

SHOWING THAT A MAN SHOULD NOT HOWL. 217

management. But it was intolerable to him that she should seek
to interfere with him in matters of a public nature. And she was
constantly doing so. She had always this or that aspirant for
office on hand ; — this or that job to be carried, though the jobs
were not perhaps much in themselves ; — this or that affair to be
managed by her own political allies, such as Barrington Erie and
Phineas Finn. And in his heart he suspected her of a design of
managing the Government in her own way, with her own particular
friend, Mrs. Finn, for her Prime Minister. If he could in no other
way put an end to such evils as these, he must put an end to his
own political life. Euat caelum, fiat justitia. Now "justitia" to
him was not compatible with feminine interference in his own
special work.

It may therefore be understood that things were not going very
smoothly with the Duke and Duchess ; and it may also be under -
stood why the Duchess had had very little to say to Mr. Lopez
about the election. She was aware that she owed something to
Mr. Lopez, whom she had certainly encouraged to stand for the
borough, and she had therefore sent her card to his wife and was
prepared to invite them both to her parties ; — but just at present
she was a little tired of Ferdinand Lopez, and perhaps unjustly
disposed to couple him with that unfortunate wretch, Major
Pountney.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

SHOWING THAT A MAN SHOULD NOT HOWL.

Arthur Fletcher, in his letter to Mrs. Lopez, had told her that
when he found out who was to be his antagonist at Silverbridge,
it was too late for him to give up the contest. He was, he said,
bound in faith to continue it by what had passed between himself
and others. But in truth he had not reached this conclusion
without some persuasion from others. He had been at Longbarns
with his brother when he first heard that Lopez intended to stand,
and he at once signified his desire to give way. The information
reached him from Mr. Frank Gresham, of Greshambury, a gentle-
man connected with the De Courcys who was now supposed to
represent the De Courcy interest in the county, and who had first
suggested to Arthur that he should come forward. It was held at
Longbarns that Arthur was bound in honour to Mr. Gresham and
to Mr. Gresham's friends, and to this opinion he had yielded.

Since Emily Wharton's marriage her name had never been men-
tioned at Longbarns in Arthur's presence. "When ho was away, —
and of course his life was chiefly passed in London, — old Mrs.
Fletcher was free enough in her abuse of the silly creature who

218 THE PRIME MINISTER.

had allowed nerseil to be taken out of her own rank by a Portuguese
Jew. But she had been made to understand by her elder son, the
lord of Longbarns, that not a word was to be said when Arthur
was there. " I think he ought to be taught to forget her," Mrs.
Fletcher had said. But John in his own quiet but imperious way,
had declared that there were some men to whom such lessons
could not be taught, and that Arthur was one of them. "Is he
never to get a wife, then ?" Mrs. Fletcher had asked. John
wouldn't pretend to answer that question, but was quite sure that
his brother would not be tempted into other matrimonial arrange-
ments by anything that could be said against Emily Lopez.
When Mrs. Fletcher declared in her extreme anger that Arthur
was a fool for his trouble, John did not contradict her, but declared
that the folly was of a nature to require tender treatment.

Matters were in this condition at Longbarns when Arthur com-
municated to his brother the contents of Mr. Gresham's letter,
and expressed his own purpose of giving up Silverbridge. "I
don't quite see that," said John.

" No ; — and it is impossible that you should be expected to see
it. I don't quite know how to talk about it even to you, though I
think you are about the softest-hearted fellow out."

" I don't acknowledge the soft heart; — but go on."

" I don't want to interfere with that man. I have a sort of
feeling that as he has got her he might as well have the seat too."

1 • The seat, as you call it, is not there for his gratification or for
yours. The seat is there in order that the people of Silverbridge
may be represented in Parliament."

"Let them get somebody else. I don't want to put myself in
opposition to him, and I certainly do not want to oppose her."

' ' They canrt change their candidate in that way at a day's
notice. You would be throwing Gresham over, and, if you ask
me, I think that is a thing you have no right to do. This objec-
tion of yours is sentimental, and there is nothing of which a man
should be so much in dread as sentimentalism. It is not your
fault that you oppose Mr. Lopez. You were in the field first, and
you must go on with it." John Fletcher, when he spoke in this
way, was, at Longbarns, always supposed to be right ; and on the
present occasion he, as usual, prevailed. Then Arthur Fletcher
wrote his letter to tho lady. lie would not have liked to have had
it known that the composition and copying of that little note had
cost him an hour. He had wished that she should understand his
feelings, and yet it was necessary that he should address her in
words that should be perfectly free from affection or emotion. He
must let her know that, though he wrote to her, tho letter was for
her husband as well as for herself, and he must do this in a manner
which would not imply any fear that his writing to her would bo
taken amiss. The letter when completed was at any rate simple
and truo ; and yet, as we know, it was taken very much amiss.

Arthur Fletcher had by no means recovered ixom the blow he

SHOWING THAT A MAN SHOULD NOT HOWL. 219

had received that day when Emily had told him everything down
by the river side ; but then, it must be said of him, that he had
no intention of recovery. He was as a man who, having taken a
burden on his back, declares to himself that he will, for certain
reasons, carry it throughout his life. The man knows that with
the burden he cannot walk as men walk who are unencumbered, but
for those reasons of his he has chosen to lade himself, and having
done so he abandons regret and submits to his circumstances. So
had it been with him. He would make no attempt to throw off the
load. It was now far back in his life, as much at least as three
years, since he had first assured himself of his desire to make
Emily Wharton the companion of his life. From that day she had
been the pivot on which his whole existence had moved. She had
refused his offers more than once, but had done so with so much
tender kindness, that, though he had found himself to be wounded
and bruised, he had never abandoned his object. Her father and
all his own friends encouraged him. He was continually told that
her coldness was due to the simple fact that she had not yet
learned to give her heart away. And so he had persevered, being
ever thoroughly intent on his purpose, till he was told by herself
that her love was given to this other man.

Then he knew that it behoved him to set some altered course
of life before him. He could not shoot his rival or knock him
over the head, nor could he carry off his girl, as used to be done
in rougher times. There was nothing now for a man in such a
catastrophe as this but submission. But he might submit and
shake off his burden, or submit and carry it hopelessly. He told
himself that he would do the latter. She had been his goddess,
and he would not now worship at another shrine. And then ideas
came into his head, — not hopes, or purposes, or a belief even in
any possibility, — but vague ideas, mere castles in the air, that a
time might come in which it might be in his power to serve her,
and to prove to her beyond doubting what had been the nature of
his love. Like others of his family, he thought ill of Lopez,
believing the man to be an adventurer, one who would too
probably fall into misfortune, however high he might now seem to
hold his head. He was certainly a man not standing on the solid
basis of land, or of Three per Cents, — those solidities to which
such as the Whartons and Fletchers are wont to trust. No doubt,
should there bo such fall, the man's wife would havo other help
than that of her rejected lover. She had a father, brother, and
cousins, who would also be there to aid her. The idea was, there-
fore, but a castle in the air. And yet it was dear to him. At any
rate he resolved that he would live for it, and that the woman
should still be his goddess, though she was the wife of another
man, and might now perhaps never even be seen by him. Then
there came upon him, immediately almost after her marriage, the
necessity of writing to her. Tho task was one which, of course,
he did not perform lightly.

220 THE PRIME MINISTER.

He never said a word of this to anybody else ; — but his brother
understood it all, and in a somewhat silent fashion fully sym-
pathised with him. John could not talk to him about love, or
mark passages of poetry for him to read, or deal with him at all
romantically ; but he could take care that his brother had the best
horses to ride, and the warmest corner out shooting, and that
everything in the house should be done for his brother's comfort.
As the squire looked and spoke at Longbarns, others looked and
spoke, — so that everybody knew that Mr. Arthur was to be con-
tradicted in nothing. Had he, just at this period, ordered a tree in
the park to be cut down, it would, I think, have been cut down,
without reference to the master ! But, perhaps, John's power was
most felt in the way in which he repressed the expressions of his
mother's high indignation. " Mean slut ! " she once said, speaking
of Emily in her eldest son's hearing. For the girl, to her think-
ing, had been mean and had been a slut. She had not known, —
so Mrs. Fletcher thought, — what birth and blood required of her.

" Mother," John Fletcher had said, "you would break Arthur's
heart if he heard you speak in that way, and I am sure you would
drive him from Longbarns. Keep it to yourself." The old woman
had shaken her head angrily, but she had endeavoured to do as
she had been bid.

" Isn't your brother riding that horse a little rashly ? " Reginald
Cotgrave said to John Fletcher in the hunting-field one day.

" I didn't observe," said John; "but whatever horse he's on,
he always rides rashly." Arthur was mounted on a long, raking
thorough-bred black animal, which he had bought himself about
a month ago, and which, having been run at steeplechases, rushed
at every fence as though he were going to swallow it. His brother
had begged him to put some rough-rider up till the horse could be
got to go quietly, but Arthur had persevered. And during the
whole of this day the squire had been in a tremor, lest there
should be some accident.

11 He used to have a little more judgment, I think," said Cot-
grave. " He went at that double just now as hard as the brute
could tear. If the horse hadn't done it all, where would he have
been ? "

" In the further ditch, I suppose. But you see the horse did do
it all."

This was all very well as an answer to Reginald Cotgrave, — to
whom it was not necessary that Fletcher should explain the cir-
cumstances. But the squire had known as well as Cotgrave that his
brother had been riding rashly, and ho had understood the reason
why. " I don't think a man ought to break his neck," he said,
"because he can't get everything that he wishes." The two
brothers were standing then together before the fire in the squire's
own room, having just come in from hunting.

11 Who is going to break his neck ? "

" They tell me tfoat you tried to to-day." ,

SHOWING THAT A MAN SHOULD NOT HOWL. 221

" Because I was riding a pulling horse. I'll back him to be
the biggest leaper and the quickest horse in Herefordshire."

" I dare say, — though for the matter of that the chances are very
much against it. But a man shouldn't ride so as to have those
things said of him."

" What is a fellow to do if he can't hold a horse ? n

"Get off him."

•' That's nonsense, John I "

" No, it's not. You know what I mean very well. If I were to
lose half my property to-morrow, don't you think it would cut mo
up a good deal ? "

" It would me, I know."

" But what would you think of me if I howled about it ?"

" Do I howl ?" asked Arthur angrily.

u Every man howls who is driven out of his ordinary course by
any trouble. A man howls if he goes about frowning always."

"Do I frown?"

" Or laughing."

"Do I laugh?"

11 Or galloping over the country like a mad devil who wants to

get rid of his debts by breaking his neck. JEquam memento .

You remember all that, don't you ? "

" I remember it ; but it isn't so easy to do it."

u rpr^ There are other things to be done in life except getting
married. You are going into Parliament."

"I don't know that."

" Gresham tells me there isn't a doubt about it. Think of that.
Fix your mind upon it. Don't take it only as an accident, but as
the thing you're to live for. If you'll do that, — if you'll so
manage that there shall be something to be done in Parliament
which only you can do, you won't ride a runaway horse as you did
that brute to-day." Arthur looked up into his brother's face
almost weeping. " We expect much of you, you know. I'm not
a man to do anything except be a good steward for the family
property, and keep the old houso from falling down. You're a
clever fellow, — so that between us, if we both do our duty, the
Fletchers may still thrive in the land. My house shall be your
house, and my wife your wife, and my children your children.
And then the honour you win shall be my honour. Hold up your
head, — and sell that beast." Arthur Fletcher squeezed a his
brother's hand and went away to dress.

&22 THE PRIME MINISTER*

CHAPTEE XXXIV.

THE SILVEEBRIDGE ELECTION".

About a month after this affair with the runaway horse Arthur
Fletcher went to Greshambury, preparatory to his final sojourn at
Silver bridge, for the week previous to his election. Greshambury,
the seat of Francis Gresham, Esq., who was a great man in these
parts, was about twenty miles from Silverbridge, and the tedious
work of canvassing the electors could not therefore be done from
thence ; — but he spent a couple of pleasant days with his old friend,
and learned what was being said and what was being done in and
about the borough. Mr. Gresham was a man, not as yet quite forty
years of age, very popular, with a large family, of great wealth,
and master of the county hounds. His father had been an em-
barrassed man, with a large estate ; but this Gresham had married
a lady with immense wealth, and had prospered in the world. Ho
was not an active politician. He did not himself care for Par-
liament, or for the good things which political power can give ;
and was on this account averse to the Coalition. He thought that
Sir Orlando Drought and the others were touching pitch and had
defiled themselves. But he was conscious that in so thinking he
was one of but a small minority ; and, bad as the world around
him certainly was, terrible as had been the fall of the glory of
old England, he was nevertheless content to live without loud
grumbling as long as the farmers paid him their rent, and the
labourers in his part of the country did not strike for wages, and
the land when sold would fetch thirty years' purchase. He had
not therefore been careful to ascertain that Arthur Fletcher would
pledge himself to oppose the Coalition before ho proffered his
ance in this matter of the borough. It would not be easy to find
such a candidate, or perhaps possible to bring him in when found.
The Fletchers had always been good Conservatives, and were
proper people to be in Parliament. A Conservative in Parliament
is, of course, obliged to promote a great many things which ho
does not really approve. Mr. Gresham quito understood that.
You can't have tests and qualifications, rotten boroughs and the
divine right of kings, back again. But as the glorious institutions
of the country are made to perish, one after the other, it is better
that they should receive the coup de grace tenderly from loving
hands than bo roughly throttled by Radicals. Mr. Gresham would
thank his stars that he could still preserve foxes down in his own
country, instead of doing any of this dirty work, — for let the best
be made of such work, still it was dirty, — and was willing, now as
always, to give his assistance, and if necessary to spend a little
money, to put a Fletcher into Parliament and to keep a Lopez
out.
There was to be a third candidate. That was the first news that

9DHE SILVERBRIDGE ELECTION* 223

Fletcher heard. u It will do us all the good in the world/' said
Mr. Gresham. " The rads in the borough are not satisfied with
Mr. Lopez. They say they don't know him. As long as a certain
set could make it be believed that he was the Duke's nominee they
were content to accept him; — even though he was not proposed
directly by the Duke's people in the usual way. But the Duke
has made himself understood at last. You have seen the Duke'a
letter ? " Arthur had not seen the Duke's letter, which had only
been published in the " Silverbridge Gazette" of that week, and
he now read it, sitting in Mr. Gresham's magistrate's-room, as a
certain chamber in the house had been called since the days of the
present squire's great-grandfather.

The Duke's letter was addressed to his recognised man of
business in those parts, and was as follows ; —

" Carlton Terrace, — March, 187—.
u My dear Mr. Moreton." (Mr. Moreton was the successor of
one Mr. Pothergill, who had reigned supreme in those parts under
the old Duke.)

"I am afraid that my wishes with regard to the borough
and the forthcoming election there of a member of Parliament are
not yet clearly understood, although I endeavoured to declare
them when I was at Gatherum Castle. I trust that no elector will
vote for this or that gentleman with an idea that the return of any
special candidate will please me. The ballot will of course prevent
me or any other man from knowing how an elector may vote ; —
but I beg to assure the electors generally that should they think
fit to return a member pledged to oppose the Government of which
I form a part, it would not in any way change my cordial feelings
towards the town. I may perhaps be allowed to add that, in my
opinion, no elector can do his duty except by voting for the can-
didate whom he thinks best qualified to serve the country. In
regard to the gentlemen who are now before the constituency, I
have no feeling for one rather than for the other ; and had I any
such feeling I should not wish it to actuate the vote of a single
elector. I should be glad if this letter could be published so as to
be brought under the eyes of the electors generally.
" Yours faithfully,

"Omnium."

When the Duke Bald that he feared that his wishes were not
understood, and spoke of the inefficacy of his former declaration, he
was aUuding of course to the Duchess and to Mr. Sprugeon. Mr.
'Sprugeon guessed that it might be so, and, still wishing to have the
Duchess for his good friend, was at once assiduous in explaining to
his friends in the borough that even this letter did not mean any-
thing. A Prime Minister was bound to say that kind of thing !
But the borough, if it wished to please the Duke, must return
Lopez in spite of the Duke's letter. Such was Mr. Sprugeon' s

224 TIIE PRIME MINISTER.

doctrine. Bui he did not carry Mr. Sprout with him. Mr. Sprout
at once saw his opportunity, and suggested to Mr. Du Boung, tho
local brewer, that he should come forward. Du Boung was a man
rapidly growing into provincial eminence, and jumped at the offer.
Consequently there were three candidates. Du Boung came for-
ward as a Conservative prepared to give a cautious, hut very
cautious, support to the Coalition. Mr. Du Boung, in his printed
address, said very sweet things of the Duke generally. The
borough was blessed by the vicinity of the Duke. But, looking at
the present perhaps unprecedented crisis in affairs, Mr. Du Boung
was prepared to give no more than a very cautious support to the
Duke's Government. Arthur Fletcher read Mr. Du Boung's
address immediately after the Duke's letter.

" The more the merrier," said Arthur.

" Just so. Du Boung will not rob you of a vote, but he will
cut the ground altogether from under the other man's feet. You
see that as far as actual political programme goes there isn't
much to choose between any of you. You are all Government
men."

" With a difference."

" One man in these days is so like another," continued Gresham
sarcastically, " that it requires good eyes to see the shades of the
colours."

" Then you'd better support Du Boung," said Arthur.

" I think you've just a turn in your favour. Besides, I couldn't
really carry a vote myself. As for Du Boung, I'd sooner have him
than a foreign cad like Lopez." Then Arthur Fletcher frowned
and Mr. Gresham became confused, remembering the catastrophe
about the young lady whose story he had heard. " Du Boung
used to be plain English as Bung before he got rich and mado his
name beautiful," continued Gresham, " but I suppose Mr. Lopez
does come of foreign extraction."

"I don't know what he comes from," said Arthur moodily.
"They tell me he's a gentleman. However, as we are to have a
contest, I hope he mayn't win."

"Of course you do. And he shan't win. Nor shall the great
Du Boung. You shall win, and become Prime Mi . I make

mo a peer. Would you like papa to be Lord Greshambury ? " he
said to a little girl, who then rushed into the room.

"No, I wouldn't. I'd like papa to give me the pony which the
man wants to sell out in tho yard."

"She's quite right, Fletcher," said tho squire. "I'm much
more likely to be able to buy them ponies as simple Frank Gresham
than I should be if I had a lord's coronet to pay for."

This was on a Saturday, and on the following Monday Mr.
Gresham drove the candidate over to Silverbridge and started him
on his work of canvassing. Mr. Du Boung had been busy ever
since Mr. Sprout's brilliant suggestion had been made, and Lopez
had been in the field even before him. Each one of the candidates

THE SILVERBRIDGE ELECTION. 225

called at the house of every elector in the borough, — and every
man in the borough was an elector. When they had been at work
for four or five days each candidate assured the borough that ho
had already received promises of votes sufficient to insure his
success, and each candidate was as anxious as ever, — nay was more
rabidly anxious than ever, — to secure the promise of a single vote.
Hints were made by honest citizens of the pleasure they would
have in supporting this or that gentleman, — for the honest citizens
assured one gentleman after the other of the satisfaction they had
in seeing so all-sufficient a candidate in the borough, — if the
smallest pecuniary help were given them, even a day's pay, so that
their poor children might not be injured by their going to the poll.
But the candidates and their agents were stern in their replies to
such temptations. "That's a dodge of that rascal Sprout," said
Sprugeon to Mr. Lopez. "That's one of Sprout's men. If he
could get half-a-crown from you it would be all up with us." But
though Sprugeon called Sprout a rascal, he laid the same bait both
for Du Boung and for Fletcher; — but laid it in vain. Everybody
said that it was a very clean election. "A brewer standing,
and devil a glass of beer ! " said one old elector who had re-
membered better things when the borough never heard of a
contest.

On the third day of his canvass Arthur Fletcher with his gang
of agents and followers behind him met Lopez with his gang in
the street. It was probable that they would so meet, and Fletcher
had resolved what he would do when such a meeting took place.
He walked up to Lopez, and with a kindly smile offered his hand.
The two men, though they had never been intimate, had known
each other, and Fletcher was determined to show that he would
not quarrel with a man because that man had been his favoured
rival. In comparison with that other matter this affair of the can-
didature was of course trivial. But Lopez who had, as the reader
may remember, made some threat about a horsewhip, had come to
a resolution of a very different nature. He put his arms a-kimbo,
resting his hands on his hips, and altogether declined the proffered
civility. "You had better walk on," he said, and then stood,
scowling, on the spot till the other should pass by. Fletcher
looked at him for a moment, then bowed and passed on. At least
a dozen men saw what had taken place, and were aware that Mr.
Lopez had expressed his determination to quarrel personally with
Mr. Fletcher, in opposition to Mr. Fletcher's expressed wish for
amity. And before they had gone to bed that night all the dozen
knew the reason why. Of course there was some one then at
Silverbridge clever enough to find out that Arthur Fletcher had
been in love with Miss Wharton, but that Miss Wharton had lately
been married to Mr. Lopez. No doubt the incident added a
pleasurable emotion to the excitement caused by the election at
Silverbridge generally. A personal quarrel is attractive every-
where. The expectation of such an occurrence will bring together

226 tfEE PEIME MINISTER.

the whole House of Commons. And of course this quarrel was
very attractive in Silverbridge. There were some Metcherites and
Lopezites in the quarrel ; as there were also Du Boungites, who
maintained that when gentlemen could not canvass without quar-
relling in the streets they were manifestly unfit to represent such a
borough as Silverbridge in Parliament ; — and that therefore Mr.
Du Boung should be returned.

Mr. Gresham was in the town that day, though not till after the
occurrence, and Fletcher could not avoid speaking of it. " The
man must be a cur," said Gresham.

"It would make no difference in the world to me," said Arthur,
struggling hard to prevent signs of emotion from showing them-
selves in his face, ' ' were it not that he has married a lady whom I
have long known and whom I greatly esteem." He felt that he
could hardly avoid all mention of the marriage, and yet was deter-
mined that he would say no word that his brother would call
" howling."

"There has been no previous quarrel, or offence?" asked
Gresham.

"None in the least." When Arthur so spoke he forgot alto-
gether the letter he had written; nor, had he then remembered it,
would he have thought it possible that that letter should have given
offence. He had been the sufferer, not Lopez. This man had
robbed him of his happiness; and, though it would have been
foolish in him to make a quarrel for a grievance such as that, there
might have been some excuse had he done so. It had taken him
some time to perceive that greatly as this man had injured him,
there had been no injustice done to him, and that therefore there
should be no complaint made by him. But that this other man
should complain was to him unintelligible.

"He is not worth your notice," said Mr. Gresham. "He is
simply not a gentleman, and does not know how to behave himself.
I am very sorry for the young lady ; — that's all." At this allusion
to Emily Arthur felt that his face became red with the rising
blood ; and he felt also that his friend should not have spoken thus
openly, — thus irreverently,— on so sacred a subject. But at the
moment ho said nothing further. As far as his canvass was con-
cerned it had been successful, and he was beginning to feel sure
that he would be the new member. He endeavoured therefore to
drown his sorrow in this coming triumph.

But Lopez had been by no means gratified with his emu
with the conduct of the borough generally. He had ali>
to feel that the Duchess and Mr. Sprugeon and tho borough had
thrown him over shamefully. Immediately on his arrival in
Silverbridge a local attorney had with the blandest possible smile
asked him for a cheque for £500. Of course there mus.
spent at once, and of course the money must come out of the
candidate's pocket. He had known all this beforehand, and yet
the demand for the money had come upon him as an injury. He

THE SILVEEBEIDGE ELECTION. 227

gave the cheque, but showed clearly by his manner that he re-
sented the application. This did not tend to bind to him more
closely the services of those who were present when the demand
was made. And then, as he began his canvass, he found that he
could not conjure at all with the name of the Duke, or even with
that of the Duchess; and was told on the second day by Mr.
Sprugeon himself that he had better fight the battle " on his own
hook." Now his own hook in Silverbridge was certainly not a
strong hook. Mr. Sprugeon was still of opinion that a good deal
might be done by judicious manipulation, and went so far as to
suggest that another cheque for £500 in the hands of Mr. Wise, the
lawyer, would be effective. But Lopez did not give the other
cheque, and Sprugeon whispered to him that the Duke had been
too many for the Duchess. Still he had persevered, and a set of
understrappers around him, who would make nothing out of the
election without his candidature, assured him from time to time
that he would even yet come out all right at the ballot. With such
a hope still existing he had not scrupled to affirm in his speeches
that the success of his canvass had been complete. But, on the
morning of the day on which he met Fletcher in the street, Mr.
Du Boung had called upon him accompanied by two of the Du
Boung agents and by Mr. Sprugeon himself, — and had suggested
that he, Lopez, should withdraw from the contest, so that Du Boung
might be returned, and that the ' ' liberal interests " of the borough
might not be sacrificed.

This was a heavy blow, and one which Ferdinand Lopez was not
the man to bear with equanimity. From the moment in which
the Duchess had mentioned the borough to him, he had regarded
the thing as certain. After a while he had understood that his
return must be accompanied by more trouble and greater expense
than he had at first anticipated ; — but still he had thought that it
was all but sure. He had altogether misunderstood the nature of
the influence exercised by the Duchess, and the nature also of the
Duke's resolution. Mr. Sprugeon had of course wished to have a
candidate, and had allured him. Perhaps he had in some degree
been ill-treated by the borough. But he was a man, whom the
feeling of injustice to himself would drive almost to frenzy, though
he never measured the amount of his own injustice to others.
When the proposition was made to him, he scowled at them all,
and declared that he would fight the borough to the last. ' ' Then
you'll let Mr. Fletcher in to a certainty," said Mr. Sprout. _ Now
there was an idea in the borough that, although all the candidates
were ready to support the Duke's government, Mr. Du Boung and
Mr. Lopez were the two Liberals. Mr. Du Boung was sitting in
the room when the appeal was made, and declared that he feared
that such would be the result. "I'll tell you what I'll do," said
Lopez ; " I'll toss up which of us retires." Mr. Sprout, on behalf
of Mr. Du Boung, protested against that proposition. Mr. Du
Boung, who was a gentleman of great local influence, was in

22$ THE PRIME MINISTER.

possession of fourth-fifths of the liberal interests of the borough.
Even were he to retire Mr. Lopez could not get in. Mr. Sprout
declared that this was known to all the borough at large. lie,
Sprout, was sorry that a gentleman like Mr. Lopez should have
been brought down there under false ideas. He had all through
told Mr. Sprugeon that the Duke had been in earnest, but Mr.
Sprugeon had not comprehended the position. It had been a pity.
But anybody who understood the borough could see with one eye
that Mr. Lopez had not a chance. If Mr. Lopez would retire Mr.
Du Boung would no doubt be returned. If Mr. Lopez went to tho
poll, Mr. Fletcher would probably be the new member. This was
the picture as it was painted by Mr. Sprout, — who had, even then,
heard something of the loves of the two candidates, and who Lad
thought that Lopez would be glad to injure Arthur Fletcher's
chances of success. So far ho was not wrong; — but the sense of
tho injury done to himself oppressed Lopez so much that he could
not guide himself by reason. The idea of retiring was very painful
to him, and he did not believe these men. He thought it to be
quite possible that they were thereto facilitate the return of Arthur
Fletcher. Ho had never even heard of Du Boung till he had come
to Silverbridge two or three days ago. He still could not believe
that Du Boung would bo returned. Ho thought over it all for a
moment, and then he gave his answer. ' ' I've been brought down
here to fight, and I'll fight it to the last," he said. " Then you'll
hand over the borough to Mr. Fletcher," said Sprout, getting up
and ushering Mr. De Boung out of the room.

It was after that, but on the same day, that Lopez and Fletcher
met each other in the street. The affair did not take a minute,
and then they parted, each on his own way. In the course of that
ovening Mr. Sprugeon told his candidate that he, Sprugeon,
could not concern himself any further in that election. He was
very sorry for what had occurred ; — very sorry indeed. It was no
doubt a pity that the Duke had been so firm. "But," — and Mr.
Sprugeon shrugged his shoulders as he spoke, — " when a noble-
man liko tho Duke chooses to have a way of his own, he must
have it." Mr. Sprugeon went on to declare that any further
candidature would bo waste of money, waste of time, and waste of
energy, and then signified his intention of retiring, as far as this
election went, into private life. When asked, he acknowledged
that they who had been acting with him had come to tho saino
resolve. Mr. Lopez had in fact come there as the Duke's nominee,
and ae the Duko had no nominee, Mr. Lopez was in fact " no-
where."

M I don't suppose that any man was ever so treated before, since
members were first returned to Parliament," said Lopez.

"Well, sir; — yes, sir; it is a little hard. But, you see, sir, her
Grace meant tho best. Hor Graco did mean the host, no doubt.
It may be, sir, there Mas a little misunderstanding ; — a little
misunderstanding at the Oastle, sir." Then Mr. Sprugeon retired,

THE SILVERBRIDGE ELECTION.

and Lopez understood that he was to see nothing more of the iron-
monger.

Of course there was nothing for him now but to retire ; — to
shake the dust off his feet and get out of Silverbridge as quickly as
he could. But his friends had all deserted him and he did not
know how to retire. He had paid £5*00, and he had a strong
opinion that a portion at least of the money should be returned to
him. He had a keen sense of ill-usage, and at the same time a
feeling that he ought not to run out of the borough like a whipt
dog, without showing his face to any one. But his strongest
sensation at this moment was one of hatred against Arthur
Fletcher. He was sure that Arthur Fletcher would be the new
member. He did not put the least trust in Mr. Du Boung. He
had taught himself really to think that Fletcher had insulted him
by writing to his wife, and that a further insult had been offered
to him by that meeting in the street. He had told his wife that he
would ask Fletcher to give up the borough, and that he would
make that request with a horsewhip in his hand. It was too late
now to say anything of the borough, but it might not be too late
for the horsewhip. He had a great desire to make good that
threat as far as the horsewhip was concerned, — having an idea
that he would thus lower Fletcher in his wife's eyes. It was not
that he was jealous, — not jealous according to the ordinary mean-
ing of the word. His wife's love to himself had been too recently
given and too warmly maintained for such a feeling as that. But
there was a rancorous hatred in his heart against the man, and a
conviction that his wife at any rate esteemed the man whom he
hated. And then would he not make his retreat from the borough
with more honour if before he left he could horsewhip his suc-
cessful antagonist ? We, who know the feeling of Englishmen
generally 'better than Mr. Lopez did, would say — certainly not.
We would think that such an incident would by no means redound
to the credit of Mr. Lopez. And he himself, probably, at cooler
moments, would have seen the folly of such an idea. But anger
about the borough had driven him mad, and now in his wretched-
ness the suggestion had for him a certain charm. The man had
outraged all propriety by writing to his wife. Of course he would
be justified in horsewhipping him. But there were difficulties. A
man is not horsewhipped simply because you wish to horsewhip
him.

In the evening, as he was sitting alone, he got a note from Mr.
Sprugeon. " Mr. Sprugeon's compliments. Doesn't Mr. Lopez
think an address to the electors should appear in to-morrow's
'Gazette,' — very short and easy; — something like the following."
Then Mr. Sprugeon added a very " short and easy letter" to the
electors of the borough of Silverbridge, in which Mr. Lopez was
supposed to tell them that although his canvass promised to him
every success, he felt that he owed it to the borough to retire lest ho
ehould injure the borough by splitting the liberal interest with

230 THE PRIME MINISTER.

their much, respected fellow-townsman, Mr. Du Boung. In the
course of the evening he did copy that letter, and sent it out to the
newspaper office. He must retire, and it was better for him that
he should retire after some recognised fashion. But he wrote
another letter also, and sent it oyer to the opposition hotel. The
other letter was as follows ; —

" Sir,—

"Before this election began you were guilty of gross im-
pertinence in writing a letter to my wife, — to her extreme annoy-
ance and to my most justifiable anger. Any gentleman would
think that the treatment you had already received at her hands
would have served to save her from such insult, but there are men
who will never take a lesson without a beating. And now, since
you have been here, you have presumed to offer to shake hands
with me in the street, though you ought to have known that I
should not choose to meet you on friendly terms after what has
taken place. I now write to tell you that I shall carry a horse-
whip while I am here, and that if I meet you in the streets again
before I leave the town I shall use it.

" Ferdinand Lopez.

" Mr. Arthur Fletcher."

This letter he sent at once to his enemy, and then sat late into
the night thinking of his threat and of the manner in which he
would follow it up. If he could only get one fair blow at Fletcher
his purpose, he thought, would be achieved. In any matter of
horsewhipping the truth hardly ever gets itself correctly known.
The man who has given the first blow is generally supposed to
have thrashed the other. What might follow, though it might be
inconvenient, must be borne. The man had insulted him by
writing to his wife, and the sympathies of the world, he thought,
would be with him. To give him his due, it must be owned that
ho had no personal fear as to the encounter.

That night Arthur Fletcher had gone over to Greshambury, and
on the following morning he returned with Mr. Gresham.
heaven's sake look at that ! " he said, handing the letter to his
friend.

"Did you ever write to his wife?" asked Gresham, when he
road it.

"Yos; — I did. All this is dreadful to me ; — dreadful. Well; —
you know how it used to be with me. I need not go into all that ;
need I?"

11 Don't say a word more than you think necessary."

" When you asked me to stand for the place I had not heard that
he thought of being a candidate. I wrote and told her e
told her also that had I known it bofore I would not have come
here."

" I don't quite see that," said Gresham.

THE SILVEKBKIDGE ELECTION. 231

" Perhaps not ; — perhaps I was a fool. But we needn't go into
that. At any rate there was no insult to him. I wrote in the
simplest language."

"Looking at it all round I think you had better not have
written."

1 ' You wouldn't say so if you saw the letter. I'm sure you
wouldn't. I had known her all my life. My brother is married
to her cousin. Oh heavens ! we had been all but engaged. I
would have done anything for her. Was it not natural that I
should tell her ? As far as the language was concerned the letter
was one to be read at Charing Cross."

" He says that she was annoyed and insulted."

11 Impossible ! It was a letter that any man might have written
to any woman."

"Well;— you have got to take care of yourself at any rate.
What will you do ? "

"What ought I to do?"

"Go to the police." Mr. Gresham had himself once, when
young, thrashed a man who had offended him, and had then
thought himself much aggrieved because the police had been called
in. But that had been twenty years ago, and Mr. Gresham's
opinions had been matured and, perhaps, corrected by age.

" No ; I won't do that," said Arthur Fletcher.

" That's what you ought to do."

" I couldn't do that."

" Then take no notice of the letter and carry a fairly big stick.
It should be big enough to hurt him a good deal, but not to
do him any serious damage." At that moment an agent came
in with news of the man's retirement from the contest. " Has he
left the town ? " asked Gresham. No ; — he had not left the town,
nor had he been seen by any one that morning. * ' You had better
let me go out and get the stick, before you show yourself," said
Gresham. And so the stick was selected.

As the two walked down the street together, almost the first
thing they saw was Lopez standing at his hotel door with a cutting
whip in his hand. He was at that moment quite alone, but on the
opposite side of the street there was a policeman, — one of the
borough constables, — very slowly making his way along the pave-
ment. His movement, indeed, was so slow that any one watch-
ing him would have come to the conclusion that that particular
part of the High Street had some attraction for him at that special
moment. Alas, alas ! How age will alter the spirit of a man !
Twenty years since Frank Gresham would have thought any one
to be a mean miscreant who would have interposed a policeman
between him and his foe. But it is to be feared that while
selecting that stick he had said a word which was causing the
constable to loiter on the pavement !

But Gresham turned no eye to the policeman as ho walked on
with his friend, and Fletcher did, not see the man. " What an ass

232 THE PEIMB MINISTER.

lie is ! " said Fletcher, — as lie got tlie handle of the stick well into
his hand. Then Lopez advanced to them with his whip raised ;
but as he did so the policeman came across the street quickly, but
very quietly, and stood right before him. The man was so
thoroughly in the way of the aggrieved wretch that it was out of
the question that he should touch Fletcher with his whip.

"Do you usually walk about attended by a policeman?" said
Lopez, with all the scorn which he knew how to throw into his
voice.

" I didn't know that the man was here," said Fletcher.

"You may tell that to the marines. All the borough shall
know what a coward you are." Then he turned round and
addressed the street, but still under the shadow, as it were, of the
policeman's helmet. ' ' This man who presumes to offer himself as
a candidate to represent Silverbridge in Parliament has insulted
my wife. And now, because he fears that I shall horsewhip him,
he goes about the street under the care of a policeman."

" This is intolerable," said Fletcher, turning to his friend.

"Mr. Lopez," said Gresham, "I am sorry to say that I must
give you in charge ; — unless you will undertake to leave the town
without interfering further with Mr. Fletcher either by word or
deed."

"I will undertake nothing," said Lopez. "The man has in-
sulted my wife, and is a coward."

About two o'clock on the afternoon of that day Mr. Lopez
appeared before the Silverbridge bench of magistrates, and was
there sworn to keep the peace to Mr. Fletcher for the next six
months. After that he was allowed to leave the town, and was
back in London, with his wife in Belgrave Mansions, to dinner that
evening.

On the day but one after this the ballot was taken, and at eight
o'clock on the evening of that day Arthur Fletcher was declared to
bo duly elected. But Mr. Du Boung ran him very hard.

The numbers were —

Fl/ETCUER . . . 315

Du Boung ... 308

Mr. Du Boung's friends during these two last days had not
hesitated to make what uso they could on behalf of their own
candidate of the Lopez and Flotcher quarrel. If Mr. Fletcher had
insulted the other man's wife, surely he could not be a proper
member for Silverbridge. And then the row was declared to have
been altogether discreditable. Two strangers had como into this
peaceful town and had absolutely quarrelled with sticks and whips
m the street, calling each other opprobrious names. Would it not
be better that they should elect their own respectable townsman ?
All this was nearly effective. But, in spite of all, Arthur Fletcher
was at ]&jS returned.

LOPEZ BACK IN LONDON. 233

CHAPTER XXXV.

LOPEZ BACK IN LONDON.

Lopez, as he returned to town, recovered something of his senses,
though he still fancied that Arthur Fletcher had done him a posi-
tive injury by writing to his wife. But something of that mad-
ness left him which had come from his deep sense of injury, both
as to the letter and as to the borough, and he began to feel that
he had been wrong about the horsewhip. He was very low in
Gjurits on this return journey. The money which he had spent
had been material to him, and the loss of it for the moment left
him nearly bare. While he had had before his eyes the hope of
being a member of Parliament he had been able to buoy himself
up. The position itself would have gone very far with Sexty
Parker, and would, he thought, have had some effect even with
his father-in-law. But now he was returning a beaten man.
Who is there that has not felt that fall from high hope to utter
despair which comes from some single failure ? As he thought
of this he was conscious that his anger had led him into great
imprudence at Silverbridge. He had not been circumspect as it
specially behoved a man to be surrounded by such difficulties as
his. All his life he had been schooling his temper so as to keep
it under control, — sometimes with great difficulty, but always with
a consciousness that in his life everything might depend on it.
Now he had, alas, allowed it to get the better of him. No doubt
he had been insulted; — but, nevertheless, he had been wrong to
speak of a horsewhip.

His one great object must now be to conciliate his father-in-
law, and he had certainly increased his difficulty in doing this by
his squabble down at Silverbridge. Of course the whole thing
would be reported in the London papers, and of course the story
would be told against him, as the respectabilities of the town had
been opposed to him. But he knew himself to be clever, and he
still hoped that he might overcome these difficulties. Then it
occurred to him that in doing this he must take care to have his
wife entirely on his side. He did not doubt her love ; he did not
in the least doubt her rectitude ; — but there was the lamentable
fact that she thought well of Arthur Fletcher. It might be that
he had been a little too imperious with his wife. It suited his
disposition to be imperious within his own household ; — to be
imperious out of it, if that were possible ; — but he was conscious
of having had a fall at Silverbridge, and he must for a while take
in some sail.

He had telegraphed to her, acquainting her with his defeat, and
telling her to expect his return. " Oh, Ferdinand," she said, " I
am so unhappy about this. It has made me so wretched ! "

" Better luck next time," he said with his sweetest smile. " It

234 THE PRIME MINISTER.

is no good groaning over spilt milk. They haven't treated me
really well, — have they ?"

11 1 suppose not, — though I do not quite understand it all."

He was burning to abuse Arthur Fletcher, but he abstained.
He would abstain at any rate for the present moment. " Dukes
and duchesses are no doubt very grand people," he said, " but
it is a pity they should not know how to behave honestly, as they
expect others to behave to them. * The Duchess has thrown me
over in the most infernal way. I really can't understand it.
When I think of it I am lost in wonder. The truth, I suppose, is,
that there has been some quarrel between him and her."

"Who will get in?"

" Oh, Du Boung, no doubt." He did not think so, but he could
not bring himself to declare the success of his enemy to her. " The
people there know him. Your old friend is as much a stranger
there as I am. By-the-way he and I had a little row in the place."

" A row, Ferdinand ! "

"You needn't look like that, my pet. I haven't killed him.
But he came up to speak to me in the street, and I told him what
I thought about his writing to you." On hearing this Emily
looked very wretched. "I could not restrain myself from doing
that. Come ; — you must admit that he shouldn't have written."

11 He meant it in kindness."

11 Then he shouldn't have meant it. Just think of it. Suppose
that I had been making up to any girl, — which by-the-bye I never
did but to one in my life," — then he put his arm round her waist
and kissed her, "and she were to have married some one else.
What would have been said of me if I had begun to correspond
with her immediately ? Don't suppose I am blaming you, dear.'*

" Certainly I do not suppose that," said Emily.

" But you must admit that it were rather strong." He paused,
but she said nothing. " Only I suppose you can bring yourself to
admit nothing against him. However, so it was. There was a
row, and a policeman came up, and they mado me give a promise
that I didn't mean to shoot him or anything of that kind." As
she heard this she turned pale, but said nothing. " Of course I
didn't want to shoot him. I wishod him to know what I thought
about it, and I told him. I hate to trouble you with all this, but
I couldn't bear that you shouldn't know it ali."

"It is very sad!"

" Sad enough ! I have had plenty to bear I can tell you.
Everybody seemed to turn away from me there. Everybody
deserted me." As he said this ho could perceive that he must
obtain her sympathy by recounting his own miseries and not
Arthur Fletchers sins. ".I was all alone and hardly knew how
to hold up my head against so much wretchedness. And then 1
found myself called upon to pay an enormous sum for my
expenses."

"Oh, Ferdinand!"

LOPEZ BACK IN LONDON. 235

" Think of their demanding £500 ! "

"Did you pay it?"

" Yes, indeed. . I had no alternative. Of course they took care
to come for that before they talked of my resigning. I believe it
was all planned beforehand. The whole thing seems to me to have
been a swindle from beginning to the end. By heaven, I'm
almost inclined to think that the Duchess knew all about it
herself!"

"About the £500!"

" Perhaps not the exact sum, but the way in which the thing
was to be dono. In these days one doesn't know whom to trust.
Men, and women too, have become so dishonest that nobody is safe
anywhere. It has been awfully hard upOn me, — awfully hard. I
don't suppose that there was ever a moment in my life when the
loss of £500 would have been so much to me as it is now. The
question is, what will your father do for us ? " Emily could not
but remember her husband's intense desire to obtain money from
her father not yet three months since, as though all the world
depended on his getting it, — and his subsequent elation, as though
all his sorrows were over for ever, because the money had been
promised. And now, — almost immediately, — he was again in the
same position. She endeavoured to judge him kindly, but a feeling
of insecurity in reference to his affairs struck her at once and
made her heart cold. Everything had been achieved, then, by a
gift of £3000, — surely a small sum to effect such a result with a
man living as her husband lived. And now the whole £3000 was
gone ; — surely a large sum to have vanished in so short a time !
Something of the uncertainty of business she could understand,
but a business must be perilously uncertain if subject to such vicissi-
tudes as these ! But as ideas of this nature crowded themselves
into her mind she told herself again and again that she had taken
him for better and for worse. If the worse were already coming
she would still be true to her promise. " You had better tell papa
everything," she said.

' ' Had it not better come from you ? "

"No, Ferdinand. Of course I will do as you bid me. I will
do anything that I can do. But you had better tell him. His
nature is such that he will respect you more if it come from your-
self. And then it is so necessary that he should know all ;— all."
She put whatever emphasis she knew how to use upon this
word.

" You could tell him — all, as well as I."

" You would not bring yourself to tell it to me, nor could I un-
derstand it. He will understand everything, and if he thinks that
you have told him everything, he will at any rate respect you."

He sat silent for a while meditating, feeling always and most
acutely that he had been ill-used, — never thinking for an instant
that he had ill-used others. " £3000, you know, was no fortune
for your father to give you ! " She had no answer to make, but

236 THB PEIMB MINISTER.

she groaned in spirit as she heard the accusation. " Don't you
feel that yourself ?"

u I know nothing about money, Ferdinand. If you had told me
to speak to him about it before we were married I would have
done so."

1 • He ought to have spoken to me. It is marvellous how close-
fisted an old man can be. He can't take it with him." Then he
sat for half an hour in moody silence, during which she was busy
with her needle. After that he jumped up, with a manner altogether
altered, — gay, only that the attempt was too visible to deceive even
her, — and shook himself, as though he were ridding himself of his
trouble. "You are right, old girl. You are always right, —
almost. I will go to your father to-morrow, and tell him every-
thing. It isn't so very much that I want him to do. Things will
all come right again. I'm ashamed that you should have seen me
in this way; — but I have been disappointed about the election,
and troubled about that Mr. Fletcher. You shall not see me give
way again like this. Give me a kiss, old girl."

She kissed him, but she could not even pretend to recover
herself as he had done. "Had we not better give up the
brougham?" she said.

" Certainly not. For heaven's sake do not speak in that way !
You do not understand things."

" No; certainly I do not."

" It isn't that I haven't the means of living, but that in my
business money is so often required for instant use. And situated
as I am at present an addition to my capital would enable me to
do so much!" She certainly did not understand it, but she had
sufficient knowledge of the world and sufficient common sense to
be aware that their presont rate of expenditure ought to be matter
of importance to a man who felt the loss of £o00 as he felt that loss
at Silverbridge.

On the next morning Lopez was at Mr. Wharton's chambers
oarly, — so early that the lawyer had not yet reached them. He
had resolved, — not that he would tell everything, for such
men never even intend to tell everything, — but that he would
tell a good deal. He must, if possible, affect the mind of the
old man in two ways. He must ingratiate himself; — and at the
same time make it understood that Emily's comfort in life would
depend very much on her father's generosity. The first must be
first accomplished, if possible, — and then the second, as to which
he could certainly produce at any rate belief. Ho had not married
a rich man's daughter without an intention of getting the rich
man's money ! Mr. Wharton would understand that. If the
worst came to the worst, Mr. Wharton must of course maintain
his daughter, — and his daughter's husband ! But things had not
como to the worst as yet, and he did not intend on the present
occasion to represent that view of his affairs to his father-in-law.

Mr, Wharum when he entered his chambers found Lopez seated

LOPEZ BACK IN LONDON. 23?

there. He was himself at this moment very unhappy. He had
renewed his quarrel with Everett,— or Everett rather had renewed
the quarrel with him. There had been words between them about
money lost at cards. Hard words had been used, and Everett had
told his father that if either of them were a gambler it was not he.
Mr. Wharton had resented this bitterly and had driven his son
from his presence, — and now the quarrel made him very wretched.
He certainly was sorry that he had called his son a gambler, but
his son had been, as he thought, inexcusable in the retort which
he had made. He was a man to whom his friends gave credit for
much sternness ; — but still he was one who certainly had no happi-
ness in the world independent of his children. His daughter had
left him, not as he thought under happy auspices,' — and he was
now, at this moment, soft-hearted and tender in his regards as to
her. What was there in the world for him but his children ? And
now ho felt himself to be alone and destitute. He was already
tired of whist at the Eldon. That which had been a delight to
him once or twice a week, became almost loathsome when it was
renewed from day to day ; — and not the less when his son told him
that he also was a gambler. " So you have come back from Silver-
bridge P " he said.

11 Yes, sir ; I have come back, not exactly triumphant. A man
should not expect to win always." Lopez had resolved to pluck
up his spirit and carry himself like a man.

"You seem to have got into some scrape down there, besides
losing your election."

1 ' Oh ; you have seen that in the papers already. I have come
to tell you of it. As Emily is concerned in it you ought to know."

" Emily concerned ! How is she concerned ?"

Then Lopez told the whole story,— after his own fashion, and
yet with no palpable lie. Fletcher had written to her a letter
which he had thought to be very offensive. On hearing this, Mr.
Wharton looked very grave, and asked for the letter. Lopez said
that he had destroyed it, not thinking that such a document should
be preserved. Then he went on to explain that it had had refer-
ence to the election, and that he had thought it to be highly im-
proper that Eletcher should write to his wife on that or on any
other subject. " It depends very much on the letter," said the
old man.

" But on any subject, — after what has passed."

" They were very old friends."

11 Of course I will not argue with you, Mr. Wharton; but I own
that it angered me. It angered me very much, — very much in-
deed. I took it to be an insult to her, and when he accosted me in
the street down at Silverbridge I told him so. I may not have
born very wise, but I did it on her behalf. Surely you can under-
stand that such a letter might make a man angry."

" What did he say ? "

"That he would do anything for her sake, — even retire from

238 the prime minister.

Silverbridge if his friends would let him." Mr. Wharton scratched
his head, and Lopez saw that he was perplexed. " Should he have
offered to do anything for her sake, after what had passed ? "

"I know the man so well," said Mr. Wharton, "that I cannot
and do not believe him to have harboured an improper thought in
reference to my child."

" Perhaps it was an indiscretion only."

" Perhaps so. I cannot say. And then they took you before
the magistrates ?"

" Yes ; — in my anger I had threatened him. Then there was a
policeman and a row. And I had to swear that I would not hurt
him. Of course I have no wish to hurt him."

"I suppose it ruined your chance at Silverbridge ?"

" I suppose it did." This was a lie, as Lopez had retired before
the row took place. " What I care for most now is that you should
not think that I have misbehaved myself."

The story had been told very well, and Mr. Wharton was almost
disposed to sympathize with his son-in-law. That Arthur Fletcher
had meant nothing that could bo regarded as offensive to his
daughter he was quite sure ; — but it might be that in making an
offer intended to be generous he had used language which the con-
dition of the persons concerned made indiscreet. " I suppose," he
said, " that you spent a lot of money at Silverbridge ? " This gave
Lopez the opening that he wanted, and he described the manner in
which the £500 had been extracted from him. " You can't play
that game for nothing," said Mr. Wharton.

" And just at present I could very ill afford it. I should not
have done it had I not felt it a pity to neglect such a chance of
rising in the world. After all, a seat in the British House of
Commons is an honour."

" Yes ; — yes ; — yes."

' ' And the Duchess, when she spoke to me about it, was so certain."

" I will pay the £500," said Mr. Wharton.

"Oh, sir, that is generous ! " Then he got up and took the old
man's hands. " Some day, when you are at liberty, I hope that
you will allow me to explain to you the exact state of my a Hairs.
When I wrote to you from Como I told you that I would wi*h to
do so. You do not object ?"

"No;" said the lawyer, — but with infinite hesitation in his
voice. "No; I don't object. But I do not know how I could
servo them. I shall be busy just now, but I will give you the
cheque. And if you and Emily have nothing bettor to do, come
and dine to-morrow." Lopez with real tears in his eyes took the
choque, and promised to come on the morrow. "And in the
meantime I wish you would see Everett." Of course he promised
that he would see Everett.

Again he was exalted, on this occasion not so much by the
acquisition of the money as by the growing conviction that his
father-in-law was a cow capable of being milked, And the quarrel

LOPEZ BACK IN LONDON. 289

between Everett and his father might clearly be useful to him.
He might either serve the old man by reducing Everett to proper
submission, or he might manage to creep into the empty space
which the son's defection would make in the father's heart and the
father's life. He might at any rate make himself necessary to the
old man, and become such a part of the household in Manchester
Square as to be indispensable. Then the old man would every day
become older and more in want of assistance. He thought that he
saw the way to worm himself into confidence, and, so on, into
possession. The old man was not a man of iron as he had feared,
but quite human, and if properly managed, soft and malleable.

He saw Sexty Parker in the city that day, and used his cheque
for £500 in some triumphant way, partly cajoling and partly
bullying his poor victim. To Sexty also he had to tell his own
story about the row down at Silverbridge. He had threatened to
thrash the fellow in the street, and the fellow had not dared to come
out of his house without a policeman. Yes; — he had lost his elec-
tion. The swindling of those fellows at Silverbridge had been too
much for him. But he flattered himself that he had got the better
of Master Fletcher. That was the tone in which he told the story
to his friend in the city.

Then, before dinner, he found Everett at the club. Everett
Wharton was to be found there now almost every day. His excuse
to himself lay in the political character of the institution. The
club intended to do great things, — to find liberal candidates for all
the boroughs and counties in England which were not hitherto
furnished, and then to supply the candidates with money. Such
was the great purpose of the Progress. It had not as yet sent out
many candidates or collected much money. As yet it was, politi-
cally, almost quiescent. And therefore Everett Wharton, whose
sense of duty took him there, spent his afternoons either in the
whist-room or at the billiard-table.

The story of the Silverbridge row had to be told again, and was
told nearly with the same incidents as had been narrated to the
father. He could of course abuse Arthur Fletcher more roundly,
and be more confident in his assertion that Fletcher had insulted
his wife. But he came as quickly as he could to the task which he
had on hand. " What's all this between you and your father ? "

" Simply this. I sometimes play a game of whist, and therefore
he called me a gambler. Then I reminded him that he also some-
times played a game of whist, and I asked him what deduction
was to be drawn."

" He is awfully angry with you."

" Of course I was a fool. My father has the whip-hand of me,
because ho has money and I have none, and it was simply kicking
against the pricks to speak as I did. And then too there isn't a
fellow in London has a higher respect for his father than I have,
nor yet a warmer affection. But it is hard to be driven in that
way. Gambler is a nasty word."

240 THE PRIME MINISTER.

"Yes, it is; very nasty. But I suppose a man does gambld
■when he loses so much money that he has to ask his father to pay
it for-him."

" If he does so often, he gambles. I never asked him for money
to pay what I had lost before in my life."

" I wonder you told him."

" I never lie to him, and he ought to know that. But he is just
the man to be harder to his own son than to anybody else in the
world. What does he want me to do now ?"

"I don't know that he wants you to do anything," said
Lopez.

" Did he send you to me ? "

"Well;-— no; I can't say that he did. I told him I should see
you as a matter of course, and he said something rough, — about
your being an ass."

"I dare say he did."

" But if you ask me," said Lopez, "I think he would take it
kindly of you if you were to go and see him. Come and dine to-
day, just as if nothing had happened."

11 1 could not do that, — unless he asked me."

11 1 can't say that he asked you, Everett. I would say so, in
spite of its being a lie, if I didn't fear that your father might say
something unkind, so that the lie would be detected by both of
you."

" And yet you ask me to go and dine there ! "

"Yes, I do. It's only going away if he does cut up rough.
And if he takes it well, — why then, — the whole thing is done."

" If he wants me, he can ask me."

" You talk about it, my boy, just as if a father were the same as
anybody else. If I had a father with a lot of money, by George
he should knock me about with his stick if he liked, and I would
be just the same the next day."

" Unfortunately I am of a stiffer nature," said Everett, t
some pride to himself for his stiffness, and being perhaps as litt
" stiff" as any young man of his day.

That evening, after dinner in Manchester Square, the conversa-
tion between the father-in-law and the son-in-law turned almost
exclusively on the son and brother-in-law. Little or nothing was
said about the election, and the name of Arthur Fletcher v.
mentioned. But out of his full heart the father spoke, lie was
wretched about Everett. Did Everett mean to cut him ? "He
wants you to withdraw some name you called him," said Lopez.

"Withdraw some name,— as he might ask some hot-headed
follow to do, of his own age, like himself; some fellow that he had
quarrelled with ! Does he expect his father to send him a written
apology f He had been gambling, and I told him that he was a
gambler. Is that too much for a father to say ?" Lopez shrugged
his shoulders, and declared that it was a pity. " He will break my
heart if ho goes on like this," said the old man.

THB JOLLY BLACKBIBD. 241

''I asked him to come and dine to-day, but he didn't seem to
like it."

"Like it! No. He likes nothing but that infernal club."
"When the evening was oyer Lopez felt that ho had done a good
stroke of work. He had not exactly made up his mind to keep the
father and son apart. That was not a part of his strategy, — at any
rate as yet. But he did intend to make himself necessary to the old
man, — to become the old man's son, and if possible the favourite
son. And now he thought that he had already done much towards
the achievement of his object.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

THE JOLLY BLACKBIRD.

There was great triumph at Longbarns when the news of Arthur's
victory reached the place; — and when he arrived there himself
with his friend, Mr. Gresham, he was received as a conquering
hero. But of course the tidings of "the row" had gone before
him, and it was necessary that both he and Mr. Gresham should
tell the story ; — nor could it be told privately. Sir Alured
Wharton was there, and Mrs. Fletcher. The old lady had heard
of the row, and of course required to be told all the particulars.
This was not pleasant to the hero, as in talking of the man it
was impossible for them not to talk of the man's wife. " "What a
terrible misfortune for poor Mr. "Wharton," said the old lady,
nodding her head at Sir Alured. Sir Alured sighed and said
nothing. Certainly a terrible misfortune, and one which affected
more or less the whole family of Wharton s !

" Do you mean to say that he was going to attack Arthur with
a whip P" asked John Fletcher.

' ' I only know that ho was standing there with a whip in his
hand," said Mr. Gresham.

" I think he would have had the worst of that."

"You would have laughed," said Arthur, "to see me walking
majestically along the High Street with a cudgel which Gresham
had just bought for me as being of the proper medium size. I
don't doubt he meant to have a fight. And then you should have
seen the policeman sloping over and putting himself in the way.
I never quite understood where that policeman came from."

" They are very well off for policemen in Silverbridge," said
Gresham. " They've always got them going about."

" He must be mad," said John.

" Poor unfortunate young woman !" said Mrs. Fletcher, holding
up both her -hands. "I must say that I cannot but blame M*,

242

THE PRIME MINISTER.

Wharton. If he had been firm, it never would have come to that.
I wonder whether he ever sees him."

" Of course he does," said John. " Why shouldn't he see him ?
You'd see him if he'd married a daughter of yours."

11 Never!" exclaimed the old woman. " If I had had a child
so lost to all respect as that, I do not say that I would not have
seen her. Human nature might have prevailed. But I •would
never willingly have put myself into contact with one who had
so degraded me and mine."

"I shall be very anxious to know what Mr. Wharton does about
his money," said John.

Arthur allowed himself but a couple of days among his friends,
and then hurried up to London to take his seat. When there lie
was astonished to find how many questions were asked him about
" the row," and how much was known about it, — and at the same
time how little was really known. Everybody had heard that there
had been a row, and everybody knew that there had been a lady in
the case. But there seemed to be a general idea that the lady had
been in some way misused, and that Arthur Fletcher had come
forward like a Paladin to protect her. A letter had been written,
and the husband, ogre-like, had intercepted the letter. The lady
was the most unfortunate of human beings, — or would have been
but for that consolation which she must have in the constancy of
her old lover. As to all these matters the stories varied ; but
everybody was agreed on one point. All the world knew that
Arthur Pletcher had gone to Silverbridge, had stood for the
borough, and had taken the seat away from his rival, — because that
rival had robbed him of his bride. How the robbery had been
effected the world could not quite say. The world was still of
opinion that the lady was violently attached to the man she had
not married. But Captain Gunner explained it all clearly to Major
Pountney by asserting that the poor girl had been coerced into the
marriage by her father. And thus Arthur Fletcher found himself
almost as much a hero in London as at Longbarns.

Fletcher had not been above a week in town, and had become
heartily sick of the rumours which in various shapes made their
way round to his own ears, when he received an invitation from
Mr. Wharton to go and dine with him at a tavern called the Jolly
Blackbird. The invitation surprised him, — that he should be asked
by such a man to dine at such a place, — but he accepted it as a
matter of course. He was indeed much interested in a bill for the
drainage of common lands which was to be discussed in the House
that night ; there was a good deal of common land round Silver-
bridge, and he had some idea of making his first speech, — but he
calculated that he might get his dinner and yet be back in time
for the debate. So he wont to the Jolly Blackbird, — a very quaint,
old-fashioned law dining-house in the neighbourhood of Portugal
Street, which had managed not to get itself pulled down a dozen
years ago on behalf of the Law Courts which are to bless some

THE JOLLY BLACKBIKt). 243

Coming generation. Arthur had never been there before and was
surprised at the black wainscoting, the black tables, the old-
fashioned grate, the two candles on the table, and the silent waiter.
'* I wanted to see you, Arthur," said the old man pressing his hand
in a melancholy way, "but I couldn't ask you to Manchester
Square. They come in sometimes in the evening, and it might
have been unpleasant. At your young men's clubs they let
strangers dine. We haven't anything of that kind at the Eldon.
You'll find they'll give you a very good bit of fish here, and a
fairish steak." Arthur declared that ho thought it a capital place,
— the best fun in the world. " And they've a very good bottle of
claret ; — better than we get at the Eldon, I think. I don't know
that I can say much for their champagne. We'll try it. You
young fellows always drink champagne."

" I hardly ever touch it," said Arthur. " Sherry and claret are
my wines."

"Very well; — very well. I did want to see you, my boy.
Things haven't turned out just as we wished; — have they ?"

" Not exactly, sir."

' ' No indeed. You know the old saying, ' God disposes it all.*
I have to make the best of it, — and so no doubt do you."

" There's no doubt about it, sir," said Arthur, speaking in a low
but almost angry voice. They were not in a room by themselves,
but in a recess which separated them from the room. "I don't
know that I want to talk about it, but to me it is one of thoso
things for which there is no remedy. When a man loses his leg, ho
hobbles on, and sometimes has a good time of it at last ; — but there
he is, without a leg."

"It wasn't my fault, Arthur."

"There has been no fault, but my own. I went in for the
running and got distanced. That's simply all about it, and there's
no more to be said."

"You ain't surprised that I should wish to see you."

" I'm ever so much obliged. I think it's very kind of you."

"I cant go in for a new life as you can. I can't take up
politics and Parliament. It's too late for me."

"I'm going to. There's a bill coming on this very night that
I'm interested about. You mustn't be angry if I rush off a little
before ten. We are going to lend money to the parishes on tho
security of the rates for draining bits of common land. Then we
shall sell the land and endow the unions so as to lessen the poor
rate3, and increase the cereal products of the country. We think
we can bring 300,000 acres under the plough in three years,
which now produce almost nothing, and in five years would pay
all the expenses. Patting tho value of the land at £2<3 an acre,
Which is low, we shall have created property to the value of seven
millions and a half. That's something, you know."

" Oh, yes," said Mr. Wharton, who felt himself quite unable to
follow with any interest the aspirations of the young legislator.

244 TIIE PRIME MINISTER.

" Of course it's complicated," continued Arthur, "but when
you come to look into it it comes out clear enough^ It is one
of the instances of the omnipotence of capital. Parliament can
do such a thing, not because it has any creative power of its own,
but because it has the command of unlimited capital." Mr.
Wharton looked at him, sighing inwardly as he reflected that
unrequited love should have brought a clear-headed young bar-
rister into mists so thick and labyrinths so mazy as these. "A
very good beef-steak indeed," said Arthur. " I don't know when
I ate a better one. Thank you, no;— I'll stick to the claret,"
Mr. Wharton had offered him Madeira. " Claret and brown meat
always go well together. Pancake ! I don't object to a pancake.
A pancake's a very good thing. Now would you believe it, sir ;
they can't make a pancake at the House."

"And yet they sometimes fall very flat too," said the lawyer,
making a real lawyer's joke.

11 It's all in the mixing, sir," said Arthur, carrying it on. " We've
mixture enough just at present, but it isn't of the proper sort ; —
too much of the flour, and not enough of the egg."

But Mr. Wharton had still something to say, though he hardly
knew how to say it. " You must come and see us in the Square
after a bit."

" Oh ; — of course."

"I wouldn't ask you to dine there to-day, because I thought we
should be less melancholy here ; — but you mustn't cut us altogether.
You haven't seen Everett since you've been in town?"

"No, sir. I believe ho lives a good deal, — a good deal with —
Mr. Lopez. There was a little row down at Silverbridge. Of
course it will wear off, but just at present his lines and my lines
don't converge."

" I'm very unhappy about him, Arthur."

" There's nothing the matter !"

U My girl has married that man. I've nothing to say against
him ; — but of course it wasn't to my taste ; and I feel it as a sepa-
ration. And now Everett has quarrelled with mo."

" Quarrelled with you ! "

Then the father told the story as well as he knew how. Ilis son
had lost some money, and ho had called his son a gambler ; — and
consequently his son would not come near him. "It is bad to loso
them both, Arthur."

11 That is so unlike Everett."

"It seems to me that everybody has changed,— except myself.
Who would have dreamed that she would have married that man ?
Not that I have anything to say against him except that he was
not of our sort. He has been very good about Everett, and
is very good about him. But Everett will not come to me unless
I — withdraw the word ; — say that I was wrong to call him a
gambler. That is a proposition that no son should make to a
father." .

THE JOLLY BLACKBIRD. 245

"It is very unlike Everett," repeated the other. "Has he
written to that effect ?"

" He has not written a word."

11 Why don't you see him yourself, and have it out with him ? "

" Am I to go to that club after him ?" said the father.

11 Write to him and bid him come to you. I'll give up my seat
if he don't come to you. Everett was always a quaint fellow, a
little idle, you know, — mooning about after ideas———"

11 He's no fool, you know," said the father.

" Not at all ; — only vague. But he's the last man in the world
to have nasty vulgar ideas of his own importance as distinguished
from yours."

"Lopez says "

" I wouldn't quite trust Lopez. **

" He isn't a bad fellow in his way, Arthur. Of course he is not
what I would have liked for a son-m-law. I needn't tell you that.
But he is kind and gentle-mannered, and has always been attached
to Everett. You know he saved Everett's life at the risk of his
own." Arthur could not but smile as he perceived how the old
man was being won round by the son-in-law, whom ho had treated
so violently before the man had become his son-in-law. " By-the-
way, what was all that about a letter you wrote to him? "

"Emily, — I mean Mrs. Lopez, — will tell you if you ask her."

"I don't want to ask her. I don't want to appear to set tho
wife against the hnsband. I am sure, my boy, you would write
nothing that could affront her."

" I think not, Mr. Wharton. If I know myself at all, or my
own nature, it is not probable that I should affront your daughter."

1 ' No ; no ; no. I know that, my dear boy. I was always sure
of that. Take some more wine."

' ■ No more, thank you. I must be off because I'm so anxious
about this bill."

" I couldn't ask Emily about this letter. Now that they are
married I have to make the best of it, — for her sake. I couldn't
bring myself to say anything to her which might seem to accuse
him."

" I thought it right, sir, to explain to her that were I not in the
hands of other people I would not do anything to interfere with
her happiness by opposing her husband. My language was most
guarded."

" He destroyed the letter."

" I have a copy of it if it comes to that," said Arthur.

"It will be best, perhaps, to say nothing further about it.
Well ; — good-night, my boy, if you must go." Then Fletcher went
off to the House, wondering as he wont at the change which had
apparently come over tho character of his old friend. Mr. Wharton
had always been a strong man, and now he seemed to be as weak
as water. As to Everett, Fletcher was sure that thero was some-
tiling wrong, but ho could not see his way to interfere himself.

246 THE PEIME MINISTER.

For the present he was divided from the family. Nevertheless he
told himself again and again that that division should not be per-
manent. Of all tjie world she must always he to him the dearest.

OHAPTEE XXXYII.

THE HORNS.

The first months of the session went on very much as the last
session had gone. The ministry did nothing , brilliant. As far as
the outer world could see, they seemed to be firm enough. There
was no opposing party in the House strong enough to get a vote
against them, on any subject. Outsiders, who only studied politics
in the columns of their newspapers, imagined the Coalition to be
very strong. But they who were inside, members themselves, and
the club quidnuncs who were always rubbing their shoulders
against members, knew better. The opposition to the Coalition
was within the Coalition itself. Sir Orlando Drought had not been
allowed to build his four ships, and was consequently eager in his
fears that the country would be invaded by the combined forces of
Germany and France, that India would be sold by those powers to
Eussia, that Canada would be annexed to the States, that a great
independent Eoman Catholic hierarchy would be established in
Ireland, and that Malta and Gibraltar would be taken away from
us ; — all which evils would be averted by the building of four big
ships. A wet blankot of so terrible a size was in itself pernicious
to the Cabinet, and heartrending to the poor Duke. But Sir
Orlando could do worse even than this. As he was not to build his
four ships, neither should Mr. Monk be allowed to readjust the
county suffrage. When the skeleton of Mr. Monk's scheme was
discussed in the Cabinet, Sir Orlando would not agree to it. The
gentlemen, he said, who had joined the present Government with
him, would never consont to a moasure which would be so utterly
destructive of the county interest. If Mr. Monk insisted on his
measure in its proposed form, ho must, with very great regret,
place his resignation in the Duke's hands, and he believed that his
friends would find themselves compelled to follow the same course.
Then our Duko consulted tho old Duke. The old Duke's advice
was the same as ever. The Queen's Government was the main
object. The present ministry enjoyod the support of the country,
and he considered it the duty of the First Lord of the Treasury to
remain at his post. The country was in no hurry, and the ques-
tion of suffrages in tho counties might be well delayed. Then he
added a little counsel which might be called quite private, as it was
certainly intended for no other ears than those of his younger

THE HORNS. 247

friend. " Give Sir Orlando rope enough and he'll hang himself.
His own party are becoming tired of him. If you quarrel with
him this session, Drummond, and Ramsden, and Beeswax, would
go out with him, and the Government would be broken up ; but
next session you may get rid of him safely."

11 1 wish it were broken up," said the Prime Minister.

" You have your duty to do by the country and by the Queen,
and you mustn't regard your own wishes. Next session let Monk
be ready with his bill again, —the same measure exactly. Let Sir
Orlando resign then if he will. Should he do so I doubt whether
any one would go with him. Drummond does not like him much
better than you and I do." The poor Prime Minister was forced
to obey. The old Duke was his only trusted counsellor, and he
found himself constrained by his conscience to do as that counsellor
counselled him. When, however, Sir Orlando, in his place as.
Leader of the House, in answer to some question from a hot and
disappointed Radical, averred that the whole of her Majesty's
Government had been quite in unison on this question of the
county suffrage, he was hardly able to restrain himself. " If there
be differences of opinion they must be kept in the background,"
said the Duke of St. Bungay. " Nothing can justify a direct false-
hood," said the Duke of Omnium. Thus it came to pass that the
only real measure which the Government had in hand was one by
which Phineas Finn hoped so to increase the power of Irish muni-
cipalities as to make the Home Rulers believe that a certain amount
of Home Rule was being conceded to them. It was not a great
measure, and poor Phineas himself hardly believed in it. And
thus the Duke's ministry came to be called the Faineants.

But the Duchess, though she had been much snubbed, still per-
severed. Now and again she would declare herself to be broken-
hearted, and would say that things might go their own way, that
she would send in her resignation, that she would retire into
private life and milk cows, that she would shake hands with no
more parliamentary cads and "caddesses," — a word which her
Grace condescended to coin for her own use ; that she would spend
the next three years in travelling about the world; and lastly
that, let there come of it whatever might, Sir Orlando Drought
should never again be invited into any house of which she was the
mistress. This last threat, which was perhaps the most indiscreet
of them all, she absolutely made good, — thereby adding very
greatly to her husband's difficulties.

But by the middle of June the parties at the house in Carlton
Terrace were as frequent and as large as ever. Indeed it was all
party with her. The Duchess possessed a pretty little villa down
at Richmond, on the river, called The Horns, and gave parties
there when there were none in London. She had picnics, and
flower parties, and tea parties, and afternoons, and evenings, on
the lawn, — till half London was always on its way to Richmond or
back again. How she worked ! And yet from day to day she

248 THE PRIME MINISTER.

swore that the world was ungrateful, and that she would work no
more ! I think that the world was ungrateful. Everybody went.
She was so far successful that nobody thought of despising her
parties. It was quite the thing to go to the Duchess's, whether at
Eichmond or in London. But people abused her and laughed at
her. They said that she intrigued to get political support for her
husband, — and, worse than that, they said that she failed. She
did not fail altogether. The world was not taken captive as she
had intended. Young members of Parliament did not become
hotly enthusiastic in support of her and her husband as she had
hoped that they would do. She had not become an institution of
granite as her dreams had fondly told her might be possible ; — for
there had been moments in which she had almost thought that she
could rule England by giving dinner and supper parties, by ices
and champagne. But in a dull, phlegmatic way, they who ate the
ices and drank the champagne were true to her. There was a
feeling abroad that " Glencora " was a " good sort of fellow" and
ought to be supported. And when the ridicule became too strong,
or the abuse too sharp, men would take up the cudgels for her, and
fight her battles ; — a little too openly, perhaps, as they would do
it under her eyes, and in her hearing, and would tell her w£at
they had done, mistaking on such occasions her good humour for
sympathy. There was just enough of success to prevent that
abandonment of her project which she so often threatened, but not
enough to make her triumphant. She was too clever not to see
that she was ridiculed. She knew that men called her Glencora
among themselves. She was herself quite alive to the fact that
she herself was wanting in dignity, and that with all the means at
her disposal, with all her courage and all her talent, she did not
quite play the part of the really great lady. But she did not fail
to tell herself that labour continued would at last be successful,
and she was strong to bear the buffets of the ill-natured. She did
not think that she brought first-class materials to her work, but she
believed, — a belief as erroneous as, alas, it is common, — that first-
rate results might be achieved by second-rate means. * ' We had such
a battle about your Grace last night," Captain Gunner said to her.

" And were you my knight ?

" Indeed I was. I never hoard such nonsense."

" What were they saying ? "

1 ' Oh, the old story ; — that you were like Martha, busying your-
self about many things."

" Why shouldn't I busy myself about many things ? It is a pity,
Captain Gunner, that some of you men have not something to
busy yourselves about." All this was unpleasant. She could on
such an occasion make up her mind to drop any Captain Gunner
who had ventured to take too much upon himself; but she felt
that in the efforts which she had made after popularity, she had
submitted herself to unpleasant familiarities ; — and though per-
sistent in her course, she was still angry with herself.

THE HORNS. 249

When she had begun her campaign as the Prime Minister's wife,
one of her difficulties had been with regard to money. An
abnormal expenditure became necessary, for which her husband's
express sanction must be obtained, and steps taken in which his
personal assistance would be necessary ; — but this had been done,
and there was now no further impediment in that direction. It
seemed to be understood that she was to spend what money she
pleased. There had been various contests between them, but in
every contest she had gained something. Ho had been majesti-
cally indignant with her in reference to the candidature at Silver-
bridge,— but, as is usual with many of us, had been unable to
maintain his anger about two things at the same time. Or,
rather, in the majesty of his anger about her interference, he had
disdained to descend to the smaller faults of her extravagance. He
had seemed to concede everything else to her, on condition that he
should be allowed to be imperious in reference to the borough. In
that matter she had given way, never having opened her mouth
about it after that one unfortunate word to Mr. Sprugeon. But,
having done so, she was entitled to squander her thousands with-
out remorse, — and she squandered them. "It is your five-and-
twenty thousand pounds, my dear," she once said to Mrs. Finn,
who often took upon herself to question the prudence of all this
expenditure. This referred to a certain sum of money which had
been left by the old Duke to Madame Goesler, as she was then
called, — a legacy which that lady had repudiated. The money
had, in truth, been given away to a relation of the Duke's by the
joint consent of the lady and of the Duke himself, but the Duchess
was pleased to refer to it occasionally as a still existing property.

"My five- and- twenty thousand pounds, as you call it, would
not go very far."

"What's the use of money if you don't spend it ? The Duke
would go on collecting it and buying more property, — which
always means more trouble, — not because he is avaricious, but be-
cause for the time that comes easier than spending. Supposing
he had married a woman without a shilling, he would still have
been a rich man. As it is, my property was more even than his
own. If we can do any good by spending the money, why
shouldn't it be spent ? "<

" If you can do any good ! "

"It all comes round to that. It isn't because I like always to
live in a windmill ! I have come to hate it. At this moment I
would give worlds to be down at? Matching with no one but the
children, and to go about in a straw hat and a muslin gown. I
have a fancy that I could sit under a tree and read a sermon, and
think it the sweetest recreation. But I've made the attempt to do
all this, and it is so mean to fail !"

" But where is to be the end of it ? "

" There shall be no end as long as he is Prime Minister. He
is the first man in England. Some people would say the first in

250 THE PRIME MINISTER.

Europe, — or in the world. A Prince should entertain like a
Prince."

" He need not be always entertaining."

" Hospitality should run from a man with his wealth and his
position, like water from a fountain. As his hand is known to be
full, so it should be known to be open. When the delight of his
friends is in question he should know nothing of cost. Pearls
should drop from him as from a fairy. But I don't think you
understand me."

1 ' Not when the pearls are to be picked up by Captain Gunners,
Lady Glen."

" I can't make the men any better, — nor yet the women. They
are poor mean creatures. The world is made up of such. I don't
know that Captain Gunner is worse than Sir Orlando Drought or
Sir Timothy Beeswax. People seen by the mind are exactly different
to things seen by the eye. They grow smaller and smaller as you
come nearer down to them, whereas things become bigger. I re-
member when I used to think that members of the Cabinet were
almost gods, and now they seem to be no bigger than the shoe-
blacks,— only less picturesque. He told me the other day of the
time when he gave up going into power for the sake of taking me
abroad. Ah ! me ; how much was happening then, — and how
much has happened since that ! We didn't know you then."

" He has been a good husband to you."

" And I have been a good wife to him ! I have never had him for
an hour out of my heart since that, or ever for a moment forgotten
his interest. I can't live with him because he shuts himself up
reading blue books, and is always at his office or in the Ho::
but I would if I could. Am I not doing it all for him ? You
don't think that the Captain Gunners are particularly pleasant to
me ! Think of your life and of mine. You have had lovers."

" One in my life, — when I was quite entitled to have one."

" Well ; I am Duchess of Omnium, and I am the wife of the Prime
Minister, and I had a larger property of my own than any other
young woman that over was born ; and I am myself, too, — Glen-
cora M'Cluskie that was, and I've made for myself a character
that I'm not ashamed of. But I'd be the curate's wife to-morrow,
and make puddings, if I could only have my own husband and my
own children with me. What's the use of it all ? I like you better
than anybody else, but you do nothing but scold me." Still the
parties went on, and the Duchess laboured hard among her g
and wore her jewels, and stood on her feet all the night, night after
night, being civil to one person, bright to a second, confidential to
a third, and sarcastic to an unfortunate fourth; — and in the morn-
ing she would work hard with her lists, seeing who had come to
her and who had stayed away, and arranging who should be asked
and who should be omitted.

In tho meantime the Duke altogether avoided these things. At
first he had been content to show himself, and escape as soon

THE HORNS. 251

as possible ,• — but now he was never seen a*> all in his own
house, except at certain heavy dinners. To Eichmond he never
went at all, and in his own house in town very rarely even passed
through the door that led into the reception rooms. He had not
time for ordinary society. So said the Duchess. And many, per-
haps the majority of those who frequented the house, really
believed that his official duties were too onerous to leave him time
for conversation. But in truth the hours went heavily with him
as he sat alone in his study, sighing for some sweet parliamentary
task, and regretting the days in which he was privileged to sit in
the House of Commons till two o'clock in the morning, in the hope
that he might get a clause or two passed in his bill for decimal
coinage.

It was at the Horns at an afternoon party, given there in the
gardens by the Duchess, early in July, that Arthur Fletcher first
saw Emily after her marriage, and Lopez after the occurrence in
Silverbridge. As it happened he came out upon the lawn close
after them, and found them speaking to the Duchess as thoy passed
on. She had put herself out of the way to be civil to Mr. and Mrs.
Lopez, feeling that she had in some degree injured him in reference
to the election, and had therefore invited both him and his wife on
more than one occasion. Arthur Fletcher was there as a young
man well known in the world, and as a supporter of the Duke's
Government. The Duchess had taken up Arthur Fletcher, — as she
was wont to take up new men, and had personally become tired of
Lopez. Of course she had heard of the election, and had been told
that Lopez had behaved badly. Of Mr. Lopez she did not know
enough to care anything, one way or the other ; — but she still
encouraged him because she had caused him disappointment. She
had now detained them a minute on the terrace before the windows
while she said a word, and Arthur Fletcher became one of the little
party before he knew whom he was meeting. "lam delighted,"
she said, ."that you two Silverbridge heroes should meet together
here as friends." It was almost incumbent on her to say some-
thing, though it would have been better for her not to have alluded
to their heroism. Mrs. Lopez put out her hand, and Arthur
Fletcher of course took it. Then the two men bowed slightly to each
other, raising their hats. Arthur paused a moment with them, as
they passed on from the Duchess, thinking that he would say
something in a friendly tone. But he was silenced by the frown on
the husband's face, and was almost constrained to go away without
a word. It was very difficult for him even to be silent, as her
greeting had been kind. But yet it was impossible for him to
ignore the displeasure displayed in the man's countenance. So he
touched his hat, and asking her to remember him affectionately to
her father, turned off the path and went away.

" Why did you shake hands with that man?" said Lopez. It
was the first time since their marriage that his voice had been that
of an angry man and an offended husband.

252 THE PEIME MINISTER.

11 Why not, Ferdinand ? He and I are very old friends, and we
have not quarrelled."

" You must take up your husband's friendships and your hus-
band's quarrels. Did I not tell you that he had insulted you ? "

" He never insulted me."

11 Emily, you must allow me to be the judge of that. He insulted
you, and then he behaved like a poltroon down at Silverbridge, and
I will not have you know him any more. When I say so I suppose
that will be enough." He waited for a reply, but she said nothing.
" I ask you to tell me that you will obey me in this."

1 • Of course he will not come to my house, nor should I think of
going to his, if you disapproved."

" Going to his house ! He is unmarried."

" Supposing he had a wife ! Ferdinand, perhaps it will be better
that you and I should not talk about him."

" By G ," said Lopez, " there shall be no subject on which I

will be afraid to talk to my own wife. I insist on your assuring
me that you will never speak to him again."

He had taken her along one of the upper walks because it was
desolate, and he could there speak to her, as he thought, without
being heard. She had, almost unconsciously, made a faint attempt
to lead him down upon the lawn, no doubt feeling averse to private
conversation at the moment ; but he had persevered, and had re-
seated the little effort. The idea in his mind that she was unwill-
ing to hear him abuse Arthur Fletcher, unwilling to renounce the
man, anxious to escape his order for such renunciation, added fuel
to his jealousy. It was not enough for him that she had rejected
this man and had accepted him. The man had been her lover, and
she should be made to denounce the man. It might bo necessary
for him to control his feelings before old Wharton ; — but he know
enough of his wife to be sure that she would not speak evil of him
or betray him to her father. Her loyalty to him, which he could
understand though not appreciate, enabled him to be a tyrant to
her. So now he repeated his order to her, pausing in the path,
with a voice unintentionally loud, and frowning down upon her as
ho spoke. " You must tell me, Emily, that you will never speak
to him again."

She was silent, looking up into his face, not with tremulous eyes,
but with infinite woe written in them, had he been able to read tho
writing. She knew that ho was disgracing himself, and yet he was
the man whom she lovod ! "If you bid me not to speak to him, I
will not ; — but ho must know the reason why."

"He shall know nothing from you. You do not mean to say
that you would write to him ? "

'• Papa must tell him."

"I will not have it so. In this matter, Emily, I will be master,
— as it is fit that I should be. I will not have you talk to your
father about Mr. Fletcher."

" Why not, Ferdinand ? "

THE HORNS. 253

" Because I have so decided. He is an old family friend. I can
understand that, and do not therefore wish to interfere between
him and your father. But he has taken upon himself to write an
insolent letter to you as my wife, and to interfere in my affairs. As
to what should be done between you and him I must be the judge,
and not your father."

"And must I not speak to papa about it P"

"No!"

" Ferdinand, you make too little, I think, of the associations and
affections of a whole life."

" I will hear nothing about affection," he said angrily.

" You cannot mean that, — that— you doubt me ? "

" Certainly not. I think too much of myself and too little of
him." It did not occur to him to tell her that he thought too well
of her for that. " But the man who has offended me must be held
to have offended you also."

" You might say the same if it were my father."

He paused at this, but only for a moment. " Certainly I might.
It is not probable, but no doubt I might do so. If your father
were to quarrel with me, you would not, I suppose, hesitate be-
tween us P "

11 Nothing on earth could divide me from you."

" Nor me from you. In this very matter I am only taking your
part, if you did but know it." They had now passed on, and had
met other persons, having made their way through a little shrub-
bery on to a further lawn ; and she had hoped, as they were sur-
rounded by people, that he would allow the matter to drop. She
had been unable as yet to make up her mind as to what she would
say if he pressed her hard. But if it could be passed by, — if nothing
more were demanded from her, — she would endeavour to forget it
all, saying to herself that it had come from sudden passion. But
he was too resolute for such a termination as that, and too keenly
alive to the expediency of making her thoroughly subject to him.
So he turned her round and took her back through the shrubbery,
and in the middle of it stopped her again and renewed his demand.
" Promise me that you will not speak again to Mr. Fletcher."

" Then I must tell papa."

"No ; — you shall tell him nothing."

" Ferdinand, if you exact a promise from me that I will not speak
to Mr. Fletcher or bow to him should circumstances bring us to-
gether as they did just now, I must explain to my father why I
have done so."

11 You will wilfully disobey me ? "

" In that I must." He glared at her, almost as though he were
going to strike her, but she bore his look without flinching. " I
have left all my old friends, Ferdinand, and have given myself
heart and soul to you. No woman did so with a truer love or more
devoted intention of doing her duty to her husband. Your affairs
shall be my affairs." .

254 THE PRIME MINISTER.

"Well; yes; rather."

She was endeavouring to assure him of her truth, but could un-
derstand the sneer which was conveyed in his acknowledgment.
" But you cannot, nor can I for your sake, abolish the things which
have been."

"I wish 'to abolish nothing that has been. I speak of the
future."

" Between our family and that of Mr. Fletcher there has been
old friendship which is still very dear to my father, — the memory
of which is still very dear to me. At your request I am willing to
put all that aside from [me. There is no reason why I should ever
see any of the Fletchers again. Our lives will be apart. Should
we meet our greeting would be very slight. The separation can be
effected without words. But if you demand an absolute promise, —
I must tell my father."

" We will go home at once," he said instantly, and aloud. And
home they went, back to London, without exchanging a word on
the journey. He was absolutely black with rage, and she was con-
tent to remain silent. The promise was not given, nor, indeed, was
it exacted under the conditions which the wife had imposed upon it.
He was most desirous to make her subject to his will in all things,
and quite prepared to exercise tyranny over her to any extent, — so
that her father should know nothing of it. He could not afford to
quarrel with Mr. Wharton. " You had better go to bed," he said,
when he got her back to town ;— and she went, if not to bed, at any
rate into her own room.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

SIR ORLANDO RETIRE3.

"He is a horrid man. He came here and quarrelled with the
other man in my house, or rather down at Eichmond, and made a
fool of himself, and then quarrelled with his wife and took her
away. What fools, what asses, what horrors men are ! How
impossible it is to be civil and gracious without getting into a
mess. I am tempted to say that I will never know anybody any
move." Such was the complaint made by the Duchess to Mrs.
Finn a few days after the Eichmond party, and from this it was
evident that the latter affair had not passed without notice.

" Did ho make a noise about it ?" asked Mrs. Finn.

%* There was not a row, but there was enough of a quarrel to be
visible and audible. He walked about and talked loud to th
woman. Of course it was my own fault. But the man was clever
and I liked him, and people told me that he was of the right sort."

SIR ORLANDO RETIRES. 255

"The Duke heard of it?"

11 No ; — and I hope he won't. It would be such a triumph for
him, after all the fuss at Silverbridge. But he never hears of
anything. If two men fought a duel in his own dining-room he
would be the last man in London to know it."

"Then say nothing about it, and don't ask the men any more."

"You may be sure I won't ask the man with the wife any
more. The other man is in Parliament and can't be thrown over
so easily — and it wasn't his fault. But I'm getting so sick of it
all ! I'm told that Sir Orlando has complained to Plantagenet that
he isn't asked to the dinners."

"Impossible !"

"Don't you mention it, but he has. Warburton has told me
so." Warburton was one of the Duke's private secretaries.

" What did the Duke say ?"

" I don't quite know. Warburton is one of my familiars, but I
didn't like to ask him for more than he chose to tell me. War-
burton suggested that I should invite Sir Orlando at once ; but
there I was obdurate. Of course if Plantagenet tells me I'll ask
the man to come every day of the week ; — but it is one of those
things that I shall need to be told directly. My idea is, you know,
that they had better get rid of Sir Orlando, — and that if Sir Orlando
chooses to kick over the traces, he may be turned loose without
any danger. One has little birds that give one all manner of
information, and one little bird has told me that Sir Orlando and
Mr. Boby don't speak. Mr. Boby is not very much himself, but
he is a good straw to show which way the wind blows. Planta-
genet certainly sent no message about Sir Orlando, and I'm afraid
the gentleman must look for his dinners elsewhere."

The Duke had in truth expressed himself very plainly to Mr.
Warburton; but with so much indiscreet fretfulness that the
discreet private secretary had not told it even to the Duchess.
" This kind of thing argues a want of cordiality that may be fatal
to us," Sir Orlando had said somewhat grandiloquently to the
Duke, and the Duke had made — almost no reply. " I suppose I
may ask my own guests in my own house," he had said afterwards
to Mr. Warburton, "though in public life I am everybody's
slave." Mr. Warburton, anxious of course to maintain the unity
of the party, had told the Duchess so much as would, he thought,
induce her to give way ; but he had not repeated the Duke's own
observations, which were, Mr Warburton thought, hostile to the
interests of the party. The Duchess had only smiled and made a
little grimace, with which the private secretary was already well
acquainted. And Sir Orlando received no invitation.

In those days Sir Orlando was unhappy and irritable, doubtful
of further success as regarded the Coalition, but quite resolved to
pull the house down about the ears of the inhabitants rather than
to leave it with gentle resignation. To him it seemed to bo impos-
sible that the Coalition should exist without him. He too had had

256 THE PRIME MINISTER.

moments of high-vaulting ambition, in which he had almost felt
himself to be the great man required by the country, the one ruler
who could gather together in his grasp the reins of government
and drive the State coach single-handed safe through its difficulties
for the next half-dozen years. There are men who cannot con-
ceive of themselves that anything should be difficult for them, and
again others who cannot bring themselves so to trust themselves as
to think that they can ever achieve anything great. Samples of
each sort from time to time rise high in political life, carried
thither apparently by Epicurean concourse of atoms ; and it often
happens that the more confident samples are by no means the most
capable. The concourse of atoms had carried Sir Orlando so high
that he could not but think himself intended for something higher.
But the Duke, who had really been wafted to the very top, had
always doubted himself, believing himself capable of doing some
one thing by dint of industry, but with no further confidence in his
own powers. Sir Orlando had perceived something of his leader's
weakness, and had thought that he might profit by it. He was
not only a distinguished member of the Cabinet, but even the
recognised Leader of the House of Commons. He looked out the
facts and found that for flve-and-twenty years out of the last
thirty the Leader of the House of Commons had been the Head of
the Government. He felt that he would be mean not to stretch out
his hand and take the prize destined for him. The Duke was a poor
timid man who had very little to say for himself. Then came the
little episode about the dinners. It had become very evident to
all the world that the Duchess of Omnium had cut Sir Orlando
Drought, — that the Prime Minister's wife, who was great in hos-
pitality, would not admit the First Lord of the Admiralty into her
house. The doings at Gatherum Castle, and in Carlton Terrace,
and at the Horns were watched much too closely by tho world at
large to allow such omissions to be otherwise than conspicuous.
Since the commencement of the session there had been a series of
articles in the " People's Banner" violently abusive of tho Prime
Minister, and in one or two of these the indecency of these exclu-
sions had been exposed with great strength of language. And tho
Editor of the " People's Banner " had discovered that Sir Orlando
Drought was the one man in Parliament fit to rule the nation.
Till Parliament should discovor this fact, or at least acknowledge
it, — the discovery having been happily made by the "Pe
Banner," — the Editor of the " People's Banner " thought that there
could be no hope for the country. Sir Orlando of course a
these articles, and in his very heart believed that a man had at
length sprung up among themfit to conduct a newspaper. Th i
also unfortunately saw the " People's Banner." In his old happy
days two papers a day, one in the morning and the other before
dinner, sufficed to tell him all that he wanted to know. Now he
felt it necessary to see almost every rag that was published. _ And
he would skirxv through them all till ho found the lines in which he

SIR ORLANDO RETIRES. 257

himself was maligned, and then, with sore heart and irritated
nerves, would pause over every contumelious word. He would
have bitten his tongue out rather than have spoken of the tortures
he endured, but he was tortured and did endure. He knew the
cause of the bitter personal attacks made on him, — of the abuse
with which he was loaded, and of the ridicule, infinitely more
painful to him, with which his wife's social splendour was be-
spattered. He remembered well the attempt which Mr. Quintus
Slide had made to obtain an entrance into his house, and his own
scornful rejection of that gentleman's overtures. He knew, — no
man knew better, — the real value of that able Editor's opinion.
And yet every word of it was gall and wormwood to him. In
every paragraph there was a scourge which hit him on the raw
and opened wounds which he could show to no kind surgeon, for
which he could find solace in no friendly treatment. Not even to
his wife could he condescend to say that Mr. Quintus Slide had
hurt him.

Then Sir Orlando had come himself. Sir Orlando explained
himself gracefully. He of course could understand that no gentle-
man had a right to complain because he was not asked to another
gentleman's house. But the affairs of the country were above
private considerations ; and he, actuated by public feelings, would
condescend to do that which under other circumstances would bo
impossible. The public press, which was ever vigilant, had sug-
gested that there was some official estrangement, because he, Sir
Orlando, had not been included in the list of guests invited by
his Grace. Did not his Grace think that there might be seeds
of, — he would not quite say decay for the Coalition, in such a
state of things ? The Duke paused a moment, and then said that
he thought there were no such seeds. Sir Orlando bowed haughtily
and withdrew, — swearing at the moment that the Coalition should
be made to fall into a thousand shivers. This had all taken
place a fortnight before the party at the Horns from which poor
Mrs. Lopez had been withdrawn so hastily.

But Sir Orlando, when he commenced the proceedings conse-
quent on this resolution, did not find all that support which he
had expected. Unfortunately there had been an uncomfortable
word or two between him and Mr. Eoby, the political Secretary at
the Admiralty. Mr. Eoby had never quite seconded Sir Orlando's
ardour in that matter of the four ships, and Sir Orlando in his pride
of place had ventured to snub Mr. Eoby. Now Mr. Eoby could
bear a snubbing perhaps as well as any other official subordinate,
— but he was one who would study the question and assure him-
self that it was, or that it was not, worth his while to bear it.
He, too, had discussed with his friends the condition of the Coali-
tion, and had come to conclusions rather adverse to Sir Orlando
than otherwise. When, therefore, the First Secretary sounded
him as to the expediency of some step in the direction of a firmer
political combination than that at present existing, — by which of

258 THE PRIME MINISTER.

course was meant the dethronement of the present Prime Minister,
— Mr. Roby had snubbed him ! Then there had been slight official
criminations and recriminations, till a state of things had come to
pass which almost justified the statement made by the Duchess to
Mrs. Finn.

The Coalition had many component parts, some coalescing with-
out difficulty, but with no special cordiality. Such vas the con-
dition of things between the very conservative Lord-Lieutenant of
Ireland and his somewhat radical Chief Secretary, Mr. Finn, —
between probably the larger number of those who were contented
with the duties of their own offices and the pleasures and profits
arising therefrom. Some by this time hardly coalesced at all, as
was the case with Sir Gregory Grogram and Sir Timothy Beeswax,
the Attorney- General and Solicitor- General ; — and was especially
the case',with thejTrime Minister and "Sir Orlando Drought. But
in one or two happy cases the Coalition was sincere and loyal, — and
in no case was this more so than with regard to Mr. Rattler and
Mr. Roby. Mr. Rattler and Mr. Roby had throughout their long
parliamentary lives belonged to opposite parties, and had been
accustomed to regard each other with mutual jealousy and almost
with mutual hatred. But now they had come to see how equal,
how alike, and how sympathetic were their tastes, and how well
each might help the other. As long as Mr. Rattler could keep his
old place at the Treasury, — and his ambition never stirred him to
aught higher, — he was quite contented that his old rival should be
happy at the Admiralty. And that old rival, when he looked about
him and felt his present comfort, when he remembered how short-
lived had been the good things which had hitherto come in his way,
and how little probable it was that long-lived good things should
be his when the Coalition was broken up, manfully determined that
loyalty to the present Head of the Government was his duty. He
had sat for too many years on the samo bench with Sir Orlando to
believe much in his power of governing the country. Therefore,
when Sir Orlando dropped his hint Mr. Roby did not take it.
t " I wonder whether it's true that Sir Orlando complained to the
Duke that he was not asked to dinner ? " said Mr. Roby to Mr.
Rattler.

"I should hardly think so. I can't fancy that he would have
tho pluck," said Mr. Rattler. " The Duke isn't the easiest man in
the world to speak to about such a thing as that."

u It would be a monstrous thing for a man to do ! But Drought's
head is quito turned. You can see that."

"Wo never thought very much about him, you know, on our
side."

" It was what your side thought about him," rejoined Roby,
" that put him where he is now."

14 It was the fate of accidents, Robj% which puts so many of us in
our places, and arranges our work for us, and makes us little men
or big men. There are other men besides Drought who have been

SIR ORLANDO RETIRES. 259

tossed up in a blanket till they don't know whether their heads or
their heels are highest."

" I quite believe in the Duke," said Mr. Eoby, almost alarmed
by the suggestion which his new friend had seemed to make.

11 So do I, Eoby. He has not the obduracy of Lord Brock, nor
the ineffable manner of Mr. Mildmay, nor the brilliant intellect of
Mr. Oresham."

11 Nor the picturesque imagination of Mr. Daubeny," said Mr. s>
Eoby, feeling himself bound to support the character of his late
chief.

"Nor his audacity," said Mr. Battler. "But he has peculiar
gifts of his own, and gifts fitted for the peculiar combination of
circumstances, if he will only be content to use them. He is a
just, unambitious, intelligent man, in whom after a while the
country would come to have implicit confidence. But he is thin-
skinned and ungenial."

" I have got into his boat," said Eoby enthusiastically, " and he
will find that I shall be true to him."

"There is no better boat to be in at present," said the slightly
sarcastic Eattler. "As to the Drought pinnace, it will be more
difficult to get it afloat than the four ships themselves. To tell the
truth honestly, Eoby, we have to rid ourselves of Sir Orlando. I
have a great regard for the man."

" I can't say I ever liked him," said Eoby.

" I don't talk about liking, — but he has achieved success, and is
to be regarded. Now he has lost his head, and he is bound to get
a fall. The question is, — who shall fall with him ?"

" I do not feel myself at all bound to sacrifice myself."

"I don't know who does. Sir Timothy Beeswax, I suppose,
will resent the injury done him. But I can hardly think that a
strong government can be formed by Sir Orlando Drought and Sir
Timothy Beeswax. Any secession is a weakness, — of course j but
I think we may survive it." And so Mr. Eattler and Mr.
Eoby made up their minds that the First Lord of the Admiralty
might be thrown overboard without much danger to the Queen's
ship.

Sir Orlando, however, was quite in earnest. The man had spirit
enough to feel that no alternative was left to him after he had con-
descended to suggest that he should be asked to dinner and had
been refused. He tried Mr. Eoby, and found that Mr. Eoby was
a mean fellow, wedded, as he told himself, to his salary. Then he
sounded Lord Drummond, urging various reasons. The country
was not safe without more ships. Mr. Monk was altogether wrong
about revenue. Mr. Finn's ideas about Ireland were revolutionary.
But Lord Drummond thought that, upon the whole, the present
Ministry served the country well, and considered himself bound to
adhere to it. "He cannot bear the idea of being out of power,"
said Sir Orlando to himself. He next said a word to Sir Timothv ;
but Sir Timothy was not the man. to be led by the nose by Sir

THE PRIME MINISTER.

Orlando. Sir Timothy had his grievances and meant to have his
Sv&igQ, but he knew how to choose his own time. " The Duke's
not* a bad fellow," said Sir Timothy, — " perhaps a little weak, hut
well-meaning. I think we ought to stand by him a little longer.
As for Finn's Irish bill, I haven't troubled myself about it." Then
Sir Orlando declared to himself that Sir Timothy was a coward,
and resolved that he would act alone.

About the middle of July he went to the Duke at the Treasury,
was closeted with him, and in a very long narration of his own
differences, difficulties, opinions, and grievances, explained to the
Duke that his conscience called upon him to resign. The Duke
listened and bowed his head, and with one or two very gently-uttered
words expressed his regret. Then Sir Orlando, in another long
speech, laid bare his bosom to the Chief whom he was leaving,
declaring the inexpressible sorrow with which ne had found him-
self called upon to take a step which he feared might be prejudicial
to the political status of a man whom he honoured so much as he
did the Duke of Omnium. Then the Duke bowed again, but said
nothing. The man had been guilty of the impropriety of question-
ing the way in which the Duke's private hospitality was exercised,
and the Duke could not bring himself to be genially civil to such
an offender. Sir Orlando went on to say that he would of course
explain his views in the Cabinet, but that he had thought it right
to make them known to the Duke as soon as they were formed.
" The best friends must part, Duke," he said as ho took his leave.
" I hope not, Sir Orlando ; I hope not," said the Duke. But Sir
Orlando had been too full of himself and of the words he was to
speak, and of the thing he was about to do, to understand either
the Duke's words or his silence.

And so Sir Orlando resigned, and thus supplied the only morsel
of political interest which the Session produced. " Take no more
notice of him than if your footman was going," had been the
advice of the old Duke. Of course there was a Cabinet meet-
ing on the occasion, but even there the commotion was very
slight, as every member knew before entering the room what it
was that Sir Orlando intended to do. Lord Drummond said that
the step was one to be much lamented. " Very much, indeed,"
said the Duke of St. Bungay. His words themselves were false
and hypocritical, but the tone of his voice took away all the
deceit. " I am afraid," said the Prime Minister, " from what Sir
Orlando has said to me privately, that we cannot hope that he will
change his mind." " That I certainly cannot do," said Sir Orlando,
with all the dignified courage of a modern martyr.

On the next morning the papers were full of the political fact,
and were blessed with a subject on which they could exercise
their prophetical sagacity. The remarks made were generally
favourable to the Government. Three or four of the morning
papers wero of opinion that though Sir Orlando had been a strong
man, and a good public servant, the Ministry might exist without

" GET BOUND HIM." 261

him. But the "People's Banner" was able to expound to the people
at large that the only grain of salt by which the Ministry had
been kept from putrefaction had been now cast out, and that
mortification, death, and corruption, must ensue. It was one of
Mr. Quintus Slide's greatest efforts.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

GET BOUND HIM.

Febdinand Lopez maintained his anger against his wife for more
than a week after the scene at Eichmond, feeding it with reflec-
tions on what he called her disobedience. Nor was it a make-
believe anger. She had declared her intention to act in opposition
to his expressed orders. He felt that his present condition was
prejudicial to his interests, and that he must take his wife back
into favour, in order that he might make progress with her father,
but could hardly bring himself to swallow his wrath. He thought
that it was her duty to obey him in everything, — and that dis-
obedience on a matter touching her old lover was an abominable
offence, to be visited with severest marital displeasure, and with a
succession of scowls that should make her miserable for a month
at least. Nor on her behalf would he have hesitated, though the
misery might have continued for three months. But then the old
man was the main hope of his life, and must be made its mainstay.
Brilliant prospects were before him. He had used to think that
Mr. Wharton was a hale man, with some terribly vexatious term
of life before him. But now, now that he was seen more closely,
he appeared to be very old. He would sit half bent in the arm-
chair in Stone Buildings, and look as though he were near a hun-
dred. And from day to day he seemed to lean more upon his son-
in-law, whose visits to him were continued, and always well taken.
The constant subject of discourse between them was Everett Whar-
ton, who had not yet seen his father since the misfortune of their
quarrel. Everett had declared to Lopez a dozen times that he
would go to his father if his father wished it, and Lopez as often
reported to the father that Everett would not go to him unless the
father expressed such a wish. And so they had been kept apart.
Lopez did not suppose that the old man would disinherit his son
altogether, — did not, perhaps, wish it. But he thought that the
condition of the old man's mind would affect the partition of his
property, and that the old man would surely make some new will
in the present state of his affairs. The old man always asked after
his daughter begging that she would come to him, and at last
it was necessary that an evening should be fixed. "We shall bo
delighted to come to-day or to-morrow," Lopez said.

262 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" We had better say to-morrow. There would be nothing to
eat to-day. The house isn't now what it used to be." It was there-
fore expedient that Lopez should drop his anger when he got home,
and prepare his wife to dine in Manchester Square in a proper
frame of mind.

Her misery had been extreme ; — very much more bitter than he
had imagined. It was not only that his displeasure made her life
for the time wearisome, and robbed the only society she had of all
its charms. It was not only that her heart was wounded by his
anger. Those evils might have been short-lived. But she had
seen, — she could not fail to see, — that his conduct was unworthy
of her and of her deep love. Though she struggled hard against the
feeling, she could not but despise the meanness of his jealousy.
She knew thoroughly well that there had been no grain of offence
in that letter from Arthur Fletcher, — and she knew that no man, no
true man, would have taken offence at it. She tried to quench her
judgment, and to silence the verdict which her intellect gave against
him, but her intellect was too strong even for her heart. She was
beginning to learn that the god of her idolatry was but a little human
creature, and that she should not have worshipped^ so poor a shrine.
But nevertheless the love should be continued, and, if possible, the
worship, though the idol had been already found to have feet of
clay. He was her husband, and she would be true to him. As
morning after morning he left her, still with that harsh, unmanly
frown upon his face, she would look up at him with entreating
eyes, and when he returned would receive him with her fondest
smile.

At length he, too, smiled. He came to her after that inter-
view with Mr. Wharton and told her, speaking with the soft yet
incisive voice which she used to love so well, that they were to dine
in the Square on the following day. ' ' Let there be an end of all
this," he said, taking her in his arms and kissing her. Of course
she did not tell him that "all this" had sprung from his ill-
humour and not from hers. " I own I have been angry," he con-
tinued. ' ' I will say nothing more about it now ; but that man
did vex me."

" I have been so sorry that you should have been vexed."

" Well ;— let it pass away. I don't think your father is looking
very well."

"He is not ill?"

" Oh no. He feels the loss of your society. He is so much
alone. You must be more with him."

" Has he not seen Everett yet P "

"No. Everett is not behaving altogether well." Emily was
made unhappy by this and showed it. " He is the best fellow in
the world. I may safely say there is no other man whom I regard
so warmly as I do your brother. But he takes wrong ideas into his
head, and nothing will knock thorn out. I wonder what your father
Jxas done about his will."

" GET BOUND HIM." 263

" I nave not an idea. Nothing you may be sure will make him
unjust to Everett."

"Ah!— You don't happen to know whether he ever made a
will?"

" Not at all. He would be sure to say nothing about it to me,
— or to anybody."

" That is a kind of secrecy which I think wrong. It leads to so
much uncertainty. You wouldn't like to ask him ? "

" No;— certainly."

" It is astonishing to me how afraid you are of your father. He
hasn't any land ; has he ? "

"Land!"

" Real estate. You know what I mean. He couldn't well have
landed property without your knowing it." She shook her head.
" It might make an immense difference to us, you know."

"Why so?"

"If he were to die without a will, any land, — houses and that
kind of property, — would go to Everett. I never knew a man who
told his children so little. I want to make you understand these
things. You and I will be badly off if he doesn't do something for
us."

" You don't think he is really ill ? "

" No ; — not ill. Men above seventy are apt to die, you know."

11 Oh, Ferdinand, — what a way to talk of it ! "

" Well, my love, the thing is so seriously matter-of-fact, that it
is better to look at it in a matter-of-fact way. I don't want your
father to die."

"I hope not. I hope not."

" But I should be very glad to learn what he means to do while
he lives. I want to get you into sympathy with me in this matter ;
— but it is so difficult."

" Indeed I sympathize with you."

" The truth is he has taken an aversion to Everett."

"God forbid!"

" I am doing all I can to prevent it. But if he does throw Everett
over we ought to have the advantage of it. There is no harm in
saying as much as that. Think what it would be if he should take

it into his head to leave his money to hospitals. My G ; fancy

what my condition would be if I were to hear of such a will as that !
If he destroyed an old will, partly because he didn't like our mar-
riage, and partly in anger against Everett, and then die without
making another, the property would be divided, — unless he had
bought land. You see how many dangers there are. Oh dear ! I
can look forward and see myself mad, — or else see myself so proudly
triumphant ! " All this horrified her, but he did not see her horror.
He knew that she disliked it, but thought that she disliked the
trouble, and that she dreaded her father. " Now I do think that
you could help me a little," he continued.

♦'What can I do?"

264 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" Get round him when he's a little down in the mouth. That ia
the way in which old men are conquered." How utterly igno-
rant he was of the veiy nature of her mind and disposition ! To
be told by her husband that she was to " get round " her father !
"You should see him every day. He would be delighted if you
would go to him at his chambers. Or you could take care to be in
the Square when he comes home. I don't know whether we had
not better leave this and go and live near him. "Would you mind
that?"

" I would do anything you would suggest as to living anywhere."
" But you won't do anything I suggest as to your father."
" As to being with him, if I thought he wished it, — though I had
to walk my feet off, I would go to him."

u There's no need of hurting your feet. There's the brougham."
" I do so wish, Ferdinand, you would discontinue the brougham.
I don't at all want it. I don't at all dislike cabs. And I was only
joking about walking. I walk very well."

" Certainly not. You fail altogether to understand my ideas
about things. If things were going bad with us, I would infinitely
prefer getting a pair of horses for you to putting down the one you
have." She certainly did not understand his ideas. "Whatever wf
do we must hold our heads up. I think he is coming round to
cotton to me. He is very close, but I can see that he likes my going
to him. Of course, as he grows older from day to day, he'll con-
stantly want some one to lean on more than heretofore."
" I would go and stay with him if he wanted me."
"I have thought of that too. Now that would be a saving, —
without any fall. And if we were both there we could hardly fail
to know what he was doing. You could offer that, couldn't you ?
You could say as much as that ?"
" I could ask him if he wished it."

" Just so. Say that it occurs to you that he is lonely by himself,
and that we will both go to the Square at a moment's notice if he
thinks it will make him comfortable I feel sure that that will be
the best step to take. I have already had an offer for these rooms,
and could get rid of the things we have bought to advantage."

This, too, was terrible to her, and at the same time altogether
unintelligible. She had been invited to buy little treasures to make
their home comfortable, and had already learned to take that de-
light in hor belongings which is one of the greatest pleasures of a
young married woman's life. A girl in her old home, before she is
given up to a husband, has many sources of interest, and probably
from day to day sees many people. And the man just married goes
out to his work, and occupies his time, and has his thickly-peopled
world around him. But tho bride, when the bridal honours of the
honeymoon are over, when the sweet care of the first cradle has not
yet come to her, is apt to be lonely and to bo driven to the con-
templation of the pretty things with which her husband and her
friends have surrounded her. It had certainly boon so with this

11 GET ROUND HIM." 265

young bride, whose husband left her in the morning and only
returned for their late dinner. And now she was told that her
household gods had had a price put upon them and that they were
to be sold. She had intended to suggest that she would pay her
father a visit, and her husband immediately proposed that they
should quarter themselves permanently on the old man ! She was
ready to give up her brougham, though she liked the comfort of
it well enough ; but to that he would not consent because the
possession of it gave him an air of wealth ; but without a moment's
hesitation he could catch at the idea of throwing upon her father
the burden of maintainiDg both her and himself ! She understood
the meaning of this. She could read his mind so far. She endea-
voured not to read the book too closely, — but there it was, opened
to her wider day by day, and she knew that the lessons which it
taught were vulgar and damnable.

And yet she had to hide from him her own perception of him-
self ! Sho had to sympathize with his desires and yet to abstain
from doing that which his desires demanded from her. Alas, poor
girl ! She soon knew that her marriage had been a mistake.
There was probably no one moment in which she made the con-
fession to herself. But the conviction was there, in her mind, as
though the confession had been made. Then there would come
upon her unbidden, unwelcome reminiscences of Arthur Fletcher,
— thoughts that she would struggle to banish, accusing herself of
some heinous crime because the thoughts would come back to her.
She remembered his light wavy hair, which she had loved as one
loves the beauty of a dog, which had seemed to her young ima-
gination, to her in the ignorance of her early years, to lack some-
thing of a dreamed-of manliness. She remembered his eager,
boyish, honest entreaties to herself, which to her had been with-
out that dignity of a superior being which a husband should pos-
sess. She became aware that she had thought the less of him
because he had thought the more of her. She had worshipped
this other man because he had assumed superiority and had told
her that he was big enough to be her master. But now, — now
that it was all too late, — the veil had fallen from her eyes. She
could now see the difference between manliness and ' ' deport-
ment." Ah, — that she should ever have been so blind, she who
had given herself credit for seeing so much clearer than they who
were her elders ! And now, though at last she did see clearly,
she could not have the consolation of telling any one what she
had seen. She must bear it all in silence, and live with it, and
still love this god of clay that she had chosen. And, above all,
she must never allow herself even to think of that other man with
the wavy light hair, — that man who was rising in the world, of
whom all people said all good things, who was showing himself
to be a man by the work he did, and whose true tenderness she
could never doubt.

Her father was left to her. Sho could still love her father. It

266 THE PEIME MINISTER.

might be that it would be best for him that she should go back to
her old home, and take care of his old age. If he should wish it,
she would make no difficulty of parting with the things around
her. Of what concern were the prettinesses of life to one whose
inner soul was hampered with such ugliness ? It might be better
that they should lire in Manchester Square,— if her father wished
it. It was clear to her now that her husband was in urgent want
of money, though of his affairs, even of his way of making money,
she knew nothing. As that was the case, of course she would
consent to any practicable retrenchment which he would propose.
And then she thought of other coming joys and coming troubles, —
of how in future years she might have to teach a girl falsely to
believe that her father was a good man, and to train a boy to
honest purposes whatever parental lessons might come from the
other side.

But the mistake she had made was acknowledged. The man
who could enjoin her to " get round" her father could never have
been worthy of the love she had given him.

CHAPTER XL.

M COME AND TRY IT."

The husband was almost jovial when he came home just in time
to take his young wife to dine with their father. " I've had such
a day in the city," he said, laughing. " I wish I could introduce
you to my friend, Mr. Sextus Parker."

11 Cannot you do so ? "

" Well, no ; not exactly. Of course you'd like him because he
is such a wonderful character, but he'd hardly do for your drawing-
room. He's the vulgarest little creature you ever put your eyes
on ; and yet in a certain way he's my partner."

11 Then I suppose you-trust him ? "

11 Indeed I don't ; — but I make him useful. Poor little Sexty !
I do trust him to a degree, because he believes in me and thinks
he can do best by sticking to me. The old saying of ' honour
among thieves ' isn't without a dash of truth in it. When two
men are in a boat together they must be true to each other, else
neither will get to the shore."

" You don't attribute high motives to your friend."

" I'm afraid there are not very many high motives in the world,
my girl, especially in the city ; — nor yet at Westminster. It can
hardly be from high motives when a lot of men, thinking diffe-
rently on every possible subject, come together for the sake of
pay and power. I don't know whether, after all, Sextus Parker

"come and try it." 26?

mayn't have as high motives as the Duke of Omnium. I don't
suppose any one ever had lower motives than the Duchess when
Bhe chiselled me about Silverbridge. Never mind ; — it'll all be
one a hundred years hence. Get ready, for I want you to be with
your father a little before dinner."

Then, when they were in the brougham together, he began a
course of very plain instructions. "Look here, dear; you had
better get him to talk to you before dinner. I dare say Mrs. Eoby
will be there, and I will get her on one side. At any rate you
can man ago it because we shall be early, and I'll take up a book
while you are talking to him."

" What do you wish me to say to him, Ferdinand ? "

" I have been thinking of your own proposal, and I am quite
sure that we had better join him in the Square. The thing is, I
am in a little mess about the rooms, and can't stay on without
paying very dearly for them."

" I thought you had paid for them."

"Well ; — yes; in one sense I had; but you don't understand
about business. You had better not interrupt me now as I have
got a good deal to say before we get to the Square. It will suit
me to give up the rooms. I don't like them, and they are very
dear. As you yourself said, it will be a capital thing for us to go
and stay with your father."

" I meant only for a visit."

" It will be for a visit, — and we'll make it a long visit." It was
odd that the man should have been so devoid of right feeling him-
self as not to have known that the ideas which he expressed were
revolting ! " You can sound him. Begin by saying that you are
afraid he is desolate. He told me himself that he was desolate,
and you can refer to that. Then tell him that we are both of us
prepared to do anything that we can to relieve him. Put your
arm over him, and kiss him, and all that sort of thing." She
shrunk from him into the corner of the brougham, and yet he did
not perceive it. ' ' Then say that you think he would be happier if we
were to join him here for a time. You can make him understand
that there would be no difficulty about the apartments. But don't
say it all in a set speech, as though it were prepared, — though of
course you can let him know that you have suggested it to me
and that I am willing. Be sure to let him understand that the
idea began with you."

" But it did not."

" You proposed to go and stay with him. Tell him just that.
And you should explain to him that he can dine at the club just
as much as he likes. When you were alone with him here of
course he had to come home ; but he needn't do that now unless
he chooses. Of course the brougham would be my affair. And if
he should say anything about sharing the house expenses, you
can tell him that I would do anything he might propose." Her
father to share the household expenses in his own house, and with

268 THE PRIME MINISTER.

his own children! "You say as much as you can of all this
before dinner, so that when we are sitting below he may suggest
it if he pleases. It would suit me to get in there next week if
possible."

And so the lesson had been given. She had said little or nothing
in reply, and he had only finished as they entered the Square.
She had hardly a minute allowed her to think how far she might
follow, and in what she must ignore, her husband's instructions.
If she might use her own judgment she would tell her father at
once that a residence for a time beneath his roof would be a service
to them pecuniarily. But this she might not do. She understood
that her duty to her husband did forbid her to proclaim his
poverty in opposition to his wishes. She would tell nothing that
he did not wish her to tell, — but then no duty could require her
to say what was false. She would make the suggestion about
their change of residence, and would make it with proper affec-
tion ; — but as regarded themselves she would simply say that it
would suit their views to give up their rooms if it suited him.

Mr. Wharton was all alone when they entered the drawing-
room, — but, as Lopez had surmised, had asked his sister-in-law
round the corner to come to dinner. ' ' Roby always likes an
excuse to get to his club," said the old man, "and Harriet likes
an excuse to go anywhere." It was not long before Lopez began
to play his part by seating himself close to the open window and
looking out into the Square ; and Emily when she found herself
close to her father, with her hand in his, could hardly divest her-
self of a feeling that she also was playing her part. "I see so
very little of you," said the old man plaintively.

" I'd come up oftener if I thought you'd like it."

"It isn't liking, my dear. Of course you have to live with
your husband. Isn't this sad about Everett ? "

" Yery sad. But Everett hasn't lived here for ever so long."

" I don't know why he shouldn't. He was a fool to go away
when he did. Does ho go to you ? "

" Yes ; — sometimes."

" And what does he say ? "

" I'm sure he would bo with you at once if you would ask him."

"I have asked him. I've sent word by Lopez over and over
again. If he means that I am to write to him and say tl
sorry for offending him, I won't. Don't talk of him any more.
It makes me so angry that I sometimes feel inclined to do things
which I know I should repent when dying."

" Not anything to injure Everett, papa !"

" I wonder whether he ever thinks that I am an old man and all
alone, and that his brother-in-law is daily with me. But he's a
fool, and thinks of nothing. I know it is very sad being here
night after night by myself." Mr. Wharton forgot, no doubt, at
the moment, that he passed the majority of his evenings at the
Eldon, — though, had he been reminded of it, he might have declared

"COME AND TRY IT." 269

with perfect truth that the delights of his club were n®t satis-
factory.

" Papa," said Emily, " would you like us to come and live
here?"

" What, — you and Lopez ; — here, in the Square ?"

" Yes ; — for a time. He is thinking of giving up the place in
Belgrave Mansions."

" I thought he had them for — for ever so many months."

"He does not like them, and they are expensive, and he can
give them up. If you would wish it, we would come here, — for a
time." He turned round and looked at her almost suspiciously ;
and she, — she blushed as she remembered how accurately she was
obeying her husband's orders. " It would be such a joy to me to
be near you again."

There was something in her voice which instantly reassured

him. " Well ; " he said ; " come and try it if it will suit him.

The house is big enough. It will ease his pocket and be a comfort
to me. Come and try it."

It astonished her that the thing should be done so easily. Here
was all that her husband had proposed to arrange by deep diplo-
macy settled in three words. And yet she felt ashamed of herself,
— as though she had taken her father in. That terrible behest to
" get round him" still grated on her ears. Had she got round
him? Had she cheated him into this? "Papa," she said, "do
not do this Unless you feel sure that you will like it."

" How is anybody to feel sure of anything, my dear ?"

" But if you doubt, do not do it."

" I feel sure of one thing, that it will be a great saving to your
husband, and I am nearly sure that that ought not to be a matter
of indifference to him. There is plenty of room here, and it will
at any rate be a comfort to me to see you sometimes." Just at
this moment Mrs. Boby came in, and the old man began to tell his
news aloud. " Emily has not gone away for long. She's coming
back like a bad shilling."

" Not to live in the Square ?" said Mrs. Boby, looking round at
Lopez.

11 Why not ? There's room here for them, and it will be just as
well to save expense. When will you come, my dear ? "

" Whenever the house may be ready, papa."

" It's ready now. You ought to know that. I am not going to
refurnish the rooms for you, or anything of that kind. Lopez can
come in and hang up his hat whenever it pleases him."

During this time Lopez had hardly known how to speak or what
to say. He had been very anxious that his wife should pave the
way, as he would have called it. He had been urgent with her to
break the ice to her father. But it had not occurred to him that
the matter would be settled without any reference to himself. Of
course he had heard every word that had been spoken, and was
aware that his own poverty had been suggested as the cause for

270 THE PRIME MINISTER.

such a proceeding. It was a great thing for him in every way.
He would live for nothing, and would also have almost unlimited
power of being with Mr. Wharton as old age grew on him. This
ready compliance with his wishes was a benefit far too precious to
be lost. But yet he felt that his own dignity required some refer-
ence to himself. It was distasteful to him that his father-in-law
should regard him, — or, at any rate, that he should speak of him,
— as a pauper, unable to provide a home for his own wife. " Emily's
notion in suggesting it, sir," he said, "has been her care for
your comfort." The barrister turned round and looked at him,
and Lopez did not quite like the look. ■ ' It was she thought of it
first, and she certainly had no other idea than that. When she
mentioned it to me I was delighted to agree."

Emily heard it all and blushed. It was not absolutely untrue
in words, — this assertion of her husband's, — but altogether false
in spirit. And yet she could not contradict him. " I don't see
why it should not do very well, indeed," said Mrs.^Eoby.

"I hope it may," said the barrister. "Come, Emily, I must
take you down to dinner today. You are not at home yet, you
know. As you are to come, the sooner the better."

During dinner not a word was said on the subject. Lopez
exerted himself to be pleasant, and told all that he had heard as to
the difficulties of the Cabinet. Sir Orlando had resigned, and the
general opinion was that the Coalition was going to pieces.
Had Mr. Wharton seen the last article in the " People's Banner "
about the Duke ? Lopez was strongly of opinion that Mr. Wharton
ought to see that article. "I never had the 'People's Banner'
within my fingers in my life," said the barrister angrily, " and I
certainly never will."

"Ah, sir; this is an exception. You should see this. When
Slide really means to cut a fellow up, he can do it. There's no
one like him. And the Duke has deserved it. He's a poor, vacillat-
ing creature, led by the Duchess ; and she, — according to all that
one hears, — she isn't much better than she should be."

" I thought the Duchess was a great friend of yours," said Mr.
Wharton.

"I don't care much for such friendship. She threw me over
most shamefully."

" And therefore, of course, you are justified in taking away her
character. I never saw the Duchess of Omnium in my life, and
should probably be very uncomfortable if I found myself in her
society ; but I believe her to be a good sort of woman in her way."
Emily sat perfectly silent, knowing that her husband had been
robuked, but feeling that he had deserved it. He, however, was not
abashed ; but changed the conversation, dashing into city rumours,
and legal reforms. The old man from time to time said sharp
little things, showing that his intellect was not senile, all of which
his son-in-law bore imperturbably. It was not that ho liked it,
or was indifferent, but that he knew that he could not get the

44 COME AND TRY IT.*' 271

good things which Mr. Wharton could do for him without making
some kind of payment. He must take the sharp words of the old
man, — and take all that he could get besides.

When the two men were alone together after dinner, Mr. Whar-
ton used a different tone. " If you are to come," he said, "you
might as well do it as soon as possible."

" A day or two will be enough for us."

"There are one or two things you should understand. I shall
be very happy to see your friends at any time, but I shall like to
know when they are coming before they come."

11 Of course, sir."

" I dine out a good deal."

" At the club," suggested Lopez.

"Well; — at the club or elsewhere. It doesn't matter. There
will always be dinner here for you and Emily, just as though I
were at home. I say this, so that there need be no questionings
or doubts about it hereafter. And don't let there eyer be any
question of money between us."

" Certainly not."

"Everett has an allowance, and this will be tantamount to an
allowance to Emily. You have also had £3,500. I hope it has
been well expended ; — except the £500 at that election, which has,
of course, been thrown away."

" The other was brought into the business."

" I don't know what the business is. But you and Emily must
understand that the money has been given as her fortune."

" Oh, quite so ;— part of it, you mean."

" I mean just what I say."

" I call it part of it7 because, as you observed just now, our living
here will be the same as though you made Emily an allowance."

"Ah; — well; you can look at it in that light if you please.
John has the key of the cellar. He's a man I can trust. As a rule
I have port and sherry at table every day. If you like claret I will
get some a little cheaper than what I use when friends are here."

" What wine I have is quite indifferent to me."

" I like it good, and I have it good. I always breakfast at 9.30.
You can have yours earlier if you please. I don't know that
there's anything else to be said. I hope we shall get into the way
of understanding each other, and being mutually comfortable.
Shall we go up- stairs to Emily and Mrs. Roby ? " And so it was
determined that Emily was to come back to her old house about
eight months after her marriage.

Mr. Wharton himself sat late into the night, all alone, thinking
about it. What he had done, he had done in a morose way, and
he was aware that it was so. He had n«t beamed with smilos, and
opened his arms lovingly, and, bidding God bless his dearest
children, told them that if they would only come and sit round his
hearth he should be the happiest old man in London. Uo had
eaid little or nothing of his own affection even for his daughter,

272 THE PRIME MINISTER.

but had spoken of the matter as one of which the pecuniary aspect
alone was important. He had found out that the saving so effected
would be material to Lopez, and had resolved that there should be
no shirking of the truth in what he was prepared to do. He had
been almost asked to take the young married couple in, and feed
them,— so that they might live free of expense. He was willing to
do it, — but was not willing that there should be any soft-worded,
high-toned false pretension. He almost read Lopez to the bottom.
— not, however, giving the man credit for dishonesty so deep or
cleverness so great as he possessed. But as regarded Emily, he
was also actuated by a personal desire to have her back again as
an element of happiness to himself. He had pined for her since
he had been left alone, hardly knowing what it was that he had
wanted. And now as he thought of it all, he was angry with
himself that he had not been more loving and softer in his
manner to her* She at any rate was honest. No doubt of that
crossed his mind. And now he had been bitter to her, — bitter in
his manner, — simply because he had not wished to appear to have
been taken in by her husband. Thinking of all this, he got up,
and went to his desk, and wrote her a note, which she would
receive on the following morning after her husband had left her.
It was very short.

" Dearest E.

" I am so overjoyed that you are coming back to me.

"A. W."

He had judged her quite rightly. The manner in which the
thing had been arranged had made her very wretched. There
had been no love in it ; — nothing apparently but assertions on one
side that much was being given, and on the other acknow-
ledgments that much was to be received. She was aware that in
this her father had condemned her husband. She also had con-
demned him; — and felt, alas, that she also had been condemned.
But this little letter took away that sting. She could read in her
father's note all the action of his mind. He had known that he was*
bound to acquit her, and he had done so with one of the old long-
valued expressions of his love.

CHAPTER XLI.
the value op a thick skin.

Sir Orlando Drought must have felt bitterly the quiescence
with which he sank into obscurity on the second bench on the
opposite side of the House. Ono great occasion he had on which

THE VALUE OE A THICK* SHIN. 273

it was his privilege to explain to four or five hundred gentlemen
the insuperable reasons which caused him to break away from
those right honourable friends to act with whom had been his
comfort and his duty, his great joy and his unalloyed satisfaction.
Then he occupied the best part of an hour in abusing those friends
and all their measures. This no doubt had been a pleasure, as
practice had made the manipulation of words easy to him, — and
he was able to revel in that absence of responsibility which must
be as a fresh perfumed bath to a minister just freed from the tram-
mels of office. But the pleasure was surely followed by much
suffering when Mr. Monk, — Mr. Monk who was to assume his
place as Leader of the House, — only took five minutes to answer
him, saying that he and his colleagues regretted much the loss of
the Eight Honourable Baronet's services, but that it would hardly
be necessary for him to defend the Ministry on all those points on
which it had been attacked, as, were he to do so, he would have
to repeat the arguments by which every measure brought forward
by the present Ministry had been supported. Then Mr. Monk sat
down, and the business of the House went on just as if Sir Orlando
Drought had not moved his seat at all.

"What makes everybody and everything so dead?" said Sir
Orlando to his old friend Mr. Boffin as they walked home together
from the House that night. They had in former days been staunch
friends, sitting night after night close together, united in opposition,
and sometimes, for a few halcyon months, in the happier bonds of
office. But when Sir Orlando had joined the Coalition, and when
the sterner spirit of Mr. Boffin had preferred principles to place, —
to use the language in which he was wont to speak to himself and
to his wife and family of his own abnegation, — there had come a
coolness between them. Mr. Boffin, who was not a rich man, nor
by any means indifferent to the comforts of office, had felt keenly
the injury done to him when he was left hopelessly in the cold by
the desertion of his old friends. It had come to pass that there
had been no salt left in the opposition. Mr. Boffin in all his
parliamentary experience had known nothing like it. Mr. Boffin
had been sure that British honour was going to the dogs and that
British greatness was at an end. But the secession of Sir Orlando
gave a little fillip to his life. At any rate he could walk homo
with his old friend and talk of the horrors of the present day.

11 Well, Drought, if you ask me, you know, I can only speak as
I feel. Everything must be dead when men holding different
opinions on every subject under the sun come together in order
that they may carry on a government as they would a trade
business. The work may be done, but it must be done without
spirit."

" But it may be all important that the work should be done,"
said the Baronet, apologising for his past misconduct.

" No doubt ; — and I am very far from judging those who make
the attempt. It has been made more than once before, and has, I

274 *HB PRIME MINISTES.

think, always failed. I don't believe in it myself, and I think that
the death-like torpor of which you speak is one of its worst con-
sequences." After that Mr. Boffin admitted Sir Orlando back into
his heart of hearts.

Then the end of the Session came, veiy quietly and very early.
By the end of July there was nothing left to be done, and the
world of London was allowed to go down into the country almost
a fortnight before its usual time.

With many men, both in and out of Parliament, it became a
question whether all this was for good or evil. The Boffinites had of
course much to say for themselves. Everything was torpid. There
was no interest in the newspapers, — except when Mr. Slide took
the tomahawk into his hands. A member of Parliament this
Session had not been by half so much bigger than another man as
in times of hot political warfare. One of the most moving sources
of our national excitement seemed to hav&vanished from Life. Wo
all know What happens to stagnant waters. So said the Boffinites,
and so also now said Sir Orlando. But the Government was
carried on and the country was prosperous. A few useful measures
had been passed by unambitious men, and the Duke of St. Bungay
declared that he had never known a Session of Parliament more
thoroughly satisfactory to the ministers.

But the old Duke in so saying had spoken as it were his publio
opinion, — giving, truly enough, to a few of his colleagues, such as
Lord Drummond, Sir Gregory Grogram and others, the results of
his general experience ; but in his own bosom and with a private
friend he was compelled to confess that there was a cloud in the
heavens. The Prime Minister had become so moody, so irritable,
and so unhappy, that the old Duke was forced to doubt whether
things could go on much longer as they were. He was wont to
talk of these things to his friend Lord Cantrip, who was not a
member of the Government, but who had been a colleague of both
the Dukes, and whom the old Duke regarded with peculiar con-
fidence. "I cannot explain it to you," he said to Lord Cantrip.
" There is nothing that ought to give him a moment's uneasiness.
Since he took office there hasn't once been a majority against
him in either House on any question that the Government has
made its own. I don't remember such a state of things,— so easy
for the Prime Minister, — since the days of Lord Liverpool. Ho
had one thorn in his side, our friend who was at the Admiralty, and
that thorn like other thorns has worked itself out. Yet at this
moment it is impossible to get him to consent to the nomination
of a successor to Sir Orlando. This was said a week before the
Session had closed.

" I suppose it is his health," said Lord Cantrip.

" He's well enough as far as I can see ; — though he will be ill
unless he can relievo himself froni the strain on his nerves."

11 Do you mean by resigning ?"

11 Not necessarily. The fault is that he takes things too seriously.

THE VALTJE OP A THICK SKIN. 275

If he could be got to believe that he might eat, and sleep, and go to
bed, and amuse himself like other men, he might be a very good
Prime Minister. He is over troubled by his conscience. I have
seen a go6d many Prime Ministers, Cantrip, and I've taught
myself to think that they are not very different from other
men. One wants in a Prime Minister a good many things,
but not very great things. He should be clever but need not
be a genius ; he should be conscientious but by no means
strait-laced; he should be cautious but never timid, bold but
never venturesome ; he should have a good digestion, genial man-
ners, and, above all, a thick skin. These are the gifts we want,
but we can't always get them, and 'have to do without them. Eor
my own part, I find that though Smith be a very good Minister,
the best perhaps to be had at the time, when he breaks down
Jones does nearly as well."

" There will be a Jones, then, if your Smith does break down ? "

" No doubt. England wouldn't come to an end because the
Duke of Omnium shut himself up at Matching. But I love
the man, and, with some few exceptions, am contented with the
party. We can't do better, and it cuts me to the heart when I see
him suffering, knowing how much I did myself to make him
undertake the work."

" Is he going to Gatherum Castle ? "

" No ; — to Matching. There is some discomfort about that."

" I suppose," said Lord Cantrip, — speaking almost in a whisper,
although they were closeted together, "I suppose the Duchess is
a little troublesome."

" She's the dearest woman in the world," said the Duke of
St. Bungay. "I love her almost as I do my own daughter. And
she is most zealous to serve him.'

" I fancy she overdoes it."

" No doubt."

"And that he suffers from perceiving it," said Lord Cantrip.

11 But a man hasn't a right to suppose that he shall have no
annoyances. The best horse in the world has some fault. He
pulls, or he shies, or is slow at his fences, or doesn't like heavy
ground. He has no right to expect that his wife shall know
everything and do everything without a mistake. And then he
has such faults of his own! His skin is so thin. Do you
remember dear old Brock ? By heavens ; — there was a covering, a
hide impervious to fire or steel ! He wouldn't have gone into
tantrums because his wife asked too many people to the house.
Nevertheless, I won't give up all hope."

"A man's skin may be thickened, I suppose."

"No doubt; — as a blacksmith's arm."

But the Duke of St. Bungay, though he declared that he wouldn't
give up hope, was very uneasy on the matter. " Why won't you
let me go ?" the other Duke had said to him.

276 THE PEIME MINISTER.

" What ; — because such a man as Sir Orlando Brought throws
up his office?"

But in truth the Duke of Omnium had not been instigated to
ask the question by the resignation of Sir Orlando. At that very-
moment the " People's Banner" had been put out of sight at the
bottom of a heap of other newspapers behind the Prime Minister's
chair, and his present misery had been produced by Mr. Quintus
Slide. To have a festering wound and to be able to show the
wound to no surgeon, is wretchedness indeed! "It's not Sir
Orlando, but a sense of general failure," said the Prime Minister.
Then his old friend had made use of that argument of the ever-
recurring majorities to prove that there had been no failure.
" There seems to have come a lethargy upon the country," said
the poor victim. Then the Duke of St. Bungay knew that his
friend had read that pernicious article in the " People's Banner,"
for the Duke had also read it and remembered that phrase of a
" lethargy on the country," and understood at once how the poison
had rankled.

It was a week before he would consent to ask any man to fill the
vacancy made by Sir Orlando. He would not allow suggestions
to be made to him and yet would name no one himself. The old
Duke, indeed, did make a suggestion, and anything coming from
him was of course borne with patience. Barrington Erie, he
thought, would do for the Admiralty. But the Prime Minister
shook his head. "In the first place he would refuse, and that
would be a great blow to me."

" I could sound him," said the old Duke. But the Prime
Minister again shook his head and turned the subject. With all
his timidity he was becoming autocratic and peevishly imperious.
Then he went to Lord Cantrip, and when Lord Cantrip, with all
the kindness which he could throw into his words, stated the
reasons which induced him at present to decline office, he was
again in despair. At last he asked Phineas Finn to move to the
Admiralty, and, when our old friend somewhat reluctantly obeyed,
of course he had the same difficulty in filling the office Finn had
held. Other changes and other complications became necr
and Mr. Quintus Slide, who hated Phineas Finn even worse than
the poor Duke, found ample scope for his patriotic indignation.

This all took place in the closing week of the Session, filling our
poor Prime Minister with trouble and dismay, just when other
people were complaining that there was nothing to think of and
nothing to do. Men do not really like leaving London before the
grouse calls them, — the grouse, or rather the fashion of the grouse.
And some ladies were very angry at being separated so soon from
their swains in the city. The tradesmen too were displeased,— so
that there were voices to re-echo the abuse of the "People's Banner."
The Duchess had done her best to prolong the Session by another
week, telling her husband of the evil consequences above suggested,
but he had thrown wide his arms and asked her with affected dis-

RETRIBUTION. 277

may whether lie was to keep Parliament sitting in order that more
ribbons might be sold ! " There is nothing to be done," said the
Duke almost angrily.

"Then you should make something to be done," said the
Duchess, mimicking him.

CHAPTEE XLII.

RETRIBUTION".

The Duchess had been at work with her husband for the last two
months in the hope of renewing her autumnal festivities, but had
been lamentably unsuccessful. The Duke had declared that there
should be no more rural crowds, no repetition of what he called Lon-
don turned loose on his own grounds. He could not forget the neces-
sity which had been imposed upon him of turning Major Pountney
out of his house, or the change that had been made in his gardens,
or his wife's attempt to conquer him at Silverbridge. "Do you
mean," she said, " that we are to have nobody ? " He replied that
he thought it would be best to go to Matching. " And live a Darby
and Joan life ? " said the Duchess.

"I said nothing of Darby and Joan. Whatever may be my
feelings I hardly think that you are fitted for that kind of thing.
Matching is not so big as Gatherum, but it is not a cottage. Of
course you can ask your own friends."

" I don't know what you mean by my own friends. I endeavour
always to ask yours."

"I don't know that Major Pountney, and Captain Gunner, and
Mr. Lopez were ever among the number of my friends."

"I suppose you mean Lady Eosina?" said the Duchess. "I
shall be happy to have her at Matching if you wish it."

1 ' I should like to see Lady Eosina De Courcy at Matching very
much."

" And is there to be nobody' else ? I'm afraid I should find it
rather dull while you two were opening your hearts to each other."
Here he looked at her angrily. " Can you think of anybody besides
Lady Eosina ?"

"I suppose you will wish to have Mrs. Finn ? "

" What an arrangement ! Lady Eosina for you to flirt with, and
Mrs. Finn for me to grumble to."

'* That is an odious word," said the Prime Minister.

"What; — flirting? I don't see anything bad about the word.
The thing is dangerous. But you are quite at liberty if you don't
go beyond Lady Eosina. I should like to know whether you would
wish anybody else to come ?" Of course he made no becoming

278 THE PEIME MINISTER.

answer to this question, and of course no becoming answer was
expected. He knew that she was trying to provoke him because
he would not let her do this year as she had done last. The house,
he had no doubt, would be full to overflowing when he got there.
He could not help that. But as compared with Gatherum Castle
the house at Matching was small, and his domestic authority suf-
ficed at any rate for shutting up Gatherum for the time.

I do not know whether at times her sufferings were not as acute
as his own. He, at any rate, was Prime Minister, and it seemed
to her that she was to be reduced to nothing. At the beginning of
it all he had, with unwonted tenderness, asked her for her sym-
pathy in his undertaking, and, according to her powers, she had
given it to him with her whole heart. She had thought that she
had seen a way by which she might assist Mm in his great em-
ployment, and she had worked at it like a slave. Every day she
told herself that she did not, herself, love the Captain Gunners and
Major Pountneys, nor the Sir Orlandos, nor, indeed, the Lady
Eosinas. She had not followed the bent of her own inclination
when she had descended to sheets; and towels, and busied herself to
establish an archery- ground. She had not shot an arrow during
the whole season, nor had she cared who had won and who had lost.
It had not been for her own personal delight that she had kept open
house for forty persons throughout four months of the year, in
doing which he had never taken an ounce of the labour off her
shoulders by any single word or deed ! It had all been done for his
sake, — that his reign might be long and triumphant, that the world
might say that his hospitality was noble and full, that his name
might be in men's mouths, and that he might prosper as a British
Minister. Such, at least, were the assertions which she made to
herself, when she thought of her own grievances and her own
troubles. And now she was angry with her husband. It was very
well for him to ask for her sympathy, but he had none to give her
in return ! He could not pity her failures, — even though ho had
himself caused them ! If he had a grain of intelligence about him
he must, she thought, understand well enough how sore it must be
for her to descend from her princely entertainments to solitude at
Matching, and thus to own before all the world that she was
beaten. Then when she asked him for advice, when she was really
anxious to know how far she might go in filling :her houso without
offending him, he told her to ask Lady Eosina Do Courcy ! If he
chose to be ridiculous he might. She would ask Lady Eosina De
Courcy. In her active anger she did write to Lady Eosina De
Courcy a formal letter, in which sho said that the Duke hoped to
have the pleasure of her ladyship's company at Matching Park on
the 1st of August. It was an absurd letter, somewhat long, written
very much in the Duke's name, with overwhelming expressions of
affection, instigated in the writer's mind partly by the fun of the sup-
position that such a man as ber husband should flirt with such a
woman as Jjady Eosina. Xiiai:e was something top of anger in what

RETRIBUTION. 279

she wrote, some touch of revenge. She sent off this invitation,
and she sent no other. Lady Rosina took it all in good part, and re-

Elied saying that she should have the greatest pleasure in going to
latching. She had declared to herself that she would ask none
but those he had named, and in accordance with her resolution she
sent out no other written invitations.

He had also told her to ask Mrs. Finn. Now this had become
almost a matter of course. There had grown up from accidental
circumstances so strong a bond between these two women, that it
was taken for granted by both their husbands that they should be
nearly always within reach of one another. And the two husbands
were also on kindly, if not affectionate terms with each other. The
nature of the Duke's character was such that, with a most loving
heart, he was hardly capable of that opening out of himself to
another which is necessary for positive friendship. There was a
stiff reserve about him, of which he was himself only too conscious,
which almost prohibited friendship. But he liked Mr. Finn both
as a man and a member of his party, and was always satisfied to
have him as a guest. The Duchess, therefore, had taken it for
granted that Mrs. Finn would come to her, — and that Mr. Finn
would come also during any time that he might be able to escape
from Ireland. But, when the invitation was verbally conveyed,
Mr. Finn had gone to the Admiralty, and had already made his
arrangements for going to soa, as a gallant sailor should. "We
are going away in the ' Black Watch ' for a couple of months," said
Mrs. Finn. Now the " Black Watch " was the Admiralty yacht.

" Heavens and earth ! " ejaculated the Duchess.

"It is always done. The First; Lord would have his epaulets
stripped if he didn't go to sea in August."

" And must you go with him ? "

" I have promised."

V I think it very unkind, — very hard upon me. Of course you
knew that I should want you."

" But if my husband wants me too ? "

" Bother your husband! I wish with all my heart I had never
helped to make up the match."

" It would have been made up just the same, Lady Glen."

" You know that I cannot get on without you. And he ought
to know it too. There isn't another person in the world that I can
really say a thing to."

"Why don't you have Mrs. Grey ? "

" She's going to Persia after her husband. And then sho is not
wicked enough. She always lectured me, and she does it still.
What do you think is going to happen ? "

" Nothing terrible, I hope," said Mrs. Finn, mindful of her hus-
band's now honours at the Admiralty, and hoping that the Puke
might not have repeated Lis threat of resigning,

" Y/e are going to Matching,"

" So I supposed."

280 THE PBIME MINISTER.

"And whom do you think we are going to have Pn '

"Not Major Pountney ? "

11 No ; — not at my asking."

"Nor Mr. Lopez?"

" Nor ye* Mr. Lopoz. Guess again."

"I suppose there will be a dozen to guess."

" No," shrieked the Duchess. " There will only be one. I have
asked one, — at his special desire, — and |as you won't come I shall
ask nobody else. When I pressed him "to name a second he named
you. I'll obey him to the letter. Now, my dear, who do you
think is the chosen one, — the one person who is to solace the per-
turbed spirit of the Prime Minister for the three months of the
autumn ? "

" Mr. Warburton, I should say."

" Oh, Mr. Warburton ! No doubt Mr. Warburton" will come as a
part of his luggage, and possibly half-a-dozen Treasury clerks. He
declares, however, that there is nothing to do, and therefore Mr.
Warburton' s strength may alone suffice to help him to do it.
There is to be one unnecessary guest, — unnecessary, that is, for
official purpose ; though, — oh, — so much needed for his social hap-
piness. Guess once more."

"Knowing the spirit of mischief that ^is in you, — perhaps it is
Lady Rosina."

" Of course it is Lady Rosina," said the Duchess clapping her
hands together. "And I should like to know what you mean by a
spirit of mischief ! I asked him, and he himself said that he par-
ticularly wished to have Lady Rosina at Matching. Now, I'm not
a jealous woman, — am I ? "

"Not of Lady Rosina."

" I don't think they'll do any harm together, but it is particular
you know. However, she is to come. And nobody else is to come.
I did count upon you." Then Mrs. Finn counselled her very
seriously as to the bad taste of such a joke, explaining to her that
the Duke had certainly not intended that her invitations should be
confined to Lady Rosina. But it was not all joke with the Duchess.
She had been driven almost to despair, and was very angry with
her husband. He had brought the thing upon himself, and must
now make the best of it. She would ask nobody else. She de-
clared that there was nobody whom she could ask with propriety.
She was tired of asking. Let her ask whom she would he was
dissatisfied. The only two people he cared to see were Lady
Rosina and the old Duke. She had asked Lady Rosina for his
sake. Let him ask his old friend himself if he pleased.

The Duke and Duchess with all the family went down together,
and Mr. Warburton went with them. The Duchess had said not
a word more to her husband about his guests, nor had he alluded
to the subject. But each was labouring under a conviction that
the other was misbehaving, and with that feeling it was impossible
that there should bo confidence between them. He busied himself

RETRIBUTION. 281

with books and papers,— always turning over those piles of news-
papers to see what evil was said of himself, — and speaking only
now and again to his private secretary. She engaged herself with
the children or pretended to read a novel. Her heart was sore
within her. She had wished to punish him, but in truth she was
punishing herself.

On the day of their arrival, the father and mother, with Lord
Silverbridge, the eldest son, who was home from Eton, and the
private Secretary dined together. As the Duke sat at table,
he began to think how long it was since such a state of things had
happened to him before, and his heart softened towards her. In-
stead of being made angry by the strangeness of her proceeding,
he took delight in it, and in the course of the evening spoke a word
to signify his satisfaction. "I'm afraid it won't last long," she
said, " for Lady Eosina comes to-morrow."

"Oh, indeed."

" You bid me ask her yourself."

Then he perceived it all ; — how she had taken advantage of his
former answer to her and had acted upon it in a spirit of contra-
dictory petulance. But he resolved that he would forgive it and
endeavour to bring her back to him. " I thought we were both
joking," he said good-humouredly.

" Oh, no ! I never suspected you of a joke. At any rate she is
coming."

" She will do neither of us any harm. And Mrs. Finn ? "

" You have sent her to sea."

" She may be at sea, — and he too ; but it is without my sending.
The First Lord I believe usually does go a cruize. Is there nobody
else?"

" Nobody else, — unless you have asked any one."

" Not a creature. Well ; — so much the better. I dare say Lady
Eosina will get on very well."

" You will have to talk to her," said the Duchess.

" I will do my best," said the Duke.

Lady Eosina came and no doubt did think it odd. But she did
not say so, and it really did seem to the Duchess as though all her
vengeance had been blown away by the winds. And she too
laughed at the maiter — to herself, and began to feel less cross and
less perverse. The world did not come to an end because she and
her husband with Lady Eosina and her boy and the private Secre-
tary sat down to dinner every day together. The parish clergyman
with the neighbouring squire and his wife and daughter did come
one day, — to the relief of M. Millepois, who had begun to feel
that the world had collapsed. And every day at a certain hour
the Duke and Lady Eosina walked together for an hour and a half
in the park. The Duchess would have enjoyed it, instead of suf-
fering, could she only have had her friend, Mrs. Finn, to hear her
jokes. "Now, Plantagenet," she said, "do tell me one thing.
What does she talk about ? "

fcHE PEIME MINISTEE.

"The troubles of her family generally, I think."

" That can't last for ever."

" She wears cork soles to her boots and she thinks a good deal
about them."

" And you listen to her ? "

"Why not? I can talk about cork soles as well as anything
else. Anything that may do material good to the world at large,
or even to yourself privately, is a fit subject for conversation to
rational people."

" I suppose I never was one of them."

11 But I can talk upon anything," continued the Duke, " as long
as the talker talks in good faith and does not say things that should
not be said, or deal with matters that are offensive. I could talk
for an hour about bankers' accounts, but I should not expect a
stranger to ask me the state of my own. She has almost per-
suaded me to send to Mr. Sprout of Silverbridge and get some cork
soles myself."

11 Don't do anything of the kind," said the Duchess with anima-
tion ; — as though she had secret knowledge that cork soles were
specially fatal to the family of the Pallisers.

" Why not, my dear ? "

" He was the man who especially, above all others, threw me over
at Silverbridge." Then again there came upon his brow that angry
frown which during the last few days had been dissipated by the
innocence of Lady Bosina's conversation. " Of course I don't mean
to ask you to take any interest in the borough again. You have
said that you wouldn't, and you are always as good as your
word."

"I hope so."

" But I certainly would not employ a tradesman just at your
elbow who has directly opposed what was generally understood in
the town to be your interests."

"What did Mr. Sprout do P This is the first I have heard of it,"

" He got Mr. Du Boung to stand against Mr. Lopez."

"I am very glad for the sake of the borough that Mr. Lopez
did not get in."

" So am I. But that is nothing to do with it. Mr. Sprout
knew at any rate what my wishes were, and went directly against
them."

II You wore not ontitled to have wishes in the matter, Glencora."
" That's all very well ;— but I had, and he knew it. As for the

futuro of course the thing is over. But you have done everything
for the borough."

" You mean that tho borough has done much for me."

II I know what I mean very well; — and! shall take it very ill if
a shilling out of the Castle ever goes into Mr. Sprout's pocket
again."

It is needless to trouble the reader at length with tho sermon
Which ho preached heron the occasion,— showing the utter corrup-

RETRIBUTION. 283

tion which must come from the mixing up of politics with trade,
or with the scorn which she threw into the few words with which
she interrupted him from time to time. "Whether a man makes
good shoes, and at a reasonable prioe, and charges for them
honestly, — that is what you have to consider," said the Duke
impressively.

"I'd rather pay double for bad shoes to a man who did not
thwart me."

" You should not condescend to be thwarted in such a matter.
You lower yourself by admitting such a feeling." And yet he
writhed himself under the lashes of Mr. Slide !

" I know an enemy when I see him," said the Duchess, " and as
long as I live I'll treat an enemy as an enemy."

There was ever so much of it, in the course of which the Duke
declared his purpose of sending at once to Mr. Sprout for ever so
many cork soles, and the Duchess, — most imprudently, — declared
her purpose of ruining Mr. Sprout. There was something in this
threat which grated terribly against the Duke's sense of honour ;
— that his wife should threaten to ruin a poor tradesman, that she
should do so in reference to the political affairs of the borough
which he all but owned, — that she should do so in declared opposi-
tion to him ! Of course he ought to have known that her sin con-
sisted simply in her determination to vex him at the moment. A
more good-natured woman did not live ; — or one less prone to ruin
any one. But any reference to the Silverbridge election brought
back upon him the remembrance of the cruel attacks which had
been made upon him and rendered him for the time moody,
morose, and wretched. So they again parted ill friends, and
hardly spoke when they met at dinner.

The next morning there reached Matching a letter which greatly
added to his bitterness of spirit against the world in general and
against her in particular. The letter, though marked " private,"
had been opened, as were all his letters, by Mr. Warburton, but
the private Secretary thought it necessary to show the letter to the
Prime Minister. He, when he had read it, told Warburton that
it did not signify, and maintained for half 'an hour an attitude of
quiescence. Then he walked forth, having the letter hidden in his
hand, and finding his wife alone, gave it her to read. " See what
you have brought upon me," he said, "by your interference and
disobedience." The letter was as folio wa ; —

" Manchester Square, August 3, 187—.

" My Lord Duke,

"I consider myself entitled to complain to your Grace of
the conduct with which I was treated at the last election at Silver-
bridge, whereby I was led into very heavy expenditure without the
least chance of being returned for the borough. I am aware that
I had no direct conversation with your Grace on the subject, and
that your Grace can plead that as. between man and man, I had

284 THE PRIME MINISTER.

no authority from yourself for supposing that I should receive
your Grace's support. But I was distinctly asked by the Duchess
to stand, and was assured by her that if I did so I should have all
the assistance that your Grace's influence could procure for me ; —
and it was also explained to me that your Grace's official position
made it inexpedient that your Grace on this special occasion
should have any personal conference with your own candidate.
Under these circumstances I submit to your Grace that I am
entitled to complain of the hardship I have suffered.

"I had not been long in the borough before I found that my
position was hopeless. Influential men in the town who had been
represented to me as being altogether devoted to your Grace's
interests started a third candidate, — a Liberal as myself, — and the
natural consequence was that neither of us succeeded, though my
return as your Grace's candidate would have been certain had not
this been done. That all this was preconcerted there can be no
doubt, but, before the mine was sprung on me, — immediately,
indeed, on'my arrival, if I remember rightly, — an application was
made to me for £500, so that the money might be exacted before
the truth was known to me. Of course I should not have paid the
£500 had I known that your Grace's usual agents in the town, — I
may name Mr. Sprout especially, — were prepared to act against me.
But I did pay the money, and I think your Grace will agree with
me that a very opprobrious term might be applied without injustice
to the transaction.

"My Lord Duke, I am a poor man; — ambitious I will own,
whether that be a sin or a virtue, — and willing perhaps to incur
expenditure which can hardly be justified in pursuit of certain
public objects. But I must say, with the most lively respect for
your Grace personally, that I do not feel inclined to sit down
tamely under such a loss as this. I should not have dreamed of
interfering in the election at Silverbridge had not the Duchess
exhorted me to do so. I would not even have run the risk of a
doubtful contest. But I came forward at the suggestion of the
Duchess, backed by her personal assurance that the seat was
certain as being in your Grace's hands. It was no doubt under-
stood that your Grace would not yourself interfere, but it was
equally well understood that your Grace's influence was for the
time deputed to the Duchess. The Duchess herself will, I am
sure, confirm my statement that I had her direct authority for
regarding myself as your Grace's candidate.

"I can of course bring an action against Mr. Wise, the gentle-
man to whom I paid the money, bvrt I feel that as a gentleman I
should not do so without reference to your Grace, as circumstances
might possibly be brought out in evidence, — I will not say preju-
dicial to your Grace, — but which would be unbecoming. I cannot,
however, think that your Grace will be willing that a poor man
like myself, in his search for an entrance into public life, should
be mulcted to so heavy an extent in consequence of an error on the

RETRIBUTION, 5285

part of the Duchess. Should your Grace be able to assist me in
my view of getting into Parliament for any other seat I shall be
willing to abide the loss I have incurred. I hardly, however, dare
to hope for such assistance. In this case I think your Grace ought
to see that I am reimbursed.

" I have the honour to be,

" My Lord Duke,
" Your Grace's very faithful Servant,

"Ferdinand Lopez."

The Duke stood over her in her own room up-stairs, with his
back to the fire-place and his eyes fixed upon her while she was
reading this letter. He gave her ample time, and she did not
read it very quickly. Much of it indeed she perused twice, turning
very red in the face as she did so. She was thus studious partly
because the letter astounded even her, and partly because she
wanted time to consider how she would meet his wrath. " Well,"
said he, " what do you say to that ?"
" The man is a blackguard, — of course."

" He is so ; — though I do not know that I wish to hear him
called such a name by your lips. Let him be what he may he was
your friend."

" He was my acquaintance."

11 He was the man whom you selected to be your candidate for
the borough in opposition to my wishes, and whom you continued
to support in direct disobedience to my orders."

" Surely, Plantagenet, we have had all that about disobedience
out before."

"You cannot have such things 'out,' — as you call it. Evil-
doing will not bury itself out of the way and be done with. Do
you feel no shame at having your name mentioned a score of
times with reprobation as that man mentions it ; — at being written
about by such a man as that P"

" 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 com-
mands, 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

THE PRIME MINISTER.

written to him such a letter as this, incapable as she was of under-
standing 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 P"

" What am I to do ? What can be said to the man ? Warburtcn
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 news-
papers, and that I shall escape the charge of having bribed the
man to hold his tongue ?"

11 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 blun-
der, 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 sparo me if it was my
fault ? And how would it hurt me ? Will it be new to any one
that I have done a foolish thing? Will the newspapers disturb
my peace ? I sometimes think, Plantegenet, that I should have

RETRIBUTION. 287

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

" A question might be asked about it in the House."

"BOr 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 con-
stantly 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, vbut that which she had done had pro-
duced 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. Eor what she does he is responsible."

"They couldn't hang you, you know, because I committed a
murder."

288 THE PRIME MINISTER.

"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 "

" Eemember 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."

" Certanly you are. What people call a delicate organization, —
whereas I am rough and thick and monstrously commonplace."

11 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 Secre-
tary,— 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
■aind 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 calculate in his mind
what might be the consequences of paying the monejT to Mr. Lopez.
JBut when the calculation slipped from him, — as it did, — then ho
demanded of himself whether strict high-minded justice did not
call upon him to pay the money let the consequences bo 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 1'erdinand Lopez, and then caused his (Secretary
to send it m 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 JDuko of Omnium, feeling that
you may have been induced to undertake the late contest at Silver-
bridge by misrepresentations made to you at Gatherum Castle,

KAURI GUM. 289

directs me to enclose a cheque for £500, that being the sum stated
by you to haye been expended in carrying on the contest at Silver-
bridge. , „

M I am, sir,

" Your obedient servant,

"Arthur Warburton.
•■ Ferdinand Lopez, Esq."

CHAPTEE XLIIL

KAURI GUM.

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 occa-
sion the apparition of Arthur Fletcher had disturbed him, and he had
vented his anger in another direction. But still his wrath against

290 THE PBIME MINISTEB.

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 house-
hold that he had never known before, and that without appa-
rent damage. Whenever, therefore, at some critical moment, a
much-needed sum of money was produced, Sexty would become
lighthearted, 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 any-
thing." 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 oppres-
sive 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 Man-
chester Square. Sexty Parker's office or his club wero more con-
venient 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
road 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 chequo and even the amount, probably also the sig-
nature, without the slightest suspicion as to the nature of the pay-
ment made. As it was, he was eating his toast, and had thought
nothing about the lotter. 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 loth," he said in

EAtBI GUM. 291

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 como
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 sepa-
rated 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 bis 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 him-
self 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 con-
tented. 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

2U2 THE PKIME MINISTER.

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 lime 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 idoa of going to this place ? " he said.

" I don't at all know what it will be like. Ferdinand says it will
be cheap."

11 Is that of such vital consequence ? "

"Ah ; — yes ; I fear it is."

This was very sad to him. Lopez had already had from him a
considerable sum of money, having not yet been married twelve
months, and was now living in London almost free of expense.
Before his marriage he had always spoken of himself, and had
contrived to be spoken of, as a wealthy man, and now he was
obliged to choose some small English sea-side place to which
to retreat, because thus he might live at a low rate ! Had they
married as poor people there would have been nothing to regret
in this; — there would be nothing that might not be done with
entire satisfaction. But, as it was, it told a bad tale for the future !
" Do you understand his money matters, Emily ? "

"Not at all, papa."

" I do not in tho least mean to make inquiry. Perhaps I should
have asked before ; — but if I did make inquiry now it would be of
him. But I think a wife should know."

" I know nothing."

" What is his business ? "

" I have no idea. I used to think he was connected with Mr.
Mills Happerton and with Messrs. Hunky and Sons."

" Is he not connected with Hunky's house ? "

"I think not. He has a partner of the name of Parker, who
is, — who is not, I thiuk, quite — quite a gentleman. I never
saw him,"

KAURI GUM. 293

" What does he do with Mr. Parker ? "

" I believe they buy guano."

"Ah; — that, I fancy, was only one affair."

!) I'm afraid he lost money, papa, by that election at Silverbridge.

" I paid that," said Mr. Wharton sternly. Surely he should
have told his wife that he had received that money from her family !

" Did you ? That was very kind. I am afraid, papa, we are a
great burden on you."

" I should not mind it, my dear, if there were confidence and
happiness. What matter would it be to me whether you had your
money now or hereafter, so that you might have it in the manner
that would be most beneficial to you ? I wish he would be open
with me, and tell me everything."

" Shall I let him know that you say so ? "

He thought for a minute or two before he answered her. Per-
haps the man would be more impressed if the message came to him
through his wife. " If you think that he will not bo annoyed with
you, you may do so."

" I don't know why he should, — but if it be right, that must be
born9. I am not afraid to say anything to him."

"Then tell him so. Tell him that it will bo better that he should
let me know the whole condition of his affairs. God bless you,
dear." Then he stooped over her, and kissed her, and went his
way to Stone Buildings.

It was not as he sat at the breakfast table that Ferdinand Lopez
made up his mind to pocket the Duke's money and to say nothing
about it to Mr. Wharton. He had been carefnl to conceal the
cheque, but he had done so with the feeling that the matter was
one to be considered in his own mind before he took any step. As he
left the house, already considering it, he was inclined to think that
the money must be surrendered. Mr. Wharton had very generously
paid his electioneering expenses, but had not done so simply with
the view of making him a present of money. He wished the Duke
had not taken him at his word. In handing this cheque over to
Mr. Wharton he would be forced to tell the story of his letter to
the Duke, and he was sure that Mr. Wharton would not approve
of his having written such a letter. How could any one approve
of his having applied for a sum of money which had already been
paid to ;him ? How could such a one as Mr. Wharton, — an old-
fashioned English gentleman, — approve of such an application
being made under any circumstances ? Mr. Wharton would very
probably insist on having the cheque sent back to the Duke, —
which would bo a sorry end to the triumph as at present achieved.
And the more he thought of it the more sure he was that it would
be imprudent to mention to Mr. Wharton his application to the
Duke. The old men of the present day were, he said to himself,
euch fools that they understood nothing. And then the money was
very convenient to him. He was intent on obtaining Sexty Parker's
consent to a large speculation, and knew that he could not do so

294 THE PRIME MINISTER.

without a show of funds. By the time, therefore, that he had
reached the city he had resolved that at any rate for the present he
would use the money and say nothing about it to Mr. Wharton.
Was it not spoil got from the enemy by his own courage and clever-
ness ? When he was writing his acknowledgment for the money
to Warburton he had taught himself to look upon the sum extracted
from the Duke as a matter quite distinct from the payment made
to him by his father-in-law.

It was evident on that day to Sexty Parker that his partner was
a man of great resources. Though things sometimes looked very
bad, yet money always " turned up." Some of their buyings and
sellings had answered pretty well. Some had been great failures.
No great stroke had been made as yet, but then the great stroke
was always being expected. Sexty 's fears were greatly exaggerated
by the feeling that the coffee and guano were not always real
coffee and guano. His partner, indeed, was of opinion that in such
a trade as this they were following there was no need at all of real
coffee and real guano, and explained his theory with considerable
eloquence. " If I buy a ton of coffee and keep it six weeks, why
do I buy it and keep'it, and why does the seller sell it instead of
keeping it ? The seller sells it because he thinks he can do best
by parting with it now at a certain price. I buy it because I
think I can make money by keeping it. It is just the same as
though we were to back our opinions. He backs the fall. I back
the rise. You needn't have coffee and you needn't have guano
to do this. Indeed the possession of the coffee or the guano is only
a very clumsy addition to the trouble of your profession. I make
it my study to watch the markets ; — but I needn't buy everything
I see in order to make money by my labour and intelligence."
Sexty Parker before his lunch always thought that his partner was
wrong, but after that ceremony he almost daily became a convert
to the great doctrine. Coffee and guano still had to be bought
bocause the world was dull and would not learn the tricks of trade
as taught by Ferdinand Lopez, — also possibly because somebody
might want such articles, — but our enterprising hero looked for a
time in which no such dull burden should bo imposed on him.

On this day, when the Duke's £500 was turned into the business,
Sexty yielded in a large matter which his partner had been pressing
upon him for the last week. They bought a cargo of kauri gum,
coming from New Zealand. Lopez had reasons for thinking that
kauri gum must have a great rise. There was an immense
demand for amber, and kauri gum might be used as a substitute,
and in six months' time would be doublo its present value. This
unfortunately was a roal cargo. He could not find an indi-
vidual so enterprising as to venture to deal in a cargo of kauri gum
after his fashion. But the next best thing was done. The real
cargo was bought and his name and Sexty's name were on the
bills given for the goods. On that day he returned home in high
spirits, for ho did believe in his own intelligence and good fortune.

ME. WHARTON INTENDS TO MAKE A NEW WILL, 295

CHAPTER XLIY.

MR. "WHAETON" INTENDS TO MAKE A NEW WILL.

On that afternoon, immediately on the husband's return to the
house, his wife spoke to him as her father had desired. On that
evening Mr. "Wharton was dining at his club, and therefore there
was the whole evening before them ; but the thing to be done was
disagreeable, and therefore she did it at once, — rushing into the
matter almost before he had seated himself in the arm-chair which
he had appropriated to his use in the drawing-room. " Papa was
talking about our affairs after you left this morning, and he thinks
that it would be so much better if you would tell him all about
them."

" What made him talk of that to-day ?" he said, turning at her
almost angrily and thinking at once of the Duke's cheque.

" I suppose it is natural that he should be anxious about us,
Ferdinand ; — and the more natural as he has money to give if he
chooses to give it."

"I have asked him for nothing lately ; — though, by George, I
intend to ask him and that very roundly. Three thousand pounds
isn't much of a sum of money for your father to have given you."

" And he paid the election bill; — didn't he P"

" He has been complaining of that behind my back, — has he ? I
didn't ask him for it. He offered it. I wasn't such a fool as to
refuse, but he needn't bring that up as a grievance to you."

11 It wasn't brought up as a grievance. I was saying that your
standing had been a heavy expenditure "

" Why did you say so ? What made you talk about it at all ?
Why should you be discussing my affairs behind my back ?"

" To my own father! And that too when you are telling me
every day that I am to induce him to help you ! "

"Not by complaining that I am poor. But how did it all
begin P" She had to think for a moment before she could recollect
how it did begin. " There has been something," he said, " which
you are ashamed to tell me."

" There is nothing that I am ashamed to tell you. There never
has been and never will be anything." And she stood up as she
spoke, with open eyes and extended nostrils. " Whatever may
come, however wretched it may be, I shall not be ashamed of
myself."

"But of me!"

" Why do you say so ? Why do you try to make unhappiness
between us ?"

" You have been talking of — my poverty."

"My father asked why you should go to Doverco»rt, — and
whether it was because it would save expense."

" You want to go somewhere ?"

296 THE PEIME MINISTEB.

" Not at all. I am contented to stay in London. But I said
that I thought the expense had a good deal to do with it. Of course
it has."

" Where do you want to be taken ? I suppose Dovercourt is not
fashionable."

" I want nothing."

" If you are thinking of travelling abroad, I can't spare the time.
It isn't an affair of money, and you had no business to say so. I
thought of the place because it is quiet and because I can get up
and down easily. I am sorry that I ever came to live in this
house."

" Why do you say that, Ferdinand ?"

" Because you and your father make cabals behind my back.
If there is anything I hate it is that kind of thing."

" You are very unjust," she said to him sobbing. " I have never
caballed. I have never done anything against you. Of course
papa ought to know."

"Why ought he to know? Why is your father to have the
right of inquiry into all my private affairs ?"

" Because you want his assistance. It is only natural. You
always tell me to get him to assist you. He spoke most kindly,
saying that he would like to know how the things are."

" Then he won't know. As for wanting his assistance, of course
I want the fortune which he ought to give you. He is man of
the world enough to know that as I am in business capital must
be useful to me. I should have thought that you would under-
stand as much as that yourself."

" I do understand it, I suppose."

* ' Then why don't you act as my friend rather than his ? Why
don't you take my part ? It seems to me that you are much
more his daughter than my wife."

'* That is most unfair."

" If you had any pluck you would make him understand that
for your sake he ought to say what he means to do, so that I
might have the advantage of the fortune which I suppose he
means to give you some day. If you had the slightest anxiety
to help me you could influence him. Instead of that you talk to
him about my poverty. I don't want him to think that I am a
pauper. That's not the way to get round a man like your father,
who is rich himself and who thinks it a disgrace in other men
not to be rich too."

11 1 can't tell him in the same breath that you are rich and that
you want money."

" Money is the means by which men make money. If he was
confident of my business he'd shell out his cash quick enough !
It is because he has been taught to think that I am in a small
way. He'll find his mistake some day."

•' You won't speak to him then ?"

M I don't say that at all. If I find that it will answer my own

MB. WHARTON INTENDS TO MAKE A NEW WILL. 297

purpose I shall speak to him. But it would be very much easier
to me if I could get you to be cordial in helping me."

Emily by this time quite knew what such cordiality meant. He
had been so free in his words to her that there could be no mistake.
He had instructed her to " get round " her father. And now again
he spoke of her influence over her father. Although her illusions
were all melting away, — oh, so quickly vanishing, — still she knew
that it was her duty to be true to her husband, and to be his wife
rather than her father's daughter. But what could she say on his
behalf, knowing nothing of his affairs ? She had no idea what was
his business, what was his income, what amount of money she
ought to spend as his wife. As far as she could see, — and her
common sense in seeing such things was good, — he had no regular
income, and was justified in no expenditure. On her own account
she would ask for no information. She was too proud to request
that from him which should be given to her without any request.
But in her own defence she must tell him that she could use no
influence with her father as she knew none of the circumstances
by which her father would be guided. " I cannot help you in
the manner you mean," she said, "because I know nothing
myself."

"You know that you can trust me to do the best with your
money if I could get hold of it, I suppose ? " She certainly did not
know this, and held her tongue. ' * You could assure him of that ? ' '

" I could only tell him to judge for himself."

" What you mean is that you'd see me d d before you would

open your mouth for me to the old man !"

He had never sworn at her before, and now she burst out into a
flood of tears. It was to her a terrible outrage. I do not know
that a woman is very much the worse because her husband may
forget himself on an occasion and " rap out an oath at her," as he
would call it when making the best of his own sin. Such an offence is
compatible with uniform kindness, and most affectionate considera-
tion. I have known ladies who would think little or nothing
about it, — who would go no farther than the mildest protest, —
** Do remember where you are ! " or, " My dear John !" — if no
stranger were present. But then a wife should be initiated into it
by degrees ; and there are different tones of bad language, of which
by far the most general is the good-humoured tone. We all of us
know men who never damn their servants, or any inferiors, or
strangers, or women, — who in fact keep it all for their bosom
friends ; and if a little does sometimes flow over in the freedom of
domestic life, the wife is apt to remember that she is the bosomest
of her husband's friends, and so to pardon the transgression. But
here the word had been uttered with all its foulest violence, with
virulence and vulgarity. It seemed to the victim to be the sign of
a terrible crisis in her early married life,— as though the man who
had so spoken to her could never again love her, never again be
kind to her, never again be sweetly gentle and like a lover. And

298 THE PBIME MINISTER.

as lie spoke it he looked at her as though he would like to tear
her limbs asunder. She was frightened as well as horrified and
astounded. She had not a word to say to him. She did not know
in what language to make her complaint of such treatment. She
burst into tears, and throwing herself on the sofa hid her face in
her hands. " You provoke me to be violent," he said. But still
she could not speak to him. " I come away from the city tired
with work and troubled with a thousand things, and you have not
a kind word to say to me." Then there was a pause during which
she still sobbed. " If your father has anything to say to me, let
him say it. I shall not run away. But as to going to him of my
own accord with a story as long as my arm about my own affairs,
I don't mean to do it." Then he paused a moment again. "Come,
old girl, cheer up ! Don't pretend to be broken-hearted because
I used a hard word. There are worse things than that to be borne
in the world."

" I,— I — I was so startled, Ferdinand."

"A man can't always remember that he isn't with another man.
Don't think anything more about it ; but do bear this in mind, —
that, situated as we are, your influence with your father may be
the making or the marring of me." And so he left the room.

She sat for the next ten minutes thinking of it all. The words
which he had spoken were so horrible that she could not get them
out of her mind, — could not bring herself to look upon them as a
trifle. The darkness of his countenance still dwelt with her, — and
that absence of all tenderness, that coarse un-marital and yet
marital roughness, which should not at any rate have come to him
so soon. The whole man too was so different from what she had
thought him to be. Before their marriage no word as to money
had ever reached her ears from his lips. He had talked to her of
books, — and especially of poetry. Shakespeare and Moliere, Dante,
and Goethe had been or had seemed to be dear to him. And he
had been full of fine ideas about women, and about men in their
intercourse with women. For his sake she had separated herself
from all her old friends. For his sake she had hurried into a
marriage altogether distasteful to her father. For his sake she
had closed her heart against that other lover. Trusting altogether
in him she had ventured to think that she had known what was
good for her better than all those who had beon her counsellors,
and had given herself to him utterly. Now she was awake ; her
dream was over ; and the natural language of the man was still
ringing in her ears !

They met together at dinner and passed the evening without a
further allusion to the scene which had been acted. Ho sat with
a magazine in his hand, every now and then making some remark
intended to be pleasant but which grated on her ears as being
fictitious. She would answer him, — because it was her duty to do
so, and because she would not oondescend to sulk ; but she could
not . bring herself even to say to herself that all should be with

ME. WHAETON INTENDS TO MAKE A NEW WILL. 299

her as though that horrid word had not been spoken. She sat
over her work till ten, answering him when he spoke in a voice
which was also fictitious, and then took herself off to her bed that
she might weep alone. It would, she knew, be late before he
would come to her.

On the next morning there came a message to him as he was
dressing. Mr. Wharton wished to speak to him. Would he come
down before breakfast, or would he call on Mr. Wharton in Stone
Buildings ? He sent down word that he would do the latter at an
hour he fixed, and then did not show himself in the breakfast-
room till Mr. Wharton was gone. " I've got to go to your father
to-day," he said to his wife, " and I thought it best not to begin
till we come to the regular business. I hope he does not mean to
be unreasonable." To this she made no answer. " Of course you
think the want of reason will be all on my side."

" I don't know why you should say so."

"Because I can read your mind. You do think so. You've
been in the same boat with your father all your life, and you can't
get out of that boat and get into mine. I was wrong to come and
live here. Of course it was not the way to withdraw you from his
influence." She had nothing to say that would not anger him,
and was therefore silent. " Well; I must do the best I can by
myself, I suppose. Good-bye," and so he was off.

"I want to know," said Mr. Wharton, on whom was thrown by
premeditation on the part of Lopez the task of beginning the con-
versation,— "I want to know what is the nature of your operations.
I have never been quite able to understand it."

" I do not know that I quite understand it myself," said Lopez,
laughing.

"No man alive," continued the old barrister almost solemnly,
"has a greater objection to thrust himself into another man's
affairs than I have. And as I didn't ask the question before your
marriage, — as perhaps I ought to have done, — I should not do so
now, were it not that the disposition of some part of the earnings
of my life must depend on the condition of your affairs." Lopez
immediately perceived that it behoved him to be very much on the
alert. It might be that if he showed himself to be very poor, his
father-in-law would see the necessity of assisting him at once ; or,
it might be, that unless he could show himself to be in prosperous
circumstances, his father-in-law would not assist him at all. "To
tell you the plain truth, I am minded to make a new will. I had
of course made arrangements as to my property before Emily's
marriage. Those arrangements I think I shall now alter. I am
greatly distressed with Everett ; and from what I see and from a
few words which have dropped from Emily, I am not, to tell you
the truth, quite happy as to your position. If I understand rightly
you are a general merchant, buying and selling goods in the
market?"

" That's about it, sir."

300 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" What capital have you in the business ? "

"What capital?"

" Yes ; — how much did you put into it at starting ?"

Lopez paused a moment. He had got his wife. The marriage
could not be undone. Mr. Wharton had money enough for them
all, and would not certainly discard his daughter. Mr. Wharton
could place him on a really firm footing, and might not improbably
do so if he could be made to feel some confidence in his son-in-law.
At this moment there was much doubt with the son-in-law whether
he had better not tell the simple truth. "It has gone in by degrees,"
he said. "Altogether I have had about £8,000 in it." In truth
he had never been possessed of a shilling.

" Does that include the £3,000 you had from me ? "

"Yes; it does."

" Then you have married my girl and started into the world with
a business based on £5,000, and which had so far miscarried that
within a month or two after your marriage you were driven to
apply to me for funds ! "

" I wanted money for a certain purpose."

" Have you any partner, Mr. Lopez ?" This address was felt
to be very ominous.

• ' Yes. I have a partner who is possessed of capital. His name
is Parker."

" Then his capital is your capital."

" Well ; — I can't explain it, but it is not so."

" What is the name of your firm ?"

" We haven't a registered name."

" Have you a place of business ?"

" Parker has a place of business in Little Tankard Yard."

Mr. Wharton turned to a directory and found out Parker's
name. ' ' Mr. Parker is a stockbroker. Are you also a stock-
broker ? "

"No, — I am not."

"Then, sir, it seems to me that you are a commercial adven-
turer ? "

"I am not at all ashamed of the name, Mr. Wharton. According
to your manner of reckoning, half the business in the City of
London is done by commercial adventurers. I watch the markets
and buy goods, — and sell them at a profit. Mr. Parker is a
moneyed man, who happens also to be a stockbroker. We can
very easily call ourselves merchants, and put up the names of
Lopoz and Parker over the door."

" Do you sign bills together ? "

"Yes."

" As Lopez and Parker ?"

" No. I sign them and he signs them. I trade also by myself,
and so, I believe, does he."

"One other question, Mr. Lopez. On what income have you
paid income-tax for the last three years F "

MBS. SEXTY PARKER. 80l

M On £2,000 a-year," said Lopez. This was a direct lie.

11 Can you make out any schedule showing your exact assets and
liabilities at the present time ? "

" Certainly I can."

" Then do so, and send it to me before I go into Herefordshire.
My will as it stands at present would not be to your advantage.
But I cannot change it till I know more of your circumstances
than I do now." And so the interview was over.

CHAPTER XLV. s

MRS. SEXTY PARKER.

Though Mr. Wharton and Lopez met every day for the next week,
nothing more was said about the schedule. The old man was
thinking about it every day, and so also was Lopez. But Mr.
Wharton had made his demand, and, as he thought, nothing more
was to be said on the subject. He could not continue the subject
as he would have done with his son. But as day after day passed
by he became more and more convinced that his son-in-law's
affairs were not in a state which could bear to see the light.
He had declared his purpose of altering his will in the man's
favour, if the man would satisfy him. Arid yet nothing was done
and nothing was said.

Lopez had come among them and robbed him of his daughter.
Since the man had become intimate in his house he had not known
an hour's happiness. The man had destroyed all the plans of his
life, broken through into his castle, and violated his very hearth.
No doubt he himself had vacillated. He was aware of that, and
in his present mood was severe enough in judging himself. In his
desolation he had tried to take the man to his heart, — had been
kind to him, and had even opened his house to him. He had told
himself that as the man was the husband of his daughter he had
better make the best of it. He had endeavoured to make the best
of it, but between him and the man there were such differences
that they were poles asunder. And now it became clear to him
that the man was, as he had declared to the man's face, no better
than an adventurer !

By his will as it at present stood he had left two-thirds of his
property to Everett, and one-third to his daughter, with arrange-
ments for settling her share on her children, should she be married
and have children at the time of his death. This will had been
made many years ago, and he had long since determined to alter
it, in order that he might divide his property equally between his
children ; — but he had postponed the matter, intending to give a

302 tHE PRIME MINISTER.

large portion of Emily's sharo to her directly on her marriage with
Arthur Fletcher. She had not married Arthur Fletcher; — but
still it was necessary that a new will should be made.

When he left town for Herefordshire he had not yet made up
his mind how this should be done. He had at one time thought
that he would give some considerable sum to Lopez at once,
knowing that to a man in business such assistance would be useful.
And he had not altogether abandoned that idea, even when he had
asked for the schedule. He did not relish the thought of giving
his hard-earned money to Lopez, but, still, the man's wife was his
daughter and he must do the best that he could for her. Her
taste in marrying the man was inexplicable to him. But that was
done ; —and now how might he best arrange his affairs so as to
serve her interests ?

About the middle of August he went to Herefordshire and she
to the sea side in Essex, — to the little place which Lopez had
selected. Before the end of the month the father-in-law wrote a
line to his son-in-law.

"Dear Lopez," (not without premeditation had he departed
from the sternness of that "Mr. Lopez," which in his anger he
had used at his chambers,) —

M When we wore discussing your affairs I asked you for a
schedule of your assets and liabilities. I can make no new arrange-
ment of my property till I receive this. Should I die leaving my
present will as the instrument under which my property would be
conveyed to my heirs, Emily's share would go into the hands of
trustees for the use of herself and her possible children. I tell you
this that you may understand that it is for your own interest to
comply with my requisition

"Yours,

"A. Wiiarton."

Of course questions were asked him as to how the newly married
couple were getting on. At Wharton these questions were mild
and easily put off. Sir Alured was contented with a slight shake
of his head, and Lady Wharton only remarked for the fifth or
sixth time that "it was a pity." But when they all went to
Longbarns, the difficulty became greater. Arthur was not there,
and old Mrs. Fletcher was in full strength. " So the Lopezes have
come to live with you in Manchester Square ? " Mr. Wharton
acknowledged that it was so with an affirmative grunt. " I hope
he's a pleasant inmate." There was a scorn in the old woman's
voice as she said this, which ought to have provoked any man.

" More so than most men would be," said Mr. Wharton.

"Oh, indeed!"

" He is courteous and forboaring, and doos not think that every-
thing around him should be suited to his own peculiar fain

"I am glad that you are contented with the marriage, Mr.
Wharton."

MBS. SEXTY PAEKEE. 808

" Who has said that I am contented with it ? No one ought to
understand or to share my discontent so cordially as yourself,
Mrs. Fletcher ; — and no one ought to be more chaiy of speaking of
it. You and I had hoped other things, and old people do not like
to be disappointed. But I needn't paint the devil blacker than
he is."

" I'm afraid that, as usual, he is rather black."

" Mother," said John Fletcher, "the thing has been done and
you might as well let it be. We are all sorry that Emily has not
come nearer to us ; but she has had a right to choose for herself,
and I for one wish, — as does my brother also, — that she may be
happy in the lot she has chosen."

" His conduct to Arthur at Silverbridge was so nice !" said the
pertinacious old woman.

" Never mind his conduct, mother. What is it to us ? "

" That's all very well, John; but according to that nobody is to
talk about anybody."

"I would much prefer at any rate," said Mr. Wharton, " that
you would not talk about Mr. Lopez in my hearing."

"Oh; if that is to be so, let it be so. And now I understand
where I am." Then the old woman shook herself, and endeavoured
to look as though Mr. Wharton's soreness on the subject were an
injury to her as robbing her of a useful topic.

" I don't like Lopez, you know," Mr. Wharton said to John
Fletcher afterwards. "How would it be possible that I should
like such a man ? But there can be no good got by complaints.
It is not what your mother suffers, or what even I may suffer, —
or, worse again, what Arthur may suffer, that makes the sadness
of all this. What will be her life ? That is the question. And it
is too near me, too important to me, for the endurance either of
scorn or pity. I was glad that you asked your mother to be
silent."

"lean understand it," said John. " I do not think that she
will trouble you again."

In the mean time Lopez received Mr. Wharton's letter at Dover-
court, and had to consider what answer he should give to it. No
answer could be satisfactory, — unless he could impose a false
answer on his father-in-law so as to make it credible. The more
ho thought of it, the more he believed that this would be impos-
sible. The cautious old lawyer would not accept unverified state-
ments. A certain sum of money, — by no means illiberal as a
present, — he had already extracted from the old man. What ho
wanted was a further and a much larger grant. Though Mr.
Wharton was old he did not want to have to wait for the death
even of an old man. The next two or three years, — probably the
very next year, — might be the turning point of his life. Ho had
married the girl, and ought to have the girl's fortune, — down on
the nail ! That was his idea ; and the old man was robbing him
in not acting up to it. As he thought of this he cursed his ill-

304 THE P&IME MINISTER.

luck. The husbands of other girls had their fortunes conveyed to
them immediately on their marriage. What would not £20,000
do for him, if he could get it into his hand ? And so he taught
himself to regard the old man as a robber and himself as a victim.
Who among us is there that does not teach himself the same
lesson ? And then too how cruelly, how damnably he had been
used by the Duchess of Omnium ! And now Sexty Parker, whose
fortune he was making for him, whose fortune he at any rate
intended to make, was troubling him in various ways. " We're
in a boat together," Sexty had said. "You've had the use of my
money, and by heavens you have it still. I don't see why you
should be so stiff. Do you bring your missis to Dovercourt, and
I'll take mine, and let 'em know each other." There was a little
argument on the subject, but Sexty Parker had the best of it, and
in this way the trip to Dovercourt was arranged.

Lopez was in a very good humour when he took his wife down,
and he walked her round the terraces and esplanades of that
not sufficiently well-known marine paradise, now bidding her
admire the sea and now laughing at the finery of the people, till
she became gradually filled with an idea that as he was making
himself pleasant, she also ought to do the same. Of course she
was not happy. The gilding had so completely and so rapidly
been washed off her idol that she could not be very happy. But
she also could be good-humoured. " And now," said he smiling,
" I have got something for you to do for me, — something that you
will find very disagreeable."

"What is it ? It won't be very bad, I'm sure."

"It will be very bad, I'm afraid. My excellent but horribly
vulgar partner, Mr. Sextus Parker, when he found that I was
coming here, insisted on bringing his wife and children here also.
I want you to know them."

" Is that all ? She must be very bad indeed if I can't put up
with that."

" In one sense she isn't bad at all. I believe her to be an excel-
lent woman, intent on spoiling her children and giving her hus-
band a good dinner everyday. But I think you'll find that she
ia, — well, — not quite what you call a lady."

"I shan't mind that in the least. I'll help her to spoil the
children."

" You can get a lesson there, you know," ho said, looking into
her face. The little joke was one which a young wife might take
with pleasure from her husband, but her life had already been too
much embittered for any such delight. Yes ; the time was coming
when that trouble also would be added to her. She dreaded she
knew not what, and had often told herself that it would be better
that she should bo childless.

11 Do you like him ? " she said.

" Like him. No ; — I can't say I like him. He is useful, ami in
ojw sense honest."

MR*. SEXTY PARKER. 805

" Is he not honest in all senses ? "

" That's a large order. To tell you the truth, I don't know any
man who is."

"Everett is honest."

" He loses money at play which he can't pay without assistance
from his father. If his father had refused, where would then have
been his honesty ? Sexty is as honest as others, I dare say, but I
shouldn't like to trust him much farther than I can see him. I
shan't go up to town to-morrow, and we'll both look in on them
after luncheon."

In the afternoon the call was made. The Parkers, having child-
ren, had dined early, and he was sitting out in a little porch
smoking his pipe, drinking whisky and water, and looking at the
sea. His eldest girl was standing between his legs, and his wife,
with the other three children round her, was sitting on the door-
step. " I've brought my wife to see you," said Lopez, holding out
his hand to Mrs. Parker, as she rose from the ground.

" I told her that you'd be coming," said Sexty, " and she wanted
me to put off my pipe and little drop of drink ; but I said that if
Mrs. Lopez was the lady I took her to be she wouldn't begrudge a
hard-working fellow his pipe and glass on a holiday."

There was a soundness of sense in this which mollified any feeling
of disgust which Emily might have felt at the man's vulgarity. " I
think you are quite right, Mr. Parker. I should be very sorry if, —
if "

" If I was to put my pipe out. Well, I won't. You'll take a
glass of sherry, Lopez? Though' I'm drinking spirits myself, I
brought down a hamper of sherry wine. Oh, nonsense ; — you must
take something. That's right, Jane. Let us have the stuff and the
glasses, and then they can do as they like." Lopez lit a cigar, and
allowed his host to pour out for him a glass of "sherry wine,"
while Mrs. Lopez went into the house with Mrs. Parker and the
children.

Mrs. Parker opened herself out to her new friend immediately.
She hoped that they two might see " a deal of each other; — that is,
if you don't think me too pushing." Sextus, she said, was so much
away, coming down to Dovercourt only every other day ! And then,
within the half hour which was consumed by Lopez with his cigar,
the poor woman got upon the general troubles of her life. Did
Mrs. Lopez think that "all this speckelation was just the right
thing?"

11 1 don't think that I know anything about it, Mrs. Parker."

11 But you ought ; — oughtn't you, now ? Don't you think that a
wife ought to know what it is that her husband is after; — specially
if there's children ? A good bit of the money was mine, Mrs. Lopez ;
and though I don't begrudge it, not one bit, if any good is to come
out of it to him or them, a woman doesn't like what her father has
given her should be made ducks and drakes of."

" But are they making ducks and drakes ? "

306 THE PEIME MINISTER.

" When he don't tell me I'm always afeard. And 111 tell you
■what I know just as well as two and two. When he comes home a
little flustered, and then takes more than his regular allowance, he's
been at something as don't quite satisfy him, He's never that way
when he's done a good day's work at his regular business. He
takes to the children then, and has one glass after his dinner, and
tells me all about it,— down to the shillings and pence. But it's very
seldom he's that way now."

"You may think it very odd, Mrs. Parker, but I don't in the
least know what my husband is — in business."

" And you never ask ? "

** I haven't been very long married, you know ; — only about ten
months."

" I'd had my fust by that time."

" Only nine months, I think, indeed."

" Well ; I wasn't very long after that. But I took care to know
what it was he was a doing of in the city long be&re that time.

And I did use to know everything, till " She was going to

say, till Lopez had come upon the scene. But she did not wish, at
any rate as yet, to be harsh to her new friend.

*' I hope it is all right," said Emily.

" Sometimes he's as though the Bank of England was all his
own. And there's been more money come into the house ;— that I
must say. And there isn't an open-handeder one than Sexty any-
where. He'd like to see mo in a silk gown every day of my life ; —
and as for the children, there's nothing smart enough for them.
Only I'd sooner have a little and safe, than anything ever so fine,
and never be sure whether it wasn't going to come to an end."

" There I agree with you, quite."

"I don't suppose men feels it as we do; but, oh, Mrs. Lopez,
give me a little, safe, so that I may know that I shan't see my
children want. When I thinks what it would be to have them
darlings' little bellies empty, and nothing in the cupboard, I get
that low that I'm nigh fit for Bedlam."

In the meantime the two men outside the porch wero discussing
their affairs in somewhat the same spirit. At last Lopez showed
his friend Wharton's letter, and told him of the expected schedule.

" Schedule be d d, you know," said Lopez. " How am I to put

down a rise of Vis. Gd. a ton on Kauri gum in a schedule ? But
when you come to 2,000 tons it's £1,250."
" He's very old ;— isn't he ? "

" But as strong as a horse."
" He's got the money P "

a Yes ;— he has got it safe enough. There's no doubt about the
money."

" What he talks about is only a will. Now you want the money
at once."

11 Of courso I do ;— and he talks to me as if I were some old fogy
with an estate of my own. I must concoct a letter and explain my

"he wants to get rich too quick." 307

views ; and the more I can make him understand how things really
are the better. I don't suppose he wants to see his daughter come
to grief."

" Then the sooner you write it the better," said Mr. Parker.

CHAPTER XLVL

*'HE WANTS TO GET EICH TOO QUICK."

As they strolled home Lopez told his wife that he had accepted an
invitation to dine the next day at the Parkers' cottage. In doing
this his manner was not quite so gentle as when he had asked her
to call on them. He had been a little ruffled by what had been
said, and now exhibited his temper. " I don't suppose it will bo
very nice," he said, " but we may have to put up with worse things
than that."

" I have made no objection."

" But you don't seem to take to it very cordially."

" I had thought that I got on very well with Mrs. Parker. If
you can eat your dinner with them, I'm sure that I can. You clo
not seem to like him altogether, and I wish you had got a partner
more to your taste."

11 Taste, indeed ! When you come to this kind of thing it isn't a
matter of taste. The fact is that I am in that fellow's hands to an
extent I don't like to think of, and don't see my way out of it
unless your father will do as he ought to do. You altogether refuse
to help me with your father, and you must, therefore, put up with
Sexty Parker and his wife. It is quite on the cards that worse
things may come even than Sexty Parker." To this she made no
immediate answer, but walked on, increasing her pace, not only
unhappy, but also very angry. It wTas becoming a matter of doubt
to her whether she could continue to bear these repeated attacks
about her father's money. " I see how it is," he continued. "You
think that a husband should bear all the troubles of life, and that
a wife should never be made to hear of thorn."

" Ferdinand," she said, " I declare I did not think that any man
could be so unfair to a woman as you are to me."

" Of course ! Because I haven't got thousands a year to spond
on you I am unfair."

" I am content to live in any way that you may direct. If you
are poor, I am satisfied to be poor. If you are even ruined, I am
content to be ruined."

11 Who is talking about ruin ? "

" If you are in want of everything, I also will bo in want and
will never complain. Whatever our joint lot may bring to us I will

808 THE PRIME MINISTER.

endure, and will endeavour to endure with cheerfulness. But 1
will not ask my father for money, either for you or for myself. Ho
knows what he ought to do. I trust him implicitly."

" And me not at all."

' ' He is, I know, in communication with you about what should
be done. I can only say, — tell him everything."

' ' My dear, that is a matter in which it may be possible that I
understand my own interest best."

" Very likely. I certainly understand nothing, for I do not even
know the nature of your business. How can I tell him that ho
ought to give you money ? "

" You might ask him for your own."

" I have got nothing. Did I ever tell you that I had ? "

" You ought to have known."

" Do you mean that when you asked me to marry you I should
have refused you because I did not know what money papa would
give me ? Why did you not ask papa ? "

" Had I known him then as well as I do now you may be quite
sure that I should have done so."

''Ferdinand, it will be better that we should not speak about
my father. I will in all things strive to do as you would have me,
but I cannot hear him abused. If you have anything to say, go to
Everett."

" Yes ; — when he is such a gambler that your father won't even
speak to him. Your father will be found dead in his bed some
day, and all his money will have been left to some cursed hospital."
They were at their own door when this was said, and she, without
further answer, went up to her bedroom.

All these bitter things had been said, not because Lopez had
thought that he could further his own views by saying them ; — he
knew indeed that he was injuring himself by every display of ill-
temper ; — but she was in his power, and Sexty Parker was rebelling.
He thought a good deal that day on the delight he would have in
"kicking that ill-conditioned cur," if only he could afford to kick
him. But his wife was his own, and she must be taught to enduro
his will, and must be mado to know that though she was not to be
kicked, yet she was to be tormented and ill-used. And it might
be possible that ho should so cow her spirit as to bring her to act
as he should direct. Still, as he walked alono along the sea-shore,
he knew that it would be hotter for him to control his temper.

On that evening he did write to Mr. Wharton, — as follows, — and
he dated his letter from Little Tankard Yard, so that Mr. Wharton
might suppose that that was really his own place of business, and
that ho was there, at his work ; —

"My dear Sir,

"You have asked for a schedule of my affairs, and I have
found it quite impossible to give it. As it was with the merchants
whom Shakespeare and the other dramatists described,— so it is

"he wants to get rich too quick." 300

"with me. My caravels are out at sea, and will not always come home
in time. My property at this moment consists of certain shares of
cargoes of jute, Kauri gum, guano, and sulphur, worth altogether
at the present moment something over £26,000, of which Mr. Parker
possesses the half; — but then of this property only a portion is
paid for, — perhaps something more than a half. For the other
half our bills are in the market. But in February next these
articles will probably be sold for considerably more than £30,000.
If I had £5,000 placed to my credit now, I should be worth about
£15,000 by the end of next February. I am engaged in sundry
other smaller ventures, all returning profits; — but in such a con-
dition of things it is impossible that I should make a schedule.

"I am undoubtedly in the condition of a man trading beyond
his capital. I have been tempted by fair offers, and what I think
I may call something beyond an average understanding of such
matters, to go into ventures beyond my means. I have stretched
my arm out too far. In such a position it is not perhaps unnatural
that I should ask a wealthy father-in-law to assist 'me. It is
certainly not unnatural that I should wish him to do so.

" I do not think that I am a mercenary man. When I married
your daughter I raised no question as to her fortune. .Being
embarked in trade I no doubt thought that her means, — whatever
they might be, — would be joined to my own. I know that a sum
of £20,000, with my experience in the use of money, would give
us a noble income. But I would not condescend to ask a question
which might lead to a supposition that I was marrying her for her '
money and not because I loved her.

" You now know, I think, all that I can tell you. If there b»
any other questions I would willingly answer them. It is cer-
tainly the case that Emily's fortune, whatever you may choose to
give her, would be of infinitely greater use to me now, — and con-
sequently to her, — than at a future date which I sincerely pray
may be very long deferred.

" Believe me to be, your affectionate son-in-law,

"Ferdinand Lopez.
[ " A. Wharton, Esq."

This letter he himself took up to town on the following day, and
there posted, addressing it to Wharton Hall. He did not expect
very great results from it. As he read it over, he was painfully
aware that all his trash about caravels and cargoes of sulphur
would not go far with Mr. Wharton. But it might go farther than
nothing. He was bound not to neglect Mr. Wharton's letter to
him. When a man is in difficulty about money, even a lie, — even
a lie that is sure to be found out to be a lie, — will serve his imme-
diate turn better than silence. There is nothing that tho courts
hate so much as contempt ; — not even perjury. And Lopez felt
that Mr. Wharton was the judge before whom he was bound to plead.

He returned to Dovercourt on that day, and he and his wife

810 THE PRIME MINISTER.

dined with the Parkers. No woman of her age had known better
what were the manners of ladies and gentlemen than Emily
"Wharton. She had thoroughly understood that when in Hereford-
shire she was surrounded by people of that class, and that when
she was with her aunt, Mrs. Eoby, she was not quite so happily
placed. No doubt she had been terribly deceived by her hus-
band,—butj.the deceit had come from the fact that his manners
gave no indication of his character. When she found herself in
Mrs. Parker's little sitting-room, with Mr. Parker making florid
speeches to her, she knew that she had fallen among people for
whose society she had not been intended. But this was a part,
and only a very trifling part, of the punishment which she felt
that she deserved. If that, and things like that, were all, she
would bear them without a murmur.

" Now I call Dovercourt a dooced nice little place," said Mr.
Parker as he helped her to the " bit of fish," which he told her he
had brought down with him from London.

" It is very healthy, I should think."

11 Just the thing for the children, ma'am. You've none of your
own, Mrs. Lopez, but there's a good time coming. You were up
to-day, weren't you, Lopez ? Any news P"

" Things seemed to be very quiet in the city."

"Too quiet, I'm afraid. I hate having 'em quiet. You must
come and see me in Little Tankard Yard some of these days, Mrs.
Lopez. We can give you a glass of cham. and the wing of a
chicken ; — can't we, Lopez P "

" I don't know. It's more than you ever gave me," said Lopez,
trying to look good-humoured.

" But you ain't a lady."

" Or me," said Mrs. Parker.

"You're only a wife. If Mrs. Lopez will make a day of it wo'll
treat her well in the city ; — won't we, Ferdinand P " A black cloud
came across " Ferdinand's " face, but he said nothing. Emily of a
sudden drew herself up, unconsciously, — and then at once relaxed
her features and smiled. If her husband chose that it should be
so, she would make no objection.

"Upon my honour, Sexty, you are very familiar," said Mrs.
Parker.

" It's a way we have in the city," said Sexty. Sexty knew what
ho was about. His partner called him Sexty, and why shouldn't
he call his partner Ferdinand ?

" He'll call you Emily before long," said Lopez.

" When you call my wife Jane I shall, — and I've no objection in
life. I don't see why people ain't to call each other by their
Christian names. Take a glass of champagne, Mrs. Lopez. I
brought down half-a-dozen to-day so that we might bo jolly. Care
killed a cat. Whatever we call each other, I'm very glad to see
you hero, Mrs. Lopez, and I hopo it's the first of a great many.
Here's your health."

"he wants to get rich too quick." 811

It was all his ordering, and if he bade her dine with a crossing-
sweeper she would do it. But she could not but remember that
not long since he had told her that his partner was not a person
with whom she could fitly associate ; and she did not fail to per-
ceive that he must be going down in the world to admit such
association for her after he had so spoken. And as she sipped the
mixture 'which Sexty called champagne, she thought of Hereford-
shire and the banks of the Wye, and, — alas, alas, — she thought of
Arthur Fletcher. Nevertheless, come what might, she would do
her duty, even though it might call upon her to sit at dinner with
Mr. Parker three days in the week. Lopez was her husband,
and would be the father of her child, and she would make herself
one with him. It mattered not what people might call him, — or
even her. She had acted on her own judgment in marrying him,
and had been a fool; and now she would bear the punishment
without complaint.

When dinner was over Mrs. Parker helped the servant to
remove the dinner things from the single sitting-room, and the
two men went out to smoke their cigars in the covered porch.
Mrs. Parker herself took out the whisky and hot water, and sugar
and lemons, and then returned to have a little matronly discourse
with her guest. " Does Mr. Lopez ever take a drop too much ?"
she asked.

" Never," said Mrs. Lopez.

" Perhaps it don't affect him as it do Sexty. He ain't a drinker ;
— certainly not. And he's one that works hard every day of his
life. But he's getting fond of it these last twelve months, and
though he don't take very much it hurries him and flurries him.
If I speaks at night he gets cross ; — and in the morning when he
gets up, which he always do regular, though it's ever so bad with
him, then I haven't the heart to scold him. It's very hard some-
times for a wife to know what to do, Mrs. Lopez."

" Yes, indeed." Emily could not but think how soon she her-
self had learned that lesson.

11 Of course I'd do anything for Sexty, — the father of my bairns,
and has always been a good husband to me. You don't know
him, of course, but I do. A right good man at bottom :— but so
weak!"

"If he,— if he, — injures his health, shouldn't you talk to him
quietly about it?"

" It isn't the drink as is the evil, Mrs. Lopez, but that which
makes him drink. He's not one as goes a mucker merely for the
pleasure. When things are going right he'll sit out in our arbour
at home, and smoke pipe after pipe, playing with the children,
and one glass of gin and water cold will see him to bed. Tobacco,
dry, do agree with him, I think. But when he comes to three or
four goes of hot toddy, I know it's not as it should be."

11 You should restrain him, Mrs. Parker."

" 0| course I should ; — but bow f Am. I fa walk off with the

812 THE PEIME MINISTER.

bottle and disgrace him before the servant girl ? Or am I to let
the children know as their father takes too much ? If I was as
much as to make one fight of it, it 'd be all over Ponder's End that
he's a drunkard ; — which he ain't. Eestrain him ; — oh, yes ! If I
could restrain that gambling instead of regular business ! That's
what I'd like to restrain."

" Does he gamble ?"

11 What is it but gambling that he and Mr. Lopez is a doing
together ? Of course, ma'am, I don't know you, and you are
different from me. I ain't foolish enough not to know all that.
My father stood in Smithfield and sold hay, and your father is a
gentleman as has been high up in the Courts all his life. But it's
your husband is a doing this."

" Oh, Mrs. Parker ! "

" He is then. And if he brings Sexty and my little ones to the
workhouse, what'll be the good then of his guano and his gum ? "

" Is it not all in the fair way of commerce ? "

" I'm sure I don't know about commerce, Mrs. Lopez, because
I'm only a woman ; but it can't be fair. They goes and buys things
that they haven't got the money to pay for, and then waits to see
if they'll turn up trumps. Isn't that gambling ? "

" I cannot say. I do not know." She felt now that her husband
had been accused, and that part of the accusation had been levelled
at herself. There was something in her manner of saying these
few words which the poor complaining woman perceived, feeling
immediately that she had been inhospitable and perhaps UDjust.
She put out her hand softly, touching the other woman's arm, and
looking up into her guest's face. " If this is so, it is terrible," said
Emily.

" Perhaps I oughn't to speak so free."

11 Oh, yes ; — for your children, and yourself, and your husband."

" It's them, — and him. Of course it's not your doing, and Mr.
Lopez, I'm sure, is a very fine gentleman. And if he gets wrong
one way, he'll get himself right in another." Upon hearing this
Emily shook her head. " Your papa is a rich man, and won't see
you and yours come to want. There's nothing more to come to me
or Sexty let it be ever so."

"Why does he do it?"

"Why does who do it?"

" Your husband. Why don't you speak to him as you do to me,
and tell him to mind only his proper business ?"

" Now you are angry with me."

" Angry ! No ; — indeed I am not angry. Every word that you
say is good, and true, and just what you ought to say. I am not
angry, but I am terrified. I know nothing of my husband's
business. I cannot tell you that you should trust to it. He is very
clever, but "

" But— what, ma'am ?"

" Perhaps I should say that he is ambitious,*

U HE WANTS TO GET RICH TOO QUICK." 313

" You mean lie wants to get rich too quick, ma'am."

" I'm afraid so."

" Then it's just the same with Sexty. He's ambitious too. But
what's the good of being ambitious, Mrs. Lopez, if you never know
whether you're on your head or your heels ? And what's the good
of being ambitious if you're to get into the workhouse ? I know
what that means. There's one or two of them sort of men gets
into Parliament, and has houses as big as the Queen's palace, while
hundreds of them has their wives and children in the gutter. Who
ever hears of them ? Nobody. It don't become any man to be
ambitious who has got a wife and family. If he's a bachelor,
why, of course, he can go to the Colonies. There's Mary Jane and
the two little ones right down on the sea, with their feet in the
salt water. Shall we put on our hats, Mrs. Lopez, and go and look
after them?" To this proposition Emily assented, and the two
ladies went out after the children.

11 Mix yourself another glass," said Sexty to his partner.

" I'd rather not. Don't ask me again. You know I never drink
and I don't like being pressed."

" By George ! — You are particular."

"What's the use of teasing a fellow to do a thing he doesn't
like?"

" You won't mind me having another ? "

" Fifty if you please, so that I'm not forced to join you."

" Forced ! It's liberty 'all here, and you can do as you please.
Only when a fellow will take a drop with me he's better company."

" Then I'm d bad company, and you'd better get somebody

else to be jolly with. To tell you the truth, Sexty, I suit you
better at business than at this sort of thing. I'm like Shylock, you
know."

" I don't know about Shylock, but I'm blessed if I think you
suit me very well at anything. I'm putting up with a deal of ill-
usage, and when I try to be happy with you, you won't drink, and
you tell me about Shylock. He was a Jew, wasn't he ?"

" That is the general idea."

" Then you ain't very much like him, for they're a sort of people
that always have money about 'em."

" How do you suppose he made his money to begin with Pj What
an ass you are ! "

" That's true. I am. Ever since I began putting my name on
the same bit of paper with yours I've been an ass."

1 ' You'll have to be one a bit longer yet ; — unless you mean to
throw up everything. At this present moment you are six or
seven thousand pounds richer than you were before you first met
me."

" I wish I could see the money."

" That's like you. What's the use of money you can see ? How
are you to make money out of money by looking at it ? I like to
know that my money is fructifying."

814 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" I like to know that it's all there, — and I did know it before I
ever saw you. I'm blessed if I know it now. Go down and join
the ladies, will you ? You ain't much of a companion up here." -

Shortly after that Lopez told Mrs. Parker that he had already
bade adieu to her husband, and then he took his wife to their own
lodgings.

CHAPTER XLYII.

AS FOR LOVE !

The time spent by Mrs. Lopez at Dovercourt was by no means one
of complete happiness. Her husband did not come down very
frequently, alleging that his business kept him in town, and that
the journey was too long. When he did come he annoyed her either
by moroseness and tyranny, or by an affectation of loving good-
humour, which was the more disagreeable alternative of the two.
She knew that ho had no right to be good-humoured, and she was
quite able to appreciate the difference between fictitious lovo and love
that was real. He did not while she was at Dovercourt speak to
her again directly about her father's money, — but he gave her to
understand that he required from her very close economy. Then
again she referred to the brougham which she knew was to be in
readiness on her return to London; but he told her that he was
the best judge of that. The economy which he demanded was that
comfortless heart-rending economy which nips the practiser at
every turn, but does not betray itself to the world at large. He
would have her save out of her washerwoman and linendraper, and
yet have a smart gown and go in a brougham. Ho begrudged her
postage stamps, and stopped the subscription at Mudie's, though
he insisted on a front seat in the Dovercourt church, paying half a
guinea more for it than he would for a place at the side. And then
before their sojourn at the place had come to an end he left her for
awhile absolutely penniless, so that when the butcher and baker
called for their money she could not pay them. That was a dreadful
calamity to her, and of which sho was hardly ablo to measure the
real worth. It had never happened to her before to have to refuso an
application for money that was duo. In her father's house such a
thing, as far as sho knew, had never happened. Sho had sometimes
heard that Everett was impecunious, but that had simply indicated
an additional call upon her father. When the butcher came the
second time sho wrote to her husband in an agony. Should she
write to her father for a supply? Sho was sure that her lather
would not leave them in actual want. Then ho sent her a cheque,
enclosed in a very angry lotter. Apply to her father ! Had sho
npt Earned as yet that she was not to lean on Jier father aj^

AS FOR LOVE I 815

longer, but simply on him ? And was she such a fool as to sup-
pose that a tradesman could not wait a month for his money ?

During all this time she had no friend, — no person to whom she
could speak, — except Mrs. Parker. Mrs. Parker was very open
and very confidential about the business, really knowing very much
more about it than did Mrs. Lopez. There was some sympathy
and confidence between her and her husband, though they had
latterly been much lessened by Sexty's conduct. Mrs. Parker
talked daily about the business now that her mouth had been
opened, and was very clearly of opinion that it was not a good
business. " Sexty don't think it good himself," she said.

1 ' Then why does he go on with it ? "

11 Business is a thing, Mrs. Lopez, as people can't drop out of
just at a moment. A man gets hisself entangled, and must free
hisself as best he can. I know he's terribly afeard ; — and some-
times he does say such things of your husband ! " Emily shrunk
almost into herself as she heard this. " You mustn't be angry, for
indeed it's better you should know all."

11 I'm not angry ; only very unhappy. Surely Mr. Parker could
separate himself from Mr. Lopez if he pleased ? "

" That's what I say to him. Give it up, though it be ever so
much as you've to lose by him. Give it up, and begin again. You've
arways got your experience, and if it's only a crust you can earn,
that's sure and safe. But then he declares that he means to pull
through yet. I know what men are at when they talk of pulling
through, Mrs. Lopez. There should'nt be no need of pulling
through. It should all come just of its own accord, — little and
little ; but safe." Then, when the days of their marine holiday were
coming to an end, — in the first week in October, — the day before
the return of the Parkers to Ponder's End, she made a strong appeal
to her new friend. " You ain't afraid of him ; are you ?"

" Of my husband ? " said Mrs. Lopez. c ' I hope not. Why should
you ask ?"

''Believe me, a woman should never be afraid of 'em. I never
would give in to be bullied and made little of by Sexty. I'd do
a'most anything to make him comfortable, I'm that soft-hearted.
And why not, when he's the# father of my children ? But I'm not
going not to say a thing if I thinks it right, because I'm afeard."

" I think I could say anything if I thought it right."

" Then tell him of me and my babes, — as how I can never have a
quiet night while this is going on. It isn't that they two men are
fond of one another. Nothing of the sort ! Now you ; — I've got
to be downright fond of you, though, of course, you think me com-
mon." Mrs. Lopez would not contradict her, but stooped forward
and kissed her cheek. "I'm downright fond of you, I am," con-
tinued Mrs. Parker, snuffling and sobbing, " but they two men are
only together because Mr. Lopez wants to gamble, and Parker has
got a little money to gamble with." This aspect of the thing was
eo terrible to Mc& X&BQ8 that she could only wgop an4 ludo ker

316 THE PRIMB MINISTER.

faoe. " Now, if you would tell him just the truth ! Tell him what
I say, and that I've been a-saying it ! Tell him it's for my children
I'm a-speaking, who won't have bread in their very mouths if their
father's squeezed dry like a sponge ! Sure, if you'd tell him this, ho
wouldn't go on ! " Then she paused a moment, looking up into the
other woman's face. "He'd have some bowels of compassion; —
wouldn't he now ?"

" I'll try," said Mrs. Lopez.

" I know you're good and kind-hearted, my dear. I saw it in
your eyes from the very first. But them men, when they get on at
money-making, — or money-losing, which makes 'em worse, — are
like tigers clawing one another. They don't care how many they
kills, so that they has the least bit for themselves. There ain't
no fear of God in it, nor yet no mercy, nor ere a morsel of heart.
It ain't what I call manly, — not that longing after other folks'
money. When it's come by hard work, as I tell Sexty, — by the
very sweat of his brow, — oh, — it's sweet as sweet. "When he'd tell mo
that he'd made his three pound, or his five pound, or, perhaps, his
ten pound in a day, and 'd calculate it up, how much it 'd come to if
he did that every day, and where we could go to, and what wo
could do for the children, I loved to hear him talk about his money.

But now ! why, it's altered the looks of the man altogether. It's

just as though he was a-thirsting for blood."

Thirsting for blood ! Yes, indeed. It was the very idea that
had occurred to Mrs. Lopez herself when her husband had bade her
to "get round her father." No; — it certainly was not manly.
There certainly was neither fear of God in it, nor mercy. Yes ; —
she would try. But as for bowels of compassion in Ferdinand

Lopez ; she, the young wife, had already seen enough of her

husband to think that he was not to be moved by any prayers on
that side. Then the two women bade each other farewell. ' ' Parker
has been talking of my going to Manchester Square," said Mrs.
Parker, " but I shan't. What 'd I be in Manchester Square ? And,
besides, there 'd better be an end of it. Mr. Lopez 'd turn Sexty
and me out of the house at a moment's notice if it wasn't for the
money."

" It's papa's house," said Mrs. Lopez, not, however, meaning to
make an attack on her husband.

"I suppose so, but I shan't come to trouble no one ; and we live
ever so far away, at Ponder's End, — out of your line altogether,
Mrs. Lopez. But I've taken to you, and will never think ill of you
any way ; — only do as you said you would."

" I will try," said Mrs. Lopez.

In the meantime Lopez had received from Mr. Wharton an
answer to his letter about the missing caravels, which did not
please him. Here is the letter ; —

"My dear Lopez,

" I cannot say that your statement is satisfactory, nor can I

AS FOR LOVEf 81?

reconcile it to your assurance to me that you have made a trade
income for some years past of £2,000 a year. I do not know
much of business, but I cannot imagine such a result from such a
condition of things as you describe. Have you any books ; and, if
so, will you allow them to be inspected by any accountant I may
name ?

"You say that a sum of £20,000 would suit your business better
now than when I'm dead. Very likely. But with such an account
of the business as that you have given me, I do not know that I
feel disposed to confide the savings of my life to assist so very
doubtful an enterprise. Of course whatever I may do to your
advantage will be done for the sake of Emily and her children,
should she have any. As far as I can see at present, I shall best
do my duty to her, by leaving what I may have to leave to her, to
trustees, for her benefit and that of her children.

" Yours truly,

"A. Wharton."

This, of course, did not tend to mollify the spirit of the man to
whom it was written, or to make him gracious towards his wife.
He received the letter three weeks before the lodgings at Dover-
court were given up, — but during these three weeks he was very
little at the place, and when there did not mention the letter. On
these occasions he said nothing about business, but satisfied himself
with giving strict injunctions as to economy. Then he took her
back to town on the day after her promise to Mrs. Parker that she
would "try." Mrs. Parker had told her that no woman ought to
be afraid to speak to her husband, and, if necessary, to speak
roundly on such subjects. Mrs. Parker was certainly not a highly
educated lady, but she had impressed Emily with an admiration
for her practical good sense and proper feeling. The lady who was
a lady had begun to feel that in the troubles of her life she might
find a much less satisfactory companion than the lady who was not
a lady. She would do as Mrs. Parker had told her. She would
not be afraid. Of course it was right that she should speak on
such a matter. She knew herself to be an obedient wife. She had
borne all her unexpected sorrows without a complaint, with a
resolve that she would bear all for his sake, — not because she loved
him, but because she had made herself his wife. Into whatever
calamities he might fall, she would share them. Though he should
bring her utterly into the dirt, she would remain in the dirt with
him. It seemed probable to her that it might be so, — that they
might have to go into the dirt ; — and if it were so, she would still
be true to him. She had chosen to marry him, and she would be
his true wife. But, as such, she would not be afraid of him. Mrs.
Parker had told her that " a woman should never be afraid of 'em,"
and she believed in Mrs. Parker. In this case, too, it was clearly
her duty to speak, — for the injury being done was terrible, and
might too probably become tragical. How could she endure to

318 THE PRIME MINISTER.

think of that woman and her children, should she come to know
that the husband of the woman and the father of the children had
been ruined by her husband ?

Yes, — she would speak to him. But she did fear. It is all very
well for a woman to tell herself that she will encounter some anti-
cipated difficulty without fear, — or for a man either. The fear
cannot be overcome by will. The thing, however, may be done,
whether it be leading a forlorn hope, or speaking to an angry
husband, — in spite of fear. She would do it ; but when the moment
for doing it came, her very heart trembled within her. He had
been so masterful with her, so persistent in repudiating her inter-
ference, so exacting in his demands for obedience, so capable of
making her miserable by his moroseness when she failed to comply
with his wishes, that she could not go to her task without fear.
But she did feel that she ought not to be afraid, or that her fears, at
any rate, should not be allowed to restrain her. A wife, she knew,
should be prepared to yield, but yet was entitled to be her husband's
counsellor. And it was now the case that in this matter she was
conversant with circumstances which were unknown to her husband.
It was to her that Mrs. Parker's appeal had been made, and with
a direct request from the poor woman that it should be repeated to
her husband's partner.

She found that she could not do it on the journey homo from
Dovercourt, nor yet on that evening. Mrs. Dick Eoby, who had
come back from a sojourn at Boulogne, was with them in the
Square, and brought her dear friend Mrs. Leslie with her, and also
Lady Eustace. The reader may remember that Mr. Wharton had
met these ladies at Mrs. Dick's house some months before his
daughter's marriage, but he certainly had never asked them into
his own. On this occasion Emily had given them no invitation,
but had been told by her husband that her aunt would probably
bring them in with her. " Mrs. Leslie and Lady Eustace !" she
exclaimed with a little shudder. " I suppose your aunt may bring
a couple of friends with her to see you, though it is your father's
house?" he had replied. She had said no more, not daring to
have a fight on that subject at present, while tho other matter was
pressing on her mind. The evening had passed away pleasantly
enough, sho thought, to all except herself. Mrs. Leslie and Lady
Eustace had talked a great deal, and her husband had borne him-
self quite as though he had been a wealthy man and the owner of
the house in Manchester Square. In the course of the evening
Dick Eoby came in and Major Pountney, who since the lato
affairs at Silverbridge had become intimate with Lopez. So that
there was quite a party; and Emily was astonished to hear her
husband declare that he was only watching the opportunity of
another vacancy in order that he might get into tho House, and
expose the miserable duplicity of the Duke of Omnium. And vet
this man, within the last month, had taken away her subscription
at Mudie's, and told her that she shouldn't wear things that wanted

AS FOR LOVE ! 319

washing ! But he was able to say ever so" many pretty little things
to Lady Eustace, and had given a new fan to Mrs. Dick, and
talked of taking a box for Mrs. Leslie at The Graiety.

But on the next morning before breakfast she began. " Ferdi-
nand," she said, " while I was at Dovercourt I saw a good deal of
Mrs. Parker."

" I could not help that. Or rather you might have helped it if
you pleased. It was necessary that you should meet, but I didn't
tell you that you were to see a great deal of her."

" I liked her very much."

11 Then I must say you've got a very odd taste. Bid you like
him?"

"No. I did not see so much of him, and I think that the
manners of women are less objectionable than those of men. But
I want to tell you what passed between her and me."

"If it is about her husband's business she ought to have held
her tongue, and you had better hold yours now."

This was not a happy beginning, but still she was determined to
go on. "It was I think more about your business than his."

• ' Then it was infernal impudence on her part, and you should
not have listened to her for a moment."

" You do not want to ruin her and her children ! "

"What have I to do with her and her children? I did not
marry her, and I am not their father. He has got to look to
• that."

"She thinks that you are enticing him into risks which he
cannot afford."

" Am I doing anything for him that I ain't doing for myself !
If there is money made, will not he share it ? If money has to be
lost, of course he must do the same." Lopez in stating his case
omitted to say that whatever capital was now being used belonged
to his partner. "But women when they get together talk all
manner of nonsense. Is it likely that I shall alter my course of
action because you tell me that she tells you that he tells her that
he is losing money ? He is a half-hearted fellow who quails at
every turn against him. And when he is crying drunk I dare say
ho makes a poor mouth to her."

" I think, Ferdinand, it is more than that. She says that "

"To tell you the truth, Emily, I don't care a d what she

says. Now give me some tea."

The roughness of this absolutely quelled her. It was not now
that she was afraid of him, — not at this moment, but that she was
knocked down as though by a blow. She had been altogether so
unused to such language that she could not got on with her matter
in hand, letting the bad word pass by her as an unmeaning exple-
tive. She wearily poured out the cup of tea and sat herself down
silent. The man was too strong for her, and would be so always.
She told herself at this moment that language such as that must
always absolutely silence her. Then, within a few minutes, he

320 THE PRIME MINISTER.

desired her, quite cheerfully, to ask her uncle and aunt'to dinner
the day but one following, and also to ask Lady Eustace and Mrs.
Leslie. " I will pick up a couple of men which will make us all
right," ho said.

This was in every way horrible to her. Her father had been
back in town, had not been very well, and had been recommended
to return to the country. He had consequently removed himself,
— not to Herefordshire, — but to Brighton, and was now living at
an hotel, almost within an hour of London. Had he been at home
he certainly would not have invited Mrs. Leslie and Lady Eustace
to his house. He had often expressed a feeling of dislike to the
former lady in the hearing of his son-in-law, and had ridiculed
his sister-in-law for allowing herself to be made acquainted with
Lady Eustace, whose name had at one time been very common in
the mouths of people. Emily also felt that she was hardly entitled
to give a dinner-party in his house in his absence. And, after all
that she had lately heard about her husband's poverty, she could
not understand how he should wish to incur the expense. " You
would not ask Mrs. Leslie here ! " she said.

" Why should we not ask Mrs. Leslie ? "

" Papa dislikes her."

11 But ' papa,' as you call him, isn't going to meet her."

" He has said that he doesn't know what day he may be
home. And he does more than dislike her. He disapproves of
her."

"Nonsense! She is your aunt's friend. Because your father
once heard some cock-and-bull story about her, and because he ha3
always taken upon himself to criticise your aunt's friends, I am
not to be civil to a person I like."

"But, Ferdinand, I do not like her myself. She never was in
this house till the other night."

" Look hero, my dear, Lady Eustace can be useful to me, and I
cannot ask Lady Eustace without asking her friend. You do as I
bid you, — or else I shall do it myself."

Sho paused for a moment, and then she positively refused. " I
cannot bring myself to ask Mrs. Leslie to dine in this house. If
she comes to dine with you of course I shall sit at the table, but
she will be sure to soe that she is not welcome."

II It seems to me that you are determined to go against me in
everything I propose."

" I don't think you would say that if you knew how misciable
you made mo."

II I tell you that that other woman can bo very useful to mo."
" In what way useful ?"

11 Are you jealous, my dear ? "

" Certainly not of Lady Eustace, — nor of any woman. But it
seems so odd that such a person's services should be required."

"Will you do as I tell you, and ask them ? You can go round
and tell your aunt about it. She knows that I mean to ask them*

AS FOR LOVE ! 821

Lady Eustace is a very rich woman, and is disposed to do a little
in commerce. Now do you understand ? "

" Not in the least," said Emily.

" Why shouldn't a woman who has money buy coffee as well as
buy shares?"

" Does she buy shares ? "

" By George, Emily, I think that you're a fool."

"I dare say I am, Ferdinand. I do not in the least know what
it all means. But I do know this, that you ought not, in papa's
absence, to ask people to dine here whom he particularly dislikes,
and whom he would not wish to have in his house."

" You think that I am to be governed by~you in such a matter
as that ? "

" I do not want to govern you."

" You think that a wife should dictate to a husband as to the
way in which he is to do his work, and the. partners he may be
allowed to have in his business, and the persons whom he may ask
to dinner ! Because you have been dictating to me on all these
matters. Now, look here, my dear. As to my business, you had
better never speak to me about it any more. I have endeavoured to
take you into my confidence and to get you to act with me, but
you have declined that, and have preferred to stick to your father.
As to my partners, whether I may choose to have Sexty Parker or
Lady Eustace, I am a better judge than you. And as to asking
Mrs. Leslie and Lady Eustace or any other persons to dinner, as I
am obliged to make even the recreations of life subservient to its
work, I must claim permission to have my own way." She had
listened, but when he paused she made no reply. ' ' Do you mean
to do as I bid you and ask these ladies ? "

"I cannot do that. I know that it ought not to be done. This
is papa's house and we are living here as his guests."

" D your papa ! " he said as he burst out of the room. After

a quarter of an hour he put his head again into the room and saw
her sitting, like a statue, exactly where he had left her. " I have
written the notes both to Lady Eustace and to Mrs. Leslie,"
he said. "You can't think it any sin at any rate to ask your
aunt."

" I will see my aunt," she said.

" And remember I am not going to be your father's guest, as you
call it. I mean to pay for the dinner myself, and to send in my
own wines. Your father shall have nothing to complain of on that
head."

"Could you not ask them to Richmond, or to some hotel?"
she said.

' • "What ; in October ! If you think that I am going to live in
a house in which I can't invite a friend to dinner, you are mis-
taken." And with that he took his departure.

The whole thing had now become so horrible to her that she felt
unable any longer to hold up her head. It seemed to her to be

THE PRIME MINISTER.

sacrilege that these women should come and sit in her father's
room ; but when she spoke of her father her husband had cursed
him with scorn ! Lopez was going to send food and wino into the
house, which would be gall and wormwood to her father. At one
time she thought she would at once write to her father and tell
him of it all, — or perhaps telegraph to him ; but she could not
do so without letting her husband know what she had done, and
then he would have justice on his side in calling her disobedient.
"Wero she to do that, then it would indeed be necessary that she
should take part against her husband.

She had brought all this misery on herself and on her father
because she had been obstinate in thinking that she could with
certainty read a lover's character. As for love, — that of course
had died away in her heart, — imperceptibly, though, alas, so
quickly ! It was impossible, that she could continue to love a man
who from day to day was teaching her mean lessons, and who was
ever doing mean things, the meanness of which was so little
apparent to himself that he did not scruple to divulge them to her.
How could she love a man who would make no sacrifice either to
her comfort, her pride, or her conscience ? But still she might
obey him, — if she could feel sure that obedience to him was a
duty. Could it bo a duty to sin against her father's wishes, and
to assist in profaning his house and abusing his hospitality after
this fashion ? Then her mind again went back to the troubles
of Mrs. Parker, and her absolute inefficiency in that matter. It
seemed to her that she had given herself over body and soul and
mind to some evil genius, and that there was no escape.

" Of course we'll come," Mis. Eoby had said to her when she
went round the corner into Berkeley Street early in the day.
** Lopez spoke to me about it before."

11 What will papa say about it, Aunt Harriot ? "

11 I suppose he and Lopez understand each other."^

" I do not think papa will understand this."

" I am sure Mr. "Wharton would not lend his house to his son-
in-law, and then object to the man he had lent it to asking a friend
to dine with him. And I am sure that Mr. Lopez would not con-
sent to occupy a house on those terms. If jtou don't like it, of
course we won't come."

" Pray don't say that. As these other women are to como, pray
do not desert me. But I cannot say I think it is right." Mrs.
Dick, however, only laughed at her scruples.

In the course of the ovening Emily got letters addrr ssedto 1
from Lady Eustace and Mrs. Leslie, informing her that they would
have very much pleasure in dining with her on the day i
And Lady Eustace went on to say, with much pleasantry, that sho
always regarded little parties, got up without any cerenu
being the pleasantest, and that she should come on th
without any ceremonial observance. Then Emily was i
her husband had not only written the notos in her name, but had

11 HAS HE ILL-TREATED YOU ?" 823

put into her mouth some studied apology as to the shortness of
the invitation. Well ! She was the man's wife, and she supposed
that he was entitled to put jmj words that he pleased into her
mouth.

CHAPTEE XLYIII.

"HAS HE ILL-TREATED YOU ? "

Lopez relieved his wife from all care as to provision for his guests.
" I've been to a shop in Wigmore Street," he said, " and everything
done. They'll send in a cook to make the things hot, and
your father won't have to pay even for a crust of bread."

" Papa doesn't mind paying for anything," she said in her
indignation.

"It is all very pretty for you to say so, but my experience of
him goes just the other way. At any rate there will be nothing to
be paid for. Stewam and Sugarscraps will send in everything, if
you'll only tell the old fogies down- stairs not to interfere." Then
she made a little request. Might she ask Everett, who was now in
town? " I've already got Major Pountney and Captain Gunner,"
he said. She pleaded that one more would make no difference.
" But that's just what one more always does. It destroys every-
thing, and turns a pretty little dinner into an awkward feed. We
won't have him this time. Pountney '11 take you, and I'll take her
ladyship. Dick will take Mrs. Leslie, and Gunner will have Auut
Harriet. Dick will sit opposite to me, and the four ladies will sit
at the four corners. We shall be very pleasant, but ono more
would spoil us."

She did speak to the "old fogies" down -stairs, — the house-
keeper, who had lived with her father since she was a child, and
the butler, who had been there still longer, and the cook, who,
having been in her place only three years, resigned impetuously
within half an hour after the advent of Mr. Sugarscraps' head man.
The '• fogies" were indignant. The butler expressed his intention
of locking himself up in his own peculiar pantry, and the house-
keeper took upon herself to tell her young mistress that "Master
wouldn't like it." Since she had known Mr. Wharton such a thing
as cooked food being sent into the house from a shop had never
been so much as heard of. Emily, who had hitherto been regarded
in the house as a rather strong-minded young woman, could only
break down and weep. Why, oh why, had she consented to bring
I her misery into her father's house ? Sho could at any
ive prevented that by explaining to her father the unfitness
of such an arrangement.

The "party" came. There was Major Pountnoy, very fine,

8 £4 (THE PEIME MINISTER.

rather loud, very intimate with the host, whom on one occasion he
called "Ferdy, my boy," and very full of abuse of the Duke and
Duchess of Omnium. "And yet she was a good creature when I
knew her," said Lady Eustace. Pountney suggested that the
Duchess had not then taken up politics. ' ' I've got out of her
way," said Lady Eustace, "since she did that." And there was
Captain Gunner, who defended the Duchess, but who acknowledged
that the Duke was the • ' most consumedly stuck-up coxcomb " then
existing. "And the most dishonest," said Lopez, who had told his
new friends nothing about the repayment of the election expenses.
And Dick was there. He liked these little parties, in which a good
deal of wine could be drunk, and at which ladies were not supposed
to be very stiff. The Major and the Captain, and Mrs. Leslie and
Lady Eustace, were such people as he liked, — all within the pale,
but having a piquant relish of fastness and impropriety. Dick was
wont to declare that he hated the world in buckram. Aunt Harriet
was triumphant in a manner which disgusted Emily, and which
she thought to be most disrespectful to her father ; — but in truth
Aunt Harriet did not now care very much for Mr. Wharton, pre-
ferring the friendship of Mr. Wharton's son-in-law. Mrs. Leslie
came in gorgeous clothes, which, as she was known to be very
poor, and to have attached herself lately with almost more than
feminine affection to Lady Eustace, were at any rate open to sus-
picious cavil. In former days Mrs. Leslie had taken upon herself
to say bitter things about Mr. Lopez, which Emily could now have
repeated, to that lady's discomfiture, had such a mode of revenge
suited her disposition. With Mrs. Leslie there was Lady Eustace,
pretty as ever, and sharp and witty, with the old passion for some
excitement, the old proneness to pretend to trust everybody, and
the old incapacity for trusting anybody. Ferdinand Lopez had
lately been at her feet, and had fired her imagination with stories
of the grand things to be done in trade. Ladies do it ? Yes ; why
not women as well as men ? Any one might do it who had money
in his pocket and experience to tell him, or to tell her, what to t>uy
and what to sell. And the experience, luckily, might be vicarious.
At the present moment half the jewels worn in London were, — if
Ferdinand Lopez knew anything about it, — bought from the pro-
ceeds of such commerce. Of course there were misfortunes. But
these came from a want of that experience which Ferdinand Lopez
possessed, and which he was quite willing to place at the service of
one whom he admired so thoroughly as ho did Lady Eustace. Lady
Eustace had been chaimed, had seen her way into a new and most
delightful life, — but had not yet put any of her money into the
hands of Ferdinand Lopez.

I cannot say that the dinner was good. It may be a doubt
whether such tradesmen as Messrs. Stewam and Sugarscrape do
ever produce good food ; — or whether, with all the will in the world
to do so, such a result is within their powor. It is certain, I think,
that the humblest mutton chop is better eating than any "Supreme

"has he ill-treated you?" 825

of chicken after martial manner," — as I have seen the dish named
in a French bill of fare, translated by a French pastrycook for the
benefit of his English customers, — when sent in from Messrs.
Stewam and Sugarscraps even with their best exertions. Nor can
it be said that the wine was good, though Mr. Sugarscraps, when
he contracted for the whole entertainment, was eager in his assur-
ance that he procured the very best that London could produce.
But the outside look of the things was handsome, and there were
many dishes, and enough of servants to hand them, and the wines,
if not good, were various. Probably Pountney and Gunner did not
know good wines. Eoby did, but was contented on this occasion to
drink them bad. And everything went pleasantly, with perhaps a
little too much noise; — everything except the hostess, who was
allowed by general consent to be sad and silent; — till there came a
loud double-rap at the door.

" There's papa," said Emily, jumping up from her seat.

Mrs. Dick looked at Lopez, and saw at a glance that for a moment
his courage had failed him. But he recovered himself quickly.
" Hadn't you better keep your seat, my dear ? " he said to his wife.
8< The servants will attend to Mr. Wharton, and I will go to him
presently."

" Oh, no," said Emily, who by this time was almost at the door.

" You didn't expect him, — did you ? " asked Dick Eoby.

" Nobody knew when he was coming. I think he told Emily
that he might be here any day."

" He's the most uncertain man alive," said Mrs. Dick, who was
a good deal scared by the arrival, though determined to hold up
her head and exhibit no fear.

" I suppose the old gentleman will come in and have some
dinner," whispered Captain Gunner to his neighbour Mrs. Leslie.

M Not if he knows I'm here," replied Mrs. Leslie, tittering. " He
thinks that I am, — oh, something a great deal worse than I can
tell you."

* * Is he given to be cross ? " asked Lady Eustace, also affecting to
whisper.

"Never saw him in my life," answered the Major, "but I
shouldn't wonder if he was. Old gentlemen generally are cross.
Gout, and that kind of thing, you know."

For a minute or two the servants stopped their ministrations,
and things were very uncomfortable ; but Lopez, as soon as he
had recovered himself, directed Mr. Sugarscraps' men to proceed
with the banquet. ' ' Wo can eat our dinner, I suppose, though my
father-in-law has come back," he said. " I wish my wife was not
so fussy, though that is a kind of thing, Lady Eustace, that one
has to expect from young wives." The banquet did go on, but the
feeling was general that a misfortune had come upon them, and
that something dreadful might possibly happen.

Emily, when she rushed out, met her father in the hall, and ran
into his arms. " Oh, papa ! " she exclaimed.

826 THE PRIME MINISTEB.

" What's all this about P " he asked, and as he spoke he passed
on through the hall to his own room at the back of the house.
There were of course many evidences on ' all sides of the party, —
the strange servants, the dishes going in and out, the clatter of
glasses, and the smell of viands. " You've got a dinner-party," he
said. " Had you not better go back to your friends ? "
"No, papa."

" What is the matter, Emily P You are unhappy.'*
" Oh, so unhappy ! "

" What is it all about ? Who are they? Whose doing is it, —
yours or his ? What makes you unhappy ? "

He was now seated in his arm-chair, and she threw herself on
her knees at his feet. " He would have them. You mustn't be
angry with me. You won't be angry with me ; — will you ? "

He put his hand upon her head, and stroked her hair. " Why
should I be angry with you because your husband has asked friends
to dinner ? " She was so unlike her usual self that he knew not
what to make of it. It had not been her nature to kneel and to
ask for pardon, or to be timid and submissive. " What is it, Emily,
that makes you like this ? "

" Ho shouldn't have had the people."

"Well; — granted. But it does not signify much. Is your aunt
Harriet there?"
"Yes."

" It can't be very bad, then."

" Mrs. Leslie is there, and Lady Eustace, — and two men I don't
like."

"Is Everett here?"
" No ;— he wouldn't have Everett."
" Oughtn't you to go to them ? "

" Don't make me go. I should only cry. I have been crying
all day, and the whole of yesterday." Then she buried her face
upon his knees, and sobbed as though she would break her heart.

He couldn't at all understand it. Though he distrusted his son-
in-law, and certainly did not love him, he had not as yet learned to
hold him in aversion. When the connection was once made he had
determined to make tho best of it, and had declared to himself that
as far as manners wont the man was well enough. He had not as
yet seen the inside of the man, as it had been the 6ad fate of the
poor wife to see him. It had never occurred to him that his
daughter's love had failed her, or that she could already be repenting
what she had done. And now, when she was weeping at his feet
and deploring the sin of the dinnor-party, — which, after all, was a
trilling sin, — he could not comprehend the feelings which wero
actuating her. " I suppose your aunt Harriet made up tho party,"
he said.
"He did it."
" Your husband ? "
" Yes ;— he did it. He wrote to the women in my name when I

"has he ill-tbeated yov?" 327

refused." Then Mr. Wharton began to perceive that there had
been a quarrel. " I told him Mrs. Leslie oughtn't to come here."
1 "I don't love Mrs. Leslie, — nor, for the matter of that, Lady-
Eustace. But they won't hurt the house, my dear."

" And he has had the dinner sent in from a shop."

" Why couldn't he let Mrs. Williams do it ? " As he said this,
the tone of his voice became for the first time angry.

11 Cook has gone away. She wouldn't stand it. And Mrs. Wil-
liams is very angry. And Barker wouldn't wait at table."

" What's the meaning of it all ? "

"He would have it so. Oh, papa, you don't know what I've
undergone. I wish, — I wish we had not come here. It would have
been better anywhere else."

" What would have been better, dear ? " :J1

"Everything. Whether we lived or died, it would have been
better. Why should I bring my misery to you ? Oh, papa, you
do not. know, — you can never know."

11 But I must know. Is there more than this dinner to disturb
you ? "

" Oh, yes ; — more than that. Only I couldn't bear that it should
be done in your house."

" Has he ill-treated you ? "

Then she got up, and stood before him. "I do not mean to
complain. I should have said nothing only that you have found us
in this way. Eor myself I will bear it all, whatever it may be.
But, papa, I want you to tell him that we must leave this house."

'* He has got no other home for you."

" He must find one. I will go anywhere. I don't care where it
is. But I won't stay here. I have done it myself, but I won't
bring it upon you. I could bear it all if I thought that you would
never see me again."

"Emily!"

" Yes; — if you would never see me again. I know it all, and
that would be best." She was now walking about the room.
" Why should you see it all ? "

" See what, my love ? "

" See his ruin, and my unhappiness, and my baby. Oh, —
oh, — oh ! "

"I think so very differently, Emily, that under no circumstances
will I have you taken to another home. I cannot understand much
of all this as yet, but I suppose I shall come to see it. If Lopez be,
as you say, ruined, it is well that I have still enough for us to live
on. _ This is a bad time just now to talk about your husband's
affairs."

" I did not mean to talk about them, papa."

" What would you like best to do now, — now at once. Qm you.
go down again to your husband's friends ? "

"No; — no; — no."

" As for the dinner, never mind about that. I can't blame Mm,

328 THE PRIME MINISTER.

for making use of my house in my absence as far as that goes,—
though I wish he could have contented himself with such a dinner
as my servants could have prepared for him. I will have some tea
here."

" Let me stay with you, papa, and make it for you."

" Very well, dear. I do not mean to be ashamed to enter my
own dining-room. I shall, therefore, go in and make your apolo-
gies." Thereupon Mr. Wharton walked slowly forth and marched
into the dining-room.

" Oh, Mr. Wharton," said Mrs. Dick, "we didn't expect you."

" Have you dined yet, sir ? " asked Lopez.

" I dined early," said Mr. Wharton. " I should not now have
come in to disturb you, but that I have found Mrs. Lopez unwell,
and she has begged me to ask you to excuse her."

" I will go to her," said Lopez, rising.

" It is not necessary," said Wharton. " She is not ill, but hardly
able to take her place at table." Then Mrs. Dick proposed to go
to her dear niece ; but Mr. Wharton would not allow it, and left
the room, having succeeded in persuading them to go on with their
dinner. Lopez cortainly was not happy during the evening, but
he was strong enough to hide his misgivings, and to do his duty as
host with seeming cheerfulness. ^ ..

CHAPTEK XLIX.

WHERE IS GUATEMALA P

Though his daughter's words to him had been very wild they did
almost more to convince Mr. Wharton that he should not give
money to his son-in-law than even the letters which had pa
between them. To Emily herself he spoke very little as to what
had occurred that evening. "Papa," she said, "do not ask me
anything more about it. I was very miserable, — because of the
dinner." Nor did he at that time ask her any questions, contenting
himself with assuring her that, at any rate at present, and till
after her baby should have been born, she must remain in Man-
chester Square. " He won't hurt me," said Mr. Wharton, and
then added with a smile, " He won't want to have any more dinner-
parties while I am here."

Nor did he make any complaint to Lopez as to what had been
done, or even allude to the dinner.* But when he had been back
about a week he announced to his son-in-law his final determina-
tion as to money. " I had better tell you, Lopez, what I mean to
do, so that you may not be left in doubt. I shall not intrust any
further sum of money into your hands on behalf of Emily."

WHEEE IS GUATEMALA? 329

"You can do as you please, sir, — of course."

" Just so. You haye had what to me is a very considerable
sum, — though I fear that it did not go for much in your large con-
cerns."

" It was not very much, Mr. Wharton."

"I dare say not. Opinions on such a matter' differ, you know.
At any rate, there will be no more. At present I wish Emily to
live here, and you, of course, are welcome here also. If things are
not going well with you, this will, at any rate, relieve you from
immediate expense."

" My calculations, sir, have never descended to that."

" Mine are more minute. The necessities of my life have caused
me to think of these little things. When I am dead there will be
provision for Emily made by my will, — the income going to trustees
for her benefit, and the capital to her children after her death. I
thought it only fair to you that this should be explained."

"And you will do nothing for me ?"

" Nothing ; — if that is nothing. I should have thought that your
present maintenance and the future support of your wife and chil-
dren would have been regarded as something."

" It is nothing ; — nothing ! "

" Then let it be nothing. Good morning."

Two days after that Lopez recurred to the subject. " You were
very explicit with me the other day, sir."

" I meant to be so."

" And I will be equally so to you now. Both I and your daughter
are absolutely ruined unless you reconsider your purpose."

" If you mean money by reconsideration, — present money to be
given to you, — I certainly shall not reconsider it. You may take
my solemn assurance that I will give you nothing that can be of
any service to you in trade."

"Then, sir, — I must tell you my purpose, and give you my
assurance, which is equally solemn. Under those circumstances I
must leave England, and try my fortune in Central America,
There is an opening for me at Guatemala, though not a very hopeful
one."

"Guatemala!"

"Yes; — friends of mine have a connection there. I have not
broken it to Emily yet, but under these circumstances she will have
to go."

" You will not take her to Guatemala V*

" Not take my wife, sir ? Indeed I shall. Do you suppose that
I would go away and leave my wife a pensioner on your bounty ?
Do you think that she would wish to desert her husband ? I don't
think you know your daughter."

4 ' I wish you had never known her."

" That is neither here nor there, sir. If I cannot succeed in this
country I must go elsewhere. As I have told you before, £20,006
at the present moment would enablo me to surmount all my diili-

830 THE PRIME MINISTER.

culties, and make me a very wealthy man. But unless I can com-
mand some such sum by Christmas everything here must be
sacrificed."

" Never in my life did I hear so base a proposition," said Mr.
Wharton.

" Why is it base ? I can only tell you the truth."
" So be it. You will find that I mean what I have said."
"So do I, Mr. Wharton."

" As to my daughter, she must, of course, do as she thinks fit."
" She must do as I think fit, Mr. Wharton."
" I will not argue with you. Alas, alas ; poor girl ! "
"Poor girl, indeed! She is likely to be a poor girl if she is
treated in this way by her father. As I understand that you
intend to use, or to try to use, authority over her, I shall take steps
for removing her at once from your house." And so the interview
was ended.

Lopez had thought the matter over, and had determined to
" brazen it out," as he himself called it. Nothing further was, he
thought, to be got by civility and obedience. Now he must use
his power. His idea of going to Guatemala was not an invention
of the moment, nor was it devoid of a certain basis of truth. Such
a suggestion had been made to him some time since by Mr. Mills
Happerton. There were mines in Guatemala which wanted, or at
some future day might want, a resident director. The proposition
had been made to Lopez before his marriage, and Mr. Happerton pro-
bably had now forgotten all about it ;— but the thing was of service
now. He broke the matter very suddenly to his wife. " Has your
father been speaking to you of my plans r"
" Not lately ; — not that I rememDor."

" He could not speak of them without your remembering, I
should think. Has he told you that I am going to Guatemala ?"
" Guatemala ! Where is Guatemala, Ferdinand ?"
"You can answer my question though your geography is
deficient."

" He has said nothing about your going anywhere."
"You will have to go, — as soon after Christmas as you may be fit."
" But where is Guatemala ; — and for how long, Ferdinand ?"
" Guatemala is in Central America, and we shall probably settle
there for the rest of our lives. I have got nothing to live on here."
During the next two months this plan of seeking a distant Lome
and a strange country was constantly spoken of in Manch*
Square, and did receive corroboration from Mr. Happerton himself.
Lopez renewed his application and received a letter from that
gentleman saying that the thing might probably be arranged if ho
were in earnest. " I am quite in earnest," Lopez said as he showed
this lotter to Mr. Wharton. " I suppose Emily will be able to
start two months after her confinement. They tell me that babies
do very well at sea."
During this time, in spite of his threat, he continued to live with

WHEEH IS GUATEMALA? 831

Mr. Wharton in Manchester Square, and went every day into the
city, — whether to make arrangements and receive instructions as
to Guatemala, or to carry on his old business, neither Emily nor her
father knew. He never at this time spoke about his affairs to
either of them, but daily referred to her future expatriation as a
thing that was certain. At last there came up the actual question,
— whether she were to go or not. Her father told her that though
she was doubtless bound by law to obey her husband, in such a
matter as this she might defy the law. " I do not think that he
can actually force you on board the ship," her father said.

" But if he tells me that I must go ?"

" Stay here with me," said the father. " Stay here with your
baby. I'll fight it out for you. I'll so manage that you shall have
all the world on your side."

Emily at that moment came to no decision, but on the following
day she discussed the matter with Lonez himself. '* Of course you
will go with me," he said, when she asked the question.

" You mean that I must, whether I wish to go or not."

" Certainly you must. Good G ! where is a wife's place ?

Am I to go out without my child, and without you, while you are
enjoying all the comforts of your father's wealth at home r That
is not my idea of life."

" Ferdinand, I have been thinking about it very much. I must
beg you to allow mo to remain. I ask it of you as if I were asking
my life."

" Your father has put you up to this."

"No;— not to this."

"To what then?"

" My father thinks that I should refuse to go."

"He does; does he?"

" But I shall not refuse. I shall go if you insist upon it. There
shall be no contest between us about that."

" Well ; I should hope not."

" But I do implore you to spare me."

" That is very selfish, Emily."

" Yes," — she said, " yes. I cannot contradict that. But so is the
man selfish who prays the judge to spare his life."

" But you do not think of me. I must go."

" I shall not make you happier, Ferdinand."

" Do you think that it is a fine thing for a man to live in such
a country as that all alone ?"

" I think he would be better so than with a wife he does not —
love."

" Who says I do not love you ? "

M Or with one who does — not— love him." This she said very
slowly, very softly, but looking up into his eyes as she said it.

" Do you tell me that to my faco ?"

" Yes ; — what good can I do now by lying? You have not been
to mo as I thought you would be,"

332 THE PEIME MINISTER.

"And so, because you have built up some castle in the air that
has fallen to pieces, you tell your husband to his face that you do
not love him, and that you prefer not to live with him. Is that
your idea of duty ?"

"Why have you been so cruel ?"

" Cruel ! What have I done ? Tell me what cruelty. Have I
beat you ? Have you been starved ? Have I not asked and im-
plored your assistance, — only to be refused ? The fact is that your
father and you have found out that I am not a rich man, and you
want to be rid of me. Is that true or false ?"

"It is not true that I want to be rid of you because you are
poor."

' ' I do not mean to be rid of you. You will have to settle down
and do your work as my wife in whatever place it may suit me to
live. Your father is a rich man, but you shall not have the advan-
tage of his wealth unless it comes to you, as it ought to come,
through my hands. If your father would give me the fortune
which ought to be yours there need be no going abroad. He
cannot bear to part with his money and therefore we must go.
Now you know all about it." She was then turning to leave him,
when he asked her a direct question. " Am I to understand that
you intend to resist my right to take you with me ?"

" If you bid me go, — I shall go."

" It will be better, as you will save both trouble and exposure."

Of course she told her father what had taken place, but he could
only shake his head, and sit groaning over his misery in his
chambers. He had explained to her what he was willing to do on
her behalf, but she declined his aid. He could not tell her that
she was wrong. She was the man's wife, and out of that terrible
destiny she could not now escape. The only question with him
was whether it would not be best to buy the man, — give him a sum
of money to go, and to go alone. Could he have been quit of the
man even for £20,000, he would willingly have paid the money.
But the man would either not go, or would come back as soon as
ho had got the money. His own life, as he passed it now, with
this man in the house with him, was horrible to him. For Lopez,
though he had moro than once threatened that he would carry his
wifo to another home, had taken no steps towards getting that
other homo ready for her.

During all this time Mr. Wharton had not seen his son. Everett
had gone abroad just as his father returned to London from
Brighton, and was still on the continent. He received his allow-
ance punctually, and that was the only intercourse which took
place between them. But Emily had written to him, not telling
him much of her troubles, — only saying that she believed that her
husband would take her to Central America early in the spring,
and begging him to come home before she went.

Just before Christmas her baby was born, but the poor child
did not live a couple of days. She herself at the time was so worn

WfiEEE 13 GUATEMALA ? 338

With care, so thin and wan and wretched, that looking in the glass
she hardly knew her own face. " Ferdinand," she said to him,
11 1 know he will not live. The Doctor says so."

" Nothing thrives that I have to do with," he answered gloomily.

" Will you not look at him ?"

11 Well ; yes. I have looked at him, have I not ? I wish to God
that where he is going I could go with him."

"I wish I was; — I wish I was going," said the poor mother.
Then the father went out, and before he had returned to the house
the child was dead. " Oh, Ferdinand, speak one kind word to mo
now," she said.

"What kind word can I speak when you have told me that you
do not love me ? Do you think that I can forget that because, —
because he has gone ? "

" A woman's love may always be won back again by kindness."

" Psha ! How am I to kiss and make pretty speeches with my
mind harassed as it is now ? " But he did touch her brow with his
lips before he went away.

The infant was buried, and then there was not much show of
mourning in the house. The poor mother would sit gloomily alone
day after day, telling herself that it was perhaps better that she
should have been robbed of her treasure than have gone forth
with him into the wide, unknown, harsh world with such a father
as she had given him. Then she would look at all the prepara-
tions she had made, — the happy work of her fingers when her
thoughts of their future use were her sweetest consolation, — and
weep till she would herself feel that there never could be an end
to her tears.

The second week in January had come and yet nothing further
had been settled as to this Guatemala project. Lopez talked about
it as though it was certain, and even told his wife that as they
would move so soon it would not be now worth while for him to
take other lodgings for her. But when she asked as to her own
preparations, — the wardrobe necessary for the long voyage and her
general outfit, — he told her that three weeks or a fortnight would
be enough for all, and that he would give her sufficient notice.
" Upon my word he is very kind to honour my poor house as he
does," said Mr. Wharton.

" Papa, we will go at once if you wish it," said his daughter.

" Nay, Emily ; do not turn upon me. I cannot but be sensible
to the insult of his daily presence ; but even that is better than
losing you."

Then there occurred a ludicrous incident, — or combination of
incidents, — which, in spite of their absurdity, drove Mr. Wharton
almost frantic. First there came to him the bill from Messrs.
Stewam and Sugarscraps for the dinner. At this time he kept
nothing back from his daughter. " Look at that ! " ho said. The
bill was absolutely made out in his name.

" It is a mistake, papa."

334 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" Not at all. The dinner was given in my house, and I must
pay for it. I would sooner do so than that he should pay it, —
even if he had the means." So he paid Messrs. Stewam and
Sugarscraps £25 9s. 6d., begging them as he did so never to send
another dinner into his house, and observing that he was in the
habit of entertaining his friends at less than three guineas a head.
"But Chateau Yquem and Cote d'Or ! " said Mr. Sugarscraps.
" Chateau fiddlesticks ! " said Mr. Wharton, walking out of the
house with his receipt.

Then came the bill for the brougham, — for the brougham from
the very day of their return to town after their wedding trip. This
he showed to Lopez. Indeed the bill had been made out to
Lopez and sent to Mr. Wharton with an apologetic note. " I
didn't tell him to send it," said Lopez.

" But will you pay it ? "

"I certainly shall not ask you to pay it." But Mr. Wharton
at last did pay it, and ha also paid the rent of the rooms in the
Bel grave Mansions, and between £30 and £40 for dresses which
Emily _ had got at Lewes and Allenby's under her husband's
orders in the first days of their married life in London.

" Oh, papa, I wish I had not gone there," she said.

M My dear, anything that you may have had I do not grudge in
the least. And oven for him, if he would let you remain 1. [

would pay willingly. I would supply all his wants if he would
only— go away."

CHAPTER L.

Mil. SLIDE'S REVENGE.

"Do you mean to say, my lady, that the Duke paid 'is elec-
tioneering bill down at Silverbridge f "

"I do mcau to say so, Mr. Slide." Lady Eustace nodded her
head, and Mr. Quintus Slido opened his mouth.

"Goodness gracious!" said Mrs. Leslie, who was sitting with
them. They wort in Lady Eustace's drawing-room, and the
patriotic editor of the " People's Banner" was obtaining from a
new ally information which might be useful to the con

" But 'ow do you know, Lady Eustace P You'll pardon the
persistency of my inquiries, but when you come to public in;
tion accuracy is everything. I never trust myself to mere I
I always travel up to the very fountain 'ead of truth."

M I know it," said Lizzy Eustace oracularly.

"Um-m!" The Editor as he ejaculated the sound lool
her ladyship with admiring eyes, — with eyed that were intended to

ms. slide's revenge. 335

flatter. But Lizzie had been looked at so often in so many ways,
and was so well accustomed to admiration, that this had no effect
on her at all. " 'E didn't tell you himself; did 'e, now ? "

" Can you tell me the truth as to trusting him with my money ? "

"Yes, lean."

"Shall I be safe if I take the papers which he calls bills of
sale?"

" One good turn deserves another, my lady."

" I don't want to make a secret of it, Mr. Slide. Pountney
found it out. You know the Major ? "

"Yes, I know Major Pountney. lie was at Gatherum 'imself,
and got a little bit of cold shoulder; — didn't he ? "

"I dare say he did. What has that to do with it ? You may
be sure that Lopez applied to the Duke for his expenses at Silver-
bridge, and that the Duke sent him the money."

" There's no doubt about it, Mr. Slide," said Mrs. Leslie. " We
got it all from Major Pountney. There was some bet between
him and Pountney, and ho had to show Pountney the cheque."

" Pountney saw the money," said Lady Eustace.

Mr. Slide stroked his hand over his mouth and chin as ho sat
thinking of the tremendous national importance of this communi-
cation. The man who had paid the money was the Prime Minister
of England, — and was, moreover, Mr. Slide's enemy! "When
the right 'and of fellowship has been rejected, I never forgive,"
Mr. Slide has been heard to say. Even Lady Eustace, who was
not particular as to the appearance of people, remarked afterwards
to her friend that Mr. Slide had looked like the devil as he was
stroking his face. "It's very remarkable," said Mr. Slide; "very
remarkable ! "

" You won't tell the Major that we told you," said her Ladyship.

" Oh dear no. I only just wanted to 'ear how it was. And as
to embarking your money, my lady, with Ferdinand Lopez, — I
wouldn't do it."

" Not if I get the bills of sale ? It's for rum, and they say rum
will go up to any price."

"Don't, Lady Eustace. I can't say any more, — but don't. I
never mention names. But don't."

Then Mr. Slide went at once in search of Major Pountney, and
having found the Major at his club extracted from him all that
he knew about the Silverbridge payment. Pountney had really
seen the Duke's cheque for £500. " There was some bet, — eh,
Major ?" asked Mr. Slide.

V No, there wasn't. I know who has beon tolling you. That's
Lizzie Eustace, and just like hor mischief. The way of it was this;
— Lopez, who was very angry, had boasted that he would bring
the Duke down on his marrow-bones. I was laughing at hits
wo sat at dinner one day afterwards, and he took out the cheque
and showed it mo. There was the Duke's own signal ()Q,

— 'Omnium,' as plain as letters could make it." Armed witii I

SS6 THE PKIME MINISTER.

full information, Mr. Slide felt that lie had done all that the most
punctilious devotion to accuracy could demand of him, and imme-
diately shut himself up in his cage at the "People's Banner"
office and went to work.

This occurred about the first week in January. The Duke was
then at Matching with his wife and a very small party. The
singular arrangement which had been effected by the Duchess in
the early autumn had passed off without any wonderful effects.
It had been done by her in pique, and the result had been appa-
rently so absurd that it had. at first frightened her. But in the
end it answered very well. The Duke took great pleasure in Lady
liosina's company, and enjoyed the comparative solitude which,
enabled him to work all day without interruption. His wife pro-
tested that it was just what she liked, though it must be feared
that she soon became weary of it. To Lady Eosina it was of
course a Paradise on earth. In September, Phineas Finn and his
wife came to them, and in October there were other relaxations
and other business. The Prime Minister and his wife visited their
Sovereign, and he made some very useful speeches through the
country on his old favourite subject of decimal coinage. At
Christmas, for a fortnight, they went to Gatherum Castle and
entertained the neighbourhood, — the nobility and squirearchy
dining there on one day, and the tenants and other farmers on
another. All this went very smoothly, and the Duke did not
become outrageously unhappy because the "People's Banner"
made sundry severe remarks on the absence of Cabinet Councils
through the autumn.

After Christmas they returned to Matching, and had some of
their old friends with them. There was the Duke of St. Bungay
and the Duchess, and Phineas Finn and his wife, and Lord and
Lady Cantrip, Barrington Erie, and one or two others. But at
this period there came a great trouble. One morning as the Duke
sat in his own room after breakfast he read an article in the
" People's Banner," of which the following sentences were a part.
" We wish to know by whom were paid the expenses incurred
by Mr. Ferdinand Lopez during the late contest at Silverbridge.
It may be that they were paid by that gentleman himself, — in
which case wo shall have nothing further to say, not caring at the
present moment to inquire whether those expenses were or were
not excessive. It may be that they were paid by subscription among
his political friends, — and if so, again we shall be satisfied. Or it
is possible that funds were supplied by a new political club of
which we have lately heard much, and with the action of such a
body we of course have nothing to do. If an assurance can be
given to us by Mr. Lopez or his friends that such was the case we
shall be satisfied.

" But a roport has reached us, and we may say more than a
]• port, which makes it our duty to ask this question. V-

.uses paid out of the private pocket of the present lnme

Mfc. SLIDE5S REVENGE. 337

Minister P If so, we maintain that wo have discovered a blot in
that nobleman's character which it is our duty to the public to
expose. We will go farther and say that if it be so, — if these
expenses were paid out of the private pocket of the Duke of
Omnium, it is not fit that that nobleman should any longer hold
the high office which he now fills.

" We know that a peer should not interfere in elections for the
House of Commons. We certainly know that a Minister of tho
Crown should not attempt to purchase parliamentary support.
We happen to know also the almost more than public manner, —
are we not justified in saying the ostentation ? — with which at the
last election the Duke repudiated all that influence with the
borough which his predecessors, and we believe he himself, had so
long exercised. He came forward telling us that he, at least, meant
to have clean hands ; — that he would not do as his forefathers had
done ; — that he would not even do as he himself had done in
former years. What are we to think of the Duke of Omnium as
a Minister of this country, if, after such assurances, he has out of
his own pocket paid the electioneering expenses of a candidate at
Silverbridge ? " There was much more in the article, but tho
passages quoted will suffice to give the reader a sufficient idea of
the occupation made, and which the Duke read in the retirement
of his own chamber.

He read it twice before he allowed himself to think of the matter.
The statement made was at any rate true to the letter. He had
paid the man's electioneering expenses. That he had done so
from the purest motives he knew and the reader knows ; — but ho
could not even explain those motives without exposing his wife.
Since the cheque was sent he had never spoken of the occurrence
to any human being, — but he had thought of it very often. At
the time his private Secretary, with much hesitation, almost with
trepidation, had counselled him not to send tho money. The Duke
was a man with whom it was very easy to work, whose courtesy
to all dependent on him was almost exaggerated, who never found
fault, and was anxious as far as possible to do everything for
himself. The comfort of those around him was always matter of
interest to him. Everything he held, he held as it were in trust
for the enjoyment of others. But he was a man whom it was very
difficult to advise. He did not like advice. He was so thin-
skinned that any counsel offered to him took the form of criticism.
When cautioned what shoes he should wear, — as had been dono
by Lady Eosina ; or what wine or what horses he should buy, as
was done by his butler and coachman, he was thankful, taking no
pride to himself for knowledge as to shoes, wine, or horses. But
as to his own conduct, private or public, as to any question of
politics, as to his opinions and resolutions, he was jealous of inter-
ference. Mr. Warburton therefore had almost trembled when
asking the Duke whether he was quite sure about sending the
money to Lopez. " Quite sure," the Duke had answered, haying

838 THE PKIME MINISTER.

at that time made up his mind. Mr. Warburton had not dared to
express a further doubt and the money had been sent. But from
the moment of sending it doubts had repeated themselves in the
Prime Minister's mind.

Now he sat with the newspaper in his hand 'thinking of it.
Of course it was open to him to take no notice of the matter, — to go
on as though he had not seen the article, and to let the thing die
if it would die. But he knew Mr. Quintus Slide and his paper well
enough to be sure that it would not die. The charge would be re-
peated in the " People's Banner " till it was copied into other papers ;
and then the further question would be asked, — why had the
Prime Minister allowed such an accusation to remain unanswered ?
But if he did notice it, what notice should he take of it ? It was
true. And surely he had a right to do what he liked with his own
money so long as he disobeyed no law. He had bribed no one. He
had spent his money with no corrupt purpose. His sense of honour
had taught him to think that the man had received injury through
his wife's imprudence, and that he therefore was responsible as far
as the pecuniary loss was concerned. He was not ashamed of the
thing he had done ; — but yet he was ashamed that it should be
discussed in public.

Why had he allowed himself to be put into a position in which
he was subject to such grievous annoyance ? Since he had held
his office he had not had a happy day, nor, — so he told himself, —
had he received from it any slighest gratification, nor could he buoy
himself up with the idea that he was doing good service for his
country. After a while he walked into the next room and showed
the paper to Mr. "Warburton. " Perhaps you were right," he said,
11 when you told me not to send that money."

"It will matter nothing," said the private Secretary when he
had read it, — thinking, however, that it might matter much, but
wishing to spare the Duke.

" I was obliged to repay the man as the Duchess had, — had
encouraged him. The Duchess had not quite, — quite understood
my wishes." Mr. Warburton knew the whole history now, having
discussed it all with the Duchess more than once.

11 1 think your Grace should take no notice of the article."

No notice was taken of it, but three days afterwards there
appeared a short paragraph in large type, — beginning with a ques-
tion. " Does the Duke of Omnium intend to answer the question
asked by us last Friday ? Is it true that ho paid the expens
Mr. Lopez when that gentleman stood for Silverbridge P The
Duke may be assured that the question shall be repeated till it is
answered. ".This the Duke also saw and took to his private Secret

" I would do nothing at any rate till it be noticed in some other
paper," said the private Secretary. "The 'People's Banner' is
known to bo scandalous."

• ' Of course it is scandalous. And, moreover, I know the motives
and the malice of the wretched man who is tho editor. But the

MR. slide's revenge. 839

paper is read, and the foul charge if repeated will become known,
and the allegation made is true. I did pay the man's election
expenses ; — and, moreover, to tell the truth openly as I do not
scruple to do to you, I am not prepared to state publicly the reason
why I did so. And nothing but that reason could justify me."

" Then I think your Grace should state it."

" I cannot do so."

11 The Duke of St. Bungay is here. Would it not be well to tell
the whole affair to him ?"

" I will think of it. I do not know why I should have troubled
you."

" Oh, my lord!"

" Except that there is always some comfort in speaking even of
one's trouble. I will think about it. In the meantime you need
perhaps not mention it again."

1 ' Who ? I ? Oh, certainly not."

" I did not mean to others, — but to myself. I will turn it in my
mind and speak of it when I have decided anything." And he did
think about it, — thinking of it so much that he could hardly get
the matter out of his mind day or night. To his wife he did not
allude to it at all. Why trouble her with it ? She had caused the
evil, and he had cautioned her as to the future. She could not
help him out of the difficulty she had created. He continued to
turn the matter over in his thoughts till he so magnified it, and
built it up into such proportions, that he again began to think thai
he must resign. It was, he thought, true that a man should not
remain in office as Prime Minister who in such a matter could not
clear his own conduct.

Then there was a third attack in the "People's Banner," and after
that the matter was noticed in the " Evening Pulpit." This notice
the Duke of St. Bungay saw and mentioned to Mr. Warburton.
" Has the Duke spoken to you of some allegations made in the press
as to the expenses of the late election at Silverbridge ?" The old
Duke was at this time, and had been for some months, in a state
of nervous anxiety about his friend. He had almost admitted to
himself that he had been wrong in recommending a politician so
weakly organized to take the office of Prime Minister. He had
expected the man to be more manly, — had perhaps expected him
to be less conscientiously scrupulous. But now, as the thing had
been done, it must be maintained. Who else was there to take the
office ? Mr. Gresham would not. To keep Mr. Daubeny out was
the very essence of the Duke of St. Bungay's life, — the turning-
point of his political creed, the one grand duty the idea of which
was always present to him. And he had, moreover, a most true
and most affectionate regard for the man whom he now supported,
appreciating the sweetness of his character, — believing still in the
Minister's patriotism, intelligence, devotion, and honesty ; though
he was forced to own to himself that the strength of a man's heart
was wanting.

840 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" Yes," said Warburton ; " ho did mention it."
11 Does it trouble him ?n

II Perhaps you had bettor speak to him about it." Both the old
Duke and the private Secretary were as fearful and nervous about
the Prime Minister as a mother is for a weakly child. They could
hardly tell their opinions to each other, but they understood one
another, and between them they coddled their Prime Minister.
Thoy were specially nervous as to what might be done by the
Prime Minister's wife, nervous as to what was done by every ono
who came in contact with him. It had been onco suggested by
the private Secretary that Lady Eosina should be sent for, as she
had a soothing effect upon the Prime Minister's spirit."

" Has it irritated him ?" asked the Duke.

" Well; — yes, it has; — a little, you know. I think your Graco
had better speak to him ; — and not perhaps mention my name."
The Duke of St. Bungay nodded his head, and said that he would
speak to the great man and would not mention any one's name.

And he did speak. " Has any one said anything to you about
it ?" asked the Prime Minister.

"I saw it in the 'Evening Pulpit' myself. I have not heard
it mentioned anywhere."

II I did pay the man's expenses."
"You did!"

" Yes, — when the election was over, and, as far as I can remember,
some time aftor it was over. He wrote to me saying that ho had
incurred such and such expenses, and asking mo to repay him.
I sont him a cheque for the amount."

"But why?"

11 1 was bound in honour to do it."

"But why?"

There was a short pause before this second quostion was answered.
" The man had been induced to stand by representations mado to
him from my house. He had been, I fear, promised certain support
which certainly was not given him when tho time camo."

11 You had not promised it ?"

"No;— not I."

" Was it the Duchess ?"

" Upon the whole, my friend, I think I would rather not discuss
it further, oven with you. It is right that you should know that I
did pay the money, — and also why I paid it. It may al
necessary that wo should consider whether there may bo any
further probable result from my doing so. But the money has 1
paid, by mo mysolf, — and was paid for the reason 1 have stated."

" A question might be asked in the House."

" If so, it must be answered as I have answered you. I certainly
shall not shirk any responsibility that may be attached to

" You would not like Warburton to write a lino to tho news-
paper?"

" What;— to tho ■ People's Banner I ' "

me: slide's revenge. 841

" It began thore, did it ? No, not to the ■ People's Banner,' but to
the ■ Evening Pulpit.' lie could say, you know, that the money
was paid by you, and that the payment had been made because your
agents had misapprehended your instructions."

" It would not oe true," said the Prime Ministor slowly.

11 As far as I can understand that was what occurred," said tho
other Duke.

" My instructions were not misapprehendod. They wero dis-
oboyed. I think that perhaps we had better say no more about it."

11 Do not think that I wish to press you," said tho old man
tenderly; " but I fear that something ought to be dono ; — I moan
for your own comfort."

11 My comfort ! " said the Prime Minister. " That has vanished
long ago ; — and my peace of mind, and my happiness."

" There has been nothing done which cannot be explainod with
perfect truth. There has been no impropriety."

"I do not know."

" The money was paid simply from an over-nice sense of honour."

II It cannot bo explained. I cannot explain it even to you ; and
how then can I do it to all the gaping fools of the country who are
ready to trample upon a man simply because ho is in some way
conspicuous among them P"

After that the old Duke again spoko to Mr. Warburton, but Mr.
Warburton was very loyal to his chief. " Could one do anything
by speaking to the Duchess P" said tho old Duko.

" I think not."

II I suppose it was her Grace who did it all."

" I cannot say. My own impression is that ho had bettor wait
till the Houses meet, and then, if any question is asked, let it be
answered. He himself would do it in the House of Lords, or Mr.
Finn or Barrington Erie, in our House. It would surely be
enough to explain that his Grace had been made to bolievo that tho
man had received encouragement at Silvorbridgo from his own
agents, which ho himself had not intended should bo given, and
that therefore ho had thought it right to pay the monoy. After
such an explanation what more could any ono say P"

" You might do it yourself."

"I never speak."

M But in such a case as that you might do so ; andthon thero
would be no necessity for him to talk to another person on the
matter."

So the affair was left for the present, though the allusions to it
in the " People's Banner" were still continued. Nor did any other
of the Prime Minister's colleagues dare to speak to him on the
subject. Barrington Erie and Phinias Finn talked of it among
thomselves, but they did not mention it oven to tho Duchess. She
would havo gone to her husband at once; and thoy wero too
careful of him to risk such a proceeding. It certainly was the
that amon» fhom they coddled the Prime Minister.

842 THE PRIME MINISTER.

CHAPTEE LI.

CODDLING THE PRIME MINISTER.

Parliament was to meet on the 12th of February, and it was
of course necessary that there should be a Cabinet Council before
that time. The Prime Minister, about the end of the third week
in January, was prepared to name a day for this, and did so, most
unwillingly. But he was then ill, and talked both to his friend the
old Duke and his private Secretary of having the meeting held
without him. " Impossible ! " said the old Duke.

" If I could not go it would have to be possible."

" We could all come here if it were necessary."

" Bring fourteen or fifteen ministers out of town because a poor
creature such as I am is ill ! " But in truth the Duke of St.
Bungay hardly believed in this illness. The Prime Minister was
unhappy rather than ill.

By this time everybody in the House, — and almost everybody in
the country who read the newspapers, — had heard of Mr. Lopez and
his election expenses, — except the Duchess. No one had yet dared
to tell her. She saw the newspapers daily, but probably did not
read them very attentively. Nevertheless she knew that something
was wrong, Mr. Warburton hovered about the Prime Minister
more tenderly than usual ; the Duke of St. Bungay was more con-
cerned ; the world around her was more mysterious, and her hus-
band more wretched. "What is it that's going on ?" she said one
day to Phineas Finn.

" Everything, — in the same dull way as usual."

"If you don't tell me I'll never speak to you again. I know
there is something wrong."

" The Duke, I'm afraid, is not quite well."

" What makes him ill ? I know well when he's ill and when
he's well. He's troubled by something."

" I think he is, Duchess. But as he has not spoken to me I am
loath to make guesses. If there be anything, I can only guess
at it."

Then she questioned Mrs. Finn, and got an answor which, if not
satisfactory, was at any rate explanatory. " I think he is un
about that Silverbridge affair."

" What Silverbridge affair ?"

"You know that he paid the expenses which that man Lopez
says that he incurred."

" Yes ;— I know that."

" And you know that that other man Slide has found it out, and
published it all in the ' People's Banner ?' "

"No!"

" Yes, indeed. And a whole army of accusations has been
brought against him. I have never liked to tell you, and yet I do
not think that you should be left in the dark."

CODDLING THE PRIME MINISTER. 843

"Everybody deceives me," said the Duchess angrily.

" Nay ; — there has been no deceit."

" Everybody keeps things from me. I think you will kill me
among you. It was my doing. Why do they attack him ? I will
write to the papers. I encouraged the man after Plantagenet had
determined that he should not be assisted, — and, because I had
done so, he paid the man his beggarly money. What is there to
hurt him in that ? Let me bear it. My back is broad enough."

II The Duke is very sensitive."

" I hate people to be sensitive. It makes them cowards. A man
when he is afraid of being blamed, dares not at last even show
himself, and has to be wrapped up in lamb's-wool."

" Of course men are differently organized."

" Yes ; — but the worst of it is, that when they suffer from this
weakness, which you call sensitiveness, they think that they are
made of finer material than other people. Men shouldn't be made
of Sevres china, but of good stone earthenware. However, I don't
want to abuse him, poor fellow."

II I don't think you ought."

"I know what that means. You do want to abuse me. So
they've been bullying him about the money he paid to that man
Lopez. How did anybody know anything about it ?"

" Lopez must have told of it," said Mrs. Finn.

" The worst, my dear, of trying to know a great many people is,
that you are sure to get hold of some that are very bad. Now that
man is very bad. Yet they say he has married a nice wife."

" That's often the case, Duchess."

" And the contrary ; — isn't it, my dear ? But I shall have it out
with Plantagenet. If I have to write letters to all the newspapers
myself, I'll put it right." She certainly coddled her husband less
than the others ; and, indeed, in her heart of hearts disapproved
altogether of the coddling system. But she was wont at this par-
ticular time to be somewhat tender to him because she was awaro
that she herself had been imprudent. Since he had discovered her
interference at Silverbridge, and had made her understand its per-
nicious results, she had been, — not, perhaps, shamefaced, for that
word describes a condition to which hardly any series of mis-
fortunes could have reduced the Duchess of Omnium, — but inclined
to quiescence by feelings of penitence. She was less disposed than
heretofore to attack him with what the world of yesterday calls
* ' chaff," or with what the world of to-day calls " cheek." She would
not admit to herself that she was cowed ; — but the greatness of the
game and the high interest attached to her husband's position did
in some degree dismay her. Nevertheless she executed her pur-
pose of " having it out with Plantagenet." " I have just heard,"
she said, having knocked at the door of his own room, and having
found him alone, — " I have just heard, for the first time, that there
is a row about the money you paid to Mr. Lopez."

"Who told you?"

344 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" Nobody told me, — in the usual sense of the word. I presumed
that something was the matter, and then I got it out from Marie.
Why had you not told me?"

" Why should I tell you P" _

"But why not? If anything troubled me I should tell you.
That is, if it troubled me much."

" You take it for granted that this does trouble me much." He
was smiling as he said this, but the smile passed very quickly from
his face. " I will not, however, deceive you. It does trouble me."

" I knew very well that something was wrong."

" I have not complained."

11 One can see as much as that without words. What is it that
you fear ? What can the man do to you ? What matter is it to
you if such a one as that pours out his malice on you ? Let it run
off like the rain from the housetops. You are too big even to be
stung by such a reptile as that." He looked into her face, admiring
the energy with which she spoke to him. ' ' As for answering him,"
she continued to say, ' ' that may or may not be proper. If it
should be done, there are people to do it. But I am speaking of
your own inner self. You have a shield against your equals, and
a sword to attack them with if necessary. Have you no armour
of proof against such a creature as that ? Have you nothing inside
you to make you feel that he is too contemptible to be regarded ?"

" Nothing," he said.

"Oh, Plantagenet ! "

"Cora, there are different natures which have each their own
excellencies and their own defects. I will not admit that I am
a coward, believing as I do that I could dare to face necessary
danger. But I cannot endure to have my character impugned, —
even by Mr. Slide and Mr. Lopez."

" What matter, — if you are in the right ? Why blench if your
conscience accuses you of no fault ? I would not blench even if it
did. What ; — is a man to be put m the front of everything, and
then to be judged as though ho could give all his time to the pick-
ing of his steps?"

" Just so ! And he must pick them more warily than another."

" I do not believe it. You see all this with jaundiced eyes. I
read somewhere the other day that the great ships have alv.
little worms attached to them, but that the great ships swim on
and know nothing of the worms."

" The worms conquer at last."

" They shouldn't conquer me ! After all, what is it that they say
about the money ? That you ought not to have had it ?"

" I begin to think that I was wrong to pay it."

" You certainly were not wrong. I had led the man on. I had
been mistaken. I had thought that he was a gentleman. Having
led him on at first, before you had spoken to me, I did not like to
go back from my word. I did go to the man at Silverbridge who
sells the pots, and no doubt the man, when thus encouraged, told

CODDLING THE PRIME MINISTER. 845

ft all to Lopez. When Lopez went to the town he did suppose that
he would have what the people call the Castle interest."

" And I had done so much to prevent it ! "

" What's the use of going hack to that now, unless you want me
to put my neck down to be trodden on ? I am confessing my own
sins as fast as I can."

11 God knows I would not have you trodden on."

"lam willing, — if it be necessary. Then came the question ; —
as I had done this evil, how was it to be rectified ? Any man with
a particle of spirit would have taken his rubs and said nothing about
it. But as this man asked for the money, it was right that he
should have it. If it is all made public he won't get very well out
of it."

" What does that matter to me ? "

" Nor shall I ; — only luckily I do not mind it."

" But I mind it for you."

11 You must throw me to the whale. Let somebody say in so
many words that the Duchess did so and so. It was very wicked
no doubt; but they can't kill me, — nor yet dismiss me. And I
won't resign. In point of fact I shan't be a penny the worse
for it."

" But I should resign."

" If all the Ministers in England were to give up as soon as their
wives do foolish things, that question about the Queen's Govern-
ment would become very difficult."

" They may do foolish things, dear; and yet "

"And yet what?"

" And yet not interfere in politics."

" That's all you know about it, Plantagenet. Doesn't every-
body know that Mrs. Daubeny got Dr. MacFuzlem made a bishop,
and that Mrs. Gresham got her husband to make that hazy speech
about women's rights, so that nobody should know which way he
meant to go ? There are others just as bad as me, only I don>
think they get blown up so much. You do now as I ask you."

" I couldn't do it, Cora. Though the stain were but a little spot,
and the thing to be avoided political destruction, I could not ride
out of the punishment by fixing that stain on my wife. I will not
have your name mentioned. A man's wife should be talked abou*
by no one."

" That's high-foluting, Plantagenet."
' " Glencora, in these matters you must allow me to judge for
myself, and I will judge. I will never say that I didn't do it ;—
but that it was my wife who did."

" Adam said so, — because he chose to tell the truth."

"And Adam has been despised ever since, — not because he ate
the apple, but because he imputed the eating of it to a woman. I
will not do it. We have had enough of this now." Then she
turned to go away ;— but he called her back. " Kiss me, dear," he
said. Then she stooped over him and kissed him. " Do not think

346 THE PEIME MINISTEE.

I am angry with you because the thing vexes me. I am dreaming
always of some day when we may go away together with the
children, and rest in some pretty spot, and live as other people
live."

" It would be very stupid," she muttered to herself as she left
the room.

He did go up to town for the Cabinet meeting. Whatever may
have been done at that august assembly there was certainly no
resignation, or the world would have heard it. It is probable,
too, that nothing was said about these newspaper articles. Things
if left to themselves will generally die at last. The old Duke and
Phineas Finn and Barrington Erie were all of opinion that the best
plan for the present was to do nothing. "Has anything been
settled ? " the Duchess asked Phineas when he came back.

"Oh yes; — the Queen's Speech. But there isn't very much
in it."

"But about the payment of this money ? "

" I haven't heard a word about it," said Phineas.

11 You're just as bad as all the rest, Mr. Finn, with your pre-
tended secrecy. A girl with her first sweetheart isn't half so fussy
as a young Cabinet Minister."

"The Cabinet Ministers get used to it sooner, I think," said
Phineas Finn.

Parliament had already met before Mr. Slide had quite deter-
mined in what way ho would carry on the war. He could ind
go on writing pernicious articles about the Prime Minister ad in-
finitum,—from year's end to year's end. It was an occupation in
which he took delight, and for which he imagined himself to be
peculiarly well suited. But readers will become tired evon of
abuse if it be not varied. And the very continuation of such attacks
would seem to imply that they were not much heeded. Other
papers had indeed taken the matter up, — but they had taken it up
only to drop it. The subject had not been their own. The little
discovery had been duo not to their acumen, and did not th
fore bear with them the highest interost. It had almost seemed as
though nothing would come of it; — for Mr. Slide in his wildest
ambition could have hardly imagined the vexation and hesitation,
the nervousness and serious discussions which his words had o
sioned among the great people at Matching. But certainly tho
thing must not be allowed to pass away as a matter of no mom
Mr. Slido had almost worked his mind up to real horror as he
thought of it. What ! A prime minister, a peer, a great duke,—-
put a man forward as a candidate for a borough, and, when the
man was beaten, pay his expenses ! Was this to be done, — to be
dono and found out and then nothing come of it in those days of
purity, when a private member of Parliament, some mere nobody,
loses "nis seat becauso ho has given away a few bushels of coals or a
score or two of rabbits ! Mr. Slide's energetic love of public virtue
was scandalised as he thought of the probability of such a catos-

CODDLING THE PRIME MINISTER. 847

troplie. To his thinking public virtue consisted in carping at men
high placed, in abusing ministers and judges and bishops, — and
especially in finding out something for which they might be abused.
His own public virtue was in this matter very great, for it was he
who had ferreted out the secret. Por his intelligence and energy
in that matter the country owed him much. But the country would
pay him nothing, would give hiin none of the credit he desired,
would rob him of this special opportunity of declaring a dozen
times that the " People's Banner" was the surest guardian of the
people's liberty, — unless he could succeed in forcing the matter
further into public notice. "How terrible is the apathy of the
people at large," said Mr. Slide to himself, " when they cannot be
wakened by such a revelation as this ! "

Mr. Slide knew very well what ought to be the next step.
Proper notice should be given and a question should be asked in
Parliament. Some gentleman should declare that he had noticed
such and such statements in the public press, and that he thought
it right to ask whether such and such payments had been made by
the Prime Minister. In his meditations Mr. Slide went so far as
to arrange the very words which the indignant gentleman should
utter, among which words was a graceful allusion to a certain
public-spirited newspaper. He did even go so far as to arrange a
compliment to the editor, — but in doing so he knew that he was
thinking only of that which ought to be, and not of that which
would be. The time had not come as yet in which the editor of a
newspaper in this country received a tithe of the honour due to
him. But the question in any form, with or without a compliment
to the "People's Banner," would be the thing that was now
desirable.

Yv7ho was to ask the question ? If public spirit were really strong
in the country there! would be no difficulty on that point. The
crime committed had been so horrible that all the great poli-
ticians of the country ought to compete for the honour of asking
it. What greater service can be trusted to the hands of a great
man than that of exposing the sins of the rulers of the nation ? So
thought Mr. Slide. But he knew that he was in advance of the
people, and that the matter would not be seen in the proper light
by those who ought so to see it. There might be a difficulty in
getting any peer to ask the question in the House in which tho
Prime Minister himself sat, and even in the other House there was
now but little of that acrid, indignant opposition upon which, in
Mr. Slide's opinion, the safety of the nation altogether depends.

When tho statement was first made in the "People's Banner,"
Lopez had come to Mr. Slide at once and had demanded his autho-
rity for making it. Lopez had found tho statement to be most
injurious to himself. He had been paid his election expenses twice
over, making a clear profit of £500 by tho transaction ; and, though
the matter had at one time troubled his conscience, he had alrea ly
taught himself to regard it as one of those bygones to which a wise

348 THE PRIME MINISTER.

man seldom refers. But now Mr. Wharton would know that he
had been cheated, should this statement reach him. "Who gave
you authority to publish all this ? " asked Lopez, who at this time
had become intimate with Mr. Slide.

" Is it true, Lopez ? " asked the editor.

" Whatever was done was done in private, — between me and the
Duke."

" Dukes, my dear fellow, can't be private, and certainly not when
they are Prime Ministers."

" But you've no right to publish these things about me."

"Is it true ? If it's true I have got every right to publish it.
If it's not true, I've got the right to ask the question. If you will
'ave to do with Prime Ministers you can't 'ide yourself under a
bushel. Tell me this; — is it true ? You might as well go 'and in
'and with me in the matter. You can't 'urt yourself. And if you
oppose me, — why I shall oppose you."

II You can't say anything of me."

"Well; — I don't know about that. I can generally 'it pretty
'arc! if I feel inclined. But I don't want to 'it you. As regards
you I can tell the story one way, — or the other, just as you
please." Lopez, seeing it in the same light, at last agreed that the
story should be told in a manner not inimical to himself. The pre-
sent project of his life was to leave his troubles in England, — Sexty
Parker being the worst of them, — and get away to Guatemala. In
arranging this the good word of Mr. Slide might not benefit him,
but his ill word might injure him. And then, let him do what he
would, the matter must be made public. Should Mr. Wharton
hear of it, — as of course he would, — it must be brazened out. He
could not keep it from Mr. Wharton's ears by quarrelling with
Quintus Slide.

" It was true," said Lopez.

" I knew it before just as well as though I had seen it. I ain't
often very wrong in these things. You asked him for the money,
— and threatened him."

" I don't know about threatening him."

" 'E wouldn't have sent it else."

II I told him that I had been deceived by his people in the
borough, and that I had been put to expense through the mis-
representations of the Duchess. I don't think I did ask for the
money. But he sent a cheque, and of course I took it."

11 Of course; — of course. You couldn't give me a copv of vour
letter?"

" Never kept a copy." Ho had a copy in his breast coat-pocket
at that moment, and Slide did not for a moment believe tha state-
ment made. But in such discussions one man hardly expects truth
from another. Mr. Slide certainly never expected truth from any
man. " He sent the cheque almost without a word," said Lopez.

" He did write a note, I suppose ? "

" Just a few words."

CODDLING THE PRIME MINISTER. 349

w Could you let ine 'aye that note ? "

" I destroyed it at once." This was also in his breast pocket at
the time.

" Did 'e write it 'imself?"

" I think it was his private Secretary, Mr. Warburton."

" You must be sure, you know. Which was it ? "

" It was Mr. Warburton."

"Was it civil?"

" Yes, it was. If it had been uncivil I should have sent it back.
I'm not the man to take impudence even from a duke."

"If you'll give me those two letters, Lopez, I'll stick to you
through thick and thin. By heavens I will! Think what the
' People's Banner ' is. You may come to want that kind of thing
some of these days." Lopez remained silent, looking into the other
man's eager face. " I shouldn't publish them, you know; but it
would be so much to me to have the evidence in my hands. You
might do worse, y«u know, than make a friend of me."

" You won't publish them ? "

" Certainly not. I shall only refer to them."

Then Lopez pulled a bundle of papers out of his pocket. " There
tbey are," he said.

" Well," said Slide, when he had read them; "it is one of the
rummest transactions I ever 'eard of. Why did 'e send the money ?
That's what I want to know. As far as the claim goes, you 'adn't
a leg to stand on."

" Not legally. "

" You 'adn't a leg to stand on any way. But that doesn't much
matter. He sent the money, and the sending of the money was
corrupt. Who shall I get to ask the question ? I suppose young
Fletcher wouldn't do it ? "

" They're birds of a feather," said Lopez.

" Birds of a feather do fall out sometimes. Or Sir Orlando
Drought ? I wonder whether Sir Orlando would do it. If any
man ever 'ated another Sir Orlando Drought must 'ate the Duke of
Omnium."

"I don't think he'd let himself down to that kind of thing."

'* Let 'imself down ! I don't see any letting down in it. But
those men who have been in cabinets do stick to one another even
when they are enemies. They think themselves so mighty that
they oughtn't to be 'andled like other men. But I'll let 'em know
that I'll 'andle 'em. A Cabinet Minister or a cowboy is the same
to Quintus Slide when he has got his pen in 'is 'and."

On the next morning there came out another article in the
u People's Banner," in which the writer declared that he had in
his own possession the damnatory correspondence between the
Prime Minister and the late candidate at Silverbridge. "The
Prime Minister may deny the fact," said the article. " We do not
think it probable, but it is possible. We wish to be fair and above-
board in everything. And therefore we at once inform the noblfc

350 THE PRIME MINISTER.

Duke that the entire correspondence is in our hands." In saying
this Mr. Quintus Slide thought that he had quite kept the promise
which he made when he said that he would only refer to the letters.

CHAPTER LH.

"I CAN SLEEP HERE TO-NIGHT, I SUPPOSE."

That scheme of going to Guatemala had heen in the first instance
propounded by Lopez with the object of frightening Mr. "Wharton
into terms. There had, indeed, been some previous thoughts on the
subject, — some plan projected before his marriage ; but it had been
resuscitated mainly with the hope that it might be efficacious to ex-
tract money. When by degrees the son-in-law began to feel that
even this would not be operative on his father-in-law's purse, — when
under this threat neither Wharton nor Emily gave way, -
when, with the view of strengthening his threat, he renewed It's
inquiries as to Guatemala and found that there might still be an
opening for him in that direction, — the threat 4ook the shape of a
true purpose, and he began to think that ho would in real e
try his fortunes in a new world. Erom day to day things did not
go well with him, and from day to day Sexty Parker became more
unendurable. It was impossible for him to keep from his partner
this plan of emigration, — but he endeavoured to make Parker
believe that the thing, if done at all, was not to be done till all his
affairs were settled, — or in other words all his embarrassments
cleared by downright money payments, and that Mr. Wharton was
to make these payments on the condition that ho thus expatriated
himself. But Mr. Wharton* had made no such promise. Though
the threatened day came nearer and nearer he could not bring
himself to purchase a short respite for his daughter by paving
money to a scoundrel, — which payment ho felt sure would bj of
no permanent service. During all this time Mr. Wharton was very
wretched. If he could have freed his daughter from her marriage
by half his fortune he would have done it without a second th
If he could havo assuredly purchased the pormanent absence of her
husband, ho would have done it at a largo price. But ]
what he would, ho could see his way to no security. From i
day ho became more strongly convinced of the rascality of this
man who was his son-in-law, and who was still an inmate in his
own house. Of course he had accusations enough to make within
his own breast against his daughter, who, when tho chou
open to her, would not take the altogether fitting husband pi
for her, but had declared herself to be broken-hearted for ever
unless she were allowed to throw herself away upon this wretched

<J I CAN SLEEP HEEE TO-NIGHT, I SUPPOSE. " 851

creature. But he Mamed himself almost as much as he did her.
"Why had ho allowed himself to be so enervated by her prayers at
last as to surrender everything, — as he had done ? How could he
presume to think that he should be allowed to escape, when he had
done so little to prevent this misery ?

He spoke to Emily about it, — not often indeed, but with groat
earnestness. " I have done it myself," she said, " and I will bear it."

" Tell him you cannot go till you know to what home you are
going."

"That is for him to consider. I have begged him to let me
remain, and I can say no more. If he chooses to take mo, I
shall go."

Then he spoke to her about money. " Of course I have money,"
he said. " Of course I have enough both for you and Everett. If
I could do any good by giving it to him, he should have it."

11 Papa," she answered, " I will never again ask you to give him
a single penny. That must be altogether between you and him.
He is what they call a speculator. Money is not safe with him."

" I shall have to send it you when you are in want."

" When I am — dead there will be no more to be sent. Do not
look like that, papa. I know what I have done, and I must bear
it. I have thrown away my life. It is just that. If baby had
lived it would have been different." This was about the end of
January, and then Mr. Wharton heard of the great attack made by
Mr. Quintus Slide against the Prime Minister, and heard, of course,
of the payment alleged to have been made to Ferdinand Lopez by
the Duke on the score of the election at Silverbridge. Some persons
spoke to him on the subject. One or two friends at the club asked
him what he supposed to be the truth in the matter, and Mrs. Eoby
inquired of him on the subject. " I have asked Lopez," she said,
" and I am sure from his manner that he did get the money."

" I don't know anything about it," said Mr. Wharton.

" If he did get it I think he was very clever." It was well known
at this time to Mrs. Eoby that the Lopez marriage had been a
failure, that Lopez was not a rich man, and that Emily, as well as
her father, was discontented and unhappy. She had latterly heard
of the Guatemala scheme, and had of course expressed her horror.
But she sympathized with Lopez rather than with his wife, thinking
that if Mr. Wharton would only open his pockets wide enough
things might still be right. " It was all the Duchess's fault, you
know," she said to the old man.

" I know-nothing about it, and when I want to know I certainly
shall not come to you. The misery he has brought upon me is so
great that it makes me wish that I had never seen any one who
knew him."

" It was Everett who introduced him to your house."

" It was you who introduced him to Everett."

" There you are wrong, — as you so often are, Mr. Wharto*.
Everett met him first at the club."

852 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" What's the use of arguing about1 it? It was at your house
that Emily met him. It was you that did it. I wonder you can
have the face to mention his name to me."

" And the man living all the time in your own house ! "

Up to this time Mr. Wharton had not mentioned to a single
person the fact that he had paid his son-in-law's election expenses
at Silverbridge. ^ He had given him the cheque without much
consideration, with the feeling that by doing so he would in some
degree benefit his daughter; and had since regretted the act,
finding that no such payment from him could be of any service to
Emily. But the thing had been done, — and there had been, so far,
an end of it. In no subsequent discussion would Mr. Wharton
have alluded to it, had not circumstances now as it were driven it
back upon his mind. And since the day on which he had paid
that money he had been, as he declared to himself, swindled over and
over again by his son-in-law. There was the dinner in Manchester
Square, and after that the brougham, and the rent, and a score of
bills, some of which he had paid and some declined to pay ! And
yet he had said but little to the man himself of all these injuries.
Of what use was it to say anything. Lopez would simply reply
that he had asked him to pay nothing ? " What is it all," Lopez
had once said, " to the fortune I had a right to expect with your
daughter ?" " You had no right to expect a shilling," Wharton
had said. Then Lopez had shrugged his shoulders, and there had
been an end of it.

But now, if this rumour were true, there had been positivo dis-
honesty. Erom whichever source the man might have got the
money first, if the money had been twice got, the second payment
had been fraudulently obtained. Surely if the accusation had
been untrue Lopez would have come to him and declared it to be
false, knowing what must otherwise be his thoughts. Lately, in
the daily worry of his life, he had avoided all conversation with
the man. He would not allow his mind to contemplate clearly
what was coming. He entertained some irrational, undefined hope
that something would at last save his daughter from the threat-
ened banishment. It might be, if he held his own hand ti^ht
enough, that thore would not be money enough even to pa
her passage out. As for her outfit Lopez would of course order
what he wanted and have the bills sent to Manchester Square.
Whether or not this was being done neither he nor Emily knew.
And thus matters went on without much speech between the two
men. But now the old barrister thought that he was bound to speak.
He therefore waited on a certain morning till Lopez had come
down, having previously desired his daughter to leave the room.
M Lopez," he asked, " what is this that the newspapers are saying
about your expenses at Silverbridge ? n

Lopez had expected the attack and had endeavoured to prepare
himself for it. "I should have thought, sir, that j-ou would not
have paid much attention to such statements in a newspaper."

" I CAN SLEEP HERE TO-NIGHT, I SUPPOSE ? " So3

u When they concern myself, I do. I paid your electioneering
expenses."

" You certainly subscribed £500 towards them, Mr. Wharton."

"I subscribed nothing, sir. There was no question of a sub-
scription,— by which you intend to imply contribution from various
sources. You told me that the contest cost you £500 and that
sum I handed to you, with the full understanding on your part, as
well as on mine, that I was paying for the whole. Was that so?"

" Have it your own way, sir."

" If you are not more precise, I shall think that you have
defrauded me."

" Defrauded you ! "

"Yes, sir; — defrauded me, or the Duke of Omnium. The
money is gone, and it matters little which. But if that be so I
shall know that either from him or from me you have raised money
under false pretences."

" Of course, Mr. Wharton, from you I must bear whatever you
may choose to say."

"Is it true that you have applied to the Duke of Omnium for
money on account of your expenses at Silverbridge, and is it true
that he has paid you money on that score ? "

u Mr. Wharton, as I said just now, I am bound to hear and to
bear from you anything that you may choose to say. Your con-
nection with my wife and your age alike restrain my resentment.
But I am not bound to answer your questions when they are
accompanied by such language as you have chosen to use, and I
refuse to answer any further questions on this subject."

1 ' Of course I know that you have taken the money from the
Duke."

" Then why do you ask me ? n

" And of course I know that you are as well aware as I am of
the nature of the transaction. That you can brazen it out without
a blush only proves to me that you have got beyond the reach of
shame ! "

" Very well, sir."

" And you have no further explanation to make ? "

" What do you expect me to say ? Without knowing any of the
facts of the case, — except the one, that you contributed £500 to my
election expenses, — you take upon yourself to tell me that I am a
shameless, fraudulent swindler. And then you ask for a further
explanation ! In such a position is it likely that I shall explain
anything ; — that I can be in a humour to be explanatory ? Just
turn it all over in your own mind, and ask yourself the question. "

" I have turned it over in my own mind, and I have asked myself
the question, and I do not think it probable that you should wish
to explain anything. I shall take steps to let the Duke know that
I as your father-in-law had paid the full sum which you had
stated that you had spent at Silverbridge."

" Much the Duke will care about that."

A A

854 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" And after what has passed I am obliged to say that the sooner
you leave this house the better I shall be pleased."

" Yery well, sir. Of course I shall take my wife with me."

" That must be as she pleases."

"No, Mr. Wharton. That must be as I please. She belongs to
me, — not to you or to herself. Under your influence she has
forgotten much of what belongs to the duty of a wife, but I do not
think that she will so far have forgotten herself as to give me more
trouble than to bid her come with me when I desire it."

"Let that be as it may, I must request that you, sir, will ab?ent
yourself. I will not entertain as my guest a man who has acted
as you have done in this matter, — even though he be my son-in-
law."

" I can sleep here to-night, I suppose ? "

" Or to-morrow if it suits you. As for Emily she can remain
here, if you will allow her to do so."

" That will not suit me," said Lopez.

"In that case, as far as I am concerned, I shall do whatever
she may ask me to do. Good" morning."

Mr. Wharton left the room, but did not leave the house. Before
he did so he would see his daughter ; and, 'thinking it probable
that Lopez would also choose to see his wife, he prepared to
wait in his own room. But, in about ten minutes, Lopez
started from the hall door in a cab, and did so without going
up-stairs. Mr. Wharton had reason to believe that his son-in-law
was almost destitute of money for immediate purposes. What-
ever he might have would at any rate be serviceable to him
before he started. Any home for Emily must be expensive ; and
no home in their present circumstances could bo so reputable for
her as one under her father's roof. He therefore almost hoped
that she might still be left with him till that horrid day should
come, — if it ever did come, — in which she would be taken away
from him for ever. " Of course, papa, I shall go if he bids me,"
she said, when he told her all that he thought right to tell her of
that morning's interview.

" I hardly know how to advise you," said the father, meaning in
truth to bring himself round to the giving of some advice adverse
to her husband's will.

11 1 want no advice, papa."

"Want no advice! I never knew a woman who wanted it
more."

"No, papa. I am bound to do as he tells me. I know what I
have done. When some poor wretch has got himself into perpetual
i by his misdeeds, no advice can servo him then. So it is,
with mo."

" You can at any rato oscapo from your prison."

" No ; — no. I have a feeling of pride which tells mo that as I
chose to become the wife of my husband, — as I insisted on it in
opposition to all my friends,— lis I would judge for myself,— I am

"I CAN iLEEP HERE TO-NIGHT, I SUPPOSE?" 355*

bound to put up with my choice. If this had come upon me through
the authority of others, if I had been constrained to marry him, I
think I could have reconciled myself to deserting him. But I did
it myself, and I will abide by it. When he bids me go, I shall
go." Poor Mr. Wharton went to his chambers, and sat there the
whole day without taking a book or a paper into his hands. Could
there be no rescue, no protection, no relief ! He turned over in
his head various plans, but in a vague and useless manner. What
if the Duke were to prosecute Lopez for the fraud ! What if he
could induce Lopez to abandon his wife, — pledging himself by
some deed not to return to her, — for, say, twenty or even thirty
thousand pounds ! What if he himself were to carry his daughter
away to the continent, half forcing and half persuading her to
make the journey ! Surely there might be some means found by
which the man might bo frightened into compliance. But there
he sat, — and did nothing. And in the evening he ate a solitary
mutton chop at The Jolly Blackbird, because he could not bear
to face even his club, and then returned to his chambors, — to the
great disgust of the old woman who had them in charge at nights.
And at about midnight he crept away to his own house, a wretched
old man.

Lopez when he left Manchester Square did not go in search of
a new home for himself and his wife, nor during the whole of the
day did he trouble himself on that subject. He spent most of the
day at the rooms in Coleman Street of the San Juan Mining Asso-
ciation, of which Mr. Mills Happerton had once been Chairman.
There was now another Chairman and other Directors; but Mr.
Mills Happerton's influence had so far remained with the Company
as to enable Lopez to become well known in the Company's offices,
and acknowledged as a claimant for the office of resident Manager
at San Juan in Guatemala. Now the present project was this, —
that Lopez was to start on behalf of the Company early in May,
that the Company was to pay his own personal expenses out to
Guatemala, and that they should allow him while there a salary of
£1,000 a year for managing the affairs of the mine. As far as this
offer went, the thing was true enough. It was true that Lopez
had absolutely secured the place. But ho had done so subject to
the burden of one very serious stipulation. He was to become
proprietor of 50 shares in the mine, and to pay up £100 each on
those shares. It was considered that the man who was to get
£1,000 a year in Guatemala for managing the affair, should at any
rate assist the affair, and show his confidence in the affair to an
extent as great as that. Of course the holder of these 50 shares
would be as fully entitled as any other shareholder to that 20 per
cent, which those who promoted the mine promised as the imme-
diate result of the speculation.

At first Lopez had hoped that he might be enabled to defer the
actual payment of the £5,000 till after ho had sailed. When once
out in Guatemala as manager, as manager he would doubtless

356 THE PRIME MINISTER.

remain. But by degrees he found that the payment must actually
be made in advance. Now there was nobody to whom he could
apply but Mr. Wharton. He was, indeed, forced to declare at the
office that the money was to come from Mr. Wharton, and had
given some excellent but fictitious reason why Mr. Wharton would
not pay the money till February.

And in spite of all that had come and gone he still did hope that
if the need to go were actually there he might even yet get the
money from Mr. Wharton. Surely Mr. Wharton would sooner
pay such a sum than be troubled at home with such a son-in-law.
Should the worst come to the worst, of course he could raise the
money by consenting to leave his wife at home. But this was not
part of his plan, if he could avoid it. £5,000 would be a very low
price at which to sell his wife, and all that he might get from hi3
connection with her. As long as he kept her with him he was in
possession at any rate of all that Mr. Wharton would do for her.
He had not therefore as yet made his final application to his
father-in-law for the money, having found it possible to postpone
the payment till the middle of February. His quarrel with Mr.
Wharton this morning he regarded as having little or no effect
upon his circumstances. Mr. Wharton would not give him the
money because he loved him, nor yet from personal respect, nor
from any sense of duty as to what he might owe to a son-in-law.
It would be simply given as the price by which his absence might
be purchased, and his absence would not be the less desirable
because of this morning's quarrel.

But, even yet, he was not quite resolved as to going to Guatemala.
Sexty Parker had been sucked nearly dry, and was in truth at this
moment so violent with indignation and fear and remorse that
Lopez did not dare to show himself in Little Tankard Yard ; but
still there were, even yet, certain hopes in that direction from which
great results might come. If a certain new spirit which had just
been concocted from the bark of trees in Central Africa, and which
was called Bios, could only be made to go up in the market,
everything might be satisfactorily arranged. The hoardings of
London wore already telling the public that if it wished to get
drunk without any of the usual troubles of intoxication it must
drink Bios. The public no doubt does read the literature of the
hoardings, but then it reads so slowly ! This Bios had hardly been
twelve months on the boards as yet ! But they were now increas-
ing the size of the letters in the advertisements and the jocundity
of the pictures, — and the thing might be done. There was, too,
another hope, — another hope of instant moneys by which Guate-
mala might be staved off, as to which further explanation shall be
given in a further chapter.

" I suppose I shall find Dixon a decent sort of a fellow ?" said
Lopez to the Secretary of the Association in Coleman Street.

" Hough, you know."

"■But honest P"

MB. HARTLEPOD. 357

" Oh, yes ;— he's all that."

" If he's honest, and what I call loyal, I don't care a straw for
anything else. One doesn't expect West-end manners in Guate-
mala. But I shall haye a deal to do with him, — and I hate a
fellow that you can't depend on."

" Mr. Happerton used to think a great deal of Dixon."

"That's all right," said Lopez. Mr. Dixon was the under-
ground manager out at the San Juan mine, and was perhaps as
anxious for a loyal and honest colleague as was Mr. Lopez. If so,
Mr. Dixon was very much in the way to be disappointed.

Lopez stayed at the office all the day studying the affairs of the
San Juan mine, and then went to the Progress for his dinner.
Ilitherto he had taken no steps whatever as to getting lodgings for
himself or for his wife.

CHAPTER LIII.

MR. HARTLEPOD.

When the time came at which Lopez should have left Manchester
Square he was still there. Mr. Wharton, in discussing the matter
with his daughter, — when wishing to persuade her that she might
remain in his house even in opposition to her husband, — had not
told her that he had actually desired Lopez to leave it. He had
then felt sure that the man would go and would take his wife with
him, but he did not even yet know the obduracy and the clever-
ness and the impregnability of his son-in-law. When the time
came, when he saw his daughter in the morning after the notice
had been given, he could not bring himself even yet to say to her
that he had issued an order for his banishment. Days went by and
Lopez was still there, and the old barrister said no further word on
the subject. The two men never met ; — or met simply in the hall
or passages. Wharton himself studiously avoided such meetings,
thus denying himself the commonest uses of his own house. At
last Emily told him that her husband had fixed the day for her
departure. The next Indian! mail-packet by which they would
leave England would start from Southampton on the 2nd of April,
and she was to be ready to go on that day. " How is it to be till
then ? " the father asked in a low, uncertain voice.

" I suppose I may remain with you."

" And your husband ?"

" He will be here too, — I suppose."

" Such a misery, — such a destruction of everything no man ever
heard of before ! " said Mr. Wharton. To this she made no reply,
but continued working at some necessary preparation for her final
departure. " Emily," he said, "I will make any sacrifice to pre-

858 THE PRIME MINISTER.

vent it. What can be done ? Short of injuring Everett's interests
I will do anything."

"Ido not know," she said.

11 You must understand something of his affairs."

"Nothing whatever. He has told me nothing of them. In
earlier days, — soon after our marriage, — he bade me get money
from you."

" When you wrote to me for money from Italy ?"

"And after that. I have refused to do anything; — to say a
word. I told him that it must be between you and him. What
else could I say ? And now he tells me nothing."

"I cannot think that he should want you to go with him."
Then there was again a pause. " Is it because he loves you ?"

" Not that, papa."

" Why then should he burden himself with a companion ? His
money, whatever he has, would go further without such im-
pediment ? "

" Perhaps he thinks, papa, that while I am with him he has a
hold upon you."

" He shall have a stronger hold by leaving you. What is he to
gain ? If I could only know his price."

" Ask him, papa."

" I do not even know how I am to speak to him again."

Then again there was a pause. " Papa," she said after a while,
" I have done it myself. Let me go. You will still have Everett.
And it may be that after a time I shall come back to you. He will
not kill mo, and it may be that I shall not die."

" By God !" said Mr. Wharton, rising from his chair suddenly,
" if there were money to be made by it I believe that he would
murder you without a scruple." Thus it was that within eighteen
months of her marriage the father spoke to his daughter of her
husband.

" What am I to take with me ?" she said to her husband a few
days later.

" You had better ask your father."

" Why should I ask him, Ferdinand ? How should he know ?"

"And how should I?"

" I should have thought that you would interest yourself about
it."

"Upon my word I have enough to interest me just at present,
without thinking of your finery. I suppose you mean what clothes
you should have P "

" I was not thinking of myself only."

" You need think of nothing else. Ask him what he pleases to
allow you to spend, and then I will tell you what to got."

" I will nover ask him for anything, Ferdinand."

" Then you may go without anything. You might as well do it
at once, for you will have to do it sooner or later. Or, if you
please, go to his tradesmen and say nothing to him about it. They

MB. HAETLEPOD. 859

will give you credit. You see how it is, my dear. He has cheated
me in a most rascally manner. He has allowed me to marry his
daughter, and because I did not make a bargain with him as
another man would have done, he denies me the fortune I had a
right to expect with you. You know that the Israelites despoiled
the Egyptians, and it was taken as a merit on their part. Your
father is an Egyptian to me, and I will despoil him. You can tell
him that I say so if you please."

And so the days went on till the first week of February had
passed, and Parliament had met. Both Lopez and his wife were
still living in Manchester Square. Not another word had been
said as to that notice to quit, nor an allusion made to it. It was
supposed to be a settled thing that Lopez was to start with his wife
for Guatemala in the first week in April. Mr. Wharton had him-
self felt that difficulty as to his daughter's outfit, and had told her
that she might get whatever it pleased her on his credit. " For
yourself, my dear."

" Papa, I will get nothing till he bids me."

"But you can't go across the world without anything. What
are you to do in such a place as that unless you have the things
you want ? "

" What do poor people do who have to go ? What should I do
if you had cast me off because of my disobedience ? "

" But I have not cast you off."

" Tell him that you will give him so much, and then, if he bids
me, I will spend it."

11 Let it be so. I will tell him."

Upon that Mr. Wharton did speak to his son-in-law; — coming
upon him suddenly one morning in the dining-room. " Emily
will want an outfit if she is to go to this place."

" Like other people she wants many things that she cannot get."

" I will tell my tradesmen to furnish her with what she wants,
up to, — well, — suppose I say £200. I have spoken to her and she
wants your sanction."

" My sanction for spending your money ? She can have that very
quickly."

" You can tell her so ; — or I will do so."

Upon that Mr. Wharton was going, but Lopez stopped him. It
was now essential that the money for the shares in the San Juan
mine should be paid up, and his father-in-law's pocket was still
the source from which the enterprising son-in-law hoped to procure
it. Lopez had fully made up his mind to demand it, and thought
that the time had now come. And he was resolved that he would
not ask it as a favour on bended knee. He was beginning to feel
his own powor, and trusted that he might prevail by other means
than begging. • ' Mr. Wharton," he said, ■ ' you and I have not been
very good friends lately."

" No, indeed."

" There was a time,— a very short time,— during which I thought

360 THE PRIME MINISTEB.

that we might hit it off together, and I did my best. You do not,
I fancy, like men of my class."

"Well; — well ! You had better go on if there be anything to
eay."

" I have much to say, and I will go on. You are a rich man,
and I am your son-in-law." Mr. Wharton put his left hand up
to his forehead, brushing the few hairs back from his head, but he
said nothing. " Had I received from you during the last most
vital year that assistance which I think I had a right to expect, I
also might have been a rich man now. It is no good going back
to that." Then he paused, but still Mr. Wharton said nothing.
" Now you know what has come to me and to your daughter. We
are to be expatriated."

" Is that my fault ? w

" I think it is, but I mean to say nothing further of that. This
Company which is sending me out, and which will probably be the
most thriving thing of the kind which has come up within these
twenty years, is to pay me a salary of £1,000 a year as resident
manager at San Juan."

" So I understand."

"The salary alone would be a beggarly thing. Guatemala, I
take it, is not the cheapest country in the world in which a man
can live. But I am to go out as the owner of fifty shares on which
£100 each must be paid up, and I am entitled to draw another
£1,000 a year as dividend on the profit of those shares."

" That will be twenty per cent."

"Exactly."

" And will double your salary."

" Just so. But there is one little ceremony to be perfected before
I can be allowed to enter upon so halcyon a state of existence.
The £100 a share must be paid up." Mr. Wharton simply stared
at him. "I must have the £5,000 to invest in the undertaking
before I can start."

"Well!"

" Now I have not got £5,000 myself, nor any part of it. You
do not wish, I suppose, to see either me or your daughter starve.
And as for me I hardly flatter myself when I say that you are a
anxious to be rid of me. £5,000 is not very much for me to ask
of you, as I regard it."

" Such consummate impudence I never met in my life before ! "

" Nor perhaps so much unprevaricating downright truth. At
any rate such is the condition of my affairs. If I am to go the
money must bo paid this week. I have, perhaps foolishly, put off
mentioning the matter till I was sure that I could not raise the
sum elsewhere. Though I feel my claim on you to bo good, Mr,
Wharton, it is not pleasant to me to make it."

" You are asking me for £5,000 down ! "

" Certainly I am."

" What security am I to have P "

MR. HAETLEPOD. 861

" Security?"

«Yes ;— that if I pay it I shall not be troubled again by the
meanest scoundrel that it has ever been my misfortune to meet.
How am I to know that you will not come back to-morrow ? How
am I to know that you will go at all ? Do you think it probable
that I will give you £5,000 on your own simple word ? "

"Then the scoundrel will stay in England, — and will generally
find it convenient to live in Manchester Square."

"I'll be d d if he does. Look here, sir. Between you and

me there can be a bargain, and nothing but a bargain. I will pay
the £5,000, — on certain conditions."

" I didn't doubt at all that you would pay it."
1 ' I will go with you to the office of this Company, and will pay
for the shares if I can receive assurance there that the matter is as
you say, and that the shares will not be placed in your power
before you have reached Guatemala."

" You can come to-day, sir, and receive all that assurance."
" And I must have a written undertaking from you, — a document
which my daughter can show if it be necessary, — that you will
never claim her society again or trouble her with any application."
"You mistake me, Mr. Wharton. My wife goes with me to
Guatemala."

"Then I will not pay one penny. "Why should I? What is
your presence or absence to me except as it concerns her ? Do you
think that I care for your threats of remaining here. The police
will set that right."

"Wherever I go, my wife goes."

" We'll see to that too. If you want the money, you must leave
her. Good morning."

Mr. Wharton as he went to his chambers thought the matter
over. He was certainly willing to risk the £5,000 demanded if he
could rid himself and his daughter of this terrible incubns, even if
it were only for a time. If Lopez would but once go to Guatemala,
leaving his wife behind him, it would be comparatively easy to keep
them apart should he ever return. The difficulty now was not in
him. but in her. The man's conduct had been so outrageous, so
barefaced, so cruel that the lawyer did not doubt but that he could
turn the husband out of his house, and keep the wife, even now,
were it not that she was determined to obey the man whom she, in
opposition to all her friends, had taken as her master. ' ' I have
done it myself and I will bear it," was all the answer she would
make when her father strove to persuade her to separate herself
from her husband. " You have got Everett," she would say.
" When a girl is married she is divided from her family; — and I
am divided." But she would willingly stay if Lopez would bid her
stay. It now seemed that he could not go without the £5,000 ;
and, when the pressure came upon him, surely he would go and
leave his wife.
In the course of that day Mr. Wharton went to the offices of the

8G2 THE PRIME MINISTER,

San Juan mine and asked to see the Director. He was sn^ ,/n up
into a half-furnished room, two stories high, in Coleman Street,
where he found two clerks sitting upon stools; — and when he asked
for the Director was shown into tho back room in which sat the
Secretary. The Secretary was a dark, plump little man with a
greasy face, who had the gift of assuming an air of great importance
as he twisted his chair round to face visitors who came to inquire
about the San Juan Mining Company. His name was Hartlepod ;
and if the San Juan mine " turned out trumps," as he intended
that it should, Mr. Hartlepod meant to be a great man in the City.
To Mr. Hartlepod Mr. Wharton, with considerable embarrassment,
explained as much of the joint history of himself and Lopez as he
found to be absolutely necessary. ' ' He has only left the office about
half-an-hour," said Mr. Hartlepod.

" Of course you understand that he is my son-in-law."

"He has mentioned your name to us, Mr. Wharton, before
now."

" And he is going out to Guatemala ? "

" Oh yes ; — he's going out. Has he not told you as much him-
self ?"

" Certainly, sir. And he has told me that he is desirous of
buying certain shares in the company before he starts."

"Probably, Mr. Wharton."

" Indeed I believe he cannot go, unless he buys them."

" That may be so, Mr. Wharton. No doubt ho has told you all
that himself."

" The fact is, Mr. Hartlepod, I am willing, under certain stipu-
lations, to advance him the money." Mr. Hartlepod bowed. " I
need not trouble you with private affairs between myself and my
son-in-law." Again the Secretary bowed. " But it seems to be
for his interest that he should go."

" A very great opening indeed, Mr. Wharton. " I don't see how
a man is to have a better opening. A fine salary ! His expenses
out paid ! One of the very best things that has come up for many
years ! And as for the capital he is to embark in the affair, he is
as safe to get 20 per cent, on it, — as safe, — as safe as tho Bank
of England."

" He'll have the shares ? "

" Oh yes ; — tho scrip will be handed to him at once."

"And— and "

" If you mean about tho mine, Mr. Wharton, you may take my
word that it's all real. It's not one of those sham things that melt
away like snow and leave the shareholders nowhere. There's the
prospectus, Mr. Wharton. Perhaps you have not seen that before.
Take it away and cast your eye over it at your leisure." Mr.
Wharton put the somewhat lengthy pamphlet into his pocket.
11 Look at the list of Directors. We've three members of Parlia<
ment, a baronet, and one or two City names that are as good, — as
good as the Bank of England. It that prospectus won't make a

ME. HAETLEPOD. Wd

man confident I don't know what will. "Why, Mr. Wharton, you
don't think that your son-in-law would get those fifty shares at
par unless he was going out as our general local manager. The
shares ain't to be had. It's a large concern as far as capital goes.
You'll see if you look. About a quarter of a million paid up. But
it's all in a box as one may say. It's among ourselves. The shares
ain't in the market. Of course it's not for me to say what should
be done between you and your son-in-law. Lopez is a friend of
mine, and a man I esteem, and all that. Nevertheless I shouldn't
think of advising you to do this or that, — or not to do it. But
when you talk of safety, Mr. Wharton, — why, Mr. Wharton, I don't
scruple to tell you as a man who knows what these things are, that
this is an opportunity that doesn't come in a man's way perhaps
twice in his life."

Mr. Wharton found that he had nothing more to say, and went
back to Lincoln's Inn. He knew very well that Mr. Hartlepod' s
assurances were not worth much. Mr. Hartlepod himself and his
belongings, the clerks in his office, the look of the rooms, and the
very nature of the praises which he had sung, all of them inspired
anything but confidence. Mr. Wharton was a man of the world ;
and, though he knew nothing of city ways, was quite aware that
no man in his senses would lay out £5,000 on the mere word of
Mr. Hartlepod. But still he was inclined to make the payment.
If only he could secure the absence of Lopez, — if he could be sure
that Lopez would in truth go to Guatemala, and if also he could
induce the man to go without his wife, he would risk the money.
The money would, of course, be thrown away, — but he would throw
it away. Lopez no doubt had declared that he would not go with-
out his wife, even though the money were paid for him. But the
money was an alluring sum ! As the pressure upon the man became
greater, Mr. Wharton thought he would probably consent to leave
his wife behind him.

In his emergency the barrister went to his attorney and told him
everything. The two lawyers were closeted together for an hour,
and Mr. Wharton's last words to his old friend were as follows : —
" I will risk the money, Walker, or rather I will consent absolutely
to throw it away, — as it will be thrown away, — if it can be managed
that he shall in truth go to this place without his wiie,"

864 THE PRIME MINISTEE.

CHAPTER LIV.

LIZZIE.

It cannot be supposed that Ferdinand Lopez at this time was a very
happy man. He had, at any rate, once loved his wife, and would
have loved her still could he have trained her to think as he thought,
to share his wishes, and " to put herself into the same boat with
him," — as he was wont to describe the unison and sympathy which
he required from her. To give him his due, he did not know that
he was a villain. When he was exhorting her to " get round her
father " he was not aware that he was giving her lessons which
must shock a well-conditioned girl. He did not understand that
everything that she had discovered of his moral disposition since
her marriage was of a nature to disgust her. And, not understand-
ing all this, he conceived that he was grievously wronged by her
in that she adhered to her father rather than to him. This made
him unhappy, and doubly disappointed him. He had neither got
the wife that he had expected nor the fortune. But he still thought
that the fortune must come if he would only hold on to the wife
which he had got.

And then everything had gone badly with him since his marriage.
He was apt, when thinking over his affairs, to attribute all this to
the fears and hesitation and parsimony of Sexty Parker. None
of his late ventures with Sexty Parker had been successful. And
now Sexty was in a bad condition, very violent, drinking hard,
declaring himself to be a ruined man, and swearing that if this and
that were not done he would have bitter revenge. Sexty still
believed in the wealth of his partner's father-in-law, and still had
some hope of salvation from that source. Lopez would declare to
him, and up to this very time persevered in protesting, that salva-
tion was to be found in Bios. If Sexty would only risk two or
threo thousand pounds more upon Bios, — or his credit to that
amount failing, the immediate money, — things might still be right.
" Bios be d ," said Sexty, uttering a string of heavy impreca-
tions. On that morning he had been trusting to nativo produce
rathor than to the new African spirit. But now as the Guatemala
scheme really took form and loomod on Lopez's eyesight as a thing
that might be real, ho endeavoured to keep out of Sexty's way.
But in vain. Sexty too had heard of Guatemala, and in his misery

hunted Lopez about the city. " By G , I believe you're afraid

to como to Littlo Tankard Yard," he said one day, having caught
his victim under the equestrian statue in front of the Exchange.

" What is the good of my coming when you will do nothing when
I am there P"

"I'll toll you what it is, Lopez, — you're not going out of the
country about this mining business, if I know it."

" Who said I was?"

lizzie. 865

" I'll put a spoke in your wheel there, my man. I'll give a
written account of all the dealings between us to the Directors.
By G , they shall know their man."

" You're an ass, Sexty, and always were. Look here. If I can
carry on as though I were going to this place, I can draw £5,000
from old Wharton. He has already offered it. He has treated me
with a stinginess that I never knew equalled. Had he done what
I had a right to expect, you and I would have been rich men now.
But at last I have got a hold upon him up to £5,000. As you and
I stand, pretty nearly the whole of that will go to you. But don't
you spoil it all by making an ass of yourself."

Sexty, who was three parts drunk, looked up into his face for a

few seconds, and then made his reply. " I'm d d if I believe a

word of it." Upon this Lopez affected to laugh, and then made his
escape.

All this, as I have said, did not tend to make his life happy.
Though he had impudence enough, and callousness of conscience
enough, to get his bills paid by Mr. Wharton as often as he could,^he
was not quite easy in his mind while doing so. His ambition had
never been high, but it had soared higher than that. He had had
great hopes. He had lived with some high people. He had
dined with lords and ladies. He had been the guest of a Duchess.
He had married the daughter of a gentleman. He had nearly been
a member of Parliament. He still belonged to what he considered
to be a first-rate club. From a great altitude he looked down upon
Sexty Parker and men of Sexty's class, because of his social suc-
cesses, and because he knew how to talk and to look like a gentle-
man. It was unpleasant to him, therefore, to be driven to the life
he was now living. And the idea of going out to Guatemala and
burying himself in a mine in Central America was not to him a
happy idea. In spite of all that he had done he had still some hope
that he might avoid that banishment. He had spoken the truth to
Sexty Parker in saying tha,t he intended to get the £5,000 from
Mr. Wharton without that terrible personal sacrifice, though he
had hardly spoken the truth when he assured his friend that the
greater portion of that money would go to him. There were many
schemes fluctuating through his brain, and all accompanied by
many doubts. If he could get Mr. Wharton's money by giving up
his wife, should he consent to give her up ? In either case should
he stay or should he go ? Should he run one further great chance
with Bios, — and if so, by whose assistance ? And if he should at
last decide that he would do so by tho aid of a certain friend that
was yet left to him, should he throw himself at that friend's feet, tho
friend being a lady, and propose to desert his wife and begin tho
world again with her ? For the lady in question was a lady in
possession, as he believed, of very large means. Or should he cut
his throat and have done at once with all his troubles, acknowledg-
ing to himself that his career had been a failure, and that, there-
fore, it might be brought with advantage to an end Y "After all,"

T3E PRIME MINISTER.

said lie to himself, " that may be the best way of winding up a
bankrupt concern."

Our old friend Lady Eustace, in these days, lived in a very
small house in a very small street bordering upon May Fair ; but
the street, though very small, and having disagreeable relations
with a mews, still had an air of fashion about it. And with her
lived the widow, Mrs. Leslie, who had introduced her to Mrs. Dick
Eoby, and through Mrs. Eoby to Ferdinand Lopez. Lady Eustace
was in the enjoyment of a handsome income, as I hope that some
of my readers may remember, — and this income, during the last
year or two, she had learned to foster, if not with much discretion,
at any rate with great zeal. During her short life she had had
many aspirations. Love, 'poetry, sport, religion, fashion, Bohe-
mianism had all been tried; but in each crisis there had been a
certain care for wealth which had saved her from the folly of
squandering what she had won by her early energies in the pursuit
of her then prevailing passion. She had given her money to no
lover, had not lost it on race -courses, or in building ch arches ; —
nor even had she materially damaged her resources by servants
and equipages. At the present time she was still young, and still
pretty, — though her hair and complexion took rather more time than
in the days when she won Sir Florian Eustace. She still liked a
lover, — or perhaps two, — though she had thoroughly convinced
herself that a lover may be bought too dear. She could still ride a
horse, though hunting regularly was too expensive for her. She
could talk religion if she could find herself close to a well-got-up
cleryyman, — being quite indifferent as to the denomination of the
religion. But perhaps a wild dash for a time into fast vulgarity
was what in her heart of hearts she liked best, — only that it was so
difficult to enjoy that pleasure without risk of losing everything.
And then, together with these passions, and perhaps above them
all, there had lately sprung up in the heart of Lady Eustace a desire
to multiply her means by successful speculation. This was the
friend with whom Lopez had lately become intimate, and by whose
aid he hoped to extricate himself from some of his difficulties.

Poor as he was he had contrived to bribe Mrs. Leslie by hand-
some presents out of Bond Street ; — for, as he still lived in Man-
chester Square, and was the undoubted son-in-law of Mr. "Wharton,
his credit was not altogether gone. In the giving of these gifts no
purport was, of course, named, but Mrs. Leslie was probably aware
that her good word with her friend was expected. " I onl}" know
what I used to hear from Mrs. lloby," Mrs. Leslie said to her friend.
11 He was mixed up with Ilunkoy's people, who roll in money. Old
Wharton wouldn't have given him his daughter if he had not
been doing well."

" It's very hard to bo sure," said Lizzie Eustace.

" He looks like a man who'd know how to feather his own nest,"
said Mrs. Leslie. " Don't you think he's very handsome P "

M I don't know that he's likely to do the better for that."

LIZZIE.

367

"Well; no; but there are men of whom you are sure, when
you look at them, that they'll be successful. I don't suppose he
was anything to begin with, but see where he is now ! "

"I believe you are in love with him, my dear," said Lizzie
Eustace.

" Not exactly. I don't know that he has given me any provo-
cation. But I don't see why a woman shouldn't bo in love with
him if she likes. He is a deal nicer than those fair-haired men who
haven't got a word to say to you, and yet look as though you ought
to jump down their mouths ; — like that fellow you were trying to
talk to last night, — that Mr. Fletcher. He could just jerk out
three words at a time, and yet he was proud as Lucifer. I like a
man who if he likes me is neither ashamed nor afraid to say so."

" There is a romance there, you know. Mr. Fletcher was in love
with Emily Wharton, and she threw him over for Lopez. They say
he has not held up his head since."

" She was quite right," said Mrs. Leslie. " But she is one of
those stiff-necked creatures who are sot up with pride though they
have nothing to be proud of. I suppose she had a lot of money.
Lopez would never have taken her without."

When, therefore, Lopez called one day at the little house in the
little street he was not an unwelcome visitor. Mrs. Leslie was in
the drawing-room, but soon left it after his arrival. He had of late
been often there, and when he at once introduced the subject on
which he was himself intent it was not unexpected. " Seven thou-
sand five hundred pounds ! " said Lizzie, after listening to the pro-
position which he had come to make. " That is a very large sum
of money ! "

" Yes ; — it's a large sum of money. It's a large affair. I'm in
it to rather more than that, I' believe."

"How are you to get people to drink it?" she asked after a
pause.

" By telling them that they ought to drink it. Advertise it. It
has become a certainty now that if you will only advertise suffi-
ciently you may make a fortune by selling anything. Only the
interest on the money expended increases in so large a ratio in
accordance with the magnitude of the operation ! If you spend a
few hundreds in advertising you throw them away. A hundred
thousand pounds well laid out makes a certainty of anything."

" What am I to get to show for my money; — I mean immediately,
you know ? "

" Registered shares in the Company."

"The Bios Company?"

" No ; — we did propose to call ourselves Parker and Co., limited.
I think we shall change the name. They will probably use my
name. Lopez and Co., limited."

" But it's all for Bios ? "

"Oh yes;— all for Bios."

" And it's to come from Central Africa ? n

368 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" It will be rectified in London, you know. Some English spirit
will perhaps be mixed. But I must not tell you the secrets of th»
trade till you join us. That Bios is distilled from the bark of the
Duffer-tree is a certainty."

" Have you drank any ? "

" I've tasted it."

"Is it nice ?"

" Yery nice;— rather sweet, you know, and will be the better
for mixing."

11 Gin ? " suggested her ladyship.

11 Perhaps so,— or whisky. I think I may say that you can't do
very much better with your money. You know I would not say
this to you were it not true. In such a matter I treat you just as
if, — as if you were my sister."

" I know how good you are, — but seven thousand five'hundred I
I couldn't raise so much as that just at present."

"There are to be six shares," said Lopez, "making £45,000
capital. Would you consent to take a share jointly with me ? That
would be three thousand seven hundred and fifty."

" But you have a share already," said Lizzie suspiciously.

"I should then divide that with Mr. Parker. We intend to
register at any rate as many as nine partners. Would you object
to hold it with me ? " Lopez, as he asked the question, looked at
her as though he were offering her half his heart.

"No," said Lizzie, slowly, "I don't suppose I should object to
that."

" I should be doubly eager about the affair if I were in partner-
ship with you."

" It's such a venture."

" Nothing venture nothing have."

" But I've got something as it is, Mr. Lopez, and I don't want to
lose it all."

" There's no chance of that if you join us."

" You think Bios is so sure ! "

" Quite safe," said Lopez.

" You must give me a little more time to think about it," said
Lady Eustace at last, panting with anxiety, struggling with her-
self, anxious for the oxcitement which would come to her from
dealing in Bios, but still fearing to risk her money.

This had taken place immediately after Mr. Wharton's offer of
tho £o,000, in making which he had stipulated that Emily should
bo left at home. Then a few days went D3r, and Lopez was pressed
for his money at the office of the San Juan mine. Lid he or did he
not mean to take up the mining shares allotted to him ? If he did
mean to do so, he must do it at once. He swore by all his gods
that of course he meant to take them up. Had not Mr. Wharton
himself been at the office saying that ho intended to pay for them ?
Was not that a sufficient guuixmtoe ? Thoy knew well enough that
Mr. Wharton was a man to whom the raising of £<>,000 could bo a

lizzie. 869

matter of no difficulty. But they did not know, never could know,
how impossible it was to get anything done by Mr. Wharton. But
Mr. Wharton had promised to pay for the shares, and when money
was concerned his word would surely suffice. Mr. Hartlepod,
backed by two of the Directors, said that if the thing was to go on
at all, the money must really be paid at once. But the conference
was ended by allowing the new local manager another fortnight in
which to complete the arrangement.

Lopez allowed four days to pass by, during each of which he was
closeted for a time with Lady Eustace, and then made an attempt
to get at Mr. Wharton through his wife. " Your father has said
that he will pay the money for me," said Lopez.

" If he has said so he certainly will do it."

" But he has promised it on the condition that you should remain
at home. Do you wish to desert your husband ?" To this she made
no immediate answer. " Are you already anxious to be rid of mo ?"

" I should prefer to remain at home," she said in a very low
voice.

" Then you do wish to desert your husband ? "

" What is the use of all this, Ferdinand ? You do not love me.
You did not marry me because I loved you."

11 By heaven I did ; — for tkat and that only."

11 And how have you treated me?"

" What have I done to you ? "

11 But I do not mean to make accusations, Ferdinand. I should
only add to our miseries by that. We should be happier apart."

' ' Not I. Nor is that my idea of marriage. Tell your father
that you wish to go with me, and then he will let us have the
money."

" I will tell him no lie, Ferdinand. If you bid me go, I will go.
Where you find a home I must find one too if it be your pleasure
to take me. But I will not ask my father to give you money
because it is my pleasure to go. Were I to say so he would not
believe me."

" It is you who have told him to give it me only on the condition
of your staying."

" I have told him nothing. He knows that I do not wish to go.
He cannot but know that. But he knows that I mean to go if you
require it."

" And you will do nothing for me ?"

" Nothing,— in regard to my father." He raised his fist with
the thought of striking her, and she saw the motion. But his arm
fell again to his side. He had not quite come to that yet. ' ' Surely
you will have the charity to tell me whether I am to go, if it be
fixed," she said.

" Have I not told you so twenty times ?"

"Then it is fixed."

" Yes ; — it is fixed. Your father will tell you about your things,

B B

370 THE PRIME MINISTER,

He has promised you some beggarly sum, — about as much as a
tallow-chandler would give his daughter."

" Whatever he does for me will be sufficient for me. I am not
afraid of my father, Ferdinand."

" You shall be afraid of me before I have done with you," said
he, leaving the room.

Then as he sat at his club, dining there alone, there came across
his mind ideas of what the world would be like to him if he could
leave his wife at home and take Lizzie Eustace with him to Guate-
mala. Guatemala was very distant, and it would matter little there
whether the woman he brought with him was his wife or no. It
was clear enough to him that his wife desired no more of his com-
pany. What were the conventions of the world to him ? This
other woman had money at her own command, He could not
make it his own because he could not marry her, but he fancied
that it might be possible to bring her so far under his control as to
make the money almost as good as his own. Mr. WTharton's money
was very hard to reach ; and would be as hard to reach, — perhaps
harder, — when Mr. Wharton was dead, as now, during his life.
He had said a good deal to the lady since the interview of which a
report has been given. She had declared herself to be afraid of
Bios. She did not in the least doubt that great things might be ulti-
mately done with Bios, but she did not quite see the way with her
small capital, — thus humbly did she speak of her wealth, — to be
one of those who should take the initiative iu the matter,
evidently required a great deal of advertisement, and Lizzi>
taco had a short-sighted objection to expend what money she had
saved on the hoardings of London. Then he opened to her the
glories of Guatemala, not contenting himself with describing the
certainty of the 20 per cent., but enlarging on the luxurious happi-
ness of life in a country so golden, so green, so gorgeous, and so
grand. It had been the very apple of the eye of the old Spaniards.
In Guatemala, he said, Cortez and Pizarro had met and embraced.
They might have done so for anything Lizzie Eustace knew to the
contrary. And here our hero took advantage of his namo. Don
Diego di Lopez had been the first to raise the banner of freedom
in Guatemala when the kings of Spain became tyrants to their
American subjects. All is fair in love and war, and Lizzie amidst
the hard business of her life still loved a dash of romance. Yes,
ho was about to change the scene and try his fortune in that golden,
greon, and gorgeous country. "You will take your wife of
\" Lady Eustace had said. Then Lopez had smiled, and
shrugging his shoulders had left the room.

It was certainly the fact that she could not oat him. Other men
before Lopez have had to pick up what courage they could in their
attacks upon women by remembering that fact. Sho had flirted
with him in a very pleasant way, mixing up her prettinesses and
her percentages in a manner that was peculiar to herself. He did
not know her, and he knew that he did not know her ; — but still

LIZZIE* 371

there was the chance. She had thrown his wife more than once in
his face, after the fashion of women when they are wooed by-
married men, since the clays of Cleopatra downwards. But he had
taken that simply as encouragement. He had already let her
know that his wife was a vixen who troubled his life. Lizzie had
given him her sympathy, and had almost given him a tear. " But
I am not a man to be broken-hearted because I have made a mis-
take," said Lopez. "Marriage vows are very well, but they shall
never bind me to misery." " Marriage vows are not very well.
They may be very ill," Lizzie had replied, remembering certain
passages in her own life.

There was no doubt about her money, and certainly she could
not eat him. The fortnight allowed him by the San Juan Com-
pany had nearly gone by when he called at the little house in the
little street, resolved to push his fortune in that direction without
fear and without hesitation. Mrs. Leslie again took her departure,
leaving them together, and Lizzie allowed her friend to go, although
the last words that Lopez had spoken had been, as he thought, a
fair prelude to the words he intended te speak to-day. " And
what do you think of it ?" he said, taking both her hands in his.

" Think of what P"

" Of our Spanish venture."

" Have you given up Bios, my friend ?"

"No; certainly not," said Lopez, seating himself beside her.
" I have not taken the other half share, but I have kept my old
venture in the scheme. I believe in Bios, you know."

" Ah ; — it is so nice to believe."

11 But I believe more firmly in the country to which I am
going."

" You are going then ? "

" Yes, my friend ; — I am going. The allurements are too strong
to be resisted. Think of that climate and of this." He probably
had not heard of tho mosquitoes of Central America when he so
spoke. "Remember that an income which gives you comfort
here will there produce for you every luxury which wealth can
purchase. It is to be a king there, or to be but very common
among commoners here."

" And yet England is a dear old country."

" Have you found it so ? Think of the wrongs which you have
endured ;— of the injuries which you have suffered."

"Yes, indeed." For Lizzie Eustace had gone through hard
days in her time.

4 ' I certainly will fly from such a country to those golden shores
on which man may be free and unshackled."

" And your wife ? "

"Oh, Lizzie!" It was the first time that he had called her
Lizzie, and she was apparently noither shocked nor abashed.
Perhaps he thought too much of this, not knowing how many men
had called her Lizzie in her time. "Do not you at least under-

372 THE PRIME MINISTER.

stand that a man or a woman may undergo that tie, and yet be
justified in disregarding it altogether ? "

44 Oh, yes; — if there has been bigamy, or divorce, or anything
of that kind." Now Lizzie had convicted her second husband of
bigamy, and had freed herself after that fashion.

"To h with their prurient laws," said Lopez, rising sud-
denly from his chair. " I will neither appeal to them nor will I
obey them. And I expect from you as little subservience as I
myself am prepared to pay. Lizzie Eustace, will you go with me
to that land of the sun,

'Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime 1 *

Will you dare to escape with me from the cold conventionalities,
from the miserable thraldom of this country bound in swaddling
cloths ? Lizzie Eustace, if you will say the word I will take you
to that land of glorious happiness."

But Lizzie Eustace had £4,000 a year and a balance at her
banker's. " Mr. Lopez," she said.

** What answer- have you to make me ?"

11 Mr. vLopez, I think you must be a fool."

lie did at last succeed in getting himself into the street, and at
any rate she had not eaten him.

CHAPrER LV.

mrs. parker's sorrows.

(The end of February had come, and as far as Mrs. Lopez knew she
was to start for Guatemala in a month's time. And yet there was
so much of indecision in her husband's manner, and apparently bo
little done by him in regard to personal preparation, that she could
hardly bring herself to feel certain that she would have to make
the journey. From day to day her father would ask her whether
she had made her intended purchases, and she would tell him that
she had still postponed the work. Then he would say no more, for
ho himself was hesitating, doubtful what he would do, and still
thinking that when at last the time should come, he would buy his
daughter's release at any price that might be demanded. Mr.
Walker, the attorney, had as yet been able to manage nothing.
He had seen Lopez more than once, and had also seen Mr. Hartle-

Eod. Mr. Hartlepod had simply told him that he would be very
appy to register the shares on behalf of Lopez as soon as the
money was paid. Lopez had been almost insolent in his bearing.
44 Did Mr. Wharton think," he asked, 44that he was going to sell

mks. pabkeb's sobbows. 373

his wife for £5,000 ? " "I think you'll have to raise your offer,"
Mr. Walker had said to Mr. Wharton. That was all very well.
Mr. Wharton was willing enough to raise his offer. He would
have doubled his offer could he thereby have secured the annihila-
tion of Lopez. "I will raise it if he will go without his wife, and
give her a written assurance that he will never trouble her again."
But the arrangement was one which Mr. Walker found it very
difficult to carry out. So thing3 went on till the end of February
had come.

And during all this time Lopez was still a resident in Mr. Whar-
ton's house. "Papa," she said to him one day, "this is the
cruellest thing of all. Why don't you tell him that he must go ? "

" Because he would take you with him."

" It would be better so. I could come and see you.'*

11 1 did tell him to go, — in my passion. I repented of it instantly,
because I should have lost you. But what did my telling matter
to him ? He was very indignant, and yet he is still here."

" You told him to go ? "

"Yes; — but I am glad that he did not obey me. There must
be an end to this soon, I suppose."

" I do not know, papa."

II Do you think that he will not go ? "

II I feel that I know nothing, papa. You must not let him stay
here always, you know."

" And what will become of you when he goes ? "

" I must go with him. Why should you be sacrificed also ? I
will tell him that he must leave the house. I am not afraid of
him, papa."

" Not yet, my dear ; — not yet. We will see."

At this time Lopez declared his purpose one day of dining at the
Progress, and Mr. Wharton took advantage of the occasion to
remain at home with his daughter. Everett was now expected,
and there was a probability that he might come on this evening.
Mr. Wharton therefore returned from his chambers early; but
when he reached the house ho was told that there was a woman in
the dining-room with Mrs. Lopez. The servant did not know what
woman. She had asked to see Mrs. Lopez, and Mrs. Lopez had
gone down to her.

The woman in the dining-room was Mrs. Parker. She had called
at the house at about half-past five, and Emily had at once come
down when summoned by tidings that a " lady " wanted to see her.
Servants have a way of announcing a woman as a lady, which
clearly expresses their own opinion that the person in question is
not a lady. So it had been on the present occasion, but Mrs.
Lopez had at once gone to her visitor. " Oh, Mrs. Parker, I am so
glad to see you. I hope you are well."

" Indeed, then, Mrs. Lopez, I am very far from well. No poor
woman, who is the mother of five children, was ever farther from
being well than I am,"

874 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" Is anything wrong ? "

" Wrong, ma'am ! Everything is wrong. When is Mr. Lopea
going to pay my husband all the money he has took from him ? "

" Has he taken money ? "

" Taken ! he nas taken everything. He has shorn my husband
as bare as a board. We're ruined, Mrs. Lopez, and it's your hus-
band has done it. When we were at Dovercourt, I told you how
it was going to be. His business has left him, and now there is
nothing. What are we to do ?" The woman was seated on a chair,
leaning forward with her two hands on her knees. The day was
wet, the streets were half mud and half snow, and the poor woman,
who had made her way through the slush, was soiled and wet.
" I look to you to tell me what me and my children is to do. He's
your husband, Mrs, Lopez."

" Yes, Mrs. Parker; he is my husband."

"Why couldn't he let Sexty alone? Why should the like of
him be taking the bread out of my children's mouths ? What had
we ever done to him ? You're rich."

' ' Indeed I am not, Mrs. Parker."

11 Yes you are. You're -living here in a grand house, and your
father's made of money. You'll know nothing of want, let the
worst come to the worst. What are we to do, Mrs. Lopez ? I'm
the wife of that poor creature, and you're the wife of the man that
has ruined him. What are we to do, Mrs. Lopez ? "

" I do not understand my husband's business, Mrs. Parker."

"You're one with him, ain't you ? If anybody had ever come
to me and said my husband had robbed him, I'd never have stopped
till I knew the truth of it. If any woman had ever said to me that
Parker had taken the bread out of her children's mouths, do you
think that I'd sit as you are sitting ? I tell you that Lopez has
robbed us, — has robbed us, and taken everything."

" What can I say, Mrs. Parker ; — what can I do ? "

"Where is he?"

" He is not here. He is dining at his club."

1 ' Where is that P I will go there and shame him before them
all. Don't you feel no shame ? Because you've got things com-
fortable here, I suppose it's all nothing to you. You don't
care, though my children were starving in the gutter, — as they
will do."

" If you know mo, Mrs. Parker, you wouldn't speak to me like
that."

" Know you ! Of course I know you. You're a lady, and your
father's a rich man, and your husband thinks no end of himself.
And we'ro poor people, so it don't matter whether we're robbed
and ruined or not. That's about it."

" If I had anything, I'd give you all that I had."

" And he's taken to drinking that hard that he's never rightly
sober from morning to night." As she told this story of her hus-
Wnd'a disgrace, the poor woman burst into tears. "Who's to

mrs. parser's sorrows. 375

trust him with business now ? He's that broken-hearted that he
don't know which way to turn, — only to the bottle. And Lopez
has done it all, — done it all ! I haven't got a father, ma'am, who
has got a house over his head for me and my babies. Only think
if you was turned out into the street with your babby, as I am like
to be."

" I have no baby," said the wretched woman through her tear3
and sobs.

"Haven't you, Mrs. Lopez? Oh dear!" exclaimed the soft-
hearted woman, reduced at once to pity. " How was it then ? "

11 He died, Mrs. Parker, — just a few days after ho was born."

"Did he now? Well, well. We all have our troubles, I
suppose."

" I have mine, I know," said Emily, "and very, very heavy
they are. I cannot tell you what I have to suffer."

" Isn't he good to you ? "

"I cannot talk about it, Mrs. Parker. What you tell me about
yourself has added greatly to my sorrows. My husband is talking
of going away, — to live out of England."

" Yes, at a place they call . I forget what they call it, but

I heard it."

" Guatemala, — in America."

" I know. Sexty told me. He has no business to go anywhere,
while he owes Sexty such a lot of money. He has taken every-
thing, and now he's going to Kattymaly ! " At this moment Mr.
Wharton knocked at the door and entered the room. As he did so
Mrs. Parker got up and curtseyed.

"This is my father, Mrs. Parker," said Emily. " Papa, this is
Mrs. Parker. She is the wife of Mr. Parker, who was Ferdinand's
partner. She has come here with bad news."

" Very bad news indeed, sir," said Mrs. Parker curtseying again.
Mr. Wharton frowned, not as being angry with the woman, but
feeling that some further horror was to be told him of his son-in-
law. " I can't help coming, sir," continued Mrs. Parker. " Where
am I to go if I don't come ? Mr. Lopez, sir, has ruined us root
and branch, — root and branch."

" That at any rate is not my fault," said Mr. Wharton.

" But she is his wife, sir. Where am I to go if not to where he
lives ? Am I to put up with everything gone, and my poor husband
in the right way to go to Bedlam, and not to say a word about it to
the grand relations of him who did it all ? "

" He is a bad man," said Mr. Wharton. "I cannot make him
otherwise."

"Will he do nothing for us ?"

" I will tell you all I know about him." Then Mr. Wharton did
toll her all that he knew, as to the appointment at Guatemala and
the amount of salary which was to be attached to it. ' ' Whether
he will do anything for you, I cannot say ; — I should think not,
unless he be forced. I should advise you to go to the offices of tho

876 THE PRIME MINISTER.

Company in Coleman Street and try to make some terms there.-
But I fear, — I fear it will be all useless."

" Then we may starve."

"It is not hei fault," said Mr. Wharton pointing to his daughter.
" She has had no hand in it. She knows less of it all than you do."

" It is my fault," said Emily, bursting out into self-reproach, —
" my fault that I married him."

' ' Whether married or single he would have preyed upon Mr.
Parker to the same extent."

" Like enough," said the poor wife. " He'd prey upon anybody
as he could get a hold of. And so, Mr. Wharton, you think that
you can do nothing for me."

" If your want be immediate I can relieve it," said the barrister.
Mrs. Parker did not like the idea of accepting direct charity, but,
nevertheless, on going away did take the hve sovereigns which Mi*.
Wharton offered to her.

After such an interview as that the dinner between the father
and the daughter was not very happy. She was eaten up by re-
morse. Gradually she had learned how frightful was the thing she
had done in giving herself to a man of whom she had known
nothing. And it was not only that she had degraded herself by
loving such a man, but that she had been persistent in clinging to
him though her father and all his friends had told her of the danger
which she was running. And now it seemed that she had destroj-ed
her father as well as herself ! All that she could do was to be per-
sistent in her prayer that he would let her go. " I have done it,"
she said that night, ' ■ and I could bear it better, if you would let
me bear it alone." But he only kissed her, and sobbed over her,
and held her close to his heart with his clinging arms, — in a
manner in which he had never held her in their old happy days.

He took himself to his own rooms before Lopez returned, but
she of course had to bear her husband's presence. As she had
declared to her father more than once, she was not afraid of him.
Even though he should strike her, — though he should kill her, —
she would not be afraid of him. He had already done worse to her
than anything that could follow. " Mrs. Parker has been here to-
day," she said to him that night.

" And what had Mrs. Parker to say ? "

" That you had ruined her husband."

" Exactly. When a man speculates and doesn't win of course he
throws the blame on some one else. And when he is too much of
a cur to come himself, he sends his wife."

" She says you owe him money."

" What business have you to listen to what sho says ? If she
comes again, do not see her. Do you understand mo ? "

"Yes, I understand. She saw papa also. If you owe him
money, should it not be paid ?"

"My dearest love, everybody who owes anything to anybody
should alway* pay it, That is eo self-evident that one would

WHAT THE DUCHESS THOUGHT OP HER HUSBAND. 377

almost suppose that it might be understood without being enunci-
ated. But the virtue of paying your debts is incompatible with an
absence of money. Now, if you please, we will not say anything
more about Mrs. Parker. She is not at any rate a fit companion
for you."

" It was you who introduced me to her."

" Hold your tongue about her, — and let that be an end of it. I
little knew what a world of torment I was preparing for myself
when I allowed you to come and live in your father's house."

CHAPTEE LYI.

WHAT THE DUCHESS THOUGHT OF HER HUSBAND.

When the Session began it was understood in the political world
that a very strong opposition was to be organized against the
Government under the guidance of Sir Orlando Drought, and that
the great sin to be imputed to the Cabinet was an utter indifference
to the safety and honour of Great Britain, as manifested by their
neglect of the navy. All the world knew that Sir Orlando had
deserted the Coalition because he was not allowed to build new
ships, and of course Sir Orlando would make the most of his
grievance. With him was joined Mr. Boffin, the patriotic Conser-
vative who had never listened to the voice of the seducer, and the
staunch remainder of the old Tory party. And with them the
more violent of the Eadicals were prepared to act, not desirous,
indeed, that new ships should be built, or that a Conservative
Government should be established, — or, indeed, that anything
should be done, — but animated by intense disgust that so mild
a politician as the Duke of Omnium should be Prime Minister.
The fight began at once. Sir Orlando objecting violently to cer-
tain passages in the Queen's Speech. It was all very well to
say that the country was at present at peace with all the world ;
but how was peace to be maintained without a fleet ? Then Sir
Orlando paid a great many compliments to the Duke, and ended
his speech by declaring him to be the most absolutely faineant
minister that had disgraced the country since the days of the Duke
of Newcastle. Mr. Monk defended the Coalition, and assured the
House that the navy was not only the most powerful navy existing,
but that it was the most powerful that ever had existed in the pos-
session of this or any other country, and was probably in absolute
efficiency superior to the combined navies of all the world. The
House was not shocked by statements so absolutely at variance with
each other, coming from two gentlemen who had lately been
members of the same Government, and who must be supposed to

878 THE PRIME MINISTER.

know what they were talking about, but seemed to think that upon
the whole Sir Orlando had done his duty. For though there was
complete confidence in the navy as a navy, and though a very small
minority would have voted for any considerably increased expense,
still it was well that there should be an opposition. And how can
there be an opposition without some subject for grumbling, — some
matter on which a minister may be attacked ? No one really
thought that the Prussians and Prench combined would invade our
shores and devastate our fields, and plunder London, and cany our
daughters away into captivity. The state of the funds showed very
plainly that there was no such fear. But a good cry is a very good
thing, — and it is always well to rub up«the officials of the Admiralty
by a little wholesome abuse. Sir Orlando was thought to have don©
his business well. Of course he did not risk a division upon the
address. Had he done so he would have been "nowhere." But,
as it was, he was proud of his achievement.

The ministers generally would have been indifferent to the very
hard words that were said of them, knowing what they were worth,
and feeling aware that a ministry which had everything too easy
must lose its interest in the country, had it not been that their chief
was very sore on the subject. The old Duke's work at this time
consisted almost altogether in nursing the younger Duke. It did
sometimes occur to his elder Grace that it might be well to let his
brother retire, and that a Prime Minister, malgre lui, could not be
a successful Prime Minister, or a useful one. But if the Duke of
Omnium went the Coalition must go too, and the Coalition had been
the offspring of the old statesman. The country was thriving under
the Coalition, and there was no real reason why it should not last
for the next ten year3. Ho continued, therefore, his system of
coddling, and was ready at any moment, or at every moment, to
pour, if not comfort, at any rate consolation into the ears of his
unhappy friend. In the present emergency, it was the falsehood
and general baseness of Sir Orlando which nearly broke the heart
of the Prime Minister. " How is one to live," he said, "if one
has to do with men of that kind ? "

" But you haven't to do with him any longer," said the Duke of
St. Bungay.

" When I see a man who is supposed to have earned the name of
a statesman, and been high in the councils of his sovereign, induced
by personal jealousy to do as he is doing, it makes me feel that an
honest man should not place himself where he may have to deal
with such persons."

" According to that the honest men are to desert their country
in order that the dishonest men may have everything their own
way." Our Duke could not answer this, and therefore for the
moment he yielded. But ho was unhappy, saturnine, and generally
silent except when closeted with his ancient mentor. And he knew
that he was saturnine and silent, and that it behoved him as a
leader of men to be gonial and communicative, — listening to coun-

WHAT THE DUCHESS THOUGHT OF HEE HUSBAND. 379

sel even if he did not follow it, and at any rate appearing to have
confidence in his colleagues.

During this time Mr. Slide was not inactive, and in his heart
of hearts the Prime Minister was more afraid of Mr. Slide's attacks
than of those made upon him by Sir Orlando Drought. Now that
Parliament was sitting, and the minds of men were stirred to
political feeling by the renewed energy of the House, a great deal
was being said in many quarters about the last Silverbridge elec-
tion. The papers had taken the matter up generally, some accus-
ing the Prime Minister and some defending. But the defence was
almost as unpalatable to him as the accusation. It was admitted
on all sides that the Duke, both as a peer and as a Prime Minister,
should have abstained from any interference whatever in the
election. And it was also admitted on all sides that he had not so
abstained, — if there was any truth at all in the allegation that he
had paid money for Mr. Lopez. But it was pleaded on his behalf
that the Dukes of Omnium had always interfered at Silverbridge,
and that no Eeform Bill had ever had any effect in reducing their
influence in that borough. Frequent allusion was made to the
cautious Dod who, year after year, had reported that the Duke of
Omnium exercised considerable influence in the borough. And
then the friendly newspapers went on to explain that the Duke had
in this instance stayed his hand, and that the money, if paid at all,
had been paid because the candidate who was to have been his
nominee had been thrown over, when the Duke at the last moment
made up his mind that he would abandon the privilege which had
hitherto been always exercised by the head of his family, and which
had been exercised more than once or twice in his own favour. But
Mr. Slide, day after day, repeated his question, " We want to know
whether the Prime Minister did or did not pay the election expenses
of Mr. Lopez at the last Silverbridge election; and if so, why he paid
them. We shall continue to ask this question till it has been
answered, and when asking it we again say that the actual corre-
spondence on the subject between the Duke and Mr. Lopez is in
oxir own hands." And then, after a while, allusions were made to
ihe Duchess; — for Mr. Slide had learned all the facts of the case
from Lopez himself. When Mr. Slide found how hard it was • ' to
draw his badger," as he expressed himself concerning his own
operations, he at last openly alluded to the Duchess, running the
risk of any punishment that might fall upon him by action for
libel or by severe reprehension from his colleagues of the Press.
u We have as yet," he said, "received no answers to the questions
which we have felt ourselves called upon to ask in reference to the
conduct of the Prime Minister at the Silverbridge election. We
are of opinion that all interference by peers with the constituencies
of the country should be put down by the strong hand of the law
as thoroughly and unmercifully as we are putting down ordinary
bribery. But when the offending peer is also the Prime Minister
of this great country, it becomes doubly tho duty of those who

380 THE PRIME MINISTER.

■watch over the public safety," — Mr. Slide was always speaking of
himself as watching over the public safety, — " to animadvert upon
his crime till it has been assoiled, or at any rate repented. From
what we now hear we have reason to believe that the crime itself
is acknowledged. Had the payment on behalf of Mr. Lopez not
been made, — as it certainly was made, or the letters in our hand
•would bo impudent forgeries, — the charge would long since have
been denied. Silence in such a matter amounts to confession. But
we understand that the Duke intends to escape under the plea that
he has a second self, powerful as he is to exercise the baneful
influence which his territorial wealth unfortunately gives him, but
for the actions of which second self he, as a Peer of Parliament and
as Prime Minister, is not responsible. In other words we are
informed that the privilege belonging to the Palliser family at
Silverbridge was exercised, not by the Duke himself, but by the
Duchess ; — and that the Duke paid the money when he found that
the Duchess had promised more than she could perform. We
should hardly have thought that even a man so notoriously weak
as the Duke of Omnium would have endeavoured to ride out of
responsibility by throwing the blame upon his wife ; but he will
certainly find that the attempt, if made, will fail.

14 Against the Duchess herself we wish to say not a word. She
is known as exercising a wide if not a discriminate hospitality.
We believe her to be a kind-hearted, bustling, ambitious lady, to
whom any little faults may be easily forgiven on account of her
good-nature and generosity. But we cannot accept her indiscretion
as an excuse for a most unconstitutional act performed by the
Prime Minister of this country."

Latterly the Duchess had taken in her own copy of the " People's
Banner." Since she had found that those around her were endea-
vouring to keep from her what was being said of her husband in
regard to the borough, she had been determined to see it all. She
therefore read the article from which two or three paragraphs have
just been given, — and having read it she handed it to her friend
Mrs. Pinn. " I wonder that you trouble yourself with such
trash," her friend said to her.

" That is all very well, my dear, from you ; but we poor wretches
who are the slaves of tho people have to regard what is said of us
in the ' People's Banner.' "

" It would be much better for you to neglect it."

" Just as authors are told not to read the criticisms ; — but I
never would believe any author who told mo that ho didn't read
what was said about him. I wonder when the man found out that
I was good-natured. Ho wouldn't find me good-natured if I could
get hold of him."

" You are not going to allow it to torment you ! "

11 For my own sake, not a moment. I fancy that if I might be
permitted to have my own way I could answer him very easily.
Indoed with these dregs of the newspapers, these gutter-slanderers.

WHAT THE DUCHESS THOUGHT OP HER HUSBAND. 381

if one "would be open and say all the truth aloud, what would one
have to fear ? After all, what is it that I did ? I disobeyed my
husband because I thought that he was too scrupulous. Let me
say as much, out loud to the public, — saying also that I am sorry
for it, as I am, — and who would be against me ? Who would have
a word to say after that ? I should be the most popular woman in
England for a month, — and, as regards Plantagenet, Mr. Slide and
his articles would all sink into silence. But even though he were
to continue this from day to day for a twelvemonth it would not
hurt me, — but that I know how it scorches him. This mention of
my name will make it more intolerable to him than ever. I doubt
that you know him even yet."

" I thought that I did."

"Though in manner he is as dry as a stick, though all his
pursuits are opposite to the very idea of romance, though he passes
his days and nights in thinking how he may take a halfpenny in
the pound off the taxes of the people without robbing the revenue,
there is a dash of chivalry about him worthy of the old poets. To
him a woman, particularly his own woman, is a thing so fine and
so precious that the winds of heaven should hardly be allowed to
blow upon her. He cannot bear to think that people should even
talk of his wife. And yet, Heaven knows, poor fellow, I have
^iven people occasion enough to talk of me. And he has a much
higher chivalry than that of the old poets. They, or their heroes,
watched their women because they did not want to have trouble
about them, — shut them up in castles, kept them in ignorance, and
held them as far as they could out of harm's way."

"I hardly think they succeeded," said Mrs. Finn.

"But in pure selfishness they tried all they could. But he is
too proud to watch. If you and I were hatching treason against
him in the dark, and chance had brought him there, he would stop
his ears with his fingers. He is all trust, even when he knows
that he is being deceived. He is honour complete from head to
foot. Ah, it was before you knew me when I tried him the hardest.
I never could quite toll you that story, and I won't try it now ; but
he behaved like a god. I could never tell him what I felt, — but I
felt it."

11 You ought to love him."

11 I do ; — but what's the use of it ? He is a god, but I am not a
goddess ;— and then, though he is a god, he is a dry, silent, uncon-
genial and uncomfortable god. It would have suited me much
better to have married a sinner. But then the sinner that I would
have married was so irredeemable a scapegrace."

" I do not believe in a woman marrying a bad man in the hope
of making him good."

"Especially not when the woman is naturally inclined to evil
herself. It will half kill him whon he reads all this about me.
He has read it already, and it has already half killed him. For
myself I do not mind it in the least, but for his sake I mind it

382 THE PEIME MINISTER.

much. It will rob him of his only possible answer to the accusa-
tion. _ The very thing which this wretch in the newspaper says
he will say, and that he will be disgraced by saying, is the very
thing that he ought to say. And there would be no disgrace in
it, — beyond what I might well bear for my little fault, and which
I could bear so easily."

" Shall you speak to him about it ? "

" No ; I dare not. In this matter it has gone beyond speaking.
I suppose he does talk it over with the old Duke ; but he will say
nothing to me about it, — unless he were to tell me that he had
resigned, and that we were to start off and live in Minorca for the
next ten years. I was so proud when they made him Prime
Minister ; but I think that I am beginning to regret it now." Then
there was a pause, and the Duchess went on with her newspapers ;
but she soon resumed her discourse. Her heart was full, and out
of a full heart the mouth speaks. "They should have made me
Prime Minister, and have let him be Chancellor of the Exchequer.
I begin to see the ways of Government now. I could have done
all the dirty work. I could have given away garters and ribbons,
and made my bargains while giving them. I could select &]
^ easy bishops who wouldn't be troublesome. I could give pensions
"or withhold them, and make the stupid men peers. I could have
the big noblemen at my feet, praying to be Lieutenants of Coun
I could dole out secretaryships and lordships, and never a
without getting something in return. I could brazen out a job
and let the 'People's Banners' and the Slides make their worst of it.
And I think I could make myself popular with my party, and do
the high-flowing patriotic talk for the benefit of the Provinces. A
man at a regular office has to work. That's what Plantagenet is
fit for. He wants always to be doing something that shall be
really useful, and a man has to toil at that and really to know
things. But a Prime Minister should never go beyond generalities
about commerce, agriculture, peace, and general philanthri
Of course he should have the gift of the gab, and that Plantagenet
hasn't got. llo never wants to say anjTthing unless he lias got
something to say. I could do a Mansion House dinner to a marvel ! "
" I don t doubt that you could speak at all times, Lady Glen."
" Oh, I do so wish that I had the opportunity," said the Du
Of course the Duke had read the article in the privacy of Iv.s
own room, and of courso the article had nearly maddened him
with anger and grief. As the Duchess had said, the article had
taken from him the very ground on which his friends had told him
that ho could stand. He had never consented, and never would
consent, to lay the blame publicly on his wife ; but he had begun
to think that he must take notice of the charge made against him,
and depute some one to explain for him in the House of Com-
mons that the injury had boon done at Silverbridgo by tho indis-
cretion of an agent who had not fulfilled his employer's intentions,
and that the Duke had thought it right afterwards to pay the

WHAT THE DUCHESS THOUGHT OP HER HUSBAND. 38S

money in consequence of this indiscretion. He had not agreed to
this, but he had brought himself to think that he must agree to it.
But now, of course, the question would follow : — Who was the
indiscreet agent ? Was the Duchess the person for whose indis-
cretion he had had to pay £500 to Mr. Lopez ? And in this matter
did he not find himself in accord even with Mr. Slide? "We
should hardly have thought that even a man so notoriously weak
as the Duke of Omnium would have endeavoured to ride out of
responsibility by throwing the blame upon his wife." He read
and reread these words till ho knew them by heart. For a few
moments it seemed to him to be an evil in the Constitution that
the Prime Minister should not have the power of instantly crucify-
ing so foul a slanderer ; — and yet it was the very truth of the words
that crushed him. He was weak, — he told himself; — notoriously
weak, it must be ; and it would be most mean in him to ride out
of responsibility by throwing blame upon his wife. But what else
was he to do ? There seemed to him to be but one course, — to get
up in tho House of Lords and declare that he paid the money
because he had thought it right to do so under circumstances which
he could not explain, and to declare that it was not his intention
to say another word on the subject, or to have another word said
2>n his behalf.

There was a Cabinet Council held that day, but no one ventured
to speak to the Prime Minister as to the accusation. Though ho
considered himself to be weak, his colleagues were all more or less
afraid of him. There was a certain silent dignity about the man
which saved him from the evils, as it also debarred him from the
advantages, of familiarity. He had spoken on the subject to Mr.
Monk and to Phineas Finn, and, as the reader knows, very often
to his old mentor. He had also mentioned it to his friend Lord
Cantrip, who was not in the Cabinet. Coming away from the
Cabinet he took Mr. Monk's arm, and led him away to his own
room in the Treasury Chambers. " Have j-ou happened to see an
article in the ■ People's Banner ' this morning ? " he asked.

" I never see the ' People's Banner,' " said Mr. Monk.

"There it is; — just look at that." Whereupon Mr. Monk read
the article. "You understand what people call constitutional
practice as well as any one I know. As I told you before, I did
pay that man's expenses. Did I do anything unconstitutional ? "

" That would depend, Duke, upon the circumstances. If you
were to back a man up by your wealth in an expensive contest,
I think it would be unconstitutional. If you set yourself to work
in that way, and cared not what you spent, you might materially
influence tho elections, and buy parliamentary support for
yourself."

' ' But in this case the payment was made after tho man had
failed, and certainly had not been promised either by me or by
any one on my behalf."

** I think it was unfortunate," said Mr. Monk.

384 THE PEIME MINISTEE.

u Certainly, certainly ; but I am not asking as to that," said the
Duke impatiently. "The man had been injured by indiscreet
persons acting on my behalf and in opposition to my wishes." He
said not a word about the Duchess ; but Mr. Monk no doubt
knew that her Grace had been at any rate one of the indiscreet
persons. " He applied to me for the money, alleging that he had
been injured by my agents. That being so, — presuming that my
story be correct, — did I act unconstitutionally r "

" I think not," said Mr. Monk, " and I think that the circum-
stances, when explained, will bear you harmless."

" Thank you ; thank you. I did not want to trouble you about
that just at present."

CHAPTER LYII.

THE EXPLANATION.

Mr. Monk had been altogether unable to decipher the Duke's
purpose in the question he had asked. About an hour afterwards
they walked down to the Houses together, Mr. Monk having been
kept at his office. " I hope I was not a little short with you just
now," said the Duke.

" I did not find it out," said Mr. Monk smiling.

" You read what was in the papers, and you may imagine that
it is of a nature to irritate a man. I knew that no one could
answer my question so correctly as you, and therefore I was a little
eager to keep directly to the question. It occurred to me after-
wards that I had been — perhaps uncourteous."

"Not at all, Duke."

" If I was, your goodness will excuse an irritated man. If a
question were asked about this in the House of Commons, who
would bo the best man to answer it ? Would you do it ? "

Mr. Monk considered awhile. "I think," he said, " that Mr.
Einn would do it with a bettor graco. Of course I will do it if
you wish it. But he has tact in such matters, and it is known that
his wife is much regarded by her Grace."

" I will not have the Duchess's name mentioned," said the Duke,
turning short upon his companion.

11 1 did not allude to that, but I thought that the intimacy which
existed might make it pleasant to you to employ Mr. Film as the
exponent of your wishes."

" I have the greatest confidence in Mr. Finn certainly, and am
on most friendly personal terms with him. It shall be so, if I
decide on answering any question in your House on a matter so
purely personal to myself."

THE EXPLANATION. 885

" I would suggest that you should have the question asked iu a
friendly way. Get some independent member, such as Mr. Beverley
or Sir James Deering, to ask it. The matter would then be
brought forward in no carping spirit, and you would be enabled,
through Mr. Finn, to set the matter at rest. You have probably
spoken to the Duke about it."

" I have mentioned it to him."

" Is not that what he would recommend ?"

The old Duke had recommended that the entire truth should be
told, and that the Duchess's operations should be made public.
Here was our poor Prime Minister's great difficulty. He and his
Mentor were at variance. His Mentor was advising that the
real naked truth should be told, whereas Telemachus was intent
upon keeping the name of the actual culprit in the background.
" I will think it all over," said the Prime Minister as the two parted
company at Palace Yard.

That evening he spoke to Lord Cantrip on the subject. Though
the matter was so odious to him, he could not keep his mind from
it for a moment. Had Lord Cantrip seen the article in the
"People's Banner"? Lord Cantrip, like Mr. Monk, declared
that the paper in question did not constitute part of his usual
morning's recreation. "I won't ask you to read it," said the
Duke; — "but it contains a very bitter attack upon me, — the
bitterest that has yet been made. I suppose I ought to notice the
matter ? "

" If I were you," said Lord Cantrip, " I should put myself into
the hands of the Duke of St. Bungay, and do exactly what he
advises. There is no man in England knows so well as he does
what should be done in such a case as this." The Prime Minister
frowned and said nothing. " My dear Duke," continued Lord
Cantrip, " I can give you no other advice. Who is there that has
your personal interest and your honour at heart so entirely as
his Grace ; — and what man can be a more sagacious or more expe-
rienced adviser ? "

" I was thinking that you might ask a question about it in our
House."

"I?"

11 You would do it for me in a manner that — that would be free
from all offence."

" If I did it at all, I should certainly strive to do that. But it
has never occurred to me that you would make such a suggestion.
"Would you give me a few moments to think about it?" "I
couldn't do it," Lord Cantrip said afterwards. " By taking such a
step, even at your request, I should certainly express an opinion
that the matter was one on which Parliament was entitled to
expect that you should make an explanation. But my own opinion
is that Parliament has no business to meddle in the matter. I do
not think that every action of a minister's life should be made
matter of inquiry because a nowspaper may choose to mako allu-

o o

386 THE PRIME MINISTER.

sions to it. At any rate, if any word is said about it, it should, I
think, be said in the other house."

" The Duke of St. Bungay thinks that something should be said."

" I could not myself consent even to appear to desire information
on a matter so entirely personal to yourself." The Duke bowed,
and smiled with a cold, glittering, uncomfortable smile which would
sometimes cross his face when he was not pleased, and no more was
then said upon the subject.

Attempts were made to have the question asked in a far different
spirit by some hostile member of the House of Commons. Sir
Orlando Drought was sounded, and he for a while did give ear to
the suggestion. But, as he came to have the matter full before
him, he could not do it. The Duke had spurned his advice as a
minister, and had refused to sanction a measure which he, as the
head of a branch of the Government, had proposed. The Duke had
so offended him that he conceived himself bound to regard the
Duke as his enemy, But he knew, — and he could not escape from
tho knowledge, — that England did not contain a more honourable
man than the Duke. He was delighted that the Duke should be
vexed, and thwarted, and called ill names in the matter. To be
gratified at this discomfiture of his enemy was in the nature of
parliamentary opposition. Any blow that might weaken his oppo-
nent was a blow in his favour. But this was a blow which ho could
not strike with his own hands. There were things in parliamentary
tactics which even Sir Orlando could not do. Arthur Fletcher was
also asked to undertake the task. He was the successful candidate,
the man who had opposed Lopez, and who was declared in tho
" People's Banner " to have emancipated that borough by his noble
conduct from the tyranny of the House of Palliser. And it was
thought that he might like an opportunity of making himself known
in the House. But he was simply indignant when the suggestion
was made to him. "What is it to me," he said, "who paid the
blackguard's expenses ? "

This went on for some weoks after Parliament had met, and for
some days even after tho article in which direct allusion was made
to the Duchess. The Prime Minister could not be got to consent
that no notice should be taken of the matter, let the papers or the
public say what they would, nor could he be induced to let tho
matter be handled in the manner proposed by the elder Duke. And
during this time he was in such a fever that those about him felt
that something must be done. Mr. Monk suggested that if every-
body hold his tongue, — meaning all the Duke's friends, — the thing
would wear itself out. But it was apparent to those who wero
nearest to the minister, to Mr. "Warburton, for instance, and tho
Duke of St. Bungay, that the man himself would be worn out first.
The happy possessor of a thick skin can hardly understand how one
not so blessed my bo hurt by the thong of a little whip ! At last
the matter was arranged. At the instigation of Mr. Monk, Sir James
Deering, who was really tho father of the House, an independent

THE EXPLANATION. 38?

member, but one who generally voted with the Coalition, consented
to ask the question in the House of Commons. And Phineas Finn
was instructed by the Duke as to the answer that was to be given.
The Duke of Omnium in giving these instructions made a mystery
of the matter which he by no means himself intended. But he
was sojsore that he could not be simple in what he said. ' • Mr. Finn,"
he said, " you must promise me this, — that the name of the Duchess
shall not be mentioned."

" Certainly not by me, if you tell me that I am not to men-
tion it."

^ " No one else can do so. The matter will take the form of a
simple question, and though the conduct of a minister may no
doubt be made the subject of debate,— and it is not improbable that
my conduct may do so in this instance, — it is I think impossible
that any member should make an allusion to my wife. The
privilege or power of returning a member for the borough has un-
doubtedly been exercised by our family since as well as previous to
both the Eeform Bills. At the last election I thought it right to
abandon that privilege, and notified to those about me my inten-
tion. But that which a man has the power of doing he cannot
always do without the interference of those around him. There
was a misconception, and among my, — my adherents, — there wore
some who injudiciously advised Mr. Lopez to stand on my interest.
But ho did not get my interest, and was beaten ; — and therefore
when he asked me for the money which he had spent, I paid it to
him. That is all. I think the House can hardly avoid to see that
my effort was made to discontinue an unconstitutional proceeding."

Sir James Deering asked the question. " He trusted," he said,
" that the House would not think that the question of which he
had given notice and which he was about to ask was instigated by
any personal desire on his part to inojuir© into the conduct of the
Prime Minister. He was one who believed that the Duke of
Omnium was as little likely as any man in England to offend by un-
constitutional practice on his own park. But a great deal had been
talked and written lately about the late election at Silverbridge,
and there were those who thought, — and he was one of them, — that
something should be said to stop the mouths of cavillers. With this
object he would ask the Eight Honourable Gentleman who led tha
House, and who was perhaps first in standing among the noble
Duke's colleagues in that House, whether the noble Duke was pre-
pared to have any statement on the subject made."

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 got over it.
Others had heard in the clubs that Lady Glen, as the Duchess was
still called, was to bo made the scapegoat. Men of all classes were
open-mouthed in thoir denunciation of the meanness of Lopez,—
though no one but Mr. Wharton knew half his villainy, as ho alono

883 THE PRIME MINISTER.

knew that the expenses had been paid twice over. In one corner
of the reporters' gallery sat Mr. Slide, pencil in hand, prepared to
revert to his old work on so momentous 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 ven-
tured to come without asking her husband's leave, which he had
most peremptorily refused to give. " I cannot understand, Glen-
cora, 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 him-
self 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 grey-headed 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 apologised for
doing so in place of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. But per-
haps 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 tho 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 recognised
privilege, because, in his opinion, tho oxercise of that pri
was opposed to the spirit of the Constitution, Had tho nobl-

THE EXPLANATION. 889

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 pri-
vilege 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 Hun-
dreds 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 hio own property, or even to the in-
terests of the Borough of Silverbridge. 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

390 THE PRIME MINISTER.

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 tho
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 ho
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 tho
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 exer-
cise some second-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 hero," 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 grava-
men 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 repre-
sentations made to him. " I need hardly pause to stigmatise tho
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 mo when I say that it savours much more strongly of
nobility than of indiscretion."

When Phineas Pinn 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 ho did not do so, and after a short pause the ordinary bun
of the day was recommenced. Then there was a speedy descent
from the gallarios, and the ladies trooped out of their cage, and the

"quite settled." 891

grey-headed 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 bo
again fanned into a flame, was Quintus Slide. He went out and
wrote another article about the Duchess. If a man was so unablo
to rule his affairs at home, he was certainly unfit to be Primo
Minister. But even Quintus Slide, as he wrote his article, felt that
he was hoping against hope. The charge might be referred to here-
after 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 pub-
lished his article, but he felt that for the present the Silvorbridge
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 per-
formed." 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 LYin.

u QT7ITE SETTLED,*

The abuse which was now publicly heaped on the name of Fer-
dinand 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

892 THE PEIME MINISTER.

whatsoever of what was really good or what was really bad ia a
man's conduct. He did not know that he had done evil in apply-
ing 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 him-
self 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 dis-
advantage 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 courage-
ous under his burden, and every day walked into the offices of the
Mining Company, endeavouring to look as though he had com-
mitted 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 di
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 recognised by at any rato
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 feel-

"quite settled." 893

ing 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 lifo
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, there-
fore, 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

894 THE PEIME MINISTER.

influence of her father's roof-tree, 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 every-
thing 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 mid-
night, and then passed rapidly through the hall to his own room,
— and in the morning hi\d 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 for-
ward 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 wo live now," continued Lopez, "I have not much oppor-
tunity of speaking to you, even on business."

" Well, sir ; you can speak now, — if you have anything to say."

" The £5,000 you promised me must be paid to-morrow. It is
the last day."

' ' I promised it only on certain conditions. Had you complied
with them the money would have been paid before this."

"Just so. The conditions are very hard, Mr. Wharton. It
surprises me that such a one as you should think it right to sepa-
rate a husband from his wife."

" I think it right, sir, to separate my daughter from such a one
as you are. I thought so before, but I think so doubly now. If I
can secure your absence in Guatemala by the payment of this
money, and if you will give me a document that shall be prepared
by Mr. Walker and signed by yourself, assuring your wife that
you will not hereafter call upon her to live with you, the money
shall be paid."

" All that will take time, Mr. Wharton."

11 1 will not pay a penny without it. I can meet you at the
office in Coleman Street to-morrow, and doubtless they will accept
my written assurance to pay the money as soon as those stipula-
tions shall be complied with."

" That would disgrace me in the office, Mr. Wharton."

" And are you not disgraced there already ? Can you tell me
that they have not heard of your conduct in Coleman Street, or
that hearing it they disregard it ? " His son-in-law stood frowning
at him, but did not at the moment say a word. " Nevertheless, I
will meet you there if you please, at any tiino that you may name,

" QUITE SETTLED." 895

and if they do not object to employ such a man as their manager,
I shall not object on their behalf."

" To the last you are hard and cruel to me," said Lopez ; — " but
I will meet you in Coleman Street at eleven to-morrow." Then
Mr. Wharton left the room, and Lopez was there alone amidst the
gloom of the heavy curtains and the dark paper. A London dining-
room at night is always dark, cavernous, and unlovely. The very
pictures on the walls lack brightness, and the furniture is black
and heavy. This room was large, but old-fashioned and very dark.
Here Lopez walked up and down after Mr. Wharton had left him,
trying to think how far Fate and how far he himself were respon-
sible for his present misfortunes. No doubt he had begun tho
world well. His father had been little better than a travelling
pedlar, but had made some money by selling jewellery, and had
educated his son. Lopez could on no score impute blame to his
father for what had happened to him. And, when he thought of
the means at his disposal in his early youth, he felt that he had a
right to boast of some success. He had worked hard, and had won
his way upwards, and had almost lodged himself securely among
those people with whom it had been his ambition to live. Early
in life he had found himself among those who were called gentle-
men and ladies. He had been able to assume their manners, and
had lived with them on equal terms. When thinking of his past
life he never forgot to remind himself that he had been a guest at
the house of the Duke of Omnium ! And yet how was it with him
now ? He was penniless. He was rejected by his father-in-law.
Ho was feared, and, as he thought, detested by his wife. He was
expelled from his club. He was cut by his old friends. And he
had been told very plainly by the Secretary in Coleman Street that
his presence there was no longer desired. What should he do with
himself if Mr. Wharton's money were now refused, and if the
appointment in Guatemala were denied to him ? And then he
thought of poor Sexty Parker and his family. He was not naturally
an ill-natured man. Though he could upbraid his wife for alluding
to Mrs. Parker's misery, declaring that Mrs. Parker must take the
rubs of the world just as others took them, still the misfortunes
which he had brought on her and on her children did add some-
thing to the weight of his own misfortunes. If he could not go to
Guatemala, what should he do with himself ; — where should he go ?
Thus he walked up and down the room for an hour. Would not a
pistol or a razor give him the best solution for all his difficulties ?

On the following morning he kept his appointment at tho office
in Coleman Street, as did Mr. Wharton also. The latter was there
first by some minutes, and explained to Mr. Hartlepod that he had
come there to meet his son-in-law. Mr. Hartlepod was civil, but
very cold. Mr. Wharton saw at the first glance that the services
of Perdinand Lopez were no longer in request by the San Juan
Mining Company ; but he sat down and waited. Now that he woi
. there, however painful the interview would be, he would go through

896 JTHE PRIME MINISTER.

it. At ten minutes past eleven he made up his mind that he would
"wait till the half hour, — and then go, with the fixed resolution that
he would never willingly spend another shilling on behalf of that
wretched man. But at a quarter past eleven the wretched man
came, — swaggering into the office, though it had not, hitherto,
been his custom to swagger. But misfortune masters all but the
great men, and upsets the best-learned lesson of even a long life.
"I hope I have not kept you waiting, Mr. Wharton. Well,
Hartlepod, how are you to-day ? So this little affair is to bo
settled at last, and now these shares shall be bought and paid for."
Mr. Wharton did not say a word, not even rising from his chair, or
greeting his son-in-law by a word. " I dare say Mr. Wharton has
already explained himself," said Lopez.

" I don't know that there is any necessity," said Mr. Hartlepod.

"Well, — I suppose it's simple enough," continued Lopez. " Mr.
Wharton, I believe I am right in saying that you are ready to pay
the money at once."

" Yes ; — I am ready to pay the money as soon as I am assured
that you are on your route to Guatemala. I will not pay a penny
till I know that as a fact."

Then Mr. Hartlepod rose from his seat and spoke. " Gentle-
men," he said, " the matter within the last few days has assumed
a different complexion."

" As how ?" exclaimed Lopez.

' ' The Directors have changed their mind as to sending out Mr.
Lopez as their local manager. The Directors intend to appoint
another gentleman. I had already acquainted Mr. Lopez with the
Directors' intention."

" Then the matter is settled ? " said Mr. Wharton.

" Quite settled," said Mr. Hartlepod.

As a matter of course Lopez began to fume and to be furious.
What ! — after all that had been done did the Directors mean to go
back from their word ? After he had been induced to abandon his
business in his own country, was he to be thrown over in that
way ? If the Company intended to treat him like that, the
Company would very soon hear from him. Thank God there were
laws in the land. " Yesterday was the last day fixed for the pay-
ment of the money," said Mr. Hartlepod.

" It is at any rate certain that Mr. Lopez is not to go to Guate-
mala ?" asked Mr. Wharton.

"Quite certain," said Mr. Hartlepod. Then Mr. Wharton rose
from his chair and quitted the room.

u By G , you have ruined me among you," said Lopez ; —

" ruined me in the most shameful manner. There is no mercy, no
friendship, no kindness, no forbearance anywhere ! Why am I to
be treated in this manner ?"

" If you have any complaint to make," said Mr. Hartlepod, " you
had bettor writo to the Directors. I have nothing to do but my
duty."

"quite settled." 897

'* By heavens, the Directors shall hear it ! " said Lopez as he left
the office.

Mr. Wharton went to his chambers and endeavoured to make up
his mind what step he must now take in reference to this dreadful
incubus. Of course he could turn the man out of his house, but in
so doing it might well be that he would also turn out his own
daughter. He believed Lopez to be utterly without means, and a
man so destitute would generally be glad to be relieved from the
burden of his wife's support. But this man would care nothing for
his wife's comfort ; nothing even, as Mr. Wharton believed, for his
wife's life. He would simply use his wife as best he might as a
means for obtaining money. There was nothing to be done but to
buy him off, by so much money down, and by so much at stated
intervals as long as he should keep away. Mr. Walker must
manage it, but it was quite clear to Mr. Wharton that the Guate-
mala scheme was altogether at an end. In the meantime a certain
sum must be offered to the man at once, on condition that he would
leave the house and do so without taking his wife with him.

So far Mr. Wharton had a plan, and a plan that was at least
feasible. Wretched as he was, miserable, as he thought of the
fate which had befallen his daughter, — there was still a prospect
of some relief. But Lopez as he walked out of the office had
nothing to which he could look for comfort. He slowly made his
way to Little Tankard Yard, and there he found Sexty Parker
balancing himself on the back legs of his chair, with a small
decanter of public-house sherry before him. " What ; you here ? "
he said.

" Yes ; — I have come to say good-bye."

" Where are you going then? You shan't start to Guatemala
if I know it."

"That's all over, my boy," said Lopez smiling.

" What is it you mean ?" said Sexty, sitting square on his chair
and looking very serious.

" I am not going to Guatemala or anywhere else. I thought I'd
just look in to tell you that I'm just done for,— that I haven't a
hope of a shilling now or hereafter. You told me the other day
that I was afraid to come here. You see that as soon as anything
is fixed, I come and tell you everything at once."

"What is fixed?"

" That I am ruined. That there isn't a penny to come from any
source."

" Wharton has got money," said Sexty.

" And there is money in the bank of England, — but I cannot get
at it."

" What are you going to do, Lopez ? "

" Ah ; that's the question. What am I going to do ? I can say
nothing about that, but I can say, Sexty, that our affairs are at an
end. I'm very sorry for it, old boy. Wo ought to have nvido
fortunes, but wo didn't. As far as the work went, I did my b ■ '< ,

398 THE PRIME MINISTER.

Good-bye, old fellow. You'll do well some of these days yet, I
don't doubt. Don't teach the bairns to curse me. As for Mrs. P.
I have no hope there, I know." Then he went, leaving Sexty
Parker quite aghast.

CHAPTEB LIX.

TIIE 1IRST AND THE LAST.

When Mr. Wharton was in Coleman Street, having his final inter-
view with Mr. Hartlepod, there came a visitor to Mrs. Lopez in
Manchester Square. Up to this date there had been great doubt
with Mr. Wharton whether at last the banishment to Guati;
would become a fact. From day to day his mind had changed. It
had been an infinite benefit that Lopez should go, if he could be
got to go alone, but as great an evil if at last he should take his
wife with him. But the father had never dared to express these
doubts to her, and she had taught herself to think that absolute
banishment with a man whom she certainly no longer loved, was
the punishment she had to pay for the evil she had done. It was
now March, and the second or third of April had been fixed for her
departure. Of course she had endeavoured from time to time to
learn all that was to be learned from her husband. Somefimes he
would be almost communicative to her ; at other times she could
get hardly a word from him. But, through it all, he gave her to
believe that she would have to go. Nor did her father make any
great effort to turn his mind the other way. If it must be so, of
what use would be such false kindness on his part ? She had there-
fore gone to work to make her purchases, studying that economy
which must honceforth be the great duty of her life, and reminding
herself as to everything she bought that it would have to be worn
with tears and used in sorrow.

And then sho pent a message to Arthur Fletcher.! It so happened
that Sir Alured Wharton was up in London at this time with his
daughter Mary. Sir Alured did not come to Manchester Square.
There was nothing that the old baronet could say in the midst of
all this misery, — no comfort that he could give. It was well known
now to all the Whartons and all the Fletchers that this Lopez,
who had married her who was to have been the pearl of the two
families, had proved himself to be a scoundrel. The two old
Whartons met no doubt at some club, or perhaps in Stone Build-
ings, and spoke seme few bitter words to each other; but Sir
Alured did not soe the unfortunate young woman who had disgraced
herself by so wretched a marriage. But Mary came, and by her a
message was sent to Arthur Fletcher. " Tell him that I am going,"

THE FIRST AND THE LAST. 399

fiaid Emily. " Tell him not to come ; but giye him my love. He
was always one of my kindest friends.

" Why, — why, — why did you not take him ? " said Mary, moved
by the excitement of the moment to suggestions which were quite
at variance with the fixed propriety of her general ideas.

" Why should you speak of that ? " said the other. " I never
speak of him, — never think of him. But, if you see him, tell him
what I say." Arthur Metcher was of course in the Square on the
following day, — on that very day on which Mr. Wharton learned
that, whatever might be his daughter's fate, she would not, at any
rate, be taken to Guatemala. They two had never met since the
day on which they had been brought together for a moment at the
Duchess's party at Eichmond. It had of course been understood
by both of them that they were not to be allowed to see each other.
Her husband had made a pretext of an act of friendship on his part'
to establish a quarrel, and both of them had been bound by that
quarrel. When a husband declares that his wife shall not know
a man, that edict must be obeyed, — or, if disobeyed, must be sub-
verted by intrigue. In this case there had been no inclination to
intrigue on either side. The order had been obeyed, and as far as
the wife was concerned, had been only a small part of the terrible
punishment which had come upon her as the result of her marriage.
But now, when Arthur Fletcher sent up his name, she did not
hesitate as to seeing him. No doubt she had thought it •probable
that she might see him when she gave her message to her cousin.

" I could not let you go without coming to you," he said.

"It is very good of you. Yes ; — I suppose we are going.
Guatemala sounds a long way off, Arthur, does it not ? But they
tell mo it is a beautiful country." She spoke with a cheerful
voice, almost as though she liked the idea of her journey; but
he looked at her with beseeching, anxious, sorrow-laden eyes.
"After all, what is a journey of a few weeks ? Why should I not
be as happy in Guatemala as in London ? As to friends, I do not
know that it will make much difference, — except papa."

11 It seems to me to make a difference," said he.

" I never see anybody now, — neither your people, nor the
Wharton Whartons. Indeed, I see nobody. If it were not for
papa I should be glad to go. I am told that it is a charming
country. I have not found Manchester Square very charming. . I
am inclined to think that all the world is very much alike, and
that it does not matter very much where one lives, — or, perhaps,
what one does. But at any rate I am going, and I am very glad
to be able to say good-bye to you before I start." All this she
said rapidly, in a manner unlike herself. She was forcing herself
to speak so that she might save herself, if possible, from breaking
down in his presence.

" Of course I came when Mary told me."

" Yes ;— she was here. Sir Alured did not come. I don't wonder
at that, however. And your mother was in town some time ago,—

400 THE PRIME MINISTER.

but I didn't expect her to come. Why should they come ? I don't
know whether you might not have better stayed away. Of course
I am a Pariah now ; but Pariah as I am, I shall be as good as any
one else in Guatemala. You have seen Everett since he has been
in town, perhaps ? "

" Yes ; — I have seen him."

" I hope they won't quarrel with Everett because of what I
have done. I have felt that more than all, — that both papa and he
have suffered because of it. Do you know, I think people are hard.
They might have thrown me off without being unkind to them.
It is that that has killed me, Arthur ; — that they should have
suffered." He sat looking at her, not knowing how to interrupt
her, or what to say. There was much that he meant to say, but he
did not know how to begin it, or how to frame his words. ' ' When
I am gone, perhaps, it will be all right," she continued. " When
he told me that I was to go, that was my comfort. I think I have
taught myself to think nothing of myself, to bear it all as a neces-
sity, to put up with it, whatever it may be, as men bear thirst in
the desert. Thank God, Arthur, I have no baby to suffer with me.
Here, — here, it is still very bad. When I think of papa creeping
in and out of his house, I sometimes feel that I must kill myself.
But our going will put an end to all that. It is much better that
we should go. I wish we might start to-morrow." Then she looked
up at him, and saw that the tears were running down his face,
and as she looked she heard his sobs. "Why should you cry,
Arthur ? He never cries, — nor do I. When baby died I cried, —
but very little. Tears are vain, foolish things. It has to be
borne, and there is an end of it. When one makes up one's mind
to that, one does not cry. There was a poor woman here the
other day whose husband he had ruined. She wept and bewailed
herself till I pitied her almost more than myself ; — but then she
had children."

"Oh, Emily!"

" You mustn't call me by my name, because he would be angry.
I have to do, you know, as ho tells me. And I do so strive to do
it ! Through it all I have an idea that if I do my duty it will be
better for me. There are things, you know, which a husband may
tell you to do, but you cannot do. If ho tells me to rob, I am not
to rob ; — am I ? And now I think of it, you ought not to be here.
He would bo very much displeased. But it has been so pi
once more to see an old friend."

"I care nothing for his anger," said Arthur moodily.

M Ah, but I do. I have to care for it."

" Leave him ! Why don't you leave him P "

"What!"

" You cannot deceive me. You do not try to deceive me. You
know that ho is altogether unworthy of you."

" I will hoar nothing of the kind, sir/'

"How can I speak i when you yourself tell mo of yom

THE FIRST AND THE LAST. 401

own misery ? Is it possible that I should not know what ho is ?
Would you have me pretend to think well of him ? "

11 You can hold your tongue, Arthur."

" No ; — I cannot hold my tongue. Have I not held my tongue
ever since you married ? And if I am to speak at all, must I not
speak now ?"

14 There is nothing to be said that can serve us at all."

1 ' Then it shall be said without serving. When I bid you leavo
him, it is not that you may come to me. Though I love you better
than all the world put together, I do not mean that."

"Oh, Arthur, Arthur!"

1 ' But let your father save you. Only tell him that you will
stay with him, and he will do it. Though I should never see you
again, I could help to protect you. Of course, I know, — and you
know. He is a scoundrel ! "

" I will not hear it," said she, rising from her seat on the sofa
with her hands up to her forehead, but still coming nearer to him
as she moved.

"Does not your father say the same thing? I will adviso
nothing that he does not advise. I would not say a word to you
that he might not hear. I do love you. I have always loved you.
But do you think that I would hurt you with my love ? "

" No ;— no ;— no ! "

" No, indeed; — but I would have you feel that those who loved
you of old are still anxious for your welfare. You said just now
that you had been neglected."

" I spoke of papa and Everett. For myself, — of course I have
separated myself from everybody."

"Never from me. You may be ten times his wife, but you
cannot separate yourself from me. Getting up in the morning
and going to bed at night I still tell myself that you are the one
woman that I love. Stay with us, and you shall be honoured, —
as that man's wife of course, but still as the dearest friend we
have."

" I cannot stay," she said. " He has told me that I am to go,
and I am in his hands. When you have a wife, Arthur, you will
wish her to do your bidding. I hope she will do it for your sake,
without the pain I have in doing his. Good-bye, dear friend."

She put her hand out and he grasped it, and stood for a moment
looking at her. Then he seized her in his arms and kissed her
brow and her lips. "Oh, Emily, why were you not my wife?
My darling, my darling ! "

She had hardly extricated herself when the door opened, and
Lopez stood in the room. "Mr. Fletcher," he said, very calmly,
" what is the meaning of this ? "

" He has come to bid me farewell," said Emily. " When going
on so long a journey one likes to see one's old friends, — perhaps
for the last time." There was something of indifference to his
anger in her tone, and something also of scorn.

D D

402 frSE PBIME MIKISDER.

Lopez looked from one to the other, affecting an air of great
displeasure. "You know, sir," he said, "that you cannot be
welcome here."

" But he has been welcome," said his wife.

" And I look upon your coming as a base act. You are here
with the intention of creating discord between'me and my wife."

1 ' I am here to tell her that she has a friend to trust to if she
ever wants a friend," said Fletcher.

"And you think that such trust as that would be safer than
trust in her husband ? I cannot turn you out of this house, sir,
because it does not belong to me, but I desire you to leave at onco
the room which is occupied by my wife." Fletcher paused a
moment to say good-byo to the poor woman, while Lopez con-
tinued with increased indignation, " If you do not go at once you
will force me to desire her to retire. She shall not remain in the
same room with you."

" Good-bye, Mr. Fletcher," she said, again putting out her
hand.

But Lopez struck it up, not violently, so as to hurt her, but
still with eager roughness. " Not in my presence," he said. " Go,
sir, when I desiro you."

"God bless you, my friend," said Arthur Fletcher. "I pray
that I may live to see you back in the old country."

"He was kissing you," said Lopez, as soon as the door was

shut.

" He was," said Emily.

" And you tell me so to my face, with such an air as that !"

" What am I to tell you when you ask me ? I did not bid him
kiss me."

" But afterwards you took his part as his friend."

" Why not ? I should lie to you if I pretended that I was angry
with him for what he did."

" Perhaps you will tell me that you love him."

" Of course I love him. There are different kinds of love,
Ferdinand. There is that which a woman gives to a man when
she would fain mate with him. It is the sweetest love of all, if it
would only last. And there is another love, — which is not given,
but which is won, perhaps through long years, by old friends. I
have none older than Arthur Fletcher, and none who are dearer to
me."

" And you think it right that he should take you in his arms and
kiss you?"

" On such an occasion I could not blame him."

" You were ready enough to receive it, perhaps."

"Well; I was. He has loved me well, and I shall never see
him again. He is very dear to mo, and I was parting from him for
ever. It was the first and the last, and I did not grudge it to him.
You must remember, Ferdinand, that you are taking me across the
world from all my friends."

THE TENWAY JUNCTION. 403

" Psha," he said, " tliat is all oyer. You are not going any-
where that I know of, — unless it be out into the streets when your
father shuts his door on you." And so saying he left the room
without another word.

CHAPTEE LX.

THE TENWAY JUNCTION.

And thus the knowledge was conyeyed to Mrs. Lopez that her fate
in life was not to carry her to Guatemala. At the yery moment
in which she had been summoned to meet Arthur Fletcher she had
been busy with her needle preparing that almost endless collection
of garments necessary for a journey of many days at sea. And
now she was informed, by a chance expression, by a word aside, as
it were, that the journey was not to be made. " That is all oyer,"
he had said, — and then had left her, telling her nothing further.
Of course she stayed her needle. Whether the last word had been
true or false, she could not work again, at any rate till it had been
contradicted. If it were so, what was to be her fate ? One thing
was certain to her; — that she could not, remain under her father's
roof. It was impossible that an arrangement so utterly distasteful
as the present one, both to her father and to herself, should be con-
tinued. But where then should they liye, — and of what nature
would her life be if she should be separated from her father ?

That evening she saw her father, and he corroborated her hus-
band's statement. " It is all oyer now," he said, — " that scheme of
his of going to superintend the mines. The mines don't want him,
and won't have him. I can't say that I wonder at it."

" What are we to do, papa ? "

" Ah ; — that I cannot; say. I suppose he will condescend still to
honour me with his company, I do not know why he should wish
to go to Guatemala or elsewhere. Ho has everything here that ho
can want."

" You know, papa, that that ii impossible.'*

" I cannot say what with him is possible or impossible. He is
bound by none of the ordinary rules of mankind."

That evening Lopez returned to his dinner in Manchester Square,
which was still regularly served for him and his wife, though the
servants who attended upon him did so under silent and oft-repeated
protest. He said not a word more as to Arthur Eletcher, nor did
he seek any ground of quarrel with his wife. But that her con-
tinued melancholy and dejection made anything like good-humour
impossible, even on his part, he would have been good-humoured.
When they were alone, she asked him as to their future destiuy.
" Papa tells me you are not going,'* she began by saying.

404 tHE PRIME MINISTER.

" Did I not tell you so this morning ? "

"Yes ; — you said so. But I did not know you were in earnest.
Is it all over?"

" All over,— I suppose."

" I should have thought that you would have told me with more,
— more seriousness."

" I don't know what you would have. I was serious enough.
The fact is that your father has delayed so long the payment of the
promised money that the thing has fallen through of necessity. I
do not know that I can blame the Company."

Then there was a pause. " And now," she said, " what do you
mean to do ? "

' ' Upon my word I cannot say. I am quite as much in the dark
as you can be."

" That is nonsense, Ferdinand."

"Thank you ! Let it be nonsense if you will. It seems to me
that there is a great deal of nonsense going on in the world ; but
very little of it as true as what I say now."

"But it is your duty to know. Of course you cannot stay
here."

" Nor you, I suppose, — without me."

" I am not speaking of myself. If you choose, I can remain
here."

" And— just throw me overboard altogether."

" If you provide another home for me, I will go to it. However
poor it may be I will go to it, if you bid me. But for you, — of
course you cannot stay here."

" Has your father told you to say so to me ? "

" No ; — but I can say so without his telling me. You are
banishing him from his own house. He has put up with it while
he thought that you were going to this foreign country ; but there
must be an end of that now. You must have some scheme of
life ? "

" Upon my soul I have none."

" You must have some intentions for the future ?"

" None in the least. I have had intentions, and they have
failed ; — from want of that support which I had a right to ox;
I have struggled and I have failed, and now I have got no inten-
tions. "What are yours ?"

"It is not my duty to have any purpose, as what I do must
depend on your commands." Then again there was a silence,
during which he lit a cigar, although he was sitting in the drawing-
room. This was a profanation of the room on which even ho had
never ventured before, but at the present moment ehe was unable
to notice it by any words. " I must tell papa," she said after a
while, " what our plans are."

" You can tell him what you please. I have literally nothing
to say to him. If he will settle an adequate income on us, payable
of course to me, I will go and live elsewhere. If he turns me into

THE TENWAY JUNCTION. 405

the street without provision, he must turn you too. That is all
that I have got to say. It will come better from you than from
me. I am sorry, of course, that things have gone wrong with me.
When I found myself the son-in-law of a very rich man I thought
that I might spread my wings a bit. But my rich father-in-law
threw me over, and now I am helpless. You are not very cheerful,
my dear, and I think I'll go down to the club."

He went out of the house and did go down to the Progress. The
committee which was to be held with the view of judging whether
he was or was not a proper person to remain a member of that
assemblage had not yet been held, and there was nothing to impede
his entrance to the club, or the execution of the command which
he gave for tea and buttered toast. But no one spoke to him ; nor,
though he affected a look of comfort, did he find himself much at
his ease. Among the members of the club there was a much divided
opinion whether he should be expelled or not. There was a strong
party who declared that his conduct socially, morally, and politi-
cally, had been so bad that nothing short of expulsion would meet
the case. But there were others who said that no act had been
proved against him which the club ought to notice. He had, no
doubt, shown himself to be a blackguard, a man without a spark
of honour or honesty. But then, — as they said who thought his
position in the club to be unassailable, — what had the club to do
with that ? "If you turn out all the blackguards and all the dis-
honourable men where will the club be?" was a question asked
with a great deal of vigour by one middle-aged gentleman who was
supposed to know the club-world very thoroughly. He had com-
mitted no offence which the law could recognise and punish, nor
had he sinned against the club rules. " He is not required to be
a man of honour by any regulation of which I am aware," said the
middle-aged gentleman. The general opinion seemed to be that
he should be asked to go, and that, if he declined, no one should
speak to him. This penalty was already inflicted on him, for on
the evening in question no one did speak to him.

He drank his tea and ate his toast and read a magazine, striving
to look as comfortable and as much at his ease as men at their clubs
generally are. He was not a bad actor, and those who saw him
and made reports as to his conduct on the following day declared
that he had apparently been quite indifferent to the disagreeable
incidents of his position. But his indifference had been mere act-
ing. His careless manner with his wife had been all assumed.
Selfish as he was, void as he was of all principle, utterly unmanly
and even unconscious of the worth of manliness, still he was alive
to the opinions of others. He thought that the world was wrong
to condemn him, — that the world did not understand the facts of
his case, and that the world generally would have done as he had
done in similar circumstances. He did not know that there was
such a quality as honesty, nor did he understand what the word
meant. But he did know that some men, an unfortunate class,

406 THE PRIME MINISTER.

became subject to evil report from others who were more successful,
paid he was aware that he had become one of those unfortunates.
Nor could he see any remedy for his position. It was all blank
and black before him. It may be doubted whether he got much
instruction or amusement from the pages of the magazine which
he turned.

At about twelve o'clock he left the club and took his way home-
wards. But he did not go straight home. It was a nasty cold
March night, with a catching wind, and occasional short showers
of something between snow and rain, — as disagreeable a night for
a gentleman to walk in as one could well conceive. But he wont
round by Trafalgar Square, and along the Strand, and up some
dirty streets by the small theatres, and so on to Holborn and by
Bloomsbury Square up to Tottenham Court Road, then through
some unused street into Portland Place, along the Marylebone
Road, and back to Manchester Square by Baker Street. He had
more than doubled the distance, — apparently without any object.
He had been spoken to frequently by unfortunates of both sexes,
but had answered a word to no one. He had trudged on and on
with his umbrella over his head, but almost unconscious of the
cold and wet. And yet he was a man sedulously attentive to his
own personal comfort and health, who had at any rate shown this
virtue in his mode of living, that he had never subjected himself to
danger by imprudence. But now the working of his mind kept
him warm, and, if not dry, at least indifferent to the damp, llo
had thrown aside with affected nonchalance those questions which
his wife had asked him, but still it was necessary that he should
answer them. He did not suppose that he could continue to live
in Manchester Square in his present condition. Nor, if it was
necessary that he should wander forth into the world, could he
force his wife to wander with him. If he would consent to leave
her, his father-in-law would probably give him something, — some
allowance on which he might exist. But then of what sort would
be his lifo ?

He did not fail to remind himself over and over again that he
had nearly succeeded. He had been the guest of the Prime
Minister, and had been the nominee chosen 1}y a Duchess to repre-
sent her husband's borough in Parliament. He had been intimate
with Mills Happerton who was fast becoming a millionaire. He had
married much above himself in every way. He had achieved a
certain popularity and was conscious of intellect. But at tho
present moment two or three sovereigns in his pocket were the
extent of his worldly wealth and his character was utterly ruined.
Ho regarded his fate as does a card-player who day aftor day holds
sixes and sevens when other men have aces and kings. Pate was
against him. He saw no reason why he should not have had the
aces and kings continually, especially as fate had given him per-
haps more than his share of them at first. He had, however, lost
rubber after rubber, — not paying bis stakes for some of the last

THE TENWAY JUNCTION. 407

rubbers lost, — till the players would play with him no longer. The
misfortune might have happened to any man ; — but it had happened
to him. There was no beginning again. A possible small allow-
ance and some very retired and solitary life, in which there would
be no show of honour, no flattery coming to him, was all that was
left to him.

He let himself in at the house, and found his wife still awake.
" I am wet to the skin," he said. " I made up my mind to walk,
and I would do it ; — but I am a fool for my pains." She made him
some feeble answer, affecting to be half asleep, and merely turned
in her bed. "I must be out early in the morning. Mind you
make them dry my things. They never do anything for my
telling"

" You don't want them dried to-night ? "

"Not to-night, of course; — but after I am gone to-morrow.
They'll leave them there without putting a hand to them, if you
don't speak. I must be off before breakfast to-morrow."

" Where are you going ? Do you want anything packed ? "

" No ; nothing. I shall be back to dinner. But I must go
down to Birmingham, to see a friend of Happerton's on business.
I will breakfast at the station. As you said to-day, something
must be done. If it's to sweep a crossing, I must sweep it."

As she lay awake while he slept, she thought that those last
words were the best she had heard him speak since they were
married. There seemed to be some indication of a purpose in them.
If he would only sweep a crossing as a man should sweep it, she
would stand by him, and at any rate do her duty to him, in spite
of all that had happened. Alas ! she was not old enough to have
learned that a dishonest man cannot begin even to sweep a crossing
honestly till he have in very truth repented of his former dis-
honesty. The lazy man may become lazy no longer, but there
must have been first a process through his mind whereby laziness
has become odious to him. And that process can hardly be the
immediate result of misfortune arising from misconduct. Had
Lopez found his crossing at Birmingham he would hardly have
swept it well.

Early on the following morning he was up, and before he left
his room he kissed his wife. "Good-bye, old girl," he said;
" don't be down-hearted."

"If you have anything before you to do, I will not be down-
hearted," she said.

" I shall have something to do before night, I think. Tell your
father, when you see him, that I will not trouble him here much
longer. But tell him, also, that I have no thanks to give him for
his hospitality."

" I will not tell him that, Ferdinand."

" He shall know it, though. But I do not mean to be cross to
you. Good-bye, love." Then he stooped over her and kissed her
again ;— and so he took his leave of her.

408 THE PEIME MINISTER.

It was raining hard, and when he got into the street he looked
about for a cab, but there was none to be found. In Baker Street
he got an omnibus which took him down to the underground rail-
way, and by that he went to Gower Street. Through the rain he
walked up to the Euston Station, and there he ordered breakfast.
Could he have a mutton chop and some tea ? And he was very
particular that the mutton chop should be well cooked. Ho was a
good-looking man, of fashionable appearance, and the young lady
who attended him noticed him and was courteous to him. lie
condescended even to have a little light conversation with her, and,
on the whole, he seemed to enjoy his breakfast. " Upon my word,
I should like to breakfast here every day of my life," he said. The
young lady assured him that, as far as she could see, there was no
objection to such an arrangement. " Only it's a bore, you know,
coming out in the rain when there are no cabs," he said. Then
there were various little jokes between them, till the young lady
was quite impressed with the gentleman's pleasant affability.

After a while he went back into the hall and took a first-class
return ticket, not for Birmingham, but for the Tenway Junction.
It is quite unnecessary to describe the Tenway Junction, as every-
body knows it. From this spot, some six or seven miles distant
from London, lines diverge east, west, and north, north-east, and
north-west, round the metropolis in every direction, and with
direct communication with every other line in and out of London.
It is a marvellous place, quite unintelligible to the uninitiated,
and yet daily used by thousands who only know that when they
get there, they are to do what some one tells them. The space
occupied by the convergent rails seems to be sufficient for a large
farm. And these rails always run one into another with sloping
points, and cross passages, and mysterious meandering sidings,
till it seems to the thoughtful stranger to be impossible that the
best-trained engine should know its own line. Here and there
and around there is ever a wilderness of waggons, some loaded,
some empty, some smoking with close-packed oxen, and others
furlongs in length black with coals, which look as though they
had been stranded there by chance, and were never destined to
got again into the right path of traffic. , Not a minute passes with-
out a train going here or there, some rushing by without noticing
Tenway in tho least, crashing through like flashes of substantial
lightning, and others stopping, disgorging and taking up passen-
gers by the hundreds. Men and women, — especially the men,
for the women knowing their ignorance are generally willing to
trust to tho pundits of the place, — look doubtful, uneasy, and
bewildered. But they ail do get properly placed and unplaced, so
that the spectator at last acknowledges that over all this apparent
chaos there is presiding a great genius of order. From dusky
morn to dark night, and indeed almost throughout the night,
the air is loaded with a succession of shrieks. The theory goes
that each separate shriek,— if there can bo any separation where

THE TENWAY JUNCTION. 409

the sound is so nearly continuous, — is a separate notice to sepa-
rate ears of the coming or going of a separate train. The
stranger, as he speculates on these pandemoniac noises, is able to
realise the idea that were they discontinued the excitement neces-
sary for the minds of the pundits might be lowered, and that
activity might be lessened, and evil results might follow. But
he cannot bring himself to credit that theory of individual
notices.

At Tenway Junction there are half-a-dozen long platforms, on
which men and women and luggage are crowded. On one of these
for awhile Ferdinand Lopez walked backwards and forwards as
though waiting for the coming of some especial train. The crowd
is ever so great that a man might be supposed to walk there from
morning to night without exciting special notice. But the pundits
are very clever, and have much experience in men and women. A
well-taught pundit, who has exercised authority for a year or two
at such a station as that of Tenway, will know within a minute of
the appearance of each stranger what is his purpose there, — whether
he be going or has just come, whether he is himself on the way or
waiting for others, whether he should be treated with civility or
with some curt command, — so that if his purport be honest all
necessary assistance may be rendered him. As Lopez was walking
up and down, with smiling face and leisurely pace, now reading an
advertisement and now watching the contortions of some amazed
passenger, a certain pundit asked him his business. He was wait-
ing, he said, for a train from Liverpool, intending, when his friend
arrived, to go with him to Dulwich by a train which went round
the west of London. It was all feasible, and the pundit told him
that the stopping train from Liverpool was due there in six minutes,
but that the express from the North would pass first. Lopez
thanked the pundit and gave him sixpence, — which made the
pundit suspicious. A pundit hopes to bo paid when he handles
luggage, but has no such expectation when he merely gives infor-
mation.

The pundit still had his eye on our friend when the shriek and
the whirr of the express from the north was heard. Lopez walked
quickly up towards the edge of the platform, when the pundit
followed him, telling him that this was not his train. Lopez then
ran a few yards along the platform, not noticing the man, reaching
a spot that was unoccupied ; — and there he stood fixed. And as he
stood the express flashed by. "I am fond of seeing them pass
like that," said Lopez to the man, who had followed him.

" But you shouldn't do it, sir," said the suspicious pundit. " No'
one isn't allowed to stand near like that. The very hair of it might
take you off your legs when you're not used to it."

" All right, old fellow," said Lopez, retreating. The next train
wg£ the Liverpool train ; and it seemed that our friend's friend had
not come, for when the Liverpool passengers had cleared themselves
off, he was still walking up and down the platform. " He'll come

410 THE PRIME MINISTER.

by the next," said Lopez to the pundit, who now followed him
about and kept an eye on him.

"There ain't another from Liverpool stopping here till the
2.20," said the pundit. " You had better come again if you mean
to meet him by that."

' ' He has come on part of the way, and will reach this by some
other train," said Lopez.

"There ain't nothing he can come by," said the pundit. " Gen-
tlemen can't wait here all day, sir. The horders is against waiting
on the platform."

"All right," said Lopez, moving away as though to make hi3
exit through the station.

Now Tenway Junction is so big a place, and so scattered, that it
is impossible that all the pundits should by any combined activity
maintain to the letter that order of which our special pundit had
spoken. Lopez, departing from the platform which he had hitherto
occupied, was soon to be seen on another, walking up and down,
and again waiting. But the old pundit had had his eye upon him,
and had followed him round. At that moment there came a
shriek louder than all the other shrieks, and the morning express
down from Euston to Inverness was seen coming round the curve
at a thousand miles an hour. Lopez turned round and looked at
it, and again walked towards the edge of the platform. But now
it was not exactly the edge that he neared, but a descent to a path-
way,— an inclined plane leading down to tho level of the rails, and
made there for certain purposes of traffic. As he did so the pundit
called to him, and then made a rush at him, — for our friend's back
was turned to the coming train. But Lopez heeded not tho call,
and the rush was too late. "With quick, but still with gentle and
apparently unhurried steps, he walked down before the flying
engine and in a moment had been knocked into bloody atoms.

CHAPTER LXI.

THE WIDOW AND HER FRIENDS.

Tiie catastrophe described in the last chapter had taken place during
the first week in March. By the end of that month old Mr. "Wharton
had probably reconciled himself to the tragedy, although in fact it
had affected him very deeply. In the first days after the news had
reached him he seemed to be bowed to the ground. Stone Buildings
were neglected, and the Eldon saw nothing of him. Indeed, ho
barely left tho house from which he had been so long banished <by
the prosonce of his son-in-law. It seemed to Everott, who now
came to live with him and his sister, as though his fathei were

THE WIDOW AND HER FRIENDS. 411

overcome by the horror of the affair. But after awhile he recovered
himself, and appeared one morning in court with his wig and
gown, and argued a case, — which was now unusual with him, — as
though to show the world that a dreadful episode in his life was
passed, and should be thought of no more. At this period, three
or four weeks after the occurrence, — he rarely spoke to his daugh-
ter about Lopez ; but to Everett the man's name would be often
on his tongue. ' ' I do not know that there could have been any
other deliverance," he said to his son one day. "I thought it
would have killed me when I first heard it, and it nearly killed
her. But, at any rate, now there is peace."

But the widow seemed to feel it more as time went on. At first
she was stunned, and for a while absolutely senseless. It was not
till two days after the occurrence that the fact became known to
her, — nor known as a certainty to her father and brother. It seemed
as though the man had been careful to carry with him no record
of identity, the nature of which would permit it to outlive the
crash of the train. No card was found, no scrap of paper with his
name ; and it was discovered at last that when he left the house on
the fatal morning he had been careful to dress himself in shirt and
socks, with handkerchief and collar that had been newly purchased
for his proposed journey and which bore no mark. The fragments
of his body set identity at defiance, and even his watch had been
crumpled into ashes. Of course the fact became certain with no
great delay. The man himself was missing, and was accurately
described both by the young lady from the refreshment room, and
by the suspicious pundit who had actually seen the thing done.
There was first belief that it was so, which was not communicated
to Emily, — and then certainty.

There was an inquest held of course, — well, we will say on the
body, — and, singularly enough, great difference of opinion as to tho
manner, though of course none as to the immediate cause of the
death .Had it been accidental, or premeditated ? The pundit,
who in the performance of his duties on the Tenway platforms was
so efficient and valuable, gave half-a-dozen opinions in half-a-dozen
minutes when subjected to the questions of the Coroner. In his own
mind he had not the least doubt in the world as to what had hap-
pened. But he was made to believe that he was not to speak his
own mind. The gentleman, he said, certainly might have walked
down by accident. The gentleman's back was turned, and it was
possible that the gentleman did not hear the train. He was quite
certain the gentleman knew of the train ; but yet he could not say.
Tho gentleman walked down before the train o'purpose ; but per -
haps he didn't mean to do himself an injury. There was a deal of
this, till the Coroner, putting all his wrath into his brow, told the man
that he was a disgrace to the service, and expressed a hope that the
Company would no longer employ a man so evidently unfit for his
position. But the man was in truth a conscientious and useful rail-
way pundit, with a large family, and evident capabilities for hia

412 THE PRIME MINISTER.

business. At last a verdict was given, — that the man's name waa
Ferdinand Lopez, that he had been crushed by an express train
on the London and North Western Line, and that there was no
evidence to show how his presence on the line had been occasioned.
Of course Mr. Wharton had employed counsel, and of course the
counsel's object had been to avoid a verdict of felo de se. Appended
to the verdict was a recommendation from the jury that the Rail-
way Company should be advised to signalise their express trains
more clearly at the Tenway Junction Station.

When these tidings were told to the widow she had already given
way to many fears. Lopez had gone, purporting, — as he said, — to
be back to dinner. He had not come then, nor on the following
morning ; nor had he written. Then she remembered all that he
had done and said ; — ho"' ^e had kissed her, and left a parting
malediction for her fatb She did not at first imagine that he
had_ destroyed himself, but that he had gone away, intending to
vanish as other men before now have vanished. As she thought of
this something almost like love came back upon her heart. Of
course he was bad. Even in her sorrow, even when alarmed as to
his fate, she could not deny that. But her oath to him had not
been to love him only while he was good. She had made herself a
part of him, and was she not bound to be true to him, whether good
or bad ? She implored her father and she implored her brother to
be ceaseless in their endeavours to trace him, — sometimes seeming
almost to fear that in this respect she could not fully trust them.
Then she discerned from their manner a doubt as to her husband's
fate. " Oh, papa, if you think anything, tell me what you think,"
she said late on the evening of the second day. He was then nearly
sure that the man who had been killed at Tenway was Ferdinand
Lopez ;— but he was not quite sure, and he would not tell her. But
on the following morning, somewhat before noon, having himself
gone out early to Euston Square, he came back to his owmhouse, —
and then he told her all. For the first hour she did not shed a tear
or lose her consciousness of the horror of the thing ; — but sat still
and silent, gazing at nothing, casting back her mind over the
history of her life, and the misery which she had brought on all
who belonged to her. Then at last she gave way, fell into
hysteric sobbings, convulsions so violent as for a time to take the
appearance of epileptic fits, and was at last exhausted and, happily
for herself, unconscious.

After that she was ill for many weeks, — so ill that at times both
her father and her brother thought that she would die. When the
first month or six weeks had passed by she would often speak of
her husband, especially to her father, and always speaking of him
as though sho had brought him to his untimely fate. Nor could
she enduro at this time that her father should say a word against
him, even when she [obliged the old man to speak of one whose
conduct had been so infamous. It had all been her doing ! Had
she not married him there would have been no misfortune ! She

THE "WIDOW AND HER FRIENDS. 418

did not say that lie had been, noble, true, or honest, — but she
asserted that all the evils which had come upon him. had been pro-
duced by herself. " My dear," her father said to her one evening,
" it is a matter which we cannot forget, but on which it is well
that we should be silent."

" I shall always know what that silence means," she replied.

" It will never mean condemnation of you by me," said he.

" But I have destroyed your life, — and his. I know I ought not
to have married him, because you bade me not. And I know
that I should have been gentler with him, and more obedient, when
I was his wife. I sometimes wish that I were a Catholic, and
that I could go into a convent, and bury it all amidst sackcloths
and ashes."

11 That would not bury it," said her father.

" But I should at least be buried. If I were out of sight, you
might forget it all."

She once stirred Everett up to speak more plainly than her father
ever dared to do, and then also she herself used language that was
very plain. ' * My darling," said her brother once, when she had been
trying to make out that her husband had been more sinned against
than sinning, — "he was a bad man. It is better that the truth
should be told."

"And who is a good man?" she said, raising herself in her bed
and looking him full in the face with her deep-sunken eyes. " If
there be any truth in our religion, are we not all bad ? Who is to
tell the shades of difference in badness ? He was not a drunkard,
or a gambler. Through it all he was true to his wife." She, poor
creature, was of course ignorant of that little sceno in the little
street near May Pair, in which Lopez had offered to carry Lizzie
Eustace away with him to Guatemala. "He was industrious.
His ideas about money were not the same as yours or papa's. How
was he worse than others ? It happened that his faults were dis-
tasteful to you — and so, perhaps, were his virtues."

" His faults, such as they were, brought all these miseries."

" He would have been successful now if he had never seen me.
But why should we talk of it ? We shall never agree. And you,
Everett, can never understand all that has passed through my
mind during the last two years."

There were two or three persons who attempted to see her at this
period, but she avoided them all. Eirst came Mrs. Eoby, who, as
her nearest neighbour, as her aunt, and as an aunt who had been
so nearly allied to her, had almost a right to demand admittance.
But she would not see Mrs. Eoby. She sent down word to say that
she was too ill. And when Mrs. Boby wrote to her, she got her
father to answer the notes. " You had better let it drop," the old
man said at last to his sister-in-law. " Of course she remembers
that it was you who brought them together."

" But I didn't bring them together, Mr. Wharton. How often
am I to tell you so ? It was Everett who brought Mr. Lopez here."

414 - THE PRIME MINISTER.

" The marriage was made up in your house, and it has destroyed
me and my child. I will not quarrel with my wife's sister if I can
help it, but at present you had better keep apart." Then he had
left her abruptly, and Mrs. Roby had not dared either to write or
to call again.

At this time Arthur Fletcher saw both Everett and Mr. Wharton
frequently, but he did not go to the Square, contenting himself
with asking whether he might be allowed to do so. "Not yet,
Arthur," said the old man. "I am sure she thinks of you as oue
of her best friends, but she could not see you yet."

"She would have nothing to fear," said Arthur. "We knew
each other when we were children, and I should be now only as I
was then."

" Not yet, Arthur ; — not yet," said the barrister.

Then there came a letter, or rather two letters, from Mary Whar-
ton ; — one to Mr. Wharton and the other to Emily. To tell the
truth as to these letters, they contained the combined wisdom and
tenderness of Wharton Hall and Longbarns. As soon as the fate of
Lopez had been ascertained and thoroughly discussed in Hereford-
shire, there went forth an edict that Emily had suffered punishment
sufficient and was to be forgiven. Old Mrs. Fletcher did not come
to this at once, — having some deep-seated feeling which she did not
dare to express even to her son, though she muttered it to her
daughter-in-law, that Arthur would be disgraced for ever were he
to marry the widow of such a man as Ferdinand Lopez. But when
this question of receiving Emily back into family favour was mooted
in the Longbarns Parliament no one alluded to the possibility of
such a marriage. There was the fact that she whom they had' all
loved had been freed by a great tragedy from the husband whom
they had all condemned, — and also the knowledge that the poor
victim had suffered greatly during the period of her married life.
Mrs. Fletcher had frowned, and shaken her head, and made a little
speech about the duties of women, and the necessarily fatal conse-
quences when those duties are neglected. There were pi
thero, with the old lady, John Fletcher and his wife, Sir Alun
Lady Wharton, and Mary Wharton. Arthur was not in the
county, nor could the discussion have been held in his pre
"I can only say," said John, getting up and looking away from
his mother, " that she shall always find a home at Longbarns
sho chooses to come here, and I hope Sir Alured will say the same
as to Wharton Hall." After all, John Fletcher was king in these
parts, and Mrs. Fletcher, with many noddings and some sobbing,
had to give way to King John. The end of all this was that Mary
Wharton wrote her letters. In that to Mr. Wharton sho asked
whether it would not be bettor that her cousin should change the
scene and come at once into the country. Let her como and stay a
month at Wharton, and then go on to Longbarns. Sho might be
sure that there would be no company at either house. In June
the Fletchers would go up to town for. a week, and then Emily

THE WIDOW AND HER FRIENDS. 415

might return to Wharton Hall. It was a long letter, and Mary
gave many reasons why the poor sufferer would be better in the
country than in town. The letter to Emily herself was shorter,
but full of affection. "Do, do, do come. You know how we all
love you. Let it be as it used to be. You always liked the country.
I will devote myself to try and comfort you." But Emily could
not as yet submit to receive devotion even from her cousin
Mary. Through it all, and under it all, — though she would ever
defend her husband because he was dead, — she knew that she
had disgraced the Whartons and brought a load of sorrow
upon the Eletchers, and she was too proud to be forgiven so
quickly.

Then she received another tender of affection from a quarter whence
she certainly did not expect it. The Duchess of Omnium wrote to
her. The Duchess, though she had lately been considerably re-
strained by the condition of the Duke's mind, and by the effects of
her own political and social mistakes, still from time to time made
renewed efforts to keep together the Coalition by giving dinners,
balls, and garden parties, and by binding to herself the gratitude
and worship of young parliamentary aspirants. In carrying out
her plans, she had lately showered her courtesies upon Arthur
Eletcher, who had been made welcome even by the Duke as the
sitting member for Silverbridge. With Arthur she had of course
discussed the conduct of Lopez as to the election bills, and had been
very loud in condemning him. And from Arthur also she had
heard something of the sorrows of Emily Lopez. Arthur had been
very desirous that the Duchess, who had received them both at her
house, should distinguish between the husband and the wife. Then
had come the tragedy, to which the notoriety of the man's conduct
of course gave additional interest. It was believed that Lopez had
destroyed himself because of the disgrace which had fallen upon
him from the Silverbridge affair. And for much of that Silverbridge
affair the Duchess herself was responsible. She waited till a couplo
of months had gone by, and then, in the beginning of May, sent
to the widow what was intended to be, and indeed was, a very kind
note. The Duchess had heard the sad story with the greatest grief.
She hoped that Mrs. Lopez would permit her to avail herself of a
short acquaintance to express her sincere sympathy. She would not
venture to call as yet, but hoped that before long she might be
allowed to come to Manchester Square.

This note touched the poor woman to whom it was written, not
because she herself was solicitous to be acquainted with the Duchess
of Omnium, but because the application seemed to her to contain
something like an acquittal, or at any rate a pardon, of her hus-
band. His sin in that measure of the Silverbridge election, — a sin
which her father had been loud in denouncing before the wretch
had destroyed himself, — had been especially against the Duke of
Omnium. And now the Duchess came forward to say that it
should be forgiven and forgotten, When she showed the letter to

416 THE PRIME MINISTER.

her father, and asked him what she should say in answer to it, he
only shook his head. " It is meant for kindness, papa."

" Yes ; — I think it is. There are people who have no right to
be kind to me. If a man stopped me in the street and offered me
half-a- crown it might be kindness ; — but I don't want the man's
half-crown."

" I don't think it is the same, papa. There is a reason here."

" Perhaps so, my dear ; but I do not see the reason."

She became very red, but even to him she would not explain her
ideas. "I think I shall answer it."

"Certainly answer it. Your compliments to the Duchess and
thank her for her kind inquiries."

" But she says she will come here."

" I should not notice that."

"Very well, papa. If you think so, of course I will not. Per-
haps it would be an inconvenience, if she were really to come."
On the next day she did write a note, not quite so cold as that
which her father proposed, but still saying nothing as to the offered
visit. She felt, she said, very grateful for the Duchess's kind re-
membrance of her. The Duchess would perhaps understand that
at present her sorrow overwhelmed her.

And there was one other tender of kindness which was more
surprising than even that from the Duchess. The reader may
perhaps remember that Ferdinand Lopez and Lady Eustace had
not parted when they last saw each other on the pleasantest terms.
He had been very affectionate, but when he had proposed to devote
his whole life to her and to carry her off to Guatemala she had
simply told him that he was — a fool. Then he had escaped from
her house and had never again seen Lizzie Eustace. She had not
thought very much about it. Had h9 returned to her the next
day with some more tempting proposition for making money she
would have listened to him, — and had he begged her pardon for
what had taken placo on the former day she would have merely
laughed. She was not more offended than she would have been
had he asked her for half her fortune instead of her person and her
honour. But, as it was, he had escaped and had never again shown
himself in the little street near May Fair. Then she had the
tidings of his death, first seeing the account in a very sensational
article from the pen of Mr. Quintus Slide himself. She was imme-
diately filled with an intense interest which was infinitely in<
by the fact that the man had but a few days before declared him-
self to be her lover. It was bringing her almost as near to tho
event as though she had seen it! She was, perhaps, entitled
to think that she had caused it ! Nay ; — in one sense she had
caused it, for he certainly would not have destroyed himself had
she consented to go with him to Guatemala or elsewhere. And
she knew his wife. An uninteresting, dowdy creature she had
called her. But, nevertheless, they had been in company together
more than once. So she presented her compliments, and expressed

PHINEAS flKN HA9 A BOOK TO READ. 417

her sorrow, and hoped that she might be allowed to call. There
had been no one for whom she had felt more sincere respect and
esteem than for her late friend Mr. Ferdinand Lopez. To this note
there was sent an answer written by Mr. Wharton himself.

11 Madam,

" My daughter is too ill to see even her own friends.
' ' I am, Madam,

" Your obedient servant,

"Abel Whabtox."

After this, life went on in a very quiet way at Manchester Square
for many weeks. Gradually Mrs. Lopez recovered her capability of
attending to the duties of life. Gradually she became again able to
interest herself in her brother's pursuits and in her father's com-
forts, and the house returned to its old form as it had been before
these terrible two years, in which the happiness of the Wharton
and Fletcher families had been marred, and scotched, and almost
destroyed for ever by the interference of Ferdinand Lopez. But
Mrs. Lopez never for a moment forgot that she had done the mis-
chief,— and that the black enduring cloud had been created solely
by her own perversity and self-will. Though she would still
defend her late husband if any attack were made upon his memory,
not the less did she feel that hers had been the fault, though the
punishment had come upon them all.

CHAPTEE LXII.

PH1NEAS FINN HAS A BOOK TO BEAD.

The sensation created by the man's death was by no means con-
fined to Manchester Square, but was very general in the metropolis,
and, indeed, throughout the country. As the catastrophe became
the subject of general conversation, many people learned that the
Silverbridge affair had not, in truth, had much to do with it. The
man had killed himself, as many other men have done before him,
because he had run through his money and had no chance left of
redeeming himself. But to the world at large, the disgrace brought
upon him by the explanation given in Parliament was the apparent
cause of his self-immolation, and there were not wanting those
who felt and expressed a sympathy for a man who could feel so
acutely the effect of his own wrong- doing. No doubt ho had done
wrong in asking the Duke for the money. But the request, though
wrong, might almost be justified. There could be no doubt, these
apologists said, that ho had been ill-treated between tho Duke and
the Duchess. No doubt Phineas Finn, who was now described by

a E

418 tHE PRIME MIKISTEB.

porao opponents as the Duke's creature, had been able to make out
a story in the Duke's favour. But all the world knew what was
the worth and what was the truth of ministerial explanations !
The Coalition was very strong ; and even the question in the House,
which should have been hostile, had been asked in a friendly spirit.
In this way there came to be a party who spoke and wrote of
Ferdinand Lopez as though he had been a martyr.

Of course Mr. Quintus Slide was in the front rank of these
accusers. He may be said to have led the little army which made
this matter a pretext for a special attack upon the Ministry. Mr.
Slide was especially hostile to the Prime Minister, but he was not
less hotly the enemy of Phineas Finn. Against Phineas Finn ho
had old grudges, which, however, age had never cooled. He could,
therefore, write with a most powerful pen when discussing the
death of that unfortunate man, the late candidate for Silverbridge,
crushing his two foes in the single grasp of his journalistic fist.
Phineas had certainly said some hard things against Lopez, though
he had not mentioned the man's name. He had congratulated tho
House that it had not been contaminated by the presence of so
base a creature, and he had said that he would not pause to stig-
matize the meanness of the application for money which Lopez had
made. Had Lopez continued to live and to endure "the slings
and arrows of outrageous fortune," no one would have ventured to
say that these words would have inflicted too severe a punishment.
But death wipes out many faults, and a self-inflicted death caused
by remorse will, in the minds of many, wash a blackamoor almost
white. Thus it came to pass that some heavy weapons were hurled
at Phineas Finn, but none so heavy as those hurled by Quintus
Slide. Should not this Irish knight, who was so ready with
his lance in the defence of the Prime Minister, asked Mr. Slide,
have remembered the past events of his own rather peculiar life ?
Had not he, too, been poor, and driven in his poverty to rather
questionable straits ? Had not he been abject in his petition for
office, — and in what degree were such petitions less disgraceful
than a request for money which had been hopelessly expended on
an impossible object, attempted at the instance of tho great CrtBSUfl
who, when asked to pay it, had at once acknowledged tho necessity
of doing so ? Could not Mr. Finn remember that he himself had
stood in danger of his life before a British jury, and that, though
he had been, no doubt properly, acquitted of the crime imputed to
him, circumstances had come out against him during the trial
which, if not as criminal, were at any rate almost as disgraceful ?
Could ho not have had some mercy on a broken political adven-
turer who, in his aspirations for public life, had shown none of that
greed by which Mr. Phineas Finn had been characterized in all
tho relations of life ? As for the Prime Minister, " We," as Mr.
Quintus Slide always described himself, — " "We do not wish to add
to the agony which the fate of Mr. Lopez must have brought upon
him. He has hounded that poor man to his death in revenge for

PEINE AS FINN IIAS A BOOK TO BEAD. 419

the trifling sum of money which he was called on to pay for him.
It may bo that the first blame lay not with the Prime Minis-
ter himself, but with the Prime Minister's wife. With that we
have nothing to do. The whole thing lies in a nutshell. The bare
mention of the name of her Grace the Duchess in Parliament
would have saved the Duke, at any rate as effectually as he has
been saved by the services of his man-of-all-work, Phineas Finn,
and would havo saved him without driving poor Ferdinand Lopez
to insanity. But rather than do this he allowed his servant to
make statements about mysterious agents, which we are justified
in stigmatizing as untrue, and to throw the whole blame where
but least of the blame was due. We all know the result. _ It was
found in those gory shreds and tatters of a poor human being with
which the Tenway Eailway Station was bespattered."

Of course such an article had considerable effect. It was appa-
rent at once that there was ample room for an action for libel
against the newspaper, on the part of Phineas Finn if not on that
of the Duke. But it was equally apparent that Mr. Quintus Slide
must have been very well aware of this when he wrote the article.
Such an action, even if successful, may bring with it to the man
punished more of good than of evil. Any pecuniary penalty
might be more than recouped by the largeness of the advertisement
which such an action would produce. Mr. Slide no doubt calcu-
lated that ho would carry with him a great body of public feeling
by the mere fact that he had attacked a Prime Minister and a
Duke. If he could only get all the publicans in London to take
his paper because of his patriotic and bold conduct, the fortune of
the paper would be made. There is no better trade than that of
martyrdom, if the would-be martyrr knows how far he may judi-
ciously go, and in what direction. All this Mr. Quintus Slide was
supposed to have considered very well.

And Phineas Finn knew that his enemy had also considered the
nature of the matters which he would have been able to drag into
Court if there should be a trial. Allusions, very strong allusions,
had been made to former periods of Mr. Finn's life. And though,
there was but little, if anything, in the past circumstances of which
he was ashamed, — but little, if anything, which he thought would
subject him personally to the odium of good men, could they be
made accurately known in all their details, — it would, he was well
aware, be impossible that such accuracy should be achieved. And
the story if told inaccurately would not suit him. And then, there
was a reason against any public proceeding much stronger even
than this. Whether the telling of the story would or would not
suit him, it certainly would not suit others. As has been before
remarked, there are former chronicles respecting Phineas Finn,
and in them may be found adequato cause for this conviction on
his part. To no outsider was this history known better than to
Mr. Quintus Slide, and therefore Mr. Quintus Slide could dare
almost to defy the law.

420 TfiE PRIME MINISI^ER.

But not thQ less on this account were there many who told
Phineas that he ought to bring the action. Among these none
were more eager than his old friend Lord Chiltern, the Master of
the Brake hounds, a man who really loved Phineas, who also loved
the abstract idea of justice, and who could not endure the thought
that a miscreant should go unpunished. Hunting was over for the
season in the Brake country, and Lord Chiltern rushed up to
London, having this object among others of a very pressing nature
on his mind. His saddler had to be seen, — and threatened,— on a
certain matter touching the horses' backs. A draught of hounds
were being sent down to a friend in Scotland. And there was a
Committee of Masters to sit on a moot question concerning a
neutral covert in the XXX country, of which Committee ho was
one. But the desire to punish Slide was almost as strong in his
indignant mind as those other matters referring more especially to
the profession of his life. " Phineas," he said, " you are bound to
do it. If you will allow a fellow like that to say such things of
you, why, by heaven, any man may say anything of anybody."

Now Phineas could hardly explain to Lord Chiltern his objection
to the proposed action. A lady was closely concerned, and that
lady was Lord Chilterns sister. "I certainly shall not," said
Phineas.

"And why?"

" Just because he wishes me to do it. I should be falling into
the little pit that he has dug for me."

" He couldn't hurt you. What have you got to be afraid of?
Euat ccolum."

"There are certain angels, Chiltern, living up in that heaven
which you wish me to pull about our ear3, as to whom, if all their
heart and all their wishes and all their doings could be known,
nothing but praise could be spoken ; bat who would still be dragged
with soiled wings through the dirt if this man were empowered to
bring witness after witness into court. My wife would be named.
For aught I know, your wife."

" By G , he'd find himself wrong there."

"Leave a chimney-sweep alone when you see him, Chiltern.
Should he run against you, then remember that it is one of the
necessary penalties of clean linen that it is apt to be soiled."

•■ I'm d d if I'd let him off."

1 ' Yes, you would, old fellow. When you come to see clearly what
you would gain and what you would lose, you would not meddle
with him."

His wife was at first inclined to think that an action should bo
taken, but sho was more easily convinced than Lord Chiltern. " I
had not thought," she said, " of poor Lady Laura. But is it not
horrible that a man should bo ablo to go on like that, and that
there should be no punishment?" In answer to this he only
shrugged his shoulders.

But the greatest pressure camo upon him from another source.

PHINEAS FINN HAS A BOOK TO READ. 421

He did not in truth suffer much himself from what was said in the
"People's Banner." He had become used to the "People's
Banner," and had found out that in no relation of life was he less
pleasantly situated because of the maledictions heaped upon him
in the columns of that newspaper. His position in public life did
not seem to be weakened by them. His personal friends did not
fall off because of them. Those who loved him did not love him
less. It had not been so with him always, but now, at last, he
was hardened against Mr. Quintus Slide. But the poor Duke was
by no means equally strong. This attack upon him, this denunci-
ation of his cruelty, this assurance that he had caused the death of
Ferdinand Lopez, was very grievous to him. It was not that he
really felt himself to be guilty of the man's blood, but that any one
should say that he was guilty. It was of no use to point out to
him that other newspapers had sufficiently vindicated his conduct
in that respect, that it was already publicly known that Lopez had
received payment for those election expenses from Mr. Wharton
before the application had been made to him, and that therefore the
man's dishonesty was patent to all the world. It was equally
futile to explain to him that the man's last act had been in no
degree caused by what had been said in Parliament, but had been
the result of his continued failures in life and final absolute ruin.
He fretted and fumed and was very wretched,— and at last
expressed his opinion that legal steps should be taken to punish
the " People's Banner." Now it had been already acknowledged,
on the dictum of no less a man than Sir Gregory Grogram, the
Attorney- General, that the action for libel, if taken at all, must bo
taken, not on the part of the Prime Minister, but on that of
Phineas Finn. Sir Timothy Beeswax had indeed doubted, but it
had come to be understood by all the members of the Coalition
that Sir Timothy Beeswax always did doubt whatever was said by
Sir Gregory Grogram. " The Duke thinks that something should
be done," said Mr. Warburton, the Duke's private Secretary, to
Phineas Finn.

"Not by me, I hope," said Phineas.

" Nobody else can do it. That is to say it must bo done in your
name. Of course it would be a Government matter, as far as
expense goes, and all that."

" I am sorry the Duke should think so."

11 1 don't see that it could hurt you."

"lam sorry the Duke should think so," repeated Phineas, —
" because nothing can be done in my name. I have made up my
mind about it. I think the Duke is wrong in wishing it, and I
believe that were any action taken, we should only be playing into
the hands of that wretched fellow, Quintus Slide. I have long been
conversant with Mr. Quintus Slide, and have quite made up my
mind that I will never play upon his pipe. And you may tell the
Duke that there are other reasons. The man has referred to my
past life, and in seeking to justify those remarks he would be

422 THE PRIME MINISTER.

enabled to drag before the public circumstances and stories, and
perhaps persons, in a manner that I personally should disregard,
but which, for the sake of others, I am bound to prevent. You
will explain all this to the Duke r"

" I am afraid you will find the Duke very urgent."

" I must then express my great sorrow that I cannot oblige the
Duke. I trust I need hardly say that the Duke has no colleague
more devoted to his interest than I am. Were he to wish me to
change my office, or to abandon it, or to undertake any political
duty within the compass of my small powers, he would find me
ready to obey his behests. But in this matter others are concerned,
and I cannot make my judgment subordinate to his." The private
Secretary looked very serious, and simply said that he would do his
best to explain these objections to his Grace.

That the Duke would take his refusal in bad part Phineas felt
nearly certain. He had been a little surprised at the coldness of
the Minister's manner to him after the statement he had made in
the House, and had mentioned the matter to his wife. \f* You hardly
know him," she had said, " as well as I do."

" Certainly not. You ought to know him very intimately, and
I have had but little personal friendship with him. But it was a
moment in which the man might, for the moment, have been cor-
dial."

" It was not a moment for his cordiality. The Duchess says that
if you want to get a really genial smile from him you must talk to
him about cork solos. I know exactly what she means. He loves
to be simple, but he does not know how to show people that he likes
it. Lady Eosina found him out by accident."

"Don't suppose that I am in the least aggrieved," he had said.
And now he spoke again to his wife in the same spirit. " War-
burton clearly thinks that he will be offended, and Warbnrton, I
suppose, knows his mind."

" I don't see why he should. I have been reading it longer, and
I still find it very difficult. Lady Glen has been at the work for
the last fifteen years, and sometimos owns that there are pj
she has not mastered yet. I fancy Mr. Warburton is afraid of him,
and is a little given to fancy that everybody should bow down to
him. Now if there is anything certain about tho Duke it is this,
— that he doesn't want any one to bow down to him. Ho hates all
bowing down."

" I don't think he loves those who oppose him."

"It is not the opposition he hates, but the cause in the man's
mind which may produco it. When Sir Orlando opposed him, and
he thought that Sir Orlando's opposition was founded on jealousy,
then ho despised Sir Orlando. But had he believed in Sir Orlando's
boliof in the new ships, he would havo been capable of pressii
Orlando to his bosom, although he might have been forced to oppose
Sir Orlando's ships in the Cabinet."

" He is a Sir Bayard to you," said rhineas, laughing.

PHINEAS FINN HAS A BOOK TO BEAD. 423

"Rather a Don Quixote, whom I tako to have been the better
man of the two. I'll tell you what he is, Phineas, and how he is
better than all the real knights of whom I have ever read in story.
He is a man altogether without guile, and entirely devoted to his
country. Do not quarrel with him, if you can help it."

Phineas had not the slightest desire to quarrel with his chief;
but he did think it to be not improbable that his chief would quarrel
with him. It was notorious to him as a member of the Cabinet, —
as a colleague living with other colleagues by whom the Prime
Minister was coddled, and especially as the husband of his wife, who
lived almost continually with the Prime Minister's wife, — that the
Duke was cut to the quick by the accusation that he had hounded
Ferdinand Lopez to his death. The Prime Minister had defended
himself in the House against the first charge by means of Phineas
Finn, and now required Phineas to defend him from the second
charge in another way. This he was obliged to refuse to do. And
then the Minister's private Secretary looked very grave, and left him
with the impression that the Duke would be much annoyed, if not
offended. And already there had grown up an idea that the Duke
would have on the list of his colleagues none who were personally
disagreeable to himself. Though he was by no means a strong
Minister in regard to political measures, or the proper dominion of
his party, still men were afraid of him. It was not that he would
call upon them to resign, but that, if aggrieved, he would resign
himself. Sir Orlando Drought had rebelled and had tried a fall with
the Prime Minister, — and had greatly failed. Phineas determined
that if frowned upon he would resign, but that he certainly would
bring no action for libel against the " People's Banner.''

A week passed after he had seen Warburton before he by
chance found himself alone with the Prime Minister. This occurred
at the house in Carlton Gardens, at which he was a frequent
visitor, — and could hardly have ceased to be so without being
noticed, as his wife spent half her time there. It was evident to
him then that the occasion was sought for by the Duke. " Mr.
Finn, "said the Duke, " I wanted to have a word or two with you."

" Certainly," said Phineas, arresting his steps.

" Warburton spoke to you about that, — that newspaper."

' ' Yes, Duke. He seemed to think that there should be an action
for libel."

" I thought so too. It was very bad, you know."

"Yes; — it was bad. I have known the 'People's Banner' for
some time, and it is always bad."

"No doubt; — nodoubt. It is bad, very bad. Is it not sad that there
should be such dishonesty, and that nothing can be done to stop it?
Warburton says that you won't hear of an action in your name."

" There are reasons, Duke."

*' No doubt ; — no doubt. Well ; — there's an end of it. I own I
think the man should bo punished. I am not often vindictive, but I
think that he should bo punished. However, I suppose it cannot be,"

424 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" I don't see the way."

"So be it. So be it. It must be entirely for you to judge.
Are you not longing to get into the country, Mr. Finn ? "

" Hardly yet," said Phineas, surprised. "It's only June, and
we have two months more of it. What is the use of longing
yet?"

"Two months more ! " said the Duke. " Two months certainly.
But even two months will come to an end. "We go down to Match-
ing quietly, — very quietly, — when the time does come. You must
promise that you'll come with us. Eh ? I make a point of it, Mr.
Finn."

Phineas did promise, and thought that he had succeeded in
mastering one of the difficult passages in that book.

CHAPTER LXIII.

THE DUCHESS AND HER FRIEND.

But the Duke, though he was by far too magnanimous to be angry
with Phineas Finn because Phineas would not fall into his views
respecting the proposed action, was not the less tormented and
goaded by what the newspapers said. The assertion that he had
hounded Ferdinand Lopez to his death, that by his defence of him-
self he had brought the man's blood on his head, was made and
repeated till those around him did not dare to mention the name of
Lopez in his hearing. Even his wife was restrained and became
fearful, and in her heart of hearts began almost to wish for that
retirement to which he occasionally alluded as a distant Elysium
which he should never be allowed to reach. He was beginning to
have the worn look of an old man. His scanty hair was turning
grey, and his long thin cheeks longer and thinner. Of what he
did when sitting alone in his chamber, either at home or at the
Treasury Chamber, she knew less and less from day to day, and
she began to think that much of his sorrow arose from the fact that
among them they would allow him to do nothing. There waa DO
special subject now which stirred him to eagerness and brought
upon herself explanations which wero tedious and unintelligible
to her, but evidently delightful to him. There were no quints or
semitenths now, no aspirations for decimal perfection, no delight-
fully fatiguing hours spent in the manipulation of the multiplica-.
tion table. And she could not but observe that the old Duke now
spoke to her much less frequently of her husband's political posi-
tion than had been his habit. Through the first year and a half of
the present ministerial arrangement he had been constant in his
advice to her, and had always, even when things were difficult,
been cheery and full of hope. He still came frequently to the

THE DUCHESS AND HER FRIEND. 425

house, bat did not often see her. And when he did see her he
seemed to avoid all allusion either to the political successes or the
political reverses of the Coalition. And even her other special
allies seemed to labour under unusual restraint with her. Bar-
rington Erie seldom told her any news. Mr. Eattler never had a
word for her. "Warburton, who had ever been discreet, became
almost petrified by discretion. And even Phineas Einn had grown
to be solemn, silent, and uncommunicative. "Have you heard
who is the new Prime Minister ? " she said to Mrs. Einn one day.

" I as there been a change ? "

"I suppose so. Everything has become so quiet that I cannot
imagine that Plantagenet is still in office. Do you know what
anybody is doing ? "

" The world is going on very smoothly, I take it."

" I hate smoothness. It always means treachery and danger.
I feel sure that there will be a great blow up before long. I smell
it in the air. Don't you tremble for your husband ? "

" Why should I ? He likes being in office because it gives him
something to do ; but he would never be an idle man. As long as
he has a seat in Parliament I shall be contented."

"To have been Prime Minister is something after all, and they
can't rob him of ^that," said the Duchess recurring again to her
own husband. " I half fancy sometimes that the charm of the
thing is growing upon him."

" Upon the Duke ? "

"Yes. He is always talking of the delight he will have in
giving it up. He is always Cincinnatus, going back to his peaches
and his ploughs. But I fear he is beginning to feel that the salt
would be gone out of his life if he ceased to be the first man in
the kingdom. He has never said so, but there is a nervousness
about him when I suggest to him the name of this or that man
as his successor which alarms me. And I think he is becoming a
tyrant with his own men. He spoke the other day of Lord Drum-
mond almost as though he meant to have him whipped. It isn't
what one expected from him ; — is it ? "

" The weight of the load on his mind makes him irritable."

" Either that, or having no load. If he had really much to do
he wouldn't surely have time to think so much of that poor wretch
who destroyed himself. Such sensitiveness is simply a disease.
One can never punish any fault in the world if the sinner can re-
venge himself upon us by rushing into eternity. Sometimes I see
him shiver and shudder, and then I know that he is thinking of
Lopez."

" I can understand all that, Lady Glen."

" It isn't as it should be, though you can understand it. I'll bet
you a guinea that Sir Timothy Beeswax has to go out before the
beginning of next Session."

" I've no objection. But why Sir Timothy ? "

"He mentioned Lopez' name the other day before Plantagenet,

426 THE PRIME MINISTER.

I heard him. Plantagenet pulled that long face of his, looking as
though he meant to impose silence on the whole world for the next
six weeks. But Sir Timothy is brass itself, a sounding cymbal of
brass that nothing can silence. He went on to declare with that
loud voice of his that the death of Lopez was a good riddance of
bad rubbish. Plantagenet turned away and left the room and
shut himself up. He didn't declare to himself that he'd dismiss
Sir Timothy, because that's not the way of his mind. But you'll
see that Sir Timothy will have to go."

" That at any rate will be a good riddance of bad rubbish," said
Mrs. Finn who did not love Sir Timothy Beeswax.

Soon after that the Duchess made up her mind that she would
interrogate the Duke of St. Bungay as to the present state of affairs.
It was then the end of June, and nearly one of those long and
tedious months had gone by of which the Duke spoke so feelingly
when he asked Phineas Finn to come down to Matching. Hope
had been expressed in more than one quarter that this would be
a short Session. Such hopes are much more common in June than
in July, and, though rarely verified, serve to keep up the drooping
spirits of languid senators. " I suppose we shall bo early out of
town, Duke," she said one day.

"I think so. I don't see what there is to keep us. It often
happens that ministers are a great deal better in the country than
in London, and I fancy it will be so this year."

" You never think of the poor girls who haven't got their hus-
bands yet."

"They should make better use of their time. Besides, they can
get their husbands in the country."

" It's quite true that they never get to the end of their labours.
They are not like you members of Parliament who can shut U]
portfolios and go and shoot grouse. They have to keep at their
work spring and summer, autumn and winter, — year after year !
How they must hate the men they persecute V'

" I don't think we can put off going for their sake."

" Men are always selfish, I know. What do you think of Plan-
tagenet lately ? " The question was put very abruptly, without a
moment's notice, and there was no avoiding it.

" Think of him ! "

" Yes ; —what do you think of his condition ; — of his happiness,
his health, his capacity of endurance ? Will he be able to go on
much longer ? Now, my dear Duke, don't stare at me like that.
You know, and I know, that you haven't spoken a word to me for
the last two months. And you know, and I know, how many things
there aro of which we are both thinking in common. You haven't
quarrelled with Plantagenet ? "

" Quarrelled with him ! Good heavens, no."

" Of course I know you still call him your noble colleague, and
3rour noble friend, and make one of the same team with him and all
that. But it used to be so much nioro than that."

THE DUCHESS AND HER FRIEND. 427

" It is still more than that ; — very much more."

" It was you who made him Prime Minister."

" No, no, no ; — and again no. He made himself Prime Minister
by obtaining the confidence of the House of Commons. There is
no other possible way in which a man can become Prime Minister
in this country."

" If I were not very serious at this moment, Duke, I should make

an allusion to the Marines." No other human being could have

said this to the Duke of St. Bungay, except the young woman whom
he had petted all his life as Lady Glencora. "But I am very
serious," she continued, "and I may say not very happy. Of
course the big wigs of a party have to settle among themselves
who shall be their leader, and when this party was formed they
settled, at your advice, that Plantagenet should be the man."

" My dear Lady Glen, I cannot allow that to pass without con-
tradiction."

" Do not suppose that I am finding fault, or even that I am un-
grateful. No one rejoiced as I rejoiced. No one still feels so much
pride in it as I feel. I would have given ten years of my life to
make him Prime Minister, and now I would give five to keep him
so. It is like it was to be king, when men struggled among them-
selves who should be king. Whatever he may be, I am ambitious.
I love to think that other men should look to him as being above
them, and that something of this should come down upon me as
his wife. I do not know whether it was not the happiest moment
of my life when he told me that the Queen had sent for him."

" It was not so with him."

" No, Duke,— no ! He and I are very different. He only wants
to be useful. At any rate, that was all he did want."

" He is still the same. "

" A man cannot always be carrying a huge load up a hill without
having his back bent."

"I don't know that the load need bo so heavy, Duchess."

"Ah, but what is the load? It is not going to the Treasury
Chambers at eleven or twelve in the morning, and sitting four or
five times a week in the House of Lords till seven or eight o'clock.
He was never ill when he would remain in the House of Commons
till two in the morning, and not have a decent dinner above twice
in the week. The load I speak of isn't work."

" What is it then ?" said the Duke, who in truth understood it
all nearly as well as the Duchess herself.

" It is hard to explain, but it is very heavy."

" Responsibility, my dear, will always be heavy."

"But it is hardly that; — certainly not that alone. It is the
feeling that so many people blame him for so many things, and
the doubt in his own mind whether he may not deserve it. And
then he becomes fretful, and conscious that such fretfulness i3
beneath him and injurious to his honour. He condemns men in
his mind, and condemns himself for condescending to condemn

428 THE PRIME MINISTER.

them. He spends one quarter of an hour in thinking that as he is
Prime Minister he will be Prime Minister down to his fingers' ends,
and the next in resolving that he never ought to have been Prime
Minister at all." Here something like a frown passed across the
old man's brow, which was, however, no indication of anger.
" Dear Duke," she said, " you must not be angry with me. Who
is there to whom I can speak but you ? "

" Angry, my dear ! No, indeed ! "

" Because you looked as though you would scold me." At this
he smiled. "And of course all this tells upon his health."

" Do you think he is ill? "

" He never says so. There is no special illness. But he is thin
and wan and careworn. He does not eat and he does not sleep.
Of course I watch him."

" Does his doctor see him ? "

" Never. "When I asked him once to say a word to Sir James
Thorax, — for he was getting hoarse, you know, — he only shook his
head and turned on his heels. When he was in the other House,
and speaking every night, he would see Thorax constantly, and do
just what he was told. He used to like opening his mouth and
having Sir James to look down it. But now he won't let any one
touch him."

" What would you have me do, Lady Glen ? "

"I don't know."

" Do you think that he is so far out of health that he ought to
give it up ? "

"I don't say that. I don't dare to say it. I don't dare to
recommend anything. No consideration of health would tell with
him at all. If he were to die to-morrow as the penalty of doing
something useful to-night, he wouldn't think twice about it. If
you wanted to make him stay where he is the way to do 'it would
bo to tell him that his health wTas failing him. I don't know that
he does want to give up now."

" The autumn months will do everything for him; — only let him
be quiet."

" You aro coming to Matching, Duke ? M

" I suppose so, — if you ask me, — for a week or two."

11 You must come. I am quite nervous if you desert us. I think
he becomes moro estranged eveiy day from all the others. I know
you won't do a mischief by repeating what I say."

" I hope not."

1 ' He seems to me to turn his nose up at everybody. He used to
like Mr. Monk ; but he envies Mr. Monk, because Mr. Monk is
Chancellor of the Exchequer. I asked him whether we shouldn't
have Lord Drummond at Matching, and he told me angrily that I
might ask all the Government if I liked."

"Drummond contradicted him the other day."

" I knew thero was something. He has got to be like a bear with
a sore head, Duke. You should have seen his face the other day

THE DUCHESS AND HER FRIEND. 429

when Mr. Eattler made some suggestion to him about the proper
way of dividing farms."

" I don't think he ever liked Eattler."

" What of that ? Don't I have to smile upon men whom I hate
like poison ; — and women too, which is worse ? Do you think that
I love old Lady Earnsden, or Mrs. MacPherson ? He used to be so
fond of Lord Cantrip."

" I think he likes Lord Cantrip," said the Duke.

"He asked his lordship to do something, and Lord Cantrip
declined."

" I know all about that," said the Duke.

" And now he looks gloomy at Lord Cantrip. His friends won't
stand that kind of thing, you know, for ever."

M He is always courteous to Finn," said the Duke.

" Yes ; — just now he is on good terms with Mr. Finn. He would
never be harsh to Mr. Finn, because he knows that Mrs. Finn is
the one really intimate female friend whom I have in the world.
After all, Duke, besides Plantagenet and the children, there are
only two persons in the world whom I really love. There are only
you and she. She will never desert me, — and you must not desert
me either." Then he put his hand behind her waist, and stooped
over her and kissed her brow, and swore to her that he would never
desert her.

But what Was he to do ? He knew, without being told by the
Duchess, that his colleague and chief was becoming, from day to
day, more difficult to manage. He had "been right enough in
laying it down as a general rule that Prime Ministers are selected
for that position by the general confidence of the House of Com-
mons ; — but he was aware at the same time that it had hardly been
so in the present instance. There had come to be a dead lock in
affairs, during which neither of the two old and well-recognised
leaders of parties could command a sufficient following for the
carrying on of a government. With unusual patience these two
gentlemen had now for the greater part of three Sessions sat by,
offering but little opposition to the Coalition, but of course biding
their time. They, too, called themselves, — perhaps thought them-
selves,— Cincinnatuses. But their ploughs and peaches did not
suffice to them, and they longed again to bo in every mouth, and
to have, if not their deeds, then even their omissions blazoned in
every paragraph. The palate accustomed to Cayenne pepper can
hardly be gratified by simple salt. When that dead lock had come,
politicians who were really anxious for the country had been
forced to look about for a Premier, — and in the search the old
Duke had been the foremost. The Duchess had hardly said more
than the truth when she declared that her husband's promotion
had been effected by their old friend. But it is sometimes easier
to make than to unmake. Perhaps the time had now in truth
come, in which it would be better for the country that the usual
state of things should again exist. Perhaps,— nay, the Duke now

430 THE PRIME MINISTER.

thought that ho saw that it was so, — Mr. Gresham might again
have a liberal majority at his back if the Duke of Omnium could
fmd some graceful mode of retiring. But who was to tell all this
to the Duke of Omnium ? There was only one man in all England
to whom such a task was possible, and that was the old Duke him-
self,— who during the last two years had been constantly urgent
with his friend not to retire ! How often since he had taken office
had the conscientious and timid Minister begged of his friend per-
mission to abandon his high office ! But that permission had always
been refused, and now, for the last three months, the request had
not been repeated. The Duchess probably was right in saying
that her husband " didn't want to give it up now."

But ho, the Duke of St. Bungay, had brought his friend into the
trouble, and it was certainly his duty to extricate him from it.
The admonition might come in the rude shape of repeated minori-
ties in the House of Commons. Hitherto the number of votes at
the command of the Ministry had not been very much impaired. A
few always fall off as time goes on. Aristides becomes too just, and
the mind of man is greedy of novelty. Sir Orlando also, had taken
with him a few, and it may be that two or three had told them-
selves that there could not be all that smoke raised by the " People's
Banner " without some fire below it. But there was a good working
majority, — very much at Mr. Monk's command, — and Mr. Monk
was moved by none of that feeling of rebellion which had urged
Sir Orlando on to his destruction. It was difficult to find a cause
for resignation. And yet the Duke of St. Bungay, who had
watched the House of Commons closely for nearly half a century,
was aware that the Coalition which he had created had done its
work, and was almost convinced that it would not be permitted to
remain very much longer in power. He had seen symptom! of
impatience in Mr. Daubeny, and Mr. Gresham had snorted once
and twice, as though eager for the battle.

CHAPTER LXIY.

THE NEW K.O.

Early in Juno had died the Marquis of Mount Pi dgett. In all Eng-
land there was no older family than that of tho Fichy Fid
whoso baronial castle of Fichy Fellows is still kept up, the
of archceologists and the charm of tourists. Some people declare it
to be the most perfect castlo residence in tho country. It is admitted
to have been completed in tho time of Edward AM., and is thought
to have been commenced in the days of Edward I. It has always
belonged to the Fichy Fidgett family, who with a persistence that

$HE NEW E.G. 4S1

is becoming rarer every day, has clung to every acre that it ever
owned, and has added acre to acre in every age. _ The consequence
has been that the existing Marquis of Mount Fidgett has always
been possessed of great territorial influence, and has been nattered,
cajoled, and revered by one Prime Minister after another. Now the
late Marquis had been, as was the custom with theFichy Fidgetts,
a man of pleasure. If the truth may be spoken openly, it should
be admitted that he had been a man of sin. The duty of keeping
together the family property he had performed with a perfect zeal.
It had always been acknowledged on behalf of the existing Mar-
quis, that in whatever manner he might spend his money, however
base might be the gullies into which his wealth descended, he never
spent more than he had to spend. Perhaps there was but little
praise in this, as he could hardly have got beyond his enormous
income unless he had thrown it away on race-courses and roulette
tables. But it had long been remarked of the Mount Fidgett mar-
quises that they were too wise to gamble. The family had not been
an honour to the country, but had nevertheless been honoured by
the country. The man who had just died had perhaps been as
selfish and as sensual a brute as had ever disgraced humanity ; — but
nevertheless he had been a Knight of the Garter. He had been
possessed of considerable parliamentary interest, and the Prime
Minister of the day had not dared not to make him a Knight of
the Garter. All the Marquises of Mount Fidgett had for many
years past been Knights of the Garter. On the last occasion a good
deal had been said about it. A feeling had even then begun to
prevail that the highest personal honour in the gift of the Crown
should not be bestowed upon a man whose whole life was a dis-
grace, and who did indeed seem to deserve every punishment which
human or divine wrath could inflict. He had a large family, but
they were all illegitimate. Wives generally he liked, but of his
own wife he very soon broke the heart. Of all the companies with
which he consorted he was the admitted king, but his subjects could
do no man any honour. The Castle of Fichy Fellows was visited
by the world at large, but no man or woman with a character to
lose went into any house really inhabited by the Marquis. And
yet he had become a Knight of the Garter, and was therefore, pre-
sumably, one of those noble Englishmen to whom the majesty of
the day was willing to confide the honour, and glory, and safety of
the Crown. There were many who disliked this. That a base
reprobate should become a Marquis and a peer of Parliament was
in accordance with the constitution of the country. Marquises and
peers are not as a rule reprobates, and the misfortune was one which
could not bo avoided. He might have illused his own wife and
other wives' husbands without special remark, had he not been
made a Knight of the Garter. The Minister of the day, however,
had known the value of the man's support, *Vid, being thick-skinned,
had lived through the reproafdi*" *i*tor«r; without much damage to
himself. Now the wicked Marqui0 was dead, and it was the privi-

432 THE PRIME MINISTER.

lege and the duty of the Duke of Omnium to select another
Knight.

There was a good deal said about it at the time. There was a
rumour, — no doubt a false rumour, — that the Crown insisted in
this instance on dictating a choice to the Duke of Omnium. But
oven were it so, the Duke could not have been very much aggrieved,
as the choice dictated was supposed to be that of himself. The lato
Duke had been a Knight, and when he had died, it was thought
that his successor would succeed also to the ribbon. The new Duke
had been at that time in the Cabinet, and had remained there, but
had accepted an office inferior in rank to that which he had formerly
filled. The whole history of these things has been written, and
may be read by the curious. The Duchess, newly a duchess then
and very keen in reference to her husband's rank, had instigated
him to demand the ribbon as his right. This he had not only
declined to do, but had gone out of the way to say that he thought
it should be bestowed elsewhere. It had been bestowed elsewhere,
and there had been a very general feeling that he had been passed
over because his easy temperament in such matters had been seen
and utilised. Now, whether the Crown interfered or not, — a mat-
ter on which no one short of a writer of newspaper articles dares
to make a suggestion till time shall have made mellow the doings
of sovereigns and their ministers, — the suggestion was made. The
Duke of St. Bungay ventured to say to his friend that no other
selection was possible.

" Eecommend her Majesty to give it to myself ! " said the Primo
Minister.

" You will find it to bo her Majesty's wish. It has been very
common. Sir Eobert Walpole had it."

" I am not Sir Eobert Walpole." The Duke named other exam-
ples of Prime Ministers who had been gartered by themselves.
But our Prime Minister declared it to be out of the question. No
honour of that description should be conferred upon him as long as
he held his present position. The old Duke was much in earnest,
and there was a great deal said on the subject, — but at last it became
clear, not only to him, but to the members of the Cabinet generally,
and then to the outside world, that the Primo Minister would not
consent to accept the vacant honour.

For nearly a month after this the question subsided. A Minister
is not bound to bestow a Garter the day after it becomes v.
There are other Knights to guard the throne, and one may be spared
for a short interval. But during that interval many eyes were turned
towards the stall in St. George's Chapel. A good thing should be
given away like a clap of thunder if envy, hatred, and malice are
to be avoided. A broad blue ribbon across the chest is of all deco-
rations the most becoming, or, at any rate, the most desired,
there was, I fear, an impression on the minds of some mon that the
Duke in such matters was weak and might bo persuaded. Then
thero caino to him an application in the form of a letter from the

TE& NEW K.G. 433

new Marquis of Mount Fidgett, — a man whom lie had never seen,
and of whom he had never heard. The new Marquis had hitherto
resided in Italy, and men only knew of him that he was odious to
his uncle. But he had inherited all the Fichy Fidgett estates, and
was now possessed of immense wealth and great honour. Ho
ventured, he said, to represent to the Prime Minister that for
generations past the Marquises of Mount Fidgett had been
honoured by the Garter. His political status in the country
was exactly that enjoyed by his late uncle ; but he intended that
his political career should be very different. He was quito pre-
pared to support the Coalition. " What is he that he should ex-
pect to be made a Knight of the Garter ? " said our Duke to the
old Duke.

" He is the Marquis of Mount Fidgett, and next to yourself,
perhaps, the richest peer of Great Britain."

" Have riches anything to do with it ? "

" Something certainly. You would not name a pauper peer."

" Yes ; — if he was a man whose career had been highly honour-
able to the country. Such a man, of course, could not be a pauper,
but I do not think his want of wealth should stand in the way of
his being honoured by the Garter."

" Wealth, rank, and territorial influence have been generally
thought to have something to do with it."

" And character nothing I "

" My dear Duke, I have not said so."

" Something very_ much like it, my friend, if you advocate the
claim of the Marquis of Mount Fidgett. Did you approve of the
selection of the late Marquis ? " •

" I was in the Cabinet at the time, and will therefore say nothing
against it. But I have never heard anything against this man's
character."

"Nor in favour of it. To my thinking he has as much claim,
and no more, as that man who just opened the door. He was
never seen in the Lower House."

" Surely that cannot signify."

" You think, then, that he should have it ? "

"You know what I think," said the elder statesman thought-
fully. "In my opinion there is no doubt that you would best
consult the honour of the country by allowing her Majesty to
bestow this act of grace upon a subject who has deserved so well
from her Majesty as yourself."

" It is quite impossible."

" It seems to me," said the Duke, not appearing to notice the
refusal of his friend, ■ ' that in this peculiar position you should
allow yourself to be persuaded to lay aside your own feeling. No
man of high character is desirous of securing to himself decora-
tions which he may bestow upon others."

" Just so."

" But here the decoration bestowed upon the chief whom we all

434 THE PRIME MINISTER.

follow, "would confer a wider honour upon many than it could do if
given to any one else."

" The same may be said of any Prime Minister."

" Not so. A commoner, without high permanent rank or large
fortune, is not lowered in the world's esteem by not being of the
Order. You will permit me to say — that a Duke of Omnium has
not reached that position which he ought to enjoy unless he be a
Knight of the Garter." It must be borne in mind that the old
Duke, who used this argument, had himself worn the ribbon for
the last thirty years. " But if "

"Well;— well."

"But if you are, — I must call it obstinate."

" I am obstinate in that respect."

" Then," said the Duke of St. Bungay, "I should recommend
her Majesty to give it to the Marquis."

"Never," said the Prime Minister, with very unaccustomed
energy. " I will never sanction the payment of such a price for
services which should never be bought or sold."

" It would give no offence."

" That is not enough, my friend. Here is a man of whom I
only know that he has bought a great many marble statues. He
has done nothing for his country, and nothing for his sovereign."

"If you are determined to look toVhat you call desert alone, I
would name Lord Drummond." The Prime Minister frowi,
looked unhappy. It was quite true that Lord Drummond had
contradicted him, and that he had felt the injury grievously.
" Lord Drummond has been very true to us."

♦ ' Yes j— true to us ! What is that ? "

"He is in every respect a man of character, and well looked
upon in the country. There would be some enmity and a good
deal of envy — which might be avoided by either of the other courses
I have proposed; but those courses you will not take. I take it for
granted that you are anxious to secure the support of those who
generally act with Lord Drummond."

" I don't know that I am." Tho old Duke shrugged his shoul-
ders. " What I mean is, that I do not think that we ought to pay
an increased price for their support. His lordship is very well as
tho Head of an Office ; but he is not nearly so great a man as my
friend Lord Cantrip."

" Cantrip would not join us. There is no evil in politics so

freat as that of seeming to buy the men who will not come without
uying. These rewards are fairly given for political support."
" I had not, in truth, thought of Lord Cantrip."
"Ho does not expect it any more than my butl
"I only named him as having a claim stronger than any that
Lord Drummond can put forward. I have a man in my mind to
whom I think such an honour is fairly due. What do you say to
Lord Earlybird P " The old Duke opened his mouth and lifted up
his hands in unaffected surprise.

THE NEW K.G. y.OJ

5?he Earl of Earlybird was an old man of a very peculiar cha-
racter. He had never opened his month in the House of Lords
and had never sat in the House of Commons. The political world
knew him not at all. He had a house in town, but very rarely
lived there. Early Park, in the parish of Bird, had been his resi-
dence since he first came to the title forty years ago, and had been
the scene of all his labours= Ho was a nobleman possessed of a
moderate fortune, and, as men said of him, of a moderate intellect.
He had married early in life and was blessed with a large family.
But he had certainly not been an idle man. Eor nearly half a
century he had devoted himself to the improvement of the labour-
ing classes, especially in reference to their abodes and education,
and had gradually, without any desire on his own part, worked
himself up into public notice. He was not an eloquent man, but
he would take the chair at meeting after meeting, and sit with
admirable patience for long hours to hear the eloquence of others.
He was a man very simple in his tastes, and had brought up his
family to follow his habits. He had therefore been able to do
munificent things with moderate means, and in the long course of
years had failed in hiding his munificence from the public. ' Lord
Earlybird, till after middle life, had not been much considered,
but gradually there had grown up a feeling that there were not
very many better men in the country. He was a fat bald-headed
old man, who was always pulling his spectacles on and off, nearly
blind, very awkward, and altogether indifferent to appearance.
Probably he had no more idea of the Grarter in his own mind than
he had of a Cardinal's hat. But he had grown into fame, and had
not escaped the notice of the Prime Minister.

"Do you know anything against Lord Earlybird?" asked the
Prime Minister.

" Certainly nothing against him, Duke."
" Nor anything in his favour ? "

" I know him very well, — I think I may say intimately. There
isn't a better man breathing."

" An honour to the peerage !" said the Prime Minister.
"An honour to humanity rather," said the other, " as being of
all men the least selfish and most philanthropical."
"What more can be said for a man ? "

1 ' But according to my view he is not the sort of person whom
one would wish to see made a Knight of the Garter. If he had the
ribbon he would never wear it."

"The honour surely does not consist in it's outward sign. I
am entitled to wear some kind of coronet, but I do not walk about
with it on my head. He is a man of a great heart and of many
virtues. Surely the country, and her Majesty on behalf of tho
country, should delight to honour such a man."

' ' I really doubt whether you look at tho matter in the right
light," said the ancient statesman, who was in truth frightened at
what was^ being proposed. " You must not be angry with me if I
speak plainly."

436

THE PRIME MINISTER.

"My friend, I do not think that it is within your power to
make me angry."

" Well then, — I will get you for a moment to listen to my view
on the matter. There are certain great prizes in the gift of the
Crown and of the Ministers of the Crown, — the greatest of which
are now traditionally at the disposal of the Prime Minister. These
are always given to party friends. I may perhaps agree with you
that party support should not be looked to alone. Let us acknow-
ledge that character and services should be taken into account.
But the very theory of our Government will be overset by a
reversal of the rule which I have attempted to describe. You will
offend all your own friends, and only incur the ridicule of your
opponents. It is no doubt desirable that the high seats of tho
country should be filled by men of both parties. I would not wish
to see every Lord-Lieutenant of a county a Whig." In his en-
thusiasm the old Duke went back to his old phraseology. "But I
know that my opponents when their turn comes will appoint their
friends to the Lieutenancies, and that so the balance will be main-
tained. If you or I appoint their friends, they won't appoint ours.
Lord Earlybird's proxy has been in the hands of the conservative
leader of the House of Lords ever since he succeeded his father."
Then the old man paused, but his friend waited to listen whether
the lecture were finished before he spoke, and the Duke of St.
Bungay continued. "And, moreover, though Lord Early bird is a
very good man, — so much so that many of us may well envy him,
— ho is not just the man fitted for this destination. A Knight of
the Garter should be a man prone to show himself, a public man,
one whose work in the country has brought him face to face with
his fellows. There is an aptness, 'a propriety, a fitness in these
things which one can understand perhaps better than explain."

"Those fitnesses and aptnesses change, I think, from day to
day. There was a time when a knight should bo a fighting man."

"That has gone by."

" And the aptnesses and fitnesses in accordance with which the
sovereign of the day was induced to grace with tho Garter such a
man as the late Marquis of Mount Fidgett have, I hope, gone by.
You will admit that rM

" There is no such man proposed."

" And other fitnesses and aptnesses will go by, till the time will
come when the man to be selected as Lieutenant of a county will
be the man whose selection will be most beneficial to the county,
and Knights of the Garter will be chosen for their real virtues."

" I think you are Quixotic. A Prime Minister is of all men
bound to follow the traditions of his country, or, when he leaves
them, to leave them with very gradual steps."

" And if he break that law and throw over all that thraldom ; —
what then?"

" Ho will lose the confidence which has made him what ho is."

" It is well that I know the penalty. It is hardly heavy enough

THEEE MUST BE TIME. 487

to enforce strict obedience. As for the matter in dispute it had better
stand over yet for a few days." When the Prime Minister said this
the old Duke knew very well that he intended to have his own way.

And so it was. A week passed by and then the younger Duke
wrote to the elder Duke saying that he had given to the matter all
the consideration in his power, and that he had at last resolved to
recommend her Majesty to bestow the ribbon on Lord Earlybird.
He would not, however, take any step for a few days so that his
friend might have an opportunity of making further remonstrance if
he pleased. No further remonstrance was made, and Lord Earlybird,
much to his own amazement, was nominated to the vacant Garter.

The appointment was one certainly not popular with any of the
Prime Minister's friends. With some, such as Lord Drummond,
it indicated a determination on the part of the Duke to declare his
freedom from all those bonds which had hitherto been binding
on the Heads of Government. Had the Duke selected himself
certainly no offence would have been given. Had the Marquis of
Mount Fidgett been the happy man, excuses would have been
made. But it was unpardonable to Lord Drummond that he
should have been passed over and that the Garter should have
been given to Lord Earlybird. To the poor old Duke the offence
was of a different nature. He had intended to use a very strong
word when he told his friend that his proposed conduct would be
Quixotic. The Duke of Omnium would surely know that the
Duke of St. Bungay could not support a Quixotic Prime Minister.
And yet the younger Duke, the Telemachus of the last two years,
— after hearing that word, — had rebelled against his Mentor, and
had obstinately adhered to his Quixotism ! The greed of power
had fallen upon the man, — so said the dear old Duke to himself, —
and the man's fall was certain. Alas, alas ; had he been allowed to
go before the poison had entered his veins, how much less would
have been his suffering ! .

CHAPTEE LXY.

THERE MUST BE TIME.

At the end of the third week in July, when the Session was still
sitting, and when no day had been absolutely as yet fixed for the
escape of members, Mr. Wharton received a letter from his friend
Arthur Fletcher which certainly surprised him very much, and
which left him for a day or two unable to decide what answer
ought to be given. It will be remembered that Ferdinand Lopez
destroyed himself in March, now three months since. The act had
been more than a nine days' wonder, having been kept in tthe

438 THE PRIME MINISTER.

memory of many men by the sedulous efforts of Quintus Slide, and
by the fact that the name of so great a man as the Prime Minister
was concerned in the matter. But gradually the feeling about
Ferdinand Lopez had died away, and his fate, though it had out-
lived the nominal nine days, had sunk into general oblivion before
the end of the ninth week. The Prime Minister had not forgotten
the man, nor had Quintus Slide. The name was still common in
the columns of the " People's Banner," and was never mentioned
without being read by tho unfortunate Duke. But others had
ceased to talk of Ferdinand Lopez.

To the mind, however, of Arthur Fletcher the fact of the man's
death was always present. A dreadful incubus had come upon his
life, blighting all his prospects, obscuring all his sun by a great
cloud, covering up all his hopes, and changing for him all his out-
look into the world. It was not only that Emily Wharton should
not have become his wife, but that the woman whom he loved with
so perfect a love should have been sacrificed to so vile a creature as
this man. He never blamed her, — but looked upon his fate as
Fate. Then on a sudden he heard that the incubus was removed.
The man who had made him and her wretched had by a sudden
stroke been taken away and annihilated. There was nothing now
between him and her, — but a memory. He could certainly forgivo,
if she could forget.

Of course he had felt at the first moment that time must pass by.
He had become certain that her mad love for the man had perished.
He had been made sure that she had repented her own deed in
sackcloth and ashes. It had been acknowledged to him by her
father that she had been anxious to be separated from her husband,
if her husband would consent to such a separation. And then,
remembering as he did his last interview with her, having in his
mind as he did every circumstance of that caress which he had
given her, — down to the very quiver of the fingers ho had pressed,
— he could not but flatter himself that at last he had touched her
heart. But there must be time ! Tho conventions of the world
operate on all hearts, especially on the female heart, and teach that
new vows, too quickly given, are disgraceful. Tho world has
seemed to decide that a widow should take two years before she
can bestow herself on a second man without a touch of scandal.
But the two years is to include everything, the courtship of the
second as well as the burial of the first, — and not only the court-
ship, but the preparation of the dresses and the wedding itself.
And then this case was different from all others. Of course there
must bo time, but surely not here a full period of two years ! Why
should the life of two young persons be so wasted, if it were tho
case that they loved each other ? Thero was horror here, remorso,
pity, perhaps pardon ; but there was no love, — none of that love
which is always for a time increased in its fervour by the loss of
the loved object; none of that passionate devotion which must at
first make the very idea of another man's love intolerable. There

THERE MUST BE TIME. 439

had been a great escape, — an escape which could not but be
inwardly acknowledged, however little prone the tongue might be
to confess it. Of course there must be time ; — but how much time ?
He argued it in his mind daily, and at each daily argument the
time considered by him to be appropriate was shortened. Threo
months had passed and he had not yet seen her. He had resolved
that he would not even attempt to see her till her father should
consent. But surely a period had passed sufficient to justify him
in applying for that permission. And then he bethought himself
that it would be best in applying for that permission to tell every-
thing to Mr. "Wharton. He well knew that he would be telling no
secret. Mr. Wharton knew the state of his feelings as well as he
knew it himself. If ever there was a case in which time might be
abridged, this was one; and therefore he wrote his letter, — as
follows; —

"3, Court, Temple,

"24th July, 187— .

" My dear Mr. Wiiartoit,

" It is a matter of great regret to me that we should see so
little of each other,— and especially of regret that I should never
now see Emily.

11 1 may as well rush into the matter at once. Of course this
letter will not be shown to her, and therefore I may write as I
would speak if I were with you. The wretched man whom she
married is gone, and my love for her is the same as it was before
she had ever seen him, and as it has always been from that day to
this. I could not address you or even think of her as yet, did I
not know that that marriage had been unfortunate. But it has not
altered her to me in the least. It has been a dreadful trouble to
us all, — to her, to you, to me, and to all connected with us. But
it is over, and I think that it should be looked back upon as a
black chasm which we have bridged and got over, and to which we
need never cast back our eyes.

" I have no right to think that, though she might some day love
another man, she would, therefore, love me ; but I think that I
have a right to try, and I know that I should have your good- will.
It is a question of time, but if I let time go by, some one else may
slip in. Who can tell ? I would not be thought to press indecently,
but I do feel that here the ordinary rules which govern men and
women are not to be followed. He made her unhappy almost
from the first day. She had made a mistake which you and she
and all acknowledged. She has been punished ; and so have I, —
very severely I can assure you. Wouldn't it be a good thing to
bring all this to an end as soon as possible, — if it can be brought
to an end in the way I want ?

" Pray tell me what you think. I would propose that you
should ask her to see me, and then say just as much as you please.
Of course I should not press her at first. You might ask me to
dinner, and all that kind of thing, and so she would get used to

440 THE PRIME MINISTER,

me. It is not as though we had not heen very, very old friends.
But I know you will do the best. I have put off writing to you
till I sometimes think that I shall go mad over it if I sit still any
longer.

" Your affectionate friend,

" Arthur Fletcher."

When Mr. Wharton got this letter he was very much puzzled.
Could he have had his wish, he too would have left the chasm
behind him as proposed by his young friend, and have never cast
an eye back upon the frightful abyss. He would willingly have
allowed the whole Lopez incident to be passed over as an episode in
their lives, which, if it could not be forgotten, should at any rate
never be mentioned. They had all been severely punished, as
Fletcher had said, and if the matter could end there he would be
well content to'bear on his own shoulders all that remained of that
punishment, and to let everything begin again. But he knew very
well it could not be so with her. Even yet it was impossible to
induce Emily to think of her husband without regret. It had been
only too manifest during the last year of their married life that
she had felt horror rather than love towards him. When there
had been a question of his leaving her behind, should he go to
Central America, she had always expressed herself more than
willing to comply with such an arrangement. She would go with
him should he order her to do so, but would infinitely sooner remain
in England. And then, too, she had spoken of him while alive with
disdain and disgust, and had submitted to hear her father describe
him as infamous. Her life had been one long misery, under which
she had seemed gradually to be perishing. Now she was relieved, and
her health was re-established. A certain amount of unjoyous
cheerfulness was returning to her. It was impossible to doubt that
she must have known that a great burden had fallen from her back.
And yet she would never allow his name to be mentioned without
giving some outward sign of affection for his memory. If he was
bad, so were others bad. There were many worse than he. Such
were the excuses she made for her late husband. Old Mr. Whar-
ton, who really thought that in all his experience he had ni
known any one worse than his son-in-law, would sometimes become
testy, and at last resolved that he would altogether hold his tongue.
But he could hardly hold his tongue now.

He, no doubt, had already formed his hopes in regard to Arthur
Fletcher. Ho had trusted that the man whom he had taught him-
self some years since to regard as his wished-for son-in-law, might
be constant and strong enough in his love to forget all that was
past, and to bo still willing to redeem his daughter from misery.
But as days had crept on since the scene at the Ten way Junction,
he had become aware that time must do much before such relief
would be accepted. It was, however, still possible that the presence
of the man mi^bit do something, . Hitherto, since the deed had been

THEEE MUST BE TIME. 441

done, no stranger had dined in Manchester Square. She herself
had seen no visitor. She had hardly left the house except to go to
church, and then had been enveloped in the deepest crape. Once
or twice she had allowed herself to be driven out in a carriage,
and, when she had done so, her father had always accompanied
her. No widow, since the seclusion of widows was first ordained,
had been more strict in maintaining the restraints of widowhood as
enjoined. How then could he bid her receive a new lover, — or
how suggest to her that a lover was possible ? And yet he did not
like to answer Arthur Fletcher without naming some period for
the present mourning, — some time at which he might at least
show himself in Manchester Square.

11 1 have had a letter from Arthur Fletcher," he said to his
daughter a day or two after he had received it. He was sitting
after dinner, and Everett was also in the room.

" Is he in Herefordshire ? " she asked.

" No ; — he is up in town, attending to the House of Commons, I
suppose. He had something to say to me, and as we are not in the
way of meeting he wrote. He wants to come and see you."

"Not yet, papa."

** He talked of coming and dining here."

" Oh yes ; pray let him come."

II You would not mind that ? "

II I would dine early and be out of the way. I should be so
glad if you would have somebody sometimes. I shouldn't think
then that I was such a— such a restraint to you."

But this was not what Mr. Wharton desired. " I shouldn't like
that, my dear. Of course he would know that you were in the
house."

" Upon my word, I think you might meet an old friend like
that," said Everett.

She looked at her brother, and then at her father, and burst into
tears. " Of course you shall not be pressed if it would be irksome
to you," said her father.

11 It is the first plunge that hurts," said Everett. " If you could
once bring yourself to do it, you would find afterwards that you
were more comfortable."

" Papa," she said slowly, " I know what it means. His good-
ness I shall always remember. You may tell him I say so. But
I cannot meet him yet." Then they pressed her no further. Of
course she had understood. Her father could not even ask her to say
a word which might give comfort to Arthur as to some long distant
time.

He went down to the House of Commons the next day, and saw
his young friend there. Then they walked up and down West-
minster Hall for nearly an hour, talking over the matter with the
most absolute freedom. " It cannot be for the benefit of any one,"
said Arthur Fletcher, " that she should immolate herself like an
Indian widow,— and for the sake of such a man as that ! Of course

442 THE PRIME MINISTER.

I have no right to dictate to you,— hirdly, perhaps, to give an
opinion."

"Yes, yes, yes."

" It does seem to me then, that you ought to force her out of
that kind of thing. Why should she not go down to Hereford-
shire P "

" In time, Arthur, — in time."

" But people's lives are running away."

"My dear fellow, if you were to see her you would know how
vain it would be to try to hurry her. There must be time."

CHAPTEE LXVI.

THE END OE THE SESSION.

The Duke of St. Bungay had been very much disappointed. He
had contradicted with a repetition of noes the assertion of the
Duchess that he had been the Warwick who had placed the Prime
Minister's crown on the head of the Duke of Omnium, but no doubt
he felt in his heart that he had done so much towards it that his
advice respecting the vacant Garter, when given with so much
weight, should have been followed. Ho was an old man, and had
known the secrets of Cabinet Councils when his younger fiiend
was a little boy. He had given advico to Lord John, and had
been one of tho first to congratulate Sir Eobert Peel when that
statesman became a free-trader. He had sat in conclave with
THE Duke, and had listened to the bold liberalism of old Earl
Grey, both in the Lower and the Upper House. He had been
always great in council, never giving his advice unasked, nor
throwing his pearls before swine, and cautious at all times to avoid
excesses on this side or on that. He had never allowed himself a
hobby of his own to ride, had never been ambitious, had never
sought to be the ostensible leader of men. But he did now think
that when, with all his experience, he spoke very much in earnest,
some attention should be paid to what he said. When ho had
describod a certain line of conduct as Quixotic he had boon v< vy
much in earnest. He did not usually indulge in strong language,
and Quixotic, when applied to tho conduct of a Prime Minis! •
to his ideas, very strong. The thing described as Quixotic had now
been dono, and the Duke of St. Bungay was a disappointed man.

For an hour or two he thought that he must gently secede from
all private councils with tho Prime Minister. To resign, or to put
impediments in the way of his own chief, did not belong to his
character. That lino of strategy had come into fashion since he
had learnt his political rudiments, and was very odious to him.

THE END OP THE SESSION. 443

But in all party compacts there must be inner parties, peculiar
bonds, and confidences stricter, stronger, and also sweeter than
those which bind together the twenty or thirty ^ gentlemen who
form' a Government. From those closer ties which had hitherto
bound him to the Duke of Omnium he thought, for a while, that
he must divorce himself. Surely on such a subject as the nomi-
nation of a Kuight of the Garter his advice might have been taken,
— if only because it had come from him ! And so he kept himself
apart for a day or two, and even in the House of Lords ceased to
whisper kindly, cheerful words into the ears of his next neighbour.

But various remembrances crowded in upon him by degrees,
compelling him to moderate and at last to abandon his purpose.
Among these the first was the memory of the kiss which he had
given the Duchess. The woman had told him that she loved him,
that he was one of the very few whom she did love, — and the word
had gone straight into his old heart. She had bade him not to
desert her ; and he had not only given her his promise, but he had
converted that promise to a sacred pledge by a kiss. He had
known well why she had exacted the promise. The turmoil in her
husband's mind, the agony which he sometimes 'endured when
people spoke ill of him, the aversion which he had at first genu-
inely felt to an office for which he hardly thought himself fit, and
now the gradual love of power created by the exercise of power,
had all been seen by her, and had created that solicitude which had
induced her to ask for the promise. The old Duke had known them
both well, but had hardly as yet given the Duchess credit for so true
a devotion to her husband. It now seemed to him that though she
had failed to love the man, she had given her entire heart to the
Prime Minister. He sympathized with her altogether, and, at any
rate, could not go back from his promise.

And then he remembered, too, that if this man did anything
amiss in the high office which he had been made to fill, he who had
induced him to fill it was responsible. What right had he, the
Duke of St. Bungay, to be angry because his friend was not all
wise at all points ? Let the Droughts and the Drummonds and
the Beeswaxes quarrel among themselves or with their colleagues.
Ho belonged to a different school, in the teachings of which there
was less perhaps of excitement and more of long-suffering ; — but
surely, also, more of nobility. He was, at any rate, too old to
change, and he would therefore be true to his friend through evil
and through good. Having thought this all out he again whis-
pered some cheery word to the Prime Minister, as they sat listening
to the denunciations of Lord Fawn, a liberal lord, much used to
business, but who had not been received into the Coalition. The
first whisper and the second whisper the Prime Minister received
very coldly. He had fully appreciated the discontinuance of the
whispers, and was aware of the cause. He had made a selection on
his own unassisted judgment in opposition to his old friend's advice,
and this was the result. Let it be so ! All his friends were turning

444 THE PRIME MINISTER.

away from him and he would have to stand alone. If so, he would
stand alone till the pendulum of the House of Commons had told
him that it was time for him to retire. But gradually the deter-
mined good-humour of the old man prevailed. " He has a won-
derful gift of saying nothing with second-rate dignity," whispered
the repentant friend, speaking of Lord Fawn.

" A very honest man," said the Prime Minister in return.

" A sort of bastard honesty, — by precept out of stupidity. There
is no real oonviction in it, begotten by thought." This little bit of
criticism, harsh as it was, had the effect, and the Prime Minister
became less miserable than he had been.

But Lord Drummond forgave nothing. He still held his office,
but more than once he was seen in private conference with both Sir
Orlando and Mr. Boffin. He did not attempt to conceal his anger.
Lord Early bird ! An old woman ! One whom no other man in Eng-
land would have thought of making a Knight of the Garter ! It was
not, he said, personal disappointment in himself. There were half-
a-dozen peers whom he would willingly have seen so graced with-
out the slightest chagrin. But this must have been done simply
to show the Duke's power, and to let the world understand that he
owed nothing and would pay nothing to his supporters. It was
almost a disgrace, said Lord Drummond, to belong to a Government
the Head of which could so commit himself ! The Session was
nearly at an end, and Lord Drummond thought that no step could
be conveniently taken now. But it was quite clear to him that
this state of things could not be continued. It was observed that
Lord Drummond and the Prime Minister never spoke to each other
in the House, and that the Secretary of State for the Colonies, —
that being the office which he held, — never rose in his place after
Lord Early bird's nomination, unless to say a word or two as to his
own peculiar duties. It was very soon known to all the world that
there was war to the knife between Lord Drummond and the
Prime Minister.

And, strange to say, there seemed to be some feeling of general
discontent on this very trifling subject. When Aristides has boon
much too just the oyster-shells become numerous. It was said 1 hat
the Duke had been guilty of pretentious love of virtue in taking
Lord Earlybird out of his own path of life and forcing him to write
~K. G. after his name. There came out an article, of course in the
" People's Banner," headed, " Our Prime Minister's Good "Works,"
in which poor Lord Earlybird was ridiculed in a very unbecoming
manner, and in which it was asserted that the thing was dono
counterpoise to the iniquity displayed in "hounding Eerdinand
Lopez to his death." Whenever Eerdinand Lopez was mentioned
he had always been hounded. And then the article went on to
declare that either the Prime Minister had quarrelled with all his
colleagues, or else that all his colloagues had quarrelled with the
Prime Minister. Mr. Slide did not care which it might be, but,
whichever it might be, the poor country had to suifer when such a

THE END OF THE SESSION. 445

state of things was permitted. It was notorious that neither the
Duke of St. Bungay nor Lord Drummond would now even speak
to their own chief, so thoroughly were they disgusted with his con-
duct. Indeed it seemed that the only ally the Prime Minister had
in his own Cabinet was the Irish adventurer, Mr. Phineas Finn.
Lord Earlybird never read a word of all this, and was altogether
undisturbed as he sat in his chair in Exeter Hall, — or just at this
time of the year more frequently in the provinces. But the Duke
of Omnium read it all. After what had passed he did not dare to
show it to his brother Duke. He did not dare to tell his friend
that it was said in the newspapers that they did not speak to each
other. But every word from Mr. Slide's pen settled on his own
memory, and added to his torments. It came to be a fixed idea in
the Duke's mind that Mr. Slide was a gadfly sent to the earth for
the express purpose of worrying him.

And as a matter of course the Prime Minister in his own mind
blamed himself for what he had done. It is the chief torment of a
person constituted as he was that strong as may be the determi-
nation to do a thing, fixed as may be the conviction that that thing
ought to be done, no sooner has it been perfected than the objections
of others, which before had been inefficacious, become suddenly
endowed with truth and force. He did not like being told by Mr.
Slide that he ought not to have set his Cabinet against him, but
when he had in fact done so, then he believed what Mr. Slide
told him. As soon almost as the irrevocable letter had been winged
on its way to Lord Earlybird, he saw the absurdity of sending it.
Who was he that he should venture to set aside all the traditions
of office ? A Pitt or a Peel or a Palmerston might have done so,
because they had been abnormally strong. They had been Prime
Ministers by thejwork of their own hands, holding their powers
against the whole world. But he, — he told himself daily that he
was only there by sufferance, because at the moment no one else
could be found to take it. In such a condition should he not have
been bound by the traditions of office, bound by the advice of one
so experienced and so true as the Duke of St. Bungay ? And for
whom had he broken through these traditions and thrown away
this advice ? For a man who had no power whatever to help him
or any other Minister of the Crown ; — for one whose every pursuit
in life was at variance with the acquisition of such honours as that
now thrust upon him ! He could see his own obstinacy, and could
even hate the pretentious love of virtue which he had himself
displayed.

" Have you seen Lord Earlybird with his ribbon ? " his wife said
to him.

" I do not know Lord Earlybird by sight," he replied angrily.

" Nor any one else either. But he would have come and shown
himself to you, if he had had a spark of gratitude in his composition.
As far as I can learn you have sacrificed the Ministry for his sake."

"I did my duty as best I knew how to do it," said the Duko,

446 THE PKIME MINISTEB.

almost with ferocity, rt and it little becomes you to taunt me with
any deficiency."

" Plantagenet ! " "*

" I am driven," he said, '* almost beyond myself, and it kills me
when you take part against me."

"Take part against you ! Surely there was very little in what I
said." And yet, as she spoke, she repented bitterly that she had
at the moment allowed herself to relapse into the sort of badinage
which had been usual with her before she had understood the
extent of his sufferings. " If I trouble you by what I say, I will
certainly hold my tongue."

" Don't repeat to me what that man says in the newspaper."

"You shouldn't regard the man, Plantagenet. You shouldn't
allow the paper to come into your hands."

" Am I to be afraid of seeing what men say of me ? Never !
But you need not repeat it, at any rate if*it be false." She had not
seen the article in question or she certainly would not have re-
peated the accusation which it contained. ' ' I have quarrelled
with no colleague. If such a one as Lord Drummond chooses to
think himself injured, am I to stoop to him ? Nothing strikes
me so much in all this as the ill-nature of the world at large.
When they used to bait a bear tied to a stake, every one around
would cheer the dogs and help to torment the helpless animal.
It is much the same now, only they have a man instead of a bear
for their pleasure."

" I will never help the dogs again," she said, coming up to him
and clinging within the embrace of his arm.

He knew that he had been Quixotic, and he would sit in hia
chair repeating the word to himself aloud, till he himself began to
fear that he would do it in company. But the thing had been
done and could not bo undone. He had had the bestowal of one
Garter, and he had given it to Lord Earlybird ! It was, — he told
himself, but not correctly, — the only thing that he had done on his
own undivided responsibility since he had been Prime Minister.

The last days of July had passed, and it had been at last decided
that the Session should close on the 11th of August. Now the
11th of August was thought to be a great deal too near the 12th to
allow of such an arrangement being considered satisfactory. A

freat many members were very angry at the arrangement. It had
een said all through June and into July that it was to bo an early
Session, and yot things had been so mismanaged that when the end
came everything could not be finished without keeping members
of Parliament in town up to the 11th of August ! In the memory
of present legislators there had never been anything so awk-
ward. The fault, if there was a fault, was attributable to Mr.
Monk. In all probability the delay was unavoidable. A minister
cannot control long-winded gentlemen, and when gentlemen are
very long-winded there must be delay. No doubt a strong minister
can exercise some control, and it is certain that long-winded gentle-

THE END OF THE SESSION. 447

men find an unusual scope for their breath when the reigning
dynasty is weak. In that way Mr. Monk and the Duke may haye
been responsible, but they were blamed as though they, for their
own special amusement, detained gentlemen in town. Indeed the
gentlemen were not detained. They grumbled and growled and
then fled, — but their grumblings and growlings were heard even
after their departure.

" Well ; — what do you think of it all ? " the Duke said one day to
Mr. Monk, at the Treasury, affecting an air of cheery good humour.

" I think," said Mr. Monk, " that the country is very prosperous.
I don't know that I ever remember trade to have been more evenly
satisfactory."

" Ah, yes. That's very well for the country, and ought, I sup-
pose, to satisfy us."

" It satisfies me," said Mr. Monk.

" And me, in a way. But if you were walking about in a very
tight pair of boots, in an agony with your feet, would you be able
just then to relish the news that agricultural wages in that parish
had gone up sixpence a week ? "

" I'd take my boots off, and then try," said Mr. Monk.

" That's just what I'm thinking of doing. If I had my boots off
all that prosperity would be so pleasant to me ! But you see you
can't take your boots off in company. And it may be that you
have a walk before you, and that no boots will be worse for your
feet even than tight ones."

" We'll have our boots off soon, Duke," said Mr. Monk, speak-
ing of the recess.

" And when shall we be quit of them altogether ? Joking apart,
they have to be worn if the country requires it."

" Certainly, Duke."

" And it may be that you and I think that upon the whole they
may be worn with advantage. What does the country say to
that ? "

" The country has never said the reverse. We have not had a
majority against us this Session on any Government question."

" But we have had narrowing majorities. What will the House
do as to the Lords' amendments on the Bankruptcy Bill ? " There
was a bill that had gone down from the House of Commons, but
had not originated with the Government. It had, however, been
fostered by Ministers in the House of L5rds, and had been sent
back with certain amendments for which the Lord Chancellor had
made himself responsible. It was therefore now almost a Govern-
ment measure. The manipulation of this measure had been one
of the causes of the prolonged sitting of the Houses.

" Grogram says they will take the amendments."

"And if they don't?"

" Why then," said Mr. Monk, " the Lords must take our rejec-
tion."

"And we shal^have been beaten," said the Duke.

448 THE PRIME MINISTER.

"Undoubtedly.*

" And beaten simply because the House desires to beat us. I am
told that Sir Timothy Beeswax intends to speak and vote against
the amendments."

"What, — Sir Timothy on one side, and Sir Gregory on the
other?"

" So Lord Eamsden tells me," said the Duke. " If it be so what
are we to do."

11 Certainly not go out in August," said Mr. Monk.

When the time came for the consideration of the Lords' amend-
ments in the House of Commons, — and it did not come till the 8th
of August, — the matter was exactly as the Duke had said. Sir
Gregory Grogram, with a great deal of earnestness, supported the
Lords' amendments, — as he was in honour bound to do. The
amendment had come from his chief, the Lord Chancellor, and had
indeed been discussed with Sir Gregory before it had been proposed.
He was very much in earnest ; — but it was evident from Sir Gre-
gory's earnestness that he expected a violent opposition. Imme-
diately after him rose Sir Timothy. Now Sir Timothy was a pre-
tentious man, who assumed to be not only an advocate but a
lawyer. And he assumed also to be a political magnate. He went
into the matter at great length. He began by saying that it was
not a party question. The bill, which he had had the honour of sup-
porting before it went from their own House, had been a private
bill. As such it had received a general support from the Govern-
ment. It had been materially altered in the other House under
the auspices of his noble friend on the woolsack, but from those
alterations he was obliged to dissent. Then he said some very
heavy things against the Lord Chancellor, and increased in acerbity
as he described what he called the altered mind of his honourable
and learned friend the Attorney-General. He then made some very
uncomplimentary allusions to the Prime Minister, whom he n
of being more than ordinarily reserved with his subordinates. The
speech was manifestly arranged and delivered with the express view
of damaging the Coalition, of which at the time he himself mado
a part. Men observed that things wero very much altered when
such a course as that was taken in the House of Commons. But
that was the course taken on this occasion by Sir Timothy Bees-
wax, and was so far taken with 'success that the Lords' amend-
ments were rejected and the Government was beaten in a thin
House, by a large majority, — composed partly of its own men.
" What am I to do ? " asked the Prime Minister of the old Duke.

The old Duke's answer was exactly tho same as that given by
Mr. Monk. " We cannot resign in August." And then he went
on. "We must wait and see how things go at the beginning of
next Session. The chief question is whether Sir Timothy should
not be asked to rosign."

Then tho Session was at an end, and they who had been staunch
to the last got out of town as quick as the trains could carry them.

MES. LOPEZ PREPARES TO MOVE. 449

CHAPTEB LXVII.

MRS. LOPEZ PREPARES TO MO YE.

The Duchess of Omnium was not the most discreet woman in the
world. That was admitted by her best friends, and was the great
sin alleged against her by her worst enemies. In her desire to say
sharp things, she would say the sharp thing in the wrong place,
and in her wish to be good-natured she was apt to run into
offences. Just as she was about to leave town, which did not take
place for some days after Parliament had risen, she made an indis-
creet proposition to her husband. ' ' Should you mind my asking
Mrs. Lopez down to Matching ? We shall only be a yery small
party."

Now the very name of Lopez was terrible to the Duke's ears.
Anything which recalled the wretch and that wretched tragedy to
the Duke's mind gave him a stab. The Duchess ought to have
felt that any communication between her husband and even the
man's widow was to be avoided rather than sought. ' ' Quite out
of the question ! " said the Duke, drawing himself up.

" Why out of the question P"

11 There are a thousand reasons. I could not have it."

" Then I will say nothing more about it. But there is a romance
there, — something quite touching."

" You don't mean that she has a lover ? "

" Well ;— yes."

" And she lost her husband only the other day, — lost him in so
terrible a manner ! If that is so certainly I do not wish to see her
again."

" Ah, that is because you don't know the story."

" I don't wish to know it."

" The man who now wants to marry her knew her long before
she had seen Lopez, and had offered to her ever so many times.
He is a fine fellow, and you know him."

"I had rather not hear any more about it," said the Duke,
walking away.

There was an end to the Duchess's scheme of getting Emily
down to Matching, — a scheme which could hardly have been suc-
cessful even had the Duke not objected to it. But yet the Duchess
would not abandon her project of befriending the widow. She had
injured Lopez. She had liked what she had seen of Mrs. Lopez.
And she was now endeavouring to take Arthur Fletcher by the
hand. She called therefore at Manchester Square on the day before
she started for Matching, and left a card and a note. This was on
the loth of August, when London was as empty as it ever is. The
streets at the West End were deserted. The houses were shut up.
The very sweepers of the crossings seemed to hayo gone out of

g a

450 THE PRIME MINISTER.

town. The public offices were manned by one or two unfortunates
each, who consoled themselves by reading novels at their desks.
Half the cab-drivers had gone apparently to the seaside,— or to
bed. The shops were still open, but all the respectable shop-
keepers were either in Switzerland or at their marine villas. The
travelling world had divided itself into Cookites and Hookites ; —
those who escaped trouble under the auspices of Mr. Cook, and
those who boldly combated the extortions of foreign innkeepers and
the Anti-Anglican tendencies of foreign railway officials 'on their
own hooks.' The Duchess of Omnium was nevertheless in town,
and the Duke might still be seen going in at the back entrance of
the Treasury Chambers every day at eleven o'clock. Mr. Warbur-
ton thought it very hard, for he, too, could shoot grouse ; but he
would have perished rather than have spoken a word.

The Duchess did not ask to see Mrs. Lopez, but left her card and
a note. She had not liked, she said, to leave town without calling,
though she would not seek to be admitted. She hoped that Mrs.
Lopez was recovering her health, and trusted that on her return
to town she might be allowed to renew her acquaintance. The
note was very simple, and could not be taken as other than friendly.
If she had been simply Mrs. Palliser, and her husband had been a
junior clerk in the Treasury, such a visit would have been a
courtesy ; and it was not less so because it was made by the
Duchess of Omnium and by the wife of the Prime Minister. But
yet among all the poor widow's acquaintances she was the only one
who had ventured to call since Lopez had destroyed himself. Mrs.
Eoby had been told not to come. Lady Eustace had been sternly
rejected. Even old Mrs. Fletcher when she had been up in town
had, after a very solemn meeting with Mr. Wharton, contented
herself with sending her love. It had come to pass that the idea
of being immured was growing to be natural to Emily herself.
The longer that it was continued the more did it seem to be impos-
sible to her that she should break from her seclusion. But yet she
was gratified by the note from the Duchess.

" She means to be civil, papa."

11 Oh yes ; — but there are people whose civility I don't want."

" Certainly. I did not want the civility of that horrid Lady
Eustace. But I can understand this. She thinks that she did
Eerdinand an injury."

" When you begin, my dear,— and I hope it will be soon,— to
get back to the world, you will find it moro comfortable, I think,
to find yourself among your own people."

" I don't want to go back," she said, sobbing bitterly.

" But I want you to go back. All who know you want you to
go back. Only don't begin at that end."

" You don't suppose, papa, that I wish to go to the Duchess r"

" I wish you to go somewhere. It can't be good for you to
remain hero. Indeed I shall think it wicked, or at any rate weak,
if you continue to seolude yourself."

MRS. LOPEZ PREPARES TO MOVE. 451

"Where shall I go ?" she said imploringly.
" To Wharton. I certainly think yon ought to go there first."
"If you would go, papa, and leave me here, — just this once.
Next year I will go, — if they ask me."

"When I may be dead, for aught that any of us know."
" Do not say that, papa. Of course any one may die."
" I certainly shall not go without you. You may take that as
certain. Is it likely that I should leave you alone in August and
September in this great gloomy house ? If you stay, I shall stay."
Now this meant a great deal more than it had meant in former
years. Since Lopez had died Mr. Wharton had not once dined at
the Eldon.' He came home regularly at six o'clock, sat with his
daughter an hour before dinner, and then remained with her all
the evening. It seemed as though he were determined to force her
out of her solitude by her natural consideration for him. She
would implore him to go to his club and have his rubber, but he
would never give way. No ; — he didn't care for the Eldon, and
disliked whist. So he said. Till at last he spoke more plainly.
" You are dull enough here all day, and I will not leave you in
the evenings." There was a pertinacious tenderness in this which
she had not expected from the antecedents of his life. When,
therefore, he told her that he would not go into the country with-
out her, she felt herself almost constrained to yield.

And she would have yielded at once but for one fear. How could
she insure to herself that Arthur Fletcher should not be there ? Of
course he would be at Longbarns, and how could she prevent his
coming over from Longbarns to Wharton ? She could hardly bring
herself to ask the question of her father. But she felt an insuper-
able objection to finding herself in Arthur's presence. Of course
she loved him. Of course in all the world he was of all the dearest
to her. Of course if she could wipe out the past as with a wet
towel, if she could put the crape off her mind as well as from
her limbs, she would become his wife with the greatest joy. But
the very feeling that she loved him was disgraceful to her in her
own thoughts. She had allowed his caress while Lopez was still
her husband, — the husband who had ill-used her and betrayed her,
who had sought to drag her down to his own depth of baseness.
But now she could not endure to think that that other man should
even touch her. It was forbidden to her, she believed, by all the
canons of womanhood even to think of love again. There ought
to be nothing left for her but crape and weepers. She had done it
all by her own obstinacy, and she could make no compensation
either to her family, or to the world, or to her own feelings, but
by drinking the cup of her misery down to the very dregs. Even
to think of joy would in her be a treason. On that occasion she
did not yield to her father, conquering him as she had conquored
him before by the pleading of her looks rather than of her words.

But a day or two afterwards he came to her with arguments of
a very different kind. He at any rate must go to Wharton imme-

452 THE PRIME MINISTER.

diately, in reference to a letter of vital importance which he had
received from Sir Alured. The reader may perhaps remember that
Sir Alured's heir — the heir to the title and property — was a nephew
for whom he entertained no affection whatever. This Wharton
had been discarded by all the Whartons as a profligate drunkard.
Some years ago Sir Alured had endeavoured to reclaim the man,
and had spent peihaps more money than he had been justified in
doing in the endeavour, seeing that, as present occupier of the pro-
perty, he was bound to provide for his own daughters, and that at
his death every acre must go to this ne'er-do-well. The money had
been allowed to flow like water for a twelvemonth, and had done no
good whatever. There had then been no hope. The man was
strong and likely to live, — and after a while married a wife, some
woman that he took from the veiy streets. This had been his last
known achievement, and from that moment not even had his
name been mentioned at Wharton. Now there came the tidings of
his death. It was said that he had perished in some attempt to
cross some glaciers in Switzerland ; — but by degrees it appeared
that the glacier itself had been less dangerous than the brandy
which he had swallowed whilst on his journey. At any rate he
was dead. As to that Sir Alured's letter was certain. And he
wa3 equally certain that he had left no son.

These tidings were quite as important to Mr. Wharton as to Sir
Alured, — more important to Everett Wharton than to either of
them, as he would inherit all after the death of those two old men.
At this moment he was away yachting with a friend, and even his
address was unknown. Letters for him were to be sent to Oban ,
and might, or might not, reach him in the course of a month. But
in a man of Sir Alured's feelings, this catastrophe produced a great
change. The heir to his title and property was one whom he was
bound to regard with affection and almost with reverence, — if it
were only possible for him to do so. With his late heir it had been
impossible. But Everett Wharton he had always liked. Everett
had not been quite all that his father and uncle had wished. But
his faults had been exactly those which would be cured, — or would
almost be made virtues, — by the possession of a title and property.
Distaste for a profession and aptitude for Parliament would become
a young man who was heir not only to the Wharton estates, but to
half his father's money.

Sir Alured in his letter expressed a hope that Everett might be
informed instantly. He would have written himself had he known
Everett's address. But he did know that his elder cousin was in
town, and he besought his elder cousin to come at once, — quite at
once, — to Wharton. Emily, he said, would of course accompany
her father on such an occasion. Then there were long letters from
Mary Wharton, and even from Lady Wharton, to Emily. The
Whartons must have been very much moved when Lady Wharton
could be induced to write a long letter. The Whartons were very
much moved. They were in a state of enthusiasm at these news,

MRS. LOPEZ PREPARES TO MOVE. 453

amounting almost to fury. It seemed as though they thought that
every tenant and labourer on the estate, and every tenant and
labourer's wife, would be in an abnormal condition and unfit
for the duties of life, till they should have seen Everett as heir of
the property. Lady Wharton went so far as to tell Emily which
bedroom was being prepared for Everett, — a bedroom very different
in honour from any by the occupation of which he had as yet
been graced. And there were twenty points as to new wills and
new deeds as to which the present baronet wanted the immediate
advice of his cousin. There were a score of things which could
now be done which were before impossible. Trees could be cut
down, and buildings put up ; and a little bit of land sold, and a
little bit of land bought ; — the doing of all which would give
new life to Sir Alured. A life interest in an estate is a much
pleasanter thing when the heir is a friend who can be walked
about the property, than when he is an enemy who must be kept
at arm's length. All these delights could now be Sir Alured's, —
if the old heir would give him his counsel and the young one his
assistance.

This change in affairs occasioned some flutter also in Manchester
Square. It could not make much difference personally to old Mr.
Wharton. He was, in fact, as old as the baronet, and did not pay
much regard to hi3 own chance of succession. But the position was
one which would suit his son admirably, and he was now on good
terms with his son. He had convinced himself that Lopez had
done all that he could to separate them, and therefore found him-
self to be more bound to his son than ever. " We must go at once,"
he said to his daughter, speaking almost as though he had forgotten
her misery for the moment.

" I suppose you and Everett ought to be there."

" Heaven knows where Everett is. I ought to be there, and I
suppose that on such an occasion as this you will condescend to go
with me."

" Condescend, papa ; — what does that moan ? "

"You know I cannot go alone. It is out of the question that I
should leave you here."

"Why, papa?"

" And at such a time the family ought to come together. Of
course they will take it very much amiss if you refuse. What will
Lady Wharton think if you refuse after her writing such a letter
as that ? It is mj duty to tell you that you ought to go. You
cannot think that it is right to throw over every friend that you
have in the world."

There was a great deal more said in which it almost seemed that
the father's tenderness had been worn out. His words were much
rougher and more imperious than any that he had yet spoken since
his daughter had become a widow, but they were also more effica-
cious, and therefore probably more salutary. After twenty-four hours
of this she found that she was obliged to yield, and a telegram was

454 THE PRIME MINISTER.

sent to Wharton, — by no means the first telegram that had been
sent since the news had arrived, — saying that Emily would accom-
pany her father. They were to occupy themselves for two days
further in preparations for their journey.

These preparations to Emily were so sad as almost to break her
heart. She had never as yet packed up her widow's weeds. She
had never as yet even contemplated the necessity of coming down
to dinner in them before other eyes than those of her father and
brother. She had as yet made none of those struggles with which
widows seek to lessen the deformity of their costume. It was in-
cumbent on her now to get a ribbon or two less ghastly than those
weepers which had, for the last five months, hung about her face
and shoulders. And then how should she look if he were to be
there ? It was not to be expected that the Whartons should secludo
themselves because of her grief. This very change in the circum-
stances of the property would be sure, of itself, to bring the
Eletchers to Wharton, — and then how should she look at him, how
answer him if he spoke to her tenderly ? It is very hard for a
woman to tell a lie to a man when she loves him. She may speak
the words. She may be able to assure him that he is indifferent to
her. But when a woman really loves a man, as she loved this man,
there is a desire to touch him which quivers at her fingers'-ends, a
longing to look at him which she cannot keep out of her eyes, an
inclination to be near him which affects every motion of her body.
She cannot refrain herself from excessive attention to his words.
She has a god to worship, and she cannot control her admiration.
Of all this Emily herself felt much, — but felt at the same time
that she would never pardon herself if she betrayed her love by a
gleam of her eye, by the tone of a word, or the movement of a finger.
What, — should she be known to love again after such a mistake
as hers, after such a catastrophe P

The evening before they started who should bustle into the house
but Everett himself. It was then about six o'clock, and he was
going to leave London by the night mail. That he should be a
little given to bustle on such an occasion may perhaps bo forgiven
him. He had heard the news down on the Scotch coast, and had
flown up to London, telegraphing as he did so backwards and for-
wards to Wharton. Of course he felt that the destruction of his
cousin among the glaciers, — whether by brandy or ice he did not
much care, — had made him for the nonce one of the important
peoplo of the world. The young man who would not so feel might
be the better philosopher, but one might doubt whether lie would
be the better young man. He quite agreed with his father that it
was his sister's duty to go to Wharton, and he was now in a posi-
tion to speak with authority as to the duties of members of his
family. He could not wait, even for one night, in order that ho
might travel with them. Sir Alured was impatient. Sir Alurod
wanted him in Herefordshire. Sir Alured had said that on such an
occasion he, the heir, ought to be on the property with the shortest

455

possible delay. His father smiled ; — but with an approving smile.
Everett therefore started by the night mail, leaving his father and
sister to follow him on the morrow,

CHAPTEE LXYTEI.

THE PRIME MINISTER'S POLITICAL CREED.

The Duke, before he went to Matching, twice reminded Phineas
Finn that he was expected there in a day or two. ' ' The Duchess
says that your wife is coming to-morrow," the Duke said on the
day of his departure. But Phineas could not go then. His services
to his country were required among the dockyards and ships, and
he postponed his visit till the end of September. Then he started
for Matching, having the double pleasure before him of meeting
his wife and his noble host and hostess. He found a small party
there, but not so small as the Duchess had once suggested to him.
" Your wife will be there, of course, Mr. Finn. She is too good to
desert me in my troubles. And there will probably be Lady Eosina
De Courcy. Lady Eosina is to the Duke what your wife is to me.
I don't suppose there will be anybody else, — except, perhaps, Mr.
Warburton." But Lady Eosina was not there. In place of Lady
Eosina there were the Duke and Duchess of St. Bungay, with
their daughters, two or three Palliser offshoots, with their wives,
and Barrington Erie. There were, too, the Bishop of the diocese
with his wife, and three or four others, coming and going, so that
the party never seemed to be too small. " We asked Mr. Eattler,"
said the Duchess in a whisper to Phineas, " but he declined, with
a string of florid compliments. When Mr. Eattler won't come to
the Prime Minister's house, you may depend that something is
going to happen. It is like pigs carrying straws in their mouths.
Mr. Eattler is my pig." Phineas only laughed and said that he
did not believe Eattler to be a better pig than any one else.

It was soon apparent to Phineas that the Duke's manner to him
was entirely altered, so much so that he was compelled to acknow-
ledge to himself that he had not hitherto read the Duke's character
aright. Hitherto he had never found the Duke pleasant in conver-
sation. Looking back he could hardly remember that he had in
truth ever conversed with the Duke. The man had seemed to shut
himself up as soon as he had uttered certain words which the cir-
cumstances of the moment had demanded. Whether it was arro-
gance or shyness Phineas had not known. His wife had said that
the Duke was shy. Had he been arrogant the effect would have
been the same. He was unbending, hard, and lucid only when
he spoke on some detail of business, or on some point of policy.

456 THE PRIME MINISTER.

But now he smiled, and though hesitating a little at first, very
soon fell into the ways of a pleasant country host. " You shoot,"
said the Duke. Phineas did shoot but cared very little about it.
" But you hunt." Phineas was very fond of riding to hounds. " I
am beginning to think," said the Duke, ' ' that I have made a mistake
in not caring for such things. When I was very young I gave
them up, because it appeared that other men devoted too much
time to them. One might as well not eat because some men are
gluttons."

" Only that you would die if you did not eat."

" Bread, I suppose, would keep me alive, but still one eats meat
without being a glutton. I very often regret the want of amuse-
ments, and particularly of those which would throw me more among
my fellow-creatures. A man is alone when reading, alone when
writing, alone when thinking. Even sitting in Parliament he is
very much alone, though there be a crowd around him. Now a
man can hardly be thoroughly useful unless he knows his fellow-
men, and how is he to know them if he shuts himself up ? If I
had to begin again I think I would cultivate the amusements of
the time."

Not long after this the Duke asked him whether he was going to
join the shooting men on that morning. Phineas declared that his
hands were too full of business for any amusement before lunch.
" Then," said the Duke, " will you walk with me in the afternoon ?
There is nothing I really like so much as a walk. There are some
very pretty points where the river skirts the park. And I will
show you the spot on which Sir Guy de Palliser performed the
feat for which the king gave him this property. It was a grand
time when a man could get half-a-dozen parishes because he tickled
the king's fancy."

" But suppose he didn't tickle the king's fancy ?"

" Ah, then indeed, it might go otherwise with him. But I am
glad to say that Sir Guy was an accomplished courtier."

The walk was taken, and the pretty bends of the river wen
seen ; but they were looked at without much earnestness, and Sir
Guy's greait deed was not again mentioned. The conversation went
away to other matters. Of course it was not long before the Prime
Minister was deep in discussing the probabilities of the next Session .
It was soon apparent to Phineas that the Duke was no longer
desirous of resigning, though he spoke very freely of the pn
necossity there might be for him to do so. At the present moment
he was in his best humour. His feet were on his own property.
He could see the prosperity around him. The spot was tho one
which he loved best in all the world. He liked his present com-
panion, who was one to whom he was entitled to speak with free-
dom. But there was still present to him the sense of some injury
from which he could not free himself. Of course he did not know
that he had been haughty to Sir Orlando, to Sir Timothy, and
others. But he did know that he had intended to be true, and he

THE PRIME MINISTER'S POLITICAL CREED. 457

thought that they had been treacherous. Twelve months ago there
had been a goal before him which he might attain, a winning-post
which was still within his reach. There was in store for him the
tranquillity of retirement which he would enjoy as soon as a sense
of duty would permit him to seize it. But now the prospect of that
happiness had gradually vanished from him. That retirement was
no longer a winning-post for him. The poison of place and power
and dignity had got into his blood. As he looked forward he feared
rather than sighed for retirement. " You think it will go against
us," he said.

Phineas did think so. There was hardly a man high up in the
party who did not think so. When one branch of a Coalition has
gradually dropped off, the other branch will hardly flourish long.
And then the tints of a political Coalition are so neutral and un-
alluring that men will only endure them when they feel that no
more pronounced colours are within their reach. "After all,"
said Phineas, " the innings has not been a bad one. It has been
of service to the country, and has lasted longer than most men
expected." \

* * If it has been of service to the country, that is everything. _ It
should at least be everything. With the statesman to whom it is
not everything there must be something wrong." The Duke, as
he said this, was preaching to himself. He was telling himself
that, though he saw the better way, he was allowing himself to
walk on in that which was worse. For it was not only Phineas who
could see the change, — or the old Duke, or the Duchess. It was
apparent to the man himself, though he could not prevent it. "I
sometimes think," he said, "that we whom chance has led to be
meddlers in the game of politics sometimes give ourselves hardly
time enough to think what we are about."

11 A man may have to work so hard," said Phineas, "that he
has no time for thinking."

" Or more probably, may be so eager in party conflict that he
will hardly keep his mind cool enough for thought. It seems to
me that many men, — men whom you and I know, — embrace the
profession of politics not only without political convictions, but
without seeing that it is proper that they should entertain them.
Chance brings a young man under the guidance of this or that
elder man. He has come of a Whig family, as was my case, — or
from some old Tory stock; and loyalty keeps him true to the
interests which have first pushed him forward into the world.
There is no conviction there."

11 Convictions grow."

" Yes ; — the conviction that it is the man's duty to be a staunch
Liberal, but not the reason why. Or a man sees his opening on
this side or on that, — as is the case with the lawyers. Or he has
a body of men at his back ready to support him on this side or on
that, as we see with commercial men. Or perhaps he has somo
vague idea that aristocracy is pleasant, and he becomes a Consev-

458 THE PKIME MINISTER.

vative, — or that democracy is prospering, and he becomes a Liberal.
You are a Liberal, Mr. Finn."

II Certainly, Duke."
"Why?"

"Well;— after what you have said I will not boast of myself.
Experience, however, seems to show me that liberalism is demanded
by the country."

" So, perhaps, at certain epochs, may the Devil and all his works ;
but you will hardly say that you will carry the Devil's colours
because the country may like the Devil. It is not sufficient, I
think, to say that liberalism is demanded. You should first know
what liberalism means, and then assure yourself that the thing
itself is good. I dare say you have done so ; but I see some who
never make the inquiry."

" I will not claim to be better than my neighbours, — I mean my
real neighbours."

II I understand ; I understand," said the Duke laughing. " You
prefer some good Samaritan on the opposition benches to Sir
Timothy and the Pharisees. It is hard to come wounded out of
the fight, and then to see him who should be your friend not only
walking by on the other side, but flinging a stone at you as he
goes. But I did not mean just now to allude to the details of recent
misfortunes, though there is no one to whom I could do so more
openly than to you. I was trying yesterday to explain to myself
why I have, all my life, sat on what is called the liberal side of the
House to which I have belonged."

" Did you succeed ?"

"I began life with the misfortune of a ready-made political
creed. There was a seat in the House for me when I was twenty-
one. Nobody took the trouble to ask me my opinions. It was a
matter of course that I should be a Liberal. My uncle, whom
nothing could ever induce to move in politics himself, took it for
granted that I should run straight, — as he would have said. It
was a tradition of the family, and was as inseparable from it as
any of the titles which he had inherited. The property might be
sold or squandered, — but the political creed was fixed as adamant.
I don't know that I ever had a wish to rebel, but I think that I
took it at first very much as a matter of course."

" A man seldom inquires very deeply at twenty-one."

" And if ho does it is ten to one but he comes to a wrong con-
clusion. But since then I have satisfied myself that chance put me
into the right course. It has been, I dare say, the same with you
as with me. We both went into office early, and the anxiety to do
special duties well probably detorred us both from thinking much
of the great question. When a man has to be on the alert to keep
Ireland quiet, or to prevont peculation in the dockyards, or to raise
the revenue while he lowers the taxes, he feels himself to bo saved
from the necessity of investigating principles. In this way I some-
times think that ministers, or they who have been ministers and

THE PRIME MINISTER'S POLITICAL CREED* 159

who have to watch ministers from the Opposition benches, have
less opportunity of becoming real politicians than the men who sit
in Parliament with empty hands and with time at their own dis-
posal. But when a man has been placed by circumstances as I am
now, he does begin to think."

" And yet you have not empty hands."

" They are not so full, perhaps, as you think. At any rate I
cannot content myself with a single branch of the public service as
I used to do in old days. Do not suppose that I claim to have
made any grand political invention, but I think that I have at least
labelled my own thoughts. I suppose what we all desire is to im-
prove the condition of the people by whom we are employed, and
to advance our country, or at any rate to save it from retrogression."

" That of course."

" So much is of course. I give credit to my opponents in Par-
liament for that desire quite as readily as I do to my colleagues
or to myself. The idea that political virtue is all on one side
is both mischievous and absurd. We allow ourselves to talk in
that way because indignation, scorn, and sometimes, I fear, vitupe-
ration, are the fuel with which the necessary heat of debate is
maintained."

" There are some men who are very fond of poking the nre,'\said
Phineas.

' ' Well ; I won't name any one at present," said the Duke, ' ■ but I
have seen gentlemen of your country very handy with the pokers."
Phineas laughed, knowing that he had been considered by some to
have been a little violent when defending the Duke. ' ' But we put
all that aside when we really think, and can give the Conservative
credit for philanthropy and patriotism as readily as the Liberal.
The Conservative who has had any idea of the meaning of the name
which he carries, wishes, I suppose, to maintain the differences and
the distances which separate the highly placed from their lower
brethren. He thinks that God has divided the world as he finds it
divided, and that he may best do his duty by making the inferior
man happy and contented in his position, teaching him that the
place which he holds is his by God's ordinance."

" And it is so."

'* Hardly in the sense that I mean. But that is the great con-
servative lesson. That lesson seems to me to be hardly compatible
with continual improvement in the condition of the lower man. But
with the Conservative all such improvement is to be based on the
idea of the maintenance of those distances. I as a duke am to be
kept as far apart from the man who drives my horses as was my
ancestor from the man who drove his, or who rode after him to
the^wars, — and that is to go on for ever. There is much to be said
for such a scheme. Let the lords be, all of them, men with loving
hearts, and clear intellect, and noble instincts, and it is possible that
they should use their powers so beneficently as to spread happiness
oyer the earth. It is one of the millenniums which the mind of

460 THE PRIME MINISTER.

man can conceive, and seems to be that which the Conservative
mind does conceive."

" But the other men who are not lords don't want that kind of
happiness."

" If such happiness were attainable it might be well to constrain
men to accept it. But the lords of this world are fallible men ; and
though as units they ought to be and perhaps are better than those
others who have fewer advantages, they are much more likely as
units to go astray in opinion than the bodies of men whom they
would seek to govern. We know that power does corrupt, and
that we cannot trust kings to have loving hearts, and clear intel-
lects, and noble instincts. Men as they come to think about it and
to look forward, and to look back, will not believe in such a mil-
lennium as that."

" Do they believe in any millennium P"

" I think they do after a fashion, and I think that I do myself.
That is my idea of Conservatism. The doctrine of Liberalism is, of
course, the reverse. The Liberal, if he have any fixed idea at all,
must I think have conceived the idea of lessening distances, — of
bringing the coachman and the duke nearer together, — nearer and
nearer, till a millennium shall be reached by "

" By equality ?" asked Phineas, eagerly interrupting the Prime
Minister, and showing his dissent by the tone of his voice.

" I did not use the word, which is open to many objections. In
the first place the millennium, which I have perhaps rashly
named, is so distant that we need not even think of it as possible.
Men's intellects are at present so various that we cannot even
realise the idea of equality, and here in England we have been
taught to hate the word by the evil effects of those absurd attempts
which have been made elsewhere to proclaim it as a fact accom-
plished by the scratch of a pen or by a chisel on a stone. We have
been injured in that, because a good word signifying a grand idea
has been driven out of the vocabulary of good men. Equality would
be a heaven, if we could attain it. How can we to whom so much
has been given dare to think otherwise ? How can you look at
the bowed back and bent legs and abject face of that poor plough-
man, who winter and summer has to drag his rheumatic limbs to
his work, while you go a hunting or sit in pride of place among the
foremost few of your country, and say that it all is as it ought to
be ? You are a Liberal because you know that it is not all as it
ought to be, and because you would still march on to some nearer
approach to equality ; though the thing itself is so great, so glorious,
so godlike, — nay so absolutely divine, — that you have been dis-
gusted by the very promise of it, because its perfection is unattain-
able. Men have assorted a mock equality till the very idea of
equality stinks in men's nostrils."

The Duke in his enthusiasm had thrown off his hat, and was
sitting on a wooden seat which they had reached, looking up among
the clouds. His left hand was clenched, and from time to time

461

with his left he rubbed the thin hairs on his brow. He had begun
in a low voice, with a somewhat slipshod enunciation of his words,
but had gradually become clear, resonant, and even eloquent.
Phineas knew that there were stories told of certain bursts of
words which had come from him in former days in the House of
Commons. These had occasionally surprised men and induced
them to declare that Planty Pall, — as he was then often called, —
was a dark horse. But they had been few and far between, and
Phineas had never heard them. Now he gazed at his companion
in silence, wondering whether the speaker would go on with his
speech. But the face changed on a sudden, and the Duke with an
awkward motion snatched up his hat. " I hope you ain't cold,"
he said.

" Not at all," said Phineas.

"I came here because of that bend of the river. I am always
very fond of that bend. We don't go over the river. That is Mr.
Upjohn's property."

" The member for the county ? "

"Yes; and a very good member he is too, though he doesn't
support us ; — an old-school Tory, but a great friend of my uncle,
who after all had a good deal of the Tory about him. I wonder
whether he is at home. I must remind the Duchess to ask him to
dinner. You know him of course."

" Only by just seeing him in the House."

"You'd like him very much. When in the country he always
wears knee breeches and gaiters, which I think a very comfortable
dress."

" Troublesome, Duke ; isn't it ?"

"I never tried it, and I shouldn't dare now. Goodness, me;
it's past five o'clock, and we've got two miles to get home. I
haven't looked at a letter, and Warburton will think that I've
thrown myself into the river because of Sir Timothy Beeswax."
Then they started to go home at a fast pace.

"I shan't forget, Duke," said Phineas, "your definition of
Conservatives and Liberals."

" I don't think I ventured on a definition ; — only a few loose
ideas which had been troubling me lately. I say, Pinn ! "

"Your Grace?"

" Don't you go and tell Eamsden and Drummond that I have
been preaching equality, or we shall have a pretty mess. I don't
know that it would serve me with my dear friend, the Duke."

" I will be discretion itself."

"Equality is a dream. But sometimes ono likes to dream,—
especially as there is no danger that Matching will fly from me in
a dream. I doubt whether I could bear the test that has been
attempted in other countries."

" That poor ploughman would hardly get his sharo, Duke."

" No ;— that's where it is. We can only do a little and a little to
bring it nearer to us ; — so little that it won't touch Matching in

462 THE PRIME MINISTER.

our day. Here is her ladyship and the ponies. I don't think her
ladyship would like to lose her ponies by my doctrine."

The two wives of the two men were in the pony carriage, and
the little Lady Glencora, the Duchess's eldest daughter, was sit-
ting between them. " Mr. Warburton has sent three messengers
to demand your presence," said the Duchess, " and, as I live by
bread, I believe that you and Mr. Finn have been amusing
yourselves ! "

" We have been talking politics," said the Duke.

" Of course. What other amusement was possible ? But what
business have you to indulge in idle talk when Mr. Warburton
wants you in the library ? There has come a box," she said, " big
enough to contain the resignations of all the traitors of the party."
This was strong language, and the Duke frowned ; — but there was
no one there to hear it but Phineas Finn and his wife, and they, at
least, were trustworthy. The Duke suggested that he had better
get back to the house as soon as possible. There might be some-
thing to be done requiring time before dinner. Mr. Warburton
might, at any rate, want to smoke a tranquil cigar after his day's
work. The Duchess therefore left the carriage, as did Mrs. Finn,
and the Duke undertook to drive the little girl back to the house.
"He'll surely go against a tree," said the Duchess. But, — as a
fact, — the Duke did take himself and the child home in safety.

" And what do you think about it, Mr. Finn ?" said her Grace.
" I suppose you and the Duke have been settling what is to be
done."

11 We have certainly settled nothing."

" Then you must have disagreed."

" That we as certainly have not done. Wo have in truth not
once been out of cloud-land."

" Ah; — then there is no hope. When once grown-up politicians
get into cloud-land it is because the realities of the world have no
longer any charms for them."

■ The big box did not contain the resignations of any of the objec-
tionable members of the Coalition. Ministers do not often resign
in September,— nor would it be expedient that they should do so.
Lord Drummond and Sir Timothy were safe, at any rate, till next
February, and might live without any show either of obedience or
mutiny. The Duke remained in comparative quiet at Matching.
There was not very much to do, except to prepare the work for the
next Session. The great work of the coming year was to be the
assimilation, or something very near to the assimilation, of the
county suffrages with those of the boroughs. The measure was
one which had now been promised by statesmen for the last two
years, — promised at first with that half promise which would mean
nothing, were it not that such promises always lead to more defined
assurances. The Duke of St. Bungay, Lord* Drummond, and other
Ministers had wished to stave it off. Mr. Monk was eager for its
adoption, and was of course supported by Phineas Finn, The

mrs. parker's fate. 468

Prime Minister had at first been inclined to be led by the old Duke.
There was no doubt to him but that the measure was desirable and
would come, but there might well be a question as to the time at
which it should be made to come. The old Duke knew that the
measure would come, — but believing it to be wholly undesirable,
thought that he was doing good work in postponing it from year
to year. But Mr. Monk had become urgent, and the old Duke had
admitted the necessity. There must surely have been a shade of
melancholy on that old man's mind as, year after year, he assisted
in pulling down institutions which he in truth regarded as the safe-
guards of the nation ; — but which he knew that, as a Liberal, he
was bound to assist in destroying ! It must have occurred to him,
from time to time, that it would be well for him to depart and be
at peace before everything was gone.

When he went from Matching Mr. Monk took his place, and
Phineas Finn, who had gone up to London for awhile, returned ;
and then the three between them, with assistance from Mr. War-
burton and others, worked out the proposed scheme of the new
county franchise, with the new divisions and the new constituencies.
But it could hardly have been hearty work, as they all of them felt
that whatever might be their first proposition they would be beat
upon it in a House of Commons which thought that this Aris-
tides had been long enough at the Treasury.

CHAPTEB LXIX.

MPS. PARKER'S FATE.

Lopez had now been dead more than five months, and not a word
had been heard by his widow of Mrs. Parker and her children.
Her own sorrows had been so great that she had hardly thought of
those of the poor woman who had come to her but a few days
before her husband's death, telling her of ruin caused by her
husband's treachery. But late on the evening before her departure
for Herefordshire, — very shortly after Everett had left the house, —
there was a ring at the door, and a poorly- clad female asked to see
Mrs. Lopez. The poorly-clad female was Sexty Parker's wife. The
servant, who did not remember her, would not leave her alone in
the hall, having an eye to the coats and umbrellas, but called up
one of the maids to carry the message. The poor woman under-
stood the insult and resented it in her heart. But Mrs. Lopez
recognized the name in a moment, and went down to her in the
parlour, leaving Mr. Wharton up-stairs. Mrs. Parker, smarting
from her present grievance, had bent her mind on complaining at
once of the treatment she had received from the servant, but the

464 $HE PKIME illNISTER.

sight of the widow's weeds quelled her. Emily had never been
much given to fine clothes, either as a girl or as a married woman ;
but it had always been her husband's pleasure that she should be
well dressed, — though he had never carried his trouble so far as to
pay the bills ; and Mrs. Parker's remembrance of her friend at
Dovercourt had been that of a fine lady in bright apparel. Now a
black shade, — something almost like a dark ghost, — glided into the
room, and Mrs. Parker forgot her recent injury. Emily came
forward and offered her hand, and was the first to speak. " I have
had a great sorrow since we met," she said.

' ' Yes, indeed, Mrs. Lopez. I don't think there is anything left
in the world now except sorrow."

" I hope Mr. Parker is well. "Will you not sit down, Mrs.
Parker ? "

" Thank you, ma'am. Indeed, then, he is not well at all. How
should he be well ? Everything, — everything has been taken
away from him." Poor Emily groaned as she heard this. "I
wouldn't say a word against them as is gone, Mrs. Lopez, if I could
help it. I know it is bad to bear when him who once loved you
isn't no more. And perhaps it is all the worse when things didn't
go well with him, and it was, maybe, his own fault. I wouldn't
do it, Mrs. Lopez, if I could help it."

"Let me hear what you have to say," said Emily, determined to
suffer everything patiently.

" Well ; — it is just this. He has left us that bare that there is
nothing left. And that they say isn't the worst of all, — though
what can be worse than doing that, how is a woman to think ?
Parker was that soft, and he had that way with him of talking, that
he has talked me and mine out of the very linen on our backs."

" What do you mean by saying that that is not the worst ? "

" They've come upon Sexty for a bill for four hundred and fifty,
— something to do with that stuff they call Bios, — and Sexty says
it isn't his name at all. But he's been in that state he don't hardly
know how to swear to anything. But he's sure he didn't sign it.
The bill was brought to him by Lopez, and there was words between
them, and he wouldn't have nothing to do with it. How is he to
go to law ? And it don't make much difference neither, for they
can't take much more from him than they have taken." Emily as
sho heard all this sat shivering, trying to repress her groans.
" Only," continued Mrs. Parker, " they hadn't sold the furniture,
and I was thinking they might let me stay in the house, and try to
\io with letting lodgings, — and now they're seizing everything
along of .this bill. Sexty is like a madman, swearing this and
swearing that ; — but what can he do, Mrs. Lopez ? It's as like his
hand as two peas ; but he was clever at everything was, — was, —
you know who I mean, ma'am." Then Emily covered her face
with her hands and burst into violent tears. She had not deter-
mined whether she did or did not bolieve this last accusation made
against her husband. She had had hardly time to realiso the crimi-

Mes. parker's fate. 465

nality of the offence imputed. But she did believe that the woman
before her had been ruined by her husband's speculations. " lis
very bad, ma'am ; isn't it ? " said Mrs. Parker crying for company.
' ' It's bad all round. If you had five children as hadn't bread .you'd
know how it is that I feel. I've got to go back by the 10.15 to-
night, and when I've paid for a third class-ticket I shan't have but
twopence left in the world."

This utter depth of immediate poverty, this want of bread for the
morrow and the next day, Emily could relieve out of her own
pocket. And, thinking of this and remembering that her purse
was not with her at the moment, she started up with the idea of get-
ting it. But it occurred to her that that would not suffice ; that her
duty required more of her than that. And yet, by her own power,
she could do no more. From month to month, almost from week to
week, since her husband's death, her father had been called upon to
satisfy claims for money which he would not resist, lest by doing so
he should add to her misery. She had felt that she ought to bind
herself to the strictest personal economy because of the miserable
losses to which she had subjected him by her ill-starred marriage.
" What would you wish me to do ? " she said, resuming her seat.

"You are rich," said Mrs. Parker. Emily shook her head.
" They say your papa is rich. I thought you would not like to see
me in want like this."

1 ' Indeed, indeed, it makes me very unhappy."

"Wouldn't your papa do something? It wasn't Sexty's fault
nigh so much as it was his. I wouldn't say it to you if it wasn't
for starving. I wouldn't say it to you if it wasn't for the children.

I'd lie in the ditch and die if it was only myself, because

because, I know what your feelings is. But what wouldn't you
do, and what wouldn't you say, if you had five children at home
as hadn't a loaf of bread among 'em ? " Hereupon Emily got up
and left the room, bidding her visitor wait for a few minutes. Pre-
sently the offensive butler came in, who had wronged Mrs. Parker
by watching his master's coats, and brought a tray with meat and
wine. Mr. Wharton, said the altered man, hoped that Mrs. Parker
would take a little refreshment, and he would be down himself very
soon. Mrs. Parker, knowing that strength for her journey home
would be necessary to her, remembering that she would have to
walk all through the city to the Bishopsgate Street station, did
take some refreshment, and permitted herself to drink the glass of
sherry that her late enemy had benignantly poured out for her.

Emily had been nearly half an hour with her father before Mr.
Wharton's heavy step was heard upon the stairs. And when he
reached the dining-room door he paused a moment before he
ventured to turn the lock. He had not told Emily what he would
do, and had hardly as yet made up his own mind. As every fresh
call was made upon him, his hatred for the memory of the man who
had stepped in and disturbed his whole life and turned all the
mellow satisfaction of his evening into storm and gloom, was of

&&& $tfE PRIME MINISTES.

course increased. The scoundrel's name was so odious to him that
he could hardly keep himself from shuddering visibly before his
daughter even when the servants called her by it. But yet he had
determined that he would devote himself to save her from further
suffering. It had been her fault, no doubt. But she was expiat-
ing it in very sackcloth and ashes, and he would add nothing to the
burden on her back. He would pay, and pay, and pay, merely
remembering that what he paid must be deducted from her share
of his property. He had never intended to make what is called an
elder son of Everett, and now there was less necessity than ever
that he should do so, as Everett had become an elder son in another
direction. He could satisfy almost any demand that might be
made without material injury to himself. But these demands, one
after another, scalded him by their frequency, and by the baseness
of the man who had occasioned them. His daughter had now
repeated to him with sobbings and wailings the whole story as it
had been told to her by the woman down-stairs. " Papa," she had
said, " I don't know how to tell you or how not." Then he had
encouraged her, and had listened without saying a word. He had
endeavoured not even to shrink as the charge of forgery was repeated
to him by his own 'child, — the widow of the guilty man. Ha
endeavoured not to remember at the moment that she had claimed
this wretch as the chosen one of her maiden heart, in opposition to
all his wishes, It hardly occurred to him to disbelieve the accusa-
tion. It was so probable ! What was there to hinder the man from
forgery, if he could only make it believed that his victim had
signed the bill when intoxicated ? He heard it all ; — kissed his
daughter, and then went down to the dining-room.

Mrs. Parker, when she saw him, got up, and curtseyed low, and
then sat down again. Old Wharton looked at her from under his
bushy eyebrows before he spoke, and then sat opposite to her.
11 Madam," ho said, " this is a very sad story that I have heard."
Mrs. Parker again rose, again curtseyed, and put her handkerchief
to her face. " It is of no use talking any more about it here."

" No, sir," said Mrs. Parker.

" I and my daughter leave town early to-morrow morning."

11 Indeed, sir. Mrs. Lopez didn't tell me."

11 My clerk will be in London, at No. 12, Stone Buildings, Lin-
coln's Inn, till I come back. Do you think you can find the place ?
I have written it there."

" Yos, sir, I can find it," said Mrs. Parker, just raising herself
from her chair at every word she spoke.

" I have written his name, you see. Mr. Crumpy."

"Yes, sir."

" If you will permit me, I will give you two sovereigns now."

"Thank you, sir."

"And if you can make- it convenient to call on Mr. Crumpy
every Thursday morning about 12, he will pay you two sovereigns
a week till I come back to town, Then I will see about it,"

467

" God Almighty bless you, sir ! "

" And as to the furniture, I will write to my attorney, Mr.
Walker. You need not trouble yourself by going to him."

"No, sir."

" If necessary he will send to you, and he will see what can be
done. Good night, Mrs. Parker." Then he walked across the
room with two sovereigns which he dropped in her hand. Mrs.
Parker, with many sobs, bade him farewell, and Mr. Wharton
stood in the hall immovable till the front door had been closed
behind her. " I have settled it," he said to Emily. ** I'll tell you
to-morrow, or some day. Don't worry yourself now, but go to
bed." She looked wistfully, — so sadly, up into his face, and then
did as he bade her.

But Mr. Wharton could not go to his bed without further trouble.
It was incumbent on him to write full particulars that very night
both to Mr. Walker and to Mr. Crumpy. And the odious letters
in the writing became very long ; — odious because he had to confess
in them over and over again that his daughter, the very apple of
his eye, had been the wife of a scoundrel. To Mr. Walker he had
to tell the whole story of the alleged forgery, and in doing so could
not abstain from the use of hard words. " I don't suppose that
it can be proved, but there is every reason to believe that it's
true." And again — " I believe the man to have been as vile a
scoundrel as ever was made by the love of money." Even to Mr.
Crumpy he could not be reticent. "She is an object of pity," ho
said. "Her husband was ruined by the infamous!speculations of
Mr. Lopez." Then he betook himself to bed. Oh, how happy
would he be to pay the two pounds weekly, — even to add to that
the amount of the forged bill, if by doing so he might be saved
from ever again hearing the name of Lopez.

The amount of the bill was ultimately lost by the bankers who
had advanced money on it. As for Mrs. Sexty Parker, from week
to week, and from month to month, and at last from year to year,
she and her children, — and probably her husband also,— were sup-
ported by the weekly pension of two sovereigns which she always
received on Thursday mornings from the hands of Mr. Crumpy
himself. In a little time the one excitement of her life was the
weekly journey to Mr. Crumpy, whom she came to regard as a man
appointed by Providence to supply her with 40s. on Thursday
morning. _ As to poor Sexty Parker, — it is to be feared that he
never again became a prosperous man.

"You will tell me what you did for that poor woman, papa,"
said Emily leaning over her father in the train.

" I have settled it, my dear."

" You said you'd tell me."

" Crumpy will pay her two pounds a week till we know more
about it." Emily pressed her father's hand and that was an end.
No one ever did know any more about it, and Crumpy continued
to pay the money.

468 *BE PRIME MINISTEB.

CHAPTER LXX.

AT WHARTON.

When Mr. Wharton and his daughter reached Wharton Hall there
were at any rate no Fletchers there as yet. Emily, as she was
driven from the station to the house, had not dared to ask a ques-
tion or even to prompt her father to do so. He would probably
have told her that on such an occasion there was but little chance
that she would find any visitors, and none at all that she would
find Arthur Eletcher. But she was too confused and too ill at ease
to think of probabilities, and to the last was in trepidation, specially
lest she should meet her lover. She found, however, at Wharton
Hall none but Whartons, and she found also to her great relief
that this change in the heir relieved her of much of the attention
which must otherwise have added to her troubles. At the first
glance her dress and demeanour struck them so forcibly that they
could not avoid showing their feeling. Of course they had expected
to see her in black, — had expected to see her in widow's weeds.
But, with her, her very face and limbs had so adapted themselves
to her crape, that she looked like a monument of bereaved woe.
Lady Wharton took the mourner up into her own room, and there
made her a little speech. " We have all wept for you," she said,
1 1 and grieve for you still. But excessive grief is wicked, especially
in the young. We will do our best to make you happy, and hope
we shall succeed. All this about dear Everett ought to be a com-
fort to you." Emily promised that she would do her best, not,
however, taking much immediate comfort from the prospects of
dear Everett. Lady Wharton certainly had never in her life spoken
of dear Everett, while the wicked cousin was alive. Then Mary
Wharton also made her little speech. " Dear Emily, I will do ail
that I can. Pray try to believe in me." But Everett was so much
the hero of the hour, that there was not much room for general
attention to any one else.

There was very much room for triumph in regard to Everett. It
had already been ascertained that the Wharton who was now dead
had had a child, — but that the child was a daughter. Oh, — what
salvation or destruction there may be to an English gentleman in
the sex of an infant ! This poor baby was now little better than
a beggar brat, unless the relatives who were utterly disregardful of
its fato, should choose, in their charity, to make some small allow-
ance for its maintenance. Had it by chance been a boy Everett
Wharton would have beon nobody ; and the child, rescued from
the iniquities of his parents, would have been nursed in the best
bedroom of Wharton Hall, and cherished with the warmest kisses,
and would have been the centre of all the hopes of all the Whartons.
But the Wharton lawyer by use of reckless telegrams had certified

AT WHARTON. 469

himself that the infant was a girl, and Everett was the hero of the
day. He found himself to be possessed of a thousand graces, even
in his father's eyesight. It seemed to be taken as a mark of his
special good fortune that he had not clung to any business. To
have been a banker immersed in the making of money, or even a
lawyer attached to his circuit and his court, would have lessened
his fitness, or at any rate his readiness, for the duties which he
would have to perform. He would never be a very rich man, but
he would have a command of ready money, and of course he would
go into Parliament.

In his new position as, — not quite head of his family, but head
expectant, — it-seemed to him to be his duty to lecture his sister.
It might be well that some one should lecture her with more
severity than her father used. Undoubtedly she was succumbing
to the wretchedness of her position in a manner that was repugnant
to humanity generally. There is no power so useful to man as
that capacity of recovering himself after a fall, which belongs
especially to those who possess a healthy mind in a healthy body.
It is not rare to see one, — generally a woman, — whom a sorrow
gradually kills ; and there are those among us, who hardly per-
haps envy, but certainly admire, a spirit so delicate as to be snuffed
out by a woe. But it is the weakness of the heart rather than the
strength of the feeling which has in such cases most often produced
the destruction. Some endurance of fibre has been wanting, which
power of endurance is a noble attribute. Everett Wharton saw
something of this, and being, now, the heir apparent of the family
took his sister to task. " Emily," he said, " you make us all un-
happy when we look at you."

'« Do I ¥" she said. " I am sorry for that ; — but why should you
look at me ?"

' ' Because you are one of us. Of course we cannot shake you off.
"We would not if we could. We have all been very unhappy
because, — because of what has happened. But don't you think
you ought to make some sacrifice to us, — to our father, I mean,
and to Sir Alured and Lady Wharton ? When you go on weeping,
other people have to weep too. I have an idea that people ought
to be happv if it be only for the sake of their neighbours."

" What am I to do, Everett ?"

" Talk to people a little, and smile sometimes. Move about
quicker. Don't look when you come into a room as if you were
consecrating it to tears. And, if I may venture to say so, drop
something of the heaviness of your mourning."

" Do you mean that I am a hypocrite ?"

"No; — I mean nothing of the kind. You know I don't. But
you may exert yourself for the benefit of others without being
untrue to your own memories. I am sure you know what I mean.
Make a struggle and see if you cannot do something."

She did make a struggle, and she did do something. No one,
not well versed in the mysteries of feminine dress, could say very

470 THE PRIME MINISTER.

accurately what it was that she had done ; but every one felt that
something of the weight was reduced. At first, as her brother's
words came upon her ear, and as she felt the blows which they
inflicted on her, she accused him in her heart of cruelty. They
were very hard to bear. There was a moment in which she was
almost tempted to turn upon him and tell him that he knew
nothing of her sorrows. But she restrained herself, and when she
was alone she acknowledged to herself that he had spoken the truth.
No one has a right to go about the world as a Niobe, damping all
joys with selfish tears. What did she not owe to her father, who
had warned her so often against the evil she had contemplated, and
had then, from the first moment after the fault was done, forgiven her
the doing of it ? She had at any rate learned from her misfortunes
the infinite tenderness of his heart, which in the days of their un-
alloyed prosperity he had never felt the necessity of exposing to
her. So she struggled and did do something. She pressed Lady
Wharton's hand, and kissed her cousin Mary, and throwing herself
into her father's arms when they were alone, whispered to him that
she would try. "What you told me, Everett, was quite right,"
she said afterwards to her brother.

" I didn't mean to be savage," he answered with a smile.

" It was quite right, and I have thought of it, and I will do my
best. I will keep it to myself if I can. It is not quite, perhaps,
what you think it is, but I will keep it to myself." She fancied
that they did not understand her, and perhaps she was right. It
was not only that he had died and left her a young widow ; — nor
even that his end had been so harsh a tragedy and so foul a dis-
grace ! It was not only that her love had been misbestowed, — not
only that she had made so grievous an error in the one great act
of her life which she had chosen to perform on her own judgment I
Perhaps the most crushing memory of all was that which told her
that she, who had through all her youth been regarded as a bright
star in the family, had been the one person to bring a reproach
upon the name of all these people who were so good to her. How
shall a person conscious of disgrace, with a mind capable of feeling
the crushing weight of personal disgrace, move and look and speak
as though that disgrace had been washed away ? But she made
the struggle, and did not altogether fail.

As regarded Sir Alured, in spite of this poor widow's crape, he
was very happy at this time, and his joy did in some degree com-
municate itself to the old barrister. Everett was taken round to
every tenant and introduced as the heir. Mr. Wharton had already
doclared his purpose of abdicating any possible possession of the
property. Should he outlive Sir Alured he must be the bayonet ;
but when that sad event should take place, whether Mr. Wharton
should then be alive or no, Everett should at once be the possessor
of Wharton Hall. Sir Alured, under these circumstances, discussed
his own death with extreme satisfaction, and insisted on having it
discussed by the others. That he should haye gone and loft every-

A.T WHARTON. 471

thing at the mercy of the spendthrift had been terrible to his old
heart; — but now, the man coming to the property would have
£60,000 with which to support and foster Wharton, with which to
mend, as it were, the crevices, and stop up the holes of the estate.
He seemed to be almost impatient for Everett's ownership, giving
many hints as to what should be done when he himself was gone.
He must surely have thought that he would return to Wharton as
a spirit, and take a ghostly share in the prosperity of the farms.
" You will find John Griffith a very good man," said the baronet.
John Griffith had been a tenant on the estate for the last half-
century, and was an older man than his landlord ; but the baronet
spoke of all this as though he himself were about to leave Wharton
for ever in the course of the next week. " John Griffith has been a
good man, and if not always quite ready with his rent, has never
been much behind. You won't be hard on John Grillith ? "

" I hope I mayn't have the opportunity, sir."

"Well; — well; — well; that's as may be. But I don't quite
know what to say about young John. The farm has gone from
father to son, and there's never been a word of a lease."

" Is there anything wrong about the young man ?"

" He's a little given to poaching."

"Oh dear!"

" I've always got him off for his father's sake. They say he's
going to marry Sally Jones. That may take it out of him. I do
like the farms to go from father to son, Everett. It's the way that
everything should go. Of course there's no right."

" Nothing of that kind, I suppose," said Everett, who was in his
way a reformer, and had radical notions with which he would not
for worlds have disturbed the baronet at present.

"No ; — nothing of that kind. God in his mercy foabid that a
landlord in England should ever be robbed after thut fashion."
Sir Alured, when he was uttering this prayer, was thinking of
what he had heard of an Irish land bill, the details of which, how-
ever, had been altogether incomprehensible to him. " But I have
a feeling about it, Everett ; and I hope you will share it. It is
good that things should go from father to son. I never make a
promise ; but the tenants know what I think about it, and then
the father works for the son. Why should he work for a stranger ?
Sally Jones is a very good young woman, and perhaps young John
will do better." There was not a field or a fence that he did not
show to his heir ; — hardly a tree which he left without a word.
"That bit of woodland coming in there, — they call it Barnton
Spinnies, — doesn't belong to the estate at all." This he said in a
melancholy tone.

" Doesn't it, really ? " _

" And it comes right in between Lane's farm and Puddock's.
They've always let me have the shooting a3 a compliment. Not
that there's ever anything in it. It's only seven acres. But I like
*he civility."

472 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" Who does it belong to ? "

" It belongs to Benet."

" What ; Corpus Christi ? "

11 Yes, yes ; — they've changed the name. It used to be Benet in
my days. Walker says the College would certainly sell, but you'd
have to pay for the land and the wood separately. I don't know
that you'd get much out of it ; but it's very unsightly, — on the
survey map, I mean."

"We'll buy it, by all means," said Everett, who was already
jingling his £60,000 in his pocket.

" I never had the money, but I think it should be bought." And
Sir Alured rejoiced in the idea that when his ghost should look at
the survey map, that hiatus of Barnton Spinnies would not trouble
his spectral eyes.

In this way months ran on at Wharton. Our Whartons had
come down in the latter half of August, and at the beginning of
September Mr. Wharton returned to London. Everett, of course,
remained, as he was still learning the lesson of which he was in
truth becoming a little weary ; and at last Emily had also been
persuaded to stay in Herefordshire. Her father promised to return,
not mentioning any precise time, but giving her to understand that
he would come before the winter. He went, and probably found
that his taste for the Eldon and for whisthad returned to him.
In the middle of November old Mrs. Fletcher arrived. Emily was
not aware of what was being done ; but, in truth, the Fletchers
and Whartons combined were conspiring with the view of bringing
her back to her former self. Mrs. Fletcher had not yielded without
some difficulty, — for it was a part of this conspiracy that Arthur was
to be allowed to marry the widow. But John had prevailed. • ' He'll
do it any way, mother," he had said, " whether you and I like it
or not. And why on earth shouldn't he do as he pleases ? "

" Think what the man was, John ! "

" It's more to the purpose to think what the woman is. Arthur
has made up his mind, and, if I know him, he's not the man to be
talked out of it." And so the old woman had given in, and had at
last consented to go forward as the advanced guard of the Fletchers,
and lay siege to the affections of the woman whom she had once so
thoroughly discarded from her heart.

11 My dear," she said, when they first met, "if there has been
anything wrong between you and me, let it be among the things
that are past. You always used to kiss me. Give me a kiss now/1
Of course Emily kissed her; and after that Mrs. Fletcher pal
her and petted her, and gave her lozenges, which she declared in
private to be "the sovereignest thing on earth" for debilitated
nerves. And then it came out by degrees that John Fletcher and
his wife and all the little Fletchers were coming to Wharton for
the Christmas weeks. Everett had gone, but was also to be back
for Christmas, and Mr. Wharton's visit was also postponed. It was
absolutely necessary that Everett should be at Wharton for the

AT WHARTON. 473

Christmas festivities, and expedient that Everett's father should be
there to see them. In this way Emily had no means of escape.
Her father wrote telling her of his plans, saying that he would
bring her back' after Christmas. Everett's heirship had made these
Christmas festivities, — which were, however, to be confined to the
two families, — quite a necessity. In all this not a word was said
about Arthur, nor did she dare to ask whether he was expected.
The younger Mrs. Fletcher, John's wife, opened her arms to the
widow in a manner that almost plainly said that she regarded Emily
as her future sister-in-law. John Fletcher talked to her about
Longbarns, and the children, — complete Fletcher talk,— as though
she were already one of them, never, however, mentioning Arthur's
name. The old lady got down affresh supply of the lozenges from
London because those she had by her might perhaps be a little
stale. And then there was another sign which after a while became
plain to Emily. No one in either family ever mentioned her name.
It was not singular that none of them should call her Mrs. Lopez,
as she was Emily to all of them. But they never so described her
even in speaking to the servants. And the servants themselves, as
far as was possible, avoided the odious word. The thing was to be
buried, if not in oblivion, yet in some speechless grave. And it
seemed that her father was joined in this attempt. When writing
to her he usually made some excuse for writing also to Everett, or,
in Everett's absence, to the baronet, — so that the letter for his
daughter might be enclosed and addressed simply to " Emily."

She understood it all, and though she was moved to continual
solitary tears by this ineffable tenderness, yet she rebelled against
them. They should never cheat her back into happiness by such
wiles as that ! It was not fit that she should yield to them. As a
woman not utterly disgraced it could not become her again to laugh
and be joyful, to give and take loving embraces, to sit and smile,
perhaps a happy mother, at another man's hearth. For their love
she was grateful. For his love she was more than grateful. How
constant must be his heart, how grand his nature, how more than
manly his strength of character, when he was thus true to her
through all the evil she had done ! Love him ! Yes ; — she would
pray for him, worship him, fill the remainder of her days with
thinking of him, hoping for him, and making his interests her own.
Should he ever be married, — and she would pray that he might, —
his wife, if possible, should be her friend, his children should be
her darlings ; and he should always be her hero. But they should
not, with all their schemes, cheat her into disgracing him by
marrying him.

At last her father came, and it was he who told her that Arthur was
expected on the day before Christmas. " Why did you not tell me
before, papa, so that I might have asked you to take me away ? "

" Because I thought, my dear, that it was better that you should
be constrained to meet him. You would not wish to live all your
life in terror of seeing Arthur Fletcher ? "

474 THE PRIME MINISTER.

"Not all my life."

" Take the plunge and it will be over. They have all been very
good to you."

" Too good, papa. I didn't want it.'

" They are our oldest friends. There isn't a young man in
England I think so highly of as John Fletcher. When I am gone,
where are you to look for friends ? "

" I'm not ungrateful, papa."

" You can't know them all, and yet keep yourself altogether
separated from Arthur. Think what it would be to me never to
be able to ask him to the house. He is the only one of the family
that lives in London, and now it seems that Everett will spend
most of his time down here. Of course it is better that you
should meet him and have done with it." There was no answer
to be made to this, but still she was fixed in her resolution that
she would never meet him as her lover.

Then came the morning of the day on which he was to arrive,
and his coming was for the first time spoken openly of at break-
fast. " How is Arthur to be brought from the station ? " asked old
Mrs. Fletcher.

" I'm going to take the dog-cart," said Everett. "Giles will
go for the luggage with the pony. He is bringing down a lot of
things ; — a new saddle, and a gun for me." It had all been
arranged for her, this question and answer, and Emily blushed as
she felt that it was so.

" We shall be so glad to see Arthur," said young Mrs. Fletcher
to her.

" Of course you will."

" He has not been down since the Session was over, and he has
got to be quite a speaking man now. I do so hope he'll
become something some day."

" I'm sure he will," said Emily.

" Not a judge, however. I hate wigs. Perhaps he might be
Lord Chancellor in time." Mrs. Fletcher was not more ignorant
than some other ladies in being unaware of the Lord Chancellor's
wig and exact position.

At last he came. The 9 A.M. express for Hereford, — express, at
least, for the first two or three hours out of London, — brought
passengers for Wharton to their nearest station at 3 P.M., and the
distance was not above five miles. Before four o'clock Arthur
was standing before the drawing-room fire, with a cup of tea in his
hand, surrounded by Fletchers 'and Whartons, and being made
much of as the young family member of Parliament. But Emily
was not in the room. She had studied her Bradshaw, and 1«
tho hours of the trains, and was now in her bedroom. He had
looked around the moment he entered the room, but had not
dared to ask for her suddenly. He had said ono word about her
to Everett in the cart, and that had been all. She was in the
house, and he must, at any rate, see her before dinner.

AT WHAETON. 47$

Emily, in order that she might not seem to escape abruptly, had
retired early to her solitude. But she, too, knew that the meeting
could not be long postponed. She sat thinking of it all, and at
last heard the wheels of the vehicle before the door. She paused,
listening with all her ears, that she might recognise his voice, or
possibly his footstep. She stood near the window, behind the
curtain, with her hand pressed to her heart. She heard Everett's
voice plainly as he gave some direction to the groom, but from
Arthur she heard nothing. Yet she was sure that he was come.
The very manner of the approach and her brother's word made
her certain that there had been no disappointment. She stood
thinking for a quarter of an^hour, making up her mind how best
they might meet. Then suddenly, with slow but certain step,
she walked down into the drawing-room.

No one expected her then, or something perhaps might have
been done to encourage her coming. It had been thought that
she must meet him before dinner, and her absence till then was to
be excused. But now she opened the door, and with much
dignity of mien walked into the middle of the room. Arthur at
that moment was discussing the Duke's chance for the next
Session, and Sir Alured was asking with rapture whether the old
Conservative party would not come in. Arthur Fletcher heard
the step, turned round, and saw the woman he loved. He went
at once to meet her, very quickly, and put out both his hands.
She gave him hers, of course. There was no excuse for her
refusal. He stood for an instant pressing them, looking eagerly
into her sad face, and then he spoke. " God bless you, Emily !"
he said. " God bless you !" He had thought of no words, and at
the moment nothing else occurred to him to be said. The colour
had covered all his face, and his heart beat so strongly that he
was hardly his own master. She let him hold her two hands,
perhaps for a minute, and then, bursting into tears, tore herself
from him, and, hurrying out of the room, made her way again
into her own chamber. " It will be better so," said old Mrs."
Fletcher. " It will be better so. Do not let any one follow her."

On that day John Fletcher took her out to dinner and Arthur
did not sit near her. In the evening he came to her as she was
working close to his mother, and seated himself on; a low chair
close to her knees. " We are all so glad to see you ; are we not,
mother ? "

" Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Fletcher. Then, after a while, the
old woman got up to make a rubber at whist with the two old
men and her eldest son, leaving Arthur sitting at the widow's
knee. She would willingly have escaped, but it was impossible
that she should move.

" You need not be afraid of me," he said, not whispering, but
in a voice which no one else could hear. ' ' Do not seem to avoid
mo, and I will say nothing to trouble you. I think that you
must wish that we should be friends."

476 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" Oh, yes."

" Come out, then, to-morrow, when we are walking. In that
way we shall get used to each other. You are troubled now, and
I will go." Then he left her, and she felt herself to be bound to
him by infinite gratitude.

A week went on and she had become used to his company. A
week passed and he had spoken no word to her that a brother
might not have spoken. They had walked together when no one
else had been within hearing, and yet he had spared her. She
had begun to think that he would spare her altogether, and she
was certainly grateful. Might it not be that she had mis-
understood him, and had misunderstood the meaning of them
all ? Might it not be that she had troubled herself with false
anticipations ? Surely it :vas so ; for how could it be that such
a man should wish to make such a woman his wife ?

" Well, Arthur ? " said his brother to him one day

" I have nothing to say about it," said Arthur.

11 You haven't changed your mind ? "

" Never! Upon my word, to me, in that dress, she is more
beautiful than ever."

" I wish you would make her take it off."

" I dare not ask her yet."

" You know what they say about widows generally, my boy."

" That is all very well when one talks about widows in general.
It is easy to chaff about women when one hasn't got any woman
in one's mind. But as it is now, having her here, loving her as I
do, — by heaven ! I cannot hurry her. I don't dare to speak to her
after that fashion. I shall do it in time, I suppose ; — but I must
wait till the time comes,"

CHAPTER LXXI.

THE LADIES AT LONGBARNS DOUBT.

It came at last to be decided among 'them that when old Mr.
Wharton returned to town, — and he had now been at Wharton
longer than he had ever been known to remain there before, —
Emily should still remain in Herefordshire, and that at some period
not then fixed she should go for a month to Longbarns. There
were various reasons which induced her to consent to this change
of plans. In the first place she found herself to be infinitely more
comfortable in the country than in town. She could go out and
move about and bestir herself, whereas in Manchester Square she
could only sit and mope at home. Her father had assured her that
ho thought that it would bo better that she should be away from

THE LADIES AT LONGBARNS DOUBT. 47?

the reminiscences of the house in town. And then when the first
week of February was past Arthur would be up in town, and she
would be far away from him at Longbarns, whereas in London she
would be close within his reach. Many little schemes were laid
and struggles made both by herself and the others before at last
their plans were settled. Mr. Wharton was to return to London in
the middle of January. It was quite impossible that he could re-
main longer away either from Stone Buildings or from the Eldon,
and then at the same time, or a day or two following, Mrs. Fletcher
was to go back to Longbarns. John Fletcher and his wife and
children were already gone, — and Arthur also had been at Long-
barns. The two brothers and Everett had been backwards and
forwards. Emily was anxious to remain at Wharton at any rate
till Parliament should have met, so that she might not be at home
with Arthur in his own house. But matters would not arrange
themselves exactly as she wished. It was at last settled that she
should go to Longbarns with Mary Wharton under the charge of
John Fletcher in the first week in February. As arrangements
were already in progress for the purchase of Barnton Spinnies Sir
Alured could not possibly leave his own house. Not to have walked
through the wood on the first day that it became a part of the
Wharton property would to him have been treason to the estate.
His experience ought to have told him that there was no chance of
a lawyer and a college dealing together with such rapidity ; but in
the present state of things he could not bear to absent himself.
Orders had already been given for the cutting down of certain trees
which could not have been touched had the reprobate lived, and it
was indispensable that if a tree fell at Wharton he should see the
fall. It thus came to pass that there was a week during which
Emily would be forced to live under the roof of the Fletchers
together with Arthur Fletcher.

The week came and she was absolutely received by Arthur at the
door of Longbarns. She had not been at the house since it had
first been intimated to the Fletchers that she was disposed to re-
ceive with favour the addresses of Ferdinand Lopez. As she
remembered this it seemed to her to be an age ago since that man
had induced her to believe that of all the men she had ever met he
was the nearest to a hero. She never spoke of him now, but of
course her thoughts of him were never ending, — as also of herself
in that she had allowed herself to be so deceived. She would recall
to her mind with bitter inward sobbings all those lessons of iniquity
which he had striven to teach her, and which had first opened her
eyes to his true character, —how sedulously he had endeavoured to
persuade her that it was her duty to rob her father on his behalf,
how continually he had endeavoured "to make her think that
appearance in the world was everything, and that, being in truth
poor adventurers, it behoved them to cheat the world into think-
ing them rich and respectable. Every hint that had been so
given had been a wound to her, and those wounds were all now

478 THE PRIME MINISTER.

remembered. Though since his death she had never allowed a
word to be spoken in her presence against him, she could not but
hate his memory. How glorious was that other man in her eyes,
as he stood there at the door welcoming her to Longbarns, fair-
haired, open-eyed, with bronzed brow and cheek, and surely the
honestest face that a loving woman ever loved to gaze on. During
the various lessons she had learned in her married life, she had
become gradually but surely aware that the face of that other
man had been dishonest. She had learned the false meaning of
every glance of his eyes, the subtlety of his mouth, the counter-
feit manoeuvres of his body, — the deceit even of his dress. He had
been all a lie from head to foot ; and he had thrown her love aside
as useless when she also would not be a liar. And here was this
man, — spotless in her estimation, compounded of all good qualities,
which she could now see and take at their proper value. She hated
herself for the simplicity with which she had been cheated by soft
words and a false demeanour into so great a sacrifice.

Life at Longbarns was very quiet during the days which she
passed there before he left them. She was frequently alone with
him, but he, if he still loved her, did not speak of his love. He
explained it all one day to his mother. "If it is to be," said tho
old lady, " I don't see the use of more delay. Of course the mar-
riage ought not to be till March twelvemonths. But if it is under-
stood that it is to be, she might alter her dress by degrees, — and
alter her manner of living. Those things should always be done
by degrees. I think it had better be settled, Arthur, if it is to be
settled."

" I am afraid, mother."

" Dear me ! I didn't think you were the man ever to be afraid
of a woman. What can she say to you ? "

"Refuse me."

" Then you'd better know it at once. But I don't think she'll
be fool enough for that."

" Perhaps you hardly understand her, mother."

Mrs. Fletoher shook her head with a look of considerable annoy-
ance. " Perhaps not. But, to tell the truth, I don't like young
women whom I can't understand. Young women shouldn't be mys-
terious. I like people of whom I can give a pretty good guess what
they'll do. I'm sure I never could have guessed that she would
have married that man."

" If you love me, mother, do not let that be mentioned be
us again. When I said that you did not understand her, I did not
mean that she was mysterious. I think that before he die
since his death, she learned of what sort that man was. I will not
say that she hates his memory, but she hates herself for what she
has done."

" So she ought," said Mrs. Fletcher.

11 She has not yet brought herself to think that her life should be
anything but one long period of mourning, not for him, but for her

THE LADIE9 AT LONGBAHNS DOTJBT. 479

own mistake. You may be quite sure that I am in earnest. It is
not because I doubt of myself that I put it off. But I fear that if
once she asserts to me her resolution to remain as she is, she will
feel herself bound to keep her word."

" I suppose she is very much the same as othe.r women, after all,
my dear," said Mrs. Fletcher, who was almost jealous of the pecu-
liar superiority of sentiment which her son seemed to attribute to
this woman.

" Circumstances, mother, make people different," he replied.

" So you are going without having anything fixed," his elder
brother said to him the day before he started.

" Yes, old fellow. It seems to be rather slack ; — doesn't it ? "

" I dare say you know best what you're about. But if you have
set your mind on it "

" You may take your oath of that."

"Then I don't see why one word shouldn't put it all right.
There never is any place so good for that kind of thing as a country
house."

" I don't think that with her it will make much difference where
the house is, or what the circumstances."

" She knows what you mean as well as I do."

" I dare say she does, John. She must have a very bad idea of
me if she doesn't. But she may know what I mean and not mean
the same thing herself."

" How are you to know if you don't ask her ?"

1 ' You may be sure that I shall ask her as soon as I can hope that
my doing so may give her more pleasure than pain. Eemember I
have had all this out with her father. I have determined that I
will wait till twelve months have passed since that wretched man
perished."

On that afternoon before dinner he was alone with her in the
library some minutes before they went up to dress for dinner. ' ' I
shall hardly see you to-morrow," he said, "as I must leave this
at half-pa3t eight. I breakfast at eight. I don't suppose any one
will be down except my mother."

" I am generally as early as that. I will come down and see you
start."

" I am so glad that you have been here, Emily."

" So am I. Everybody has been so good to me."

" It has been like old days,— almost."

" It will never quite be like old days again, I think. But I have
been very glad to be here, — and at Wharton. I sometimes almost
wish that I were nover going back to London again, — only for
papa."

" I like London myself."

" You ! Yes, of course you like London. You have everything
in life before you. You have things to do, and much to hope for.
It is all beginning for you, Arthur."

" I am five years older than you are."

480

(THE PRIME MINISTER.

" What does that matter ? It seems to me that age does not go
by years. It is long since I have felt myself to be an old woman.
But yon are quite young. Everybody is proud of you, and you
ought to be happy."

"I don't know," said he. "It is hard to say what makes a
person happy." He almost made up his mind to speak to her then ;
but he had made up his mind before to put it off still for a little
time, and he would not allow himself to be changed on the spur of
the moment. He had thought of it much, and he had almost
taught himself to think that it would be better for herself that she
should not accept another man's love so soon. " I shall come and
see you in town," he said.

" You must come and see papa. It seems that Everett is to be
a great deal at Wharton. I had better go up to dress now, or I
shall be keeping them waiting." He put out his hand to her, and
wished her good-bye, excusing himself by saying that they should
not be alone together again before he started.

She saw him go on the next morning, — and then she almost felt
herself to be abandoned, almost deserted. It was a fine crisp winter
day, dry and fresh and clear, but with the frost still on the ground.
After breakfast she went out to walk by herself in the long
shrubbery paths which went round the house, and here she
remained for above an hour. She told herself that she was very
thankful to him for not having spoken to her on a subject so unfit
for her ears as love. She strengthened herself in her determination
never again to listen to a man willingly on that subject. She had
made herself unfit to have any dealings of that nature. It was not
that she could not love. Oh, no ! She knew well enough that
she did love, — love with all her heart. If it were not that she were
so torn to rags that she was not fit to be worn again, she could now
have thrown herself into his arms with a whole heaven of joy before
her. A woman, she told herself, had no right to a second chance
in life, after having made such shipwreck of herself in the first.
But the danger of being seduced from her judgment by Arthur
Eletcher was all over. He had been near her for the last week and
had not spoken a word. He had been in the same house with her
for the last ten days and had been with her as a brother might be
with his sister. It was not only she who had seen the propriety of

this. He also had acknowledged it, and she was grateful to

him. As she endeavoured in her solitude to express her gratitude
in spoken words the tears rolled down her cheeks. She was glad,
she told herself, very glad that it was so. How much trouble and
pain to both of them would thus be spared ! And yet her tears
were bitter tears. It was better as it was ; — and yet one word of
love would have been very sweet. She almost thought that she
would have liked to tell him that for his sake, for his dear sake,

she would refuse that which now would never be offered to her.

She was quite clear as to the rectitude of her own judgment, clear
as ever. And yet her heart was heavy with disappointment.

"HE THINKS THAT OUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED." 481

It was the end of March before she left Herefordshire for London,
having spent the greater part of the time at Longbarns. The ladies
at that place were moved by many doubts as to what would be the
end of all this. Mrs. Fletcher the elder at last almost taught her-
self to believe that there would be no marriage, and having got
back to that belief, was again opposed to the idea of a marriage.
Anything and everything that Arthur wanted he ought to have.
The old lady felt no doubt as to that. When convinced that ho
did want to have this widow, — this woman whose life had hitherto
been so unfortunate, — she had for his sake taken the woman again
by the hand, and had assisted in making her one of themselves.
But how much better it would be that Arthur should think better
of it ! It was the maddest constancy, — this clinging to the widow
of such a man as Ferdinand Lopez ! If there were any doubt,
then she would be prepared to do all she could to prevent the
marriage. Emily had been forgiven, and the pardon bestowed
must of course be continued. But she might be pardoned without
being made Mrs. Arthur Fletcher. While Emily was still at Long-
barns the old lady almost talked over her daughter-in-law to this
way of thinking, — till John Fletcher put his foot upon it altogether.
" I don't pretend to say what she may do," he said.

" Oh, John," said the mother, " to hear a man like you talk like
that is absurd. She'd jump at him if he looked at her with half
an eye."

" What she may do," he continued saying, without appearing to
listen to his mother, ' ' I cannot say. But that he will ask her to
be his wife is as certain as that I stand here."

CHAPTER LXXLt.

*' HE THINKS THAT OUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED."

All the details of the new County Suffrage Bill were settled at
Matching during the recess between Mr. Monk, Phineas Finn, and
a very experienced gentleman from the Treasury, one Mr. Prime,
who was supposed to know more about such things than any man
living, and was consequently called Constitution Charlie. He was
an elderly man, over sixty years of age, who remembered the first
Reform Bill, and had been engaged in the doctoring of constitu-
encies ever since. The bill, if passed, would be mainly his bill,
and yet the world would never hear his name as connected with it.
Let us hope that ho was comfortable at Matching, and that he
found his consolation in the smiles of the Duchess. During this
time the old Duke was away, and oven the Prime Minister was
' for some days. He would fain have busiod himsolf about
I I

flHE PRIME MINISTER.

the bill himself, but was hardly allowed by his colleagues to have
any hand in framing it. The great points of the measure had of
course been arranged in the Cabinet, — where, however, Mr. Monk's
views had been adopted almost without a change. It may not
perhaps be too much to assume that one or two members of the
Cabinet did not quite understand the full scope of every suggested
clause. The effects which causes will produce, the dangers which
may be expected from this or that change, the manner in which
this or that proposition will come out in the washing, do not strike
even Cabinet Ministers at a glance. A little study in a man's own
cabinet, after the reading perhaps of a few leading articles, and
perhaps a short conversation with an astute friend or two, will enable
a statesman to be strong at a given time for, or even, if necessary,
against, a measure, who has listened in silence, and has perhaps
given his personal assent, to the original suggestion. I doubt
whether Lord Drummond, when he sat silent in the Cabinet had
realised those fears which weighed upon him so strongly afterwards,
or had then foreseen that the adoption of a nearly similar franchise
for the counties and boroughs must inevitably lead to the American
system of numerical representation. But when time had been
given him, and he and Sir Timothy had talked it all over, the
mind of no man was ever clearer than that of Lord Drummond.

The Prime Minister, with the diligence which belonged to him,
had mastered all the details of Mr. Monk's bill before it was dis-
cussed in the Cabinet, and yet he found that his assistance was
hardly needed in the absolute preparation. Had they allowed him
he would have done it all himself. But it was assumed that he
would not trouble himself with such work, and he perceived that
he was not wanted. Nothing of moment was settled without a
reference to him. He required that everything should be explained
as it went on, down to the extension of every borough boundary ;
but he knew that he was not doing it himself, and that Mr. Monk
and Constitution Charlie had the prize between them.

Nor did he dare to ask Mr. Monk what would be the fate of the
bill. To devote all one's time and mind and industry to a measure
which one knows will fall to the ground must be sad. Work under
such circumstances must be very grievous. But such is often the
fate of statesmen. Whether Mr. Monk laboured under such a
conviction the Prime Minister did not know, though he saw his
friend and colleague almost daily. In truth no one dared to tell
him exactly what he thought. Even tho old Duke had become
partially reticent, and taken himself off to his own woods at Long
Boyston. To Phineas Finn the Prime Minister would sometimes
say a word, but would say even that timidly. On any abstract
question, such as that which he had discussed when they had been
walking together, he could talk freely enough. But on the matter
of the day, those affairs which were of infinite importance to him-
self, and on which one would suppose he would take delight in
speaking to a trusted colleague, he could not bring himself to be

i!HE THINKS THAT OUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED." 483

open. " It must be a long bill, I suppose ? " be said to Pbineas ono
day.

"I'm afraid so, Duke. It will run, I fear, to over a hundred
clauses."

"It will take you the best part of the Session to get through
it?"

" If we can have the second reading early in March, we hope to
send it up to you in the first week in June. That will give us
ample time."

"Yes ; — yes. I suppose so." But he did not dare to ask Phineas
Finn whether he thought that the House of Commons would assent
to the second reading. It was known at this time that the Prime
Minister was painfully anxious as to the fate of the Ministry. It
seemed to be but the other day that everybody connected with the
Government was living in fear lest he should resign. His threats
in that direction had always been made to his old friend the Duke
of St. Bungay ; but a great man cannot whisper his thoughts without
having them carried in the air. In all the clubs it had been
declared that that was the rock by which the Coalition would pro-
bably be wrecked. The newspapers had repeated the story, and
the " People's Banner" had assured the world thai if it were so
the Duke of Omnium would thus do for his country the only good
service which it was possible that he should render it. That was
at the time when Sir Orlando was mutinous and when Lopez had
destroyed himself. But now no such threat came from the Duke,
and the " People's Banner" was already accusing him of clinging
to power with pertinacious and unconstitutional tenacity. Had
not Sir Orlando deserted him ? Was it not well known that Lord
Drummond and Sir Timothy Beeswax were only restrained from
doing so by a mistaken loyalty ?

Everybody came up to town, Mr. Monk having his bill in his
pocket, and the Queen's speech was read, promising the County
Suffrage Bill. The address was voted with a very few words from
either side. The battle was not to be fought then. Indeed, the
state of things was so abnormal that there could hardly be said to
be any sides in the House. A stranger in the gallery, not knowing
the condition of affairs, would have thought that no minister had
for many years commanded so large a majority, as the crowd of
members was always on the Government side of the House ; but the
opposition which Mr. Monk expected would, he knew, come from
those who sat around him, behind him, and even at his very elbow.
About a week after Parliament met the bill was read for the first
time, and the second reading was appointed for an early day in
March.

The Duke had suggested to Mr. Monk the expedience of some
further delay, giving as his reason tho necessity of getting through
certain routine work, should the rejection of the bill create the
confusion of a resignation. No one who knew the Duke could
ever suspect him of giving a false reason, But it seemed that in this

484 THE PRIME MINISTER.

the Prime Minister was allowing himself to be harassed by fears
of the future. Mr. Monk thought that any delay would be injurious
and open to suspicion after what had been said and done, and was
urgent in his arguments. The Duke gave way, but he did so
almost sullenly, signifying his acquiescence with naughty silence.
"I am sorry," said Mr. Monk, " to differ from your grace, but my
opinion in the matter is so strong that I do not dare to abstain from
expressing it." The Duke bowed again and smiled. He had
intended that the smile should be acquiescent, but it had been as
cold as steel. He knew that he was misbehaving, but was not suf-
ficiently master of his own manner to be gracious. He told him-
self on the spot, — though he was quite wrong in so telling himself,
— that he had now made an enemy also of Mr. Monk, and through
Mr. Monk of Phineas Finn. And now he felt that he had no friend
left in whom to trust, — for the old Duke had become cold and indif-
ferent. The old Duke, he thought, was tired of his work and
anxious for rest. -It was the old Duke who had brought him into
this hornets' nest ; had fixed upon his back the unwilling load ;
had compelled him to assume the place which now to lose would be
H disgrace, — and the old Duke was now deserting him ! Ho was
sore all over, angry with evory one, ungracious even with his pri-
vate Secretary and his wife, — and especially miserable because ho
was thoroughly aware of his own faults. And yet, through it all,
there was present to him a desire to fight on to the very last. Let
his colleagues do what they might, and say what they might, he
would remain Prime Minister of England as long as he was sup-
ported by a majority of the House of Commons.

" I do not know any greater step than this," Phineas said to
him pleasantly one day, speaking of their new measure, " towards
that millennium of which we were talking at Matching, if we can
only accomplish it."

" Those moral speculations, Mr. Finn," he said, "will hardly
bear the wear and tear of real life." The words of the answer,
combined with the manner in which they were spoken, were stern
and almost uncivil. Phineas, at any rate, had done nothing to
offend him. The Duke paused, trying to find some expression by
which he might correct the injury he had done; but, not finding
any, passed on without further speech. Phineas shrugged Ins
shoulders and went his way, telling himself that he had received
ono further injunction not to put his trust in princes.

" We shall be beaten, certainly," said Mr. Monk to Phineas, not
long afterwards.

" What makes you so sure ? "

" I smell it in the air. I see it in men's faces."

" And yet it's a moderate bill. They'll have to pass something
stronger before long if they throw it out now."

" It's not the bill that they'll reject, but us. Wo huvo
our turn, and we ought to g

•m

The House is tired of the Duke ? "

"he thinks that our days aee numbered." 485

" The Duke is so good a man that I hardly like to admit even
that ; — but I fear it is so. He is fretful and he makes enemies."

" I sometimes think that he is ill."

" He is ill at ease and sick at heart. He cannot hide his
chagrin, and then is doubly wretched because he has betrayed it.
I do not know that I ever respected and, at the same time, pitied a
man more thoroughly."

" He snubbed me awfully yesterday," said Phineas, laughing.

" He cannot help himself. He snubbs meat every word that
he speaks, and yet I believe that he is most anxious to be civil to
me. His ministry has been of great service to the country. For
myself, I shall never regret having joined it. But I think that
to him it has been a continual sorrow."

The system on which the Duchess had commenced her career
as wife of the Prime Minister had now been completely abandoned.
In the first place, she had herself become so weary of it that she
had been unable to continue the exertion. She had, too, become
in some degree ashamed of her failures. The names of Major
Pountney and Mr. Lopez were not now pleasant to her ears, nor
did she look back with satisfaction on the courtesies she had
lavished on Sir Orlando or the smiles she had given to Sir
Timothy Beeswax. "I've known a good many vulgar people in
my time," she said one day to Mrs. Finn, " but none ever so
vulgar as our ministerial supporters. You don't remember Mr.
Bott, my dear. He was before your time ; — one of the arithmetical
men, and a great friend of Plantagenet's. He was very bad, but
there have come up worse since him. Sometimes, I think, I like
a little vulgarity for a change ; but, upon my honour, when we
get rid of all this it will be a pleasure to go back to ladies
and gentlemen." This the Duchess said in her extreme bitter-

" It seems to me that you have pretty well got rid of ' all this ?
already." .

" But I haven't got anybody else in their place. I have almost
made up my mind not to ask any one into the house for the next
twelve months. I used to think that nothing would ever knock
me up, but now I feel that I'm almost done for. I hardly dare
open my mouth to Plantagenet. The Duke of St. Bungay has cut
me. Mr. Monk looks as ominous as an owl ; and your husband
hasn't a word to say left. Barrington Erie hides his face and
passes by when he sees me. Mr. Battler did try to comfort me
the other day by saying that everything was at sixes and sevens,
and I really took it almost as a compliment to be spoken to.
Don't you think Plantagenet is ill ?"

" He is careworn."

" A man may be worn by care till thero comes to bo nothing
loft of him. But he never speaks of giving up now. The old
Bishop of St. Austell talks of resigning, and ho has already made
up his mind who is to have the see. He used to consult the Duke

486 THE PEIME MINISTEB.

about all these things, but I don't think he ever consults any one
now. He never forgave the Duke about Lord Early bird. Certainly,
if a man wants to quarrel with all his friends, and to double the
hatred of all his enemies, he had better become Prime Minister."

" Are you really sorry that such was his fate, Lady Glen ? "

H Ah, — I sometimes ask myself that question, but I never get
at an answer. I should have thought him a poltroon if he had
declined. It is to be the greatest man in the greatest country in
the world. Do ever so little and the men who write history must
write about you. And no man has ever tried to be nobler than he
till,— till—."

" Make no exception. If he be careworn and ill and weary his
manners cannot be the same as they were, but his purity is the
same as ever."

" I don't know that it would remain so. I believe in him,
Marie, more than in any man, — but I believe in none thoroughly.
There is a devil creeps in upon them when their hands are
strengthened. I do not know what I would have wished. "When-
ever I do wish, I always wish wrong. Ah, me ; when I think of
all those people I had down at Gatherum, — of the trouble I took,
and of the glorious anticipations in which I revelled, I do feel
ashamed of myself. Do you remember when I was determined
that that wretch should be member for Silverbridge ? "

" You haven't seen her since, Duchess ? "

u No ; but I mean to see her. I couldn't make her first hus-
band member, and therefore the man who is member is to be her
second husband. But I'm almost sick of schemes. Oh, dear, I
wish I knew something that was really pleasant to do. I have
never really enjoyed anything since I was in love, and I only liked
that because it was wicked."

The Duchess was wrong in saying that the Duke of St. Bungay
had cut them. The old man still remembered the kiss and still re-
membered the pledge. But he had found it very difficult to maintain
his old relations with his friend. It was his opinion that the
Coalition had done all that was wanted from it, and that now had
come the time when they might retire gracefully. It is, no
doubt, hard for a Prime Minister to find an excuse for going.
But if the Duke of Omnium would have been content to acknow-
ledge that he was not the man to alter the County Suffrage, an
excuse might have been found that would have been injurious to
no ono. Mr. Monk and Mr. Gresham might have joined, and
the present Prime Minister might have resigned, explaining that
he had done all that he had been appointed to accomplish. He had,
however, yielded at once to Mr. Monk, and now it was to bo
feared that the House of Commons would not accept the bill from
his hands. In such a state of things,— espeoially after that dis-
agreement about Lord Early bird, — it was difficult for the old
Duke to tender his advice. He was at every Cabinet Council ;
he always came when his presence was required; he was in-

"he thinks that oub days are numbered." 487

Variably good-humoured ; — but it seemed to him that his work
was done. He could hardly volunteer to tell his chief and his
colleague that he would certainly be beaten in the House of Com-
mons, and that therefore there was little more now to be done
than to arrange the circumstances of their retirement. Nonetheless,
as the period for the second reading of the bill came on, ho resolved
that he would discuss the matter with his friend. He owed it to
himself to do so, and he also owed it to the man whom he had cer-
tainly placed in his present position. On himself politics had im-
posed a burden very much lighter than that which they had inflicted
on his more energetic and much less practical colleague. Through his
long life he had either been in office, or in such a position that men
were sure that he would soon return to it. He had taken it, when
it had come, willingly, and had always left it without a regret. As
a man cuts in and out at a whist table, and enjoys both the game
and the rest from the game, so had the Duke of St. Bungay been
well pleased in either position. He was patriotic, but his patriotism
did not disturb his digestion. He had been ambitious, — but mode-
rately ambitious, and his ambition had been gratified. It never
occurred to him to be unhappy because he or his party were beaten
on a measure. When President of the Council, he could do his
duty and enjoy London life. When in opposition, he could linger
in Italy till May and devote his leisure to his trees and his
bullocks. He was always esteemed, always self-satisfied, and always
Duke of St. Bungay. But with our Duke it was very different.
Patriotism with him was a fever, and the public service an exact-
ing mistress. As long as this had been all he had still been happy.
Not trusting much in himself, he had never aspired to great power.
But now, now at last, ambition had laid hold of him, — and the
feeling, not perhaps uncommon with such men, that personal dis-
honour would be attached to political failure. What would his
future life be if he had so carried himself in his great office as to
have shown himself to be unfit to resume it ? Hitherto any office
had sufficed him in which he might be useful ; — but now he must
either be Prime Minister, or a silent, obscure, and humbled man !

" Dear Duke,

"I will be with you to-morrow morning at 11 A.M., if you
can give me half-an-hour.

" Yours affectionately,

"St. B."
The Prime Minister received this note one afternoon, a day or
two before that appointed for the second reading, and meeting his
friend within an hour in the House of Lords, confirmed the
appointment. " Shall I not rather come to you?" he said. But
the old Duke, who lived in St. James's Square, declared that
Carlton Terrace would be in his way to Downing Street, and so
the matter was settled. Exactly at eleven the two Ministers met.

488 THE PRIME MINISTER.

"I don't like troubling you," said the old man, "when I know
that you have so much to think of."

" On the contrary, I have but little to think of, — and my thoughts
must be very much engaged, indeed, when they shall be too full to
admit of my seeing you."

"Of course we are all anxious about this bill." The Prime
Minister smiled. Anxious ! Yes, indeed. His anxiety was of
such a nature that it kept him awake all night, and never for a
moment left his mind free by day. " And of oourse we must be
prepared as to what shall be done either in the event of success or
of failure."

"You might as well read that," said the other. "It only
reached me this morning, or I should have told you of it." The
letter was a communication from the Solicitor- General containing
his resignation. He had; now studied the County Suffrage Bill
closely, and regretted to say that he could not give it a conscien-
tious support. It was a matter of sincerest sorrow to him that
relations so pleasant should be broken, but he must resign his
place, unless, indeed, the clauses as to redistribution could be with-
drawn. Of course he did not say this as expecting that any such
concession would be made to his opinion, but merely as indicating
the matter on which his objection was so strong as to over-rule all
other considerations. All this he explained at great length.

" The pleasantness of the relations must all have been on one
side," said the veteran. " He ought to have gone long since."

" And Lord Drummond has already as good as said that unless we
will abandon the same clauses he must oppose the bill in the Lords."

" And resign, of course."

" He meant that, I presume. Lord Eamsden has not spoken
to mo."

' ' The clauses will not stick in his throat. Nor ought they. If the
lawyers have their own way about law they should be contented."

" The question is, whether in these circumstances we should
postpone the second reading ? " asked the Prime Minister.

" Certainly not," said the other Duke. "As to the Solicitor-
General you will have no difficulty. Sir Timothy was only placed
there as a concession to his party. Drummond will no doubt con-
tinue to hold his office till we see what is done in tho Lower House.
If the second reading be lost there, — why then his lordship can go
with the rest of us."

" Battler says we shall have a majority. He and Eoby are quite
agreed about it. Between them they must know," said the Primo
Minister, unintentionally pleading for himself.

" They ought to know, if any men do; — but the crisis is excep-
tional. I suppose you think that if the second reading is lost we
should resign r "

" Oh,— certainly."

" Or, after that, if the bill be much mutilated in committee P 1
don't know that I shall personally break my own heart about the

"he thinks that our days are numbered." 489

bill. The existing difference in the suffrages is rather in accord-
ance with my prejudices. But the country desires the measure,
and I suppose we cannot consent to any such material alteration
as these men suggest." As he spoke he laid his hand on Sir
Timothy's letter.

" Mr. Monk would not hear of it," said the Prime Minister.

1 ' Of course not. And you and I in this measure must stick to
Mr. Monk. My great, indeed my only strong desire in the matter,
is to act in strict unison with you."

" You are always good and true, Duke."

"For my own part I shall not in the least regret to find in all
this an opportunity of resigning. "VVe have done our work, and if,
as I believe, a majority of the House would again support either
Gresham or Monk as the head of the entire liberal party, I think
that that arrangement would be for the welfare of the country."

" Why should it make any difference to you ? Why should you
not return to the Council ? "

"I should not do so ;— certainly not at once; probably never.
But you, — who are in the very prime of your life "

The Prime Minister did not smile now. He knit his brows and a
dark shadow came across his face. " I don't think I could do that,"
he said. " Csesar could hardly have led a legion under Pompey."

"It has been done, greatly to the service of the country, and
without the slightest loss of honour or character in him who did it."

" We need hardly talk of that, Duke. You think then that we
shall fail ; — fail, I mean, in the House of Commons. I do not
know that failure in our House should be regarded as fatal."

" In three cases we should fail. The loss of any material clause
in Committee would be as bad as the loss of the bill."

" Oh, yes."

"And then, in spite of Messrs. Eattler and Roby,— who have
been wrong before and may be wrong now, — we may lose the
second reading."

" And the third chance against us ? "

" You would not probably try to carry on the bill with a very
small majority."

" Not with three or four."

"Nor, I think, with six or seven. It would be useless. My
own belief is that we shall never carry the bill into Committee."

" I have always known you to be right, Duke."

" I think that general opinion has set in that direction, and
general opinion is generally right. Having come to that conclusion
I thought it best to tell you, in order that we might have our house
in order." The Duke of Omnium, who with all his haughtiness
and all his reserve, was the simplest man in the world and the least
apt to pretend to be that which he was not, sighed deeply when he
heard this. " For my own part," continued his elder, " I feel no
regret that it should be so."

" It is the first large measure that we have tried to carry,'

490 THE PKIME MINISTER.

" We did not come in to carry large measures, my friend. Look
back and see how many large measures Pitt carried, — but he took
the country safely through its most dangerous crisis."

"What have we done ? "

" Carried on the Queen's Government prosperously for three
years. Is that nothing for a minister to do ? I have never been a
friend of great measures, knowing that when they come fast, one
after another, more is broken in the rattle than is repaired by the
reform. We have done what Parliament and the country expected
us to do, and to my poor judgment we have done it well."

"I do not feel much self-satisfaction, Duke. Well; — we must
see it out, and if it is as you anticipate, I shall be ready. Of
course I have prepared myself for it. And if, of late, my mind has
been less turned to retirement than it used to be, it has only been
because I have become wedded to this measure, and have wished
that it should be carried under our auspices." Then the old Duke
took his leave, and the Prime Minister was left alone to consider
the announcement that had been made to him.

He had said that he had prepared himself, but, in so saying, he
had hardly known himself. Hitherto, though he had been troubled
by many doubts, he had still hoped. The report made to him by
Mr. Eattler, backed as it had been by Mr. Eoby's assurances, had
almost sufficed to give him confidence. But Mr. Eattler and Mr.
Eoby combined were as nothing to the Duke of St. Bungay. iThe
Prime Minister knew now, — he felt that he knew, that his days
were numbered. The resignation of that lingering old bishop was
not completed, and the person in whom he believed would not have
the see. He had meditated the making of a peer or two, having
hitherto been very cautious in that respect, but he would do nothing
of the kind if called upon by the House of Commons to resignwitli
an uncompleted measure. But his thoughts soon ran away from
the present to the future. What was now to come of himself?
How should he use his future life, — he who as yet had not passed
his forty-seventh year? He regretted much having made that
apparently pretentious speech about Csesar, though he knew his old
friend well enough to be sure that it would never be used against
him* Who was he that he should class himself among the big ones
of the world ? A man may indeed measure small things by great,
but the measurer should be careful to declare his own littleness when
he illustrates his position by that of the topping ones of the earth.
But the thing said had been true. Let the Pompey be who he
might, he, the little Caesar of the day, could never now command
another legion.

He had once told Phineas Finn that he regretted that he had
abstained from the ordinary amusements of English gentlemen.
But he had abstained also from their ordinary occupations, — c
so far as politics is one of them. He cared nothing for oxen or for
furrows. In regard to his own land he hardly knew whether the
farms were large or small. He had been a scholar, and after a

" HE THINKS THAT OUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED." 491

certain fitful fashion he had maintained his scholarship, but the
literature to which he had been really attached had been that of
blue books and newspapers. What was he to do with himself when
called upon to resign ? And he understood, — or thought that he
understood, — his position too well to expect that after a while, with
the usual interval, he might return to power. He had been Prime
Minister, not as the leading politician on either side, not as the
king of a party, but, — so he told himself, — as a stop-gap. There
could be nothing for him now till the insipidity of life should gradu-
ally fade away into the giaye.

After a while he got up and went off to his wife's apartment,
the room in which she used to prepare her triumphs and where
now she contemplated her disappointments. "I have had the
Duke with me," he said.

"What;— at last?"

"I do not know that he could have done any good by coming
sooner."

" And what does his Grace say ? "

" He thinks that our days are numbered."

" Psha !— is that all ? I could have told him that ever so long
ago. It was hardly necessary that he should disturb himself at
last to come and tell us such well-ventilated news. There isn't a
porter at one of the clubs who doesn't know it."

" Then there will be the less surprise, — and to those who are
concerned perhaps the less mortification."

" Did he tell you who was to succeed you ? " asked the Duchess.

" Not precisely."

" He ought to have done that, as I am sure he knows. Every-
body knows except you, Plantagenet."

" If you know, you can tell me."

" Of course I can. It will be Mr. Monk."

" With all my heart, G-lencora. Mr. Monk is a very good man."

"I wonder whether he'll do anything for us. Think how des-
titute we shall be ! What if I were to ask him for a place ! Would
he not give it us ? "

" Will it make you unhappy, Cora ? "

" What ;— your going ? "

" Yes ; — the change altogether."

She looked him in the face for a moment before she answered,
with a peculiar smile in her eyes to which he was well used, — a
smile half ludicrous and half pathetic, — having in it also a dash of
sarcasm. "I can dare to tell the truth," she said, "which you
can't. I can be honest and straightforward. Yes, it will make me
unhappy. And you ? "

" Do you think that I cannot be honest too, — at any rate to you ?
It does fret me. I do not like to think that I shall be without work."

"Yes; — Othello's occupation will be gone, — for awhile; for
awhile." Then she came up to him and put both her hands on
his breast. " But yet, Othello, I shall not be all unhappy."

492 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" Where will be your contentment ? "

" In you. It was making you ill. Rough people, whom the
tenderness of your nature could not well endure, trod upon you,
and worried you with their teeth and wounded you everywhere. I
could have turned at them again with my teeth, and given them
worry for worry ; — but you could not. Now you will be saved
from them, and so I shall not be discontented." All this she said
looking up into his face, still with that smile which was half
pathetic and half ludicrous.

" Then I will be contented too," he said as he kissed her.

CHAPTER LXXIII.

ONLY THE DUKE OF OMNIUM.

The night of the debate arrived, but before the debate was com-
menced Sir Timothy Beeswax got up to make a personal explana-
tion. He thought it right to state to the House how it came to
pass that he found himself bound to leave the Ministry at so
important a crisis in its existence. Then an observation was made
by an honourable member of the Government, — presumably in a
whisper, but still loud enough to catch the sharp ears of Sir
Timothy, who now sat just below the gangway. It was said after-
wards that the gentleman who made the observation, — an Irish
gentleman named Fitzgibbon, conspicuous rather for his loyalty to
his party than his steadiness, — had purposely taken the place in
which he then sat, that Sir Timothy might hear the whisper. The
whisper suggested that falling houses were often left by certain
animals. It was certainly a very loud whisper, — but, if gentlemen
are to be allowed to whisper at all, it is almost impossible to restrain
the volume of the voice. To restrain Mr. Fitzgibbon had always been
found difficult. Sir Timothy, who did not lack pluck, turned at
once upon his assailant, and declared that words had been used
with reference to himself which the honourable member did not
dare to get upon his legs and repeat. Larry Fitzgibbon, as the
gontleman was called, looked him full in the face, but did not
move his hat from his head or stir a limb. It was a pleasant little
episode in the evening's work, and afforded satisfaction to the House
generally. Then Sir Timothy went on with his explanation. The
details of this measure, as soon as they were made known to him,
appeared to him, he said, to be fraught with the gravest and most
pernicious consequences. He was sure that the members of her
Majesty's Government, who were hurrying on this measure with
what he thought was indecent haste, — ministers are always either
indecent in their haste or treacherous in their delay, — had not con-

ONLV THE DtJKE Off OMNIUM. 49S

sidered what they were doing, or, if they had considered, were
blind as to its results. He then attempted to discuss the details of
the measure, but was called to order. A personal explanation
could not be allowed to give him an opportunity of anticipating
the debate. He contrived, however, before he sat down, to say
some very heavy things against his late chief, and especially to
congratulate the Duke on the services of the honourable gentleman,
the member for Mayo, — meaning thereby Mr. Laurence Pitz-
gibboti.

It would perhaps have been well for everybody if the measure
could have been withdrawn and the Ministry could have resigned
without the debate, — as everybody was convinced what would be
the end of it. Let the second reading go as it might, the bill could
not be carried. There are measures which require the hopeful
heartiness of a new Ministry, and the thorough-going energy of a
young Parliament, — and this was one of them. The House was as
fully agreed that this change was necessary, as it ever is agreed on
any subject, — but still the thing could not be done. Even Mr.
Monk, who was the most earnest of men, felt the general slackness
of all around him. The commotion and excitement which would
be caused by a change of Ministry might restore its proper tone to
the House, but at its present condition it was unfit for the work.
Nevertheless Mr. Monk made his speech, and put all his arguments
into lucid order. He knew it was for nothing, but nevertheless it
must be done. For hour after hour he went on, — for it was neces-
sary to give every detail of his contemplated proposition. He went
through it as sedulously as though he had expected to succeed, and
sat down about nine o'clock in the evening. Then Sir Orlando
moved the adjournment of the House till the morrow, giving as
his reason for doing so the expedience of considering the details he
had heard. To this no opposition was made, and the House was
adjourned.

On the following day the clubs were all alive with rumours as to
the coming debate. It was known that a strong party had been
formed under the auspices of Sir Orlando, and that with him Sir
Timothy and other politicians were in close council. It was of
course necessary that they should impart to many the secrets of
their conclave, so that it was known early in the afternoon that it
was the intention of the opposition not to discuss the bill, but to
move that it be read a second time that day six months. The
Ministry had hardly expected this, as the bill was undoubtedly
popular both in the House and the country ; and if the opposition
should be beaten in such a course, that defeat would tend greatly
to strengthen the hands of the Government. But if the foe could
succeed in carrying a positive veto on the second reading, it would
under all the circumstances be tantamount to a vote of want of
confidence. " I'm afraid they know almost more than we do as to
the feeling of members," said Mr. Uoby to Mr. Eat! lor.

•: liiere isn't a man in the House whose feeling in the matter I

494 IHE PEIMB MINISTER.

don't know," said Battler, " but I'm not quite so sure of their
principles. On our own side, in our old party, there are a score
of men who detest the Duke, though they would fain be true to the
Government. They have voted with him through thick and thin,
and he has not spoken a word to one of them since he became
Prime Minister. What are you to do with such a man ? How are
you to act with him ?"

" Lupton wrote to him the other day about something," answered
the other, " I forget what, and he got a note back from Warburton
as cold as ice, — an absolute slap in tho face. Fancy treating a
man like Lupton in that way, — one of the most popular men in the
House, related to half the peerage, and a man who thinks so much
of himself ! I shouldn't wonder if he were to vote against us ; — I
shouldn't indeed."

"It has all been the old Duke's doing," said Rattler, " and no
doubt it was intended for the best ; but the thing has been a failure
from the beginning to the end. I knew it would be so. I don't
think there has been a single man who has understood what a
Ministerial Coalition really means except you and I. From the
very beginning all your men were averse to it in spirit."

"Look how they were treated!5' said Mr. Roby. ""Was it
likely that they should be very staunch when Mr. Monk became
Leader of the House ? "

There was a Cabinet Council that day which lasted but a few
minutes, and it may be easily presumed that the Ministers decided
that they would all resign at once if Sir Orlando should carry his
amendment. It is not unlikely that they were agreed to do the
same if he should nearly carry it, — leaving probably the Prime
Minister to judge what narrow majority would constitute nearness.
On this occasion all the gentlemen assembled were jocund in their
manner, and apparently well satisfied, — as though they saw before
them an end to all their troubles. The Spartan boy did not even
make a grimace when the wolf bit him beneath his frock, and these
were all Spartan boys. Even the Prime Minister, who had fortified
himself for the occasion, and who never wept in any company but
that of his wife and his old friend, was pleasant in his manner
and almost affable. " We shan't make this step to vf aids the
millennium just at present," he said to Phineas Finn as they
1 it tho room together, — referring to words which Phineas had
ppokon on a former occasion, and which then had not been very
well taken.

II But we shall have made a step towards the step," said Phineas,
" and in getting to a millennium even that is something."

II I suppose we aro all too anxious," said the Duke, " to see some
great effects come from our own little doings. Good- day. We
shall know all about it tolerably early. Monk seems to think that
it will be an attack on the Ministry and not on the bill, and that it
will be best to get a vote with as little delay as possible."

" I'll bet an even five-pound note," said Mr. Lupton at the Carl-

ONLY THE DtKE OP OMNIUM* 495

ton, " that the present Ministry is out to-morrow, and another
that no one names five members of the next Cabinet."

"You can help to win your first bet," said Mr. Beauchamp, a
very old member, who, like many other Conservatives, had sup-
ported the Coalition.

" I shall not do that," said Lupton, "though I think I ought.
I won't vote against the man in his misfortunes, though, upon my
soul, I don't love him very dearly. I shall vote neither way, but
I hope that Sir Orlando may succeed."

' • If he do, who is to come in ? " said the other. " I suppose you
don't want to serve under Sir Orlando ? "

11 Nor certainly under the Duke of Omnium. We shall not
want a Prime Minister as long as there are as good fish in the sea
as have been caught out of it.

There had lately been formed a new liberal club, established on
a broader basis than the Progress, and perhaps with a greater
amount of aristocratic support. This had come up since the Duke
had been Prime Minister. Certain busy men had never been quite
contented with the existing state of things, and had thought that
the liberal party, with such assistance as such club could give it,
would be strong enough to rule alone. That the great liberal
party should be impeded in its work and its triumph by such men
as Sir Orlando Drought and Sir Timothy Beeswax was odious to
the club. All the Pallisers had, from time immemorial, run
straight as Liberals, and therefore the club had been unwilling to
oppose the Duke personally, though he was the chief of the Coali-
tion. And certain members of the Government, Phineas Pinn,
for instance, Barrington Erie, and Mr. Rattler were on the com-
mittee of the club. But the club, as a club, was not averse to a
discontinuance of the present state of things. Mr. Gresham might
again become Prime Minister, if he would condescend so far, or
Mr. Monk. It might be possible that the great liberal triumph
contemplated by the club might not be achieved by the present
House ; — but the present House must go shortly, and then, with
that assistance from a well- organized club, which had lately been
so terribly wanting, — the lack of which had made the Coalition
necessary, — no doubt the British constituencies would do their
duty, and a liberal Prime Minister, pure and simple, might reign
— almost for ever. With this great future before it, the club was
very lukewarm in its support of the present bill. " I shall go
down and vote for them of course," said Mr. O'Mahony, "just
for the look of the thing." In saying this Mr. O'Mahony ex-
pressed the feeling of the club, and the feeling of the liberal party
generally. There was something due to the Duke, but not enough
to make it incumbent on his friends to maintain him in his posi-
tion as Prime Minister.

It was a great day for Sir Orlando. At half-past four the House
was full, — not from any dosire to hear Sir Orlando's arguments
against the bill, but because it was felt that a good deal of personal

496 THE PKIMB MINISTER

interest would be attached to the debate. If one were asked In
these days what gift should a Prime Minister ask first from the
fairies>[ono would name the power of attracting personal friends.
Eloquence, if it be too easy, may become almost a curse. Patriotism
is suspected, and sometimes sinks almost to pedantry. A Jove-
born intellect is hardly wanted, and clashes with the inferiorities.
Industry is exacting. Honesty is unpractical. Truth is easily
offended. Dignity will not bend. But the man who can be all
things to all men, who has ever a kind word to speak, a pleasant
joke to crack, who can forgive all sins, who is ever prepared for
friend or foe but never very bitter to the latter, who forgets not
men's names, and is always ready with little words, — he is the man
who will be supported at a crisis such as this that was now in the
course of passing. It is for him that men will struggle, and talk,
and, if needs be, fight, as though the very existence of the country
depended on his political security. The present man would receive
no such defence; — but still the violent deposition of a Prime
Minister is always a memorable occasion.

Sir Orlandornade his speech, and, as had been anticipated, it had
very little to do with the bill, and was almost exclusively an attack
upon his late chief. He thought, he said, that this was an occasion
on which they had better come to a direct issue with as little delay
as possible. If he rightly read the feeling of the House, no bill of
this magnitude coming from the present Ministry would be likely
to be passed in an efficient condition. The Duke had frittered
away his support in that House, and as a Minister had lost that
confidence which a majority of the House had once been willing to
place in him. "We need not follow Sir Orlando through his speech.
He alluded to his own services, and declared that he was obliged to
withdraw them because the Duke would not trust him with the
management of his own office. He had reason to believe that other
gentlemen who had attached themselves to the Duke's Ministry had
found themselves equally crippled by this passion for autocratic
rule. Hereupon a loud chorus of disapprobation came from the
Treasury bench, which was fully answered by opposing noises
from the other side of the House. Sir Orlando declared that he
need only point to the fact that the Ministry had been already
shivered by the secession of, various gentlemen. " Only two," said
a voice. Sir Orlando was turning round to contradict the voice
when he was greeted by another. " And those the weakest," said
the other voice, which was indubitably that of Larry Fitzgibbon.
" I will not speak of myself," said Sir Orlando pompously ; " but
I am authorised to tell the House that the noble lord who is now
Secrotary of State for the Coloniesonly holds his office till this
crisis shall have passed."

After that there was some sparring of a very bitter kind between
Sir Timothy and Phinoas Finn, till at last it seemed that the debate
wa i to degouorate into a war of man against man. Phinea
Piiie, and Laurence Fitzgibbon allowed themselves to bo lashed

ONLY SHE DUKE OP OMNIUM. 497

into anger, and, as far as words went, had the best of it. But of
what use could it be ? Every man there had come into the House
prepared to vote for or against the Duke of Omnium, — or resolved,
like Mr. Lupton, not to vote at all ; and it was hardly on the cards
that a single vote should be turned this way or that by any violence
of speaking. * ' Let it pass," said Mr. Monk in a whisper to Phineas.
" The fire is not worth this fuel."

"I know the Duke's faults," said Phineas; "but these men
know nothing of his virtues, and when I hear them abuse him I
cannot stand it."

Early in the night, — before twelve o'clock, — the House divided,
and even at the moment of the division no one quite knew how it
would go. There would be many who would of course vote against
the amendment as being simply desirous of recording their opinion
in favour of the bill generally. And there were some who thought
that Sir Orlando and his followers had been too forward, and
too confident of their own standing in the House, in trying so vio-
lent a mode of opposition. It would have been better, these men
thought, to have insured success by a gradual and persistent oppo-
sition to the bill itself. But they hardly knew how thoroughly men
may be alienated by silence and a cold demeanour. Sir Orlando
on the division was beaten, but was beaten only by 9. " He can't
go on with his bill," said Battler in one of the lobbies of the House.
" I defy him. The House wouldn't stand it, you know." "No
minister," said Roby, "could carry a measure like that with a
majority of 9 on a vote of confidence ! " The House was of
course adjourned, and Mr. Monk went at once to Carlton Terrace.

" I wish it had only been 3 or 4," said the Duke, laughing.

"Why so f"

11 Because there would have been less doubt."

" Is there any at present ?"

" Less possibility for doubt, I will say. You would not wish to
make the attempt with such a majority."

" I could not do it, Duke !"

" I quite agree with you. But there will be those who will say
that the attempt might be made, — who will accuse us of being
faint-hearted because we do not make it."

1 ' They will be men who understand nothing of the temper of
the House."

" Yery likely. But still, I wish the majority had only been 2
or 3. There is little more to be said, I suppose."

" Yery little, your Grace."

" We had better meet to-morrow at two, and, if possible, I will
see her Majesty in the afternoon. Good night, Mr. Monk."

" Good night, Duke."

" My reign is ended. You are a good deal an older man than
I, and yet probably yours has yet to begin." Mr. Monk smiled
and shook his head as he left the room, not trusting himself to
discuss so large a subject at so late an hour of the night.

K K

498 THE PRIME MINISTER.

Without waiting a moment after his colleague's departure, the
Prime Minister, — for he was still Prime Minister, — went into his
wife's room, knowing that she was waiting up till she should hear
the result of the division, and there he found Mrs. Finn with her.
" Is it over?" asked the Duchess.

" Yes; — there has been a division. Mr. Monk has just been
with me."

"Well!"

" We have beaten them, of course, as we always do," said the
Duke, attempting to be pleasant. " You didn't suppose there
was anything to fear ? Your husband has always bid you keep up
your courage ;— has he not, Mrs. Finn ? "

" My husband has lost his senses, I think," she said. ' " He has
taken to such storming and raving about his political enemies
that I hardly dare to open my mouth."

" Tell me what has been done, Plantagenet," ejaculated the
Duchess.

" Don't you be as unreasonable as Mrs. Pinn, Cora. The
House has voted against Sir Orlando's amendment by a majority
of 9 P"

« Only 9!"

" And I shall cease to be Prime Minister to-morrow."

" You don't mean to say that it's settled ?"

" Quite settled. The play has been played, and the curtain has
fallen, and the, lights are being put out, and the poor weary
actors may go home to bed."

" But on such an amendment surely any majority would have
done."

" No, my dear. I will not name a number, but 9 certainly
would not do."

" And it is all over ? "

" My Ministry is all over, if you mean that."

" Then everything is over for me. I shall settle down in the
country and build cottages, and mix draughts. You, Mario, will
still be going up the tree.. If Mr. Pinn manages well ho may
come to bo Prime Minister some day."

" He has hardly such ambition, Lady Glen."

" The ambition will come fast enough; — will it not, Plan-
tagenet ? Let him once begin to dream of it as possible, and
the desire will soon be strong enough. How should you feel if it
were so P"

" It is quite impossible," said Mrs. Finn, gravely.

11 I don't see why anything is impossible. Sir Orlando will be
Prime Minister now, and Sir Timothy Beeswax Lord Chancellor.
After that anybody may hope to be anything. Well, — I suppose
we may go to bed. Is your carriage here, my dear ? "

" I hope so."

"Eing the bell, Plantagenet, for somebody to see her down.
Come to lunch to-morrow because I shall have so many groans

ONLY THE DUKE OP OMNIUM. 499

to utter. What beasts, what brutes, what ungrateful wretches
men are !— worse than women when they get together in numbers
enough to be bold. Why have they deserted you ? What have
we not done for them ? Think of all the new bedroom furniture
that we sent to Gatherum merely to keep the party together.
There were thousands of yards of linen, and it has all been of no
use. Don't you feel like Wolsey, Plantagenet ? "

11 Not in the least, my dear. No one will take anything away
from me that is my own."

"For me, I am almost as much divorced as Catherine, and
have had my head cut off as completely as Anne Bullen and the
rest of them. Go away, Marie, because I am going to have a cry
by myself."

The Duke himself on that night put Mrs. Finn into her carriage ;
and as he walked with her down-stairs he asked her whether she
believed the Duchess to be in earnest in her sorrow. " She so mixes
up her mirth and woe together," said the Duke, "that I myself
sometimes can hardly understand her."

" I think she does regret it, Duke."

11 She told me but the other day that she would be contented."

" A few weeks will make her so. As for your Grace, I hope I
may congratulate you."

" Oh yes ; — I think so. We none of us like to be beaten when
we have taken a thing in hand. There is always a little disap-
pointment at first. But, upon the whole, it is better as it is. I
hope it will not make your husband unhappy."

" Not for his own sake. He will go again into the middle of
the scramble and fight on one side or the other. For my own
part I think opposition the pleasantest. Good night, Duke. I am
so sorry that I should have troubled you."

Then he went alone to his own room, and sat there without
moving for a couple of hours. Surely it was a great thing to have
been Prime Minister of England for three years, — a prize of which
nothing now could rob him. He ought not to be unhappy ; and
yet he knew himself to be wretched and disappointed. It had
never occurred to him to be proud of being a duke, or to think
of his wealth otherwise than a chance incident of his life, advan-
tageous indeed, but by no means a source of honour. And he had
been aware that he had owed his first seat in Parliament to his
birth, and probably also his first introduction to official life. An
heir to a dukedom, if he will only work hard, may almost with
certainty find himself received into one or the other regiment in
Downing Street. It had not in his early days been with him as it
had with his friends Mr. Monk and Phineas Finn, who had
worked their way from the very ranks. But even a duke cannot
become Prime Minister by favour. Surely he had done some-
thing of which he might be proud. And so he tried to console
himself.

But to have done something was nothing to him, — nothing to

500 THE PRIME MINISTER.

his personal happiness, — unless there was also something left for
him to do. How should it be with him now, — how for the
future ? Would men ever listen to him again, or allow him again
to work in their behoof, as he used to do in his happy days in the
House of Commons ? He feared that it was all over for him, and
that for the rest of his days he must simply be the Duke of
Omnium.

CHAPTEE LXXIV.

I AM DISGRACED AND SHAMED.

Soon after the commencement of the Session Arthur Fletcher
became a constant visitor in Manchester Square, dining with the
old barrister almost constantly on Sundays, and not unfrequently
on other days when the House and his general engagements would
permit it. Between him and Emily's father there was no secret
and no misunderstanding. Mr. Wharton quite understood that
the young member of Parliament was earnestly purposed to marry
his daughter, and Fletcher was sure of all the assistance and sup-
port which Mr. Wharton could give him. The name of Lopez was
very rarely used between them. It had been tacitly agreed that
there was no need that it should be mentioned. The man had
oome like a destroying angel between them and their fondest hopes.
Neither could ever be what he would have been had that man
never appeared to destroy their happiness. But the man had gone
away, not without a tragedy that was appalling ; — and each thought
that, as regarded him, he and the tragedy might be, if not for-
gotten at least put aside, if only that other person in whom they
were interested could be taught to seem to forget him. " It is not
love," said the father, " but a feeling of shame." Arthur Fletcher
shook his head, not quite agreeing with this. It was not that he
feared that she loved the memory of her late husband. Such love
was, he thought, impossible. But there was, he believed, some-
thing more than the feeling which her father described as shame.
There was pride also ; — a determination in her own bosom not to
confess the fault she had made in giving herself to him whom she
must now think to have been so much the least worthy of her two
suitors. " Her fortune will not be what I once promised you,"
said the old man plaintively.

" I do not remember that I ever asked you as to her fortune,"
Arthur replied.

" Certainly not. If you had I should not have told you. But
as I named a sum, it is right that I should explain to you that
that man succeeded in lessening it by six or seven thousand
pounds."

"i AM DISGRACED AND SHAMED." 601

" If that were all!"

"And I have promised Sir Alured that Everett, as his heir,
should have the use of a considerable portion of his share without
waiting for my death. It is odd that the one of my children from
whom I certainly expected the greater trouble should have fallen

so entirely on his feet ; and that the other ; well, let us hope

for the best. Everett seems to have taken up with Wharton as

though it belonged to him already. And Emily ! Well, my

dear boy, let us hope that it may come right yet. You are not
drinking your wine. Yes, — pass the bottle ; I'll have another
glass before I go up-stairs."

In this way the time went by till Emily returned to town.
The Ministry had just then resigned, but I think that " this great
reactionary success," as it was called by the writer in the " People's
Banner," affected one member of the Lower House much less than
the return to London of Mrs. Lopez. Arthur Fletcher had deter-
mined that he would renew his suit as soon as a year should have
expired since the tragedy which had made his love a widow, — and
that year had now passed away. He had known the day well, — as
had she, when she passed the morning weeping in her own room at
Wharton. Now he questioned himself whether a year would suf-
fice,— whether both in mercy to her and with the view of realising
his own hopes he should give her some longer time for recovery.
But he had told himself that it should be done at the end of a year,
and as he had allowed no one to talk him out of his word, so
neither would he be untrue to it himself. But it became with him
a deep matter of business, a question of great difficulty, how he
should arrange the necessary interview, — whether he should plead
his case with her at their first meeting, or whether he had better
allow her to become accustomed to his presence in the house. His
mother had attempted to ridicule him, because he was, as she said,
afraid of a woman. He well remembered that he had never been
afraid of Emily Wharton when they had been quite young, — little
more than a boy and girl together. Then he had told her of his
love over and over again, and had found almost a comfortable
luxury in urging her to say a word, which she had never indeed
said, but which probably in those days he still hoped that she
would say. And occasionally he had feigned to be angry with her,
and had tempted her on to little quarrels with a boyish idea that
quick reconciliation would perhaps throw her into his arms. But
now it seemed to him that an age had passed since those days.
His love had certainly not faded. There had never been a moment
when that had been on the wing. But now the azure plumage of
his love had become grey as the wings of a dove, and the gorgeous-
ness of his dreams had sobered into hopes and fears which were a
constant burden to his heart. There was time enough, still time
enough for happiness if she would yield ; — and time enough for the
dull pressure of unsatisfied aspirations should she persist in her
refusal.

502 THE PKIME MINISTEE.

At last he saw her, almost by accident, and that meeting cer-
tainly was not fit for the purpose of his suit. He called at Stone
Buildings the day after her arrival, and found her at her father's
chambers. She had come there keeping some appointment with
him, and certainly had not expected to meet her lover. He was
confused and hardly able to say a word to account for his presence,
but she greeted him with almost sisterly affection, saying some
word of Longbarns and his family, telling him how Everett, to Sir
Alured's great delight, had been sworn in as a magistrate for the
County, and how at the last hunt meeting John Fletcher had been
asked to take the County hounds, because old Lord Weobly at
seventy-five had declared himself to be unable any longer to ride
as a master of hounds ought to ride. All these things Arthur had
of course heard, such news being too important to be kept long
from him ; but on none of these subjects had he much to say. He
stuttered and stammered, and quickly went 'away ; — not, however,
before he had promised to come and dine as usual on the next
Sunday, and not without observing that the anniversary of that
fatal day of release had done something to lighten the sombre load
of mourning which the widow had hitherto worn.

Yes ; — he would dine there on the Sunday, but how would
it be with him then ? Mr. Wharton never went out of the
house on a Sunday evening, and could hardly be expected to leave
his own drawing-room for the sake of giving a lover an opportu-
nity. No ; — he must wait till that evening should have passed,
and then make the occasion for himself as best he might. The
Sunday came and the dinner was eaten, and after dinner there was
the single bottle of port and the single bottle of claret. " How do
you think she is looking ?" asked the father. " She was as pale
as death before we got her down into the country."

" Upon my word, sir," said he, " I've hardly looked at her. It
is not a matter of looks now, as it used to be. It has got beyond
that. It is not that I am indifferent to seeing a pretty face, or
that I have no longer an opinion of my own about a woman's
figure. But there grows up, I think, a longing which almost kills
that consideration."

" To me she is as beautiful as ever," said the father proudly.

Elotcher did manage, when in the drawing-room, to talk for a
whilo about John and the hounds, and then went away, having
resolved that he would come again on the very next day. Surely
she would not give an order that he should be denied admittance.
She had been too calm, too even, too confident in herself for that.
Yes ; — he would come and tell her plainty what ho had to say. He
would tell it with all the solemnity of which he was capable, with
a few words, and those the strongest which he could use. Should
she refuse him, — as he almost knew that she would at first, — then
he would tell her of her father and of the wishes of all their joint
frionds. " Nothing," he would say to her, " nothing but personal
dislike can justify you in refusing to heal so many wounds." As

503

he fixed on these words he failed to remember how little probable
it is that a lover should ever be able to use the phrases which he
arranges.

On the Monday he came, and asked for Mrs. Lopez, slurring over
the word as best he could. The butler said his mistress was at
home. Since the death of the man he had so thoroughly despised,
the old servant had never called her Mrs. Lopez. Arthur was
shown up-stairs, and found the lady he sought, — but. he found
Mrs. Eoby also. It may be remembered that Mrs. Eoby, after the
tragedy, had been refused admittance into Mr. Wharton's house.
Since that there had been some correspondence, and a feeling had
prevailed that the woman was not to be quarrelled with for ever.
" I did not do it, papa, because of her," Emily had said with some
scorn, and that scorn had procured Mrs. Eoby's pardon. She was
now making a morning call, and suiting her conversation to the
black dress of her niece. Arthur was horrified at seeing her. Mrs.
Eoby had always been to him odious, not only as a personal enemy
but as a vulgar woman. He, at any rate, attributed to her a great
part of the evil that had been done, feeling sure that had there
been no house round the corner, Emily Wharton would never have
become Mrs. Lopez. As it was he was forced to shake hands with
her, and forced to listen to the funereal tone in which Mrs. Eoby
asked him if he did not think that Mrs. Lopez looked much im-
proved by her sojourn in Herefordshire. He shrank at the sound,
and then, in order that it might not be repeated, took occasion to
show that he was allowed to call his early playmate by her Chris-
tian name. Mrs. Eoby, thinking that she ought to check him,
remarked that Mrs. Lopez's return was a great thing for Mr. Whar-
ton. Thereupon Arthur Fletcher seized his hat off the ground,
wished them both good-bye, and hurried out of the room. ' ' What
a very odd manner he has taken up since he became a member of
Parliament," said Mrs. Eoby.

Emily was silent for a moment, and then with an effort, — with
intense pain, — she said a word or two which she thought had
better be at once spoken. " He went because he does not like to
hear that name."

11 Good gracious ! "

" And papa does not like it. Don't say a word about it, aunt;
pray don't ; — but call me Emily."

"Are you going to be ashamed of your name ? "

"Never mind, aunt. If you think it wrong you must stay
away ; — but I will not have papa wounded."

" Oh ; — if Mr. Wharton wishes it ; of course." That evening

Mrs. Eoby told Dick Eoby, her husband, what an old fool Mr.
Wharton was.

The next day, quite early, Eletcher was again at the house and
was again admitted up-stairs. The butler, no doubt, knew well
enough why he camo, and also knew that the purport of his coming
had at any rate the sanction of Mr. "Wharton, The room was

504 THE PBIME MINISTER .

empty when he was shown into it, but she came to him very soon,
" I went away yesterday rather abruptly," he said. " I hope you
did not think me rude."

"Oh, no."

" Your aunt was here, and I had something I wished to say but
could not say very well before her."

" I knew that she had driven you away. You and Aunt Harriet
were never great friends."

" Never ; — but I will forgive her everything. I will forgive all
the injuries that have been done me if you now will do as I ask
you."

Of course she knew what it was that he was about to ask. When
he had left her at Longbarns without saying a word of his love,
without giving her any hint whereby she might allow herself to
think that he intended to renew his suit, then she had wept because
it was so. Though her resolution had been quite firm as to the
duty which was incumbent on her of remaining in her desolate
condition of almost nameless widowhood, yet she had been unable
to refrain from bitter tears because he also had seemed to see that
such was her duty. But now again, knowing that the request was
coming, feeling once more confident of the constancy of his love,
she was urgent with herself as to that heavy duty. She would be
unwomanly, dead to all shame, almost inhuman, were she to allow
herself again to indulge in love after all the havoc she had made.
She had been little more than a bride when that husband, for whom
she had so often been forced to blush, had been driven by the
weight of his misfortunes and disgraces to destroy himself ! By
the marriage she had made she had overwhelmed her whole family
with dishonour. She had done it with a persistency of perverse
self-will which she herself could not now look back upon without
wonder and horror. She, too, should have died as well as he, —
only that death had not been within the compass of her powers as
of his. How then could she forget it all, and wipe it away from
her mind, as she would figures from a slate with a wet towel ?
How could it be fit that she should again be a bride with such a
spectre of a husband haunting her memory ? She had known that
the request was to be made when he had come so quickly, and
had not doubted it for a moment when he took his sudden depar-
ture. She had known it well, when just now the servant told her
that Mr. Fletcher was in the drawing-room below. But she was
quite certain of the answer sho must make. " I should be sorry
you should ask me anything I cannot do," she said in a very
low voice.

"I will ask you nothing for which I have not your father's
sanction."

11 The time has gone by, Arthur, in which I might well have
been guided by my father. There comes a time when personal
feelings must bo stronger than a father's authority. Papa cannot
see me with my own eyes ; he cannot understandVhat I feel. It

505

is simply this, — that he would have me to be other than I am. But
I am what I have made myself."

"You have not heard me as yet. You will hear me ? "

"Oh, yes."

"I have loved you ever since I was a boy." He paused as
though he expected that she would make some answer to this ; but
of course there was nothing that she could say. ' • I have been
true to you since we were together almost as children."

" It is your nature to be true."

" In this matter, at any rate, I shall never change. I never for
a moment had a doubt about my love. There never has been any
one else whom I have ventured to compare with you. Then came
that great trouble. Emily, you must let me speak freely this once,
as so much, to me at least, depends on it."

" Say what you will, Arthur. Do not wound me more than you
can help."

" God knows how willingly I would heal every wound without a
word if it could be done. I don't know whether you ever thought
what I suffered when he came among us and robbed me, — well I
will not say robbed me of your love, because it was not mine — but
took away with him that which I had been trying to win."

" I did not think a man would feel it like that."

" Why shouldn't a man feel as well as a woman ? I had set my
heart on having you for my wife. Can any desire be nearer to a
man than that ? Then he came. Well, dearest ; surely I may say
that he was not worthy of you."

" We were neither of us worthy," she said.

" I need not tell you that we all grieved. It seemed to us down
in Herefordshire as though a black cloud had come upon us. We
could not speak of you, nor yet could we be altogether silent."

" Of course you condemned me, — as an outcast."

"Did I write to you as though you were an outcast? Did 1
treat you when I saw you as an outcast ? When I come to you
to-day, is that proof that I think you to be an outcast ? I have
never deceived you, Emily."

"Never."

" Then you will believe me when I say that through it all not
one word of reproach or contumely has ever passed my lips in
regard to you. That you should have given yourself to one whom
I could not think to be worthy of you was, of course, a great sorrow.
Had he been a prince of men it would, of course, have been a
sorrow to me. How it went with you during your married life I
will not ask."

"I was unhappy. I would tell you everything if I could. I
was very unhappy."

"Then came — the end." She was now weeping, with her face
buried in her handkerchief. * • I would spare you if I knew how,
>l>ut there are some things which must be said."

"No; — no. I will bear it all — from you."

506 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" Well ! His success had not lessened my love. Though then
I could have no hope, — though you were utterly removed from me,
— all that could not change me. There it was, — as though my arm
or my leg had been taken from me. It was bad to live without an
arm or leg, but there was no help. I went on with my life and
tried not to look like a whipped cur; — though John from time
to time would tell me that I failed. But now ; — now that it has
again all changed, — what would you have me do now ? It may be
that after all my limb may be restored to me, that I may be again
as other men are, whole, and sound, and happy; — so happy !
When it may possibly be within my reach am I not to look for my
happiness?" He paused, but she wept on without speaking a
word. "There are those who will say that I should wait till all
these signs of woe have been laid aside. But why should I wait ?
There has come a great blot upon your life, and is it not well that
it should be covered as quickly as possible ? "

" It can never be covered."

" You mean that it can never be forgotten. No doubt there are
passages in our life which we cannot forget, though we bury them
in the deepest silence. All this can never be driven out of your
memory, — nor from mine. But it need not therefore blacken all
our lives. In such a condition we should not be ruled by what the
world thinks."

11 Not at all. I care nothing for what the world thinks. I am
below all that. It is what I think ; I myself, — of myself."

" Will you think of no one else ? Are any of your thoughts for
me, — or for your father ? "

" Oh, yes ; — for my father."

" I need hardly tell you what he wishes. Tou must know how
you can best give him back the comfort he has lost."

" But, Arthur, even for him I cannot do everything."

"There is one question to be asked," he said, rising from her
feet and standing before her; — " but one; and what you do should
depend entirely on the answer which you may be able truly to make
to that."

This he said so solemnly that he startled her. " What question,
Arthur?"

• ■ Do you love me ? " To this question at the moment she could
make no reply. " Of course I know that you did not lovo me when
you married him."

11 Love is not all of ono kind."

11 You know what love I mean. You did not love me then.
You could not have loved me, — though, perhaps, I thought I had
deserved your lovo. But love will change, and memory will some-
times bring back old fancies when the world has been stern and
hard. When we were very young I think you loved me. J
remember seven years ago at Longbarns, when they parted us and
sent me away, because, — because wo were so young ? They did
not tell us then, but I think you knew. I know that I knew, and

"I AM DISGRACED AND SHAMED." 507

went nigh to swear that I would drown myself. You loved me
then, Emily."

" I was a child then."

" Now you are not a child. Do you love me now, — to-day f If
so, give me your hand, and let the past be buried in silence. All
this has come, and gone, and has nearly made us old. But there is
life before us yet, and if you are to me as I am to you it is better
that our lives should be lived together." Then he stood before her
with his hand stretched out.

" I cannot do it," she said.

"And why?"

" I cannot be other than the wretched thing I have made my-
self."

" But do you love me ? "

" I cannot analyze my heart. Love you; — yes ! I have always
loved you. Everything about you is dear to me. I can triumph
in your triumphs, rejoice at your joy, weep at your sorrows, be
ever anxious that all good things may come to you ; — but, Arthur,
I cannot be your wife."

"Not though it would make us all happy, — Fletchers and
Whartons aU alike ? "

" Do you think I have not thought it over ? Do you think that
I have forgotten your first letter ? Knowing your heart, as I do
know it, do you imagine that I have spent a day, an hour, for
months past, without asking myself what answer I should make to
you if the sweet constancy of your nature should bring you again
to me ? I have trembled when I have heard your voice. My heart
has beat at the sound of your footstep as though it would burst !
Do you think I have never told myself what I had thrown away ?
But it is gone, and it is not now within my reach. "

"It is; it is," he said, throwing himself on his knees, and
twining his arms round her.

" No ; — no ; — no ; — never. I am disgraced and shamed. I have
lain among the pots till I am foul and blackened. Take your
arms away. They shall not be defiled," she said as she sprang to
her feet. " You shall not have the thing that he has left."

" Emily, — it is the only thing in all the world that I crave."

"Be a man and conquer your love, — as I will. Get it under
your feet and press it to death. Tell yourself that it is shameful
and must be abandoned. That you, Arthur Fletcher, should marry
the widow of that man, — the woman that he had thrust so far into
the mire that she can never again be clean ; — you, the chosen one,
the bright star among us all; — you, whose wife should be the
fairest, the purest, the tenderest of us all, a flower that has yet

been hardly breathed on ! While I Arthur," she said, " I

know my duty better than that. I will not seek an escape from
my punishment in that way, — nor will I allow you to destroy your-
self. You have my word as a woman that it shall not be so. Now
I do not mind your knowing whether I loye you or no." He stood

508 THE PEIME MINISTER.

silent before her, not able for the moment to go on with his prayer.
" And now, go," she said. " God bless you, and give you some day
a fair and happy wife. And, Arthur, do not come again to me. If
you will let it be so, I shall have a delight in seeing you;— but
not if you come as you have come now. And, Arthur, spare me
with papa. Do not let him think that it is all my fault that 1 can-
not do the thing which he wishes." Then she left the room before
he could say another word to her.

But it was all her fault. No ; — in that direction he could not
spare her. It must be told to her father, though he doubted his
own power of describing all that had been said. "Do not come
again to me," she had said. At the moment he had been left
speechless ; but if there was one thing fixed in his mind it was the
determination to come again. He was sure now, not only of love
that might have sufficed, — but of hot, passionate love. She had
told him that her heart had beat at his footsteps, and that she had
trembled as she listened to his voice ; — and yet she expected that
he would not come again ! But there was a violence of decision
about the woman which made him dread that he might still come
in vain. She was so warped from herself by the conviction of her
great mistake, so prone to take shame to herself for her own error,
so keenly alive to the degradation to which she had been submitted,
that it might yet be impossible to teach her that, though her
husband had been vile and she mistaken, yet she had not been
soiled by his baseness.

He went at once to the old barrister's chambers and told him
the result of the meeting. " She is still a fool," said the father,
not understanding at second-hand the depths of his daughter's
feeling.

" No, sir, — not that. She feels herself degraded by his degrada-
tion. If it be possible we must save her from that."

" She did degrade herself."

"Not as she means it. She is not degraded in my eyes."

"Why should she not take the only means in her power of
rescuing herself and rescuing us all from the evil that she did ?
She owes it to you, to me, and to her brother."

" I would hardly wish her to come to me in payment of such a
debt."

"There is no room left," said Mr. Wharton angrily, "for soft
sentimentality. Well ; — she must take her bed as she makes it.
It is very hard on me, I know. Considering what she used to be,
it is marvellous to mo that she should have so little idea left of
doing her duty to others."

Arthur Fletcher found that the barrister was at the moment too
angry to hoar reason, or to be made to understand anything of the
feelings of mixed love and admiration with which he himself was
animated at the moment. He was obliged thereforo to content
himself with assuring the father that he did not intond to give up
the pursuit of his daughter.

THE GEEAT WHARTON ALLIANCE. 509

CHAPTER LXXV.

THE GREAT WHARTON ALLIANCE.

When Mr. Wharton got home on that day he said not a word to
Emily as to Arthur Fletcher. He had resolved to take various
courses, — first to tell her roundly that she was neglecting her duty
to herself and to her family, and that he would no longer take her
part and be her good friend unless she would consent to marry the
man whom she had confessed that she loved. But as he thought
of this he became aware, — first that he could not carry out such a
threat, and then that he would lack even the firmness to make it.
There was something in her face, something even in her dress,
something in her whole manner to himself, which softened him and
reduced him to vassalage directly he saw her. Then he determined
to throw himself on her compassion and to implore her to put an
end to all this misery by making herself happy. But as he drew
near home he found himself unable to do even this. How is a
father to beseech his widowed daughter to give herself away in a
second marriage ? And therefore when he entered the house and
found her waiting for him, he said nothing. At first she looked at
him wistfully, — anxious to learn by his face whether her lover had
been with him. But when he spoke not a word, simply kissing her
in his usual quiet way, she became cheerful in manner and com-
municative. " Papa," she said, "I have had a letter from Mary."

"Well, my dear."

" Just a nice chatty letter, — full of Everett of course."

u. Everett is a great man now."

" I am sure that you are very glad that he is what he is. Will
you see Mary's letter ?" Mr. Wharton was not specially given to
reading young ladies' correspondence, and did not know why this
particular letter should be offered to him. "You don't suspect
anything at Wharton, do you ?" she asked.

" Suspect anything ! No ; I don't suspect anything." But now,
having had his curiosity aroused, he took the letter which was
offered to him and read it. The letter was as follows-; —

"Wharton, Thursday.

" Dearest Emily,—

• ' We all hope that you had a pleasant journey up to London,
and that Mr. Wharton is quite well. Your brother Everett came
over to Longbarns the day after you started and drove me back to
Wharton in the dog- cart. It was such a pleasant journey, though,
now I remember, it rained all the way. But Everett has always
so much to say that I didn't mind the rain. I think it will end in
John taking the hounds. He says he won't, because he does not
wish to be the slave of the whole county ; — but he says it in that

510 THE PEIME MINISTEE.

sort of way that we all think he means to do it. Everett tells him
that he ought, because he is the only hunting man on this side of
the county who can afford to do it without feeling it much ; and of
course what Everett says will go a long way with him. Sarah," —
Sarah was John Fletcher's wife, — " is rather against it. But if he
makes up his mind she'll be sure to turn round. Of course it makes
us all very anxious at present to know how it is to end, for the
Master of the Hounds always is the leading man in our part of the
world. Papa went to the bench at Eoss yesterday and took
Everett with him. It was the first time that Everett had sat there.
Pie says I am to tell his father he has not hung anybody as yet.

" They have already begun to cut down, or what they call stubb
up, Barnton Spinnies. Everett said that it is no good keeping
it as a wood, and papa agreed. So it is to go into the home farm,
and Griffiths is to pay rent for it. I don't like having it cut down
as the boys always used to get nuts there, but Everett says it won't
do to keep woods for little boys to get nuts.

" Mary Stocking has been very ill since you went, and I'm afraid
she won't last long. When they get to be so very bad with rheuma-
tism I almost think it's wrong to pray for them, because they are in
so much pain. We thought at one time that mamma's ointment
had done her good, but when we came to inquire, we found she
had swallowed it. Wasn't it dreadful ? But it didn't seem to do
her any harm. Everett says that it wouldn't make any difference
which she did.

" Papa is beginning to be afraid that Everett is a Radical. But
I'm sure's he's not. He says he is as good a Conservative as there
is in all Herefordshire, only that he likes to know what is to be
conserved. Papa said after dinner yesterday that everything
English ought to be maintained. Everett said that according to
that we should have kept the Star Chamber. * Of course I would,'
said papa. Then they went at it, hammer and tongs. Everett had
the best of it. At any rate he talked the longest. But I do hope
he is not a Badical. No country gentleman ought to be a Badical.
Ought he, dear ?

" Mrs. Fletcher says you are to get the lozenges at Squire's in
Oxford Street, and be sure to ask for the Vado mecum lozenges.
She is all in a flutter about the hounds. She says she hopes John
will do nothing of the kind because of tho expense ; but we all
know that she would like him to have them. The subscription is
not very good, only £] ,500, and it would cost him ever so much a
yoar. But everybody says that he is very rich and that he ought
to do it. If you see Arthur give him our love. Of course a mem-
ber of Parliament is too busy to write letters. But I don't think
Arthur ever was good at writing. Everett says that men never
ought to write letters. Give my love to Mr. Wharton.
" I am, Dearest Emily,

"Your most affectionate Cousin,

"Mary Whaeton."

THE GEE AT WHARTON ALLIANCE. 511

11 Everett is a fool," said Mr. "Wharton as soon as he had read
the letter.

" Why is he a fool, papa ? "

" Because he will quarrel with Sir Alured about politics before he
knows where he is. What business has a young fellow like that to
have an opinion either one side or the other, before his betters ? "

" But Everett always had strong opinions."

" It didn't matter as long as he only talked nonsense at a club
in London, but now he'll break that old man's heart."

" But, papa, don't you see anything else ? "

"I see that John Fletcher is going to make an ass of himself
and spend a thousand a year in keeping up a pack of hounds for
other people to ride after."

" I think I see something else besides that."

" What do you see ? "

" Would it annoy you if Everett were to become engaged to
Mary ? "

Then Mr. Wharton whistled. "To be sure she does put his
name into every line of her letter. No ; it wouldn't annoy me. I
don't see why he shouldn't marry his second cousin if he likes.
Only if he is engaged to her, I think it odd that he shouldn't write
and tell us."

"I'm sure he's not engaged to her yet. She wouldn't write at
all in that way if they were engaged. Everybody would be told
at once, and Sir Alured would never be able to keep it a secret.
Why should there be a secret ? But I'm sure she is very fond of
him. Mary would never write about any man in that way unless
she were beginning to be attached to him."

About ten days after this there came two letters from Wharton
Hall to Manchester Square, the shortest of which shall be given
first. It ran as follows ; —

" My dear Father, —

" I have proposed to my cousin Mary, and she has accepted
me. Everybody here seems to like the idea. I hope it will not
displease you. Of course you and Emily will come down. I will
tell you when the day is fixed.

" Your affectionate Son,

"Everett Wharton."

This the old man read as he sat at breakfast with his daughter
opposite to him, while Emily was reading a very much longer
letter from the same house. "So it's going to be just as you
guessed," he said.

' ' I was quite sure of it, papa. Is that from Everett ? Is he very
happy?"

" Upon my word I can't say whether he's happy or not. If he
had got a new horse he would have written at much greater length
<*bout it. It seems, however, to be quite fixed."

512 THE PEIME MINISTER.

" Oh, yes. This is from Mary. She is happy at any rate. I
suppose men never say so much about these things as women."

" May I see Mary's letter ? '

"I don't think it would be quite fair, papa. It's only a girl's
rhapsody about the man she loves, — very nice and womanly, but
not intended for any one but me. It does not seem that they mean
to wait very long."

" Why should they wait ? Is any day fixed ? "

" Mary says that Everett talks about the middle of May. Of
course you will go down."

" We must both go."

V You will at any rate. Don't promise for me just at present.
It must make Sir Alured very happy. It is almost the same as
finding himself at last with a son of his own. I suppose they will
live at Wharton altogether now, — unless Everett gets into Par-
liament."

But the reader may see the young lady's letter, though her
future father-in-law was not permitted to do so, and will perceive
that there was a paragraph at the close of it which perhaps was
more conducive to Emily's secrecy than her feelings as to the eacred
obligations of female correspondence.

" Monday, Wharton.

"Dearest Emily, —

* ' I wonder whether you will be much surprised at the news
I have to tell you. You cannot be more so than I am at having to
write it. It has all been so very sudden that I almost feel ashamed
of myself. Everett has proposed to me, and I have accepted him.
There ; — now you know it all. Though you never can know how
very dearly I love him and how thoroughly I admire him. I do
think that he is everything that a man ought to be, and that I am
the most fortunate young woman in the world. Only isn't it odd
that I should always have to live all my life in the same house, and
never change my name, — just like a man, or an old maid ? 13ut I
don't mind that because I do love him so dearly and because he is
so good. I hope he will write to you and tell you that he likes me.
He has written to Mr. Wharton I know. I was sitting by him and
his letter didn't take him a minute. But he says that long letters
about such things only give trouble I hope you won't think my
letter troublesome. He is not sitting by me now but has gone
over to Longbarns to help to settle about the hounds. John is
going to have them after all. I wish it hadn't happened just at
this time because all the gentlemen do think so much about it. Of
course Everett is one of the committee.

" Papa and mamma are both very very glad of it. Of course it
is nice for them as it will keep Everett and me here. If I had
married anybody else, — though I am sure I never should, — she
would have been very lonely. And of course papa likes to think
that Everett is already one of us. I hope they never will quarrel

THE GEEAT WHAETON ALLIANCE. 513

about politics ; but, as Everett says, the world does change as it goes
on, and young men and old men never will think quite the same
about things. Everett told papa the other day that if he could be
put back a century he would be a Eadical. Then there were ever
so many words. But Everett always laughs, and at last papa
comes round.

"I can't tell you, my dear, what a fuss we are in already about
it all. Everett wants to have our marriage early in May, so that
we may have two months in Switzerland before London is what he
calls turned loose. And papa says that there is no use in delay-
ing, because he gets older every day. Of course that is true of
everybody. So that we are all in a nutter about getting things.
Mamma did talk of going up to town, but I believe they have
things now quite as good at Hereford. Sarah, when she was
married, had all her things from London, but they say that there
has been a great change since that. I am sure I think that you
may get anything you want at Muddocks and Cramble's. But
mamma says I am to have my veil from Howell and James's.

" Of course you and Mr. Wharton will come. I shan't think it
any marriage without. Papa and mamma talk of it as quite of
course. You know how fond papa is of the bishop. I think he
will marry us. I own I should like to be married by a bishop.
It would make it so sweet and so solemn. Mr. Higgenbottom
could of course assist ; — but he is such an odd old man, with his
snuff and his spectacles always tumbling off, that I shouldn't like
to have no one else. I have often thought that if it were only for
marrying people we ought to have a nicer rector at Wharton.

" Almost all the tenants have been to wish me joy. They are
very fond of Everett already, and now they feel that there will
never be any very great change. I do think it is the very best
thing that could be done, even if it were not that I am so tho-
roughly in love with him. I didn't think I should ever be able to
own that I was in love with a man ; but now I feel quite proud of
it. I don't mind telling you because he is your brother, and I
think that you will be glad of it.

" He talks very often about you. Of course you know what it
is that we all wish. I love Arthur Fletcher almost as much as if
he were my brother. He is my sister's brother-in-law, and if he
could become my husband's brother-in-law too, I should be so
happy. Of course we all know that he wishes it. Write imme-
diately to wish me joy. Perhaps you could go to Howell and
James's about the veil. And promise to come to us in May.
Sarah says the veil ought to cost about thirty pounds.
" Dearest, dearest Emily,
" I shall so soon be your most affectionate sister,

"Mary Wharton."

Emily's answer was full of warm, affectionate congratulations.
She had much to say in favour of Everott. She promised to use

L L

514 THE PRIME MINISTER.

all her little skill at Howell and James's. She expressed a nopd
that the overtures to be made in regard to the bishop might be
successful. And she made kind remarks even as to Muddocks and
Cramble. But she would not promise that she herself would be at
Wharton on the happy day. "Dear Mary," she said, "remem-
ber what I have suffered, and that I cannot be quite as other people
are. I could not stand at your marriage in black clothes, — nor
should I have the courage e^en if I had the will to dress myself in
others." None of the Whartons had come to her wedding. There
was no feeling of anger now left as to that. She was quite aware
that they had done right to stay away. But the very fact that it
had been right that they should stay away would make it wrong
that the widow of Ferdinand Lopez should now assist at the mar-
riage of one Wharton to another. This was all that a marriage

ought to be ; whereas that had been all that a marriage ought

not to be. In answer* to the paragraph about Arthur Fletcher
Emily Lopez had not a word to say.

Soon after this, early in April, Everett came up to town.
Though his bride might be content to get her bridal clothes in
Hereford, none but a London tailor could decorate him properly
for such an occasion. During these last weeks Arthur Fletcher
had not been seen in Manchester Square ; nor had his name been
mentioned there by Mr. Wharton. Of anything that may have
passed between them Emily was altogether ignorant. She ob-
served, or thought that she observed, that her father was more
silent with her, — perhaps less tender than he had been since the
day on which her husband had perished. His manner of life was
the same. He almost always dined at home in order that she
might not be alone, and made no complaint as to her conduct.
But she could see that he was unhappy, and she knew the cause
of his grief. "I think, papa," she said one day, "that it would
be better that I should go away." This was on the day before
Everett's arrival, — of which, however, he had given no notice.

" Go away ! Where would you go to ? "

" It does not matter. I do not make you happy."
' What do you mean ? Who says that I am not happy ? Why
do you talk liko that ? "

" Do not be angry with mew Nobody says so. I can see it well
enough. I know how good you are to me, but I am making your
life wretched. I am a wet blanket to you, and yet I cannot help
myself. If I could only go somewhere, where I could be of use,"

"I don't know what you mean. This is your proper home."

"No; — it is not my home. I ought to have forfeited it. I
ought to go where I could work and be of some use in the world."

"You might be of use if you chose, my dear. Your proper
career is before you if you would condescend to accept it. It is
not for me to persuade you, but I can see and feel the truth. Till
you can bring yourself to do that, your days will be blighted, —
and so will mine. You have made one great mistake in life. Stop

the Great wharton alliance. 515

a moment. I do not speak often, but I wish you to listen to me
now. Such mistakes do generally produce misery and ruin to all
who are concerned. With you it chances that it may be otherwise.
You can put your foot again upon the firm ground and recover
everything. Of course there must be a struggle. One person has
to struggle with circumstances, another with his foes, and a third
with his own feelings. I can understand that there should be such
a struggle with you ; but it ought to be made. You ought to be
brave enough and strong enough to conquer your regrets, and to
begin again. In no other way can you do anything for me or for
yourself. To talk of going away is childish nonsense. Whither
would you go ? I shall not urge you any more, but I would not
have you talk to me in that way." Then he got up and left the
room and the house, and went down to his club, — in order that she
might think of what he had said in solitude.

And she did think of it ; — but still continually with an assurance
to herself that her father did not understand her feelings. The
career of which he spoke was no doubt open to her, but she could
not regard it as that which it was proper that she should fulfil, as
he did. When she told her lover that she had lain among the pots
till she was black and defiled, she expressed in the strongest
language that which was her real conviction. He did not think
her to have been defiled, — or at any rate thought that she might
again bear the wings of a dove; but she felt it, and therefore
knew herself to be unfit. She had said it all to her lover in the
strongest words she could find, but she could not repeat them to
her father. The next morning when he came into the parlour
where she was already sitting, she looked up at him almost re-
proachfully. Did he think that a woman was a piece of furniture
which you can mend, and re-varnish, and fit out with new orna-
ments, and then send out for use, second-hand indeed, but for all
purposes as good as new ?

Then, while she was in this frame of mind, Everett came in upon
her unawares, and with his almost boisterous happiness succeeded
for awhile in changing the current of her thoughts. He was of
course now uppermost in his own thoughts. The last few months
had made so much of him that he might be excused for being
unable to sink himself in the presence of others. He was the heir
to the baronetcy, — and to the double fortunes of the two old men.
And he was going to be married in a manner as every one told
him to increase the glory and stability of the family. "It's all
nonsense about your not coming down," he said. She smiled and
shook her head. ' ' I can only tell you that it will give the greatest
offence to every one. If you knew how much they talk about
you down there I don't think you would like to hurt them."

" Of course I would not like to hurt them."

" And considering that you have no other brothor "

"Oh, Everett!"

" I think more about it, perhaps, than you do. I think you

516 THE PRIME MINISTER.

owe it me to come down. You will never probably have anotlier
chance of being present at your brother's marriage." This he
paid in a tone that was almost lachrymose.

" A wedding, Everett, should be merry."

" I don't know about that. It is a very serious sort of thing to
my way of thinking. When Mary got your letter it nearly broke
her heart. I think I have a right to expect it, and if you don't
come I shall feel myself injured. I don't see what is the use of
having a family if the members of it do not stick together. What
would you think if I were to desert you ? "

" Desert you, Everett !"

" Well, yes ; — it is something of the kind. I have made my
request, and you can comply with it or not as you please."

" I will go," she said very slowly. Then she left him and went
to her own room to think in what description of garments she could
appear at a wedding with the least violence to the conditions of
her life.

" I have got her to say she'll come," he said to his father that
evening. " If you leave her to me I'll bring her round."

Soon after that,— within a day or two, — there came out a para-
graph in one of the fashionable newspapers of the day, saying
that an alliance had been arranged between the heir to the
Wharton title and property and the daughter of the present
baronet. I think that this had probably originated in the club
gossip. I trust it did not spring directly from the activity or am-
bition of Everett himself.

CHAPTEK LXXVL

WHO WILL IT BE P

Eor the first day or two after the resignation of the Ministry the
Duchess appeared to take no further notice of the matter. An
ungrateful world had repudiated her and her husband, and he had
foolishly assisted and given way to the repudiation. All her grand
aspirations were at an end. All her triumphs were over. And
worse than that ; there was present to her a conviction that she
never had really triumphed. There never had come the happy
moment in which she had felt herself to be dominant over other
women. She had toiled and struggled, she had battled and
occasionally submitted ; and yet there was present to her a feeling
that she had stood higher in public estimation as Lady Grlencora
Palliser, — whose position had been all her own and had not
depondcd on her husband, — than now sho had done as Duchess of
Omnium, and wife of the Prime Minister of England. She had
meant to be something, she knew not what, greater than had been

WHO WILL IT BE ? 517

the wives of other Prime Ministers and other Dukes ; and now she*
felt that in her failure she had been almost ridiculous. And the4
failure, she thought, had been his, — or hers, — rather than that of
circumstances. If he had been less scrupulous and more persistent?
it might have been different, — or if she had been more discreet*
Sometimes she felt her own failing so violently as to acquit him
almost entirely. At other times she was almost beside herself
with anger because all her losses' seemed to have arisen from want
of stubbornness on his part. When he had told her that he and
his followers had determined to resign because they had beaten
their foes by a majority only of 9, she took it into her head
that he was in fault. Why should he go while his supporters were
more numerous than his opponents ? It was useless to bid him
think over it again. Though she was far from understanding all
the circumstances of the game, she did know that he could not
remain after haying arranged with his colleagues that he would go.
So she became cross and sullen ; and while he- was going to
Windsor and back and setting his house in order, and preparing
the way for his successor, — whoever that successor might be, —
she was moody and silent, dreaming over some impossible con-
dition of things in accordance with which he might have remained
Prime Minister — almost for ever.

On the Sunday after the fatal division, — the division which the
Duchess would not allow to have been fatal, — she came across him
somewhere in the house. She had hardly spoken to him since he
had come into her room that night and told her that all was over.
She had said that she was unwell and had kept out of sight ; and
he had been here and there, between Windsor and the Treasury
Chambers, and had been glad to escape from her ill-humour.
But she could not endure any longer the annoyance of having to
get all her news through Mrs. Finn, — second hand, or third hand,
and now found herself driven to capitulate. "Well," said she;
1 ' how is it all going to be ? I suppose you do not know or you
would have told me?"

" There is very little to tell."

" Mr. Monk is to be Prime Minister ? " she asked.

" I did not say so. But it is not impossible."

" Has the Queen sent for him ? "

" Not as yet. Her Majesty has s«en both Mr. Gresham and
Mr. Daubeny as well as myself. It does not seem a very easy
thing to make a Ministry just at present."

" Why should not you go back ? "

" I do not think that is on the cards."

" Why not ? Ever so many men have done it, after going out,—
and why not you ? I remember Mr. Mildmay doing it twice. It
is always the thing when the man who has been sent for makes a
mess of it, for the old minister to have another chance.

" But what if the old minister will not take the chance ? "

" Then it is the old minister's fault. Why shouldn't you take

518 THE 'PRIME MINISTEIU

the chance as well as another P It isn't many days ago since yon
were quite anxious to remain in. I thought you were going to
break your heart because people even talked of your going."

" I was going to break my heart, as you call it," he said smiling,
" not because people talked of my ceasing to he minister, but be-
cause the feeling of the House of Commons justified people in so
saying. I hope you see the difference."

1 ' No, I don't. And there is no difference. The people we are
talking about are the members, — and they have supported you.
You could go on if you chose. I'm sure Mr. Monk wouldn't
leave you."

" It is just what Mr. Monk would do, and ought to do. No one
is less likely than Mr. Monk to behave badly in such an emergency.
The more I see of Mr. Monk, the higher I think of him."

" He has his own game to play as well as others."

" I think he has no game to play but that of his country. It is
no use our discussing it, Cora."

" Of course I understand nothing, because I'm a woman."

" You understand a great deal, — but not quite all. You may at
any rate understand this, — that our troubles are at an end. You
were saying but the other day that the labours of being a Prime
Minister's wife had been almost too many for you."

" I never said so. As long as you didn't give way no labour was
too much for me. I would have done anything, — slaved morning
and night, — so that we might have succeeded. I hate being beat.
I'd sooner be cut in pieces."

"There is no help for it now, Cora. The Lord Mayor, you
know, is only Lord Mayor for one year, and must then go back to
private life."

" But men have been Prime Ministers for ten years at a time.
If you have made up your mind, I suppose we may as well give
up. I shall always think it your own fault." He still smiled.
" I shall," she said.

"Oh, Cora!"

11 1 can only speak as I feel."

" I don't think you would speak as you do, if you knew how
much your words hurt me. In such a matter as this I should not
be justified in allowing your opinions to have weight with me. But
your sympathy would be so much to me ! "

1 ' When I thought it was making you ill, I wished that you
might be spared."

" My illness would be nothing, but my honour is everything. I,
too, have something to bear as well as you, and if you cannot
approve of what I do, at any rate be silent."

11 Yes ; — I can be silent." Then he slowly left her. As he went
she was almost tempted to yield, and to throw herself into his
arms, and to promise that she would be soft to him, and to say that
she was sure that all that he did was for the best. But she could
not bring herself as yet to be good-humoured. If he had only

WHO WILL IT BE? 519

been a little stronger, a little thicker-skinned, made of clay a
little coarser, a little other than he was, it might all have been so
different !

Early on that Sunday afternoon she had herself driven to Mrs.
Finn's house in Park Lane, instead of waiting for her friend.
Latterly she had but seldom done this, finding that her presence at
home was much wanted. She had been filled with, perhaps, foolish
ideas of the necessity of doing something, — of adding something to
the strength of her husband's position, — and had certainly been
diligent in her work. But now she might run about like any other
woman. " This is an honour, Duchess," said Mrs. Finn.

''Don't be sarcastic, Marie. We have nothing further to do
with the bestowal of honours. Why didn't ho make everybody a
peer or a baronet while he was about it ? Lord Finn ! I don't
see why he shouldn't have been Lord Finn. I'm sure he deserved
it for the way in which he attacked Sir Timothy Beeswax."

" I don't think he'd like it."

" They all say so, but I suppose they do like it, or they wouldn't
take it. And I'd have made Locock a knight ; — Sir James Locock.
He'd make a more knightly knight than Sir Timothy. When a
man has power he ought to use it. It makes people respect him.
Mr. Daubeny made a duke, and people think more of that than
anything he did. Is Mr. Finn going to join the new ministry ? "

11 If you can tell me, Duchess, who is to be the new minister, I
can give a guess."

"Mr. Monk."

" Then he certainly will."

" Or Mr. Daubeny."

" Then he certainly won't."

" Or Mr. Gresham."

" That I could not answer."

" Or the Duke of Omnium."

"That would depend upon his Grace. If the Duke came back,
Mr. Finn's services would be at his disposal, whether in or out of
office."

"Very prettily said, my dear. I never look round this room
without thinking of the first time I came here. Do you remember,
when I found the old man sitting there ? " The old man alluded
to was the late Duke.

" I am not likely to forget it, Duchess."

" How I hated you when I saw you ! What a fright I thought
you were ! I pictured you to myself as a sort of ogre, willing to
eat up everybody for the gratification of your own vanity."

" I was very vain, but there was a little pride with it."

" And now it has come to pass that I can't very well live without
you. How he did love you ! "

" His Grace was very good to me."

" It would have done no great harm, after all, if fre, bad made
you Duchess of Omnium,"

520 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" Very great harm to me, Lady Grlen. As it is I got a friend
that I loved dearly, and a husband that I love dearly too. In the
other case I should have had neither. Perhaps I may say, that in
that other case my life would not have been brightened by the
affection of the present Duchess."

" One can't tell how it would have gone, but I well remember
the state I was in then." The door was opened and Phineas Finn
entered the room. " What, Mr. Pinn, are you at home ? I thought
everybody was crowding down at the clubs, to know who is to
be what. We are settled. We are quiet. We have nothing to do
to disturb ourselves. But you ought to be in all the flutter of
renewed expectation."

" I am waiting my destiny in calm seclusion. I hope the Duke
is well?"

' ' As well as can be expected. He doesn't walk about his room
with a poniard in his hand, — ready for himself or Sir Orlando ; nor
is he sitting crowned like Bacchus, drinking the health of the new
Ministry with Lord Drummond and Sir Timothy. He is probably
sipping a cup of coffee over a blue-book in dignified retirement.
You should go and see him."

"I should be unwilling to trouble him when he is so much
occupied."

" That is just what has done him all the harm in the world.
Everybody presumes that he has so much to think of that nobody
goes near him. Then he is left to boody over everything by him-
self till he becomes a sort of political hermit, or ministerial Lama,
whom human eyes are not to look upon. It doesn't matter now ;
does it ? " Visitor after visitor came in, and the Duchess chatted
to them all, leaving the impression on everybody that heard her
that she at least was not sorry to be relieved from the troubles
attending her husband's late position.

She sat there over an hour, and as she was taking her leave she
had a few words to whisper to Mrs. Pinn. ■ « When this is all over,"
she said, " I mean to call on that Mrs. Lopez."

" I thought you did go there."

" That was soon after the poor man had killed himself, — when
she was going away. Of course I only left a card. But I shall see
her now if I can. We want to get her out of her melancholy if
possible. I have a sort of feeling, you know, that among us we
made the train run over him."

" I don't think that."

11 He got so horribly abused for what he did at Silverbridge ; and
I really don't see why he wasn't to have his money. It was I that
made him spend it."

11 He was, I fancy, a thoroughly bad man."

" But a wife doesn't always want to be made a widow even if
her husband be bad. I think I owe her something, and I would
pay my debt if I knew how. I shall go and soo her, and if she will
marry this other man we'll take her by the hand. Good-bye, dear.

WHO WILL IT BE? 521

You'd better come to me early to-morrow, as I suppose we shall
know something by eleven o'clock."

In the course of that evening the Duke of St. Bungay came to
Carlton Terrace and was closeted for some time with the late Prime
Minister. He had been engaged during that and the last two
previous days in lending his aid to various political manoeuvres
and ministerial attempts, from which our Duke had kept himself
altogether aloof. He did not go to Windsor, but as each successive
competitor journeyed thither and returned, some one either sent
for the old Duke or went to seek his council. He was the Nestor
of the occasion, and strove heartily to compose all quarrels, and so
to arrange matters that a wholesome moderately liberal Ministry
might be again installed for the good of the country and the
comfort of all true Whigs. In such moments he almost ascended
to the grand heights of patriotism, being always indifferent as to
himself. Now he came to his late chief with a new project. Mr.
Gresham would attempt to form a Ministry if the Duke of Omnium
would join him.

" It is impossible," said the younger politician, folding his hands
together and throwing himself back in his chair.

' ' Listen to me before you answer me with such certainty. There
are three or four gentlemen who, after the work of the last three
years, bearing in mind the manner in which our defeat has just
been accomplished, feel themselves disinclined to join Mr. Gresham
unless you will do so also. I may specially name Mr. Monk and
Mr. Finn. I might perhaps add myself, were it not that I had
hoped that in any event I might at length regard myself as exempt
from furthor service. The old horse should be left to graze out his
last days, Ne peccet ad extremum ridendus. Bat you can't consider
yourself absolved on that score."

" There are other reasons."

"But the Queen's service should count before everything.
Gresham and Cantrip with their own friends can hardly make a
Ministry as things are now unless Mr. Monk will join them. I
do not think that any other Chancellor of the Exchequer is at
present possible."

"I will beseech Mr. Monk not to let any feeling as to me stand
in his way. Why should it ?"

" It is not only what you may think and he may think, — but
what others will think and say. The Coalition will have done all
that ought to have been expected from it if our party in it can now
join Mr. Gresham."

"By all means. But I could give them no strength. They
may be sure at any rate of what little I can do for them out of
office."

"Mr. Gresham has made his acceptance of office, — well, I will
not say strictly conditional on your joining him. That would
hardly be correct. But he has expressed himself quite willing to
m:ke the attempt with your aid, and doubtful whether he can

THE PRIME MINISTER.

succeed without it. He suggests that you should join him as
President of the Council."

"And you?"

" If I were wanted at all I should take the Privy Seal."

" Certainly not, my friend. If there were any question of my
return we would reverse the offices. But I think I may say that
my mind is fixed. If you wish it I will see Mr. Monk, and do all
that I can to get him to go with you. But, for myself, — I feel that
it would be useless."

At last, at the Duke's pressing request, he agreed to take twenty-
four hours before he gave his final answer to the proposition.

CHAPTER LXXVn.

THE DUCHESS IN MANCHESTER SQUARE,

The Duke said not a word to his wife as to this new proposition, and
when she asked him what tidings their old friend had brought as
to the state of affairs, he almost told a fib in his anxiety to escape
from her persecution. " He is in some doubt what he means to do
himself," said the Duke. The Duchess asked many questions, but
got no satisfactory reply to any of them. Nor did Mrs. Finn learn
anything from her husband, whom, however, she did not interro-
gate very closely. She would be contented to know when the
proper time might come for ladies to be informed. The Duke,
however, was determined to take his twenty-four hours all alone,
— or at any rate not to be driven to his decision by feminine
interference.

In the meantime the Duchess went to Manchester Square intent
on performing certain good offices on behalf of the poor widow. It
may be doubted whether she had clearly made up her mind what
it was that she could do, though she was clear that some debt was
duo by her to Mrs. Lopez. And she knew too in what direction
assistance might be serviceable, if only it could in this case be
given. She had heard that the present member for Silverbridge
had been the lady's lover long before Mr. Lopez had come upon
the scene, and with those feminine wiles of which she was a perfect
mistress she had extracted from him a confession that his mind was
unaltered. She liked Arthur Fletcher, — as indeed she had for a
time liked Ferdinand Lopez, — and felt that her conscience would
be easier if she could assist in this good work. She built castles in
tho air as to the presenco of the bride and bridegroom at Matching,
thinking how she might thus repair the evil she had done. But
her heart misgave her a little as she drew near to the house, and
remembered now very slight was her acquaintance and how

THE DUCHESS IN MANCHESTER SQUARE. 558

extremely delicate the mission on which she had come. Bnt she
was not the woman to turn back when she had once put her foot to
any work ; and she was driven up to the door in Manchester
Square without any expressed hesitation on her own part. " Yes,
—his mistress was at home," said the butler, still shrinking at the
sound of the name which he hated. The Duchess was then shown
up-stairs, and was left alone for some minutes in the drawing-
room. It was a large handsome apartment, hung round with
valuable pictures, and having signs of considerable wealth. Since
she had first invited Lopez to stand for Silverbridge she had heard
much about him, and had wondered how he had gained possession
of such a girl as Emily Wharton. And now, as she looked about,
her wonder was increased. She knew enough of such people as
the Whartons and the Fletchers to be aware that as a class they
are more impregnable, more closely guarded by their feelings and
prejudices against strangers than any other. None keep their
daughters to themselves with greater care, or are less willing to see
their rules of life changed or abolished. And yet this man, half
foreigner half Jew, — and as it now appeared, — whole pauper, had
stepped in and carried off a prize for which such a one as Arthur
Fletcher was contending ! The Duchess had never seen Emily but
once, — so as to observe her well, — and had then thought her to be
a very handsome woman. It had been at the garden party at
Eichmond, and Lopez had then insisted that his wife should be well
dressed. It would perhaps have been impossible in the whole of
that assembly to find a more beautiful woman than Mrs. Lopez
then was, — or one who carried herself with a finer air. Now when
she entered the room in her deep mourning it would have been
difficult to recognise her. Her face was much thinner, her eyes
apparently larger, and her colour faded. And there had come a
settled seriousness on her face which seemed to rob her of her
youth. Arthur Fletcher had declared that as he saw her now
she was more beautiful than ever. But Arthur Fletcher, in
looking at her, saw more than her mere features. To his eyes
there was a tenderness added by her sorrow which had its own
attraction for him. And he was so well versed in every line of her
countenance, that he could see there the old loveliness behind the
sorrow; — the loveliness which would come forth again, as bright
as ever, if the sorrow could be removed. But the Duchess, though
she remembered the woman's beauty as she might that of any other
lady, now saw nothing but a thing of woe wrapped in customary
widow's weeds. " I hope," she said, " I am not intruding in coming
to you ; but I have been anxious to renew our acquaintance for
reasons which I am sure you will understand."

Emily at the moment hardly knew how to address her august
visitor. Though her father had lived all his life in what is called
good society, he had not consorted much with dukes and duchesses.
She herself had indeed on one occasion been for an hour or two the
guest of this grand lady, but on that occasion she had hardly been

524 THE PRIME MINISTER.

called upon to talk to her. Now she doubted how to name the
Duchess, and with some show of hesitation decided at last upon not
naming her at all. "It is very good of you to come," she said in
a faltering voice.

1 ' I told you that I would when I wrote, you know. That is
many months ago, but I have not forgotten it. You have been in
the country since that I think ? "

" Yes, in Herefordshire. Herefordshire is our county."

" I know all about it," said the Duchess smiling. She generally
did contrive to learn " all about" the people whom she chose to
take by the hand. • ' We have a Herefordshire gentleman sitting

for, 1 must not say our borough of Silverbridge." She was

anxious to make some allusion to Arthur Fletcher; but it was
difficult to travel on that Silverbridge ground, as Lopez had been
her chosen candidate when she still wished to claim the borough
as an appanage of the Palliser family. Emily, however, kept her
countenance and did not show by any sign that her thoughts were
running in that direction. ' ' And though we don't presume to re-
gard Mr. Fletcher," continued the Duchess, "as in any way con-
nected with our local interests, he has always supported the Duke,
and I hope has become a friend of ours. I think he is a neighbour
of yours in the country."

" Oh, yes. My cousin is married to his brother."

1 ' I knew there was something of that kind. He told me that
there was some close alliance." The Duchess as she looked at the
woman to whom she wanted to be kind did not as yet dare to
express a wish that there might at some not very distant time be
a closer alliance. She had come there intending to do so ; and had
still some hope that she might do it before the interview was over.
But at any rate she would not do it yet. "Have I not heard,"
she said, " something of another marriage ? n

" My brother is going to many his cousin, Sir Alured Wharton's
daughter."

" Ah ; — I thought it had been one of the Fletchers. It was our
member who told me, and he spoke as though they were all his very
dear friends."

" They are dear friends, — very." Poor Emily still didn't know
whether to call her Duchess, my Lady, or Grace, — and yet felt the
need of calling her by some special name.

"Exactly. I supposed it was so. They tell me Mr. Fletcher
will become quite a favourite in the House. At this present
moment nobody knows on which side anybody is going to sit to-
morrow. It may be that Mr. Fletcher will become the dire enemy
of all the Duke's friends."

"I hope not."

" Of courso I'm speaking of political enemies. Political enemies
are often the best friends in the world ; and I can assure you from
my own experience that political friends are often the * bitterest
enemies. I nover hated any people so much as some of our sup-

THE DUCHESS IN MANCHESTER SQUARE. 525

porters." The Duchess made a grimace, and Emily could not
refrain from smiling. " Yes, indeed. There's an old saying that
misfortune makes strange bedfellows, but political friendship makes
stranger alliances than misfortune. Perhaps you never met Sir
Timothy Beeswax,"

" Never."

" "Well ; — don't. But, aa I was saying, there is no knowing who
may support whom now. If I were asked who would be Prime
Minister to-morrow, I should take half-a-dozen names and shake
them in a bag."

" Is it not settled then ? "

" Settled ! No, indeed. Nothing is settled." At that moment
indeed everything was settled though the Duchess did not know it.
" And so we none of us can tell how Mr. Fletcher may stand with
us when things are arranged. I suppose he calls himself a Con-
servative ? "

«< Oh, yes ! "

"All the Whartons I suppose are Conservatives,— and all the
Fletchers."

" Very nearly. Papa call's himself a Tory."

" A very much better name, to my thinking. We are all Whigs
of course. A Palliser who was not a Whig would be held to have
disgraced himself for ever. Are not politics odd ? A few years
ago I only barely knew what the word meant, and that not cor-
rectly. Lately I have been so eager about it, that there hardly
seems to be anything else left worth living for. I suppose it's
wrong, but a state of pugnacity seems to me the greatest bliss
which we can reach here on earth."

" I shouldn't like to be always fighting."

"That's because you haven't known Sir Timothy Beeswax and
two or three other gentlemen whom I could name. The day will
come, I dare say, when you will care for politics."

Emily was about to answer, hardly knowing what to say, when
the door was opened and Mrs. Eoby came into the room. The
lady was not announced, and Emily had heard no knock at the
door. She was forced to go through some ceremony of introduction.
"This is my aunt, Mrs. Eoby," she said. "Aunt Harriet, the
Duchess of Omnium." Mrs. Eoby was beside herself, — not all
with joy. That feeling would come afterwards as she would boast
to her friends of her new acquaintance. At present there was the
embarrassment of not quite knowing how to behave herself. The
Duchess bowed from her seat, and smiled sweetly, — as she had
learned to smile since her husband had become Prime Minister.
Mrs. Eoby curtseyed, and then remembered that in these days only
housemaids ought to curtsey."

"Anything to our Mr. Eoby ? " said the Duchess continuing her
smile, — " ours as he was till yesterday at least." This she said in
«.n absurd wail of mock sorrow.

"My brother-in-law, your Graco," said Mrs. Eoby delighted.

52b THE PEIME MINISTEB.

"Oh, indeed. And what does Mr. Eoby think about it, I wonder ?
But I dare say you have found, Mrs. Eoby, that when a crisis
comes, — a real crisis, — the ladies are told nothing. I have."

" I don't think, your Grace, that Mr. Eoby ever divulges poli-
tical secrets."

" Doesn't he indeed ! "What a dull man your brother-in-law
must be to live with, — that is as a politician ! Good-bye, Mrs.
Lopez. You must come and see me and let me come to you again.
I hope, you know, — I hope the time may come when things may
once more be bright with you." These last words she murmured
almost in a whisper, as she held the hand of the woman she wished
to befriend. Then she bowed to Mrs. Eoby, and left the room.

" What was it she said to you ? " asked Mrs. Eoby.

" Nothing in particular, Aunt Harriet."

11 She seems to be very friendly. What made her come P *

11 She wrote some fime ago to say she would call."

"But why?"

" I cannot tell you. I don't know. Don't ask me, aunt, about
things that are passed. You cannot do it without wounding me."

" I don't want to wound you, Emily, but I really think that
that is nonsense. She is a very nice woman; — though I don't
think she ought to have said that Mr. Eoby is dull. Did Mr.
Wharton know that she was coming ? "

" He knew that she said she would come," replied Emily very
sternly, so that Mrs. Eoby found herself compelled to pass on to
some other subject. Mrs. Eoby had heard the wish expressed
that something " once more might be bright," and when she got
home told her husband that she was sure that Emily Lopez was

going to marry Arthur Pletcher. "And why the d shouldn't

she?" said Dick. "And that poor man destroying himself not
much more than twelvemonths ago ! I couldn't do it," said Mrs.
Eoby. " I don't mean to give you the chance," said Dick.

The Duchoss when she went away suffered under a sense of
failure. She had intended to bring about some crisis of female
tenderness in which she might have rushed into future hopes and
joyous anticipations, and with the freedom which will come from
ebullitions of feeling, have told the widow that the peculiar cir-
cumstances of her position would not only justify her in marrying
this other man but absolutely called upon her to do it. Unfortu-
nately she had failed in her attempt to bring the interview to a
condition in which this would have been possible, and while she
was still making the attempt that odious aunt had come in. "I
have been on my mission," she said to Mrs. Finn afterwards.

" Have you done any good ? n

" I don't think I've done any harm. Women, you know, are
so very different ! There are some who would delight to have an
opportunity of opening their hearts to a Duchess, and who might
almost be talked into anything in an ecstasy."

" Hardly women of the best sort, Lady Glen,"

THE NEW MINISTR?. 02?

11 Not of the best sort. But then one doesn't come across the
Very best, very often. But that kind of thing does have an effect ;
and as I only wanted to do good, I wish she had been one of the
sort for the occasion."

11 Was she— offended ? "

" Oh dear no. You don't suppose I attacked her with a hus-
band at the first word. Indeed, I didn't attack her at all. She
didn't give me an opportunity. Such a Niobe you never saw."

" Was she weeping ? "

" Not actual tears. But her gown, and her cap, and her strings
were weeping. Her voice wept, and her hair, and her nose, and
her mouth. Don't you know that look of subdued mourning ?
And yet they say that that man is dying for love. How beautiful
it is to see that there is such a thing as constancy left in the
world."

When she got home she found that her husband had just re-
turned from the old Duke's house, where he had met Mr. Monk,
Mr. Gresham, and Lord Cantrip. " It's all settled at last," he
said cheerfully.

CHAPTER LXXVIII.

THE NEW MINISTRY,

When the ex-Prime Minister was left by himself after the de-
parture of his old friend his first feeling had been one of regret
that he had been weak enough to doubt at all. He had long since
made up his mind that after all that had passed he could not
return to office as a subordinate. That feeling as to the impro-
priety of Csesar descending to serve under others which he had
been foolish enough to express, had been strong with him from
the very commencement of his Ministry. When first asked to
take the place which he had filled the reason strong against it had
been the conviction that it would probably exclude him from
political work during the latter half of his life. The man who has
written Q.C. after his name must abandon his practice behind the
bar. As he then was, although he had already been driven by the
unhappy circumstance of his peerage from the House of Commons
which he loved so well, there was still open to him many fields of
political work. But if he should once consent to stand on the top
rung of the ladder, he could not, he thought, take a lower place
without degradation. Till he should have been placed quite at the
top no shifting his place from this higher to that lower office would
injure him in his own estimation. The exigencies of the service
and not defeat would produce such changes as that. But he could
not go down from being Prime Minister and serve under some

528 THE PRIME MINISTER.

other chief without acknowledging himself to have been unfit for
the place he had filled. Of all that he had quite assured himself.
And yet he had allowed the old Duke to talk him into a doubt !

As he sat considering the question he acknowledged that there
might have been room for doubt, though in the present emergency-
there certainly was none. He could imagine circumstances in
which the experience of an individual in some special branch of
his country's service might be of such paramount importance to
the country as to make it incumbent on a man to sacrifice all
personal feeling. But it was not so with him. There was nothing
now which he could do, which another might not do as well.
That blessed task of introducing decimals into all the commercial
relations of British life, which had once kept him aloft in the air,
floating as upon eagle's wings, had been denied him. If ever
done it must be done from the House of Commons; and the
people of the country had become deaf to the charms of that great
reform. Othello's occupation was, in truth, altogether gone, and
there was no reason by which he could justify to himself the
step down in the world which the old Duke had proposed to him.

Early on the following morning he left Carlton Terrace on foot
and walked as far as Mr. Monk's house, which was close to St.
James's Street. Here at eleven o'clock he found his late Chancellor
of the Exchequer in that state of tedious agitation in which a man
is kept who does not yet know whether he is or is not to be one of
the actors in the play just about to be performed. The Duke had
never before been in Mr. Monk's very humble abode and now
caused some surprise. Mr. Monk knew that he might probably
be sent for, but had not expected that any of the ex-Prime Ministers
of the day would come to him. Pcoplo had said that not impro-
bably he himself might be the man, — but he himself had indulged
in no such dream. Office had had no great charms for him ; — and
if there was one man of the late Government who could lay it down
without a personal regret, it was Mr. Monk. " I wish you to come
with me to the Duke's house in St. James's Square," said the late
Prime Minister. " I think we shall find him at home."

" Certainly. I will come this moment." Then there was not a
word spoken till the two men were in the street together. "Of
courso I am a little anxious," said Mr. Monk. "Have you any-
thing to tell me before we get there ? "

"You of course must return to office, Mr. Monk."

"With your Grace 1 certainly will do so."

1 ' And without, if there be the need. They who are wanted should
be forthcoming. But perhaps you will let me postpone what I have
to say till we soo the Duke. What a charming morning ; — is it
not? How sweet it would be down in the country." March had
gono out like a lamb, and even in London the early April daya
were sweet, — to bo followed, no doubt, by the usual nipping incle-
mency of May. " I never can get over the feeling," continued the
Duke, "that Parliament should sit for the six winter months,

THE NEW MINISTRY. §29

instead of in summer. If we met on the first of October, how
glorious it would be to get away for the early spring ! "

"Nothing less strong than grouse could break up Parliament,"
said Mr. Monk ; "and then what would the pheasants and the
foxes say ? "

" It is giving up almost too much to our amusements. I used to
' think that I should like to move for a return of the number of
hunting and shooting gentlemen in both Houses. I believe it
would be a small minority."

11 But their sons shoot, and their daughters hunt, and all their
hangers-on would be against it."

" Custom is against us, Mr. Monk ; that is it. Here we are.
I hope my friend will not be out, looking up young Lords of the
Treasury." The Duke of St. Bungay was not in search of cadets
for the* Government, but was at this very moment closeted with
Mr. Gresham, and Mr. Gresham's especial friend Lord Cantrip.
He had been at this work so long and so constantly that his very
servants had their ministerial- crisis manners and felt and enjoyed
the importance of the occasion. The two new-comers were soon
allowed to enter the august conclave, and the five great senators
greeted each other cordially. " I hope we have not come inoppor-
tunely," said the Duke of Omnium. Mr. Gresham assured him
almost with hilarity that nothing could be less inopportune ; — and
then the Duke was sure that Mr. Gresham was to be the new Prime
Minister, whoever might join him or whoever might refuse to do
so. "I told my friend here," continued our Duke, laying his hand
upon the old man's arm, " that I would give him his answer to a
proposition he made me within twenty-four hours. But I find that
I can do so without that delay."

"I trust your Grace's answer may be favourable to us," said
Mr. Gresham, — who indeed did not doubt much that it would be so,
seeing that Mr. Monk had accompanied him.

" I do not think that it will be unfavourable, though I cannot
do as my friend has proposed."

" Any practicable arrangement, " began Mr. Gresham, with

a frown, however, on his brow.

' ' The most practicable arrangement, I am sure, will be for you to
form your Government without hampering yourself with a beaten
predecessor."

" Not beaten," said Lord Cantrip.

" Certainly not," said the other Duke.

"It is because of your success that I ask your services," said
Mr. Gresham.

" I have none to give, — none that I cannot better bestow out of
office than in. I must ask you, gentlemen, to believe that I am
quite fixed. Coming here with my friend Mr. Monk, I did not
state my purpose to him ; but I begged him to accompany me,
fearing lest in my absence he should feel it incumbent on himself
to sail in the same boat with his late colleague."

M M

530 THE PRIME MINISTER.

" I should prefer to do so," said Mr. Monk.

" Of course it is not for me to say what may be Mr. Greshani's
ideas ; but as my friend here suggested to me that, were I to
return to office, Mr. Monk would do so also, I cannot be wrong*in
surmising that his services are desired." Mr. Gresham bowed
assent. "I shall therefore take the liberty of telling Mr. Monk
that I think he is bound to give his aid in the present emergency. .
Were I as happily placed as he is in being the possessor of a seat in
the House of Commons, I too should hope that I might do some-
thing."

The four gentlemen, with eager pressure, begged the Duke to
reconsider his decision. He could take this office and do nothing
in it, — there being, as we all know, offices the holders of which are
not called upon for work, — or he could take that place which would
require him to labour like a galley slave. Would he be Privy
Seal ? Would he undertake the India Board ? But the Duke of
Omnium was at last resolute. Of this administration he would
not at any rate be a member. Whether Csesar might or might
not at some future time condescend to command a legion, he
could not do so when the purple had been but that moment
stripped from his shoulders. He soon afterwards left the house
with a repeated request to Mr. Monk that he would not follow his
late chief's example.

" I regret it greatly," said Mr. Gresham when he was gone.

"There is no man," said Lord Cantrip, "whom all who know
him more thoroughly respect.

"He has been worried," said the old Duke, "and must take
time to recover himself. He has but one fault, — he is a little too
conscientious, a little too scrupulous." Mr. Monk, of course, did
join them, making one or two stipulations as he did so. He required
that his friend Phineas Pinn should bo included in the Government.
Mr. Gresham yielded, though poor Phineas was not among the
most favoured friends of that statesman. And so the Government
was formed, and the crisis was again over, and the lists which all
the newspapers had been publishing for the last three days wero
republished in an amended and nearly correct condition. The
triumph of the "People's Banner," as to the omission of the Duke,
was of course complete. The editor had no hesitation in declaring
that he, by his own sagacity and persistency, had made certain the
exclusion of that very unfit and very pressing candidate for office.

The list was filled up after the usual fashion. Por a while the
dilottanti politicians of the clubs, and the strong-minded women
who take an interest in such things, and the writers in nowspapers,
had almost doubted whether, in the emergency which had been
supposed to be so peculiar, any Government could bo formed.
There had been, — so they had said, — peculiarities so peculiar that
it might be that the much-dreaded dead-lock had come at last. A
Coalition had been possible, and, though antagonistic to British
feelings generally, had carried on the Government. But what might

THE NEW MINISTRY. 531

succeed the Coalition, nobody had known. The Radicals and
Liberals together would be too strong for Mr. Daubeny and Sir
Orlando. Mr. Gresham had no longer a party of his own at his
back, and a second Coalition would be generally spurned. In this
way there had been much political excitement, and a fair amount
of "consequent enjoyment. But after a few days the old men had
rattled into their old places, — or, generally, old men into new
places,— and it was understood that Mr. Gresham would be again
supported by a majority.

As we grow old it is a matter of interest to watch how the natural
gaps are rilled in the two ranks of parliamentary workmen by whom
the Government is carried on, either in the one interest or the other.
Of course there must be gaps. Some men become too old, — though
that is rarely the case. A Peel may perish, or even a Palmerston
must die. Some men, though long supported by interest, family
connection, or the loyalty of colleagues, are weighed down at last
by their own incapacity and sink into peerages. Now and again
a man cannot bear the bondage of office, and flies into rebellion
and independence which would have been more respectable had
it not been the result of discontent. Then the gaps must be
filled. Whether on this side or on that, the candidates are first
looked for among the sons of Earls and Dukes, — and not unnatu-
rally, as the sons of Earls and Dukes may be educated for such
work almost from their infancy. A few rise by the slow process of
acknowledged fitness, — men who probably at first have not thought
of office but are cho»en because they are wanted, and whose careers
are grudged them, not by their opponents or rivals, but by tho
Browns and Joneses of the. world who cannot bear to see a Smith
or a Walker become something so different to themselves. These
men have a great weight to carry, and cannot always shake off the
burden of their origin and live among begotten statesmen as though
they too had been born to the manner. But perhaps the most
wonderful ministerial phenomenon, — though now almost too com-
mon to be longer called a phenomenon, — is he who rises high in
power and place by having made himself thoroughly detested and
also, — alas for parliamentary cowardice ! — thoroughly feared.
Given sufficient audacity, a thick skin, and power to bear for a
few years the evil looks and cold shoulders of his comrades, and
that is the man most sure to make his way to some high seat. But
the skin must be thicker than that of any animal known, and the
audacity must be complete. To the man who will once shrink at
the idea of being looked at askance for treachery, or hated for his
ill condition, the career is impossible. But let him be obdurate,
and the bid will come. " Not because I want him, do I ask for
him," says some groaning chief of a party, — to himself, and also
sufficiently aloud for others' ears, — " but because he stints me and
goads me, and will drive me to madness as a foe." Then tho pachy-
dermatous one enters into the other's heaven, probably with tho
resolution already formed of ousting that unhappy angel. And so

532 THE PRIME MINISTER.

it was in the present instance. When Mr. Greshanrs Completed
list "was published to the world, the world was astonished to find
that Sir Timothy was to be Mr. Gresham's Attorney- General.
Sir Gregory Grogram became Lord Chancellor, and the liberal
chief was content to borrow his senior law adviser from the con-
servative side of the late Coalition. It could not be that Mr.
Gresham was very fond of Sir Timothy ; — but Sir Timothy in the
late debates had shown himself to be a man of whom a minister
might well be afraid.

Immediately on leaving the old Duke's house, the late Premier
went home to his wife, and, finding that she was out, waited for
her return. Now that he had put his own decision beyond his own
power he was anxious to let her know how it was to be with
them. " I think it is settled at last," he said.

" And you are coming back P "

" Certainly not that. I believe I may say that Mr. Gresham is
Prime Minister."

" Then he oughtn't to be," said the Duchess crossly.

" I am sorry that I must differ from you, my dear, because I
think he is the fittest man in England for the place."

"And you Pw

" I am a private gentleman who will now be able to devote
more of his time to his wife and children than has hitherto been
possible with him."

" How very nice ! Do you mean to say that you like it ?"

" I am sure that I ought to like it. At the present moment I
am thinking more of what you will like."

" If you ask me, Plantagenet, you know I shall tell the truth."

"Then tell the truth."

" After drinking brandy so long I hardly think that 12s. claret
will agree with my stomach. You ask for the truth, and there it
is, — very plainly."

"Plain enough!"

" You asked, you know."

"And I am glad to have been told, even though that which you
tell me is not pleasant hearing. When a man has been drinking
too much brandy, it may be well that he should be put on a course
of 12s. claret."

"He won't like it; and then, — it's kill or cure."

" I don't think you're gone so far, Cora, that we need fear that
the remedy will be fatal."

" I am thinking of you rather than myself. I can make myself
generally disagreeable, and get excitement in that way. But what
will you do ? It's all very well to talk of me and the children, but
you can't bring in a bill for reforming us. You can't make us go
by decimals. You can't increase our consumption by lowering our
taxation. I wish you had gone back to some Board." This she
said looking up into his face witk an anxiety which was half real
and half burlesque.

THE NEW MINISTRY. 533

'I had made up my mind to go back to no Board, — for the present.
I was thinking that we could spend some months in Italy, Cora."

" What ; for the summer ; — so as to be in Eome in July ! After
that we could utilise the winter by visiting Norway."

" We might take Norway first."

" And be eaten up by musquitoes ! I've got to be too old to like
travelling."

11 What do you like, dear ?"

" Nothing ; — except being the Prime Minister's wife ; and upon
my word there were times when I didn't like that very much. I
don't know anything else that I'm fit for. I wonder whether Mr.
Greshani would let me go to him as housekeeper ? Only we should
have to lend him Gatherum, or there would be 1*0 room for the
display of my abilities. Is Mr. Monk in ? "

" He keeps his old office."

" And Mr. Finn?"

" I believe so ; but in what place I don't know."

"And who else?"

" Our old friend the Duke, and Lord Cantrip, and Mr. Wilson, — t
and Sir Gregory will be Lord Chancellor."

"Just the old stupid liberal team. Put their names in a bag
and shake them, and you can always get a ministry. Well, Plan-
tagenet ; — I'll go anywhere you like to take me. I'll have some-
thing for the malaria at Eome, and something for the musquitoes
in Norway, and will make the best of it. But I don't see why you
should run away in the middle of the Session. I would stay and
pitch into them, all round, like a true ex-minister and independent
member of Parliament." Then as he was leaving her she fired a
last shot. " I hope you made Sir Orlando and Sir Timothy peers
before you gave up."

It was not till two days after this that she read in one of the
daily papers that Sir Timothy Beeswax was to be Attorney- General,
and then her patience almost deserted her. To tell the truth her
husband had not dared to mention the appointment when he first
saw her after hearing it. Her explosion first fell on the head of
Phineas Finn, whom she found at home with his wife, deploring
the necessity which had fallen upon him of filling the faineant
office of Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster. " Mr. Finn," she
said, " I congratulate you on your colleagues."

"Your Grace is very good. I was at any rate introduced to
many of them under the Duke's auspices."

' " And ought, I think, to have seen enough of them to be ashamed
of them. Such a regiment to march through Coventry with ! "

" I do not doubt that we shall bo good enough men for any
enemies we may meet."

■ ' It cannot but be that you should conquer all the world with
such a hero among you as Sir Timothy Beeswax. The idea of Sir
Timothy coming back again ! What do you feel about it ? "

" Very indifferent, Duchess. He won't interfere much with me,

534 THE PRIME MINISTER.

as I have an Attorney-General of my own. You see I'm especi-
ally safe."

" I do believe men would do anything," said the Duchess turn-
ing to Mrs. Finn. " Of course I mean in the way of politics ! But
I did not think it possible that the Duke of St. Bungay should again
be in the same Government with Sir Timothy Beeswax."

CHAPTER LXXIX.

THE WHABTON WEDDING.

It was at last settled that the Wharton marriage should take place
during the second week in June. There were various reasons for
the postponement. In the first place Mary Wharton, after a few
preliminary inquiries, found herself forced to declare that Messrs.
Muddocks and Cramble could not send her forth equipped as she
ought to be equipped for such a husband in so short a time. " Per-
haps they do it quicker in London," she said to Everett with a soft
regret, remembering the metropolitan glories of her sister's wed-
ding. And then Arthur Fletcher could be present during the
Whitsuntide holidays ; and the presence of Arthur Fletcher was
essential. And it was not only his presence at the altar that was
needed ; — Parliament was not so exacting but that he might have
given that ; — but it was considered by the united families to be
highly desirable that he should on this occasion remain some days
in the country. Emily had promised to attend the wedding, and
would of course be at Wharton for at least a week. . As soon as
Everett had succeeded in wresting a promise from his sister, the
tidings were conveyed to Fletcher. It was a great step gained.
When in London she was her own mistress ; but surrounded as she
would be down in Herefordshire by Fletchers and Whartons, she
must be stubborn indeed if she should still refuse to be taken back
into the Hock, and be made once more happy by marrying the man
whom she had confessed that sho loved with her whole heart. The
letter to Arthur Fletcher containing the news was from his brother
John, and was written in a very business-like fashion. •' We havo
put off Mary's marriage a few days, so that you and she should be
down here together. If you mean to go on with it, now is your
time." Arthur, in answer to this, morely said he would spend the
Whitsuntide holidays at Longbarns.

It is probable that Emily herself had some idea in her own
mind of what was being dono to entrap her. Her brother's words
to her had been so strong, and the occasion of his marriage was
itself so sacred to her, that she had not been able to refuse his
request. But from the moment that she had made the promise, she

THE WHARTON WEDDING. 535

felt that she had greatly added to her own difficulties. That she
could yield to Arthur never occurred to her. She was certain of her
own persistency. Whatever might be the wishes of others, the
fitness of things required that Arthur Fletcher's wife should not
have been the widow of Ferdinand Lopez, — and required also that
the woman who had married Ferdinand Lopez should bear the
results of her own folly. Though since his death she had never
spoken a syllable against him, — if those passionate words be
excepted which Arthur himself had drawn from her, — still she
had not refrained from acknowledging the truth to herself. He
had been a man disgraced, — and she as his wife, having become
his wife in opposition to the wishes of all her friends, was disgraced
also. Let them do what they will with her, she would not soil
Arthur Fletcher's name with this infamy. Such was still her
steadfast resolution ; but she knew that it would be, not endangered,
but increased in difficulty by this visit to Herefordshire.

And then there were other troubles. "Papa," she said, " I must
get a dress for Everett's marriage."

"Why not?"

" I can't bear, after all that I have cost you, putting you to such
useless expense."

" It is not useless, and such expenses as that I can surely afford
without groaning. Do it handsomely and you will please me best."

Then she went forth and chose her dress, — a grey silk, light
enough not to throw quite a gloom on the brightness of the day,
and yet dark enough to declare that she was not as other women
are. The very act of purchasing this, almost blushing at her own
request as she sat at the counter in her widow's weeds, was a paiu
to her. But she had no one whom she could employ. On such an
occasion she could not ask her aunt Harriet to act for her, as her
aunt was distrusted and disliked. And then there was the fitting
on of the dress, — very grievous to her, as it was the first time since
the heavy black mourning came home that she had clothed herself
in other garments.

The day before that fixed for the marriage she and her father
went down to Herefordshire together, the conversation on the way
being all in respect to Everett. Where was he to live ? What
was he to do ? What income would he require till he should inherit
the good things which destiny had in store for him ? The old man
seemed to feel that Providence, having been so very good to his
son in killing that other heir, had put rather a heavy burden on
himself. " He'll want a house of his own, of course," he said, in
a somewhat lachrymose tone.

" I suppose he'll spend a good deal of his time at Wharton."

" He won't be content to live in another man's house altogether,
my dear ; and Sir Alured can allow him nothing. It means, of
course, that I must give him a thousand a year. It seems very
natural to him, I dare say, but he might have asked the question
before he took a wife to himself."

536 TIIE PEIME MINISTER.

1 ' You won't be angry with him, papa ! "

"It's no good being angry. No; — I'm not angry. Only it
seems that everybody is uncommonly well pleased without thinking
who has to pay for the piper."

On that evening, at Wharton, Emily still wore her mourning
dress. No one, indeed, dared to speak to her on the subject, and
Mary was even afraid lest she might appear in black on the follow-
ing day. We all know in what condition is a house on the eve of
a marriage, — how the bride feels that all the world is going to be
changed, and that therefore everything is for the moment disjointed ;
and how the rest of the household, including the servants, are led
to share the feeling. Everett was of course away. He was over at
Longbarns with the Fletchers, and was to be brought to Wharton
Church on the following morning. Old Mrs. Fletcher was at
Wharton Hall, — and the bishop, whose services had been happily
secured. He was formally introduced to Mrs. Lopez, the use of the
name for the occasion being absolutely necessary, and with all the
smiling urbanity which as a bishop he was bound to possess, he
was hardly able not to be funereal as ho looked at her and remem-
bered her story. Before the evening was over Mrs. Fletcher did
venture to give a hint. "We are so glad you have come, my
dear."

" I could not stay when Everett said he wished it."

"It would have been wrong; yes, my dear, — wrong. It 19
your duty, and the duty of us all, to subordinate our feelings t6
those of others. Even sorrow may be selfish." Poor Emily
listened but could make no reply. " It is sometimes harder for us
to be mindful of others in our grief than in our joy. You should
remember, dear, that there aro some who will never bo light-
hearted again till they see you smile."

" Do not say that, Mrs. Fletcher."

" It is quite true ; — and right that you should think of it. It
will be particularly necessary that you should think of it to-morrow.
You will have to wear a light dress, and "

" I have come provided," said the widow.

11 Try then to make your heart as light as your frock. You will
be doing it for Everett's sake, and for your father's, and for Mary's

sake and Arthur's. You will bo doing it for the sake of all of

us on a day that should bo joyous," Sho could not make any
promise in reply to this homily, but in her heart of hearts she
acknowledged that it was true, and declared to herself that she
would make the effort required of her.

On the following morning the house was of course in confusion.
There was to be a breakfast after the service, and after the break-
fast the bride was to be taken away in a carriage and four as far
as Hereford on her route to Paris ; — but before the great breakfast
there was of course a subsidiary breakfast, — or how could bishop,
bride, or bridesmaids have sustained the ceremony ? At this meal
Emily did not appear, having begged for a cup of tea in her own

THE WHARTON WEDDING. 5S7

room. The carriages to take the party to the church, which was
but the other side of the park, were ordered at eleven, and at a
quarter before eleven she appeared for the first time in her grey
silk dress, and without a widow's cap. Everything was very plain*
but the alteration was so great that it was impossible not to look at
her. Even her father had not seen the change before. Not a word
was said, though old Mrs. Fletcher's thanks were implied by the
graciousness of her smile. As there were four bridesmaids and
four other ladies besides the bride herself, in a few minutes she
became obscured by the brightness of the others ; — and then they
were all packed in their carriages and taken to the church. The
eyes which she most dreaded did not meet hers till they were all
standing round the altar. It was only then that she saw Arthur
Fletcher, who was there as her brother's best man, and it was then
that he took her hand and held it for half a minute as though he
never meant to part with it, hidden behind the wide-spread glories
of the bridesmaids' finery.

The marriage was as sweet and solemn as a kind-hearted bishop
could make it, and all the ladies looked particularly well. The
veil from London, — with the orange wreath, also metropolitan, —
was perfect, and as for the dress, I doubt whether any woman
would have known it to be provincial. Everett looked the rising
baronet, every inch of him, and the old barrister smiled and seemed,
at least, to be well pleased. Then came the breakfast, and the
speech-making, in which Arthur Fletcher shone triumphantly. It
was a very nice wedding, and Mary Wharton, — as she had been and
still was, — felt herself for a moment to be a heroine. But, through
it all, there was present to the hearts of most of them a feeling that
much more was to be effected, if possible, than this simple and
cosy marriage, and that the fate of Mary Wharton was hardly so
important to them as that of Emily Lopez.

When the carriage and four was gone there came upon the
household the difficulty usual on such occasions of getting through
the rest of the day. The bridesmaids retired and repacked their
splendours so that they might come out fresh for other second-rate
needs, and with the bridesmaids went the widow. Arthur Fletcher
remained at Wharton with all the other Fletchers for the night,
and was prepared to renew his suit on that very day, if an oppor-
tunity were given him ; but Emily did not again show herself till
a few minutes before dinner, and then she came down with all the
appurtenances of mourning which she usually wore. The grey
silk had been put on for the marriage ceremony and for that only.
" You should have kept your dress at any rate for the day," said
Mrs. Fletcher. She replied that she had changed it for Everett,
and that as Everett was gone there was no further need for her to
wear clothes unfitted to her position. Arthur would have cared
very little for the clothes could he have had his way with the woman
who wore them, — could he have had his way even so far as to have
found himself alone with her for half an hour. But no such chance

588 THE PRIME MINISTER.

was his. She retreated from the party early, and did not show her-
self on the following morning till after ho had started for Longbarns.

All the Fletchers went back, — not, however, with any intention
on the part of Arthur to abandon his immediate attempt. The dis-
tance between the houses was not so great but that he could drive
himself over at any time. "I shall go now," he said to Mr.
Wharton, " because I have promised John to fish with him
to-morrow, but I shall come over on Monday or Tuesday, and stay
till I go back to town. I hope she will at any rate let me speak to
her." The father said he would do his best, but that that obstinate
resumption of her weeds on her brother's very wedding day had
nearly broken his heart.

When the Fletchers were back at Longbarns, the two ladies were
very severe on her. "It was downright obstinacy," said the
squire's wife, " and it almost makes me think it would serve her
right to leave her as she is."

" It's pride," said the old lady. " She won't give way. I said
ever so much to her; — but it's no use. I feel it the more because
we have all gone so much out of the way to be good to her after
she had made such a fool of herself. If it goes on much longer, I
shall never forgive her again."

"You'll have to forgive her, mother," said her eldest son, "let
her sins be what they may, — or else you'll have to quarrel with
Arthur."

" I do think it's very hard," said the old lady, taking herself out
of the room. And it was hard. The offence in the first instance had
been very great, and the forgiveness very difficult. But Mrs.
Fletcher had lived long enough to know that when sons are
thoroughly respectable a widowed mother has to do their bidding.

Emily, through the whole wedding day, and the next day, and
day after day, remembered Mrs. Fletcher's words. "There are
some who will never be light-hearted again till they see you
smile." And the old woman had named her dearest friends and
had ended by naming Arthur Fletcher. She had then acknow-
ledged to herself that it was her duty to smile in order that others
might smilo also. But how is one to smile with a heavy heart P
Should one smile and lie ? And how long and to what good pur-
pose can such forced contentment last P She had marred her whole
life. In former days she had been proud of all her virgin glories,
— proud of her intellect, proud of her beauty, proud of that obei-
sance which beauty birth and intellect combined, exact from all
comers. She had been ambitious as to her future life ; — had
intonded to be careful not to surrender herself to some empty
fool ; — had thought herself well qualified to pick her own
And this had come of it ! They told her that she might still make
everything right, annul the past and begin the world again as
fresh as ever,- — if she would only smile and study to forget ! Do
it for the sake of others, they said, and then it will be done for
yourself also. But she could not conquer the past. The fire and

THE WHARTON WEDDING. 539

water of repentance, adequate as they may be for eternity, cannot
burn jut or wash away the remorse of this life. They scorch and
choke ; — and unless it be so there is no repentance. So she told
herself, — and yet it was her duty to be light-hearted that others
around her might not be made miserable by her sorrow ! If she
could be in truth light-hearted, then would she know herself to be
unfeeling and worthless.

On the third day^after the marriage Arthur Fletcher came back
to Wharton with the declared intention of remaining there till the
end of the holidays. She could make no objection to such an
arrangement, nor could she hasten her own return to London.
That had been fixed before her departure and was to be made
together with her father. She felt that she was being attacked
with unfair weapons, and that undue advantage was taken of the
sacrifice which she had made for her brother's sake. And yet, —
yet how good to her they all were ! How wonderful was it that
after the thing she had done, after the disgrace she had brought on
herself and them, after the destruction of all that pride which had
once been hers, they should still wish to have her among them !
As for him,— of whom she was always thinking,— of what nature
must be his love, when he was willing to take to himself as his
wife such a thing as she had made herself ! But, thinking of this,
she would only tell herself that as he would not protect himself she
was bound to be his protector. Yes ; — she would protect him,
though she could dream of a world of joy that might be hers if she
could dare to do as he would ask her.

He caught her at last and forced her to come out with him into
the grounds. He could tell his tale better as he walked by her side
than sitting restlessly on a chair or moving awkwardly about the
room as on such an occasion he would be sure to do. Within four
walls she would have some advantage over him. She could sit still
and be dignified in her stillness. But in the open air, when they
would both be on their legs, she might not be so powerful with him
and he perhaps might be stronger with her. She could not refuse
him when he asked her to walk with him. And why should she
refuse him ? Of course he must be allowed to utter his prayer, —
and then she must be allowed to make her answer. " I think the
marriage went off very well," he said.

" Very well. Everett ought to be a happy man."

"No doubt he will be, — when he settles down to something.
Everything will come right for him. With some people things
seem to go smooth ; don't they ? They have not hitherto gone
smoothly with you and me, Emily."

"You are prosperous. You have everything before you that a
man can wish, if only you will allow yourself to think so. Your
profession is successful, and you are in Parliament, and everyone
likes you."

" It is all nothing."

*' That is the general discontent of the world."

b40 THE PEIME MINISTER,

"It is all nothing, — unless I have you too. Bemember that I
had said so long before I was successful, when I did not dream oi
Parliament ; before we had heard of the name of the man who
came between me and my happiness. I think I am entitled to be
believed when I say so. I think I know my own mind. There
are many men who would have been changed by the episode of such
a marriage."

" You ought to have been changed by it, — and by its result.'

" It had no such effect. Here I am, after it all, telling you as
I used to tell you before, that I have to look to you for my
happiness."

" You should be ashamed to confess it, Arthur."

" Never ; — not to you, nor to all the world. I know what it has
been. I know you are not now as you were then. You have been
his wife, and are now his widow."

" That should be enough."

" But, such as you are, my happiness is in your hands. If it
were not so, do you think that all my family as well as yours would
join in wishing that you may become my wife ? There is nothing
to conceal. When you married that man you know what my
mother thought of it ; and what John thought of it, and his wife.
They had wanted you to be my wife ; and they want it now, — be-
cause they are anxious for my happiness. And your father wishes
it, and your brother wishes it, — because they trust me, and think
that I should be a good husband to you."

" Good ! " she exclaimed, hardly knowing what she meant by
repeating the word.

" After that you have no right to set yourself up to judge what
may be best for my happiness. They who know how to judge are all
united. Whatever you may have been, they believe that it will be
good for me that you should now be my wife. After that you
must talk about me no longer, unless you will talk of my wishes."

11 Do you think I am not anxious for your happiness ? "

" I do not know ; — but I shall find out in time. That is what I
have to say about myself. And as to you, is it not much the
same ? I know you love me. Whatever the feeling was that over-
came you as to that other man, — it has gone. I cannot now stop
to be tender and soft in my words. The thing to be said is too
serious to mo. And every friend you have wants you to marry the
man you love and to put an end to the desolation which you have
brought on yourself. There is not one among us all, Fletchers and
Whartons, whose comfort does not more or less depend on your
sacrificing the luxury of your own woe."

" Luxury ! "

' ' Yes ; luxury. No man ever had a right to say more positively
to a woman that it was her duty to marry him, than I have to you.
And I do say it. I say it on behalf of all of us, that it is your duty.
I won't talk of my own love now, because you know it. You
cannot doubt it. I won't eyen talk of yours, because I am sure of

THE WHAttTON WEDDING. 541

it. But I say that it is your duty to give up drowning Us all in
tears, burying us in desolation. You are one of us, and should do
as all of us wish you. If, indeed, you conld not love me it would
be different. There ! I have said what I've got to say. You
are crying, and I will not take your answer now. I will come to
you again to-morrow, and then you shall answer me. But, remem-
ber when you do so that the happiness of many people depend on
what you say." Then he left her very suddenly and hurried back
to the house by himself.

He had been very rough with her, — had not once attempted to
touch her hand or even her arm, had spoken no soft word to her,
speaking of his own love as a thing too certain to need further
words ; and he had declared himself to be so assured of her love
that there was no favour for him now to ask, nothing for which he
was bound to pray as a lover. All that was past. He had simply
declared it to be her duty to marry him, and had told her so with
much sternness. He had walked fast, compelling her to accompany
him, had frowned at her, and had more than once stamped his foot
upon the ground. During the whole interview she had been so
near to weeping that she could hardly speak. Once or twice she
had almost thought him to be cruel ; — but he had forced her to
acknowledge to herself that all that he had said was true and un-
answerable. Had he pressed her for an answer at the moment she
would not have known in what words to couch a refusal. And yet
as she made her way alone back to the house she assured herself
that she would have refused.

He had given her four-and- twenty hours, and at the end of that
time she would be bound to give him her answer, — an answer
which must then be final. And as she said this to herself she
found that she was admitting a doubt. She hardly knew how not
to doubt, knowing, as she did, that all whom she loved were on
one side, while on the other was nothing but the stubbornness of
her own convictions. But still the conviction was left to her.
Over and over again she declared to herself that it was not fit,
meaning thereby to assure herself that a higher duty even than
that which she owed to her friends, demanded from her that she
should be true to her convictions. She met him that day at
dinner, but he hardly spoke to her. They sat together in the
same room during the evening but she hardly once heard his
voice. It seemed to her that he avoided even looking at her.
When they separated for the night he parted from her almost as
though they had been strangers. Surely he was angry with her
because she was stubborn, — thought evil of her because she would
not do as others wished her ! She laid awake during the long night
thinking of it all. If it might be so ! Oh ; — if it might be so ! If it
might be done without utter ruin to her own self-respect as a woman !

In the morning she was down early. — not having anything to
say, with no clear purpose as yet before her, — but still with a
feeliDg that perhaps that morning might alter all things for her.

54SS THE PRIME MINISTER.

He was the latest of the party, not coming in for prayers as did
all the others, but taking his seat when the others had half
finished their breakfast. As he sat down he gave a general half-
uttered greeting to them all, but spoke no special word to any of
them. It chanced that his seat was next to hers, but to her he
did not address himself at all. Then the meal was over, and the
chairs were withdrawn, and the party grouped itself about vrith
vague uncertain movements, as men and women do before they
leave the breakfast table for the work of the day. She meditated
her escape, but felt that she could not leave the room before Lady
Wharton or Mrs. Fletcher, — who had remained at Wharton to
keep her mother company for a while. At last they went ; — but
then, just as she was escaping, he put his hand upon her and
reminded her of her appointment. ' ' I shall be in the hall in a
quarter of an hour," he said. "Will you meet me there ? " Then
she bowed her head to him and passed on.

She was there at the time named and found him standing by
the hall door, waiting for her. His hat was already on his head
and his back was almost turned to her. He opened the door,
and, allowing her to pass out first, led the way to the shrubbery.
He did not speak to her till he had closed behind her the little iron
gate which separated the walk from the garden, and then he
turned upon her with one word. "Well?" he said. She was
silent for a moment and then he repeated his eager question ;
"Well;— well?"

1 ' I should disgrace you," she said, not firmly as before, but
whispering the words.

He waited for no other assent. The form of the words told him
that he had won the day. In a moment his arms wero round her,
and her veil was off, and his lips were pressed to hers ; — and when
she could see his countenance the whole form of his face was
altered to her. It was bright as it used to be bright in old days,
and he was smiling on her as he used to smile. "My own," he
said; — " my wife— my own !" And she had no longer the power
to deny him. "Not yet, Arthur; not yet," was all that she
could say.

CHAPTER LXXX.

THE LAST MEETING AT MATCHING.

The ex-Prime Minister did not carry out his purpose of leaving
London in the middle of the season and travelling either to Italy
or Norway. He was away from London at Whitsuntide longer
perhaps than he might have been if still in office, and during this
period regarded himself as a man from whose hands all work had

THE LAST MEETING AT MATCHING. 543

been takeli, — as one who had been found unfit to carry any longer
a burden serviceably ; but before June was over he and the Duchess
were back in London, and gradually he allowed himself to open his
mouth on this or that subject in the House of Lords, — not pitching
into everybody all round, as his wife had recommended, — but ex-
pressing an opinion now and again, generally in support of his
friends, with the dignity which should belong to a retired Prime
Minister. The Duchess too recovered much of her good temper, —
as far at least as the outward show went. One or two who knew
her, especially Mrs. Finn, were aware that her hatred and her ideas
of revenge were not laid aside ; but she went on from day to day
anathematising her special enemies and abstained from reproach-
ing her husband for his pusillanimity. Then came the question
as to the autumn. "Let's have everybody down at Gatherum,
just as we had before," said the Duchess.

The proposition almost took away the Duke's breath. "Why do
you want a crowd, like that P"

"Just to show them that we are not beaten because we are
turned out."

"But, in as much as we were turned out, we were beaten. And
what has a gathering of people at my private house to do with a
political manoeuvre ? Do you especially want to go to Gatherum ?"

" I hate the place. You know I do."

" Then why should you propose to go there ? " He hardly yet
knew his wife well enough to understand that the suggestion had
been a joke. " If you don't wish to go abroad "

" I hate going abroad."

" Then we'll remain at Matching. You don't hate Matching."

" Ah dear ! There are memories there too. But you like it."

" My books are there."

" Blue books," said the Duchess.

" And there is plenty of room if you wish to have friends."

" I suppose we must have somebody. You can't live without
your Mentor."

"You can ask whom you please," he said almost fretfully.

"Lady Eosina, of course," suggested the Duchess. Then he
turned to the papers before him and wouldn't say another word.
The matter ended in a party much as usual being collected at
Matching about the middle of October, — Telemachus having spent
the early part of the autumn with Mentor at Long Eoyston. There
might perhaps be a dozen guests in the house, and among them of
course were Phineas Finn and his wife. And Mr. Grey was there,
having come back' from his eastern mission, — whose unfortunate
abandonment of his seat at Silverbridge had caused so many
troubles, — and Mrs. Grey, who in days now long passed had
been almost as necessary to Lady Glencora, as was now her later
friend Mrs. Finn, — and the Cantrips, and for a short time the St.
Bungays. But Lady Eosina De Courcy on this occasion was not
present. There were few there whom my patient readers have

544 THE PRIME MINISTER.

not seen at Matching before ; but among those' few was Arthur
Fletcher.

" So it is to be," said the Duchess to the member for Silverbridge
one morning. She had by this time become intimate with " her
member," as she would sometimes call him in joke, and had con-
cerned herself much as to his matrimonial prospects.

" Yes, Duchess; it is to be, — unless some unforeseen circum-
stance should arise."

" What circumstance ? "

" Ladies and gentlemen sometimes do change their minds ; — but
in this case I do not think it likely."

" And why ain't you being married now, Mr. Fletcher ? "

" We have agreed to postpone it till next year ; — so that we may
be quite sure of our own minds."

" I know you are laughing at me ; but nevertheless I am very
glad that it is settled. Pray tell her from me that I shall call again
as soon as ever she is Mrs. Fletcher, though I don't think she
repaid either of the last two visits I made her."

" You must make excuses for her, Duchess."

" Of course. I know. After all she is a most fortunate woman
And as for you, — I regard you as a hero among lovers."

"I'm getting used to it," she said one day to Mrs. Finn.

" Of course you'll get used to it. We get used to anything that
chance sends us in a marvellously short time."

" What I mean is that I can go to bed, and sleep, and get up and
eat my meals without missing the sound of the trumpets so much
as I did at first. I remember hearing of people who lived in a
mill, and couldn't sleep when the mill stopped. It was like that
with me when our mill stopped at first. I had got myself so used
to the excitement of it, that I could hardly live without it."

" You might have all the excitement still, if you pleased. You
need not be dead to politics because your husband is not Prime
Minister."

" No ; never again, — unless he should come back. If any one
had told me ten years ago that I should have taken an interest in
this or that man being in the Government I should have laughed
him to scorn. It did not seem possible to me then that I should
care what became of such men as Sir Timothy Beeswax and Mr.
Boby. But I did get to be anxious about it when Plantagenet was
shifted from one office to another."

" Of course you did. Do you think I am not anxious about
Phineas ? "

" But when he became Prime Minister, I gave myself up to it
altogether. I shall never forget what I felt when he came to me
and told me that perhaps it might be so ; — but told me also that he
would escape from it if it were possible. I was the Lady Macbeth
of the occasion all over ; — whereas he was so scrupulous, so bur-
dened with conscience ! As for me I would have taken it by any
means. Then it was that the old Duke played the part of the

THE LAST MEETING AT MATCHING. 545

three witches to a nicety. Well, there hasn't been any absolute
murder, and I haven't quite gone mad."

"Nor need you be afraid though all the woods of Gatherum
should come to Matching."

"God forbid! I will never see anything of Gatherum again.
What annoys me most is, and always was, that he wouldn't under-
stand what I felt about it ; — how proud I was that he should be
Prime Minister, how anxious that he should be great and noble
in his office ; — how I worked for him, and not at all for any pleasure
of my own."

"I think he did feel it."

"No; — not as I did. At last he liked the power, — or rather
feared the disgrace of losing it. But he had no idea of the personal
grandeur of the place. He never understood that to be Prime
Minister in England is as much as to be an Emperor in France, and
much more than being President in America. Oh, how I did
labour for him, — and how he did scold me for it with those quiet
little stinging words of his ! I was vulgar ! "

" Is that a quiet word ? "

"Yes; — as he used it; — and indiscreet, and ignorant, and
stupid. I bore it all, though sometimes I was dying with vexa-
tion. Now it's all over, and here we are as humdrum as any one
else. And the Beeswaxes, and the Bobys, and the Droughts, and
the Pountneys, and the Lopezes, have all passed over the scene !
Do you remember that Pountney affair, and how ho turned the
poor man out of the house ? "

" It served him right."

" It would have served them all right to be turned out, — only
they were there for a purpose. I did like it in a way, and it makes
me sad to think that the feeling can never come again. Even if
they should have him back again, it would be a very lame affair
to me then. I can never again rouse myself to the effort of pre-
paring food and lodging for half the Parliament and their wives.
I shall never again think that I can help to rule England by coax-
ing unpleasant men. It is done and gone, and can never come
back again."

Not long after this the Duke took Mr. Monk, who had come
down to Matching for a few days, out to the very spot on which he
had sat when be indulged himself in lecturing Phineas Finn on
conservatism and liberalism generally, and then asked the Chan-
cellor of the Exchequer what he thought of the present state of
public affairs. He himself had supported Mr. Gresham's govern-
ment, and did not belong to it because he could not at present
reconcile himself to filling any office. Mr. Monk did not scruple
to say that in his opinion the present legitimate division of parties
was preferable to the Coalition which had existed for three years.
" In such an arrangement," said Mr. Monk, " there must always
be a certain amount of distrust, and such a feeling is fatal to any
great work,"

546 THE PRIME MINISTEB.

" I think I distrusted no one till separation came, — and when it
did come it was not oaused by me."

"I am not blaming any one now," said the other ; " but men
who have been brought up with opinions altogether different, even
with different instincts as to politics, who from their mother's milk
have been nourished on codes of thought altogether opposed to each
other, cannot work together with confidence even though they may
desire the same thing. The very ideas which are sweet as honey
to the one are bitter as gall to the other."

" You think, then, that we made a great mistake ? "

" I will not say that," said Mr. Monk. " There was a difficulty
at the time, and that difficulty was overcome. The Government
was carried on, and was on the whole respected. History will give
you credit for patriotism, patience, and courage. No man could
have done it better than you did ; — probably no other man of the
day so well."

" But it was not a great part to play ? " The Duke in his ner-
vousness, as he said this, could not avoid the use of that question-
ing tone which requires an answer.

1 • Great enough to satisfy the heart of a man who has fortified
himself against the evil side of ambition. After all, what is it that
the Prime Minister of such a country as this should chiefly regard ?
Is it not the prosperity of the country ? It is not often that we
want great measures, or new arrangements that shall be vital to
the country. Politicians now look for grievances, not because the
grievances are heavy, but trusting that the honour of abolishing
them may be great. It is the old story of the needy knife-grinder
who, if left to himself, would have no grievance of which to
complain."

" But there are grievances," said the Duke. " Look at mone-
tary denominations. Look at our weights and measures. "

u Well; yes. I will not say that everything has as yet been
reduced to divine order. But when we took office three years ago
we certainly did not intend to settle those difficulties."

" No, indeed," said the Duke, sadly.

"But we did do all that we meant to do. For my own part,
there is only one thing in it that I regret, and one only which you
should regrot also till you have resolved to remedy it.

"What thing is that?"

" Your own retirement from official life. If the country is to
lose your services for the long course of years during which you
will probably sit in Parliament, then I shall think that the country
has lost more than it has gained by the Coalition."

The Duko sat for a while silent, looking at the view, and, before
answering Mr. Monk, — while arranging his answer, — once or twice
in a half-absent way, called his companion's attention to the scene
before him. But, during this timo ho was going through an act of
painful repentance. lie was condemning himself for a word or two
that had been ill-spoken by himself, and which, since the moment

THE LAST MEETING AT MATCHING. 547

of its utterance, he had never ceased to remember with shame. He
told himself now, after his own secret fashion, that he must do
penance for these words by the humiliation of a direct contradiction
of them. He must declare that Csesar would at some future time
be prepared to serve under Pompoy. Then he made his answer.
" Mr. Monk," he said, " I should be false if I were to deny that it
pleases me to hear you say so. I have thought much of all that
for the last two or three months. You may probably have- seen
that I am not a man endowed with that fortitude which enables
many to bear vexations with an easy spirit. I am given to fretting,
and I am inclined to think that a popular minister in a free country
should be so constituted as to be free from that infirmity. I shall
certainly never desire to be at the head of a Government again.
For a few years I would prefer to remain out of office. But I will
endeavour to look forward to a time when I may again perhaps be
of some humble use."

THE END,

W. H. Smith & Soa Printers, London, W.C.

5684
P7
1678*

Trollope, Anthony

The prime minister
Neuj ed.

PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE
CARDS OR SLIPS FROM THIS POCKET

ERINDALE COLLEGE LIBRARY

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