THE PRIME MINISTER (34 page)

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 herself as though she had no friend in the world. The surrender which he had made to his daughter had come from a sudden impulse at the moment, but it could not now be withdrawn.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 affections, 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 fortune 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 man, this 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 he 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 after his daughter’s fortune, he would answer to this effect. Thus he almost resolved that he would give his daughter to the man without any inquiry as to the man’s means. The thing had to be done, 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 recognized 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 recognized 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:–

‘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!’

‘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 ‘lovers lacking matter, the cleanliest
shift is to kiss’.
⁴
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.

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 went 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 settled between them that the marriage should not be 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 dictation, 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 marriage, 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, instead 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,

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 stiff-necked, prejudiced set of provincial ignoramuses?’

‘What Mary says is not true. She did not think that I was going to bind myself closer with
them, as she calls it. I have been quite open with her, and have always told her that I could not be Arthur Fletcher’s wife.’

‘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 tidings 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 anyone 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 squirearchy generally; but she never spoke to him of Arthur Fletcher, – 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
occasion 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 he 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, 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 income 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 penniless, he was altogether property-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 wealthy
commercial men, and had for the last twelve months 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.