THE PRIME MINISTER (36 page)

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.’

‘It is very odd that he should never have written to me.’

‘Did you expect him to write?’

‘To tell you the truth, I rather did. Not that I should have dreamed of his corresponding with me 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.’

‘Do you mean about money?’ she asked in a
very low voice.

‘Well; – yes; I do mean about money. Things hitherto have 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.’

‘I 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.’

‘Why did you not tell me this before, – so that we might have been
more prudent?’

‘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 himself 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.’

‘He 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?’

‘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 he 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 he 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 anything too little I will tell you.’

And so the first lesson was 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 the life before 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 trouble 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 the South American trade, though she was as ignorant as ever of his affairs, 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 loved each other, and therefore, 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 immediately after the conversation which has been given
above, and of course the letter was written, – written and recopied, for the paragraph 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.

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 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 husband. 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 honeymoon to Florence; – but in all their little journeyings 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 father certainly refuse? And would not her husband then begin to be
less loving and less gracious to herself?

Every day for a week he called at the post-office when he went out 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 his 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 violence 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: