THE PRIME MINISTER (86 page)

‘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?’

‘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 its 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 the country, should delight to honour such a man.’

‘I really doubt whether you look at the 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.’

‘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 acknowledge 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 the 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 enthusiasm 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 maintained. If you or I appoint their friends, they won’t appoint ours. Lord Earlybird’s proxy
¹²
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 Puke of St Bungay continued. ‘And, moreover, though Lord Earlybird is a very good man, – so much so that many of us may well envy him, – he 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 be 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 the Garter such a man as the late Marquis of Mount Fidgett have, I hope, gone by. You will admit that?’

‘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?’

‘He will lose the confidence which has made him what he is.’

‘It is
well that I know the penalty. It is hardly heavy enough 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!

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 the 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 outlived 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 the 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 outlook 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 forgive, 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 had every circumstance
of that caress which he had given her, – down to the very quiver of the fingers he had pressed, – he could not but flatter himself that at last he had touched her heart. But there must be time! The conventions of the world operate on all hearts, especially on the female heart, and teach that new vows, too quickly given,
are disgraceful. The 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 courtship, but the preparation of the dresses and the wedding itself And then this case was different from all others. Of course there must be 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 the case that they loved each other! There was horror here, remorse, 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
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. Three 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 everything 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 WHARTON,

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.

I 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, someone 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 me. It is not as though we had not been 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 Wharton, who really thought that in all his experience he had never known anyone 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.