THE PRIME MINISTER (98 page)

‘He has hardly such ambition, Lady
Glen.’

‘The ambition will come fast enough; – will it not, Plantagenet? 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?’

‘It is quite impossible,’ said Mrs Finn, gravely.

‘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.’

‘Ring the bell, Plantagenet, for somebody to see her down. Come to lunch to-morrow because I shall have so many groans 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.’

‘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.
³²
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 downstairs 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.’

‘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 disappointment 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, advantageous 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 something of which he might be proud. And so he tried to console himself.

But to have done something was nothing to him, – nothing to 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.

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 support 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 come 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 forgotten 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, something 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.’

‘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 upstairs.’

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
Peoples Banner,
affected one member of the Lower House much less than the return to London of Mrs Lopez. Arthur Fletcher had determined 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 suffice, – whether both in mercy to her and with the view of realizing 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 gorgeousness 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.

At last he saw her, almost by accident, and that meeting certainly 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 opportunity. 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.

Fletcher did manage, when in the drawing-room, to talk for a while 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 plainly what he 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 friends. ‘Nothing,’
he would say to her, ‘nothing but personal dislike can justify you in refusing to heal so many wounds.’ As 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 upstairs, and found the lady he sought, – but he found Mrs Roby also. It may be remembered that Mrs Roby, 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 Roby’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 Roby 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
Roby asked him if he did not think that Mrs Lopez looked much improved 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 Christian name. Mrs Roby, thinking that she ought to check him, remarked that Mrs Lopez’s return was a great thing for Mr Wharton. 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 Roby.

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.’

‘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 Roby told Dick Roby, her husband, what an old fool Mr Wharton was.