“But they said that Barrington Erle was going to Ireland.”
“Well; yes. I don’t know that you’d be interested by all the ins and outs of it. But Mr. Erle declined. It seems that Mr. Erle is after all the one man in Parliament modest enough not to consider himself to be fit for any place that can be offered to him.”
“Poor Barrington! He does not like the idea of crossing the 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 and 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.”
“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.
“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 because I thought that it would please you.”
“It does please me, and I won’t be cross any more, and the Duchess of –––– may wear her clothes just as she pleases, or go without them. And as for Mrs. Finn, 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 cooperation 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 suggestions as to dinners and evening receptions, to which he objected only on the score of time. “You must eat your dinner somewhere,” she said, “and you need only come in just before we sit down, and go into your own room if you please without coming upstairs 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 the 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.
Chapter IX.
Mrs. Dick’s Dinner Party.—No. I
Our 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 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 the same time very openly that her happiness depended on such permission being given to her. For 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 me once or twice to go there of an evening, when you have been out. I have declined because I thought Mr. Lopez would be 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 any fact, putting his finger on which he could point out to his daughter clearly that the marriage would be unsuitable for her. Of the man’s ability and position, as certainly also of his manners, the world at large seemed to speak well. He had been blackballed 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 he was going to be taken into the house of Hunky and Sons as a junior partner. It was evident that many people had been favourably impressed by his outward demeanour, by his mode of talk, and by his way of living. But no one knew anything about him. With regard to his material position Mr. Wharton could of course ask direct questions if he pleased, and require evidence as to alleged property. 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 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 himself 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 Harriet 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 has 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 forbidden to meet a certain man. It looks so unpleasant for her,—as though she had misbehaved herself.”
“I