The Prime Minister

he carry off his girl, as used to be done in rougher times. There was nothing now for a man in such a catastrophe as this but submission. But he might submit and shake off his burden, or submit and carry it hopelessly. He told himself that he would do the latter. She had been his goddess, and he would not now worship at another shrine. And then ideas came into his head⁠—not hopes, or purposes, or a belief even in any possibility⁠—but vague ideas, mere castles in the air, that a time might come in which it might be in his power to serve her, and to prove to her beyond doubting what had been the nature of his love. Like others of his family, he thought ill of Lopez, believing the man to be an adventurer, one who would too probably fall into misfortune, however high he might now seem to hold his head. He was certainly a man not standing on the solid basis of land, or of Three percents⁠—those solidities to which such as the Whartons and Fletchers are wont to trust. No doubt, should there be such fall, the man’s wife would have other help than that of her rejected lover. She had a father, brother, and cousins, who would also be there to aid her. The idea was, therefore, but a castle in the air. And yet it was dear to him. At any rate he resolved that he would live for it, and that the woman should still be his goddess, though she was the wife of another man, and might now perhaps never even be seen by him. Then there came upon him, immediately almost after her marriage, the necessity of writing to her. The task was one which, of course, he did not perform lightly.

He never said a word of this to anybody else;⁠—but his brother understood it all, and in a somewhat silent fashion fully sympathised with him. John could not talk to him about love, or mark passages of poetry for him to read, or deal with him at all romantically; but he could take care that his brother had the best horses to ride, and the warmest corner out shooting, and that everything in the house should be done for his brother’s comfort. As the squire looked and spoke at Longbarns, others looked and spoke⁠—so that everybody knew that Mr. Arthur was to be contradicted in nothing. Had he, just at this period, ordered a tree in the park to be cut down, it would, I think, have been cut down, without reference to the master! But, perhaps, John’s power was most felt in the way in which he repressed the expressions of his mother’s high indignation. “Mean slut!” she once said, speaking of Emily in her eldest son’s hearing. For the girl, to her thinking, had been mean and had been a slut. She had not known⁠—so Mrs. Fletcher thought⁠—what birth and blood required of her.

“Mother,” John Fletcher had said, “you would break Arthur’s heart if he heard you speak in that way, and I am sure you would drive him from Longbarns. Keep it to yourself.” The old woman had shaken her head angrily, but she had endeavoured to do as she had been bid.

“Isn’t your brother riding that horse a little rashly?” Reginald Cotgrave said to John Fletcher in the hunting field one day.

“I didn’t observe,” said John; “but whatever horse he’s on, he always rides rashly.” Arthur was mounted on a long, raking thoroughbred black animal, which he had bought himself about a month ago, and which, having been run at steeplechases, rushed at every fence as though he were going to swallow it. His brother had begged him to put some roughrider up till the horse could be got to go quietly, but Arthur had persevered. And during the whole of this day the squire had been in a tremor, lest there should be some accident.

“He used to have a little more judgment, I think,” said Cotgrave. “He went at that double just now as hard as the brute could tear. If the horse hadn’t done it all, where would he have been?”

“In the further ditch, I suppose. But you see the horse did do it all.”

This was all very well as an answer to Reginald Cotgrave⁠—to whom it was not necessary that Fletcher should explain the circumstances. But the squire had known as well as Cotgrave that his brother had been riding rashly, and he had understood the reason why. “I don’t think a man ought to break his neck,” he said, “because he can’t get everything that he wishes.” The two brothers were standing then together before the fire in the squire’s own room, having just come in from hunting.

“Who is going to break his neck?”

“They tell me that you tried to today.”

“Because I was riding a pulling horse. I’ll back him to be the biggest leaper and the quickest horse in Herefordshire.”

“I dare say⁠—though for the matter of that the chances are very much against it. But a man shouldn’t ride so as to have those things said of him.”

“What is a fellow to do if he can’t hold a horse?”

“Get off him.”

“That’s nonsense, John!”

“No, it’s not. You know what I mean very well. If I were to lose half my property tomorrow, don’t you think it would cut me up a good deal?”

“It would me, I know.”

“But what would you think of me if I howled about it?”

“Do I howl?” asked Arthur angrily.

“Every man howls who is driven out of his ordinary course by any trouble. A man howls if he goes about frowning always.”

“Do I frown?”

“Or laughing.”

“Do I laugh?”

“Or galloping over the country like a mad devil who wants to get rid of his debts by breaking his neck. Aequam memento⁠—. You remember all that, don’t you?”

“I remember it; but it isn’t so easy to do it.”

“Try. There are other things to be done in life