The Prime Minister

all love? But even here he could get no comfort⁠—being in truth unable to see very clearly into the condition of the thing. It was a disgrace to him⁠—to him within his own bosom⁠—that she should have preferred to him such a one as Ferdinand Lopez, and this disgrace he exaggerated, ignoring the fact that the girl herself might be deficient in judgment, or led away in her love by falsehood and counterfeit attractions. To him she was such a goddess that she must be right⁠—and therefore his own inferiority to such a one as Ferdinand Lopez was proved. He could take no pride in his rejected love. He would rid himself of it at a moment’s notice if he knew the way. He would throw himself at the feet of some second-rate, tawdry, wellborn, well-known beauty of the day⁠—only that there was not now left to him strength to pretend the feeling that would be necessary. Then he heard steps, and jumping up from his seat, stood just in the way of Emily Wharton and her cousin Mary. “Ain’t you going to dress for dinner, young man?” said the latter.

“I shall have time if you have, anyway,” said Arthur, endeavouring to pluck up his spirits.

“That’s nice of him;⁠—isn’t it?” said Mary. “Why, we are dressed. What more do you want? We came out to look for you, though we didn’t mean to come as far as this. It’s past seven now, and we are supposed to dine at a quarter past.”

“Five minutes will do for me.”

“But you’ve got to get to the house. You needn’t be in a tremendous hurry, because papa has only just come in from haymaking. They’ve got up the last load, and there has been the usual ceremony. Emily and I have been looking at them.”

“I wish I’d been here all the time,” said Emily. “I do so hate London in July.”

“So do I,” said Arthur⁠—“in July and all other times.”

“You hate London!” said Mary.

“Yes⁠—and Herefordshire⁠—and other places generally. If I’ve got to dress I’d better get across the park as quick as I can go,” and so he left them. Mary turned round and looked at her cousin, but at the moment said nothing. Arthur’s passion was well known to Mary Wharton, but Mary had as yet heard nothing of Ferdinand Lopez.

XVI

Never Run Away!

During the whole of that evening there was a forced attempt on the part of all the party at Wharton Hall to be merry⁠—which, however, as is the case whenever such attempts are forced, was a failure. There had been a haymaking harvest-home which was supposed to give the special occasion for mirth, as Sir Alured farmed the land around the park himself, and was great in hay. “I don’t think it pays very well,” he said with a gentle smile, “but I like to employ some of the people myself. I think the old people find it easier with me than with the tenants.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said his cousin;⁠—“but that’s charity; not employment.”

“No, no,” exclaimed the baronet. “They work for their wages and do their best. Powell sees to that.” Powell was the bailiff, who knew the length of his master’s foot to a quarter of an inch, and was quite aware that the Wharton haymakers were not to be overtasked. “Powell doesn’t keep any cats about the place, but what catch mice. But I am not quite sure that haymaking does pay.”

“How do the tenants manage?”

“Of course they look to things closer. You wouldn’t wish me to let the land up to the house door.”

“I think,” said old Mrs. Fletcher, “that a landlord should consent to lose a little by his own farming. It does good in the long run.” Both Mr. Wharton and Sir Alured felt that this might be very well at Longbarns, though it could hardly be afforded at Wharton.

“I don’t think I lose much by my farming,” said the squire of Longbarns. “I have about four hundred acres on hand, and I keep my accounts pretty regularly.”

“Johnson is a very good man, I dare say,” said the baronet.

“Like most of the others,” continued the squire, “he’s very well as long as he’s looked after. I think I know as much about it as Johnson. Of course, I don’t expect a farmer’s profit; but I do expect my rent, and I get it.”

“I don’t think I manage it quite that way,” said the baronet in a melancholy tone.

“I’m afraid not,” said the barrister.

“John is as hard upon the men as any one of the tenants,” said John’s wife, Mrs. Fletcher of Longbarns.

“I’m not hard at all,” said John, “and you understand nothing about it. I’m paying three shillings a week more to every man, and eighteen pence a week more to every woman, than I did three years ago.”

“That’s because of the Unions,” said the barrister.

“I don’t care a straw for the Unions. If the Unions interfered with my comfort I’d let the land and leave the place.”

“Oh, John!” ejaculated John’s mother.

“I would not consent to be made a slave even for the sake of the country. But the wages had to be raised⁠—and having raised them I expect to get proper value for my money. If anything has to be given away, let it be given away⁠—so that the people should know what it is that they receive.”

“That’s just what we don’t want to do here,” said Lady Wharton, who did not often join in any of these arguments.

“You’re wrong, my lady,” said her stepson. “You’re only breeding idleness when you teach people to think that they are earning wages without working for their money. Whatever you do with ’em let ’em know and feel the truth. It’ll be the best in the long run.”

“I’m sometimes happy when I think that I shan’t live to see the long run,” said the baronet. This was the manner in which they tried to be merry that evening after dinner at