He had said a word about his own prospects in reference to the marriage, but Everett had been at first too full of his own affairs to attend much to a matter which was comparatively so trifling. “Upon my word,” he said, “I am beginning to feel angry with the governor, which is a kind of thing I don’t like at all.”
“I can understand that when he’s angry with you, you shouldn’t like it.”
“I don’t mind that half so much. He’ll come round. However unjust he may be now, at the moment, he’s the last man in the world to do an injustice in his will. I have thorough confidence in him. But I find myself driven into hostility to him by a conviction that he won’t let me take any real step in life, till my life has been half frittered away.”
“You’re thinking of Parliament.”
“Of course I am. I don’t say you ain’t an Englishman, but you are not quite enough of an Englishman to understand what Parliament is to us.”
“I hope to be, — some of these days,” said Lopez.
“Perhaps you may. I won’t say but what you may get yourself educated to it when you’ve been married a dozen years to an English wife, and have half-a-dozen English children of your own. But, in the meantime, look at my position. I am twenty-eight years old.”
“I am four years your senior.”
“It does not matter a straw to you,” continued Everett. “But a few years are everything with me. I have a right to suppose that I may be able to represent the county, — say in twenty years. I shall probably then be the head of the family and a rich man. Consider what a parliamentary education would be to me! And then it is just the life for which I have laid myself out, and in which I could make myself useful. You don’t sympathise with me, but you might understand me.”
“I do both. I think of going into the House myself.”
“You!”
“Yes; I do.”
“You must have changed your ideas very much then within the last month or two.”
“I have changed my ideas. My one chief object in life is, as you know, to marry your sister; and if I were a Member of Parliament I think that some difficulties would be cleared away.”
“But there won’t be an election for the next three years at any rate,” said Everett Wharton, staring at his friend. “You don’t mean to keep Emily waiting for a dissolution?”
“There are occasional vacancies,” said Lopez.
“Is there a chance of anything of that kind falling in your way?”
“I think there is. I can’t quite tell you all the particulars because other people are concerned, but I don’t think it improbable that I may be in the House before — ; well, say in three months’ time.”
“In three months’ time!” exclaimed Everett, whose mouth was watering at the prospects of his friend. “That is what comes from going to stay with the Prime Minister, I suppose.” Lopez shrugged his shoulders. “Upon my word I can’t understand you,” continued the other. “It was only the other day you were arguing in this very room as to the absurdity of a parliamentary career, — pitching into me, by George, like the very mischief, because I had said something in its favour, — and now you are going in for it yourself in some sort of mysterious way that a fellow can’t understand.” It was quite clear that Everett Wharton thought himself ill-used by his friend’s success.
“There is no mystery; — only I can’t tell people’s names.”
“What is the borough?”
“I cannot tell you that at present.”
“Are you sure there will be a vacancy?”
“I think I am sure.”
“And that you will be invited to stand?”
“I am not sure of that.”
“Of course anybody can stand whether invited or not.”
“If I come forward for this place I shall do so on the very best interest. Don’t mention it. I tell you because I already regard my connection with you as being so close as to call upon me to tell you anything of that kind.”
“And yet you do not tell me the details.”
“I tell you all that I can in honour tell.”
Everett Wharton certainly felt aggrieved by his friend’s news, and plainly showed that he did so. It was so hard that if a stray seat in Parliament were going a-begging, it should be thrown in the way of this man who didn’t care for it, and couldn’t use it to any good purpose, instead of in his own way! Why should any one want Ferdinand Lopez to be in Parliament? Ferdinand Lopez had paid no attention to the great political questions of the Commonwealth. He knew nothing of Labour and Capital, of Unions, Strikes, and Lock-outs. But because he was rich, and, by being rich, had made his way among great people, he was to have a seat in Parliament! As for the wealth, it might be at his own command also, — if only his father could be got to see the matter in a proper light. And as for the friendship of great people, — Prime Ministers, Duchesses, and such like, — Everett Wharton was quite confident that he was at any rate as well qualified to shine among them as Ferdinand Lopez. He was of too good a nature to be stirred to injustice against his friend by the soreness of this feeling. He did not wish to rob his friend of his wealth, of his Duchesses, or of his embryo seat in Parliament. But for the moment there came upon him a doubt whether Ferdinand was so very clever, or so peculiarly gentlemanlike or in any way very remarkable, and almost a conviction that he was very far from being good-looking.
They dined together, and quite late in the evening they strolled out into St. James’s Park. There was nobody in London, and there was nothing for either of them to do, and therefore they agreed to walk round the park, dark and gloomy as they knew the park would be. Lopez had seen and had quite understood the bitterness of spirit by which Everett had been oppressed, and with that peculiarly imperturbable good humour which made a part of his character bore it all, even with tenderness. He was a man, as are many of his race, who could bear contradictions, unjust suspicions, and social ill-treatment without a shadow of resentment, but who, if he had a purpose, could carry it out without a shadow of a scruple. Everett Wharton had on this occasion made himself very unpleasant, and Lopez had borne with him as an angel would hardly have done; but should Wharton ever stand in his friend’s way, his friend would sacrifice him without compunction. As it was, Lopez bore with him, simply noting in his own mind that Everett Wharton was a greater ass than he had taken him to be. It was Wharton’s idea that they should walk round the park, and Lopez for a time had discouraged the suggestion. “It is a wretchedly dark place at night, and you don’t know whom you may meet there.”
“You don’t mean to say that you are afraid to walk round St. James’s Park with me, because it’s dark!” said Wharton.
“I certainly should be afraid by myself, but I don’t know that I am afraid with you. But what’s the good?”
“It’s better than sitting here doing nothing, without a soul to speak to. I’ve already smoked half-a-dozen cigars, till I’m so muddled I don’t know what I’m about. It’s so hot one can’t walk in the day, and this is just the time for exercise.” Lopez yielded, being willing to yield in almost anything at present to the brother of Emily Wharton; and, though the thing seemed to him to be very foolish, they entered the park by St. James’s Palace, and started to walk round it, turning to the right and going in front of Buckingham Palace. As they went on Wharton still continued his accusation against his father and said also some sharp things against Lopez himself, till his companion began to think that the wine he had drunk had been as bad as the cigars. “I can’t understand your wanting to go into Parliament,” he said. “What do you know about it?”
“If I get there, I can learn like anybody else, I suppose.”
“Half of those who go there don’t learn. They are, as it were, born to it, and they do very well to support this party or that.”
“And why shouldn’t I support this party, — or that?”
“I don’t suppose you know which party you would support, — except that you’d vote for the Duke, if, as I
suppose, you are to get in under the Duke’s influence. If I went into the House I should go with a fixed and settled purpose of my own.”
“I’m not there yet,” said Lopez, willing to drop the subject.
“It will be a great expense to you, and will stand altogether in the way of your profession. As far as Emily is concerned, I should think my father would be dead against it.”
“Then he would be unreasonable.”
“Not at all, if he thought you would injure your professional prospects. It is a d–––– piece of folly; that’s the long and the short of it.”
This certainly was very uncivil, and it almost made Lopez angry. But he had made up his mind that his friend was a little the worse for the wine he had drunk, and therefore he did not resent even this. “Never mind politics and Parliament now,” he said, “but let us get home. I am beginning to be sick of this. It’s so awfully dark, and whenever I do hear a step, I think somebody is coming to rob us. Let us get on a bit.”
“What the deuce are you afraid of?” said Everett. They had then come up the greater part of the length of the Birdcage Walk, and the lights at Storey’s Gate were just visible, but the road on which they were then walking was very dark. The trees were black over their head, and not a step was heard near them. At this time it was just midnight. Now, certainly, among the faults which might be justly attributed to Lopez, personal cowardice could not be reckoned. On this evening he had twice spoken of being afraid, but the fear had simply been that which ordinary caution indicates; and his object had been that of hindering Wharton in the first place from coming into the park, and then of getting him out of it as quickly as possible.
“Come along,” said Lopez.
“By George, you are in a blue funk,” said the other. “I can hear your teeth chattering.” Lopez, who was beginning to be angry, walked on and said nothing. It was too absurd, he thought, for real anger, but he kept a little in front of Wharton, intending to show that he was displeased. “You had better run away at once,” said Wharton.
“Upon my word, I shall begin to think that you’re tipsy,” said Lopez.
“Tipsy!” said the other. “How dare you say such a thing to me? You never in your life saw me in the least altered by any thing I had drunk.”
Lopez knew that at any rate this was untrue. “I’ve seen you as drunk as Cloe before now,” said he.
“That’s a lie,” said Everett Wharton.
“Come, Wharton,” said the other, “do not disgrace yourself by conduct such as that. Something has put you out, and you do not know what you are saying. I can hardly imagine that you should wish to insult me.”
“It was you who insulted me. You said I was drunk. When you said it you knew it was untrue.”
Lopez walked on a little way in silence, thinking over this most absurd quarrel. Then he turned round and spoke. “This is all the greatest nonsense I ever heard in the world. I’ll go on and go to bed, and to-morrow morning you’ll think better of it. But pray remember that under no circumstances should you call a man a liar, unless on cool consideration you are determined to quarrel with him for lying, and determined also to see the quarrel out.”
“I am quite ready to see this quarrel out.”
“Good night,” said Lopez, starting off at a quick pace. They were then close to the turn in the park, and Lopez went on till he had nearly reached the park front of the new offices. As he had walked he had listened to the footfall of his friend, and after a while had perceived, or had thought that he had perceived, that the sound was discontinued. It seemed to him that Wharton had altogether lost his senses; — the insult to himself had been so determined and so absolutely groundless! He had striven his best to conquer the man’s ill-humour by good-natured forbearance, and had only suggested that Wharton was perhaps tipsy in order to give him some excuse. But if his companion were really drunk, as he now began to think, could it be right to leave him unprotected in the park? The man’s manner had been strange the whole evening, but there had been no sign of the effect of wine till after they had left the club. But Lopez had heard of men who had been apparently sober, becoming drunk as soon as they got out into the air. It might have been so in this case, though Wharton’s voice and gait had not been those of a drunken man. At any rate, he would turn back and look after him; and as he did turn back, he resolved that whatever Wharton might say to him on this night he would not notice. He was too wise to raise a further impediment to his marriage by quarrelling with Emily’s brother.
As soon as he paused he was sure that he heard footsteps behind him which were not those of Everett Wharton. Indeed, he was sure that he heard the footsteps of more than one person. He stood still for a moment to listen, and then he distinctly heard a rush and a scuffle. He ran back to the spot at which he had left his friend, and at first thought that he perceived a mob of people in the dusk. But as he got nearer, he saw that there were a man and two women. Wharton was on the ground, on his back, and the man was apparently kneeling on his neck and head while the women were rifling his pockets. Lopez, hardly knowing how he was acting, was upon them in a moment, flying in the first place at the man, who had jumped up to meet him as he came. He received at once a heavy blow on his head from some weapon, which, however, his hat so far stopped as to save him from being felled or stunned, and then he felt another blow from behind on the ear, which he afterwards conceived to have been given him by one of the women. But before he could well look about him, or well know how the whole thing had happened, the man and the two women had taken to their legs, and Wharton was standing on his feet leaning against the iron railings.
The whole thing had occupied a very short space of time, and yet the effects were very grave. At the first moment Lopez looked round and endeavoured to listen, hoping that some assistance might be near, — some policeman, or, if not that, some wanderer by night who might be honest enough to help him. But he could hear or see no one, In this condition of things it was not possible for him to pursue the ruffians, as he could not leave his friend leaning against the park rails. It was at once manifest to him that Wharton had been much hurt, or at any rate incapacitated for immediate exertion, by the blows he had received; — and as he put his hand up to his own head, from which in the scuffle his hat had fallen, he was not certain that he was not severely hurt himself. Lopez could see that Wharton was very pale, that his cravat had been almost wrenched from his neck by pressure, that his waistcoat was torn open and the front of his shirt soiled, — and he could see also that a fragment of the watch-chain was hanging loose, showing that the watch was gone. “Are you hurt much?” he said, coming close up and taking a tender hold of his friend’s arm. Wharton smiled and shook his head, but spoke not a word. He was in truth more shaken, stunned, and bewildered than actually injured. The ruffian’s fist had been at his throat, twisting his cravat, and for half a minute he had felt that he was choked. As he had struggled while one woman pulled at his watch and the other searched for his purse, — struggling, alas! unsuccessfully, — the man had endeavoured to quiet him by kneeling on his chest, strangling him with his own necktie, and pressing hard on his gullet. It is a treatment which, after a few seconds of vigorous practice, is apt to leave the patient for a while disconcerted and unwilling to speak. “Say a word if you can,” whispered Lopez, looking into the other man’s face with anxious eyes.
At the moment there came across Wharton’s mind a remembrance that he had behaved very badly to his friend, and some sort of vague misty doubt whether all this evil had not befallen him because of his misconduct. But he knew at the same time that Lopez was not responsible for the evil, and dismayed as he had been, still he recalled enough of the nature of the struggle in which he had been engaged, to be aware that Lopez had befriended him gallantly. He could not even yet speak; but he saw the blood trickling down his friend’s temple and forehead, and lifting up his hand, touched the spot with his fingers. Lopez also put his hand up, and drew it away covered with blood. “Oh,” said he, “tha
t does not signify in the least. I got a knock, I know, and I am afraid I have lost my hat, but I’m not hurt.”
“Oh, dear!” The word was uttered with a low sigh. Then there was a pause, during which Lopez supported the sufferer. “I thought that it was all over with me at one moment.”
“You will be better now.”
“Oh, yes. My watch is gone!”
“I fear it is,” said Lopez.
“And my purse,” said Wharton, collecting his strength together sufficiently to search for his treasures. “I had eight £5 notes in it.”
“Never mind your money or your watch if your bones are not broken.”
“It’s a bore all the same to lose every shilling that one has.” Then they walked very slowly away towards the steps at the Duke of York’s column, Wharton regaining his strength as he went, but still able to progress but leisurely. Lopez had not found his hat, and, being covered with blood, was, as far as appearances went, in a worse plight than the other. At the foot of the steps they met a policeman, to whom they told their story, and who, as a matter of course, was filled with an immediate desire to arrest them both. To the policeman’s mind it was most distressing that a bloody-faced man without a hat, with a companion almost too weak to walk, should not be conveyed to a police-station. But after ten minutes’ parley, during which Wharton sat on the bottom step and Lopez explained all the circumstances, he consented to get them a cab, to take their address, and then to go alone to the station and make his report. That the thieves had got off with their plunder was only too manifest. Lopez took the injured man home to the house in Manchester Square, and then returned in the same cab, hatless, to his own lodgings.
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