As he returned he applied his mind to think how he could turn the events of the evening to his own use. He did not believe that Everett Wharton was severely hurt. Indeed there might be a question whether in the morning his own injury would not be the most severe. But the immediate effect on the flustered and despoiled unfortunate one had been great enough to justify Lopez in taking strong steps if strong steps could in any way benefit himself. Would it be best to publish this affair on the house-tops, or to bury it in the shade, as nearly as it might be buried? He had determined in his own mind that his friend certainly had been tipsy. In no other way could his conduct be understood. And a row with a tipsy man at midnight in the park is not, at first sight, creditable. But it could be made to have a better appearance if told by himself, than if published from other quarters. The old housekeeper at Manchester Square must know something about it, and would, of course, tell what she knew, and the loss of the money and the watch must in all probability be made known. Before he had reached his own door he had quite made up his mind that he himself would tell the story after his own fashion.
And he told it, before he went to bed that night. He washed the blood from his face and head, and cut away a part of the clotted hair, and then wrote a letter to old Mr. Wharton at Wharton Hall. And between three and four o’clock in the morning he went out and posted his letter in the nearest pillar, so that it might go down by the day mail and certainly be preceded by no other written tidings. The letter which he sent was as follows: —
Dear Mr. Wharton,
I regret to have to send you an account of a rather serious accident which has happened to Everett. I am now writing at 3 a.m., having just taken him home, and it occurred at about midnight. You may be quite sure that there is no danger or I should have advertised you by telegram.
There is nothing doing in town, and therefore, as the night was fine, we, very foolishly, agreed to walk round St. James’s Park late after dinner. It is a kind of thing that nobody does; — but we did it. When we had nearly got round I was in a hurry, whereas Everett was for strolling slowly, and so I went on before him. But I was hardly two hundred yards in front of him before he was attacked by three persons, a man and two women. The man I presume came upon him from behind, but he has not sufficiently collected his thoughts to remember exactly what occurred. I heard the scuffle and of course turned back, — and was luckily in time to get up before he was seriously hurt. I think the man would otherwise have strangled him. I am sorry to say that he lost both his watch and purse.
He undoubtedly has been very much shaken, and altogether “knocked out of time,” as people say. Excuse the phrase, because I think it will best explain what I want you to understand. The man’s hand at his throat must have stopped his breathing for some seconds. He certainly has received no permanent injury, but I should not wonder if he should be unwell for some days. I tell you all exactly as it occurred, as it strikes me that you may like to run up to town for a day just to look at him. But you need not do so on the score of any danger. Of course he will see a doctor to-morrow. There did not seem to be any necessity for calling one up to-night. We did give notice to the police as we were coming home, but I fear the ruffians had ample time for escape. He was too weak, and I was too fully employed with him, to think of pursuing them at the time.
Of course he is at Manchester Square.
Most faithfully yours,
Ferdinand Lopez.
He did not say a word about Emily, but he knew that Emily would see the letter and would perceive that he had been the means of preserving her brother; and, in regard to the old barrister himself, Lopez thought that the old man could not but feel grateful for his conduct. He had in truth behaved very well to Everett. He had received a heavy blow on the head in young Wharton’s defence, — of which he was determined to make good use, though he had thought it expedient to say nothing about the blow in his letter. Surely it would all help. Surely the paternal mind would be softened towards him when the father should be made to understand how great had been his service to the son. That Everett would make little of what had been done for him he did not in the least fear. Everett Wharton was sometimes silly but was never ungenerous.
In spite of his night’s work Lopez was in Manchester Square before nine on the following morning, and on the side of his brow he bore a great patch of black plaster. “My head is very thick,” he said laughing, when Everett asked after his wound. “But it would have gone badly with me if the ruffian had struck an inch lower. I suppose my hat saved me, though I remember very little. Yes, old fellow, I have written to your father, and I think he will come up. It was better that it should be so.”
“There is nothing the matter with me,” said Everett.
“One didn’t quite know last night whether there was or no. At any rate his coming won’t hurt you. It’s always well to have your banker near you, when your funds are low.”
Then after a pause Everett made his apology, — “I know I made a great ass of myself last night.”
“Don’t think about it.”
“I used a word I shouldn’t have used, and I beg your pardon.”
“Not another word, Everett. Between you and me things can’t go wrong. We love each other too well.”
CHAPTER XXIII
Surrender
The letter given in the previous chapter was received at Wharton Hall late in the evening of the day on which it was written, and was discussed among all the Whartons that night. Of course there was no doubt as to the father’s going up to town on the morrow. The letter was just such a letter as would surely make a man run to his son’s bedside. Had the son written himself it would have been different; but the fact that the letter had come from another man seemed to be evidence that the poor sufferer could not write. Perhaps the urgency with which Lopez had sent off his dispatch, getting his account of the fray ready for the very early day mail, though the fray had not taken place till midnight, did not impress them sufficiently when they accepted this as evidence of Everett’s dangerous condition. At this conference at Wharton very little was said about Lopez, but there was a general feeling that he had behaved well. “It was very odd that they should have parted in the park,” said Sir Alured. “But very lucky that they should not have parted sooner,” said John Fletcher. If a grain of suspicion against Lopez might have been set afloat in their minds by Sir Alured’s suggestion, it was altogether dissipated by John Fletcher’s reply; — for everybody there knew that John Fletcher carried common sense for the two families. Of course they all hated Ferdinand Lopez, but nothing could be extracted from the incident, as far as its details were yet known to them, which could be turned to his injury.
While they sat together discussing the matter in the drawing-room Emily Wharton hardly said a word. She uttered a little shriek when the account of the affair was first read to her, and then listened with silent attention to what was said around her. When there had seemed for a moment to be a doubt, — or rather a question, for there had been no doubt, — whether her father should go at once to London, she had spoken just a word. “Of course you will go, papa.” After that, she said nothing till she came to him in his own room. “Of course I will go with you to-morrow, papa.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“Oh, yes. Think how wretched I should be.”
“I would telegraph to you immediately.”
“And I shouldn’t believe the telegraph. Don’t you know how it always is? Besides we have been more than the usual time. We were to go to town in ten days, and you would not think of returning to fetch me. Of course I will go with you. I have already begun to pack my things, and Jane is now at it.” Her father, not knowing how to oppose her, yielded, and Emily before she went to bed had made the ladies of the house aware that she also intended to start the next morning at eight o’clock.
During the first part of the journey very little was said between Mr. Wharton and Emily. There were other persons in the carriage, and she, though
she had determined in some vague way that she would speak some words to her father before she reached their own house, had still wanted time to resolve what those words should be. But before she had reached Gloucester she had made up her mind, and going on from Gloucester she found herself for a time alone with her father. She was sitting opposite to him, and after conversing for a while she touched his knee with her hand. “Papa,” she said, “I suppose I must now have to meet Mr. Lopez in Manchester Square?”
“Why should you have to meet Mr. Lopez in Manchester Square?”
“Of course he will come there to see Everett. After what has occurred you can hardly forbid him the house. He has saved Everett’s life.”
“I don’t know that he has done anything of the kind,” said Mr. Wharton, who was vacillating between different opinions. He did in his heart believe that the Portuguese whom he so hated had saved his son from the thieves, and he also had almost come to the conviction that he must give his daughter to the man, — but at the same time he could not as yet bring himself to abandon his opposition to the marriage.
“Perhaps you think the story is not true.”
“I don’t doubt the story in the least. Of course one man sticks to another in such an affair, and I have no doubt that Mr. Lopez behaved as any English gentleman would.”
“Any English gentleman, papa, would have to come afterwards and see the friend he had saved. Don’t you think so?”
“Oh, yes; — he might call.”
“And Mr. Lopez will have an additional reason for calling, — and I know he will come. Don’t you think he will come?”
“I don’t want to think anything about it,” said the father.
“But I want you to think about it, papa. Papa, I know you are not indifferent to my happiness.”
“I hope you know it.”
“I do know it. I am quite sure of it. And therefore I don’t think you ought to be afraid to talk to me about what must concern my happiness so greatly. As far as my own self and my own will are concerned I consider myself given away to Mr. Lopez already. Nothing but his marrying some other woman, — or his death, — would make me think of myself otherwise than as belonging to him. I am not a bit ashamed of owning my love — to you; nor to him, if the opportunity were allowed me. I don’t think there should be concealment about anything so important between people who are dear to each other. I have told you that I will do whatever you bid me about him. If you say that I shall not speak to him or see him, I will not speak to him or see him — willingly. You certainly need not be afraid that I should marry him without your leave.”
“I am not in the least afraid of it.”
“But I think you should think over what you are doing. And I am quite sure of this, — that you must tell me what I am to do in regard to receiving Mr. Lopez in Manchester Square.” Mr. Wharton listened attentively to what his daughter said to him, shaking his head from time to time as though almost equally distracted by her passive obedience and by her passionate protestations of love; but he said nothing. When she had completed her supplication he threw himself back in his seat and after a while took his book. It may be doubted whether he read much, for the question as to his girl’s happiness was quite as near his heart as she could wish it to be.
It was late in the afternoon before they reached Manchester Square, and they were both happy to find that they were not troubled by Mr. Lopez at the first moment. Everett was at home and in bed, and had not indeed as yet recovered from the effect of the man’s knuckles at his windpipe; but he was well enough to assure his father and sister that they need not have disturbed themselves or hurried their return from Herefordshire on his account. “To tell the truth,” said he, “Ferdinand Lopez was hurt worse than I was.”
“He said nothing of being hurt himself,” said Mr. Wharton.
“How was he hurt?” asked Emily in the quietest, stillest voice.
“The fact is,” said Everett, beginning to tell the whole story after his own fashion, “if he hadn’t been at hand then, there would have been an end of me. We had separated, you know, — “
“What could make two men separate from each other in the darkness of St. James’s Park?”
“Well, — to tell the truth, we had quarrelled. I had made an ass of myself. You need not go into that any further, except that you should know that it was all my fault. Of course it wasn’t a real quarrel,” — when he said this Emily, who was sitting close to his bed-head, pressed his arm under the clothes with her hand, — “but I had said something rough, and he had gone on just to put an end to it.”
“It was uncommonly foolish,” said old Wharton. “It was very foolish going round the park at all at that time of night.”
“No doubt, sir; — but it was my doing. And if he had not gone with me, I should have gone alone.” Here there was another pressure. “I was a little low in spirits, and wanted the walk.”
“But how is he hurt?” asked the father.
“The man who was kneeling on me and squeezing the life out of me jumped up when he heard Lopez coming, and struck him over the head with a bludgeon. I heard the blow, though I was pretty well done for at the time myself. I don’t think they hit me, but they got something round my neck, and I was half strangled before I knew what they were doing. Poor Lopez bled horribly, but he says he is none the worse for it.” Here there was another little pressure under the bed-clothes; for Emily felt that her brother was pleading for her in every word that he said.
About ten on the following morning Lopez came and asked for Mr. Wharton. He was shown into the study, where he found the old man, and at once began to give his account of the whole concern in an easy, unconcerned manner. He had the large black patch on the side of his head, which had been so put on as almost to become him. But it was so conspicuous as to force a question respecting it from Mr. Wharton. “I am afraid you got rather a sharp knock yourself, Mr. Lopez?”
“I did get a knock, certainly; — but the odd part of it is that I knew nothing about it till I found the blood in my eyes after they had decamped. But I lost my hat, and there is a rather long cut just above the temple. It hasn’t done me the slightest harm. The worst of it was that they got off with Everett’s watch and money.”
“Had he much money?”
“Forty pounds!” And Lopez shook his head, thereby signifying that forty pounds at the present moment was more than Everett Wharton could afford to lose. Upon the whole he carried himself very well, ingratiating himself with the father, raising no question about the daughter, and saying as little as possible of himself. He asked whether he could go up and see his friend, and of course was allowed to do so. A minute before he entered the room Emily left it. They did not see each other. At any rate he did not see her. But there was a feeling with both of them that the other was close, — and there was something present to them, almost amounting to conviction, that the accident of the park robbery would be good for them.
“He certainly did save Everett’s life,” Emily said to her father the next day.
“Whether he did or not, he did his best,” said Mr. Wharton.
“When one’s dearest relation is concerned,” said Emily, “and when his life has been saved, one feels that one has to be grateful even if it has been an accident. I hope he knows, at any rate, that I am grateful.”
The old man had not been a week in London before he knew that he had absolutely lost the game. Mrs. Roby came back to her house round the corner, ostensibly with the object of assisting her relatives in nursing Everett, — a purpose for which she certainly was not needed; but, as the matter progressed, Mr. Wharton was not without suspicion that her return had been arranged by Ferdinand Lopez. She took upon herself, at any rate, to be loud in the praise of the man who had saved the life of her “darling nephew,” — and to see that others also should be loud in his praise. In a little time all London had heard of the affair, and it had been discussed out of London. Down at Gatherum Castle the matter had been known, or partly known, �
� but the telling of it had always been to the great honour and glory of the hero. Major Pountney had almost broken his heart over it, and Captain Gunner, writing to his friend from the Curragh, had asserted his knowledge that it was all a “got-up thing” between the two men. The “Breakfast Table” and the “Evening Pulpit” had been loud in praise of Lopez; but the “People’s Banner,” under the management of Mr. Quintus Slide, had naturally thrown much suspicion on the incident when it became known to the Editor that Ferdinand Lopez had been entertained by the Duke and Duchess of Omnium. “We have always felt some slight doubts as to the details of the affair said to have happened about a fortnight ago, just at midnight, in St. James’s Park. We should be glad to know whether the policemen have succeeded in tracing any of the stolen property, or whether any real attempt to trace it has been made.” This was one of the paragraphs, and it was hinted still more plainly afterwards that Everett Wharton, being short of money, had arranged the plan with the view of opening his father’s purse. But the general effect was certainly serviceable to Lopez. Emily Wharton did believe him to be a hero. Everett was beyond measure grateful to him, — not only for having saved him from the thieves, but also for having told nothing of his previous folly. Mrs. Roby always alluded to the matter as if, for all coming ages, every Wharton ought to acknowledge that gratitude to a Lopez was the very first duty of life. The old man felt the absurdity of much of this, but still it affected him. When Lopez came he could not be rough to the man who had done a service to his son. And then he found himself compelled to do something. He must either take his daughter away, or he must yield. But his power of taking his daughter away seemed to be less than it had been. There was an air of quiet, unmerited suffering about her, which quelled him. And so he yielded.
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