Everett Wharton
On that same day Lopez dined with his friend Everett Wharton at a
new club called the Progress, of which they were both members. The
Progress was certainly a new club, having as yet been open hardly
more than three years; but still it was old enough to have seen many
of the hopes of its early youth become dim with age and inaction.
For the Progress had intended to do great things for the Liberal
party,--or rather for political liberality in general,--and had in
truth done little or nothing. It had been got up with considerable
enthusiasm, and for a while certain fiery politicians had believed
that through the instrumentality of this institution men of genius,
and spirit, and natural power, but without wealth,--meaning always
themselves,--would be supplied with sure seats in Parliament and
a probable share in the Government. But no such results had been
achieved. There had been a want of something,--some deficiency felt
but not yet defined,--which had hitherto been fatal. The young men
said it was because no old stager who knew the way of pulling the
wires would come forward and put the club in the proper groove. The
old men said it was because the young men were pretentious puppies.
It was, however, not to be doubted that the party of Progress had
become slack, and that the Liberal politicians of the country,
although a special new club had been opened for the furtherance
of their views, were not at present making much way. "What we
want is organization," said one of the leading young men. But the
organization was not as yet forthcoming.
The club, nevertheless, went on its way, like other clubs, and men
dined and smoked and played billiards and pretended to read. Some few
energetic members still hoped that a good day would come in which
their grand ideas might be realised,--but as regarded the members
generally, they were content to eat and drink and play billiards. It
was a fairly good club,--with a sprinkling of Liberal lordlings, a
couple of dozen of members of Parliament who had been made to believe
that they would neglect their party duties unless they paid their
money, and the usual assortment of barristers, attorneys, city
merchants and idle men. It was good enough at any rate for Ferdinand
Lopez, who was particular about his dinner, and had an opinion of his
own about wines. He had been heard to assert that, for real quiet
comfort, there was not a club in London equal to it; but his hearers
were not aware that in past days he had been blackballed at the
T---- and the G----. These were accidents which Lopez had a gift of
keeping in the background. His present companion, Everett Wharton,
had, as well as himself, been an original member;--and Wharton had
been one of those who had hoped to find in the club a stepping-stone
to high political life, and who now talked often with idle energy of
the need of organization.
"For myself," said Lopez, "I can conceive no vainer object of
ambition than a seat in the British Parliament. What does any man
gain by it? The few who are successful work very hard for little
pay and no thanks,--or nearly equally hard for no pay and as little
thanks. The many who fail sit idly for hours, undergoing the weary
task of listening to platitudes, and enjoy in return the now
absolutely valueless privilege of having M.P. written on their
letters."
"Somebody must make laws for the country."
"I don't see the necessity. I think the country would do uncommonly
well if it were to know that no old law would be altered or new law
made for the next twenty years."
"You wouldn't have repealed the corn laws?"
"There are no corn laws to repeal now."
"Nor modify the income tax?"
"I would modify nothing. But at any rate, whether laws are to be
altered or to be left, it is a comfort to me that I need not put my
finger into that pie. There is one benefit indeed in being in the
House."
"You can't be arrested."
"Well;--that, as far as it goes; and one other. It assists a man in
getting a seat as the director of certain Companies. People are still
such asses that they trust a Board of Directors made up of members
of Parliament, and therefore of course members are made welcome. But
if you want to get into the House why don't you arrange it with your
father, instead of waiting for what the club may do for you?"
"My father wouldn't pay a shilling for such a purpose. He was never
in the House himself."
"And therefore despises it."
"A little of that, perhaps. No man ever worked harder than he did,
or, in his way, more successfully; and having seen one after another
of his juniors become members of Parliament, while he stuck to the
attorneys, there is perhaps a little jealousy about it."
"From what I see of the way you live at home, I should think your
father would do anything for you,--with proper management. There is
no doubt, I suppose, that he could afford it?"
"My father never in his life said anything to me about his own money
affairs, though he says a great deal about mine. No man ever was
closer than my father. But I believe that he could afford almost
anything."
"I wish I had such a father," said Ferdinand Lopez. "I think that I
should succeed in ascertaining the extent of his capabilities, and in
making some use of them too."
Wharton nearly asked his friend,--almost summoned courage to ask
him,--whether his father had done much for him. They were very
intimate; and on one subject, in which Lopez was much interested,
their confidence had been very close. But the younger and the weaker
man of the two could not quite bring himself to the point of making
an inquiry which he thought would be disagreeable. Lopez had never
before, in all their intercourse, hinted at the possibility of his
having or having had filial aspirations. He had been as though he
had been created self-sufficient, independent of mother's milk
or father's money. Now the question might have been asked almost
naturally. But it was not asked.
Everett Wharton was a trouble to his father,--but not an agonizing
trouble, as are some sons. His faults were not of a nature to rob his
father's cup of all its sweetness and to bring his grey hairs with
sorrow to the grave. Old Wharton had never had to ask himself whether
he should now, at length, let his son fall into the lowest abysses,
or whether he should yet again struggle to put him on his legs,
again forgive him, again pay his debts, again endeavour to forget
dishonour, and place it all to the score of thoughtless youth. Had it
been so, I think that, if not on the first or second fall, certainly
on the third, the young man would have gone into the abyss; for Mr.
Wharton was a stern man, and capable of coming to a clear conclusion
on things that were nearest and even dearest to himself. But Everett
Wharton had simply shown himself to be inefficient to earn his own
bread. He had never declined even to do this,--but had simply been
inefficient. He had not declared either by words or actions that
as his father was a rich man, and as he was an only son, he would
therefore do nothing. But he had tried his hand thrice, and in
each case, after but short trial, had assured his father and his
friends that the thing had not suited him. Leaving Oxford without a
degree,--for the reading of the schools did not suit him,--he had
gone into a banking-house, by no means as a mere clerk, but with
an expressed proposition from his father, backed by the assent of
a partner, that he should work his way up to wealth and a great
commercial position. But six months taught him that banking was "an
abomination," and he at once went into a course of reading with a
barrister. He remained at this till he was called,--for a man may be
called with very little continuous work. But after he was called the
solitude of his chambers was too much for him, and at twenty-five
he found that the Stock Exchange was the mart in the world for such
talents and energies as he possessed. What was the nature of his
failure during the year that he went into the city, was known only to
himself and his father,--unless Ferdinand Lopez knew something of it
also. But at six-and-twenty the Stock Exchange was also abandoned;
and now, at eight-and-twenty, Everett Wharton had discovered that a
parliamentary career was that for which nature and his special genius
had intended him. He had probably suggested this to his father, and
had met with some cold rebuff.
Everett Wharton was a good-looking, manly fellow, six feet high, with
broad shoulders, with light hair, wearing a large silky bushy beard,
which made him look older than his years, who neither by his speech
nor by his appearance would ever be taken for a fool, but who showed
by the very actions of his body as well as by the play of his face,
that he lacked firmness of purpose. He certainly was no fool. He had
read much, and, though he generally forgot what he read, there were
left with him from his readings certain nebulous lights, begotten by
other men's thinking, which enabled him to talk on most subjects. It
cannot be said of him that he did much thinking for himself;--but
he thought that he thought. He believed of himself that he had gone
rather deep into politics, and that he was entitled to call many
statesmen asses because they did not see the things which he saw.
He had the great question of labour, and all that refers to unions,
strikes, and lock-outs, quite at his fingers' ends. He knew how the
Church of England should be disestablished and recomposed. He was
quite clear on questions of finance, and saw to a "t" how progress
should be made towards communism, so that no violence should disturb
that progress, and that in the due course of centuries all desire
for personal property should be conquered and annihilated by a
philanthropy so general as hardly to be accounted a virtue. In the
meantime he could never contrive to pay his tailor's bill regularly
out of the allowance of £400 a year which his father made him, and
was always dreaming of the comforts of a handsome income.
He was a popular man certainly,--very popular with women, to whom
he was always courteous, and generally liked by men, to whom he was
genial and good-natured. Though he was not himself aware of the fact,
he was very dear to his father, who in his own silent way almost
admired and certainly liked the openness and guileless freedom of
a character which was very opposite to his own. The father, though
he had never said a word to flatter the son, did in truth give his
offspring credit for greater talent than he possessed, and, even when
appearing to scorn them, would listen to the young man's diatribes
almost with satisfaction. And Everett was very dear also to a sister,
who was the only other living member of this branch of the Wharton
family. Much will be said of her in these pages, and it is hoped that
the reader may take an interest in her fate. But here, in speaking of
the brother, it may suffice to say, that the sister, who was endowed
with infinitely finer gifts than his, did give credit to the somewhat
pretentious claims of her less noble brother.
Indeed it had been perhaps a misfortune with Everett Wharton that
some people had believed in him,--and a further misfortune that some
others had thought it worth their while to pretend to believe in him.
Among the latter might probably be reckoned the friend with whom he
was now dining at the Progress. A man may flatter another, as Lopez
occasionally did flatter Wharton, without preconcerted falsehood. It
suits one man to be well with another, and the one learns gradually
and perhaps unconsciously the way to take advantage of the foibles
of the other. Now it was most material to Lopez that he should stand
well with all the members of the Wharton family, as he aspired to
the hand of the daughter of the house. Of her regard he had already
thought himself nearly sure. Of the father's sanction to such a
marriage he had reason to be almost more than doubtful. But the
brother was his friend,--and in such circumstances a man is almost
justified in flattering a brother.
"I'll tell you what it is, Lopez," said Wharton, as they strolled out
of the club together, a little after ten o'clock, "the men of the
present day won't give themselves the trouble to occupy their minds
with matters which have, or should have, real interest. Pope knew all
about it when he said that 'The proper study of mankind is man.' But
people don't read Pope now, or if they do they don't take the trouble
to understand him."
"Men are too busy making money, my dear fellow."
"That's just it. Money's a very nice thing."
"Very nice," said Lopez.
"But the search after it is debasing. If a man could make money for
four, or six, or even eight hours a day, and then wash his mind of
the pursuit, as a clerk in an office washes the copies and ledgers
out of his mind, then--"
"He would never make money in that way,--and keep it."
"And therefore the whole thing is debasing. A man ceases to care
for the great interests of the world, or even to be aware of their
existence, when his whole soul is in Spanish bonds. They wanted to
make a banker of me, but I found that it would kill me."
"It would kill me, I think, if I had to confine myself to Spanish
bonds."
"You know what I mean. You at any rate can understand me, though I
fear you are too far gone to abandon the idea of making a fortune."
"I would abandon it to-morrow if I could come into a fortune ready
made. A man must at any rate eat."
"Yes;--he must eat. But I am not quite sure," said Wharton
thoughtfully, "that he need think about what he eats."
"Unless the beef is sent up without horse radish!" It had happened
that when the two men sat down to their dinner the insufficient
quantity of that vegetable supplied by the steward of the club had
been all consumed, and Wharton had complained of the grievance.
"A man has a right to that for which he has paid," said Wharton, with
mock solemnity, "and if he passes over laches of that nature without
observation he does an injury to humanity at large. I'm not going to
be caught in a trap, you know, because I like horse radish with my
beef. Well, I can't go farther out of my way, as I have a deal of
reading to do before I court my Morpheus. If you'll take my advice
you'll go straight to the governor. Whatever Emily may feel I don't
think she'll say much to encourage you unless you go about it after
that fashion. She has prim notions of her own, which perhaps are not
after all so much amiss when a man wants to marry a girl."
"God forbid that I should think that anything about your sister was
amiss!"
"I don't think there is much myself. Women are generally
superficial,--but some are honestly superficial and some dishonestly.
Emily at any rate is honest."
"Stop half a moment." Then they sauntered arm in arm down the broad
pavement leading from Pall Mall to the Duke of York's column. "I wish
I could make out your father more clearly. He is always civil to me,
but he has a cold way of looking at me which makes me think I am not
in his good books."
"He is like that to everybody."
"I never seem to get beyond the skin with him. You must have heard
him speak of me in my absence?"
"He never says very much about anybody."
"But a word would let me know how the land lies. You know me well
enough to be aware that I am the last man to be curious as to what
others think of me. Indeed I do not care about it as much as a man
should do. I am utterly indifferent to the opinion of the world at
large, and would never object to the company of a pleasant person
because the pleasant person abused me behind my back. What I value
is the pleasantness of the man and not his liking or disliking for
myself. But here the dearest aim of my life is concerned, and I might
be guided either this way or that, to my great advantage, by knowing
whether I stand well or ill with him."
"You have dined three times within the last three months in
Manchester Square, and I don't know any other man,--certainly no
other young man,--who has had such strong proof of intimacy from my
father."
"Yes, and I know my advantages. But I have been there as your friend,
not as his."
"He doesn't care twopence about my friends. I wanted to give Charlie
Skate a dinner, but my father wouldn't have him at any price."
"Charlie Skate is out at elbows, and bets at billiards. I am
respectable,--or at any rate your father thinks so. Your father is
more anxious about you than you are aware of, and wishes to make his
house pleasant to you as long as he can do so to your advantage. As
far as you are concerned he rather approves of me, fancying that
my turn for making money is stronger than my turn for spending it.
Nevertheless, he looks upon me as a friend of yours rather than his
own. Though he has given me three dinners in three months,--and I own
the greatness of his hospitality,--I don't suppose he ever said a
word in my favour. I wish I knew what he does say."
"He says he knows nothing about you."
"Oh;--that's it, is it? Then he can know no harm. When next he says
so ask him of how many of the men who dine at his house he can say as
much. Good night;--I won't keep you any longer. But I can tell you
this;--if between us we can manage to handle him rightly, you may get
your seat in Parliament and I may get my wife;--that is, of course,
if she will have me."
Then they parted, but Lopez remained in the pathway, walking up
and down by the side of the old military club, thinking of things.
He certainly knew his friend, the younger Wharton, intimately,
appreciating the man's good qualities, and being fully aware of
the man's weakness. By his questions he had extracted quite enough
to assure himself that Emily's father would be adverse to his
proposition. He had not felt much doubt before, but now he was
certain. "He doesn't know much about me," he said, musing to himself.
"Well, no; he doesn't;--and there isn't very much that I can tell
him. Of course he's wise,--as wisdom goes. But then, wise men do do
foolish things at intervals. The discreetest of city bankers are
talked out of their money; the most scrupulous of matrons are talked
out of their virtue; the most experienced of statesmen are talked out
of their principles. And who can really calculate chances? Men who
lead forlorn hopes generally push through without being wounded;--and
the fifth or sixth heir comes to a title." So much he said, palpably,
though to himself, with his inner voice. Then,--impalpably, with no
even inner voice,--he asked himself what chance he might have of
prevailing with the girl herself; and he almost ventured to tell
himself that in that direction he need not despair.
In very truth he loved the girl and reverenced her, believing her to
be better and higher and nobler than other human beings,--as a man
does when he is in love; and so believing, he had those doubts as to
his own success which such reverence produces.