St. James's Park
Towards the end of September Everett Wharton and Ferdinand Lopez were
in town together, and as no one else was in town,--so at least they
both professed to say,--they saw a good deal of each other. Lopez,
as we know, had spent a portion of the preceding month at Gatherum
Castle, and had made good use of his time, but Everett Wharton had
been less fortunate. He had been a little cross with his father, and
perhaps a little cross with all the Whartons generally, who did not,
he thought, make quite enough of him. In the event of "anything
happening" to that ne'er-do-well nephew, he himself would be the
heir; and he reflected not unfrequently that something very probably
might happen to the nephew. He did not often see this particular
cousin, but he always heard of him as being drunk, overwhelmed with
debt and difficulty, and altogether in that position of life in
which it is probable that something will "happen." There was always
of course the danger that the young man might marry and have a
child;--but in the meantime surely he, Everett Wharton, should have
been as much thought of on the banks of the Wye as Arthur Fletcher.
He had been asked down to Wharton Hall,--but he had been asked in a
way which he had not thought to be flattering and had declined to go.
Then there had been a plan for joining Arthur Fletcher in a certain
shooting, but that had failed in consequence of a few words between
himself and Arthur respecting Lopez. Arthur had wanted him to say
that Lopez was an unpardonable intruder,--but he had taken the part
of Lopez, and therefore, when the time came round, he had nothing
to do with the shooting. He had stayed in town till the middle of
August, and had then started by himself across the continent with
some keen intention of studying German politics; but he had found
perhaps that German politics do not manifest themselves in the
autumn, or that a foreign country cannot be well studied in
solitude,--and he had returned.
Late in the summer, just before his father and sister had left town,
he had had some words with the old barrister. There had been a few
bills to be paid, and Everett's allowance had been insufficient. It
often was insufficient, and then ready money for his German tour
was absolutely necessary. Mr. Wharton might probably have said less
about the money had not his son accompanied his petition by a further
allusion to Parliament. "There are some fellows at last really
getting themselves together at the Progress, and of course it will
be necessary to know who will be ready to come forward at the next
general election."
"I think I know one who won't," said the father, "judging from the
manner in which he seems at present to manage his own money affairs."
There was more severity in this than the old man had intended, for
he had often thought within his own bosom whether it would not be
well that he should encourage his son to stand for some seat. And
the money that he had now been asked to advance had not been very
much,--not more, in truth, than he expected to be called upon to pay
in addition to the modest sum which he professed to allow his son. He
was a rich man, who was not in truth made unhappy by parting with his
money. But there had been, he thought, an impudence in the conjoint
attack which it was his duty to punish. Therefore he had given his
son very little encouragement.
"Of course, sir, if you tell me that you are not inclined to pay
anything beyond the allowance you make me, there is an end of it."
"I rather think that you have just asked me to pay a considerable sum
beyond your allowance, and that I have consented." Everett argued the
matter no further, but he permitted his mind to entertain an idea
that he was ill-used by his father. The time would come when he
would probably be heir not only to his father's money, but also to
the Wharton title and the Wharton property,--when his position in
the country would really be, as he frequently told himself, quite
considerable. Was it possible that he should refrain from blaming
his father for not allowing him to obtain, early in life, that
parliamentary education which would fit him to be an ornament to the
House of Commons, and a safeguard to his country in future years?
Now he and Lopez were at the Progress together, and they were almost
the only men in the club. Lopez was quite contented with his own
present sojourn in London. He had not only been at Gatherum Castle
but was going there again. And then he had brilliant hopes before
him,--so brilliant that they began, he thought, to assume the shape
of certainties. He had corresponded with the Duchess, and he had
gathered from her somewhat dubious words that the Duke would probably
accede to her wishes in the matter of Silverbridge. The vacancy had
not yet been declared. Mr. Grey was deterred, no doubt by certain
high State purposes, from applying for the stewardship of the
Chiltern Hundreds, and thereby releasing himself from his seat in
Parliament, and enabling himself to perform, with a clear conscience,
duties in a distant part of the world which he did not feel to be
compatible with that seat. The seekers after seats were, no doubt,
already on the track; but the Duchess had thought that as far as the
Duke's good word went, it might possibly be given in favour of Mr.
Lopez. The happy aspirant had taken this to be almost as good as a
promise. There were also certain pecuniary speculations on foot,
which could not be kept quite quiet even in September, as to which he
did not like to trust entirely to the unaided energy of Mr. Sextus
Parker, or to the boasted alliance of Mr. Mills Happerton. Sextus
Parker's whole heart and soul were now in the matter, but Mr. Mills
Happerton, an undoubted partner in Hunky and Sons, had blown a little
coldly on the affair. But in spite of this Ferdinand Lopez was happy.
Was it probable that Mr. Wharton should continue his opposition to
a marriage which would make his daughter the wife of a member of
Parliament and of a special friend of the Duchess of Omnium?
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, "that 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.
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."