Lopez Back in London
Lopez, as he returned to town, recovered something of his senses,
though he still fancied that Arthur Fletcher had done him a positive
injury by writing to his wife. But something of that madness left
him which had come from his deep sense of injury, both as to the
letter and as to the borough, and he began to feel that he had been
wrong about the horsewhip. He was very low in spirits on this return
journey. The money which he had spent had been material to him, and
the loss of it for the moment left him nearly bare. While he had had
before his eyes the hope of being a member of Parliament he had been
able to buoy himself up. The position itself would have gone very far
with Sexty Parker, and would, he thought, have had some effect even
with his father-in-law. But now he was returning a beaten man. Who
is there that has not felt that fall from high hope to utter despair
which comes from some single failure? As he thought of this he
was conscious that his anger had led him into great imprudence at
Silverbridge. He had not been circumspect, as it specially behoved a
man to be surrounded by such difficulties as his. All his life he had
been schooling his temper so as to keep it under control,--sometimes
with great difficulty, but always with a consciousness that in
his life everything might depend on it. Now he had, alas, allowed
it to get the better of him. No doubt he had been insulted;--but,
nevertheless, he had been wrong to speak of a horsewhip.
His one great object must now be to conciliate his father-in-law,
and he had certainly increased his difficulty in doing this by his
squabble down at Silverbridge. Of course the whole thing would be
reported in the London papers, and of course the story would be told
against him, as the respectabilities of the town had been opposed to
him. But he knew himself to be clever, and he still hoped that he
might overcome these difficulties. Then it occurred to him that
in doing this he must take care to have his wife entirely on his
side. He did not doubt her love; he did not in the least doubt her
rectitude;--but there was the lamentable fact that she thought
well of Arthur Fletcher. It might be that he had been a little too
imperious with his wife. It suited his disposition to be imperious
within his own household;--to be imperious out of it, if that were
possible;--but he was conscious of having had a fall at Silverbridge,
and he must for a while take in some sail.
He had telegraphed to her, acquainting her with his defeat, and
telling her to expect his return. "Oh, Ferdinand," she said, "I am so
unhappy about this. It has made me so wretched!"
"Better luck next time," he said with his sweetest smile. "It is
no good groaning over spilt milk. They haven't treated me really
well,--have they?"
"I suppose not,--though I do not quite understand it all."
He was burning to abuse Arthur Fletcher, but he abstained. He would
abstain at any rate for the present moment. "Dukes and duchesses are
no doubt very grand people," he said, "but it is a pity they should
not know how to behave honestly, as they expect others to behave to
them. The Duchess has thrown me over in the most infernal way. I
really can't understand it. When I think of it I am lost in wonder.
The truth, I suppose, is, that there has been some quarrel between
him and her."
"Who will get in?"
"Oh, Du Boung, no doubt." He did not think so, but he could not bring
himself to declare the success of his enemy to her. "The people
there know him. Your old friend is as much a stranger there as I am.
By-the-way, he and I had a little row in the place."
"A row, Ferdinand!"
"You needn't look like that, my pet. I haven't killed him. But he
came up to speak to me in the street, and I told him what I thought
about his writing to you." On hearing this Emily looked very
wretched. "I could not restrain myself from doing that. Come;--you
must admit that he shouldn't have written."
"He meant it in kindness."
"Then he shouldn't have meant it. Just think of it. Suppose that I
had been making up to any girl,--which by-the-by I never did but to
one in my life,"--then he put his arm round her waist and kissed her,
"and she were to have married some one else. What would have been
said of me if I had begun to correspond with her immediately? Don't
suppose I am blaming you, dear."
"Certainly I do not suppose that," said Emily.
"But you must admit that it were rather strong." He paused, but she
said nothing. "Only I suppose you can bring yourself to admit nothing
against him. However, so it was. There was a row, and a policeman
came up, and they made me give a promise that I didn't mean to shoot
him or anything of that kind." As she heard this she turned pale, but
said nothing. "Of course I didn't want to shoot him. I wished him to
know what I thought about it, and I told him. I hate to trouble you
with all this, but I couldn't bear that you shouldn't know it all."
"It is very sad!"
"Sad enough! I have had plenty to bear, I can tell you. Everybody
seemed to turn away from me there. Everybody deserted me." As he said
this he could perceive that he must obtain her sympathy by recounting
his own miseries and not Arthur Fletcher's sins. "I was all alone
and hardly knew how to hold up my head against so much wretchedness.
And then I found myself called upon to pay an enormous sum for my
expenses."
"Oh, Ferdinand!"
"Think of their demanding £500!"
"Did you pay it?"
"Yes, indeed. I had no alternative. Of course they took care to
come for that before they talked of my resigning. I believe it was
all planned beforehand. The whole thing seems to me to have been a
swindle from beginning to end. By heaven, I'm almost inclined to
think that the Duchess knew all about it herself!"
"About the £500!"
"Perhaps not the exact sum, but the way in which the thing was to be
done. In these days one doesn't know whom to trust. Men, and women
too, have become so dishonest that nobody is safe anywhere. It has
been awfully hard upon me,--awfully hard. I don't suppose that there
was ever a moment in my life when the loss of £500 would have been so
much to me as it is now. The question is, what will your father do
for us?" Emily could not but remember her husband's intense desire to
obtain money from her father not yet three months since, as though
all the world depended on his getting it,--and his subsequent
elation, as though all his sorrows were over for ever, because the
money had been promised. And now,--almost immediately,--he was again
in the same position. She endeavoured to judge him kindly, but a
feeling of insecurity in reference to his affairs struck her at once
and made her heart cold. Everything had been achieved, then, by a
gift of £3000,--surely a small sum to effect such a result with
a man living as her husband lived. And now the whole £3000 was
gone;--surely a large sum to have vanished in so short a time!
Something of the uncertainty of business she could understand, but a
business must be perilously uncertain if subject to such vicissitudes
as these! But as ideas of this nature crowded themselves into her
mind she told herself again and again that she had taken him for
better and for worse. If the worse were already coming she would
still be true to her promise. "You had better tell papa everything,"
she said.
"Had it not better come from you?"
"No, Ferdinand. Of course I will do as you bid me. I will do anything
that I can do. But you had better tell him. His nature is such that
he will respect you more if it come from yourself. And then it is so
necessary that he should know all;--all." She put whatever emphasis
she knew how to use upon this word.
"You could tell him--all, as well as I."
"You would not bring yourself to tell it to me, nor could I
understand it. He will understand everything, and if he thinks that
you have told him everything, he will at any rate respect you."
He sat silent for a while meditating, feeling always and most acutely
that he had been ill-used,--never thinking for an instant that he had
ill-used others. "£3000, you know, was no fortune for your father to
give you!" She had no answer to make, but she groaned in spirit as
she heard the accusation. "Don't you feel that yourself?"
"I know nothing about money, Ferdinand. If you had told me to speak
to him about it before we were married I would have done so."
"He ought to have spoken to me. It is marvellous how close-fisted
an old man can be. He can't take it with him." Then he sat for
half-an-hour in moody silence, during which she was busy with
her needle. After that he jumped up, with a manner altogether
altered,--gay, only that the attempt was too visible to deceive even
her,--and shook himself, as though he were ridding himself of his
trouble. "You are right, old girl. You are always right,--almost. I
will go to your father to-morrow, and tell him everything. It isn't
so very much that I want him to do. Things will all come right again.
I'm ashamed that you should have seen me in this way;--but I have
been disappointed about the election, and troubled about that Mr.
Fletcher. You shall not see me give way again like this. Give me a
kiss, old girl."
She kissed him, but she could not even pretend to recover herself as
he had done. "Had we not better give up the brougham?" she said.
"Certainly not. For heaven's sake do not speak in that way! You do
not understand things."
"No; certainly I do not."
"It isn't that I haven't the means of living, but that in my business
money is so often required for instant use. And situated as I am at
present an addition to my capital would enable me to do so much!" She
certainly did not understand it, but she had sufficient knowledge of
the world and sufficient common sense to be aware that their present
rate of expenditure ought to be matter of importance to a man who
felt the loss of £500 as he felt that loss at Silverbridge.
On the next morning Lopez was at Mr. Wharton's chambers early,--so
early that the lawyer had not yet reached them. He had resolved,--not
that he would tell everything, for such men never even intend to
tell everything,--but that he would tell a good deal. He must,
if possible, affect the mind of the old man in two ways. He must
ingratiate himself;--and at the same time make it understood that
Emily's comfort in life would depend very much on her father's
generosity. The first must be first accomplished, if possible,--and
then the second, as to which he could certainly produce at any rate
belief. He had not married a rich man's daughter without an intention
of getting the rich man's money! Mr. Wharton would understand that.
If the worst came to the worst, Mr. Wharton must of course maintain
his daughter,--and his daughter's husband! But things had not come to
the worst as yet, and he did not intend on the present occasion to
represent that view of his affairs to his father-in-law.
Mr. Wharton when he entered his chambers found Lopez seated there. He
was himself at this moment very unhappy. He had renewed his quarrel
with Everett,--or Everett rather had renewed the quarrel with him.
There had been words between them about money lost at cards. Hard
words had been used, and Everett had told his father that if either
of them were a gambler it was not he. Mr. Wharton had resented this
bitterly and had driven his son from his presence,--and now the
quarrel made him very wretched. He certainly was sorry that he
had called his son a gambler, but his son had been, as he thought,
inexcusable in the retort which he had made. He was a man to whom
his friends gave credit for much sternness;--but still he was one
who certainly had no happiness in the world independent of his
children. His daughter had left him, not, as he thought, under happy
auspices,--and he was now, at this moment, soft-hearted and tender in
his regards as to her. What was there in the world for him but his
children? And now he felt himself to be alone and destitute. He was
already tired of whist at the Eldon. That which had been a delight to
him once or twice a week, became almost loathsome when it was renewed
from day to day;--and not the less when his son told him that he also
was a gambler. "So you have come back from Silverbridge?" he said.
"Yes, sir; I have come back, not exactly triumphant. A man should not
expect to win always." Lopez had resolved to pluck up his spirit and
carry himself like a man.
"You seem to have got into some scrape down there, besides losing
your election."
"Oh; you have seen that in the papers already. I have come to tell
you of it. As Emily is concerned in it you ought to know."
"Emily concerned! How is she concerned?"
Then Lopez told the whole story,--after his own fashion, and yet
with no palpable lie. Fletcher had written to her a letter which
he had thought to be very offensive. On hearing this, Mr. Wharton
looked very grave, and asked for the letter. Lopez said that he had
destroyed it, not thinking that such a document should be preserved.
Then he went on to explain that it had had reference to the election,
and that he had thought it to be highly improper that Fletcher should
write to his wife on that or on any other subject. "It depends very
much on the letter," said the old man.
"But on any subject,--after what has passed."
"They were very old friends."
"Of course I will not argue with you, Mr. Wharton; but I own that it
angered me. It angered me very much,--very much indeed. I took it to
be an insult to her, and when he accosted me in the street down at
Silverbridge I told him so. I may not have been very wise, but I did
it on her behalf. Surely you can understand that such a letter might
make a man angry."
"What did he say?"
"That he would do anything for her sake,--even retire from
Silverbridge if his friends would let him." Mr. Wharton scratched his
head, and Lopez saw that he was perplexed. "Should he have offered to
do anything for her sake, after what had passed?"
"I know the man so well," said Mr. Wharton, "that I cannot and do not
believe him to have harboured an improper thought in reference to my
child."
"Perhaps it was an indiscretion only."
"Perhaps so. I cannot say. And then they took you before the
magistrates?"
"Yes;--in my anger I had threatened him. Then there was a policeman
and a row. And I had to swear that I would not hurt him. Of course I
have no wish to hurt him."
"I suppose it ruined your chance at Silverbridge?"
"I suppose it did." This was a lie, as Lopez had retired before the
row took place. "What I care for most now is that you should not
think that I have misbehaved myself."
The story had been told very well, and Mr. Wharton was almost
disposed to sympathise with his son-in-law. That Arthur Fletcher had
meant nothing that could be regarded as offensive to his daughter he
was quite sure;--but it might be that in making an offer intended to
be generous he had used language which the condition of the persons
concerned made indiscreet. "I suppose," he said, "that you spent
a lot of money at Silverbridge?" This gave Lopez the opening that
he wanted, and he described the manner in which the £500 had been
extracted from him. "You can't play that game for nothing," said Mr.
Wharton.
"And just at present I could very ill afford it. I should not have
done it had I not felt it a pity to neglect such a chance of rising
in the world. After all, a seat in the British House of Commons is an
honour."
"Yes;--yes;--yes."
"And the Duchess, when she spoke to me about it, was so certain."
"I will pay the £500," said Mr. Wharton.
"Oh, sir, that is generous!" Then he got up and took the old man's
hands. "Some day, when you are at liberty, I hope that you will allow
me to explain to you the exact state of my affairs. When I wrote
to you from Como I told you that I would wish to do so. You do not
object?"
"No;" said the lawyer,--but with infinite hesitation in his voice.
"No; I don't object. But I do not know how I could serve them. I
shall be busy just now, but I will give you the cheque. And if you
and Emily have nothing better to do, come and dine to-morrow." Lopez
with real tears in his eyes took the cheque, and promised to come on
the morrow. "And in the meantime I wish you would see Everett." Of
course he promised that he would see Everett.
Again he was exalted, on this occasion not so much by the acquisition
of the money as by the growing conviction that his father-in-law was
a cow capable of being milked. And the quarrel between Everett and
his father might clearly be useful to him. He might either serve the
old man by reducing Everett to proper submission, or he might manage
to creep into the empty space which the son's defection would make
in the father's heart and the father's life. He might at any rate
make himself necessary to the old man, and become such a part of the
household in Manchester Square as to be indispensable. Then the old
man would every day become older and more in want of assistance. He
thought that he saw the way to worm himself into confidence, and,
soon, into possession. The old man was not a man of iron as he had
feared, but quite human, and if properly managed, soft and malleable.
He saw Sexty Parker in the city that day, and used his cheque for
£500 in some triumphant way, partly cajoling and partly bullying his
poor victim. To Sexty also he had to tell his own story about the row
down at Silverbridge. He had threatened to thrash the fellow in the
street, and the fellow had not dared to come out of his house without
a policeman. Yes;--he had lost his election. The swindling of those
fellows at Silverbridge had been too much for him. But he flattered
himself that he had got the better of Master Fletcher. That was the
tone in which he told the story to his friend in the city.
Then, before dinner, he found Everett at the club. Everett Wharton
was to be found there now almost every day. His excuse to himself lay
in the political character of the institution. The club intended to
do great things,--to find Liberal candidates for all the boroughs and
counties in England which were not hitherto furnished, and then to
supply the candidates with money. Such was the great purpose of the
Progress. It had not as yet sent out many candidates or collected
much money. As yet it was, politically, almost quiescent. And
therefore Everett Wharton, whose sense of duty took him there, spent
his afternoons either in the whist-room or at the billiard-table.
The story of the Silverbridge row had to be told again, and was told
nearly with the same incidents as had been narrated to the father.
He could of course abuse Arthur Fletcher more roundly, and be more
confident in his assertion that Fletcher had insulted his wife. But
he came as quickly as he could to the task which he had on hand.
"What's all this between you and your father?"
"Simply this. I sometimes play a game of whist, and therefore he
called me a gambler. Then I reminded him that he also sometimes
played a game of whist, and I asked him what deduction was to be
drawn."
"He is awfully angry with you."
"Of course I was a fool. My father has the whip-hand of me, because
he has money and I have none, and it was simply kicking against the
pricks to speak as I did. And then too there isn't a fellow in London
has a higher respect for his father than I have, nor yet a warmer
affection. But it is hard to be driven in that way. Gambler is a
nasty word."
"Yes, it is; very nasty. But I suppose a man does gamble when he
loses so much money that he has to ask his father to pay it for him."
"If he does so often, he gambles. I never asked him for money to pay
what I had lost before in my life."
"I wonder you told him."
"I never lie to him, and he ought to know that. But he is just the
man to be harder to his own son than to anybody else in the world.
What does he want me to do now?"
"I don't know that he wants you to do anything," said Lopez.
"Did he send you to me?"
"Well;--no; I can't say that he did. I told him I should see you as a
matter of course, and he said something rough,--about your being an
ass."
"I dare say he did."
"But if you ask me," said Lopez, "I think he would take it kindly of
you if you were to go and see him. Come and dine to-day, just as if
nothing had happened."
"I could not do that,--unless he asked me."
"I can't say that he asked you, Everett. I would say so, in spite
of its being a lie, if I didn't fear that your father might say
something unkind, so that the lie would be detected by both of you."
"And yet you ask me to go and dine there!"
"Yes, I do. It's only going away if he does cut up rough. And if he
takes it well,--why then,--the whole thing is done."
"If he wants me, he can ask me."
"You talk about it, my boy, just as if a father were the same as
anybody else. If I had a father with a lot of money, by George he
should knock me about with his stick if he liked, and I would be just
the same the next day."
"Unfortunately I am of a stiffer nature," said Everett, taking some
pride to himself for his stiffness, and being perhaps as little
"stiff" as any young man of his day.
That evening, after dinner in Manchester Square, the conversation
between the father-in-law and the son-in-law turned almost
exclusively on the son and brother-in-law. Little or nothing was
said about the election, and the name of Arthur Fletcher was not
mentioned. But out of his full heart the father spoke. He was
wretched about Everett. Did Everett mean to cut him? "He wants you to
withdraw some name you called him," said Lopez.
"Withdraw some name,--as he might ask some hot-headed fellow to do,
of his own age, like himself; some fellow that he had quarrelled
with! Does he expect his father to send him a written apology? He had
been gambling, and I told him that he was a gambler. Is that too much
for a father to say?" Lopez shrugged his shoulders, and declared that
it was a pity. "He will break my heart if he goes on like this," said
the old man.
"I asked him to come and dine to-day, but he didn't seem to like it."
"Like it! No. He likes nothing but that infernal club."
When the evening was over Lopez felt that he had done a good stroke
of work. He had not exactly made up his mind to keep the father and
son apart. That was not a part of his strategy,--at any rate as yet.
But he did intend to make himself necessary to the old man,--to
become the old man's son, and if possible the favourite son. And now
he thought that he had already done much towards the achievement of
his object.