 CHAPTER XXII. 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 Gatherham 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 near-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 Y 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, but 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 were 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 now had 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 conjoined 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. Ever it 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. Is 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 López were at the progress together, and they were almost the only men in the club. López was quite contented with his own present sojourn in London. He had not only been at Gatherham 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 exceed to her wishes in the matter of Silver Bridge. The vacancy had not yet been declared. Mr. Gray was deterred, no doubt, by certain high-state purposes from applying for the stewardship of the Chilton hundreds, and thereby releasing him from his seat in Parliament, enabling him 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 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. Mr. 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. Never 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 at a 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 of 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 sympathize 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 anyone 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 lockouts. But because he was rich, and by being rich, had made his way among great people, he was going to have a seat in Parliament. As for his 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 gentleman-like, 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 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 humor 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 the contradictions, unjust suspicions, and social ill-treatment without a shadow of resentment, but who, if he had a purpose, could carry it out without the 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 were afraid to walk around St. James Park with me because it's dark, said Wharton? I should certainly 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' 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, but 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 supposed, you were to get in under the Duke's influence. If I went into the house I should go with the fixed and settled purpose of my own. I'm not there yet, said Lopez, willing to drop the subject. It will be a very great expense to you, and will stand all together in the way of your profession. As far as Emily is concerned, I should think my father would be dead against it. And he would be unreasonable. Not at all if he thought you would injure your professional prospects. It is a dick 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 juicy you were afraid of, said Everett. They had then come up the greater part of the length of birdcage walk, and the lights at Story'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 getting him out of it as quickly as possible. Come along, said Lopez. By George you are in the 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 anything I had drunk. Lopez knew that at any rate this was untrue. I've seen you as drunk as Khloe 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 don't 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 tomorrow 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 band's ill humor by good nature and 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 quarreling 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 beat him as he came. He received at once a heavy blow on his head from some weapon, which, however, his hat so far stopped us to save him from being felled or stunned, and then he felt another blow from behind of 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 endeavored 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 up his hand 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, come 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 Ruffians' 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 endeavored 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 of 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 as made 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, he said, that does not signify in the least. I've got a knock, I know, and I'm afraid I've 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. At my purse, said Wharton, collecting his strength together sufficiently to search for his treasures. I had eight five-pound 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, that 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 where their plunder was only two manifest. Lopez took the injured man home to the house and 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 it might be buried? He had determined in his own mind that his friends certainly had been tipsy, and 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 which he knew, and the loss of 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 rather serious accident which has happened ever. 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 around St. James Park late after dinner. It is the kind of thing that nobody does, but we did it. When we had nearly got round I was in a hurry, whereas ever it was for strolling slowly, 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 tomorrow. There did not seem to be any necessity for calling one up tonight. 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 defense, 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, whenever it asked after his wound, but it would have gone badly with me if the ruffian had struck me 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. Even 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. End of chapter 22. 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 at 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 it would surely make a man run to his son's bedside. Had the son written it 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 Allured, 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 these mines by Sir Allured'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 set 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 she will go, papa. After that she said nothing till she came to him in his own room. Of course I will go with you tomorrow, 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 10 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 has yet bring himself to abandon his opposition to the marriage. Perhaps you think the story is not true. I don't doubt the story and 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 friends 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 do 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 at 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 into 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 yet indeed 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 heritature on his account. To tell the truth, said he, Ferdinand Lopez is 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 Park? Well, to tell the truth, we had quarreled. 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 bedhead, 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 to walk. But how was 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 bedclothes, for Emily felt that her brother was pleading for her in every word that he said. About 10 on the following morning, Lopez came and asked for Mr. Wharton. He was shown into the study where he found the old man and it 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 almost to become him, but it was so conspicuous as to force a question respecting it for 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 was 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? 40 pounds, and Lopez shook his head, thereby signifying that 40 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 come 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 to countering 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. Robie came back to her house round the corner, ostensibly with the object of assisting her relatives and nursing Everett, a purpose for which he 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 should also 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 Gatherham Castle, the matter had been known or partly known, but the telling of it had always been to the great honor and glory of the hero. Major Pountany had almost broken his heart over it and Captain Gunner, writing to his friend from the Coral, 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 doubt as to the details of the affair said to have happened about a fortnight ago just at midnight in St. James Park. We should be glad to know whether the policeman 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 hidden 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. It was after this fashion, whether affected by the violence of the attack made on him or from other cause, Everett had been unwell after the affair and had kept his room for a fortnight. During this time Lopez came to see him daily and daily Emily Wharton had to take herself out of the man's way and hide herself from the man's sight. This she did with much tact and with ladylike quietness but not without an air of martyrdom which cut her father to the quick. My dear, he said to her one evening as she was preparing to leave the drawing room on hearing his knock, stop and see him if you like it. Papa, I don't want to make you wretched if I could have died first and got out of the way perhaps it would have been better. Papa, you will kill me if you speak in that way if there is anything to say to him, do say it. And then she escaped. Well, it was an added bitterness but no doubt it was his duty. If he did intend to consent to the marriage it certainly was for him to signify that consent to the man. It would not be sufficient that he should get out of the way and leave his girl to act for herself as though she had no friend in the world. The surrender which he had made to his daughter had come from a sudden impulse at the moment but it could not now be withdrawn. So he stood out on the staircase and when Lopez came up on his way to Everett's bedroom he took him by the arm and led him into the drawing room. Mr. Lopez, he said, you know that I have not been willing to welcome you into my house as a son-in-law. There are reasons on my mind, perhaps prejudices which are strong against it. They are as strong now as ever but she wishes it and I have the utmost reliance on her constancy. So have I, said Lopez. Stop a moment if you please sir. In such a position a father's thought is only as to his daughter's happiness and prosperity. It is not his own that he should consider. I hear you well spoken of in the outer world and I do not know that I have a right to demand of my daughter that she should tear you from her affections because you are not just such as I would have her husband to be. You have my permission to see her. Then before Lopez could say a word, he left the room and took his hat and hurried away to his club. As he went he was aware that he had made no terms at all but then he was inclined to think that no terms should be made. There seemed to be a general understanding that Lopez was doing well in the world in a profession of the working of which Mr. Wharton himself knew absolutely nothing. He had a large fortune at his own bestowal intended for his daughter which would have been forthcoming at the moment and paid down on the nail had she married Arthur Fletcher. The very way in which the money should be invested and tied up and made to be safe and comfortable to the Fletcher cum Wharton interests generally had been fully settled among them. But now this other man, this stranger, this Portuguese had entered in upon the inheritance but the stranger, the Portuguese must wait. Mr. Wharton knew himself to be an old man. She was his child and he would not wrong her. But she should have her money closely settled upon herself on his death and on her children should she have any. It should be done by his will. He would say nothing about money to Lopez. And if Lopez should, as was probable, ask after his daughter's fortune he would answer to this effect. Thus he almost resolved that he would give his daughter to the man without inquiry as to the man's means. The thing had to be done and he would take no further trouble about it. The comfort of his life was gone. His home would no longer be a home to him. His daughter could not now be his companion. The sooner that death came to him, the better. But till death should come, he must console himself as well as he could by playing wist at the Eldon. It was after this fashion that Mr. Wharton thought of the coming marriage between his daughter and her lover. I have your father's consent to marry your sister, said Ferdinand immediately on entering Everett's room. I knew it must come soon, said the invalid. I cannot say that it has been given in the most gracious manner, but it has been given very clearly. I have his express permission to see her. Those were his last words. Then there was ascending of notes between the sick room and the sick man's sister's room. Everett wrote and Ferdinand wrote and Emily wrote. Short lines each of them. A few words scrawled. The last from Emily was his follows. Let him go into the drawing room, E.W. And so Ferdinand went down to meet his love, to encounter her for the first time as her recognized future husband and engaged lover. Passionate, declared, and thorough as was her love for this man, the familiar intercourse between them at Hitherto been very limited. There had been little, we may perhaps say none, of that dalliance between them which is so delightful to the man and so wondrous to the girl till custom has stale the edge of it. He had never sat with his arm round her waist. He had rarely held even her hand in his for a happy recognized pause of a few seconds. He had never kissed even her brow. And there she was now, standing before him, all his own, absolutely given to him with the fullest assurance of love on her part and with the declared consent of her father. Even he had been a little confused as he opened the door. Even he, as he paused to close it behind him, had had to think how he would address her and perhaps had thought in vain. But he had not a moment for any thought after entering the room, whether it was his doing or hers he hardly knew but she was in his arms and her lips were pressed to his and his arm was tight round her waist holding her close to his breast. It seemed as though all that was wanting had been understood in a moment and as though they had lived together and loved for the last 12 months with the fullest mutual confidence. And she was the first to speak. Ferdinand, I am so happy. Are you happy? My love, my darling, you have never doubted me, I know, since you first knew it. Doubted you, my girl, that I would be firm and now papa has been good to me and how quickly one sorrow is over. I am yours, my love, for ever and ever. You knew it before but I like to tell you. I will be true to you in everything. Oh, my love. He had but little to say to her but we know that for lovers lacking matter the cleanliest shift is to kiss. In such moments silence charms and almost any words are unsuitable except those soft bird-like murmurings of love which sweet as they are to the ear can hardly be so written as to be sweet to the reader. End of chapter 23. Chapter 24 of the Prime Minister. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. The Prime Minister by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 24, The Marriage. The engagement was made in October and the marriage took place in the latter part of November. When Lopez pressed for an early day which he did very strongly, Emily raised no difficulties in the way of his wishes. The father, foolishly enough, would at first have postponed it and made himself so unpleasant to Lopez by his manner of doing this that the bride was driven to take her lover's part. As the thing was to be done what was to be gained by delay? It could not be made a joy to him nor, looking at the matter as he looked at it, could he make a joy even of her presence during the few intervening weeks? Lopez proposed to take his bride into Italy for the winter months and to stay there at any rate through December and January alleging that he must be back in town by the beginning of February and this was taken as a fair plea for hastening the marriage. When the matter was settled he went back to Gatherham Castle as he had arranged to do with the Duchess and managed to interest her grace in all his proceedings. She promised that she would call on his bride in town and even went so far as to send her a costly wedding present. You are sure she has got money? said the Duchess. I am not sure of anything, said Lopez, except this, that I do not mean to ask a single question about it. If he says nothing to me about money I certainly shall say nothing to him. My feeling is this, Duchess. I am not marrying Miss Wharton for her money. The money, if there be any, has had nothing to do with it. But of course it will be a pleasure at it if it be there. The Duchess complimented him and told him that this was exactly as it should be. But there was some delay as to the seat for Silverbridge. Mr. Gray's departure for Persia had been postponed. The Duchess thought only for a month or six weeks. The duke, however, was of opinion that Mr. Gray should not vacate his seat till the day of his going was at any rate fixed. The duke, moreover, had not made any promise of supporting his wife's favorite. Don't set your heart upon it too much, Mr. Lopez, the Duchess had said. But you may be sure I will not forget you. Then it had been settled between them that the marriage should not be postponed or the proposed trip to Italy abandoned because of the probable vacancy at Silverbridge. Should the vacancy occur during his absence and should the duke consent, he could return at once. All this occurred in the last week or two before his marriage. There were various little incidents which did not tend to make the happiness of Emily Wharton complete. She wrote to her cousin, Mary Wharton, and also to Lady Wharton, and her father wrote to Sir Allurehead. But the folk at Wharton Hall did not give in their adherence. Old Mrs. Fletcher was still there. But John Fletcher had gone home to Longvarnes. The obduracy of the Whartons might probably be owing to these two accidents. Mrs. Fletcher declared aloud, as soon as the tidings reached her, that she never wished to see or hear anything more of Emily Wharton. She must be a girl, said Mrs. Fletcher, of an ingrained vulgar taste. Sir Allurehead, whose letter from Mr. Wharton had been very short, replied as shortly to his cousin, Dear Abel, we all hope that Emily will be happy, though of course we regret the marriage. The father, though he had not himself written triumphantly, or even hopefully, as fathers or want to write when their daughters are given away in marriage, was wounded by the curtness and unkindness of the baronet's reply, and at the moment declared to himself that he would never go to Herfordshire any more. But on the following day there came a worse blow than Sir Allurehead's single line. Emily, not in the least doubting, but that her request would be received with the usual ready assent, had asked Mary Wharton to be one of her bridesmaids. It must be supposed that the answer to this was written, if not under the dictation, at any rate under the inspiration of Mrs. Fletcher. It was as follows. Dear Emily, of course we all wish you to be very happy in your marriage, but equally of course we are all disappointed. We had taught ourselves to think that you would have bound yourself closer with us down here, instead of separating yourself entirely from us. Under all the circumstances, Mama thinks it would not be wise for me to go up to London as one of your bridesmaids. Your affectionate cousin, Mary Wharton. This letter made poor Emily very angry for a day or two. It is as unreasonable as it is ill-natured, she said to her brother. What else could you expect from a stiff-necked prejudice set of provincial ignoramuses? What Mary says is not true. She did not think that I was going to bind myself closer with them, as she calls it. I've been quite open with her and have always told her that I could not be Arthur Fletcher's wife. Why on earth should you marry to please them? Because they don't know Ferdinand, they are determined to insult him. It is an insult never to mention even his name, and to refuse to come to my marriage. The world is wide and there is room for us and them, but it makes me unhappy, very unhappy, that I should have to break with them. And then the tears came into her eyes. It was intended, no doubt, to be a complete breach, for not a single wedding present was sent from Wharton Hall to the bride. But from Long Barnes, from John Fletcher himself, there did come an elaborate coffee pot, which, in spite of its in-utility and ugliness, was very valuable to Emily. But there was one other of her old, herfurchard friends who received the tidings of her marriage without quarreling with her. She herself had written to her old lover. My dear Arthur, there has been so much true friendship and affection between us that I do not like that you should hear from anyone but myself the news that I am going to be married to Mr. Lopez. We are to be married on the 28th of November, this day month. Yours affectionately, Emily Wharton. To this she received a very short reply. Dear Emily, I am, as I always have been, yours AF. He sent her no present, nor did he say a word to her beyond this. But in her anger against the herfurchard people, she never included Arthur Fletcher. She poured over the little note a score of times and wept over it and treasured it up among her inmost treasures and told herself that it was a thousand pitties. She could talk and did talk to Ferdinand about the Whartons and about old Mrs. Fletcher and described to him the arrogance and the stiffness and the ignorance of the herfurchard squirarchy generally, but she never spoke to him of Arthur Fletcher except in that one narrative of her past life in which girl-like she told her lover of the one other lover who had loved her. But these things, of course, gave a certain melancholy to the occasion which perhaps was increased by the season of the year by the November fogs and by the emptiness and general sadness of the town. And added to this was the melancholy of old Mr. Wharton himself. After he had given his consent to the marriage, he admitted a certain amount of intimacy with his son-in-law, asking him to dinner and discussing with him matters of general interest, but never in truth opening his heart to him. Indeed, how can any man open his heart to one whom he dislikes? At best he can only pretend to open his heart and even this Mr. Wharton would not do. And very soon after the engagement, Lopez left London and went to the Duke's place in the country. His objects in doing this and his aspirations in regard to a seat in Parliament were all made known to his future wife, but he said not a word on the subject to her father and she, acting under his instructions, was equally reticent. He will get to know me in time, he said to her, and his manner will be softened towards me, but till that time shall come I can hardly expect him to take a real interest in my welfare. When Lopez left London, not a word had been said between him and his father-in-law as to money, Mr. Wharton was content with such silence, not wishing to make any promise as to immediate income from himself, pretending to look at the matter as though he should say that as his daughter had made for herself her own bed, she must lie on it such as it might be. And this silence certainly suited Ferdinand Lopez at the time. To tell the truth of him, though he was not absolutely penniless, he was altogether propertyless. He had been speculating in money without capital and though he had now and again been successful, he had also now and again failed. He had contrived that his name should be mentioned here and there with the names of well-known, wealthy commercial men, and had for the last 12 months made up a somewhat intimate alliance with that very sound commercial man, Mr. Mills-Happerton. But his dealings with Mr. Sextus Parker were in truth much more confidential than those with Mr. Mills-Happerton. And at the present moment, poor Sextus Parker was alternately between triumph and despair as things went this way or that. It was not therefore surprising that Ferdinand Lopez should volunteer no statements to the old lawyer about money and that he should make no inquiries. He was quite confident that Mr. Wharton had the wealth which was supposed to belong to him and was willing to trust to his power of obtaining a fair portion of it as soon as he should in truth be Mr. Wharton's son-in-law. Situated as he was, of course, he must run some risk. And then too he had spoken of himself with a grain of truth when he had told the Duchess that he was not marrying for money. Ferdinand Lopez was not an honest man or a good man. He was a self-seeking, intriguing adventurer who did not know honesty from dishonesty when he saw them together. But he had at any rate this good about him that he did love the girl whom he was about to marry. He was willing to cheat all the world so that he might succeed and make a fortune and become a big and a rich man, but he did not wish to cheat her. It was his ambition now to carry her up with him and he thought how he might best teach her to assist him in doing so, how he might win her to help him in his cheating, especially in regard to her own father. For to himself, to his own thinking, that which we call cheating was not dishonesty. To his thinking there was something bold, grand, picturesque, and almost beautiful in the battle which such a one as himself must wage with the world before he could make his way up in it. He would not pick a pocket or turn a false card or as he thought forge a name. That which he did and desired to do took with him the name of speculation. When he persuaded poor Sexty Parker to hazard his all, knowing well that he induced the unfortunate man to believe what was false and to trust what was utterly untrustworthy, he did not himself think that he was going beyond the lines of fair enterprise. Now in his marriage he had in truth joined himself to real wealth. Could he only command at once that which he thought ought to be his wife's share of the lawyer's money he did not doubt but that he could make a rapid fortune. It would not do for him to seem to be desirous of the money a day before the time. But when the time should come would not his wife help him in his great career? But before she could do so she must be made to understand something of the nature of that career and of the need of such aid. Of course there arose the question where they should live but he was ready with an immediate answer to this question. He had been to look at a flat, a set of rooms in the bell grave mansions in Pimlico or Bell Gravia you ought more probably to call it. He proposed to take them furnished so they could look about at their leisure and get a house that should suit them. Would she like a flat? She would have liked to sell her with him and so she told him. Then they went to look at the flat and old Mr. Wharton condescended to go with them. Though his heart was not in the business still he thought that he was bound to look after his daughter's comfort. They are very handsome rooms, said Mr. Wharton looking round upon the rather gorgeous furniture. Oh Ferdinand, are they not too grand? Said Emily. Perhaps they are a little more than we quite want just at present, he said. But I'll tell you sir just how it has happened. A man I know wanted to let them for one year just as they are and offered them to me for 450 pounds if I could pay the money in advance at the moment and so I paid it. You have taken them then? Said Mr. Wharton. Is it all settled? Said Emily almost with disappointment. I have paid the money and I have so far taken them but it is by no means settled. You have only to say you don't like them and you shall never be asked to put your foot in them again. But I do like them, she whispered to him. The truth is sir that there is not the slightest difficulty in parting with them so that when the chance came in my way I thought it best to secure the thing. It had all to be done so to say in an hour. My friend, as far as he was a friend for I don't know much about him wanted the money and wanted to be off so here they are and Emily can do as she likes. Of course the rooms were regarded from that moment as the home for the next 12 months of Mr. and Mrs. Ferdinand Lopez. And then they were married. The marriage was by no means a gay affair. The chief management of it falling into the hands of Mrs. Dick Roby. Mrs. Dick indeed provided not only the breakfast or saw rather that it was provided for of course Mr. Wharton paid the bill but the four bridesmaids also and all the company. They were married in the church in Veer Street then went back to the house in Manchester Square and within a couple of hours were on their road to Dover. Through it all not a word was said about money. At the last moment when he was free from fear as to any questions about his own affairs Lopez had hoped that the old man would say something. You will find so many thousand pounds at your bankers or you may look to me for so many hundreds a year but there was not a word. The girl had come to him without the assurance of a single shilling. In his great endeavor to get her he had been successful. As he thought of this in the carriage he pressed his arm close round her waist. If the worst were to come to the worst he would fight the world for her. But if this old man should be stubborn, clothes fisted and absolutely resolved to bestow all his money upon his son because of this marriage ah. How should he be able to bear such a wrong as that? Half a dozen times during that journey to Dover he resolved to think nothing further about it at any rate for a fortnight. And yet before he reached Dover he had said a word to her. I wonder what your father means to do about money. He never told you. Not a word. It is very odd that he should never have said anything. Does it matter, dear? Not in the least. But of course I have to talk about everything to you. And it is odd. End of Chapter 24. CHAPTER XXV. OF THE PRIME MINISTER. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Leanne Howlett. The Prime Minister by Antony Trollop. CHAPTER XXV. THE BEGINNING OF THE HONEY MOON. On the morning of his marriage, before he went to the altar, Lopez made one or two resolutions as to his future conduct. The first was that he would give himself a fortnight from his marriage day in which he would not even think of money. He had made certain arrangements, in the course of which he had caused Sextus Parker to stare with surprise and to sweat with dismay, but which nevertheless were successfully concluded. Bills were drawn to run over to February, and ready money to a moderate extent was forthcoming, and fiscal tranquillity was insured for a certain short period. The confidence which Sextus Parker had once felt in his friend's own resources was somewhat on the decline, but he still believed in his friend's skill and genius, and after due inquiry he believed entirely in his friend's father-in-law. Sextus Parker still thought that things would come round. Ferdinand, he always now called his friend by his Christian name, Ferdinand was beautifully, seraphically confident, and Sexti, who had been in a manner magnetized by Ferdinand, was confident, too, at certain periods of the day. He was very confident when he had had his two or three glasses of sherry at luncheon, and he was often delightfully confident with his cigar and brandy and water at night. But there were periods in the morning in which he would shake with fear and sweat with dismay. But Lopez himself, having with his friend's assistance arranged his affairs comfortably for a month or two, had as a first resolution promised himself a fortnight's freedom from all carking cares. His second resolution had been that at the end of the fortnight he would commence his operations on Mr. Wharton. Up to the last moment he had hoped, had almost expected, that a sum of money would have been paid to him. Even a couple of thousand pounds for the time would have been of great use to him. But no tender of any kind had been made. Not a word had been said. Things could not, of course, go on in that way. He was not going to play the coward with his father-in-law. Then he bethought himself how he would act if his father-in-law were sternly to refuse to do anything for him. And he assured himself that in such circumstances he would make himself very disagreeable to his father-in-law. And then his third resolution had reference to his wife. She must be instructed in his ways. She must learn to look at the world with his eyes. She must bethought the great importance of money, not on a griping, hard-fistic, prosaic spirit, but that she might participate in that feeling of his own, which had in it so much that was grand, so much that was delightful, so much that was picturesque. He would never ask her to be parsimonious, never even to be economical. He would take a glory in seeing her well-dressed and well- attended with her own carriage and her own jewels. But she must learn that the enjoyment of these things must be built upon a conviction that the most important pursuit in the world was the acquiring of money. And she must be made to understand, first of all, that she had a right to, at any rate, a half of her father's fortune. He had perceived that she had much influence with her father, and she must be taught to use this influence unscrupulously on her husband's behalf. He have already seen that under the pressure of his thoughts he did break his first resolution within an hour or two of his marriage. It is easy for a man to say that he will banish care, so that he may enjoy to the full the delights of the moment. But this is a power which none but a savage possesses, or perhaps an Irishman. We have learned the lesson from the divines, the philosophers, and the poets. Post-Aquitum set it at tracura. This was Ferdinand Lopez mounted high on his horse, for he had triumphed greatly in his marriage, and really felt that the world could give him no delight so great as to have her beside him and her as his own. But the Inky Devil sat close upon his shoulders. Where would he be at the end of three months if Mr. Wharton would do nothing for him, and if a certain venture in Guano, to which he attempted Sexty Parker, should not turn out the right way? He believed in the Guano, and he believed in Mr. Wharton, but it is a terrible thing to have one's whole position in the world, hanging upon either an unwilling father-in-law, or a probable rise in the value of manure. And then how would he reconcile himself to her, if both father-in-law and Guano should go against him, and how should he endure her misery? The Inky Devil had forced him to ask the question even before they had reached Dover. Does it matter? she had asked. Then for the time he had repudiated his solicitude, and had declared that no question of money was of much consequence to him, thereby making his future task with her so much the more difficult. After that he said nothing to her on the subject on that their wedding day, but he could not prevent himself from thinking of it. Had he gone to the depth of Royne without a wife, what would it have mattered? For years past he had been at the same kind of work, but while he was unmarried there had been a charm in the very danger. And as a single man he had succeeded, being sometimes utterly impecunious, but still with a capacity of living. Now he had laden himself with a burden of which the very intensity of his love immensely increased the weight. As for not thinking of it, that was impossible. Of course she must help him. Of course she must be taught how imperative it was that she should help him at once. Is there anything troubles you? She said as she sat leaning against him after their dinner in the hotel at Dover. What should trouble me on such a day as this? If there is anything, tell it me. I do not mean to say now at this moment, unless you wish it. Whatever may be your troubles it shall be my greatest happiness, as it is my first duty to lessen them if I can. The promise was very well, it all went in the right direction. It showed him that she was at any rate prepared to take apart in the joint work of their life, but nevertheless she should be spared for the moment. When there is trouble you shall be told everything. He said, pressing his lips to her brow. But there is nothing that need trouble you yet. He smiled as he said this, but there was something in the tone of his voice which told her that there would be trouble. When he was in Paris he received a letter from Parker, to whom he had been obliged to entrust a running address, but from whom he had enforced a promise that there should be no letter writing unless under very pressing circumstances. The circumstances had not been pressing. The letter contained only one paragraph of any importance, and that was due to what Lopez tried to regard as fidgety cowardice on the part of his ally. Pleased to bear in mind that I can't and won't arrange for the bills for fifteen hundred pounds due third February. That was the paragraph. Who had asked him to arrange for these bills? And yet Lopez was well aware that he intended that poor sexy should arrange for them in the event of his failure to make arrangements with Mr. Wharton. At last he was quite unable to let the fortnight pass by without beginning the lessons which his wife had to learn. As for that first intention as to driving his cares out of his own mind for that time, he had long since abandoned even the attempt. It was necessary to him that a considerable sum of money should be extracted from the father-in-law at any rate before the end of January and a week or even a day might be of importance. They had hurried on southwards from Paris and before the end of the first week had passed over the Simplon and were at a pleasant end on the shores of Como. Everything in their travels had been as yet delightful to Emily. This man, of whom she knew in truth so little, had certain good gifts, gifts of intellect, gifts of temper, gifts of voice and manner and outward appearance, which had hitherto satisfied her. A husband who was also an eager lover must be delightful to a young bride, and hitherto no lover could have been more tender than Lopez. Every word and every act, every look and every touch had been loving. Had she known the world better, she might have felt perhaps that something was expected where so much was given. Perhaps a rougher manner, with some little touch of marital self-assertion, might be a safer commencement of married life. Safer to the wife is coming from her husband. Arthur Fletcher by this time would have asked her to bring him his slippers, taking infinite pride in having his little behesse obeyed by so sweet a servitor. That also would have been pleasant to her had her heart in the first instance followed his image. But now also the idolatry of Ferdinand Lopez had been very pleasant. But the moment for the first lesson had come. Your father has not written to you since you started, he said. Not a line. He has not known our address. He is never very good at letter-writing. I did write to him from Paris, and I scribbled a few words to Everett yesterday. It is very odd that he should never have written to me. Did you expect him to write? To tell you the truth, I rather did. Not that I should have dreamed of his corresponding with me had he spoken to me on a certain subject. But as on that subject he never opened his mouth to me, I almost thought he would write. Do you mean about money? She asked in a very low voice. Well, yes, I do mean about money. Things hitherto have gone so very strangely between us. Sit down, dear, till we have a real domestic talk. Tell me everything, she said, as she nestled herself close to his side. You know how it was at first between him and me. He objected to me violently, I mean openly, to my face. But he based his objections solely on my nationality, nationality, and blood. As to my condition in the world, fortune, or income, he never asked a word. That was strange. I suppose he thought he knew. He could not have thought he knew, dearest. But it was not for me to force the subject upon him. You can see that. I am sure whatever you did was right, Ferdinand. He is indisputably a rich man, one who might be supposed to be able and willing to give an only daughter a considerable fortune. Now I certainly have never thought of marrying for money. Here she rubbed her face upon his arm. I felt that it was not for me to speak of money. If he chose to be reticent, I could be so equally. Had he asked me, I should have told him that I had no fortune, but was making a large though precarious income. It would then be for him to declare what he intended to do. That would, I think, have been preferable. As it is, we are all in doubt. In my position, a knowledge of what your father intends to do would be most valuable to me. Should you not ask him? I believe there has always been a perfect confidence between you and him. Certainly, as to all our ways of living. But he never said a word to me about money in his life. And yet my darling money is most important. Of course it is. I know that, Ferdinand. Would you mind asking? She did not answer him at once, but sat thinking. And he also paused before he went on with his lesson. But in order that the lesson should be efficacious, it would be as well that he should tell her as much as he could, even at this first lecture. To tell you the truth, this is quite essential to me at present. Very much more than I had thought it would be when we fixed the day for our marriage. Her mind within her recoiled at this, though she was very careful that he should not feel any such motion in her body. My business is precarious. What is your business, Ferdinand? Poor girl, that she should have been allowed to marry a man and then have to ask such a question. It is generally commercial. I buy and sell on speculation. The world, which is shy of new words, has not yet given it a name. I am a good deal at present in the South American trade. She listened but received no glimmering of an idea from his words. When we were engaged everything was as bright as roses with me. Why did you not tell me this before, so that we might have been more prudent? Such prudence would have been horrid to me, but the fact is that I should not now have spoken to you at all. But that since we left England I have had letters from a sort of partner of mine, and our business things will go astray sometimes. It would be of great service to me if I could learn what are your father's intentions. You want him to give you some money at once. It would not be unusual, dear, when there is money to be given, but I want you especially to ask him what he himself would propose to do. He knows already that I have taken a home for you and paid for it, and he knows, but it does not signify going into that. Tell me everything. He is aware that there are many expenses. Of course if he were a poor man there would not be a word about it. I can with absolute truth declare that had he been penniless it would have made no difference as to my suit to you. But it would possibly have made some difference as to our after-plans. He is a thorough man of the world, and he must know all that. I am sure he must feel that something is due to you, and to me as your husband. But he is odd-tempered, and as I have not spoken to him he chooses to be silent to me. Now my darling, you and I cannot afford to wait to see who can be silent the longest. What do you want me to do? To write to him. And ask him for money. Not exactly in that way. I think you should say that we should be glad to know what he intends to do, also saying that a certain sum of money would at present be of use to me. Would it not be better from you? I only ask, Verdenand. I never have even spoken to him about money, and of course he would know that you had dictated what I said. No doubt he would. It is natural that I should do so. I hope the time may come when I may write quite freely to your father myself, but hitherto he has hardly been courteous to me. I would rather that you should write, if you do not mind it, write your own letter and show it to me. If there is anything too much or anything too little I will tell you. And so the first lesson was taught. The poor young wife did not at all like the lesson. Even within her own bosom she found no fault with her husband. But she began to understand that the life before her was not to be a life of roses. The first word spoken to her in the train before it reached over had explained something of this to her. She had felt at once that there would be trouble about money. And now, though she did not at all understand what might be the nature of those troubles, though she had derived no information whatever from her husband's hints about the South American trade, though she was as ignorant as ever of his affairs, yet she felt that the troubles would come soon. But never for a moment did it seem to her that he had been unjust in bringing her into troubled waters. They had loved each other, and therefore whatever might be the troubles it was right that they should marry each other. There was not a spark of anger against him in her bosom. But she was unhappy. He demanded from her the writing of the letter almost immediately after the conversation which had been given above, and of course the letter was written, written and recopied, for the paragraph about the money was, of course, at last of his wording. And she could not make the remainder of the letter pleasant. The feeling that she was making a demand for money on her father ran through it all. But the reader need only see the passage in which Ferdinand Lopez made his demand, through her hand. Ferdinand has been speaking to me about my fortune. It had gone much against the grain with her to write these words, my fortune. But I have no fortune, she said. He insisted, however, explaining to her that she was entitled to use these words by her father's undoubted wealth. And so with an aching heart she wrote them. Ferdinand has been speaking to me about my fortune. Of course I told him that I knew nothing, and that as he had never spoken to me about money before our marriage, I had never asked about it. He says that it would be of great service to him to know what are your intentions, and also that he hopes you may find it convenient to allow him to draw upon you for some portion of it at present. He says that three thousand pounds would be of great use to him in his business. That was the paragraph, and the work of writing it was so distasteful to her that she could hardly bring herself to form the letters. It seemed as though she were seizing the advantage of the first moment of her freedom to take a violent liberty with her father. It is altogether his own fault, my pet, he said to her. I have the greatest respect on the world for your father, but he has allowed himself to fall into the habit of keeping all his affairs secret from his children, and of course as they go out into the world, this secrecy must in some degree be invaded. There is precisely the same thing going on between him and Everett. Only Everett is a great deal rougher to him than you are likely to be. He never will let Everett know whether he is to regard himself as a rich man or a poor man. He gives him an allowance. Because he cannot help himself. To you he does not do even as much as that, because he can help himself. I have chosen to leave it to him, and he has done nothing. But this is not quite fair, and he must be told so. I don't think he could be told in more dutiful language. Emily did not like the idea of telling her father anything which he might not like to hear. But her husband's behests were to her, in these her early married days, quite imperative. CHAPTER XXVI. THE END OF THE HONEY MOON Mrs. Lopez had begged her father to address his reply to her at Florence, where, as she explained to him, they expected to find themselves within a fortnight from the date of her writing. They had reached the lake about the end of November, when the weather had still been fine, but they intended to pass the winter months of December and January within the warmth of the cities. That intervening fortnight was to her a period of painful anticipation. She feared to see her father's handwriting, feeling almost sure that he would be bitterly angry with her. During this time, her husband frequently spoke to her about the letter, about her own letter and her father's expected reply. It was necessary that she should learn her lesson, and she could only do so by having the subject of money made familiar to her ears. It was not a part of his plan to tell her anything of the means by which he hoped to make himself a wealthy man. The less she knew of that, the better. But the fact that her father, absolutely owed to him a large amount of money as her fortune, could not be made too clear to her. He was very desirous to do this in such a manner as not to make her think that he was accusing her, or that he would accuse her if the money were not forthcoming. But she must learn the fact, and must be imbued with the conviction that her husband would be the most ill-treated of men unless the money were forthcoming. I'm a little nervous about it, too, said he, alluding to the expected letter. Not so much as to the money itself, though that is important, but as to his conduct, if he chooses simply to ignore us after our marriage, he will be behaving very badly. She had no answer to make to this. She could not defend her father, because by doing so she would offend her husband, and yet her whole life-long trust in her father could not allow her to think it possible that he should behave ill to them. On their arrival at Florence he went at once to the post-office, but there was as yet no letter. The fortnight, however, which had been named, had only just run itself out. They went on from day to day inspecting buildings, looking at pictures, making for themselves a taste in marble and bronze, visiting the lovely villages which cluster on the hills round the city, doing precisely in this respect as do all young married couples who devote a part of their honeymoon to Florence. But in all their little journeyings, and in all their work of pleasure, the inky devil sat not only behind him but behind her also. The heavy care of life was already beginning to work furrows on her face. She would already sit, knitting her brow, as she thought of coming troubles. Would not her father certainly refuse, and would not her husband then begin to be less loving and less gracious to herself? Every day for a week he called at the post-office when he went out with her, and still the letter did not come. It can hardly be possible, he said at last to her, that he should decline to answer his own daughter's letter. Perhaps he is ill, she replied. If there were anything of that kind, Everett would tell us. Perhaps he has gone back to Hertfordshire. Of course his letter would go after him. I own it is very singular to me that he should not write. It looks as though he were determined to cast you off from him altogether, because you have married against his wishes. Not that, Ferdinand. Do not say that. Well, we shall see. And on the next day they did see. He went to the post-office before breakfast, and on this day he returned with a letter in his hand. She was sitting waiting for him with a book in her lap and saw the letter at once. "'Is it from Papa?' she said. He nodded his head as he handed it to her. "'Open it and read it, Ferdinand. I have got to be so nervous about it that I cannot do it. It seems to be so important.' "'Yes, it is important,' he said with a grim smile, and then he opened the letter. She watched his face closely as he read it, and at first she could tell nothing from it. Then in that moment it first occurred to her that he had a wonderful command of his features. All this, however, lasted but half a minute. Then he chucked the letter, lightly, in among the tea-cups, and coming to her took her closely in his arms and almost hurt her by the violence of his repeated kisses. "'Has he written kindly?' she said as soon as she could find her breath to speak. "'By George, he's a brick after all. I own I did not think it. My darling, how much I owe you for all the trouble I have given you!' "'Oh, Ferdinand, if he has been good to you, I shall be so happy.' "'He has been awfully good. Ha-ha-ha!' And then he began walking about the room as he laughed in an unnatural way. "'Upon my word it is a pity we didn't say four thousand or five. Think of his taking me just at my word. It's a great deal better than I expected. That's all I can say. And at the present moment it is of the utmost importance to me.' All this did not take above a minute or two. But during that minute or two she had been so bewildered by his manner, as almost a fancy that the expressions of his delight had been ironical. He had been so unlike himself as she had known him that she almost doubted the reality of his joy. But when she took the letter and read it she found that his joy was true enough. The letter was very short and was as follows. "'My dear Emily, what you have said under your husband's instructions about money I find upon consideration to be fair enough. I think he should have spoken to me before his marriage. But then again perhaps I ought to have spoken to him. As it is I am willing to give him the sum he requires, and I will pay three thousand pounds to his account, if he would tell me where he would have it lodged. Then I shall think I have done my duty by him. What I shall do with the remainder of any money that I may have I do not think he is entitled to ask. Everett is well again and as idle as ever. Branch Roby is making a fool of herself at Harrogate. I have heard nothing from herfordshire. Everything is very quiet and lonely here. Your affectionate father, A. Wharton. As he had dined at the Eldon every day since his daughter had left him, and had played on an average a dozen rubbers of wist daily, he was not justified in complaining of the loneliness of London. The letter seemed to Emily herself to be very cold, and had not her husband rejoiced over it so warmly she would have considered it to be unsatisfactory. No doubt the three thousand pounds would be given, but that as far as she could understand her father's words was to be the whole of her fortune. She had never known anything of her father's affairs or of his intentions, but she had certainly supposed that her fortune would be very much more than this. She had learned in some indirect way that a large sum of money would have gone with her hand to Arthur Fletcher, could she have brought herself to marry that suitor favoured by her family. And now, having learned, as she had learned, that money was of vital importance to her husband, she was dismayed at what seemed to her to be parental parsimony. But he was overjoyed, so much so that for a while he lost that restraint over himself which was habitual to him. He ate his breakfast in a state of exultation and talked, not alluding specially to this three thousand pounds, as though he had the command of almost unlimited means. He ordered a carriage and drove her out and bought presents for her, things as to which they had both before decided that they should not be bought because of the expense. "'Pray don't spend your money for me,' she said to him. "'It is nice to have you giving me things, but it would be nicer to me even than that to think that I could save you expense.' But he was not in a mood to be denied. "'You don't understand,' he said. "'I don't want to be saved from little extravagances of this sort. Owing to circumstances, your father's money was at this moment of importance to me, but he is answered to the whip and the money is there and that trouble is over. We can enjoy ourselves now. Other troubles will spring up no doubt before long.' She did not quite like being told that her father had answered to the whip, but she was willing to believe that it was a phrase common among men to which it would be prudish to make objection. There was also something in her husband's elation which was distasteful to her. Could it be that reverses of fortune with reference to moderate sums of money, such as this which was now coming into his hands, would always affect him in the same way? Was it not almost unmanly, or at any rate was it not undignified? And yet she tried to make the best of it, and lent herself to his holiday mood as well as she was able. "'Shall I write and thank papa?' she said that evening. "'I have been thinking of that,' he said. "'You can write if you like, and of course you will. But I also will write, and I'd better do so opposed her to before you. As he has come round I suppose I ought to show myself civil. What he says about the rest of his money is of course absurd. I shall ask him nothing about it, but no doubt after a bit he will make permanent arrangements.' Everything in the business wounded her more or less. She now perceived that he regarded this three thousand pounds only as the first installment of what he might get, and that his joy was due simply to this temporary success. And then he called her father absurd to her face. For a moment she thought that she would defend her father, but she could not as yet bring herself to question her husband's words, even on such a subject as that. He did write to Mr. Wharton, but in doing so he altogether laid aside that flighty manner which for a while had annoyed her. He thoroughly understood that the wording of the letter might be very important to him, and he took much trouble with it. It must be now the great work of his life to ingratiate himself with this old man, so that at any rate at the old man's death he might possess at least half of the old man's money. He must take care that there should be no division between his wife and her father of such a nature as to make the father think that his son ought to enjoy any special privileges of primogeniture or of male inheritance. And if it could be so managed that the daughter should, before the old man's death, become his favorite child, that also would be well. He was therefore very careful about the letter, which was as follows. My dear Mr. Wharton, I cannot let your letter to Emily pass without thanking you myself for the very liberal response made by you to what was of course a request from myself. Let me in the first place assure you that had you before our marriage made any inquiry about my money affairs I would have told you everything with accuracy. But as you did not do so I thought that I should seem to intrude upon you if I introduced the subject. It is too long for a letter, but whenever you may like to allude to it you will find that I will be quite open with you. I am engaged in business which often requires the use of a considerable amount of capital. It has so happened that even since we were married the immediate use of a sum of money became essential to me to save me from sacrificing a cargo of guano which will be of greatly increased value in three months' time, but which otherwise must have gone for what it would now fetch. Your kindness will see me through that difficulty. Of course there is something precarious in such a business as mine, but I am endeavouring to make it less so from day to day, and hope very shortly to bring it into that humdrum groove which best befits a married man. Should I ask further assistance from you in doing this perhaps you will not refuse it if I can succeed in making the matter clear to you. As it is I thank you sincerely for what you have done. I will ask you to pay the three thousand pounds you have so kindly promised to my accountant Mishora's hunky and son's Lombard Street. They are not regular bankers, but I have an account there. We are wondering about and enjoying ourselves mightily in the properly romantic manner. Emily sometimes seems to think that she would like to give up business and London and all sub-lunary troubles in order that she might settle herself for life under an Italian sky. But the idea does not generally remain with her very long. Maybe she is beginning to show symptoms of homesickness in regard to Manchester Square. Yours always most faithfully, Ferdinand Lopez. To this letter Lopez received no reply, nor did he expect one. Between Emily and her father a few letters passed, not very long, nor as regarded those from Mr. Wharton were they very interesting. And none of them, however, was there any mention of money. But early in January Lopez received a most pressing, we might almost say an agonizing letter from his friend Parker. The gist of the letter was to make Lopez understand that Parker must at once sell certain interests in a coming cargo of guano at whatever sacrifice, unless he could be certified as to that money which must be paid in February and which he Parker must pay, should Ferdinand Lopez be at that moment unable to meet his bond. The answer sent to Parker shall be given to the reader. My dear old awfully silly and absurdly impatient friend, you are always like a toad under a harrow, and that without the slightest cause. I have money lying at hunkies more than double enough for the bills. Why can't you trust a man? If you won't trust me in saying so, you can go to Mills Haperton and ask him. But remember, I shall be very much annoyed if you do so, and that such an inquiry cannot but be injurious to me. If however you won't believe me, you can go and ask. And any rate don't meddle with the guano. We should lose over one thousand pounds each of us, if you were to do so. By George a man should neither marry nor leave London for a day, if he has to do with a fellow so nervous as you are. As it is, I think I shall be back a week or two before my time is properly up, lest you and one or two others should think that I have levanted altogether. I have no hesitation in saying that more fortunes are lost in business by trembling cowardice than by any amount of imprudence or extravagance. My hair stands on end when you talk of parting with guano in December because there are bills which have to be met in February. Look up your heart, man, and look around and see what is done by men with good courage. Yours always, Ferdinand Lopez. These are the only communications between our married couple and their friends at home with which I need trouble, my readers. Nor need I tell any further tales of their honeymoon. If the time was not one of complete and unalloyed joy to Emily, and we must fear that it was not, it is to be remembered that but very little complete and unalloyed joy is allowed to sojourners in this Vale of Tears, even though they have been but two months married. In the first week in February they appeared in the Belgrave mansion, and Emily Lopez took possession of her new home with a heart as full of love for her husband as it had been when she walked out of the church in Veer Street, though it may be that some of her sweetest illusions had already been dispelled. End of Chapter 26. Recording by Leanne Howlett.