The Palliser Novels (426 page)

Late in the summer, just before his father and sister had left town, he had had some words with the old barrister. There had been a few bills to be paid, and Everett’s allowance had been insufficient. It often was insufficient, and then ready money for his German tour was absolutely necessary. Mr. Wharton might probably have said less about the money had not his son accompanied his petition by a further allusion to Parliament. “There are some fellows at last really getting themselves together at the Progress, and of course it will be necessary to know who will be ready to come forward at the next general election.”

“I think I know one who won’t,” said the father, “judging from the manner in which he seems at present to manage his own money affairs.” There was more severity in this than the old man had intended, for he had often thought within his own bosom whether it would not be well that he should encourage his son to stand for some seat. And the money that he had now been asked to advance had not been very much, — not more, in truth, than he expected to be called upon to pay in addition to the modest sum which he professed to allow his son. He was a rich man, who was not in truth made unhappy by parting with his money. But there had been, he thought, an impudence in the conjoint attack which it was his duty to punish. Therefore he had given his son very little encouragement.

“Of course, sir, if you tell me that you are not inclined to pay anything beyond the allowance you make me, there is an end of it.”

“I rather think that you have just asked me to pay a considerable sum beyond your allowance, and that I have consented.” Everett argued the matter no further, but he permitted his mind to entertain an idea that he was ill-used by his father. The time would come when he would probably be heir not only to his father’s money, but also to the Wharton title and the Wharton property, — when his position in the country would really be, as he frequently told himself, quite considerable. Was it possible that he should refrain from blaming his father for not allowing him to obtain, early in life, that parliamentary education which would fit him to be an ornament to the House of Commons, and a safeguard to his country in future years?

Now he and Lopez were at the Progress together, and they were almost the only men in the club. Lopez was quite contented with his own present sojourn in London. He had not only been at Gatherum Castle but was going there again. And then he had brilliant hopes before him, — so brilliant that they began, he thought, to assume the shape of certainties. He had corresponded with the Duchess, and he had gathered from her somewhat dubious words that the Duke would probably accede to her wishes in the matter of Silverbridge. The vacancy had not yet been declared. Mr. Grey was deterred, no doubt by certain high State purposes, from applying for the stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds, and thereby releasing himself from his seat in Parliament, and enabling himself to perform, with a clear conscience, duties in a distant part of the world which he did not feel to be compatible with that seat. The seekers after seats were, no doubt, already on the track; but the Duchess had thought that as far as the Duke’s good word went, it might possibly be given in favour of Mr. Lopez. The happy aspirant had taken this to be almost as good as a promise. There were also certain pecuniary speculations on foot, which could not be kept quite quiet even in September, as to which he did not like to trust entirely to the unaided energy of Mr. Sextus Parker, or to the boasted alliance of Mr. Mills Happerton. Sextus Parker’s whole heart and soul were now in the matter, but Mr. Mills Happerton, an undoubted partner in Hunky and Sons, had blown a little coldly on the affair. But in spite of this Ferdinand Lopez was happy. Was it probable that Mr. Wharton should continue his opposition to a marriage which would make his daughter the wife of a member of Parliament and of a special friend of the Duchess of Omnium?

He had said a word about his own prospects in reference to the marriage, but Everett had been at first too full of his own affairs to attend much to a matter which was comparatively so trifling. “Upon my word,” he said, “I am beginning to feel angry with the governor, which is a kind of thing I don’t like at all.”

“I can understand that when he’s angry with you, you shouldn’t like it.”

“I don’t mind that half so much. He’ll come round. However unjust he may be now, at the moment, he’s the last man in the world to do an injustice in his will. I have thorough confidence in him. But I find myself driven into hostility to him by a conviction that he won’t let me take any real step in life, till my life has been half frittered away.”

“You’re thinking of Parliament.”

“Of course I am. I don’t say you ain’t an Englishman, but you are not quite enough of an Englishman to understand what Parliament is to us.”

“I hope to be, — some of these days,” said Lopez.

“Perhaps you may. I won’t say but what you may get yourself educated to it when you’ve been married a dozen years to an English wife, and have half-a-dozen English children of your own. But, in the meantime, look at my position. I am twenty-eight years old.”

“I am four years your senior.”

“It does not matter a straw to you,” continued Everett. “But a few years are everything with me. I have a right to suppose that I may be able to represent the county, — say in twenty years. I shall probably then be the head of the family and a rich man. Consider what a parliamentary education would be to me! And then it is just the life for which I have laid myself out, and in which I could make myself useful. You don’t sympathise with me, but you might understand me.”

“I do both. I think of going into the House myself.”

“You!”

“Yes; I do.”

“You must have changed your ideas very much then within the last month or two.”

“I have changed my ideas. My one chief object in life is, as you know, to marry your sister; and if I were a Member of Parliament I think that some difficulties would be cleared away.”

“But there won’t be an election for the next three years at any rate,” said Everett Wharton, staring at his friend. “You don’t mean to keep Emily waiting for a dissolution?”

“There are occasional vacancies,” said Lopez.

“Is there a chance of anything of that kind falling in your way?”

“I think there is. I can’t quite tell you all the particulars because other people are concerned, but I don’t think it improbable that I may be in the House before — ; well, say in three months’ time.”

“In three months’ time!” exclaimed Everett, whose mouth was watering at the prospects of his friend. “That is what comes from going to stay with the Prime Minister, I suppose.” Lopez shrugged his shoulders. “Upon my word I can’t understand you,” continued the other. “It was only the other day you were arguing in this very room as to the absurdity of a parliamentary career, — pitching into me, by George, like the very mischief, because I had said something in its favour, — and now you are going in for it yourself in some sort of mysterious way that a fellow can’t understand.” It was quite clear that Everett Wharton thought himself ill-used by his friend’s success.

“There is no mystery; — only I can’t tell people’s names.”

“What is the borough?”

“I cannot tell you that at present.”

“Are you sure there will be a vacancy?”

“I think I am sure.”

“And that you will be invited to stand?”

“I am not sure of that.”

“Of course anybody can stand whether invited or not.”

“If I come forward for this place I shall do so on the very best interest. Don’t mention it. I tell you because I already regard my connection with you as being so close as to call upon me to tell you anything of that kind.”

“And yet you do not tell me the details.”

“I tell you all that I can in honour tell.”

Everett Wharton certainly felt aggrieved by his friend’s news, and plainly showed that he did so. It was so hard that if a stray seat in Parliament were going a-begging, it should be thrown in the way of this man who didn’t care for it, and couldn’t use it to any good purpose, instead of in his own way! Why should any one want Ferdinand Lopez to be in Parliament? Ferdinand Lopez had paid no attention to the great political questions of the Commonwealth. He knew nothing of Labour and Capital, of Unions, Strikes, and Lock-outs. But because he was rich, and, by being rich, had made his way among great people, he was to have a seat in Parliament! As for the wealth, it might be at his own command also, — if only his father could be got to see the matter in a proper light. And as for the friendship of great people, — Prime Ministers, Duchesses, and such like, — Everett Wharton was quite confident that he was at any rate as well qualified to shine among them as Ferdinand Lopez. He was of too good a nature to be stirred to injustice against his friend by the soreness of this feeling. He did not wish to rob his friend of his wealth, of his Duchesses, or of his embryo seat in Parliament. But for the moment there came upon him a doubt whether Ferdinand was so very clever, or so peculiarly gentlemanlike or in any way very remarkable, and almost a conviction that he was very far from being good-looking.

They dined together, and quite late in the evening they strolled out into St. James’s Park. There was nobody in London, and there was nothing for either of them to do, and therefore they agreed to walk round the park, dark and gloomy as they knew the park would be. Lopez had seen and had quite understood the bitterness of spirit by which Everett had been oppressed, and with that peculiarly imperturbable good humour which made a part of his character bore it all, even with tenderness. He was a man, as are many of his race, who could bear contradictions, unjust suspicions, and social ill-treatment without a shadow of resentment, but who, if he had a purpose, could carry it out without a shadow of a scruple. Everett Wharton had on this occasion made himself very unpleasant, and Lopez had borne with him as an angel would hardly have done; but should Wharton ever stand in his friend’s way, his friend would sacrifice him without compunction. As it was, Lopez bore with him, simply noting in his own mind that Everett Wharton was a greater ass than he had taken him to be. It was Wharton’s idea that they should walk round the park, and Lopez for a time had discouraged the suggestion. “It is a wretchedly dark place at night, and you don’t know whom you may meet there.”

“You don’t mean to say that you are afraid to walk round St. James’s Park with me, because it’s dark!” said Wharton.

“I certainly should be afraid by myself, but I don’t know that I am afraid with you. But what’s the good?”

“It’s better than sitting here doing nothing, without a soul to speak to. I’ve already smoked half-a-dozen cigars, till I’m so muddled I don’t know what I’m about. It’s so hot one can’t walk in the day, and this is just the time for exercise.” Lopez yielded, being willing to yield in almost anything at present to the brother of Emily Wharton; and, though the thing seemed to him to be very foolish, they entered the park by St. James’s Palace, and started to walk round it, turning to the right and going in front of Buckingham Palace. As they went on Wharton still continued his accusation against his father and said also some sharp things against Lopez himself, till his companion began to think that the wine he had drunk had been as bad as the cigars. “I can’t understand your wanting to go into Parliament,” he said. “What do you know about it?”

“If I get there, I can learn like anybody else, I suppose.”

“Half of those who go there don’t learn. They are, as it were, born to it, and they do very well to support this party or that.”

“And why shouldn’t I support this party, — or that?”

“I don’t suppose you know which party you would support, — except that you’d vote for the Duke, if, as I suppose, you are to get in under the Duke’s influence. If I went into the House I should go with a fixed and settled purpose of my own.”

“I’m not there yet,” said Lopez, willing to drop the subject.

“It will be a great expense to you, and will stand altogether in the way of your profession. As far as Emily is concerned, I should think my father would be dead against it.”

“Then he would be unreasonable.”

“Not at all, if he thought you would injure your professional prospects. It is a
d––––
piece of folly; that’s the long and the short of it.”

This certainly was very uncivil, and it almost made Lopez angry. But he had made up his mind that his friend was a little the worse for the wine he had drunk, and therefore he did not resent even this. “Never mind politics and Parliament now,” he said, “but let us get home. I am beginning to be sick of this. It’s so awfully dark, and whenever I do hear a step, I think somebody is coming to rob us. Let us get on a bit.”

“What the deuce are you afraid of?” said Everett. They had then come up the greater part of the length of the Birdcage Walk, and the lights at Storey’s Gate were just visible, but the road on which they were then walking was very dark. The trees were black over their head, and not a step was heard near them. At this time it was just midnight. Now, certainly, among the faults which might be justly attributed to Lopez, personal cowardice could not be reckoned. On this evening he had twice spoken of being afraid, but the fear had simply been that which ordinary caution indicates; and his object had been that of hindering Wharton in the first place from coming into the park, and then of getting him out of it as quickly as possible.

“Come along,” said Lopez.

“By George, you are in a blue funk,” said the other. “I can hear your teeth chattering.” Lopez, who was beginning to be angry, walked on and said nothing. It was too absurd, he thought, for real anger, but he kept a little in front of Wharton, intending to show that he was displeased. “You had better run away at once,” said Wharton.

“Upon my word, I shall begin to think that you’re tipsy,” said Lopez.

“Tipsy!” said the other. “How dare you say such a thing to me? You never in your life saw me in the least altered by any thing I had drunk.”

Lopez knew that at any rate this was untrue. “I’ve seen you as drunk as Cloe before now,” said he.