The Prime Minister

that a further insult had been offered to him by that meeting in the street. He had told his wife that he would ask Fletcher to give up the borough, and that he would make that request with a horsewhip in his hand. It was too late now to say anything of the borough, but it might not be too late for the horsewhip. He had a great desire to make good that threat as far as the horsewhip was concerned⁠—having an idea that he would thus lower Fletcher in his wife’s eyes. It was not that he was jealous⁠—not jealous according to the ordinary meaning of the word. His wife’s love to himself had been too recently given and too warmly maintained for such a feeling as that. But there was a rancorous hatred in his heart against the man, and a conviction that his wife at any rate esteemed the man whom he hated. And then would he not make his retreat from the borough with more honour if before he left he could horsewhip his successful antagonist? We, who know the feeling of Englishmen generally better than Mr. Lopez did, would say⁠—certainly not. We would think that such an incident would by no means redound to the credit of Mr. Lopez. And he himself, probably, at cooler moments, would have seen the folly of such an idea. But anger about the borough had driven him mad, and now in his wretchedness the suggestion had for him a certain charm. The man had outraged all propriety by writing to his wife. Of course he would be justified in horsewhipping him. But there were difficulties. A man is not horsewhipped simply because you wish to horsewhip him.

In the evening, as he was sitting alone, he got a note from Mr. Sprugeon. “Mr. Sprugeon’s compliments. Doesn’t Mr. Lopez think an address to the electors should appear in tomorrow’s Gazette⁠—very short and easy;⁠—something like the following.” Then Mr. Sprugeon added a very “short and easy letter” to the electors of the borough of Silverbridge, in which Mr. Lopez was supposed to tell them that although his canvass promised to him every success, he felt that he owed it to the borough to retire, lest he should injure the borough by splitting the Liberal interest with their much respected fellow-townsman, Mr. Du Boung. In the course of the evening he did copy that letter, and sent it out to the newspaper office. He must retire, and it was better for him that he should retire after some recognised fashion. But he wrote another letter also, and sent it over to the opposition hotel. The other letter was as follows:⁠—

Sir⁠—

Before this election began you were guilty of gross impertinence in writing a letter to my wife⁠—to her extreme annoyance and to my most justifiable anger. Any gentleman would think that the treatment you had already received at her hands would have served to save her from such insult, but there are men who will never take a lesson without a beating. And now, since you have been here, you have presumed to offer to shake hands with me in the street, though you ought to have known that I should not choose to meet you on friendly terms after what has taken place. I now write to tell you that I shall carry a horsewhip while I am here, and that if I meet you in the streets again before I leave the town I shall use it.

Ferdinand Lopez.

Mr. Arthur Fletcher.

This letter he sent at once to his enemy, and then sat late into the night thinking of his threat and of the manner in which he would follow it up. If he could only get one fair blow at Fletcher his purpose, he thought, would be achieved. In any matter of horsewhipping the truth hardly ever gets itself correctly known. The man who has given the first blow is generally supposed to have thrashed the other. What might follow, though it might be inconvenient, must be borne. The man had insulted him by writing to his wife, and the sympathies of the world, he thought, would be with him. To give him his due, it must be owned that he had no personal fear as to the encounter.

That night Arthur Fletcher had gone over to Greshamsbury, and on the following morning he returned with Mr. Gresham. “For heaven’s sake, look at that!” he said, handing the letter to his friend.

“Did you ever write to his wife?” asked Gresham, when he read it.

“Yes;⁠—I did. All this is dreadful to me;⁠—dreadful. Well;⁠—you know how it used to be with me. I need not go into all that; need I?”

“Don’t say a word more than you think necessary.”

“When you asked me to stand for the place I had not heard that he thought of being a candidate. I wrote and told her so, and told her also that had I known it before I would not have come here.”

“I don’t quite see that,” said Gresham.

“Perhaps not;⁠—perhaps I was a fool. But we needn’t go into that. At any rate there was no insult to him. I wrote in the simplest language.”

“Looking at it all round I think you had better not have written.”

“You wouldn’t say so if you saw the letter. I’m sure you wouldn’t. I had known her all my life. My brother is married to her cousin. Oh heavens! we had been all but engaged. I would have done anything for her. Was it not natural that I should tell her? As far as the language was concerned the letter was one to be read at Charing Cross.”

“He says that she was annoyed and insulted.”

“Impossible! It was a letter that any man might have written to any woman.”

“Well;⁠—you have got to take care of yourself at any rate. What will you do?”

“What ought I to do?”

“Go to the police.” Mr. Gresham had himself once, when young, thrashed