“Yes, sir; I have come back, not exactly triumphant. A man should not expect to win always.” Lopez had resolved to pluck up his spirit and carry himself like a man.
“You seem to have got into some scrape down there, besides losing your election.”
“Oh; you have seen that in the papers already. I have come to tell you of it. As Emily is concerned in it you ought to know.”
“Emily concerned! How is she concerned?”
Then Lopez told the whole story—after his own fashion, and yet with no palpable lie. Fletcher had written to her a letter which he had thought to be very offensive. On hearing this, Mr. Wharton looked very grave, and asked for the letter. Lopez said that he had destroyed it, not thinking that such a document should be preserved. Then he went on to explain that it had had reference to the election, and that he had thought it to be highly improper that Fletcher should write to his wife on that or on any other subject. “It depends very much on the letter,” said the old man.
“But on any subject—after what has passed.”
“They were very old friends.”
“Of course I will not argue with you, Mr. Wharton; but I own that it angered me. It angered me very much—very much indeed. I took it to be an insult to her, and when he accosted me in the street down at Silverbridge I told him so. I may not have been very wise, but I did it on her behalf. Surely you can understand that such a letter might make a man angry.”
“What did he say?”
“That he would do anything for her sake—even retire from Silverbridge if his friends would let him.” Mr. Wharton scratched his head, and Lopez saw that he was perplexed. “Should he have offered to do anything for her sake, after what had passed?”
“I know the man so well,” said Mr. Wharton, “that I cannot and do not believe him to have harboured an improper thought in reference to my child.”
“Perhaps it was an indiscretion only.”
“Perhaps so. I cannot say. And then they took you before the magistrates?”
“Yes;—in my anger I had threatened him. Then there was a policeman and a row. And I had to swear that I would not hurt him. Of course I have no wish to hurt him.”
“I suppose it ruined your chance at Silverbridge?”
“I suppose it did.” This was a lie, as Lopez had retired before the row took place. “What I care for most now is that you should not think that I have misbehaved myself.”
The story had been told very well, and Mr. Wharton was almost disposed to sympathise with his son-in-law. That Arthur Fletcher had meant nothing that could be regarded as offensive to his daughter he was quite sure;—but it might be that in making an offer intended to be generous he had used language which the condition of the persons concerned made indiscreet. “I suppose,” he said, “that you spent a lot of money at Silverbridge?” This gave Lopez the opening that he wanted, and he described the manner in which the £500 had been extracted from him. “You can’t play that game for nothing,” said Mr. Wharton.
“And just at present I could very ill afford it. I should not have done it had I not felt it a pity to neglect such a chance of rising in the world. After all, a seat in the British House of Commons is an honour.”
“Yes;—yes;—yes.”
“And the Duchess, when she spoke to me about it, was so certain.”
“I will pay the £500,” said Mr. Wharton.
“Oh, sir, that is generous!” Then he got up and took the old man’s hands. “Some day, when you are at liberty, I hope that you will allow me to explain to you the exact state of my affairs. When I wrote to you from Como I told you that I would wish to do so. You do not object?”
“No;” said the lawyer—but with infinite hesitation in his voice. “No; I don’t object. But I do not know how I could serve them. I shall be busy just now, but I will give you the cheque. And if you and Emily have nothing better to do, come and dine tomorrow.” Lopez with real tears in his eyes took the cheque, and promised to come on the morrow. “And in the meantime I wish you would see Everett.” Of course he promised that he would see Everett.
Again he was exalted, on this occasion not so much by the acquisition of the money as by the growing conviction that his father-in-law was a cow capable of being milked. And the quarrel between Everett and his father might clearly be useful to him. He might either serve the old man by reducing Everett to proper submission, or he might manage to creep into the empty space which the son’s defection would make in the father’s heart and the father’s life. He might at any rate make himself necessary to the old man, and become such a part of the household in Manchester Square as to be indispensable. Then the old man would every day become older and more in want of assistance. He thought that he saw the way to worm himself into confidence, and, soon, into possession. The old man was not a man of iron as he had feared, but quite human, and if properly managed, soft and malleable.
He saw Sexty Parker in the city that day, and used his cheque for £500 in some triumphant way, partly cajoling and partly bullying his poor victim. To Sexty also he had to tell his own story about the row down at Silverbridge. He had threatened to thrash the fellow in the street, and the fellow had not dared to come out of his house without a policeman. Yes;—he had lost his election. The swindling of those fellows at Silverbridge had been too much for him. But
