The Prime Minister. Anthony Trollope
he. “Uncommon glad to see you. What can I do for you?”
“Just come inside,—will you?” said Lopez. Now within Mr. Parker’s very small office there was a smaller office in which there were a safe, a small rickety Pembroke table, two chairs, and an old washing-stand with a tumbled towel. Lopez led the way into this sanctum as though he knew the place well, and Sexty Parker followed him.
“Beastly day, isn’t it?” said Sexty.
“Yes,—a nasty east wind.”
“Cutting one in two, with a hot sun at the same time. One ought to hybernate at this time of the year.”
“Then why don’t you hybernate?” said Lopez.
“Business is too good. That’s about it. A man has to stick to it when it does come. Everybody can’t do like you;—give up regular work, and make a better thing of an hour now and an hour then, just as it pleases you. I shouldn’t dare go in for that kind of thing.”
“I don’t suppose you or any one else know what I go in for,” said Lopez, with a look that indicated offence.
“Nor don’t care,” said Sexty;—”only hope it’s something good for your sake.” Sexty Parker had known Mr. Lopez well, now for some years, and being an overbearing man himself,—somewhat even of a bully if the truth be spoken,—and by no means apt to give way unless hard pressed, had often tried his “hand” on his friend, as he himself would have said. But I doubt whether he could remember any instance in which he could congratulate himself on success. He was trying his hand again now, but did it with a faltering voice, having caught a glance of his friend’s eye.
“I dare say not,” said Lopez. Then he continued without changing his voice or the nature of the glance of his eye, “I’ll tell you what I want you to do now. I want your name to this bill for three months.”
Sexty Parker opened his mouth and his eyes, and took the bit of paper that was tendered to him. It was a promissory note for £750, which, if signed by him, would at the end of the specified period make him liable for that sum were it not otherwise paid. His friend Mr. Lopez was indeed applying to him for the assistance of his name in raising a loan to the amount of the sum named. This was a kind of favour which a man should ask almost on his knees,—and which, if so asked, Mr. Sextus Parker would certainly refuse. And here was Ferdinand Lopez asking it,—whom Sextus Parker had latterly regarded as an opulent man,—and asking it not at all on his knees, but, as one might say, at the muzzle of a pistol. “Accommodation bill!” said Sexty. “Why, you ain’t hard up; are you?”
“I’m not going just at present to tell you much about my affairs, and yet I expect you to do what I ask you. I don’t suppose you doubt my ability to raise £750.”
“Oh, dear, no,” said Sexty, who had been looked at and who had not borne the inspection well.
“And I don’t suppose you would refuse me even if I were hard up, as you call it.” There had been affairs before between the two men in which Lopez had probably been the stronger, and the memory of them, added to the inspection which was still going on, was heavy upon poor Sexty.
“Oh, dear, no;—I wasn’t thinking of refusing. I suppose a fellow may be a little surprised at such a thing.”
“I don’t know why you need be surprised, as such things are very common. I happen to have taken a share in a loan a little beyond my immediate means, and therefore want a few hundreds. There is no one I can ask with a better grace than you. If you ain’t—afraid about it, just sign it.”
“Oh, I ain’t afraid,” said Sexty, taking his pen and writing his name across the bill. But even before the signature was finished, when his eye was taken away from the face of his companion and fixed upon the disagreeable piece of paper beneath his hand, he repented of what he was doing. He almost arrested his signature halfway. He did hesitate, but had not pluck enough to stop his hand. “It does seem to be a d––––d odd transaction all the same,” he said as he leaned back in his chair.
“It’s the commonest thing in the world,” said Lopez picking up the bill in a leisurely way, folding it and putting it into his pocketbook. “Have our names never been together on a bit of paper before?”
“When we both had something to make by it.”
“You’ve nothing to make and nothing to lose by this. Good day and many thanks;—though I don’t think so much of the affair as you seem to do.” Then Ferdinand Lopez took his departure and Sexty Parker was left alone in his bewilderment.
“By George,—that’s queer,” he said to himself. “Who’d have thought of Lopez being hard up for a few hundred pounds? But it must be all right. He wouldn’t have come in that fashion, if it hadn’t been all right. I oughtn’t to have done it though! A man ought never to do that kind of thing;—never,—never!” And Mr. Sextus Parker was much discontented with himself, so that when he got home that evening to the wife of his bosom and his little family at Ponders End, he by no means made himself agreeable to them. For that sum of £750 sat upon his bosom as he ate his supper, and lay upon his chest as he slept,—like a nightmare.
Chapter II.
Everett Wharton
On that same day Lopez dined with his friend Everett Wharton at a new club called the Progress, of which they were both members. The Progress was certainly a new club, having as yet been open hardly more than three years; but still it was old enough to have seen many of the hopes of its early youth become dim with age and inaction. For the Progress had intended to do great things for the Liberal party,—or rather for political liberality in general,—and had in truth done little or nothing. It had been got up with considerable enthusiasm, and for a while certain fiery politicians had believed that through the instrumentality of this institution men of genius, and spirit, and natural power, but without wealth,—meaning always themselves,—would be supplied with sure seats in Parliament and a probable share in the Government. But no such results had been achieved. There had been a want of something,—some deficiency felt but not yet defined,—which had hitherto been fatal. The young men said it was because no old stager who knew the way of pulling the wires would come forward and put the club in the proper groove. The old men said it was because the young men were pretentious puppies. It was, however, not to be doubted that the party of Progress had become slack, and that the Liberal politicians of the country, although a special new club had been opened for the furtherance of their views, were not at present making much way. “What we want is organization,” said one of the leading young men. But the organization was not as yet forthcoming.
The club, nevertheless, went on its way, like other clubs, and men dined and smoked and played billiards and pretended to read. Some few energetic members still hoped that a good day would come in which their grand ideas might be realised,—but as regarded the members generally, they were content to eat and drink and play billiards. It was a fairly good club,—with a sprinkling of Liberal lordlings, a couple of dozen of members of Parliament who had been made to believe that they would neglect their party duties unless they paid their money, and the usual assortment of barristers, attorneys, city merchants and idle men. It was good enough at any rate for Ferdinand Lopez, who was particular about his dinner, and had an opinion of his own about wines. He had been heard to assert that, for real quiet comfort, there was not a club in London equal to it; but his hearers were not aware that in past days he had been blackballed at the T–––– and the G––––. These were accidents which Lopez had a gift of keeping in the background. His present companion, Everett Wharton, had, as well as himself, been an original member;—and Wharton had been one of those who had hoped to find in the club a steppingstone to high political life, and who now talked often with idle energy of the need of organization.
“For myself,” said Lopez, “I can conceive no vainer object of ambition than a seat in the British