He lived luxuriously too,—though whether at his ease or not nobody knew,—for he kept a brougham of his own, and during the hunting season he had two horses down at Leighton. There had once been a belief abroad that he was ruined, but they who interest themselves in such matters had found out,—or at any rate believed that they had found out,—that he paid his tailor regularly: and now there prevailed an opinion that Ferdinand Lopez was a monied man.
It was known to some few that he occupied rooms in a flat at Westminster,—but to very few exactly where the rooms were situate. Among all his friends no one was known to have entered them. In a moderate way he was given to hospitality,—that is to infrequent but, when the occasion came, to graceful hospitality. Some club, however, or tavern, or perhaps, in the summer, some river bank would be chosen as the scene of these festivities. To a few,—if, as suggested, amidst summer flowers on the water’s edge to men and women mixed,—he would be a courtly and efficient host; for he had the rare gift of doing such things well.
Hunting was over, and the east wind was still blowing, and a great portion of the London world was out of town taking its Easter holiday, when, on an unpleasant morning, Ferdinand Lopez travelled into the city by the Metropolitan railway from Westminster Bridge. It was his custom to go thither when he did go,—not daily like a man of business, but as chance might require, like a capitalist or a man of pleasure,—in his own brougham. But on this occasion he walked down to the river side, and then walked from the Mansion House into a dingy little court called Little Tankard Yard, near the Bank of England, and going through a narrow dark long passage got into a little office at the back of a building, in which there sat at a desk a greasy gentleman with a new hat on one side of his head, who might perhaps be about forty years old. The place was very dark, and the man was turning over the leaves of a ledger. A stranger to city ways might probably have said that he was idle, but he was no doubt filling his mind with that erudition which would enable him to earn his bread. On the other side of the desk there was a little boy copying letters. These were Mr. Sextus Parker,—commonly called Sexty Parker,—and his clerk. Mr. Parker was a gentleman very well known and at the present moment favourably esteemed on the Stock Exchange. “What, Lopez!” said 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
