The Shadow of Great Britain

Disraeli’s face turned red. He half-opened his mouth, hesitating for a long time before speaking: ”Are you messing with me, Arthur? How do you think that money ended up in my hands? Of course, it was Mrs. Sikes who stuffed it to me!”

”Do you think I’m asking how Mrs. Sikes gave it to you?” Arthur leaned against a lamppost, his eyes on him: ”No, what I’m asking is, if this matter really goes to court, how are you going to explain to the judge, jury, and the reporters of Fleet Street why you have the money being reclaimed by a husband involved in a bribery case.”

”I... I could say she entrusted it to me as a friend for safekeeping...”

”Then why didn’t she give it to her lawyer? Why did she give it to you? Is there a receipt? Any witnesses? Any third-party involved?” Arthur paused and added: ”Or did she just stuff the money into your underclothes pocket, and you righteously accepted it?”

Upon hearing this, Disraeli looked at him with a grievances: ”Arthur, your words are really harsh.”

”Harsh?” Arthur removed his hat and fanned himself: ”If you attend a civil court trial on bribery, you’ll know my words are far from harsh.”

”It’s one thing not to help me with ideas, but you keep making sarcastic comments.” Disraeli angrily coughed repeatedly, throwing his cigar to the ground and stomping it out with his boot: ”Since you’ve made up your mind to make me the gossip of all London afternoon teas, then why tell me all this.”

”I never said I wouldn’t help you.” Arthur reached out and pulled him back: ”But if you want me to come up with ideas, you have to be willing to hear the truth first.”

”I’m listening.” Disraeli said grumpily: ”But your truth isn’t much better than Gladstone’s moral lectures.”

Arthur heard this but didn’t retort, instead slowly took out a pen and checkbook from his inner pocket, casually added three zeros, and then put a 2 in the front.

Disraeli, initially enraged and gritting his teeth, was just about to utter some cynical harsh words. But when that check shimmered with an inky blue hue under the dim light and let out a slight tearing sound, his angry demeanor was instantly replaced by obedience and sincerity.

”My dear Arthur, my dear old friend.” Disraeli’s previous resentment vanished, his words now as sweet as if they had been soaked in cherry wine: ”You know, I’ve always thought that nothing in this world is more trustworthy than the noble friendship where friends wholeheartedly support each other. Your calm and help in crisis, it’s as if it stepped right out of a volume of Cicero’s speeches.”

Arthur looked around blankly upon hearing this.

Seeing this, Disraeli couldn’t help but frown: ”Who are you looking for?”

”I’m looking for Mr. Heinrich Heine. Has he come to London?” Arthur scratched the back of his head: ”That kind of flowery rhetoric, I’ve only ever heard it from his mouth before.”

”Heine?” Disraeli raised an eyebrow, about to lose his temper again: ”You mean that Jew who always complains that his manuscript fees aren’t enough to live on, and writes poetry as if he’s signing checks for the Paris Bank? Arthur, you’re being too insulting to me!”

”Oh? I thought you admired him.” Arthur shrugged: ”You have something in common, both good at publishing shameless rhetoric as literary works.”

Disraeli pretended to clutch his chest: ”Come on, Arthur. When it comes to shame, nothing in the world could be more shameful than hearing one’s name appear in the same sentence as Heinrich Heine’s.”

Arthur waved the check in front of Disraeli: ”But like you, he has a problem, can’t resist a check.”

”Nonsense! At least I choose my moments.” Disraeli smoothly extracted the check from Arthur’s hand, then rolled his eyes and said: ”Besides, I’m taking political donations; he’s taking dirty money to kiss ass. One is political investment, the other is a mercenary trade, how are they the same?”

Arthur didn’t respond, just lightly tapped a gas lamp post with his knuckles.

Tap, tap, tap...

He looked as if he were counting Disraeli’s guilty heartbeats.

Disraeli stared at Arthur’s expressionless profile with those steady fingers falling, couldn’t help but swallow, trying to salvage a bit of his character: ”Alright, you win, those two thousand Pounds from Mrs. Sikes, I took without honor, but it was indeed for the campaign, not spent in some unspeakable way. I originally thought, as long as this doesn’t blow up, I’d find a chance to slowly return the money to her, at least half before Sir Francis Sykes discovers... and that would be going above and beyond.”

As Disraeli said this, his oily face suddenly froze, and he stared at the numbers on the check for a moment, as if suddenly recalling something: ”By the way, Arthur... have you heard... how she... is doing now?”

Arthur didn’t rush to answer, just raised an eyebrow, as if waiting for him to finish.

”I mean... Henrietta, Lady Henrietta Sikes.” Disraeli paused, finally uttering her name, his tone without the earlier sarcasm or nonchalance for once: ”If that thing really gets published by Sir Sikes in the Chronicle Morning Paper, she’d be completely finished.”