"The battle has been fought since man first crawled upon the earth," continued Moggs, stretching himself to his full height and pointing to the farthest confines of the inhabited globe…"The battle has been fought since man first crawled upon the earth,"continued Moggs, stretching himself to his full height andpointing to the farthest confines of the inhabitedglobe …Click toENLARGE
But the speech, such as it was, sufficed amply for the immediate wants of the denizens of the Cheshire Cheese. There were men there who for the half-hour believed that Ontario Moggs had been born to settle all the difficulties between labourers and their employers, and that he would do so in such a way that the labourers, at least, should have all that they wanted. It would be, perhaps, too much to say that any man thought this would come in his own day,—that he so believed as to put a personal trust in his own belief; but they did think for a while that the good time was coming, and that Ontario Moggs would make it come. "We'll have 'im in parl'ament any ways," said a sturdy, short, dirty-looking artizan, who shook his head as he spoke to show that, on that matter, his mind was quite made up. "I dunno no good as is to cum of sending sich as him to parl'ament," said another. "Parl'ament ain't the place. When it comes to the p'int they won't 'ave 'em. There was Odgers, and Mr. Beale. I don't b'lieve in parl'ament no more." "Kennington Oval's about the place," said a third. "Or Primrose 'ill," said a fourth. "Hyde Park!" screamed the little wizen man with the gin and water. "That's the ticket;—and down with them gold railings. We'll let' em see!" Nevertheless they all went away home in the quietest way in the world, and,—as there was no strike in hand,—got to their work punctually on the next morning. Of all those who had been loudest at the Cheshire Cheese there was not one who was not faithful, and, in a certain way, loyal to his employer.
As soon as his speech was over and he was able to extricate himself from the crowd, Ontario Moggs escaped from the public-house and strutted off through certain narrow, dark streets in the neighbourhood, leaning on the arm of a faithful friend. "Mr. Moggs, you did pitch it rayther strong, to-night," said the faithful friend.
"Pitch it rather strong;—yes. What good do you think can ever come from pitching any thing weak? Pitch it as strong as you will, find it don't amount to much."
"But about rebellion, now, Mr. Moggs? Rebellion ain't a good thing, surely, Mr. Moggs."
"Isn't it? What was Washington, what was Cromwell, what was Rienzi, what was,—was,—; but never mind," said Ontario, who could not at the moment think of the name of his favourite Pole.
"And you think as the men should be rebels again' the masters?"
"That depends on who the masters are, Waddle."
"What good 'd cum of it if I rebelled again' Mr. Neefit, and told him up to his face as I wouldn't make up the books? He'd only sack me. I find thirty-five bob a week, with two kids and their mother to keep on it, tight enough, Mr. Moggs. If I 'ad the fixing on it, I should say forty bob wasn't over the mark;—I should indeed. But I don't see as I should get it."
"Yes you would;—if you earned it, and stuck to your purpose. But you're a single stick, and it requires a faggot to do this work."
"I never could see it, Mr. Moggs. All the same I do like to hear you talk. It stirs one up, even though one don't just go along with it. You won't let on, you know, to Mr. Neefit as I was there."
"And why not?" said Ontario, turning sharp upon his companion.
"The old gen'leman hates the very name of a strike. He's a'most as bad as your own father, Mr. Moggs."
"You have done his work to-day. You have earned your bread. You owe him nothing."
"That I don't, Mr. Moggs. He'll take care of that."
"And yet you are to stay away from this place, or go to that, to suit his pleasure. Are you Neefit's slave?"
"I'm just the young man in his shop,—that's all."
"As long as that is all, Waddle, you are not worthy to be called a man."
"Mr. Moggs, you're too hard. As for being a man, I am a man. I've a wife and two kids. I don't think more of my governor than another;—but if he sacked me, where 'd I get thirty-five bob a-week?"
"I beg your pardon, Waddle;—it's true. I should not have said it. Perhaps you do not quite understand me, but your position is one of a single stick, rather than of the faggot. Ah me! She hasn't been at the shop lately?"
"She do come sometimes. She was there the day before yesterday."
"And alone?"
"She come alone, and she went home with the governor."
"And he?"
"Mr. Newton, you mean?"
"Has he been there?"
"Well;—yes; he was there once last week."
"Well?"
"There was words;—that's what there was. It ain't going smooth, and he ain't been out there no more,—not as I knows on. I did say a word once or twice as to the precious long figure as he stands for on our books. Over two hundred for breeches is something quite stupendous. Isn't it, Mr. Moggs?"
"And what did Neefit say?"
"Just snarled at me. He can show his teeth, you know, and look as bitter as you like. It ain't off, because when I just named the very heavy figure in such a business as ours,—he only snarled. But it ain't on, Mr. Moggs. It ain't what I call,—on." After this they walked on in silence for a short way, when Mr. Waddle made a little proposition. "He's on your books, too, Mr. Moggs, pretty tight, as I'm told. Why ain't you down on him?"
"Down on him?" said Moggs.
"I wouldn't leave him an hour, if I was you."
"D'you think that's the way I would be down on,—a rival?" and Moggs, as he walked along, worked both his fists closely in his energy. "If I can't be down on him other gait than that, I'll leave him alone. But, Waddle, by my sacred honour as a man, I'll not leave him alone!" Waddle started, and stood with his mouth open, looking up at his friend. "Base, mercenary, false-hearted loon! What is it that he wants?"
"Old Neefit's money. That's it, you know."
"He doesn't know what love means, and he'd take that fair creature, and drag her through the dirt, and subject her to the scorn of hardened aristocrats, and crush her spirits, and break her heart,—just because her father has scraped together a mass of gold. But I,—I wouldn't let the wind blow on her too harshly. I despise her father's money. I love her. Yes;—I'll be down upon him somehow. Good-night, Waddle. To come between me and the pride of my heart for a little dirt! Yes; I'll be down upon him." Waddle stood and admired. He had read of such things in books, but here it was brought home to him in absolute life. He had a young wife whom he loved, but there had been no poetry about his marriage. One didn't often come across real poetry in the world,—Waddle felt;—but when one did, the treat was great. Now Ontario Moggs was full of poetry. When he preached rebellion it was very grand,—though at such moments Waddle was apt to tell himself that he was precluded by his two kids from taking an active share in such poetry as that. But when Moggs was roused to speak of his love, poetry couldn't go beyond that. "He'll drop into that customer of ours," said Waddle to himself, "and he'll mean it when he's a doing of it. But Polly 'll never 'ave 'im." And then there came across Waddle's mind an idea which he could not express,—that of course no girl would put up with a bootmaker who could have a real gentleman. Real gentlemen think a good deal of themselves, but not half so much as is thought of them by men who know that they themselves are of a different order.
Ontario Moggs, as he went homewards by himself, was disturbed by various thoughts. If it really was to be the case that Polly Neefit wouldn't have him, why should he stay in a country so ill-adapted to his manner of thinking as this? Why remain in a paltry island while all the starry west, with its brilliant promises, was open to him? Here he could only quarrel with his father, and become a rebel, and perhaps live to find himself in a jail. And then what could he do of good? He preached and preached, but nothing came of it. Would not the land of the starry west suit better such a heart and such a mind as his? But he wouldn't stir while his fate was as yet unfixed in reference to Polly Neefit. Strikes were dear to him, and oratory, and the noisy applauses of the Cheshire Cheese; but nothing was so dear to him as Polly Neefit. He went about the world with a great burden lying on his chest, and that burden was his love for Polly Neefit. In regard to strikes and the ballot he did in a certain way reason within himself and teach himself to believe that he had thought out those matters; but as to Polly he thought not at all. He simply loved her, and felt himself to be a wild, frantic man, quarrelling with his father, hurrying towards jails and penal settlements, rushing about the streets half disposed to suicide, because Polly Neefit would have none of him. He had been jealous, too, of the gasfitter, when he had seen his Polly whirling round the room in the gasfitter's arms;—but the gasfitter was no gentleman, and the battle had been even. In spite of the whirling he still had a chance against the gasfitter. But the introduction of the purple and fine linen element into his affairs was maddening to him. With all his scorn for gentry, Ontario Moggs in his heart feared a gentleman. He thought that he could make an effort to punch Ralph Newton's head if they two were ever to be brought together in a spot convenient for such an operation; but of the man's standing in the world, he was afraid. It seemed to him to be impossible that Polly should prefer him, or any one of his class, to a suitor whose hands were always clean, whose shirt was always white, whose words were soft and well-chosen, who carried with him none of the stain of work. Moggs was as true as steel in his genuine love of Labour,—of Labour with a great L,—of the People with a great P,—of Trade with a great T,—of Commerce with a great C; but of himself individually,—of himself, who was a man of the people, and a tradesman, he thought very little when he compared himself to a gentleman. He could not speak as they spoke; he could not walk as they walked; he could not eat as they ate. There was a divinity about a gentleman which he envied and hated.
Now Polly Neefit was not subject to this idolatry. Could Moggs have read her mind, he might have known that success, as from the bootmaker against the gentleman, was by no means so hopeless an affair. What Polly liked was a nice young man, who would hold up his head and be true to her,—and who would not make a fool of himself. If he could waltz into the bargain, that also would Polly like.
On that night Ontario walked all the way out to Alexandria Cottage, and spent an hour leaning upon the gate, looking up at the window of the breeches-maker's bedroom;—for the chamber of Polly herself opened backwards. When he had stood there an hour, he walked home to Bond Street.
That month of August was a very sad time indeed for Ralph the heir. With him all months were, we may say, idle months; but, as a rule, August was of all the most idle. Sometimes he would affect to shoot grouse, but hunting, not grouse-shooting, was his passion as a sportsman. He would leave London, and spend perhaps a couple of days with Mr. Horsball looking at the nags. Then he would run down to some sea-side place, and flirt and laugh and waste his time upon the sands. Or he would go abroad as far as Dieppe, or perhaps Biarritz, and so would saunter through the end of the summer. It must not be supposed of him that he was not fully conscious that this manner of life was most pernicious. He knew it well, knew that it would take him to the dogs, made faint resolves at improvement which he hardly for an hour hoped to be able to keep,—and was in truth anything but happy. This was his usual life;—and so for the last three or four years had he contrived to get through this month of August. But now the utmost sternness of business had come upon him. He was forced to remain in town, found himself sitting day after day in his lawyer's anteroom, was compelled to seek various interviews with Sir Thomas, in which it was impossible that Sir Thomas should make himself very pleasant; and,—worst of all,—was at last told that he must make up his own mind!
Squire Newton was also up in London; and though London was never much to his taste, he was in these days by no means so wretched as his nephew. He was intent on a certain object, and he began to hope, nay to think, that his object might be achieved. He had not once seen his nephew, having declared his conviction very strongly that it would be better for all parties that they should remain apart. His own lawyer he saw frequently, and Ralph's lawyer once, and Sir Thomas more than once or twice. There was considerable delay, but the Squire would not leave London till something was, if not settled, at any rate arranged, towards a settlement. And it was the expression of his will conveyed through the two lawyers which kept Ralph in London. What was the worth of Ralph's interest in the property? That was one great question. Would Ralph sell that interest when the price was fixed? That was the second question. Ralph, to whom the difficulty of giving an answer was as a labour of Hercules, staved off the evil day for awhile by declaring that he must know what was the price before he could say whether he would sell the article. The exact price could not be fixed. The lawyers combined in saying that the absolute sum of money to include all Ralph's interest in the estate could not be named that side of Christmas. It was not to be thought of that any actuary, or valuer, or lawyer, or conveyancer, should dispose of so great a matter by a month's work. But something approaching to a settlement might be made. A sum might be named as a minimum. And a compact might be made, subject to the arbitration of a sworn appraiser. A sum was named. The matter was carried so far, that Ralph was told that he could sign away all his rights by the middle of September,—sign away the entire property,—and have his pockets filled with ample funds for the Moonbeam, and all other delights. He might pay off Moggs and Neefit, and no longer feel that Polly,—poor dear Polly,—was a millstone round his neck. And he would indeed, in this event, be so well provided, that he did not for a moment doubt that, if he chose so to circumscribe himself, Clarissa Underwood might be his wife. All the savings of the Squire's life would be his,—enough, as the opposing lawyer told him with eager pressing words, to give him an estate of over a thousand a year at once. "And it may be more,—probably will be more," said the lawyer. But at the very least a sum approaching to thirty thousand pounds would be paid over to him at once. And he might do what he pleased with this. There was still a remnant of his own paternal property sufficient to pay his debts.
But why should a man whose encumbrances were so trifling, sacrifice prospects that were so glorious? Could he not part with a portion of the estate,—with the reversion of half of it, so that the house of Newton, Newton Priory, with its grouse and paddocks and adjacent farms, might be left to him? If the whole were saleable, surely so also must be the half. The third of the money offered to him would more than suffice for all his wants. No doubt he might sell the half,—but not to the Squire, nor could he effect such sale immediately as he would do if the Squire bought it, nor on such terms as were offered by the Squire. Money he might raise at once, certainly; but it became by degrees as a thing certain to him, that if once he raised money in that way, the estate would fly from him. His uncle was a hale man, and people told him that his own life was not so much better than his uncle's. His uncle had a great object, and if Ralph chose to sell at all, that fact would be worth thousands to him. But his uncle would not buy the reversion of half or of a portion of the property. The Squire at last spoke his mind freely on this matter to Sir Thomas. "It shall never be cast in my son's teeth," he said, "that his next neighbour is the real man. Early in life I made a mistake, and I have had to pay for it ever since. I am paying for it now, and must pay for it to the end. But my paying for it will be of small service if my boy has to pay for it afterwards." Sir Thomas understood him and did not press the point.
Ralph was nearly driven wild with the need of deciding. Moggs's bill at two months was coming due, and he knew that he could expect no mercy there. To Neefit's establishment in Conduit Street he had gone once, and had had words,—as Waddle had told to his rival. Neefit was still persistent in his wishes,—still urgent that Newton should go forth to Hendon like a man, and "pop" at once. "I'll tell you what, Captain," said he;—he had taken to calling Ralph Captain, as a goodly familiar name, feeling, no doubt, that Mister was cold between father-in-law and son-in-law, and not quite daring to drop all reverential title;—"if you're a little hard up, as I know you are, you can have three or four hundred if you want it." Ralph did want it sorely. "I know how you stand with old Moggs," said Neefit, "and I'll see you all right there." Neefit was very urgent. He too had heard something of these dealings among the lawyers. To have his Polly Mrs. Newton of Newton Priory! The prize was worth fighting for. "Don't let them frighten you about a little ready money, Captain. If it comes to that, other folk has got ready money besides them."
"Your trust in me surprises me," said Ralph. "I already owe you money which I can't pay you."
"I know where to trust, and I know where not to trust. If you'll once say as how you'll pop the question to Polly, fair and honest, on the square, you shall have five hundred;—bless me, if you shan't. If she don't take you after all, why then I must look for my money by-and-bye. If you're on the square with me, Captain, you'll never find me hard to deal with."
"I hope I shall be on the square, at any rate."
"Then you step out to her and pop." Hereupon Ralph made a long and intricate explanation of his affairs, the object of which was to prove to Mr. Neefit that a little more delay was essential. He was so environed by business and difficulties at the present moment that he could take no immediate step such as Mr. Neefit suggested,—no such step quite immediately. In about another fortnight, or in a month at the furthest, he would be able to declare his purpose. "And how about Moggs?" said Neefit, putting his hands into his breeches-pocket, pulling down the corners of his mouth, and fixing his saucer eyes full upon the young man's face. So he stood for some seconds, and then came the words of which Waddle had spoken. Neefit could not disentangle the intricacies of Ralph's somewhat fictitious story; but he had wit enough to know what it meant. "You ain't on the square, Captain. That's what you ain't," he said at last. It must be owned that the accusation was just, and it was made so loudly that Waddle did not at all exaggerate in saying that there had been words. Nevertheless, when Ralph left the shop Neefit relented. "You come to me, Captain, when Moggs's bit of stiff comes round."
A few days after that Ralph went to Sir Thomas, with the object of declaring his decision;—at least Sir Thomas understood that such was to be the purport of the visit. According to his ideas there had been quite enough of delay. The Squire had been liberal in his offer; and though the thing to be sold was in all its bearings so valuable, though it carried with it a value which, in the eyes of Sir Thomas,—and, indeed, in the eyes of all Englishmen,—was far beyond all money price, though the territorial position was, for a legitimate heir, almost a principality; yet, when a man cannot keep a thing, what can he do but part with it? Ralph had made his bed, and he must lie upon it. Sir Thomas had done what he could, but it had all amounted to nothing. There was this young man a beggar,—but for this reversion which he had now the power of selling. As for that mode of extrication by marrying the breeches-maker's daughter,—that to Sir Thomas was infinitely the worst evil of the two. Let Ralph accept his uncle's offer and he would still be an English gentleman, free to live as such, free to marry as such, free to associate with friends fitting to his habits of life. And he would be a gentleman, too, with means sufficing for a gentleman's wants. But that escape by way of the breeches-maker's daughter would, in accordance with Sir Thomas's view of things, destroy everything.
"Well, Ralph," he said, sighing, almost groaning, as his late ward took the now accustomed chair opposite to his own.
"I wish I'd never been born," said Ralph, "and that Gregory stood in my place."
"But you have been born, Ralph. We must take things as we find them." Then there was a long silence. "I think, you know, that you should make up your mind one way or the other. Your uncle of course feels that as he is ready to pay the money at once he is entitled to an immediate answer."
"I don't see that at all," said Ralph. "I am under no obligation to my uncle, and I don't see why I am to be bustled by him. He is doing nothing for my sake."
"He has, at any rate, the power of retracting."
"Let him retract."
"And then you'll be just where you were before,—ready to fall into the hands of the Jews. If you must part with your property you cannot do so on better terms."
"It seems to me that I shall be selling £7,000 a year in land for about £1,200 a year in the funds."
"Just so;—that's about it, I suppose. But can you tell me when the land will be yours,—or whether it will ever be yours at all? What is it that you have got to sell? But, Ralph, it is no good going over all that again."
"I know that, Sir Thomas."
"I had hoped you would have come to some decision. If you can save the property of course you ought to do so. If you can live on what pittance is left toyou—"
"I can save it."
"Then do save it."
"I can save it by—marrying."
"By selling yourself to the daughter of a man who makes—breeches! I can give you advice on no other point; but I do advise you not to do that. I look upon an ill-assorted marriage as the very worst kind of ruin. I cannot myself conceive any misery greater than that of having a wife whom I could not ask my friends to meet."
Ralph when he heard this blushed up to the roots of his hair. He remembered that when he had first mentioned to Sir Thomas his suggested marriage with Polly Neefit he had said that as regarded Polly herself he thought that Patience and Clarissa would not object to her. He was now being told by Sir Thomas himself that his daughters would certainly not consent to meet Polly Neefit, should Polly Neefit become Mrs. Newton. He, too, had his ideas of his own standing in the world, and had not been slow to assure himself that the woman whom he might choose for his wife would be a fit companion for any lady,—as long as the woman was neither vicious nor disagreeable. He could make any woman a lady; he could, at any rate, make Polly Neefit a lady. He rose from his seat, and prepared to leave the room in disgust. "I won't trouble you by coming here again," he said.
"You are welcome, Ralph," said Sir Thomas. "If I could assist you, you would be doubly welcome."
"I know I have been a great trouble to you,—a thankless, fruitless, worthless trouble. I shall make up my mind, no doubt, in a day or two, and I will just write you a line. I need not bother you by coming any more. Of course I think a great deal about it."
"No doubt," said Sir Thomas.
"Unluckily I have been brought up to know the value of what it is I have to throw away. It is a kind of thing that a man doesn't do without some regrets."
"They should have come earlier," said Sir Thomas.
"No doubt;—but they didn't, and it is no use saying anything more about it. Good-day, sir." Then he flounced out of the room, impatient of that single word of rebuke which had been administered to him.
Sir Thomas, as soon as he was alone, applied himself at once to the book which he had reluctantly put aside when he was disturbed. But he could not divest his mind of its trouble, as quickly as his chamber had been divested of the presence of its troubler. He had said an ill-natured word, and that grieved him. And then,—was he not taking all this great matter too easily? If he would only put his shoulder to the wheel thoroughly might he not do something to save this friend,—this lad, who had been almost as his own son,—from destruction? Would it not be a burden on his conscience to the last day of his life that he had allowed his ward to be ruined, when by some sacrifice of his own means he might have saved him? He sat and thought of it, but did not really resolve that anything could be done. He was wont to think in the same way of his own children, whom he neglected. His conscience had been pricking him all his life, but it hardly pricked him sharp enough to produce consequences.
During those very moments in which Ralph was leaving Southampton Buildings he had almost made up his mind to go at once to Alexandria Cottage, and to throw himself and the future fate of Newton Priory at the feet of Polly Neefit. Two incidents in his late interview with Sir Thomas tended to drive him that way. Sir Thomas had told him that should he marry the daughter of a man who made—breeches, no lady would associate with his wife. Sir Thomas also had seemed to imply that he must sell his property. He would show Sir Thomas that he could have a will and a way of his own. Polly Neefit should become his wife; and he would show the world that no proudest lady in the land was treated with more delicate consideration by her husband than the breeches-maker's daughter should be treated by him. And when it should please Providence to decide that the present squire of Newton had reigned long enough over that dominion, he would show the world that he had known something of his own position and the value of his own prospects. Then Polly should be queen in the Newton dominions, and he would see whether the ordinary world of worshippers would not come and worship as usual. All the same, he did not on that occasion go out to Alexandria Cottage.
When he reached his club he found a note from his brother.
Newton Peele, September 8th, 186—.My dear Ralph,—I have been sorry not to have had an answer from you to the letter which I wrote to you about a month ago. Of course I hear of what is going on. Ralph Newton up at the house tells me everything. The Squire is still in town, as, of course, you know; and there has got to be a report about here that he has, as the people say, bought you out. I still hope that this is not true. The very idea of it is terrible to me;—that you should sell for an old song, as it were, the property that has belonged to us for centuries! It would not, indeed, go out of the name, but, as far as you and I are concerned, that is the same. I will not refuse, myself, to do anything that you may say is necessary to extricate yourself from embarrassment; but I ran hardly bring myself to believe that a step so fatal as this can be necessary.If I understand the matter rightly your difficulty is not so much in regard to debts as in the want of means of livelihood. If so, can you not bring yourself to live quietly for a term of years. Of course you ought to marry, and there may be a difficulty there; but almost anything would be better than abandoning the property. As I told you before, you are welcome to the use of the whole of my share of the London property. It is very nearly £400 a year. Could you not live on that till things come round?Our cousin Ralph knows that I am writing to you, and knows what my feelings are. It is not he that is so anxious for the purchase. Pray write and tell me what is to be done.Most affectionately yours,Gregory Newton.I wouldn't lose a day in doing anything you might direct about the Holborn property.
Newton Peele, September 8th, 186—.
My dear Ralph,—
I have been sorry not to have had an answer from you to the letter which I wrote to you about a month ago. Of course I hear of what is going on. Ralph Newton up at the house tells me everything. The Squire is still in town, as, of course, you know; and there has got to be a report about here that he has, as the people say, bought you out. I still hope that this is not true. The very idea of it is terrible to me;—that you should sell for an old song, as it were, the property that has belonged to us for centuries! It would not, indeed, go out of the name, but, as far as you and I are concerned, that is the same. I will not refuse, myself, to do anything that you may say is necessary to extricate yourself from embarrassment; but I ran hardly bring myself to believe that a step so fatal as this can be necessary.
If I understand the matter rightly your difficulty is not so much in regard to debts as in the want of means of livelihood. If so, can you not bring yourself to live quietly for a term of years. Of course you ought to marry, and there may be a difficulty there; but almost anything would be better than abandoning the property. As I told you before, you are welcome to the use of the whole of my share of the London property. It is very nearly £400 a year. Could you not live on that till things come round?
Our cousin Ralph knows that I am writing to you, and knows what my feelings are. It is not he that is so anxious for the purchase. Pray write and tell me what is to be done.
Most affectionately yours,
Gregory Newton.
I wouldn't lose a day in doing anything you might direct about the Holborn property.
Ralph received this at his club, and afterwards dined alone, considering it. Before the evening was over he thought that he had made up his mind that he would not, under any circumstances, give up his reversionary right. "They couldn't make me do it, even though I went to prison," he said to himself. Let him starve till he died, and then the property would go to Gregory! What did it matter? The thing that did matter was this,—that the estate should not be allowed to depart out of the true line of the Newton family. He sat thinking of it half the night, and before he left the club he wrote the following note to hisbrother;—
September 9th, 186—.Dear Greg.,—Be sure of this,—that I will not part with my interest in the property. I do not think that I can be forced, and I will never do it willingly. It may be that I may be driven to take advantage of your liberality and prudence. If so, I can only say that you shall share the property with me when it comes.Yours always,R. N.
September 9th, 186—.
Dear Greg.,—
Be sure of this,—that I will not part with my interest in the property. I do not think that I can be forced, and I will never do it willingly. It may be that I may be driven to take advantage of your liberality and prudence. If so, I can only say that you shall share the property with me when it comes.
Yours always,
R. N.
This he gave to the porter of the club as he passed out; and then, as he went home, he acknowledged to himself that it was tantamount to a decision on his part that he would forthwith marry Polly Neefit.
On the 10th of September the Squire was informed that Ralph Newton demanded another ten days for his decision, and that he had undertaken to communicate it by letter on the 20th. The Squire had growled, thinking that his nephew was unconscionable, and had threatened to withdraw his offer. The lawyer, with a smile, assured him that the matter really was progressing very quickly, that things of that kind could rarely be carried on so expeditiously; and that, in short, Mr. Newton had no fair ground of complaint. "When a man pays through the nose for his whistle, he ought to get it!" said the Squire, plainly showing that his idea as to the price fixed was very different from that entertained by his nephew. But he did not retract his offer. He was too anxious to accomplish the purchase to do that. He would go home, he said, and wait till the 20th. Then he would return to London. And he did go home.
On the first evening he said very little to his son. He felt that his son did not quite sympathise with him, and he was sore that it should be so. He could not be angry with his son. He knew well that this want of sympathy arose from a conviction on this son's part that, let what might be done in regard to the property, nothing could make him, who was illegitimate, capable of holding the position in the country which of right belonged to Newton of Newton. But the presence of this feeling in the mind of the son was an accusation against himself which was very grievous to him. Almost every act of his latter life had been done with the object of removing the cause for such accusation. To make his boy such as he would have been in every respect had not his father sinned in his youth, had been the one object of the father's life. And nobody gainsayed him in this but that son himself. Nobody told him that all his bother about the estate was of no avail. Nobody dared to tell him so. Parson Gregory, in his letters to his brother, could express such an opinion. Sir Thomas, sitting alone in his chamber, could feel it. Ralph, the legitimate heir, with an assumed scorn, could declare to himself that, let what might be sold, he would still be Newton of Newton. The country people might know it, and the farmers might whisper it one to another. But nobody said a word of this to the Squire. His own lawyer never alluded to such a matter, though it was of course in his thoughts. Nevertheless, the son, whom he loved so well, would tell him from day to day,—indirectly, indeed, but with words that were plain enough,—that the thing was not to be done. Men and women called him Newton, because his father had chosen so to call him;—as they would have called him Tomkins or Montmorenci, had he first appeared before them with either of those names; but he was not a Newton, and nothing could make him Newton of Newton Priory,—not even the possession of the whole parish, and an habitation in the Priory itself. "I wish you wouldn't think about it," the son would say to the father;—and the expression of such a wish would contain the whole accusation. What other son would express a desire that the father would abstain from troubling himself to leave his estate entire to his child?
On the morning after his return the necessary communication was made. But it was not commenced in any set form. The two were out together, as was usual with them, and were on the road which divided the two parishes, Bostock from Newton. On the left of them was Walker's farm, called the Brownriggs; and on the right, Darvell's farm, which was in their own peculiar parish of Newton. "I was talking to Darvell while you were away," said Ralph.
"What does he say for himself?"
"Nothing. It's the old story. He wants to stay, though he knows he'd be better away."
"Then let him stay. Only I must have the place made fit to look at. A man should have a chance of pulling through."
"Certainly, sir. I don't want him to go. I was only thinking it would be better for his children that there should be a change. As for making the place fit to look at, he hasn't the means. It's Walker's work, at the other side, that shames him."
"One can't have Walkers on every farm," said the Squire. "No;—if things go, as I think they will go, we'll pull down every stick and stone at Brumby's,"—Brumby's was the name of Darvell's farm,—"and put it up all ship-shape. The house hasn't been touched these twenty years." Ralph said nothing. He knew well that his father would not talk of building unless he intended to buy before he built. Nothing could be more opposed to the Squire's purposes in life than the idea of building a house which, at his death, would become the property of his nephew. And, in this way, the estate was being starved. All this Ralph understood thoroughly; and, understanding it, had frequently expressed a desire that his father and the heir could act in accord together. But now the Squire talked of pulling down and building up as though the property were his own, to do as he liked with it. "And I think I can do it without selling Brownriggs," continued the Squire. "When it came to black and white, the value that he has in it doesn't come to so much as I thought." Still Ralph said nothing,—nothing, at least, as to the work that had been done up in London. He merely made some observation as to Darvell's farm;—suggesting that a clear half year's rent should be given to the man. "I have pretty well arranged it all in my mind," continued the Squire. "We could part with Twining. It don't lie so near as Brownriggs."
Ralph felt that it would be necessary that he should say something. "Lord Fitzadam would be only too glad to buy it. He owns every acre in the parish except Ingram's farm."
"There'll be no difficulty about selling it,—when we have the power to sell. It'll fetch thirty years' purchase. I'd give thirty years' purchase for it, at the present rent myself, if I had the money. Lord Fitzadam shall have it, if he pleases, of course. There's four hundred acres of it."
"Four hundred and nine," said Ralph.
"And it's worth over twelve thousand pounds. It would have gone against the grain with me to part with any of the land in Bostock; but I think we can squeeze through without that."
"Is it arranged, sir?" asked the son at last.
"Well;—no; I can't say it is. He is to give me his answer on the 20th. But I cannot see that he has any alternative. He must pay his debts, and he has no other way of paying them. He must live, and he has nothing else to live on. A fellow like that will have money, if he can lay his hands on it, and he can't lay his hands on it elsewhere. Of course he could get money; but he couldn't get it on such terms as I have offered him. He is to have down thirty thousand pounds, and then,—after that,—I am to pay him whatever more than that they may think the thing is worth to him. Under no circumstances is he to have less. It's a large sum of money, Ralph."
"Yes, indeed;—though not so much as you had expected, sir."
"Well,—no; but then there are drawbacks. However, I shall only be too glad to have it settled. I don't think, Ralph, you have ever realised what it has been for me not to be able to lay out a shilling on the property, as to which I was not satisfied that I should see it back again in a year or two."
"And yet, sir, I have thought much about it."
"Thought! By heavens, I have thought of nothing else. As I stand here, the place has hardly been worth the having to me, because of such thinking. Your uncle, from the very first, was determined to make it bitter enough. I shall never forget his coming to me when I cut down the first tree. Was I going to build houses for a man's son who begrudged me the timber I wanted about the place?"
"He couldn't stop you there."
"But he said he could,—and he tried. And if I wanted to change a thing here or there, was it pleasant, do you think, to have to go to him? And what pleasure could there be in doing anything when another was to have it all? But you have never understood it, Ralph. Well;—I hope you'll understand it some day. If this goes right, nobody shall ever stop you in cutting a tree. You shall be free to do what you please with every sod, and every branch, and every wall, and every barn. I shall be happy at last, Ralph, if I think that you can enjoy it." Then there was again a silence, for tears were in the eyes both of the father and of the son. "Indeed," continued the Squire, as he rubbed the moisture away, "my great pleasure, while I remain, will be to see you active about the place. As it is now, how is it possible that you should care for it?"
"But I do care for it, and I think I am active about it."
"Yes,—making money for that idiot, who is to come after me. But I don't think he ever will come. I dare say he won't be ashamed to shoot your game and drink your claret, if you'll allow him. For the matter of that, when the thing is settled he may come and drink my wine if he pleases. I'll be his loving uncle then, if he don't object. But as it is now;—as it has been, I couldn't have borne him."
Even yet there had been no clear statement as to what had been done between father and son. There was so much of clinging, trusting, perfect love in the father's words towards the son, that the latter could not bear to say a word that should produce sorrow. When the Squire declared that Ralph should have it all, free,—to do just as he pleased with it, with all the full glory of ownership, Ralph could not bring himself to throw a doubt upon the matter. And yet he did doubt;—more than doubted;—felt almost certain that his father was in error. While his father had remained alone up in town he had been living with Gregory, and had known what Gregory thought and believed. He had even seen his namesake's letter to Gregory, in which it was positively stated that the reversion would not be sold. Throughout the morning the Squire went on speaking of his hopes, and saying that this and that should be done the very moment that the contract was signed; at last Ralph spoke out, when, on some occasion, his father reproached him for indifference. "I do so fear that you will be disappointed," he said.
"Why should I be disappointed?"
"It is not for my own sake that I fear, for in truth the arrangement, as it stands, is no bar to my enjoyment of the place."
"It is a most absolute bar to mine," said the Squire.
"I fear it is not settled."
"I know that;—but I see no reason why it should not be settled. Do you know any reason?"
"Gregory feels sure that his brother will never consent."
"Gregory is all very well. Gregory is the best fellow in the world. Had Gregory been in his brother's place I shouldn't have had a chance. But Gregory knows nothing about this kind of thing, and Gregory doesn't in the least understand his brother."
"But Ralph has told him so."
"Ralph will say anything. He doesn't mind what lies he tells."
"I think you are too hard on him," said the son.
"Well;—we shall see. But what is it that Ralph has said? And when did he say it?" Then the son told the father of the short letter which the parson had received from his brother, and almost repeated the words of it. And he told the date of the letter, only a day or two before the Squire's return. "Why the mischief could he not be honest enough to tell me the same thing, if he had made up his mind?" said the Squire, angrily. "Put it how you will, he is lying either to me or to his brother;—probably to both of us. His word either on one side or on the other is worth nothing. I believe he will take my money because he wants money, and because he likes money. As for what he says, it is worth nothing. When he has once written his name, he cannot go back from it, and there will be comfort in that." Ralph said nothing more. His father had talked himself into a passion, and was quite capable of becoming angry, even with him. So he suggested something about the shooting for next day, and proposed that the parson should be asked to join them. "He may come if he likes," said the Squire, "but I give you my word if this goes on much longer, I shall get to dislike even the sight of him." On that very day the parson dined with them, and early in the evening the Squire was cold, and silent, and then snappish. But he warmed afterwards under the double influence of his own port-wine, and the thorough sweetness of his nephew's manner. His last words as Gregory left him that night in the hall were as follows:—"Bother about the church. I'm half sick of the church. You come and shoot to-morrow. Don't let us have any new fads about not shooting."
"There are no new fads, uncle Greg, and I'll be with you by twelve o'clock," said the parson.
"He is very good as parsons go," said the Squire as he shut the door.
"He's as good as gold," said the Squire's son.
Moggs's bill became due before the 20th of September, and Ralph Newton received due notice,—as of course he had known that he would do,—that it had not been cashed at his banker's. How should it be cashed at his banker's, seeing that he had not had a shilling there for the last three months? Moggs himself, Moggs senior, came to Ralph, and made himself peculiarly disagreeable. He had never heard of such a thing on the part of a gentleman! Not to have his bill taken up! To have his paper dishonoured! Moggs spoke of it as though the heavens would fall; and he spoke of it, too, as though, even should the heavens not fall, the earth would be made a very tumultuous and unpleasant place for Mr. Newton, if Mr. Newton did not see at once that these two hundred and odd pounds were forthcoming. Moggs said so much that Ralph became very angry, turned him out of the room, and told him that he should have his dirty money on the morrow. On the morrow the dirty money was paid, Ralph having borrowed the amount from Mr. Neefit. Mr. Moggs was quite content. His object had been achieved, and, when the cash was paid, he was quite polite. But Ralph Newton was not happy as he made the payment. He had declared to himself, after writing that letter to his brother, that the thing was settled by the very declaration made by him therein. When he assured his brother that he would not sell his interest in the property, he did, in fact, resolve that he would make Polly Neefit his wife. And he did no more than follow up that resolution when he asked Neefit for a small additional advance. His due would not be given to the breeches-maker if it were not acknowledged that on this occasion he behaved very well. He had told Ralph to come to him when Moggs's "bit of stiff" came round. Moggs's "bit of stiff" did come round, and "the Captain" did as he had been desired to do. Neefit wrote out the cheque without saying a word about his daughter. "Do you just run across to Argyle Street, Captain," said the breeches-maker, "and get the stuff in notes." For Mr. Neefit's bankers held an establishment in Argyle Street. "There ain't no need, you know, to let on, Captain; is there?" said the breeches-maker. Ralph Newton, clearly seeing that there was no need to "let on," did as he was bid, and so the account was settled with Mr. Moggs. But now as to settling the account with Mr. Neefit? Neefit had his own idea of what was right between gentlemen. As the reader knows, he could upon an occasion make his own views very clearly intelligible. He was neither reticent nor particularly delicate. But there was something within him which made him give the cheque to Ralph without a word about Polly. That something, let it be what it might, was not lost upon Ralph.
Any further doubt on his part was quite out of the question. If his mind had not been made up before it must, at least, be made up now. He had twice borrowed Mr. Neefit's money, and on this latter occasion had taken it on the express understanding that he was to propose to Mr. Neefit's daughter. And then, in this way, and in this way only, he could throw over his uncle and save the property. As soon as he had paid the money to Moggs, he went to his room and dressed himself for the occasion. As he arranged his dress with some small signs of an intention to be externally smart, he told himself that it signified nothing at all, that the girl was only a breeches-maker's daughter, and that there was hardly a need that he should take a new pair of gloves for such an occasion as this. In that he was probably right. An old pair of gloves would have done just as well, though Polly did like young men to look smart.
He went out in a hansom of course. A man does not become economical because he is embarrassed. And as for embarrassment, he need not trouble himself with any further feelings on that score. When once he should be the promised husband of Polly Neefit, he would have no scruple about the breeches-maker's money. Why should he, when he did the thing with the very view of getting it? They couldn't expect him to be married till next spring at the earliest, and he would take another winter out of himself at the Moonbeam. As the sacrifice was to be made he might as well enjoy all that would come of the sacrifice. Then as he sat in the cab he took to thinking whether, after any fashion at all, he did love Polly Neefit. And from that he got to thinking,—not of poor Clary,—but of Mary Bonner. If his uncle could at once be translated to his fitting place among the immortals, oh,—what a life might be his! But his uncle was still mortal, and,—after all,—Polly Neefit was a very jolly girl.
When he got to the house he asked boldly for Miss Neefit. He had told himself that no repulse could be injurious to him. If Mrs. Neefit were to refuse him admission into the house, the breeches-maker would be obliged to own that he had done his best. But there was no repulse. In two minutes he found himself in the parlour, with Polly standing up to receive him. "Dear me, Mr. Newton; how odd! You might have come weeks running before you'd find me here and mother out. She's gone to fetch father home. She don't do it,—not once a month." Ralph assured her that he was quite contented as it was, and that he did not in the least regret the absence of Mrs. Neefit. "But she'll be ever so unhappy. She likes to see gentlemen when they call."
"And you dislike it?" asked Ralph.
"Indeed I don't then," said Polly.
And now in what way was he to do it? Would it be well to allude to her father's understanding with himself? In the ordinary way of love-making Ralph was quite as much at home as another. He had found no difficulty in saying a soft word to Clarissa Underwood, and in doing more than that. But with Polly the matter was different. There was an inappropriateness in his having to do the thing at all, which made it difficult to him,—unless he could preface what he did by an allusion to his agreement with her father. He could hardly ask Polly to be his wife without giving her some reason for the formation of so desperate a wish on his own part. "Polly," he said at last, "that was very awkward for us all,—that evening when Mr. Moggs was here."
"Indeed it was, Mr. Newton. Poor Mr. Moggs! He shouldn't have stayed;—but mother asked him."
"Has he been here since?"
"He was then, and he and I were walking together. There isn't a better fellow breathing than Ontario Moggs,—in his own way. But he's not company for you, Mr. Newton, of course."
Ralph quailed at this. To be told that his own boot-maker wasn't "company" for him,—and that by the young lady whom he intended to make his wife! "I don't think he is company for you either Polly," he said.
"Why not, Mr. Newton? He's as good as me. What's the difference between him and father?" He wondered whether, when she should be his own, he would be able to teach her to call Mr. Neefit her papa. "Mr. Newton, when you know me better, you'll know that I'm not one to give myself airs. I've known Mr. Moggs all my life, and he's equal to me, anyways,—only he's a deal better."
"I hope there's nothing more than friendship, Polly."
"What business have you to hope?"
Upon that theme he spoke, and told her in plain language that his reason for so hoping was that he trusted to be able to persuade her to become his own wife. Polly, when the word was spoken, blushed ruby red, and trembled a little. The thing had come to her, and, after all, she might be a real lady if she pleased. She blushed ruby red, and trembled, but she said not a word for a while. And then, having made his offer, he began to speak of love. In speaking of it, he was urgent enough, but his words had not that sort of suasiveness which they would have possessed had he been addressing himself to Clary Underwood. "Polly," he said, "I hope you can love me. I will love you very dearly, and do all that I can to make you happy. To me you shall be the first woman in the world. Do you think that you can love me, Polly?"
Polly was, perhaps, particular. She had not quite approved of the manner in which Ontario had disclosed his love, though there had been something of the eloquence of passion even in that;—and now she was hardly satisfied with Ralph Newton. She had formed to herself, perhaps, some idea of a soft, insinuating, coaxing whisper, something that should be half caress and half prayer, but something that should at least be very gentle and very loving. Ontario was loving, but he was not gentle. Ralph Newton was gentle, but then she doubted whether he was loving. "Will you say that it shall be so?" he asked, standing over her, and looking down upon her with his most bewitching smile.
Polly amidst her blushing and her trembling made up her mind that she would say nothing of the kind at this present moment. She would like to be a lady though she was not ashamed of being a tradesman's daughter;—but she would not buy the privilege of being a lady at too dear a price. The price would be very high indeed were she to give herself to a man who did not love her, and perhaps despised her. And then she was not quite sure that she could love this man herself, though she was possessed of a facility for liking nice young men. Ralph Newton was well enough in many ways. He was good looking, he could speak up for himself, he did not give himself airs,—and then, as she had been fully instructed by her father, he must ultimately inherit a large property. Were she to marry him her position would be absolutely that of one of the ladies of the land. But then she knew,—she could not but know,—that he sought her because he was in want of money for his present needs. To be made a lady of the land would be delightful; but to have a grand passion,—in regard to which Polly would not be satisfied unless there were as much love on one side as on the other,—would be more delightful. That latter was essentially necessary to her. The man must take an absolute pleasure in her company, or the whole thing would be a failure. So she blushed and trembled, and thought and was silent. "Dear Polly, do you mean that you cannot love me?" said Ralph.
"I don't know," said Polly.
"Will you try?" demanded Ralph.
"And I don't know that you can love me."
"Indeed, indeed, I can."
"Ah, yes;—you can say so, I don't doubt. There's a many of them as can say so, and yet it's not in 'em to do it. And there's men as don't know hardly how to say it, and yet it's in their hearts all the while." Polly must have been thinking of Ontario as she made this latter oracular observation.
"I don't know much about saying it; but I can do it, Polly."
"Oh, as for talking, you can talk. You've been brought up that way. You've had nothing else much to do."
She was very hard upon him, and so he felt it. "I think that's not fair, Polly. What can I say to you better than that I love you, and will be good to you?"
"Oh, good to me! People are always good to me. Why shouldn't they?"
"Nobody will be so good as I will be,—if you will take me. Tell me, Polly, do you not believe me when I say I love you?"
"No;—I don't."
"Why should I be false to you?"
"Ah;—well;—why? It's not for me to say why. Father's been putting you up to this. That's why."
"Your father could put me up to nothing of the kind if it were not that I really loved you."
"And there's another thing, Mr. Newton."
"What's that, Polly?"
"I'm not at all sure that I'm so very fond of you."
"That's unkind."
"Better be true than to rue," said Polly. "Why, Mr. Newton, we don't know anything about each other,—not as yet. I may be, oh, anything bad, for what you know. And for anything I know you may be idle, and extravagant, and a regular man flirt." Polly had a way of speaking the truth without much respect to persons. "And then, Mr. Newton, I'm not going to be given away by father just as he pleases. Father thinks this and that, and he means it all for the best. I love father dearly. But I don't mean to take any body as I don't feel I'd pretty nigh break my heart if I wasn't to have him. I ain't come to breaking my heart for you yet, Mr. Newton."
"I hope you never will break your heart."
"I don't suppose you understand, but that's how it is. Let it just stand by for a year or so, Mr. Newton, and see how it is then. Maybe we might get to know each other. Just now, marrying you would be like taking a husband out of a lottery." Ralph stood looking at her, passing his hand over his head, and not quite knowing how to carry on his suit. "I'll tell father what you was saying to me and what I said to you," continued Polly, who seemed quite to understand that Ralph had done his duty by his creditor in making the offer, and that justice to him demanded that this should be acknowledged by the whole family.
"And is that to be all, Polly?" asked Ralph in a melancholy voice.
"All at present, Mr. Newton."
Ralph, as he returned to London in his cab, felt more hurt by the girl's refusal of him than he would before have thought to be possible. He was almost disposed to resolve that he would at once renew the siege and carry it on as though there were no question of twenty thousand pounds, and of money borrowed from the breeches-maker. Polly had shown so much spirit in the interview, and had looked so well in showing it, had stood up such a perfect specimen of healthy, comely, honest womanhood, that he thought that he did love her. There was, however, one comfort clearly left to him. He had done his duty by old Neefit. The money due must of course be paid;—but he had in good faith done that which he had pledged himself to do in taking the money.
As to the surrender of the estate there were still left to him four days in which to think of it.
Early in this month of September there had come a proposition to Sir Thomas, which had thoroughly disturbed him, and made him for a few days a most miserable man. By the tenth of the month, however, he had so far recovered himself as to have made up his mind in regard to the proposition with some feeling of triumphant expectation. On the following day he went home to Fulham, and communicated his determination to his eldest daughter in the following words; "Patience, I am going to stand for the borough of Percycross."
"Papa!"
"Yes. I dare say I'm a fool for my pains. It will cost me some money which I oughtn't to spend; and if I get in I don't know that I can do any good, or that it can do me any good. I suppose you think I'm very wrong?"
"I am delighted,—and so will Clary be. I'm so much pleased! Why shouldn't you be in Parliament? I have always longed that you should go back to public life, though I have never liked to say so to you."
"It is very kind of you to say it now, my dear."
"And I feel it." There was no doubt of that, for, as she spoke, the tears were streaming from her eyes. "But will you succeed? Is there to be anybody against you?"
"Yes, my dear; there is to be somebody against me. In fact, there will be three people against me; and probably I shall not succeed. Men such as I am do not have seats offered to them without a contest. But there is a chance. I was down at Percycross for two days last week, and now I've put out an address. There it is." Upon which he handed a copy of a placard to his daughter, who read it, no doubt, with more enthusiasm than did any of the free and independent electors to whom it was addressed.
The story in regard to the borough of Percycross was as follows. There were going forward in the country at this moment preparations for a general election, which was to take place in October. The readers of this story have not as yet been troubled on this head, there having been no connection between that great matter and the small matters with which our tale has concerned itself. In the Parliament lately dissolved, the very old borough of Percycross,—or Percy St. Cross, as the place was properly called,—had displayed no political partiality, having been represented by two gentlemen, one of whom always followed the conservative leader, and the other the liberal leader, into the respective lobbies of the House of Commons. The borough had very nearly been curtailed of the privilege in regard to two members in the great Reform Bill which had been initiated and perfected and carried through as a whole by the almost unaided intellect and exertions of the great reformer of his age; but it had had its own luck, as the Irishmen say, and had been preserved intact. Now the wise men of Percycross, rejoicing in their salvation, and knowing that there might still be danger before them should they venture on a contest,—for bribery had not been unknown in previous contests at Percycross, nor petitions consequent upon bribery; and some men had marvelled that the borough should have escaped so long; and there was now supposed to be abroad a spirit of assumed virtue in regard to such matters under which Percycross might still be sacrificed if Percycross did not look very sharp after itself;—thinking of all this, the wise men at Percycross had concluded that it would be better, just for the present, to let things run smoothly, and to return their two old members. When the new broom which was to sweep up the dirt of corruption was not quite so new, they might return to the old game,—which was, in truth, a game very much loved in the old town of Percycross. So thought the wise men, and for a while it seemed that the wise men were to have their own way. But there were men at Percycross who were not wise, and who would have it that such an arrangement as this showed lack of spirit. The conservative foolish men at Percycross began by declaring that they could return two members for the borough if they pleased, and that they would do so, unless this and that were conceded to them. The liberal foolish men swore that they were ready for the battle. They would concede nothing, and would stand up and fight if the word concession were named to them. They would not only have one member, but would have half the aldermen, half the town-councillors, half the mayor, half the patronage in beadles, bell-ringers and bumbledom in general. Had the great reformer of the age given them household suffrage for nothing? The liberal foolish men of Percycross declared, and perhaps thought, that they could send two liberal members to Parliament. And so the borough grew hot. There was one very learned pundit in those parts, a pundit very learned in political matters, who thus prophesied to one of the proposed candidates;—"You'll spend a thousand pounds in the election. You won't get in, of course, but you'll petition. That'll be another thousand. You'll succeed there, and disfranchise the borough. It will be a great career, and no doubt you'll find it satisfactory. You mustn't show yourself in Percycross afterwards;—that's all." But the spirit was afloat, and the words of the pundit were of no avail. The liberal spirit had been set a going, and men went to work with the new lists of borough voters. By the end of August it was seen that there must be a contest. But who should be the new candidates?
The old candidates were there,—one on each side: an old Tory and a young Radical. In telling our tale we will not go back to the old sins of the borough, or say aught but good of the past career of the members. Old Mr. Griffenbottom, the Tory, had been very generous with his purse, and was beloved, doubtless, by many in the borough. It is so well for a borough to have some one who is always ready with a fifty-pound note in this or that need! It is so comfortable in a borough to know that it can always have its subscription lists well headed! And the young Radical was popular throughout the county. No one could take a chair at a mechanics' meeting with better grace or more alacrity, or spin out his half-hour's speech with greater ease and volubility. And then he was a born gentleman, which is so great a recommendation for a Radical. So that, in fact, young Mr. Westmacott, though he did not spend so much money as old Griffenbottom, was almost as popular in the borough. There was no doubt about Griffenbottom and Westmacott,—if only the borough would have listened to its wise men and confined itself to the political guardianship of such excellent representatives! But the foolish men prevailed over the wise men, and it was decided that there should be a contest.
It was an evil day for Griffenbottom when it was suggested to him that he should bring a colleague with him. Griffenbottom knew what this meant almost as well as the learned pundit whose words we have quoted. Griffenbottom had not been blessed with uncontested elections, and had run through many perils. He had spent what he was accustomed to call, when speaking of his political position among his really intimate friends, "a treasure" in maintaining the borough. He must often have considered within himself whether his whistle was worth the price. He had petitioned and been petitioned against, and had had evil things said of him, and had gone through the very heat of the fire of political warfare. But he had kept his seat, and now at last,—so he thought,—the ease and comfort of an unopposed return was to repay him for everything. Alas! how all this was changed; how his spirits sank within him, when he received that high-toned letter from his confidential agent, Mr. Trigger, in which he was invited to suggest the name of a colleague! "I'm sure you'll be rejoiced to hear, for the sake of the old borough," said Mr. Trigger, "that we feel confident of carrying the two seats." Could Mr. Trigger have heard the remarks which his patron made on reading that letter, Mr. Trigger would have thought that Mr. Griffenbottom was the most ungrateful member of Parliament in the world. What did not Mr. Griffenbottom owe to the borough of Percycross? Did he not owe all his position in the world, all his friends, the fact that he was to be seen on the staircases of Cabinet Ministers, and that he was called "honourable friend" by the sons of dukes,—did he not owe it all to the borough of Percycross? Mr. Trigger and other friends of his, felt secure in their conviction that they had made a man of Mr. Griffenbottom. Mr. Griffenbottom understood enough of all this to answer Mr. Trigger without inserting in his letter any of those anathemas which he uttered in the privacy of his own closet. He did, indeed, expostulate, saying, that he would of course suggest a colleague, if a colleague were required; but did not Mr. Trigger and his other friends in the dear old borough think that just at the present moment a pacific line of action would be best for the interests of the dear old borough? Mr. Trigger answered him very quickly, and perhaps a little sharply. The Liberals had decided upon having two men in the field, and therefore a pacific line of action was no longer possible. Mr. Griffenbottom hurried over to the dear old borough, still hoping,—but could do nothing. The scent of the battle was in the air, and the foolish men of Percycross were keen for blood. Mr. Griffenbottom smiled and promised, and declared to himself that there was no peace for the politician on this side the grave. He made known his desires,—or the desire rather of the borough,—to a certain gentleman connected with a certain club in London, and the gentleman in question on the following day waited upon Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas had always been true "to the party,"—so the gentleman in question was good enough to say. Everybody had regretted the loss of Sir Thomas from the House. The present opportunity of returning to it was almost unparalleled, seeing that thing was so nearly a certainty. Griffenbottom had always been at the top of the poll, and the large majority of the new voters were men in the employment of conservative masters. The gentleman in question was very clear in his explanation that there was a complete understanding on this matter between the employers and employed at Percycross. It was the nature of the Percycross artizan to vote as his master voted. They made boots, mustard, and paper at Percycross. The men in the mustard and paper trade were quite safe;—excellent men, who went in a line to the poll, and voted just as the master paper-makers and master mustard-makers desired. The gentleman from the club acknowledged that there was a difficulty about the boot-trade. All the world over, boots do affect radical sentiments. The master bootmakers,—there were four in the borough,—were decided; but the men could not be got at with any certainty.
"Why should you wish to get at them?" demanded Sir Thomas.
"No;—of course not; one doesn't wish to get at them," said the gentleman from the club,—"particularly as we are safe without them." Then he went into statistics, and succeeded in proving to Sir Thomas that there would be a hard fight. Sir Thomas, who was much pressed as to time, took a day to consider. "Did Mr. Griffenbottom intend to fight the battle with clean hands?" The gentleman from the club was eager in declaring that everything would be done in strict accordance with the law. He could give no guarantee as to expenses, but presumed it would be about £300,—perhaps £400,—certainly under £500. The other party no doubt would bribe. They always did. And on their behalf,—on behalf of Westmacott and Co.,—there would be treating, and intimidation, and subornation, and fictitious voting, and every sin to which an election is subject. It always was so with the Liberals at Percycross. But Sir Thomas might be sure that on his side everything would be—"serene." Sir Thomas at last consented to go down to Percycross, and see one or two of his proposed supporters.
He did go down, and was considerably disgusted. Mr. Trigger took him in hand and introduced him to three or four gentlemen in the borough. Sir Thomas, in his first interview with Mr. Trigger, declared his predilection for purity. "Yes, yes; yes, yes; of course," said Mr. Trigger. Mr. Trigger, seeing that Sir Thomas had come among them as a stranger to whom had been offered the very great honour of standing for the borough of Percycross,—offered to him before he had subscribed a shilling to any of the various needs of the borough,—was not disposed to listen to dictation. But Sir Thomas insisted. "It's as well that we should understand each other at once," said Sir Thomas. "I should throw up the contest in the middle of it,—even if I were winning,—if I suspected that money was being spent improperly." How often has the same thing been said by a candidate, and what candidate ever has thrown up the sponge when he was winning? Mr. Trigger was at first disposed to tell Sir Thomas that he was interfering in things beyond his province. Had it not been that the day was late, and that the Liberals were supposed to be hard at work,—that the candidate was wanted at once, Mr. Trigger would have shown his spirit. As it was he could only assent with a growl, and say that he had supposed all that was to be taken as a matter of course.
"But I desire to have it absolutely understood by all those who act with me in this matter," said Sir Thomas. "At any rate I will not be petitioned against."
"Petitions never come to much at Percycross," said Mr. Trigger. He certainly ought to have known, as he had had to do with a great many of them. Then they started to call upon two or three of the leading conservative gentlemen. "If I were you, I wouldn't say anything about that, Sir Thomas."
"About what?"
"Well;—bribery and petitions, and the rest of it. Gentlemen when they're consulted don't like to be told of those sort of things. There has been a little of it, perhaps. Who can say?" Who, indeed, if not Mr. Trigger,—in regard to Percycross? "But it's better to let all that die out of itself. It never came to much in Percycross. I don't think there was ever more than ten shillings to be had for a vote. And I've known half-a-crown a piece buy fifty of 'em," he added emphatically. "It never was of much account, and it's best to say nothing about it."
"It's best perhaps to make one's intentions known," said Sir Thomas mildly. Mr. Trigger hummed and hawed, and shook his head, and put his hands into his trousers pockets;—and in his heart of hearts he despised Sir Thomas.
On that day Sir Thomas was taken to see four gentlemen of note in Percycross,—a mustard-maker, a paper-maker, and two bootmakers. The mustard-maker was very cordial in offering his support. He would do anything for the cause. Trigger knew him. The men were all right at his mills. Then Sir Thomas said a word. He was a great foe to intimidation;—he wouldn't for worlds have the men coerced. The mustard-maker laughed cheerily. "We know what all that comes to at Percycross; don't we, Trigger? We shall all go straight from this place;—shan't we, Trigger? And he needn't ask any questions;—need he, Trigger?" "Lord 'a mercy, no," said Trigger, who was beginning to be disgusted. Then they went on to the paper-maker's.
The paper-maker was a very polite gentleman, who seemed to take great delight in shaking Sir Thomas by the hand, and who agreed with energy to every word Sir Thomas said. Trigger stood a little apart at the paper-maker's, as soon as the introduction had been performed,—perhaps disapproving in part of the paper-maker's principles. "Certainly not, Sir Thomas; not for the world, Sir Thomas. I'm clean against anything of that kind, Sir Thomas," said the paper-maker. Sir Thomas assured the paper-maker that he was glad to hear it;—and he was glad. As they went to the first bootmaker's, Mr. Trigger communicated to Sir Thomas a certain incident in the career of Mr. Spiveycomb, the paper-maker. "He's got a contract for paper from the 'Walhamshire Herald,' Sir Thomas;—the largest circulation anywhere in these parts. Griffenbottom gets him that; and if ere a man of his didn't vote as he bade 'em, he wouldn't keep 'em, not a day. I don't know that we've a man in Percycross so stanch as old Spiveycomb." This was Mr. Trigger's revenge.