Mr. Bokenham did not improve in the estimation either of the constituency of Brocksopp, or of those in London who had the guidance of electioneering matters in the borough in the Liberal interest. The aspiring candidate was tolerably amenable at first, went down as often as the policy of such a course was suggested to him, and visited all the people whose names were on the list with which he was supplied; though his objectionable manner, and his evident lack of real interest in the place and its inhabitants, militated very much against his success. But after a little time he neglected even these slight means for cultivating popularity. A young man, with an excellent income, and with the prospect of a very large fortune on his father's death, has very little trouble in getting into such society as would be most congenial to him, more especially when that society is such as is most affected by the classes which he apes. Young Mr. Bokenham, whose chief desire in life was, as his sharp-seeing, keen-witted old father said of him, to "sink the shop," laid himself out especially for the company of men of birth and position, and he succeeded in hooking himself on to one of the fastest and most raffish sets in London. The fact that he was anovus homo,and that his father was "in trade," which had caused him to be held up to ridicule at Eton, and had rendered men shy of knowing him at Christchurch, had, he was delighted to perceive, no such effect in the great city. He began with a few acquaintances picked up in public, but, he speedily enlarged and improved his connection. The majors, with the billiard-table brevet, the captains, and the shabby old bucks of St. Alban's Place, with whom Tommy Bokenham at first consorted, were soon renounced for men of a widely different stamp, so far as birth and breeding were concerned, but with much the same tastes, and more means and opportunities of gratifying them. It is probable that Mr. Bokenham owed his introduction among these scions of the upper circles to a notion, prevalent among a certain section of them, that he might be induced to plunge into the mysteries of the turf, and to bet largely, even if he did not undertake a racing establishment. But they were entirely wrong. Young Tommy had not sufficient physical go and pluck in him for anything that required energy; he commanded his position in the set in which, to his great delight, at length he found himself, by giving elaborate dinners and occasionally lending money in moderate amounts, in return for which he was allowed to show himself in public in the company of his noble acquaintances, and was introduced by them to certain of their male and female friends, the latter of whom were especially frank and demonstrative in their reception and welcome of him.
The fascination of this kind of life, which began to dawn on young Mr. Bokenham almost concurrently with the idea of his standing for the borough of Brocksopp, soon proved to be incompatible with the proper discharge of the duties required of him as candidate. He found the necessity for frequent visits to his intended constituents becoming more and more of a nuisance to him, and entirely declined a suggestion which was made to the effect that now, as the time of the election was so near at hand, it would be advisable for him to take up his residence at his father's house, and give his undivided attention to his canvassing. It was pointed out to him that his opponent, Mr. Creswell, was always on the spot, and, quite unexpectedly, had recently shown the greatest interest in the forthcoming struggle, and was availing himself of every means in his power to insure his success; but Tommy Bokenham refused to "bury himself at Brocksopp," as he phrased it, until it was absolutely necessary. "It is positively cruel," wrote Mr. Harrington, a clever young clerk, who had been despatched by his principals, Messrs. Potter and Fyfe, the great parliamentary agents, to report how matters were progressing in the borough, "to see how Mr. B. is cutting out the running for the other side! I've had a talk with South, the attorney, who is acting for us down here, a shrewd, sensible fellow, and he says there is every hope of our pulling through, even as we are, but that if we had only brought another kind of man to the post, our success would be a moral." Old Mr. Potter, a very rigid old gentleman residing at Clapham, and deacon of a chapel there, growled very much, both over the matter and the manner of this communication.
"What does this young man mean," he asked, peering over the paper at his partner through his double glasses, "by using this turf slang? Bring a man to the 'post!' and a 'moral' indeed!--a word I should not have expected to find in this gentleman's vocabulary." But Mr. Fyfe, who had a sneaking liking for sport, appeased the old gentleman, and pointed out that the letter, though oddly worded, was really full of good and reliable information, and that young Harrington had executed his commission cleverly. Both partners shook their heads over this further account of their candidate's shortcomings, and decided that some immediate steps must be taken to retrieve their position. The time of election was imminent; their opponent was resident, indefatigable, and popular; and though the report from Harrington spoke of ultimate success with almost certainty, it would not do to run the smallest risk in a borough which they had pledged their credit to wrest from Tory domination.
Messrs. Potter and Fyfe were not likely men to ventilate in public any opinions which they may have held regarding the business matters on which they were employed, but the inattention of Mr. Bokenham to his duties, and the manner in which he was throwing away his chances began to be talked of at theCometoffice, and the news of it even penetrated to Jack Byrne's little club. It was on the day after he had first heard of it that the old man walked up to Joyce's chambers, and on entering found his friend at home, and glad to see him. After a little desultory conversation, old Byrne began to talk of the subject with which he was filled.
"Have you heard anything lately of that man who was going to contest your old quarters, or thereabouts, for us, Walter? What's his name? Bokenham! that's it," he said.
"Oh yes," answered Joyce, "oddly enough, they were talking of him last night at the office. I went into O'Connor's room just as Forrest, who had come down with some not very clearly defined story from the Reform, was suggesting a slashing article with the view of what he called 'rousing to action' this very young man. O'Connor pooh-poohed the notion and put Forrest off; but from what he said to me afterwards, I imagine Mr. Bokenham is scarcely the man for the emergency--a good deal too lukewarm and dilettante. They won't stand that sort of thing in Brocksopp, and it's a point with our party, and especially with me, that Brocksopp should be won."
"Especially with you," repeated the old man; "ay, ay, I mind you saying that before! That's strong reaction from the old feeling, Walter!"
"Strong but not unnatural, I think. You, to whom I told the story when I first knew you, will remember what my feelings were towards--towards that lady. You will remember how entirely I imagined my life bound up in hers, my happiness centred on all she might say or do. You saw what happened--how she flung me aside at the very first opportunity, with scant ceremony and shallow excuses, careless what effect her treachery might have had upon me."
"It was all for the best, lad, as it turned out."
"As it turned out, yes! But how did she know that, when she did it? Had she known that it would have turned out for the worst, for the very worst, would she have stayed her hand and altered her purpose? Not she."
"I don't like to see you vindictive, boy; recollect she's a woman, and that once you were fond of her."
"I am not vindictive, as I take it; and when I think of her treatment of me, the recollection that I was fond of her is not very likely to have a softening effect. See here, old friend: in cold blood, and with due deliberation, Marian Ashurst extinguished what was then the one light in my sufficiently dreary life. Fortune has given me the chance, I think, of returning the compliment, and I intend to do it."
Jack Byrne turned uneasily in his chair; it was evident that his sentiments were not in accord with those of his friend. After a minute's pause he said, "Even supposing that the old eye-for-eye and tooth-for-tooth retribution were allowable--which I am by no means disposed to grant, especially where women are concerned--are you quite sure that in adopting it you are getting at what you wish to attain? You have never said so, but it must be as obvious to you as it is to me that Mrs. Creswell does not care for her husband. Do you think, then, she will be particularly influenced by a matter in which his personal vanity is alone involved?"
Joyce smiled somewhat grimly. "My dear old friend, it was Mrs. Creswell's ambition that dealt me what might have been mycoup de grâce.My anxiety about this contest at grimly springs from my desire to wound Mrs. Creswell's ambition. My knowledge of that lady is sufficient to prove to me, as clearly as though I were in her most sacred confidence, that she is most desirous that her husband should be returned to Parliament. The few words that were dropped by that idiot Bokenham the other day pointed to this, but I should have been sure of it if I had not heard them. After all, it is the natural result, and what might have been expected. During her poverty her prayer was for money. Money acquired, another want takes its place, and so it will be to the end of the chapter."
As Joyce ceased speaking there was a knock at the door, and Jack Byrne opening it, admitted young Mr. Harrington, the confidential clerk of Messrs. Potter and Fyfe. Young Mr. Harrington was festively attired in a garb of sporting cut, and wore his curved-rimmed hat on the top of his right ear; but there was an unusual, anxious look in his face, and he showed signs of great mental perturbation, not having, as he afterwards allowed to his intimate friends, "been so thoroughly knocked out of time since Magsman went a mucker for the Two Thou'." This perturbation was at once noticed by Mr. Byrne.
"Ah, Mr. Harrington," said he; "glad to see you, sir. Not looking quite so fresh as usual," he added, with a cynical grin. "What's the matter--nothing wrong in the great turf world, I trust? Sister to Saucebox has not turned out a roarer, or Billy Billingsgate broken down badly?"
"Thank you very much for your kind inquiries, Mr. Byrne," said Mr. Harrington, eyeing the old man steadily, without changing a muscle of his face. "I'll not forget to score up one to you, sir, and I'll take care to repay you that little funniment on the first convenient opportunity. Just now I've got something else in hand. Look here, let's stow this gaff! Mr. Joyce, my business is with you. The fact is, there is an awful smash-up at Brocksopp, and my governors want to see you at once."
"At Brocksopp?" said Joyce, with a start. "A smash at Brocksopp?"
"Yes," said Mr. Harrington. "The man that we were all depending on, young Mr. Bokenham, has come to grief."
"Dead?" exclaimed old Byrne.
"Oh no, not at all; political rather than social grief, I should have said. The fact is, so far as we can make out, Lord and Lady Steppe--you know Lady Steppe, Mr. Joyce, or, at all events, your friend Shimmer of theCometcould tell you all about her: she was Miss Tentose in the ballet at the Lane--have persuaded our sucking senator to go to Egypt with them for the winter. Lady S.'s influence is great in that quarter, I understand--so great that he pitches up Brocksopp, and let's us all slide!"
"Given up Brocksopp?" said old Byrne.
"Chucked up his cards, sir," said Harrington, "when the game was in his hand. My governors' people are regularly up a tree, cornered, and all that; so they want to see you, Mr. Joyce, at once, and have sent me to fetch you."
"To fetch him! Potter and Fyfe, of Abingdon Street, have sent you to fetch him" cried old Byrne, in great excitement. "Walter, do you think--do you recollect what I said to you some time ago? Can it be that it's coming on now?"
Joyce made no verbal reply, but he grasped his old friend's hand warmly, and immediately afterwards started off with Mr. Harrington in the hansom cab which that gentleman had waiting at the door.
The idea that had flashed through old Jack Byrne's mind, preposterously exaggerated as it had at first seemed to him, was nevertheless correct. When Joyce arrived at Messrs. Potter and Fyfe's office, he found there not merely those gentlemen, but with them several of the leading members of the party, and a deputation of two or three Liberals from Brocksopp, with whom Joyce was acquainted. Mr. Moule and Mr. Spalding, nervously excited, stepped forwards and shook hands with the young man in a jerky kind of manner. Immediately afterwards, backing again towards their chairs, on the extremest edge of which they propped themselves, they hid their hands in their coat-sleeves, and looked round in a furtive manner.
After a few formal speeches, Mr. Potter proceeded at once to business. Addressing Joyce, he said it was probably known to him that the gentleman on whom they had hitherto depended as a candidate for Brocksopp had thrown them over, and at the eleventh hour had left them to seek for another representative. In a few well-chosen and diplomatically rounded sentences, Mr. Potter pointed out that the task that Mr. Bokenham had imposed upon them was by no means so difficult a one as might have been imagined. Mr. Potter would not, he said, indulge in any lengthened speech. His business was simply to explain the wishes of those for whom he and his partner had the honour to act--here he looked towards the leaders of the party, who did not attempt to disguise the fact that they were growing rather bored by the Potterian eloquence--and those wishes were, in so many words, that Mr. Joyce should step into the place which Mr. Bokenham had left vacant.
One of the leaders of the party here manifesting an intention of having something to say, and wishing to say it, Mr. Fyfe promptly interposed with the remark that he should be able to controvert an assertion, which he saw his young friend Mr. Joyce about to make, to the effect that he would be unable to carry on the contest for want of means. He, Mr. Fyfe, was empowered to assert that old Mr. Bokenham was so enraged at his son's defalcation, which he believed to have been mainly brought about by Tory agency, Lord Steppe's father, the Earl of Stair, being a notoriously bigoted Blue, that he was prepared to guarantee the expenses of any candidate approved of by the party and by the town. Mr. Fyfe here pausing to take breath, the leader, who had been previously baulked, cut in with a neat expression of the party's approval of Mr. Joyce, and Mr. Spalding murmured a few incoherent words to the effect that during a life-long acquaintance with his young friend the people of Brocksopp had been in entire ignorance that he had anything in him, politically or otherwise, beyond book-learning, and that was the main reason for their wishing him to represent them in Parliament.
Although a faint dawning of the truth had come across him when Mr. Harrington announced young Bokenham's defection, Walter Joyce had no definite idea of the honour in store for him. Very modestly, and in very few words, he accepted the candidature, promising to use every exertion for the attainment of success. He was too much excited and overcome to enter into any elaborate discussion at that time. All he could do was to thank the leading members of the party for their confidence, to inform the parliamentary-agent firm that he would wait upon them the next day, and to assure Messrs. Spalding and Moule that the Liberals of Brocksopp would find him among them immediately. Did Walter Joyce falter for one instant in the scheme of retribution which he had foreshadowed, now that he was to be its exponent, now that the vengeance which he had anticipated was to be worked out by himself? No! On the contrary, he was more satisfied in being able to assure himself of the edge of the weapon, and of the strength of the arm by which the blow should be dealt.
"We calculated too soon upon the effect of young Bokenham's escapade, darling," said Mr. Creswell to his wife, on his return after a day in Brocksopp. "The field is by no means to be left clear to us. The walls of the town are blazing with the placards of a new candidate in the Liberal interest--a clever man, I believe--who is to have all the elder Bokenham's backing, and who, from previous connection, may probably have certain local interests of his own."
"Previous connection--local interest? Who can it be?" asked Marian.
"An old acquaintance of yours, I should imagine; at least, the name is familiar to me in connection with your father and the old days of Helmingham school. The signature to the address is 'Walter Joyce.'"
Splendid as was the opportunity just offered to Walter Joyce by the parliamentary agents, it is more than probable that he would have declined to profit by it had the scene of action been laid anywhere else than in Brocksopp, and his opponent been any one other than Mr. Creswell. Although utterly changed from the usher in a country school, who was accustomed to take life as it came,--or indeed from the young man who, when he obtained Lord Hetherington's private secretaryship, looked upon himself as settled for life,--Joyce had even now scarcely any ambition, in the common acceptation of the word. To most men brought up as he had been, membership of parliament would have meant London life in good society, excellent station of one's own, power of dispensing patronage and conferring favours on others, and very excellent opportunity for getting something pleasant and remunerative for one's self, when the chance offered. To Walter Joyce it meant the acceptance of a sacred trust, to the proper discharge and fulfilment of which all his energies were pledged by the mere fact of his acceptance of the candidature. Not, indeed, that he had ever had any thoughts of relinquishing his recently acquired profession, the press; he looked to that as his sole means of support; but he felt that should he be successful in obtaining a seat in the House, his work would be worth a great deal more than it bad hitherto been, and he should be able to keep his income at the same amount while he devoted half of the time thus saved to his political duties.
But being, as has been said, thoroughly happy in his then career, Joyce would never have thought of entertaining the proposition made to him through the medium of Messrs. Potter and Fyfe had it not been for the desire of revenging himself on Marian Creswell by opposing to the last, and, if possible, in every honourable way, by defeating, her husband. Joyce felt perfectly certain that Mr. Creswell--quiet, easy-going old gentleman as he had been of late years, and more likely than ever to be disinclined to leave his retirement and do battle in the world since his son's death--was a mere puppet in the hands of his wife, whose ambition had prompted her to make her husband seek the honour, and whose vanity would be deeply wounded at his failure. Walter Joyce's personal vanity was also implicated in the result, and he certainly would not have accepted the overtures had there not been a good chance of success; but Mr. Harrington, who, out of his business, was a remarkably sharp, shrewd, and farseeing man of the world and of business, spoke very positively on this point, and declared their numbers were so strong, and the popular excitement so great in their favour, that they could scarcely fail of success, provided they had the right man to bring forward. To win the day against her; to show her that the man she basely rejected and put aside was preferred, in a great struggle, to the man she had chosen; that the position which she had so coveted for her husband, and towards the attainment of which she had brought into play all the influence of her wit and his money, had been snatched from her by the poor usher whom she had found good enough to play with in her early days, but who was thrust aside, his fidelity and devotion availing him nothing, directly a more eligible opportunity offered itself--that would be sweet indeed! Yes, his mind was made up; he would use all his energies for the prosecution of the scheme: it should be war to the knife between him and Marian Creswell.
Joyce's manner was so thorough and so hearty, his remarks were so practical, and his spirits so high, when he called on Messrs. Potter and Fyfe on the next day, that those gentlemen were far better pleased with him, and far more sanguine of his popularity and consequent success at Brocksopp, than they had been after the first interview. Modesty and self-depreciation were qualities very seldom seen, and very little esteemed, in the parliamentary agents' offices in Abingdon Street. The opinion of the head of the firm was that Walter wanted "go;" and it was only owing to the strenuous Interposition of Mr. Harrington, who knew Joyce's writings, and had more than once heard him speak in public, that they did not openly bemoan their choice and proceed to look out for somebody else. This, however, they did not do; neither did they mention their doubts to the deputation from Brocksopp, the members of which did not, indeed, give them time to do so, had they been so inclined, clearing out so soon as the interview was over, and harking back to the Tavistock Hotel, in Covent Garden, there to eat enormous dinners, and thence to sally forth for the enjoyment of those festivities in which our provincials so much delight, and the reminiscences of which serve for discussion for months afterwards. The parliamentary agents were very glad of their reticence the next day. The young man's heartiness and high spirits seemed contagious; the sound of laughter, a phenomenon in Abingdon Street, was heard by Mr. Harrington to issue from "the governors' room;" and old Mr. Potter forgot so far the staid dignity of a chapel-deacon as to clap Walter Joyce on the back, and wish him luck. Joyce was going down on his first canvass to Brocksopp by himself; he would not take any one with him, not even Mr. Harrington; he was much obliged to them; he knew something of Mr. South, the local Liberal agent (he laughed inwardly as he said this, remembering how he used to look upon Mr. South as a tremendous gun), and he had no doubt they would get on very well together.
"You know South, Mr. Joyce?" said Mr. Fyfe; "what a very curious thing! I should have thought that old South's celebrity was entirely local, or at all events confined to the county."
"Doubtless it is," replied Joyce; "but then you know I----"
"Ah! I forgot," interrupted Mr. Fyfe. "You have some relations with the place. Yes, yes, I heard! By the way, then, I suppose you know your opponent, Mr. Kerswill--Creswell--what's his name?"
"Oh yes, I remember Mr. Creswell perfectly; but he never saw much of me, and I should scarcely think would recollect me!"
"Ah! you'll excuse me, my dear sir," Mr. Fyfe added, after a short pause; "but of course there's no necessity to impress upon you the importance of courtesy towards your opponent--I mean Kerswill. You're certain to meet on the hustings; and most probably, in a swellish place like Brocksopp, you'll be constantly running across each other in the streets while you're on your canvass. Then, courtesy, my dear sir, before everything else!"
"You need not be afraid, Mr. Fyfe," said Joyce, smiling; "I shall be perfectly courteous to Mr. Creswell."
"Of course you will, my dear sir; of course you will! Mustn't think it odd in me to suggest it; part of my business to point these things out when I'm coaching a candidate; and necessary too, deuced necessary sometimes, though you wouldn't think it. Less than six months ago, when poor Wiggington was lost in his yacht in the Mediterranean--you remember?--we sent down a man to stand for his borough. Lord---- No! I won't tell you his name; but the eldest son of an earl. The other side sent down a man too--a brewer, or a maltster, or something of that kind; but a deucedly gentlemanly fellow. They met on their canvass, these two, just as you and Kerswill might; and this man, like a gentleman, took off his hat. What did our man do? Stopped still, stuck his glass in his eye, and stared; never bowed, never moved; give you my word. Had to withdraw him at once; his committee stood by and saw it, and wouldn't act for him any more. 'Lordship be damned!' that's what they said. Strong language, but that's what they said; give you my word. Had to withdraw him, too late to find another man; so our people lost the seat."
The first thing that astonished Joyce on his arrival at Brocksopp was the sight of his own name printed in large letters on flaming placards, and affixed in all the conspicuous places of the town. He had not given consideration to this sudden notoriety, and his first realisation of it was in connection with the thought of the effect it would have on Marian, who must have seen it; her husband must have told her of the name of his opponent; she must have been certain that it was not a person of similar name, but her discarded lover himself who was waging battle against her, and attacking her husband in the stronghold which he might have even considered safe. She would know the sentiments which had prompted him in leaving her last letter unanswered, in taking no notice of her since the avowal of her perfidy. Up to this time she might have pictured him to herself as ever bewailing her loss--as would have been the case had she been taken from him by death--as the prey of despair. Now she must know him as actuated by feelings far stronger and sterner; he was prepared to do battle to the death. This feeling was pre-eminent above all others; this desire for revenge, this delight at the occasion which had been offered him for lowering the pride and thwarting the designs of the woman who had done him such great wrong. He never faltered in his intention for a moment; he abated his scheming not one jot. He had some idea on the journey down to Brocksopp that perhaps the old reminiscences, which would naturally be kindled by the sight of the familiar scenes among which he would soon find himself, and of the once familiar faces by which he would be surrounded, would have a softening effect on his anger, and perhaps somewhat shake his determination. But on experience he did not find it so. As yet he had religiously kept away from the neighbourhood of Helmingham; he thought it better taste to do so, and his duties in canvassing had not called him thither. He had quite enough to do in calling on the voters resident in Brocksopp.
As Walter Joyce had not been to Helmingham, the village folk, who in their old-fashioned way were oddly punctilious, thought it a point of etiquette not to call upon him, though such as were politically of his way of thinking took care to let him know he might reckon on their support; and of all the people whom Walter had been in the habit of seeing almost daily in the village, Jack Forman, the ne'er-do-weel, was the only one who came over expressly to Brocksopp for the purpose of visiting his old friend. It was not so much friendship as constant thirst that prompted Jack's visit; he had been in the habit of looking on elections as institutions for the gratuitous supply of ale and spirits, extending more or less over the term of a month, to all who chose to ask for them, and hitherto he had been greatly disappointed in not finding his name on the free list of the Helmingham taverns. So it was well worth Jack's while to spend a day in staggering over to Brocksopp, and on his arrival he met with a very kind reception from Walter, sufficiently kind to enable him to bear up against the black looks and ill-suppressed growls of Mr. South, who, in his capacity of clerk to the magistrates, only knew Jack as a bit of a poacher, and a great deal of a drunkard.
Immediately on his arrival in Brocksopp, and after one or two preliminary interviews with Mr. South, who, as he imagined, had forgotten all about him, and was much struck by his knowledge of neighbouring persons and localities, Joyce proceeded with his canvass, and after a very brief experience felt that Mr. Harrington had not taken too rose-coloured a view of his chance of success. Although to most of the electors of Brocksopp he was personally unknown, and though such as remembered his father held him in recollection only as a sour, cross-grained man, with a leaning towards "Methodee" and a suspicion of avarice, the fact that Walter was not an entire stranger had great influence with many of the electors, and his appearance and manner won him troops of friends. They liked his frank face and hearty demeanour, they felt that he was eminently "thorough," the lack of which quality had been the chief ground of complaint against young Bokenham, and they delighted in his lucid argument and terse way of laying a question before them and driving it home to their understanding. In this he had the advantage of his opponent; and many waverers, with undefined political opinions, who attended the public meetings of both parties, were won over to Joyce's side by the applause with which his speeches were received, and by the feeling that a man who could produce such an effect on his hearers must necessarily be a clever man, and the right person to be sent by them to Parliament. The fact was allowed even by his opponents. Mr. Teesdale wrote up to Mr. Gould that things were anything but bright, that the new man was amazingly popular, and quite young, which was not a bad thing when great exertion was required; that he was, moreover, a clever, rapid, forcible speaker, and seemed to be leaving their man very much behind. And old Croke, who had been induced to attend a meeting convened by the Liberals, and who, though for respectability's sake he had made no open disturbance, had been dreadfully shocked at the doctrines which he had heard, not merely promulgated, but loudly applauded, was afterwards compelled to confess to a select few at the Lion that the manner, if not the matter of Walter Joyce's speech was excellent. "Our squire," he said, "speaks like a gen'alman as he is, soft and quiet like, on and on like the droppin' o' watter, but this un du screw it into you hard and fast; and not content wi' drivin' on it home, he rivets un on t'other side."
Electioneering matters in Brocksopp wore a very different aspect to that which they had borne a short time previously. Mr. Teesdale had seen from the beginning that the candidature of young Mr. Bokenham was not likely to be very dangerous to his opponent, however liberally he might be backed by his indulgent father. The local agent, who had lived all his life among the Brocksoppians, was quite aware that they required a man who would at all events pretend to be in earnest, whichever suffrages he courted, and his keen eyes told him at the first glance that young Tommy was a vacillating, purposeless pleasure-lover, who would command no confidence, and receive but few votes. When the Bokenham escapade took place Mr. Teesdale telegraphed the news to his principal, Mr. Gould, and in writing to him on the same subject by the next post said, "It is exactly what I always anticipated of young B., though his friends did not apparently see it. I think it will be a shock to the L.'s, and should not be surprised if our man had a walk-over." Mr. Teesdale was essentially a country gentleman, and though he thought Mr. Harrington a "turfy cad," saw no harm in occasionally employing a sporting phrase, even in his business. But now all was altered; the appearance of Walter Joyce upon the scene, the manner in which he was backed, his gentlemanly conduct and excellent speaking had an immediate and extraordinary effect. The Tory influence under Sir George Kent had been so all-powerful for many years, that all thoughts of a contest had, been abandoned, and there were scores of men, farmers and manufacturers, on the register, who had never taken the trouble to record their vote. To the astonishment and dismay of Mr. Teesdale, most of them on being waited on in Mr. Creswell's interest, declared that their leanings were more towards Liberalism than Conservatism, and that now they had the chance of returning a candidate who would do them credit and be a proper advocate of their views, they should certainly give him their support. The fact, too, that Joyce was a self-made man told immensely in his favour, especially with the manufacturing classes. Mr. Harrington, who had paid a couple of flying visits to the town, had possessed himself of certain portions of Walter's family history, and disseminated them in such quarters as he thought would be advantageous.
"Father were grocer in village hard by!" they would repeat to one another in wonder, "and this young un stuck to his buke, and so crammed his head wi' lurnin' that he's towt tu three Lards up in London, and writes in newspapers--think o' that now!" It was in vain that Mr. Teesdale, when he heard of the success of his opponent's move, went about pointing out that Mr. Creswell was not only a self-made man, having risen from nothing to his then eminence, but that all the money which he had made was engaged in the employment and development of labour. The argument was sound, but it did not seem to have the same effect; whatever it was, it had the same result, a decided preference for Mr. Joyce as against Mr. Creswell, amongst those who, possessing votes, had hitherto declined to use them.
But there was another class which it was necessary to propitiate, and with which Mr. Teesdale was afraid he stood but little chance. Many of the "hands" had obtained votes since the last election, and intended making use of their newly acquired prerogative. There was no fear of their not voting; the only question was on which side they would cast the preponderance of their influence. This was soon seen. Naturally they were inclined to support Walter Joyce, but whatever lingering doubts they may have had were dispelled as soon as Jack Byrne appeared upon the scene, and, despite of Joyce's protests, determined on remaining to assist in the canvass. "Why not?" said Jack; "let me have my way. I'm an old man now, lad, and haven't so many fancies that I mayn't indulge one now and again. The business suffer!" he said, in reply to something that Walter had said; "the business, indeed! You know well enough that the bird-stuffing now is a mere pretext--a mere something that I keep for my 'idle hands to do,' and that it's no necessity, thank the Lord! So let me bide here, lad, and aid in the good work. I think I may be of use among a few of them yet." And he was right. Not merely was the old man's name known and venerated among the older "hands," as one of the "martyrs of '48," but his quaint caustic tongue made him an immense favourite with the younger men; and soon there were no meetings brought to a close without loud demands for a "bit speech" from Jack Byrne.
Nor was it amongst the farmer and manufacturing classes alone that Mr. Joyce received pledges of support. Several of the neighbouring county gentry and clergy, who had hung back during Mr. Bokenham's candidature, enrolled themselves on the committee of the new-comer; and one of his most active adherents was Mr. Benthall. It was not until after due deliberation, and much weighing of pros and cons, that the head-master of Helmingham Grammar School took this step; but he smiled when he had thoroughly made up his mind, and muttered something to himself about its being "a shot for madam in more ways than one." When he had decided he was by no means underhand in his conduct, but went straight to Mr. Creswell, taking the opportunity of catching him away from home and alone, and told him that the Benthall family had been staunch Liberals for generations; and that, however much he might regret being opposed in politics to a gentleman for whom he entertained such a profound esteem and regard, he could not forswear the family political faith. Mr. Creswell made him a polite reply, and forthwith forgot all about it; and Marian, though she was in the habit of questioning her husband pretty closely at the end of each day as to the progress he had made, looked upon Mr. Benthall's vote as so perfectly secure that she never asked about the matter.
Notwithstanding the favourable reception which he met with everywhere, and the success which seemed invariably to attend him in his canvass, Joyce found it very heavy work. The constant excitement soon began to tell upon him, and the absurdity of the questions sometimes asked, or the pledges occasionally required of him, irritated him so much that he began to inquire of himself whether he was really wise in going through with the affair, and whether he was not paying a little too dearly even for that revenge for which he had longed, and which was almost within his grasp. His fidelity to the cause to which he had pledged himself would doubtless have caused him to smother these murmurings without any extraneous aid; but just at that time he had an adventure which at once put an end to all doubt on the subject.
One bright wintry morning he arose at the hotel with the determination to take a day's rest from his labours, and to endeavour to recruit himself by a little quiet and fresh air. He had been up late the previous night at a very large meeting of his supporters, the largest as yet gathered together, which he had addressed with even more than wonted effect. He felt that he was speaking more forcibly than usual; he could not tell why, he did not even know what prompted him; but he felt it. It could not have been the presence of the parliamentary agent, Mr. Fyfe, who had come down from London to see bow his young friend was getting on, and who was really very much astonished at his young friend's eloquence. Walter Joyce was speaking of the way in which the opposite party had, when in power, broken the pledges they had given, and laughed to scorn the promises they had made when seeking power, and in dilating upon it he used a personal illustration, comparing the voters to a girl who had been jilted and betrayed by her lover, who had been unexpectedly raised to riches. Unconsciously fired by his own experience, he displayed a most forcible and highly wrought picture of the despair of the girl and the villainy of the man, and roused his audience to a perfect storm of enthusiasm. No one who heard him, as he thought, except Jack Byrne, had the least inkling of his story, or of its effect upon his eloquence; but the "hands" were immensely touched and delighted, and the effect was electrical. Walter went home thoroughly knocked up, and the next morning the reaction had set in. He felt it impossible to attend to business, sent messages to Mr. Fyfe and to Byrne, telling them they must get on without him for the day, and, after a slight breakfast, hurried out of the hotel by the back way. There were always plenty of loafers and idlers hanging round all sides of the house, eager to stare at him, to prefer a petition to him, or to point him out to their friends; but this morning he was lucky enough to escape them, and, thanks to his knowledge of the locality, to strike upon an unfrequented path, which soon took him clear of the town and brought him to the open fields.
He had forgotten the direction in which the path led, or he would most probably have avoided it and chosen some other, for there lay Helmingham village directly before him. Hitherto he had carefully avoided even looking towards it, but there it was, under his eyes. At some distance it is true, but still sufficiently near for him, with his knowledge of the place, to recognise every outline. There, away on the horizon, was the schoolhouse; there the church; there, dipping down towards the middle of the High Street, the house which had been so long his father's. What years ago it seemed! There were alterations, too; several newly built houses, a newly made road leading, he supposed, to Woolgreaves. Woolgreaves! he could not see the house, he was thankful for that, but he overlooked a portion of the grounds from where he stood, and saw the sun reflected from much sparkling glass, evidently conservatories of recent erection. "She's spending the price for which she sold me!" he muttered to himself.
He crossed a couple of fields, clambered over a hedge, and jumped down into the newly made road which he had noticed, intending, after pursuing it a short distance, to strike across, leaving Woolgreaves on his right, and make for Helmingham. He could roam about the outskirts of the old place without attracting attention and without any chance of meeting with her. He had gone but a very little way when he heard a sharp, clear, silvery tinkling of little bells, then the noise of horse-hoofs on the hard, dry road, and presently came in sight a little low carriage, drawn by a very perfect pair of iron-gray ponies, and driven by a lady dressed in a sealskin cloak and a coquettish sealskin hat. He knew her in an instant. Marian!
While he was deliberating what to do, whether to remain where he was or jump the hedge and disappear, before he could take any action the pony carriage had neared him, and the ponies were stopped by his side. She had seen him in the distance, and recognised him too; he knew that by the flush that overspread her usually pale face. She was looking bright and well, and far handsomer than he ever remembered her. He had time to notice all that in one glance, before she spoke.
"I am glad of this accidental meeting, Mr. Joyce!" she said, with the slightest tremor in her voice, "for though I had made up my mind to see you I did not see the opportunity."
Walter merely bowed.
"Do you mind walking with me for five minutes? I'll not detain you longer." Walter bowed again. "Thank you very much. James, follow with the ponies." She stepped out of the carriage with perfect grace and dignity, just touching with the tips of her fingers the arm which Walter, half in spite of himself, held out.
"You will not expect me to act any part in this matter, Mr. Joyce," she said, after a moment's pause. "I mean to make no pretence of being astonished at finding you here, in direct opposition to me and mine!"
"No, indeed! that would be time wasted, Mrs. Creswell," said Walter, speaking for the first time. "Opposition to you and yours is surely the thing most likely to be expected in me."
"Exactly! Although at first I scarcely thought you would take the breaking off of our relations in the way you did, I guessed it when you did not write; I knew it, of course, when you started here, but I was never so certain of your feelings in regard to me as I was last night."
"Last night?"
"Last night! I was present at the Mechanics' Institute, sitting in the gallery with my maid and her brother as escort. I had heard much of your eloquence, and wanted to be convinced. It seems I selected a specially good occasion. You were particularly scathing."
"I spoke what I felt----"
"No doubt; you could not have spoken so without having felt all you described, so that I can completely imagine how you feel towards me. But you are a sensible man, as well as a good speaker, and that is why I have determined to apply to you."
"What do you want, Mrs. Creswell?"
"I want you to go out of this place, Mr. Joyce; to take your name off the walls, and your candidature out of the county! I want you to give up your opposition to my husband. You are too strong for him--you personally; not your cause, but you. We know that; the last three days have convinced everybody of that, and you'll win the election if you stop."
Joyce laughed aloud. "I know I shall," he said, his eyes gleaming.
"What then?" said Marian, quietly. "Do you know what a poor member of Parliament is, 'hanging on' at every one's beck and call, bunted by all, respected by none, not knowing which to serve most as most likely to be able to serve him--would you like to be that, would your pride suffer that? That's all these people want of you--to make you their tool, their party's tool; for you yourself they have not the remotest care. Do you hear?"
"I do. But you have not told me, Mrs. Creswell, what I should get for retiring?"
"Your own terms, Walter Joyce, whatever they were. A competence for life--enough to give you leisure to follow the life in which, as I understand, you have engaged, in ease, when and where you liked. No drudgery, no anxiety, all your own settled on yourself!"
"You are strangely anxious about the result of this election, Mrs. Creswell."
"It am--and I am willing to pay for it."
Joyce laughed again--a very unpleasant laugh. "My dear Mrs. Creswell," said he, "if government could promise me ten times your husband's fortune to withdraw from this contest, I would refuse. If I had your husband's fortune, I would gladly forfeit it for the chance of winning this election, and defeating you. You will excuse my naming a money value for such pleasure; but I know that hitherto it has been the only one you could understand or appreciate. Good morning!" And he took off his hat and left her standing in the road.
Marian remained standing where Walter Joyce had left her, gazing after his retreating figure until it had passed out of sight. At first so little did she comprehend the full meaning of the curt sentence in which he had conveyed to her his abrupt rejection of the bribe which she had proposed to him, his perfect appreciation of the snare which she had prepared for him, that she had some sort of an idea that he would hesitate on his career, stop, turn back, and finally consent, if not to an immediate concession to her views, at all events to some further discussion, with a view to future settlement. But after his parting bow he strode unrelentingly onward, and it was not until he had reached the end of the newly made road, and, dropping down into the meadows leading to Helmingham, had entirely disappeared, that Marian realised how completely she had been foiled, was able to understand, to estimate, and, in estimating, to wince under, the bitter scorn with which her suggestion had been received, the scathing terms in which that scorn had been conveyed. A money value for anything to be desired--that was the only way in which he could make it clear to her understanding or appreciation--was not that what he had said? A money value Marian Creswell was not of those who sedulously hide their own failings from themselves, shrink at the very thought of them, make cupboard-skeletons of them, to be always kept under turned key. Too sensible for this, she knew that this treatment only enhanced the importance of the skeleton, without at all benefiting its possessor, felt that much the better plan was to take it out and subject it to examination, observe its form and its articulation, dust its bones, see that its joints swung easily, and replace it in its cupboard-home. But all these rites were, of course, performed in private, and the world was to be kept in strict ignorance of the existence of the skeleton. And now Walter Joyce knew of it; a money value, her sole standard of appreciation. Odd as it may seem, Marian had never taken the trouble to imagine to herself to what motive Walter would ascribe her rejection of him, her preference of Mr. Creswell. True, she had herself spoken in her last letter of the impossibility of her enjoying life without wealth and the luxuries which wealth commands, but she had argued to herself that he would scarcely have believed that, principally, perhaps, from the fact of her having advanced the statement so boldly, and now she found him throwing the argument in her teeth. And if Walter knew and understood this to be the dominant passion of her soul, the great motive power of her life, the knowledge was surely not confined to him--others would know it too. In gaining her position as Mr. Creswell's wife, her success, her elation, had been so great as completely to absorb her thoughts, and what people might say as to the manner in which that success had been obtained, or the reasons for which the position had been sought, had never troubled her for one instant. Now, however, she saw at once that her designs had been suspected, and doubtless talked of, sneered at, and jested over, and her heart beat with extra speed, and the blood suffused her cheeks, as she thought of how she had probably been the subject of alehouse gossip, how the townsfolk and villagers amongst whom, since the canvassing time, she had recently been so much, must have all discussed her after she had left their houses, and all had their passing joke at the young woman who had married the old man for his money. She stamped her foot in rage upon the ground as the idea came into her mind; it was too horrible to think she should have afforded scandal-matter to these low people, it was so galling to her pride; she almost wished that--and just then the sharp, clear, silvery tinkle of the little bells sounded on her ear, and the perfectly-appointed carriage with the iron-gray ponies came into view, and the next minute she had taken the reins from James, had received his salute, and, drawing her sealskin cloak closely round her, was spinning towards her luxurious home, with the feeling that she could put up with all their talk, and endure all their remarks, so long as she enjoyed the material comforts which money, had undoubtedly brought her.
Marian started on her return drive in a pleasant frame of mind, but the glow of satisfaction had passed away long before she reached home, and had been succeeded by very different feelings. She no longer cared what the neighbouring people might say about her; she had quite got over that, and was pondering, with gradually increasing fury, over the manner in which Walter Joyce had received her proposition, and the light and airy scorn, never for one moment striven to be concealed, with which he had tossed it aside. She bit her lip in anger and vexation as she thought of her tremendous folly in so speedily unfolding her plan without previously making herself acquainted with Joyce's views, and seeing how he was likely to receive the suggestion; she was furious with herself as she recalled his light laugh and easy bearing, so different from anything she had previously seen in him, and--by the way, that was odd; she had not noticed it before, but undoubtedly he was very much improved in appearance and manner; he had lost the rustic awkwardness and bashfulness which had previously rendered him somewhat ungainly, and had acquired confidence and ease. She had heard this before; her husband had mentioned it to her as having been told him by Mr. Teesdale, who kept the keenest outlook on Joyce and his doings, and who regarded him as a very dangerous opponent; she had heard this before, but she had paid but little attention to it, not thinking that she should so soon have an opportunity of personally verifying the assertion. She acknowledged it now; saw that it was exactly the manner which would prove wonderfully winning among the electors, who were neither to be awed by distant demeanour nor to be cajoled by excessive familiarity. In Walter Joyce's pleasant bearing and cheery way there was a something which seemed to say, "I am of you, and understand you, although I may have had, perhaps, a few more brains and a little better education;" and there was nothing that more quickly got to the hearts of the Brocksoppians than the feeling that they were about to elect one of themselves. This was a chord which Mr. Creswell could never touch, although he had every claim to do so, and although Mr. Gould had had thousands of a little pamphlet struck off and circulated among the voters--a little pamphlet supposed to be Mr. Creswell's biography, adorned with woodcuts borrowed from some previous publication, the first of which represented Mr. Creswell as a cabin-boy, about to receive the punishment of the "colt" from the mate--he had scarcely been on board ship during his life--while the last showed him, and Mrs. Creswell, with short waist, long train, and high ostrich feathers in her head (supposed to have been originally theveraeffigies of some lady mayoress in George the Third's, time), receiving the cream of the aristocracy in a gilded saloon. But the people declined to believe in the biography, which, indeed, did rather more harm than good, and cast doubt on the real history of Mr. Creswell's self-manufacture, than which, in its way, nothing could be more creditable.
Before Marian had reached her home she had revolved all these things very carefully in her mind, and the result which she arrived at was, that as it was impossible to purchase peace, and as the fight must now be fought out at all hazards, the only way--not indeed to insure success, for that was out of the question, but to stand a good chance for it--was to pay fresh and unremitting attention to the canvassing, and, above all, to try personally to enlist the sympathies of the voters, not leaving it, as in Woolgreaves it had hitherto been done, to Mr. Teesdale and his emissaries. With all her belief in money, Marian had a faith in position, which, though lately born, was springing up apace, and she felt that Squire Creswell might yet win many a vote which would be given to him out of respect to his status in the county, if he would only exert himself to obtain it.
Full of this idea, she drove through the lodge-gates at Woolgreaves, any little qualms or heart-sinkings which she might have recently felt disappearing entirely as she looked round upon the trim gardens, trim even in those first days of winter, and upon the long line of conservatories which had recently risen under her direction, as the hall-doors opened at her approach, and as she stepped out of her pony-carriage, the mistress of that handsome mansion, warmed and flower-scented and luxurious. Her pleasure was a little dashed when she found that Mr. Creswell had been carried off into Brocksopp by Mr. Gould, who had come down unexpectedly from London, and that Mr. Benthall was seated in the drawing-room with Maude and Gertrude, evidently intending to remain to luncheon, if he were invited. But she rallied in a moment, and accorded the invitation graciously, and did the honours of the luncheon table with all proper hospitality. Once or twice she winced a little at the obvious understanding between Gertrude and Mr. Benthall; a state of things for which, though to some extent prepared, she was by no means particularly grateful. It was not entirely new to her, this flirtation; she had noticed something of it a while ago, and her husband had made it the subject of one of his mild little jokes to her; but she had matters of greater import to attend to just then, and would see how it should be treated when the election was over.
After luncheon Marian, recollecting the determination she had arrived at in her homeward drive, was minded to put it in force at once, and accordingly said to her visitor, "Are you going back to the school, Mr. Benthall, or do you make holiday this afternoon?"
"Fortunately, my dear Mrs. Creswell," said Mr. Benthall, with a slight sign of that indolence which the consumption of an excellent luncheon superinduces in a man of full habit--"fortunately the law has done that for me! Wednesdays and Saturdays are half-holidays by--well, I don't know exactly by Act of Parliament, but at all events by Helmingham rule and system; so, to-day being Saturday, I am absolved from further work. To my infinite satisfaction, I confess."
"I am glad of that," said Marian; "for it will leave you free to accept my proposition. I have some business in Brocksopp, and I want an escort. Will you come?"
"I shall be delighted," replied Mr. Benthall, "though I shall keep up my unfortunate character for plain speaking by asking you not to dawdle too long in the shops! I do get so horridly impatient while ladies are turning over a counterful of goods!"
"My dear Mr. Benthall, pray spare yourself any such dreadful anticipations! The business that takes me into Brocksopp is of a widely different character."
"And that is----"
"How can you ask at such a crisis?" said Marian, in a mock heroic style, for her spirits always rose at the prospect of action. "In what business should a wife be engaged at such a time but her husband's? My business of course is--electioneering!"
"Electioneering--you?"
"Well, canvassing; you know perfectly well what I mean!"
"And you want me to go with you?"
"Why not? Mr. Benthall, what on earth is all this questioning about?"
"My dear Mrs. Creswell, do you not know that it is impossible for me to go with you on the expedition you propose?"
"No, I do not know it! Why is it impossible?"
"Simply because in politics I happen to be diametrically opposed to Mr. Creswell. My sympathies are strongly Liberal."
"Then, in the present election your intention is to vote against Mr. Creswell, and for his opponent?"
"Undoubtedly. Is this the first time you have heard this?"
"Most unquestionably! Who should have told me?"
"Mr. Creswell! Directly it was known that he would come forward in the Conservative interest, I told him my views!"
"He did not mention the circumstance to me," said Marian; then added, after a moment, "I never asked him about you, to be sure! I had no idea that there was the least doubt of the way in which you intended to vote."
There was a dead silence for a few minutes after this, a pause during which Gertrude Creswell took advantage of Marian's abstraction to catch Maude's eye, and to shape her mouth into the silent expression of the word "Row"--delivered three times with great solemnity. At last Marian looked up and said, with an evidently forced smile, "Well, then, I must be content to shrug my shoulders, and submit to these dreadful politics so far dividing us that I must give up all idea of your accompanying me into Brocksopp, Mr. Benthall; but I shall be obliged if you will give me five minutes' conversation--I will not detain you longer--in the library."
Mr. Benthall, muttering that he should be delighted, rose from his chair and opened the door for his hostess to pass out; before he followed her he turned round to glance at, the girls, and again Gertrude's fresh rosy lips pressed themselves together and then opened fur the silent expression of the word "Row," but he took no notice of this cabalistic sign beyond nodding his head in a reassuring manner, and then followed Mrs. Creswell to the library.
"Pray be seated, Mr. Benthall," said Marian, dropping into a chair at the writing-table, and commencing to sketch vaguely on the blotting-book with a dry pen; "the news you told me just now has come upon me quite unexpectedly. I had no idea--looking at your intimacy in this house--intimacy which, as far as I know, has continued uninterruptedly to the present moment--no idea that you could have been going to act against us at so serious a crisis as the present."
Mr. Benthall did not like Mrs. Creswell, but he was a man of the world, and he could not avoid admiring the delicious insolence of the tone of voice which lent additional relish to the insolence of the statement, that he had continued to avail himself of their hospitality, while intending to requite it with opposition. He merely said, however, "The fault is not mine, Mrs. Creswell, as I have before said; immediately on the announcement of the contest, and of Mr. Creswell's coming forward as the Conservative candidate, I went straight to him and told him I was not a free agent in the matter. I labour under the misfortune--and it is one for which I know I shall receive no sympathy in this part of the country, for people, however good-hearted they may be, cannot pity where they cannot understand--I labour under the misfortune of coming of an old family, having had people before me who for years and years have held to Liberal opinions in fair weather and foul weather, now profiting by it, now losing most confoundedly, but never veering a hair's breadth for an instant. In those opinions I was brought up, and in those opinions I shall die; they may be wrong, I don't say they are not; I've not much time, or opportunity, or inclination, for the matter of that, for going very deeply into the question. I've taken it for granted, on the strength of the recommendation of wiser heads than mine; more than all, on the fact of their being the family opinions, held by the family time out of mind. I'm excessively sorry that in this instance those opinions clash with those held by a gentleman who is so thoroughly deserving of all respect as Mr. Creswell, and from whom I have received so many proofs of friendship and kindness. Just now it is especially provoking for me to be thrown into antagonism to him in any way, because--however, that's neither here nor there. I dare say I shall have to run counter to several of my friends hereabouts, but there is no one the opposition to whom will concern me so much as Mr. Creswell. However, as I've said before, it is a question of sticking to the family principles, and in one sense to the family honour, and--so there's nothing else to be done."
Marian sat quietly for a minute, before she said, "Not having had the honour of belonging to an old family so extensively stocked with traditions, not even having married into one, I am perhaps scarcely able to understand your position, Mr. Benthall. But it occurs to me that 'progress' is a word which I have heard not unfrequently mentioned in connection with the principles for the support of which you seemed prepared to go to the stake, and it seems to me an impossible word to be used by those who maintain a set of political opinions simply because they received them from their ancestors."
"Oh, of course it is not merely that! Of course I myself hold and believe in them!"
"Sufficiently to let that belief influence your actions at a rather important period of your life? See here, Mr. Benthall; it happens to be my wish, my very strong wish, that my husband should be returned for Brocksopp at this election. I do not hide from myself that his return is by no means certain, that it is necessary that every vote should be secured. Now, there are certain farmers, holding land in connection with the charity under which the school was founded--there is no intended harm in my use of the word, for my father was paid out of it as well as you, remember--farmers who, holding the charity land, look to the master of the school, with an odd kind of loyalty, as their head, and, in such matters as an election, would, I imagine, come to him for advice how to act. Am I right?"
"Perfectly right."
"You know this by experience? They have been to you?"
"Some of them waited on me at the schoolhouse several days ago!"
"And you made them pledge themselves to support Mr.--Mr. Joyce?"
"No, Mrs. Creswell, I am a schoolmaster and a clergyman,notan electioneering agent. I explained to them to the best of my power the views taken by each party on the great question of the day, and, when asked a direct question as to how I should myself vote, I answered it--that was all."
"All, indeed! It is sufficient to show me that these unthinking people will follow you to the polling-booth like sheep! However, to return to what I was about to say when I thought of these farmers; is your belief in your attachment to these principles so strong as to allow them to influence your actions at what may be an important period of your life? I know the Helmingham school-salary, Mr. Benthall; I know the life--Heaven knows I ought, after all the years of its weariness and its drudgery which I witnessed. You are scarcely in your proper place, I think! I can picture you to myself in a pleasant rectory in a southern or western county, with a charming wife by your side!"
"A most delightful idea, Mrs. Creswell, but one impossible of realisation in my case, I am afraid!"
"By no means so impossible as you seem to imagine. I have only to say one word to my husband, and----"
"My dear Mrs. Creswell," said Mr. Benthall, rising, and laying his hand lightly on her arm, "pray excuse my interrupting you; but I am sure you don't know what you are saying or doing! Ladies have no idea of this kind of thing; they don't understand it, and we cannot explain. I can only say that if any man had--well, I should not have hesitated a moment in knocking him down!" And Mr. Benthall, whose manner was disturbed, whose voice trembled, and whose face was very much flushed, was making rapidly to the door, when Marian called him back.
"I am sorry," she said, very calmly, "that our last interview should have been so disagreeable. You will understand that, under present circumstances, your visits here, and your acquaintance with any of the inmates of this house, must cease."
Mr. Benthall looked as though about to speak, but he merely bowed and left the room. When the door closed behind him, Marian sank down into her chair, and burst into a flood of bitter tears. It was the second repulse she had met with that day, and she had not been accustomed to repulses, of late.