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Felix Holt, The Radical=
b>
By
George Eliot
Contents
FIVE-
In those days there were pocket
boroughs, a Birmingham unrepresented in parliament and compelled to make st=
rong
representations out of it, unrepealed corn laws, three-and-sixpenny letters=
, a
brawny and many-breeding pauperism, and other departed evils; but there were
some pleasant things too, which have also departed. Non omnia grandior aetas
quae fugiamus habet, says the wise goddess: you have not the best of it in =
all
things, O youngsters! the elderly man has his enviable memories, and not the
least of them is the memory of a long journey in mid-spring or autumn on the
outside of a stage-coach. Posterity may be shot, like a bullet through a tu=
be,
by atmospheric pressure from Winchester to Newcastle: that is a fine result=
to
have among our hopes; but the slow old-fashioned way of getting from one en=
d of
our country to the other is the better thing to have in the memory. The
tube-journey can never lend much to picture and narrative; it is as barren =
as
an exclamatory O! Whereas the happy outside passenger seated on the box from
the dawn to the gloaming gathered enough stories of English life, enough of
English labours in town and country, enough aspects of earth and sky, to ma=
ke
episodes for a modern Odyssey. Suppose only that his journey took him throu=
gh
that central plain, watered at one extremity by the Avon, at the other by t=
he
Trent. As the morning silvered the meadows with their long lines of bushy
willows marking the watercourses, or burnished the golden com-ricks cluster=
ed
near the long roofs of some midland homestead, he saw the full-uddered cows
driven from their pasture to the early milking. Perhaps it was the shepherd,
head-servant of the farm, who drove them, his sheep-dog following with a
heedless unofficial air of a beadle in undress. The shepherd with a slow and
slouching walk, timed by the walk of grazing beasts, moved aside, as if
unwillingly, throwing out a monosyllabic hint to his cattle; his glance,
accustomed to rest on things very near the earth, seemed to lift itself with
difficulty to the coachman. Mail or stage coach for him belonged to that
mysterious distant system of things called 'Goverment', which, whatever it
might be, was no business of his, any more than the most out-lying nebula or
the coal-sacks of the southern hemisphere: his solar system was the parish;=
the
master's temper and the casualties of lambing-time were his region of storm=
s.
He cut his bread and bacon with his pocket-knife, and felt no bittemess exc=
ept
in the matter of pauper labourers and the bad-luck that sent contrarious
seasons and the sheep-rot. He and his cows were soon left behind, and the
homestead too, with its pond overhung by elder-trees, its untidy kitchen-ga=
rden
and cone-shaped yew-tree arbour. But everywhere the bushy hedgerows wasted =
the
land with their straggling beauty, shrouded the grassy borders of the pastu=
res
with cat-kined hazels, and tossed their long blackberry branches on the
cornfields. Perhaps they were white with May, or starred with pale pink
dogroses; perhaps the urchins were already nutting amongst them, or gatheri=
ng
the plenteous crabs. It was worth the journey only to see those hedgerows, =
the
liberal homes of unmarketable beauty - of the purple-blossomed ruby-berried
nightshade, of the wild convulvulus climbing and spreading in tendrilled
strength till it made a great curtain of pale-green hearts and white trumpe=
ts,
of the many-tubed honeysuckle which, in its most delicate fragrance, hid a
charm more subtle and penetrating than beauty. Even if it were winter the
hedgerows showed their coral, the scarlet haws, the deep-crimson hips, with
lingering brown leaves to make a resting-place for the jewels of the
hoar-frost. Such hedgerows were often as tall as the labourers' cottages do=
tted
along the lanes, or clustered into a small hamlet, their little dingy windo=
ws
telling, like thick-filmed eyes, of nothing but the darkness within. The
passenger on the coach-box, bowled along above such a hamlet, saw chiefly t=
he
roofs of it: probably it turned its back on the road, and seemed to lie away
from everything but its own patch of earth and sky, away from the parish ch=
urch
by long fields and green lanes, away from all intercourse except that of
tramps. If its face could be seen, it was most likely dirty; but the dirt w=
as
Protestant dirt, and the big, bold, gin-breathing tramps were Protestant tr=
amps.
There was no sign of superstition near, no crucifix or image to indicate a
misguided reverence: the inhabitants were probably so free from superstition
that they were in much less awe of the parson than of the overseer. Yet they
were saved from the excesses of Protestantism by not knowing how to read, a=
nd
by the absence of handlooms and mines to be the pioneers of Dissent: they w=
ere
kept safely in the via media of indifference, and could have registcred
themsclves in the census by a big black mark as members of the Church of
England.
But there were trim cheerful villa=
ges
too, with a neat or handsome parsonage and grey church set in the midst; th=
ere
was the pleasant tinkle of the blacksmith's anvil, the patient cart-horses
waiting at his door; the basket-maker peeling his willow wands in the sunsh=
ine;
the wheelwright putting the last touch to a blue cart with red wheels; here=
and
there a cottage with bright transparent windows showing pots of blooming
balsams or geraniums, and little gardens in front all double daisies or dark
wallflowers; at the well, clean and comely women carrying yoked buckets, and
towards the free school small Britons dawdling on, and handling their marbl=
es
in the pockets of unpatched corduroys adorned with brass buttons. The land =
around
was rich and marly, great corn-stacks stood in the rickyards - for the
rick-burners had not found their way hither; the homesteads were those of r=
ich
fammers who paid no rent, or had the rare advantage of a lease, and could
afford to keep their corn till prices had risen. The coach would be sure to
overtake some of them on their way to their outlying fields or to the
market-town, sitting heavily on their well-groomed horses, or weighing down=
one
side of an olive-green gig. They probably thought of the coach with some
contempt, as an accommodation for people who had not their own gigs, or who,
wanting to travel to London and such distant places, belonged to the trading
and less solid part of the nation. The passenger on the box could see that =
this
was the district of protuberant optimists, sure that old England was the be=
st
of all possible countries, and that if there were any facts which had not
fallen under their own observation, they were facts not worth observing: the
district of clean little market-towns without manufactures, of fat livings,=
an
aristocratic clergy, and low poor-rates. But as the day wore on the scene w=
ould
change: the land would begin to be blackened with coal-pits, the rattle of
handlooms to be heard in hamlets and villages. Here were powerful men walki=
ng
queerly with knees bent outward from squatting in the mine, going home to t=
hrow
themselves down in their blackened flannel and sleep through the daylight, =
then
rise and spend much of their high wages at the ale-house with their fellows=
of
the Benefit Club; here the pale eager faces of handloom-weavers, men and wo=
men,
haggard from sitting up late at night to finish the week's work, hardly beg=
un
till the Wednesday. Everywhere the cottages and the small children were dir=
ty,
for the languid mothers gave their strength to the loom; pious Dissenting
women, perhaps, who took life patiently, and thought that salvation depended
chiefly on predestination, and not at all on cleanliness. The gables of
Dissenting chapels now made a visible sign of religion, and of a meeting-pl=
ace
to counterbalance the ale-house, even in the hamlets; but if a couple of old
termagants were seen tearing each other's caps, it was a safe conclusion th=
at,
if they had not received the sacraments of the Church, they had not at least
given in to schismatic rites, and were free from the errors of Voluntaryism.
The breath of the manufacturing town, which made a cloudy day and a red glo=
om
by night on the horizon, diffused itself over all the surrounding country,
filling the air with eager unrest. Here was a population not convinced that=
old
England was as good as possible; here were multitudinous men and women aware
that their religion was not exactly the religion of their rulers, who might
therefore be better than they were, and who, if better, might alter many th=
ings
which now made the world perhaps more painful than it need be, and certainly
more sinful. Yet there were the grey steeples too, and the churchyards, with
their grassy mounds and venerable head-stones, sleeping in the sunlight; th=
ere
were broad fields and homesteads, and fine old woods covering a rising grou=
nd,
or stretching far by the roadside, allowing only peeps at the park and mans=
ion
which they shut in from the working-day world. In these midland districts t=
he traveller
passed rapidly from one phase of English life to another: after looking dow=
n on
a village dingy with coal-dust, noisy with the shaking of looms, he might s=
kirt
a parish all of fields, high hedges, and deep-rutted lanes; after the coach=
had
rattled over the pavement of a manufacturing town, the scene of riots and
trades-union meetings, it would take him in another ten minutes into a rural
region, where the neighbourhood of the town was only felt in the advantages=
of
a near market for corn, cheese, and hay, and where men with a considerable
banking account were accustomed to say that 'they never meddled with politi=
cs
themselves'. The busy scenes of the shuttle and the wheel, of the roaring
furnace, of the shaft and the pulley, seemed to make but crowded nests in t=
he
midst of the large-spaced, slow-moving life of homesteads and far-away cott=
ages
and oak-sheltered parks. Looking at the dwellings scattered amongst the woo=
dy
flats and the ploughed uplands, under the low grey sky which overhung them =
with
an unchanging stillness as if Time itself were pausing, it was easy for the
traveller to conceive that town and country had no pulse in common, except
where the handlooms made a far-reaching straggling fringe about the great
centres of manufacture; that till the agitation about the Catholics in '29,
rural Englishmen had hardly known more of Catholics than of the fossil mamm=
als;
and that their notion of Reform was a confused combination of rick-burners,
trades-union, Nottingham riots, and in general whatever required the
calling-out of the yeomanry. It was still easier to see that, for the most
part, they resisted the rotation of crops and stood by their fallows: and t=
he
coachman would perhaps tell how in one parish an innovating farmer, who tal=
ked
of Sir Humphrey Davy, had been fairly driven out by popular dislike, as if =
he
had been a confounded Radical; and how, the parson having one Sunday preach=
ed
from the words, 'Plough up the fallow-ground of your hearts', the people
thought he had made the text out of his own head, otherwise it would never =
have
come 'so pat' on a matter of business; but when they found it in the Bible =
at
home, some said it was an argument for fallows (else why should the Bible
mention fallows?), but a few of the weaker sort were shaken, and thought it=
was
an argument that fallows should be done away with, else the Bible would have
said, 'Let your hearts lie fallow;' and the next morning the parson had a
stroke of apoplexy, which, as coincident with a dispute about fallows, so s=
et
the parish against the innovating farmer and the rotation of crops, that he
could stand his ground no longer, and transferred his lease.
The coachman was an excellent
travelling companion and commentator on the landscape; he could tell the na=
mes
of sites and persons, and explained the meaning of groups, as well as the s=
hade
of Virgil in a more memorable journey; he had as many stories about parishe=
s,
and the men and women in them, as the Wanderer in the 'Excursion', only his
style was different. His view of life had originally been genial, and such =
as
became a man who was well warmed within and without, and held a position of
easy, undisputed authority; but the recent initiation of railways had
embittered him: he now, as in a perpetual vision, saw the ruined country st=
rewn
with shattered limbs, and regarded Mr Huskisson's death as a proof of God's
anger against Stephenson. 'Why, every inn on the road would be shut up!' an=
d at
that word the coachman looked before him with the blank gaze of one who had
driven his coach to the outermost edge of the universe, and saw his leaders
plunging into the abyss. Still he would soon relapse from the high prophetic
strain to the familiar one of narrative. He knew whose the land was whereve=
r he
drove; what noblemen had half-ruined themselves by gambling; who made hands=
ome
returns of rent; and who was at daggers-drawn with his eldest son. He perha=
ps
remembered the fathers of actual baronets, and knew stories of their
extravagant or stingy housekeeping; whom they had married, whom they had
horsewhipped, whether they were particular about preserving their game, and
whether they had had much to do with canal companies. About any actual land=
ed
proprietor he could also tell whether he was a Reformer or an anti-Reformer.
That was a distinction which had 'turned up' in latter times, and along wit=
h it
the paradox, very puzzling to the coachman's mind, that there were men of o=
ld
family and large estate who voted for the Bill. He did not grapple with the
paradox; he let it pass, with all the discreetness of an experienced theolo=
gian
or learned scholiast, preferring to point his whip at some object which cou=
ld
raise no questions.
No such paradox troubled our coach=
man
when, leaving the town of Treby Magna behind him, he drove between the hedg=
es
for a mile or so, crossed the queer long bridge over the river Lapp, and th=
en
put his horses to a swift gallop up the hill by the low-nestled village of
Little Treby, till they were on the fine level road, skirted on one side by
grand larches, oaks, and wych elms, which sometimes opened so far as to let=
the
traveller see that there was a park behind them.
How many times in the year, as the
coach rolled past the neglected-looking lodges which interrupted the screen=
of
trees, and showed the river winding through a finely-timbered park, had the
coachman answered the same questions, or told the same things without being
questioned! That? - oh, that was Transome Court, a place there had been a f=
ine
sight of lawsuits about. Generations back, the heir of the Transome name had
somehow bargained away the estate'ø and it fell to the Durfeys, very
distant connections, who only called themselves Transomes because they had =
got
the estate. But the Durfeys' claim had been disputed over and over again; a=
nd
the coachman, if he had been asked, would have said, though he might have to
fall down dead the next minute, that property didn't always get into the ri=
ght
hands. However, the lawyers had found their luck in it; and people who
inherited estates that were lawed about often lived in them as poorly as a
mouse in a hollow cheese; and, by what he could make out, that had been the=
way
with these present Durfeys, or Transomes, as they called themselves. As for=
Mr
Transome, he was as poor, half-witted a fellow as you'd wish to see; but sh=
e was
master, had come of a high family, and had a spirit - you might see it in h=
er
eye and the way she sat her horse. Forty years ago, when she came into this
country, they said she was a pictur'; but her family was poor, and so she t=
ook
up with a hatchet-faced fellow like this Transome. And the eldest son had b=
een
just such another as his father, only worse - a wild sort of half-natural, =
who
got into bad company. They said his mother hated him andwished him dead; for
she'd got another son, quite of a different cut, who had gone to foreign pa=
rts
when he was a youngster, and she wanted her favourite to be heir. But heir =
or
no heir, Lawyer Jermyn had had his picking out of the estate. Not a door in=
his
big house but what was the finest polished oak, all got off the Transome
estate. If anybody liked to believe he paid for it, they were welcome. Howe=
ver,
Lawyer Jermyn had sat on that box-seat many and many a time. He had made the
wills of most people thereabout. The coachman would not say that Lawyer Jer=
myn
was not the man he would choose to make his own will some day. It was not so
well for a lawyer to be over-honest, else he might not be up to other peopl=
e's
tricks. And as for the Transome business, there had been ins and outs in ti=
me
gone by, so that you couldn't look into it straight backward. At this Mr
Sampson (everybody in North Loamshire knew Sampson's coach) would screw his
features into a grimace expressive of entire neutrality, and appear to aim =
his
whip at a particular spot on the horse's flank. If the passenger was curious
for further knowledge concerning the Transome affairs, Sampson would shake =
his
head and say there had been fine stories in his time; but he never condesce=
nded
to state what the stories were. Some attributed this reticence to a wise in=
credulity,
others to a want of memory, others to simple ignorance. But at least Sampson
was right in saying that there had been fine stories - meaning, ironically,
stories not altogether creditable to the parties concerned.
And such stories often come to be =
fine
in a sense that is not ironical. For there is seldom any wrong-doing which =
does
not carry along with it some downfall of blindly-climbing hopes, some hard
entail of suffering, some quicklysatiated desire that survives, with the li=
fe
in death of old paralytic vice, to see itself cursed by its woeful progeny -
some tragic mark of kinship in one brief life to the far-stretching life th=
at
went before, and to the life that is to come after, such as has raised the =
pity
and terror of men ever since they began to discern between will and destiny.
But these things are often unknown to the world; for there is much pain tha=
t is
quite noiseless; and vibrations that make human agonies are often a mere
whisper in the roar of hurrying existence. There are glances of hatred that
stab and raise no cry of murder; robberies that leave man or woman for ever
beggared of peace and joy, yet kept secret by the sufferer - committed to no
sound except that of low moans in the night, seen in no writing except that
made on the face by the slow months of suppressed anguish and early morning
tears. Many an inherited sorrow that has marred a life has been breathed in=
to
no human ear.
The poets have told us of a doloro=
us
enchanted forest in the under world. The thorn-bushes there, and the
thick-barked stems, have human histories hidden in them; the power of unutt=
ered
cries dwells in the passionless-seeming branches, and the red warm blood is
darkly feeding the quivering nerves of a sleepless memory that watches thro=
ugh
all dreams. These things are a parable.
He left me when the down upon his =
lip
Lay like the shadow of a hovering kiss. 'Beautiful mother, do not grieve,' =
he
said; 'I will be great, and build our fortunes high, And you shall wear the
longest train at court, And look so queenly, all the lords shall say, ̵=
6;She
is a royal changeling: there's some crown Lacks the right head, since hers
wears nought but braids.’ ' O, he is coming now - but I am grey; And =
he -
ON the 1st of September, in the
memorable year 1832, some one was expected at Transome Court. As early as t=
wo
o'clock in the afternoon the aged lodge-keeper had opened the heavy gate, g=
reen
as the tree trunks were green with nature's powdery paint, deposited year a=
fter
year. Already in the village of Little Treby, which lay on the side of a st=
eep
hill not far off the lodge gates, the elder matrons sat in their best gowns=
at
the few cottage doors bordering the road, that they might be ready to get up
and make their curtsy when a travelling carriage should come in sight; and
beyond the village several small boys were stationed on the lookout, intend=
ing
to run a race to the barn-like old church, where the sexton waited in the
belfry ready to set the one bell in joyful agitation just at the right mome=
nt.
The old lodge-keeper had opened the
gate and left it in the charge of his lame wife, because he was wanted at t=
he
Court to sweep away the leaves, and perhaps to help in the stables. For tho=
ugh
Transome Court was a large mansion, built in the fashion of Queen Anne's ti=
me, with
a park and grounds as fine as any to be seen in Loamshire, there were very =
few
servants about it. Especially, it seemed, there must be a lack of gardeners;
for, except on the terrace surrounded with a stone parapet in front of the
house, where there was a parterre kept with some neatness, grass had spread
itself over the gravel walks, and over all the low mounds once carefully cu=
t as
black beds for the shrubs and larger plants. Many of the windows had the
shutters closed, and under the grand Scotch fir that stooped towards one
corner, the brown fir-needles of many years lay in a small stone balcony in
front of two such darkened windows. All round, both near and far, there were
grand trees, motionless in the still sunshine, and, like all large motionle=
ss things,
seeming to add to the stillness. Here and there a leaf fluttered down; peta=
ls
fell in a silent shower; a heavy moth floated by, and, when it settled, see=
med
to fall wearily; the tiny birds alighted on the walks, and hopped about in
perfect tranquillity; even a stray rabbit sat nibbling a leaf that was to i=
ts
liking, in the middle of a grassy space, with an air that seemed quite impu=
dent
in so timid a creature. No sound was to be heard louder than a sleepy hum, =
and
the soft monotony of running water hurrying on to the river that divided the
park. Standing on the south or east side of the house, you would never have
guessed that an arrival was expected.
But on the west side, where the
carriage entrance was, the gates under the stone archway were thrown open; =
and
so was the double door of the entrance-hall, letting in the warm light on t=
he
scagliola pillars, the marble statues, and the broad stone staircase, with =
its
matting worn into large holes. And, stronger sign of expectation than all, =
from
one of the doors which surrounded the entrance-hall, there came forth from =
time
to time a lady, who walked lightly over the polished stone floor, and stood=
on
the doorsteps and watched and listened. She walked lightly, for her figure =
was
slim and finely formed, though she was between fifty and sixty. She was a t=
all,
proud-looking woman, with abundant grey hair, dark eyes and eyebrows, and a
somewhat eagle-like yet not unfeminine face. Her tight-fitting black dress =
was
much worn; the fine lace of her cuffs and collar, and of the small veil whi=
ch
fell backwards over her high comb, was visibly mended; but rare jewels flas=
hed
on her hands, which lay on her folded black-clad arms like finely cut onyx
cameos.
Many times Mrs Transome went to the
doorsteps, watching and listening in vain. Each time she returned to the sa=
me
room: it was a moderate-sized comfortable room, with low ebony bookshelves
round it, and it formed an anteroom to a large library, of which a glimpse
could be seen through an open doorway, partly obstructed by a heavy tapestry
curtain drawn on one side. There was a great deal of tarnished gilding and
dinginess on the walls and furniture of this smaller room, but the pictures
above the bookcases were all of a cheerful kind: portraits in pastel of
pearly-skinned ladies with hair-powder; blue ribbons, and low-bodices; a
splendid portrait in oils of a Transome in the gorgeous dress of the
Restoration; another of a Transome in his boyhood, with his hand on the nec=
k of
a small pony; and a large Flemish battle-piece, where war seemed only a
picturesque blue-and-red accident in a vast sunny expanse of plain and sky.
Probably such cheerful pictures had been chosen because this was Mrs Transo=
me's
usual sitting-room: it was certainly for this reason that, near the chair in
which she seated herself each time she re-entered, there hung a picture of a
youthful face which bore a strong resemblance to her own: a beardless but
masculine face, with rich brown hair hanging low on the forehead, and
undulating beside each cheek down to the loose white cravat. Near this same
chair were her writing-table, with vellum-covered account-books on it, the
cabinet in which she kept her neatly-arranged drugs, her basket for her
embroidery, a folio volume of architectural engravings from which she took =
her
embroidery patterns, a number of the North Loamshire Herald, and the cushion
for her fat Blenheim, which was too old and sleepy to notice its mistress's
restlessness. For, just now, Mrs Transome could not abridge the sunny tediu=
m of
the day by the feeble interest of her usual indoor occupations. Her
consciousness was absorbed by memories and prospects, and except when she
walked to the entrance-door to look out, she sat motionless with folded arm=
s,
involuntarily from time to time turning towards the portrait close by her, =
and
as often, when its young brown eyes met hers, turning away again with
self-checking resolution.
At last, prompted by some sudden
thought or by some sound, she rose and went hastily beyond the tapestry cur=
tain
into the library. She paused near the door without speaking: apparently she
only wished to see that no harm was being done. A man nearer seventy than s=
ixty
was in the act of ranging on a large library-table a series of shallow draw=
ers,
some of them containing dried insects, others mineralogical specimens. His =
pale
mild eyes, receding lower jaw, and slight frame, could never have expressed
much vigour, either bodily or mental; but he had now the unevenness of gait=
and
feebleness of gesture which tell of a past paralytic seizure. His threadbare
clothes were thoroughly brushed; his soft white hair was carefully parted a=
nd
arranged: he was not a neglected-looking old man; and at his side a fine bl=
ack
retriever, also old, sat on its haunches, and watched him as he went to and
fro. But when Mrs Transome appeared within the doorway, her husband paused =
in
his work and shrank like a timid animal looked at in a cage where flight is
impossible. He was conscious of a troublesome intention, for which he had b=
een
rebuked before - that of disturbing all his specimens with a view to a new
arrangement.
After an interval, in which his wi=
fe
stood perfectly still, observing him, he began to put back the drawers in t=
heir
places in the row of cabinets which extended under the bookshelves at one e=
nd
of the library. When they were all put back and closed, Mrs Transome turned
away, and the frightened old man seated himself with Nimrod the retriever o=
n an
ottoman. Peeping at him again, a few minutes after, she saw that he had his=
arm
round Nimrod's neck, and was uttering his thoughts to the dog in a loud
whisper, as little children do to any object near them when they believe
themselves unwatched.
At last the sound of the church-be=
ll
reached Mrs Transome's ear, and she knew that before long the sound of whee=
ls
must be within hearing; but she did not at once start up and walk to the
entrance-door. She sat still, quivering and listening; her lips became pale,
her hands were cold and trembling. Was her son really coming? She was far
beyond fifty; and since her early gladness in this best-loved boy, the harv=
est
of her life had been scanty. Could it be that now - when her hair was grey,
when sight had become one of the day's fatigues, when her young accomplishm=
ents
seemed almost ludicrous, like the tone of her first harpsichord and the wor=
ds
of the songs long browned with age - she was going to reap an assured joy? =
- to
feel that the doubtful deeds of her life were justified by the result, sinc=
e a
kind Providence had sanctioned them? - to be no longer tacitly pitied by her
neighbours for her lack of money, her imbecile husband, her graceless
eldest-bom, and the loneliness of her life; but to have at her side a rich,
clever, possibly a tender, son? Yes; but there were the fifteen years of
separation, and all that had happened in that long time to throw her into t=
he
background in her son's memory and affection. And yet - did not men sometim=
es
become more filial in their feeling when experience had mellowed them, and =
they
had themselves become fathers? Still, if Mrs Transome had expected only her
son, she would have trembled less; she expected a little grandson also: and
there were reasons why she had not been enraptured when her son had written=
to
her only when he was on the eve of returning that he already had an heir bo=
rn
to him.
But the facts must be accepted as =
they
stood, and, after all, the chief thing was to have her son back again. Such
pride, such affection, such hopes as she cherished in this fifty-sixth year=
of
her life, must find their gratification in him - or nowhere. Once more she
glanced at the portrait. The young brown eyes seemed to dwell on her
pleasantly; but, turning from it with a sort of impatience, and saying alou=
d,
'Of course he will be altered!' she rose almost with difficulty, and walked=
more
slowly than before across the hall to the entrance-door.
Already the sound of wheels was lo=
ud
upon the gravel. The momentary surprise of seeing that it was only a
post-chaise, without a servant or much luggage, that was passing under the
stone archway and then wheeling round against the flight of stone steps, wa=
s at
once merged in the sense that there was a dark face under a red travelling-=
cap
looking at her from the window. She saw nothing else: she was not even
conscious that the small group of her own servants had mustered, or that old
Hickes the butler had come forward to open the chaise door. She heard herse=
lf
called 'Mother ! ' and felt a light kiss on each cheek; but stronger than a=
ll
that sensation was the consciousness which no previous thought could prepare
her for, that this son who had come back to her was a stranger. Three minut=
es
before, she had fancied that, in spite of all changes wrought by fifteen ye=
ars
of separation, she should clasp her son again as she had done at their part=
ing;
but in the moment when their eyes met, the scnse of strangeness came upon h=
er
like a terror. It was not hard to understand that she was agitated, and the=
son
led her across the hall to the sitting-room, closing the door behind them. =
Then
he turned towards her and said, smiling - 'You would not have known me, eh,
mother?'
It was perhaps the truth. If she h=
ad
seen him in a crowd, she might have looked at him without recognition - not,
however, without startled wonder; for though the likeness to herself was no=
longer
striking, the years had overlaid it with another likeness which would have
arrested her. Before she answered him, his eyes, with a keen restlessness, =
as
unlike as possihle to the lingering gaze of the portrait, had travelled qui=
ckly
over the room, alighting on her again as she said -
'Everything is changed, Harold. I =
am
an old woman, you see.'
'But straighter and more upright t=
han
some of the young ones!' said Harold; inwardly, however, feeling that age h=
ad
made his mother's face very anxious and eager. 'The old women at Smyrna are
like sacks. You've not got clumsy and shapeless. How is it I have the trick=
of
getting fat?' (Here Harold lifted his arm and spread out his plump hand.) 'I
remember my father was as thin as a herring. How is my father? Where is he?=
'
Mrs Transome just pointed to the
curtained doorway, and let her son pass through it alone. She was not given=
to
tears; but now, under the pressure of emotion that could find no other vent,
they burst forth. She took care that they should be silent tears, and before
Harold came out of the library again they were dried. Mrs Transome had not =
the
ferninine tendency to seek influence through pathos; she had been used to r=
ule
in virtue of acknowledged superiority. The consciousness that she had to ma=
ke her
son's acquaintance, and that her knowledge of the youth of nineteen might h=
elp
her little in interpreting the man of thirty-four, had fallen like lead on =
her
soul; but in this new acquaintance of theirs she cared especially that her =
son,
who had seen a strange world, should feel that he was come home to a mother=
who
was to be consulted on all things, and who could supply his lack of the loc=
al
experience necessary to an English land-holder. Her part in life had been t=
hat
of the clever sinner, and she was equipped with the views, the reasons, and=
the
habits which belonged to that character: life would have little meaning for=
her
if she were to be gently thrust aside as a harmless elderly woman. And besi=
des,
there were secrets which her son must never know. So, by the time Harold ca=
me
from the library again, the traces of tears were not discernible, except to=
a
very careful observer. And he did not observe his mother carefully; his eyes
only glanced at her on their way to the North Loamshire Herald, lying on the
table near her, which he took up with his left hand, as he said -
'Gad ! what a wreck poor father is=
!
Paralysis, eh? Terribly shrunk and shaken - crawls about among his books and
beetles as usual, though. Well, it's a slow and easy death. But he's not mu=
ch
over sixty-five, is he?'
'Sixty-seven, counting by birthday=
s;
but your father was born old, I think,' said Mrs Transome, a little flushed
with the determination not to show any unasked-for feeling.
Her son did not notice her. All the
time he had been speaking his eyes had been running down the columns of the
newspaper.
'But your little boy, Harold - whe=
re
is he? How is it he has not come with you?'
'O, I left him behind, in town,' s=
aid
Harold, still looking at the paper. 'My man Dominic will bring him, with the
rest of the luggage. Ah, I see it is young Debarry, and not my old friend S=
ir
Maximus, who is offering himself as candidate for North Loamshire.'
'Yes. You did not answer me when I
wrote to you to London about your standing. There is no other Tory candidate
spoken of, and you would have all the Debarry interest.'
'I hardly think that,' said Harold,
significantly.
'Why? Jermyn says a Tory candidate=
can
never be got in without it.'
'But I shall not be a Tory candida=
te.'
Mrs Transome felt something like an
electric shock.
'What then?' she said, almost shar=
ply.
'You will not call yourself a Whig?'
'God forbid ! I'm a Radical.'
Mrs Transome's limbs tottered; she
sank into a chair. Here was a distinct confirmation of the vague but strong
feeling that her son was a stranger to her. Here was a revelation to which =
it
seemed almost as impossible to adjust her hopes and notions of a dignified =
life
as if her son had said that he had been converted to Mahometanism at Smyrna,
and had four wives, instead of one son, shortly to arrive under the care of
Dominic. For the moment she had a sickening feeling that it was all of no u=
se
that the long-delayed good fortune had come at last - all of no use though =
the
unloved Durfey was dead and buried, and though Harold had come home with pl=
enty
of money. There were rich Radicals, she was aware, as there were rich Jews =
and
Dissenters, but she had never thought of them as county people. Sir Francis
Burdett had been generally regarded as a madman. It was better to ask no
questions, but silently to prepare herself for anything else there might be=
to
come.
'Will you go to your rooms, Harold,
and see if there is anything you would like to have altered?'
'Yes, let us go,' said Harold,
throwing down the newspaper, in which he had been rapidly reading almost ev=
ery
advertisement while his mother had been going through her sharp inward
struggle. 'Uncle Lingon is on the bench still, I see,' he went on, as he
followed her across the hall; 'is he at home - will he be here this evening=
?'
'He says you must go to the rectory
when you want to see him. You must remember you have come back to a family =
who
have old-fashioned notions. Your uncle thought I ought to have you to mysel=
f in
the first hour or two. He remembered that I had not seen my son for fifteen
years.'
'Ah, by Jove ! fifteen years - so =
it
is I ' said Harold, taking his mother's hand and drawing it under his arm; =
for
he had perceived that her words were charged with an intention. 'And you ar=
e as
straight as an arrow still; you will carry the shawls I have brought you as
well as ever.'
They walked up the broad stone ste=
ps
together in silence. Under the shock of discovering her son's Radicalism, M=
rs
Transome had no impulse to say one thing rather than another; as in a man w=
ho
had just been branded on the forehead all wonted motives would be uprooted.
Harold, on his side, had no wish opposed to filial kindness, but his busy
thoughts were imperiously determined by habits which had no reference to any
woman's feeling; and even if he could have conceived what his mother's feel=
ing
was, his mind, after that momentary arrest, would have darted forward on its
usual course.
'I have given you the south rooms,
Harold,' said Mrs Transome, as they passed along a corridor lit from above,=
and
lined with old family pictures 'I thought they would suit you best, as they=
all
open into each other, and this middle one will make a pleasant sitting-room=
for
you.'
'Gad ! the furniture is in a bad
state,' said Harold, glancing round at the middle room which they had just
entered; 'the moths seem to have got into the carpets and hangings.'
'I had no choice except moths or
tenants who would pay rent,' said Mrs Transome. 'We have been too poor to k=
eep
servants for uninhabited rooms.'
'What ! you've been rather pinched,
eh?'
'You find us living as we have been
living these twelve years.'
'Ah, you've had Durfey's debts as =
well
as the lawsuits - confound them ! It will make a hole in sixty thousand pou=
nds
to pay off the mortgages. However, he's gone now, poor fellow; and I suppos=
e I
should have spent more in buying an English estate some time or other. I al=
ways
meant to be an Englishman, and thrash a lord or two who thrashed me at Eton=
.'
'I hardly thought you could have m=
eant
that, Harold, when I found you had married a foreign wife.'
'Would you have had me wait for a
consumptive lackadaisical Englishwoman, who would have hung all her relatio=
ns
round my neck? I hate English wives; they want to give their opinion about
everything. They interfere with a man's life. I shall not marry again.'
Mrs Transome bit her lip, and turn=
ed
away to draw up a blind. She would not reply to words which showed how
completely any conception of herself and her feelings was excluded from her
son's inward world.
As she turned round again she said=
, 'I
suppose you have been used to great luxury; these rooms look miserable to y=
ou,
but you can soon make any alteration you like.'
'O, I must have a private sitting-=
room
fitted up for myself down-stairs. And the rest are bedrooms, I suppose,' he
went on, opening a side-door. 'Ah, I can sleep here a night or two. But the=
re's
a bedroom down-stairs, with an anteroom, I remember, that would do for my m=
an
Dominic and the little boy. I should like to have that.'
'Your father has slept there for
years. He will be like a distracted insect, and never know where to go, if =
you
alter the track he has to walk in.' 'That's a pity. I hate going up-stairs.=
'
'There is the steward's room: it is
not used, and might be turned into a bedroom. I can't offer you my room, fo=
r I
sleep up-stairs.' (Mrs Transome's tongue could be a whip upon occasion, but=
the
lash had not fallen on a sensitive spot.)
'No; I'm determined not to sleep
up-stairs. We'll see about the steward's room to-morrow, and I daresay I sh=
all
find a closet of some sort for Dominic. It's a nuisance he had to stay behi=
nd,
for I shall have nobody to cook for me. Ah, there's the old river I used to
fish in. I often thought, when I was at Smyrna, that I would buy a park wit=
h a
river through it as much like the Lapp as possible. Gad, what fine oaks tho=
se
are opposite ! Some of them must come down, though.'
'I've held every tree sacred on the
demesne, as I told you, Harold. I trusted to your getting the estate some t=
ime,
and releasing it; and I determined to keep it worth releasing. A park witho=
ut
fine timber is no better than a beauty without teeth and hair.'
'Bravo, mother!' said Harold, putt=
ing
his hand on her shoulder. 'Ah, you've had to worry yourself about things th=
at
don't properly belong to a woman - my father being weakly. We'll set all th=
at
right. You shall have nothing to do now but to be grandmamma on satin
cushions.'
'You must excuse me from the satin
cushions. That is a part of the old woman's duty I am not prepared for. I am
used to be chief bailiff, and to sit in the saddle two or three hours every
day. There are two farms on our hands besides the Home Farm.'
'Phew-ew ! Jermyn manages the esta=
te
badly, then. That will not last under my reign,' said Harold, turning on his
heel and feeling in his pockets for the keys of his portmanteaus, which had
been brought up.
'Perhaps when you've been in Engla=
nd a
little longer,' said Mrs Transome, colouring as if she had been a girl, 'you
will understand better the difficulties there is in letting farms in these
times.'
'I understand the difficulty
perfectly, mother. To let farms, a man must have the sense to see what will
make them inviting to farmers, and to get sense supplied on demand is just =
the
most difficult transaction I know of. I suppose if I ring there's some fell=
ow
who can act as valet and learn to attend to my hookah?'
'There is Hickes the butler, and t=
here
is Jabez the footman; those are all the men in the house. They were here wh=
en
you left.'
'O, I remember Jabez - he was a do=
lt.
I'll have old Hickes. He was a neat little machine of a butler; his words u=
sed
to come like the clicks of an engine. He must be an old machine now, though=
.'
'You seem to remember some things
about home wonderfully well, Harold.
'Never forget places and people - =
how
they look and what can be done with them. All the country round here lies l=
ike
a map in my brain. A deuced pretty country too; but the people were a stupid
set of old Whigs and Tories. I suppose they are much as they were.'
'I am, at least, Harold. YOU are t=
he
first of your family that ever talked of being a Radical. I did not think I=
was
taking care of our old oaks for that. I always thought Radicals' houses sto=
od
staring above poor sticks of young trees and iron hurdles.'
'Yes. but the Radical sticks are
growing, mother, and half the Tory oaks are rotting,' said Harold, with gay
carelessness. 'You've arranged for Jermyn to be early to-morrow?'
'He will be here to breakfast at n=
ine.
But I leave you to Hickes now; we dine in an hour.'
Mrs Transome went away and shut
herself in her own dressing-room. It had come to pass now - this meeting wi=
th
the son who had been the object of so much longing; whom she had longed for
before he was born, for whom she had sinned, from whom she had wrenched her=
self
with pain at their parting, and whose coming again had been the one great h=
ope
of her years. The moment was gone by; there had been no ecstasy, no gladness
even; hardly half an hour had passed, and few words had been spoken, yet wi=
th
that quickness in weaving new futures which belongs to women whose actions =
have
kept them in habitual fear of consequences, Mrs Transome thought she saw wi=
th
all the clearness of demonstration that her son's return had not been a good
for her in the sense of making her any happier.
She stood before a tall mirror, go=
ing
close to it and looking at her face with hard scrutiny, as if it were unreI=
ated
to herself. No elderly face can be handsome, looked at in that way; every
little detail is startlingly prominent, and the effect of the whole is lost.
She saw the dried-up complexion, and the deep lines of bitter discontent ab=
out
the mouth.
'I am a hag!' she said to herself = (she was accustomed to give her thoughts a very sharp outline), 'an ugly old wom= an who happens to be his mother. That is what he sees in me, as I see a strang= er in him. I shall count for nothing. I was foolish to expect anything else.'<= o:p>
She turned away from the mirror and
walked up and down her room.
'What a likeness!' she said, in a =
loud
whisper; 'yet, perhaps, no one will see it besides me.'
She threw herself into a chair, and
sat with a fixed look, seeing nothing that was actually present, but inward=
ly
seeing with painful vividness what had been present with her a little more =
than
thirty years ago - the little round-limbed creature that had been leaning a=
gainst
her knees, and stamping tiny feet, and looking up at her with gurgling
laughter. She had thought that the possession of this child would give unit=
y to
her life, and make some gladness through the changing years that would grow=
up
as fruit out of these early maternal caresses. But nothing had come just as=
she
had wished. The mother's early raptures had lasted but a short time, and ev=
en
while they lasted there had grown up in the midst of them a hungry desire, =
like
a black poisonous plant feeding in the sunlight, - the desire that her firs=
t,
rickety, ugly, imbecile child should die, and leave room for her darling, of
whom she could be proud. Such desires make life a hideous lottery, where ev=
ery
day may turn up a blank; where men and women who have the softest beds and =
the
most delicate eating, who have a very large share of that sky and earth whi=
ch
some are born to have no more of than the fraction to be got in a crowded
entry, yet grow haggard, fevered, and restless, like those who watch in oth=
er
lotteries. Day after day, year after year, had yielded blanks; new cares had
come, bringing other desires for results quite beyond her grasp, which must
also be watched for in the lottery; and all the while the round-limbed pet =
had
been growing into a strong youth, who liked many things better than his
mother's caresses, and who had a much keener consciousness of his independe=
nt
existence than of his relation to her: the lizard's egg, that white rounded
passive prettiness, had become a brown, darting, determined lizard. The
mother's love is at first an absorbing delight, blunting all other
sensibilities; it is an expansion of the animal existence; it enlarges the
imagined range for self to move in: but in after years it can only continue=
to
be joy on the same terms as other long-lived love - that is, by much
suppression of self, and power of living in the experience of another. Mrs
Transome had darkly felt the pressure of that unchangeable fact. Yet she had
clung to the belief that somehow the possession of this son was the best th=
ing
she lived for; to believe otherwise would have made her memory too ghastly a
companion. Some time or other, by some means, the estate she was struggling=
to
save from the grasp of the law would be Harold's. Somehow the hated Durfey,=
the
imbecile eldest, who seemed to have become tenacious of a despicable
squandering life, would be got rid of; vice might kill him. Meanwhile the
estate was burthened: there was no good prospect for any heir. Harold must =
go
and make a career for himself: and this was what he was bent on, with a
precocious clearness of perception as to the conditions on which he could h=
ope
for any advantages in life. Like most energetic natures, he had a strong fa=
ith
in his luck; he had been gay at their parting, and had promised to make his
fortune; and in spite of past disappointments, Harold's possible fortune st=
ill
made some ground for his mother to plant her hopes in. His luck had not fai=
led
him; yet nothing had turned out according to her expectations. Her life had
been like a spoiled shabby pleasure-day, in which the music and the process=
ions
are all missed, and nothing is left at evening but the weariness of striving
after what has been failed of. Harold had gone with the Embassy to
Constantinople, under the patronage of a high relative, his mother's cousin=
; he
was to be a diplomatist, and work his way upward in public life. But his lu=
ck
had taken another shape: he had saved the life of an Armenian banker, who in
gratitude had offered him a prospect which his practical mind had preferred=
to
the problematic promises of diplomacy and high born cousinship. Harold had
become a merchant and banker at Smyrna; had let the years pass without cari=
ng
to find the possibility of visiting his early home, and had shown no eagern=
ess
to make his life at all familiar to his mother, asking for letters about
England, but writing scantily about himself. Mrs Transome had kept up the h=
abit
of writing to her son, but gradually the unfruitful years had dulled her ho=
pes
and yearnings; increasing anxieties about money had worried her, and she was
more sure of being fretted by bad news about her dissolute eldest son than =
of
hearing anything to cheer her from Harold. She had begun to live merely in
small immediate cares and occupations, and, like all eager-minded women who
advance in life without any activity of tenderness or any large sympathy, s=
he
had contracted small rigid habits of thinking and acting, she had her 'ways'
which must not be crossed, and had learned to fill up the great void of life
with giving small orders to tenants, insisting on medicines for infirm
cottagers, winning small triumphs in bargains and personal economies, and
parrying ill-natured remarks of Lady Debarry's by lancet-edged epigrams. So=
her
life had gone on till more than a year ago, when the desire which had been =
so
hungry while she was a blooming young mother, was at last fulfilled - at la=
st,
when her hair was grey, and her face looked bitter, resdess, and unenjoying,
like her life. The news came from Jersey that Durfey, the imbecile son, was
dead. Now Harold was heir to the estate; now the wealth he had gained could
release the land from its burthens; now he would think it worth while to re=
turn
home. A change had at last come over her life, and the sunlight breaking the
clouds at evening was pleasant, though the sun must sink before long. Hopes,
affections, the sweeter part of her memories, started from their wintry sle=
ep,
and it once more seemed a great good to have had a second son who in some w=
ays
had cost her dearly. But again there were conditions she had not reckoned o=
n.
When the good tidings had been sent to Harold, and he had announced that he
would return so soon as he could wind up his afEairs, he had for the first =
time
informed his mother that he had been married, that his Greek wife was no lo=
nger
living, but that he should bring home a litde boy, the finest and most
desirable of heirs and grandsons. Harold, seated in his distant Smyrna home,
considered that he was taking a rational view of what tbings must have beco=
me by
this time at the old place in England, when he figured his mother as a good
elderly lady, who would necessarily be delighted with the possession on any
terms of a healthy grandchild, and would not mind much about the particular=
s of
the long-concealed marriage.
Mrs Transome had tom up that lette=
r in
a rage. But in the months which had elapsed before Harold could actually
arrive, she had prepared herself as well as she could to suppress all
reproaches or queries which her son might resent, and to acquiesce in his
evident wishes. The return was still looked for with longing; affection and
satisfied pride would again warm her later years. She was ignorant what sor=
t of
man Harold had become now, and of course he must be changed in many ways; b=
ut
though she told herself this, still the image that she knew, the image fond=
ness
clung to, necessarily prevailed over the negatives insisted on by her reaso=
n.
And so it was, that when she had m=
oved
to the door to meet him, she had been sure that she should clasp her son ag=
ain,
and feel that he was the same who had been her boy, her little one, the lov=
ed
child of her passionate youth. An hour seemed to have changed everything for
her. A woman's hopes are woven of sunbeams; a shadow annihilates them. The
shadow which had fallen over Mrs Transome in this first interview with her =
son
was the presentiment of her powerlessness. If things went wrong, if Harold =
got
unpleasantly disposed in a certain direction where her chief dread had alwa=
ys
lain, she seemed to foresee that her words would be of no avail. The keenne=
ss
of her anxiety in this matter had served as insight; and Harold's rapidity,
decision, and indifference to any impressions in others which did not furth=
er
or impede his own purposes, had made themselves felt by her as much as she
would have felt the unmanageable strength of a great bird which had alighted
near her, and allowed her to stroke its wing for a moment because food lay =
near
her.
Under the cold weight of these
thoughts Mrs Transome shivered. That physical reaction roused her from her
reverie, and she could now hear the gende knocking at the door to which she=
had
been deaf before. Notwithstanding her activity and the fewness of her serva=
nts,
she had never dressed herself without aid; nor would that small, neat, exqu=
isitely
clean old woman who now presented herself have wished that her labour shoul=
d be
saved at the expense of such a sacrifice on her lady's part. The small old
woman was Mrs Hickes, the butler's wife, who acted as housekeeper, lady's-m=
aid,
and superintendent of the kitchen - the large stony scene of inconsiderable
cooking. Forty years ago she had entered Mrs Transome's service, when that =
lady
was beautiful Miss Lingon, and her mistress still called her Denner, as she=
had
done in the old days.
'The bell has rung, then, Denner,
without my hearing it?' said Mrs Transome, rising.
'Yes, madame,' said Denner, reachi=
ng
from a wardrobe an old black velvet dress trimmed with much mended point, in
which Mrs Transome was wont to look queenly of an evening.
Denner had still strong eyes of th=
at
shortsighted kind which sees through the narrowest chink between the
eye-lashes. The physical contrast between the tall, eagle-faced, dark-eyed
lady, and the little peering waidng-woman, who had been round-featured and =
of pale
mealy complexion from her youth up, had doubdess had a strong influence in
determining Denner's feeling towards her mistress, which was of that worshi=
pful
sort paid to a goddess in ages when it was not thought necessary or likely =
that
a goddess should be very moral. There were different orders of beings - so =
ran
Denner's creed - and she belonged to another order than that to which her
mistress belonged. She had a mind as sharp as a needle, and would have seen
through and through the ridiculous pretensions of a born servant who did not
submissively accept the rigid fate which had given her born superiors. She
would have called such pretensions the wrigglings of a worm that tried to w=
alk
on its tail. There was a tacit understanding that Denner knew all her mistr=
ess's
secrets, and her speech was plain and unflattering; yet with wonderful subt=
lety
of instinct she never said anything which Mrs Transome could feel humiliated
by, as by a familiarity from a servant who knew too much. Denner idendfied =
her
own dignity with that of her mistress. She was a hard-headed godless little
woman, but with a character to be reckoned on as you reckon on the qualitie=
s of
iron.
Peering into Mrs Transome's face, =
she
saw clearly that the meeting with the son had been a disappointment in some
way. She spoke with a refined accent, in a low, quick, monotonous tone -
'Mr Harold is drest; he shook me by
the hand in the corridor, and was very pleasant.' 'What an alteration, Denn=
er!
No likeness to me now.'
'Handsome, though, spite of his be=
ing
so browned and stout. There's a fine presence about Mr Harold. I remember y=
ou
used to say, madam, there were some people you would always know were in the
room though they stood round a corner, and others you might never see till =
you
ran against them. That's as true as truth. And as for likenesses, thirty-fi=
ve
and sixty are not much alike, only to people's memories.'
Mrs Transome knew perfectly that
Denner had divined her thoughts.
'I don't know how things will go on
now; but it seems something too good to happen that they will go on well. I=
am
afraid of ever expecting anything good again.'
'That's weakness, madam. Things do=
n't
happen because they're bad or good, else all eggs would be addled or none at
all, and at the most it is but six to the dozen. There's good chances and b=
ad
chances, and nobody's luck is pulled only by one string.'
'What a woman you are, Denner I You
talk like a French infidel. It seems to me you are afraid of nothing. I have
been full of fears all my life - always seeing something or other hanging o=
ver
me that I couldn't bear to happen.'
'Well, madam, put a good face on i=
t,
and don't seem to be on the look-out for crows, else you'll set the other
people watching. Here you have a rich son come home, and the debts will all=
be
paid, and you have your health and can ride about, and you've such a face a=
nd
figure, and will have if you live to be eighty, that everybody is cap in ha=
nd
to you before they know who you are - let me fasten up your veil a little
higher: there's a good deal of pleasure in life for you yet.'
'Nonsense I there's no pleasure for
old women, unless they get it out of tormenting other people. What are your
pleasures, Denner - besides being a slave to me?'
'Oh, there's pleasure in knowing o=
ne's
not a fool, like half the people one sees about. And managing one's husband=
is
some pleasure; and doing all one's business well Why, if I've only got some
orange flowers to candy, I shouldn't like to die till I see them all right.
Then there's the sunshine now and then; I like that, as the cats do. I look
upon it, life is like our game at whist, when Banks and his wife come to the
still-room of an evening. I don't enjoy the game much, but I like to play my
cards well, and see what will be the end of it; and I want to see you make =
the best
of your hand, madam, for your luck has been mine these forty years now. But=
I
must go and see how Kitty dishes up the dinner, unless you have any more
commands.' 'No, Denner; I am going down immediately.'
As Mrs Transome descended the stone
staircase in her old black velvet and point, her appearance justified Denne=
r's
personal compliment. She had that high-born imperious air which would have
marked her as an object of hatred and reviling by a revolutionary mob. Her
person was too typical of social distinctions to be passed by with indiffer=
ence
by any one; it would have fitted an empress in her own right, who had had to
rule in spite of faction, to dare the violation of treaties and dread
retributive invasions, to grasp after new territories, to be defiant in
desperate circumstances, and to feel a woman's hunger of the heart for ever
unsatisfied. Yet Mrs Transome's cares and occupations had not been at all o=
f an
imperial sort. For thirty years she had led the monotonous narrowing life w=
hich
used to be the lot of our poorer gentry, who never went to town, and were
probably not on speaking terms with two out of the five families whose parks
lay within the distance of a drive. When she was young she had been thought
wonderfully clever and accomplished, and had been rather ambitious of
intellectual superiority - had secretly picked out for private reading the
lighter parts of dangerous French authors - and in company had been able to
talk of Mr Burke's style, or of Chateaubriand's eloquence - had laughed at =
the
Lyrical Ballads and admired Mr Southey's 'Thalaba'. She always thought that=
the
dangerous French writers were wicked, and that her reading of them was a si=
n;
but many sinful things were highly agreeable to her, and many things which =
she
did not doubt to be good and true were dull and meaningless. She found ridi=
cule
of Biblical characters very amusing, and she was interested in stories of
illicit passion: but she believed all the while that truth and safety lay in
due attendance on prayers and sermons, in the admirable doctrines and ritua=
l of
the Church of England, equally remote from Puritanism and Popery; in fact, =
in
such a view of this world and the next as would preserve the existing
arrangements of English society quite unshaken, keeping down the obtrusiven=
ess
of the vulgar and the discontent of the poor. The history of the Jews, she
knew, ought to be preferred to any profane history; the Pagans, of course, =
were
vicious, and their religions quite nonsensical, considered as religions - b=
ut
classical learning came from the Pagans; the Greeks were famous for sculptu=
re;
the Italians for painting; the middle ages were dark and papistical; but now
Christianity went hand in hand with civilization, and the providential
government of the world, though a little confused and entangled in foreign
countries, in our favoured land was clearly seen to be carried forward on T=
ory
and Church of England principles, sustained by the succession of the House =
of
Brunswick, and by sound English divines. For Miss Lingon had had a superior
governess, who held that a woman should be able to write a good letter, and=
to
express herself with propriety on general subjects. And it is astonishing h=
ow
effective this education appeared in a handsome girl, who sat supremely wel=
l on
horseback, sang and played a little, painted small figures in water-colours,
had a naughty sparkle in her eyes when she made a daring quotation, and an =
air
of serious dignity when she recited something from her store of correct
opinions. But however such a stock of ideas may be made to tell in elegant
society, and during a few seasons in town, no amount of bloom and beauty can
make them a perennial source of interest in things not personal; and the no=
tion
that what is true and, in general, good for mankind, is stupid and drug-lik=
e,
is not a safe theoretic basis in circumstances of temptation and difficulty.
Mrs Transome had been in her bloom before this century began, and in the lo=
ng
painful years since then, what she had once regarded as her knowledge and
accomplishments had become as valueless as old-fashioned stucco ornaments, =
of
which the substance was never worth anything, while the form is no longer to
the taste of any living mortal. Crosses, mortifications, money-cares, consc=
ious
blameworthiness, had changed the aspect of the world for her: there was anx=
iety
in the morning sunlight; there was unkind triumph or disapproving pity in t=
he
glances of greeting neighbours; there was advancing age, and a contracting
prospect in the changing seasons as they came and went. And what could then
sweeten the days to a hungry much-exacting self like Mrs Transome's? Under
protracted ill every living creature will find something that makes a
comparative ease, and even when life seems woven of pain, will convert the
fainter pang into a desire. Mrs Transome, whose imperious will had availed
little to ward off the great evils of her life, found the opiate for her
discontent in the exertion of her will about smaller things. She was not cr=
uel,
and could not enjoy thoroughly what she called the old woman's pleasure of
tormenting; but she liked every little sign of power her lot had left her. =
She
liked that a tenant should stand bareheaded below her as she sat on horseba=
ck.
She liked to insist that work done without her orders should be undone from
beginning to end. She liked to be curtsied and bowed to by all the congrega=
tion
as she walked up the little barn of a church. She liked to change a laboure=
r's
medicine fetched from the doctor, and substitute a prescription of her own.=
If
she had only been more haggard and less majestic, those who had glimpses of=
her
outward life might have said she was a tyrannical, griping harridan, with a
tongue like a razor. No one said exactly that; but they never said anything
like the full truth about her, or divined what was hidden under that outward
life - a woman's keen sensibility and dread, which lay screened behind all =
her
petty habits and narrow notions, as some quivering thing with eyes and
throbbing heart may lie crouching behind withered rubbish. The sensibility =
and
dread had palpitated all the faster in the prospect of her son's return; and
now that she had seen him, she said to herself, in her bitter way, 'It is a
lucky eel that escapes skinning. The best happiness I shall ever know, will=
be
to escape the worst misery.'
A jolly parson of the good old sto=
ck,
By birth a gentleman, yet homely too, Suiting his phrase to Hodge and Marge=
ry
Whom he once christened, and has married since. A little lax in doctrine an=
d in
life, Not thinking God was captious in such things As what a man might drin=
k on
holidays, But holding true religion was to do As you'd be done by - which c=
ould
never mean That he should preach three sermons in a week.
HAROLD TRANSOME did not choose to spend the whole evening with his mother. It was his habit to compress a gre= at deal of effective conversation into a short space of time, asking rapidly a= ll the questions he wanted to get answered, and diluting no subject with irrelevancies, paraphrase, or repetitions. He volunteered no information ab= out himself and his past life at Smyrna, but answered pleasantly enough, though briefly, whenever his mother asked for any detail. He was evidently ill-satisfied as to his palate, trying red pepper to everything, then askin= g if there were any relishing sauces in the house, and when Hickes brought vario= us home-filled bottles, trying several, finding them failures, and finally fal= ling back from his plate in despair. Yet he remained good-humoured, saying somet= hing to his father now and then for the sake of being kind, and looking on with a pitying shrug as he saw him watch Hickes cutting his food. Mrs Transome tho= ught with some bitterness that Harold showed more feeling for her feeble husband= who had never cared in the least about him, than for her, who had given him more than the usual share of mother's love. An hour after dinner, Harold, who had already been turning over the leaves of his mother's account-books, said -<= o:p>
'I shall just cross the park to the
parsonage to see my uncle Lingon.' 'Very well. He can answer more questions=
for
you.'
'Yes,' said Harold, quite deaf to =
the
innuendo, and accepting the words as a simple statement of the fact. 'I wan=
t to
hear all about the game and the North Loamshire Hunt. I'm fond of sport; we=
had
a great deal of it at Smyrna, and it keeps down my fat.'
The Reverend John Lingon became ve=
ry
talkative over his second bottle of port, which was opened on his nephew's
arrival. He was not curious about the manners of Smyrna, or about Harold's
experience, but he unbosomed himself very freely as to what he himself liked
and disliked, which of the farmers he suspected of killing the foxes, what =
game
he had bagged that very morning, what spot he would recommend as a new cove=
r,
and the comparative flatness of all existing sport compared with cock-fight=
ing,
under which Old England had been prosperous and glorious, while, so far as =
he
could see, it had gained little by the abolition of a practice which sharpe=
ned
the faculties of men, gratified the instincts of the fowl, and carried out =
the
designs of heaven in its admirable device of spurs. From these main topics
which made his points of departure and return, he rambled easily enough at =
any
new suggestion or query; so that when Harold got home at a late hour, he was
conscious of having gathered from amidst the pompous full-toned triviality =
of
his uncle's chat some impressions which were of practical importance. Among=
the
rector's dislikes, it appeared, was Mr Matthew Jermyn.
'A fat-handed, glib-tongued fellow,
with a scented cambric handkerchief; one of your educated low-bred fellows;=
a
foundling who got his Latin for nothing at Christ's Hospital; one of your
middle-class upstarts who want to rank with gentlemen, and think they'll do=
it
with kid gloves and new furniture.'
But since Harold meant to stand for
the county, Mr Lingon was equally emphatic as to the necessity of his not
quarrelling with Jermyn till the election was over. Jermyn must be his agen=
t;
Harold must wink hard till he found himself safely returned; and even then =
it
might be well to let Jermyn drop gently and raise no scandal. He himself ha=
d no
quarrel with the fellow: a clergyman should have no quarrels, and he made i=
t a
point to be able to take wine with any man he met at table. And as to the
estate, and his sister's going too much by Jermyn's advice, he never meddled
with business: it was not his duty as a clergyman. That, he considered, was=
the
meaning of Melchisedec and the tithe, a subject into which he had gone to s=
ome
depth thirty years ago, when he preached the Visitation sermon.
The discovery that Harold meant to
stand on the Liberal side - nay, that he boldly declared himself a Radical -
was rather startling; but to his uncle's good-humour, beatified by the sipp=
ing
of port-wine, nothing could seem highly objectionable, provided it did not
disturb that operation. In the course of half an hour he had brought himsel=
f to
see that anything really worthy to be called British Toryism had been entir=
ely
extinct since the Duke of Wellington and Sir Robert Peel had passed the
Catholic Emancipation Bill; that Whiggery, with its rights of man stopping
short at ten-pound householders, and its policy of pacifying a wild beast w=
ith
a bite, was a ridiculous monstrosity; that therefore, since an honest man c=
ould
not call himself a Tory, which it was, in fact, as impossible to be now as =
to
fight for the old Pretender, and could still less become that execrable
monstrosity a Whig, there remained but one course open to him. 'Why, lad, if
the world was turned into a swamp, I suppose we should leave off shoes and
stockings, and walk about like cranes' - whence it followed plainly enough
that, in these hopeless times, nothing was left to men of sense and good fa=
mily
but to retard the national ruin by declaring themselves Radical, and take t=
he
inevitable process of changing everything out of the hands of beggarly
demagogues and purse-proud tradesmen. It is true the rector was helped to t=
his
chain of reasoning by Harold's remarks; but he soon became quite ardent in
asserting the conclusion.
'If the mob can't be turned back, a
man of family must try and head the mob, and save a few homes and hearths, =
and
keep the country up on its last legs as long as he can. And you're a man of
family, my lad - dash it! You're a Lingon, whatever else you may be, and I'=
ll
stand by you. I've no great interest; I'm a poor parson. I've been forced to
give up hunting; my pointers and a glass of good wine are the only decencies
becoming my station that I can allow myself. But I'll give you my countenan=
ce -
I'll stick to you as my nephew. There's no need for me to change sides exac=
tly.
I was born a Tory, and I shall never be a bishop. But if anybody says you'r=
e in
the wrong, I shall say, ‘My nephew is in the right; he has turned Rad=
ical
to save his country.’ If William Pitt had been living now, he'd have =
done
the same; for what did he say when he was dying? Not ‘O save my party=
!’
but ‘O save my country, heaven !’ That was what they dinned in =
our
ears about Peel and the duke; and now I'll turn it round upon them. They sh=
all
be hoist with their own petard. Yes, yes, I'll stand by you.'
Harold did not feel sure that his
uncle would thoroughly retain this satisfactory thread of argument in the
uninspired hours of the morning; but the old gentleman was sure to take the=
facts
easily in the end, and there was no fear of family coolness or quarrelling =
on
this side. Harold was glad of it. He was not to be turned aside from any co=
urse
he had chosen; but he disliked all quarrelling as an unpleasant expenditure=
of
energy that could have no good practical result. He was at once active and
luxurious; fond of mastery, and good-natured enough to wish that every one
about him should like his mastery; not caring greatly to know other people's
thoughts, and ready to despise them as blockheads if their thoughts differed
from his, and yet solicitous that they should have no colourable reason for
slight thoughts about him. The blockheads must be forced to respect him. He=
nce,
in proportion as he foresaw that his equals in the neighbourhood would be
indignant with him for his political choice, he cared keenly about making a
good figure before them in every other way. His conduct as a landholder was=
to
be judicious, his establishment was to be kept up generously, his imbecile
father treated with careful regard, his family relations entirely without
scandal. He knew that affairs had been unpleasant in his youth - that there=
had
been ugly lawsuits - and that his scapegrace brother Durfey had helped to l=
ower
still farther the depressed condition of the family. All this must be
retrieved, now that events had made Harold the head of the Transome name.
Jermyn must be used for the electi=
on,
and after that, if he must be got rid of, it would be well to shake him loo=
se
quietly: his uncle was probably right on both those points. But Harold's
expectation that he should want to get rid of Jermyn was founded on other
reasons than his scented handkerchief and his charity-school Latin.
If the lawyer had been presuming on
Mrs Transome's ignorance as a woman, and on the stupid rakishness of the
original heir, the new heir would prove to him that he had calculated rashl=
y.
Otherwise, Harold had no prejudice against him. In his boyhood and youth he=
had
seen Jermyn frequenting Transome Court, but had regarded him with that total
indifference with which youngsters are apt to view those who neither deny t=
hem
pleasures nor give them any. Jermyn used to smile at him, and speak to him
affably; but Harold, half proud, half shy, got away from such patronage as =
soon
as possible: he knew Jermyn was a man of business; his father, his uncle, a=
nd
Sir Maximus Debarry did not regard him as a gentleman and their equal. He h=
ad
known no evil of the man; but he saw now that if he were really a covetous
upstart, there had been a temptation for him in the management of the Trans=
ome
affairs; and it was clear that the estate was in a bad condition.
When Mr Jermyn was ushered into the
breakfast-room the next morning, Harold found him surprisingly little alter=
ed
by the fifteen years. He was grey, but still remarkably handsome; fat, but =
tall
enough to bear that trial to man's dignity. There was as strong a suggestio=
n of
toilette about him as if he had been five-and-twenty instead of nearly sixt=
y.
He chose always to dress in black, and was especially addicted to black sat=
in
waistcoats, which carried out the general sleekness of his appearance; and
this, together with his white, fat, but beautifully-shaped hands, which he =
was
in the habit of rubbing gently on his entrance into a room, gave him very m=
uch
the air of a lady's physician. Harold remembered with some amusement his
uncle's dislike of those conspicuous hands; but as his own were soft and
dimpled, and as he too was given to the innocent practice of rubbing those
members, his suspicions were not yet deepened.
'I congratulate you, Mrs Transome,'
said Jermyn, with a soft and deferential smile, 'all the more,' he added,
turning towards Harold, 'now I have the pleasure of actually seeing your so=
n. I
am glad to perceive that an Eastern climate has not been unfavourable to hi=
m.'
'No,' said Harold, shaking Jermyn's
hand carelessly, and speaking with more than his usual rapid brusqueness, '=
the
question is, whether the English climate will agree with me. It's deuced
shifting and damp: and as for the food, it would be the finest thing in the
world for this country if the southern cooks would change their religion, g=
et
persecuted, and fly to England, as the old silk-weavers did.'
'There are plenty of foreign cooks=
for
those who are rich enough to pay for them, I suppose,' said Mrs Transome, '=
but
they are unpleasant people to have about one's house.'
'Gad! I don't think so,' said Haro=
ld.
'The old servants are sure to quar=
rel
with them.'
'That's no concern of mine. The old
servants will have to put up with my man Dominic, who will show them how to
cook and do everything else, in a way that will rather astonish them.'
'Old people are not so easily taug=
ht
to change all their ways, Harold.'
'Well, they can give up and watch =
the
young ones,' said Harold, thinking only at that moment of old Mrs Hickes and
Dominic. But his mother was not thinking of them only.
'You have a valuable servant, it
seems,' said Jermyn, who understood Mrs Transome better than her son did, a=
nd
wished to smoothen the current of their dialogue.
'O! one of those wonderful southern
fellows that make one's life easy. He's of no country in particular. I don't
know whether he's most of a Jew, a Greek, an Italian, or a Spaniard. He spe=
aks
five or six languages, one as well as another. He's cook, valet, major-domo,
and secretary all in one; and what's more, he's an affectionate fellow - I =
can
trust to his attachment. That's a sort of human specimen that doesn't grow =
here
in England, I fancy. I should have been badly off if I could not have broug=
ht
Dominic.'
They sat down to breakfast with su=
ch
slight talk as this going on. Each of the party was preoccupied and uneasy.
Harold's mind was busy constructing probabilities about what he should disc=
over
of Jermyn's mismanagement or dubious application of funds, and the sort of
self-command he must in the worst case exercise in order to use the man as =
long
as he wanted him. Jermyn was closely observing Harold with an unpleasant se=
nse
that there was an expression of acuteness and determination about him which=
would
make him formidable. He would certainly have preferred at that moment that
there had been no second heir of the Transome name to come back upon him fr=
om
the East. Mrs Transome was not observing the two men; rather, her hands were
cold, and her whole person shaken by their presence; she seemed to hear and=
see
what they said and did with preternatural acuteness, and yet she was also
seeing and hearing what had been said and done many years before, and feeli=
ng a
dim terror about the future. There were piteous sensibilities in this faded
woman, who thirty-four years ago, in the splendour of her bloom, had been
imperious to one of these men, and had rapturously pressed the other as an
infant to her bosom, and now knew that she was of little consequence to eit=
her
of them.
'Well, what are the prospects about
the election?' said Harold, as the breakfast was advancing. 'There are two
Whigs and one Conservative likely to be in the field, I know. What is your
opinion of the chances?'
Mr Jermyn had a copious supply of =
words,
which often led him into periphrase, but he cultivated a hesitating stammer,
which, with a handsome impassiveness of face, except when he was smiling at=
a
woman, or when the latent savageness of his nature was thoroughly roused, he
had found useful in many relations, especially in business. No one could ha=
ve
found out that he was not at his ease. 'My opinion,' he replied, 'is in a s=
tate
of balance at present. This division of the county, you are aware, contains=
one
manufacturing town of the first magnitude, and several smaller ones. The
manufacturing interest is widely dispersed. So far - a - there is a presump=
tion
- a - in favour of the two Liberal candidates. Still with a careful canvass=
of
the agricultural districts, such as those we have round us at Treby Magna, I
think - a - the auguries - a - would not be unfavourable to the return of a
Conservative. A fourth candidate of good position, who should coalesce with=
Mr
Debarry. - a -'
Here Mr Jermyn hesitated for the t=
hird
time, and Harold broke in.
'That will not be my line of actio=
n,
so we need not discuss it. If I put up it will be as a Radical; and I fancy=
, in
any county that would return Whigs there would be plenty of voters to be co=
mbed
off by a Radical who offered himself with good pretensions.'
There was the slightest possible
quiver discernible across Jermyn's face. Otherwise he sat as he had done
before, with his eyes fixed abstractedly on the frill of a ham before him, =
and
his hand trifling with his fork. He did not answer immediately, but when he
did, he looked round steadily at Harold.
'I'm delighted to perceive that you
have kept yourself so thoroughly acquainted with English politics.'
'O, of course,' said Harold,
impatiently. 'I'm aware how things have been going on in England. I always =
meant
to come back ultimately. I suppose I know the state of Europe as well as if=
I'd
been stationary at Little Treby for the last fifteen years. If a man goes to
the East, people seem to think he gets turned into something like the one-e=
yed
calender in the Arabian Nights.’
'Yet I should think there are some
things which people who have been stationary at Little Treby could tell you,
Harold,' said Mrs Transome. 'It did not signify about your holding Radical
opinions at Smyma; but you seem not to imagine how your putting up as a Rad=
ical
will affect your position here, and the position of your family. No one will
visit you. And then - the sort of people who will support you ! You really =
have
no idea what an impression it conveys when you say you are a Radical. There=
are
none of our equals who will not feel that you have disgraced yourself. 'Poo=
h!'
said Harold, rising and walking along the room.
But Mrs Transome went on with grow=
ing
anger in her voice - 'It seems to me that a man owes something to his birth=
and
station, and has no right to take up this notion or the other, just as it s=
uits
his fancy; still less to work at the overthrow of his class. That was what
everyone said of Lord Grey, and my family at least is as good as Lord Grey'=
s.
You have wealth now, and might distinguish yourself in the county; and if y=
ou
had been true to your colours as a gentleman, you would have had all the
greater opportunity because the times are so bad. The Debarrys and Lord Wyv=
em
would have set all the more store by you. For my part, I can't conceive what
good you propose to yourself. I only entreat you to think again before you =
take
any decided step.'
'Mother,' said Harold, not angrily=
or
with any raising of his voice, but in a quick, impatient manner, as if the
scene must be got through as quickly as possible; 'it is natural that you
should think in this way. Women, very properly, don't change their views, b=
ut
keep to the notions in which they have been brought up. It doesn't signify =
what
they think - they are not called upon to judge or to act. You must really l=
eave
me to take my own course in these matters, which properly belong to men. Be=
yond
that, I will gratify any wish you choose to mention. You shall have a new
carriage and a pair of bays all to yourself; you shall have the house done =
up
in first-rate style, and I am not thinking of marrying. But let us understa=
nd
that there shall be no further collision between us on subjects in which I =
must
be master of my own actions.'
'And you will put the crown to the mortifications of my life, Harold. I don't know who would be a mother if she could foresee what a slight thing she will be to her son when she is old.'<= o:p>
Mrs Transome here walked out of the
room by the nearest way - the glass door open towards the terrace. Mr Jermyn
had risen too, and his hands were on the back of his chair. He looked quite
impassive: it was not the first time he had seen Mrs Transome angry; but no=
w,
for the first time, he thought the outburst of her temper would be useful f=
or
him. She, poor woman, knew quite well that she had been unwise, and that she
had been making herself disagreeable to Harold to no purpose. But half the
sorrows of women would be averted if they could repress the speech they kno=
w to
be useless; nay, the speech they have resolved not to utter. Harold continu=
ed
his walking a moment longer, and then said to Jermyn -
'You smoke?'
'No, I always defer to the ladies.= Mrs Jermyn is peculiarly sensitive on such matters, and doesn't like tobacco.'<= o:p>
Harold, who, underneath all the
tendencies which had made him a Liberal, had intense personal pride, though=
t,
'Confound the fellow - with his Mrs Jermyn! Does he think we are on a footi=
ng
for me to know anytlung about his wife?'
'Well, I took my hookah before
breakfast,' he said aloud; 'so, if you like, we'll go into the library. My
father never gets up till mid-day, I find.'
'Sit down, sit down,' said Harold,=
as
they entered the handsome, spacious library. But he himself continued to st=
and
before a map of the county which he had opened from a series of rollers
occupying a compartment among the bookshelves. 'The first question, Mr Jerm=
yn,
now you know my intentions, is, whether you will undertake to be my agent in
this election, and help me through? There's no time to be lost, and I don't
want to lose my chance, as I may not have another for seven years. I
understand,' he went on, flashing a look straight at Jermyn, 'that you have=
not
taken any conspicuous course in politics; and I know that Labron is agent f=
or
the Debarrys.'
'O - a - my dear sir - a man neces=
sarily
has his political convictions, but of what use is it for a professional man=
- a
- of some education, to talk of them in a little country town? There really=
is
no comprehension of public questions in such places. Party feeling, indeed,=
was
quite asleep here before the agitation about the Catholic Relief Bill. It is
true that I concurred with our incumbent in getting up a petition against t=
he
Reform Bill, but I did not state my reasons. The weak points in that Bill a=
re -
a - too palpable, and I fancy you and I should not differ much on that head.
The fact is, when I knew that you were to come back to us, I kept myself in
reserve, though I was much pressed by the friends of Sir James Clement, the
Ministerial candidate, who is - '
'However, you will act for me - th=
at's
settled?' said Harold.
'Certainly,' said Jermyn, inwardly
irritated by Harold's rapid manner of cutting him short.
'Which of the Liberal candidates, =
as
they call themselves, has the better chance, eh?'
'I was going to observe that Sir J=
ames
Clement has not so good a chance as Mr Garstin, supposing that a third Libe=
ral
candidate presents himself. There are two senses in which a politician can =
be
liberal' - here Mr Jermyn smiled - 'Sir James Clement is a poor baronet, ho=
ping
for an appointment, and can't be expected to be liberal in that wider sense
which commands majorities.'
'I wish this man were not so much =
of a
talker,' thought Harold; 'he'll bore me. We shall see,' he said aloud, 'what
can be done in the way of combination. I'll come down to your office after =
one
o'clock, if it will suit you?'
'Perfectly.'
'Ah, and you'll have all the lists=
and
papers and necessary information ready for me there. I must get up a dinner=
for
the tenants, and we can invite whom we like besides the tenants. Just now, =
I'm
going over one of the farms on hand with the bailiff. By the way, that's a
desperately bad business, having three farms unlet - how comes that about, =
eh?'
'That is precisely what I wanted to
say a few words about to you. You have observed already how strongly Mrs
Transome takes certain things to heart. You can imagine that she has been
severely tried in many ways. Mr Transome's want of health; Mr Durfey's habi=
ts -
a -'
'Yes, yes.'
'She is a woman for whom I natural=
ly
entertain the highest respect, and she has had hardly any gratification for
many years, except the sense of having affairs to a certain extent in her o=
wn
hands. She objects to changes; she will not have a new style of tenants; she
likes the old stock of farmers who milk their own cows, and send their youn=
ger
daughters out to service: all this makes it difficult to do the best with t=
he
estate. I am aware things are not as they ought to be, for, in point of fac=
t,
an improved agricultural management is a matter in which I take considerable
interest, and the farm which I myself hold on the estate you will see, I th=
ink,
to be in a superior condition. But Mrs Transome is a woman of strong feelin=
g,
and I would urge you, my dear sir, to make the changes which you have, but
which I had not, the right to insist on, as little painful to her as possib=
le.'
'I shall know what to do, sir, nev=
er
fear,' said Harold, much offended.
'You will pardon, I hope, a perhaps
undue freedom of suggestion from a man of my age, who has been so long in a
close connection with the family affairs - a - I have never considered that
connection simply in the light of a business - a -'
'Damn him, I'll soon let him know =
that
I do,' thought Harold. But in proportion as he found Jermyn's manners annoy=
ing,
he felt the necessity of controlling himself. He despised all persons who
defeated their own projects by the indulgence of momentary impulses.
'I understand, I understand,' he s=
aid
aloud. 'You've had more awkward business on your hands than usually falls to
the share of the family lawyer. We shall set everything right by degrees. B=
ut
now as to the canvassing. I've made arrangements with a first-rate man in
London, who understands these matters thoroughly - a solicitor of course - =
he
has carried no end of men into parliament. I'll engage him to meet us at
Duffield - say when?'
The conversation after this was dr=
iven
carefully clear of all angles, and ended with determined amicableness. When
Harold, in his ride an hour or two afterwards, encountered his uncle
shouldering a gun, and followed by one black and one liver-spotted pointer,=
his
muscular person with its red eagle face set off by a velveteen jacket and
leather leggings, Mr Lingon's first question was -
'Well, lad, how have you got on wi=
th
Jermyn?'
'O, I don't think I shall like the
fellow. He's a sort of amateur gentleman. But I must make use of him. I exp=
ect
whatever I get out of him will only be something short of fair pay for what=
he
has got out of us. But I shall see.'
'Ay, ay, use his gun to bring down
your game, and after that beat the thief with the butt-end. That's wisdom a=
nd
justice and pleasure all in one - talking between ourselves, as uncle and
nephew. But I say, Harold, I was going to tell you, now I come to think of =
it,
this is rather a nasty business, your calling yourself a Radical. I've been
turning it over in after-dinner speeches, but it looks awkward - it's not w=
hat
people are used to - it wants a good deal of Latin to make it go down. I sh=
all
be worried about it at the sessions, and I can think of nothing neat enough=
to
carry about in my pocket by way of answer.'
'Nonsense, uncle; I remember what a
good speechifier you always were: you'll never be at a loss. You only want a
few more evenings to think of it.'
'But you'll not be attacking the
church and the institutions of the country - you'll not be going to those
lengths; you'll keep up the bulwarks, and so on, eh?'
'No, I shan't attack the church - =
only
the incomes of the bishops, perhaps, to make them eke out the incomes of the
poor clergy.'
'Well, well, I have no objection to
that. Nobody likes our bishop: he's all Greek and greediness; too proud to =
dine
with his own father. You may pepper the bishops a little. But you'll respect
the constitution handed down, etc. - and you'll rally round the throne - an=
d the
king, God bless him, and the usual toasts, eh?'
'Of course, of course. I am a Radi=
cal
only in rooting out abuses.'
'That's the word I wanted, my lad!'
said the vicar, slapping Harold's knee. 'That's a spool to wind a speech on.
Abuses is the very word; and if anybody shows himself offended, he'll put t=
he
cap on for himself.'
'I remove the rotten timbers,' said
Harold, inwardly amused, 'and substitute fresh oak, that's all.'
'Well done, my boy ! By George, yo=
u'll
be a speaker. But, I say, Harold, I hope you've got a little Latin left. Th=
is
young Debarry is a tremendous fellow at the classics, and walks on stilts to
any length. He's one of the new Conservatives. Old Sir Maximus doesn't
understand him at all.'
'That won't do at the hustings,' s=
aid
Harold. 'He'll get knocked off his stilts pretty quickly there.'
'Bless me ! it's astonishing how w=
ell
you're up in the affairs of the country, my boy. But rub up a few quotation=
s - ‘Quod
turpe bonis decebat Crispinum’ - and that sort of thing - just to show
Debarry what you could do if you liked. But you want to ride on?' 'Yes; I h=
ave
an appointment at Treby. Good-bye.'
'He's a cleverish chap,' muttered =
the
vicar, as Harold rode away. 'When he's had plenty of English exercise, and
brought out his knuckle a bit, he'll be a Lingon again as he used to be. I =
must
go and see how Arabella takes his being a Radical. It's a little awkward; b=
ut a
clergyman must keep peace in a family. Confound it ! I'm not bound to love
Toryism better than my own flesh and blood, and the manor I shoot over. Tha=
t's
a heathenish, Brutus-like sort of thing, as if Providence couldn't take car=
e of
the country without my quarrelling with my own sister's son!'
'Twas town, yet country too; you f=
elt
the warmth Of clustering houses in the wintry time; Supped with a friend, a=
nd
went by lantern home. Yet from your chamber window you could hear The tiny
bleat of new-yeaned lambs, or see The children bend beside the hedgerow ban=
ks
To pluck the primroses.
TREBY MAGNA, on which the Reform B=
ill
had thrust the new honour of being a polling-place, had been, at the beginn=
ing
of the century, quite a typical old market-town, lying in pleasant sleepine=
ss
among green pastures, with a rush-fringed river meandering through them. Its
principal street had various handsome and tall-windowed brick houses with
walled gardens behind them; and at the end, where it widened into the
market-place, there was the cheerful rough-stuccoed front of that excellent
inn, the Marquis of Granby, where the farmers put up their gigs, not only on
fair and market days, but on exceptional Sundays when they came to church. =
And
the church was one of those fine old English structures worth travelling to
see, standing in a broad churchyard with a line of solemn yew-trees beside =
it,
and lifting a majestic tower and spire far above the red-and-purple roofs of
the town. It was not large enough to hold all the parishioners of a parish
which stretched over distant villages and hamlets; but then they were never=
so
unreasonable as to wish to be all in at once, and had never complained that=
the
space of a large side-chapel was taken up by the tombs of the Debarrys, and
shut in by a handsome iron screen. For when the black Benedictines ceased to
pray and chant in this church, when the Blessed Virgin and St Gregory were
expelled, the Debarrys, as lords of the manor, naturally came next to
Providence and took the place of the saints. Long before that time, indeed,
there had been a Sir Maximus Debarry who had been at the fortifying of the =
old
castle, which now stood in ruins in the midst of the green pastures, and wi=
th
its sheltering wall towards the north made an excellent strawyard for the p=
igs
of Wace & Co., brewers of the celebrated Treby beer. Wace & Co. did=
not
stand alone in the town as prosperous traders on a large scale, to say noth=
ing
of those who had retired from business; and in no country town of the same
small size as Treby was there a larger proportion of families who had hands=
ome
sets of china without handles, hereditary punchbowls, and large silver ladl=
es
with a Queen Anne's guinea in the centre. Such people naturally took tea and
supped together frequently; and as there was no professional man or tradesm=
an
in Treby who was not connected by business, if not by blood, with the farme=
rs
of the district, the richer sort of these were much invited, and gave
invitations in their turn. They played at whist, ate and drank generously,
praised Mr Pitt and the war as keeping up prices and religion, and were very
humorous about each other's property, having much the same coy pleasure in
allusions to their secret ability to purchase, as blushing lasses sometimes
have in jokes about their secret preferences. The rector was always of the
Debarry family, associated only with county people, and was much respected =
for
his affability; a clergyman who would have taken tea with the townspeople w=
ould
have given a dangerous shock to the mind of a Treby church-man.
Such was the old-fashioned, grazin=
g,
brewing, woolpacking, cheese-loading life of Treby Magna, until there befell
new conditions, complicating its relating with the rest of the world, and
gradually awakening in it that higher consciousness which is known to bring
higher pains. First came the canal; next, the working of the coal-mines at
Sproxton, two miles off the town; and, thirdly, the discovery of a saline
spring, which suggested to a too constructive brain the possibility of turn=
ing
Treby Magna into a fashionable watering-place. So daring an idea was not
originated by a native Trebian, but by a young lawyer who came from a dista=
nce,
knew the dictionary by heart, and was probably an illegitimate son of someb=
ody
or other. The idea, although it promised an increase of wealth to the town,=
was
not well received at first; ladies objected to seeing 'objects' drawn about=
in
hand-carriages, the doctor foresaw the advent of unsound practitioners, and
most retail tradesmen concurred with him that new doings were usually for t=
he
advantage of new people. The more unanswerable reasons urged that Treby had
prospered without baths, and it was yet to be seen how it would prosper with
them; while a report that the proposed name for them was Bethesda Spa,
threatened to give the whole affair a blasphemous aspect. Even Sir Maximus
Debarry, who was to have an unprecedented return for the thousands he would=
lay
out on a pump-room and hotel, regarded the thing as a little too new, and h=
eld
back for some time. But the persuasive powers of the young lawyer, Mr Matth=
ew
Jermyn, together with the opportune opening of a stone-quarry, triumphed at
last; the handsome buildings were erected, an excellent guide-book and
descriptive cards, surmounted by vignettes, were printed, and Treby Magna
became conscious of certain facts in its own history, of which it had
previously been in contented ignorance.
But it was all in vain. The Spa, f=
or
some mysterious reason, did not succeed. Some attributed the failure to the
coal-mines and the canal, others to the peace, which had had ruinous effect=
s on
the country, and others, who disliked Jermyn, to the original folly of the
plan. Among these last was Sir Maximus himself, who never forgave the too
persuasive attorney: it was Jermyn's fault not only that a useless hotel had
been built, but that he, Sir Maximus, being straitened for money, had at la=
st
let the building, with the adjacent land lying on the river, on a long leas=
e,
on the supposition that it was to be turned into a benevolent college, and =
had
seen himself subsequently powerless to prevent its being turned into a tape
manufactory - a bitter thing to any gentleman, and especially to the
representative of one of the oldest families in England.
In this way it happened that Treby
Magna gradually passed from being simply a respectable market-town - the he=
art
of a great rural district, where the trade was only such as had close relat=
ions
with the local landed interest - and took on the more complex life brought =
by
mines and manufactures, which belong more directly to the great circulating
system of the nation than to the local system to which they have been
superadded; and in this way it was that Trebian Dissent gradually altered i=
ts
character. Formerly it had been of a quiescent, well-to-do kind, represented
architecturally by a small, venerable, dark-pewed chapel, built by
Presbyterians, but long occupied by a sparse congregation of Independents, =
who
were as little moved by doctrinal zeal as their church-going neighbours, and
did not feel themselves deficient in religious liberty, inasmuch as they we=
re
not hindered from occasionally slumbering in their pews, and were not oblig=
ed
to go regularly to the weekly prayer-meeting. But when stone-pits and coal-=
pits
made new hamlets that threatened to spread up to the very town, when the
tape-weavers came with their news-reading inspectors and book-keepers, the =
Independent
chapel began to be filled with eager men and women, to whom the exceptional
possession of religious truth was the condition which reconciled them to a
meagre existence, and made them feel in secure alliance with the unseen but
supreme rule of a world in which their own visible part was small. There we=
re
Dissenters in Treby now who could not be regarded by the church people in t=
he
light of old neighbours to whom the habit of going to chapel was an innocen=
t,
unenviable inheritance along with a particular house and garden, a tanyard,=
or
a grocery business - Dissenters who, in their turn, without meaning to be in
the least abusive, spoke of the high-bred rector as a blind leader of the
blind. And Dissent was not the only thing that the times had altered; prices
had fallen, poor-rates had risen, rent and tithe were not elastic enough, a=
nd
the farmer's fat sorrow had become lean; he began to speculate on causes, a=
nd
to trace things back to that causeless mystery, the cessation of one-pound
notes. Thus, when political agitation swept in a great current through the
country, Treby Magna was prepared to vibrate. The Catholic Emancipation Bill
opened the eyes of neighbours, and made them aware how very injurious they =
were
to each other and to the welfare of mankind generally. Mr Tiliot, the church
spirit-merchant, knew now that Mr Nuttwood, the obliging grocer, was one of
those Dissenters, Deists, Socinians, Papists and Radicals, who were in leag=
ue
to destroy the constitution. A retired old London tradesman, who was believ=
ed
to understand politics, said that thinking people must wish George the Third
alive again in all his early vigour of mind; and even the farmers became le=
ss
materialistic in their view of causes, and referred much to the agency of t=
he
devil and the Irish Romans. The rector, the Rev. Augustus Debarry, really a
fine specimen of the old-fashioned aristocratic clergyman, preaching short
sermons, understanding business, and acting liberally about his tithe, had
never before found himself in collision with Dissenters; but now he began to
feel that these people were a nuisance in the parish, that his brother Sir
Maximus must take care lest they should get land to build more chapels, and
that it might not have been a bad thing if the law had furnished him as a
magistrate with a power of putting a stop to the political sermons of the
Independent preacher, which, in their way, were as pernicious sources of
intoxication as the beerhouses. The Dissenters, on their side, were not
disposed to sacrifice the cause of truth and freedom to a temporizing mildn=
ess
of language; but they defended themselves from the charge of religious
indifference, and solemnly disclaimed any lax expectations that Catholics w=
ere
likely to be saved - urging, on the contrary, that they were not too hopeful
about Protestants, who adhered to a bloated and worldly prelacy. Thus Treby
Magna, which had lived quietly through the great earthquakes of the French
Revolution and the Napoleonic wars, which had remained unmoved by the Right=
s of
Man, and saw little in Mr Cobbett's Weekly Register ' except that he held
eccentric views about potatoes, began at last to know the higher pains of a=
dim
political consciousness; and the development had been greatly helped by the
recent agitation about the Reform Bill. Tory, Whig, and Radical did not per=
haps
become clearer in their definition of each other; but the names seemed to
acquire so strong a stamp of honour or infamy, that definitions would only =
have
weakened the impression. As to the short and easy method of judging opinion=
s by
the personal character of those who held them, it was liable to be much
frustrated in Treby. It so happened in that particular town that the Reform=
ers
were not all of them large-hearted patriots or ardent lovers of justice; in=
deed,
one of them, in the very midst of the agitation, was detected in using uneq=
ual
scales - a fact to which many Tories pointed with disgust as showing plainly
enough, without further argument, that the cry for a change in the
representative system was hollow trickery. Again, the Tories were far from
being all oppressors, disposed to grind down the working classes into serfd=
om;
and it was undeniable that the inspector at the tape manufactory, who spoke
with much eloquence on the extension of the suffrage, was a more tyrannical
personage than open-handed Mr Wace, whose chief political tenet was, that it
was all nonsense giving men votes when they had no stake in the country. On=
the
other hand, there were some Tories who gave themselves a great deal of leis=
ure to
abuse hypocrites, Radicals, Dissenters, and atheism generally, but whose
inflamed faces, theistic swearing, and frankness in expressing a wish to
borrow, certainly did not mark them out strongly as holding opinions likely=
to
save society.
The Reformers had triumphed: it was
clear that the wheels were going whither they were pulling, and they were in
fine spirits for exertion. But if they were pulling towards the country's r=
uin,
there was the more need for others to hang on behind and get the wheels to =
stick
if possible. In Treby, as elsewhere, people were told they must 'rally' at =
the
coming election; but there was now a large number of waverers - men of
flexible, practical minds, who were not such bigots as to cling to any views
when a good tangible reason could be urged against them; while some regarde=
d it
as the most neighbourly thing to hold a little with both sides, and were not
sure that they should rally or vote at all. It seemed an invidious thing to
vote for one gentleman rather than another.
These social changes in Treby pari=
sh
are comparatively public matters, and this history is chiefly concerned with
the private lot of a few men and women; but there is no private life which =
has
not been determined by a wider public life, from the time when the primeval
milkmaid had to wander with the wanderings of her clan, because the cow she
milked was one of a herd which had made the pastures bare. Even in that
conservatory existence where the fair Camelia is sighed for by the noble yo=
ung
Pineapple, neither of them needing to care about the frost or rain outside,
there is a nether apparatus of hot-water pipes liable to cool down on a str=
ike
of the gardeners or a scarcity of coal. And the lives we are about to look =
back
upon do not belong to those conservatory species; they are rooted in the co=
mmon
earth, having to endure all the ordinary chances of past and present weathe=
r.
As to the weather of 1832, the Zadkiel of that time had predicted that the
electrical condition of the clouds in the political hemisphere would produce
unusual perturbations in organic existence, and he would perhaps have seen a
fulfilment of his remarkable prophecy in that mutual influence of dissimilar
destinies which we shall see gradually unfolding itself. For if the mixed
political conditions of Treby Magna had not been acted on by the passing of=
the
Reform Bill, Mr Harold Transome would not have presented himself as a candi=
date
for North Loamshire, Treby would not have been a polling-place, Mr Matthew
Jermyn would not have been on affable terms with a Dissenting preacher and =
his
flock, and the venerable town would not have been placarded with handbills,
more or less complimentary and retrospective - conditions in this case
essential to the 'where', and the 'what', without which, as the learned kno=
w,
there can be no event whatever.
For example, it was through these
conditions that a young man named Felix Holt made a considerable difference=
in
the life of Harold Transome, though nature and fortune seemed to have done =
what
they could to keep the lots of the two men quite aloof from each other. Fel=
ix
was heir to nothing better than a quack medicine; his mother lived up a back
street in Treby Magna, and her sitting-room was ornamented with her best
tea-tray and several framed testimonials to the virtues of Holt's Cathartic
Lozenges and Holt's Restorative Elixir. There could hardly have been a lot =
less
like Harold Transome's than this of the quack doctor's son, except in the
superficial facts that he called himself a Radical, that he was the only so=
n of
his mother, and that he had lately returned to his home with ideas and reso=
lves
not a little disturbing to that mother's mind.
But Mrs Holt, unlike Mrs Transome,=
was
much disposed to reveal her troubles, and was not without a counsellor into
whose ear she could pour them. On this 2nd of September, when Mr Harold
Transome had had his first interview with Jermyn, and when the attorney went
back to his office with new views of canvassing in his mind, Mrs Holt had p=
ut
on her bonnet as early as nine o'clock in the morning, and had gone to see =
the
Rev. Rufus Lyon, minister of the Independent Chapel usually spoken of as
'Malthouse Yard.'
'A pious and painful preacher.' -
FULLER.
MR LYON lived in a small house, not
quite so good as the parish clerk's, adjoining the entry which led to the
Chapel Yard. The new prosperity of Dissent at Treby had led to an enlargeme=
nt
of the chapel, which absorbed all extra funds and left none for the enlarge=
ment
of the minister's income. He sat this morning, as usual, in a low up-stairs
room, called his study, which, by means of a closet capable of holding his =
bed,
served also as a sleeping-room. The bookshelves did not suffice for his sto=
re
of old books, which lay about him in piles so arranged as to leave narrow l=
anes
between them; for the minister was much given to walking about during his h=
ours
of meditation, and very narrow passages would serve for his small legs,
unencumbered by any other drapery than his black silk stockings and the
flexible, though prominent, bows of black ribbon that tied his knee-breeche=
s.
He was walking about now, with his hands clasped behind him, an attitude in
which his body seemed to bear about the same proportion to his head as the
lower part of a stone Hermes bears to the carven image that crowns it. His =
face
looked old and worn, yet the curtain of hair that fell from his bald crown =
and
hung about his neck retained much of its original auburn tint, and his larg=
e,
brown, shortsighted eyes were still clear and bright. At the first glance, =
every
one thought him a very odd-looking rusty old man; the freeschool boys often
hooted after him, and called him 'Revelations'; and to many respectable chu=
rch
people, old Lyon's little legs and large head seemed to make Dissent
additionally preposterous. But he was too shortsighted to notice those who
tittered at him - too absent from the world of small facts and petty impuls=
es
in which titterers live. With Satan to argue against on matters of vital
experience as well as of church government, with great texts to meditate on,
which seemed to get deeper as he tried to fathom them, it had never occurre=
d to
him to reflect what sort of image his small person made on the retina of a
light-minded beholder. The good Rufus had his ire and his egoism; but they
existed only as the red heat which gave force to his belief and his teachin=
g.
He was susceptible concerning the true office of deacons in the primitive
church, and his small nervous body was jarred from head to foot by the
concussion of an argument to which he saw no answer. In fact, the only mome=
nts
when he could be said to be really conscious of his body, were when he trem=
bled
under the pressure of some agitating thought.
He was meditating on the text for =
his
Sunday morning sermon: 'And all the people said, Amen' - a mere mustard-see=
d of
a text, which had split at first only into two divisions, 'What was said', =
and
'Who said it'; but these were growing into a many-branched discourse, and t=
he
preacher's eyes dilated, and a smile played about his mouth till, as his ma=
nner
was, when he felt happily inspired, he had begun to utter his thoughts alou=
d in
the varied measure and cadence habitual to him, changing from a rapid but
distinct undertone to a loud emphatic rallentando.
'My brethren, do you think that gr=
eat
shout was raised in Israel by each man's waiting to say ‘amen’ =
till
his neighbours had said amen? Do you think there will ever be a great shout=
for
the right - the shout of a nation as of one man, rounded and whole, like the
voice of the archangel that bound together all the listeners of earth and
heaven - if every Christian of you peeps round to see what his neighbours in
good coats are doing, or else puts his hat before his face that he may shout
and never be heard? But this is what you do: when the servant of God stands=
up
to deliver his message, do you lay your souls beneath the Word as you set o=
ut
your plants beneath the falling rain? No; one of you sends his eyes to all
corners, he smothers his soul with small questions, ‘What does brothe=
r Y.
think?’ ‘Is this doctrine high enough for brother Z?’ =
216;Will
the church members be pleased?’ And another -'
Here the door was opened, and old
Lyddy, the minister's servant, put in her head to say, in a tone of
despondency, finishing with a groan, 'Here is Mrs Holt wanting to speak to =
you;
she says she comes out of season, but she's in trouble.'
'Lyddy,' said Mr Lyon, falling at =
once
into a quiet conversational tone, 'if you are wrestling with the enemy, let=
me
refer you to Ezekiel the thirteenth and twenty-second, and beg of you not to
groan. It is a stumbling-block and offence to my daughter; she would take no
broth yesterday, because she said you had cried into it. Thus you cause the
truth to be lightly spoken of, and make the enemy rejoice. If your face-ache
gives him an advantage, take a little warm ale with your meat - I do not gr=
udge
the money.'
'If I thought my drinking warm ale
would hinder poor dear Miss Esther from speaking light - but she hates the
smell of it.'
'Answer not again, Lyddy, but send=
up
Mistress Holt to me.'
Lyddy closed the door immediately.=
'I lack grace to deal with these w= eak sisters,' said the minister, again thinking aloud, and walking. 'Their needs lie too much out of the track of my meditations, and take me often unawares. Mistress Holt is another who darkens counsel by words without knowledge, and angers the reason of the natural man. Lord, give me patience. My sins were heavier to bear than this woman's folly. Come in, Mistress Holt, come in.'<= o:p>
He hastened to disencumber a chair=
of
Matthew Henry's Commentary, and begged his visitor to be seated. She was a =
tall
elderly woman, dressed in black, with a light-brown front and a black band =
over
her forehead. She moved the chair a little and seated herself in it with so=
me
emphasis, looking fixedly at the opposite wall with a hurt and argumentative
expression. Mr Lyon had placed himself in the chair against his desk, and
waited with the resolute resignation of a patient who is about to undergo an
operation. But his visitor did not speak.
'You have something on your mind,
Mistress Holt?' he said, at last.
'Indeed I have, sir, else I should=
n't
be here.'
'Speak freely.'
'It's well known to you, Mr Lyon, =
that
my husband, Mr Holt, came from the north, and was a member in Malthouse Yard
long before you began to be pastor of it, which was seven year ago last
Michaelmas. It's the truth, Mr Lyon, and I'm not that woman to sit here and=
say
it if it wasn't true.'
'Certainly, it is true.'
'And if my husband had been alive =
when
you'd come to preach upon trial, he'd have been as good a judge of your gif=
ts
as Mr Nuttwood and Mr Muscat, though whether he'd have agreed with some that
your doctrine wasn't high enough, I can't say. For myself, I've my opinion
about high doctrine.'
'Was it my preaching you came to s=
peak
about?' said the minister, hurrying in the question.
'No, Mr Lyon, I'm not that woman. =
But
this I will say, for my husband died before your time, that he had a wonder=
ful
gift in prayer, as the old members well know, if anybody likes to ask 'em, =
not
believing my words; and he believed himself that the receipt for the Cancer
Cure, which I've sent out in bottles till this very last April before Septe=
mber
as now is, and have bottles standing by me, - he believed it was sent him in
answer to prayer; and nobody can deny it, for he prayed most regular, and r=
ead
out of the green baize Bible.'
Mrs Holt paused, appearing to think
that Mr Lyon had been successfully confuted, and should show himself convin=
ced.
'Has any one been aspersing your
husband's character?' said Mr Lyon, with a slight initiative towards that
relief of groaning for which he had reproved Lyddy.
'Sir, they daredn't. For though he=
was
a man of prayer, he didn't want skill and knowledge to find things out for
himself; and that was what I used to say to my friends when they wondered a=
t my
marrying a man from Lancashire, with no trade or fortune but what he'd got =
in
his head. But my husband's tongue 'ud have been a fortune to anybody, and t=
here
was many a one said it was as good as a dose of physic to hear him talk; not
but what that got him into trouble in Lancashire, but he always said, if the
worst came to the worst, he could go and preach to the blacks. But he did
better than that, Mr Lyon, for he married me; and this I will say, that for
age, and conduct, and managing -'
'Mistress Holt,' interrupted the
minister, 'these are not the things whereby we may edify one another. Let me
beg of you to be as brief as you can. My time is not my own.'
'Well, Mr Lyon, I've a right to sp=
eak
to my own character; and I'm one of your congregation, though I'm not a chu=
rch
member, for I was born in the general Baptist connection: and as for being
saved without works, there's a many, I daresay, can't do without that doctr=
ine;
but I thank the Lord I never needed to put myself on a level with the thief=
on
the cross. I've done my duty, and more, if anybody comes to that; for I've =
gone
without my bit of meat to make broth for a sick neighbour: and if there's a=
ny
of the church members say they've done the same, I'd ask them if they had t=
he
sinking at the stomach as I have; for I've ever strove to do the right thin=
g,
and more, for good-natured I always was; and I little thought, after being
respected by everybody, I should come to be reproached by my own son. And my
husband said, when he was a-dying - ‘Mary,’ he said, ‘the
elixir, and the pills, and the cure will support you, for they've a great n=
ame
in all the country round, and you'll pray for a blessing on them.’ An=
d so
I have done, Mr Lyon; and to say they're not good medicines, when they've b=
een
taken for fifty miles round by high and low, and rich and poor, and nobody
speaking against 'em but Dr Lukin, it seems to me it's a flying in the face=
of
Heaven; for if it was wrong to take medicine, couldn't the blessed Lord have
stopped it?'
Mrs Holt was not given to tears; s=
he
was much sustained by conscious unimpeachableness, and by an argumentative
tendency which usually checks the too great activity of the lachrymal gland;
nevertheless her eyes had become moist, her fingers played on her knee in an
agitated manner, and she finally plucked a bit of her gown and held it with
great nicety between her thumb and finger. Mr Lyon, however, by listening
attentively, had begun partly to divine the source of her trouble.
'Am I wrong in gathering from what=
you
say, Mistress Holt, that your son has objected in some way to your sale of =
your
late husband's medicines?'
'Mr Lyon, he's masterful beyond
everything, and he talks more than his father did. I've got my reason, Mr L=
yon,
and if anybody talks sense I can follow him; but Felix talks so wild, and
contradicts his mother. And what do you think he says, after giving up his
'prenticeship, and going off to study at Glasgow, and getting through all t=
he
bit of money his father saved for his bringing-up - what has all his learni=
ng
come to? He says I'd better never open my Bible, for it's as bad poison to =
me
as the pills are to half the people as swallow 'em. You'll not speak of this
again, Mr Lyon - I don't think ill enough of you to believe that. For I sup=
pose
a Christian can understand the word o' God without going to Glasgow, and
there's texts upon texts about ointment and medicine, and there's one as mi=
ght
have been made for a receipt of my husband's - it's just as if it was a rid=
dle,
and Holt's Elixir was the answer.'
'Your son uses rash words, Mistress
Holt,' said the minister, 'but it is quite true that we may err in giving a=
too
private interpretation to the Scripture. The word of God has to satisfy the
larger needs of His people, like the rain and the sunshine - which no man m=
ust
think to be meant for his own patch of seed-ground solely. Will it not be w=
ell
that I should see your son, and talk with him on these matters? He was at
chapel, I observed, and I suppose I am to be his pastor.'
'That was what I wanted to ask you=
, Mr
Lyon. For perhaps he'll listen to you, and not talk you down as he does his
poor mother. For after we'd been to chapel, he spoke better of you than he =
does
of most: he said you was a fine old fellow, and an old-fashioned Puritan - =
he
uses dreadful language, Mr Lyon; but I saw he didn't mean you ill, for all
that. He calls most folks' religion rottenness; and yet another time he'll =
tell
me I ought to feel myself a sinner, and do God's will and not my own. But i=
t's
my belief he says first one thing and then another only to abuse his mother=
. Or
else he's going off his head, and must be sent to a 'sylum. But if he write=
s to
the North Loamshire Herald first, to tell everybody the medicines are good =
for
nothing, how can I ever keep him and myself?'
'Tell him I shall feel favoured if=
he
will come and see me this evening,' said Mr Lyon, not without a little
prejudice in favour of the young man, whose language about the preacher in
Malthouse Yard did not seem to him to be altogether dreadful. 'Meanwhile, my
friend, I counsel you to send up a supplication, which I shall not fail to
offer also, that you may receive a spirit of humility and submission, so th=
at
you may not be hindered from seeing and following the divine guidance in th=
is
matter by any false lights of pride and obstinacy. Of this more when I have
spoken with your son.'
'I'm not proud or obstinate, Mr Ly=
on.
I never did say I was everything that was bad, and I never will. And why th=
is
trouble should be sent on me above everybody else - for I haven't told you =
all.
He's made himself a journeyman to Mr Prowd the watchmaker - after all this
learning - and he says he'll go with patches on his knees, and he shall like
himself the better. And as for his having little boys to teach, they'll com=
e in
all weathers with dirty shoes. If it's madness, Mr Lyon, it's no use your
talking to him.'
'We shall see. Perhaps it may even=
be
the disguised working of grace within him. We must not judge rashly. Many
eminent servants of God have been led by ways as strange.'
'Then I'm sorry for their mothers,
that's all, Mr Lyon; and all the more if they'd been well-spoken-on women. =
For
not my biggest enemy, whether it's he or she, if they'll speak the truth, c=
an
turn round and say I've deserved this trouble. And when everybody gets their
due, and people's doings are spoke of on the house-tops, as the Bible says =
they
will be, it'll be known what I've gone through with those medicines - the
pounding, and the pouring, and the letting stand, and the weighing - up ear=
ly and
down late - there's nobody knows yet but One that's worthy to know; and the
pasting o' the printed labels right side upwards. There's few women would h=
ave
gone through with it; and it's reasonable to think it'll be made up to me; =
for
if there's promised and purchased blessings, I should think this trouble is
purchasing 'em. For if my son Felix doesn't have a strait-waistcoat put on =
him,
he'll have his way. But I say no more. I wish you good-morning, Mr Lyon, and
thank you, though I well know it's your duty to act as you're doing. And I
never troubled you about my own soul, as some do who look down on me for not
being a church member.'
'Farewell, Mistress Holt, farewell=
. I
pray that a more powerful teacher than I am may instruct you.'
The door was closed, and the
much-tried Rufus walked about again, saying aloud, groaningly -
'This woman has sat under the gosp=
el
all her life, and she is as blind as a heathen, and as proud and stiff-neck=
ed
as a Pharisee; yet she is one of the souls I watch for. 'Tis true that even
Sara, the chosen mother of God's people, showed a spirit of unbelief, and
perhaps of selfish anger; and it is a passage that bears the unmistakable
signet, ‘doing honour to the wife or woman, as unto the weaker vessel=
’.
For therein is the greatest check put on the ready scorn of the natural man=
.'
1ST CITIZEN Sir, there's a hurry in
the veins of youth That makes a vice of virtue by excess. 2ND CITIZEN What =
if
the coolness of our tardier veins Be loss of virtue? 1ST CITIZEN All things
cool with time - The sun itself, they say, till heat=
shall
find A general level, nowhere in excess. 2ND CITIZEN 'Tis a poor climax, to=
my
weaker thought, That future middlingness.
IN the evening, when Mr Lyon was
expecting the knock at the door that would announce Felix Holt, he occupied=
his
cushionless arm-chair in the sitting-room, and was skimming rapidly, in his
short-sighted way, by the light of one candle, the pages of a missionary
report, emitting occasionally a slight 'Hm-m' that appeared to be expressiv=
e of
criticism rather than of approbation. The room was dismally furnished, the =
only
objects indicating an intention of ornament being a bookcase, a map of the =
Holy
Land, an engraved portrait of Dr Doddridge, and a black bust with a coloured
face, which for some reason or other was covered with green gauze. Yet any =
one
whose attention was quite awake must have been aware, even on entering, of
certain things that were incongruous with the general air of sombreness and
privation. There was a delicate scent of dried rose-leaves; the light by wh=
ich
the minister was reading was a wax-candle in a white earthenware candlestic=
k,
and the table on the opposite side of the fireplace held a dainty work-bask=
et
frilled with blue satin.
Felix Holt, when he entered, was n=
ot
in an observant mood; and when, after seating himself, at the minister's
invitation, near the little table which held the work-basket, he stared at =
the
wax-candle opposite to him, he did so without any wonder or consciousness t=
hat
the candle was not of tallow. But the minister's sensitiveness gave another
interpretation to the gaze which he divined rather than saw; and in alarm l=
est
this inconsistent extravagance should obstruct his usefulness, he hastened =
to
say -
'You are doubtless amazed to see me
with a wax-light, my young friend; but this undue luxury is paid for with t=
he
earnings of my daughter, who is so delicately framed that the smell of tall=
ow
is loathsome to her.'
'I heeded not the candle, sir. I t=
hank
Heaven I am not a mouse to have a nose that takes note of wax or tallow.'
The loud abrupt tones made the old=
man
vibrate a little. He had been stroking his chin gently before, with a sense
that he must be very quiet and deliberate in his treatment of the eccentric
young man; but now, quite unreflectingly, he drew forth a pair of spectacle=
s,
which he was in the habit of using when he wanted to observe his interlocut=
or
more closely than usual.
'And I myself, in fact, am equally
indifferent,' he said, as he opened and adjusted his glasses, 'so that I ha=
ve a
sufficient light on my book.' Here his large eyes looked discerningly throu=
gh
the spectacles.
'Tis the quality of the page you c=
are
about, not of the candle,' said Felix, smiling pleasantly enough at his
inspector. 'You're thinking that you have a roughly-written page before you
now.'
That was true. The minister,
accustomed to the respectable air of provincial townsmen, and especially to=
the
sleek well-clipped gravity of his own male congregation, felt a slight shoc=
k as
his glasses made perfectly clear to him the shaggy-headed, large-eyed,
strong-limbed person of this questionable young man, without waistcoat or
cravat. But the possibility, supported by some of Mrs Holt's words, that a
disguised work of grace might be going forward in the son of whom she
complained so bitterly, checked any hasty interpretations.
'I abstain from judging by the out=
ward
appearance only,' he answered, with his usual simplicity. 'I myself have
experienced that when the spirit is much exercised it is difficult to remem=
ber
neckbands and strings and such small accidents of our vesture, which are
nevertheless decent and needful so long as we sojourn in the flesh. And you
too, my young friend, as I gather from your mother's troubled and confused
report, are undergoing some travail of mind. You will not, I trust, object =
to
open yourself fully to me, as to an aged pastor who has himself had much in=
ward
wrestling, and has especially known much temptation from doubt.'
'As to doubt,' said Felix, loudly =
and
brusquely as before, 'if it is those absurd medicines and gulling
advertisements that my mother has been talking of to you - and I suppose it=
is
- I've no more doubt about them than I have about pocket-picking. I know
there's a stage of speculation in which a man may doubt whether a pickpocke=
t is
blame-worthy - but I'm not one of your subtle fellows who keep looking at t=
he
world through their own legs. If I allowed the sale of those medicines to go
on, and my mother to live out of the proceeds when I can keep her by the ho=
nest
labour of my hands, I've not the least doubt that I should be a rascal.'
'I would fain inquire more
particularly into your objection to these medicines,' said Mr Lyon, gravely.
Notwithstanding his conscientiousness and a certain originality in his own
mental disposition, he was too little used to high principle quite dissocia=
ted
from sectarian phraseology to be as immediately in sympathy with it as he w=
ould
otherwise have been. 'I know they have been well reported of, and many wise
persons have tried remedies providentially discovered by those who are not
regular physicians, and have found a blessing in the use of them. I may men=
tion
the eminent Mr Wesley, who, though I hold not altogether with his Arminian
doctrine, nor with the usages of his institution, was nevertheless a man of
God; and the journals of various Christians whose names have left a sweet
savour might be cited in the same sense. Moreover, your father, who origina=
lly
concocted these medicines and left them as a provision for your mother, was=
, as
I understand, a man whose walk was not unfaithful.'
'My father was ignorant,' said Fel=
ix,
bluntly. 'He knew neither the complication of the human system, nor the way=
in
which drugs counteract each other. Ignorance is not so damnable as humbug, =
but
when it prescribes pills it may happen to do more harm. I know something ab=
out
these things. I was 'prentice for five miserable years to a stupid brute of=
a
country apothecary - my poor father left money for that - he thought nothing
could be finer for me. No matter: I know that the Cathartic Pills are a dra=
stic
compound which may be as bad as poison to half the people who swallow them -
that the Elixir is an absurd farrago of a dozen incompatible things; and th=
at
the Cancer Cure might as well be bottled ditch-water.'
Mr Lyon rose and walked up and down
the room. His simplicity was strongly mixed with sagacity as well as sectar=
ian
prejudice, and he did not rely at once on a loud-spoken integrity - Satan m=
ight
have flavoured it with ostentation. Presently he asked in a rapid low tone,
'How long have you known this, young man?'
'Well put, sir,' said Felix. 'I've
known it a good deal longer than I've acted on it, like plenty of other thi=
ngs.
But you believe in conversion?'
'Yea, verily.'
'So do I. I was converted by six
weeks' debauchery.'
The minister started. 'Young man,'= he said, solemnly, going up close to Felix and laying a hand on his shoulder, 'speak not lightly of the divine operations, and restrain unseemly words.'<= o:p>
'I'm not speaking lightly,' said
Felix. 'If I had not seen that I was making a hog of myself very fast, and =
that
pig wash, even if could have got plenty of it, was a poor sort of thing, I
should never have looked life fairly in the face to see what was to be done
with it. I laughed out loud at last to think of a poor devil like me, in a
Scotch garret, with my stockings out at heel and a shilling or two to be
dissipated upon, with a smell of raw haggis mounting from below, and old wo=
men
breathing gin as they passed me on the stairs - wanting to turn my life into
easy pleasure. Then I began to see what else it could be turned into. Not m=
uch,
perhaps. This world is not a very fine place for a good many of the people =
in
it. But I've made up my mind it shan't be the worse for me, if I can help i=
t.
They may tell me I can't alter the world - that there must be a certain num=
ber
of sneaks and robbers in it, and if I don't lie and filch somebody else wil=
l.
Well, then, somebody else shall, for I won't. That's the upshot of my
conversion, Mr Lyon, if you want to know it.'
Mr Lyon removed his hand from Feli=
x's
shoulder and walked about again. 'Did you sit under any preacher at Glasgow,
young man?'
'No: I heard most of the preachers
once, but I never wanted to hear them twice.'
The good Rufus was not without a
slight rising of resentment at this young man's want of reverence. It was n=
ot
yet plain whether he wanted to hear twice the preacher in Malthouse Yard. B=
ut
the resentful feeling was carefully repressed: a soul in so peculiar a
condition must be dealt with delicately.
'And now, may I ask,' he said, 'wh=
at
course you mean to take, after hindering your mother from making and selling
these drugs? I speak no more in their favour after what you have said. God
forbid that I should strive to hinder you from seeking whatsoever things are
honest and honourable. But your mother is advanced in years; she needs
comfortable sustenance; you have doubtless considered how you may make her
amends? ‘He that provideth not for his own -’ I trust you respe=
ct
the authority that so speaks. And I will not suppose that, after being tend=
er
of conscience towards strangers, you will be careless towards your mother.
There be indeed some who, taking a mighty charge on their shoulders, must
perforce leave their households to Providence, and to the care of humbler
brethren, but in such a case the call must be clear.'
'I shall keep my mother as well - =
nay,
better - than she has kept herself. She has always been frugal. With my wat=
ch
and clock cleaning, and teaching one or two little chaps that I've got to c=
ome
to me, I can earn enough. As for me, I can live on bran porridge. I have the
stomach of a rhinoceros.'
'But for a young man so well furni=
shed
as you, who can questionless write a good hand and keep books, were it not =
well
to seek some higher situation as clerk or assistant? I could speak to Broth=
er
Muscat, who is well acquainted with all such openings. Any place in Pendrel=
l's
Bank, I fear, is now closed against such as are not Churchmen. It used not =
to
be so, but a year ago he discharged Brother Bodkin, although he was a valua=
ble
servant. Still, something might be found. There are ranks and degrees - and
those who can serve in the higher must not unadvisedly change what seems to=
be
a providential appointment. Your poor mother is not altogether -'
'Excuse me, Mr Lyon; I've had all =
that
out with my mother, and I may as well save you any trouble by telling you t=
hat
my mind has been made up about that a long while ago. I'll take no employme=
nt
that obliges me to prop up my chin with a high cravat, and wear straps, and
pass the live-long day with a set of fellows who spend their spare money on
shirt-pins. That sort of work is really lower than many handicrafts; it only
happens to be paid out of proportion. That's why I set myself to learn the
watchmaking trade. My father was a weaver first of all. It would have been
better for him if he had remained a weaver. I came home through Lancashire =
and
saw an uncle of mine who is a weaver still. I mean to stick to the class I
belong to - people who don't follow the fashions.'
Mr Lyon was silent a few moments. =
This
dialogue was far from plain sailing; he was not certain of his latitude and
longitude. If the despiser of Glasgow preachers had been arguing in favour =
of
gin and Sabbath-breaking, Mr Lyon's course would have been clearer. 'Well,
well,' he said, deliberately, 'it is true that St Paul exercised the trade =
of
tent-making, though he was learned in all the wisdom of the Rabbis.'
'St Paul was a wise man,' said Fel=
ix.
'Why should I want to get into the middle class because I have some learnin=
g?
The most of the middle class are as ignorant as the working people about
everything that doesn't belong to their own Brummagem life. That's how the
working men are left to foolish devices and keep worsening themselves: the =
best
heads among them forsake their born comrades, and go in for a house with a =
high
door-step and a brass knocker.'
Mr Lyon stroked his mouth and chin,
perhaps because he felt some disposition to smile; and it would not be well=
to
smile too readily at what seemed but a weedy resemblance of Christian
unworldliness. On the contrary, there might be a dangerous snare in an
unsanctified outstepping of average Christian practice.
'Nevertheless,' he observed, grave=
ly,
'it is by such self-advancement that many have been enabled to do good serv=
ice
to the cause of liberty and to the public wellbeing. The ring and the robe =
of
Joseph were no objects for a good man's ambition, but they were the signs of
that credit which he won by his divinely-inspired skill, and which enabled =
him to
act as a saviour to his brethren.'
'O yes, your ringed and scented me=
n of
the people! - I won't be one of them. Let a man once throttle himself with a
satin stock, and he'll get new wants and new motives. Metamorphosis will ha=
ve
begun at his neck-joint, and it will go on till it has changed his likings
first and then his reasoning, which will follow his likings as the feet of a
hungry dog follow his nose. I'll have none of your clerkly gentility. I mig=
ht
end by collecting greasy pence from poor men to buy myself a fine coat and a
glutton's dinner, on pretence of serving the poor men. I'd sooner be Paley's
fat pigeon than a demagogue all tongue and stomach, though' - here Felix
changed his voice a little - 'I should like well enough to be another sort =
of demagogue,
if I could.'
'Then you have a strong interest in
the great political movements of these times?' said Mr Lyon, with a percept=
ible
flashing of the eyes.
'I should think so. I despise every
man who has not - or, having it, doesn't try to rouse it in other men.'
'Right, my young friend, right,' s=
aid
the minister, in a deep cordial tone. Inevitably his mind was drawn aside f=
rom
the immediate consideration of Felix Holt's spiritual interest by the prosp=
ect
of political sympathy. In those days so many instruments of God's cause in =
the
fight for religious and political liberty held creeds that were painfully
wrong, and, indeed, irreconcilable with salvation ! 'That is my own view, w=
hich
I maintain in the face of some opposition from brethren who contend that a
share in public movements is a hindrance to the closer walk, and that the
pulpit is no place for teaching men their duties as members of the
common-wealth. I have had much puerile blame cast upon me because I have
uttered such names as Brougham and Wellington in the pulpit. Why not Wellin=
gton
as well as Rabshakeh? and why not Brougham as well as Balaam?' Does God know
less of men than He did in the days of Hezekiah and Moses? - is His arm
shortened, and is the world become too wide for His providence? But, they s=
ay,
there are no politics in the New Testament -'
'Well, they're right enough there,'
said Felix, with his usual unceremoniousness.
'What ! you are of those who hold =
that
a Christian minister should not meddle with public matters in the pulpit?' =
said
Mr Lyon, colouring. 'I am ready to join issue on that point.'
'Not I, sir,' said Felix; 'I should
say, teach any truth you can, whether it's in the Testament or out of it. I=
t's
little enough anybody can get hold of, and still less what he can drive into
the skulls of a pence-counting, parcel-tying gcneration, such as mostly fill
your chapels.'
'Young man,' said Mr Lyon, pausing=
in
front of Felix. He spoke rapidly, as he always did, except when his words w=
ere
specially weighted with emotion: he overflowed with matter, and in his mind
matter was always completely organised into words. 'I speak not on my own
behalf, for not only have I no desire that any man should think of me above
that which he seeth me to be, but I am aware of much that should make me pa=
tient
under a disesteem resting even on too hasty a construction. I speak not as
claiming reverence for my own age and office - not to shame you, but to warn
you. It is good that you should use plainness of speech, and I am not of th=
ose
who would enforce a submissive silence on the young, that they themselves,
being elders, may be heard at large; for Elihu was the youngest of Job's
friends, yet was there a wise rebuke in his words; and the aged Eli was tau=
ght
by a revelation to the boy Samuel. I have to keep a special watch over myse=
lf
in this matter, inasmuch as I have a need of utterance which makes the thou=
ght
within me seem as a pent-up fire, until I have shot it forth, as it were, in
arrowy words, each one hitting its mark. Therefore I pray for a listening
spirit, which is a great mark of grace. Nevertheless, my young friend, I am
bound, as I said, to warn you. The temptations that most beset those who ha=
ve
great natural gifts, and are wise after the flesh, are pride and scorn, more
particularly towards those weak things of the world which have been chosen =
to
confound the things which are mighty. The scornful nostril and the high head
gather not the odours that lie on the track of truth The mind that is too r=
eady
at contempt and reprobation is -'
Here the door opened, and Mr Lyon paused to look round, but seeing only Lyddy with the tea-tray, he went on:<= o:p>
'Is, I may say, as a clenched fist
that can give blows, but is shut up from receiving and holding ought that is
precious - though it were heaven-sent manna.'
'I understand you, sir,' said Feli=
x,
good-humouredly, putting out his hand to the little man, who had come close=
to
him as he delivered the last sentence with sudden emphasis and slowness. 'B=
ut
I'm not inclined to clench my fist at you.' 'Well, well,' said Mr Lyon, sha=
king
the proffered hand, 'we shall see more of each other, and I trust shall have
much profitable communing. You will stay and have a dish of tea with us: we
take the meal late on Thursdays, because my daughter is detained by giving =
a lesson
in the French tongue. But she is doubtless returned now, and will presently
come and pour out tea for us.'
'Thank you; I'll stay,' said Felix,
not from any curiosity to see the minister's daughter, but from a liking for
the society of the minister himself - for his quaint looks and ways, and the
transparency of his talk, which gave a charm even to his weaknesses. The
daughter was probably some prim Miss, neat, sensible, pious, but all in a s=
mall
feminine way, in which Felix was no more interested than in Dorcas meetings,
biographies of devout women, and that amount of ornamental knitting which w=
as
not inconsistent with Nonconforming seriousness.
'I'm perhaps a little too fond of
banging and smashing,' he went on; 'a phrenologist at Glasgow told me I had=
large
veneration; another man there, who knew me, laughed out and said I was the =
most
blasphemous iconoclast living. ‘That,’ says my phrenologist, =
8216;is
because of his large Ideality, which prevents him from finding anything per=
fect
enough to be venerated.’ Of course I put my ears down and wagged my t=
ail
at that stroking.'
'Yes, yes; I have had my own head
explored with somewhat similar results. It is, I fear, but a vain show of
fulfilling the heathen precept, ‘Know thyself’, and too often l=
eads
to a self-estimate which will subsist in the absence of that fruit by which
alone the quality of the tree is made evident. Nevertheless - Esther, my de=
ar,
this is Mr Holt, whose acquaintance I have even now been making with more t=
han
ordinary interest. He will take tea with us.'
Esther bowed slightly as she walked
across the room to fetch the candle and place it near her tray. Felix rose =
and
bowed, also with an air of indifference, which was perhaps exaggerated by t=
he
fact that he was inwardly surprised. The minister's daughter was not the so=
rt
of person he expected. She was quite incongruous with his notion of ministe=
rs'
daughters in general; and though he had expected something nowise delightfu=
l,
the incongruity repelled him. A very delicate scent, the faint suggestion o=
f a
garden, was wafted as she went. He would not observe her, but he had a sens=
e of
an elastic walk, the tread of small feet, a long neck and a high crown of
shining brown plaits with curls that floated backward - things, in short, t=
hat
suggested a fine lady to him, and determined him to notice her as little as
possible. A fine lady was always a sort of spun-glass affair - not natural,=
and
with no beauty for him as art; but a fine lady as the daughter of this rusty
old Puritan was especially offensive.
'Nevertheless,' continued Mr Lyon,=
who
rarely let drop any thread of discourse, 'that phrenological science is not
irreconcilable with the revealed dispensations. And it is undeniable that we
have our varying native dispositions which even grace will not obliterate. I
myself, from my youth up, have been given to question too curiously concern=
ing
the truth - to examine and sift the medicine of the soul rather than to app=
ly
it.'
'If your truth happens to be such
medicine as Holt's Pills and Elixir, the less you swallow of it the better,'
said Felix. 'But truth-vendors and medicine-vendors usually recommend
swallowing. When a man sees his livelihood in a pill or a proposition, he l=
ikes
to have orders for the dose, and not curious inquiries.'
This speech verged on rudeness, bu=
t it
was delivered with a brusque openness that implied the absence of any perso=
nal
intention. The minister's daughter was now for the first time startled into
looking at Felix. But her survey of this unusual speaker was soon made, and=
she
relieved her father from the need to reply by saying -
'The tea is poured out, father.'
That was the signal for Mr Lyon to
advance towards the table, raise his right hand, and ask a blessing at
sufficient length for Esther to glance at the visitor again. There seemed t=
o be
no danger of his looking at her; he was observing her father. She had time =
to
remark that he was a peculiar-looking person, but not insignificant, which =
was
the quality that most hopelessly consigned a man to perdition. He was massi=
vely
built. The striking points in his face were large clear grey eyes and full
lips. 'Will you draw up to the table, Mr Holt?' said the minister.
In the act of rising, Felix pushed
back his chair too suddenly against the rickety table close by him, and down
went the blue-frilled work-basket, flying open, and dispersing on the floor
reels, thimble, muslin work, a small sealed bottle of atta of rose, and
something heavier than these - a duodecimo volume which fell close to him
between the table and the fender.
'O my stars !' said Felix, 'I beg =
your
pardon.' Esther had already started up, and with wonderful quickness had pi=
cked
up half the small rolling things while Felix was lifting the basket and the
book. This last had opened, and had its leaves crushed in falling; and, with
the instinct of a bookish man, he saw nothing more pressing to be done than=
to
flatten the corners of the leaves.
'Byron's Poems!' he said, in a ton=
e of
disgust, while Esther was recovering all the other articles. ' ‘The D=
ream’
- he'd better have been asleep and snoring. What! do you stuff your memory =
with
Byron, Miss Lyon?'
Felix, on his side, was led at las=
t to
look straight at Esther, but it was with a strong denunciatory and pedagogic
intention. Of course he saw more clearly than ever that she was a fine lady=
.
She reddened, drew up her long nec=
k,
and said, as she retreated to her chair again -
'I have a great admiration for Byr=
on.'
Mr Lyon had paused in the act of
drawing his chair to the tea-table, and was looking on at this scene, wrink=
ling
the corners of his eyes with a perplexed smile. Esther would not have wished
him to know anything about the volume of Byron, but she was too proud to sh=
ow
any concern.
'He is a worldly and vain writer, I
fear,' said Mr Lyon. He knew scarcely anything of the poet, whose books
embodied the faith and ritual of many young ladies and gentlemen.
'A misanthropic debauchee,' said
Felix, lifting a chair with one hand, and holding the book open in the othe=
r,
'whose notion of a hero was that he should disorder his stomach and despise
mankind. His corsairs and renegades, his Alps and Manfreds, are the most pa=
ltry
puppets that were ever pulled by the strings of lust and pride.'
'Hand the book to me,' said Mr Lyo=
n.
'Let me beg of you to put it aside
till after tea, father,' said Esther. 'However objectionable Mr Holt may fi=
nd
its pages, they would certainly be made worse by being greased with
bread-and-butter.'
'That is true, my dear,' said Mr L=
yon,
laying down the book on the small table behind him. He saw that his daughter
was angry.
'Ho, ho!' thought Felix, 'her fath=
er
is frightened at her. How came he to have such a nice-stepping, long-necked
peacock for his daughter? but she shall see that I am not frightened.' Then=
he
said aloud, 'I should like to know how you will justify your admiration for
such a writer, Miss Lyon.'
'I should not attempt it with you,=
Mr
Holt,' said Esther. 'You have such strong words at command, that they make =
the
smallest argument seem formidable. If I had ever met the giant Cormoran, I
should have made a point of agreeing with him in his literary opinions.'
Esther had that excellent thing in
woman, a soft voice with a clear fluent utterance. Her sauciness was always
charming, because it was without emphasis, and was accompanied with graceful
little turns of the head.
Felix laughed at her thrust with y=
oung
heartiness.
'My daughter is a critic of words,=
Mr
Holt,' said the minister, smiling complacently, 'and often corrects mine on=
the
ground of niceties, which I profess are as dark to me as if
they were the reports of a sixth s=
ense
which I possess not. I am an eager seeker for precision, and would fain find
language subtle enough to follow the utmost intricacies of the soul's pathw=
ays,
but I see not why a round word that means some object, made and blessed by =
the
Creator, should be branded and banished as a malefactor.'
'O, your niceties - I know what th=
ey
are,' said Felix, in his usual fortissimo. 'They all go on your system of
make-believe. ‘Rottenness’ may suggest what is unpleasant, so y=
ou'd
better say ‘sugar-plums’, or something else such a long way off=
the
fact that nobody is obliged to think of it. Those are your round-about
euphuisms that dress up swindling till it looks as well as honesty, and sho=
ot
with boiled pease instead of bullets. I hate your gentlemanly speakers.'
'Then you would not like Mr Jermyn=
, I
think,' said Esther. 'That reminds me, father, that to-day, when I was givi=
ng
Miss Louisa Jermyn her lesson, Mr Jermyn came in and spoke to me with grand
politeness, and asked me at what times you were likely to be disengaged,
because he wished to make your better acquaintance, and consult you on matt=
ers
of importance. He never took the least notice of me before. Can you guess t=
he
reason of his sudden ceremoniousness?'
'Nay, child,' said the minister,
ponderingly.
'Politics, of course,' said Felix.
'He's on some committee. An election is coming. Universal peace is declared,
and the foxes have a sincere interest in prolonging the lives of the poultr=
y.
Eh, Mr Lyon? Isn't that it?'
'Nay, not so. He is the close ally=
of
the Transome family, who are blind hereditary Tories like the Debarrys, and
will drive their tenants to the poll as if they were sheep. And it has even
been hinted that the heir who is coming from the East may be another Tory
candidate, and coalesce with the younger Debarry. It is said that he has
enormous wealth, and could purchase every vote in the county that has a pri=
ce.'
'He is come,' said Esther. 'I heard
Miss Jermyn tell her sister that she had seen him going out of her father's
room.'
' 'Tis strange,' said Mr Lyon.
'Something extraordinary must have
happened,' said Esther, 'for Mr Jermyn to intend courting us. Miss Jermyn s=
aid
to me only the other day that she could not think how I came to be so well
educated and ladylike. She always thought Dissenters were ignorant, vulgar
people. I said, so they were, usually, and Church people also in small town=
s.
She considers herself a judge of what is ladylike, and she is vulgarity
personified - with large feet, and the most odious scent on her handkerchie=
f,
and a bonnet that looks like ‘The Fashion’ printed in capital
letters.'
'One sort of fine ladyism is as go=
od
as another,' said Felix.
'No, indeed. Pardon me,' said Esth=
er.
'A real fine-lady does not wear clothes that flare in people's eyes, or use
importunate scents, or make a noise as she moves: she is something refined,=
and
graceful, and charming, and never obtrusive.'
'O yes,' said Felix, contemptuousl=
y.
'And she reads Byron also, and admires Childe Harold - gentlemen of unspeak=
able
woes, who employ a hairdresser, and look seriously at themselves in the gla=
ss.'
Esther reddened, and gave a little
toss. Felix went on triumphantly. 'A fine lady is a squirrel-headed thing, =
with
small airs and small notions, about as applicable to the business of life a=
s a
pair of tweezers to the clearing of a forest. Ask your father what those old
persecuted emigrant Puritans would have done with fine-lady wives and
daughters.'
'O there is no danger of such
misalliances,' said Esther. 'Men who are unpleasant companions and make fri=
ghts
of themselves, are sure to get wives tasteless enough to suit them.'
'Esther, my dear,' said Mr Lyon, '=
let
not your playfulness betray you into disrespect towards those venerable
pilgrims. They struggled and endured in order to cherish and plant anew the
seeds of scriptural doctrine and of a pure discipline.'
'Yes, I know,' said Esther, hastil=
y,
dreading a discourse on the pilgrim fathers.
'O they were an ugly lot!' Felix b=
urst
in, making Mr Lyon start. 'Miss Medora wouldn't have minded if they had all
been put into the pillory and lost their ears. She would have said, ‘=
Their
ears did stick out so.’ I shouldn't wonder if that's a bust of one of
them.' Here Felix, with sudden keenness of observation, nodded at the black
bust with the gauze over its coloured face.
'No,' said Mr Lyon; 'that is the
eminent George Whitfield, who, you well know, had a gift of oratory as of o=
ne
on whom the tongue of flame had rested visibly. But Providence - doubtless =
for
wise ends in relation to the inner man, for I would not inquire too closely
into minutiae which carry too many plausible interpretations for any one of
them to be stable - Providence, I say, ordained that the good man should
squint; and my daughter has not yet learned to bear with this infirmity.'
'So she has put a veil over it.
Suppose you had squinted yourself?' said Felix, looking at Esther.
'Then, doubtless, you could have b=
een
more polite to me, Mr Holt,' said Esther, rising and placing herself at her
worktable. 'You seem to prefer what is unusual and ugly.'
'A peacock!' thought Felix. 'I sho=
uld
like to come and scold her every day, and make her cry and cut her fine hair
off.'
Felix rose to go, and said, 'I will
not take up more of your valuable time, Mr Lyon. I know that you have not m=
any
spare evenings.'
'That is true, my young friend; fo=
r I
now go to Sproxton one evening in the week. I do not despair that we may so=
me
day need a chapel there, though the hearers do not multiply save among the
women, and there is no work as yet begun among the miners themselves. I sha=
ll
be glad of your company in my walk thither to-morrow at five o'clock, if you
would like to see how that population has grown of late years.'
'O, I've been to Sproxton already
several times. I had a congregation of my own there last Sunday evening.'
'What! do you preach?' said Mr Lyo=
n,
with a brightened glance
'Not exactly. I went to the
ale-house.'
Mr Lyon started. 'I trust you are
putting a riddle to me, young man, even as Samson did to his companions. Fr=
om
what you said but lately, it cannot be that you are given to tippling and to
taverns.'
'O, I don't drink much. I order a =
pint
of beer, and I get into talk with the fellows over their pots and pipes.
Somebody must take a little knowledge and common sense to them in this way,
else how are they to get it? I go for educating the non-electors, so I put
myself in the way of my pupils - my academy is the beer-house. I'll walk wi=
th
you to-morrow with great pleasure.'
'Do so, do so,' said Mr Lyon, shak=
ing
hands with his old acquaintance. 'We shall understand each other better
by-and-by, I doubt not.'
'I wish you good-evening, Miss Lyo=
n.'
Esther bowed very slightly, without
speaking.
'That is a singular young man,
Esther,' said the minister, walking about after Felix was gone. 'I discern =
in
him a love for whatsoever things are honest and true, which I would fain
believe to be an earnest of further endowment with the wisdom that is from =
on
high. It is true that, as the traveller in the desert is often lured, by a
false vision of water and freshness, to turn aside from the track which lea=
ds
to the tried and established fountains, so the Evil One will take advantage=
of
a natural yearning towards the better, to delude the soul with a
self-flattering belief in a visionary virtue, higher than the ordinary frui=
ts
of the Spirit. But I trust it is not so here. I feel a great enlargement in
this young man's presence, notwithstanding a certain licence in his languag=
e,
which I shall use my efforts to correct.'
'I think he is very coarse and rud=
e,'
said Esther, with a touch of temper in her voice. 'But he speaks better Eng=
lish
than most of our visitors. What is his occupation?'
'Watch and clock making, by which,
together with a little teaching, as I understand, he hopes to maintain his
mother, not thinking it right that she should live by the sale of medicines
whose virtues he distrusts. It is no common scruple.'
'Dear me,' said Esther, 'I thought=
he
was something higher than that.' She was disappointed.
Felix, on his side, as he strolled=
out
in the evening air, said to himself: 'Now by what fine meshes of circumstan=
ce
did that queer devout old man, with his awful creed, which makes this world=
a
vestibule with double doors to hell, and a narrow stair on one side whereby=
the
thinner sort may mount to heaven - by what subtle play of flesh and spirit =
did
he come to have a daughter so little in his own likeness? Married foolishly=
, I
suppose. I'll never marry, though I should have to live on raw turnips to
subdue my flesh. I'll never look back and say, ‘I had a fine purpose =
once
- I meant to keep my hands clean, and my soul upright, and to look truth in=
the
face; but pray excuse me, I have a wife and children - I must lie and simpe=
r a
little, else they'll starve ! ‘ or, ‘My wife is nice, she must =
have
her bread well buttered, and her feelings will be hurt if she is not thought
genteel.’ That is the lot Miss Esther is preparing for some man or ot=
her.
I could grind my teeth at such self-satisfied minxes, who think they can te=
ll
everybody what is the correct thing, and the utmost stretch of their ideas =
will
not place them on a level with the intelligent fleas. I should like to see =
if
she could be made ashamed of herself.'
'Though she be dead, yet let me th=
ink
she lives, And feed my mind, that dies for want of her.' MARLOWE: Tamburlai=
ne
the Great.
HARDLY any one in Treby who though=
t at
all of Mr Lyon and his daughter had not felt the same sort of wonder about
Esther as Felix felt. She was not much liked by her father's church and
congregation. The less serious observed that she had too many airs and grac=
es,
and held her head much too high; the stricter sort feared greatly that Mr L=
yon
had not been sufficiently careful in placing his daughter among God-fearing
people, and that, being led astray by the melancholy vanity of giving her
exceptional accomplishments, he had sent her to a French school, and allowed
her to take situations where she had contracted notions not only above her =
own
rank, but of too worldly a kind to be safe in any rank. But no one knew what
sort of woman her mother had been, for Mr Lyon never spoke of his past
domesticities. When he was chosen as pastor at Treby in 1825, it was unders=
tood
that he had been a widower many years, and he had no companion but the tear=
ful
and much-exercised Lyddy, his daughter being still at school. It was only t=
wo
years ago that Esther had come home to live permanently with her father, and
take pupils in the town. Within that time she had excited a passion in two
young Dissenting breasts that were clad in the best style of Treby waistcoa=
t -
a garment which at that period displayed much design both in the stuff and =
the
wearer; and she had secured an astonished admiration of her cleverness from=
the
girls of various ages who were her pupils; indeed, her knowledge of French =
was
generally held to give a distinction to Treby itself as compared with other
market-towns. But she had won little regard of any other kind. Wise Dissent=
ing
matrons were divided between fear lest their sons should want to marry her =
and
resentment that she should treat those 'undeniable' young men with a distant
scorn which was hardly to be tolerated in a minister's daughter; not only
because that parentage appeared to entail an obligation to show an exceptio=
nal
degree of Christian humility, but because, looked at from a secular point of
view, a poor minister must be below the substantial householders who kept h=
im.
For at that time the preacher who was paid under the Voluntary system was
regarded by his flock with feelings not less mixed than the spiritual person
who still took his tithe-pig or his modus. His gifts were admired, and tears
were shed under best bonnets at his sermons; but the weaker tea was thought
good enough for him; and even when he went to preach a charity sermon in a
strange town, he was treated with home-made wine and the smaller bedroom. As
the good churchman's reverence was often mixed with growling, and was apt t=
o be
given chiefly to an abstract parson who was what a parson ought to be, so t=
he
good Dissenter sometimes mixed his approval of ministerial gifts with
considerable criticism and cheapening of the human vessel which contained t=
hese
treasures. Mrs Muscat and Mrs Nuttwood applied the principle of Christian
equality by remarking that Mr Lyon had his oddities, and that he ought not =
to
allow his daughter to indulge in such unbecoming expenditure on her gloves,
shoes, and hosiery, even if she did pay for them out of her earnings. As for
the Church people who engaged Miss Lyon to give lessons in their families,
their imaginations were altogether prostrated by the incongruity between
accomplishments and Dissent, between weekly prayer-meetings and a conversan=
ce
with so lively and altogether worldly a language as the French. Esther's own
mind was not free from a sense of irreconcilableness between the objects of=
her
taste and the conditions of her lot. She knew that Dissenters were looked d=
own
upon by those whom she regarded as the most refined classes; her favourite
companions, both in France and at an English school where she had been a ju=
nior
teacher, had thought it quite ridiculous to have a father who was a Dissent=
ing
preacher; and when an ardently admiring schoolfellow induced her parents to
take Esther as a governess to the younger children, all her native tendenci=
es
towards luxury, fastidiousness, and scorn of mock gentility, were strengthe=
ned
by witnessing the habits of a well-born and wealthy family. Yet the positio=
n of
servitude was irksome to her, and she was glad at last to live at home with=
her
father; for though, throughout her girlhood, she had wished to avoid this l=
ot,
a little experience had taught her to prefer its comparative independence. =
But
she was not contented with her life: she seemed to herself to be surrounded
with ignoble, uninteresting conditions, from which there was no issue; for =
even
if she had been unamiable enough to give her father pain deliberately, it w=
ould
have been no satisfaction to her to go to Treby church, and visibly turn her
back on Dissent. It was not religious differences, but social differences, =
that
Esther was concerned about, and her ambitious taste would have been no more
gratified in the society of the Waces than in that of the Muscats. The Waces
spoke imperfect English and played whist; the Muscats spoke the same dialect
and took in the Evangelical Magazine. Esther liked neither of these amuseme=
nts.
She had one of those exceptional organisations which are quick and sensitive
without being in the least morbid; she was alive to the finest shades of
manner, to the nicest distinctions of tone and accent; she had a little cod=
e of
her own about scents and colours, textures and behaviour, by which she secr=
etly
condemned or sanctioned all things and persons. And she was well satisfied =
with
herself for her fastidious taste, never doubting that hers was the highest
standard. She was proud that the best-born and handsomest girls at school h=
ad
always said that she might be taken for a born lady. Her own pretty instep,
clad in a silk stocking, her little heel, just rising from a kid slipper, h=
er
irreproachable nails and delicate wrist, were the objects of delighted
consciousness to her; and she felt that it was her superiority which made h=
er
unable to use without disgust any but the finest cambric handkerchiefs and
freshest gloves. Her money all went in the gratification of these nice tast=
es,
and she saved nothing from her earnings. I cannot say that she had any pang=
s of
conscience on this score; for she felt sure that she was generous: she hated
all meanness, would empty her purse impulsively on some sudden appeal to her
pity, and if she found out that her father had a want, she would supply it =
with
some pretty device of a surprise. But then the good man so seldom had a wan=
t -
except the perpetual desire, which she could never gratify, of seeing her u=
nder
convictions, and fit to become a member of the church.
As for little Mr Lyon, he loved and
admired this unregenerate child more, he feared, than was consistent with t=
he
due preponderance of impersonal and ministerial regards: he prayed and plea=
ded
for her with tears, humbling himself for her spiritual deficiencies in the
privacy of his study; and then he came downstairs to find himself in timoro=
us
subjection to her wishes, lest, as he inwardly said, he should give his
teaching an ill savour, by mingling it with outward crossing. There will be
queens in spite of Salic or other laws of later date than Adam and Eve; and
here, in this small dingy house of the minister in Malthouse Yard, there wa=
s a
light-footed, sweet-voiced Queen Esther.
The stronger will always rule, say
some, with an air of confidence which is like a lawyer's flourish, forbiddi=
ng
exceptions or additions. But what is strength? Is it blind wilfulness that =
sees
no terrors, no many-linked consequences, no bruises and wounds of those who=
se
cords it tightens? Is it the narrowness of a brain that conceives no needs
differing from its own, and looks to no results beyond the bargains of to-d=
ay;
that tugs with emphasis for every small purpose, and thinks it weakness to
exercise the sublime power of resolved renunciation? There is a sort of
subjection which is the peculiar heritage of largeness and of love; and
strength is often only another name for willing bondage to irremediable
weakness
Esther had affection for her fathe=
r:
she recognised the purity of his character, and a quickness of intellect in=
him
which responded to her own liveliness, in spite of what seemed a dreary pie=
ty,
which selected everything that was least interesting and romantic in life a=
nd
history. But his old clothes had a smoky odour, and she did not like to walk
with him, because, when people spoke to him in the street, it was his wont,
instead of remarking on the weather and passing on, to pour forth in an abs=
ent
manner some reflections that were occupying his mind about the traces of the
divine government, or about a peculiar incident narrated in the life of the
eminent Mr Richard Baxter. Esther had a horror of appearing ridiculous even=
in
the eyes of vulgar Trebians. She fancied that she should have loved her mot=
her
better than she was able to love her father; and she wished she could have
remembered that mother more thoroughly.
But she had no more than a broken
vision of the time before she was five years old - the time when the word
oftenest on her lips was 'Mamma;' when a low voice spoke caressing French w=
ords
to her, and she in her turn repeated the words to her rag-doll; when a very
small white hand, different from any that came after, used to pat her, and
stroke her, and tie on her frock and pinafore, and when at last there was
nothing but sitting with a doll on a bed where mamma was lying, till her fa=
ther
once carried her away. Where distinct memory began, there was no longer the=
low
caressing voice and the small white hand. She knew that her mother was a
Frenchwoman, that she had been in want and distress, and that her maiden na=
me
was Annette Ledru. Her father had told her no more than this; and once, in =
her
childhood, when she had asked him some question, he had said, 'My Esther, u=
ntil
you are a woman, we will only think of your mother: when you are about to be
married and leave me, we will speak of her, and I will deliver to you her r=
ing
and all that was hers; but, without a great command laid upon me, I cannot
pierce my heart by speaking of that which was and is lost.' Esther had never
forgotten these words, and the older she became, the more impossible she fe=
lt
it that she should urge her father with questions about the past.
His inability to speak of that pas=
t to
her depended on manifold causes. Partly it came from an initial concealment=
. He
had not the courage to tell Esther that he was not really her father: he had
not the courage to renounce that hold on her tenderness which the belief in=
his
natural fatherhood must help to give him, or to incur any resentment that h=
er
quick spirit might feel at having been brought up under a false supposition.
But there were other things yet more difficult for him to be quite open abo=
ut -
deep sorrows of his life as a Christian minister that were hardly to be tol=
d to
a girl.
Twenty-two years before, when Rufus
Lyon was no more than thirty-six years old, he was the admired pastor of a
large Independent congregation in one of our southern seaport towns. He was
unmarried, and had met all exhortations of friends who represented to him t=
hat
a bishop - i.e., the overseer of an Independent church and congregation -
should be the husband of one wife, by saying that St Paul meant this partic=
ular
as a limitation, and not as an injunction; that a minister was permitted to
have one wife, but that he, Rufus Lyon, did not wish to avail himself of th=
at
permission, finding his studies and other labours of his vocation
all-absorbing, and seeing that mothers in Israel were sufficiently provided=
by
those who had not been set apart for a more special work. His church and
congregation were proud of him: he was put forward on platforms, was made a
'deputation,' and was requested to preach anniversary sermons in far-off to=
wns.
Wherever noteworthy preachers were discussed, Rufus Lyon was almost sure to=
be
mentioned as one who did honour to the Independent body; his sermons were s=
aid
to be full of study yet full of fire; and while he had more of human knowle=
dge
than many of his brethren, he showed in an eminent degree the marks of a tr=
ue
ministerial vocation. But on a sudden this burning and shining light seemed=
to
be quenched: Mr Lyon voluntarily resigned his charge and withdrew from the
town.
A terrible crisis had come upon hi=
m; a
moment in which religious doubt and newly-awakened passion had rushed toget=
her
in a common flood, and had paralysed his ministerial gifts. His life of
thirty-six years had been a story of purely religious and studious fervour;=
his
passion had been for doctrines, for argumentative conquest on the side of
right; the sins he had had chiefly to pray against had been those of person=
al
ambition (under such forms as ambition takes in the mind of a man who has
chosen the career of an Independent preacher), and those of a too restless
intellect, ceaselessly urging questions concerning the mystery of that which
was assuredly revealed, and thus hindering the due nourishment of the soul =
on
the substance of the truth delivered. Even at that time of comparative yout=
h,
his unworldliness and simplicity in small matters (for he was keenly awake =
to
the larger affairs of this world) gave a certain oddity to his manners and
appearance; and though his sensitive face had much beauty, his person
altogether seemed so irrelevant to a fashionable view of things, that
well-dressed ladies and gentlemen usually laughed at him, as they probably =
did
at Mr John Milton after the Restoration and ribbons had come in, and still =
more
at that apostle, of weak bodily presence, who preached in the back streets =
of
Ephesus and elsewhere, a new view of a new religion that hardly anybody
believed in. Rufus Lyon was the singular-looking apostle of the meeting in
Skipper's Lane. Was it likely that any romance should befall such a man?
Perhaps not; but romance did befall him.
One winter's evening in 1812, Mr L=
yon
was returning from a village preaching. He walked at his usual rapid rate, =
with
busy thoughts undistracted by any sight more distinct than the bushes and
hedgerow trees, black beneath a faint moon-light, until something suggested=
to
him that he had perhaps omitted to bring away with him a thin account-book =
in
which he recorded certain subscriptions. He paused, unfastened his outer co=
at
and felt in all his pockets, then he took off his hat and looked inside it.=
The
book was not to be found, and he was about to walk on, when he was startled=
by
hearing a low, sweet voice say, with a suong foreign accent - 'Have pity on=
me,
sir.'
Searching with his short-sighted e=
yes,
he perceived some one on a side-bank; and approaching, he found a young wom=
an
with a baby on her lap. She spoke again, more faintly than before -
'Sir, I die with hunger; in the na=
me
of God take the little one.'
There was no distrusting the pale =
face
and the sweet low voice. Without pause, Mr Lyon took the baby in his arms a=
nd
said, 'Can you walk by my side, young woman?'
She rose, but seemed tottering. 'L=
ean
on me,' said Mr Lyon. And so they walked slowly on, the minister for the fi=
rst
time in his life carrying a baby.
Nothing better occurred to him tha=
n to
take his charge to his own house; it was the simplest way of relieving the
woman's wants, and finding out how she could be helped further; and he thou=
ght
of no other possibilities. She was too feeble for more words to be spoken
between them till she was seated by his fireside. His elderly servant was n=
ot
easily amazed at anything her master did in the way of charity, and at once
took the baby, while Mr Lyon unfastened the mother's damp bonnet and shawl,=
and
gave her something warm to drink. Then, waiting by her till it was time to
offer her more, he had nothing to do but to notice the loveliness of her fa=
ce,
which seemed to him as that of an angel, with a benignity in its repose that
carried a more assured sweetness than any smile. Gradually she revived, lif=
ted
up her delicate hands between her face and the firelight, and looked at the
baby which lay opposite to her on the old servant's lap, taking in spoonfuls
with much content, and stretching out naked feet towards the warmth. Then, =
as
her consciousness of relief grew into contrasting memory, she lifted up her
eyes to Mr Lyon, who stood close by her, and said, in her pretty broken way=
-
'I knew you had a good heart when =
you
took your hat off. You seemed to me as the image of the bien-aime Saint Jea=
n.'
The grateful glance of those blue-=
grey
eyes, with their long shadow-making eyelashes, was a new kind of good to Ru=
fus
Lyon; it seemed to him as if a woman had never really looked at him before.=
Yet
this poor thing was apparently a blind French Catholic - of delicate nurtur=
e,
surely, judging from her hands. He was in a tremor; he felt that it would be
rude to question her, and he only urged her now to take a little food. She
accepted it with evident enjoyment, looking at the child continually, and t=
hen,
with a fresh burst of gratitude, leaning forward to press the servant's han=
d,
and say, 'O, you are good!' Then she looked up at Mr Lyon again and said, '=
Is
there in the world a prettier marmot?’
The evening passed; a bed was made=
up
for the strange woman, and Mr Lyon had not asked her so much as her name. He
never went to bed himself that night. He spent it in misery, enduring a
horrible assault of Satan. He thought a frenzy had seized him. Wild visions=
of
an impossible future thrust themselves upon him. He dreaded lest the woman =
had
a husband; he wished that he might call her his own, that he might worship =
her
beauty, that she might love and caress him. And what to the mass of men wou=
ld
have been only one of many allowable follies - a transient fascination, to =
be
dispelled by daylight and contact with those common facts of which common-s=
ense
is the reflex - was to him a spiritual convulsion. He was as one who raved,=
and
knew that he raved. These mad wishes were irreconcilable with what he was, =
and
must be, as a Christian minister; nay, penetrating his soul as tropic heat
penetrates the frame, and changes for it all aspects and all flavours, they
were irreconcilable with that conception of the world which made his faith.=
All
the busy doubt which had before been mere impish shadows flitting around a
belief that was strong with the strength of an unswerving moral bias, had n=
ow
gathered blood and substance. The questioning spirit had become suddenly bo=
ld
and blasphemous: it no longer insinuated scepticism - it prompted defiance;=
it
no longer expressed cool inquisitive thought, but was the voice of a passio=
nate
mood. Yet he never ceased to regard it as the voice of the tempter: the
conviction which had been the law of his better life remained within him as=
a
conscience.
The struggle of that night was an
abridgment of all the struggles that came after. Quick souls have their
intensest life in the first anticipatory sketch of what may or will be, and=
the
pursuit of their wish is the pursuit of that paradisaic vision which only
impelled them, and is left farther and farther behind, vanishing for ever e=
ven
out of hope in the moment which is called success.
The next morning Mr Lyon heard his
guest's history. She was the daughter of a French officer of considerable r=
ank,
who had fallen in the Russian campaign. She had escaped from France to Engl=
and
with much difficulty in order to rejoin her husband, a young Englishman, to
whom she had become attached during his detention as a prisoner of war on
parole at Vesoul, where she was living under the charge of some relatives, =
and
to whom she had been married without the consent of her family. Her husband=
had
served in the Hanoverian army, had obtained his discharge in order to visit
England on some business, with the nature of which she was not acquainted, =
and
had been taken prisoner as a suspected spy. A short time after their marria=
ge
he and his fellow-prisoners had been moved to a town nearer the coast, and =
she
had remained in wretched uncertainty about him, until at last a letter had =
come
from him telling her that an exchange of prisoners had occurred, that he wa=
s in
England, that she must use her utmost effort to follow him, and that on
arriving on English ground she must send him word under a cover which he
enclosed, bearing an address in London. Fearing the opposition of her frien=
ds,
she started unknown to them, with a very small supply of money; and after
enduring much discomfort and many fears in waiting for a passage, which she=
at
last got in a small trading smack, she arrived at Southampton - ill. Before=
she
was able to write her baby was born; and before her husband's answer came, =
she
had been obliged to pawn some clothes and trinkets. He desired her to trave=
l to
London, where he would meet her at the Belle Sauvage, adding that he was
himself in distress and unable to come to her: when once he was in London t=
hey
would take ship and quit the country. Arrived at the Belle Sauvage, the poor
thing waited three days in vain for her husband: on the fourth a letter cam=
e in
a strange hand, saying that in his last moments he had desired this letter =
to
be written to inform her of his death, and recommend her to return to her
friends. She could choose no other course, but she had soon been reduced to
walking, that she might save her pence to buy bread with; and on the evening
when she made her appeal to Mr Lyon, she had pawned the last thing, over and
above needful clothing, that she could persuade herself to part with. The
things she had not borne to part with were her marriage-ring and a locket
containing her husband's hair, and bearing his baptismal name. This locket,=
she
said, exactly resembled one worn by her husband on his watch-chain, only th=
at
his bore the name Annette, and contained a lock of her hair. The precious
trifle now hung round her neck by a cord, for she had sold the small gold c=
hain
which formerly held it.
The only guarantee of this story,
besides the exquisite candour of her face, was a small packet of papers whi=
ch
she carried in her pocket, consisting of her husband's few letters, the let=
ter
which announced his death, and her marriage certificate. It was not so prob=
able
a story as that of many an inventive vagrant; but Mr Lyon did not doubt it =
for
a moment. It was impossible to him to suspect this angelic-faced woman, but=
he
had strong suspicions concerning her husband. He could not help being glad =
that
she had not retained the address he had desired her to send to in London, as
that removed any obvious means of learning particulars about him. But inqui=
ries
might have been made at Vesoul by letter, and her friends there might have =
been
appealed to. A consciousness, not to be quite silenced, told Mr Lyon that t=
his
was the course he ought to take, but it would have required an energetic
self-conquest, and he was excused from it by Annette's own disinclination to
return to her relatives if any other acceptable possibility could be found.=
He dreaded, with a violence of fee=
ling
which surmounted all struggles, lest anything should take her away, and pla=
ce
such barriers between them as would make it unlikely or impossible that she
should ever love him well enough to become his wife. Yet he saw with perfect
clearness that unless he tore up this mad passion by the roots, his ministe=
rial
usefulness would be frustrated, and the repose of his soul would be destroy=
ed.
This woman was an unregenerate Catholic; ten minutes' listening to her artl=
ess
talk made that plain to him: even if her position had been less equivocal, =
to
unite himself to such a woman was nothing less than a spiritual fall. It was
already a fall that he had wished there was no high purpose to which he owe=
d an
allegiance - that he had longed to fly to some backwoods where there was no
church to reproach him, and where he might have this sweet woman to wife, a=
nd
know the joys of tenderness. Those sensibilities which in most lives are
diffused equally through the youthful years, were aroused suddenly in Mr Ly=
on,
as some men have their special genius revealed to them by a tardy concurren=
ce
of conditions. His love was the first love of a fresh young heart full of
wonder and worship. But what to one man is the virtue which he has sunk bel=
ow
the possibility of aspiring to, is to another the backsliding by which he
forfeits his spiritual crown.
The end was, that Annette remained=
in
his house. He had striven against himself so far as to represent her positi=
on
to some chief matrons in his congregations, praying and yet dreading that t=
hey
would so take her by the hand as to impose on him that denial of his own
longing not to let her go out of his sight, which he found it too hard to
impose on himself. But they regarded the case coldly: the woman was, after =
all,
a vagrant. Mr Lyon was observed to be surprisingly weak on the subject - his
eagerness seemed disproportionate and unbecoming; and this young Frenchwoma=
n,
unable to express herself very clearly, was no more interesting to those
matrons and their husbands than other pretty young women suspiciously
circumstanced. They were willing to subscribe something to carry her on her
way, or if she took some lodgings they would give her a little sewing, and
endeavour to convert her from papistry. If, however, she was a respectable
person, as she said, the only proper thing for her was to go back to her own
country and friends. In spite of himself, Mr Lyon exulted. There seemed a
reason now that he should keep Annette under his own eyes. He told himself =
that
no real object would be served by his providing food and lodging for her
elsewhere - an expense which he could ill afford. And she was apparently so
helpless, except as to the one task of attending to her baby, that it would
have been folly to think of her exerting herself for her own support.
But this course of his was severely
disapproved by his church. There were various signs that the minister was u=
nder
some evil influence: his preaching wanted its old fervour, he seemed to shun
the intercourse of his brethren, and very mournful suspicions were entertai=
ned.
A formal remonstrance was presented to him, but he met it as if he had alre=
ady
determined to act in anticipation of it. He admitted that external circumst=
ances,
conjoined with a peculiar state of mind, were likely to hinder the fruitful
exercise of his ministry, and he resigned it. There was much sorrowing, much
expostulation, but he declared that for the present he was unable to unfold
himself more fully; he only wished to state solemnly that Annette Ledru, th=
ough
blind in spiritual things, was in a worldly sense a pure and virtuous woman=
. No
more was to be said, and he departed to a distant town. Here he maintained
himself, Annette, and the child, with the remainder of his stipend, and with
the wages he earned as a printer's reader. Annette was one of those
angelic-faced helpless women who take all things as manna from heaven: the =
good
image of the well-beloved Saint John wished her to stay with him, and there=
was
nothing else that she wished for except the unattainable. Yet for a whole y=
ear
Mr Lyon never dared to tell Annette that he loved her: he trembled before t=
his
woman; he saw that the idea of his being her lover was too remote from her =
mind
for her to have any idea that she ought not to live with him. She had never
known, never asked the reason why he gave up his ministry. She seemed to
entertain as little concern about the strange world in which she lived as a
bird in its nest: an avalanche had fallen over the past, but she sat warm a=
nd
uncrushed - there was food for many morrows, and her baby flourished. She d=
id
not seem even to care about a priest, or about having her child baptised; a=
nd
on the subject of religion Mr Lyon was as timid, and shrank as much from
speaking to her, as on the subject of his love. He dreaded anything that mi=
ght
cause her to feel a sudden repulsion towards him. He dreaded disturbing her
simple gratitude and content. In these days his religious faith was not
slumbering; it was awake and achingly conscious of having fallen in a strug=
gle.
He had had a great treasure committed to him, and had flung it away: he held
himself a backslider. His unbelieving thoughts never gained the full ear and
consent of his soul. His prayers had been stifled by the sense that there w=
as
something he preferred to complete obedience: they had ceased to be anything
but intemmittent cries and confessions, and a submissive presentiment, risi=
ng
at times even to an entreaty, that some great discipline might come, that t=
he
dulled spiritual sense might be roused to full vision and hearing as of old,
and the supreme facts become again supreme in his soul. Mr Lyon will perhaps
seem a very simple personage, with pitiably narrow theories; but none of our
theories are quite large enough for all the disclosures of time, and to the=
end
of men's struggles a penalty will remain for those who sink from the ranks =
of
the heroes into the crowd for whom the heroes fight and die.
One day, however, Annette learned =
Mr
Lyon's secret. The baby had a tooth coming, and being large and strong now,=
was
noisily fretful. Mr Lyon, though he had been working extra hours and was mu=
ch
in need of repose, took the child from its mother immediately on entering t=
he
house and walked about with it, patting and talking soothingly to it. The
stronger grasp, the new sensations, were a successful anodyne, and baby wen=
t to
sleep on his shoulder. But fearful lest any movement should disturb it, he =
sat
down, and endured the bondage of holding it still against his shoulder.
'You do nurse baby well,' said
Annette, approvingly. 'Yet you never nursed before I came?'
'No,' said Mr Lyon. 'I had no brot=
hers
and sisters.'
'Why were you not married?' Annette
had never thought of asking that question before.
'Because I never loved any woman -
till now. I thought I should never marry. Now I wish to marry.'
Annette started. She did not see at
once that she was the woman he wanted to marry; what had flashed on her mind
was, that there might be a great change in Mr Lyon's life. It was as if the
lightning had entered into her dream, and half awakened her.
'Do you think it foolish, Annette,
that I should wish to marry?'
'I did not expect it,' she said,
doubtfully. 'I did not know you thought about it.'
'You know the woman I should like =
to
marry?'
'I know her?' she said,
interrogatively, blushing deeply.
'It is you, Annette - you whom I h=
ave
loved better than my duty. I forsook everything for you.'
Mr Lyon paused: he was about to do
what he felt would be ignoble - to urge what seemed like a claim.
'Can you love me, Annette? Will yo=
u be
my wife?' Annette trembled and looked miserable.
'Do not speak - forget it,' said Mr
Lyon, rising suddenly and speaking with loud energy. 'No, no - I do not wan=
t it
- I do not wish it.'
The baby awoke as he started up; he
gave the child into Annette's arms, and left her.
His work took him away early the n=
ext
morning and the next again. They did not need to speak much to each other. =
The
third day Mr Lyon was too ill to go to work. His frame had been overwrought=
; he
had been too poor to have sufficiently nourishing food, and under the
shattering of his long-deferred hope his health had given way. They had no
regular servant - only occasional help from an old woman, who lit the fires=
and
put on the kettles. Annette was forced to be the sick-nurse, and this sudden
demand on her shook away some of her torpor. The illness was a serious one,=
and
the medical man one day hearing Mr Lyon in his delirium raving with an
astonishing fluency in Biblical language, suddenly looked round with increa=
sed
curiosity at Annette, and asked if she were the sick man's wife, or some ot=
her
relative.
'No - no relation,' said Annette,
shaking her head. 'He has been good to me.'
'How long have you lived with him?=
'
'More than a year.'
'Was he a preacher once?'
'Yes.'
'When did he leave off being a
preacher?'
'Soon after he took care of me.'
'Is that his child?'
'Sir,' said Annette, colouring
indignantly. 'I am a widow.'
The doctor, she thought, looked at=
her
oddly, but he asked no more questions.
When the sick man was getting bett=
er,
and able to enjoy invalid's food, he observed one day, while he was taking =
some
broth, that Annette was looking at him; he paused to look at her in return,=
and
was struck with a new expression in her face, quite distinct from the merely
passive sweetness which usually characterised it. She laid her little hand =
on
his, which was now transparently thin, and said, 'I am getting very wise; I
have sold some of the books to make money - the doctor told me where; and I
have looked into the shops where they sell caps and bonnets and pretty thin=
gs,
and I can do all that, and get more money to keep us. And when you are well
enough to get up, we will go out and be married - shall we not? See! and la
petite (the baby had never been named anything else) shall call you papa - =
and
then we shall never part.'
Mr Lyon trembled. This illness -
something else, perhaps - had made a great change in Annette. A fortnight a=
fter
that they were married. The day before, he had ventured to ask her if she f=
elt
any difficulty about her religion, and if she would consent to have la peti=
te
baptised and brought up as a Protestant. She shook her head and said very
simply -
'No: in France, in other days, I w=
ould
have minded; but all is changed. I never was fond of religion, but I knew it
was right. J'aimais les fleurs, les bals, la musique, et mon mari qui etait
beau. But all that is gone away. There is nothing of my religion in this
country. But the good God must be here, for you are good; I leave all to yo=
u.'
It was clear that Annette regarded=
her
present life as a sort of death to the world - an existence on a remote isl=
and
where she had been saved from wreck. She was too indolent mentally, too lit=
tle
interested, to acquaint herself with any secrets of the isle. The transient
energy, the more vivid consciousness and sympathy which had been stirred in=
her
during Mr Lyon's illness, had soon subsided into the old apathy to everythi=
ng
except her child. She withered like a plant in strange air, and the three y=
ears
of life that remained were but a slow and gentle death. Those three years w=
ere
to Mr Lyon a period of such self-suppression and life in another as few men
know. Strange I that the passion for this woman, which he felt to have drawn
him aside from the right as much as if he had broken the most solemn vows -=
for
that only was right to him which he held the best and highest - the passion=
for
a being who had no glimpse of his thoughts induced a more thorough renuncia=
tion
than he had ever known in the time of his complete devotion to his minister=
ial
career. He had no flattery now, either from himself or the world; he knew t=
hat
he had fallen, and his world had forgotten him, or shook their heads at his
memory. The only satisfaction he had was the satisfaction of his tenderness=
-
which meant untiring work, untiring patience, untiring wakefulness even to =
the
dumb signs of feeling in a creature whom he alone cared for.
The day of parting came, and he was
left with little Esther as the one visible sign of that four years' break in
his life. A year afterwards he entered the ministry again, and lived with t=
he
utmost sparingness that Esther might be so educated as to be able to get her
own bread in case of his death. Her probable facility in acquiring French n=
aturally
suggested his sending her to a French school, which would give her a special
advantage as a teacher. It was a Protestant school, and French Protestantism
had the high recommendation of being non-prelatical. It was understood that
Esther would contract no papistical superstitions; and this was perfectly t=
rue;
but she contracted, as we see, a good deal of non-papistical vanity.
Mr Lyon's reputation as a teacher =
and
devoted pastor had revived; but some dissatisfaction beginning to be felt by
his congregation at a certain laxity detected by them in his views as to the
limits of salvation, which he had in one sermon even hinted might extend to
unconscious recipients of mercy, he had found it desirable seven years ago =
to
quit this ten years' pastorate and accept a call from the less important ch=
urch
in Malthouse Yard, Treby Magna.
This was Rufus Lyon's history, at =
that
time unknown in its fulness to any human being besides himself. We can perh=
aps
guess what memories they were that relaxed the stringency of his doctrine on
the point of salvation. In the deepest of all senses his heart said - 'Thou=
gh
she be dead, yet let me think she lives, And feed my mind, that dies for wa=
nt
of her '
M. It was but yesterday you spoke =
him
well - You've changed your mind so soon? N. Not I - 'tis he That, changing =
to
my thought, has changed my mind. No man puts rotten apples in his pouch Bec=
ause
their upper side looked fair to him. Constancy in mistake is constant folly=
.
THE news that the rich heir of the
Transomes was actually come back, and had been seen at Treby, was carried to
some one else who had more reasons for being interested in it than the Reve=
rend
Rufus Lyon was yet conscious of having. It was owing to this that at three
o'clock, two days afterwards, a carriage and pair, with coachman and footma=
n in
crimson and drab, passed through the lodge-gates of Transome Court. Inside
there was a hale good-natured-looking man of sixty, whose hands rested on a
knotted stick held between his knees; and a blue-eyed, well-featured lady, =
fat
and middle-aged - a mountain of satin, lace, and exquisite muslin embroider=
y.
They were not persons of highly remarkable appearance, but to most Trebians
they seemed absolutely unique, and likely to be known anywhere. If you had
looked down on them from the box of Sampson's coach, he would have said, af=
ter
lifting his hat, 'Sir Maximus and his lady - did you see?' thinking it need=
less
to add the surname.
'We shall find her greatly elated,
doubtless,' Lady Debarry was saying. 'She has been in the shade so long.'
'Ah, poor thing!' said Sir Maximus=
. 'A
fine woman she was in her bloom. I remember the first county ball she atten=
ded
we were all ready to fight for the sake of dancing with her. I always liked=
her
from that time - I never swallowed the scandal about her myself.'
'If we are to be intimate with her=
,'
said Lady Debarry, 'I wish you would avoid making such allusions, Sir Maxim=
us.
I should not like Selina and Harriet to hear them.'
'My dear, I should have forgotten =
all
about the scandal, only you remind me of it sometimes,' retorted the barone=
t,
smiling and taking out his snuff-box.
'These sudden turns of fortune are
often dangerous to an excitable constitution,' said Lady Debarry, not choos=
ing
to notice her husband's epigram. 'Poor Lady Alicia Methurst got heart-disea=
se
from a sudden piece of luck - the death of her uncle, you know. If Mrs Tran=
some
were wise she would go to town - she can afford it now - and consult Dr
Truncheon. I should say myself he would order her digitalis: I have often
guessed exactly what a prescription would be. But it certainly was always o=
ne
of her weak points to think that she understood medicine better than other
people.'
'She's a healthy woman enough, sur=
ely:
see how upright she is, and she rides about like a girl of twenty.'
'She is so thin that she makes me
shudder.'
'Pooh I she's slim and active; wom=
en
are not bid for by the pound.'
'Pray don't be so coarse.'
Sir Maximus laughed and showed his
good teeth, which made his laughter very becoming. The carriage stopped, and
they were soon ushered into Mrs Transome's sitting-room, where she was work=
ing
at her worsted embroidery. A little daily embroidery had been a constant
element in Mrs Transome's life; that soothing occupation of taking stitches=
to
produce what neither she nor any one else wanted, was then the resource of =
many
a well-born and unhappy woman.
She received much warm congratulat=
ion
and pressure of her hand with perfect composure of manner; but she became p=
aler
than usual, and her hands turned quite cold. The Debarrys did not yet know =
what
Harold's politics were.
'Well, our lucky youngster is come=
in
the nick of time,' said Sir Maximus: 'if he'll stand, he and Philip can run=
in
harness together and keep out both the Whigs.'
'It is really quite a providential
thing - his returning just now,' said Lady Debarry. 'I couldn't help thinki=
ng
that something would occur to prevent Philip from having such a man as Peter
Garstin for his colleague.'
'I call my friend Harold a youngst=
er,'
said Sir Maximus, 'for, you know, I remember him only as he was when that
portrait was taken.'
'That is a long while ago,' said M=
rs
Transome. 'My son is much altered, as you may imagine.'
There was a confused sound of voic=
es
in the library while this talk was going on. Mrs Transome chose to ignore t=
hat
noise, but her face, from being pale, began to flush a little.
'Yes, yes, on the outside, I dares=
ay.
But he was a fine fellow - I always liked him. And if anybody had asked me =
what
I should choose for the good of the county, I couldn't have thought of anyt=
hing
better than having a young Transome for a neighbour who will take an active
part. The Transomes and the Debarrys were always on the right side together=
in
old days. Of course he'll stand - he has made up his mind to it?'
The need for an answer to this
embarrassing question was deferred by the increase of inarticulate sounds
accompanied by a bark from the library, and the sudden appearance at the
tapestry-hung doorway of old Mr Transome with a cord round his waist, playi=
ng a
very poor-paced horse for a black-maned little boy about three years old, w=
ho
was urging him on with loud encouraging noises and occasional thumps from a
stick which he wielded with some difficulty. The old man paused with a vague
gentle smile at the doorway, while the baronet got up to speak to him. Nimr=
od
snuffed at his master's legs to ascertain that he was not hurt, and the lit=
tle
boy, finding something new to be looked at, let go the cord and came round =
in
front of the company, dragging his stick, and standing at a safe war-dancing
distance as he fixed his great black eyes on Lady Debarry.
'Dear me, what a splendid little b=
oy,
Mrs Transome I why - it cannot be - can it be - that you have the happiness=
to
be a grandmamma?' 'Yes; that is my son's little boy.'
'Indeed!' said Lady Debarry, really
amazed. 'I never heard you speak of his marriage. He has brought you home a
daughter-in-law, then?'
'No,' said Mrs Transome, coldly; '=
she
is dead.'
'O - o - oh!' said Lady Debarry, i=
n a
tone ludicrously undecided between condolence, satisfaction, and general
mistiness. 'How very singular - I mean that we should not have heard of Mr
Harold's marriage. But he's a charming little fellow: come to me, you
round-cheeked cherub.'
The black eyes continued fixed as =
if
by a sort of fascination on Lady Debarry's face, and her affable invitation=
was
unheeded. At last, putting his head forward and pouting his lips, the cherub
gave forth with marked intention the sounds, 'Nau-o-oom,' many times repeat=
ed:
apparently they summed up his opinion of Lady Debarry, and may perhaps have
meant 'naughty old woman', but his speech was a broken lisping polyglot of
hazardous interpretation. Then he turned to pull at the Blenheim spaniel,
which, being old and peevish, gave a little snap.
'Go, go, Harry; let poor Puff alon=
e -
he'll bite you,' said Mrs Transome, stooping to release her aged pet.
Her words were too suggestive, for
Harry immediately laid hold of her arm with his teeth, and bit with all his
might. Happily the stuffs upon it were some protection, but the pain forced=
Mrs
Transome to give a low cry; and Sir Maximus, who had now turned to reseat
himself, shook the little rascal off, whereupon he burst away and trotted i=
nto
the library again.
'I fear you are hurt,' said Lady
Debarry, with sincere concern. 'What a little savage! Do have your arm atte=
nded
to, my dear - I recommend fomentation - don't think of me.'
'O thank you, it is nothing,' said=
Mrs
Transome, biting her lip and smiling alternately; 'it will soon go off. The
pleasures of being a grandmamma, you perceive. The child has taken a dislik=
e to
me; but he makes quite a new life for Mr Transome; they were playfellows at
once.'
'Bless my heart!' said Sir Maximus,
'it is odd to think of
Harold having been a family man so
long. I made up my mind he was a young bachelor. What an old stager I am, t=
o be
sure! And whom has he married? I hope we shall soon have the pleasure of se=
eing
Mrs Harold Transome.' Sir Maximus, occupied with old Mr Transome, had not o=
ver
heard the previous conversation on that subject.
'She is no longer living,' Lady
Debarry hastily interposed: 'but now, my dear Sir Maximus, we must not hind=
er
Mrs Transome from attending to her arm. I am sure she is in pain. Don't say
another word, my dear - we shall see you again - you and Mr Harold will come
and dine with us on Thursday - say yes, only yes. Sir Maximus is longing to=
see
him; and Philip will be down.'
'Yes, yes!' said Sir Maximus; 'he =
must
lose no time in making Philip's acquaintance. Tell him Philip is a fine fel=
low
- carried everything before him at Oxford. And your son must be returned al=
ong
with him for North Loamshire. You said he meant to stand?'
'I will write and let you know if
Harold has any engagement for Thursday; he would of course be happy otherwi=
se,'
said Mrs Transome, evading the question.
'If not Thursday, the next day - t=
he
very first day he can.'
The visitors left, and Mrs Transome
was almost glad of the painful bite which had saved her from being question=
ed
further about Harold's politics. 'This is the last visit I shall receive fr=
om
them,' she said to herself as the door closed behind them, and she rang for
Denner.
'That poor creature is not happy, =
Sir
Maximus,' said Lady Debarry as they drove along. 'Something annoys her about
her son. I hope there is nothing unpleasant in his character. Either he kept
his marriage a secret from her, or she was ashamed of it. He is thirty-four=
at
least by this time. After living in the East so long he may have become a s=
ort
of person one would not care to be intimate with; and that savage boy - he
doesn't look like a lady's child.'
'Pooh, my dear,' said Sir Maximus,
'women think so much of those minutiae. In the present state of the country=
it
is our duty to look at a man's position and politics. Philip and my brother=
are
both of that opinion, and I think they know what's right, if any man does. =
We
are bound to regard every man of our party as a public instrument, and to p=
ull
all together. The Transomes have always been a good Tory family, but it has
been a cipher of late years. This young fellow coming back with a fortune to
give the family a head and a position is a clear gain to the county; and wi=
th
Philip he'll get into the right hands - of course he wants guiding, having =
been
out of the country so long. All we have to ask is, whether a man's a Tory, =
and
will make a stand for the good of the country? - that's the plain English of
the matter. And I do beg of you, my dear, to set aside all these gossiping
niceties, and exert yourself, like a woman of sense and spirit as you are, =
to
bring the right people together.'
Here Sir Maximus gave a deep cough,
took out his snuff-box, and tapped it: he had made a serious marital speech=
, an
exertion to which he was rarely urged by anything smaller than a matter of
conscience. And this outline of the whole duty of a Tory was matter of
conscience with him; though the Duffield Watchman had pointed expressly to =
Sir
Maximus Debarry amongst others, in branding the co-operation of the Tories =
as a
conscious selfishness and reckless immorality, which, however, would be
defeated by the co-operation of all the friends of truth and liberty, who, =
the
Watchman trusted, would subordinate all non-political differences in order =
to
return representatives pledged to support the present government.
'I am sure, Sir Maximus,' Lady Deb=
arry
answered, 'you could not have observed that anything was wanting in my mann=
ers
to Mrs Transome.'
'No, no, my dear; but I say this by
way of caution. Never mind what was done at Smyrna, or whether Transome lik=
es
to sit with his heels tucked up. We may surely wink at a few things for the
sake of the public interest, if God Almighty does; and if He didn't, I don't
know what would have become of the country - government could never have be=
en
carried on, and many a good battle would have been lost. That's the philoso=
phy
of the matter, and the common sense too.'
Good Sir Maximus gave a deep cough=
and
tapped his box again, inwardly remarking, that if he had not been such a la=
zy
fellow he might have made as good a figure as his son Philip.
But at this point the carriage, wh=
ich
was rolling by a turn towards Treby Magna, passed a well-dressed man, who
raised his hat to Sir Maximus, and called to the coachman to stop.
'Excuse me, Sir Maximus,' said this
personage, standing uncovered at the carriage-door, 'but I have just learned
something of importance at Treby, which I thought you would like to know as
soon as possible.'
'Ah! what's that? Something about
Garstin or Clement?' said Sir Maximus, seeing the other draw a poster from =
his
pocket.
'No; rather worse, I fear you will
think. A new Radical candidate. I got this by a stratagem from the printer's
boy. They're not posted yet.'
'A Radical!' said Sir Maximus, in a
tone of incredulous disgust, as he took the folded bill. 'What fool is he? -
he'll have no chance.'
'They say he's richer than Garstin=
.'
'Harold Transome!' shouted Sir
Maximus, as he read the name in three-inch letters. 'I don't believe it - i=
t's
a trick - it's a squib: why - why - we've just been to his place - eh? do y=
ou
know any more? Speak, sir - speak; don't deal out your story like a damned
mountebank, who wants to keep people gaping.'
'Sir Maximus, pray don't give way =
so,'
said Lady Debarry.
'I'm afraid there's no doubt about=
it,
sir,' said Christian. 'After getting the bill, I met Mr Labron's clerk, and=
he
said he had just had the whole story from Jermyn's clerk. The Ram Inn is
engaged already, and a committee is being made up. He says Jermyn goes like=
a
steam-engine, when he has a mind, although he makes such long-winded speech=
es.'
'Jermyn be hanged for a two-faced
rascal! Tell Mitchell to drive on. It's of no use to stay chattering here. =
Jump
up on the box and go home with us. I may want you.'
'You see I was right, Sir Maximus,'
said the baronet's wife, 'I had an instinct that we should find him an
unpleasant person.'
'Fudge! if you had such a fine
instinct, why did you let us go to Transome Court and make fools of ourselv=
es?'
'Would you have listened to me? Bu=
t of
course you will not have him to dine with you?'
'Dine with me? I should think not.=
I'd
sooner he should dine off me. I see how it is clearly enough. He has become=
a
regular beast among those Mahometans - he's got neither religion nor morals
left. He can't know anything about English politics. He'll go and cut his o=
wn
nose off as a land-holder, and never know. However, he won't get in - he'll
spend his money for nothing.'
'I fear he is a very licentious ma=
n,'
said Lady Debarry. 'We know now why his mother seemed so uneasy. I should t=
hink
she reflects a little, poor creature.'
'It's a confounded nuisance we did=
n't
meet Christian on our way, instead of coming back; but better now than late=
r.
He's an uncommonly adroit, useful fellow, that factotum of Philip's. I wish
Phil would take my man and give me Christian. I'd make him house-steward; he
might reduce the accounts a little.'
Perhaps Sir Maximus would not have
been so sanguine as to Mr Christian's economical virtues if he had seen that
gentleman relaxing himself the same evening among the other distinguished
dependants of the family and frequenters of the steward's room. But a man of
Sir Maximus's rank is like those antediluvian animals whom the system of th=
ings
condemned to carry such a huge bulk that they really could not inspect their
bodily appurtenance, and had no conception of their own tails: their parasi=
tes
doubtless had a merry time of it, and after did extremely well when the
high-bred saurian himself was ill at ease. Treby Manor, measured from the f=
ront
saloon to the remotest shed, was as large as a moderate-sized village, and
there were certainly more lights burning in it every evening, more wine,
spirits, and ale drunk, more waste and more folly, than could be found in s=
ome
large villages. There was fast revelry in the steward's room, and slow reve=
lry
in the Scotch bailiff's room; short whist, costume, and flirtation in the
housekeeper's room, and the same at a lower price in the servants' hall; a
select Olympian feast in the private apartment of the cook, who was a much
grander person than her ladyship, and wore gold and jewellery to a vast amo=
unt
of suet; a gambling group in the stables, and the coachman, perhaps the most
innocent member of the establishment, tippling in majestic solitude by a fi=
re
in the harness room. For Sir Maximus, as every one said, was a gentleman of=
the
right sort, condescended to no mean inquiries, greeted his head-servants wi=
th a
'good evening, gentlemen', when he met them in the park, and only snarled i=
n a
subdued way when he looked over the accounts, willing to endure some person=
al
inconvenience in order to keep up the institutions of the country, to maint=
ain
his hereditary establishment, and do his duty in that station of life - the
station of the long-tailed saurian - to which it had pleased Providence to =
call
him.
The focus of brilliancy at Treby M=
anor
that evening was in no way the dining-room, where Sir Maximus sipped his po=
rt
under some mental depression, as he discussed with his brother, the Reverend
Augustus, the sad fact, that one of the oldest names in the county was to b=
e on
the wrong side - not in the drawing-room, where Miss Debarry and Miss Selin=
a,
quietly elegant in their dress and manners, were feeling rather dull than
otherwise, having finished Mr Bulwer's Eugene Aram, and being thrown back on
the last great prose work of Mr Southey, while their mamma slumbered a litt=
le
on the sofa. No; the centre of eager talk and enjoyment was the steward's r=
oom,
where Mr Scales, house-steward and head-butler, a man most solicitous about=
his
boots, wristbands, the roll of his whiskers, and other attributes of a
gentleman, distributed cigars, cognac, and whisky, to various colleagues and
guests who were discussing, with that freedom of conjecture which is one of=
our
inalienable privileges as Britons, the probable amount of Harold Transome's=
fortune,
concerning which fame had already been busy long enough to have acquired va=
st
magnifying power.
The chief part in this scene was
undoubtedly Mr Christian's, although he had hitherto been comparatively sil=
ent;
but he occupied two chairs with so much grace, throwing his right leg over =
the
seat of the second, and resting his right hand on the back; he held his cig=
ar
and displayed a splendid seal-ring with such becoming nonchalance, and had =
his
grey hair arranged with so much taste, that experienced eyes would at once =
have
seen even the great Scales himself to be but a secondary character.
'Why,' said Mr Crowder, an old
respectable tenant, though much in arrear as to his rent, who condescended
frequently to drink in the steward's room for the sake of the conversation;
'why, I suppose they get money so fast in the East - it's wonderful. Why,' =
he
went on, with a hesitating look towards Mr Scales, 'this Transome has p'raps
got a matter of a hundred thousand.'
'A hundred thousand, my dear sir!
fiddle-stick's end of a hundred thousand,' said Mr Scales, with a contempt =
very
painful to be borne by a modest man.
'Well,' said Mr Crowder, giving way
under torture, as the all-knowing butler puffed and stared at him, 'perhaps=
not
so much as that.'
'Not so much, sir! I tell you that=
a
hundred thousand pounds is a bagatelle.'
'Well, I know it's a big sum,' sai=
d Mr
Crowder, deprecatingly.
Here there was a general laugh. All
the other intellects present were more cultivated than Mr Crowder's.
'Bagatelle is the French for trifl=
e,
my friend,' said Mr Christian. 'Don't talk over people's heads so, Scales. I
shall have hard work to understand you myself soon.'
'Come, that's a good one,' said the
head-gardener, who was a ready admirer; 'I should like to hear the thing you
don't understand, Christian.'
'He's a first-rate hand at sneerin=
g,'
said Mr Scales, rather nettled.
'Don't be waspish, man. I'll ring =
the
bell for lemons, and make some punch. That's the thing for putting people u=
p to
the unknown tongues,' said Mr Christian, starting up, and slapping Scales's
shoulder as he passed him.
'What I mean, Mr Crowder, is this.'
Here Mr Scales paused to puff, and pull down his waistcoat in a gentlemanly
manner, and drink. He was wont in this way to give his hearers time for
meditation.
'Come, then, speak English; I'm not
against being taught,' said the reasonable Crowder.
'What I mean is, that in a large w=
ay
of trade a man turns his capital over almost as soon as he can turn himself.
Bless your soul! I know something about these matters, eh, Brent?'
'To be sure you do - few men more,'
said the gardener, who was the person appealed to.
'Not that I've had anything to do =
with
commercial families myself. I've those feelings that I look to other things
besides lucre. But I can't say that I've not been intimate with parties who
have been less nice than I am myself; and knowing what I know, I shouldn't
wonder if Transome had as much as five hundred thousand. Bless your soul, s=
ir I
people who get their money out of land are as long scraping five pounds
together as your trading men are in turning five pounds into a hundred.'
'That's a wicked thing, though,' s=
aid
Mr Crowder, meditatively. 'However,' he went on, retreating from this diffi=
cult
ground, 'trade or no trade, the Transomes have been poor enough this many a
long year. I've a brother a tenant on their estate - I ought to know a litt=
le
bit about that.'
'They've kept up no establishment =
at
all,' said Mr Scales, with disgust. 'They've even let their kitchen gardens=
. I
suppose it was the eldest son's gambling. I've seen something of that. A man
who has always lived in first-rate families is likely to know a thing or tw=
o on
that subject.'
'Ah, but it wasn't gambling did the
first mischief,' said Mr Crowder, with a slight smile, feeling that it was =
his turn
to have some superiority. 'New-comers don't know what happened in this coun=
try
twenty and thirty year ago. I'm turned fifty myself, and my father lived un=
der
Sir Maximus's father. But if anybody from London can tell me more than I kn=
ow
about this country-side, I'm willing to listen.'
'What was it, then, if it wasn't
gambling?' said Mr Scales, with some impatience. 'I don't pretend to know.'=
'It was law - law - that's what it
was. Not but what the Transomes always won.'
'And always lost,' said the too-re=
ady
Scales. 'Yes, yes; I think we all know the nature of law.'
'There was the last suit of all ma=
de
the most noise, as I understood,' continued Mr Crowder; 'but it wasn't tried
hereabout. They said there was a deal o' false swearing. Some young man pre=
tended
to be the true heir - let me see - I can't justly remember the names - he'd=
got
two. He swore he was one man, and they swore he was another. However, Lawyer
Jermyn won it - they say he'd win a game against the Old One himself - and =
the
young fellow turned out to be a scamp. Stop a bit - his name was Scaddon -
Henry Scaddon.'
Mr Christian here let a lemon slip
from his hand into the punch-bowl with a plash which sent some of the nectar
into the company's faces.
'Hallo! What a bungler I am!' he s=
aid,
looking as if he were quite jarred by this unusual awkwardness of his. 'Go =
on
with your tale, Mr Crowder - a scamp named Harry Scaddon.'
'Well, that's the tale,' said Mr
Crowder. 'He was never seen nothing of any more. It was a deal talked of at=
the
time - and I've sat by; and my father used to shake his head; and always wh=
en
this Mrs Transome was talked of, he used to shake his head, and say she car=
ried
things with a high hand once. But, Lord I it was before the battle of Water=
loo,
and I'm a poor hand at tales; I don't see much good in 'em myself - but if
anybody'll tell me a cure for the sheep-rot I'll thank him.'
Here Mr Crowder relapsed into smok=
ing
and silence, a little discomfited that the knowledge of which he had been
delivered had turned out rather a shapeless and insignificant birth.
'Well, well, bygones should be
bygones; there are secrets in most good families,' said Mr Scales, winking,
'and this young Transome, coming back with a fortune to keep up the
establishment, and have things done in a decent and gentlemanly way - it wo=
uld
all have been right if he'd not been this sort of Radical madman. But now h=
e's
done for himself. I heard Sir Maximus say at dinner that he would be
excommunicated; and that's a pretty strong word, I take it.'
'What does it mean, Scales,' said =
Mr
Christian, who loved tormenting.
'Ay, what's the meaning?' insisted=
Mr
Crowder, encouraged by finding that even Christian was in the dark.
'Well, it's a law term - speaking =
in a
figurative sort of way - meaning that a Radical was no gentleman.'
'Perhaps it's partly accounted for=
by
his getting his money so fast, and in foreign countries,' said Mr Crowder,
tentatively. 'It's reasonable to think he'd be against the land and this
country - eh, Sircome?'
Sircome was an eminent miller who =
had
considerable business transactions at the manor, and appreciated Mr Scales's
merits at a handsome percentage on the yearly account. He was a highly
honourable tradesman, but in this and in other matters submitted to the
institutions of his country; for great houses, as he observed, must have gr=
eat
butlers. He replied to his friend Crowder sententiously.
'I say nothing. Before I bring wor=
ds
to market, I should like to see 'em a bit scarcer. There's the land and the=
re's
trade - I hold with both. I swim with the stream.'
'Hey-day, Mr Sircome! that's a Rad=
ical
maxim,' said Mr Christian, who knew that Mr Sircome's last sentence was his
favourite formula. 'I advise you to give it up, else it will injure the qua=
lity
of your flour.'
'A Radical maxim!' said Mr Sircome=
, in
a tone of angry astonishment. I should like to hear you prove that. It's as=
old
as my grandfather, anyhow.'
'I'll prove it in one minute,' said
the glib Christian. 'Reform has set in by the will of the majority - that's=
the
rabble you know; and the respectability and good sense of the country, which
are in the minority, are afraid of Reform running on too fast. So the stream
must be running towards Reform and Radicalism; and if you swim with it, Mr =
Sir
- come, you're a Reformer and a Radical, and your flour is objectionable, a=
nd
not full weight - and being tried by Scales, will be found wanting.'
There was a roar of laughter. This=
pun
upon Scales was highly appreciated by every one except the miller and the
butler. The latter pulled down his waistcoat, and puffed and stared in rath=
er
an excited manner. Mr Christian's wit, in general, seemed to him a poor kin=
d of
quibbling.
'What a fellow you are for fence,
Christian,' said the gardener. 'Hang me, if I don't think you're up to
everything.'
'That's a compliment you might pay=
Old
Nick, if you come to that,' said Mr Sircome, who was in the painful positio=
n of
a man deprived of his formula.
'Yes, yes,' said Mr Scales; 'I'm no
fool myself, and could parry a thrust if I liked, but I shouldn't like it t=
o be
said of me that I was up to everything. I'll keep a little principle if you
please.'
'To be sure,' said Christian, ladl=
ing
out the punch. 'What would justice be without Scales?'
The laughter was not quite so
full-throated as before. Such excessive cleverness was a little Satanic.
'A joke's a joke among gentlemen,'
said the butler, getting exasperated; 'I think there has been quite liberti=
es
enough taken with my name. But if you must talk about names, I've heard of a
party before now calling himself a Christian, and being anything but it.'
'Come, that's beyond a joke,' said=
the
surgeon's assistant, a fast man, whose chief scene of dissipation was the
Manor. 'Let it drop, Scales.'
'Yes, I daresay it's beyond a joke.
I'm not a harlequin to talk nothing but jokes. I leave that to other
Christians, who are up to everything, and have been everywhere - to the hul=
ks,
for what I know; and more than that, they come from nobody knows where, and=
try
to worm themselves into gentlemen's confidence, to the prejudice of their b=
etters.'
There was a stricter sequence in Mr
Scales's angry eloquence than was apparent - some chief links being confine=
d to
his own breast, as is often the case in energetic discourse. The company we=
re
in a state of expectation. There was something behind worth knowing, and
something before them worth seeing. In the general decay of other fine Briti=
sh
pugnacious sports, a quarrel between gentlemen was all the more exciting, a=
nd
though no one would himself have liked to turn on Scales, no one was sorry =
for
the chance of seeing him put down. But the amazing Christian was unmoved. He
had taken out his handkerchief and was rubbing his lips carefully. After a
slight pause, he spoke with perfect coolness.
'I don't intend to quarrel with yo=
u,
Scales. Such talk as this is not profitable to either of us. It makes you
purple in the face - you are apoplectic, you know - and it spoils good comp=
any.
Better tell a few fibs about me behind my back - it will heat you less, and=
do
me more harm. I'll leave you to it; I shall go and have a game at whist with
the ladies.'
As the door closed behind the
questionable Christian, Mr Scales was in a state of frustration that preven=
ted
speech. Every one was rather embarrassed.
'That's a most uncommon sort o'
fellow,' said Mr Crowder, in an under-tone, to his next neighbour, the
gardener. 'Why, Mr Philip picked him up in foreign parts, didn't he?'
'He was a courier,' said the garde=
ner.
'He's had a deal of experience. And I believe, by what I can make out - for
he's been pretty free with me sometimes - there was a time when he was in t=
hat
rank of life that he fought a duel.' 'Ah I that makes him such a cool chap,'
said Mr Crowder.
'He's what I call an overbearing
fellow,' said Mr Sircome, also sotto voce, to his next neighbour, Mr Filmor=
e,
the surgeon's assistant. 'He runs you down with a sort of talk that's neith=
er
here nor there. He's got a deal too many samples in his pocket for me.'
'All I know is, he's a wonderful h=
and
at cards,' said Mr Filmore, whose whiskers and shirt-pin were quite above t=
he
average. 'I wish I could play ecarte as he does; it's beautiful to see him;=
he
can make a man look pretty blue - he'll empty his pocket for him in no time=
.'
'That's none to his credit,' said =
Mr
Sircome.
The conversation had in this way
broken up into tete-a-tete, and the hilarity of the evening might be consid=
ered
a failure. Still the punch was drunk, the accounts were duly swelled, and,
notwithstanding the innovating spirit of the time, Sir Maximus Debarry's
establishment was kept up in a sound hereditary Bridsh manner.
'Rumour doth double like the voice=
and
echo.' - SHAKESPEARE.
The mind of a man is as a country
which was once open to squatters, who have bred and multiplied and become
masters of the land. But then happeneth a time when new and hungry comers
dispute the land; and there is trial of strength, and the stronger wins.
Nevertheless the first squatters be they who have prepared the ground, and =
the
crops to the end will be sequent (though chiefly on the nature of the soil,=
as
of light sand, mixed loam, or heavy clay, yet) somewhat on the primal labour
and sowing. THAT talkative maiden, Rumour, though in the interest of art sh=
e is
figured as a youthful winged beauty with flowing garments, soaring above the
heads of men, and breathing world-thrilling news through a gracefully-curved
trumpet, is in fact a very old maid, who puckers her silly face by the
fireside, and really does no more than chirp a wrong guess or a lame story =
into
the ear of a fellow-gossip; all the rest of the work attributed to her is d=
one
by the ordinary working of those passions against which men pray in the Lit=
any,
with the help of a plentiful stupidity against which we have never yet had =
any
authorised form of prayer.
When Mr Scales's strong need to ma=
ke
an impressive figure in conversation, together with his very slight need of=
any
other premise than his own sense of his wide general knowledge and probable
infallibility, led him to specify five hundred thousand as the lowest
admissible amount of Harold Transome's commercially-acquired fortune, it was
not fair to put this down to poor old Miss Rumour, who had only told Scales
that the fortune was considerable. And again, when the curt Mr Sircome found
occasion at Treby to mention the five hundred thousand as a fact that folks
seemed pretty sure about, this expansion of the butler into 'folks' was
entirely due to Mr Sircome's habitual preference for words which could not =
be
laid hold of or give people a handle over him. It was in this simple way th=
at
the report of Harold Transome's fortune spread and was magnified, adding mu=
ch
lustre to his opinions in the eyes of Liberals, and compelling even men of =
the
opposite party to admit that it increased his eligibility as a member for N=
orth
Loamshire. It was observed by a sound thinker in these parts that property =
was
ballast; and when once the aptness of that metaphor had been perceived, it
followed that a man was not fit to navigate the sea of politics without a g=
reat
deal of such ballast; and that, rightly understood, whatever increased the
expense of election, inasmuch as it virtually raised the property
qualification, was an unspeakable boon to the country.
Meanwhile the fortune that was get=
ting
larger in the imagination of constituents was shrinking a little in the ima=
gination
of its owner. It was hardly more than a hundred and fifty thousand; and the=
re
were not only the heavy mortgages to be paid off, but also a large amount of
capital was needed in order to repair the farm-buildings all over the estat=
e,
to carry out extensive draining, and make allowances to incoming tenants, w=
hich
might remove the difficulty of newly letting the farms in a time of
agricultural depression. The farms actually tenanted were held by men who h=
ad
begged hard to succeed their fathers in getting a little poorer every year,=
on
land which was also getting poorer, where the highest rate of increase was =
in
the arrears of rent, and where the master, in crushed hat and corduroys, lo=
oked
pitiably lean and care-worn by the side of pauper labourers, who showed that
superior assimilating power often observed to attend nourishment by the pub=
lic
money. Mr Goffe, of Rabbit's End, had never had it explained to him that,
according to the true theory of rent, land must inevitably be given up when=
it
would not yield a profit equal to the ordinary rate of interest; so that fr=
om
want of knowing what was inevitable, and not from a Titanic spirit of
opposition, he kept on his land. He often said of himself, with a melancholy
wipe of his sleeve across his brow, that he 'didn't know which-a-way to tur=
n';
and he would have been still more at a loss on the subject if he had quitted
Rabbit's End with a waggonful of furniture and utensils, a file of receipts=
, a
wife with five children, and a shepherd-dog in low spirits.
It took no long time for Harold
Transome to discover this state of things, and to see, moreover, that, exce=
pt
on the demesne immediately around the house, the timber had been mismanaged.
The woods had been recklessly thinned, and there had been insufficient
planting. He had not yet thoroughly investigated the various accounts kept =
by
his mother, by Jermyn, and by Banks the bailiff; but what had been done with
the large sums which had been received for timber was a suspicious mystery =
to
him. He observed that the farm held by Jermyn was in first-rate order, that=
a
good deal had been spent on the buildings, and that the rent had stood unpa=
id.
Mrs Transome had taken an opportunity of saying that Jermyn had had some of=
the
mortgage-deeds transferred to him, and that his rent was set against so much
interest. Harold had only said, in his careless yet decisive way, 'O, Jermy=
n be
hanged! It seems to me if Durfey hadn't died and made room for me, Jermyn w=
ould
have ended by coming to live here, and you would have had to keep the lodge=
and
open the gate for his carriage. But I shall pay him off - mortgages and all=
-
by-and-by. I'll owe him nothing - not even a curse.' Mrs Transome said no m=
ore.
Harold did not care to enter fully into the subject with his mother. The fa=
ct
that she had been active in the management of the estate - had ridden about=
it
continually, had busied herself with accounts, had been head-bailiff of the
vacant farms, and had yet allowed things to go wrong - was set down by him
simply to the general futility of women's attempts to transact men's busine=
ss.
He did not want to say anything to annoy her: he was only determined to let=
her
understand, as quietly as possible, that she had better cease all interfere=
nce.
Mrs Transome did understand this; =
and
it was very little that she dared to say on business, though there was a fi=
erce
struggle of her anger and pride with a dread which was nevertheless supreme=
. As
to the old tenants, she only observed, on hearing Harold burst forth about
their wretched condition 'that with the estate so burthened, the yearly los=
s by
arrears could better be borne than the outlay and sacrifice necessary in or=
der
to let the farms anew'.
'I was really capable of calculati=
ng,
Harold,' she ended, with a touch of bitterness. 'It seems easy to deal with
farmers and their affairs when you only see them in print, I daresay; but i=
t's
not quite so easy when you live among them. You have only to look at Sir
Maximus's estate: you will see plenty of the same thing. The times have been
dreadful, and old families like to keep their old tenants. But I daresay th=
at
is Toryism.'
'It's a hash of odds and ends, if =
that
is Toryism, my dear mother. However, I wish you had kept three more old
tenants; for then I should have had three more fifty-pound voters. And, in a
hard run, one may be beaten by a head. But,' Harold added, smiling and hand=
ing
her a ball of worsted, which had fallen, 'a woman ought to be a Tory, and
graceful, and handsome, like you. I should hate a woman who took up my
opinions, and talked for me. I'm an Oriental, you know. I say, mother, shal=
l we
have this room furnished with rose-colour? I notice that it suits your brig=
ht
grey hair.'
Harold thought it was only natural
that his mother should have been in a sort of subjection to Jermyn througho=
ut
the awkward circumstances of the family. It was the way of women, and all w=
eak
minds, to think that what they had been used to was inalterable, and any
quarrel with a man who managed private affairs was necessarily a formidable
thing. He himself was proceeding very cautiously, and preferred not even to
know too much just at present, lest a certain personal antipathy he was
conscious of toward Jermyn, and an occasional liability to exasperation, sh=
ould
get the better of a calm and clear-sighted resolve not to quarrel with the =
man
while he could be of use. Harold would have been disgusted with himself if =
he
had helped to frustrate his own purpose. And his strongest purpose now was =
to
get returned for parliament, to make a figure there as a Liberal member, an=
d to
become on all grounds a personage of weight in North Loamshire.
How Harold Transome came to be a
Liberal in opposition to all the traditions of his family, was a more subtle
inquiry than he had ever cared to follow out. The newspapers undertook to
explain it. The North Loamshire Herald witnessed with a grief and disgust
certain to be shared by all persons who were actuated by wholesome British
feeling, an example of defection in the inheritor of a family name which in
times past had been associated with attachment to right principle, and with=
the
maintenance of our constitution in Church and State; and pointed to it as an
additional proof that men who had passed any large portion of their lives
beyond the limits of our favoured country, usually contracted not only a la=
xity
of feeling towards Protestantism, nay, towards religion itself - a
latitudinarian spirit hardly distinguishable from atheism - but also a levi=
ty
of disposition, inducing them to tamper with those institutions by which al=
one
Great Britain had risen to her pre-eminence among the nations. Such men,
infected with outlandish habits, intoxicated with vanity, grasping at momen=
tary
power by flattery of the multitude, fearless because godless, liberal becau=
se
un-English, were ready to pull one stone from under another in the national
edifice, till the great structure tottered to its fall. On the other hand, =
the
Duffield Watchman saw in this signal instance of self-liberation from the
trammels of prejudice, a decisive guarantee of intellectual pre-eminence,
united with a generous sensibility to the claims of man as man, which had b=
urst
asunder, and cast off, by a spontaneous exertion of energy, the cramping
out-worn shell of hereditary bias and class interest.
But these large-minded guides of p=
ublic
opinion argued from wider data than could be furnished by any knowledge of =
the
particular case concerned. Harold Transome was neither the dissolute
cosmopolitan so vigorously sketched by the Tory Herald, nor the intellectual
giant and moral lobster suggested by the liberal imagination of the Watchma=
n.
Twenty years ago he had been a bright, active, good-tempered lad, with sharp
eyes and a good aim; he delighted in success and in predominance; but he did
not long for an impossible predominance, and become sour and sulky because =
it
was impossible. He played at the games he was clever in, and usually won; a=
ll
other games he let alone, and thought them of little worth. At home and at =
Eton
he had been side by side with his stupid elder brother Durfey, whom he
despised; and he very early began to reflect that since this Caliban in
miniature was older than himself, he must carve out his own fortune. That w=
as a
nuisance; and on the whole the world seemed rather ill-arranged, at Eton
especially, where there were many reasons why Harold made no great figure. =
He
was not sorry the money was wanting to send him to Oxford; he did not see t=
he
good of Oxford; he had been surrounded by many things during his short life=
, of
which he had distinctly said to himself that he did not see the good, and he
was not disposed to venerate on the strength of any good that others saw. He
turned his back on home very cheerfully, though he was rather fond of his
mother, and very fond of Transome Court, and the river where he had been us=
ed
to fish; but he said to himself as he passed the lodge-gates, 'I'll get rich
somehow, and have an estate of my own, and do what I like with it.' This
determined aiming at something not easy but clearly possible, marked the
direction in which Harold's nature was strong; he had the energetic will and
muscle, the self-confidence, the quick perception, and the narrow imaginati=
on
which make what is admiringly called the practical mind.
Since then his character had been
ripened by a various experience, and also by much knowledge which he had set
himself deliberately to gain. But the man was no more than the boy writ lar=
ge,
with an extensive commentary. The years had nourished an inclination to as =
much
opposition as would enable him to assert his own independence and power wit=
hout
throwing himself into that tabooed condition which robs power of its triump=
h.
And this inclination had helped his shrewdness in forming judgments which w=
ere
at once innovating and moderate. He was addicted at once to rebellion and t=
o conformity,
and only an intimate personal knowledge could enable any one to predict whe=
re
his conformity would begin. The limit was not defined by theory, but was dr=
awn
in an irregular zigzag by early disposition and association; and his
resolution, of which he had never lost hold, to be a thorough Englishman ag=
ain
some day, had kept up the habit of considering all his conclusions with
reference to English politics and English social conditions. He meant to st=
and
up for every change that the economical condition of the country required, =
and
he had an angry contempt for men with coronets on their coaches, but too sm=
all
a share of brains to see when they had better make a virtue of necessity. H=
is
respect was rather for men who had no coronets, but who achieved a just
influence by furthering all measures which the common sense of the country,=
and
the increasing self-assertion of the majority, peremptorily demanded. He co=
uld
be such a man himself.
In fact Harold Transome was a clev=
er,
frank, good-natured egoist; not stringently consistent, but without any
disposition to falsity; proud, but with a pride that was moulded in an
individual rather than an hereditary form; unspeculative, unsentimental,
unsympathetic; fond of sensual pleasures, but disinclined to all vice, and
attached as a healthy, clear-sighted person, to all conventional morality,
construed with a certain freedom, like doctrinal articles to which the publ=
ic
order may require subscription. A character is apt to look but indifferentl=
y,
written out in this way. Reduced to a map, our premises seem insignificant,=
but
they make, nevertheless, a very pretty freehold to live in and walk over; a=
nd
so, if Harold Transome had been among your acquaintances, and you had obser=
ved
his qualities through the medium of his agreeable person, bright smile, and=
a
certain easy charm which accompanies sensuousness when unsullied by coarsen=
ess
- through the medium also of the many opportunities in which he would have =
made
himself useful or pleasant to you - you would have thought him a good fello=
w,
highly acceptable as a guest, a colleague, or a brother-in-law. Whether all
mothers would have liked him as a son, is another question.
It is a fact perhaps kept a little=
too
much in the back-ground, that mothers have a self larger than their materni=
ty,
and that when their sons have become taller than themselves, and are gone f=
rom
them to college or into the world, there are wide spaces of their time which
are not filled with praying for their boys, reading old letters, and envying
yet blessing those who are attending to their shirt-buttons. Mrs Transome w=
as
certainly not one of those bland, adoring, and gently tearful women. After
sharing the common dream that when a beautiful man-child was born to her, h=
er
cup of happiness would be full, she had travelled through long years apart =
from
that child to find herself at last in the presence of a son of whom she was
afraid, who was utterly unmanageable by her, and to whose sentiments in any
given case she possessed no key. Yet Harold was a kind son: he kissed his
mother's brow, offered her his arm, let her choose what she liked for the h=
ouse
and garden, asked her whether she would have bays or greys for her new
carriage, and was bent on seeing her make as good a figure in the neighbour=
hood
as any other woman of her rank. She trembled under this kindness: it was not
enough to satisfy her; still, if it should ever cease and give place to
something else - she was too uncertain about Harold's feelings to imagine
clearly what that something would be. The finest threads, such as no eye se=
es,
if bound cunningly about the sensitive flesh, so that the movement to break
them would bring torture, may make a worse bondage than any fetters. Mrs
Transome felt the fatal threads about her, and the bitterness of this helpl=
ess
bondage mingled itself with the new elegancies of the dining and drawing ro=
oms,
and all the household changes which Harold had ordered to be brought about =
with
magical quickness. Nothing was as she had once expected it would be. If Har=
old
had shown the least care to have her stay in the room with him - if he had
really cared for her opinion - if he had been what she had dreamed he would=
be
in the eyes of those people who had made her world - if all the past could =
be
dissolved, and leave no solid trace of itself - mighty ifs that were all
impossible - she would have tasted some joy; but now she began to look back
with regret to the days when she sat in loneliness among the old drapery, a=
nd
still longed for something that might happen. Yet, save in a bitter little
speech, or in a deep sigh heard by no one besides Denner, she kept all these
things hidden in her heart, and went out in the autumn sunshine to overlook=
the
alterations in the pleasure-grounds very much as a happy woman might have d=
one.
One day, however, when she was occupied in this way, an occasion came on wh=
ich
she chose to express indirectly a part of her inward care.
She was standing on the broad grav=
el
in the afternoon; the long shadows lay on the grass; the light seemed the m=
ore
glorious because of the reddened and golden trees. The gardeners were busy =
at
their pleasant work; the newly-turned soil gave out an agreeable fragrance;=
and
little Harry was playing with Nimrod round old Mr Transome, who sat placidl=
y on
a low garden-chair. The scene would have made a charming picture of English
domestic life, and the handsome, majestic, grey-haired woman (obviously
grandmamma) would have been especially aclmired. But the artist would have =
felt
it requisite to turn her face towards her husband and little grandson, and =
to
have given her an elderly amiability of expression which would have divided
remark with his exquisite rendering of her Indian shawl. Mrs Transome's face
was turned the other way, and for this reason she only heard an approaching
step, and did not see whose it was; yet it startled her: it was not quick
enough to be her son's step, and besides, Harold was away at Duffield. It w=
as
Mr Jermyn's.
'A woman, naturally born to fears.=
' -
King John. 'Methinks Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb, Is coming
towards me; and my inward soul With nothing trembles.' - King Richard II.
MATTHEW JERMYN approached Mrs Tran=
some
taking off his hat and smiling. She did not smile, but said - 'You knew Har=
old
was not at home?'
'Yes; I came to see you, to know if
you had any wishes that I could further, since I have not had an opportunit=
y of
consulting you since he came home.'
'Let us walk towards the Rookery,
then.'
They turned together, Mr Jermyn st=
ill
keeping his hat off and holding it behind him; the air was so soft and
agreeable that Mrs Transome herself had nothing but a large veil over her h=
ead.
They walked for a little while in
silence till they were out of sight, under tall trees, and treading noisele=
ssly
on fallen leaves. What Jermyn was really most anxious about, was to learn f=
rom
Mrs Transome whether anything had transpired that was significant of Harold=
's
disposition towards him, which he suspected to be very far from friendly.
Jermyn was not naturally flinty-hearted: at five-and-twenty he had written
verses, and had got himself wet through in order not to disappoint a dark-e=
yed
woman whom he was proud to believe in love with him; but a family man with
grown-up sons and daughters, a man with a professional position and complic=
ated
affairs that make it hard to ascertain the exact relation between property =
and
liabilities, necessarily thinks of himself and what may be impending.
'Harold is remarkably acute and
clever,' he began at last, since Mrs Transome did not speak. 'If he gets in=
to
parliament, I have no doubt he will distinguish himself. He has a quick eye=
for
business of all kinds.'
'That is no comfort to me,' said M=
rs
Transome. To-day she was more conscious than usual of that bitterness which=
was
always in her mind in Jermyn's presence, but which was carefully suppressed=
: -
suppressed because she could not endure that the degradation she inwardly f=
elt
should ever become visible or audible in acts or words of her own - should =
ever
be reflected in any word or look of his. For years there had been a deep
silence about the past between them: on her side, because she remembered; on
his, because he more and more forgot.
'I trust he is not unkind to you in
any way. I know his opinions pain you; but I trust you find him in everythi=
ng
else disposed to be a good son.'
'O, to be sure - good as men are
disposed to be to women, giving them cushions and carriages, and recommendi=
ng
them to enjoy themselves, and then expecting them to be contented under
contempt and neglect. I have no power over him - remember that - none.'
Jermyn turned to look in Mrs
Transome's face: it was long since he had heard her speak to him as if she =
were
losing her self-command.
'Has he shown any unpleasant feeli=
ng
about your management of the affairs?'
'My management of the affairs?' Mrs
Transome said, with concentrated rage, flashing a fierce look at Jermyn. She
checked herself: she felt as if she were lighting a torch to flare on her o=
wn
past folly and misery. It was a resolve which had become a habit, that she
would never quarrel with this man - never tell him what she saw him to be. =
She
had kept her woman's pride and sensibility intact: through all her life the=
re
had vibrated the maiden need to have her hand kissed and be the object of
chivalry. And so she sank into silence again, trembling.
Jermyn felt annoyed - nothing more.
There was nothing in his mind corresponding to the intricate meshes of
sensitiveness in Mrs Transome's. He was anything but stupid; yet he always
blundered when he wanted to be delicate or magnanimous; he constantly sough=
t to
soothe others by praising himself. Moral vulgarity cleaved to him like an
hereditary odour. He blundered now.
'My dear Mrs Transome,' he said in=
a
tone of bland kindness, 'you are agitated - you appear angry with me. Yet I=
think,
if you consider, you will see that you have nothing to complain of in me,
unless you will complain of the inevitable course of man's life. I have alw=
ays
met your wishes both in happy circumstances and in unhappy ones. I should be
ready to do so now, if it were possible.'
Every sentence was as pleasant to =
her
as if it had been cut in her bared arm. Some men's kindness and love-making=
are
more exasperating, more humiliating than others' derision; but the pitiable
woman who has once made herself secretly dependent on a man who is beneath =
her
in feeling, must bear that humiliation for fear of worse. Coarse kindness i=
s at
least better than coarse anger; and in all private quarrels the duller natu=
re
is triumphant by reason of its dulness. Mrs Transome knew in her inmost soul
that those relations which had sealed her lips on Jermyn's conduct in busin=
ess
matters, had been with him a ground for presuming that he should have impun=
ity
in any lax dealing into which circumstances had led him. She knew that she =
herself
had endured all the more privation because of his dishonest selfishness. And
now, Harold's long-deferred heirship, and his return with startlingly
unexpected penetration, activity, and assertion of mastery, had placed them
both in the full presence of a difficulty which had been prepared by the ye=
ars
of vague uncertainty as to issues. In this position, with a great dread han=
ging
over her, which Jermyn knew, and ought to have felt that he had caused her,=
she
was inclined to lash him with indignation, to scorch him with the words that
were just the fit names for his doings - inclined all the more when he spoke
with an insolent blandness, ignoring all that was truly in her heart. But no
sooner did the words 'You have brought it on me' rise within her than she h=
eard
within also the retort, 'You brought it on yourself.' Not for all the world
beside could she bear to hear that retort uttered from without. What did she
do? With strange sequence to all that rapid tumult, after a few moments'
silence she said, in a gentle and almost tremulous voice - 'Let me take your
arm.'
He gave it immediately, putting on=
his
hat and wondering. For more than twenty years Mrs Transome had never chosen=
to
take his arm.
'I have but one thing to ask. Make=
me
a promise.'
'What is it?'
'That you will never quarrel with
Harold.'
'You must know that it is my wish =
not
to quarrel with him.'
'But make a vow - fix it in your m=
ind
as a thing not to be done. Bear anything from him rather than quarrel with =
him.
'A man can't make a vow not to qua=
rrel,'
said Jermyn, who was already a little irritated by the implication that Har=
old
might be disposed to use him roughly. 'A man's temper may get the better of=
him
at any moment. I am not prepared to bear anything.'
'Good God!' said Mrs Transome, tak=
ing
her hand from his arm,' is it possible you don't feel how horrible it would
be?'
As she took away her hand, Jermyn =
let
his arm fall, put both his hands in his pockets, and shrugging his shoulders
said, 'I shall use him as he uses me.'
Jermyn had turned round his savage
side, and the blandness was out of sight. It was this that had always
frightened Mrs Transome: there was a possibility of fierce insolence in this
man who was to pass with those nearest to her as her indebted servant, but
whose brand she secretly bore. She was as powerless with him as she was with
her son.
This woman, who loved rule, dared =
not
speak another word of attempted persuasion. They were both silent, taking t=
he
nearest way into the sunshine again. There was a half-formed wish in both t=
heir
minds - even in the mother's - that Harold Transome had never been born.
'We are working hard for the
election,' said Jermyn, recovering himself, as they turned into the sunshine
again. 'I think we shall get him returned, and in that case he will be in h=
igh
good-humour. Everything will be more propitious than you are apt to think. =
You
must persuade yourself,' he added, smiling at her, 'that it is better for a=
man
of his position to be in parliament on the wrong side than not be in at all=
.'
'Never,' said Mrs Transome. 'I am = too old to learn to call bitter sweet and sweet bitter. But what I may think or feel is of no consequence now. I am as unnecessary as a chimney ornament.'<= o:p>
And in this way they parted on the gravel, in that pretty scene where they had met. Mrs Transome shivered as s= he stood alone: all around her, where there had once been brightness and warmt= h, there were white ashes, and the sunshine looked dreary as it fell on them.<= o:p>
Mr Jermyn's heaviest reflections in
riding homeward turned on the possibility of incidents between himself and
Harold Transome which would have disagreeable results, requiring him to rai=
se
money, and perhaps causing scandal, which in its way might also help to cre=
ate
a monetary deficit. A man of sixty, with a wife whose Duffield connections =
were
of the highest respectability, with a family of tall daughters, an expensive
establishment, and a large professional business, owed a great deal more to
himself as the mainstay of all those solidities, than to feelings and ideas=
which
were quite unsubstantial. There were many unfortunate coincidences which pl=
aced
Mr Jermyn in an uncomfortable position just now; he had not been much to bl=
ame,
he considered; if it had not been for a sudden turn of affairs no one would
have complained. He defied any man to say that he had intended to wrong peo=
ple;
he was able to refund, to make reprisals, if they could be fairly demanded.
Only he would certainly have preferred that they should not be demanded.
A German poet was intrusted with a
particularly fine sausage, which he was to convey to the donor's friend at
Paris. In the course of the long journey he smelt the sausage; he got hungr=
y,
and desired to taste it; he pared a morsel off, then another, and another, =
in
successive moments of temptation, till at last the sausage was, humanly
speaking, at an end. The offence had not been premeditated. The poet had ne=
ver
loved meanness, but he loved sausage; and the result was undeniably awkward=
.
So it was with Matthew Jermyn. He =
was
far from liking that ugly abstraction rascality, but he had liked other thi=
ngs
which had suggested nibbling. He had had to do many things in law and in da=
ily
life which, in the abstract, he would have condemned; and indeed he had nev=
er
been tempted by them in the abstract. Here, in fact, was the inconvenience;=
he
had sinned for the sake of particular concrete things, and particular concr=
ete
consequences were likely to follow.
But he was a man of resolution, wh=
o,
having made out what was the best course to take under a difficulty, went
straight to his work. The election must be won: that would put Harold in
good-humour, give him something to do, and leave himself more time to prepa=
re
for any crisis.
He was in anything but low spirits
that evening. It was his eldest daughter's birthday, and the young people h=
ad a
dance. Papa was delightful - stood up for a quadrille and a country-dance, =
told
stories at supper, and made humorous quotations from his early readings: if
these were Latin, he apologised, and translated to the ladies; so that a de=
af
lady-visitor from Duffield kept her trumpet up continually, lest she should
lose any of Mr Jermyn's conversation, and wished that her niece Maria had b=
een
present, who was young and had a good memory.
Still the party was smaller than
usual, for some families in Treby refused to visit Jermyn, now that he was
concerned for a Radical candidate.
'He made love neither with roses, =
nor
with apples, nor with locks of hair.' - THEOCRITUS.
In these September weeks Felix had=
got
rather intimate with Mr Lyon. They shared the same political sympathies; and
though, to Liberals who had neither freehold nor copyhold nor leasehold, the
share in a county election consisted chiefly of that prescriptive amusement=
of
the majority known as 'looking on,' there was still something to be said on=
the
occasion, if not to be done. Perhaps the most delightful friendships are th=
ose
in which there is much agreement, much disputation, and yet more personal
liking; and the advent of the public-spirited, contradictory, yet affection=
ate
Felix, into Treby life, had made a welcome epoch to the minister. To talk w=
ith
this young man, who, though hopeful, had a singularity which some might at =
once
have pronounced heresy, but which Mr Lyon persisted in regarding as orthodo=
xy
'in the making,' was like a good bite to strong teeth after a too plentiful
allowance of spoon meat. To cultivate his society with a view to checking h=
is
erratic tendencies was a laudable purpose; but perhaps if Felix had been
rapidly subdued and reduced to conformity, little Mr Lyon would have found =
the
conversation much flatter.
Esther had not seen so much of the=
ir
new acquaintance as her father had. But she had begun to find him amusing, =
and
also rather irritating to her woman's love of conquest. He always opposed a=
nd
criticised her; and besides that, he
looked at her as if he never saw a
single detail about her person - quite as if she were a middle-aged woman i=
n a
cap. She did not believe that he had ever admired her hands, or her long ne=
ck,
or her graceful movements, which had made all the girls at school call her
Calypso (doubtless from their familiarity with Telemaque). Felix ought prop=
erly
to have been a little in love with her - never mentioning it, of course,
because that would have been disagreeable, and his being a regular lover was
out of the question. But it was quite clear that, instead of feeling any
disadvantage on his own side, he held himself to be immeasurably her superi=
or:
and, what was worse, Esther had a secret consciousness that he was her
superior. She was all the more vexed at the suspicion that he thought sligh=
tly
of her; and wished in her vexation that she could have found more fault with
him - that she had not been obliged to admire more and more the varying
expressions of his open face and his deliciously good-humoured laugh, always
loud at a joke against himself. Besides, she could not help having her
curiosity roused by the unusual combinations both in his mind and in his
outward position, and she had surprised herself as well as her father one d=
ay
by suddenly starting up and proposing to walk with him when he was going to=
pay
an afternoon visit to Mrs Holt, to try and soothe her concerning Felix. 'Wh=
at a
mother he has!' she said to herself when they came away again; 'but, rude a=
nd
queer as he is, I cannot say there is anything vulgar about him. Yet - I do=
n't
know - if I saw him by the side of a finished gentleman.' Esther wished tha=
t finished
gentleman were among her acquaintances: he would certainly admire her, and =
make
her aware of Felix's inferiority.
On this particular Sunday afternoo=
n,
when she heard the knock at the door, she was seated in the kitchen corner
between the fire and the window reading Rene. Certainly, in her well-fitting
light-blue dress - she almost always wore some shade of blue - with her
delicate sandalled slipper stretched towards the fire, her little gold watc=
h,
which had cost her nearly a quarter's earnings, visible at her side, her
slender fingers playing with a shower of brown curls, and a coronet of shin=
ing
plaits at the summit of her head, she was a remarkable Cinderella. When the=
rap
came, she coloured, and was going to shut her book and put it out of the wa=
y on
the window-ledge behind her; but she desisted with a little toss, laid it o=
pen
on the table beside her, and walked to the outer door, which opened into the
kitchen. There was rather a mischievous gleam in her face: the rap was not a
small one; it came probably from a large personage with a vigorous arm.
'Good afternoon, Miss Lyon,' said
Felix, taking off his cloth cap: he resolutely declined the expensive uglin=
ess
of a hat, and in a poked cap and without a cravat, made a figure at which h=
is
mother cried every Sunday, and thought of with a slow shake of the head at
several passages in the minister's prayer.
'Dear me, it is you, Mr Holt! fear=
you
will have to wait some time before you can see my father. The sermon is not
ended yet, and there will be the hymn and the prayer, and perhaps other thi=
ngs
to detain him.'
'Well, will you let me sit down in=
the
kitchen? I don't want to be a bore.'
'O no,' said Esther, with her pret=
ty
light laugh, 'I always give you credit for not meaning it. Pray come in, if=
you
don't mind waiting. I was sitting in the kitchen: the kettle is singing qui=
te
prettily. It is much nicer than the parlour - not half so ugly.'
'There I agree with you.'
'How very extraordinary! But if you
prefer the kitchen, and don't want to sit with me, I can go into the parlou=
r.'
'I came on purpose to sit with you=
,'
said Felix, in his blunt way, 'but I thought it likely you might be vexed at
seeing me. I wanted to talk to you, but I've got nothing pleasant to say. As
your father would have it, I'm not given to prophesy smooth things - to
prophesy deceit.'
'I understand,' said Esther, sitti=
ng
down. 'Pray be seated. You thought I had no afternoon sermon, so you came to
give me one.'
'Yes,' said Felix, seating himself
sideways in a chair not far off her, and leaning over the back to look at h=
er
with his large clear grey eyes, 'and my text is something you said the other
day. You said you didn't mind about people having right opinions so that th=
ey
had good taste. Now I want you to see what shallow stuff that is.'
'Oh, I don't doubt it if you say s=
o. I
know you are a person of right opinions.'
'But by opinions you mean men's
thoughts about great subjects, and by taste you mean their thoughts about s=
mall
ones; dress, behaviour, amusements, ornaments.'
'Well - yes - or rather, their
sensibilities about those things.'
'It comes to the same thing; thoug=
hts,
opinions, knowledge, are only a sensibility to facts and ideas. If I unders=
tand
a geometrical problem, it is because I have a sensibility to the way in whi=
ch
lines and figures are related to each other; and I want you to see that the
creature who has the sensibilities that you call taste, and not the
sensibilities that you call opinions, is simply a lower, pettier sort of be=
ing
- an insect that notices the shaking of the table, but never notices the
thunder.'
'Very well, I am an insect; yet I
notice that you are thundering at me.'
'No, you are not an insect. That is
what exasperates me at your making a boast of littleness. You have enough
understanding to make it wicked that you should add one more to the women w=
ho
hinder men's lives from having any nobleness in them.'
Esther coloured deeply: she resent=
ed
this speech, yet she disliked it less than many Felix had addressed to her.=
'What is my horrible guilt?' she s=
aid,
rising and standing, as she was wont, with one foot on the fender, and look=
ing
at the fire. If it had been any one but Felix who was near her, it might ha=
ve
occurred to her that this attitude showed her to advantage; but she had onl=
y a
mortified sense that he was quite indifferent to what others praised her fo=
r.
'Why do you read this mawkish stuf=
f on
a Sunday, for example?' he said, snatching up Rene, and running his eye over
the pages.
'Why don't you always go to chapel=
, Mr
Holt, and read Howe's Living Temple, and join the church?'
'There's just the difference betwe=
en
us - I know why I don't do those things. I distinctly see that I can do
something better. I have other principles, and should sink myself by doing =
what
I don't recognise as the best.'
'I understand,' said Esther, as
lightly as she could, to conceal her bitterness. 'I am a lower kind of bein=
g,
and could not so easily sink myself.'
'Not by entering into your father's
ideas. If a woman really believes herself to be a lower kind of being, she =
should
place herself in subjection: she should be ruled by the thoughts of her fat=
her
or husband. If not, let her show her power of choosing something better. You
must know that your father's principles are greater and worthier than what
guides your life. You have no reason but idle fancy and selfish inclination=
for
shirking his teaching and giving your soul up to trifles.'
'You are kind enough to say so. Bu=
t I
am not aware that I have ever confided my reasons to you.'
'Why, what worth calling a reason
could make any mortal hang over this trash? - idiotic immorality dressed up=
to
look fine, with a little bit of doctrine tacked to it, like a hare's foot o=
n a
dish, to make believe the mess is not cat's flesh. Look here ! ‘Est-ce ma faute, si je
trouve partout les bornes, si ce qui est fini n'a pour moi aucune valeur?=
8217;
Yes, sir, distinctly your fault,
because you're an ass. Your dunce who can't do his sums always has a taste =
for
the infinite. Sir, do you know what a rhomboid is? Oh no, I don't value the=
se
things with limits. ‘Cep=
endant,
j'aime la monotonie des sentimens de la vie, et si j'avais encore la folie =
de
croire au bonheur -’ '
'O pray, Mr Holt, don't go on read=
ing
with that dreadful accent; it sets one's teeth on edge.' Esther, smarting
helplessly under the previous lashes, was relieved by this diversion of
criticism.
'There it is!' said Felix, throwing
the book on the table, and getting up to walk about. 'You are only happy wh=
en
you can spy a tag or a tassel loose to turn the talk, and get rid of any
judgment that must carry grave action after it.'
'I think I have borne a great deal=
of
talk without turning it.'
'Not enough, Miss Lyon - not all t=
hat
I came to say. I want you to change. Of course I am a brute to say so. I ou=
ght
to say you are perfect. Another man would, perhaps. But I say, I want you to
change.'
'How am I to oblige you? By joining
the church?'
'No; but by asking yourself whether
life is not as solemn a thing as your father takes it to be - in which you =
may
be either a blessing or a curse to many. You know you have never done that.=
You
don't care to be better than a bird trimming its feathers, and pecking about
after what pleases it. You are discontented with the world because you can't
get just the small things that suit your pleasure, not because it's a world
where myriads of men and women are ground by wrong and misery, and tainted =
with
pollution.'
Esther felt her heart swelling with
mingled indignation at this liberty, wounded pride at this depreciation, and
acute consciousness that she could not contradict what Felix said. He was
outrageously ill-bred; but she felt that she should be lowering herself by
telling him so, and manifesting her anger: in that way she would be confirm=
ing
his accusation of a littleness that shrank from severe truth; and, besides,
through all her mortification there pierced a sense that this exasperation =
of
Felix against her was more complimentary than anything in his previous
behaviour. She had self-command enough to speak with her usual silvery voic=
e.
'Pray go on, Mr Holt. Relieve your=
self
of these burning truths. I am sure they must be troublesome to carry
unuttered.'
'Yes, they are,' said Felix, pausi=
ng,
and standing not far off her. 'I can't bear to see you going the way of the
foolish women who spoil men's lives. Men can't help loving them, and so they
make themselves slaves to the petty desires of petty creatures. That's the =
way
those who might do better spend their lives for nought - get checked in eve=
ry
great effort - toil with brain and limb for things that have no more to do =
with
a manly life than tarts and confectionery. That's what makes women a curse;=
all
life is stunted to suit their littleness. That's why I'll never love, if I =
can
help it; and if I love, I'll bear it, and never marry.'
The tumult of feeling in Esther's =
mind
- mortification, anger, the sense of a terrible power over her that Felix
seemed to have as his angry words vibrated through her - was getting almost=
too
much for her self-control. She felt her lips quivering; but her pride, which
feared nothing so much as the betrayal of her emotion, helped her to a
desperate effort. She pinched her own hand to overcome her tremor, and said=
, in
a tone of scorn -
'I ought to be very much obliged to
you for giving me your confidence so freely.'
'Ah! now you are offended with me,=
and
disgusted with me. I expected it would be so. A woman doesn't like a man who
tells her the truth.'
'I think you boast a little too mu=
ch
of your truth-telling, Mr Holt,' said Esther, flashing out at last. 'That
virtue is apt to be easy to people when they only wound others and not
themselves. Telling the truth often means no more than taking a liberty.'
'Yes, I suppose I should have been
taking a liberty if I had tried to drag you back by the skirt when I saw you
running into a pit.'
'You should really found a sect.
Preaching is your vocation. It is a pity you should ever have an audience of
only one.'
'I see; I have made a fool of myse=
lf.
I thought you had a more generous mind - that you might be kindled to a bet=
ter
ambition. But I've set your vanity aflame - nothing else. I'm going. Good-b=
ye.'
'Good-bye,' said Esther, not looki=
ng
at him. He did not open the door immediately. He seemed to be adjusting his=
cap
and pulling it down. Esther longed to be able to throw a lasso round him and
compel him to stay, that she might say what she chose to him; her very anger
made this departure irritating, especially as he had the last word, and tha=
t a
very bitter one. But soon the latch was lifted and the door closed behind h=
im.
She ran up to her bedroom and burst into tears. Poor maiden! There was a
strange contradiction of impulses in her mind in those first moments. She c=
ould
not bear that Felix should not respect her, yet she could not bear that he
should see her bend before his denunciation. She revolted against his
assumption of superiority, yet she felt herself in a new kind of subjection=
to
him. He was ill-bred, he was rude, he had taken an unwarrantable liberty; y=
et
his indignant words were a tribute to her: he thought she was worth more pa=
ins
than the women of whom he took no notice. It was excessively impertinent in=
him
to tell her of his resolving not to love - not to marry - as if she cared a=
bout
that; as if he thought himself likely to inspire an affection that would
incline any woman to marry him after such eccentric steps as he had taken. =
Had
he ever for a moment imagined that she had thought of him in the light of a=
man
who would make love to her? . . . But did he love her one little bit, and w=
as
that the reason why he wanted her to change? Esther felt less angry at that
form of freedom; though she was quite sure that she did not love him, and t=
hat
she could never love any one who was so much of a pedagogue and a master, to
say nothing of his oddities. But he wanted her to change. For the first tim=
e in
her life Esther felt herself seriously shaken in her self-contentment. She =
knew
there was a mind to which she appeared trivial, narrow, selfish. Every word
Felix had said to her seemed to have burnt itself into her memory. She felt=
as
if she should for evermore be haunted by self-criticism, and never do anyth=
ing
to satisfy those fancies on which she had simply piqued herself before with=
out
being dogged by inward questions. Her father's desire for her conversion had
never moved her; she saw that he adored her all the while, and he never che=
cked
her unregenerate acts as if they degraded her on earth, but only mourned ov=
er
them as unfitting her for heaven. Unfitness for heaven (spoken of as
'Jerusalem' and 'glory'), the prayers of a good little father, whose though=
ts
and motives seemed to her like the Life of Dr Doddridge, which she was cont=
ent
to leave unread, did not attack her self-respect and self-satisfaction. But=
now
she had been stung - stung even into a new consciousness concerning her fat=
her.
Was it true that his life was so much worthier than her own? She could not
change for anything Felix said, but she told herself he was mistaken if he
supposed her incapable of generous thoughts.
She heard her father coming into t=
he
house. She dried her tears, tried to recover herself hurriedly, and went do=
wn
to him.
'You want your tea, father; how yo=
ur
forehead burns!' she said gently, kissing his brow, and then putting her co=
ol
hand on it.
Mr Lyon felt a little surprise; su=
ch
spontaneous tenderness was not quite common with her; it reminded him of her
mother.
'My sweet child,' he said grateful=
ly,
thinking with wonder of the treasures still left in our fallen nature.
Truth is the precious harvest of t=
he
earth. But once, when harvest waved upon a land, The noisome cankerworm and
caterpillar, Locusts, and all the swarming foul-born broods, Fastened upon =
it
with swift, greedy jaws, And turned the harvest into pestilence, Until men
said, What profits it to sow?
This canal was only a branch of the
grand trunk, and ended among the coal-pits, where Felix, crossing a network=
of
black tram-roads, soon came to his destination - that public institute of
Sproxton, known to its frequenters chiefly as Chubb's, but less familiarly =
as
the Sugar Loaf or the New Pits; this last being the name for the more modern
and lively nucleus of the Sproxton hamlet. The other nucleus, known as the =
Old
Pits, also supported its 'public,' but it had something of the forlorn air =
of
an abandoned capital; and the company at the Blue Cow was of an inferior ki=
nd -
equal, of course, in the fundamental attributes of humanity, such as desire=
for
beer, but not equal in ability to pay for it.
When Felix arrived, the great Chubb
was standing at the door. Mr Chubb was a remarkable publican; none of your
stock Bonifaces, red, bloated, jolly, and joking. He was thin and sallow, a=
nd
was never, as his constant guests observed, seen to be the worse (or the
better) for liquor; indeed, as among soldiers an eminent general was held to
have a charmed life, Chubb was held by the members of the Benefit Club to h=
ave
a charmed sobriety, a vigilance over his own interest that resisted all
narcotics. His very dreams, as stated by himself, had a method in them beyo=
nd
the waking thoughts of other men. Pharaoh's dream, he observed, was nothing=
to
them; and, as lying so much out of ordinary experience, they were held
particularly suitable for narration on Sunday evenings, when the listening
colliers, well washed and in their best coats, shook their heads with a sen=
se
of that peculiar edification which belongs to the inexplicable. Mr Chubb's
reasons for becoming landlord of the Sugar Loaf were founded on the severest
calculation. Having an active mind, and being averse to bodily labour, he h=
ad
thoroughly considered what calling would yield him the best livelihood with=
the
least possible exertion, and in that sort of line he had seen that a 'publi=
c'
amongst miners who earned high wages was a fine opening. He had prospered
according to the merits of such judicious calculation, was already a
forty-shilling freeholder, and was conscious of a vote for the county. He w=
as
not one of those mean-spirited men who found the franchise embarrassing, and
would rather have been without it: he regarded his vote as part of his
investment, and meant to make the best of it. He called himself a
straightforward man, and at suitable moments expressed his views freely; in
fact, he was known to have one fundamental division for all opinion - 'my i=
dee'
and 'humbug'.
When Felix approached, Mr Chubb was
standing, as usual, with his hands nervously busy in his pockets, his eyes
glancing round with a detective expression at the black landscape, and his
lipless mouth compressed yet in constant movement. On a superficial view it
might be supposed that so eager-seeming a personality was unsuited to the
publican's business; but in fact it was a great provocative to drinking. Li=
ke
the shrill biting talk of a vixenish wife, it would have compelled you to '=
take
a little something' by way of dulling your sensibility.
Hitherto, notwithstanding Felix dr=
ank
so little ale, the publican had treated him with high civility. The coming
election was a great opportunity for applying his political 'idee,' which w=
as,
that society existed for the sake of the individual, and that the name of t=
hat
individual was Chubb. Now, from a conjunction of absurd circumstances
inconsistent with that idea, it happened that Sproxton had been hitherto
somewhat neglected in the canvass. The head member of the company that work=
ed
the mines was Mr Peter Garstin, and the same company received the rent for =
the
Sugar Loaf. Hence, as the person who had the most power of annoying Mr Chub=
b,
and being of detriment to him, Mr Garstin was naturally the candidate for w=
hom
he had reserved his vote. But where there is this intention of ultimately
gratifying a gentleman by voting for him in an open British manner on the d=
ay
of the poll, a man, whether publican or pharisee (Mr Chubb used this generic
classification of mankind as one that was sanctioned by Scripture), is all =
the
freer in his relations with those deluded persons who take him for what he =
is
not, and imagine him to be a waverer. But for some time opportunity had see=
med
barren. There were but three dubious votes besides Mr Chubb's in the small
district of which the Sugar Loaf could be regarded as the centre of
intelligence and inspiration: the colliers, of course, had no votes, and did
not need political conversion; consequently, the interests of Sproxton had =
only
been tacitly cherished in the breasts of candidates. But ever since it had =
been
known that a Radical candidate was in the field, that in consequences of th=
is
Mr Debarry had coalesced with Mr Garstin, and that Sir James Clement, the p=
oor
baronet, had
retired, Mr Chubb had been occupied
with the most ingenious mental combinations in order to ascertain what
possibilities of profit to the Sugar Loaf might lie in this altered state of
the canvass.
He had a cousin in another county,
also a publican, but in a larger way, and resident in a borough, and from h=
im
Mr Chubb had gathered more detailed political information than he could fin=
d in
the Loamshire newspapers. He was now enlightened enough to know that there =
was
a way of using voteless miners and navvies at nominations and elections. He
approved of that; it entered into his political 'idee'; and indeed he would
have been for extending the franchise to this class - at least in Sproxton.=
If
any one had observed that you must draw a line somewhere, Mr Chubb would ha=
ve
concurred at once, and would have given permission to draw it at a radius of
two miles from his own tap.
From the first Sunday evening when
Felix had appeared at the Sugar Loaf, Mr Chubb had made up his mind that th=
is
'cute man who kept himself sober was an electioneering agent. That he was h=
ired
for some purpose or other there was not a doubt; a man didn't come and drink
nothing without a good reason. In proportion as Felix's purpose was not obv=
ious
to Chubb's mind, it must be deep; and this growing conviction had even led =
the
publican on the last Sunday evening privately to urge his mysterious visito=
r to
let a little alc be chalked up for him - it was of no consequence. Felix kn=
ew
his man, and had taken care not to betray too soon that his real object was=
so
to win the ear of the best fellows about him as to induce them to meet him =
on a
Saturday evening in the room where Mr Lyon, or one of his deacons, habitual=
ly
held his Wednesday preachings. Only women and children, three old men, a
journeyman tailor, and a consumptive youth, attended those preachings; not a
collier had been won from the strong ale of the Sugar Loaf, not even a navvy
from the muddier drink of the Blue Cow. Felix was sanguine; he saw some
pleasant faces among the miners when they were washed on Sundays; they migh=
t be
taught to spend their wages better. At all events, he was going to try: he =
had
great confidence in his powers of appeal, and it was quite true that he nev=
er
spoke without arresting attention. There was nothing better than a dame sch=
ool
in the hamlet; he thought that if he could move the fathers, whose blackened
week-day persons and flannel caps, ornamented with tallow candles by way of
plume, were a badge of hard labour for which he had a more sympathetic fibre
than for any ribbon in the button-hole - if he could move these men to save
something from their drink and pay a schoolmaster for their boys, a greater
service would be done them than if Mr Garstin and his company were persuade=
d to
establish a school.
'I'll lay hold of them by their
fatherhood,' said Felix; 'I'll take one of their little fellows and set him=
in
the midst. Till they can show there's something they love better than swill=
ing
themselves with ale, extension of the suffrage can never mean anything for =
them
but extension of boozing. One must begin somewhere: I'll begin at what is u=
nder
my nose. I'll begin at Sproxton. That's what a man would do if he had a red=
-hot
superstition. Can't one work for sober truth as hard as for megrims?'
Felix Holt had his illusions, like
other young men, though they were not of a fashionable sort; referring neit=
her
to the impression his costume and horsemanship might make on beholders, nor=
to
the ease with which he would pay the Jews when he gave a loose to his talen=
ts
and applied himself to work. He had fixed his choice on a certain Mike Brin=
dle
(not that Brindle was his real name - each collier had his sobriquet) as the
man whom he would induce to walk part of the way home with him this very
evening, and get to invite some of his comrades for the next Saturday. Brin=
dle
was one of the head miners; he had a bright good-natured face, and had given
especial attention to certain performances with a magnet which Felix carrie=
d in
his pocket.
Mr Chubb, who had also his illusio=
ns,
smiled graciously as the enigmatic customer came up to the door-step.
'Well, sir, Sunday seems to be your
day: I begin to look for you on a Sunday now.'
'Yes, I'm a working man; Sunday is=
my
holiday,' said Felix, pausing at the door since the host seemed to expect t=
his.
'Ah, sir, there's many ways of
working. I look at it you're one of those as work with your brains. That's =
what
I do myself.'
'One may do a good deal of that and
work with one's hands too.'
'Ah, sir,' said Mr Chubb, with a
certain bitterness in his smile, 'I've that sort of head that I've often wi=
shed
I was stupider. I use things up, sir; I see into things a deal too quick. I=
eat
my dinner, as you may say, at breakfast-time. That's why I hardly ever smok=
e a
pipe. No sooner do I stick a pipe in my mouth than I puff and puff till it's
gone before other folks are well lit; and then, where am I? I might as well
have let it alone. In this world it's better not to be too quick. But you k=
now
what it is, sir.'
'Not I,' said Felix, rubbing the b=
ack
of his head, with a grimace. 'I generally feel myself rather a blockhead. T=
his
world's a largish place, and I haven't turned everything inside out yet.'
'Ah, that's your deepness. I think=
we
understand one another. And about this here election, I lay two to one we
should agree if we was to come to talk about it.'
'Ah ! ' said Felix, with an air of
caution.
'You're none of a Tory, eh, sir? Y=
ou
won't go to vote for Debarry? That was what I said at the very first go-off.
Says I, he's no Tory. I think I was right, sir - eh?'
'Certainly; I'm no Tory.'
'No, no, you don't catch me wrong =
in a
hurry. Well, between you and me, I care no more for the Debarrys than I care
for Johnny Groats. I live on none o' their land, and not a pot's worth did =
they
ever send to the Sugar Loaf. I'm not frightened at the Debarrys: there's no=
man
more independent than me. I'll plump or I'll split for them as treat me the
handsomest and are the most of what I call gentlemen; that's my idee. And in
the way of hacting for any man, them are fools that don't employ me.'
We mortals sometimes cut a pitiable
figure in our attempts at display. We may be sure of our own merits, yet
fatally ignorant of the point of view from which we are regarded by our
neighbour. Our fine patterns in tattooing may be far from throwing him into=
a
swoon of admiration, though we turn ourselves all round to show them. Thus =
it
was with Mr Chubb.
'Yes,' said Felix, dryly; 'I shoul=
d think
there are some sorts of work for which you are just fitted.'
'Ah, you see that? Well, we unders=
tand
one another. You're no Tory; no more am I. And if I'd got four hands to sho=
w at
a nomination, the Debarry's shouldn't have one of 'em. My idee is, there's a
deal too much of their scutchins and their moniments in Treby church. What's
their scutchins mean? They're a sign with little liquor behind 'em; that's =
how
I take it. There's nobody can give account of 'em as I ever heard.'
Mr Chubb was hindered from further
explaining his views as to the historical element in society by the arrival=
of
new guests, who approached in two groups. The foremost group consisted of
well-known colliers, in their good Sunday beavers and coloured handkerchiefs
serving as cravats, with the long ends floating. The second group was a more
unusual one, and caused Mr Chubb to compress his mouth and agitate the musc=
les
about it in rather an excited manner.
First came a smartly-dressed perso=
nage
on horseback, with a conspicuous expansive shirt-front and figured satin st=
ock.
He was a stout man, and gave a strong sense of broadcloth. A wild idea shot
through Mr Chubb's brain: could this grand visitor be Harold Transome? Excu=
se
him: he had been given to understand by his cousin from the distant borough
that a Radical candidate in the condescension of canvassing had even gone t=
he
length of eating bread-and-treacle with the children of an honest freeman, =
and
declaring his preference for that simple fare. Mr Chubb's notion of a Radic=
al
was that he was a new and agreeable kind of lick-spittle who fawned on the =
poor
instead of on the rich, and so was likely to send customers to a 'public'; =
so
that he argued well enough from the premises at his command.
The mounted man of broadcloth had
followers: several shabby-looking men, and Sproxton boys of all sizes, whose
curiosity had been stimulated by unexpected largesse. A stranger on horseba=
ck
scattering halfpence on a Sunday was so unprecedented that there was no kno=
wing
what he might do next; and the smallest hindmost fellows in sealskin caps w=
ere
not without hope that an entirely new order of things had set in.
Every one waited outside for the
stranger to dismount, and Mr Chubb advanced to take the bridle.
'Well, Mr Chubb,' were the first w=
ords
when the great man was safely out of the saddle, 'I've often heard of your =
fine
tap, and I'm come to taste it.'
'Walk in, sir - pray walk in,' sai=
d Mr
Chubb, giving the horse to the stable-boy. 'I shall be proud to draw for yo=
u.
If anybody's been praising me, I think my ale will back him.'
All entered in the rear of the
stranger except the boys, who peeped in at the window.
'Won't you please to walk into the
parlour, sir?' said Chubb, obsequiously.
'No, no, I'll sit down here. This =
is
what I like to see,' said the stranger, looking round at the colliers, who =
eyed
him rather shyly - 'a bright hearth where working men can enjoy themselves.
However, I'll step into the other room for three minutes, just to speak
half-a-dozen words with you.'
Mr Chubb threw open the parlour do=
or,
and then stepping back, took the opportunity of saying, in a low tone, to
Felix, 'Do you know this gentleman?'
'Not I; no.'
Mr Chubb's opinion of Felix Holt s=
ank
from that moment. The parlour door was closed, but no one sat down or order=
ed
beer.
'I say, master,' said Mike Brindle,
going up to Felix, 'don't you think that's one o' the 'lection men?'
'Very likely.'
'I heard a chap say they're up and
down everywhere,' said Brindle; 'and now's the time, they say, when a man c=
an
get beer for nothing.'
'Ay, that's sin' the Reform,' said=
a
big, red-whiskered man, called Dredge. 'That's brought the 'lections and the
drink into these parts; for afore that, it was all kep up the Lord knows
wheer.'
'Well, but the Reform's niver come
anigh Sprox'on,' said a grey-haired but stalwart man called Old Sleck. 'I d=
on't
believe nothing about'n, I don't.'
'Don't you?' said Brindle, with so=
me
contempt. 'Well, I do. There's folks won't believe beyond the end o' their =
own
pickaxes. You can't drive nothing into 'em, not if you split their skulls. I
know for certain sure, from a chap in the cartin' way, as he's got money and
drink too, only for hollering. Eh, master, what do you say?' Brindle ended,
turning with some deference to Felix.
'Should you like to know all about=
the
Reform?' said Felix, using his opportunity. 'If you would, I can tell you.'=
'Ay, ay - tell's; you know, I'll be
bound,' said several voices at once.
'Ah, but it will take some little
time. And we must be quiet. The cleverest of you - those who are looked up =
to
in the club - must come and meet me at Peggy Button's cottage next Saturday=
, at
seven o'clock, after dark. And, Brindle, you must bring that little
yellow-haired lad of yours. And anybody that's got a little boy - a very li=
ttle
fellow, who won't understand what is said - may bring him. But you must kee=
p it
close, you know. We don't want fools there. But everybody who hears me may
come. I shall be at Peggy Button's.'
'Why, that's where the Wednesday
preachin' is,' said Dredge. 'I've been aforced to give my wife a black eye =
to
hinder her from going to the preachin'. Lors-a-massy, she thinks she knows
better nor me, and I can't make head nor tail of her talk.'
'Why can't you let the woman alone=
?'
said Brindle, with some disgust. 'I'd be ashamed to beat a poor crawling th=
ing
'cause she likes preaching.'
'No more I did beat her afore, not=
if
she scrat' me,' said Dredge, in vindication; 'but if she jabbers at me, I c=
an't
abide it. Howsomever, I'll bring my Jack to Peggy's o' Saturday. His mother
shall wash him. He is but four year old, and he'll swear and square at me a
good un, if I set him on.'
'There you go blatherin',' said
Brindle, intending a mild rebuke.
This dialogue, which was in danger=
of
becoming too personal, was interrupted by the reopening of the parlour door,
and the reappearance of the impressive stranger with Mr Chubb, whose
countenance seemed unusually radiant.
'Sit you down here, Mr Johnson,' s=
aid
Chubb, moving an arm-chair. 'This gentleman is kind enough to treat the
company,' he added, looking round, 'and what's more, he'll take a cup with =
'em;
and I think there's no man but what'll say that's a honour.'
The company had nothing equivalent=
to
a 'hear, hear', at command, but they perhaps felt the more, as they seated
themselves with an expectation unvented by utterance. There was a general
satisfactory sense that the hitherto shadowy Reform had at length come to
Sproxton in a good round shape, with broadcloth and pockets. Felix did not
intend to accept the treating, but he chose to stay and hear, taking his pi=
nt
as usual.
'Capital ale, capital ale,' said Mr
Johnson, as he set down his glass, speaking in a quick, smooth treble. 'Now=
,'
he went on, with a certain pathos in his voice, looking at Mr Chubb, who sat
opposite, 'there's some satisfaction to me in finding an establishment like
this at the Pits. For what would higher wages do for the working man if he
couldn't get a good article for his money? Why, gentlemen' - here he looked
round - 'I've been into ale-houses where I've seen a fine fellow of a miner=
or
a stone-cutter come in and have to lay down money for beer that I should be
sorry to give to my pigs ! ' Here Mr Johnson leaned forward with squared
elbows, hands placed on his knees, and a defiant shake of the head.
'Aw, like at the Blue Cow,' fell in
the irrepressible Dredge, in a deep bass; but he was rebuked by a severe nu=
dge
from Brindle.
'Yes, yes, you know what it is, my
friend,' said Mr Johnson, looking at Dredge, and restoring his
self-satisfaction. 'But it won't last much longer, that's one good thing. B=
ad
liquor will be swept away with other bad articles. Trade will prosper - and
what's trade now without steam? and what is steam without coal? And mark you
this, gentlemen - there's no man and no government can make coal.'
A brief loud 'Haw, haw,' showed th=
at
this fact was appreciated.
'Nor freeston' nayther,' said a
wide-mouthed wiry man called Gills, who wished for an exhaustive treatment =
of
the subject, being a stone-cutter.
'Nor freestone, as you say; else, I
think, if coal could be made aboveground, honest fellows who are the pith of
our population would not have to bend their backs and sweat in a pit six da=
ys
out of the seven. No, no: I say, as this country prospers it has more and m=
ore
need of you, sirs. It can do without a pack of lazy lords and ladies, but it
can never do without brave colliers. And the country will prosper. I pledge=
you
my word, sirs, this country will rise to the tip-top of everything, and the=
re
isn't a man in it but what shall have his joint in the pot, and his spare m=
oney
jingling in his pocket, if we only exert ourselves to send the right men to
parliament - men who will speak up for the collier, and the stone-cutter, a=
nd
the navvy' (Mr Johnson waved his hand liberally), 'and will stand no nonsen=
se.
This is a crisis, and we must exert ourselves. We've got Reform, gentlemen,=
but
now the thing is to make Reform work. It's a crisis - I pledge you my word =
it's
a crisis.'
Mr Johnson threw himself back as if
from the concussion of that great noun. He did not suppose that one of his
audience knew what a crisis meant; but he had large experience in the effec=
t of
uncomprehended words; and in this case the colliers were thrown into a stat=
e of
conviction concerning they did not know what, which was a fine preparation =
for 'hitting
out', or any other act carrying a due sequence to such a conviction.
Felix felt himself in danger of
getting into a rage. There is hardly any mental misery worse than that of
having our own serious phrases, our own rooted beliefs, caricatured by a
charlatan or a hireling. He began to feel the sharp lower edge of his tin
pint-measure, and to think it a tempting missile.
Mr Johnson certainly had some
qualifications as an orator. After this impressive pause he leaned forward
again, and said, in a lowered tone, looking round -
'I think you all know the good new=
s.'
There was a movement of shoe-soles=
on
the quarried floor, and a scrape of some chair legs, but no other answer.
'The good news I mean is, that a
first-rate man, Mr Transome of Transome Court, has offered himself to repre=
sent
you in parliament, sirs. I say you in particular, for what he has at heart =
is
the welfare of the working man - of the brave fellows that wield the pickax=
e,
and the saw, and the hammer. He's rich - has more money than Garstin - but =
he
doesn't want to keep it to himself. What he wants is, to make a good use of=
it,
gentlemen. He's come back from foreign parts with his pockets full of gold.=
He
could buy up the Debarry's if they were worth buying, but he's got something
better to do with his money. He means to use it for the good of the working=
men
in these parts. I know there are some men who put up for parliament and tal=
k a
little too big. They may say they want to befriend the colliers, for exampl=
e.
But I should like to put a question to them. I should like to ask them, =
216;What
colliers?’ There are colliers up at Newcastle, and there are colliers
down in Wales. Will it do any good to honest Tom, who is hungry in Sproxton=
, to
hear that Jack at Newcastle has his bellyful of beef and pudding?'
'It ought to do him good,' Felix b=
urst
in, with his loud abrupt voice, in odd contrast with glib Mr Johnson's. 'If=
he
knows it's a bad thing to be hungry and not have enough to eat, he ought to=
be
glad that another fellow, who is not idle, is not suffering in the same way=
.'
Every one was startled. The audien=
ce
was much impressed with the grandeur, the knowledge, and the power of Mr
Johnson. His brilliant promises confirmed the impression that Reform had at
length reached the New Pits; and Reform, if it were good for anything, must=
at
last resolve itself into spare money - meaning 'sport' and drink, and keepi=
ng
away from work for several days in the week. These 'brave' men of Sproxton
liked Felix as one of themselves, only much more knowing - as a working man=
who
had seen many distant parts, but who must be very poor, since he never drank
more than a pint or so. They were quite inclined to hear what he had got to=
say
on another occasion, but they were rather irritated by his interruption at =
the
present moment. Mr Johnson was annoyed, but he spoke with the same glib
quietness as before, though with an expression of contempt.
'I call it a poor-spirited thing to
take up a man's straight-forward words and twist them. What I meant to say =
was
plain enough - that no man can be saved from starving by looking on while
others eat. I think that's common sense, eh, sirs?'
There was again an approving 'Haw,
haw.' To hear anything said, and understand it, was a stimulus that had the
effect of wit. Mr Chubb cast a suspicious and viperous glance at Felix, who
felt that he had been a simpleton for his pains.
'Well, then,' continued Mr Johnson=
, 'I
suppose I may go on. But if there is any one here better able to inform the
company than I am, I give way - I give way.'
'Sir,' said Mr Chubb, magisteriall=
y,
'no man shall take the words out of your mouth in this house. And,' he adde=
d,
looking pointedly at Felix, 'company that's got no more orders to give, and
wants to turn up rusty to them that has, had better be making room than fil=
ling
it. Love an' 'armony's the word on our club's flag, an' love an' 'armony's =
the
meaning of ‘The Sugar Loaf, William Chubb.’ Folks of a different
mind had better seek another house of call.'
'Very good,' said Felix, laying do= wn his money and taking his cap, 'I'm going.' He saw clearly enough that if he said more, there would be a disturbance which could have no desirable end.<= o:p>
When the door had closed behind hi=
m,
Mr Johnson said, 'What is that person's name?'
'Does anybody know it?' said Mr Ch=
ubb.
A few noes were heard.
'I've heard him speak like a downr=
ight
Reformer, else I should have looked a little sharper after him. But you may=
see
he's nothing partic'lar.'
'It looks rather bad that no one k=
nows
his name,' said Mr Johnson. 'He's most likely a Tory in disguise - a Tory s=
py.
You must be careful, sirs, of men who come to you and say they're Radicals,=
and
yet do nothing for you. They'll stuff you with words - no lack of words - b=
ut
words are wind. Now, a man like Transome comes forward and says to the work=
ing
men of this country: ‘Here I am, ready to serve you and to speak for =
you
in parliament, and to get the laws made all right for you; and in the
meanwhile, if there's any of you who are my neighbours who want a day's
holiday, or a cup to drink with friends, or a copy of the king's likeness -
why, I'm your man. I'm not a paper handbill - all words and no substance - =
nor
a man with land and nothing else; I've got bags of gold as well as land.=
217;
I think you know what I mean by the king's likeness?'
Here Mr Johnson took a half-crown =
out
of his pocket and held the head towards the company.
'Well, sirs, there are some men who
like to keep this pretty picture a great deal too much to themselves. I don=
't
know whether I'm right, but I think I've heard of such a one not a hundred
miles from here. I think his name was Spratt, and he managed some company's
coal-pits.'
'Haw, haw ! Spratt - Spratt's his
name,' was rolled forth to an accompaniment of scraping shoe-soles.
'A screwing fellow, by what I
understand - a domineering fellow - who would expect men to do as he liked
without paying them for it. I think there's not an honest man who wouldn't =
like
to disappoint such an upstart.'
There was a murmur which was
interpreted by Mr Chubb. 'I'll answer for 'em, sir.'
'Now, listen to me. Here's Garstin:
he's one of the company you work under. What's Garstin to you? who sees him?
and when they do see him they see a thin miserly fellow who keeps his pocke=
ts
buttoned. He calls himself a Whig, yet he'll split votes with a Tory - he'll
drive with the Debarrys. Now, gentlemen, if I said I'd got a vote, and anyb=
ody
asked me what I should do with it, I should say, ‘I'll plump for Tran=
some’.
You've got no votes, and that's a shame. But you will have some day, if such
men as Transome are returned; and then you'll be on a level with the first
gentleman in the land, and if he wants to sit in Parliament, he must take o=
ff
his hat and ask your leave. But though you haven't got a vote you can give a
cheer for the right man, and Transome's not a man like Garstin; if you lost=
a
day's wages by giving a cheer for Transome, he'll make you amends. That's t=
he
way a man who has no vote can yet serve himself and his country: he can lif=
t up
his hand and shout ‘Transome for ever’ - ‘hurray for Tran=
some’.
Let the working men - let colliers and navvies and stone-cutters, who betwe=
en
you and me have a good deal too much the worst of it, as things are now - l=
et
them join together and give their hands and voices for the right man, and
they'll make the great people shake in their shoes a little; and when you s=
hout
for Transome, remember you shout for more wages, and more of your rights, a=
nd
you shout to get rid of rats and sprats and such small animals, who are the
tools the rich make use of to squeeze the blood out of the poor man.'
'I wish there'd be a row - I'd pom=
mel
him,' said Dredge, who was generally felt to be speaking to the question.
'No, no, my friend - there you're a
little wrong. No pommelling - no striking first. There you have the law and=
the
constable against you. A little rolling in the dust and knocking hats off, a
little pelting with soft things that'll stick and not bruise - all that doe=
sn't
spoil the fun. If a man is to speak when you don't like to hear him, it is =
but
fair you should give him something he doesn't like in return. And the same =
if
he's got a vote and doesn't use it for the good of the country; I see no ha=
rm
in splitting his coat in a quiet way. A man must be taught what's right if =
he
doesn't know it. But no kicks, no knocking down, no pommelling.'
'It 'ud be good fun, though, if
so-be,' said Old Sleck, allowing himself an imaginative pleasure.
'Well, well, if a Spratt wants you=
to
say Garstin, it's some pleasure to think you can say Transome. Now, my noti=
on
is this. You are men who can put two and two together - I don't know a more
solid lot of fellows than you are; and what I say is, let the honest men in
this country who've got no vote show themselves in a body when they have the
chance. Why, sirs, for every Tory sneak that's got a vote, there's fifty-fi=
ve
fellows who must stand by and be expected to hold their tongues. But I say,=
let
'em hiss the sneaks, let 'em groan at the sneaks, and the sneaks will be
ashamed of themselves. The men who've got votes don't know how to use them.
There's many a fool with a vote, who is not sure in his mind whether he sha=
ll
poll, say for Debarry, or Garstin, or Transome - whether he'll plump or whe=
ther
he'll split; a straw will turn him. Let him know your mind if he doesn't kn=
ow
his own. What's the reason Debarry gets returned? Because people are fright=
ened
at the Debarrys. What's that to you? You don't care for the Debarrys. If pe=
ople
are frightened at the Tories, we'll turn round and frighten them. You know =
what
a Tory is - one who wants to drive the working men as he'd drive cattle. Th=
at's
what a Tory is; and a Whig is no better, if he's like Garstin. A Whig wants=
to
knock the Tory down and get the whip, that's all. But Transome's neither Wh=
ig
nor Tory; he's the working man's friend, the collier's friend, the friend of
the honest navvy. And if he gets into Parliament, let me tell you, it will =
be
the better for you. I don't say it will be the better for overlookers and
screws, and rats and sprats; but it will be the better for every good fello=
w who
takes his pot at the Sugar Loaf.'
Mr Johnson's exertions for the
political education of the Sproxton men did not stop here, which was the mo=
re
disinterested in him as he did not expect to see them again, and could only=
set
on foot an organisation by which their, instruction could be continued with=
out
him. In this he was quite successful. A man known among the 'butties' as Pa=
ck,
who had already been mentioned by Mr Chubb, presently joined the party, and=
had
a private audience of Mr Johnson, that he might be instituted as the 'sheph=
erd'
of this new flock.
'That's a right down genelman,' sa=
id
Pack, as he took the seat vacated by the orator, who had ridden away.
'What's his trade, think you?' said
Gills, the wiry stone-cutter.
'Trade?' said Mr Chubb. 'He's one = of the top-sawyers of the country. He works with his head, you may see that.'<= o:p>
'Let's have our pipes, then,' said=
Old
Sleck; 'I'm pretty well tired o' jaw.'
'So am I,' said Dredge. 'It's
wriggling work - like follering a stoat. It makes a man dry. I'd as lief he=
ar
preaching, on'y there's nought to be got by't. I shouldn't know which end I
stood on if it wasn't for the tickets and the treatin'.'
'Oh, sir, 'twas that mixture of sp=
ite
and over-fed merriment which passes for humour with the vulgar. In their fun
they have much resemblance to a turkey-cock. It has a cruel beak, and a sil=
ly
iteration of ugly sounds; it spreads its tail in self-glorification, but sh=
ows
you the wrong side of that ornament - liking admiration, but knowing not wh=
at
is admirable.'
THIS Sunday evening, which promise=
d to
be so memorable in the experience of the Sproxton miners, had its drama also
for those unsatisfactory objects to Mr Johnson's moral sense, the Debarrys.
Certain incidents occurring at Treby Manor caused an excitement there which
spread from the dining-room to the stables; but no one underwent such agita=
ting
transitions of feeling as Mr Scales. At six o'clock that superior butler was
chuckling in triumph at having played a fine and original practical joke on=
his
rival Mr Christian. Some two hours after that time, he was frightened, sorr=
y,
and even meek; he was on the brink of a humiliating confession; his cheeks =
were
almost livid; his hair was flattened for want of due attention from his
fingers; and the fine roll of his whiskers, which was too firm to give way,
seemed only a sad reminiscence of past splendour and felicity. His sorrow c=
ame
about in this wise.
After service on that Sunday morni=
ng,
Mr Philip Debarry had left the rest of the family to go home in the carriag=
e,
and had remained at the Rectory to lunch with his uncle Augustus, that he m=
ight
consult him touching some letters of importance. He had returned the letter=
s to
his pocket-book but had not returned the book to his pocket, and he finally
walked away leaving the enclosure of private papers and bank-notes on his
uncle's escritoire. After his arrival at home he was reminded of his omissi=
on,
and immediately despatched Christian with a note begging his uncle to seal =
up
the pocket-book and send it by the bearer. This commission, which was given
between three and four o'clock, happened to be very unwelcome to the courie=
r.
The fact was that Mr Christian, who had been remarkable through life for th=
at
power of adapting himself to circumstances which enables a man to fall safe=
ly
on all-fours in the most hurried expulsions and escapes, was not exempt from
bodily suffering - a circumstance to which there is no known way of adapting
one's self so as to be perfectly comfortable under it, or to push it off on=
to
other people's shoulders. He did what he could: he took doses of opium when=
he
had an access of nervous pains, and he consoled himself as to future
possibilities by thinking that if the pains ever became intolerably frequen=
t a
considerable increase in the dose might put an end to them altogether. He w=
as
neither Cato nor Hamlet, and though he had learned their soliloquies at his
first boarding-school, he would probably have increased his dose without
reciting those masterpieces. Next to the pain itself he disliked that any o=
ne
should know of it: defective health diminished a man's market value; he did=
not
like to be the object of the sort of pity he himself gave to a poor devil w=
ho
was forced to make a wry face or 'give in' altogether.
He had felt it expedient to take a
slight dose this afternoon, and still he was not altogether relieved at the
time he set off to the rectory. On returning with the valuable case safely
deposited in his hind pocket he felt increasing bodily uneasiness, and took
another dose. Thinking it likely that he looked rather pitiable, he chose n=
ot
to proceed to the house by the carriage-road. The servants often walked in =
the
park on a Sunday, and he wished to avoid any meeting. He would make a circu=
it,
get into the house privately, and after delivering his packet to Mr Debarry,
shut himself up till the ringing of the half-hour bell. But when he reached=
an
elbowed seat under some sycamores, he felt so ill at ease that he yielded to
the temptation of throwing himself on it to rest a little. He looked at his
watch: it was but five; he had done his errand quickly hitherto, and Mr Deb=
arry
had not urged haste. But in less than ten minutes he was in a sound sleep.
Certain conditions of his system had determined a stronger effect than usual
from the opium.
As he had expected, there were
servants strolling in the park, but they did not all choose the most freque=
nted
part. Mr Scales, in pursuit of a slight flirtation with the younger
lady's-maid, had preferred a more sequestered walk in the company of that
agreeable nymph. And it happened to be this pair, of all others, who alight=
ed
on the sleeping Christian - a sight which at the very first moment caused Mr
Scales a vague pleasure as at an incident that must lead to something cleve=
r on
his part. To play a trick, and make some one or other look foolish, was held
the most pointed form of wit throughout the back regions of the Manor, and
served as a constant substitute for theatrical entertainment: what the farce
wanted in costume or 'make up' it gained in the reality of the mortification
which excited the general laughter. And lo ! here was the offensive, the
exasperatingly cool and superior, Christian caught comparatively helpless, =
with
his head hanging on his shoulder, and one coat-tail hanging out heavily bel=
ow
the elbow of the rustic seat. It was this coat-tail which served as a
suggestion to Mr Scales's genius. Putting his finger up in warning to Mrs
Cherry, and saying, 'Hush - be quiet - I see a fine bit of fun' - he took a
knife from his pocket, stepped behind the unconscious Christian, and quickly
cut off the pendent coat-tail. Scales knew nothing of the errand to the
rectory; and as he noticed that there was something in the pocket, thought =
it
was probably a large cigar-case. So much the better - he had no time to pau=
se.
He threw the coat-tail as far as he could, and noticed that it fell among t=
he
elms under which they had been walking. Then, beckoning to Mrs Cherry, he
hurried away with her towards the more open part of the park, not daring to
explode in laughter until it was safe from the chance of waking the sleeper.
And then the vision of the graceful well-appointed Mr Christian, who sneere=
d at
Scales about his 'get-up', having to walk back to the house with only one t=
ail
to his coat, was a source of so much enjoyment to the butler, that the fair
Cherry began to be quite jealous of the joke. Still she admitted that it re=
ally
was funny, tittered intermittently, and pledged herself to secrecy. Mr Scal=
es
explained to her that Christian would try to creep in unobserved, but that =
this
must be made impossible; and he requested her to imagine the figure this
interloping fellow would cut when everybody was asking what had happened.
'Hallo, Christian! where's your coat-tail?' would become a proverb at the M=
anor,
where jokes kept remarkably well without the aid of salt; and Mr Christian's
comb would be cut so effectually that it would take a long time to grow aga=
in.
Exit Scales, laughing, and presenting a fine example of dramatic irony to a=
ny
one in the secret of Fate.
When Christian awoke, he was shock=
ed
to find himself in the twilight. He started up, shook himself, missed
something, and soon became aware what it was he missed. He did not doubt th=
at
he had been robbed, and he at once foresaw that the consequence would be hi=
ghly
unpleasant. In no way could the cause of the accident be so represented to =
Mr
Philip Debarry as to prevent him from viewing his hitherto unimpeachable
factotum in a new and unfavourable light. And though Mr Christian did not
regard his present position as brilliant, he did not see his way to anything
better. A man nearly fifty who is not always quite well is seldom ardently
hopeful: he is aware that this is a world in which merit is often overlooke=
d.
With the idea of robbery in full possession of his mind, to peer about and
search in the dimness, even if it had occurred to him, would have seemed a
preposterous waste of time and energy. He knew it was likely that Mr Debarr=
y's
pocket-book had important and valuable contents, and that he should deepen =
his
offence by deferring his announcement of the unfortunate fact. He hastened =
back
to the house, relieved by the obscurity from that mortification of his vani=
ty
on which the butler had counted. Indeed, to Scales himself the affair had
already begun to appear less thoroughly jocose than he had anticipated. For=
he
observed that Christian's non-appearance before dinner had caused Mr Debarry
some consternation; and he gathered that the courier had been sent on a
commission to the rectory. 'My uncle must have detained him for some reason=
or
other,' he heard Mr Philip say; 'but it is odd. If he were less trusty about
commissions, or had ever seemed to drink too much, I should be uneasy.'
Altogether the affair was not taking the turn Mr Scales had intended. At la=
st,
when dinner had been removed and the butler's chief duties were at an end, =
it
was understood that Christian had entered without his coat-tail, looking
serious and even agitated; that he had asked leave at once to speak to Mr
Debarry; and that he was even then in parley with the gentlemen in the
dining-room. Scales was in alarm; it must have been some property of Mr
Debarry's that had weighted the pocket. He took a lantern, got a groom to
accompany him with another lantern, and with the utmost practicable speed
reached the fatal spot in the park. He searched under the elms - he was cer=
tain
that the pocket had fallen there - and he found the pocket; but he found it
empty, and, in spite of further search, did not find the contents, though he
had at first consoled himself with thinking that they had fallen out, and w=
ould
be lying not far off. He returned with the lanterns and the coat-tail and a
most uncomfortable consciousness in that great seat of a butler's emotion, =
the
stomach. He had no sooner re-entered than he was met by Mrs Cherry, pale and
anxious, who drew him aside to say that if he didn't tell everything, she
would; that the constables were to be sent for; that there had been no end =
of
bank-notes and letters and things in Mr Debarry's pocket-book, which Christ=
ian
was carrying in that very pocket Scales had cut off; that the rector was se=
nt
for, the constable was coming, and they should all be hanged. Mr Scales's o=
wn
intellect was anything but clear as to the possible issues. Crest-fallen, a=
nd with
the coal-tail in his hands as an attestation that he was innocent of anythi=
ng
more than a joke, he went and made his confession. His story relieved Chris=
tian
a little, but did not relieve Mr Debarry, who was more annoyed at the loss =
of
the letters, and the chance of their getting into hands that might make use=
of
them, than at the loss of the bank-notes. Nothing could be done for the
present, but that the rector, who was a magistrate, should instruct the
constables, and that the spot in the park indicated by Scales should again =
be
carefully searched. This was done, but in vain; and many of the family at t=
he
manor had disturbed sleep that night.
'Give sorrow leave awhile, to tuto=
r me
To this submission.' - Richard II.=
MEANWHILE Felix Holt had been maki=
ng
his way back from Sproxton to Treby in some irritation and bitterness of
spirit. For a little while he walked slowly along the direct road, hoping t=
hat
Mr Johnson would overtake him, in which case he would have the pleasure of
quarrelling with him, and telling him what he thought of his intentions in
coming to cant at the Sugar Loaf. But he presently checked himself in this
folly and turned off again towards the canal, that he might avoid the
temptation of getting into a passion to no purpose.
'Where's the good,' he thought, 'of
pulling at such a tangled skein as this electioneering trickery? As long as
three-fourths of the men in this country see nothing in an election but
self-interest, and nothing in self-interest but some form of greed, one mig=
ht
as well try to purify the proceedings of the fishes and say to a hungry
cod-fish - ‘My good friend, abstain; don't goggle your eyes so, or sh=
ow
such a stupid gluttonous mouth, or think the little fishes are worth nothing
except in relation to your own inside.’ He'd be open to no argument s=
hort
of crimping him. I should get into a rage with this fellow, and perhaps end=
by
thrashing him. There's some reason in me as long as I keep my temper, but my
rash humour is drunkenness without wine. I shouldn't wonder if he upsets al=
l my
plans with these colliers. Of course he's going to treat them for the sake =
of
getting up a posse at the nomination and speechifyings. They'll drink doubl=
e,
and never come near me on a Saturday evening. I don't know what sort of man
Transome really is. It's no use my speaking to anybody else, but if I could=
get
at him, he might put a veto on this thing. Though, when once the men have b=
een
promised and set agoing, the mischief is likely to be past mending. Hang the
Liberal cod-fish! I shouldn't have minded so much if he'd been a Tory!'
Felix went along in the twilight
struggling in this way with the intricacies of life, which would certainly =
be
greatly simplified if corrupt practices were the invariable mark of wrong
opinions. When he had crossed the common and had entered the park, the
overshadowing trees deepened the grey gloom of the evening; it was useless =
to
try and keep the blind path, and he could only be careful that his steps sh=
ould
be bent in the direction of the park-gate. He was striding along rapidly no=
w,
whistling 'Bannockburn' in a subdued way as an accompaniment to his inward
discussion, when something smooth and soft on which his foot alighted arres=
ted
him with an unpleasant startling sensation, and made him stoop to examine t=
he
object he was treading on. He found it to be a large leather pocket-book
swelled by its contents, and fastened with a sealed ribbon as well as a cla=
sp.
In stooping he saw about a yard off something whitish and square lying on t=
he
dark grass. This was an ornamental note-book of pale leather stamped with g=
old.
Apparently it had burst open in falling, and out of the pocket, formed by t=
he
cover, there protruded a small gold chain about four inches long, with vari=
ous
seals and other trifles attached to it by a ring at the end. Felix thrust t=
he
chain back, and finding that the clasp of the note-book was broken, he clos=
ed
it and thrust it into his side-pocket, walking along under some annoyance t=
hat
fortune had made him the finder of articles belonging most probably to one =
of
the family at Treby Manor. He was much too proud a man to like any contact =
with
the aristocracy, and he could still less endure coming within speech of the=
ir
servants. Some plan must be devised by which he could avoid carrying these =
things
up to the Manor himself: he thought at first of leaving them at the lodge, =
but
he had a scruple against placing property, of which the ownership was after=
all
uncertain, in the hands of persons unknown to him. It was possible that the
large pocket-book contained papers of high importance, and that it did not
belong to any of the Debarry family. He resolved at last to carry his findi=
ngs
to Mr Lyon, who would perhaps be good-natured enough to save him from the
necessary transactions with the people at the Manor by undertaking those
transactions himself. With this determination he walked straight to Malthou=
se
Yard, and waited outside the chapel until the congregation was dispersing, =
when
he passed along the aisle to the vestry in order to speak to the minister in
private.
But Mr Lyon was not alone when Fel=
ix
entered. Mr Nuttwood, the grocer, who was one of the deacons, was complaini=
ng
to him about the obstinate demeanour of the singers, who had declined to ch=
ange
the tunes in accordance with a change in the selection of hymns, and had
stretched short metre into long out of pure wilfulness and defiance,
irreverently adapting the most sacred monosyllables to a multitude of wande=
ring
quavers, arranged, it was to be feared, by some musician who was inspired b=
y conceit
rather than by the true spirit of psalmody.
'Come in, my friend,' said Mr Lyon,
smiling at Felix, and then continuing in a faint voice, while he wiped the
perspiration from his brow and bald crown, 'Brother Nuttwood, we must be
content to carry a thorn in our sides while the necessities of our imperfect
state demand that there should be a body set apart and called a choir, whose
special office it is to lead the singing, not because they are more dispose=
d to
the devout uplifting of praise, but because they are endowed with better vo=
cal
organs, and have attained more of the musician's art. For all office, unles=
s it
be accompanied by peculiar grace, becomes, as it were, a diseased organ,
seeking to make itself too much of a centre. Singers, specially so called, =
are,
it must be confessed, an anomaly among us who seek to reduce the church to =
its
primitive simplicity, and to cast away all that may obstruct the direct
communion of spirit with spirit.'
'They are so headstrong,' said Mr
Nuttwood, in a tone of sad perplexity, 'that if we dealt not warily with th=
em,
they might end in dividing the church, even now that we have had the chapel
enlarged. Brother Kemp would side with them, and draw the half part of the
members after him. I cannot but think it a snare when a professing Christian
has a bass voice like Brother Kemp's. It makes him desire to be heard of me=
n;
but the weaker song of the humble may have more power in the ear of God.'
'Do you think it any better vanity=
to
flatter yourself that God likes to hear you, though men don't?' said Felix,
with unwarrantable bluntness.
The civil grocer was prepared to be
scandalised by anything that came from Felix. In common with many hearers in
Malthouse Yard, he already felt an objection to a young man who was notorio=
us
for having interfered in a question of wholesale and retail, which should h=
ave
been left to Providence. Old Mr Holt, being a church member, had probably h=
ad
'leadings' which were more to be relied on than his son's boasted knowledge=
. In
any case, a little visceral disturbance and inward chastisement to the
consumers of questionable medicines would tend less to obscure the divine g=
lory
than a show of punctilious morality in one who was not a 'professor'. Besid=
es,
how was it to be known that the medicines would not be blessed, if taken wi=
th
due trust in a higher influence? A Christian must consider not the medicines
alone in their relation to our frail bodies (which are dust), but the medic=
ines
with Omnipotence behind them. Hence a pious vendor will look for 'leadings',
and he is likely to find them in the cessation of demand and the disproport=
ion
of expenses and returns. The grocer was thus on his guard against the
presumptuous disputant.
'Mr Lyon may understand you, sir,'=
he
replied. 'He seems to be fond of your conversation. But you have too much of
the pride of human learning for me. I follow no new lights.'
'Then follow an old one,' said Fel=
ix,
mischievously disposed towards a sleek tradesman. 'Follow the light of the
old-fashioned Presbyterians that I've heard sing at Glasgow. The preacher g=
ives
out the psalm, and then everybody sings a different tune, as it happens to =
turn
up in their throats. It's a domineering thing to set a tune and expect
everybody else to follow it. It's a denial of private judgement.'
'Hush, hush, my young friend,' sai=
d Mr
Lyon, hurt by this levity, which glanced at himself as well as at the deaco=
n.
'Play not with paradoxes. That caustic which you handle in order to scorch
others may happen to sear your own fingers and make them dead to the qualit=
y of
things. 'Tis difficult enough to see our way and keep our torch steady in t=
his
dim labyrinth: to whirl the torch and dazzle the eyes of our fellow-seekers=
is
a poor daring, and may end in total darkness. You yourself are a lover of f=
reedom,
and a bold rebel against usurping authority. But the right to rebellion is =
the
right to seek a higher rule, and not to wander in mere lawlessness. Wherefo=
re,
I beseech you, seem not to say that liberty is licence. And I apprehend -
though I am not endowed with an ear to seize those earthly harmonies, which=
to
some devout souls have seemed, as it were, the broken echoes of the heavenly
choir - I apprehend that there is a law in music, disobedience whereunto wo=
uld
bring us in our singing to the level of shrieking maniacs or howling beasts=
: so
that herein we are well instructed how true liberty can be nought but the
transfer of obedience from the will of one or of a few men to that will whi=
ch
is the norm or rule for all men. And though the transfer may sometimes be b=
ut
an erroneous direction of search, yet is the search good and necessary to t=
he
ultimate finding. And even as in music, where all obey and concur to one en=
d,
so that each has the joy of contributing to a whole whereby he is ravished =
and
lifted up into the courts of heaven so will it be in that crowning time of =
the
millennial reign, when our daily prayer will be fulfilled, and one law shal=
l be
written on all hearts, and be the very structure of all thought, and be the
principle of all action.
Tired, even exhausted, as the mini=
ster
had been when Felix Holt entered, the gathering excitement of speech gave m=
ore
and more energy to his voice and manner; he walked away from the vestry tab=
le,
he paused, and came back to it; he walked away again, then came back, and e=
nded
with his deepest-toned largo, keeping his hands clasped behind him, while h=
is
brown eyes were bright with the lasting youthfulness of enthusiastic thought
and love. But to any one who had no share in the energies that were thrilli=
ng
his little body, he would have looked queer enough. No sooner had he finish=
ed
his eager speech, than he held out his hand to the deacon, and said, in his
former faint tone of fatigue -
'God be with you, brother. We shall
meet to-morrow, and we will see what can be done to subdue these refractory
spirits.'
When the deacon was gone, Felix sa=
id,
'Forgive me, Mr Lyon; I was wrong, and you are right.'
'Yes, yes, my friend; you have that
mark of grace within you, that you are ready to acknowledge the justice of a
rebuke. Sit down; you have something to say - some packet there.'
They sat down at a corner of the s=
mall
table, and Felix drew the note-book from his pocket to lay it down with the
pocket-book, saying -
'I've had the ill-luck to be the
finder of these things in the Debarrys' Park. Most likely they belong to on=
e of
the family at the Manor, or to some grandee who is staying there. I hate ha=
ving
anything to do with such people. They'll think me a poor rascal, and offer =
me
money. You are a known man, and I thought you would be kind enough to relie=
ve
me by taking charge of these things, and writing to Debarry, not mentioning=
me,
and asking him to send some one for them. I found them on the grass in the =
park
this evening about half-past seven, in the corner we cross going to Sproxto=
n.'
'Stay,' said Mr Lyon, 'this little
book is open; we may venture to look in it for some sign of ownership. Ther=
e be
others who possess property, and might be crossing that end of the park, be=
side
the Debarrys.'
As he lifted the note-book close to
his eyes, the chain again slipped out. He arrested it and held it in his ha=
nd,
while he examined some writing, which appeared to be a name on the inner
leather. He looked long, as if he were trying to decipher something that was
partly rubbed out; and his hands began to tremble noticeably. He made a
movement in an agitated manner, as if he were going to examine the chain and
seals, which he held in his hand. But he checked himself, closed his hand
again, and rested it on the table, while with the other hand he pressed sid=
es
of the note-book together.
Felix observed his agitation, and =
was
much surprised; but with a delicacy of which he was capable under all his
abruptness, he said, 'You are overcome with fatigue, sir. I was thoughtless=
to
tease you with these matters at the end of Sunday, when you have been preac=
hing
three sermons.'
Mr Lyon did not speak for a few
moments, but at last he said -
'It is true. I am overcome. It was=
a
name I saw - a name that called up a past sorrow. Fear not; I will do what =
is
needful with these things. You may trust them to me.'
With trembling fingers he replaced=
the
chain, and tied both the large pocket-book and the note-book in his
handkerchief. He was evidently making a great effort over himself. But when=
he
had gathered the knot of the handkerchief in his hand, he said -
'Give me your arm to the door, my
friend. I feel ill. Doubtless I am over-wearied.'
The door was already open, and Lyd=
dy
was watching for her master's return. Felix therefore said 'Good-night' and=
passed
on, sure that this was what Mr Lyon would prefer. The minister's supper of =
warm
porridge was ready by the kitchen-fire, where he always took it on a Sunday
evening, and afterwards smoked his weekly pipe up the broad chimney - the o=
ne
great relaxation he allowed himself. Smoking, he considered, was a recreati=
on
of the travailed spirit, which, if indulged in, might endear this world to =
us
by the ignoble bonds of mere sensuous ease. Daily smoking might be lawful, =
but
it was not expedient. And in this Esther concurred with a doctrinal eagerne=
ss
that was unusual in her. It was her habit to go to her own room, professedl=
y to
bed, very early on Sundays - immediately on her return from chapel - that s=
he
might avoid her father's pipe. But this evening she had remained at home, u=
nder
a true plea of not feeling well; and when she heard him enter, she ran out =
of
the parlour to meet him.
'Father, you are ill,' she said, a=
s he
tottered to the wicker-bottomed arm-chair, while Lyddy stood by, shaking her
head.
'No, my dear,' he answered feebly,=
as
she took off his hat and looked in his face inquiringly; 'I am weary.'
'Let me lay these things down for
you,' said Esther, touching the bundle in the handkerchief.
'No; they are matters which I have=
to
examine,' he said, laying them on the table, and putting his arm across the=
m.
'Go you to bed, Lyddy.'
'Not me, sir. If ever a man looked=
as
if he was struck with death, it's you, this very night as here is.'
'Nonsense, Lyddy,' said Esther
angrily. 'Go to bed when my father desires it. I will stay with him.'
Lyddy was electrified by surprise =
at
this new behaviour of Miss Esther's. She took her candle silently and went.=
'Go you too, my dear,' said Mr Lyo=
n,
tenderly, giving his hand to Esther, when Lyddy was gone. 'It is your wont =
to go
early. Why are you up?'
'Let me lift your porridge from be=
fore
the fire, and stay with you, father. You think I'm so naughty that I don't =
like
doing anything for you,' said Esther, smiling rather sadly at him.
'Child, what has happened? you have
become the image of your mother to-night,' said the minister, in a loud
whisper. The tears came and relieved him, while Esther, who had stooped to =
lift
the porridge from the fender, paused on one knee and looked up at him. 'She=
was
very good to you?' asked Esther, softly.
'Yes, dear. She did not reject my affection. She thought not scorn of my love. She would have forgiven me, if= I had erred against her, from very tenderness. Could you forgive me, child?'<= o:p>
'Father, I have not been good to y=
ou;
but I will be, I will be,' said Esther, laying her head on his knee.
He kissed her head. 'Go to bed, my
dear; I would be alone.'
When Esther was lying down that ni=
ght,
she felt as if the little incidents between herself and her father on this
Sunday had made it an epoch. Very slight words and deeds may have a sacrame=
ntal
efficacy, if we can cast our self-love behind us, in order to say or do the=
m.
And it has been well believed through many ages that the beginning of
compunction is the beginning of a new life; that the mind which sees itself
blameless may be called dead in trespasses - in trespasses on the love of
others, in trespasses on their weakness, in trespasses on all those great
claims which are the image of our own need.
But Esther persisted in assuring
herself that she was not bending to any criticism from Felix. She was full =
of
resentment against his rudeness, and yet more against his too harsh concept=
ion
of her character. She was determined to keep as much at a distance from him=
as
possible.
This man's metallic; at a sudden b=
low
His soul rings hard. I cannot lay =
my
palm,
Trembling with life, upon that joi=
nted
brass.
I shudder at the cold unanswering
touch;
But if it press me in response, I'm
bruised.
THE next morning, when the Debarry=
s,
including the rector, who had ridden over to the Manor early, were still se=
ated
at breakfast, Christian came in with a letter, saying that it had been brou=
ght
by a man employed at the chapel in Malthouse Yard, who had been ordered by =
the
minister to use aLi speed and care in the delivery. The letter was addresse=
d to
Sir Maximus.
'Stay, Christian, it may possibly
refer to the lost pocket-book,' said Philip Debarry, who was beginning to f=
eel
rather sorry for his factotum, as a reaction from previous suspicions and
indignation.
Sir Maximus opened the letter and =
felt
for his glasses, but then said, 'Here, you read it, Phil: the man writes a =
hand
like small print.'
Philip cast his eyes over it, and =
then
read aloud in a tone of satisfaction: -
Sir, - I send this letter to appri=
se you
that I have now in my possession certain articles, which, last evening, at
about half-past seven o'clock, were found lying on the grass at the western
extremity of your park. The articles are - 1ø, a well-filled
pocket-book, of brown leather, fastened with a black ribbon and with a seal=
of
red wax; 2ø, a small note-book, covered with gilded vellum, whereof =
the
clasp was burst, and from out whereof had partly escaped a small gold chain,
with seals and a locket attached, the locket bearing on the back a device, =
and
round the face a female name.
Wherefore I request that you will
further my effort to place these articles in the right hands, by ascertaini=
ng
whether any person within your walls claims them as his property, and by
sending that person to me (if such be found); for I will on no account let =
them
pass from my care save into that of one who, declaring himself to be the ow=
ner,
can state to me what is the impression on the seal, and what the device and
name upon the locket. - I am, Sir, yours to command in all right dealing,
RUFUS LYON. Malthouse Yard, Oct. 3,
1832.
'Well done, old Lyon,' said the
rector; 'I didn't think that any composition of his would ever give me so m=
uch
pleasure.'
'What an old fox it is!' said Sir
Maximus. 'Why couldn't he send the things to me at once along with the lett=
er?'
'No, no, Max; he uses a justifiable
caution,' said the rector, a refined and rather severe likeness of his brot=
her,
with a ring of fearlessness and decision in his voice which startled all
flaccid men and unruly boys. 'What are you going to do, Phil?' seeing his
nephew rise.
'To write, of course. Those other
matters are yours, I suppose?' said Mr Debarry, looking at Christian.
'Yes, sir.'
'I shall send you with a letter to=
the
preacher. You can describe your own property. And the seal, uncle - was it =
your
coat-of-arms?'
'No, it was this head of Achilles.
Here, I can take it off the ring, and you can carry it, Christian. But don't
lose that, for I've had it ever since eighteen hundred. I should like to se=
nd
my compliments with it,' the rector went on, looking at his brother, 'and b=
eg
that since he has so much wise caution at command, he would exercise a litt=
le
in more public matters, instead of making himself a firebrand in my parish,=
and
teaching hucksters and tape-weavers that it's their business to dictate to
statesmen.'
'How did Dissenters, and Methodist=
s,
and Quakers, and people of that sort first come up, uncle?' said Miss Selin=
a, a
radiant girl of twenty, who had given much time to the harp.
'Dear me, Selina,' said her elder
sister, Harriet, whose forte was general knowledge, 'don't you remember
Woodstock? They were in Cromwell's time.'
'O! Holdenough, and those people? =
Yes;
but they preached in the churches; they had no chapels. Tell me, uncle Gus;=
I
like to be wise,' said Selina, looking up at the face which was smiling dow=
n on
her with a sort of severe benignity. 'Phil says I'm an ignorant puss.'
'The seeds of Nonconformity were s=
own
at the Reformation, my dear, when some obstinate men made scruples about su=
rplices
and the place of the communion-table, and other trifles of that sort. But t=
he
Quakers came up about Cromwell's time, and the Methodists only in the last
century. The first Methodists were regular clergymen, the more's the pity.'=
'But all those wrong things - why
didn't government put them down?'
'Ah, to be sure,' fell in Sir Maxi=
mus,
in a cordial tone of corroboration.
'Because error is often strong, and
government is often weak, my dear. Well, Phil, have you finished your lette=
r?'
'Yes, I will read it to you,' said
Philip, turning and leaning over the back of his chair with the letter in h=
is
hand.
There is a portrait of Mr Philip
Debarry still to be seen at Treby Manor, and a very fine bust of him at Rom=
e,
where he died fifteen years later, a convert to Catholicism. His face would
have been plain but for the exquisite setting of his hazel eyes, which
fascinated even the dogs of the household. The other features, though slight
and irregular, were redeemed from triviality by the stamp of gravity and in=
tellectual
preoccupation in his face and bearing. As he read aloud, his voice was what=
his
uncle's might have been if it had been modulated by delicate health and a
visitation of self-doubt.
Sir, - In reply to the letter with
which you have favoured me this morning, I beg to state that the articles y=
ou
describe were lost from the pocket of my servant, who is the bearer of this
letter to you, and is the claimant of the vellum note-book and the gold cha=
in.
The large leathern pocket-book is my own property, and the impression on the
wax, a helmeted head of Achilles, was made by my uncle, the Rev. Augustus
Debarry, who allows me to forward his seal to you in proof that I am not ma=
king
a mistaken claim.
I feel myself under deep obligatio=
n to
you, sir, for the care and trouble you have taken in order to restore to its
right owner a piece of property which happens to be of particular importanc=
e to
me. And I shall consider myself doubly fortunate if at any time you can poi=
nt
out to me some method by which I may procure you as lively a satisfaction a=
s I
am now feeling, in that full and speedy relief from anxiety which I owe to =
your
considerate conduct.
I remain, sir, your obliged and
faithful servant, PHILIP DEBARRY.
'You know best, Phil, of course,' =
said
Sir Maximus, pushing his plate from him, by way of interjection. 'But it se=
ems
to me you exaggerate preposterously every little service a man happens to do
for you. Why should you make a general offer of that sort? How do you know =
what
he will be asking you to do? Stuff and nonsense! Tell Willis to send him a =
few
head of game. You should think twice before you give a blank cheque of that
sort to one of these quibbling, meddle-some Radicals.'
'You are afraid of my committing
myself to ‘the bottomless perjury of an et cetera’,' said Phili=
p,
smiling, as he turned to fold his letter. 'But I think I am not doing any
mischief; at all events I could not be content to say less. And I have a no=
tion
that he would regard a present of game just now as an insult. I should, in =
his
place.'
'Yes, yes, you; but you don't make
yourself a measure of dissenting preachers, I hope,' said Sir Maximus, rath=
er
wrathfully. 'What do you say, Gus?'
'Phil is right,' said the rector, =
in
an absolute tone. 'I would not deal with a Dissenter, or put profits into t=
he
pocket of a Radical which I might put into the pocket of a good churchman a=
nd a
quiet subject. But if the greatest scoundrel in the world made way for me, =
or
picked my hat up, I would thank him. So would you, Max.'
'Pooh! I didn't mean that one
shouldn't behave like a gentleman,' said Sir Maximus, in some vexation. He =
had
great pride in his son's superiority even to himself; but he did not enjoy
having his own opinion argued down as it always was, and did not quite trust
the dim vision opened by Phil's new words and new notions. He could only su=
bmit
in silence while the letter was delivered to Christian, with the order to s=
tart
for Malthouse Yard immediately.
Meanwhile, in that somewhat dim
locality the possible claimant of the note-book and the chain was thought of
and expected with palpitating agitation. Mr Lyon was seated in his study,
looking haggard and already aged from a sleepless night. He was so afraid l=
est
his emotion should deprive him of the presence of mind necessary to the due
attention to particulars in the coming interview, that he continued to occu=
py
his sight and touch with the objects which had stirred the depths, not only=
of
memory, but of dread. Once again he unlocked a small box which stood beside=
his
desk, and took from it a little oval locket, and compared this with one whi=
ch
hung with the seals on the stray gold chain. There was the same device in
enamel on the back of both: clasped hands surrounded with blue flowers. Both
had round the face a name in gold italics on a blue ground: the name on the
locket taken from the drawer was Maurice; the name on the locket which hung
with the seals was Annette, and within the circle of this name there was a
lover's knot of light-brown hair, which matched a curl that lay in the box.=
The
hair in the locket which bore the name of Maurice was of a very dark brown,=
and
before returning it to the drawer Mr Lyon noted the colour and quality of t=
his
hair more carefully than ever. Then he recurred to the note-book: undoubted=
ly
there had been something, probably a third name, beyond the names Maurice
Christian, which had themselves been rubbed and slightly smeared as if by
accident; and from the very first examination in the vestry, Mr Lyon could =
not
prevent himself from transferring the mental image of the third name in fai=
nt
lines to the rubbed leather. The leaves of the note-book seemed to have been
recently inserted; they were of fresh white paper, and only bore some
abbreviations in pencil with a notation of small sums. Nothing could be gat=
hered
from the comparison of the writing in the book with that of the yellow lett=
ers
which lay in the box: the smeared name had been carefully printed, and so b=
ore
no resemblance to the signature of those letters; and the pencil abbreviati=
ons
and figures had been made too hurriedly to bear any decisive witness. 'I wi=
ll
ask him to write - to write a description of the locket,' had been one of Mr
Lyon's thoughts; but he faltered in that intention. His power of fulfilling=
it
must depend on what he saw in this visitor, of whose coming he had a horrib=
le
dread, at the very time he was writing to demand it. In that demand he was
obeying the voice of his rigid conscience, which had never left him perfect=
ly
at rest under his one act of deception - the concealment from Esther that he
was not her natural father, the assertion of a false claim upon her. 'Let my
path be henceforth simple,' he had said to himself in the anguish of that
night; 'let me seek to know what is, and if possible to declare it.' If he =
was
really going to find himself face to face with the man who had been Annette=
's
husband, and who was Esther's father - if that wandering of his from the li=
ght
had brought the punishment of a blind sacrilege as the issue of a conscious
transgression, - he prayed that he might be able to accept all consequences=
of
pain to himself. But he saw other possibilities concerning the claimant of =
the
book and chain. His ignorance and suspicions as to the history and characte=
r of
Annette's husband made it credible that he had laid a plan for convincing h=
er
of his death as a means of freeing himself from a burthensome tie; but it
seemed equally probable that he was really dead, and that these articles of
property had been a bequest, or a payment, or even a sale, to their present
owner. Indeed, in all these years there was no knowing into how many hands =
such
pretty trifles might have passed. And the claimant might, after all, have no
connection with the Debarrys; he might not come on this day or the next. Th=
ere
might be more time left for reflection and prayer.
All these possibilities, which wou=
ld
remove the pressing need for difficult action, Mr Lyon represented to himse=
lf,
but he had no effective belief in them; his belief went with his strongest
feeling, and in these moments his strongest feeling was dread. He trembled
under the weight that seemed already added to his own sin; he felt himself
already confronted by Annette's husband and Esther's father. Perhaps the fa=
ther
was a gentleman on a visit to the Debarrys. There was no hindering the pang
with which the old man said to himself -
'The child will not be sorry to le=
ave
this poor home, and I shall be guilty in her sight.'
He was walking about among the row= s of books when there came a loud rap at the outer door. The rap shook him so th= at he sank into his chair, feeling almost powerless. Lyddy presented herself.<= o:p>
'Here's ever such a fine man from =
the
Manor wants to see you, sir. Dear heart, dear heart I shall I tell him you'=
re
too bad to see him?'
'Show him up,' said Mr Lyon, makin=
g an
effort to rally. When Christian appeared, the minister half rose, leaning o=
n an
arm of his chair, and said, 'Be seated, sir,' seeing nothing but that a tall
man was entering.
'I've brought you a letter from Mr
Debarry,' said Christian, in an off-hand manner. This rusty little man, in =
his
dismal chamber, seemed to the Ulysses of the steward's room a pitiable sort=
of
human curiosity, to whom a man of the world would speak rather loudly, in
accommodation to an eccentricity which was likely to be accompanied with de=
afness.
One cannot be eminent in everything; and if Mr Christian had dispersed his
faculties in study that would have enabled him to share unconventional poin=
ts
of view, he might have worn a mistaken kind of boot, and been less competen=
t to
win at ecarte, or at betting, or in any other contest suitable to a person =
of
figure.
As he seated himself, Mr Lyon open=
ed
the letter, and held it close to his eyes, so that his face was hidden. But=
at
the word 'servant' he could not avoid starting, and looking off the letter
towards the bearer. Christian, knowing what was in the letter, conjectured =
that
the old man was amazed to learn that so distinguished-looking a personage w=
as a
servant; he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, balanced his cane =
on
his fingers, and began a whispering whistle. The minister checked himself,
finished the reading of the letter, and then slowly and nervously put on his
spectacles to survey this man, between whose fate and his own there might b=
e a
terrible collision. The word 'servant' had been a fresh caution to him. He =
must
do nothing rashly. Esther's lot was deeply concerned. 'Here is the seal
mentioned in the letter,' said Christian.
Mr Lyon drew the pocket-book from =
his
desk, and, after comparing the seal with the impression, said, 'It is right,
sir: I deliver the pocket-book to you.'
He held it out with the seal, and
Christian rose to take them, saying, carelessly, 'The other things - the ch=
ain
and the little book - are mine.' 'Your name then is -'
'Maurice Christian.'
A spasm shot through Mr Lyon. It h=
ad
seemed possible that he might hear another name, and be freed from the worse
half of his anxiety. His next words were not wisely chosen, but escaped him
impulsively.
'And you have no other name?'
'What do you mean?' said Christian,
sharply.
'Be so good as to reseat yourself.=
'
Christian did not comply. 'I'm rat=
her
in a hurry, sir,' he said, recovering his coolness. 'If it suits you to res=
tore
to me those small articles of mine, I shall be glad; but I would rather lea=
ve
them behind than be detained.' He had reflected that the minister was simpl=
y a
punctilious old bore. The question meant nothing else. But Mr Lyon had wrou=
ght
himself up to the task of finding out, then and there, if possible, whether=
or
not this were Annette's husband. How could he lay himself and his sin before
God if he wilfully declined to learn the truth?
'Nay, sir, I will not detain you
unreasonably,' he said, in a firmer tone than before. 'How long have these
articles been your property?'
'Oh, for more than twenty years,' =
said
Christian, carelessly. He was not altogether easy under the minister's
persistence, but for that very reason he showed no more impatience.
'You have been in France and in
Germany?'
'I have been in most countries on =
the
continent.'
'Be so good as to write me your na=
me,'
said Mr Lyon, dipping a pen in the ink, and holding it out with a piece of
paper.
Christian was much surprised, but =
not
now greatly alarmed. In his rapid conjectures as to the explanation of the
minister's curiosity, he had alighted on one which might carry advantage ra=
ther
than inconvenience. But he was not going to commit himself.
'Before I oblige you there, sir,' =
he
said, laying down the pen, and looking straight at Mr Lyon, 'I must know
exactly the reasons you have for putting these questions to me. You are a
stranger to me - an excellent person, I daresay - but I have no concern abo=
ut
you farther than to get from you those small articles. Do you still doubt t=
hat
they are mine? You wished, I think, that I should tell you what the locket =
is
like. It has a pair of hands and blue flowers on one side, and the name Ann=
ette
round the hair on the other side. That is all I have to say. If you wish for
anything more from me, you will be good enough to tell me why you wish it. =
Now
then, sir, what is your concern with me?'
The cool stare, the hard challengi=
ng
voice, with which these words were uttered, made them fall like the beating,
cutting chill of heavy hail on Mr Lyon. He sank back in his chair in utter
irresolution and helplessness. How was it possible to lay bare the sad and
sacred past in answer to such a call as this? The dread with which he had
thought of this man's coming, the strongly-confirmed suspicion that he was
really Annette's husband, intensified the antipathy created by his gestures=
and
glances. The sensitive little minister knew instinctively that words which
would cost him efforts as painful as the obedient footsteps of a wounded
bleeding hound that wills a foreseen throe, would fall on this man as the
pressure of tender fingers falls on a brazen glove. And Esther - if this man
was her father - every additional word might help to bring down irrevocable,
perhaps cruel, consequences on her. A thick mist seemed to have fallen wher=
e Mr
Lyon was looking for the track of duty: the difficult question, how far he =
was
to care for consequences in seeking and avowing the truth, seemed anew
obscured. All these things, like the vision of a coming calamity, were
compressed into a moment of consciousness. Nothing could be done to-day;
everything must be deferred. He answered Christian in a low apologetic tone=
.
'It is true, sir; you have told me=
all
I can demand. I have no sufficient reason for detaining your property furth=
er.'
He handed the note-book and chain =
to
Christian, who had been observing him narrowly, and now said, in a tone of
indifference, as he pocketed the articles -
'Very good, sir. I wish you a
good-morning.'
'Good-morning,' said Mr Lyon, feel=
ing,
while the door closed behind his guest, that mixture of uneasiness and reli=
ef
which all procrastination of difficulty produces in minds capable of strong
forecast. The work was still to be done. He had still before him the task of
learning everything that could be learned about this man's relation to hims=
elf
and Esther.
Christian, as he made his way back
along Malthouse Lane, was thinking, 'This old fellow has got some secret in=
his
head. It's not likely he can know anything about me; it must be about Bycli=
ffe.
But Bycliffe was a gentleman: how should he ever have had anything to do wi=
th
such a seedy old ranter as that?'
And doubt shall be as lead upon the
feet
Of thy most anxious will.
MR LYON was careful to look in at
Felix as soon as possible after Christian's departure, to tell him that his
trust was discharged. During the rest of the day he was somewhat relieved f=
rom
agitating reflections by the necessity of attending to his ministerial duti=
es,
the rebuke of rebellious singers being one of them; and on his return from =
the
Monday evening prayer-meeting he was so overcome with weariness that he wen=
t to
bed without taking note of any objects in his study. But when he rose the n=
ext
morning, his mind, once more eagerly active, was arrested by Philip Debarry=
's
letter, which still lay open on his desk, and was arrested by precisely that
portion which had been unheeded the day before: 'I shall consider myself do=
ubly
fortunate if at any time you can point out to me some method by which I may
procure you as lively a satisfaction as I am now feeling, in that full and
speedy relief from anxiety which I owe to your considerate conduct.'
To understand how these words could
carry the suggestion they actually had for the minister in a crisis of pecu=
liar
personal anxiety and struggle, we must bear in mind that for many years he =
had
walked through life with the sense of having for a space been unfaithful to
what he esteemed the highest trust ever committed to man - the ministerial
vocation. In a mind of any nobleness, a lapse into transgression against an
object still regarded as supreme, issues in a new and purer devotedness,
chastised by humility and watched over by a passionate regret. So it was wi=
th
that ardent spirit which animated the little body of Rufus Lyon. Once in his
life he had been blinded, deafened, hurried along by rebellious impulse; he=
had
gone astray after his own desires, and had let the fire die out on the alta=
r;
and as the true penitent, hating his self-besotted error, asks from all com=
ing
life duty instead of joy, and service instead of ease, so Rufus was perpetu=
ally
on the watch lest he should ever again postpone to some private affection a
great public opportunity which to him was equivalent to a command.
Now here was an opportunity brough=
t by
a combination of that unexpected incalculable kind which might be regarded =
as
the divine emphasis invoking especial attention to trivial events - an
opportunity of securing what Rufus Lyon had often wished for as a means of
honouring truth, and exhibiting error in the character of a stammering,
halting, short-breathed usurper of office and dignity. What was more
exasperating to a zealous preacher, with whom copious speech was not a
difficulty but a relief - who never lacked argument, but only combatants and
listeners - than to reflect that there were thousands on thousands of pulpi=
ts
in this kingdom, supplied with handsome sounding-boards, and occupying an
advantageous position in buildings far larger than the chapel in Malthouse =
Yard
- buildings sure to be places of resort, even as the markets were, if only =
from
habit and interest; and that these pulpits were filled, or rather made vacu=
ous,
by men whose privileged education in the ancient centres of instruction iss=
ued
in twenty minutes' formal reading of tepid exhortation or probably infirm
deductions from premises based on rotten scaffolding? And it is in the natu=
re
of exasperation gradually to concentrate itself. The sincere antipathy of a=
dog
towards cats in general, necessarily takes the form of indignant barking at=
the
neighbour's black cat which makes daily trespass; the bark at imagined cats,
though a frequent exercise of the canine mind, is yet comparatively feeble.=
Mr
Lyon's sarcasm was not without an edge when he dilated in general on an
elaborate education for teachers which issued in the minimum of teaching, b=
ut
it found a whetstone in the particular example of that bad system known as =
the
rector of Treby Magna. There was nothing positive to be said against the Re=
v.
Augustus Debarry; his life could not be pronounced blame-worthy except for =
its
negatives. And the good Rufus was too pure-minded not to be glad of that. He
had no delight in vice as discrediting wicked opponents; he shrank from
dwelling on the images of cruelty or of grossness, and his indignation was
habitually inspired only by those moral and intellectual mistakes which dar=
ken
the soul but do not injure or degrade the temple of the body. If the rector=
had
been a less respectable man, Rufus would have more reluctantly made him an
object of antagonism; but as an incarnation of soul-destroying error, disso=
ciated
from those baser sins which have no good repute even with the worldly, it w=
ould
be an argumentative luxury to get into close quarters with him, and fight w=
ith
a dialectic short-sword in the eyes of the Treby world (sending also a writ=
ten
account thereof to the chief organs of dissenting opinion). Vice was
essentially stupid - a deaf and eyeless monster, insusceptible to
demonstration: the Spirit might work on it by unseen ways, and the unstudied
sallies of sermons were often as the arrows which pierced and awakened the
bmtified conscience; but illuminated thought, finely-dividing speech, were =
the
choicer weapons of the divine armoury, which whoso could wield must be care=
ful
not to leave idle.
Here, then, was the longed-for
opportunity. Here was an engagement - an expression of a strong wish - on t=
he
part of Philip Debarry, if it were in his power, to procure a satisfaction =
to
Rufus Lyon. How had that man of God and exemplary Independent minister, Mr
Ainsworth, of persecuted sanctity, conducted himself when a similar occasion
had befallen him at Amsterdam? ' He had thought of nothing but the glory of=
the
highest cause, and had converted the offer of recompense into a public deba=
te
with a Jew on the chief mysteries of the faith. Here was a model: the case =
was nothing
short of a heavenly indication, and he, Rufus Lyon, would seize the occasio=
n to
demand a public debate with the rector on the constitution of the true chur=
ch.
What if he were inwardly torn by d=
oubt
and anxiety concerning his own private relations and the facts of his past
life? That danger of absorption within the narrow bounds of self only urged=
him
the more towards action which had a wider bearing, and might tell on the
welfare of England at large. It was decided. Before the minister went down =
to his
breakfast that morning he had written the following letter to Mr Philip
Debarry:
Sir, - Referring to your letter of
yesterday, I find the following words: 'I shall consider myself doubly
fortunate if at any time you can point out to me some method by which I may
procure you as lively a satisfaction as I am now feeling, in that full and
speedy relief from anxiety which I owe to your considerate con duct.'
I am not unaware, sir, that, in the
usage of the world, there are words of courtesy (so called) which are
understood, by those amongst whom they are current, to have no precise mean=
ing,
and to constitute no bond or obligation. I will not now insist that this is=
an
abuse of language, wherein our fallible nature requires the strictest
safeguards against laxity and misapplication, for I do not apprehend that in
writing the words I have above quoted, you were open to the reproach of usi=
ng
phrases which, while seeming to carry a specific meaning, were really no mo=
re
than what is called a polite form. I believe, sir, that you used these words
advisedly, sincerely, and with an honourable intention of acting on them as=
a
pledge, should such action be demanded. No other supposition on my part wou=
ld
correspond to the character you bear as a young man who aspires (albeit
mistakenly) to engraft the finest fruits of public virtue on a creed and
institutions, whereof the sap is composed rather of human self-seeking than=
of
everlasting truth.
Wherefore I act on this my belief =
in
the integrity of your written word; and I beg you to procure for me (as it =
is
doubtless in your power) that I may be allowed a public discussion with your
near relative, the rector of this parish, the Reverend Augustus Debarry, to=
be
held in the large room of the Free School, or in the Assembly Room of the
Marquis of Granby, these being the largest covered spaces at our command. F=
or I
presume he would neither allow me to speak within his church, nor would con=
sent
himself to speak within my chapel; and the probable inclemency of the
approaching season forbids an assured expectation that we could discourse in
the open air. The subjects I desire to discuss are, - first, the constimtio=
n of
the true church; and, secondly, the bearing thereupon of the English
Reformation. Confidently expecting that you will comply with this request,
which is the sequence of your expressed desire, I remain, sir, yours, with =
the
respect offered to a sincere with-stander,
Malthouse Yard. RUFUS LYON.
After writing this letter, the good
Rufus felt that serenity and elevation of mind which is infallibly brought =
by a
preoccupation with the wider relations of things. Already he was beginning =
to
sketch the course his argument might most judiciously take in the coming
debate; his thoughts were running into sentences, and marking off careful
exceptions in parentheses; and he had come down and seated himself at the
breakfast-table quite automatically, without expectation of toast or coffee,
when Esther's voice and touch recalled him to an inward debate of another k=
ind,
in which he felt himself much weaker. Again there arose before him the imag=
e of
that cool, hard-eyed, worldly man, who might be this dear child's father, a=
nd
one against whose rights he had himself greviously offended. Always as the
image recurred to him Mr Lyon's heart sent forth a prayer for guidance, but=
no
definite guidance had yet made itself visible for him. It could not be guid=
ance
- it was a temptation - that said, 'Let the matter rest: seek to know no mo=
re;
know only what is thrust upon you.' The remembrance that in his time of
wandering he had wilfully remained in ignorance of facts which he might have
inquired after, deepened the impression that it was now an imperative duty =
to
seek the fullest attainable knowledge. And the inquiry might possibly issue=
in
a blessed repose, by putting a negative on all his suspicions. But the more
vividly all the circumstances became present to him, the more unfit he felt
himself to set about any investigation concerning this man who called himse=
lf
Maurice Christian. He could seek no confidant or helper among 'the brethren=
';
he was obliged to admit to himself that the members of his church, with who=
m he
hoped to go to heaven, were not easy to converse with on earth touching the
deeper secrets of his experience, and were still less able to advise him as=
to
the wisest procedure, in a case of high delicacy, with a worldling who had a
carefully-trimmed whisker and a fashionable costume. For the first time in =
his
life it occurred to the minister that he should be glad of an adviser who h=
ad more
worldly than spiritual experience, and that it might not be inconsistent wi=
th
his principles to seek some light from one who had studied human law. But it
was a thought to be paused upon, and not followed out rashly; some other
guidance might intervene.
Esther noticed that her father was=
in
a fit of abstraction, that he seemed to swallow his coffee and toast quite
unconsciously, and that he vented from time to time a low guttural
interjection, which was habitual with him when he was absorbed by an inward
discussion. She did not disturb him by remarks, and only wondered whether
anything unusua, had occurred on Sunday evening. But at last she thought it
needful to say, 'You recollect what I told you yesterday, father?'
'Nay, child; what?' said Mr Lyon, =
rousing
himself
'That Mr Jermyn asked me if you wo=
uld
probably be at home this morning before one o'clock.'
Esther was surprised to see her fa=
ther
start and change colour as if he had been shaken by some sudden collision
before he answered -
'Assuredly; I do not intend to move
from my study after I have once been out to give this letter to Zachary.'
'Shall I tell Lyddy to take him up=
at
once to your study if he comes? If not, I shall have to stay in my own room,
because I shall be at home all this morning, and it is rather cold now to s=
it
without a fire.'
'Yes, my dear, let him come up to =
me;
unless, indeed, he should bring a second person, which might happen, seeing
that in all likelihood he is coming, as hitherto, on electioneering busines=
s.
And I could not well accommodate two visitors up-stairs.'
While Mr Lyon went out to Zachary,=
the
pew-opener, to give him a second time the commission of carrying a letter to
Treby Manor, Esther gave her injunction to Lyddy that if one gentleman came=
he
was to be shown up-stairs - if two, they were to be shown into the parlour.=
But
she had to resolve various questions before Lyddy clearly saw what was expe=
cted
of her, - as that, 'if it was the gentleman as came on Thursday in the
pepper-and-salt coat, was he to be shown up-stairs? And the gentleman from =
the
Manor yesterday as went out whistling - had Miss Esther heard about him? Th=
ere
seemed no end of these great folks coming to Malthouse Yard since there was
talk of the election; but they might be poor lost creatures the most of 'em=
.'
Whereupon Lyddy shook her head and groaned, under an edifying despair as to=
the
future lot of gentlemen callers.
Esther always avoided asking quest=
ions
of Lyddy, who found an answer as she found a key, by pouring out a pocketfu=
l of
miscellanies. But she had remarked so many indications that something had
happened to cause her father unusual excitement and mental preoccupation, t=
hat
she could not help connecting with them the fact of this visit from the Man=
or,
which he had not mentioned to her.
She sat down in the dull parlour a=
nd
took up her netting; for since Sunday she had felt unable to read when she =
was
alone, being obliged, in spite of herself, to think of Felix Holt - to imag=
ine
what he would like her to be, and what sort of views he took of life so as =
to
make it seem valuable in the absence of all elegance, luxury, gaiety, or
romance. Had he yet reflected that he had behaved very rudely to her on Sun=
day?
Perhaps not. Perhaps he had dismissed her from his mind with contempt. And =
at
that thought Esther's eyes smarted unpleasantly. She was fond of netting,
because it showed to advantage both her hand and her foot; and across this
image of Felix Holt's indifference and contempt there passed the vaguer ima=
ge
of a possible somebody who would admire her hands and feet, and delight in
looking at their beauty, and long, yet not dare, to kiss them. Life would be
much easier in the presence of such a love. But it was precisely this longi=
ng
after her own satisfaction that Felix had reproached her with. Did he want =
her
to be heroic? That seemed impossible without some great occasion. Her life =
was
a heap of fragments, and so were her thoughts: some great energy was needed=
to
bind them together. Esther was beginning to lose her complacency at her own=
wit
and criticism; to lose the sense of superiority in an awakening need for
reliance on one whose vision was wider, whose nature was purer and stronger
than her own. But then, she said to herself, that 'one' must be tender to h=
er,
not rude and predominating in his manners. A man with any chivalry in him c=
ould
never adopt a scolding tone towards a woman - that is, towards a charming
woman. But Felix had no chivalry in him. He loved lecturing and opinion too
well ever to love any woman.
In this way Esther strove to see t=
hat
Felix was thoroughly in the wrong - at least, if he did not come again
expressly to show that he was sorry.
TRUEBLUE. These men have no votes.=
Why
should I court them ?
GREYFOX. No votes, but power.
TRUEBLUE. What I over charities ?<= o:p>
CREYFOX. No, over brains; which
disturbs the canvass. In a natural state of things the average price of a v=
ote
at Paddlebrook is nine-and-sixpence, throwing the fifty-pound tenants, who =
cost
nothing, into the divisor. But these talking men cause an artificial rise of
prices.
THE expected important knock at the
door came about twelve o'clock, and Esther could hear that there were two
visitors. Immediately the parlour door was opened and the shaggy-haired,
cravatless image of Felix Holt, which was then just full in the mirror of
Esther's mind, was displaced by the highly-contrasted appearance of a perso=
nage
whose name she guessed before Mr Jermyn had announced it. The perfect morni=
ng
costume of that day differed much from our present ideal: it was essential =
that
a gentleman's chin should be well propped, that his collar should have a
voluminous roll, that his waistcoat should imply much discrimination, and t=
hat
his buttons should be arranged in a manner which would now expose him to
general contempt. And it must not be forgotten that at the distant period w=
hen
Treby Magna first knew the excitements of an election, there existed many o=
ther
anomalies now obsolete, besides short-waisted coats and broad stiffeners.
But we have some notions of beauty=
and
fitness which withstand the centuries; and quite irrespective of dates, it
would be pronounced that at the age of thirty-four Harold Transome was a
striking and handsome man. He was one of those people, as Denner had remark=
ed,
to whose presence in the room you could not be indifferent: if you do not h=
ate
or dread them, you must find the touch of their hands, nay, their very shad=
ows,
agreeable.
Esther felt a pleasure quite new to
her as she saw his finely-embrowned face and full bright eyes turned towards
her with an air of deference by which gallantry must commend itself to a
refined woman who is not absolutely free from vanity. Harold Transome regar=
ded
women as slight things, but he was fond of slight things in the intervals of
business; and he held it among the chief arts of life to keep these pleasant
diversions within such bonds that they should never interfere with the cour=
se
of his serious ambition. Esther was perfectly aware, as he took a chair near
her, that he was under some admiring surprise at her appearance and manner.=
How
could it be otherwise? She believed that in the eyes of a high-bred man no
young lady in Treby could equal her: she felt a glow of delight at the sense
that she was being looked at.
'My father expected you,' she said=
to
Mr Jermyn. 'I delivered your letter to him yesterday. He will be down
immediately.'
She disentangled her foot from her
netting and wound it up.
'I hope you are not going to let us
disturb you,' said Harold, noticing her action. 'We come to discuss election
affairs, and particularly desire to interest the ladies.'
'I have no interest with any one w=
ho
is not already on the right side,' said Esther, smiling.
'I am happy to see at least that y=
ou
wear the Liberal colours.'
'I fear I must confess that it is =
more
from love of blue than from love of Liberalism. Yellow opinions could only =
have
brunettes on their side.' Esther spoke with her usual pretty fluency, but s=
he
had no sooner uttered the words than she thought how angry they would have =
made
Felix.
'If my cause is to be recommended =
by
the becomingness of my colours, then I am sure you are acting in my interes=
t by
wearing them.'
Esther rose to leave the room.
'Must you really go?' said Harold,
preparing to open the door for her.
'Yes; I have an engagement - a les= son at half-past twelve,' said Esther, bowing and floating out like a blue-robed Naiad, but not without a suffused blush as she passed through the doorway.<= o:p>
It was a pity the room was so smal=
l,
Harold Transome thought: this girl ought to walk in a house where there were
halls and corridors. But he had soon dismissed this chance preoccupation wi=
th
Esther; for before the door was closed again Mr Lyon had entered, and Harold
was entirely bent on what had been the object of his visit. The minister,
though no elector himself, had considerable influence over Liberal electors,
and it was the part of wisdom in a candidate to cement all political adhesi=
on
by a little personal regard, if possible. Garstin was a harsh and wiry fell=
ow;
he seemed to suggest that sour whey, which some say was the original meanin=
g of
Whig in the Scottish, and it might assist the theoretic advantages of
Radicalism if it could be associated with a more generous presence. What wo=
uld
conciliate the personal regard of old Mr Lyon became a curious problem to
Harold, now the little man made his appearance. But canvassing makes a
gentleman acquainted with many strange animals, together with the ways of
catching and taming them; and thus the knowledge of natural history advances
amongst the aristocracy and the wealthy commoners of our land.
'I am very glad to have secured th=
is
opportunity of making your personal acquaintance, Mr Lyon,' said Harold,
putting out his hand to the minister when Jermyn had mentioned his name. 'I=
am
to address the electors here, in the Market-Place, to-morrow; and I should =
have
been sorry to do so without first paying my respects privately to my chief
friends, as there may be points on which they particularly wish me to expla=
in
myself.'
'You speak civilly, sir, and
reasonably,' said Mr Lyon, with a vague shortsighted gaze, in which a
candidate's appearance evidently went for nothing. 'Pray be seated, gentlem=
en.
It is my habit to stand.'
He placed himself at right angle w=
ith
his visitors, his worn look of intellectual eagerness, slight frame, and ru=
sty
attire, making an odd contrast with their flourishing persons, unblemished
costume, and comfortable freedom from excitement. The group was fairly typi=
cal
of the difference between the men who are animated by ideas and the men who=
are
expected to apply them. Then he drew forth his spectacles, and began to rub
them with the thin end of his coat-tail. He was inwardly exercising great
self-mastery - suppressing the thought of his personal needs, which Jermyn's
presence tended to suggest, in order that he might be equal to the larger
duties of this occasion.
'I am aware - Mr Jermyn has told m=
e,'
said Harold, 'what good service you have done me already, Mr Lyon. The fact=
is,
a man of intellect like you was especially needed in my case. The race I am
running is really against Garstin only, who calls himself a Liberal, though=
he
cares for nothing, and understands nothing, except the interests of the wea=
lthy
traders. And you have been able to explain the difference between Liberal a=
nd
Liberal, which, as you and I know, is something like the difference between
fish and fish.'
'Your comparison is not unapt, sir=
,'
said Mr Lyon, still holding his spectacles in his hand, 'at this epoch, when
the mind of the nation has been strained on the passing of one measure. Whe=
re a
great weight has to be moved, we require not so much selected instruments as
abundant horse-power. But it is an unavoidable evil of these massive
achievements that they encourage a coarse undiscriminatingness obstructive =
of
more nicely-wrought results, and an exaggerated expectation inconsistent wi=
th
the intricacies of our fallen and struggling condition. I say not that
compromise is unnecessary, but it is an evil attendant on our imperfection;=
and
I would pray every one to mark that, where compromise broadens, intellect a=
nd
conscience are thrust into narrower room. Wherefore it has been my object to
show our people that there are many who have helped to draw the car of Refo=
rm,
whose ends are but partial, and who forsake not the ungodly principle of se=
lfish
alliances, but would only substitute Syria for Egypt - thinking chiefly of
their own share in peacocks, gold, and ivory.'
'Just so,' said Harold, who was qu=
ick
at new languages, and still quicker at translating other men's generalities
into his own special and immediate purposes, 'men who will be satisfied if =
they
can only bring in a plutocracy, buy up the land, and stick the old crests on
their new gateways. Now the practical point to secure against these false
Liberals at present is, that our electors should not divide their votes. As=
it
appears that many who vote for Debarry are likely to split their votes in
favour of Garstin, it is of the first consequence that my voters should giv=
e me
plumpers. If they divide their votes they can't keep out Debarry, and they =
may
help to keep out me. I feel some confidence in asking you to use your influ=
ence
in this direction, Mr Lyon. We candidates have to praise ourselves more tha=
n is
graceful; but you are aware that, while I belong by my birth to the classes
that have their roots in tradition and all the old loyalties, my experience=
has
lain chiefly among those who make their own career, and depend on the new
rather than the old. I have had the advantage of considering national welfa=
re
under varied lights: I have wider views than those of a mere cotton lord. On
questions connected with religious liberty I would stop short at no measure
that was not thorough.'
'I hope not, sir - I hope not,' sa=
id
Mr Lyon, gravely; finally putting on his spectacles and examining the face =
of
the candidate, whom he was preparing to turn into a catechumen. For the good
Rufus, conscious of his political importance as an organ of persuasion, fel=
t it
his duty to catechise a little, and also to do his part towards impressing a
probable legislator with a sense of his responsibility. But the latter bran=
ch
of duty somewhat obstructed the catechising, for his mind was so urged by
considerations which he held in danger of being overlooked, that the questi=
ons
and answers bore a very slender proportion to his exposition. It was imposs=
ible
to leave the question of church-rates without noting the grounds of their
injustice, and without a brief enumeration of reasons why Mr Lyon, for his =
own
part, would not present that passive resistance to a legal imposition which=
had
been adopted by the Friends (whose heroism in this regard was nevertheless
worthy of all honour).
Comprehensive talkers are apt to be
tiresome when we are not athirst for information, but, to be quite fair, we
must admit that superior reticence is a good deal due to the lack of matter.
Speech is often barren; but silence also does not necessarily brood over a =
full
nest. Your still fowl, blinking at you without remark, may all the while be
sitting on one addled nest-egg; and when it takes to cackling, will have
nothing to announce but that addled delusion.
Harold Transome was not at all a
patient man, but in matters of business he was quite awake to his cue, and =
in
this case it was perhaps easier to listen than to answer questions. But Jer=
myn,
who had plenty of work on his hands, took an opportunity of rising, and say=
ing,
as he looked at his watch -
'I must really be at the office in
five minutes. You will find me there, Mr Transome; you have probably still =
many
things to say to Mr Lyon.'
'I beseech you, sir,' said the
minister, changing colour, and by a quick movement laying his hand on Jermy=
n's
arm - 'I beseech you to favour me with an interview on some private busines=
s -
this evening, if it were possible.'
Mr Lyon, like others who are habit=
ually
occupied with impersonal subjects, was liable to this impulsive sort of act=
ion.
He snatched at the details of life as if they were darting past him - as if
they were like the ribbons at his knees, which would never be tied all day =
if
they were not tied on the instant. Through these spasmodic leaps out of his
abstractions into real life, it constantly happened that he suddenly took a
course which had been the subject of too much doubt with him ever to have b=
een
determined on by continuous thought. And if Jermyn had not startled him by
threatening to vanish just when he was plunged in politics, he might never =
have
made up his mind to confide in a worldly attorney.
('An odd man,' as Mrs Muscat obser=
ved,
'to have such a gift in the pulpit. But there's One knows better than we do=
-'
which, in a lady who rarely felt her judgment at a loss, was a concession t=
hat
showed much piety.)
Jermyn was surprised at the little
man's eagemess. 'By all means,' he answered, quite cordially. 'Could you co=
me
to my office at eight o'dock?'
'For several reasons, I must beg y=
ou
to come to me.'
'O, very good. I'll walk out and s=
ee
you this evening, if possible. I shall have much pleasure in being of any u=
se
to you.' Jermyn felt that in the eyes of Harold he was appearing all the mo=
re
valuable when his services were thus in request. He went out, and Mr Lyon
easily relapsed into politics, for he had been on the brink of a favourite
subject on which he was at issue with his fellow-Liberals.
At that time, when faith in the
efficacy of political change was at fever-heat in ardent Reformers, many
measures which men are still discussing with little confidence on either si=
de,
were then talked about and disposed of like property in near reversion. Cry=
ing
abuses - 'bloated paupers', 'bloated pluralists', and other corruptions
hindering men from being wise and happy - had to be fought against and slai=
n.
Such a time is a time of hope. Afterwards, when the corpses of those monste=
rs
have been held up to the public wonder and abhorrence, and yet wisdom and
happiness do not follow, but rather a more abundant breeding of the foolish=
and
unhappy, comes a time of doubt and despondency. But in the great Reform year
hope was mighty: the prospect of reform had even served the voters instead =
of
drink; and in one place, at least, there had been a 'dry election'. And now=
the
speakers at Reform banquets were exuberant in congratulation and promise:
Liberal clergymen of the Establishment toasted Liberal Catholic clergymen
without any allusion to scarlet, and Catholic clergymen replied with a like
tender reserve. Some dwelt on the abolition of all abuses, and on millennial
blessedness generally; others, whose imaginations were less suffused with
exhalations of the dawn, insisted chiefly on the ballot-box.
Now on this question of the ballot=
the
minister strongly took the negative side. Our pet opinions are usually those
which place us in a minority of a minority amongst our own party: - very
happily, else those poor opinions, born with no silver spoon in their mouth=
s -
how would they get nourished and fed? So it was with Mr Lyon and his object=
ion
to the ballot. But he had thrown out a remark on the subject which was not
quite clear to his hearer, who interpreted it according to his best calcula=
tion
of probabilities.
'I have no objection to the ballot=
,'
said Harold, 'but I think that is not the sort of thing we have to work at =
just
now. We shouldn't get it. And other questions are imminent.'
'Then, sir, you would vote for the
ballot?' said Mr Lyon, stroking his chin.
'Certainly, if the point came up. I
have too much respect for the freedom of the voter to oppose anything which
offers a chance of making that freedom more complete.'
Mr Lyon looked at the speaker with=
a
pitying smile and a subdued 'h'm - m - m', which Harold took for a sign of
satisfaction. He was soon undeceived.
'You grieve me, sir; you grieve me
much. And I pray you to reconsider this question, for it will take you to t=
he
root, as I think, of political morality. I engage to show to any impartial
mind, duly furnished with the principles of public and private rectitude, t=
hat
the ballot would be pernicious, and that if it were not pernicious it would
still be futile. I will show, first, that it would be futile as a preservat=
ive
from bribcry and illegitimate influence; and, secondly, that it would be in=
the
worst kind pernicious, as shutting the door against those influences whereby
the soul of a man and the character of a citizen are duly educated for their
great functions. Be not alarmed if I detain you, sir. It is well worth the
while.'
'Confound this old man,' thought
Harold. 'I'll never make a canvassing call on a preacher again, unless he h=
as
lost his voice from a cold.' He was going to excuse himself as prudently as=
he
could, by deferring the subject till the morrow, and inviting Mr Lyon to co=
me
to him in the committee-room before the time appointed for his public speec=
h;
but he was relieved by the opening of the door. Lyddy put in her head to sa=
y -
'If you please! sir, here's Mr Holt wants to know if he may come in and speak to the gentleman. He begs your pardon, but you're to say ‘no’ if you don't like him to come.'<= o:p>
'Nay, show him in at once, Lyddy. A
young man,' Mr Lyon went on, speaking to Harold, 'whom a representative oug=
ht
to know - no voter, but a man of ideas and study.'
'He is thoroughly welcome,' said
Harold, truthfully enough, though he felt little interest in the voteless m=
an
of ideas except as a diversion from the subject of the ballot. He had been
standing for the last minute or two, feeling less of a victim in that attit=
ude,
and more able to calculate on means of escape.
'Mr Holt, sir,' said the minister,=
as
Felix entered, 'is a young friend of mine, whose opinions on some points I =
hope
to see altered, but who has a zeal for public justice which I trust he will
never lose.'
'I am glad to see Mr Holt,' said
Harold, bowing. He perceived from the way in which Felix bowed to him and
turned to the most distant spot in the room, that the candidate's shake of =
the
hand would not be welcome here. 'A formidable fellow,' he thought, 'capable=
of
mounting a cart in the market-place to-morrow and cross-examining me, if I =
say
anything that doesn't please him.'
'Mr Lyon,' said Felix, 'I have tak=
en a
liberty with you in asking to see Mr Transome when he is engaged with you. =
But
I have to speak to him on a matter which I shouldn't care to make public at
present, and it is one on which I am sure you will back me. I heard that Mr
Transome was here, so I ventured to come. I hope you will both excuse me, a=
s my
business refers to some electioneering measures which are being taken by Mr
Transome's agents.' 'Pray go on,' said Harold, expecting something unpleasa=
nt.
'I'm not going to speak against
treating voters,' said Felix; 'I suppose buttered ale, and grease of that s=
ort
to make the wheels go, belong to the necessary humbug of representation. Bu=
t I
wish to ask you, Mr Transome, whether it is with your knowledge that agents=
of
yours are bribing rough fellows who are no voters - the colliers and navvie=
s at
Sproxton - with the chance of extra drunkenness, that they may make a posse=
on
your side at the nomination and polling?'
'Certainly not,' said Harold. 'You=
are
aware, my dear sir, that a candidate is very much at the mercy of his agent=
s as
to the means by which he is returned, especially when many years' absence h=
as
made him a stranger to the men actually conducting business. But are you su=
re
of your facts?'
'As sure as my senses can make me,'
said Felix, who then briefly described what had happened on Sunday. 'I beli=
eved
that you were ignorant of all this, Mr Transome,' he ended, 'and that was w=
hy I
thought some good might be done by speaking to you. If not, I should be tem=
pted
to expose the whole affair as a disgrace to the Radical party. I'm a Radical
myself, and mean to work all my life long against privilege, monopoly, and
oppression. But I would rather be a livery-servant proud of my master's tit=
le,
than I would seem to make common cause with scoundrels who turn the best ho=
pes
of men into by-words for cant and dishonesty.'
'Your energetic protest is needless
here, sir,' said Harold, offended at what sounded like a threat, and was
certainly premature enough to be in bad taste. In fact, this error of behav=
iour
in Felix proceeded from a repulsion which was mutual. It was a constant sou=
rce
of irritation to him that the public men on his side were, on the whole, not
conspicuously better than the public men on the other side; that the spirit=
of
innovation, which with him was a part of religion, was in many of its
mouthpieces no more of a religion than the faith in rotten boroughs; and he=
was
thus predisposed to distrust Harold Transome. Harold, in his turn, disliked
impracticable notions of loftiness and purity - disliked all enthusiasm; an=
d he
thought he saw a very troublesome, vigorous incorporation of that nonsense =
in
Felix. But it would be foolish to exasperate him in any way.
'If you choose to accompany me to
Jermyn's office,' he went on, 'the matter shall be inquired into in your
presence. I think you will agree with me, Mr Lyon, that this will be the mo=
st
satisfactory course?'
'Doubtless,' said the minister, who
liked the candidate very well, and believed that he would be amenable to
argument; 'and I would caution my young friend against a too great hastines=
s of
words and action. David's cause against Saul was a righteous one; neverthel=
ess
not all who clave unto David were righteous men.'
'The more was the pity, sir,' said
Felix. 'Especially if he winked at their malpractices.'
Mr Lyon smiled, shook his head, and
stroked his favourite's arm deprecatingly.
'It is rather too much for any man=
to
keep the consciences of all his party,' said Harold. 'If you had lived in t=
he
East, as I have, you would be more tolerant. More tolerant, for example, of=
an
active industrious selfishness, such as we have here, though it may not alw=
ays
be quite scrupulous: you would see how much better it is than an idle
selfishness. I have heard it said, a bridge is a good thing - worth helping=
to
make, though half the men who worked at it were rogues.'
'O yes I ' said Felix, scornfully,
'give me a handful of generalities and analogies, and I'll undertake to jus=
tify
Burke and Hare, and prove them benefactors of their species. I'll tolerate =
no
nuisances but such as I can't help; and the question now is, not whether we=
can
do away with all the nuisances in the world, but with a particular nuisance
under our noses.'
'Then we had better cut the matter
short, as I propose, by going at once to Jermyn's,' said Harold. 'In that c=
ase,
I must bid you good-morning, Mr Lyon.'
'I would fain,' said the minister,
looking uneasy - 'I would fain have had a further opportunity of considering
that question of the ballot with you. The reasons against it need not be ur=
ged
lengthily; they only require complete enumeration to prevent any seeming
hiatus, where an opposing fallacy might thrust itself in.'
'Never fear, sir,' said Harold,
shaking Mr Lyon's hand cordially, 'there will be opportunities. Shall I not=
see
you in the committee-room to-morrow?'
'I think not,' said Mr Lyon, rubbi=
ng
his brow, with a sad remembrance of his personal anxieties. 'But I will send
you, if you will permit me, a brief writing, on which you can meditate at y=
our
leisure.'
'I shall be delighted. Good-bye.'<= o:p>
Harold and Felix went out together;
and the minister, going up to his dull study, asked himself whether, under =
the
pressure of conflicting experience, he had faithfully discharged the duties=
of
the past interview?
If a cynical sprite were present,
riding on one of the motes in that dusty room, he may have made himself mer=
ry
at the illusions of the little minister who brought so much conscience to b=
ear
on the production of so slight an effect. I confess to smiling myself, being
sceptical as to the effect of ardent appeals and nice distinctions on gentl=
emen
who are got up, both inside and out, as candidates in the style of the peri=
od;
but I never smiled at Mr Lyon's trustful energy without falling to penitence
and veneration immediately after. For what we call illusions are often, in
truth, a wider vision of past and present realities - a willing movement of=
a
man's soul with the larger sweep of the world's forces - a movement towards=
a
more assured end than the chances of a single life. We see human heroism br=
oken
into units and say, this unit did little - might as well not have been. But=
in
this way we might break up a great army into units; in this way we might br=
eak
the sunlight into fragments, and think that this and the other might be che=
aply
parted with. Let us rather raise a monument to the soldiers whose brave hea=
rts
only kept the ranks unbroken, and met death - a monument to the faithful who
were not famous, and who are precious as the continuity of the sunbeams is
precious, though some of them fall unseen and on barrenness.
At present, looking back on that d=
ay
at Treby, it seems to me that the sadder illusion lay with Harold Transome,=
who
was trusting in his own skill to shape the success of his own morrows, igno=
rant
of what many yesterdays had determined for him beforehand.
It is a good and soothfast saw;
Half-roasted never will be raw;
No dough is dried once more to mea=
l
No crock new-shapen by the wheel;<= o:p>
You can't turn curds to milk again=
,
Nor Now, by wishing, back to Then;=
And having tasted stolen honey,
You can't buy innocence for money.=
JERMYN was not particularly pleased
that some chance had apparently hindered Harold Transome from making other
canvassing visits immediately after leaving Mr Lyon, and so had sent him ba=
ck
to the office earlier than he had been expected to come. The inconvenient
chance he guessed at once to be represented by Felix Holt, whom he knew very
well by Trebian report to be a young man with so little of the ordinary
Christian motives as to making an appearance and getting on in the world, t=
hat
he presented no handle to any judicious and respectable person who might be
willing to make use of him.
Harold Transome, on his side, was a
good deal annoyed at being worried by Felix into an inquiry about
electioneering details. The real dignity and honesty there was in him made =
him
shrink from this necessity of satisfying a man with a troublesome tongue; it
was as if he were to show indignation at the discovery of one barrel with a
false bottom, when he had invested his money in a manufactory where a large=
r or
smaller number of such barrels had always been made. A practical man must s=
eek
a good end by the only possible means; that is to say, if he is to get into
parliament he must not be too particular. It was not disgraceful to be neit=
her
a Quixote nor a theorist, aiming to correct the moral rules of the world; b=
ut
whatever actually was, or might prove to be, disgraceful, Harold held in
detestation. In this mood he pushed on unceremoniously to the inner office
without waiting to ask questions; and when he perceived that Jermyn was not
alone, he said, with haughty quickness -
'A question about the electioneeri=
ng
at Sproxton. Can you give your attention to it at once? Here is Mr Holt, who
has come to me about the business.'
'A - yes - a - certainly,' said
Jermyn, who, as usual, was the more cool and deliberate because he was vexe=
d.
He was standing, and, as he turned round, his broad figure concealed the pe=
rson
who was seated writing at the bureau. 'Mr Holt - a - will doubtless - a - m=
ake
a point of saving a busy man's time. You can speak at once. This gentleman'=
-
here Jermyn made a slight backward movement of his head - 'is one of oursel=
ves;
he is a true-blue.'
'I have simply to complain,' said
Felix, 'that one of your agents has been sent on a bribing expedition to
Sproxton - with what purpose you, sir, may know better than I do. Mr Transo=
me,
it appears, was ignorant of the affair, and does not approve it.'
Jermyn, looking gravely and steadi=
ly
at Felix while he was speaking, at the same time drew forth a small sheaf of
papers from his side-pocket, and then, as he turned his eyes slowly on Haro=
ld,
felt in his waistcoat-pocket for his pencil-case.
'I don't approve it at all,' said
Harold, who hated Jermyn's calculated slowness and conceit in his own
impenetrability. 'Be good enough to put a stop to it, will you?'
'Mr Holt, I know, is an excellent
Liberal,' said Jermyn, just inclining his head to Harold, and then alternat=
ely
looking at Felix and docketing his bills; 'but he is perhaps too inexperien=
ced
to be aware that no canvass - a - can be conducted without the action of ab=
le
men, who must - a - be trusted, and not interfered with. And as to any
possibility of promising to put a stop - a - to any procedure - a - that
depends. If he had ever held the coachman's ribbons in his hands, as I have=
in
my younger days - a - he would know that stopping is not always easy.'
'I know very little about holding ribbons,' said Felix; 'but I saw clearly enough at once that more mischief = had been done than could be well mended. Though I believe, if it were heartily tried, the treating might be reduced, and something might be done to hinder= the men from turning out in a body to make a noise, which might end in worse.'<= o:p>
'They might be hindered from makin=
g a
noise on our side,' said Jermyn, smiling. 'That is perfectly true. But if t=
hey
made a noise on the other - would your purpose be answered better, sir?'
Harold was moving about in an
irritated manner while Felix and Jermyn were speaking. He preferred leaving=
the
talk to the attorney, of whose talk he himself liked to keep as clear as
possible.
'I can only say,' answered Felix,
'that if you make use of those heavy fellows when the drink is in them, I
shouldn't like your responsibility. You might as well drive bulls to roar on
our side as bribe a set of colliers and navvies to shout and groan.'
'A lawyer may well envy your comma=
nd
of language, Mr Holt,' said Jermyn, pocketing his bills again, and shutting=
up
his pencil; 'but he would not be satisfied with the accuracy - a - of your
terms. You must permit me to check your use of the word ‘bribery̵=
7;.
The essence of bribery is, that it should be legally proved; there is not s=
uch
a thing - a - in rerum natura - a - as unproved bribery. There has been no =
such
thing as bribery at Sproxton, I'll answer for it. The presence of a body of
stalwart fellows on - a - the Liberal side will tend to preserve order; for=
we
know that the benefit clubs from the Pitchley district will show for Debarr=
y.
Indeed, the gentleman who has conducted the canvass at Sproxton is experien=
ced
in parliamentary affairs, and would not exceed - a - the necessary measures
that a rational judgment would dictate!'
'What! you mean the man who calls
himself Johnson?' said Felix, in a tone of disgust.
Before Jermyn chose to answer, Har=
old
broke in, saying, quickly and peremptorily, 'The long and short of it is th=
is,
Mr Holt: I shall desire and insist that whatever can be done by way of reme=
dy
shall be done. Will that satisfy you? You see now some of a candidate's
difficulties?' said Harold, breaking into his most agreeable smile. 'I hope=
you
will have some pity for me.'
'I suppose I must be content,' said
Felix, not thoroughly propitiated. 'I bid you good-morning, gentlemen.'
When he was gone out, and had clos=
ed
the door behind him, Harold, turning round and flashing, in spite of himsel=
f,
an angry look at Jermyn, said -
'And who is Johnson? an alias, I
suppose. It seems you are fond of the name.'
Jermyn turned perceptibly paler, b=
ut
disagreeables of this sort between himself and Harold had been too much in =
his
anticipations of late for him to be taken by surprise. He turned quietly ro=
und
and just touched the shoulder of the person seated at the bureau, who now r=
ose.
'On the contrary,' Jermyn answered,
'the Johnson in question is this gentleman, whom I have the pleasure of
introducing to you as one of my most active helpmates in electioneering
business - Mr Johnson, of Bedford Row, London. I am comparatively a novice =
- a
- in these matters. But he was engaged with James Putty in two hardly-conte=
sted
elections, and there could scarcely be a better initiation. Putty is one of=
the
first men of the country as an agent - a - on the Liberal side - a - eh,
Johnson? I think Makepiece is - a - not altogether a match for him, not qui=
te
of the same calibre - a - haud consimili ingenio - a - in tactics - a - and=
in
experience?'
'Makepiece is a wonderful man, and=
so
is Putty,' said the glib Johnson, too vain not to be pleased with an
opportunity of speaking, even when the situation was rather awkward. 'Makep=
iece
for scheming, but Putty for management. Putty knows men, sir,' he went on,
turning to Harold; 'it's a thousand pities that you have not had his talents
employed in your service. He's beyond any man for saving a candidate's mone=
y -
does half the work with his tongue. He'll talk of anything, from the Areopa=
gus,
and that sort of thing, down to the joke about ‘Where are you going,
Paddy?’ - you know what I mean, sir! ‘Back again, says Paddy=
217;
- an excellent electioneering joke. Putty understands these things. He has =
said
to me, ‘Johnson, bear in mind there are two ways of speaking an audie=
nce
will always like: one is, to tell them what they don't understand; and the
other is, to tell them what they're used to.’ I shall never be the ma=
n to
deny that I owe a great deal to Putty. I always say it was a most provident=
ial
thing in the Mugham election last year that Putty was not on the Tory side.=
He
managed the women; and if you'll believe me, sir, one fourth of the men wou=
ld
never have voted if their wives hadn't driven them to it for the good of th=
eir
families. And as for speaking - it's currently reported in our London circl=
es
that Putty writes regularly for the Times. He has that kind of language; an=
d I
needn't tell you, Mr Transome, that it's the apex, which, I take it, means =
the
tiptop - and nobody can get higher than that, I think. I've belonged to a
political debating society myself; I've heard a little language in my time;=
but
when Mr Jermyn first spoke to me about having the honour to assist in your
canvass of North Loamshire' - here Johnson played with his watch-seals and
balanced himself a moment on his toes - 'the very first thing I said was, &=
#8216;And
there's Garstin has got Putty! No Whig could stand against a Whig,’ I
said, ‘who had Putty on his side: I hope Mr Transome goes in for
something of a deeper colour.’ I don't say that, as a general rule,
opinions go for much in a return, Mr Transome; it depends on who are in the
field before you, and on the skill of your agents. But as a Radical, and a
moneyed Radical, you are in a fine position, sir; and with care and judgmen=
t -
with care and judgment -'
It had been impossible to interrupt
Johnson before, without the most impolite rudeness. Jermyn was not sorry th=
at
he should talk, even if he made a fool of himself; for in that solid shape,
exhibiting the average amount of human foibles, he seemed less of the alias
which Harold had insinuated him to be, and had all the additional plausibil=
ity
of a lie with a circumstance.
Harold had thrown himself with
contemptuous resignation into a chair, had drawn off one of his buff gloves,
and was looking at his hand. But when Johnson gave his iteration with a
slightly slackened pace, Harold looked up at him and broke in -
'Well, then, Mr Johnson, I shall be
glad if you will use your care and judgment in putting an end as well as you
can to this Sproxton affair; else it may turn out an ugly business.'
'Excuse me, sir, I must beg you to look at the matter a little more closely. You will see that it is impossibl= e to take a single step backward at Sproxton. It was a matter of necessity to get the Sproxton men; else I know to a certainty the other side would have laid hold of them first, and now I've undermined Garstin's people. They'll use t= heir authority, and give a little shabby treating, but I've taken all the wind o= ut of their sails. But if, by your orders, I or Mr Jermyn here were to break promise with the honest fellows, and offend Chubb the publican, what would = come of it? Chubb would leave no stone unturned against you, sir; he would egg on his customers against you; the colliers and navvies would be at the nominat= ion and at the election all the same, or rather not all the same, for they woul= d be there against us; and instead of hustling people good-humouredly by way of a joke, and counterbalancing Debarry's cheers, they'd help to kick the cheeri= ng and the voting out of our men, and instead of being, let us say, half-a-doz= en ahead of Garstin, you'd be half-a-dozen behind him, that's all. I speak pla= in English to you, Mr Transome, though I've the highest respect for you as a gentleman of first-rate talents and position. But, sir, to judge of these things a man must know the English voter and the English publican; and it w= ould be a poor tale indeed' - here Mr Johnson's mouth took an expression at once bitter and pathetic - 'that a gentleman like you, to say nothing of the goo= d of the country, should have gone to the expense and trouble of a canvass for nothing but to find himself out of parliament at the end of it. I've seen it again and again; it looks bad in the cleverest man to have to sing small.'<= o:p>
Mr Johnson's argument was not the =
less
stringent because his idioms were vulgar. It requires a conviction and
resolution amounting to heroism not to wince at phrases that class our
foreshadowed endurance among those common and ignominious troubles which the
world is more likely to sneer at than to pity. Harold remained a few moment=
s in
angry silence looking at the floor, with one hand on his knee, and the othe=
r on
his hat, as if he were preparing to start up.
'As to undoing anything that's been done down there,' said Johnson, throwing in this observation as something i= nto the bargain, 'I must wash my hands of it, sir. I couldn't work knowingly against your interest. And that young man who is just gone out, - you don't believe that he need be listened to, I hope? Chubb, the publican, hates him. Chubb would guess he was at the bottom of your having the treating stopped,= and he'd set half-a-dozen of the colliers to duck him in the canal, or break hi= s head by mistake. I'm an experienced man, sir. I hope I've put it clear enough.'<= o:p>
'Certainly, the exposition befits =
the
subject,' said Harold, scornfully, his dislike of the man Johnson's persona=
lity
being stimulated by causes which Jermyn more than conjectured. 'It's a damn=
ed,
unpleasant, ravelled business that you and Mr Jermyn have knit up between y=
ou.
I've no more to say.'
'Then, sir, if you've no more
commands, I don't wish to intrude. I shall wish you good-morning, sir,' said
Johnson, passing out quickly.
Harold knew that he was indulging =
his
temper, and he would probably have restrained it as a foolish move if he had
thought there was great danger in it. But he was beginning to drop much of =
his
caution and self-mastery where Jermyn was concerned, under the growing
conviction that the attorney had very strong reasons for being afraid of hi=
m;
reasons which would only be reinforced by any action hostile to the Transome
interest. As for a sneak like this Johnson, a gendeman had to pay him, not =
to
please him. Harold had smiles at command in the right place, but he was not
going to smile when it was neither necessary nor agreeable. He was one of t=
hose
good-humoured, yet energetic men, who have the gift of anger, hatred, and s=
com
upon occasion, though they are too healthy and selfcontented for such feeli=
ngs
to get generated in them without external occasion. And in relation to Jerm=
yn
the gift was coming into fine exercise.
'A - pardon me, Mr Harold,' said
Jermyn, speaking as soon as Johnson went out, 'but I am sorry - a - you sho=
uld
behave disobligingly to a man who has it in his power to do much service - =
who,
in fact, holds many threads in his hands. I admit that - a - nemo mortalium
omnibus horis sapit, as we say - a -'
'Speak for yourself,' said Harold.=
'I
don't talk in tags of Latin, which might be learned by a schoolmaster's
footboy. I find the King's English express my meaning better.'
'In the King's English, then,' said
Jermyn who could be idiomatic enough when he was stung, 'a candidate should
keep his kicks till he's a member.'
'O, I suppose Johnson will bear a =
kick
if you bid him. You're his principal, I believe.'
'Certainly, thus far - a - he is my
London agent. But he is a man of substance, and -'
'I shall know what he is if it's
necessary, I daresay. But I must jump into the carriage again. I've no time=
to
lose; I must go to Hawkins at the factory. Will you go?'
When Harold was gone, Jermyn's
handsome face gathered blackness. He hardly ever wore his worst expression =
in
the presence of others, and but seldom when he was alone, for he was not gi=
ven
to believe that any game would ultimately go against him. His luck had been
good. New conditions might always turn up to give him new chances; and if
affairs threatened to come to an extremity between Harold and himself, he
trusted to finding some sure resource.
'He means to see to the bottom of
everything if he can, that's quite plain,' said Jermyn to himself. 'I belie=
ve
he has been getting another opinion; he has some new light about those
annuities on the estate that are held in Johnson's name. He has inherited a
deuced faculty for business - there's no denying that. But I shall beg leav=
e to
tell him that I've propped up the family. I don't know where they would have
been without me; and if it comes to balancing, I know into which scale the
gratitude ought to go. Not that he's likely to feel any - but he can feel
something else; and if he makes signs of setting the dogs on me, I shall ma=
ke
him feel it. The people named Transome owe me a good deal more than I owe t=
hem.'
In this way Mr Jermyn inwardly
appealed against an unjust construction which he foresaw that his old
acquaintance the Law might put on certain items in his history.
I have known persons who have been
suspected of undervaluing gratitude, and excluding it from the list of virt=
ues;
but on closer observation it has been seen that, if they have never felt
grateful, it has been for want of an opportunity; and that, far from despis=
ing
gratitude, they regard it as the virtue most of all incumbent - on others t=
owards
them.
'The little, nameless, unremembered
acts
Of kindness and of love.'
WORDSWVORTH: Tintern Abbey.
JERMYN did not forget to pay his v=
isit
to the minister in Malthouse Yard that evening. The mingled irritation, dre=
ad,
and defiance which he was feeling towards Harold Transome in the middle of =
the
day, depended on too many and far-stretching causes to be dissipated by eig=
ht
o'clock; but when he left Mr Lyon's house he was in a state of comparative
triumph in the belief that he, and he alone, was now in possession of facts
which, once grouped together, made a secret that gave him new power over
Harold.
Mr Lyon, in his need for help from=
one
who had that wisdom of the serpent which, he argued, is not forbidden, but =
is
only of hard acquirement to dove-like innocence, had been gradually led to =
pour
out to the attorney all the reasons which made him desire to know the truth
about the man who called himself Maurice Christian: he had shown all the
precious relics, the locket, the letters, and the marriage certificate. And
Jermyn had comforted him by confidently promising to ascertain, without sca=
ndal
or premature betrayals, whether this man were really Annette's husband, Mau=
rice
Christian Bycliffe.
Jermyn was not rash in making this
promise, since he had excellent reasons for believing that he had already c=
ome
to a true conclusion on the subject. But he wished both to know a little mo=
re
of this man himself, and to keep Mr Lyon in ignorance - not a difficult
precaution - in an affair which it cost the minister so much pain to speak =
of.
An easy opportunity of getting an interview with Christian was sure to offer
itself before long - might even offer itself to-morrow. Jermyn had seen him
more than once, though hitherto without any reason for observing him with
interest; he had heard that Philip Debarry's courier was often busy in the
town, and it seemed especially likely that he would be seen there when the
market was to be agitated by politics, and the new candidate was to show his
paces.
The world of which Treby Magna was=
the
centre was naturally curious to see the young Transome, who had come from t=
he
East, was as rich as a Jew, and called himself a Radical; characteristics a=
ll
equally vague in the minds of various excellent ratepayers, who drove to ma=
rket
in their taxed carts, or in their hereditary gigs. Places at convenient win=
dows
had been secured beforehand for a few best bonnets; but, in general, a Radi=
cal
candidate excited no ardent feminine partisanship, even among the Dissenter=
s in
Treby, if they were of the prosperous and longresident class. Some chapel-g=
oing
ladies were fond of remembering that 'their family had been Church'; others
objected to politics altogether as having spoiled old neighbourliness, and
sundered friends who had kindred views as to cowslip wine and Michaelmas
cleaning; others, of the melancholy sort, said it would be well if people w=
ould
think less of reforming parliament and more of pleasing God. Irreproachable
Dissenting matrons, like Mrs Muscat, whose youth had been passed in a
short-waisted bodice and tight skirt, had never been animated by the strugg=
le
for liberty, and had a timid suspicion that religion was desecrated by being
applied to the things of this world. Since Mr Lyon had been in Malthouse Ya=
rd
there had been far too much mixing up of politics with religion; but, at any
rate, these ladies had never yet been to hear speechifying in the market-pl=
ace,
and they were not going to begin that practice.
Esther, however, had heard some of=
her
feminine acquaintances say that they intended to sit at the druggist's upper
window, and she was inclined to ask her father if he could think of a suita=
ble
place where she also might see and hear. Two inconsistent motives urged her.
She knew that Felix cared earnestly for all public questions, and she suppo=
sed
that he held it one of her deficiencies not to care about them: well, she w=
ould
try to learn the secret of this ardour, which was so strong in him that it
animated what she thought the dullest form of life. She was not too stupid =
to
find it out. But this self-correcting motive was presently displaced by a
motive of a different sort. It had been a pleasant variety in her monotonous
days to see a man like Harold Transome, with a distinguished appearance and
polished manners, and she would like to see him again: he suggested to her =
that
brighter and more luxurious life on which her imagination dwelt without the
painful effort it required to conceive the mental condition which would pla=
ce
her in complete sympathy with Felix Holt. It was this less unaccustomed
prompting of which she was chiefly conscious when she awaited her father's
coming down to breakfast. Why, indeed, should she trouble herself so much a=
bout
Felix?
Mr Lyon, more serene now that he h=
ad
unbosomed his anxieties and obtained a promise of help, was already swimmin=
g so
happily in the deep water of polemics in expectation of Philip Debarry's an=
swer
to his challenge, that, in the occupation of making a few notes lest certain
felicitous inspirations should be wasted, he had forgotten to come down to
breakfast. Esther, suspecting his abstraction, went up to his study, and fo=
und
him at his desk looking up with wonder at her interruption.
'Come, father, you have forgotten =
your
breakfast.'
'It is true, child; I will come,' =
he
said, lingering to make some final strokes.
'O you naughty father!' said Esthe=
r,
as he got up from his chair, 'your coat-collar is twisted, your waistcoat is
buttoned all wrong, and you have not brushed your hair. Sit down and let me
brush it again as I did yesterday.'
He sat down obediently, while Esth=
er
took a towel, which she threw over his shoulders, and then brushed the thick
long fringe of soft auburn hair. This very trifling act, which she had brou=
ght
herself to for the first time yesterday, meant a great deal in Esther's lit=
tle
history. It had been her habit to leave the mending of her father's clothes=
to
Lyddy; she had not liked even to touch his cloth garments; still less had it
seemed a thing she would willingly undertake to correct his toilette, and u=
se a
brush for him. But having once done this, under her new sense of faulty
omission, the affectionateness that was in her flowed so pleasantly, as she=
saw
how much her father was moved by what he thought a great act of tenderness,
that she quite longed to repeat it. This morning, as he sat under her hands,
his face had such a calm delight in it that she could not help kissing the =
top
of his bald head; and afterwards, when they were seated at breakfast, she s=
aid,
merrily -
'Father, I shall make a petit mait=
re
of you by-and-by; your hair looks so pretty and silken when it is well
brushed.'
'Nay, child, I trust that while I
would willingly depart from my evil habit of a somewhat slovenly forgetfuln=
ess
in my attire, I shall never arrive at the opposite extreme. For though ther=
e is
that in apparel which pleases the eye, and I deny not that your neat gown a=
nd
the colour thereof - which is that of certain little flowers that spread
themselves in the hedgerows, and make a blueness there as of the sky when i=
t is
deepened in the water, - I deny not, I say, that these minor strivings afte=
r a
perfection which is, as it were, an irrecoverable yet haunting memory, are a
good in their proportion. Nevertheless, the brevity of our life, and the hu=
rry
and crush of the great battle with error and sin, often oblige us to an adv=
ised
neglect of what is less momentous This, I conceive, is the principle on whi=
ch
my friend Felix Holt acts; and I cannot but think the light comes from the =
true
fount, though it shines through obstructions.'
'You have not seen Mr Holt since
Sunday, have you, father?'
'Yes; he was here yesterday. He so=
ught
Mr Transome, having a matter of some importance to speak upon with him. And=
I
saw him afterwards in the street, when he agreed that I should call for him
this morning before I go into the market-place. He will have it,' Mr Lyon w=
ent
on, smiling, 'that I must not walk about in the crowd without him to act as=
my
special constable.'
Esther felt vexed with herself that
her heart was suddenly beating with unusual quickness, and that her last
resolution not to trouble herself about what Felix thought, had transformed
itself with magic swiftness into mortification that he evidently avoided co=
ming
to the house when she was there, though he used to come on the slightest
occasion. He knew that she was always at home until the afternoon on market
days; that was the reason why he would not call for her father. Of course, =
it
was because he attributed such littleness to her that he supposed she would
retain nothing else than a feeling of offence towards him for what he had s=
aid
to her. Such distrust of any good in others, such arrogance of immeasurable
superiority, was extremely ungenerous. But presently she said -
'I should have liked to hear Mr
Transome speak, but I suppose it is too late to get a place now.'
'I am not sure; I would fain have =
you
go if you desire it, my dear,' said Mr Lyon, who could not bear to deny Est=
her
any lawful wish. 'Walk with me to Mistress Holt's, and we will learn from
Felix, who will doubtless already have been out, whether he could lead you =
in
safety to Friend Lambert's.'
Esther was glad of the proposal,
because, if it answered no other purpose, it would be an easy way of obligi=
ng
Felix to see her, and of showing him that it was not she who cherished offe=
nce.
But when, later in the morning, she was walking towards Mrs Holt's with her
father, they met Mr Jermyn, who stopped them to ask, in his most affable
manner, whether Miss Lyon intended to hear the candidate, and whether she h=
ad
secured a suitable place. And he ended by insisting that his daughters, who
were presently coming in an open carriage, should call for her, if she would
permit them. It was impossible to refuse this civility, and Esther turned b=
ack
to await the carriage, pleased with the certainty of hearing and seeing, yet
sorry to miss Felix. There was another day for her to think of him with
unsatisfied resentment, mixed with some longings for a better understanding;
and in our spring-time every day has its hidden growths in the mind, as it =
has
in the earth when the little folded blades are getting ready to pierce the
ground.
Consistency? - I never changed my
mind,
Which is, and always was, to live =
at
ease.
IT was only in the time of the sum=
mer
fairs that the market-place had ever looked more animated than it did under
that autumn mid-day sun. There were plenty of blue cockades and streamers,
faces at all the windows, and a crushing buzzing crowd, urging each other
backwards and forwards round the small hustings in front of the Ram Inn, wh=
ich
showed its more plebeian sign at right angles with the venerable Marquis of
Granby. Sometimes there were scornful shouts, sometimes a rolling cascade of
cheers, sometimes the shriek of a penny whistle; but above all these fitful=
and
feeble sounds, the fine old church-tower, which looked down from above the
trees on the other side of the narrow stream, sent vibrating, at every quar=
ter,
the sonorous tones of its great bell, the Good Queen Bess.
Two carriages, with blue ribbons on
the hamess, were conspicuous near the hustings. One was Jermyn's, filled wi=
th
the brilliantly-attired daughters, accompanied by Esther, whose quieter dre=
ss
helped to mark her out for attention as the most striking of the group. The
other was Harold Transsome's; but in this there was no lady - only the
olive-skinned Dominic, whose acute yet mild face was brightened by the
occupation of amusing little Harry and rescuing from his tyrannies a King
Charles puppy, with big eyes, much after the pattern of the boy's.
This Trebian crowd did not count f=
or
much in the political force of the nation, but it was not the less determin=
ed
as to lending or not lending its ears. No man was permitted to speak from t=
he
platform except Harold and his uncle Lingon, though, in the interval of
expectation, several Liberals had come forward. Among these ill-advised per=
sons
the one whose attempt met the most emphatic resistance was Rufus Lyon. This
might have been taken for resentment at the unreasonableness of the cloth,
that, not content with pulpits, from whence to tyrannise over the ears of m=
en,
wishes to have the larger share of the platforms; but it was not so, for Mr
Lingon was heard with much cheering, and would have been welcomed again.
The rector of Little Treby had bee=
n a
favourite in the neighbourhood since the beginning of the century. A clergy=
-man
thoroughly unclerical in his habits had a piquancy about him which made him=
a
sort of practical joke. He had always been called Jack Lingon, or Parson Ja=
ck -
sometimes, in older and less serious days, even 'Cock-fighting Jack'. He sw=
ore
a little when the point of a joke seemed to demand it, and was fond of wear=
ing
a coloured bandana tied loosely over his cravat, together with large brown
leather leggings; he spoke in a pithy familiar way that people could
understand, and had none of that frigid mincingness called dignity, which s=
ome
have thought a peculiar clerical disease. In fact, he was 'a character' -
something cheerful to think of, not entirely out of connection with Sunday =
and
sermons. And it seemed in keeping that he should have turned sharp round in
politics, his opinions being only part of the excellent joke called Parson
Jack. When his red eagle face and white hair were seen on the platform, the
Dissenters hardly cheered this questionable Radical; but to make amends, all
the Tory farmers gave him a friendly 'hurray'. 'Let's hear what old Jack wi=
ll
say for himself,' was the predominant feeling among them; 'he'll have somet=
hing
funny to say, I'll bet a penny.'
It was only Lawyer Labron's young
clerks and their hangers-on who were sufficiently dead to Trebian tradition=
s to
assail the parson with various sharp-edged interjections, such as broken
shells, and cries of 'Cock-a-doodle-doo'.
'Come now, my lads,' he began, in =
his
full, pompous, yet jovial tones, thrusting his hands into the stuffed-out
pockets of his greatcoat, 'I'll tell you what; I'm a parson, you know; I ou=
ght
to return good for evil. So here are some good nuts for you to crack in ret=
urn
for your shells.'
There was a roar of laughter and
cheering as he threw handfuls of nuts and filberts among the crowd.
'Come, now, you'll say I used to b=
e a
Tory; and some of you, whose faces I know as well as I know the head of my =
own
crab-stick, will say that's why I'm a good fellow. But now I'll tell you
something else. It's for that very reason - that I used to be a Tory, and a=
m a
good fellow - that I go along with my nephew here, who is a thoroughgoing
Liberal. For will anybody here come forward and say, ‘A good fellow h=
as
no need to tack about and change his road?’ No, there's not one of you
such a Tom-noddy. What's good for one time is bad for another. If anybody
contradicts that, ask him to eat pickled pork when he's thirsty, and to bat=
he
in the Lapp there when the spikes of ice are shooting. And that's the eason=
why
the men who are the best Liberals now are the very men who used to be the b=
est
Tories. There isn't a nastier horse than your horse that'll jib and back and
turn round when there is but one road for him to go, and that's the road be=
fore
him.
'And my nephew here - he comes of a
Tory breed, you know - I'll answer for the Lingons. In the old Tory times t=
here
was never a pup belonging to a Lingon but would howl if a Whig came near hi=
m.
The Lingon blood is good, rich old Tory blood - like good rich milk - and
that's why, when the right time comes, it throws up a Liberal cream. The be=
st
sort of Tory turns to the best sort of Radical. There's plenty of Radical s=
cum
- I say, beware of the scum, and look out for the cream. And here's my neph=
ew -
some of the cream, if there is any: none of your Whigs, none of your painted
water that looks as if it ran, and it's standing still all the while; none =
of
your spinning-jenny fellows. A gentleman; but up to all sorts of business. =
I'm
no fool myself; I'm forced to wink a good deal, for fear of seeing too much,
for a neighbourly man must let himself be cheated a little. But though I've
never been out of my own country, I know less about it than my nephew does.=
You
may tell what he is, and only look at him. There's one sort of fellow sees
nothing but the end of his own nose, and another sort that sees nothing but=
the
hinder side of the moon; but my nephew Harold is of another sort; he sees
everything that's at hitting distance, and he's not one to miss his mark. A
good-looking man in his prime! Not a greenhorn; not a shrivelled old fellow,
who'll come to speak to you and find he's left his teeth at home by mistake.
Harold Transome will do you credit; if anybody says the Radicals are a set =
of
sneaks, Brummagem halfpennies, scamps who want to play pitch and toss with =
the
property of the country, you can say, ‘Look at the member for North
Loamshire ! ‘ And mind what you'll hear him say; he'll go in for maki=
ng
everything right - Poor-laws and charities and church - he wants to reform =
'em
all. Perhaps you'll say, ‘There's that Parson Lingon talking about ch=
urch
reform - why, he belongs to the church himself - he wants reforming too.=
217;
Well, well, wait a bit, and you'll hear by-and-by that old Parson Lingon is
reformed - shoots no more cracks his joke no more, has drunk his last bottl=
e:
the dogs the old pointers, will be sorry; but you'll hear that the parson at
Little Treby is a new man. That's what church reform is sure to come to bef=
ore
long. So now here are some more nuts for you, lads, and I leave you to list=
en
to your candidate. Here he is - give him a good hurray; wave your hats, and
I'll begin. Hurray!
Harold had not been quite confident
beforehand as to the good effect of his uncle's introduction; but he was so=
on
reassured. There was no acrid partisanship among the oldfashioned Tories who
mustered strong about the Marquis of Granby, and Parson Jack had put them i=
n a
good humour. Harold's only interruption came from his own party. The orator=
ical
clerk at the factory, acting as the tribune of the dissenting interest, and
feeling bound to put questions, might have been troublesome; but his voice
being unpleasantly sharp, while Harold's was full and penetrating, the
questioning was cried down. Harold's speech 'did': it was not of the
glib-nonsensical sort, not ponderous, not hesitating - which is as much as =
to
say, that it was remarkable among British speeches. Read in print the next =
day,
perhaps it would be neither pregnant nor conclusive, which is saying no more
than that its excellence was not of an abnormal kind, but such as is usually
found in the best efforts of eloquent candidates. Accordingly the applause
drowned the opposition, and content predominated.
But, perhaps, the moment of most
diffusive pleasure from public speaking is that in which the speech ceases =
and
the audience can turn to commenting on it. The one speech, sometimes uttered
under great responsibility as to missiles and other consequences, has given=
a
text to twenty speakers who are under no responsibility. Even in the days of
duelling a man was not challenged for being a bore, nor does this quality
apparently hinder him from being much invited to dinner, which is the great
index of social responsibility in a less barbarous age.
Certainly the crowd in the
market-place seemed to experience this culminating enjoyment when the speak=
ing
on the platform in front of the Ram had ceased, and there were no less than
three orators holding forth from the elevation of chance vehicles, not at a=
ll
to the prejudice of the talking among those who were on a level with their
neighbours. There was little ill-humour among the listeners, for Queen Bess=
was
striking the last quarter before two, and a savoury smell from the inn kitc=
hens
inspired them with an agreeable consciousness that the speakers were helpin=
g to
trifle away the brief time before dinner.
Two or three of Harold's committee=
had
lingered talking to each other on the platform, instead of re-entering; and
Jermyn, after coming out to speak to one of them, had tunred to the corner =
near
which the carriages were standing, that he might tell the Transomes' coachm=
an
to drive round to the side door, and signal to his own coachman to follow. =
But
a dialogue which was going on below induced him to pause, and, instead of
giving the order, to assume the air of a careless gazer. Christian, whom the
attorney had already observed looking out of a window at the Marquis of Gra=
nby,
was talking to Dominic. The meeting appeared to be one of new recognition, =
for
Christian was saying -
'You've not got grey as I have, Mr
Lenoni; you're not a day older for the sixteen years. But no wonder you did=
n't
know me; I'm bleached like a dried bone.'
'Not so. It is true I was confused=
a
meenute - I could put your face nowhere; but after that, Naples came behind=
it,
and I said, Mr Creestian. And so you reside at the Manor, and I am at Trans=
ome
Court.'
'Ah I it's a thousand pities you're
not on our side, else we might have dined together at the Marquis,' said
Christian. 'Eh, could you manage it?' he added, languidly, knowing there wa=
s no
chance of a yes.
'No - much obliged - couldn't leave
the leetle boy. Ahi I Arry, Arry, pinch not poor Moro.'
While Dominic was answering, Chris=
tian
had stared about him, as his manner was when he was being spoken to, and had
had his eyes arrested by Esther, who was leaning forward to look at Mr Haro=
ld
Transome's extraordinary little gipsy of a son. But happening to meet
Christian's stare, she felt annoyed, drew back, and turned away her head,
colouring.
'Who are those ladies?' said
Christian, in a low tone, to Dominic, as if he had been startled into a sud=
den
wish for this information.
'They are Meester Jermyn's daughte= rs,' said Dominic, who knew nothing either of the lawyer's family or of Esther.<= o:p>
Christian looked puzzled a moment =
or
two, and was silent.
'O, well - au revoir,' he said,
kissing the tips of his fingers, as the coachman, having had Jermyn's order,
began to urge on the horses.
'Does he see some likeness in the
girl?' thought Jermyn, as he turned away. 'I wish I hadn't invited her to c=
ome
in the carriage, as it happens.'
'Good earthenware pitchers, sir! -=
of
an excellent quaint pattern and sober colour.'
THE market dinner at 'the Marquis'=
was
in high repute in Treby and its neighbourhood. The frequenters of this
three-and-sixpenny ordinary liked to allude to it, as men allude to anything
which implies that they move in good society, and habitually converse with
those who are in the secret of the highest affairs. The guests were not onl=
y such
rural residents as had driven to market, but some of the most substantial
townsmen, who had always assured their wives that business required this we=
ekly
sacrifice of domestic pleasure. The poorer farmers, who put up at the Ram or
the Seven Stars, where there was no fish, felt their disadvantage, bearing =
it
modestly or bitterly, as the case might be; and although the Marquis was a =
Tory
house, devoted to Debarry, it was too much to expect that such tenants of t=
he
Transomes as had always been used to dine there, should consent to eat a wo=
rse
dinner, and sit with worse company, because they suddenly found themselves
under a Radical landlord, opposed to the political party known as Sir Maxim=
's.
Hence the recent political divisions had not reduced the handsome length of=
the
table at the Marquis; and the many gradations of dignity - from Mr Wace, the
brewer, to the rich butcher from Leek Malton, who always modestly took the
lowest seat, though without the reward of being asked to come up higher - h=
ad
not been abbreviated by any secessions.
To-day there was an extra table sp=
read
for expected supernumeraries, and it was at this that Christian took his pl=
ace
with some of the younger farmers, who had almost a sense of dissipation in
talking to a man of his questionable station and unknown experience. The
provision was especially liberal, and on the whole the presence of a minori=
ty
destined to vote for Transome was a ground for joking, which added to the
good-humour of the chief talkers. A respectable old acquaintance turned Rad=
ical
rather against his will, was rallied with even greater gusto than if his wi=
fe
had had twins twice over. The best Trebian Tories were far too sweet-bloode=
d to
turn against such old friends, and to make no distinction between them and =
the
Radical, Dissenting, Papistical, Deistical set with whom they never dined, =
and
probably never saw except in their imagination. But the talk was necessaril=
y in
abeyance until the more serious business of dinner was ended, and the wine,
spirits, and tobacco raised mere satisfaction into beatitude.
Among the frequent though not regu=
lar
guests, whom every one was glad to see, was Mr Nolan, the retired London
hosier, a wiry old gentleman past seventy, whose square tight forehead, with
its rigid hedge of grey hair, whose bushy eyebrows, sharp dark eyes, and
remarkable hooked nose, gave a handsome distinction to his face in the mids=
t of
rural physiognomies. He had married a Miss Pendrell early in life, when he =
was
a poor young Londoner, and the match had been thought as bad as ruin by her
family; but fifteen years ago he had had the satisfaction of bringing his w=
ife
to settle amongst her own friends, and of being received with pride as a
brother-in-law, retired from business, possessed of unknown thousands, and =
of a
most agreeable talent for anecdote and conversation generally. No question =
had
ever been raised as to Mr Nolan's extraction on the strength of his hooked
nose, or of his name being Baruch. Hebrew names 'ran' in the best Saxon
families; the Bible accounted for them; and no one among the uplands and
hedgerows of that district was suspected of having an Oriental origin unles=
s he
carried a pedlar's jewel-box. Certainly, whatever genealogical research mig=
ht
have discovered, the worthy Baruch Nolan was so free from any distinctive m=
arks
of religious persuasion - he went to church with so ordinary an irregularit=
y,
and so often grumbled at the sermon - that there was no ground for classing=
him
otherwise than with good Trebian Churchmen. He was generally regarded as a =
good-looking
old gentleman, and a certain thin eagerness in his aspect was attributed to=
the
life of the metropolis, where narrow space had the same sort of effect on m=
en
as on thickly-planted trees. Mr Nolan always ordered his pint of port, whic=
h,
after he had sipped it a little, was wont to animate his recollections of t=
he
Royal Family, and the various ministries which had been contemporary with t=
he
successive stages of his prosperity. He was always listened to with interes=
t: a
man who had been born in the year when good old King George I came to the
throne - who had been acquainted with the nude leg of the Prince Regent, and
hinted at private reasons for believing that the Princess Charlotte ought n=
ot
to have died - had conversational matter as special to his auditors as Marco
Polo could have had on his return from Asiatic travel.
'My good sir,' he said to Mr Wace,=
as
he crossed his knees and spread his silk handkerchief over them, 'Transome =
may
be returned, or he may not be returned - that's a question for North Loamsh=
ire;
but it makes little difference to the kingdom. I don't want to say things w=
hich
may put younger men out of spirits, but I believe this country has seen its
best days - I do indeed.'
'I am sorry to hear it from one of
your experience, Mr Nolan,' said the brewer, a large happy-looking man. 'I'd
make a good fight myself before I'd leave a worse world for my boys than I'=
ve
found for myself. There isn't a greater pleasure than doing a bit of planti=
ng
and improving one's buildings, and investing one's money in some pretty acr=
es
of land, when it turns up here and there - land you've known from a boy. It=
's a
nasty thought that these Radicals are to turn things round so as one can
calculate on nothing. One doesn't like it for one's self, and one doesn't l=
ike
it for one's neighbours. But somehow, I believe it won't do: if we can't tr=
ust
the government just now, there's providence and the good sense of the count=
ry;
and there's a right in things - that's what I've always said - there's a ri=
ght
in things. The heavy end will get downmost. And if church and king, and eve=
ry
man being sure of his own, are things good for this country, there's a God
above will take care of 'em.'
'It won't do, my dear sir,' said Mr
Nolan - 'it won't do. When Peel and the duke turned round about the Catholi=
cs
in '29, I saw it was all over with us. We could never trust ministers any m=
ore.
It was to keep off a rebellion, they said; but I say it was to keep their
places. They're monstrously fond of place, both of them - that I know.' Her=
e Mr
Nolan changed the crossing of his legs, and gave a deep cough, conscious of
having made a point. Then he went on - 'What we want is a king with a good =
will
of his own. If we'd had that, we shouldn't have heard what we've heard to-d=
ay;
reform would never have come to this pass. When our good old King George the
Third heard his ministers talking about Catholic Emancipation, he boxed the=
ir
ears all round. Ah, poor soul! he did indeed, gentlemen,' ended Mr Nolan,
shaken by a deep laugh of admiration.
'Well, now, that's something like a
king,' said Mr Crowder, who was an eager listener.
'It was uncivil, though. How did t=
hey
take it?' said Mr Timothy Rose, a 'gentleman farmer' from Leek Malton, agai=
nst
whose independent position nature had provided the safeguard of a spontaneo=
us
servility. His large porcine cheeks, round twinkling eyes, and thumbs
habitually twirling, expressed a concentrated effort not to get into troubl=
e,
and to speak everybody fair except when they were safely out of hearing.
'Take it! they'd be obliged to take
it,' said the impetuous young Joyce, a farmer of superior information. 'Have
you ever heard of the king's prerogative?'
'I don't say but what I have,' said
Rose, retreating. 'I've nothing against it - nothing at all.'
'No, but the Radicals have,' said
young Joyce, winking. 'The prerogative is what they want to clip close. They
want us to be governed by delegates from the trades-unions, who are to dict=
ate
to everybody, and make everything square to their mastery.'
'They're a pretty set, now, those
delegates,' said Mr Wace, with disgust. 'I once heard two of 'em spouting a=
way.
They're a sort of fellow I'd never employ in my brewery, or anywhere else. =
I've
seen it again and again. If a man takes to tongue-work it's all over with h=
im. ‘Everything's
wrong,’ says he. That's a big text. But does he want to make everythi=
ng
right? Not he. He'd lose his text. ‘We want every man's good,’ =
say
they. Why, they never knew yet what a man's good is. How should they? It's
working for his victual - not getting a slice of other people's.'
'Ay, ay,' said young Joyce, cordia=
lly.
'I should just have liked all the delegates in the country mustered for our
yeomanry to go into - that's all. They'd see where the strength of Old Engl=
and
lay then. You may tell what it is for a country to trust to trade when it
breeds such spindling fellows as those.'
'That isn't the fault of trade, my
good sir,' said Mr Nolan, who was often a little pained by the defects of
provincial culture. 'Trade, properly conducted, is good for a man's
constitution. I could have shown you, in my time, weavers past seventy, with
all their faculties as sharp as a penknife, doing without spectacles. It's =
the
new system of trade that's to blame: a country can't have too much trade, if
it's properly managed. Plenty of sound Tories have made their fortune by tr=
ade.
You've heard of Calibut & Co. - everybody has heard of Calibut. Well, s=
ir,
I knew old Mr Calibut as well as I know you. He was once a crony of mine in=
a
city warehouse; and now, I'll answer for it, he has a larger rent-roll than
Lord Wyvern. Bless your soul! his subscriptions to charities would make a f=
ine
income for a nobleman. And he's as good a Tory as I am. And as for his town
establishment - why, how much butter do you think is consumed there annuall=
y?'
Mr Nolan paused, and then his face
glowed with triumph as he answered his own question. 'Why, gentlemen, not l=
ess
than two thousand pounds of butter during the few months the family is in t=
own!
Trade makes property, my good sir, and property is Conservative, as they say
now. Calibut's son-in-law is Lord Fortinbras. He paid me a large debt on his
marriage. It's all one web, sir. The prosperity of the country is one web.'=
'To be sure,' said Christian, who,
smoking his cigar with his chair turned away from the table, was willing to
make himself agreeable in the conversation. 'We can't do without nobility. =
Look
at France. When they got rid of the old nobles they were obliged to make ne=
w.'
'True, very true,' said Mr Nolan, =
who
thought Christian a little too wise for his position, but could not resist =
the
rare gift of an instance in point. 'It's the French Revolution that has don=
e us
harm here. It was the same at the end of the last century, but the war kept=
it
off - Mr Pitt saved us. I knew Mr Pitt. I had a particular interview with h=
im
once. He joked me about getting the length of his foot. ‘Mr Nolan,=
217;
said he, ‘there are those on the other side of the water whose name
begins with N. who would be glad to know what you know.’ I was
recommended to send an account of that to the newspapers after his death, p=
oor
man! but I'm not fond of that kind of show myself.' Mr Nolan swung his upper
leg a little, and pinched his lip between thumb and finger, naturally pleas=
ed
with his own moderation.
'No, no, very right,' said Mr Wace,
cordially. 'But you never said a truer word than that about property. If a
man's got a bit of property, a stake in the country, he'll want to keep thi=
ngs
square. Where Jack isn't safe, Tom's in danger. But that's what makes it su=
ch
an uncommonly nasty thing that a man like Transome should take up with these
Radicals. It's my belief he does it only to get into parliament; he'll turn
round when he gets there. Come, Dibbs, there's something to put you in
spirits,' added Mr Wace, raising his voice a little and looking at a guest
lower down. 'You've got to vote for a Radical with one side of your mouth, =
and
make a wry face with the other; but he'll turn round by-and-by. As Parson J=
ack
says, he's got the right sort of blood in him.'
'I don't care two straws who I vote
for,' said Dibbs, sturdily. 'I'm not going to make a wry face. It stands to
reason a man should vote for his landlord. My farm's in good condition, and
I've got the best pasture on the estate. The rot's never come nigh me. Let =
them
grumble as are on the wrong side of the hedge.'
'I wonder if Jermyn'll bring him i=
n,
though,' said Mr Sircome, the great miller. 'He's an uncommon fellow for
carrying things through. I know he brought me through that suit about my we=
ir;
it cost a pretty penny, but he brought me through.'
'It's a bit of a pill for him, too,
having to turn Radical,' said Mr Wace. 'They say he counted on making frien=
ds
with Sir Maximus, by this young one coming home and joining with Mr Philip.=
'
'But I'll bet a penny he brings
Transome in,' said Mr Sircome. 'Folks say he hasn't got many votes hereabou=
t;
but towards Duffield, and all there, where the Radicals are, everybody's for
him. Eh, Mr Christian? Come - you're at the fountainhead - what do they say
about it now at the Manor?'
When general attention was called =
to
Christian, young Joyce looked down at his own legs and touched the curves of
his own hair, as if measuring his own approximation to that correct copy of=
a
gentleman. Mr Wace turned his head to listen for Christian's answer with th=
at
tolerance of inferiority which becomes men in places of public resort.
'They think it will be a hard run
between Transome and Garstin,' said Christian. 'It depends on Transome's
getting plumpers.'
'Well, I know I shall not split for
Garstin,' said Mr Wace. 'It's nonsense for Debarry's voters to split for a
Whig. A man's either a Tory or not a Tory.'
'It seems reasonable there should =
be
one of each side,' said Mr Timothy Rose. 'I don't like showing favour either
way. If one side can't lower the poor's rates and take off the tithe, let t=
he
other try.'
'But there's this in it, Wace,' sa=
id
Mr Sircome. 'I'm not altogether against the Whigs. For they don't want to g=
o so
far as the Radicals do, and when they find they've slipped a bit too far,
they'll hold on all the tighter. And the Whigs have got the upper hand now,=
and
it's no use fighting with the current. I run with the -'
Mr Sircome checked himself, looked
furtively at Christian, and, to divert criticism, ended with - 'eh, Mr Nola=
n?'
'There have been eminent Whigs, si=
r.
Mr Fox was a Whig,' said Mr Nolan. 'Mr Fox was a great orator. He gambled a
good deal. He was very intimate with the Prince of Wales. I've seen him, and
the Duke of York' too, go home by daylight with their hats crushed. Mr Fox =
was
a great leader of the Opposition: Government requires an Opposition. The Wh=
igs
should always be in opposition, and the Tories on the ministerial side. Tha=
t's
what the country used to like. ‘The Whigs for salt and mustard, the
Tories for meat,’ Mr Gottlib the banker used to say to me. Mr Gottlib=
was
a worthy man. When there was a great run on Gottlib's bank in '16, I saw a
gentleman come in with bags of gold, and say, ‘Tell Mr Gottlib there's
plenty more where that came from.’ It stopped the run, gentlemen - it=
did
indeed.'
This anecdote was received with gr=
eat
admiration, but Mr Sircome returned to the previous question.
'There now, you see, Wace - it's r=
ight
there should be Whigs as well as Tories - Pitt and Fox - I've always heard =
them
go together.'
'Well, I don't like Garstin,' said=
the
brewer. 'I didn't like his conduct about the canal company. Of the two, I l=
ike
Transome best. If a nag is to throw me, I say, let him have some blood.'
'As for blood, Wace,' said Mr Salt,
the wool-factor, a relious man, who only spoke when there was a good
opportunity of contradicting, 'ask my brother-in-law Labron a little about
that. These Transomes are not the old blood.'
'Well, they're the oldest that's
forthcoming, I suppose,' said Mr Wace, laughing. 'Unless you believe in mad=
old
Tommy Trounsem. I wonder where that old poaching fellow is now.'
'I saw him half-drunk the other da=
y,'
said young Joyce. 'He'd got a flag-basket with hand-bills in it over his
shoulder.'
'I thought the old fellow was dead=
,'
said Mr Wace. 'Hey I why, Jermyn,' he went on merrily, as he turned round a=
nd
saw the attorney entering; 'you Radical! how dare you show yourself in this
Tory house? Come, this is going a bit too far. We don't mind Old Harry mana=
ging
our law for us - that's his proper business from time immemorial; but -'
'But - a -' said Jermyn, smiling,
always ready to carry on a joke, to which his slow manner gave the piquancy=
of
surprise, 'if he meddles with politics he must be a Tory.'
Jermyn was not afraid to show hims=
elf
anywhere in Treby. He knew many people were not exactly fond of him, but a =
man
can do without that, if he is prosperous. A provincial lawyer in those
old-fashioned days was as independent of personal esteem as if he had been a
Lord Chancellor.
There was a good-humoured laugh at
this upper end of the room as Jermyn seated himself at about an equal angle
between Mr Wace and Christian.
'We were talking about old Tommy
Trounsem; you remember him? They say he's turned up again,' said Mr Wace.
'Ah?' said Jermyn, indifferently. =
'But
- a - Wace - I'm very busy to-day - but I wanted to see you about that bit =
of
land of yours at the corner of Pod's End. I've had a handsome offer for you=
-
I'm not at liberty to say from whom - but an offer that ought to tempt you.=
'
'It won't tempt me,' said Mr Wace,
peremptorily; 'if I've got a bit of land, I'll keep it. It's hard enough to=
get
hereabouts.'
'Then I'm to understand that you
refuse all negotiation?' said Jermyn, who had ordered a glass of sherry, and
was looking round slowly as he sipped it, till his eyes seemed to rest for =
the
first time on Christian, though he had seen him at once on entering the roo=
m.
'Unless one of the confounded rail=
ways
should come. But then I'll stand out and make 'em bleed for it.'
There was a murmur of approbation;=
the
railways were a public wrong much denunciated in Treby.
'A - Mr Philip Debarry at the Manor
now?' said Jermyn, suddenly questioning Christian, in a haughty tone of
superiority which he often chose to use.
'No,' said Christian, 'he is expec=
ted
to-morrow morning.'
'Ah! -' Jermyn paused a moment or =
two,
and then said, 'You are sufficiently in his confidence, I think, to carry a
message to him with a small document?'
'Mr Debarry has often trusted me so
far,' said Christian, with much coolness; 'but if the business is yours, you
can probably find some one you know better.'
There was a little winking and
grimacing among those of the company who heard this answer.
'A - true - a,' said Jermyn, not
showing any offence; 'if you decline. But I think, if you will do me the fa=
vour
to step round to my residence on your way back, and learn the business, you
will prefer carrying it yourself. At my residence, if you please - not my
office.'
'O very well,' said Christian. 'I
shall be very happy.' Christian never allowed himself to be treated as a
servant by any one but his master, and his master treated a servant more
deferentially than an equal.
'Will it be five o'clock? what hour
shall we say?' said Jermyn.
Christian looked at his watch and
said, 'About five I can be there.'
'Very good,' said Jermyn, finishing
his sherry.
'Well - a - Wace - a - so you will
hear nothing about Pod's End?'
'Not I.'
'A mere pocket-handkerchief, not
enough to swear by - a -' here Jermyn's face broke into a smile - 'without a
magnifying-glass.'
'Never mind. It's mine into the bo=
wels
of the earth and up to the sky. I can build the Tower of Babel on it if I l=
ike
- eh, Mr Nolan?'
'A bad investment, my good sir,' s=
aid
Mr Nolan, who enjoyed a certain flavour of infidelity in this smart reply, =
and
laughed much at it in his inward way.
'See now, how blind you Tories are=
,'
said Jermyn, rising; 'if I had been your lawyer, I'd have had you make anot=
her
forty-shilling freeholder with that land, and all in time for this election.
But - a - the verbum sapientibus comes a little too late now.'
Jermyn was moving away as he finis=
hed
speaking, but Mr Wace called out after him, 'We're not so badly off for voi=
ces
as you are - good sound votes, that'll stand the revising barrister. Debarr=
y at
the top of the poll!'
The lawyer was already out of the
doorway.
'Tis grievous, that with all
amplification of travel both by sea and land, a man can never separate hims=
elf
from his past history.
MR JERMYN'S handsome house stood a
little way out of the town, surrounded by garden and lawn and plantations of
hopeful trees. As Christian approached it he was in a perfectly easy state =
of
mind: the business he was going on was none of his, otherwise than as he was
well satisfied with any opportunity of making himself valuable to Mr Philip
Debarry. As he looked at Jermyn's length of wall and iron railing, he said =
to
himself, 'These lawyers are the fellows for getting on in the world with the
least expense of civility. With this cursed conjuring secret of theirs call=
ed
Law, they think everybody's frightened at them. My Lord Jermyn seems to have
his insolence as ready as his soft sawder. He's as sleek as a rat, and has =
as
vicious a tooth. I know the sort of vermin well enough. I've helped to fatt=
en
one or two.'
In this mood of conscious,
contemptuous penetration, Christian was shown by the footman into Jermyn's
private room, where the attorney sat surrounded with massive oaken bookcase=
s,
and other furniture to correspond, from the thickest-legged library-table t=
o the
calendar frame and card-rack. It was the sort of room a man prepares for
himself when he feels sure of a long and respectable future. He was leaning
back in his leather chair, against the broad window opening on the lawn, and
had just taken off his spectacles and let the newspaper fall on his knees, =
in
despair of reading by the fading light.
When the footman opened the door a=
nd
said, 'Mr Christian,' Jermyn said, 'Good evening, Mr Christian. Be seated,'
pointing to a chair opposite himself and the window. 'Light the candles on =
the
shelf, John, but leave the blinds alone.'
He did not speak again till the man
was gone out, but appeared to be referring to a document which lay on the
bureau before him. When the door was closed he drew himself up again, began=
to
rub his hands, and turned towards his visitor, who seemed perfectly indiffe=
rent
to the fact that the attorney was in shadow, and that the light fell on
himself. 'A - your name - a - is Henry Scaddon.'
There was a start through Christia=
n's
frame which he was quick enough, almost simultaneously, to try and disguise=
as
a change of position. He uncrossed his legs and unbuttoned his coat. But be=
fore
he had time to say anything, Jermyn went on with slow emphasis.
'You were born on the 16th of Dece=
mber
1782, at Blackheath Your father was a cloth-merchant in London: he died when
you were barely of age, leaving an extensive business; before you were
five-and-twenty you had run through the greater part of the property, and h=
ad
compromised your safety by an attempt to defraud your creditors. Subsequent=
ly
you forged a cheque on your father's elder brother, who had intended to make
you his heir.'
Here Jermyn paused a moment and
referred to the document. Christian was silent.
'In 1808 you found it expedient to
leave this country in a military disguise, and were taken prisoner by the
French. On the occasion of an exchange of prisoners you had the opportunity=
of
returning to your own country, and to the bosom of your own family. You were
generous enough to sacrifice that prospect in favour of a fellow-prisoner, =
of
about your own age and figure, who had more pressing reasons than yourself =
for
wishing to be on this side of the water. You exchanged dress, luggage, and
names with him, and he passed to England instead of you as Henry Scaddon.
Almost immediately afterwards you escaped from your imprisonment, after
feigning an illness which prevented your exchange of names from being
discovered; and it was reported that you - that is, you under the name of y=
our
fellow-prisoner - were drowned in an open boat, trying to reach a Neapolitan
vessel bound for Malta. Nevertheless I have to congratulate you on the
falsehood of that report, and on the certainty that you are now, after the
lapse of more than twenty years, seated here in perfect safety.'
Jermyn paused so long that he was
evidently awaiting some answer. At last Christian replied, in a dogged tone=
-
'Well, sir, I've heard much longer
stories than that told quite as solemnly, when there was not a word of trut=
h in
them. Suppose I deny the very peg you hang your statement on. Suppose I say=
I
am not Henry Scaddon.'
'A - in that case - a,' said Jermy=
n,
with a wooden indifference, 'you would lose the advantage which - a - may
attach to your possession of Henry Scaddon's knowledge. And at the same tim=
e,
if it were in the least - a - inconvenient to you that you should be recogn=
ised
as Henry Scaddon, your denial would not prevent me from holding the knowled=
ge
and evidence which I possess on that point; it would only prevent us from
pursuing the present conversation.'
'Well, sir, suppose we admit, for =
the
sake of the conversation, that your account of the matter is the true one: =
what
advantage have you to offer the man named Henry Scaddon ?'
'The advantage - a - is problemati=
cal;
but it may be considerable. It might, in fact, release you from the necessi=
ty
of acting as courier, or - a - valet, or whatever other office you may occu=
py
which prevents you from being your own master. On the other hand, my
acquaintance with your secret is not necessarily a disadvantage to you. To =
put
the matter in a nutshell, I am not inclined - a - gratuitously - to do you =
any
harm, and I may be able to do you a considerable service.'
'Which you want me to earn somehow=
?'
said Christian. 'You offer me a turn in a lottery?'
'Precisely. The matter in question=
is
of no earthly interest to you, except - a - as it may yield you a prize. We
lawyers have to do with complicated questions, and - a - legal subtleties,
which are never - a - fully known even to the parties immediately intereste=
d,
still less to the witnesses. Shall we agree, then, that you continue to ret=
ain
two-thirds of the name which you gained by exchange, and that you oblige me=
by
answering certain questions as to the experience of Henry Scaddon?' 'Very g=
ood.
Go on.'
'What articles of property, once
belonging to your fellow-prisoner, Maurice Christian Bycliffe, do you still
retain?'
'This ring,' said Christian, twirl=
ing
round the fine seal-ring on his finger, 'his watch, and the little matters =
that
hung with it, and a case of papers. I got rid of a gold snuff-box once when=
I
was hard-up. The clothes are all gone, of course. We exchanged everything; =
it
was all done in a hurry. Bycliffe thought we should meet again in England
before long, and he was mad to get there. But that was impossible - I mean =
that
we should meet soon after. I don't know what's become of him, else I would =
give
him up his papers and the watch, and so on - though, you know, it was I who=
did
him the service, and he felt that.'
'You were at Vesoul together before
being moved to Verdun?'
'Yes.'
'What else do you know about
Bycliffe?'
'O, nothing very particular,' said
Christian, pausing, and rapping his boot with his cane. 'He'd been in the
Hanoverian army - a high-spirited fellow, took nothing easily; not overstro=
ng
in health. He made a fool of himself with marrying at Vesoul; and there was=
the
devil to pay with the girl's relations; and then, when the prisoners were
ordered off, they had to part. Whether they ever got together again I don't
know.'
'Was the marriage all right, then?=
'
'O, all on the square - civil
marriage, church - everything. Bycliffe was a fool - a good-natured, proud,
head-strong fellow.'
'How long did the marriage take pl=
ace
before you left Vesoul?' 'About three months. I was a witness to the marria=
ge.'
'And you know no more about the wife?'
'Not afterwards. I knew her very w=
ell
before - pretty Annette - Annette Ledru was her name. She was of a good fam=
ily,
and they had made up a fine match for her. But she was one of your meek lit=
tle
diablesses, who have a will of their own once in their lives - the will to
choose their own master.'
'Bycliffe was not open to you about
his other affairs7'
'O no - a fellow you wouldn't dare=
to
ask a question of. People told him everything, but he told nothing in retur=
n.
If Madame Annette ever found him again, she found her lord and master with a
vengeance; but she was a regular lapdog. However, her family shut her up - =
made
a prisoner of her - to prevent her running away.'
'Ah - good. Much of what you have =
been
so obliging as to say is irrelevant to any possible purpose of mine, which,=
in
fact, has to do only with a mouldy law-case that might be aired some day. Y=
ou
will doubtless, on your own account, maintain perfect silence on what has
passed between us, and with that condition duly preserved - a - it is possi=
ble
that - a - the lottery you have put into - as you observe - may turn up a
prize.'
'This, then, is all the business y=
ou
have with me?' said Christian, rising.
'All. You will, of course, preserve
carefully all the papers and other articles which have so many - a -
recollections - a - attached to them?'
'O yes. If there's any chance of
Bycliffe turning up again, I shall be sorry to have parted with the snuff-b=
ox;
but I was hard-up at Naples. In fact, as you see, I was obliged at last to =
turn
courier.'
'An exceedingly agreeable life for=
a
man of some - a - accomplishments and - a - no income,' said Jermyn, rising,
and reaching a candle, which he placed against his desk.
Christian knew this was a sign tha=
t he
was expected to go, but he lingered standing, with one hand on the back of =
his
chair. At last he said, rather sulkily -
'I think you're too clever, Mr Jer=
myn,
not to perceive that I'm not a man to be made a fool of.'
'Well - a - it may perhaps be a st=
ill
better guarantee for you,' said Jermyn, smiling, 'that I see no use in
attempting that - a - metamorphosis.'
The old gentleman, who ought never=
to
have felt himself injured, is dead now, and I'm not afraid of creditors aft=
er
more than twenty years.'
'Certainly not; - a - there may in=
deed
be claims which can't assert themselves - a - legally, which yet are molest=
ing
to a man of some reputation. But you may perhaps be happily free from such
fears.'
Jermyn drew round his chair towards
the bureau, and Christian, too acute to persevere uselessly, said, 'Good-da=
y,'
and left the room.
After leaning back in his chair to
reflect a few minutes, Jermyn wrote the following letter:
Dear Johnson, - I learn from your
letter, received this morning, that you intend returning to town on Saturda=
y.
While you are there, be so good as=
to
see Medwin, who used to be with Batt & Cowley, and ascertain from him
indirectly, and in the course of conversation on other topics, whether in t=
hat
old business in 1810-11, Scaddon alias Bycliffe, or Bycliffe alias Scaddon,
before his imprisonment, gave Batt & Cowley any reason to believe that =
he
was married and expected to have a child. The question, as you know, is of =
no
practical importance; but I wish to draw up an abstract of the Bycliffe cas=
e,
and the exact position in which it stood before the suit was closed by the
death of the plaintiiff, in order that, if Mr Harold Transome desires it, he
may see how the failure of the last claim has secured the Durfey-Transome
title, and whether there is a hair's-breadth of a chance that another claim
should be set up.
Of course there is not a shadow of
such a chance. For even if Batt & Cowley were to suppose that they had
alighted on a surviving representative of the Bycliffes, it would not enter
into their heads to set up a new claim, since they brought evidence that the
last life which suspended the Bycliffe remainder was extinct before the case
was closed, a good twenty years ago.
Still, I want to show the present =
heir
of the Durfey-Transomes the exact condition of the family title to the esta=
tes.
So get me an answer from Medwin on the above-mentioned point.
I shall meet you at Duffield next
week. We must get Transome returned. Never mind his having been a little ro=
ugh
the other day, but go on doing what you know is necessary for his interest.=
His
interest is mine, which I need not say is John Johnson's. - Yours faithfull=
y,
MATTIEW JERMYN.
When the attorney had sealed this
letter and leaned back in his chair again, he was inwardly saying -
'Now, Mr Harold, I shall shut up t=
his
affair in a private drawer till you choose to take any extreme measures whi=
ch
will force me to bring it out. I have the matter entirely in my own power. =
No
one but old Lyon knows about the girl's birth. No one but Scaddon can clinch
the evidence about Bycliffe, and I've got Scaddon under my thumb. No soul
except myself and Johnson, who is a limb of myself, knows that there is one
half-dead life which may presently leave the girl a new claim to the Byclif=
fe
heirship. I shall learn through Methurst whether Batt & Cowley knew,
through Bycliffe, of this woman having come to England. I shall hold all the
threads between my thumb and finger. I can use the evidence or I can nullify
it.
'And so, if Mr Harold pushes me to
extremity, and threatens me with Chancery and ruin, I have an opposing thre=
at,
which will either save me or turn into a punishment for him.'
He rose, put out his candles, and
stood with his back to the fire, looking out on the dim lawn, with its black
twilight fringe of shrubs, still meditating. Quick thought was gleaming over
five-and-thirty years filled with devices more or less clever, more or less
desirable to be avowed. Those which might be avowed with impunity were not
always to be distinguished as innocent by comparison with those which it was
advisable to conceal. In a profession where much that is noxious may be done
without disgrace, is a conscience likely to be without balm when circumstan=
ces
have urged a man to overstep the line where his good technical information
makes him aware that (with discovery) disgrace is likely to begin?
With regard to the Transome affair=
s,
the family had been in pressing need of money, and it had lain with him to =
get
it for them: was it to be expected that he would not consider his own advan=
tage
where he had rendered services such as are never fully paid? If it came to a
question of right and wrong instead of law, the least justifiable things he=
had
ever done had been done on behalf of the Transomes. It had been a deucedly
unpleasant thing for him to get Bycliffe arrested and thrown into prison as
Henry Scaddon - perhaps hastening the man's death in that way. But if it had
not been done by dint of his (Jermyn's) exertions and tact, he would like to
know where the Durfey-Transomes might have been by this time. As for right =
or
wrong, if the truth were known, the very possession of the estate by the
Durfey-Transomes was owing to law-tricks that took place nearly a century a=
go,
when the original old Durfey got his base fee.
But inward argument of this sort n=
ow,
as always, was merged in anger, in exasperation, that Harold, precisely Har=
old
Transome should have turned out to be the probable instrument of a visitati=
on
which would be bad luck, not justice; for is there any justice where ninety=
-nine
out of a hundred escape? He felt himself beginning to hate Harold as he had
never -
Just then Jermyn's third daughter,=
a
tall slim girl wrapped in a white woollen shawl, which she had hung over her
blanketwise, skipped across the lawn towards the greenhouse to get a flower.
Jermyn was startled, and did not identify the figure, or rather he identifi=
ed
it falsely with another tall white-wrapped figure which had sometimes set h=
is
heart beating quickly more than thirty years before. For a moment he was fu=
lly
back in those distant years when he and another bright-eyed person had seen=
no
reason why they should not indulge their passion and their vanity, and
determine for themselves how their lives should be made delightful in spite=
of
unalterable external conditions. The reasons had been unfolding themselves
gradually ever since through all the years which had converted the handsome,
soft-eyed, slim young Jermyn (with a touch of sentiment) into a portly lawy=
er
of sixty, for whom life had resolved itself into the means of keeping up his
head among his professional brethren and maintaining an establishment - int=
o a
grey-haired husband and father, whose third affectionate and expensive daug=
hter
now rapped at the window and called to him, 'Papa, papa, get ready for dinn=
er;
don't you remember the Lukyns are coming?'
Her gentle looks shot arrows, pier=
cing
him
As gods are pierced, with poison of
sweet pity.
THE evening of the market-day had
passed, and Felix had not looked in at Malthouse Yard to talk over the publ=
ic
events with Mr Lyon. When Esther was dressing the next morning, she had rea=
ched
a point of irritated anxiety to see Felix, at which she found herself devis=
ing
little schemes for attaining that end in some way that would be so elaborat=
e as
to seem perfectly natural. Her watch had a long-standing ailment of losing;
possibly it wanted cleaning; Felix would tell her if it merely wanted
regulating, whereas Mr Prowd might detain it unnecessarily, and cause her
useless inconvenience. Or could she not get a valuable hint from Mrs Holt a=
bout
the home-made bread, which was something as 'sad' as Lyddy herself? Or, if =
she
came home that way at twelve o'clock, Felix might be going out, she might m=
eet
him, and not be obliged to call. Or - but it would be very much beneath her=
to
take any steps of this sort. Her watch had been losing for the last two mon=
ths
- why should it not go on losing a little longer? She could think of no dev=
ices
that were not so transparent as to be undignified. All the more undignified
because Felix chose to live in a way that would prevent any one from classi=
ng
him according to his education and mental refinement - 'which certainly are
very high', said Esther inwardly, colouring, as if in answer to some contra=
ry
allegation, 'else I should not think his opinion of any consequence'. But s=
he
came to the conclusion that she could not possibly call at Mrs Holt's.
It followed that up to a few minut=
es
past twelve, when she reached the turning towards Mrs Holt's, she believed =
that
she should go home the other way; but at the last moment there is always a
reason not existing before - namely, the impossibility of further vacillati=
on.
Esther turned the corner without any visible pause, and in another minute w=
as
knocking at Mrs Holt's door, not without an inward flutter, which she was b=
ent
on disguising.
'It's never you, Miss Lyon! who'd =
have
thought of seeing you at this time? Is the minister ill? I thought he looked
creechy. If you want help, I'll put my bonnet on.'
'Don't keep Miss Lyon at the door,
mother; ask her to come in,' said the ringing voice of Felix, surmounting
various small shufflings and babbling voices within.
'It's my wish for her to come in, =
I'm
sure,' said Mrs Holt, making way; 'but what is there for her to come in to?=
a
floor worse than any public. But step in, pray, if you're so inclined. When
I've been forced to take my bit of carpet up, and have benches, I don't see=
why
I need mind nothing no more.'
'I only came to ask Mr Holt if he
would look at my watch for me,' said Esther, entering, and blushing a gener=
al
rose-colour.
'He'll do that fast enough,' said =
Mrs
Holt, with emphasis; 'that's one of the things he will do.'
'Excuse my rising, Miss Lyon,' said
Felix; 'I'm binding up Job's finger.'
Job was a small fellow about five,=
with
a germinal nose, large round blue eyes, and red hair that curled close to h=
is
head like the wool on the back of an infantine lamb. He had evidently been
crying, and the corners of his mouth were still dolorous. Felix held him on=
his
knee as he bound and tied up very cleverly a tiny forefinger. There was a t=
able
in front of Felix and against the window, covered with his watchmaking
implements and some open books. Two benches stood at right angles on the sa=
nded
floor, and six or seven boys of various ages up to twelve were getting their
caps and preparing to go home. They huddled themselves together and stood s=
till
when Esther entered. Felix could not look up till he had finished his surge=
ry,
but he went on speaking.
'This is a hero, Miss Lyon. This is
Job Tudge, a bold Briton whose finger hurts him, but who doesn't mean to cr=
y.
Good morning, boys. Don't lose your time. Get out into the air.'
Esther seated herself on the end of
the bench near Felix, much relieved that Job was the immediate object of
attention; and the other boys rushed out behind her with a brief chant of '=
Good
morning!'
'Did you ever see,' said Mrs Holt,
standing to look on, 'how wonderful Felix is at that small work with his la=
rge
fingers? And that's because he learnt doctoring. It isn't for want of
cleverness he looks like a poor man, Miss Lyon. I've left off speaking, els=
e I
should say it's a sin and a shame.'
'Mother,' said Felix, who often am=
used
himself and kept good-humoured by giving his mother answers that were
unintelligible to her, 'you have an astonishing readiness in the Ciceronian
antiphrasis, considering you have never studied oratory. There, Job - thou
patient man - sit still if thou wilt; and now we can look at Miss Lyon.'
Esther had taken off her watch and=
was
holding it in her hand. But he looked at her face, or rather at her eyes, a=
s he
said, 'You want me to doctor your watch?'
Esther's expression was appealing =
and
timid, as it had never been before in Felix's presence; but when she saw the
perfect calmness, which to her seemed coldness, of his clear grey eyes, as =
if
he saw no reason for attaching any emphasis to this first meeting, a pang s=
wift
as an electric shock darted through her. She had been very foolish to think=
so
much of it. It seemed to her as if her inferiority to Felix made a great gu=
lf
between them. She could not at once rally her pride and self-command, but l=
et
her glance fall on her watch, and said, rather tremulously, 'It loses. It is
very troublesome. It has been losing a long while.'
Felix took the watch from her hand;
then, looking round and seeing that his mother was gone out of the room, he
said, very gently -
'You look distressed, Miss Lyon. I
hope there is no trouble at home' (Felix was thinking of the minister's
agitation on the previous Sunday). 'But I ought perhaps to beg your pardon =
for
saying so much.'
Poor Esther was quite helpless. The
mortification which had come like a bruise to all the sensibilities that had
been in keen activity, insisted on some relief. Her eyes filled instantly, =
and
a great tear rolled down while she said in a loud sort of whisper, as
involuntary as her tears -
'I wanted to tell you that I was n=
ot
offended - that I am not ungenerous - I thought you might think - but you h=
ave
not thought of it.'
Was there ever more awkward speaki=
ng?
- or any behaviour less like that of the graceful, self-possessed Miss Lyon,
whose phrases were usually so well turned, and whose repartees were so read=
y?
For a moment there was silence. Es=
ther
had her two little delicately-gloved hands clasped on the table. The next
moment she felt one hand of Felix covering them both and pressing them firm=
ly;
but he did not speak. The tears were both on her cheeks now, and she could =
look
up at him. His eyes had an expression of sadness in them, quite new to her.=
Suddenly
little Job, who had his mental exercises on the occasion, called out,
impatiently -
'She's tut her finger!'
Felix and Esther laughed, and drew
their hands away; and as Esther took her handkerchief to wipe the tears from
her cheeks, she said -
'You see, Job, I am a naughty cowa=
rd I
can't help crying when I've hurt myself.'
'Zoo soodn't kuy,' said Job,
energetically, being much impressed with a moral doctrine which had come to=
him
after a sufficient transgression of it.
'Job is like me,' said Felix, 'fon=
der
of preaching than of practice. But let us look at this same watch,' he went=
on,
opening and examining it. 'These little Geneva toys are cleverly constructe=
d to
go always a little wrong. But if you wind them up and set them regularly ev=
ery
night, you may know at least that it's not
Felix chatted, that Esther might
recover herself; but now Mrs Holt came back and apologised.
'You'll excuse my going away, I kn=
ow,
Miss Lyon. But there were the dumplings to see to, and what little I've got
left on my hands now, I like to do well. Not but what I've more cleaning to=
do
than ever I had in my life before, as you may tell soon enough if you look =
at
this floor. But when you've been used to doing things, and they've been tak=
en
away from you, it's as if your hands had been cut off, and you felt the fin=
gers
as are of no use to you.'
'That's a great image, mother,' sa=
id
Felix, as he snapped the watch together, and handed it to Esther: 'I never
heard you use such an image before.'
'Yes, I know you've always some fa=
ult
to find with what your mother says. But if ever there was a woman could talk
with the open Bible before her, and not be afraid, it's me. I never did tell
stories, and I never will - though I know it's done, Miss Lyon, and by chur=
ch
members too, when they have candles to sell, as I could bring you the proof.
But I never was one of 'em, let Felix say what he will about the printing on
the tickets. His father believed it was gospel truth, and it's presumptious=
to
say it wasn't. For as for curing, how can anybody know? There's no physic'll
cure without a blessing, and with a blessing I know I've seen a mustard
plaister work when there was no more smell nor strength in the mustard than=
so
much flour. And reason good - for the mustard had laid in paper nobody knows
how long - so I'll leave you to guess.'
Mrs Holt looked hard out of the wi=
ndow
and gave a slight inarticulate sound of scorn.
Felix had leaned back in his chair
with a resigned smile, and was pinching Job's ears.
Esther said, 'I think I had better=
go
now,' not knowing what else to say, yet not wishing to go immediately, lest=
she
should seem to be running away from Mrs Holt. She felt keenly how much
endurance there must be for Felix. And she had often been discontented with=
her
father, and called him tiresome!
'Where does Job Tudge live?' she s=
aid,
still sitting, and looking at the droll little figure, set off by a ragged
jacket with a tail about two inches deep sticking out above the funniest of
corduroys.
'Job has two mansions,' said Felix.
'He lives here chiefly; but he has another home, where his grandfather, Mr
Tudge the stone-breaker, lives. My mother is very good to Job, Miss Lyon. S=
he
has made him a little bed in a cupboard, and she gives him sweetened porrid=
ge.'
The exquisite goodness implied in
these words of Felix impressed Esther the more, because in her hearing his =
talk
had usually been pungent and denunciatory. Looking at Mrs Holt, she saw that
her eyes had lost their bleak north-easterly expression, and were shining w=
ith
some mildness on little Job, who had turned round towards her, propping his
head against Felix.
'Well, why shouldn't I be motherly=
to
the child, Miss Lyon?' said Mrs Holt, whose strong powers of argument requi=
red
the file of an imagined contradiction, if there were no real one at hand. 'I
never was hard-hearted, and I never will be. It was Felix picked the child =
up
and took to him, you may be sure, for there's nobody else master where he i=
s;
but I wasn't going to beat the orphin child and abuse him because of that, =
and
him as straight as an arrow when he's stript, and me so fond of children, a=
nd
only had one of my own to live. I'd three babies, Miss Lyon, but the blessed
Lord only spared Felix, and him the masterfullest and the brownest of 'em a=
ll.
But I did my duty by him, and I said, he'll have more schooling than his
father, and he'll grow up a doctor, and marry a woman with money to furnish=
-
as I was myself, spoons and everything - and I shall have the grandchildren=
to
look up to me, and be drove out in the gig sometimes, like old Mrs Lukyn. A=
nd
you see what it's all come to, Miss Lyon: here's Felix made a common man of
himself, and says he'll never be married - which is the most unreasonable
thing, and him never easy but when he's got the child on his lap, or when -=
'
'Stop, stop, mother,' Felix burst =
in;
'pray don't use that limping argument again - that a man should marry becau=
se
he's fond of children. That's a reason for not marrying. A bachelor's child=
ren
are always young: they're immortal children - always lisping, waddling,
helpless, and with a chance of turning out good.'
'The Lord above may know what you
mean! And haven't other folk's children a chance of turning out good?'
'O, they grow out of it very fast.
Here's Job Tudge now,' said Felix, turning the little one round on his knee,
and holding his head by the back - 'Job's limbs will get lanky; this little
fist, that looks like a puff-ball, and can hide nothing bigger than a
gooseberry, will get large and bony, and perhaps want to clutch more than i=
ts
share; these wide blue eyes that tell me more truth than Job knows, will na=
rrow
and narrow and try to hide truth that Job would be better without knowing; =
this
little negative nose will become long and self-asserting; and this little
tongue - put out thy tongue, Job' - Job, awe-struck under this ceremony, put
out a little red tongue very timidly - 'this tongue, hardly bigger than a
rose-leaf, will get large and thick, wag out of season, do mischief, brag a=
nd
cant for gain or vanity, and cut as cruelly, for all its clumsiness as if it
were a sharp-edge blade. Big Job will perhaps be naughty -' As Felix, speak=
ing
with the loud emphatic distinctness habitual to him, brought out this terri=
bly
familiar word, Job's sense of mystification became too painful: he hung his
lip, and began to cry.
'See there,' said Mrs Holt, 'you're
frightening the innicent child with such talk - and it's enough to frighten
them that think themselves the safest.'
'Look here, Job, my man,' said Fel=
ix,
setting the boy down and turning him towards Esther; 'go to Miss Lyon, ask =
her
to smile at you, and that will dry up your tears like the sunshine.'
Job put his two brown fists on
Esther's lap, and she stooped to kiss him. Then holding his face between her
hands, she said, 'Tell Mr Holt we don't mean to be naughty, Job. He should
believe in us more. But now I must really go home.'
Esther rose and held out her hand =
to
Mrs Holt who kept it while she said, a little to Esther's confusion -
'I'm very glad it's took your fanc=
y to
come here sometimes, Miss Lyon. I know you're thought to hold your head hig=
h,
but I speak of people as I find 'em. And I'm sure anybody had need be humble
that comes where there's a floor like this - for I've put by my best tea-tr=
ays,
they're so out of all charicter - I must look Above for comfort now; but I
don't say I'm not worthy to be called on for all that.'
Felix had risen and moved towards =
the
door that he might open it and shield Esther from more last words on his
mother's part.
'Good-bye, Mr Holt.'
'Will Mr Lyon like me to sit with =
him
an hour this evening, do you think?'
'Why not? He always likes to see y=
ou.'
'Then I will come. Good-bye.'
'She's a very straight figure,' sa=
id
Mrs Holt. 'How she carries herself! But I doubt there's some truth in what =
our
people say. If she won't look at young Muscat, it's the better for him. He'd
need have a big fortune that marries her.'
'That's true, mother,' said Felix,
sitting down, snatching up little Job, and finding a vent for some unspeaka=
ble
feeling in the pretence of worrying him.
Esther was rather melancholy as she
went home, yet happier withal than she had been for many days before. She
thought, 'I need not mind having shown so much anxiety about his opinion. H=
e is
too clear-sighted to mistake our mutual position; he is quite above putting=
a
false interpretation on what I have done. Besides, he had not thought of me=
at
all - I saw that plainly enough. Yet he was very kind. There is something
greater and better in him than I had imagined. His behaviour to-day - to his
mother and me too - I should call it the highest gentlemanliness, only it s=
eems
in him to be something deeper. But he has chosen an intolerable life; thoug=
h I
suppose, if I had a mind equal to his, and if he loved me very dearly, I sh=
ould
choose the same life.'
Esther felt that she had prefixed =
an
impossible 'if' to that result. But now she had known Felix, her conception=
of
what a happy love must be had become like a dissolving view, in which the
once-clear images were gradually melting into new forms and new colours. The
favourite Byronic heroes were beginning to look something like last night's
decorations seen in the sober dawn. So fast does a little leaven spread wit=
hin
us - so incalculable is the effect of one personality on another. Behind all
Esther's thoughts, like an unacknowledged yet constraining presence, there =
was
the sense, that if Felix Holt were to love her, her life would be exalted i=
nto
something quite new - into a sort of difficult blessedness, such as one may
imagine in beings who are conscious of painfully growing into the possessio=
n of
higher powers.
It was quite true that Felix had n=
ot
thought the more of Esther because of that Sunday afternoon's interview whi=
ch
had shaken her mind to the very roots. He had avoided intruding on Mr Lyon
without special reason, because he believed the minister to be preoccupied =
with
some private care. He had thought a great deal of Esther with a mixture of
strong disapproval and strong liking, which both together made a feeling the
reverse of indifference; but he was not going to let her have any influence=
on
his life. Even if his determination had not been fixed, he would have belie=
ved
that she would utterly scorn him in any other light than that of an
acquaintance, and the emotion she had shown to-day did not change that beli=
ef.
But he was deeply touched by this manifestation of her better qualities, and
felt that there was a new tie of friendship between them. That was the brief
history Felix would have given of his relation to Esther. And he was accust=
omed
to observe himself. But very close and diligent looking at living creatures,
even through the best microscope, will leave room for new and contradictory
discoveries.
Felix found Mr Lyon particularly g=
lad
to talk to him. The minister had never yet disburthened himself about his
letter to Mr Philip Debarry concerning the public conference; and as by this
time he had all the heads of his discussion thoroughly in his mind, it was
agreeable to recite them, as well as to express his regret that time had be=
en
lost by Mr Debarry's absence from the Manor, which had prevented the immedi=
ate
fulfilment of his pledge.
'I don't see how he can fulfil it =
if
the rector refuses,' said Felix, thinking it well to moderate the little ma=
n's
confidence.
'The rector is of a spirit that wi=
ll
not incur earthly impeachment, and he cannot refuse what is necessary to his
nephew's honourable discharge of an obligation,' said Mr Lyon. 'My young
friend, it is a case wherein the prearranged conditions tend by such a
beautiful fitness to the issue I have sought, that I should have for ever h=
eld
myself a traitor to my charge had I neglected the indication.'
'I will not excuse you; you shall =
not
be excused; excuses shall not be admitted; there's no excuse shall serve; y=
ou
shall not be excused.' - Henry IV.
WHEN Philip Debarry had come home =
that
morning and read the letters which had not been forwarded to him, he laughe=
d so
heartily at Mr Lyon's that he congratulated himself on being in his private
room. Otherwise his laughter would have awakened the curiosity of Sir Maxim=
us,
and Philip did not wish to tell any one the contents of the letter until he=
had
shown them to his uncle. He determined to ride over to the rectory to lunch;
for as Lady Mary was away, he and his uncle might be tete-a-tete.
The rectory was on the other side =
of
the river, close to the church of which it was the fitting companion: a fine
old brick-and-stone house, with a great bow-window opening from the library=
on
to the deep-turfed lawn, one fat dog sleeping on the door-stone, another fat
dog waddling on the gravel, the autumn leaves duly swept away, the lingering
chrysanthemums cherished, tall trees stooping or soaring in the most
picturesque variety, and a Virginian creeper turning a little rustic hut in=
to a
scarlet pavilion. It was one of those rectories which are among the bulwark=
s of
our venerable institutions - which arrest disintegrating doubt, serve as a
double embankment against Popery and Dissent, and rally feminine instinct a=
nd
affection to reinforce the decisions of masculine thought.
'What makes you look so merry, Phi=
l?'
said the rector, as his nephew entered the pleasant library.
'Something that concerns you,' said
Philip, taking out the letter. 'A clerical challenge. Here's an opportunity=
for
you to emulate the divines of the sixteenth century and have a theological
duel. Read this letter.'
'What answer have you sent the cra=
zy
little fellow?' said the rector, keeping the letter in his hand and running
over it again and again, with brow knit, but eyes gleaming without any
malignity. 'O, I sent no answer. I awaited yours.'
'Mine!' said the rector, throwing =
down
the letter on the table. 'You don't suppose I'm going to hold a public deba=
te
with a schismatic of that sort? I should have an infidel shoe-maker next
expecting me to answer blasphemies delivered in bad grammar.'
'But you see how he puts it,' said
Philip. With all his gravity of nature he could not resist a slightly
michievous prompting, though he had a serious feeling that he should not li=
ke
to be regarded as failing to fulfil his pledge. 'I think if you refuse, I s=
hall
be obliged to offer myself.'
'Nonsense! Tell him he is himself
acting a dishonourable part in interpreting your words as a pledge to do any
preposterous thing that suits his fancy. Suppose he had asked you to give h=
im
land to build a chapel on; doubtless that would have given him a ‘liv=
ely
satisfaction.’ A man who puts a non-natural strained sense on a promi=
se
is no better than a robber.'
'But he has not asked for land. I
daresay he thinks you won't object to his proposal. I confess there's a
simplicity and quaintness about the letter that rather pleases me.'
'Let me tell you, Phil, he's a cra=
zy
little firefly, that does a great deal of harm in my parish. He inflames the
Dissenters' minds on politics. There's no end to the mischief done by these
busy prating men. They make the ignorant multitude the judges of the largest
questions, both political and religious, till we shall soon have no institu=
tion
left that is not on a level with the comprehension of a huckster or a draym=
an.
There can be nothing more retrograde - losing all the results of civilisati=
on,
all the lessons of Providence - letting the windlass run down after men have
been turning at it painfully for generations. If the instructed are not to
judge for the uninstructed, why, let us set Dick Stubbs to make our almanac=
s,
and have a President of the Royal Society elected by universal suffrage.'
The rector had risen, placed himse=
lf
with his back to the fire, and thrust his hands in his pockets, ready to in=
sist
further on this wide argument. Philip sat nursing one leg, listening
respectfully, as he always did, though often listening to the sonorous echo=
of
his own statements, which suited his uncle's needs so exactly that he did n=
ot
distinguish them from his old impressions.
'True,' said Philip, 'but in speci=
al
cases we have to do with special conditions. You know I defend the casuists.
And it may happen that, for the honour of the church in Treby and a little =
also
for my honour, circumstances may demand a concession even to some notions o=
f a
dissenting preacher.'
'Not at all. I should be making a
figure which my brother clergy might well take as an affront to themselves.=
The
character of the establishment has suffered enough already through the
Evangelicals, with their extempore incoherence and their pipe-smoking piety.
Look at Wimple, the man who is vicar of Shuttleton - without his gown and
bands, anybody would take him for a grocer in mourning.'
'Well, I shall cut a still worse f=
igure,
and so will you, in the dissenting magazines and newspapers. It will go the
round of the kingdom. There will be a paragraph headed, ‘Tory Falseho=
od
and Clerical Cowardice,’ or else ‘The Meanness of the Aristocra=
cy
and the Incompetence of the Beneficed Clergy.’ '
'There would be a worse paragraph =
if I
were to consent to the debate. Of course it would be said that I was beaten
hollow, and that now the question had been cleared up at Treby Magna, the
church had not a sound leg to stand on. Besides,' the rector went on, frown=
ing
and smiling, 'it's all very well for you to talk, Phil, but this debating is
not so easy when a man's close upon sixty. What one writes or says must be
something good and scholarly; and after all had been done, this little Lyon=
would
buzz about one like a wasp, and cross-question and rejoin. Let me tell you,=
a
plain truth may be so worried and mauled by fallacies as to get the worst of
it. There's no such thing as tiring a talking machine like Lyon.' 'Then you
absolutely refuse?' 'Yes, I do.'
'You remember that when I wrote my
letter of thanks to Lyon you approved my offer to serve him if possible.'
'Certainly I remember it. But supp=
ose
he had asked you to vote for civil marriage, or to go and hear him preach e=
very
Sunday?'
'But he has not asked that.'
'Something as unreasonable, though=
.'
'Well,' said Philip, taking up Mr
Lyon's letter and looking graver - looking even vexed, 'it is rather an
unpleasant business for me. I really felt obliged to him. I think there's a
sort of worth in the man beyond his class. Whatever may be the reason of the
case, I shall disappoint him instead of doing him the service I offered.'
'Well, that's a misfortune; we can=
't
help it.'
'The worst of it is, I should be
insulting him to say, ‘I will do anything else, but not just this that
you want.’ He evidently feels himself in company with Luther and Zwin=
gli
and Calvin and considers our letters part of the history of Protestantism.'=
'Yes, yes. I know it's rather an
unpleasant thing, Phil. You are aware that I would have done anything in re=
ason
to prevent you from becoming unpopular here. I consider your character a
possession to all of us.'
'I think I must call on him forthw=
ith,
and explain and apologise.'
'No, sit still; I've thought of
something,' said the rector, with a sudden revival of spirits. 'I've just s=
een
Sherlock coming in. He is to lunch with me to-day. It would do no harm for =
him
to hold the debate - a curate and a young man - he'll gain by it; and it wo=
uld
release you from any awkwardness, Phil. Sherlock is not going to stay here
long, you know; he'll soon have his title. I'll put the thing to him. He wo=
n't
object if I wish it. It's a capital idea. It will do Sherlock good. He's a
clever fellow, but he wants confidence.'
Philip had not time to object befo=
re
Mr Sherlock appeared - a young divine of good birth and figure, of sallow
complexion and bashful address.
'Sherlock, you have came in most
opportunely,' said the rector. 'A case has turned up in the parish in which=
you
can be of eminent use. I know that is what you have desired ever since you =
have
been with me. But I'm about so much myself that there really has not been
sphere enough for you. You are a studious man, I know; I daresay you have a=
ll
the necessary matter prepared - at your finger-ends, if not on paper.'
Mr Sherlock smiled with rather a
trembling lip, willing to distinguish himself, but hoping that the rector o=
nly
alluded to a dialogue on baptism by aspersion, or some other pamphlet suite=
d to
the purposes of the Christian Knowledge Society. But as the rector proceede=
d to
unfold the circumstances under which his eminent service was to be rendered=
, he
grew more and more nervous.
'You'll oblige me very much,
Sherlock,' the rector ended, 'by going into this thing zealously. Can you g=
uess
what time you will require? because it will rest with us to fix the day.'
'I should be rejoiced to oblige yo=
u,
Mr Debarry, but I really think I am not competent to -'
'That's your modesty, Sherlock. Do=
n't
let me hear any more of that. I know Filmore of Corpus said you might be a
first-rate man if your diffidence didn't do you injustice. And you can refer
anything to me, you know. Come, you will set about the thing at once. But,
Phil, you must tell the preacher to send a scheme of the debate - all the
different heads - and he must agree to keep rigidly within the scheme. Ther=
e,
sit down at my desk and write the letter now; Thomas shall carry it.'
Philip sat down to write, and the
rector, with his firm ringing voice, went on at his ease, giving 'indicatio=
ns'
to his agitated curate.
'But you can begin at once prepari= ng a good, cogent, clear statement, and considering the probable points of assau= lt. You can look into Jewel, Hall, Hooker, Whitgift, and the rest: you'll find = them all here. My library wants nothing in English divinity. Sketch the lower gr= ound taken by Usher and those men, but bring all your force to bear on marking o= ut the true High-Church doctrine. Expose the wretched cavils of the Nonconformists, and the noisy futility that belongs to schismatics generall= y. I will give you a telling passage from Burke on the Dissenters, and some good quotations which I brought together in two sermons of my own on the Positio= n of the English Church in Christendom. How long do you think it will take you to bring your thoughts together? You can throw them afterwards into the form o= f an essay; we'll have the thing printed; it will do you good with the bishop.'<= o:p>
With all Mr Sherlock's timidity, t=
here
was fascination for him in this distinction. He reflected that he could tak=
e coffee
and sit up late, and perhaps produce something rather fine. It might be a f=
irst
step towards that eminence which it was no more than his duty to aspire to.
Even a polemical fame like that of a Philpotts must have had a beginning. Mr
Sherlock was not insensible to the pleasure of turning sentences successful=
ly,
and it was a pleasure not always unconnected with preferment. A diffident m=
an
likes the idea of doing something remarkable, which will create belief in h=
im
without any immediate display of brilliancy. Celebrity may blush and be sil=
ent,
and win a grace the more. Thus Mr Sherlock was constrained, trembling all t=
he
while, and much wishing that his essay were already in print.
'I think I could hardly be ready u=
nder
a fortnight.'
'Very good. Just write that, Phil,=
and
tell him to fix the precise day and place. And then we'll go to lunch.'
The rector was quite satisfied. He=
had
talked himself into thinking that he should like to give Sherlock a few use=
ful
hints, look up his own earlier sermons, and benefit the curate by his
criticism, when the argument had been got into shape. He was a healthy-natu=
red
man, but that was not at all a reason why he should not have those
sensibilities to the odour of authorship which belong to almost everybody w=
ho
is not expected to be a writer - and especially to that form of authorship
which is called suggestion, and consists in telling another man that he mig=
ht
do a great deal with a given subject, by bringing a sufficient amount of
knowledge, reasoning, and wit to bear upon it.
Philip would have had some twinges=
of
conscience about the curate, if he had not guessed that the honour thrust u=
pon
him was not altogether disagreeable. The church might perhaps have had a
stronger supporter; but for himself, he had done what he was bound to do: he
had done his best towards fulfilling Mr Lyon's desire.
'If he come not, the play is marre=
d.'
- Midsummer Night's Dream
RUFUS LYON was very happy on that =
mild
November morning appointed for the great conference in the larger room at t=
he
Free School, between himself and the Rev. Theodore Sherlock, B.A. The
disappointment of not contending with the rector in person, which had at fi=
rst
been bitter, had been gradually lost sight of in the positive enjoyment of =
an
opportunity for debating on any terms. Mr Lyon had two grand elements of
pleasure on such occasions: confidence in the strength of his case, and
confidence in his own power of advocacy. Not - to use his own phrase - not =
that
he 'glorified himself herein'; for speech and exposition were so easy to hi=
m,
that if he argued forcibly, he believed it to be simply because the truth w=
as
forcible. He was not proud of moving easily in his native medium. A panting=
man
thinks of himself as a clever swimmer; but a fish swims much better, and ta=
kes
his performance as a matter of course.
Whether Mr Sherlock were that pant=
ing,
self-gratulating man, remained a secret. Philip Debarry, much occupied with=
his
electioneering affairs, had only once had an opportunity of asking his uncle
how Sherlock got on, and the rector had said, curtly, 'I think he'll do. I'=
ve
supplied him well with references. I advise him to read only, and decline
everything else as out of order. Lyon will speak to a point, and then Sherl=
ock
will read: it will be all the more telling. It will give variety.' But on t=
his
particular morning peremptory business connected with the magistracy called=
the
rector away.
Due notice had been given, and the
feminine world of Treby Magna was much more agitated by the prospect than by
that of any candidate's speech. Mrs Pendrell at the Bank, Mrs Tiliot, and t=
he
church ladies generally, felt bound to hear the curate, who was known,
apparently by an intuition concerning the nature of curates, to be a very
clever young man; and he would show them what learning had to say on the ri=
ght
side. One or two Dissenting ladies were not without emotion at the thought
that, seated on the front benches, they should be brought near to old Church
friends, and have a longer greeting than had taken place since the Catholic
Emancipation. Mrs Muscat, who had been a beauty, and was as nice in her
millinery as any Trebian lady belonging to the establishment, reflected that
she should put on her best large embroidered collar, and that she should ask
Mrs Tiliot where it was in Duffield that she once got her bedhangings dyed =
so
beautifully. When Mrs Tiliot was Mary Salt, the two ladies had been bosom
friends; but Mr Tiliot had looked higher and higher since his gin had becom=
e so
famous; and in the year '29 he had, in Mr Muscat's hearing, spoken of
Dissenters as sneaks, - a personality which could not be overlooked.
The debate was to begin at eleven,=
for
the rector would not allow the evening to be chosen, when low men and boys
might want to be admitted out of mere mischief. This was one reason why the
female part of the audience outnumbered the males. But some chief Trebians =
were
there, even men whose means made them as independent of theory as Mr Pendre=
ll
and Mr Wace; encouraged by reflecting that they were not in a place of wors=
hip,
and would not be obliged to stay longer than they chose. There was a muster=
of
all Dissenters who could spare the morning time, and on the back benches we=
re
all the aged churchwomen who shared the remnants of the sacrament wine, and=
who
were humbly anxious to neglect nothing ecclesiastical or connected with 'go=
ing
to a better place'.
At eleven the arrival of listeners
seemed to have ceased. Mr Lyon was seated on the school tribune or dais at =
his
particular round table; another round table, with a chair, awaited the cura=
te,
with whose superior position it was quite in keeping that he should not be
first on the ground. A couple of extra chairs were placed further back, and
more than one important personage had been requested to act as chairman; bu=
t no
churchman would place himself in a position so equivocal as to dignity of
aspect, and so unequivocal as to the obligation of sitting out the discussi=
on;
and the rector had beforehand put a veto on any Dissenting chairman.
Mr Lyon sat patiently absorbed in =
his
thoughts, with his notes in minute handwriting lying before him, seeming to
look at the audience, but not seeing them. Every one else was contented that
there should be an interval in which there could be a little neighbourly ta=
lk.
Esther was particularly happy, sea=
ted
on a side-bench near her father's side of the tribune, with Felix close beh=
ind
her, so that she could turn her head and talk to him. He had been very kind
ever since that morning when she had called at his home, more disposed to l=
isten
indulgently to what she had to say, and less blind to her looks and movemen=
ts.
If he had never railed at her or ignored her, she would have been less
sensitive to the attention he gave her; but as it was, the prospect of seei=
ng
him seemed to light up her life, and to disperse the old dulness. She looked
unusually charming to-day, from the very fact that she was not vividly
conscious of anything but of having a mind near her that asked her to be
something better than she actually was. The consciousness of her own
superiority amongst the people around her was superseded, and even a few br=
ief
weeks had given a softened expression to her eyes, a more feminine
beseechingness and self-doubt to her manners. Perhaps, however, a little new
defiance was rising in place of the old contempt - defiance of the Trebian
views concerning Felix Holt.
'What a very nice-looking young wo=
man
your minister's daughter is ! ' said Mrs Tiliot in an undertone to Mrs Musc=
at,
who, as she had hoped, had found a seat next to her quondam friend - 'quite=
the
lady'.
'Rather too much so, considering,'
said Mrs Muscat. 'She's thought proud, and that's not pretty in a girl, eve=
n if
there was anything to back it up. But now she seems to be encouraging that
young Holt, who scoffs at everything, as you may judge by his appearance. S=
he
has despised his betters before now; but I leave you to judge whether a you=
ng
man who has taken to low ways of getting his living can pay for fine cambric
handkerchiefs and light kid gloves.'
Mrs Muscat lowered her blond eyela=
shes
and swayed her neat head just perceptibly from side to side, with a sincere
desire to be moderate in her expressions, not withstanding any shock that f=
acts
might have given her.
'Dear, dear,' said Mrs Tiliot. 'Wh=
at!
that is young Holt leaning forward now without a cravat? I've never seen him
before to notice him, but I've heard Tiliot talking about him. They say he'=
s a
dangerous character, and goes stirring up the working men at Sproxton. And -
well, to be sure, such great eyes and such a great head of hair - it is eno=
ugh
to frighten one. What can she see in him? Quite below her.'
'Yes, and brought up a governess,'
said Mrs Muscat; 'you'd have thought she'd know better how to choose. But t=
he
minister has let her get the upper hand sadly too much. It's a pity in a ma=
n of
God - I don't deny he's that.'
'Well, I am sorry,' said Mrs Tilio=
t,
'for I meant her to give my girls lessons when they came from school.'
Mr Wace and Pendrell meanwhile were
standing up and looking round at the audience, nodding to their
fellow-townspeople with the affability due from men in their position.
'It's time he came now,' said Mr W=
ace,
looking at his watch and comparing it with the schoolroom clock. 'This deba=
ting
is a newfangled sort of thing; but the rector would never have given in to =
it
if there hadn't been good reasons. Nolan said he wouldn't come. He says this
debating is an atheistical sort of thing; the Atheists are very fond of it.
Theirs is a bad book to take a leaf out of. However, we shall hear nothing =
but what's
good from Mr Sherlock. He preaches a capital sermon - for such a young man.=
'
'Well, it was our duty to support =
him
- not to leave him alone among the Dissenters,' said Mr Pendrell. 'You see,
everybody hasn't felt that. Labron might have shown himself, if not Lukyn. I
could have alleged business myself if I had thought proper.'
'Here he comes, I think,' said Mr
Wace, turning round on hearing a movement near the small door on a level wi=
th
the platform. 'By George! it's Mr Debarry. Come now, this is handsome.'
Mr Wace and Mr Pendrell clapped th=
eir
hands, and the example was followed even by most of the Dissenters. Philip =
was
aware that he was doing a popular thing, of a kind that Treby was not used =
to
from the elder Debarrys; but his appearance had not been long premeditated.=
He
was driving through the town towards an engagement at some distance, but on
calling at Labron's office he had found that the affair which demanded his
presence had been deferred, and so had driven round to the Free School. Chr=
istian
came in behind him.
Mr Lyon was now roused from his
abstraction, and, stepping from his slight elevation, begged Mr Debarry to =
act
as moderator or president on the occasion.
'With all my heart,' said Philip. =
'But
Mr Sherlock has not arrived, apparently?'
'He tarries somewhat unduly,' said=
Mr
Lyon. 'Nevertheless there may be a reason of which we know not. Shall I col=
lect
the thoughts of the assembly by a brief introductory address in the interva=
l?'
'No, no, no,' said Mr Wace, who sa=
w a
limit to his powers of endurance. 'Mr Sherlock is sure to be here in a minu=
te
or two.'
'Christian,' said Philip Debarry, =
who
felt a slight misgiving, 'just be so good - but stay, I'll go myself. Excuse
me, gentlemen; I'll drive round to Mr Sherlock's lodgings. He may be under a
little mistake as to the time. Studious men are sometimes rather absent. You
needn't come with me, Christian.'
As Mr Debarry went out, Rufus Lyon
stepped on to the tribune again in rather an uneasy state of mind. A few id=
eas
had occurred to him, eminently fitted to engage the audience profitably, an=
d so
to wrest some edification out of an unforeseen delay. But his native delica=
cy
made him feel that in this assembly the church people might fairly decline =
any
'deliverance' on his part which exceeded the programme, and Mr Wace's negat=
ive
had been energetic. But the little man suffered from imprisoned ideas, and =
was
as restless as a racer held in. He could not sit down again, but walked
backwards and forwards, stroking his chin, emitting his low guttural interj=
ection
under the pressure of clauses and sentences which he longed to utter aloud,=
as
he would have done in his own study. There was a low buzz in the room which
helped to deepen the minister's sense that the thoughts within him were as
divine messengers unheeded or rejected by a trivial generation. Many of the
audience were standing; all, except the old churchwomen on the back seats, =
and
a few devout Dissenters who kept their eyes shut and gave their bodies a ge=
ntle
oscillating motion, were interested in chat. 'Your father is uneasy,' said
Felix to Esther.
'Yes; and now, I think, he is feel=
ing
for his spectacles. I hope he has not left them at home: he will not be abl=
e to
see anything two yards before him without them; - and it makes him so
unconscious of what people expect or want.'
'I'll go and ask him whether he has
them,' said Felix, striding over the form in front of him, and approaching =
Mr
Lyon, whose face showed a gleam of pleasure at this relief from his abstrac=
ted
isolation.
'Miss Lyon is afraid that you are =
at a
loss for your spectacles, sir,' said Felix.
'My dear young friend,' said Mr Ly=
on,
laying his hand on Felix Holt's fore-arm, which was about on a level with t=
he
minister's shoulder, 'it is a very glorious truth, albeit made somewhat pai=
nful
to me by the circumstances of the present moment, that as a counterpoise to=
the
brevity of our mortal life (wherein, as I apprehend, our powers are being
trained not only for the transmission of an improved heritage, as I have he=
ard
you insist, but also for our own entrance into a higher initiation in the
divine scheme) - it is, I say, a very glorious truth, that even in what are
called the waste minutes of our time, like those of expectation, the soul m=
ay
soar and range, as in some of our dreams which are brief as a broken rainbo=
w in
duration, yet seem to comprise a long history of terror or of joy. And agai=
n,
each moment may be a beginning of a new spiritual energy; and our pulse wou=
ld
doubtless be a coarse and clumsy notation of the passage from that which was
not to that which is, even in the finer processes of the material world - a=
nd
how much more -'
Esther was watching her father and
Felix, and though she was not within hearing of what was being said, she
guessed the actual state of the case - that the inquiry about the spectacles
had been unheeded, and that her father was losing himself and embarrassing
Felix in the intricacies of a dissertation. There was not the stillness aro=
und
her that would have made a movement on her part seem conspicuous, and she w=
as
impelled by her anxiety to step on the tribune and walk up to her father, w=
ho
paused, a little startled.
'Pray see whether you have forgott= en your spectacles, father. If so, I will go home at once and look for them.'<= o:p>
Mr Lyon was automatically obedient=
to
Esther, and he began immediately to feel in his pockets.
'How is it that Miss Jermyn is so
friendly with the Dissenting parson?' said Christian to Quorlen, the Tory
printer, who was an intimate of his. 'Those grand Jermyns are not Dissenters
surely?'
'What Miss Jermyn?'
'Why - don't you see? - that fine =
girl
who is talking to him.'
'Miss Jermyn! Why, that's the litt=
le
parson's daughter.'
'His daughter!' Christian gave a l=
ow
brief whistle, which seemed a natural expression of surprise that 'the rust=
y old
ranter' should have a daughter of such distinguished appearance.
Meanwhile the search for the
spectacles had proved vain.
'Tis a grievous fault in me, my de=
ar,'
said the little man, humbly; 'I become thereby sadly burthensome to you.'
'I will go at once,' said Esther,
refusing to let Felix go instead of her. But she had scarcely stepped off t=
he
tribune when Mr Debarry re-entered, and there was a commotion which made her
wait. After a low-toned conversation with Mr Pendrell and Mr Wace, Philip
Debarry stepped on to the tribune with his hat in his hand, and said, with =
an
air of much concern and annoyance -
'I am sorry to have to tell you,
ladies and gentlemen, that - doubtless owing to some accidental cause which=
I
trust will soon be explained as nothing serious - Mr Sherlock is absent from
his residence, and is not to be found. He went out early, his landlady info=
rms
me, to refresh himself by a walk on this agreeable morning, as is his habit,
she tells me, when he has been kept up late by study; and he has not return=
ed.
Do not let us be too anxious. I shall cause inquiry to be made in the direc=
tion
of his walk. It is easy to imagine many accidents, not of a grave character=
, by
which he might nevertheless be absolutely detained against his will. Under
these circumstances, Mr Lyon,' continued Philip, turning to the minister, 'I
presume that the debate must be adjourned.'
'The debate, doubtless,' began Mr
Lyon; but his further speech was drowned by a general rising of the church
people from their seats, many of them feeling that even if the cause were
lamentable, the adjournment was not altogether disagreeable.
'Good gracious me!' said Mrs Tilio=
t,
as she took her husband's arm, 'I hope the poor young man hasn't fallen into
the river or broken his leg.'
But some of the more acrid Dissent=
ers,
whose temper was not controlled by the habits of retail business, had begun=
to
hiss, implying that in their interpretation the curate's absence had not
depended on any injury to life or limb.
'He's turned tail, sure enough,' s=
aid
Mr Muscat to the neighbour behind him, lifting his eyebrows and shoulders, =
and
laughing in a way that showed that, deacon as he was, he looked at the affa=
ir
in an entirely secular light.
But Mrs Muscat thought it would be
nothing but right to have all the waters dragged, agreeing in this with the
majority of the church ladies.
'I regret sincerely, Mr Lyon,' said
Philip Debarry, addressing the minister with politeness, 'that I must say
goodmorning to you, with the sense that I have not been able at present to
contribute to your satisfaction as I had wished.'
'Speak not of it in the way of
apology, sir,' said Mr Lyon, in a tone of depression. 'I doubt not that you
yourself have acted in good faith. Nor will I open any door of egress to
constructions such as anger often deems ingenious, but which the disclosure=
of
the simple truth may expose as erroneous and uncharitable fabrications. I w=
ish
you goodmorning, sir.'
When the room was deared of the ch=
urch
people, Mr Lyon wished to soothe his own spirit and that of his flock by a =
few
reflections introductory to a parting prayer. But there was a general
resistance to this effect. The men mustered round the minister, and declared
their opinion that the whole thing was disgraceful to the church. Some said=
the
curate's absence had been contrived from the first. Others more than hinted
that it had been a folly in Mr Lyon to set on foot any procedure in common =
with
Tories and clergymen, who, if they ever aped civility to Dissenters, would
never do anything but laugh at them in their sleeves. Brother Remp urged in=
his
heavy bass that Mr Lyon should lose no time in sending an account of the af=
fair
to the Patriot; and Brother Hawkins, in his high tenor, observed that it wa=
s an
occasion on which some stinging things might be said with all the extra eff=
ect
of an apro pos.
The position of receiving a
many-voiced lecture from the members of his church was familiar to Mr Lyon,=
but
now he felt weary, frustrated, and doubtful of his own temper. Felix, who s=
tood
by and saw that this man of sensitive fibre was suffering from talkers whose
noisy superficiality cost them nothing, got exasperated. 'It seems to me,
sirs,' he burst in, with his predominant voice, 'that Mr Lyon has hitherto =
had
the hard part of the business, while you of his congregation have had the e=
asy
one. Punish the church clergy, if you like - they can take care of themselv=
es.
But don't punish your own minister. It's no business of mine, perhaps, exce=
pt
so far as fair-play is everybody's business; but it seems to me the time to=
ask
Mr Lyon to take a little rest, instead of setting on him like so many wasps=
.'
By this speech Felix raised a
displeasure which fell on the minister as well as on himself; but he gained=
his
immediate end. The talkers dropped off after a slight show of persistence, =
and
Mr Lyon quitted the field of no combat with a small group of his less imper=
ious
friends, to whom he confided his intention of committing his argument fully=
to
paper, and forwarding it to a discriminating editor.
'But regarding personalities,' he
added, 'I have not the same clear showing. For, say that this young man was
pusillanimous - I were but ill provided with arguments if I took my stand e=
ven
for a moment on so poor an irrelevancy as that because one curate is ill
furnished therefore episcopacy is false. If I held up any one to just obloq=
uy,
it would be the well-designated incumbent of this parish, who, calling hims=
elf
one of the church militant, sends a young and weak-kneed substitute to take=
his
place in the fight.'
Mr Philip Debarry did not neglect =
to
make industrious inquiry concerning the accidents which had detained the Re=
v.
Theodore Sherlock on his moming walk. That well-intentioned young divine was
seen no more in Treby Magna. But the river was not dragged, for by the even=
ing
coach the rector received an explanatory letter. The Rev. Theodore's agitat=
ion
had increased so much during his walk, that the passing coach had been a me=
ans
of deliverance not to be resisted, and, literally at the eleventh hour, he =
had
hailed and mounted the cheerful Tally-ho! and carried away his portion of t=
he
debate in his pocket.
But the rector had subsequently the
satisfaction of receiving Mr Sherlock's painstaking production in print, wi=
th a
dedication to the Rev. Augustus Debarry, a motto from St Chrysostum, and ot=
her
additions, the fruit of ripening leisure. He was 'sorry for poor Sherlock, =
who
wanted confidence'; but he was convinced that for his own part he had taken=
the
course which under the circumstances was the least compromising to the chur=
ch.
Sir Maximus, however, observed to his son and brother that he had been right
and they had been wrong as to the danger of vague, enormous expressions of
gratitude to a Dissenting preacher, and on any differences of opinion seldom
failed to remind them of that precedent.
Your fellow-man? - Divide the epit=
het:
Say rather, you're the fellow, he =
the
man.
WHEN Christian quitted the Free Sc=
hool
with the discovery that the young lady whose appearance had first startled =
him
with an indefinable impression in the market-place was the daughter of the =
old
Dissenting preacher who had shown so much agitated curiosity about his name=
, he
felt very much like an uninitiated chess-player who sees that the pieces ar=
e in
a peculiar position on the board, and might open the way for him to give
checkmate, if he only knew how. Ever since his interview with Jermyn, his m=
ind
had been occupied with the charade it offered to his ingenuity. What was the
real meaning of the lawyer's interest in him, and in his relations with Mau=
rice
Christian Bycliffe? Here was a secret; and secrets were often a source of
profit, of that agreeable kind which involved little labour. Jermyn had hin=
ted
at profit which might possibly come through him; but Christian said inwardl=
y,
with well-satisfied self-esteem, that he was not so pitiable a nincompoop a=
s to
trust Jermyn. On the contrary, the only problem before him was to find out =
by
what combination of independent knowledge he could outwit Jermyn, elude any
purchase the attorney had on him through his past history, and get a handso=
me
bonus, by which a somewhat shattered man of pleasure might live well withou=
t a
master. Christian, having early exhausted the more impulsive delights of li=
fe,
had become a sober calculator; and he had made up his mind that, for a man =
who
had long ago run through his own money, servitude in a great family was the
best kind of retirement after that of a pensioner; but if a better chance
offered, a person of talent must not let it slip through his fingers. He he=
ld
various ends of threads, but there was danger in pulling at them too
impatiently. He had not forgotten the surprise which had made him drop the
punch-ladle, when Mr Crowder, talking in the steward's room, had said that a
scamp named Henry Scaddon had been concerned in a lawsuit about the Transome
estate. Again, Jermyn was the family lawyer of the Transomes; he knew about=
the
exchange of names between Scaddon and Bycliffe; he clearly wanted to know as
much as he could about Bycliffe's history. The conclusion was not remote th=
at
Bycliffe had had some claim on the Transome property, and that a difficulty=
had
arisen from his being confounded with Henry Scaddon. But hitherto the other
incident which had been apparently connected with the interchange of names =
- Mr
Lyon's demand that he should write down the name Maurice Christian, accompa=
nied
with the question whether that were his whole name - had had no visible link
with the inferences arrived at through Crowder and Jermyn.
The discovery made this morning at=
the
Free School that Esther was the daughter of the Dissenting preacher at last
suggested a possible link. Until then, Christian had not known why Esther's
face had impressed him so peculiarly; but the minister's chief association =
for
him was with Bycliffe, and that association served as a flash to show him t=
hat
Esther's features and expression, and still more her bearing, now she stood=
and
walked, revived Bycliffe's image. Daughter? There were various ways of bein=
g a
daughter. Suppose this were a case of adoption: suppose Bycliffe were known=
to
be dead, or thought to be dead. 'Begad, if the old parson had fancied the
original father was come to life again, it was enough to frighten him a lit=
tle.
Slow and steady,' Christian said to himself; 'I'll get some talk with the o=
ld
man again. He's safe enough: one can handle him without cutting one's self.
I'll tell him I knew Bycliffe, and was his fellow-prisoner. I'll worm out t=
he
truth about this daughter. Could pretty Annette have married again, and mar=
ried
this little scarecrow? There's no knowing what a woman will not do.'
Christian could see no distinct re=
sult
for himself from his industry; but if there were to be any such result, it =
must
be reached by following out every clue; and to the non-legal mind there are=
dim
possibilities in law and heirship which prevent any issue from seeming too
miraculous.
The consequence of these meditatio=
ns
was, that Christian hung about Treby more than usual in his leisure time, a=
nd
that on the first opportunity he accosted Mr Lyon in the street with suitab=
le
civility, stating that since the occasion which had brought them together s=
ome
weeks before he had often wished to renew their conversation, and, with Mr
Lyon's permission, would now ask to do so. After being assured, as he had b=
een
by Jermyn, that this courier, who had happened by some accident to possess =
the
memorable locket and pocket-book, was certainly not Annette's husband, and =
was
ignorant whether Maurice Christian Bycliffe were living or dead, the minist=
er's
mind had become easy again; his habitual lack of interest in personal detai=
ls
rendering him gradually oblivious of Jermyn's precautionary statement that =
he
was pursuing inquiries, and that if anything of interest turned up, Mr Lyon
should be made acquainted with it. Hence, when Christian addressed him, the
minister, taken by surprise and shaken by the recollections of former
anxieties, said, helplessly -
'If it is business, sir, you would
perhaps do better to address yourself to Mr Jermyn.'
He could not have said anything th=
at
was a more valuable hint to Christian. He inferred that the minister had ma=
de a
confidant of Jermyn, and it was needful to be wary
'On the contrary, sir,' he answere=
d,
'it may be of the utmost importance to you that what passes between us shou=
ld
not be known to Mr Jermyn.'
Mr Lyon was perplexed, and felt at
once that he was no more in clear daylight concerning Jermyn than concerning
Christian. He dared not neglect the possible duty of hearing what this man =
had
to say, and he invited him to proceed to Malthouse Yard, where they could
converse in private.
Once in Mr Lyon's study, Christian
opened the dialogue by saying that since he was in this room before it had
occurred to him that the anxiety he had observed in Mr Lyon might be owing =
to
some acquaintance with Maurice Christian Bycliffe - a fellow-prisoner in Fr=
ance
whom he, Christian, had assisted in getting freed from his imprisonment, and
who, in fact, had been the owner of the trifles which Mr Lyon had recently =
had
in his possession and had restored. Christian hastened to say that he knew
nothing of Bycliffe's history since they had parted in France, but that he =
knew
of his marriage with Annette Ledru, and had been acquainted with Annette
herself. He would be very glad to know what became of Bycliffe, if he could,
for he liked him uncommonly.
Here Christian paused; but Mr Lyon
only sat changing colour and trembling. This man's bearing and tone of mind
were made repulsive to him by being brought in contact with keenly-felt
memories, and he could not readily summon the courage to give answers or ask
questions.
'May I ask if you knew my friend
Bycliffe?' said Christian, trying a more direct method.
'No, sir; I never saw him.'
'Ah I well - you have seen a very
striking likeness of him. It's wonderful - unaccountable; but when I saw Mi=
ss
Lyon at the Free School the other day, I could have sworn she was Bycliffe's
daughter.'
'Sir!' said Mr Lyon, in his deepest
tone, half rising, and holding by the arms of his chair, 'these subjects to=
uch
me with too sharp a point for you to be justified in thrusting them on me o=
ut
of mere levity. Is there any good you seek or any injury you fear in relati=
on
to them?'
'Precisely, sir. We shall come now=
to
an understanding. Suppose I believed that the young lady who goes by the na=
me
of Miss Lyon was the daughter of Bycliffe?'
Mr Lyon moved his lips silently.
'And suppose I had reason to suspe=
ct
that there would be some great advantage for her if the law knew who was her
father?'
'Sir!' said Mr Lyon, shaken out of=
all
reticence, 'I would not conceal it. She believes herself to be my daughter.=
But
I will bear all things rather than deprive her of a right. Nevertheless I w=
ill
appeal to the pity of any fellow-man, not to thrust himself between her and=
me,
but to let me disclose the truth to her myself.'
'All in good time,' said Christian.
'We must do nothing rash. Then Miss Lyon is Annette's child?'
The minister shivered as if the ed=
ge
of a knife had been drawn across his hand. But the tone of the question, by=
the
very fact that it intensified his antipathy to Christian, enabled him to
collect himself for what must be simply the endurance of a painful operatio=
n.
After a moment or two he said more coolly, 'It is true, sir. Her mother bec=
ame
my wife. Proceed with any statement which may concern my duty.'
'I have no more to say than this: =
If
there's a prize that the law might hand over to Bycliffe's daughter, I am m=
uch
mistaken if there isn't a lawyer who'll take precious good care to keep the=
law
hoodwinked. And that lawyer is Mat Jermyn. Why, my good sir, if you've been
taking Jermyn into your confidence, you've been setting the fox to keep off=
the
weasel. It strikes me that when you were made a little anxious about those
articles of poor Bycliffe's, you put Jermyn on making inquiries of me. Eh? I
think I am right?'
'I do not deny it.'
'Ah! - it was very well you did, f=
or
by that means I've found out that he's got hold of some secrets about Bycli=
ffe
which he means to stifle. Now, sir, if you desire any justice for your
daughter, step-daughter, I should say - don't so much as wink to yourself
before Jermyn; and if you've got any papers or things of that sort that may
come in evidence, as these confounded rescals the lawyers call it, clutch t=
hem
tight, for if they get into Jermyn's hands they may soon fly up the chimney.
Have I said enough?'
'I had not purposed any further
communication with Mr Jermyn, sir; indeed, I have nothing further to
communicate. Except that one fact concerning my daughter's birth, which I h=
ave
erred in concealing from her, I neither seek disclosures nor do I tremble
before them.'
'Then I have your word that you wi=
ll
be silent about this conversation between us? It is for your daughter's
interest, mind.'
'Sir, I shall be silent,' said Mr
Lyon, with cold gravity. 'Unless,' he added, with an acumen as to possibili=
ties
rather disturbing to Christian's confident contempt for the old man - 'unle=
ss I
were called upon by some tribunal to declare the whole truth in this relati=
on;
in which case I should submit myself to that authority of investigation whi=
ch
is a requisite of social order.'
Christian departed, feeling satisf=
ied
that he had got the utmost to be obtained at present out of the Dissenting
preacher, whom he had not dared to question more closely. He must look out =
for
chance lights, and perhaps, too, he might catch a stray hint by stirring the
sediment of Mr Crowder's memory. But he must not venture on inquiries that
might be noticed. He was in awe of Jermyn.
When Mr Lyon was alone he paced up=
and
down among his books, and thought aloud, in order to relieve himself after =
the
constraint of this interview. 'I will not wait for the urgency of necessity=
,'
he said, more than once. 'I will tell the child, without compulsion. And th=
en I
shall fear nothing. And an unwonted spirit of tenderness has filled her of
late. She will forgive me.'
'Consideration like an angel came<= o:p>
And whipped the of ending Adam out=
of
her
Leaving her body as a paradise
To envelop and contain celestial
spirits.'
SHAKESPEARE: Henry V.
THE next morning, after much prayer
for the needful strength and wisdom, Mr Lyon came downstairs with the
resolution that another day should not pass without the fulfilment of the t=
ask
he had laid on himself; but what hour he should choose for his solemn
disclosure to Esther, must depend on their mutual occupations. Perhaps he m=
ust
defer it till they sat up alone together, after Lyddy was gone to bed. But =
at
breakfast Esther said -
'To-day is a holiday, father. My
pupils are all going to Duffield to see the wild beasts. What have you got =
to
do to-day? Come, you are eating no breakfast. O, Lyddy, Lyddy, the eggs are
hard again. I wish you would not read Alleyne's Alarm before breakfast; it
makes you cry and forget the eggs.'
'They are hard, and that's the tru=
th;
but there's hearts as are harder, Miss Esther,' said Lyddy.
'I think not,' said Esther. 'This =
is
leathery enough for the heart of the most obdurate Jew. Pray give it little
Zachary for a football.'
'Dear, dear, don't you be so light,
miss. We may all be dead before night.'
'You speak out of season, my good
Lyddy,' said Mr Lyon, wearily; 'depart into the kitchen.'
'What have you got to do to-day,
father?' persisted Esther. 'I have a holiday.'
Mr Lyon felt as if this were a fre=
sh
summons not to delay. 'I have something of great moment to do, my dear; and
since you are not otherwise demanded, I will ask you to come and sit with me
up-stairs.'
Esther wondered what there could b=
e on
her father's mind more pressing than his morning studies.
She soon knew. Motionless, but men=
tally
stirred as she had never been before, Esther listened to her mother's story,
and to the outpouring of her step-father's long-pent-up experience. The ray=
s of
the morning sun which fell athwart the books, the sense of the beginning da=
y,
had deepened the solemnity more than night would have done. All knowledge w=
hich
alters our lives penetrates us more when it comes in the early morning: the=
day
that has to be travelled with something new and perhaps for ever sad in its
light, is an image of the life that spreads beyond. But at night the time of
rest is near.
Mr Lyon regarded his narrative as a
confession - as a revelation to this beloved child of his own miserable
weakness and error. But to her it seemed a revelation of another sort: her =
mind
seemed suddenly enlarged by a vision of passion and struggle, of delight and
renunciation, in the lot of beings who had hitherto been a dull enigma to h=
er.
And in the act of unfolding to her that he was not her real father, but had
only striven to cherish her as a father, had only longed to be loved as a
father, the odd, wayworn, unworldly man became the object of a new sympathy=
in
which Esther felt herself exalted. Perhaps this knowledge would have been l=
ess
powerful within her, but for the mental preparation that had come during the
last two months from her acquaintance with Felix Holt, which had taught her=
to
doubt the infallibility of her own standard, and raised a presentiment of m=
oral
depths that were hidden from her.
Esther had taken her place opposit=
e to
her father, and had not moved even her clasped hands while he was speaking.=
But
after the long out-pouring in which he seemed to lose the sense of everythi=
ng
but the memories he was giving utterance to, he paused a little while and t=
hen
said timidly -
'This is a late retrieval of a long
error, Esther. I make not excuses for myself, for we ought to strive that o=
ur
affections be rooted in the truth. Nevertheless you -'
Esther had risen, and had glided o=
n to
the wooden stool on a level with her father's chair, where he was accustome=
d to
lay books. She wanted to speak, but the floodgates could not be opened for
words alone. She threw her arms round the old man's neck and sobbed out wit=
h a
passionate cry, 'Father, father! forgive me if I have not loved you enough I
will - I will!'
The old man's little delicate frame
was shaken by a surprise and joy that were almost painful in their intensit=
y.
He had been going to ask forgiveness of her who asked it for herself. In th=
at
moment of supreme complex emotion one ray of the minister's joy was the
thought, 'Surely the work of grace is begun in her - surely here is a heart
that the Lord hath touched.'
They sat so, enclasped in silence,
while Esther relieved her full heart. When she raised her head, she sat qui=
te
still for a minute or two looking fixedly before her, and keeping one little
hand in the minister's. Presently she looked at him and said -
'Then you lived like a working man,
father; you were very, very poor. Yet my mother had been used to luxury. She
was well born - she was a lady.'
'It is true, my dear; it was a poor
life that I could give her.'
Mr Lyon answered in utter dimness =
as
to the course Esther's mind was taking. He had anticipated before his
disclosure, from his long-standing discernment of tendencies in her which w=
ere
often the cause of silent grief to him, that the discovery likely to have t=
he
keenest interest for her would be that her parents had a higher rank than t=
hat
of the poor Dissenting preacher; but she had shown that other and better
sensibilities were predominant. He rebuked himself now for a hasty and shal=
low
judgment concerning the child's inner life, and waited for new clearness.
'But that must be the best life,
father,' said Esther, suddenly rising, with a flush across her paleness, and
standing with her head thrown a little backward, as if some illumination had
given her a new decision. 'That must be the best life.' 'What life, my dear
child?'
'Why, that where one bears and does
everything because of some great and strong feeling - so that this and that=
in
one's circumstances don't signify.'
'Yea, verily; but the feeling that
should be thus supreme is devotedness to the Divine Will.'
Esther did not speak; her father's
words did not fit on to the impressions wrought in her by what he had told =
her.
She sat down again, and said, more quietly -
'Mamma did not speak much of my -
first father?'
'Not much, dear. She said he was
beautiful to the eye, and good and generous; and that his family was of tho=
se
who have been long privileged among their fellows. But now I will deliver to
you the letters, which, together with a ring and locket, are the only visib=
le
memorials she retained of him.'
Mr Lyon reached and delivered to
Esther the box containing the relics. 'Take them, and examine them in priva=
cy,
my dear. And that I may no more err by concealment, I will tell you some la=
te
occurrences that bear on these memorials, though to my present apprehension
doubtfully and confusedly.'
He then narrated to Esther all that
had passed between himself and Christian. The possibility - to which Mr Lyo=
n's
alarms had pointed - that her real father might still be living, was a new
shock. She could not speak about it to her present father, but it was
registered in silence as a painful addition to the uncertainties which she
suddenly saw hanging over her life.
'I have little confidence in this
man's allegations,' Mr Lyon ended. 'I confess his presence and speech are t=
o me
as the jarring of metal. He bears the stamp of one who has never conceived
aught of more sanctity than the lust of the eye and the pride of life. He h=
ints
at some possible inheritance for you, and denounces mysteriously the device=
s of
Mr Jermyn. All this may or may not have a true foundation. But it is not my
part to move in this matter save on a clearer showing.
'Certainly not, father,' said Esth=
er,
eagerly. A little while ago, these problematic prospects might have set her
dreaming pleasantly; but now, for some reasons that she could not have put
distinctly into words, they affected her with dread.
'To hear with eyes is part of love=
's
rare wit.'
- SHAKESPEARE: Sonnets.
'Custom calls me to't :-
What custom wills, in all things
should we do't?
The dust on antique time would lie
unswept,
And mountainous error be too highly
heaped
For truth to over-peer.' - Coriola=
nus.
IN the afternoon Mr Lyon went out =
to
see the sick amongst his flock, and Esther, who had been passing the mornin=
g in
dwelling on the memories and the few remaining relics of her parents, was l=
eft
alone in the parlour amidst the lingering odours of the early dinner, not
easily got rid of in that small house. Rich people, who know nothing of the=
se
vulgar details, can hardly imagine their significance in the history of
multitudes of human lives in which the sensibilities are never adjusted to =
the external
conditions. Esther always felt so much discomfort from those odours that she
usually seized any possibility of escaping from them, and to-day they oppre=
ssed
her the more because she was weary with long-continued agitation. Why did s=
he
not put on her bonnet as usual and get out into the open air? It was one of
those pleasant November afternoons - pleasant in the wide country - when the
sunshine is on the clinging brown leaves of the young oaks, and the last ye=
llow
leaves of the elms flutter down in the fresh but not eager breeze. But Esth=
er
sat still on the sofa - pale and with reddened eyelids, her curls all pushed
back carelessly, and her elbow resting on the ridgy black horse-hair, which
usually almost set her teeth on edge if she pressed it even through her sle=
eve
- while her eyes rested blankly on the dull street. Lyddy had said, 'Miss, =
you
look sadly; if you can't take a walk, go and lie down.' She had never seen =
the
curls in such disorder, and she reflected that there had been a death from =
typhus
recently. But the obstinate miss only shook her head.
Esther was waiting for the sake of=
-
not a probability, but - a mere possibility, which made the brothy odours
endurable. Apparently, in less than half an hour, the possibility came to p=
ass,
for she changed her attitude, almost started from her seat, sat down again,=
and
listened eagerly. If Lyddy should send him away, could she herself rush out=
and
call him back? Why not? Such things were permissible where it was understoo=
d,
from the necessity of the case, that there was only friendship. But Lyddy
opened the door and said, 'Here's Mr Holt, miss, wants to know if you'll gi=
ve
him leave to come in. I told him you was sadly.'
'O yes, Lyddy, beg him to come in.=
'
'I should not have persevered,' sa=
id
Felix, as they shook hands, 'only I know Lyddy's dismal way. But you do look
ill,' he went on, as he seated himself at the other end of the sofa. 'Or ra=
ther
- for that's a false way of putting it - you look as if you had been very m=
uch
distressed. Do you mind about my taking notice of it?'
He spoke very kindly, and looked at
her more persistently than he had ever done before, when her hair was perfe=
ct.
'You are quite right. I am not at =
all
ill. But I have been very much agitated this morning. My father has been te=
lling
me things I never heard before about my mother, and giving me things that
belonged to her. She died when I was a very little creature.'
'Then it is no new pain or trouble=
for
you and Mr Lyon? I could not help being anxious to know that.'
Esther passed her hand over her br=
ow
before she answered. 'I hardly know whether it is pain, or something better
than pleasure. It has made me see things I was blind to before - depths in =
my
father's nature.'
As she said this, she looked at Fe=
lix,
and their eyes met very gravely.
'It is such a beautiful day,' he s=
aid,
'it would do you good to go into the air. Let me take you along the river
towards Little Treby, will you?'
'I will put my bonnet on,' said
Esther, unhesitatingly, though they had never walked out together before.
It is true that to get into the fi=
elds
they had to pass through the street; and when Esther saw some acquaintances,
she reflected that her walking alone with Felix might be a subject of remar=
k -
all the more because of his cap, patched boots, no cravat, and thick stick.
Esther was a little amazed herself at what she had come to. So our lives gl=
ide
on: the river ends we don't know where, and the sea begins, and then there =
is
no more jumping ashore.
When they were in the streets Esth=
er
hardly spoke. Felix talked with his usual readiness, as easily as if he were
not doing it solely to divert her thoughts, first about Job Tudge's delicate
chest, and the probability that the little white-faced monkey would not live
long; and then about a miserable beginning of a night-school, which was all=
he
could get together at Sproxton; and the dismalness of that hamlet, which wa=
s a
sort of lip to the coalpit on one side and the 'public' on the other - and =
yet
a paradise compared with the wynds of Glasgow, where there was little more =
than
a chink of daylight to show the hatred in women's faces.
But soon they got into the fields,
where there was a right of way towards Little Treby, now following the cour=
se
of the river, now crossing towards a lane, and now turning into a cart-track
through a plantation.
'Here we are!' said Felix, when th=
ey
had crossed the wooden bridge, and were treading on the slanting shadows ma=
de
by the elm trunks. 'I think this is delicious. I never feel less unhappy th=
an
in these late autumn afternoons when they are sunny.'
'Less unhappy! There now!' said
Esther, smiling at him with some of her habitual sauciness, 'I have caught =
you
in self-contradiction. I have heard you quite furious against puling,
melancholy people. If I had said what you have just said, you would have gi=
ven
me a long lecture, and told me to go home and interest myself in the reason=
of
the rule of three.'
'Very likely,' said Felix, beating=
the
weeds, according to the foible of our common humanity when it has a stick in
its hand. 'But I don't think myself a fine fellow because I'm melancholy. I
don't measure my force by the negations in me, and think my soul must be a
mighty one because it is more given to idle suffering than to beneficent
activity. That's what your favourite gentlemen do, of the Byronic bilious
style.' 'I don't admit that those are my favourite gentlemen.'
'I've heard you defend them -
gentlemen like your Renes, who have no particular talent for the finite, bu=
t a
general sense that the infinite is the right thing for them. They might as =
well
boast of nausea as a proof of a strong inside.'
'Stop, stop! You run on in that wa=
y to
get out of my reach. I convicted you of confessing that you are melancholy.=
'
'Yes!' said Felix, thrusting his l=
eft
hand into his pocket, with a shrug; 'as I could confess to a great many oth=
er
things I'm not proud of. The fact is, there are not many easy lots to be dr=
awn
in the world at present; and such as they are I am not envious of them. I d=
on't
say life is not worth having: it is worth having to a man who has some spar=
ks
of sense and feeling and bravery in him. And the finest fellow of all would=
be
the one who could be glad to have lived because the world was chiefly
miserable, and his life had come to help some one who needed it. He would be
the man who had the most powers and the fewest selfish wants. But I'm not u=
p to
the level of what I see to be best. I'm often a hungry discontented fellow.=
'
'Why have you made life so hard th=
en?'
said Esther, rather frightened as she asked the question. 'It seems to me y=
ou
have tried to find just the most difficult task.'
'Not at all,' said Felix, with curt
decision. 'My course was a very simple one. It was pointed out to me by
conditions that I saw as clearly as I see the bars of this stile. It's a di=
fficult
stile too,' added Felix, striding over. 'Shall I help you, or will you be l=
eft
to yourself?'
'I can do without help, thank you.=
'
'It was all simple enough,' contin=
ued
Felix, as they walked on. 'If I meant to put a stop to the sale of those dr=
ugs,
I must keep my mother, and of course at her age she would not leave the pla=
ce
she had been used to. And I had made up my mind against what they call gent=
eel
businesses.'
'But suppose every one did as you =
do?
Please to forgive me for saying so; but I cannot see why you could not have
lived as honourably with some employment that presupposes education and
refinement.'
'Because you can't see my history =
or
my nature,' said Felix, bluntly. 'I have to determine for myself, and not f=
or
other men. I don't blame them, or think I am better than they; their
circumstances are different. I would never choose to withdraw myself from t=
he
labour and common burthen of the world; but I do choose to withdraw myself =
from
the push and the scramble for money and position. Any man is at liberty to =
call
me a fool, and say that mankind are benefited by the push and the scramble =
in
the long-run. But I care for the people who live now and will not be living
when the long-run comes. As it is, I prefer going shares with the unlucky.'=
Esther did not speak, and there was
silence between them for a minute or two, till they passed through a gate i=
nto
a plantation where there was no large timber, but only thin-stemmed trees a=
nd
underwood, so that the sunlight fell on the mossy spaces which lay open here
and there.
'See how beautiful those stooping
birch-stems are with the light on them!' said Felix. 'Here is an old felled
trunk they have not thought worth carrying away. Shall we sit down a little
while?'
'Yes, the mossy ground with the dry
leaves sprinkled over it is delightful to one's feet.' Esther sat down and =
took
off her bonnet, that the light breeze might fall on her head. Felix, too, t=
hrew
down his cap and stick, lying on the ground with his back against the felled
trunk.
'I wish I felt more as you do,' she
said, looking at the point of her foot, which was playing with a tuft of mo=
ss.
'I can't help caring very much what happens to me. And you seem to care so
little about yourself.'
'You are thoroughly mistaken,' said
Felix. 'It is just because I'm a very ambitious fellow, with very hungry
passions, wanting a great deal to satisfy me, that I have chosen to give up
what people call worldly good. At least that has been one determining reaso=
n.
It all depends on what a man gets into his consciousness - what life thrusts
into his mind, so that it becomes present to him as remorse is present to t=
he
guilty, or a mechanical problem to an inventive genius. There are two things
I've got present in that way: one of them is the picture of what I should h=
ate
to be. I'm determined never to go about making my face simpering or solemn,=
and
telling professional lies for profit; or to get tangled in affairs where I =
must
wink at dishonesty and pocket the proceeds, and justify that knavery as par=
t of
a system that I can't alter. If I once went into that sort of struggle for
success, I should want to win - I should defend the wrong that I had once
identified myself with. I should become everything that I see now beforehan=
d to
be detestable. And what's more, I should do this, as men are doing it every
day, for a ridiculously small prize - perhaps for none at all - perhaps for=
the
sake of two parlours, a rank eligible for the church-wardenship, a disconte=
nted
wife and several unhopeful children.'
Esther felt a terrible pressure on=
her
heart - the certainty of her remoteness from Felix - the sense that she was
utterly trivial to him.
'The other thing that's got into my
mind like a splinter,' said Felix, after a pause, 'is the life of the miser=
able
- the spawning life of vice and hunger. I'll never be one of the sleek dogs.
The old Catholics are right, with their higher rule and their lower. Some a=
re
called to subject themselves to a harder discipline, and renounce things
voluntarily which are lawful for others. It is the old word - ‘necess=
ity
is laid upon me’.'
'It seems to me you are stricter t=
han
my father is.'
'No! I quarrel with no delight tha=
t is
not base or cruel, but one must sometimes accommodate one's self to a small
share. That is the lot of the majority. I would wish the minority joy, only
they don't want my wishes.'
Again there was silence. Esther's
cheeks were hot in spite of the breeze that sent her hair floating backward.
She felt an inward strain, a demand on her to see things in a light that was
not easy or soothing. When Felix had asked her to walk, he had seemed so ki=
nd,
so alive to what might be her feelings, that she had thought herself nearer=
to
him than she had ever been before; but since they had come out, he had appe=
ared
to forget all that. And yet she was conscious that this impatience of hers =
was
very petty. Battling in this way with her own little impulses, and looking =
at
the birch-stems opposite till her gaze was too wide for her to see anything
distinctly, she was unaware how long they had remained without speaking. She
did not know that Felix had changed his attitude a little, and was resting =
his
elbow on the tree-trunk, while he supported his head, which was turned towa=
rds
her. Suddenly he said, in a lower tone than was habitual to him -
'You are very beautiful.'
She started and looked round at hi=
m,
to see whether his face would give some help to the interpretation of this
novel speech. He was looking up at her quite calmly, very much as a reveren=
tial
Protestant might look at a picture of the Virgin, with a devoutness suggest=
ed
by the type rather than by the image. Esther's vanity was not in the least
gratified: she felt that, somehow or other, Felix was going to reproach her=
.
'I wonder,' he went on, still look=
ing
at her, 'whether the subtle measuring of forces will ever come to measuring=
the
force there would be in one beautiful woman whose mind was as noble as her =
face
was beautiful - who made a man's passion for her rush in one current with a=
ll
the great aims of his life.'
Esther's eyes got hot and smarting=
. It
was no use trying to be dignified. She had turned away her head, and now sa=
id,
rather bitterly, 'It is difficult for a woman ever to try to be anything go=
od
when she is not believed in - when it is always supposed that she must be
contemptible.'
'No, dear Esther' - it was the fir=
st
time Felix had been prompted to call her by her Christian name, and as he d=
id
so he laid his large hand on her two little hands, which were clasped on her
knees. 'You don't believe that I think you contemptible. When I first saw y=
ou
-'
'I know, I know,' said Esther,
interrupting him impetuously, but still looking away. 'You mean you did thi=
nk
me contemptible then. But it was very narrow of you to judge me in that way,
when my life had been so different from yours. I have great faults. I know =
I am
selfish, and think too much of my own small tastes and too little of what
affects others. But I am not stupid. I am not unfeeling. I can see what is
better.'
'But I have not done you injustice
since I knew more of you,' said Felix, gently.
'Yes, you have,' said Esther, turn= ing and smiling at him through her tears. 'You talk to me like an angry pedagog= ue. Were you always wise? Remember the time when you were foolish or naughty.'<= o:p>
'That is not far off,' said Felix,
curtly, taking away his hand and clasping it with the other at the back of =
his
head. The talk, which seemed to be introducing a mutual understanding, such=
as
had not existed before, seemed to have undergone some check.
'Shall we get up and walk back now=
?'
said Esther, after a few moments.
'No,' said Felix, entreatingly. 'D=
on't
move yet. I daresay we shall never walk together or sit here again.'
'Why not?'
'Because I am a man who am warned =
by
visions. Those old stories of visions and dreams guiding men have their tru=
th:
we are saved by making the future present to ourselves.'
'I wish I could get visions, then,'
said Esther, smiling at him, with an effort at playfulness, in resistance to
something vaguely mournful within her.
'That is what I want,' said Felix,
looking at her very earnestly. 'Don't turn your head. Do look at me, and th=
en I
shall know if I may go on speaking. I do believe in you; but I want you to =
have
such a vision of the future that you may never lose your best self. Some ch=
arm
or other may be flung about you - some of your atta-of-rose fascinations - =
and
nothing but a good strong terrible vision will save you. And if it did save
you, you might be that woman I was thinking of a little while ago when I lo=
oked
at your face: the woman whose beauty makes a great task easier to men inste=
ad
of turning them away from it. I am not likely to see such fine issues; but =
they
may come where a woman's spirit is finely touched. I should like to be sure
they would come to you.'
'Why are you not likely to know wh=
at
becomes of me?' said Esther, turning away her eyes in spite of his command.
'Why should you not always be my father's friend and mine?'
'O, I shall go away as soon as I c=
an
to some large town,' said Felix, in his more usual tone, - 'some ugly, wick=
ed,
miserable place. I want to be a demagogue of a new sort; an honest one, if
possible, who will tell the people they are blind and foolish, and neither
flatter them nor fatten on them. I have my heritage - an order I belong to.=
I
have the blood of a line of handicraftsmen in my veins, and I want to stand=
up
for the lot of the handicraftsmen as a good lot, in which a man may be bett=
er
trained to all the best functions of his nature than if he belonged to the
grimacing set who have visiting-cards, and are proud to be thought richer t=
han
their neighbours.'
'Would nothing ever make it seem r=
ight
to you to change your mind?' said Esther (she had rapidly woven some
possibilities out of the new uncertainties in her own lot, though she would=
not
for the world have had Felix know of her weaving). 'Suppose, by some means =
or
other, a fortune might come to you honourably - by marriage, or in any other
unexpected way - would you see no change in your course?'
'No,' said Felix, peremptorily: 'I
will never be rich. I don't count that as any peculiar virtue. Some men do =
well
to accept riches, but that is not my inward vocation: I have no fellow-feel=
ing
with the rich as a class; the habits of their lives are odious to me. Thous=
ands
of men have wedded poverty because they expect to go to heaven for it; I do=
n't
expect to go to heaven for it, but I wed it because it enables me to do wha=
t I
most want to do on earth. Whatever the hopes for the world may be - whether
great or small - I am a man of this generation; I will try to make life less
bitter for a few within my reach. It is held reasonable enough to toil for =
the
fortunes of a family, though it may turn to imbecility in the third generat=
ion.
I choose a family with more chances in it.'
Esther looked before her dreamily =
till
she said, 'That seems a hard lot; yet it is a great one.' She rose to walk
back.
'Then you don't think I'm a fool,'
said Felix, loudly, starting to his feet, and then stooping to gather up his
cap and stick.
'Of course you suspected me of that
stupidity.'
'Well - women, unless they are Sai=
nt
Theresas or Elizabeth Frys, generally think this sort of thing madness, unl=
ess
when they read of it in the Bible.'
'A woman can hardly ever choose in
that way; she is dependent on what happens to her. She must take meaner thi=
ngs,
because only meaner things are within her reach.'
'Why, can you imagine yourself
choosing hardship as the better lot?' said Felix, looking at her with a sud=
den
question in his eyes.
'Yes, I can,' she said, flushing o=
ver
neck and brow.
Their words were charged with a me=
aning
dependent entirely on the secret consciousness of each. Nothing had been sa=
id
which was necessarily personal. They walked a few yards along the road by w=
hich
they had come, without further speech, till Felix said gently, 'Take my arm=
.'
She took it, and they walked home so, entirely without conversation. Felix =
was
struggling as a firm man struggles with a temptation, seeing beyond it and
disbelieving its lying promise. Esther was struggling as a woman struggles =
with
the yearning for some expression of love, and with vexation under that
subjection to a yearning which is not likely to be satisfied. Each was
conscious of a silence which each was unable to break, till they entered
Malthouse Lane, and were within a few yards of the minister's door.
'It is getting dusk,' Felix then s=
aid;
'will Mr Lyon be anxious about you?'
'No, I think not. Lyddy would tell=
him
that I went out with you, and that you carried a large stick,' said Esther,
with her light laugh.
Felix went in with Esther to take =
tea,
but the conversation was entirely between him and Mr Lyon about the tricks =
of
canvassing, and foolish personality of the placards, and the probabilities =
of
Transome's return, as to which Felix declared himself to have become
indifferent. This scepticism made the minister uneasy: he had great belief =
in
the old political watchwords, had preached that universal suffrage and no
ballot were agreeable to the will of God, and liked to believe that a visib=
le
'instrument' was forthcoming in the Radical candidate who had pronounced
emphatically against Whig finality. Felix, being in a perverse mood, conten=
ded
that universal suffrage would be equally agreeable to the devil; that he wo=
uld
change his politics a little, having a larger traffic, and see himself more
fully represented in parliament.
'Nay, my friend,' said the ministe=
r,
'you are again sporting with paradox; for you will not deny that you glory =
in
the name of Radical, or Root-and-branch man, as they said in the great times
when Nonconformity was in its giant youth.'
'A Radical - yes; but I want to go=
to
some roots a good deal lower down than the franchise.'
'Truly there is a work within which
cannot be dispensed with; but it is our preliminary work to free men from t=
he
stifled life of political nullity, and bring them into what Milton calls =
8216;the
liberal air’, wherein alone can be wrought the final triumphs of the
Spirit.'
'With all my heart. But while Cali=
ban
is Caliban, though you multiply him by a million, he'll worship every Trinc=
ulo
that carries a bottle. I forget, though - you don't read Shakspeare, Mr Lyo=
n.'
'I am bound to confess that I have=
so
far looked into a volume of Esther's as to conceive your meaning; but the
fantasies therein were so little to be reconciled with a steady contemplati=
on
of that divine economy which is hidden from sense and revealed to faith, th=
at I
forbore the reading, as likely to perturb my ministrations.'
Esther sat by in unusual silence. =
The
conviction that Felix willed her exclusion from his life was making it plain
that something more than friendship between them was not so thoroughly out =
of
the question as she had always inwardly asserted. In her pain that his choi=
ce
lay aloof from her, she was compelled frankly to admit to herself the longi=
ng
that it had been otherwise, and that he had entreated her to share his
difficult life. He was like no one else to her: he had seemed to bring at o=
nce
a law, and the love that gave strength to obey the law. Yet the next moment,
stung by his independence of her, she denied that she loved him; she had on=
ly
longed for a moral support under the negations of her life. If she were not=
to
have that support, all effort seemed useless.
Esther had been so long used to he=
ar
the formulas of her father's belief without feeling or understanding them, =
that
they had lost all power to touch her. The first religious experience of her
life - the first self-questioning, the first voluntary subjection, the first
longing to acquire the strength of greater motives and obey the more strenu=
ous
rule - had come to her through Felix Holt. No wonder that she felt as if the
loss of him were inevitable backsliding.
But was it certain that she should
lose him? She did not believe that he was really indifferent to her.
'Titus. But what says Jupiter, I a=
sk
thee?
CLOWN. Alas, sir, I know not Jupit=
er:
I never drank with him in all my
life.'
Titus Andronicus.
THE multiplication of uncompliment=
ary
placards noticed by Mr Lyon and Felix Holt was one of several signs that the
days of nomination and election were approaching. The presence of the revis=
ing
barrister in Treby was not only an opportunity for all persons not otherwise
busy to show their zeal for the purification of the voting-lists, but also =
to
reconcile private ease and public duty by standing about the streets and lo=
unging
at doors.
It was no light business for Trebi=
ans
to form an opinion; the mere fact of a public functionary with an unfamiliar
title was enough to give them pause, as a premiss that was not to be quickly
started from. To Mr Pink the saddler, for example, until some distinct inju=
ry
or benefit had accrued to him, the existence of the revising barrister was =
like
the existence of the young giraffe which Wombwell had lately brought into t=
hose
parts - it was to be contemplated, and not criticised. Mr Pink professed a
deep-dyed Toryism; but he regarded all fault-finding as Radical and somewhat
impious, as disturbing to trade, and likely to offend the gentry or the
servants through whom their harness was ordered: there was a Nemesis in thi=
ngs
which made objection unsafe, and even the Reform Bill was a sort of electric
eel which a thriving tradesman had better leave alone. It was only the
'Papists' who lived far enough off to be spoken of uncivilly.
But Mr Pink was fond of news, whic=
h he
collected and retailed with perfect impartiality, noting facts and rejecting
comments. Hence he was well pleased to have his shop so constant a place of
resort for loungers, that to many Trebians there was a strong association
between the pleasures of gossip and the smell of leather. He had the
satisfaction of chalking and cutting, and of keeping his journeymen close at
work, at the very time that he learned from his visitors who were those who=
se
votes had been called in question before His Honour, how Lawyer Jermyn had =
been
too much for Lawyer Labron about Todd's cottages, and how, in the opinion of
some townsmen, this looking into the value of people's property, and sweari=
ng
it down below a certain sum, was a nasty, inquisitorial kind of thing; while
others observed that being nice to a few pounds was all nonsense - they sho=
uld
put the figure high enough, and then never mind if a voter's qualification =
was
thereabouts. But, said Mr Sims the auctioneer, everything was done for the =
sake
of the lawyers. Mr Pink suggested impartially that lawyers must live; but Mr
Sims, having a ready auctioneering wit, did not see that so many of them ne=
ed
live, or that babies were born lawyers. Mr Pink felt that this speculation =
was
complicated by the ordering of side-saddles for lawyers' daughters, and, re=
turning
to the firm ground of fact, stated that it was getting dusk.
The dusk seemed deepened the next
moment by a tall figure obstructing the doorway, at sight of whom Mr Pink
rubbed his hands and smiled and bowed more than once, with evident solicitu=
de to
show honour where honour was due, while he said -
'Mr Christian, sir, how do you do,
sir?'
Christian answered with the
condescending familiarity of a superior. 'Very badly, I can tell you, with
these confounded braces that you were to make such a fine job of. See, old
fellow, they've burst out again.'
'Very sorry, sir. Can you leave th=
em
with me?'
'O yes, I'll leave them. What's the
news, eh?' said Christian, half seating himself on a high stool, and beating
his boot with a hand-whip.
'Well, sir, we look to you to tell=
us
that,' said Mr Pink, with a knowing smile. 'You're at headquarters - eh, si=
r?
That was what I said to Mr Scales the other day. He came for some straps, Mr
Scales did, and he asked that question in pretty near the same terms that
you've done, sir, and I answered him, as I may say, ditto. Not meaning any
disrespect to you, sir, but a way of speaking.'
'Come, that's gammon, Pink,' said
Christian. 'You know everything. You can tell me, if you will, who is the
fellow employed to paste up Transome's handbills?'
'What do you say, Mr Sims?' said P=
ink,
looking at the auctioneer.
'Why, you know and I know well eno=
ugh.
It's Tommy Trounsem - an old, crippling, half-mad fellow. Most people know
Tommy. I've employed him myself for charity.'
'Where shall I find him?' said
Christian.
'At the Cross-Keys, in Pollard's E=
nd,
most likely,' said Mr Sims. 'I don't know where he puts himself when he isn=
't
at the public.'
'He was a stoutish fellow fifteen =
year
ago, when he carried pots,' said Mr Pink.
'Ay, and has snared many a hare in=
his
time,' said Mr Sims. 'But he was always a little cracked. Lord bless you! he
used to swear he'd a right to the Transome estate.'
'Why, what put that notion into his
head?' said Christian, who had learned more than he expected.
'The lawing, sir - nothing but the
lawing about the estate. There was a deal of it twenty year ago,' said Mr P=
ink.
'Tommy happened to turn up hereabout at that time; a big, lungeous fellow, =
who
would speak disrespectfully of hanybody.'
'O, he meant no harm,' said Mr Sim=
ms.
'He was fond of a drop to drink, and not quite right in the upper story, an=
d he
could hear no difference between Trounsem and Transome. It's an odd way of
speaking they have in that part where he was born - a little north'ard. You=
'll
hear it in his tongue now, if you talk to him.'
'At the Cross-Keys I shall find hi=
m,
eh?' said Christian, getting off his stool. 'Good-day, Pink, good-day.'
Christian went straight from the
saddler's to Quorlen's, the Tory printer's, with whom he had contrived a po=
litical
spree. Quorlen was a new man in Treby, who had so reduced the trade of Dow,=
the
old hereditary printer, that Dow had lapsed to Whiggery and Radicalism and
opinions in general, so far as they were contented to express themselves in=
a
small stock of types. Quorlen had brought his Duffield wit with him, and
insisted that religion and joking were the handmaids of politics; on which
principle he and Christian undertook the joking, and left the religion to t=
he
rector. The joke at present in question was a practical one. Christian, tur=
ning
into the shop, merely said, 'I've found him out - give me the placards'; an=
d,
tucking a thickish flat bundle, wrapped in a black glazed cotton bag, under=
his
arm, walked out into the dusk again.
'Suppose now,' he said to himself,=
as
he strode along - 'suppose there should be some secret to be got out of this
old scamp, or some notion that's as good as a secret to those who know how =
to
use it? That would be virtue rewarded. But I'm afraid the old tosspot is not
likely to be good for much. There's truth in wine, and there may be some in=
gin
and muddy beer; but whether it's truth worth my knowing, is another questio=
n.
I've got plenty of truth in my time out of men who were half-seas-over, but
never any that was worth a sixpence to me.'
The Cross-Keys was a very
old-fashioned 'public': its bar was a big rambling kitchen, with an undulat=
ing
brick floor; the small-paned windows threw an interesting obscurity over the
far-off dresser, garnished with pewter and tin, and with large dishes that
seemed to speak of better times; the two settles were half pushed under the
wide-mouthed chimney; and the grate, with its brick hobs, massive iron cran=
e,
and various pothooks, suggested a generous plenty possibly existent in all
moods and tenses except the indicative present. One way of getting an idea =
of
our fellow-countrymen's miseries is to go and look at their pleasures. The
Cross-Keys had a fungous-featured landlord and a yellow sickly landlady, wi=
th a
napkin bound round her head like a resuscitated
Lazarus; it had doctored ale, an o=
dour
of bad tobacco, and remarkably strong cheese. It was not what Astraea, when
come back, might be expected to approve as the scene of ecstatic enjoyment =
for
the beings whose special prerogative it is to lift their sublime faces towa=
rds
heaven. Still, there was ample space on the hearth - accommodation for
narrative bagmen or boxmen - room for a man to stretch his legs; his brain =
was
not pressed upon by a white wall within a yard of him, and the light did no=
t stare
in mercilessly on bare ugliness, turning the fire to ashes. Compared with s=
ome
beerhouses of this more advanced period, the Cross-Keys of that day present=
ed a
high standard of pleasure.
But though this venerable 'public'=
had
not failed to share in the recent political excitement of drinking, the
pleasures it offered were not at this early hour of the evening sought by a
numerous company. There were only three or four pipes being smoked by the
firelight, but it was enough for Christian when he found that one of these =
was
being smoked by the bill-sticker, whose large flat basket stuffed with
placards, leaned near him against the settle. So splendid an apparition as
Christian was not a little startling at the Cross-Keys, and was gazed at in
expectant silence; but he was a stranger in Pollard's End, and was taken for
the highest style of traveller when he declared that he was deucedly thirst=
y,
ordered six-pennyworth of gin and a large jug of water, and, putting a few
drops of the spirit into his own glass, invited Tommy Trounsem, who sat next
him, to help himself. Tommy was not slower than a shaking hand obliged him =
to
be in accepting this invitation. He was a tall broad-shouldered old fellow,=
who
had once been good-looking; but his cheeks and chest were both hollow now, =
and
his limbs were shrunken.
'You've got some bills there, mast=
er,
eh?' said Christian, pointing to the basket. 'Is there an auction coming on=
?'
'Auction? no,' said Tommy, with a
gruff hoarseness, which was the remnant of a jovial bass, and with an accent
which differed from the Trebian fitfully, as an early habit is wont to reas=
sert
itself 'I've nought to do wi' auctions; I'm a pol'tical charicter. It's me =
am
getting Trounsem into parliament.'
'Trounsem, says he,' the landlord
observed, taking out his pipe with a low laugh. 'It's Transome, sir. Maybe =
you
don't belong to this part. It's the candidate 'ull do most for the working =
men,
and's proved it too, in the way o' being openhanded and wishing 'em to enjoy
themselves. If I'd twenty votes, I'd give one for Transome, and I don't care
who hears me.'
The landlord peeped out from his
fungous cluster of features with a beery confidence that the high figure of
twenty had somehow raised the hypothetic value of his vote.
'Spilkins, now,' said Tommy, waving
his hand to the landlord, 'you let one genelman speak to another, will you?
This genelman wants to know about my bills. Does he, or doesn't he?'
'What then? I spoke according,' sa=
id
the landlord, mildly holding his own.
'You're all very well, Spilkins,'
returned Tommy, 'but y'aren't me. I know what the bills are. It's public
business. I'm none o' your common bill-stickers, master; I've left off stic=
king
up ten guineas reward for a sheep-stealer, or low stuff like that. These are
Trounsem's bills; and I'm the rightful family, and so I give him a lift. A
Trounsem I am, and a Trounsem I'll be buried; and if Old Nick tries to lay =
hold
on me for poaching, I'll say, ‘You be hanged for a lawyer, Old Nick;
every hare and pheasant on the Trounsem's land is mine’; and what ris=
es
the family, rises old Tommy; and we're going to get into parl'ment - that's=
the
long and the short on't, master. And I'm the head o' the family, and I stick
the bills. There's Johnsons, and Thomsons, and Jacksons, and Billsons; but =
I'm
a Trounsem, I am. What do you say to that, master?'
This appeal, accompanied by a blow=
on
the table, while the landlord winked at the company, was addressed to
Christian, who answered, with severe gravity - 'I say there isn't any work =
more
honourable than bill-sticking.'
'No, no,' said Tommy, wagging his =
head
from side to side. 'I thought you'd come in to that. I thought you'd know
better than say contrairy. But I'll shake hands wi' you; I don't want to kn=
ock
any man's head off. I'm a good chap - a sound crock - an old family kep' ou=
t o'
my rights. I shall go to heaven, for all Old Nick.'
As these celestial prospects might
imply that a little extra gin was beginning to tell on the bill-sticker,
Christian wanted to lose no time in arresting his attention. He laid his ha=
nd
on Tommy's arm and spoke emphatically.
'But I'll tell you what you
bill-stickers are not up to. You should be on the look-out when Debarry's s=
ide
have stuck up fresh bills, and go and paste yours over them. I know where
there's a lot of Debarry's bills now. Come along with me, and I'll show you.
We'll paste them over, and then we'll come back and treat the company.'
'Hooray ! ' said Tommy. 'Let's be =
off
then.'
He was one of the thoroughly inure=
d,
originally hale drunkards, and did not easily lose his head or legs or the
ordinary amount of method in his talk. Strangers often supposed that Tommy =
was
tipsy when he had only taken what he called 'one blessed pint', chiefly from
that glorious contentment with himself and his adverse fortunes which is not
usually characteristic of the sober Briton. He knocked the ashes out of his
pipe, seized his paste-vessel and his basket, and prepared to start, with a
satisfactory promise that he could know what he was about.
The landlord and some others had
confidently concluded that they understood all about Christian now. He was a
Transome's man, come to see after the bill-sticking in Transome's interest.=
The
landlord, telling his yellow wife snappishly to open the door for the
gentleman, hoped soon to see him again.
'This is a Transome's house, sir,'=
he
observed, 'in respect of entertaining customers of that colour. I do my dut=
y as
a publican, which, if I know it, is to turn back no genelman's money. I say,
give every genelman a chanch, and the more the merrier, in parl'ment and ou=
t of
it. And if anybody says they want but two parl'ment men, I say it 'ud be be=
tter
for trade if there was six of 'em, and voters according.'
'Ay, ay,' said Christian; 'you're a
sensible man, landlord. You don't mean to vote for Debarry then, eh?'
'Not nohow,' said the landlord,
thinking that where negatives were good the more you heard of them the bett=
er.
As soon as the door had closed beh=
ind
Christian and his new companion, Tommy said -
'Now, master, if you're to be my
lantern, don't you be a Jacky Lantern, which I take to mean one as leads you
the wrong way. For I'll tell you what - if you've had the luck to fall in w=
i'
Tommy Trounsem, don't you let him drop.'
'No, no - to be sure not,' said
Christian. 'Come along here. We'll go to the Back Brewery wall first.'
'No, no; don't you let me drop. Gi=
ve
me a shilling any day you like, and I'll tell you more nor you'll hear from
Spilkins in a week. There isna many men like me. I carried pots for fifteen
years off and on - what do you think o' that now, for a man as might ha' li=
ved
up there at Trounsem Park, and snared his own game? Which I'd ha' done,' sa=
id
Tommy, wagging his head at Christian in the dimness undisturbed by gas. 'No=
ne
o' your shooting for me - it's two to one you'll miss. Snaring's more
fishing-like. You bait your hook, and if it isna the fishes' goodwill to co=
me,
that's nothing again' the sporting genelman. And that's what I say by snari=
ng.'
'But if you'd a right to the Trans=
ome
estate, how was it you were kept out of it, old boy? It was some foul shame=
or
other, eh?'
'It's the law - that's what it is.
You're a good sort o' chap; I don't mind telling you. There's folks born to
property, and there's folks catch hold on it; and the law's made for them as
catch hold. I'm pretty deep; I see a good deal further than Spilkins. There=
was
Ned Patch, the pedlar, used to say to me ‘You canna read, Tommy,̵=
7;
says he. ‘No; thank you,’ says I; ‘I'm not going to crack=
my
headpiece to make myself as big a fool as you.’ I was fond o' Ned. Ma=
ny's
the pot we've had together.'
'I see well enough you're deep, To=
mmy.
How came you to know you were born to property?'
'It was the regester - the parish
regester,' said Tommy, with his knowing wag of the head, 'that shows as you=
was
born. I allays felt it inside me as I was somebody, and I could see other c=
haps
thought it on me too; and so one day at Littleshaw, where I kept ferrets an=
d a
little bit of a public, there comes a fine man looking after me, and walkin=
g me
up and down wi' questions. And I made out from the clerk as he'd been at the
regester; and I gave the clerk a pot or two, and he got it of our parson as=
the
name o' Trounsem was a great name hereabout. And I waits a bit for my fine =
man
to come again. Thinks I, if there's property wants a right owner, I shall be
called for; for I didn't know the law then. And I waited and waited, till I
see'd no fun i' waiting. So I parted wi' my public and my ferrets - for she=
was
dead a'ready, my wife was, and I hadn't no cumbrance. And off I started a
pretty long walk to this countryside, for I could walk for a wager in them
days.'
'Ah! well, here we are at the Back
Brewery wall. Put down your paste and your basket now, old boy, and I'll he=
lp
you. You paste, and I'll give you the bills, and then you can go on talking=
.'
Tommy obeyed automatically, for he=
was
now carried away by the rare opportunity of talking to a new listener, and =
was
only eager to go on with his story. As soon as his back was turned, and he =
was
stooping over his paste-pot, Christian, with quick adroitness, exchanged the
placards in his own bag for those in Tommys basket. Christian's placards had
not been printed at Treby, but were a new lot which had been sent from Duff=
ield
that very day - 'highly spiced', Quorlen had said, 'coming from a pen that =
was up
to that sort of thing'. Christian had read the first of the sheaf, and supp=
osed
they were all alike. He proceeded to hand one to Tommy, and said -
'Here, old boy, paste this over the
other. And so, when you got into this country-side, what did you do?'
'Do? Why, I put up at a good public
and ordered the best, for I'd a bit o' money in my pocket; and I axed about,
and they said to me, if it's Trounsem business you're after, you go to Lawy=
er
Jermyn. And I went; and says I, going along, he's maybe the fine man as wal=
ked
me up and down. But no such thing. I'll tell you what Lawyer Jermyn was. He
stands you there, and holds you away from him wi' a pole three yards long. =
He
stares at you, and says nothing, till you feel like a Tomfool; and then he
threats you to set the justice on you; and then he's sorry for you, and han=
ds
you money, and preaches you a sarmint, and tells you you're a poor man, and
he'll give you a bit of advice - and you'd better not be meddling wi' things
belonging to the law, else you'll be catched up in a big wheel and fly to b=
its.
And I went of a cold sweat, and I wished I might never come i' sight o' Law=
yer
Jermyn again. But he says, if you keep i' this neighbourhood, behave yourse=
lf
well, and I'll pertect you. I were deep enough, but it's no use being deep,
'cause you can never know the law. And there's times when the deepest fello=
w's
worst frightened.'
'Yes, yes. There! Now for another
placard. And so that was all?'
'All?' said Tommy, turning round a=
nd
holding the pastebrush in suspense. 'Don't you be running too quick. Thinks=
I, ‘I'll
meddle no more. I've got a bit o' money - I'll buy a basket, and be a potma=
n.
It's a pleasant life. I shall live at publics and see the world, and pick up
'quaintance, and get a chanch penny.’ But when I'd turned into the Red
Lion, and got myself warm again wi' a drop o' hot, something jumps into my
head. Thinks I, Tommy, you've done finely for yourself: you're a rat as has
broke up your house to take a journey, and show yourself to a ferret. And t=
hen
it jumps into my head: I'd once two ferrets as turned on one another, and t=
he
little un killed the big un. Says I to the landlady, ‘Missis, could y=
ou
tell me of a lawyer,’ says I, ‘not very big or fine, but a seco=
nd
size - a pig-potato, like?’ ‘That I can,’ says she; ̵=
6;there's
one now in the bar-parlour.’ ‘Be so kind as bring us together,&=
#8217;
says I. And she cries out - I think I hear her now - ‘Mr Johnson ! =
8216;
And what do you think?'
At this crisis in Tommy's story the
grey clouds, which had been gradually thinning, opened sufficiently to let =
down
the sudden moonlight, and show his poor battered old figure and face in the
attitude and with the expression of a narrator sure of the coming effect on=
his
auditor; his body and neck stretched a little on one side, and his paste-br=
ush
held out with an alarming intention of tapping Christian's coat-sleeve at t=
he
right moment. Christian started to a safe distance, and said -
'It's wonderful. I can't tell what=
to
think.'
'Then never do you deny Old Nick,'
said Tommy, with solemnity. 'I've believed in him more ever since. Who was
Johnson? Why, Johnson was the fine man as had walked me up and down with
questions. And I out with it to him then and there. And he speaks me civil,=
and
says, ‘Come away wi' me, my good fellow.’ And he told me a deal=
o'
law. And he says, whether you're a Tommy Trounsem or no, it's no good to yo=
u,
but only to them as have got hold o' the property. If you was a Tommy Troun=
sem
twenty times over, it 'ud be no good, for the law's bought you out; and your
life's no good, only to them as have catched hold o' the property. The more=
you
live, the more they'll stick in. Not as they want you now, says he - you're=
no
good to anybody, and you might howl like a dog for iver, and the law 'ud ta=
ke
no notice on you. Says Johnson. I'm doing a kind thing by you, to tell you.=
For
that's the law. And if you want to know the law, master, you ask Johnson. I
heard 'em say after, as he was an understrapper at Jermyn's. I've never for=
got
it from that day to this. But I saw clear enough, as if the law hadn't been
again' me, the Trounsem estate 'ud ha' been mine. But folks are fools
hereabouts, and I've left off talking. The more you tell 'em the truth, the
more they'll niver believe you. And I went and bought my basket and the pot=
s,
and -'
'Come, then, fire away,' said
Christian. 'Here's another placard.'
'I'm getting a bit dry, master.'
'Well, then, make haste, and you'll
have something to drink all the sooner.'
Tommy turned to his work again, and
Christian, continuing his help, said, 'And how long has Mr Jermyn been
employing you?'
'Oh, no particular time - off and =
on;
but a week or two ago he sees me upo' the road, and speaks to me uncommon
civil, and tells me to go up to his office, and he'll give me employ. And I=
was
noways unwilling to stick the bills to get the family into parl'ment. For
there's no man can help the law. And the family's the family, whether you c=
arry
pots or no. Master, I'm uncommon dry - my head's a turning round - it's tal=
king
so long on end.'
The unwonted excitement of poor
Tommy's memory was producing a reaction.
'Well, Tommy,' said Christian, who=
had
just made a discovery among the placards which altered the bent of his
thoughts, 'you may go back to the Cross-Keys now, if you like; here's a
half-crown for you to spend handsomely. I can't go back there myself just y=
et;
but you may give my respects to Spilkins, and mind you paste the rest of the
bills early to-morrow morning.
'Ay, ay. But don't you believe too
much i' Spilkins,' said Tommy, pocketing the half-crown, and showing his
gratitude by giving this advice - 'he's no harm much - but weak. He thinks =
he's
at the bottom o' things because he scores you up. But I bear him no ill-wil=
l.
Tommy Trounsem's a good chap; and any day you like to give me half-a-crown,
I'll tell you the same story over again. Not now; I'm dry. Come, help me up=
wi'
these things; you're a younger chap than me. Well, I'll tell Spilkins you'll
come again another day.'
The moonlight, which had lit up po=
or
Tommy's oratorical attitude, had served to light up for Christian the print=
of
the placards. He had expected the copies to be various, and had turned them
half over at different depths of the sheaf before drawing out those he offe=
red
to the bill-sticker. Suddenly the clear light had shown him on one of them a
name which was just then especially interesting to him, and all the more wh=
en
occurring in a placard intended to dissuade the electors of North Loamshire
from voting for the heir of the Transomes. He hastily turned over the lists
that preceded and succeeded, that he might draw out and carry away all of t=
his
pattern; for it might turn out to be wiser for him not to contribute to the
publicity of handbills which contained allusions to Bycliffe versus Transom=
e.
There were about a dozen of them; he pressed them together and thrust them =
into
his pocket, returning all the rest to Tommy's basket. To take away this doz=
en
might not be to prevent similar bills from being posted up elsewhere, but he
had reason to believe that these were all of the same kind which had been s=
ent
to Treby from Duffield.
Christian's interest in his practi=
cal
joke had died out like a morning rushlight. Apart from this discovery in the
placards, old Tommy's story had some indications in it that were worth
pondering over. Where was that well-informed Johnson now? Was he still an
understrapper of Jermyn's?
With this matter in his thoughts,
Christian only turned in hastily at Quorlen's, threw down the black bag whi=
ch
contained the captured Radical handbills, said he had done the job, and hur=
ried
back to the Manor that he might study his problem.
'I doe believe that, as the gall h=
as
several receptacles in several creatures, soe there's scarce any creature b=
ut
hath that emunctorye somewhere.' - SIR THOMAS BROWNE.
FANCY what a game at chess would b=
e if
all the chessmen had passions and intellects, more or less small and cunnin=
g:
if you were not only uncertain about your adversary's men, but a little
uncertain also about your own; if your knight could shuffle himself on to a=
new
square by the sly; if your bishop, in disgust at your castling, could wheed=
le
your pawns out of their places; and if your pawns, hating you because they =
are
pawns, could make away from their appointed posts that you might get checkm=
ate
on a sudden. You might be the longest-headed of deductive reasoners, and yet
you might be beaten by your own pawns. You would be especially likely to be
beaten, if you depended arrogantly on your mathematical imagination, and
regarded your passionate pieces with contempt.
Yet this imaginary chess is easy
compared with the game a man has to play against his fellow-men with other
fellow-men for his instruments. He thinks himself sagacious, perhaps, becau=
se
he trusts no bond except that of self-interest; but the only self-interest =
he
can safely rely on is what seems to be such to the mind he would use or gov=
ern.
Can he ever be sure of knowing this?
Matthew Jermyn was under no misgiv=
ings
as to the fealty of Johnson. He had 'been the making of Johnson'; and this
seems to many men a reason for expecting devotion, in spite of the fact that
they themselves, though very fond of their own persons and lives, are not at
all devoted to the Maker they believe in. Johnson was a most serviceable
subordinate. Being a man who aimed at respectability, a family man, who had=
a
good church-pew, subscribed for engravings of banquet pictures where there =
were
portraits of political celebrities, and wished his children to be more
unquestionably genteel than their father, he presented all the more numerous
handles of worldly motive by which a judicious superior might keep a hold on
him. But this useful regard to respectability had its inconvenience in rela=
tion
to such a superior: it was a mark of some vanity and some pride, which, if =
they
were not touched just in the right handlling-place, were liable to become r=
aw
and sensitive. Jermyn was aware of Johnson's weaknesses, and thought he had
flattered them sufficiently. But on the point of knowing when we are
disagreeable, our human nature is fallible. Our lavender-water, our smiles,=
our
compliments, and other polite falsities, are constantly offensive, when in =
the
very nature of them they can only be meant to attract admiration and regard.
Jermyn had often been unconsciously disagreeable to Johnson, over and above=
the
constant offence of being an ostentatious patron. He would never let Johnson
dine with his wife and daughters; he would not himself dine at Johnson's ho=
use
when he was in town. He often did what was equivalent to pooh-poohing his
conversation by not even appearing to listen, and by suddenly cutting it sh=
ort
with a query on a new subject. Jermyn was able and politic enough to have
commanded a great deal of success in his life, but he could not help being
handsome, arrogant, fond of being heard, indisposed to any kind of comrades=
hip,
amorous and bland towards women, cold and self-contained towards men. You w=
ill
hear very strong denial that an attorney's being handsome could enter into =
the
dislike he excited; but conversation consists a good deal in the denial of =
what
is true. From the British point of view masculine beauty is regarded very m=
uch
as it is in the drapery business: as good solely for the fancy department -=
for
young noblemen, artists, poets, and the clergy. Some one who, like Mr Lingo=
n, was
disposed to revile Jermyn (perhaps it was Sir Maximus), had called him 'a
cursed, sleek, handsome, long-winded, over-bearing sycophant;' epithets whi=
ch
expressed, rather confusedly, the mingled character of the dislike he excit=
ed.
And serviceable John Johnson, himself sleek, and mindful about his broadclo=
th
and his cambric fronts, had what he considered 'spirit' enough within him to
feel that dislike of Jermyn gradually gathering force through years of
obligation and subjection, till it had become an actuating motive disposed =
to
use an opportunity, if not to watch for one.
It was not this motive, however, b=
ut
rather the ordinary course of business, which accounted for Johnson's playi=
ng a
double part as an electioneering agent. What men do in elections is not to =
be
classed either among sins or marks of grace: it would be profane to include
business in religion, and conscience refers to failure, not to success. Sti=
ll,
the sense of being galled by Jermyn's harness was an additional reason for
cultivating all relations that were independent of him; and pique at Harold
Transome's behaviour to him in Jermyn's office perhaps gave all the more ze=
st
to Johnson's use of his pen and ink when he wrote a handbill in the service=
of
Garstin, and Garstin's incomparable agent, Putty, full of innuendoes against
Harold Transome, as a descendant of the Durfey-Transomes. It is a natural
subject of self-congratulation to a man, when special knowledge, gained long
ago without any forecast, turns out to afford a special inspiration in the
present; and Johnson felt a new pleasure in the consciousness that he of all
people in the world next to Jermyn had the most intimate knowledge of the
Transome affairs. Still better - some of these affairs were secrets of
Jermyn's. If in an uncomplimentary spirit he might have been called Jermyn's
'man of straw', it was a satisfaction to know that the unreality of the man
John Johnson was confined to his appearance in annuity deeds, and that
elsewhere he was solid, locomotive, and capable of remembering anything for=
his
own pleasure and benefit. To act with doubleness towards a man whose own
conduct was double, was so near an approach to virtue that it deserved to be
called by no meaner name than diplomacy.
By such causes it came to pass that
Christian held in his hands a bill in which Jermyn was playfully alluded to=
as
Mr
German Cozen, who won games by cle=
ver
shuffling and odd tricks without any honour, and backed Durfey's crib again=
st
Bycliffe, - in which it was adroitly implied that the so-called head of the
Transomes was only the tail of the Durfeys, - and that some said the Durfeys
would have died out and left their nest empty if it had not been for their
German Cozen.
Johnson had not dared to use any
recollections except such as might credibly exist in other minds besides his
own. In the truth of the case, no one but himself had the prompting to reca=
ll
these outworn scandals; but it was likely enough that such foul-winged thin=
gs
should be revived by election heats for Johnson to escape all suspicion.
Christian could gather only dim and
uncertain inferences from this 'dat irony and heavy joking; but one chief t=
hing
was clear to him. He had been right in his conjecture that Jermyn's interest
about Bycliffe had its source in some claim of Bycliffe's on the Transome
property. And then, there was that story of the old bill-sticker's, which,
closely considered, indicated that the right of the present Transomes depen=
ded,
or at least had depended, on the continuance of some other lives. Christian=
in
his time had gathered enough legal notions to be aware that possession by o=
ne
man sometimes depended on the life of another; that a man might sell his own
interest in property, and the interest of his descendants, while a claim on
that property would still remain to some one else than the purchaser, suppo=
sing
the descendants became extinct, and the interest they had sold were at an e=
nd.
But under what conditions the claim might be valid or void in any particular
case, was all darkness to him. Suppose Bycliffe had any such claim on the
Transome estates: how was Christian to know whether at the present moment it
was worth anything more than a bit of rotten parchment? Old Tommy Trounsem =
had
said that Johnson knew all about it. But even if Johnson were still above-g=
round
- and all Johnsons are mortal - he might still be an understrapper of Jermy=
n's,
in which case his knowledge would be on the wrong side of the hedge for the
purposes of Henry Scaddon. His immediate care must be to find out all he co=
uld
about Johnson. He blamed himself for not having questioned Tommy further wh=
ile
he had him at command; but on this head the bill-sticker could hardly know =
more
than the less dilapidated denizens of Treby.
Now it had happened that during the
weeks in which Christian had been at work in trying to solve the enigma of
Jermyn's interest about Bycliffe, Johnson's mind also had been somewhat
occupied with suspicion and conjecture as to new information on the subject=
of
the old Bycliffe claims which Jermyn intended to conceal from him. The lett=
er
which, after his interview with Christian, Jermyn had written with a sense =
of
perfect safety to his faithful ally Johnson, was, as we know, written to a
Johnson who had found his self-love incompatible with that faithfulness of
which it was supposed to be the foundation. Anything that the patron felt it
inconvenient for his obliged friend and servant to know, became by that very
fact an object of peculiar curiosity. The obliged friend and servant secret=
ly
doted on his patron's inconvenience, provided that he himself did not share=
it;
and conjecture naturally became active.
Johnson's legal imagination, being
very differently furnished from Christian's, was at no loss to conceive
conditions under which there might arise a new claim on the Transome estate=
s.
He had before him the whole history of the settlement of those estates made=
a
hundred years ago by John Justus Transome, entailing them, whilst in his
possession, on his son Thomas and his heirs-male, with remainder to the
Bycliffes in fee. He knew that Thomas, son of John Justus, proving a prodig=
al,
had, without the knowledge of his father, the tenant in possession, sold his
own and his descendants' rights to a lawyer-cousin named Durfey; that,
therefore, the title of the Durfey-Transomes, in spite of that old Durfey's
tricks to show the contrary, depended solely on the purchase of the 'base f=
ee'
thus created by Thomas Transome; and that the Bycliffes were the
'remainder-men' who might fairly oust the Durfey-Transomes if ever the issu=
e of
the prodigal Thomas went clean out of existence, and ceased to represent a
right which he had bargained away from them.
Johnson, as Jermyn's subordinate, = had been closely cognisant of the details concerning the suit instituted by successive Bycliffes, of whom Maurice Christian Bycliffe was the last, on t= he plea that the extinction of Thomas Transome's line had actually come to pas= s - a weary suit, which had eaten into the fortunes of two families, and had on= ly made the cankerworms fat. The suit had closed with the death of Maurice Christian Bycliffe in prison; but before his death, Jermyn's exertions to g= et evidence that there was still issue of Thomas Transome's line surviving, as= a security of the Durfey title, had issued in the discovery of a Thomas Trans= ome at Littleshaw, in Stonyshire, who was the representative of a pawned inheritance. The death of Maurice had made this discovery useless - had mad= e it seem the wiser part to say nothing about it; and the fact had remained a se= cret known only to Jermyn and Johnson. No other Bycliffe was known or believed to exist, and the Durfey-Transomes might be considered safe, unless - yes, the= re was an 'unless' which Johnson could conceive: an heir or heiress of the Bycliffes - if such a personage turned out to be in existence - might some = time raise a new and valid claim when once informed that wretched old Tommy Trou= nsem the bill-sticker, tottering drunkenly on the edge of the grave, was the last issue remaining above ground from that dissolute Thomas who played his Esau= part a century before. While the poor old bill-sticker breathed, the Durfey-Transomes could legally keep their possession in spite of a possible Bycliffe proved real; but not when the parish had buried the bill-sticker.<= o:p>
Still, it is one thing to conceive
conditions, and another to see any chance of proving their existence. Johns=
on
at present had no glimpse of such a chance; and even if he ever gained the
glimpse, he was not sure that he should ever make any use of it. His inquir=
ies
of Medwin, in obedience to Jermyn's letter, had extracted only a negative a=
s to
any information possessed by the lawyers of Bycliffe concerning a marriage,=
or
expectation of offspring on his part. But Johnson felt not the less stung by
curiosity to know what Jermyn had found out that he had found something in
relation to a possible Bycliffe, Johnson felt pretty sure. And he thought w=
ith
satisfaction that Jermyn could not hinder him from knowing what he already =
knew
about Thomas Transome's issue. Many things might occur to alter his policy =
and
give a new value to facts. Was it certain that Jermyn would always be
fortunate?
When greed and unscrupulousness
exhibit themselves on a grand historical scale, and there is question of pe=
ace
or war or amicable partition, it often occurs that gentlemen of high diplom=
atic
talents have their minds bent on the same object from different points of v=
iew.
Each, perhaps, is thinking of a certain duchy or province, with a view to
arranging the ownership in such a way as shall best serve the purposes of t=
he
gentleman with high diplomatic talents in whom each is more especially
interested. But these select minds in high office can never miss their aims
from ignorance of each other's existence or whereabouts. Their high titles =
may
be learned even by common people from every pocket almanac.
But with meaner diplomatists, who
might be mutually useful, such ignorance is often obstructive. Mr John John=
son
and Mr Christian, otherwise Henry Scaddon, might have had a concentration of
purpose and an ingenuity of device fitting them to make a figure in the
parcelling of Europe, and yet they might never have met, simply because Joh=
nson
knew nothing of Christian, and because Christian did not know where to find
Johnson.
'His nature is too noble for the
world:
He would not flatter Neptune for h=
is
trident,
Or Jove for his power to thunder. =
His
heart's his mouth:
What his breast forges, that his
tongue must vent;
And, being angry, doth forget that
ever
He heard the name of death.' -
Coriolanus.
CHRISTIAN and Johnson did meet,
however, by means that were quite incalculable. The incident which brought =
them
into communication was due to Felix Holt, who of all men in the world had t=
he
least affinity either for the indusuious or the idle parasite.
Mr Lyon had urged Felix to go to
Duffield on the 15th of December, to witness the nomination of the candidat=
es
for North Loamshire. The minister wished to hear what took place; and the
pleasure of gratifying him helped to outweigh some opposing reasons.
'I shall get into a rage at someth=
ing
or other,' Felix had said. 'I've told you one of my weak points. Where I ha=
ve
any particular business, I must incur the risks my nature brings. But I've =
no
particular business at Duffield. However, I'll make a holiday and go. By di=
nt
of seeing folly, I shall get lessons in patience.'
The weak point to which Felix refe=
rred
was his liability to be carried completely out of his own mastery by indign=
ant
anger. His strong health, his renunciation of selfish claims, his habitual
preoccupation with large thoughts and with purposes independent of everyday
casualties, secured him a fine and even temper, free from moodiness or
irritability. He was full of long-suffering towards his unwise mother, who
'pressed him daily with her words and urged him, so that his soul was vexed=
';
he had chosen to fill his days in a way that required the utmost exertion of
patience, that required those little rill-like out-flowings of goodness whi=
ch
in minds of great energy must be fed from deep sources of thought and passi=
onate
devotedness. In this way his energies served to make him gentle; and now, in
this twenty-sixth year of his life, they had ceased to make him angry, exce=
pt
in the presence of something that roused his deep indignation. When once
exasperated, the passionateness of his nature threw off the yoke of a
long-trained consciousness in which thought and emotion had been more and m=
ore
completely mingled and concentrated itself in a rage as ungovernable as tha=
t of
boyhood. He was thoroughly aware of the liability, and knew that in such
circumstances he could not answer for himself. Sensitive people with feeble
frames have often the same sort of fury within them; but they are themselves
shattered, and shatter nothing. Felix had a terrible arm: he knew that he w=
as
dangerous; and he avoided the conditions that might cause him exasperation,=
as
he would have avoided intoxicating drinks if he had been in danger of
intemperance.
The nomination-day was a great epo=
ch
of successful trickery, or, to speak in a more parliamentary manner, of
war-stratagem, on the part of skilful agents. And Mr Johnson had his share =
of
inward chuckling and self-approval, as one who might justly expect increasi=
ng
renown, and be some day in as general request as the great Putty himself. To
have the pleasure and the praise of electioneering ingenuity, and also to g=
et
paid for it, without too much anxiety whether the ingenuity will achieve its
ultimate end, perhaps gives to some select persons a sort of satisfaction in
their superiority to their more agitated fellow-men that is worthy to be
classed with those generous enjoyments of having the truth chiefly to yours=
elf,
and of seeing others in danger of drowning while you are high and dry, which
seem to have been regarded as unmixed privileges by Lucretius and Lord Baco=
n.
One of Mr Johnson's great successes
was this. Spratt, the hated manager of the Sproxton Colliery, in careless
confidence that the colliers and other labourers under him would follow his
orders, had provided carts to carry some loads of voteless enthusiasm to
Duffield on behalf of Garstin; enthusiasm which, being already paid for by =
the
recognised benefit of Garstin's existence as a capitalist with a share in t=
he
Sproxton mines, was not to cost much in the form of treating. A capitalist =
was held
worthy of pious honour as the cause why working men existed. But Mr Spratt =
did
not sufficiently consider that a cause which has to be proved by argument or
testimony is not an object of passionate devotion to colliers: a visible ca=
use
of beer acts on them much more strongly. And even if there had been any lov=
e of
the far-off Garstin, hatred of the too-immediate Spratt would have been the
stronger motive. Hence Johnson's calculations, made long ago with Chubb, the
remarkable publican, had been well founded, and there had been diligent car=
e to
supply treating at Duffield in the name of Transome. After the election was
over, it was not improbable that there would be much friendly joking between
Putty and Johnson as to the success of this trick against Putty's employer,=
and
Johnson would be conscious of rising in the opinion of his celebrated senio=
r.
For the show of hands and the
cheering, the hustling and the pelting, the roaring and the hissing, the ha=
rd
hits with small missiles, and the soft hits with small jokes, were strong
enough on the side of Transome to balance the similar 'demonstrations' for
Garstin, even with the Debarry interest in his favour. And the inconvenient
presence of Spratt was early got rid of by a dexterously managed accident,
which sent him bruised and limping from the scene of action. Mr Chubb had n=
ever
before felt so thoroughly that the occasion was up to a level with his tale=
nts,
while the clear daylight in which his virtue would appear when at the elect=
ion
he voted, as his duty to himself bound him, for Garstin only, gave him thor=
ough
repose of conscience.
Felix Holt was the only person loo=
king
on at the senseless exhibitions of this nomination-day, who knew from the
beginning the history of the trick with the Sproxton men. He had been aware=
all
along that the treating at Chubb's had been continued, and that so far Haro=
ld
Transome's promise had produced no good fruits; and what he was observing
to-day, as he watched the uproarious crowd, convinced him that the whole sc=
heme
would be carried out just as if he had never spoken about it. He could be f=
air
enough to Transome to allow that he might have wished, and yet have been
unable, with his notions of success, to keep his promise; and his bitterness
towards the candidate only took the form of contemptuous pity; for Felix was
not sparing in his contempt for men who put their inward honour in pawn by
seeking the prizes of the world. His scorn fell too readily on the fortunat=
e.
But when he saw Johnson passing to and fro, and speaking to Jermyn on the
hustings, he felt himself getting angry, and jumped off the wheel of the
stationary cart on which he was mounted that he might no longer be in sight=
of
this man, whose vitiating cant had made his blood hot and his fingers tingl=
e on
the first day of encountering him at Sproxton. It was a little too exaspera=
ting
to look at this pink-faced rotund specimen of prosperity, to witness the po=
wer
for evil that lay in his vulgar cant, backed by another man's money, and to
know that such stupid iniquity flourished the flags of Reform, and Liberali=
sm,
and justice to the needy. While the roaring and the scuffling were still go=
ing
on, Felix, with his thick stick in his hand, made his way through the crowd,
and walked on through the Duffield streets till he came out on a grassy sub=
urb,
where the houses surrounded a small common: Here he walked about in the bre=
ezy
air, and ate his bread and apples, telling himself that this angry haste of=
his
about evils that could only be remedied slowly, could be nothing else than
obstructive, and might some day - he saw it so clearly that the thought see=
med
like a presentiment - be obstructive of his own work.
'Not to waste energy, to apply for=
ce
where it would tell, to do small work close at hand, not waiting for
speculative chances of heroism, but preparing for them' - these were the ru=
les
he had been constantly urging on himseIf. But what could be a greater waste
than to beat a scoundrel who had law and opodeldoc at command? After this
meditation, Felix felt cool and wise enough to return into the town, not,
however, intending to deny himself the satisfaction of a few pungent words
wherever there was place for them. Blows are sarcasms turned stupid: wit is=
a
form of force that leaves the limbs at rest.
Anything that could be called a cr=
owd
was no longer to be seen. The show of hands having been pronounced to be in
favour of Debarry and Transome, and a poll having been demanded for Garstin,
the business of the day might be considered at an end. But in the street wh=
ere
the hustings were erected, and where the great hotels stood, there were many
groups, as well as strollers and steady walkers to and fro. Men in superior
greatcoats and well-brushed hats were awaiting with more or less impatience=
an
important dinner, either at the Crown, which was Debarry's house, or at the
Three Cranes, which was Garstin's, or at the Fox and Hounds, which was
Transome's. Knots of sober retailers, who had already dined, were to be see=
n at
some shop-doors; men in very shabby coats and miscellaneous head-coverings,
inhabitants of Duffield and not county voters, were lounging about in dull
silence, or listening, some to a grimy man in a flannel shirt, hatless and =
with
turbid red hair, who was insisting on political points with much more ease =
than
had seemed to belong to the gentlemen speakers on the hustings, and others =
to a
Scotch vendor of articles useful to sell, whose unfamiliar accent seemed to
have a guarantee of truth in it wanting as an association with everyday
English. Some rough-looking pipe-smokers, or distinguished cigar-smokers, c=
hose
to walk up and down in isolation and silence. But the majority of those who=
had
shown a buming interest in the nomination had disappeared, and cockades no
longer studded a close-pressed crowd, like, and also very unlike, meadow
flowers among the grass. The street pavement was strangely painted with
fragments of perishable missiles ground flat under heavy feet: but the work=
ers
were resting from their toil, and the buzz and tread and the fitfully
discernible voices seemed like stillness to Felix after the roar with whuch=
the
wide space had been filled when he left it.
The group round the speaker in the
flannel shirt stood at the corner of a side-street, and the speaker himself=
was
elevated by the head and shoulders above his hearers, not because he was ta=
ll,
but because he stood on a projecting stone. At the opposite corner of the
turning was the great inn of the Fox and Hounds, and this was the ultra-Lib=
eral
quarter of the High Street. Felix was at once attracted by this group; he l=
iked
the look of the speaker, whose bare arms were powerfully muscular, though he
had the pallid complexion of a man who lives chiefly amidst the heat of
furnaces. He was leaning against the dark stone building behind him with fo=
lded
arms, the grimy paleness of his shirt and skin standing out in high relief
against the dark stone building behind him. He lifted up one fore-finger, a=
nd
marked his emphasis with it as he spoke. His voice was high and not strong,=
but
Felix recognised the fluency and the method of a habitual preacher or lectu=
rer.
'It's the fallacy of all monopolis=
ts,'
he was saying. 'We know what monopolists are: men who want to keep a trade =
all
to themselves, under the pretence that they'll furnish the public with a be=
tter
article. We know what that comes to: in some countries a poor man can't aff=
ord
to buy a spoonful of salt, and yet there's salt enough in the world to pick=
le
every living thing in it. That's the sort of benefit monopolists do to mank=
ind.
And these are the men who tell us we're to let politics alone; they'll gove=
rn
us better without our knowing anything about it. We must mind our business;=
we
are ignorant; we've no time to study great questions. But I tell them this:=
the
greatest question in the world is, how to give every man a man's share in w=
hat
goes on in life -'
'Hear, hear!' said Felix, in his
sonorous voice, which seemed to give a new impressiveness to what the speak=
er
had said. Every one looked at him: the well-washed face and its educated
expression, along with a dress more careless than that of most well-to-do
workmen on a holiday, made his appearance strangely arresting.
'Not a pig's share,' the speaker w=
ent
on, 'not a horse's share, not the share of a machine fed with oil only to m=
ake
it work and nothing else. It isn't a man's share just to mind your pin-maki=
ng,
or your glass-blowing, and higgle about your own wages, and bring up your
family to be ignorant sons of ignorant fathers, and no better prospect; tha=
t's
a slave's share; we want a freeman's share, and that is to think and speak =
and
act about what concerns us all, and see whether these fine gentlemen who
undertake to govern us are doing the best they can for us. They've got the
knowledge, say they. Very well, we've got the wants. There's many a one who
would be idle if hunger didn't pinch him; but the stomach sets us to work.
There's a fable told where the nobles are the belly and the people the memb=
ers.
But I make another sort of fable. I say, we are the belly that feels the
pinches, and we'll set these aristocrats, these great people who call
themselves our brains, to work at some way of satisfying us a bit better. T=
he
aristocrats are pretty sure to try and govern for their own benefit; but how
are we to be sure they'll try and govern for ours? They must be looked afte=
r, I
think, like other workmen. We must have what we call inspectors, to see whe=
ther
the work's well done for us. We want to send our inspectors to parliament.
Well, they say - you've got the Reform Bill; what more can you want? Send y=
our inspectors.
But I say, the Reform Bill is a trick - it's nothing but swearing-in special
constables to keep the aristocrats safe in their monopoly; it's bribing som=
e of
the people with votes to make them hold their tongues about giving votes to=
the
rest. I say, if a man doesn't beg or steal, but works for his bread, the po=
orer
and the more miserable he is, the more he'd need have a vote to send an
inspector to parliament - else the man who is worst off is likely to be
forgotten; and I say, he's the man who ought to be first remembered. Else w=
hat
does their religion mean? Why do they build churches and endow them that th=
eir
sons may get well paid for preaching a Saviour, and making themselves as li=
ttle
like Him as can be? If I want to believe in Jesus Christ, I must shut my ey=
es
for fear I should see a parson. And what's a bishop? A bishop's a parson
dressed up, who sits in the House of Lords to help and throw out Reform Bil=
ls.
And because it's hard to get anything in the shape of a man to dress himsel=
f up
like that, and do such work, they gave him a palace for it, and plenty of
thousands a-year. And then they cry out - ‘The church is in danger,=
8217;
- ‘the poor man's church’. And why is it the poor man's church?
Because he can have a seat for nothing. I think it is for nothing; for it w=
ould
be hard to tell what he gets by it. If the poor man had a vote in the matte=
r, I
think he'd choose a different sort of a church to what that is. But do you
think the aristocrats will ever alter it, if the belly doesn't pinch them? =
Not
they. It's part of their monopoly. They'll supply us with our religion like
everything else, and get a profit on it. They'll give us plenty of heaven. =
We
may have land there. That's the sort of religion they like - a religion that
gives us working men heaven, and nothing else. But we'll offer to change wi=
th
'em. Well give them back some of their heaven, and take it out in something=
for
us and our children in this world. They don't seem to care so much about he=
aven
themselves till they feel the gout very bad - but you won't get them to giv=
e up
anything else, if you don't pinch 'em for it. And to pinch them enough, we =
must
get the suffrage, we must get votes, that we may send the men to parliament=
who
will do our work for us; and we must have parliament dissolved every year, =
that
we may change our man if he doesn't do what we want him to do; and we must =
have
the country divided so that the little kings of the counties can't do as th=
ey
like, but must be shaken up in one bag with us. I say, if we working men are
ever to get a man's share, we must have universal suffrage, and annual
parliaments, and the vote by ballot, and electoral districts.’
'No! - something else before all
that,' said Felix, again startling the audience into looking at him. But the
speaker glanced coldly at him and went on.
'That's what Sir Francis Burdett w=
ent
in for fifteen years ago; and it's the right thing for us, if it was Tomfool
who went in for it. You must lay hold of such handles as you can. I don't
believe much in Liberal aristocrats; but if there's any fine carved gold-he=
aded
stick of an aristocrat will make a broom-stick of himself, I'll lose no time
but I'll sweep with him. And that's what I think about Transome. And if any=
of
you have acquaintance among county voters, give 'em a hint that you wish 'e=
m to
vote for Transome.'
At the last word, the speaker step=
ped
down from his slight eminence, and walked away rapidly, like a man whose
leisure was exhausted, and who must go about his business. But he had left =
an
appetite in his audience for further oratory, and one of them seemed to exp=
ress
a general sentiment as he turned immediately to Felix, and said, 'Come, sir,
what do you say?'
Felix did at once what he would ve=
ry
likely have done without being asked - he stepped on to the stone, and took=
off
his cap by an instinctive prompting that always led him to speak uncovered.=
The
effect of his figure in relief against the stone background was unlike that=
of
the previous speaker. He was considerably taller, his head and neck were mo=
re massive,
and the expression of his mouth and eyes was something very different from =
the
mere acuteness and rather hard-lipped antagonism of the trades-union man. F=
elix
Holt's face had the look of the habitual meditative abstraction from object=
s of
mere personal vanity or desire, which is the peculiar stamp of culture, and
makes a very roughly-cut face worthy to be called 'the human face divine'. =
Even
lions and dogs know a distinction between men's glances; and doubtless those
Duffield men, in the expectation with which they looked up at Felix, were
unconsciously influenced by the grandeur of his full yet firm mouth, and the
calm clearness of his grey eyes, which were somehow unlike what they were
accustomed to see along with an old brown velveteen coat, and an absence of
chin-propping. When he began to speak, the contrast of voice was still stro=
nger
than that of appearance. The man in the flannel shirt had not been heard - =
had
probably not cared to be heard - beyond the immediate group of listeners. B=
ut
Felix at once drew the attention of persons comparatively at a distance.
'In my opinion,' he said, almost t=
he
moment after he was addressed, 'that was a true word spoken by our friend w=
hen
he said the great question was how to give every man a man's share in life.=
But
I think he expects voting to do more towards it than I do. I want the worki=
ng
men to have power. I'm a working man myself, and I don't want to be anything
else. But there are two sorts of power. There's a power to do mischief - to
undo what has been done with great expense and labour, to waste and destroy=
, to
be cruel to the weak, to lie and quarrel, and to talk poisonous nonsense.
That's the sort of power that ignorant numbers have. It never made a joint
stool or planted a potato. Do you think it's likely to do much towards
governing a great country, and making wise laws, and giving shelter, food, =
and
clothes to millions of men? Ignorant power comes in the end to the same thi=
ng
as wicked power; it makes misery. It's another sort of power that I want us
working men to have, and I can see plainly enough that our all having votes
will do little towards it at present. I hope we, or the children that come
after us, will get plenty of political power some time. I tell everybody
plainly, I hope there will be great changes, and that some time, whether we
live to see it or not, men will have come to be ashamed of things they're p=
roud
of now. But I should like to convince you that votes would never give you
political power worth having while things are as they are now, and that if =
you
go the right way to work you may get power sooner without votes. Perhaps all
you who hear me are sober men, who try to learn as much of the nature of th=
ings
as you can, and to be as little like fools as possible. A fool or idiot is =
one
who expects things to happen that never can happen; he pours milk into a can
without a bottom, and expects the milk to stay there. The more of such vain
expectations a man has, the more he is of a fool or idiot. And if any worki=
ng
man expects a vote to do for him what it never can do, he's foolish to that
amount, if no more. I think that's clear enough, eh?'
'Hear, hear,' said several voices,=
but
they were not those of the original group; they belonged to some strollers =
who
had been attracted by Felix Holt's vibrating voice, and were Tories from the
Crown. Among them was Christian, who was smoking a cigar with a pleasure he
always felt in being among people who did not know him, and doubtless took =
him
to be something higher than he really was. Hearers from the Fox and Hounds =
also
were slowly adding themselves to the nucleus. Felix, accessible to the plea=
sure
of being listened to, went on with more and more animation -
'The way to get rid of folly is to=
get
rid of vain expectations, and of thoughts that don't agree with the nature =
of
things. The men who have had true thoughts about water, and what it will do
when it is turned into steam and under all sorts of circumstances, have made
themselves a great power in the world: they are turning the wheels of engin=
es
that will help to change most things. But no engines would have done, if th=
ere
had been false notions about the way water would act. Now, all the schemes
about voting, and districts, and annual parliaments, and the rest, are engi=
nes,
and the water or steam - the force that is to work them - must come out of
human nature - out of men's passions, feelings, desires. Whether the engines
will do good work or bad depends on these feelings; and if we have false
expectations about men's characters, we are very much like the idiot who th=
inks
he'll carry milk in a can without a bottom. In my opinion, the notions about
what mere voting will do are very much of that sort.'
'That's very fine,' said a man in
dirty fustian, with a scornful laugh. 'But how are we to get the power with=
out
votes?'
'I'll tell you what's the greatest
power under heaven,' said Felix, 'and that is public opinion - the ruling
belief in society about what is right and what is wrong, what is honourable=
and
what is shameful. That's the steam that is to work the engines. How can
political freedom make us better any more than a religion we don't believe =
in,
if people laugh and wink when they see men abuse and defile it? And while
public opinion is what it is - while men have no better beliefs about public
duty - while corruption is not felt to be a damning disgrace - while men are
not ashamed in parliament and out of it to make public questions which conc=
ern
the welfare of millions a mere screen for their own petty private ends, - I
say, no fresh scheme of voting will much mend our condition. For, take us
working men of all sorts. Suppose out of every hundred who had a vote there
were thirty who had some soberness, some sense to choose with, some good
feeling to make them wish the right thing for all. And suppose there were
seventy out of the hundred who were, half of them, not sober, who had no se=
nse
to choose one thing in politics more than another, and who had so little go=
od
feeling in them that they wasted on their own drinking the money that should
have helped to feed and clothe their wives and children; and another half of
them who, if they didn't drink, were too ignorant or mean or stupid to see =
any
good for themselves better than pocketing a five-shilling piece when it was
offered them. Where would be the political power of the thirty sober men? T=
he
power would lie with the seventy drunken and stupid votes; and I'll tell you
what sort of men would get the power - what sort of men would end by return=
ing
whom they pleased to parliament.'
Felix had seen every face around h=
im,
and had particularly noticed a recent addition to his audience; but now he
looked before him without appearing to fix his glance on any one. In spite =
of
his cooling meditations an hour ago, his pulse was getting quickened by ind=
ignation,
and the desire to crush what he hated was likely to vent itself in
articulation. His tone became more biting.
'They would be men who would under=
take
to do the business for a candidate, and return him: men who have no real
opinions, but who pilfer the words of every opinion, and turn them into a c=
ant
which will serve their purpose at the moment; men who look out for dirty wo=
rk
to make their fortunes by, because dirty work wants little talent and no
conscience; men who know aU the ins and outs of bribery, because there is n=
ot a
cranny in their own souls where a bribe can't enter. Such men as these will=
be
the masters wherever there's a majority of voters who care more for money, =
more
for drink, more for some mean little end which is their own and nobody else=
's,
than for anything that has ever been called Right in the world. For suppose
there's a poor voter named Jack, who has seven children, and twelve or fift=
een
shillings a-week wages, perhaps less. Jack can't read - I don't say whose f=
ault
that is - he never had the chance to learn; he knows so little that he perh=
aps
thinks God made the poor-laws, and if anybody said the pattem of the workho=
use
was laid down in the Testament, he wouldn't be able to contradict them. Wha=
t is
poor Jack likely to do when he sees a smart stranger coming to him, who hap=
pens
to be just one of those men that I say will be the masters till public opin=
ion
gets too hot for them? He's a middle-sized man, we'll say; stout, with coat
upon coat of fine broadcloth, open enough to show a fine gold chain: none of
your dark, scowling men, but one with an innocent pink-and-white skin and v=
ery
smooth light hair - a most respectable man, who calls himself by a good, so=
und,
well-known English name - as Green, or Baker, or Wilson, or, let us say,
Johnson -'
Felix was interrupted by an explos=
ion
of laughter from a majority of the bystanders. Some eyes had been turned on
Johnson, who stood on the right hand of Felix, at the very beginning of the
description, and these were gradually followed by others, till at last every
hearer's attention was fixed on him, and the first burst of laughter from t=
he
two or three who knew the attorney's name, let every one sufficiently into =
the
secret to make the amusement common. Johnson, who had kept his ground till =
his
name was mentioned, now turned away, looking unusually white after being
unusually red, and feeling by an attorney's instinct for his pocket-book, a=
s if
he felt it was a case for taking down the names of witnesses.
All the well-dressed hearers turned
away too, thinking they had had the cream of the speech in the joke against
Johnson, which, as a thing worth telling, helped to recall them to the scen=
e of
dinner.
'Who is this Johnson?' said Christ=
ian
to a young man who had been standing near him, and had been one of the firs=
t to
laugh. Christian's curiosity had naturally been awakened by what might prov=
e a
golden opportunity.
'O - a London attorney. He acts for
Transome. That tremendous fellow at the comer there is some red-hot Radical
demagogue, and Johnson has offended him, I suppose; else he wouldn't have
turned in that way on a man of their own party.'
'I had heard there was a Johnson w=
ho
was an understrapper of Jermyn's,' said Christian.
'Well, so this man may have been f=
or
what I know. But he's a London man now - a very busy fellow - on his own le=
gs
in Bedford Row. Ha ha! It's capital, though, when these Liberals get a slap=
in
the face from the working men they're so very fond of.'
Another turn along the street enab=
led
Christian to come to a resolution. Having seen Jermyn drive away an hour
before, he was in no fear: he walked at once to the Fox and Hounds and aske=
d to
speak to Mr Johnson. A brief interview, in which Christian ascertained that=
he
had before him the Johnson mentioned by the bill-sticker, issued in the
appointment of a longer one at a later hour; and before they left Duffield =
they
had come not exactly to a mutual understanding, but to an exchange of
information mutually welcome.
Christian had been very cautious in
the commencement, only intimating that he knew something important which so=
me
chance hints had induced him to think might be interesting to Mr Johnson, b=
ut
that this entirely depended on how far he had a common interest with Mr Jer=
myn.
Johnson replied that he had much business in which that gentleman was not
concerned, but that to a certain extent they had a common interest. Probably
then, Christian observed, the affairs of the Transome estate were part of t=
he
business in which Mr Jermyn and Mr Johnson might be understood to represent
each other - in which case he need not detain Mr Johnson? At this hint John=
son
could not conceal that he was becoming eager. He had no idea what Christian=
's
information was, but there were many grounds on which Johnson desired to kn=
ow
as much as he could about the Transome affairs independently of Jermyn. By
little and little an understanding was arrived at. Christian told of his
interview with Tommy Trounsem, and stated that if Johnson could show him
whether the knowledge could have any legal value, he could bring evidence t=
hat
a legitimate child of Bycliffe's existed: he felt certain of this fact, and=
of
his proof. Johnson explained, that in this case the death of the old
bill-sticker would give the child the first valid claim to the Bycliffe hei=
rship;
that for his own part he should be glad to further a true claim, but that
caution must be observed. How did Christian know that Jermyn was informed on
this subject? Christian, more and more convinced that Johnson would be glad=
to
counteract Jermyn, at length became explicit about Esther, but still withhe=
ld
his own real name, and the nature of his relations with Bycliffe. He said he
would bring the rest of his information when Mr Johnson took the case up
seriously, and placed it in the hands of Bycliffe's old lawyers - of course=
he
would do that? Johnson replied that he would certainly do that; but that th=
ere
were legal niceties which Mr Christian was probably not acquainted with; th=
at
Esther's claim had not yet accrued; and that hurry was useless.
The two men parted, each in distru=
st
of the other, but each well pleased to have learned something. Johnson was =
not
at all sure how he should act, but thought it likely that events would soon
guide him. Christian was beginning to meditate a way of securing his own en=
ds
without depending in the least on Johnson's procedure. It was enough for him
that he was now assured of Esther's legal claim on the Transome estates.
'In the copia of the factious lang=
uage
the word Tory was entertained, ... and being a vocal clever-sounding word,
readily pronounced, it kept its hold, and took possession of the foul mouth=
s of
the faction.... The Loyalists began to cheer up and to take heart of grace,=
and
in the working of this crisis, according to the common laws of scolding, th=
ey
considered which way to make payment for so much of Tory as they had been
treated with, to clear scores.... Immediately the train took, and ran like
wildfire and became general. And so the account of Tory was balanced, and s=
oon
began to run up a sharp score on the other side.' - NORTH'S Examen, p. 321.=
AT last the great epoch of the
election for North Loamshire had arrived. The roads approaching Treby were
early traversed by a large number of vehicles, horsemen, and also
foot-passengers, than were ever seen there at the annual fair. Treby was the
polling-place for many voters whose faces were quite strange in the town; a=
nd
if there were some strangers who did not come to poll, though they had busi=
ness
not unconnected with the election, they were not liable to be regarded with
suspicion or especial curiosity. It was understood that no division of a co=
unty
had ever been more thoroughly canvassed, and that there would be a hard run
between Garstin and Transome. Mr Johnson's head-quarters were at Duffield; =
but
it was a maxim which he repeated after the great Putty, that a capable agent
makes himself omnipresent; and quite apart from the express between him and
Jermyn, Mr John Johnson's presence in the universe had potent effects on th=
is
December day at Treby Magna.
A slight drizzling rain which was
observed by some Tories who looked out of their bedroom windows before six
o'clock, made them hope that, after all, the day might pass off better than
alarmists had expected. The rain was felt to be somehow on the side of quiet
and Conservatism; but soon the breaking of the clouds and the mild gleams o=
f a
December sun brought back previous apprehensions. As there were already
precedents for riot at a Reformed election, and as the Trebian district had=
had
its confidence in the natural course of things somewhat shaken by a landed
proprietor with an old name offering himself as a Radical candidate, the
election had been looked forward to by many with a vague sense that it woul=
d be
an occasion something like a fighting match, when bad characters would prob=
ably
assemble, and there might be struggles and alarms for respectable men, which
would make it expedient for them to take a little neat brandy as a precauti=
on
beforehand and a restorative afterwards. The tenants on the Transome estate
were comparatively fearless: poor Mr Goffe, of Rabbit's End, considered that
'one thing was as mauling as another', and that an election was no worse th=
an
the sheep-rot, while Mr Dibbs, taking the more cheerful view of a prosperou=
s man,
reflected that if the Radicals were dangerous, it was safer to be on their
side. It was the voters for Debarry and Garstin who considered that they al=
one
had the right to regard themselves as targets for evil-minded men; and Mr
Crowder, if he could have got his ideas countenanced, would have recommende=
d a
muster of farm-servants with defensive pitchforks on the side of church and
king. But the bolder men were rather gratified by the prospect of being gro=
aned
at, so that they might face about and groan in return.
Mr Crow, the high constable of Tre= by, inwardly rehearsed a brief address to a riotous crowd in case it should be wanted, having been warned by the rector that it was a primary duty on these occasions to keep a watch against provocation as well as violence. The rect= or, with a brother magistrate who was on the spot, had thought it desirable to swear in some special constables, but the presence of loyal men not absolut= ely required for the polling was not looked at in the light of a provocation. T= he benefit clubs from various quarters made a show, some with the orange-coloured ribb= ons and streamers of the true Tory candidate, some with the mazarine of the Whi= g. The orange-coloured bands played 'Auld Langsyne', and a louder mazarine band came across them with 'O whistle and I will come to thee, my lad' - probabl= y as the tune the most symbolical of Liberalism which their repertory would furn= ish. There was not a single club bearing the Radical blue: the Sproxton Club mem= bers wore the mazarine, and Mr Chubb wore so much of it that he looked (at a sufficient distance) like a very large gentianella. It was generally unders= tood that 'these brave fellows', representing the fine institution of benefit cl= ubs, and holding aloft the motto, 'Let brotherly love continue', were a civil fo= rce calculated to encourage voters of sound opinions and keep up their spirits.= But a considerable number of unadorned heavy navvies, colliers, and stone-pit m= en, who used their freedom as British subjects to be present in Treby on this g= reat occasion, looked like a possibly uncivil force whose politics were dubious until it was clearly seen for whom they cheered and for whom they groaned.<= o:p>
Thus the way up to the polling-boo=
ths
was variously lined, and those who walked it, to whatever side they belonge=
d,
had the advantage of hearing from the opposite side what were the most mark=
ed
defects or excesses in their personal appearance; for the Trebians of that =
day
held, without being aware that they had Cicero's authority for it, that the
bodily blemishes of an opponent were a legitimate ground for ridicule; but =
if
the voter frustrated wit by being handsome, he was groaned at and satirised
according to a formula, in which the adjective was Tory, Whig, or Radical, =
as
the case might be, and the substantive blank to be filled up after the tast=
e of
the speaker.
Some of the more timid had chosen =
to
go through this ordeal as early as possible in the morning. One of the earl=
iest
was Mr Timothy Rose, the gentleman-farmer from Leek Malton. He had left hom=
e with
some foreboding, having swathed his more vital parts in layers of flannel, =
and
put on two greatcoats as a soft kind of armour. But reflecting with some
trepidation that there were no resources for protecting his head, he once m=
ore
wavered in his intention to vote; he once more observed to Mrs Rose that th=
ese
were hard times when a man of independent property was expected to vote
'willy-nilly;' but finally, coerced by the sense that he should be looked i=
ll
on 'in these times' if he did not stand by the gentlemen round about, he set
out in his gig, taking with him a powerful waggoner, whom he ordered to keep
him in sight as he went to the polling-booth. It was hardly more than nine
o'clock when Mr Rose, having thus come up to the level of his times, cheered
himself with a little cherry-brandy at the Marquis, drove away in a much mo=
re
courageous spirit, and got down at Mr Nolan's, just outside the town. The
retired Londoner, he considered, was a man of experience, who would estimate
properly the judicious course he had taken, and could make it known to othe=
rs.
Mr Nolan was superintending the removal of some shrubs in his garden.
'Well, Mr Nolan,' said Rose, twink=
ling
a self-complacent look over the red prominence of his cheeks, 'have you bee=
n to
give your vote yet?'
'No; all in good time. I shall go
presently.'
'Well, I wouldn't lose an hour, I
wouldn't. I said to myself, if I've got to do gentlemen a favour, I'll do i=
t at
once. You see, I've got no landlord, Nolan - I'm in that position o' life t=
hat
I can be independent.'
'Just so, my dear sir,' said the
wiry-faced Nolan, pinching his under-lip between his thumb and finger, and
giving one of those wonderful universal shrugs, by which he seemed to be
recalling all his garments from a tendency to disperse themselves. 'Come in=
and
see Mrs Nolan?'
'No, no, thankye. Mrs Rose expects=
me
back. But, as I was saying, I'm an independent man, and I consider it's not=
my
part to show favour to one more than another, but to make things as even as=
I
can. If I'd been a tenant to anybody, well, in course I must have voted for=
my
landlord - that stands to sense. But I wish everybody well; and if one's
returned to parliament more than another, nobody can say
it's my doing; for when you can vo=
te
for two, you can make things even. So I gave one to Debarry and one to
Transome; and I wish Garstin no ill, but I can't help the odd number, and he
hangs on to Debarry, they say.'
'God bless me, sir,' said Mr Nolan,
coughing down a laugh, 'don't you perceive that you might as well have stay=
ed
at home, and not voted at all, unless you would rather send a Radical to
parliament than a sober Whig?'
'Well, I'm sorry you should have anything to say against what I've done, Nolan,' said Mr Rose, rather crestfallen, though sustained by inward warmth. 'I thought you'd agree with= me, as you're a sensible man. But the most an independent man can do is to try = and please all; and if he hasn't the luck - here's wishing I may do it another time,' added Mr Rose, apparently confounding a toast with a salutation, for= he put out his hand for a passing shake, and then stepped into his gig again.<= o:p>
At the time that Mr Timothy Rose l=
eft
the town, the crowd in King Street and in the market-place, where the
polling-booths stood, was fluctuating. Voters as yet were scanty, and brave
fellows who had come from any distance this morning, or who had sat up late
drinking the night before, required some reinforcement of their strength and
spirits. Every public-house in Treby, not excepting the venerable and sombre
Cross-Keys, was lively with changing and numerous company. Not, of course, =
that
there was any treating: treating necessarily had stopped, from moral scrupl=
es,
when once 'the writs were out'; but there was drinking, which did equally w=
ell
under any name.
Poor Tommy Trounsem, breakfasting =
here
on Falstaff's proportion of bread, and something which, for gentility's sak=
e, I
will call sack, was more than usually victorious over the ills of life, and
felt himself one of the heroes of the day. He had an immense light-blue coc=
kade
in his hat, and an amount of silver in a dirty little canvas bag which
astonished himself. For some reason, at first inscrutable to him, he had be=
en
paid for his bill-sticking with great liberality at Mr Jermyn's office, in
spite of his having been the victim of a trick by which he had once lost his
own bills and pasted up Debarry's; but he soon saw that this was simply a
recognition of his merit as 'an old family kept out of its rights', and als=
o of
his peculiar share in an occasion when the family was to get into parliamen=
t.
Under these circumstances, it was due from him that he should show himself
prominently where business was going forward, and give additional value by =
his
presence to every vote for Transome. With this view he got a half-pint bott=
le filled
with his peculiar kind of 'sack', and hastened back to the market-place,
feeling good-natured and patronising towards all political parties, and onl=
y so
far partial as his family bound him to be.
But a disposition to concentrate at
that extremity of Ring Street which issued in the market-place was not
universal among the increasing crowd. Some of them seemed attracted towards
another nucleus at the other extremity of King Street, near the Seven Stars.
This was Garsdn's chief house, where his committee sat, and it was also a p=
oint
which must necessarily be passed by many voters entering the town on the
eastern side. It seemed natural that the mazarine colours should be visible
here, and that Pack, the tall 'shepherd' of the Sproxton men, should be seen
moving to and fro where there would be a frequent opportunity of cheering t=
he
voters for a gentleman who had the chief share in the Sproxton mines. But t=
he
side lanes and entries out of Ring Street were numerous enough to relieve a=
ny
pressure if there was need to make way. The lanes had a distinguished
reputation. Two of them had odours of brewing; one had a side entrance to Mr
Tiliot's wine and spirit vaults; up another Mr Muscat's cheeses were freque=
ntly
being unloaded; and even some of the entries had those cheerful suggestions=
of
plentiful provision which were among the characteristics of Treby.
Between ten and eleven the voters =
came
in more rapid succession, and the whole scene became spirited. Cheers,
sarcasms, and oaths, which seemed to have a flavour of wit for many hearers,
were beginning to be reinforced by more practical demonstrations, dubiously
jocose. There was a disposition in the crowd to close and hem in the way for
voters, either going or coming, until they had paid some kind of toll. It w=
as
difficult to see who set the example in the transition from words to deeds.
Some thought it was due to Jacob Cuff, a Tory charity-man, who was a well-k=
nown
ornament of the pothouse, and gave his mind much leisure for amusing device=
s;
but questions of origination in stirring periods are notoriously hard to
settle. It is by no means necessary in human things that there should be on=
ly
one beginner. This, however, is certain - that Mr Chubb, who wished it to be
noticed that he voted for Garstin solely, was one of the first to get rather
more notice than he wished, and that he had his hat knocked off and crushed=
in
the interest of Debarry by Tories opposed to coalition. On the other hand, =
some
said it was at the same time that Mr Pink, the saddler, being stopped on his
way and made to declare that he was going to vote for Debarry, got himself =
well
chalked as to his coat, and pushed up an entry, where he remained the priso=
ner
of terror combined with the want of any back outlet, and never gave his vote
that day.
The second Tory joke was performed
with much gusto. The majority of the Transome tenants came in a body from t=
he
Ram Inn, with Mr Banks the bailiff leading them. Poor Goffe was the last of
them, and his worn melancholy look and forward-leaning gait gave the jocose
Cuff the notion that the farmer was not what he called 'compus'. Mr Goffe w=
as
cut off from his companions and hemmed in; asked, by voices with hot breath
close to his ear, how many horses he had, how many cows, how many fat pigs;
then jostled from one to another, who made trumpets with their hands and
deafened him by telling him to vote for Debarry. In this way the melancholy
Goffe was hustled on till he was at the polling-booth - filled with confused
alarms, the immediate alarm being that of having to go back in still worse
fashion than he had come. Arriving in this way after the other tenants had
left, he astonished all hearers who knew him for a tenant of the Transomes =
by
saying 'Debarry', and was jostled back trembling amid shouts of laughter.
By stages of this kind the fun grew
faster, and was in danger of getting rather serious. The Tories began to fe=
el
that their jokes were returned by others of a heavier sort, and that the ma=
in
strength of the crowd was not on the side of sound opinion, but might come =
to
be on the side of sound cudgelling and kicking. The navvies and pitmen in
dishabille seemed to be multiplying, and to be clearly not belonging to the
party of Order. The shops were freely resorted to for various forms of play=
ful
missiles and weapons; and news came to the magistrates, watching from the l=
arge
window of the Marquis, that a gentleman coming in on horseback at the other=
end
of the street to vote for Garstin had had his horse turned round and fright=
ened
into a head-long gallop out of it again.
Mr Crow and his subordinates, and =
all
the special constables, felt that it was necessary to make some energetic
effort, or else every voter would be intimidated and the poll must be adjou=
med.
The rector determined to get on horseback and go amidst the crowd with the
constables; and he sent a message to Mr Lingon, who was at the Ram, calling=
on
him to do the same. 'Sporting Jack' was sure the good fellows meant no harm,
but he was courageous enough to face any bodily dangers, and rode out in hi=
s brown
leggings and coloured bandanna, speaking persuasively.
It was nearly twelve o'clock when =
this
sally was made: the constables and magistrates tried the most pacific measu=
res,
and they seemed to succeed. There was a rapid thinning of the crowd: the mo=
st boisterous
disappeared, or seemed to do so by becoming quiet; missiles ceased to fly, =
and
a sufficient way was cleared for voters along King Street. The magistrates
returned to their quarters, and the constables took convenient posts of
observation. Mr Wace, who was one of Debarry's committee, had suggested to =
the
rector that it might be wise to send for the military from Duffield, with
orders that they should station themselves at Hathercote, three miles off:
there was so much property in the town that it would be better to make it
secure against risks. But the rector felt that this was not the part of a
moderate and wise magistrate, unless the signs of riot recurred. He was a b=
rave
man, and fond of thinking that his own authority sufficed for the maintenan=
ce
of the general good in Treby.
'Go from me. Yet I feel that I sha=
ll
stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Never =
more
Alone upon the threshold of my doo=
r
Of individual life, I shall comman=
d
The uses of my soul, nor lift my h=
and
Serenely in the sunshine as before=
Without the sense of that which I
forbore -
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest
land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy
heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What=
I
do
And what I dream include thee, as =
the
wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And =
when
I sue
God for myself, He hears that name=
of
thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears =
of
two.'
MRS BROWNING.
Felix snatched his cap and rushed =
out.
But when he got to the turning into the market-place the magistrates were
already on horseback there, the constables were moving about, and Felix
observed that there was no strong spirit of resistance to them. He stayed l=
ong
enough to see the partial dispersion of the crowd and the restoration of
tolerable quiet, and then went back to Mrs Holt to tell her that there was
nothing to fear now: he was going out again, and she must not be in any anx=
iety
at his absence. She might set by his dinner for him.
Felix had been thinking of Esther =
and
her probable alarm at the noises that must have reached her more distinctly
than they had reached him, for Malthouse Yard was removed but a little way =
from
the main street. Mr Lyon was away from home, having been called to preach
charity sermons and attend meetings in a distant town; and Esther, with the
plaintive Lyddy for her sole companion, was not cheerfully circumstanced. F=
elix
had not been to see her yet since her father's departure, but to-day he gave
way to new reasons.
'Miss Esther was in the garret,' L=
yddy
said, trying to see what was going on. But before she was fetched she came
running down the stairs, drawn by the knock at the door, which had shaken t=
he
small dwelling.
'I am so thankful to see you,' she
said eagerly. 'Pray come in.'
When she had shut the parlour door
behind him, Felix said, 'I suspected that you might have been made anxious =
by
the noises. I came to tell you that things are quiet now. Though, indeed, y=
ou
can hear that they are.'
'I was frightened,' said Esther. '=
The
shouting and roaring of rude men is so hideous. It is a relief to me that my
father is not at home - that he is out of the reach of any danger he might =
have
fallen into if he had been here. But I gave you credit for being in the mid=
st
of the danger,' she added, smiling, with a determination not to show much
feeling. 'Sit down and tell me what has happened.'
They sat down at the extremities of
the old black sofa, and Felix said -
'To tell you the truth, I had shut
myself up, and tried to be as indifferent to the election as if I'd been on=
e of
the fishes in the Lapp, till the noises got too strong for me. But I only s=
aw
the tail end of the disturbance. The poor noisy simpletons seemed to give w=
ay
before the magistrates and the constables. I hope nobody has been much hurt.
The fear is that they may turn out again by-and-by; their giving way so soon
may not be altogether a good sign. There's a great number of heavy fellows =
in
the town. If they go and drink more, the last end may be worse than the fir=
st.
However -'
Felix broke off, as if this talk w=
ere
futile, clasped his hands behind his head, and, leaning backward, looked at
Esther, who was looking at him.
'May I stay here a little while?' =
he
said, after a moment, which seemed long.
'Pray do,' said Esther, colouring.=
To
relieve herself she took some work and bowed her head over her stitching. It
was in reality a little heaven to her that Felix was there, but she saw bey=
ond
it - saw that by-and-by he would be gone, and that they should be farther on
their way, not towards meeting, but parting. His will was impregnable. He w=
as a
rock, and she was no more to him than the white clinging mist-cloud.
'I wish I could be sure that you s=
ee
things just as I do,' he said, abruptly, after a minute's silence.
'I am sure you see them much more
wisely than I do,' said Esther, almost bitterly, without looking up.
'There are some people one must wi=
sh
to judge one truly. Not to wish it would be mere hardness. I know you think=
I
am a man without feeling - at least, without strong affections. You think I
love nothing but my own resolutions.'
'Suppose I reply in the same sort =
of
strain?' said Esther, with a little toss of the head.
'How?'
'Why, that you think me a shallow
woman, incapable of believing what is best in you, setting down everything =
that
is too high for me as a deficiency.'
'Don't parry what I say. Answer me=
.'
There was an expression of painful beseeching in the tone with which Felix =
said
this. Esther let her work fall on her lap and looked at him, but she was un=
able
to speak.
'I want you to tell me - once - th=
at
you know it would be easier to me to give myself up to loving and being lov=
ed,
as other men do, when they can, than to -'
This breaking-off in speech was
something quite new in Felix. For the first time he had lost his
self-possession, and turned his eyes away. He was at variance with himself.=
He
had begun what he felt that he ought not to finish
Esther, like a woman as she was - a
woman waiting for love, never able to ask for it - had her joy in these sig=
ns
of her power; but they made her generous, not chary, as they might have don=
e if
she had had a pettier disposition. She said, with deep yet timid earnestnes=
s -
'What you have chosen to do has on=
ly
convinced me that your love would be the better worth having.'
All the finest part of Esther's na=
ture
trembled in those words. To be right in great memorable moments, is perhaps=
the
thing we need most desire for ourselves.
Felix as quick as lightning turned=
his
look upon her again, and, leaning forward, took her sweet hand and held it =
to
his lips some moments before he let it fall again and raised his head.
'We shall always be the better for
thinking of each other,' he said, leaning his elbow on the back of the sofa,
and supporting his head as he looked at her with calm sadness. 'This thing =
can
never come to me twice over. It is my knight-hood. That was always a busine=
ss
of great cost.'
He smiled at her, but she sat biti=
ng
her inner lip, and pressing her hands together. She desired to be worthy of
what she reverenced in Felix, but the inevitable renunciation was too
difficult. She saw herself wandering through the future weak and forsaken. =
The
charming sauciness was all gone from her face, but the memory of it made th=
is
child-like dependent sorrow all the more touching.
'Tell me what you would -' Felix b=
urst
out, leaning nearer to her; but the next instant he started up, went to the=
table,
took his cap in his hand, and came in front of her.
'Good-bye,' he said, very gently, =
not
daring to put out his hand. But Esther put up hers instead of speaking. He =
just
pressed it and then went away.
She heard the doors close behind h=
im,
and felt free to be miserable. She cried bitterly. If she might have married
Felix Holt, she could have been a good woman. She felt no trust that she co=
uld
ever be good without him.
Felix reproached himself. He would
have done better not to speak in that way. But the prompting to which he had
chiefly listened had been the desire to prove to Esther that he set a high
value on her feelings. He could not help seeing that he was very important =
to
her; and he was too simple and sincere a man to ape a sort of humility whic=
h would
not have made him any the better if he had possessed it. Such pretences turn
our lives into sorry dramas. And Felix wished Esther to know that her love =
was
dear to him as the beloved dead are dear. He felt that they must not marry -
that they would ruin each other's lives. But he had longed for her to know
fully that his will to be always apart from her was renunciation, not an ea=
sy
preference. In this he was thoroughly generous; and yet, now some subtle,
mysterious conjuncture of impressions and circumstances had made him speak,=
he
questioned the wisdom of what he had done. Express confessions give
definiteness to memories that might more easily melt away without them; and
Felix felt for Esther's pain as the strong soldier, who can march on hunger=
ing
without fear that he shall faint, feels for the young brother - the
maiden-cheeked conscript whose load is too heavy for him.
'Mischief, thou art afoot.' - Juli=
us
Caesar.
It was now nearly half-past one, a=
nd
Felix perceived that the street was filling with more than the previous cro=
wd.
By the time he got in front of the booths, he was himself so surrounded by =
men
who were being thrust hither and thither that retreat would have been
impossible; and he went where he was obliged to go, although his height and
strength were above the average even in a crowd where there were so many he=
avy-armed
workmen used to the pick-axe. Almost all shabby-coated Trebians must have b=
een
there, but the entries and back-streets of the town did not supply the mass=
of
the crowd; and besides the rural incomers, both of the more decent and the
rougher sort, Felix, as he was pushed along, thought he discerned here and
there men of that keener aspect which is only common in manufacturing towns=
.
But at present there was no eviden=
ce
of any distinctly mischievous design. There was only evidence that the majo=
rity
of the crowd were excited with drink, and that their action could hardly be
calculated on more than those of oxen and pigs congregated amidst hootings =
and
pushings. The confused deafening shouts, the incidental fighting, the knock=
ing
over, pulling and scuffling, seemed to increase every moment. Such of the
constables as were mixed with the crowd were quite helpless; and if an offi=
cial
staff was seen above the heads, it moved about fitfully, showing as little =
sign
of a guiding hand as the summit of a buoy on the waves. Doubtless many hurts
and bruises had been received but no one could know the amount of injuries =
that
were wildly scattered.
It was clear that no more voting c=
ould
be done, and the poll had been adjourned. The probabilities of serious misc=
hief
had grown strong enough to prevail over the rector's objection to getting
military aid within reach; and when Felix re-entered the town, a galloping
messenger had already been despatched to Duffield. The rector wished to ride
out again, and read the Riot Act from a point where he could be better heard
than from the window of the Marquis; but Mr Crow, the high constable, who h=
ad
returned from closer observation, insisted that the risk would be too great.
New special constables had been sworn in, but Mr Crow said prophetically th=
at
if once mischief began, the mob was past caring for constables.
But the rector's voice was ringing=
and
penetrating, and when he appeared on the narrow balcony and read the formul=
a,
commanding all men to go to their homes or about their lawful business, the=
re
was a strong transient effect. Every one within hearing listened, and for a=
few
moments after the final words, 'God save the King!' the comparative silence
continued. Then the people began to move, the buzz rose again, and grew, an=
d grew,
till it turned to shouts and roaring as before. The movement was that of a
flood hemmed in; it carried nobody away. Whether the crowd would obey the o=
rder
to disperse themselves within an hour, was a doubt that approached nearer a=
nd
nearer to a negative certainty.
Presently Mr Crow, who held himsel=
f a
tactician, took a well-intentioned step, which went far to fulfill his own
prophecy. He had arrived with the magistrates by a back way at the Seven St=
ars,
and here again the Riot Act was read from a window, with much the same resu=
lt
as before. The rector had returned by the same way to the Marquis, as the
headquarters most suited for administration, but Mr Crow remained at the ot=
her
extremity of King Street, where some awe-striking presence was certainly ne=
eded.
Seeing that the time was passing, and all effect from the voice of law had
disappeared, he showed himself at an upper window, and addressed the crowd,
telling them that the soldiers had been sent for, and that if they did not
disperse they would have cavalry upon them instead of constables.
Mr Crow, like some other high
constables more celebrated in history, 'enjoyed a bad reputation'; that is =
to
say, he enjoyed many things which caused his reputation to be bad, and he w=
as
anything but popular in Treby. It is probable that a pleasant message would
have lost something from his lips, and what he actually said was so unpleas=
ant,
that, instead of persuading the crowd, it appeared to enrage them. Some one,
snatching a raw potato from a sack in the greengrocer's shop behind him, th=
rew
it at the constable, and hit him on the mouth. Straightway raw potatoes and
turnips were flying by twenties at the windows of the Seven Stars, and the
panes were smashed. Felix, who was half-way up the street, heard the voices=
turning
to a savage roar, and saw a rush towards the hardware shop, which furnished
more effective weapons and missiles than turnips and potatoes. Then a cry r=
an
along that the Tories had sent for the soldiers, and if those among the mob=
who
called themselves Tories as willingly as anything else were disposed to take
whatever called itself the Tory side, they only helped the main result of
reckless disorder.
But there were proofs that the
predominant will of the crowd was against 'Debarry's men,' and in favour of
Transome. Several shops were invaded, and they were all of them 'Tory shops=
'.
The tradesmen who could do so, now locked their doors and barricaded their
windows within. There was a panic among the householders of this hitherto
peaceful town, and a general anxiety for the military to arrive. The rector=
was
in painful anxiety on this head: he had sent out two messengers as secretly=
as
he could towards Hathercote, to order the soldiers to ride straight to the
town; but he feared that these messengers had been somehow intercepted.
It was three o'clock: more than an
hour had elapsed since the reading of the Riot Act. The rector of Treby Mag=
na
wrote an indignant message and sent it to the Ram, to Mr Lingon, the rector=
of
Little Treby, saying that there was evidently a Radical animus in the mob, =
and
that Mr Transome's party should hold themselves peculiarly responsible. Whe=
re
was Mr Jermyn?
Mr Lingon replied that he was going
himself out towards Duffield to see after the soldiers. As for Jermyn, he w=
as
not that attorney's sponsor: he believed that Jermyn was gone away somewher=
e on
business - to fetch voters.
A serious effort was now being mad=
e by
all the civil force at command. The December day would soon be passing into
evening, and all disorder would be aggravated by obscurity. The horrors of =
fire
were as likely to happen as any minor evil. The constables, as many of them=
as
could do so, armed themselves with carbines and sabres; all the respectable
inhabitants who had any courage prepared themselves to struggle for order; =
and
many felt with Mr Wace and Mr Tiliot that the nearest duty was to defend the
breweries and the spirit and wine vaults, where the property was of a sort =
at
once most likely to be threatened and most dangerous in its effects. The
rector, with fine determination, got on horseback again, as the best mode of
leading the constables, who could only act efficiently in a close body. By =
his
direction the column of armed men avoided the main street, and made their w=
ay
along a back road, that they might occupy the two chief lanes leading to the
wine-vaults and the brewery, and bear down on the crowd from these openings,
which it was especially desirable to guard.
Meanwhile Felix Holt had been hotly
occupied in King Street. After the first window-smashing at the Seven Stars,
there was a sufficient reason for damaging that inn to the utmost. The
destructive spirit tends towards completeness; and any object once maimed or
otherwise injured, is as readily doomed by unreasoning men as by unreasoning
boys. Also the Seven Stars sheltered Spratt; and to some Sproxton men in fr=
ont
of that inn it was exasperating that Spratt should be safe and sound on a d=
ay
when blows were going, and justice might be rendered. And again, there was =
the
general desirableness of being inside a public-house.
Felix had at last been willingly u=
rged
on to this spot. Hitherto swayed by the crowd, he had been able to do nothi=
ng
but defend himself and keep on his legs; but he foresaw that the people wou=
ld
burst into the inn; he heard cries of 'Spratt!' 'Fetch him out!' 'We'll pit=
ch
him out!' 'Pummel him ! ' It was not unlikely that lives might be sacrifice=
d;
and it was intolerable to Felix to be witnessing the blind outrages of this=
mad
crowd, and yet be doing nothing to counteract them. Even some vain effort w=
ould
satisfy him better than mere gazing. Within the walls of the inn he might s=
ave
some one. He went in with a miscellaneous set, who dispersed themselves with
different objects - some to the taproom, and to search for the cellar; some
upstairs to search in all rooms for Spratt, or any one else perhaps, as a
temporary scapegoat for Spratt. Guided by the screams of women, Felix at la=
st
got to a high up-stairs passage, where the landlady and some of her servants
were running away in helpless terror from two or three half-tipsy men, who =
had
been emptying a spirit-decanter in the bar. Assuming the tone pf a mob-lead=
er,
he cried out, 'Here, boys, here's better fun this way - come with me ! ' and
drew the men back with him along the passage. They reached the lower stairc=
ase
in time to see the unhappy Spratt being dragged, coatless and screaming, do=
wn
the steps. No one at present was striking or kicking him; it seemed as if he
were being reserved for punishment on some wider area, where the satisfacti=
on
might be more generally shared. Felix followed close, determined, if he cou=
ld,
to rescue both assailers and assaulted from the worst consequences. His mind
was busy with possible devices.
Down the stairs, out along the sto=
nes
through the gateway, Spratt was dragged as a mere heap of linen and cloth r=
ags.
When he was got outside the gateway, there was an immense hooting and roari=
ng,
though many there had no grudge against him, and only guessed that others h=
ad
the grudge. But this was the narrower part of the street; it widened as it =
went
onwards, and Spratt was dragged on, his enemies crying, 'We'll make a ring -
we'll see how frightened he looks ! '
'Kick him, and have done with him,'
Felix heard another say. 'Let's go to Tiliot's vaults - there's more gin
there!'
Here were two hideous threats. In
dragging Spratt onward the people were getting very near to the lane leadin=
g up
to Tiliot's. Felix kept as close as he could to the threatened victim. He h=
ad
thrown away his own stick, and carried a bludgeon which had escaped from the
hands of an invader at the Seven Stars! his head was bare; he looked, to
undiscerning eyes, like a leading spirit of the mob. In this condition he w=
as
observed by several persons looking anxiously from their upper windows, and=
finally
observed to push himself, by violent efforts, close behind the dragged man.=
Meanwhile the foremost among the
constables, who, coming by the back way, had now reached the opening of
Tiliot's Lane, discerned that the crowd had a victim amongst them. One spir=
ited
fellow, named Tucker, who was a regular constable, feeling that no time was=
to
be lost in meditation, called on his neighbour to follow him, and with the
sabre that happened to be his weapon got a way for himself where he was not
expected, by dint of quick resolution. At this moment Spratt had been let g=
o -
had been dropped, in fact, almost lifeless with terror, on the street stone=
s,
and the men round him had retreated for a little space, as if to amuse
themselves with looking at him. Felix had taken his opportunity; and seeing=
the
first step towards a plan he was bent on, he sprang forward close to the
cowering Spratt. As he did this, Tucker had cut his way to the spot, and
imagining Felix to be the destined executioner of Spratt - for any discrimi=
nation
of Tucker's lay in his muscles rather than his eyes - he rushed up to Felix,
meaning to collar him and throw him down. But Felix had rapid senses and qu=
ick
thoughts; he discerned the situation; he chose between two evils. Quick as
lightning he frustrated the constable, fell upon him, and tried to master h=
is
weapon. In the struggle, which was watched without interference, the consta=
ble
fell undermost, and Felix got his weapon. He started up with the bare sabre=
in
his hand. The crowd round him cried 'Hurray ! ' with a sense that he was on
their side against the constable. Tucker did not rise immediately; but Felix
did not imagine that he was much hurt.
'Don't touch him!' said Felix. 'Let
him go. Here, bring Spratt, and follow me.'
Felix was perfectly conscious that=
he
was in the midst of a tangled business. But he had chiefly before his
imagination the horrors that might come if the mass of wild chaotic desires=
and
impulses around him were not diverted from any further attack on places whe=
re
they would get in the midst of intoxicating and inflammable materials. It w=
as
not a moment in which a spirit like his could calculate the effect of
misunderstanding as to himself: nature never makes men who are at once
energetically sympathetic and minutely calculating. He believed he had the
power, and he was resolved to try, to carry the dangerous mass out of misch=
ief
till the military came to awe them - which he supposed, from Mr Crow's
announcement long ago, must be a near event.
He was followed the more willingly,
because Tiliot's Lane was seen by the hindmost to be now defended by
constables, some of whom had fire-arms; and where there is no strong
counter-movement, any proposition to do something unspecified stimulates st=
upid
curiosity. To many of the Sproxton men who were within sight of him, Felix =
was
known personally, and vaguely believed to be a man who meant many queer thi=
ngs,
not at all of an every-day kind.
Pressing along like a leader, with=
the
sabre in his hand, and inviting them to bring on Spratt, there seemed a bet=
ter
reason for following him than for doing anything else. A man with a definite
will and an energetic personality acts as a sort of flag to draw and bind
together the foolish units of a mob. It was on this sort of influence over =
men
whose mental state was a mere medley of appetites and confused impressions,
that Felix had dared to count. He hurried them along with words of invitati=
on,
telling them to hold up Spratt and not drag him; and those behind followed =
him,
with a growing belief that he had some design worth knowing, while those in
front were urged along partly by the same notion, partly by the sense that
there was a motive in those behind them, not knowing what the motive was. It
was that mixture of pushing forward and being pushed forward, which is a br=
ief
history of most human things.
What Felix really intended to do, =
was
to get the crowd by the nearest way out of the town, and induce them to ski=
rt
it on the north side with him, keeping up in them the idea that he was lead=
ing
them to execute some strategem by which they would surprise something worth
attacking, and circumvent the constables who were defending the lanes. In t=
he
meantime he trusted that the soldiers would have arrived, and with this sor=
t of
mob, which was animated by no real political passion or fury against social
distinctions it was in the highest degree unlikely that there would be any
resistance to a military force. The presence of fifty soldiers would probab=
ly
be enough to scatter the rioting hundreds. How numerous the mob was, no one
ever knew: many inhabitants afterwards were ready to swear that there must =
have
been at least two thousand rioters. Felix knew he was incurring great risks;
but 'his blood was up:' we hardly allow enough in common life for the resul=
ts of
that enkindled passionate enthusiasm which, under other conditions, makes
world-famous deeds.
He was making for a point where the
street branched off on one side towards a speedy opening between hedgerows,=
on
the other towards the shabby wideness of Pollard's End. At this forking of =
the
street there was a large space, in the centre of which there was a small st=
one
platform, mounting by three steps, with an old green finger-post upon it. F=
elix
went straight to this platform and stepped upon it, crying 'Halt ! ' in a l=
oud
voice to the men behind and before him, and calling to those who held Sprat=
t to
bring him there. All came to a stand with faces towards the finger-post, and
perhaps for the first time the extremities of the crowd got a definite idea
that a man with a sabre in his hand was taking the command.
'Now!' said Felix, when Spratt had
been brought on to the stone platform, faint and trembling, 'has anybody got
cord? if not, handkerchiefs knotted fast; give them to me.'
He drew out his own handkerchief, =
and
two or three others were mustered and handed to him. He ordered them to be
knotted together, while curious eyes were fixed on him. Was he going to have
Spratt hanged? Felix kept fast hold of his weapon, and ordered others to ac=
t.
'Now, put it round his waist, wind=
his
arms in, draw them a little backward - so I and tie it fast on the other si=
de
of the post.'
When that was done, Felix said,
imperatively -
'Leave him there - we shall come b=
ack
to him; let us make haste; march along, lads! Up Park Street and down Hobb's
Lane.'
It was the best chance he could th=
ink
of for saving Spratt's life. And he succeeded. The pleasure of seeing the
helpless man tied up sufficed for the moment, if there were any who had
ferocity enough to count much on coming back to him. Nobody's imagination
represented the certainty that some one out of the houses at hand would soon
come and untie him when he was left alone.
And the rioters pushed up Park Str=
eet,
a noisy stream, with Felix still in the midst of them, though he was labour=
ing
hard to get his way to the front. He wished to determine the course of the
crowd along a by-road called Hobb's Lane, which would have taken them to the
other - the Duffield end of the town. He urged several of the men round him,
one of whom was no less a person than the big Dredge, our old Sproxton
acquaintance, to get forward, and be sure that all the fellows would go down
the lane, else they would spoil sport. Hitherto Felix had been successful, =
and
he had gone along with an unbroken impulse. But soon something occurred whi=
ch
brought with a terrible shock the sense that his plan might turn out to be =
as
mad as all bold projects are seen to be when they have failed.
Mingled with the more headlong and
half-drunken crowd there were some sharp-visaged men who loved the
irrationality of riots for something else than its own sake, and who at pre=
sent
were not so much the richer as they desired to be, for the pains they had t=
aken
in coming to the Treby election, induced by certain prognostics gathered at=
Duffield
on the nomination-day that there might be the conditions favourable to that
confusion which was always a harvest-time. It was known to some of these sh=
arp
men that Park Street led out towards the grand house of Treby Manor, which =
was
as good - nay, better for their purpose than the bank. While Felix was
entertaining his ardent purpose, these other sons of Adam were entertaining
another ardent purpose of their peculiar sort, and the moment was come when
they were to have their triumph
From the front ranks backward towa=
rds
Felix there ran a new summons - a new invitation.
'Let us go to Treby Manor!'
From that moment Felix was powerle=
ss;
a new definite suggestion overrode his vaguer influence. There was a determ=
ined
rush past Hobb's Lane, and not down it. Felix was carried along too. He did=
not
know whether to wish the contrary. Once on the road, out of the town, with
openings into fields and with the wide park at hand, it would have been easy
for him to liberate himself from the crowd. At first it seemed to him the
better part to do this, and to get back to the town as fast as he could, in=
the
hope of finding the military and getting a detachment to come and save the
Manor. But he reflected that the course of the mob had been sufficiently se=
en,
and that there were plenty of people in Park Street to carry the information
faster than he could. It seemed more necessary that he should secure the
presence of some help for the family at the Manor by going there himself. T=
he
Debarrys were not of the class he was wont to be anxious about; but Felix
Holt's conscience was alive to the accusation that any danger they might be=
in
now was brought on by a deed of his. In these moments of bitter vexation and
disappointment, it did occur to him that very unpleasant consequences might=
be
hanging over him of a kind quite different from inward dissatisfaction; but=
it
was useless now to think of averting such consequences. As he was pressed a=
long
with the multitude into Treby Park, his very movement seemed to him only an=
image
of the day's fatalities, in which the multitudinous small wickednesses of s=
mall
selfish ends, really undirected towards any larger result, had issued in
widely-shared mischief that might yet be hideous.
The light was declining: already t=
he
candles shone through many windows of the Manor. Already the foremost part =
of
the crowd had burst into the offices, and adroit men were busy in the right
places to find plate, after setting others to force the butler into unlocki=
ng
the cellars; and Felix had only just been able to force his way on to the f=
ront
terrace, with the hope of getting to the rooms where he would find the ladi=
es
of the household and comfort them with the assurance that rescue must soon
come, when the sound of horses' feet convinced him that the rescue was near=
er
than he had expected. Just as he heard the horses, he had approached the la=
rge
window of a room, where a brilliant light suspended from the ceiling showed=
him
a group of women clinging together in terror. Others of the crowd were push=
ing their
way up the terrace-steps and gravel-slopes at various points. Hearing the
horses, he kept his post in front of the window, and, motioning with his sa=
bre,
cried out to the oncomers, 'Keep back! I hear the soldiers coming.' Some
scrambled back, some paused automatically.
The louder and louder sound of the
hoofs changed its pace and distribution. 'Halt! Fire!' Bang! bang! bang! - =
came
deafening the ears of the men on the terrace.
Before they had time or nerve to m=
ove,
there was a rushing sound closer to them - again 'Fire!' a bullet whizzed, =
and
passed through Felix Holt's shoulder - the shoulder of the arm that held the
naked weapon which shone in the light from the window.
Felix fell. The rioters ran
confusedly, like terrified sheep. Some of the soldiers, turning, drove them
along vvith the flat of their swords. The greater difficulty was to clear t=
he
invaded offices.
The rector, who with another
magistrate and several other gentlemen on horseback had accompanied the
soldiers, now jumped on to the terrace, and hurried to the ladies of the
family.
Presently, there was a group round
Felix, who had fainted and, reviving, had fainted again. He had had little =
food
during the day, and had been overwrought. Two of the group were civilians, =
but
only one of them knew Felix, the other being a magistrate not resident in
Treby. The one who knew Felix was Mr John Johnson, whose zeal for the public
peace had brought him from Duffield when he heard that the soldiers were
summoned.
'I know this man very well,' said =
Mr
Johnson. 'He is a dangerous character - quite revolutionary.'
It was a weary night; and the next
day, Felix, whose wound was declared trivial, was lodged in Loamford Jail. =
He
was committed on three counts - for having assaulted a constable, for having
committed manslaughter (Tucker was dead from spinal concussion), and for ha=
ving
led a riotous onslaught on a dwelling-house.
Four other men were committed: one=
of
them for possessing himself of a gold cup with the Debarry arms on it; the
three others, one of whom was the collier Dredge, for riot and assault.
That morning Treby town was no lon=
ger
in terror; but it was in much sadness. Other men, more innocent than the ha=
ted
Spratt, were groaning under severe bodily injuries. And poor Tucker's corpse
was not the only one that had been lifted from the pavement. It is true that
none grieved much for the other dead man, unless it be grief to say, 'Poor =
old
fellow!' He had been trampled upon, doubtless where he fell drunkenly, near=
the
entrance of the Seven Stars. This second corpse was old Tommy Trounsem, the
bill-sticker - otherwise Thomas Transome, the last of a very old family-lin=
e.
The fields are hoary with December=
's
frost.
I too am hoary with the chills of =
age.
But through the fields and through=
the
untrodden woods
Is rest and stillness - only in my
heart
The pall of winter shrouds a throb=
bing
life.
A WEEK after that Treby Riot, Haro=
ld
Transome was at Transome Court. He had returned from a hasty visit to town,=
to
keep his Christmas at this delightful country home, not in the best Christm=
as
spirits. He had lost the election; but if that had been his only annoyance,=
he
had good humour and good sense enough to have borne it as well as most men,=
and
to have paid the eight or nine thousand, which had been the price of
ascertaining that he was not to sit in the next parliament, without useless
grumbling. But the disappointments of life can never, any more than its
pleasures, be estimated singly; and the healthiest and most agreeable of me=
n is
exposed to that coincidence of various vexations, each heightening the effe=
ct
of the other, which may produce in him something corresponding to the
spontaneous and externally unaccountable moodiness of the morbid and
disagreeable.
Harold might not have grieved much=
at
a small riot in Treby, even if it had caused some expenses to fall on the
county; but the turn which the riot had actually taken, was a bitter morsel=
for
rumination, on more grounds than one. However the disturbances had arisen a=
nd
been aggravated - and probably no one knew the whole truth on these points -
the conspicuous, gravest incidents had all tended to throw the blame on the
Radical party, that is to say, on Transome and on Transome's agents; and so=
far
the candidateship and its results had done Harold dishonour in the county:
precisely the opposite effect to that which was a dear object of his ambiti=
on.
More than this, Harold's conscience was active enough to be very unpleasant=
ly
affected by what had befallen Felix Holt. His memory, always good, was part=
icularly
vivid in its retention of Felix Holt's complaint to him about the treating =
of
the Sproxton men, and of the subsequent irritating scene in Jermyn's office
when the personage with the inauspicious name of Johnson had expounded to h=
im
the impossibility of revising an electioneering scheme once begun, and of
turning your vehicle back when it had already begun to roll downhill.
Remembering Felix Holt's words of indignant warning about hiring men with d=
rink
in them to make a noise, Harold could not resist the urgent impression that=
the
offences for which Felix was committed were fatalities, not brought about by
any willing co-operation of his with the rioters, but arising probably from
some ill-judged efforts to counteract their violence. And this impression,
which insisted on growing into a conviction, became in one of its phases an
uneasy sense that he held evidence which would at once tend to exonerate Fe=
lix,
and to place himself and his agents in anything but a desirable light. It w=
as
likely that some one else could give equivalent evidence in favour of Felix=
-
the little talkative Dissenting preacher, for example; but, anyhow, the aff=
air
with the Sproxton men would be ripped open and made the worst of by the
opposite parties. The man who has failed in the use of some indirectness, is
helped very little by the fact that his rivals are men to whom that
indirectness is a something human, very far from being alien. There remains
this grand distinction, that he has failed, and that the jet of light is th=
rown
entirely on his misdoings.
In this matter Harold felt himself=
a
victim. Could he hinder the tricks of his agents? In this particular case he
had tried to hinder them, and had tried in vain. He had not loved the two
agents in question, to begin with; and now at this later stage of events he=
was
more innocent than ever of bearing them anything but the most sincere ill-w=
ill.
He was more utterly exasperated with them than he would probably have been =
if
his one great passion had been for public virtue. Jermyn, with his John
Johnson, had added this
ugly dirty business of the Treby
election to all the long-accumulating list of offences, which Harold was
resolved to visit on him to the utmost. He had seen some handbills carrying=
the
insinuation that there was a discreditable indebtedness to Jermyn on the pa=
rt
of the Transomes. If any such notions existed apart from electioneering
slander, there was all the more reason for letting the world see Jermyn
severely punished for abusing his power over the family affairs, and tamper=
ing
with the family property. And the world certainly should see this with as
little delay as possible. The cool confident assuming fellow should be bled=
to
the last drop in compensation, and all connection with him be finally got r=
id
of. Now that the election was done with, Harold meant to devote himself to
private affairs, till everything lay in complete order under his own
supervision.
This morning he was seated as usua=
l in
his private room, which had now been handsomely fitted up for him. It was b=
ut
the third morning after the first Christmas he had spent in his English home
for fifteen years, and the home looked like an eminently desirable one. The
white frost lay on the broad lawn, on the many-formed leaves of the evergre=
ens,
and on the giant trees at a distance. Logs of dry oak blazed on the hearth;=
the
carpet was like warm moss under his feet; he had breakfasted just according=
to
his taste, and he had the interesting occupations of a large proprietor to =
fill
the morning. All through the house now, steps were noiseless on carpets or =
on
fine matting; there was warmth in hall and corridors; there were servants
enough to do everything, and to do it at the right time. Skilful Dominic was
always at hand to meet his master's demands, and his bland presence diffused
itself like a smile over the household, infecting the gloomy English mind w=
ith
the belief that life was easy, and making his real predominance seem as soft
and light as a down quilt. Old Mr Transome had gathered new courage and
strength since little Harry and Dominic had come and since Harold had insis=
ted
on his taking drives. Mrs Transome herself was seen on a fresh background w=
ith
a gown of rich new stuff. And if, in spite of this, she did not seem happy,
Harold either did not observe it, or kindly ignored it as the necessary fra=
ilty
of elderly women whose lives have had too much of dulness and privation. Our
minds get tricks and attitudes as our bodies do, thought Harold, and age
stiffens them into unalterableness. 'Poor mother! I confess I should not li=
ke
to be an elderly woman myself. One requires a good deal of the purring cat =
for
that, or else of the loving grandame. I wish she would take more to little
Harry. I suppose she has her suspicions about the lad's mother, and is as r=
igid
in those matters as in her Toryism. However, I do what I can; it would be
difficult to say what there is wanting to her in the way of indulgence and
luxury to make up for the old niggardly life.'
And certainly Transome Court was n=
ow
such a home as many women would covet. Yet even Harold's own satisfaction in
the midst of its elegant comfort needed at present to be sustained by the
expectation of gratified resentment. He was obviously less bright and enjoy=
ing
than usual, and his mother, who watched him closely without daring to ask
questions, had gathered hints and drawn inferences enough to make her feel =
sure
that there was some storm gathering between him and Jermyn. She did not dar=
e to
ask questions, and yet she had not resisted the temptation to say something=
bitter
about Harold's failure to get returned as a Radical, helping, with feminine
self-defeat, to exclude herself more completely from any consultation by hi=
m.
In this way poor women, whose power lies solely in their influence, make
themselves like music out of tune, and only move men to run away.
This morning Harold had ordered his
letters to be brought to him at the breakfast-table, which was not his usual
practice. His mother could see that there were London business letters about
which he was eager, and she found out that the letter brought by a clerk the
day before was to make an appointment with Harold for Jermyn to come to
Transome Court at eleven this morning. She observed Harold swallow his coff=
ee
and push away his plate with an early abstraction from the business of
breakfast which was not at all after his usual manner. She herself ate noth=
ing;
her sips of tea seemed to excite her; her cheeks flushed, and her hands were
cold. She was still young and ardent in her terrors; the passions of the pa=
st were
living in her dread.
When Harold left the table she went
into the long drawing-room, where she might relieve her restlessness by wal=
king
up and down, and catch the sound of Jermyn's entrance into Harold's room, w=
hich
was close by. Here she moved to and fro amongst the rose-coloured satin of
chairs and curtains - the great story of this world reduced for her to the
little tale of her own existence - dull obscurity everywhere, except where =
the
keen light fell on the narrow track of her own lot, wide only for a woman's
anguish. At last she heard the expected ring and footstep, and the opening =
and
closing door. Unable to walk about any longer, she sank into a large cushio=
ned
chair, helpless and prayerless. She was not thinking of God's anger or merc=
y,
but of her son's. She was thinking of what might be brought, not by death, =
but
by life.
M. Check to your queen!
N. Nay, your own king is bare,
And moving so, you give yourself
checkmate.
WHEN Jermyn entered the room, Haro=
ld,
who was seated at his library table examining papers, with his back towards=
the
light and his face towards the door, moved his head coldly. Jermyn said an
ungracious 'Good-morning' - as little as possible like a salutation to one =
who
might regard himself as a patron. On the attorney's handsome face there was=
a
black cloud of defiant determination, slightly startling to Harold, who had
expected to feel that the overpowering weight of temper in the interview wa=
s on
his own side. Nobody was ever prepared beforehand for this expression of
Jermyn's face, which seemed as strongly contrasted with the cold
inpenetrableness which he preserved under the ordinary annoyances of busine=
ss
as with the bland radiance of his lighter moments.
Harold himself did not look amiable
just then, but his anger was of the sort that seeks a vent without waiting =
to
give a fatal blow; it was that of a nature more subtly mixed than Jermyn's -
less animally forcible, less unwavering in selfishness, and with more of
high-bred pride. He looked at Jermyn with increased disgust and secret wond=
er.
'Sit down,' he said, curtly.
Jermyn seated himself in silence,
opened his greatcoat, and took some papers from a side-pocket.
'I have written to Makepeace,' said
Harold, 'to tell him to take the entire management of the election expenses=
. So
you will transmit your accounts to him.'
'Very well. I am come this morning=
on
other business.'
'If it's about the riot and the
prisoners, I have only to say that I shall enter into no plans. If I am cal=
led
on, I shall say what I know about that young fellow Felix Holt. People may
prove what they can about Johnson's damnable tricks, or yours either.'
'I am not come to speak about the
riot. I agree with you in thinking that quite a subordinate subject.' (When
Jermyn had the black cloud over his face, he never hesitated or drawled, and
made no Latin quotations.)
'Be so good, then, as to open your
business at once,' said Harold, in a tone of imperious indifference.
'That is precisely what I wish to =
do.
I have here information from a London correspondent that you are about to f=
ile
a bill against me in Chancery.' Jermyn, as he spoke, laid his hand on the
papers before him, and looked straight at Harold.
'In that case the question for you=
is,
how far your conduct as the family solicitor will bear investigation. But i=
t is
a question which you will consider quite apart from me.'
'Doubtless. But prior to that ther=
e is
a question which we must consider together.'
The tone in which Jermyn said this
gave an unpleasant shock to Harold's sense of mastery. Was it possible that=
he
should have the weapon wrenched out of his hand?
'I shall know what to think of tha=
t,'
he replied, as haughtily as ever, 'when you have stated what the question i=
s.'
'Simply, whether you will choose to
retain the family estates, or lay yourself open to be forthwith legally
deprived of them.'
'I presume you refer to some under=
hand
scheme of your own, on a par with the annuities you have drained us by in t=
he
name of Johnson,' said Harold, feeling a new movement of anger. 'If so, you=
had
better state your scheme to my lawyers, Dymock and Halliwell.'
'No. I think you will approve of my
stating in your own ear first of all, that it depends on my will whether you
remain an important landed proprietor in North Loamshire, or whether you re=
tire
from the county with the remainder of the fortune you have acquired in trad=
e.'
Jermyn paused, as if to leave time=
for
this morsel to be tasted.
'What do you mean?' said Harold,
sharply
'Not any scheme of mine; but a sta=
te
of the facts, resulting from the settlement of the estate made in 1729: a s=
tate
of the facts which renders your father's title and your own title to the fa=
mily
estates utterly worthless as soon as the true claimant is made aware of his
right.'
'And you intend to inform him?'
'That depends. I am the only person
who has the requisite knowledge. It rests with you to decide whether I shall
use that knowledge against you; or whether I shall use it in your favour - =
by
putting an end to the evidence that would serve to oust you in spite of you=
r ‘robust
title of occupancy’.'
Jermyn paused again. He had been
speaking slowly, but without the least hesitation, and with a bitter
definiteness of enunciation. There was a moment or two before Harold answer=
ed,
and then he said abruptly -
'I don't believe you.'
'I thought you were more shrewd,' =
said
Jermyn, with a touch of scorn. 'I thought you understood that I had had too
much experience to waste my time in telling fables to persuade a man who has
put himself into the attitude of my deadly enemy.'
'Well, then, say at once what your
proofs are,' said Harold, shaking in spite of himself, and getting nervous.=
'I have no inclination to be lengt=
hy.
It is not more than a few weeks since I ascertained that there is in existe=
nce
an heir of the Bycliffes, the old adversaries of your family. More curiousl=
y,
it is only a few days ago - in fact, only since the day of the riot - that =
the
Bycliffe claim has become valid, and that the right of remainder accrues to=
the
heir in question.’
'And how pray?' said Harold, rising
from his chair, and making a turn in the room, with his hands thrust in his
pockets. Jermyn rose too, and stood near the hearth facing Harold, as he mo=
ved
to and fro.
'By the death of an old fellow who=
got
drunk, and was trampled to death in the riot. He was the last of that Thomas
Transome's line, by the purchase of whose interest your family got its titl=
e to
the estate. Your title died with him. It was supposed that the line had bec=
ome
extinct before - and on that supposition the old Bycliffes founded their cl=
aim.
But I hunted up this man just about the time the last suit was closed. His
death would have been of no consequence to you if there had not been a Bycl=
iffe
in existence; but I happen to know that there is, and that the fact can be
legally proved.'
For a minute or two Harold did not
speak, but continued to pace the room, while Jermyn kept his position, hold=
ing
his hands behind him. At last Harold said, from the other end of the room,
speaking in a scornful tone -
'That sounds alarming. But it is n=
ot
to be proved simply by your statement.'
'Clearly. I have here a document, =
with
a copy, which will back my statement. It is the opinion given on the case m=
ore
than twenty years ago, and it bears the signature of the Attorney-General a=
nd
the first conveyancer of the day.'
Jermyn took up the papers he had l=
aid
on the table, opening them slowly and coolly as he went on speaking, and as
Harold advanced towards him.
'You may suppose that we spared no
pains to ascertain the state of the title in the last suit against Maurice
Christian Bycliffe, which threatened to be a hard run. This document is the
result of a consultation; it gives an opinion which must be taken as a final
authority. You may cast your eyes over that, if you please; I will wait your
time. Or you may read the summing-up here,' Jermyn ended, holding out one of
the papers to Harold, and pointing to a final passage.
Harold took the paper, with a slig=
ht
gesture of impatience. He did not choose to obey Jermyn's indication, and
confine himself to the summing-up. He ran through the document. But in trut=
h he
was too much excited really to follow the details, and was rather acting th=
an
reading, till at length he threw himself into his chair and consented to be=
nd
his attention on the passage to which Jermyn had pointed. The attorney watc=
hed
him as he read and twice re-read:
To sum up ... we are of opinion th=
at
the title of the present possessors of the Transome estates can be strictly
proved to rest solely upon a base fee created under the original settlement=
of 1729,
and to be good so long only as issue exists of the tenant in tail by whom t=
hat
base fee was created. We feel satisfied by the evidence that such issue exi=
sts
in the person of Thomas Transome, otherwise Trounsem, of Littleshaw. But up=
on
his decease without issue we are of opinion that the right in remainder of =
the
Bycliffe family will arise, which right would not be barred by any statute =
of
limitation.
When Harold's eyes were on the
signatures to this document for the third time, Jermyn said -
'As it turned out, the case being
closed by the death of the claimant, we had no occasion for producing Thomas
Transome, who was the old fellow I tell you of. The inquiries about him set=
him
agog, and after they were dropped he came into this neighbourhood, thinking
there was something fine in store for him. Here, if you like to take it, is=
a
memorandum about him. I repeat, that he died in the riot. The proof is read=
y.
And I repeat, that, to my knowledge, and mine only, there is a Bycliffe in
existence; and that I know how the proof can be made out.'
Harold rose from his chair again, =
and
again paced the room. He was not prepared with any defiance.
'And where is he - this Bycliffe?'=
he
said at last, stopping in his walk, and facing round towards Jermyn.
'I decline to say more till you
promise to suspend proceedings against me.'
Harold turned again, and looked ou=
t of
the window without speaking for a moment or two. It was impossible
that there should not be a conflict
within him, and at present it was a very confused one. At last he said - 'T=
his
person is in ignorance of his claim?' 'Yes.' 'Has been brought up in an
inferior station?'
'Yes,' said Jermyn, keen enough to
guess part of what was going on in Harold's mind. 'There is no harm in leav=
ing
him in ignorance. The question is a purely legal one. And, as I said before,
the complete knowledge of the case, as one of evidence, lies exclusively wi=
th
me. I can nullify the evidence, or I can make it tell with certainty against
you. The choice lies with you.'
'I must have time to think of this=
,'
said Harold, conscious of a terrible pressure.
'I can give you no time unless you
promise me to suspend proceedings.'
'And then, when I ask you, you will
lay the details before me?'
'Not without a thorough understand=
ing
beforehand. If I engage not to use my knowledge against you, you must engag=
e in
writing that on being satisfied by the details, you will cancel all hostile
proceedings against me, and will not institute fresh ones on the strength of
any occurrences now past.'
'Well, I must have time,' said Har=
old,
more than ever inclined to thrash the attorney, but feeling bound hand and =
foot
with knots that he was not sure he could ever unfasten.
'That is to say,' said Jermyn, with
his black-browed persistence, 'you will write to suspend proceedings.'
Again Harold paused. He was more t=
han
ever exasperated, but he was threatened, mortified, and confounded by the
necessity for an immediate decision between alternatives almost equally hat=
eful
to him. It was with difficulty that he could prevail on himself to speak any
conclusive words. He walked as far as he could from Jermyn - to the other e=
nd
of the room - then walked back to his chair and threw himself into it. At l=
ast
he said, without looking at Jermyn, 'I agree - I must have time.' 'Very wel=
l.
It is a bargain.'
'No further than this,' said Harol=
d,
hastily, flashing a look at Jermyn - 'no further than this, that I require
time, and therefore I give it to you.'
'Of course. You require time to
consider whether the pleasure of trying to ruin me - me to whom you are rea=
lly
indebted - is worth the loss of the Transome estates. I shall wish you
good-morning.'
Harold did not speak to him or loo=
k at
him again, and Jermyn walked out of the room. As he appeared outside the do=
or
and closed it behind him, Mrs Transome showed her white face at another door
which opened on a level with Harold's in such a way that it was just possib=
le
for Jermyn not to see her. He availed himself of that possibility, and walk=
ed
straight across the hall, where there was no servant in attendance to let h=
im
out, as if he believed that no one was looking at him who could expect
recognition. He did not want to speak to Mrs Transome at present; he had
nothing to ask from her, and one disagreeable interview had been enough for=
him
this morning.
She was convinced that he had avoi=
ded
her, and she was too proud to arrest him. She was as insignificant now in h=
is
eyes as in her son's. 'Men have no memories in their hearts,' she said to
herself, bitterly. Turning into her sitting-room she heard the voices of Mr
Transome and little Harry at play together. She would have given a great de=
al
at this moment if her feeble husband had not always lived in dread of her
temper and her tyranny, so that he might have been fond of her now. She fel=
t herself
loveless - if she was important to any one, it was only to her old
waiting-woman Denner.
'Are these things then necessities=
?
Then let us meet them like
necessities.'
SHAKESPEARE: Henry IV.
See now the virtue living in a wor=
d I
Hobson will think of swearing it w=
as
When he saw Dobson at the May-day
fair,
To prove poor Dobson did not rob t=
he
mail.
'Tis neighbourly to save a neighbo=
ur's
neck:
What harm is lying when you mean no
harm?
But say 'tis perjury, then Hobson
quakes -
He'll none of perjury.
Thus words embalm
The conscience of mankind; and Rom=
an
laws
Bring still a conscience to poor
Hobson's aid.
FEW men would have felt otherwise =
than
Harold Transome felt, if, having a reversion tantamount to possession of a =
fine
estate, carrying an association with an old name and considerable social
importance, they were suddenly informed that there was a person who had a l=
egal
right to deprive them of these advantages; that person's right having never
been contemplated by any one as more than a chance, and being quite unknown=
to
himself. In ordinary cases a shorter possession than Harold's family had
enjoyed was allowed by the law to constitute an indefeasible right; and if =
in
rare and peculiar instances the law left the possessor of a long inheritance
exposed to deprivation as a consequence of old obscure transactions, the mo=
ral
reasons for giving legal validity to the title of long occupancy were not t=
he
less strong. Nobody would have said that Harold was bound to hunt out this
alleged remainder-man and urge his rights upon him; on the contrary, all the
world would have laughed at such conduct, and he would have been thought an
interesting patient for a mad-doctor. The unconscious remainder-man was
probably much better off left in his original station: Harold would not have
been called upon to consider his existence, if it had not been presented to=
him
in the shape of a threat from one who had power to execute the threat.
In fact, what he would have done h=
ad
the circumstances been different was much clearer than what he should choos=
e to
do or feel himself compelled to do in the actual crisis. He would not have =
been
disgraced if, on a valid claim being urged, he had got his lawyers to fight=
it
out for him on the chance of eluding the claim by some adroit technical
management. Nobody off the stage could be sentimental about these things, or
pretend to shed tears of joy because an estate was handed over from a gentl=
eman
to a mendicant sailor with a wooden leg. And this chance remainder-man was
perhaps some such specimen of inheritance as the drunken fellow killed in t=
he
riot. All the world would think the actual Transomes in the right to contest
any adverse claim to the utmost. But then - it was not certain that they wo=
uld
win in the contest; and not winning, they would incur other loss besides th=
at
of the estate. There had been a little too much of such loss already.
But why, if it were not wrong to
contest the claim, should he feel the most uncomfortable scruples about rob=
bing
the claim of its sting by getting rid of its evidence? It was a mortal
disappointment - it was a sacrifice of indemnification - to abstain from
punishing Jermyn. But even if he brought his mind to contemplate that as the
wiser course, he still shrank from what looked like complicity with Jermyn;=
he
still shrank from the secret nullification of a just legal claim. If he had
only known the details, if he had known who this alleged heir was, he might
have seen his way to some course that would not have grated on his sense of
honour and dignity. But Jermyn had been too acute to let Harold know this: =
he
had even carefully kept to the masculine pronoun. And he believed that there
was no one besides himself who would or could make Harold any wiser. He went
home persuaded that between this interview and the next which they would ha=
ve
together, Harold would be left to an inward debate, founded entirely on the
information he himself had given. And he had not much doubt that the result
would be what he desired. Harold was no fool: there were many good things he
liked better in life than an irrational vindictiveness.
And it did happen that, after writ=
ing
to London in fulfilment of his pledge, Harold spent many hours over that in=
ward
debate, which was not very different from what Jermyn imagined. He took it
everywhere with him, on foot and on horseback, and it was his companion thr=
ough
a great deal of the night. His nature was not of a kind given to internal
conflict, and he had never before been long undecided and puzzled. This
unaccustomed state of mind was so painfully irksome to him - he rebelled so
impatiently against the oppression of circumstances in which his quick
temperament and habitual decision could not help him - that it added tenfol=
d to
his hatred of Jermyn, who was the cause of it. And thus, as the temptation =
to
avoid all risk of losing the estate grew and grew till scruples looked minu=
te
by the side of it, the difficulty of bringing himself to make a compact with
Jermyn seemed more and more insurmountable.
But we have seen that the attorney=
was
much too confident in his calculations. And while Harold was being galled by
his subjection to Jermyn's knowledge, independent information was on its wa=
y to
him. The messenger was Christian, who, after as complete a survey of
probabilities as he was capable of, had come to the conclusion that the most
profitable investment he could make of his peculiar experience and testimon=
y in
relation to Bycliffe and Bycliffe's daughter, was to place them at the disp=
osal
of Harold Transome. He was afraid of Jermyn; he utterly distrusted Johnson;=
but
he thought he was secure in relying on Harold Transome's care for his own
interest; and he preferred above all issues the prospect of forthwith leavi=
ng
the country with a sum that at least for a good while would put him at his
ease.
When, only three mornings after the
interview with Jermyn, Dominic opened the door of Harold's sitting-room, and
said that 'Meester Chreestian', Mr Philip Debarry's courier and an acquaint=
ance
of his own at Naples, requested to be admitted on business of importance,
Harold's immediate thought was that the business referred to the so-called
political affairs which were just now his chief association with the name of
Debarry, though it seemed an oddness requiring explanation that a servant
should be personally an intermediary. He assented, expecting something rath=
er
disagreeable than otherwise.
Christian wore this morning those
perfect manners of a subordinate who is not servile, which he always adopted
towards his unquestionable superiors. Mr Debarry, who preferred having some=
one
about him with as little resemblance as possible to a regular servant, had a
singular liking for the adroit, quiet-mannered Christian, and would have be=
en
amazed to see the insolent assumption he was capable of in the presence of
people like Lyon, who were of no account in society. Christian had that sor=
t of
cleverness which is said to 'know the world' - that is to say, he knew the
price-current of most things.
Aware that he was looked at as a
messenger while he remained standing near the door with his hat in his hand=
, he
said, with respectful ease -
'You will probably be surprised, s=
ir,
at my coming to speak to you on my own account; and, in fact, I could not h=
ave
thought of doing so if my business did not happen to be something of more
importance to you than to any one else.'
'You don't come from Mr Debarry,
then?' said Harold, with some surprise.
'No, sir. My business is a secret;
and, if you please, must remain so.'
'Is it a pledge you are demanding =
from
me?' said Harold, rather suspiciously, having no ground for confidence in a=
man
of Christian's position.
'Yes, sir; I am obliged to ask no =
less
than that you will pledge yourself not to take Mr Jermyn into confidence
concerning what passes between us.'
'With all my heart,' said Harold,
something like a gleam passing over his face. His circulation had become mo=
re
rapid. 'But what have you had to do with Jermyn?'
'He has not mentioned me to you th=
en -
has he, sir?'
'No; certainly not - never.'
Christian thought, 'Aha, Mr Jermyn!
you are keeping the secret well are you?' He said, aloud -
'Then Mr Jermyn has never mentione=
d to
you, sir, what I believe he is aware of - that there is danger of a new suit
being raised against you on the part of a Bycliffe, to get the estate?'
'Aha !' said Harold, starting up, =
and
placing himself with his back against the mantelpiece. He was electrified by
surprise at the quarter from which this information was coming. Any fresh a=
larm
was counteracted by the flashing thought that he might be enabled to act
independently of Jermyn; and in the rush of feelings he could utter no more
than an interjection. Christian concluded that Harold had had no previous h=
int.
'It is this fact, sir, that I came=
to
tell you of '
'From some other motive than kindn=
ess
to me, I presume,' said Harold, with a slight approach to a smile.
'Certainly,' said Christian, as
quietly as if he had been stating yesterday's weather. 'I should not have t=
he
folly to use any affectation with you, Mr Transome. I lost considerable pro=
perty
early in life, and am now in the receipt of a salary simply. In the affair I
have just mentioned to you I can give evidence which will turn the scale
against you. I have no wish to do so, if you will make it worth my while to
leave the country.'
Harold listened as if he had been a
legendary hero, selected for peculiar solicitation by the Evil One. Here was
temptation in a more alluring form than before, because it was sweetened by=
the
prospect of eluding Jermyn. But the desire to gain time served all the purp=
oses
of caution and resistance, and his indifference to the speaker in this case
helped him to preserve perfect self-command.
'You are aware,' he said, coolly,
'that silence is not a commodity worth purchasing unless it is loaded. There
are many persons, I dare say, who would like me to pay their travelling
expenses for them. But they might hardly be able to show me that it was wor=
th
my while.'
'You wish me to state what I know?=
'
'Well, that is a necessary prelimi=
nary
to any further conversation.'
'I think you will see, Mr Transome,
that, as a matter of justice, the knowledge I can give is worth something,
quite apart from my future appearance or non-appearance as a witness. I must
take care of my own interest, and if anything should hinder you from choosi=
ng
to satisfy me for taking an essential witness out of the way, I must at lea=
st
be paid for bringing you the information.'
'Can you tell me who and where this
Bycliffe is?'
'I can.'
'- And give me a notion of the who=
le
affair?'
'Yes: I have talked to a lawyer - =
not
Jermyn - who is at the bottom of the law in the affair.'
'You must not count on any wish of
mine to suppress evidence or remove a witness. But name your price for the
information.'
'In that case I must be paid the
higher for my information. Say, two thousand pounds.'
'Two thousand devils!' burst out
Harold, throwing himself into his chair again, and turning his shoulder tow=
ards
Christian. New thoughts crowded upon him. 'This fellow may want to decamp f=
or
some reason or other,' he said to himself. 'More people besides Jermyn know
about his evidence, it seems. The whole thing may look black for me if it c=
omes
out. I shall be believed to have bribed him to run away, whether or not.' T=
hus
the outside conscience came in aid of the inner.
'I will not give you one sixpence =
for
your information,' he said, resolutely, 'until time has made it clear that =
you
do not intend to decamp, but will be forthcoming when you are called for. On
those terms I have no objection to give you a note, specifying that after t=
he
fulfilment of that condition - that is, after the occurrence of a suit, or =
the
understanding that no suit is to occur - I will pay you a certain sum in
consideration of the information you now give me!'
Christian felt himself caught in a
vice. In the first instance he had counted confidently on Harold's ready
seizure of his offer to disappear, and after some words had seemed to cast a
doubt on this presupposition, he had inwardly determined to go away, whether
Harold wished it or not, if he could get a sufficient sum. He did not reply
immediately, and Harold waited in silence, inwardly anxious to know what
Christian could tell, but with a vision at present so far cleared that he w=
as
determined not to risk incurring the imputation of having anything to do wi=
th
scoundrelism. We are very much indebted to such a linking of events as make=
s a
doubtful action look wrong.
Christian was reflecting that if he
stayed, and faced some possible inconveniences of being known publicly as H=
enry
Scaddon for the sake of what he might get from Esther, it would at least be
wise to be certain of some money from Harold Transome, since he turned out =
to
be of so peculiar a disposition as to insist on a punctilious honesty to his
own disadvantage. Did he think of making a bargain with the other side? If =
so,
he might be content to wait for the knowledge till it came in some other wa=
y.
Christian was beginning to be afraid lest he should get nothing by this cle=
ver
move of coming to Transome Court. At last he said -
'I think, sir, two thousand would =
not
be an unreasonable sum, on those conditions.'
'I will not give two thousand.'
'Allow me to say, sir, you must
consider that there is no one whose interest it is to tell you as much as I
shall, even if they could; since Mr Jermyn, who knows it, has not thought f=
it
to tell you. There may be use you don't think of in getting the information=
at
once.' 'Well?'
'I think a gentleman should act
liberally under such circumstances.'
'So I will.'
I could not take less than a thous=
and
pounds. It really would not be worth my while. If Mr Jermyn knew I gave you=
the
information, he would endeavour to injure me.'
'I will give you a thousand,' said
Harold, immediately, for Christian had unconsciously touched a sure spring.=
'At
least, I'll give you a note to the effect I spoke of.'
He wrote as he had promised, and g=
ave
the paper to Christian.
'Now, don't be circuitous,' said
Harold. 'You seem to have a business-like gift of speech Who and where is t=
his
Bycliffe?'
'You will be surprised to hear, si=
r,
that she is supposed to be the daughter of the old preacher, Lyon, in
Malthouse.'
'Good God! How can that be?' said
Harold. At once, the first occasion on which he had seen Esther rose in his
memory - the little dark parlour - the graceful girl in blue, with the
surprisingly distinguished manners and appearance.
'In this way. Old Lyon, by some
strange means or other, married Bycliffe's widow when this girl was a baby.=
And
the preacher didn't want the girl to know that he was not her real father: =
he
told me that himself. But she is the image of Bycliffe, whom I knew well - =
an
uncommonly fine woman - steps like a queen.'
I have seen her,' said Harold, more
than ever glad to have purchased this knowledge. 'But now, go on.'
Christian proceeded to tell all he
knew, including his conversation with Jermyn, except so far as it had an
unpleasant relation to himself.
'Then,' said Harold, as the details
seemed to have come to a close, 'you believe that Miss Lyon and her supposed
father are at present unaware of the claims that might be urged for her on =
the
strength of her birth?'
'I believe so. But I need not tell=
you
that where the lawyers are on the scent you can never be sure of anything l=
ong
together. I must remind you, sir, that you have promised to protect me from=
Mr Jermyn
by keeping my confidence.'
'Never fear. Depend upon it, I sha=
ll
betray nothing to Mr Jermyn.'
Christian was dismissed with a
'good-morning'; and while he cultivated some friendly reminiscences with
Dominic, Harold sat chewing the cud of his new knowledge, and finding it not
altogether so bitter as he had expected.
From the first, after his interview
with Jermyn, the recoil of Harold's mind from the idea of strangling a legal
right threw him on the alternative of attempting a compromise. Some middle =
course
might be possible, which would be a less evil than a costly lawsuit, or than
the total renunciation of the estates. And now he had learned that the new
claimant was a woman - a young woman, brought up under circumstances that w=
ould
make the fourth of the Transome property seem to her an immense fortune. Bo=
th
the sex and the social condition were of the sort that lies open to many
softening influences. And having seen Esther, it was inevitable that, among=
st
the various issues, agreeable and disagreeable, depicted by Harold's
imagination, there should present itself a possibility that would unite the=
two
claims - his own, which he felt to be the rational, and Esther's, which
apparently was the legal claim.
Harold, as he had constantly said =
to
his mother, was 'not a marrying man;' he did not contemplate bringing a wif=
e to
Transome Court for many years to come, if at all. Having little Harry as an
heir, he preferred freedom. Western women were not to his taste: they showe=
d a
transition from the feebly animal to the thinking being, which was simply
troublesome. Harold preferred a slow-witted large-eyed woman, silent and
affectionate, with a load of black hair weighing much more heavily than her
brains. He had seen no such woman in England, except one whom he had brought
with him from the East.
Therefore Harold did not care to be
married until or unless some surprising chance presented itself; and now th=
at
such a chance had occurred to suggest marriage to him, he would not admit to
himself that he contemplated marrying Esther as a plan; he was only obliged=
to
see that such an issue was not inconceivable. He was not going to take any =
step
expressly directed towards that end: what he had made up his mind to, as the
comse most satisfactory to his nature under present urgencies, was to behav=
e to
Esther with a frank gentlemanliness, which must win her good-will, and incl=
ine
her to save his family interest as much as possible. He was helped to this
determination by the pleasure of frustrating Jermyn's contrivance to shield
himself from punishment; and his most distinct and cheering prospect was, t=
hat
within a very short space of time he should not only have effected a
satisfactory compromise with Esther, but should have made Jermyn aware, by a
very disagreeable form of announcement, that Harold Transome was no longer
afraid of him. Jermyn should bite the dust.
At the end of these meditations he
felt satisfied with himself and light-hearted. He had rejected two dishonest
propositions, and he was going to do something that seemed eminently gracef=
ul.
But he needed his mother's assistance, and it was necessary that he should =
both
confide in her and persuade her.
Within two hours after Christian l=
eft
him, Harold begged his mother to come into his private room, and there he t=
old
her the strange and startling story, omitting, however, any particulars whi=
ch
would involve the identification of Christian as his informant. Harold felt
that his engagement demanded this reticence; and he told his mother that he=
was
bound to conceal the source of that knowledge which he had got independentl=
y of
Jermyn.
Mrs Transome said little in the co=
urse
of the story: she made no exclamations, but she listened with close attenti=
on,
and asked a few questions so much to the point as to surprise Harold. When =
he
showed her the copy of the legal opinion which Jermyn had left with him, she
said she knew it very well; she had a copy herself. The particulars of that
last lawsuit were too well engraven on her mind: it happened at a time when
there was no one to supersede her, and she was the virtual head of the fami=
ly
affairs. She was prepared to understand how the estate might be in danger; =
but
nothing had prepared her for the strange details - for the way in which the=
new
claimant had been reared and brought within the range of converging motives
that had led to this revelation, least of all for the part Jermyn had come =
to
play in the revelation. Mrs Transome saw these things through the medium of
certain dominant emotions that made them seem like a long-ripening retribut=
ion.
Harold perceived that she was painfully agitated, that she trembled, and th=
at
her white lips would not readily lend themselves to speech. And this was ha=
rdly
more than he expected. He had not liked the revelation himself when it had
first come to him.
But he did not guess what it was in
his narrative which had most pierced his mother. It was something that made=
the
threat about the estate only a secondary alarm. Now, for the first time, she
heard of the intended proceedings against Jermyn. Harold had not chosen to
speak of them before; but having at last called his mother into consultatio=
n,
there was nothing in his mind to hinder him from speaking without reserve of
his determination to visit on the attorney his shameful maladministration o=
f the
family affairs.
Harold went through the whole
narrative - of what he called Jermyn's scheme to catch him in a vice, and h=
is
power of triumphantly frustrating that scheme - in his usual rapid way,
speaking with a final decisiveness of tone: and his mother felt that if she
urged any counter-consideration at all, she could only do so when he had no
more to say.
'Now, what I want you to do, mothe=
r,
if you can see this matter as I see it,' Harold said in conclusion, 'is to =
go
with me to call on this girl in Malthouse Yard. I will open the affair to h=
er;
it appears she is not likely to have been informed yet; and you will invite=
her
to visit you here at once, that all scandal, all hatching of law-mischief, =
may
be avoided, and the thing may be brought to an amicable conclusion.'
'It seems almost incredible -
extraordinary - a girl in her position,' said Mrs Transome, with difficulty=
. It
would have seemed the bitterest humiliating penance if another sort of
suffering had left any room in her heart.
'I assure you she is a lady; I saw=
her
when I was canvassing, and was amazed at the time. You will be quite struck
with her. It is no indignity for you to invite her.'
'Oh,' said Mrs Transome, with
low-toned bitterness, 'I must put up with all things as they are determined=
for
me. When shall we go?'
'Well,' said Harold, looking at his
watch, 'it is hardly two yet. We could really go to-day, when you have lunc=
hed.
It is better to lose no time. I'll order the carriage.'
'Stay,' said Mrs Transome, making a
desperate effort. 'There is plenty of time. I shall not lunch. I have a wor=
d to
say.'
Harold withdrew his hand from the
bell, and leaned against the mantelpiece to listen.
'You see I comply with your wish at
once, Harold?'
'Yes, mother, I'm much obliged to =
you
for making no difficulties.'
'You ought to listen to me in retu=
rn.'
'Pray go on,' said Harold, expecti=
ng
to be annoyed.
'What is the good of having these
Chancery proceedings against Jermyn?'
'Good? This good; that fellow has
burdened the estate with annuities and mortgages to the extent of three
thousand a-year; and the bulk of them, I am certain, he holds himself under=
the
name of another man. And the advances this yearly interest represents, have=
not
been much more than twenty thousand. Of course he has hoodwinked you, and my
father never gave attention to these things. He has been up to all sorts of
devil's work with the deeds; he didn't count on my coming back from Smyrna =
to
fill poor Durfey's place. He shall feel the difference. And the good will b=
e,
that I shall save almost all the annuities for the rest of my father's life,
which may be ten years or more, and I shall get back some of the money, and=
I
shall punish a scoundrel. That is the good.' 'He will be ruined.' 'That's w=
hat
I intend,' said Harold, sharply.
'He exerted himself a great deal f=
or
us in the old suits: every one said he had wonderful zeal and ability,' said
Mrs Transome, getting courage and warmth as she went on. Her temper was ris=
ing.
'What he did, he did for his own s=
ake,
you may depend on that,' said Harold, with a scornful laugh.
'There were very painful things in
that last suit. You seem anxious, about this young woman, to avoid all furt=
her
scandal and contests in the family. Why don't you wish to do it in this cas=
e?
Jermyn might be willing to arrange things amicably - to make restitution as=
far
as he can - if he has done anything wrong.'
'I will arrange nothing amicably w=
ith
him,' said Harold, decisively. 'If he has ever done anything scandalous as =
our
agent, let him bear the infamy. And the right way to throw the infamy on hi=
m is
to show the world that he has robbed us, and that I mean to punish him. Why=
do
you wish to shield such a fellow, mother? It has been chiefly through him t=
hat
you have had to lead such a thrifty miserable life - you who used to make as
brilliant a figure as a woman need wish.'
Mrs Transome's rising temper was
turned into a horrible sensation, as painful as a sudden concussion from
something hard and immovable when we have struck out with our fist, intendi=
ng
to hit something warm, soft, and breathing, like ourselves. Poor Mrs Transo=
me's
strokes were sent jarring back on her by a hard unalterable past. She did n=
ot
speak in answer to Harold, but rose from the chair as if she gave up the
debate.
'Women are frightened at everythin=
g, I
know,' said Harold, kindly, feeling that he had been a little harsh after h=
is
mother's compliance. 'And you have been used for so many years to think Jer=
myn
a law of nature. Come, mother,' he went on, looking at her gently, and rest=
ing
his hands on her shoulders, 'look cheerful. We shall get through all these
difficulties. And this girl - I daresay she will be quite an interesting
visitor for you. You have not had any young girl about you for a long while.
Who knows? she may fall deeply in love with me, and I may be obliged to mar=
ry
her.'
He spoke laughingly, only thinking=
how
he could make his mother smile. But she looked at him seriously and said, '=
Do
you mean that, Harold?'
'Am I not capable of making a
conquest? Not too fat yet - a handsome, well-rounded youth of thirty-four?'=
She was forced to look straight at=
the
beaming face with its rich dark colour, just bent a little over her. Why co=
uld
she not be happy in this son whose future she had once dreamed of, and who =
had
been as fortunate as she had ever hoped? The tears came, not plenteously, b=
ut
making her dark eyes as large and bright as youth had once made them without
tears.
'There, there!' said Harold,
coaxingly. 'Don't be afraid. You shall not have a daughter-in-law unless sh=
e is
a pearl. Now we will get ready to go.'
In half an hour from that time Mrs
Transome came down, looking majestic in sables and velvet, ready to call on
'the girl in Malthouse Yard'. She had composed herself to go through this t=
ask.
She saw there was nothing better to be done. After the resolutions Harold h=
ad
taken, some sort of compromise with this oddly-placed heiress was the result
most to be hoped for; if the compromise turned out to be a marriage - well,=
she
had no reason to care much: she was already powerless. It remained to be se=
en
what this girl was.
The carriage was to be driven round
the back way, to avoid too much observation. But the late election affairs
might account for Mr Lyon's receiving a visit from the unsuccessful Radical
candidate.
'I also could speak as ye do; if y=
our
soul were in my soul's stead, I could heap up words against you, and shake =
mine
head at you.' - Book of Job.
IN the interval since Esther parted
with Felix Holt on the day of the riot, she had gone through so much emotio=
n, and
had already had so strong a shock of surprise, that she was prepared to rec=
eive
any new incident of an unwonted kind with comparative equanimity.
When Mr Lyon had got home again fr=
om
his preaching excursion, Felix was already on his way to Loamford Jail. The
little minister was terribly shaken by the news. He saw no clear explanatio=
n of
Felix Holt's conduct; for the statements Esther had heard were so conflicti=
ng
that she had not been able to gather distinctly what had come out in the
examination by the magistrates. But Mr Lyon felt confident that Felix was
innocent of any wish to abet a riot or the infliction of injuries; what he
chiefly feared was that in the fatal encounter with Tucker he had been move=
d by
a rash temper, not sufficiently guarded against by a prayerful and humble
spirit.
'My poor young friend is being tau=
ght
with mysterious severity the evil of a too confident self-reliance,' he sai=
d to
Esther, as they sat opposite to each other, listening and speaking sadly.
'You will go and see him, father?'=
'Verily will I. But I must straigh=
tway
go and see that poor afflicted woman, whose soul is doubtless whirled about=
in
this trouble like a shapeless and unstable thing driven by divided winds.' =
Mr
Lyon rose and took his hat hastily, ready to walk out, with his greatcoat
flying open and exposing his small person to the keen air.
'Stay, father, pray, till you have=
had
some food,' said Esther, putting her hand on his arm. 'You look quite weary=
and
shattered.'
'Child, I cannot stay. I can neith=
er
eat bread nor drink water till I have learned more about this young man's
deeds, what can be proved and what cannot be proved against him. I fear he =
has
none to stand by him in this town, for even by the friends of our church I =
have
been oft times rebuked because he seemed dear to me. But, Esther, my beloved
child -'
Here Mr Lyon grasped her arm, and
seemed in the need of speech to forget his previous haste. 'I bear in mind
this: the Lord knoweth them that are His; but we - we are left to judge by
uncertain signs, that so we may learn to exercise hope and faith towards one
another; and in this uncertainty I cling with awful hope to those whom the
world loves not because their conscience, albeit mistakenly, is at war with=
the
habits of the world. Our great faith, my Esther, is the faith of martyrs: I
will not lightly turn away from any man who endures harshness because he wi=
ll
not lie; nay, though I would not wantonly grasp at ease of mind through an
arbitrary choice of doctrine, I cannot but believe that the merits of the
divine sacrifice are wider than our utmost charity. I once believed otherwi=
se -
but not now, not now.'
The minister paused, and seemed to=
be
abstractedly gazing at some memory: he was always liable to be snatched awa=
y by
thoughts from the pursuit of a purpose which had seemed pressing. Esther se=
ized
the opportunity and prevailed on him to fortify himself with some of Lyddy's
porridge before he went out on his tiring task of seeking definite trustwor=
thy
knowledge from the lips of various witnesses, beginning with that feminine
darkener of counsel, poor Mrs Holt.
She, regarding all her trouble abo=
ut
Felix in the light of a fulfilment of her own prophecies, treated the sad
history with a preference for edification above accuracy, and for mystery a=
bove
relevance, worthy of a commentator on the Apocalypse. She insisted chiefly,=
not
on the important facts that Felix had sat at his work till after eleven, li=
ke a
deaf man, had rushed out in surprise and alarm, had come back to report with
satisfaction that things were quiet, and had asked her to set by his dinner=
for
him - facts which would tell as evidence that Felix was disconnected with a=
ny
project of disturbances, and was averse to them. These things came out
incidentally in her long plaint to the minister - but what Mrs Holt felt it
essential to state was, that long before Michaelmas was turned, sitting in =
her
chair, she had said to Felix that there would be a judgment on him for bein=
g so
certain sure about the pills and the elixir.
'And now, Mr Lyon,' said the poor
woman, who had dressed herself in a gown previously cast off, a front all o=
ut
of curl, and a cap with no starch in it, while she held little coughing Job=
on
her knee, - 'and now you see - my words have come true sooner than I thought
they would. Felix may contradict me if he will; but there he is in prison, =
and
here am I, with nothing in the world to bless myself with but half-a-crown
a-week as I've saved by my own scraping and this house I've got to pay rent
for. It's not me has done wrong. Mr Lyon; there's nobody can say it of me -=
not
the orphin child on my knee is more innicent o' riot and murder and anything
else as is bad. But when you've got a son so masterful and stopping medicin=
es
as providence has sent, and his betters have been taking up and down the
country since before he was a baby, it's o' no use being good here below. B=
ut
he was a baby, Mr Lyon, and I gave him the breast,' - here poor Mrs Holt's
motherly love overcame her expository eagerness, and she fell more and more=
to
crying as she spoke - 'And to think there's folks saying now as he'll be
transported, and his hair shaved off, and the treadmill, and everything. O
dear!'
As Mrs Holt broke off into sobbing,
little Job also, who had got a confused yet profound sense of sorrow, and of
Felix being hurt and gone away, set up a little wail of wondering misery.
'Nay, Mistress Holt,' said the
minister soothingly, 'enlarge not your grief by more than warrantable groun=
ds.
I have good hope that my young friend your son will be delivered from any
severe consequences beyond the death of the man Tucker, which I fear will e=
ver
be a sore burthen on his memory. I feel confident that a jury of his countr=
ymen
will discern between misfortune or it may be misjudgment, and an evil will,=
and
that he will be acquitted of any grave offence.'
'He never stole anything in his li=
fe,
Mr Lyon,' said Mrs Holt, reviving. 'Nobody can throw it in my face as my son
ran away with money like the young man at the bank - though he looked most
respectable, and far different on a Sunday to what Felix ever did. And I kn=
ow
it's very hard fighting with constables; but they say Tucker's wife'll be a
deal better off than she was before, for the great folks'll pension her, and
she'll be put on all the charities, and her children at the Free School, and
everything. Your trouble's easy borne when everybody gives it a lift for yo=
u;
and if judge and jury wants to do right by Felix, they'll think of his poor
mother, with the bread took out of her mouth, all but half-a-crown a-week a=
nd furniture
- which, to be sure, is most excellent, and of my own buying - and got to k=
eep
this orphin child as Felix himself brought on me. And I might send him back=
to
his old grandfather on parish pay, but I'm not that woman, Mr Lyon; I've a
tender heart. And here's his little feet and toes, like marbil; do but look=
' -
here Mrs Holt drew off Job's sock and shoe, and showed a well-washed little
foot - 'and you'll perhaps say I might take a lodger; but it's easy talking=
; it
isn't everybody at a loose-end wants a parlour and a bedroom; and if anythi=
ng
bad happens to Felix, I may as well go and sit in the parish pound, and nob=
ody
to buy me out; for it's beyond everything how the church members find fault
with my son. But I think they might leave his mother to find fault; for que=
er
and masterful he might be, and flying in the face of the very Scripture abo=
ut
the physic, but he was most clever beyond anything - that I will say - and =
was
his own father's lawful child, and me his mother, that was Mary Wall thirty=
years
before ever I married his father.' Here Mrs Holt's feelings again became too
much for her, but she struggled on to say, sobbingly, 'And if they're to
transport him, I should like to go to the prison and take the orphin child;=
for
he was most fond of having him on his lap, and said he'd never marry; and t=
here
was One above overheard him, for he's been took at his word.'
Mr Lyon listened with low groans, =
and
then tried to comfort her by saying that he would himself go to Loamford as
soon as possible, and would give his soul no rest till he had done all he c=
ould
do for Felix.
On one point Mrs Holt's plaint tal=
lied
with his own forebodings, and he found them verified: the state of feeling =
in
Treby among the Liberal dissenting flock was unfavourable to Felix. None who
had observed his conduct from the windows saw anything tending to excuse hi=
m,
and his own account of his motives, given on his examination, was spoken of
with head-shaking; if it had not been for his habit of always thinking hims=
elf
wiser than other people, he would never have entertained such a wild scheme=
. He
had set himself up for something extraordinary, and had spoken ill of
respectable tradespeople. He had put a stop to the making of saleable drugs,
contrary to the nature of buying and selling, and to a due reliance on what
providence might effect in the human inside through the instrumentality of
remedies unsuitable to the stomach, looked at in a merely secular light; and
the result was what might have been expected. He had brought his mother to
poverty, and himself into trouble. And what for? He had done no good to 'the
cause'; if he had fought about churchrates, or had been worsted in some
struggle in which he was distinctly the champion of Dissent and Liberalism,=
his
case would have been one for gold, silver, and copper subscriptions, in ord=
er
to procure the best defence; sermons might have been preached on him, and h=
is
name might have floated on flags from Newcastle to Dorchester. But there se=
emed
to be no edification in what had befallen Felix. The riot at Treby, 'turn it
which way you would,' as Mr Muscat observed, was no great credit to Liberal=
ism;
and what Mr Lyon had to testify as to Felix Holt's conduct in the matter of=
the
Sproxton men, only made it clear that the defence of Felix was the accusati=
on
of his party. The whole affair, Mr Nuttwood said, was dark and inscrutable,=
and
seemed not to be one in which the interference of God's servants would tend=
to
give the glory where the glory was due. That a candidate for whom the richer
church members had all voted should have his name associated with the
encouragement of drunkenness, riot, and plunder, was an occasion for the en=
emy
to blaspheme; and it was not clear how the enemy's mouth would be stopped by
exertions in favour of a rash young man, whose interference had made things
worse instead of better. Mr Lyon was warned lest his human partialities sho=
uld
blind him to the interests of truth; it was God's cause that was endangered=
in
this matter.
The little minister's soul was
bruised; he himself was keenly alive to the complication of public and priv=
ate
regards in this affair, and suffered a good deal at the thought of Tory tri=
umph
in the demonstration that, excepting the attack on the Seven Stars, which
called itself a Whig house, all damage to property had been borne by Tories=
. He
cared intensely for his opinions, and would have liked events to speak for =
them
in a sort of picture-writing that everybody could understand. The enthusias=
ms
of the world are not to be stimulated by a commentary in small and subtle
characters which alone can tell the whole truth; and the picture-writing in
Felix Holt's troubles was of an entirely puzzling kind: if he were a martyr,
neither side wanted to claim him. Yet the minister, as we have seen, found =
in
his Christian faith a reason for clinging the more to one who had not a lar=
ge
party to back him. That little man's heart was heroic: he was not one of th=
ose
Liberals who make their anxiety for 'the cause' of Liberalism a plea for
cowardly desertion.
Besides himself, he believed there=
was
no one who could bear testimony to the remonstrances of Felix concerning the
treating of the Sproxton men, except Jermyn, Johnson, and Harold Transome.
Though he had the vaguest idea of what could be done in the case, he fixed =
his
mind on the probability that Mr Transome would be moved to the utmost exert=
ion,
if only as an atonement; but he dared not take any step until he had consul=
ted
Felix, who he foresaw was likely to have a very strong determination as to =
the
help he would accept or not accept.
This last expectation was fulfille=
d.
Mr Lyon returned to Esther, after his days journey to Loamford and back, wi=
th
less of trouble and perplexity in his mind: he had at least got a definite
course marked out, to which he must resign himself. Felix had declared that=
he
would receive no aid from Harold Transome, except the aid he might give as =
an
honest witness. There was nothing to be done for him but what was perfectly
simple and direct. Even if the pleading of counsel had been permitted (and =
at
that time it was not) on behalf of a prisoner on trial for felony, Felix wo=
uld
have declined it: he would in any case have spoken in his own defence. He h=
ad a
perfectly simple account to give, and needed not to avail himself of any le=
gal
adroitness. He consented to accept the services of a respectable solicitor =
in
Loamford, who offered to conduct his case without any fees. The work was pl=
ain
and easy, Felix said. The only witnesses who had to be hunted up at all were
some who could testify that he had tried to take the crowd down Hobb's Lane,
and that they had gone to the Manor in spite of him.
'Then he is not so much cast down =
as
you feared, father?' said Esther.
'No, child; albeit he is pale and =
much
shaken for one so stalwart. He hath no grief, he says, save for the poor man
Tucker, and for his mother; otherwise his heart is without a burthen. We
discoursed greatly on the sad effect of all this for his mother, and on the
perplexed condition of human things, whereby even right action seems to bri=
ng
evil consequences, if we have respect only to our own brief lives, and not =
to
that larger rule whereby we are stewards of the eternal dealings, and not
contrivers of our own success.'
'Did he say nothing about me, fath=
er?'
said Esther, trembling a little, but unable to repress her egoism.
'Yea; he asked if you were well, a=
nd
sent his affectionate regards. Nay, he bade me say something which appears =
to
refer to your discourse together when I was not present. ‘Tell her,=
8217;
he said, ‘whatever they sentence me to, she knows they can't rob me o=
f my
vocation. With poverty for my bride, and preaching and pedagogy for my
business, I am sure of a handsome establishment.’ He laughed - doubtl=
ess
bearing in mind some playfulness of thine.'
Mr Lyon seemed to be looking at Es= ther as he smiled, but she was not near enough for him to discern the expression= of her face. Just then it seemed made for melancholy rather than for playfulne= ss. Hers was not a childish beauty; and when the sparkle of mischief, wit, and vanity was out of her eyes, and the large look of abstracted sorrow was the= re, you would have been surprised by a certain grandeur which the smiles had hidden. That changing face was the perfect symbol of her mixed susceptible nature, in which battle was inevitable, and the side of victory uncertain.<= o:p>
She began to look on all that had
passed between herself and Felix as something not buried, but embalmed and =
kept
as a relic in a private sanctuary. The very entireness of her preoccupation
about him, the perpetual repetition in her memory of all that had passed
between them, tended to produce this effect. She lived with him in the past=
; in
the future she seemed shut out from him. He was an influence above her life,
rather than a part of it; some time or other, perhaps, he would be to her a=
s if
he belonged to the solemn admonishing skies, checking her self-satisfied
pettiness with the suggestion of a wider life.
But not yet - not while her trouble
was so fresh For it was still her trouble, and not Felix Holt's. Perhaps it=
was
a subtraction from his power over her, that she could never think of him wi=
th
pity, because he always seemed to her too great and strong to be pitied: he
wanted nothing. He evaded calamity by choosing privation. The best part of a
woman's love is worship; but it is hard to her to be sent away with her
precious spikenard rejected, and her long tresses too, that were let fall r=
eady
to soothe the wearied feet.
While Esther was carrying these th=
ings
in her heart, the January days were beginning to pass by with their wonted
wintry monotony, except that there was rather more of good cheer than usual
remaining from the feast of Twelfth Night among the triumphant Tories, and
rather more scandal than usual excited among the mortified Dissenters by the
wilfulness of their minister. He had actually mentioned Felix Holt by name =
in
his evening sermon, and offered up a petition for him in the evening prayer,
also by name - not as 'a young Ishmaelite, whom we would fain see brought b=
ack
from the lawless life of the desert, and seated in the same fold even with =
the
sons of Judah and of Benjamin', a suitable periphrasis which Brother Kemp t=
hrew
off without any effort, and with all the felicity of a suggestive critic. P=
oor
Mrs Holt, indeed, even in the midst of her grief, experienced a proud
satisfaction, that though not a church member she was now an object of
congregational remark and ministerial allusion. Feeling herself a spotless
character standing out in relief on a dark background of affliction, and a
practical contradiction to that extreme doctrine of human depravity which s=
he
had never 'given in to', she was naturally gratified and soothed by a notice
which must be a recognition. But more influential hearers were of opinion, =
that
in a man who had so many long sentences at command as Mr Lyon, so many
parentheses and modifying clauses, this naked use of a non-scriptural Treby
name in an address to the Almighty was all the more offensive. In a low
unlettered local preacher of the Wesleyan persuasion such things might pass=
; but
a certain style in prayer was demanded from Independents,
the most educated body in the rank=
s of
orthodox Dissent. To Mr Lyon such notions seemed painfully perverse, and the
next morning he was declaring to Esther his resolution stoutly to withstand
them, and to count nothing common or unclean on which a blessing could be
asked, when the tenor of his thoughts was completely changed by a great sho=
ck
of surprise which made both himself and Esther sit looking at each other in
speechless amazement.
The cause was a letter brought by a
special messenger from Duffield; a heavy letter addressed to Esther in a
business-like manner, quite unexampled in her correspondence. And the conte=
nts
of the letter were more startling than its exterior. It began:
Madam, - Herewith we send you a br=
ief
abstract of evidence which has come within our knowledge, that the right of
remainder whereby the lineal issue of Edward Bycliffe can claim possession =
of
the estates of which the entail was settled by John Justus Transome in 1729=
, now
first accrues to you as the sole and lawful issue of Maurice Christian
Bycliffe. We are confident of success in the prosecution of this claim, whi=
ch
will result to you in the possession of estates to the value, at the lowest=
, of
from five to six thousand per annum -
It was at this point that Esther, =
who
was reading aloud, let her hand fall with the letter on her lap, and with a=
pal
pitating heart looked at her father, who looked again, in silence that last=
ed
for two or three minutes. A certain terror was upon them both, though the
thoughts that laid that weight on the tongue of each were different.
It was Mr Lyon who spoke first.
'This, then, is what the man named
Christian referred to. I distrusted him, yet it seems he spoke truly.'
'But,' said Esther, whose imaginat=
ion
ran necessarily to those conditions of wealth which she could best apprecia=
te,
'do they mean that the Transomes would be turned out of Transome Court, and
that I should go and live there? It seems quite an impossible thing.'
'Nay, child, I know not. I am igno=
rant
in these things, and the thought of worldly grandeur for you hath more of
terror than of gladness for me. Nevertheless we must duly weigh all things,=
not
considering aught that befalls us as a bare event, but rather as an occasion
for faithful stewardship. Let us go to my study and consider this writing
further.'
How this announcement, which to Es=
ther
seemed as unprepared as if it had fallen from the skies, came to be made to=
her
by solicitors other than Batt & Cowley, the old lawyers of the Bycliffe=
s,
was by a sequence as natural, that is to say, as legally-natural, as any in=
the
world. The secret worker of the apparent wonder was Mr Johnson, who, on the
very day when he wrote to give his patron, Mr Jermyn, the serious warning t=
hat
a bill was likely to be filed in Chancery against him, had carried forward =
with
added zeal the business already commenced, of arranging with another firm h=
is
share in the profits likely to result from the prosecution of Esther Byclif=
fe's
claim.
Jermyn's star was certainly going
down, and Johnson did not feel an unmitigated grief. Beyond some troublesome
declarations as to his actual share in transactions in which his name had b=
een
used, Johnson saw nothing formidable in prospect for himself. He was not go=
ing
to be ruined, though Jermyn probably was: he was not a highflyer, but a mere
climbing-bird, who could hold on and get his livelihood just as well if his
wings were clipped a little. And, in the meantime, here was something to be
gained in this Bycliffe business, which, it was not unpleasant to think, wa=
s a
nut that Jermyn had intended to keep for his own particular cracking, and w=
hich
would be rather a severe astonishment to Mr Harold Transome, whose manners
towards respectable agents were such as leave a smart in a man of spirit.
Under the stimulus of small many-m=
ixed
motives like these, a great deal of business has been done in the world by
well-clad and, in 1833, clean-shaven men, whose names are on charity-lists,=
and
who do not know that they are base. Mr Johnson's character was not much more
exceptional than his double chin.
No system, religious or political,=
I
believe, has laid it down as a principle that all men are alike virtuous, or
even that all the people rated for œ80 houses are an honour to their
species.
The down we rest on in our aery dr=
eams
Has not been plucked from birds th=
at
live and smart:
'Tis but warm snow, that melts not=
.
THE story and the prospect reveale=
d to
Esther by the lawyers' letter, which she and her father studied together, h=
ad
made an impression on her very different from what she had been used to fig=
ure
to herself in her many daydreams as to the effect of a sudden elevation in =
rank
and fortune. In her day-dreams she had not traced out the means by which su=
ch a
change could be brought about; in fact, the change had seemed impossible to
her, except in her little private Utopia, which, like other Utopias, was fi=
lled
with delightful results, independent of processes. But her mind had fixed
itself habitually on the signs and luxuries of ladyhood, for which she had =
the
keenest perception. She had seen the very mat in her carriage, had scented =
the
dried rose-leaves in her corridors, had felt the soft carpets under her pre=
tty
feet, and seen herself, as she rose from her sofa cushions, in the crystal
panel that reflected a long drawing-room, where the conservatory flowers and
the pictures of fair women left her still with the supremacy of charm. She =
had
trodden the marble-firm gravel of her garden-walks and the soft deep turf of
her lawn; she had had her servants about her filled with adoring respect,
because of her kindness as well as her grace and beauty; and she had had
several accomplished cavaliers all at once suing for her hand - one of whom,
uniting very high birth with long dark eyelashes and the most distinguished
talents, she secretly preferred, though his pride and hers hindered an avow=
al,
and supplied the inestimable interest of retardation. The glimpses she had =
had
in her brief life as a family governess, supplied her ready faculty with
details enough of delightful still life to furnish her day-dreams; and no o=
ne
who has not, like Esther, a strong natural prompting and susceptibility tow=
ards
such things, and has at the same time suffered from the presence of opposite
conditions, can understand how powerfully those minor accidents of rank whi=
ch
please the fastidious sense can preoccupy the imagination.
It seemed that almost everything in
her day-dreams - cavaliers apart - must be found at Transome Court. But now
that fancy was becoming real, and the impossible appeared possible, Esther
found the balance of her attention reversed: now that her ladyhood was not
simply in Utopia, she found herself arrested and painfully grasped by the m=
eans
through which the ladyhood was to be obtained. To her inexperience this str=
ange
story of an alienated inheritance, of such a last representative of
pure-blooded lineage as old Thomas Transome the bill-sticker, above all of =
the
dispossession hanging over those who actually held, and had expected always=
to
hold, the wealth and position which were suddenly announced to be rightfully
hers - all these things made a picture, not for her own tastes and fancies =
to
float in with Elysian indulgence, but in which she was compelled to gaze on=
the
degrading hard experience of other human beings, and on a humiliating loss
which was the obverse of her own proud gain. Even in her times of most
untroubled egoism Esther shrank from anything ungenerous; and the fact that=
she
had a very lively image of Harold Transome and his gipsy-eyed boy in her mi=
nd,
gave additional distinctness to the thought that if she entered they must
depart. Of the elder Transomes she had a dimmer vision, and they were
necessarily in the background to her sympathy.
She and her father sat with their
hands locked, as they might have done if they had been listening to a solemn
oracle in the days of old revealing unknown kinship and rightful heirdom. It
was not that Esther had any thought of renouncing her fortune; she was
incapable, in these moments, of condensing her vague ideas and feelings into
any distinct plan of action, nor indeed did it seem that she was called upo=
n to
act with any promptitude. It was only that she was conscious of being stran=
gely
awed by something that was called good fortune; and the awe shut out any sc=
heme
of rejection as much as any triumphant joy in acceptance. Her first father,=
she
learned, had died disappointed and in wrongful imprisonment, and an undefin=
ed
sense of Nemesis seemed half to sanctify her inheritance, and counteract its
apparent arbitrariness.
Felix Holt was present in her mind
throughout: what he would say was an imaginary commentary that she was
constantly framing, and the words that she most frequently gave him - for s=
he
dramatised under the inspiration of a sadness slightly bitter - were of this
kind: 'That is clearly your destiny - to be aristocratic, to be rich. I alw=
ays
saw that our lots lay widely apart. You are not fit for poverty, or any wor=
k of
difficulty. But remember what I once said to you about a vision of
consequences; take care where your fortune leads you.'
Her father had not spoken since th=
ey
had ended their study and discussion of the story and the evidence as it was
presented to them. Into this he had entered with his usual penetrating
activity; but he was so accustomed to the impersonal study of narrative, th=
at
even in these exceptional moments the habit of half a century asserted itse=
lf,
and he seemed sometimes not to distinguish the case of Esther's inheritance
from a story in ancient history, until some detail recalled him to the prof=
ound
feeling that a great, great change might be coming over the life of this ch=
ild
who was so close to him. At last he relapsed into total silence, and for so=
me
time Esther was not moved to interrupt it. He had sunk back in his chair, w=
ith
his hand locked in hers, and was pursuing a sort of prayerful meditation: he
lifted up no formal petition, but it was as if his soul travelled again over
the facts he had been considering in the company of a guide ready to inspire
and correct him. He was striving to purify his feeling in this matter from
selfish or worldly dross - a striving which is that prayer without ceasing,
sure to wrest an answer by its sublime importunity.
There is no knowing how long they
might have sat in this way, if it had not been for the inevitable Lyddy
reminding them dismally of dinner.
'Yes, Lyddy, we come,' said Esther;
and then, before moving -
'Is there any advice you have in y=
our
mind for me, father?' The sense of awe was growing in Esther. Her intensest
life was no longer in her dreams, where she made things to her own mind; she
was moving in a world charged with forces.
'Not yet, my dear - save this: that
you will seek special illumination in this juncture, and, above all, be
watchful that your soul be not lifted up within you by what, righdy conside=
red,
is rather an increase of charge, and a call upon you to walk along a path w=
hich
is indeed easy to the flesh, but dangerous to the spirit.'
'You would always live with me, fa=
ther?'
Esther spoke under a strong impulse - partly affection, partly the need to
grasp at some moral help. But she had no sooner uttered the words than they
raised a vision, showing, as by a flash of lightning, the incongruity of th=
at
past which had created the sanctities and affections of her life with that
future which was coming to her.... The little rusty old minister, with the =
one
luxury of his Sunday evening pipe, smoked up the kitchen chimney, coming to
live in the midst of grandeur ... but not her father, with the grandeur of =
his
past sorrow and his long struggling labours, forsaking his vocation, and
vulgarly accepting an existence unsuited to him.... Esther's face flushed w=
ith
the excitement of this vision and its reversed interpretation, which five
months ago she would have been incapable of seeing. Her question to her fat=
her
seemed like a mockery; she was ashamed. He answered slowly -
'Touch not that chord yet, child. I must learn to think of thy lot according to the demands of Providence. We w= ill rest a while from the subject; and I will seek calmness in my ordinary duties.'<= o:p>
The next morning nothing more was
said. Mr Lyon was absorbed in his sermon-making, for it was near the end of=
the
week, and Esther was obliged to attend to her pupils. Mrs Holt came by
invitation with little Job to share their dinner of roast-meat; and, after =
much
of what the minister called unprofitable discourse, she was quitting the ho=
use
when she hastened back with an astonished face, to tell Mr Lyon and Esther,=
who
were already in wonder at crashing, thundering sounds on the pavement, that
there was a carriage stopping and stamping at the entry into Malthouse Yard,
with 'all sorts of fine liveries', and a lady and gentleman inside. Mr Lyon=
and
Esther looked at each other, both having the same name in their minds.
'If it's Mr Transome or somebody e=
lse
as is great, Mr Lyon,' urged Mrs Holt, 'you'll remember my son, and say he's
got a mother with a character they may inquire into as much as they like. A=
nd
never mind what Felix says, for he's so masterful he'd stay in prison and be
transported whether or no, only to have his own way. For it's not to be tho=
ught
but what the great people could get him off if they would; and it's very ha=
rd
with a king in the country and all the texts in Proverbs about the king's
countenance, and Solomon and the live baby -'
Mr Lyon lifted up his hand
deprecatingly, and Mrs Holt retreated from the parlour-door to a comer of t=
he
kitchen, the outer doorway being occupied by Dominic, who was inquiring if =
Mr
and Miss Lyon were at home, and could receive Mrs Transome and Mr Harold
Transome. While Dominic went back to the carriage Mrs Holt escaped with her
tiny companion to Zachary's, the pew-opener, observing to Lyddy that she kn=
ew
herself, and was not that woman to stay where she might not be wanted;
whereupon Lyddy, differing fundamentally, admonished her parting ear that it
was well if she knew herself to be dust and ashes - silently extending the
application of this remark to Mrs Transome as she saw the tall lady sweep in
arrayed in her rich black and fur, with that fine gentleman behind her whose
thick topknot of wavy hair, sparkling ring, dark complexion, and general ai=
r of
worldly exaltation unconnected with chapel were painfully suggestive to Lyd=
dy of
Herod, Pontius Pilate or the much-quoted Gallio.
Harold Transome, greeting Esther
gracefully, presented his mother, whose eagle-like glance, fixed on her from
the first moment of entering, seemed to Esther to pierce her through. Mrs
Transome hardly noticed Mr Lyon, not from studied haughtiness, but from she=
er
mental inability to consider him - as a person ignorant of natural history =
is
unable to consider a fresh-water polype otherwise than as a sort of animated
weed, certainly not fit for table. But Harold saw that his mother was agree=
ably
struck by Esther, who indeed showed to much advantage. She was not at all t=
aken
by surprise, and maintained a dignified quietude; but her previous knowledge
and reflection about the possible dispossession of these Transomes gave her=
a
softened feeling towards them which tinged her manners very agreeably.
Harold was carefully polite to the
minister, throwing out a word to make him understand that he had an importa=
nt
part in the important business which had brought this unannounced visit; and
the four made a group seated not far off each other near the window, Mrs
Transome and Esther being on the sofa.
'You must be astonished at a visit
from me, Miss Lyon,' Mrs Transome began; 'I seldom come to Treby Magna. Now=
I
see you, the visit is an unexpected pleasure; but the cause of my coming is
business of a serious nature, which my son will communicate to you.'
'I ought to begin by saying that w=
hat
I have to announce to you is the reverse of disagreeable, Miss Lyon,' said
Harold, with lively ease. 'I don't suppose the world would consider it very
good news for me; but a rejected candidate, Mr Lyon,' Harold went on, turni=
ng
graciously to the minister, 'begins to be inured to loss and misfortune.'
'Truly, sir,' said Mr Lyon, with a
rather sad solemnity, 'your allusion hath a grievous bearing for me, but I =
will
not retard your present purpose by further remark.'
'You will never guess what I have =
to
disclose,' said Harold, again looking at Esther, 'unless, indeed, you have =
had
some previous intimation of it.'
'Does it refer to law and
inheritance?' said Esther, with a smile. She was already brightened by Haro=
ld's
manner. The news seemed to be losing its chillness, and to be something rea=
lly
belonging to warm, comfortable, interesting life.
'Then you have already heard of it=
?'
said Harold, inwardly vexed, but sufficiendy prepared not to seem so.
'Only yesterday,' said Esther, qui=
te
simply. 'I received a letter from some lawyers with a statement of many
surprising things, showing that I was an heiress' - here she turned very
prettily to address Mrs Transome - 'which, as you may imagine, is one of the
last things I could have supposed myself to be.'
'My dear,' said Mrs Transome with
elderly grace, just laying her hand for an instant on Esther's, 'it is a lot
that would become you admirably.'
Esther blushed, and said playfully=
-
'O, I know what to buy with fifty
pounds a-year, but I know the price of nothing beyond that.'
Her father sat looking at her thro=
ugh
his spectacles, stroking his chin. It was amazing to herself that she was
taking so lightly now what had caused her such deep emotion yesterday.
'I daresay, then,' said Harold, 'y=
ou
are more fully possessed of particulars than I am. So that my mother and I =
need
only tell you what no one else can tell you - that is, what are her and my
feelings and wishes under these new and unexpected circumstances.'
'I am most anxious,' said Esther, =
with
a grave beautiful look of respect to Mrs Transome - 'most anxious on that
point. Indeed, being of course in uncertainty about it, I have not yet known
whether I could rejoice.' Mrs Transome's glance had softened. She liked Est=
her
to look at her.
'Our chief anxiety,' she said, kno=
wing
what Harold wished her to say, 'is, that there may be no contest, no useles=
s expenditure
of money. Of course we will surrender what can be rightfully claimed.'
'My mother expresses our feeling
precisely, Miss Lyon,' said Harold. 'And I'm sure, Mr Lyon, you will unders=
tand
our desire.'
'Assuredly, sir. My daughter would=
in
any case have had my advice to seek a conclusion which would involve no str=
ife.
We endeavour, sir, in our body, to hold to the apostolic rule that one
Christian brother should not go to law with another; and I, for my part, wo=
uld
extend this rule to all my fellow-men, apprehending that the practice of our
courts is little consistent with the simplicity that is in Christ.'
'If it is to depend on my will,' s=
aid
Esther, 'there is nothing that would be more repugnant to me than any strug=
gle
on such a subject. But can't the lawyers go on doing what they will in spit=
e of
me? It seems that this is what they mean?'
'Not exactly,' said Harold, smilin=
g.
'Of course they live by such struggles as you dislike. But we can thwart th=
em
by determining not to quarrel. It is desirable that we should consider the
affair together, and put it into the hands of honourable solicitors. I assu=
re
you we Transomes will not contend for what is not our own.'
'And this is what I have come to b=
eg
of you,' said Mrs Transome. 'It is that you will come to Transome Court - a=
nd
let us take full time to arrange matters. Do oblige me: you shall not be te=
ased
more than you like by an old woman: you shall do just as you please, and be=
come
acquainted with your future home, since it is to be yours. I can tell you a
world of things that you will want to know; and the business can proceed
properly.'
'Do consent,' said Harold, with
winning brevity.
Esther was flushed, and her eyes w=
ere
bright. It was impossible for her not to feel that the proposal was a more
tempting step towards her change of condition than she could have thought of
beforehand. She had forgotten that she was in any trouble. But she looked
towards her father, who was again stroking his chin, as was his habit when =
he
was doubting and deliberating.
'I hope you do not disapprove of M=
iss
Lyon's granting us this favour?' said Harold to the minister.
'I have nothing to oppose to it, s=
ir,
if my daughter's own mind is clear as to her course.'
'You will come - now - with us,' s=
aid
Mrs Transome, persuasively. 'You will go back with us in the carriage.'
Harold was highly gratified with t=
he
perfection of his mother's manner on this occasion, which he had looked for=
ward
to as difficult. Since he had come home again, he had never seen her so muc=
h at
her ease, or with so much benignancy in her face. The secret lay in the cha=
rm
of Esther's sweet young deference, a sort of charm that had not before ente=
red
into Mrs Transome's elderly life. Esther's pretty behaviour, it must be
confessed, was not fed entirely from lofty moral sources: over and above her
really generous feeling, she enjoyed Mrs Transome's accent, the high-bred
quietness of her speech, the delicate odour of her drapery. She had always
thought that life must be particularly easy if one could pass it among refi=
ned
people; and so it seemed at this moment. She wished, unmixedly, to go to
Transome Court.
'Since my father has no objection,'
she said, 'and you urge me so kindly. But I must beg for time to pack up a =
few
clothes.
'By all means,' said Mrs Transome.=
'We
are not at all pressed.'
When Esther had left the room, Har=
old
said, 'Apart from our immediate reason for coming, Mr Lyon, I could have wi=
shed
to see you about these unhappy consequences of the election contest. But you
will understand that I have been much preoccupied with private affairs.'
'You have well said that the
consequences are unhappy, sir. And but for a reliance on something more than
human calculation, I know not which I should most bewail - the scandal which
wrong-dealing has brought on right principles, or the snares which it laid =
for
the feet of a young man who is dear to me. ‘One soweth, and another
reapeth,’ is a verity that applies to evil as well as good.'
'You are referring to Felix Holt. I
have not neglected steps to secure the best legal help for the prisoners; b=
ut I
am given to understand that Holt refuses any aid from me. I hope he will no=
t go
rashly to work in speaking in his own defence without any legal instruction=
. It
is an opprobrium of our law that no counsel is allowed to plead for the
prisoner in cases of felony. A ready tongue may do a man as much harm as go=
od
in a court of justice. He piques himself on making a display, and displays a
little too much.'
'Sir, you know him not,' said the
little minister, in his deeper tone. 'He would not accept, even if it were
accorded, a defence wherein the truth was screened or avoided - not from a
vainglorious spirit of self-exhibition, for he hath a singular directness a=
nd
simplicity of speech; but from an averseness to a profession wherein a man =
may
without shame seek to justify the wicked for reward, and take away the
righteousness of the righteous from him.'
'It's a pity a fine young fellow
should do himself harm by fanatical notions of that sort. I could at least =
have
procured the advantage of first-rate consultation. He didn't look to me lik=
e a
dreamy personage.'
'Nor is he dreamy; rather, his exc=
ess
lies in being too practical.'
'Well, I hope you will not encoura=
ge
him in such irrationality: the question is not one of misrepresentation, bu=
t of
adjusting fact, so as to raise it to the power of evidence. Don't you see
that?'
'I do, I do. But I distrust not Fe=
lix
Holt's discernment in regard to his own case. He builds not on doubtful thi=
ngs,
and hath no illusory hopes; on the contrary, he is of a too-scornful
incredulity where I would fain see a more childlike faith. But we will hold=
no
belief without action corresponding thereto; and the occasion of his return=
to
this his native place at a time which has proved fatal, was no other than h=
is
resolve to hinder the sale of some drugs, which had chiefly supported his
mother, but which his better knowledge showed him to be pernicious to the h=
uman
frame. He undertook to support her by his own labour: but, sir, I pray you =
to
mark - and old as I am, I will not deny that this young man instructs me he=
rein
- I pray you to mark the poisonous confusion of good and evil which is the
wide-spreading effect of vicious practices. Through the use of undue
electioneering means - concerning which, however, I do not accuse you farth=
er
than of having acted the part of him who washes his hands when he delivers =
up
to others the exercise of an iniquitous power - Felix Holt is, I will not
scruple to say, the innocent victim of a riot; and that deed of strict hone=
sty,
whereby he took on himself the charge of his aged mother, seems now to have
deprived her of sufficient bread, and is even an occasion of reproach to him
from the weaker brethren.'
'I shall be proud to supply her as
amply as you think desirable,' said Harold, not enjoying this lecture.
'I will pray you to speak of this
question with my daughter, who, it appears, may herself have large means at
command, and would desire to minister to Mistress Holt's needs with all
friendship and delicacy. For the present, I can take care that she lacks
nothing essential.'
As Mr Lyon was speaking, Esther
re-entered, equipped for her drive. She laid her hand on her father's arm, =
and
said, 'You will let my pupils know at once, will you, father?'
'Doubtless, my dear,' said the old
man, trembling a little under the feeling that this departure of Esther's w=
as a
crisis. Nothing again would be as it had been in their mutual life. But he
feared that he was being mastered by a too-tender self-regard, and struggle=
d to
keep himself calm.
Mrs Transome and Harold had both
risen.
'If you are quite ready, Miss Lyon=
,'
said Harold, divining that the father and daughter would like to have an
unobserved moment, 'I will take my mother to the carriage, and come back for
you.'
When they were alone, Esther put h=
er
hands on her father's shoulders, and kissed him.
'This will not be a grief to you, I
hope, father? You think it is better that I should go?'
'Nay, child, I am weak. But I would
fain be capable of a joy quite apart from the accidents of my aged earthly
existence, which, indeed, is a petty and almost dried-up fountain - whereas=
to
the receptive soul the river of life pauseth not, nor is diminished.'
'Perhaps you will see Felix Holt
again, and tell him everything?'
'Shall I say aught to him for you?=
'
'O no; only that Job Tudge has a
little flannel shirt and a box of lozenges,' said Esther, smiling. 'Ah, I h=
ear
Mr Transome coming back. I must say good-bye to Lyddy, else she will cry ov=
er
my hard heart.'
In spite of all the grave thoughts
that had been, Esther felt it a very pleasant as well as new experience to =
be
led to the carriage by Harold Transome, to be seated on soft cushions, and
bowled along, looked at admiringly and deferentially by a person opposite, =
whom
it was agreeable to look at in return, and talked to with suavity and
liveliness. Towards what prospect was that easy carriage really leading her?
She could not be always asking herself Mentor-like questions. Her young bri=
ght
nature was rather weary of the sadness that had grown heavier in these last
weeks, like a chill white mist hopelessly veiling the day. Her fortune was
beginning to appear worthy of being called good fortune. She had come to a =
new
stage in her journey; a new day had arisen on new scenes, and her young unt=
ired
spirit was full of curiosity.
No man believes that many-textured
knowledge and skill - as a just idea of the solar system, or the power of
painting flesh, or of reading written harmonies - can come late and of a
sudden; yet many will not stick at believing that happiness can come at any=
day
and hour solely by a new disposition of events; though there is nought less
capable of a magical production than a mortal's happiness, which is mainly a
complex of habitual relations and dispositions not to be wrought by news fr=
om
foreign parts, or any whirling of fortune's wheel for one on whose brow Time
has written legibly.
SOME days after Esther's arrival at
Transome Court, Denner, coming to dress Mrs Transome before dinner - a labo=
ur
of love for which she had ample leisure now - found her mistress seated with
more than ever of that marble aspect of self-absorbed suffering, which to t=
he
waiting-woman's keen observation had been gradually intensifying itself dur=
ing
the past week. She had tapped at the door without having been summoned, and=
she
had ventured to enter though she had heard no voice saying 'Come in.'
Mrs Transome had on a dark warm
dressing-gown, hanging in thick folds about her, and she was seated before a
mirror which filled a panel from the floor to the ceiling. The room was bri=
ght
with the light of the fire and of wax candles. For some reason, contrary to=
her
usual practice, Mrs Transome had herself unfastened her abundant grey hair,
which rolled backward in a pale sunless stream over her dark dress. She was
seated before the mirror apparently looking at herself, her brow knit in one
deep furrow, and her jewelled hands laid one above the other on her knee.
Probably she had ceased to see the reflection in the mirror, for her eyes h=
ad
the fixed wide-open look that belongs not to examination, but to reverie.
Motionless in that way, her clear-cut features keeping distinct record of p=
ast
beauty, she looked like an image faded, dried, and bleached by uncounted su=
ns,
rather than a breathing woman who had numbered the years as they passed, and
had a consciousness within her which was the slow deposit of those ceaseless
rolling years.'
Denner, with all her ingrained and
systematic reserve, could not help showing signs that she was startled, whe=
n,
peering from between her half-closed eyelids, she saw the motionless image =
in
the mirror opposite to her as she entered. Her gentle opening of the door h=
ad
not roused her mistress, to whom the sensations produced by Denner's presen=
ce
were as little disturbing as those of a favourite cat. But the slight cry, =
and
the start reflected in the glass, were unusual enough to break the reverie:=
Mrs
Transome moved, leaned back in her chair, and said -
'So you're come at last, Denner?'<= o:p>
'Yes, madam; it is not late. I'm s=
orry
you should have undone your hair yourself.'
'I undid it to see what an old hag=
I
am. These fine clothes you put on me, Denner, are only a smart shroud.'
'Pray don't talk so, madam. If the=
re's
anybody doesn't think it pleasant to look at you, so much the worse for the=
m.
For my part, I've seen no young ones fit to hold up your train. Look at your
likeness down below; and though you're older now, what signifies? I wouldn'=
t be
Letty in the scullery because she's got red cheeks. She mayn't know she's a
poor creature, but I know it, and that's enough for me: I know what sort of=
a
dowdy draggletail she'll be in ten years' time. I would change with nobody,
madam. And if troubles were put up to market, I'd sooner buy old than new. =
It's
something to have seen the worst.'
'A woman never has seen the worst =
till
she is old, Denner,' said Mrs Transome, bitterly.
The keen little waiting-woman was =
not
clear as to the cause of her mistress's added bitterness; but she rarely
brought herself to ask questions, when Mrs Transome did not authorise them =
by
beginning to give her information. Banks the bailiff and the head-servant h=
ad
nodded and winked a good deal over the certainty that Mr Harold was 'none so
fond' of Jermyn, but this was a subject on which Mrs Transome had never mad=
e up
her mind to speak, and Denner knew nothing definite. Again, she felt quite =
sure
that there was some important secret connected with Esther's presence in the
house; she suspected that the close Dominic knew the secret, and was more
trusted than she was, in spite of her forty years' service; but any resentm=
ent
on this ground would have been an entertained reproach against her mistress,
inconsistent with Denner's creed and character. She inclined to the belief =
that
Esther was the immediate cause of the new discontent.
'If there's anything worse coming =
to
you, I should like to know what it is, madam,' she said, after a moment's
silence, speaking always in the same low quick way, and keeping up her quiet
labours. 'When I awake at cock-crow, I'd sooner have one real grief on my m=
ind
than twenty false. It's better to know you're robbed than to think one's go=
ing
to be murdered.'
'I believe you are the creature in=
the
world that loves me best, Denner; yet you will never understand what I
suffered. It's of no use telling you. There's no folly in you and no hearta=
che.
You are made of iron. You have never had any trouble.'
'I've had some of your trouble,
madam.'
'Yes, you good thing. But as a
sick-nurse, that never caught the fever. You never even had a child.'
'I can feel for things I never went
through. I used to be sorry for the poor French queen when I was young: I'd
have lain cold for her to lie warm. I know people have feelings according to
their birth and station. And you always took things to heart, madam, beyond
anybody else. But I hope there's nothing new, to make you talk of the worst=
.'
'Yes, Denner, there is - there is,'
said Mrs Transome, speaking in a low tone of misery, while she bent for her
headdress to be pinned on.
'Is it this young lady?'
'Why, what do you think about her,
Denner?' said Mrs Transome, in a tone of more spirit, rather curious to hear
what the old woman would say.
'I don't deny she's graceful, and =
she
has a pretty smile and very good manners: it's quite unaccountable by what
Banks says about her father. I know nothing of those Treby townsfolk myself,
but for my part I'm puzzled. I'm fond of Mr Harold. I always shall be, mada=
m. I
was at his bringing into the world, and nothing but his doing wrong by you
would turn me against him. But the servants all say he's in love with Miss
Lyon.'
'I wish it were true, Denner,' said
Mrs Transome, energetically. 'I wish he were in love with her, so that she
could master him, and make him do what she pleased.'
'Then it is not true - what they s=
ay?'
'Not true that she will ever master
him. No woman ever will. He will make her fond of him, and afraid of him.
That's one of the things you have never gone through, Denner. A woman's lov=
e is
always freezing into fear. She wants everything, she is secure of nothing. =
This
girl has a fine spirit - plenty of fire and pride and wit. Men like such
captives, as they like horses that champ the bit and paw the ground: they f=
eel
more triumph in their mastery. What is the use of a woman's will? - if she
tries, she doesn't get it, and she ceases to be loved. God was cruel when he
made women.'
Denner was used to such outbursts =
as
this. Her mistress's rhetoric and temper belonged to her superior rank, her
grand person, and her piercing black eyes. Mrs Transome had a sense of impi=
ety
in her words which made them all the more tempting to her impotent anger. T=
he
waiting-woman had none of that awe which could be turned into defiance: the
Sacred Grove was a common thicket to her.
'It mayn't be good-luck to be a
woman,' she said. 'But one begins with it from a baby: one gets used to it.=
And
I shouldn't like to be a man - to cough so loud, and stand straddling about=
on
a wet day, and be so wasteful with meat and drink. They're a coarse lot, I
think. Then I needn't make a trouble of this young lady, madam,' she added,
after a moment's pause.
'No, Denner. I like her. If that w=
ere
all - I should like Harold to marry her. It would be the best thing. If the
truth were known - and it will be known soon - the estate is hers by law - =
such
law as it is. It's a strange story: she's a Bycliffe really.'
Denner did not look amazed, but we=
nt
on fastening her mistress's dress, as she said -
'Well, madam, I was sure there was
something wonderful at the bottom of it. And turning the old lawsuits and
everything else over in my mind, I thought the law might have something to =
do
with it. Then she is a born lady?'
'Yes; she has good blood in her
veins.'
'We talked that over in the
housekeeper's room - what a hand and an instep she has, and how her head is=
set
on her shoulders - almost like your own, madam. But her lightish complexion
spoils her, to my thinking. And Dominic said Mr Harold never admired that s=
ort
of woman before. There's nothing that smooth fellow couldn't tell you if he
would: he knows the answers to riddles before they're made. However, he kno=
ws
how to hold his tongue; I'll say that for him. And so do I, madam.'
'Yes, yes; you will not talk of it
till other people are talking of it.'
'And so, if Mr Harold married her,=
it
would save all fuss and mischief?'
'Yes - about the estate.'
'And he seems inclined; and she'll=
not
refuse him, I'll answer for it. And you like her, madam. There's everything=
to
set your mind at rest.'
Denner was putting the finishing-t=
ouch
to Mrs Transome's dress by throwing an Indian scarf over her shoulders, and=
so
completing the contrast between the majestic lady in costume and the
dishevelled Hecuba-like woman whom she had found half an hour before.
'I am not at rest!' Mrs Transome s=
aid,
with slow distinctness, moving from the mirror to the window, where the bli=
nd
was not drawn down, and she could see the chill white landscape and the far=
-off
unheeding stars.
Denner, more distressed by her
mistress's suffering than she could have been by anything else, took up with
the instinct of affection a gold vinaigrette which Mrs Transome often liked=
to
carry with her, and going up to her put it into her hand gently. Mrs Transo=
me
grasped the little woman's hand hard, and held it so.
'Denner,' she said, in a low tone,=
'if
I could choose at this moment, I would choose that Harold should never have
been born.'
'Nay, my dear' (Denner had only on=
ce
before in her life said 'my dear' to her mistress), 'it was a happiness to =
you
then.'
'I don't believe I felt the happin=
ess
then as I feel the misery now. It is foolish to say people can't feel much =
when
they are getting old. Not pleasure, perhaps - little comes. But they can fe=
el
they are forsaken - why, every fibre in me seems to be a memory that makes a
pang. They can feel that all the love in their lives is turned to hatred or
contempt.'
'Not mine, madam, not mine. Let wh=
at
would be, I should want to live for your sake, for fear you should have nob=
ody
to do for you as I would.'
'Ah, then, you are a happy woman,
Denner; you have loved somebody for forty years who is old and weak now, and
can't do without you.'
The sound of the dinner-gong resou=
nded
below, and Mrs Transome let the faithful hand fall again.
'She's beautiful; and therefore to=
be
wooed:
She is a woman; therefore to be wo=
n.'
- Henry VI.
IF Denner had had a suspicion that
Esther's presence at Transome Court was not agreeable to her mistress, it w=
as
impossible to entertain such a suspicion with regard to the other members of
the family. Between her and little Harry there was an extraordinary
fascination. This creature, with the soft broad brown cheeks, low forehead,
great black eyes, tiny well-defined nose, fierce biting tricks towards every
person and thing he disliked, and insistence on entirely occupying those he
liked, was a human specimen such as Esther had never seen before, and she
seemed to be equally original in Harry's experience. At first sight her lig=
ht
complexion and her blue gown, probably also her sunny smile and her hands
stretched out towards him, seemed to make a show for him as of a new sort of
bird: he threw himself backward against his 'Gappa', as he called old Mr
Transome, and stared at this new-comer with the gravity of a wild animal. B=
ut
she had no sooner sat down on the sofa in the library than he climbed up to=
her,
and began to treat her as an attractive object in natural history, snatched=
up
her curls with his brown fist, and, discovering that there was a little ear
under them, pinched it and blew into it, pulled at her coronet of plaits, a=
nd
seemed to discover with satisfaction that it did not grow at the summit of =
her
head, but could be dragged down and altogether undone. Then finding that she
laughed, tossed him back, kissed, and pretended to bite him - in fact, was =
an
animal that understood fun - he rushed off and made Dominic bring a small
menagerie of white-mice, squirrels, and birds, with Moro, the black spaniel=
, to
make her acquaintance. Whomsoever Harry liked, it followed that Mr Transome
must like: 'Gappa', along with Nimrod the retriever, was part of the menage=
rie,
and perhaps endured more than all the other live creatures in the way of be=
ing
tumbled about. Seeing that Esther bore having her hair pulled down quite
merrily, and that she was willing to be harnessed and beaten, the old man b=
egan
to confide in her, in his feeble, smiling, and rather jerking fashion, Harr=
y's
remarkable feats: how he had one day, when Gappa was asleep, unpinned a who=
le
drawerful of beetles, to see if they would fly away; then, disgusted with t=
heir
stupidity, was about to throw them all on the ground and stamp on them, when
Dominic came in and rescued these valuable specimens; also, how he had subt=
ly
watched Mrs Transome at the cabinet where she kept her medicines, and, when=
she
had left it for a little while without locking it, had gone to the drawers =
and
scattered half the contents on the floor. But what old Mr Transome thought =
the
most wonderful proof of an almost preter-natural cleverness was, that Harry
would hardly ever talk, but preferred making inarticulate noises, or combin=
ing
syllables after a method of his own.
'He can talk well enough if he lik=
es,'
said Gappa, evidently thinking that Harry, like the monkeys, had deep reaso=
ns
for his reticence.
'You mind him,' he added, nodding =
at
Esther, and shaking with low-toned laughter. 'You'll hear: he knows the rig=
ht
names of things well enough, but he likes to make his own. He'll give you o=
ne
all to yourself before long.'
And when Harry seemed to have made=
up
his mind distinctly that Esther's name was 'Boo', Mr Transome nodded at her=
with
triumphant satisfaction, and then told her in a low whisper, looking round
cautiously beforehand, that Harry would never call Mrs Transome 'Gamma,' but
always 'Bite.'
'It's wonderful ! ' said he, laugh=
ing
slyly.
The old man seemed so happy now in=
the
new world created for him by Dominic and Harry, that he would perhaps have =
made
a holocaust of his flies and beetles if it had been necessary in order to k=
eep
this living, lively kindness about him. He no longer confined himself to the
library, but shuffled along from room to room, staying and looking on at wh=
at
was going forward wherever he did not find Mrs Transome alone.
To Esther the sight of this
feeble-minded, timid, paralytic man, who had long abdicated all mastery over
the things that were his, was something piteous. Certainly this had never b=
een
part of the furniture she had imagined for the delightful aristocratic dwel=
ling
in her Utopia; and the sad irony of such a lot impressed her the more becau=
se
in her father she was accustomed to age accompanied with mental acumen and
activity. Her thoughts went back in conjecture over the past life of Mr and=
Mrs
Transome, a couple so strangely different from each other. She found it
impossible to arrange their existence in the seclusion of this fine park an=
d in
this lofty large-roomed house, where it seemed quite ridiculous to be anyth=
ing
so small as a human being, without finding it rather dull. Mr Transome had
always had his beetles, but Mrs Transome - ? It was not easy to conceive th=
at
the husband and wife had ever been very fond of each other.
Esther felt at her ease with Mrs
Transome: she was gratified by the consciousness - for on this point Esther=
was
very quick - that Mrs Transome admired her, and looked at her with satisfied
eyes. But when they were together in the early days of her stay, the
conversation turned chiefly on what happened in Mrs Transome's youth - what=
she
wore when she was presented at Court - who were the most distinguished and
beautiful women at that time - the terrible excitement of the French Revolu=
tion
- the emigrants she had known, and the history of various titled members of=
the
Lingon family. And Esther, from native delicacy, did not lead to more recent
topics of a personal kind. She was copiously instructed that the Lingon fam=
ily was
better than that even of the elder Transomes, and was privileged with an
explanation of the various quarterings, which proved that the Lingon blood =
had
been continually enriched. Poor Mrs Transome, with her secret bitterness and
dread, still found a flavour in this sort of pride; none the less because
certain deeds of her own life had been in fatal inconsistency with it. Besi=
des,
genealogies entered into her stock of ideas, and her talk on such subjects =
was
as necessary as the notes of the linnet or the blackbird. She had no ultima=
te
analysis of things that went beyond blood and family - the Herons of Fensho=
re
or the Badgers of Hillbury. She had never seen behind the canvas with which=
her
life was hung. In the dim background there was the burning mount and the ta=
bles
of the law; in the foreground there was Lady Debarry privately gossiping ab=
out
her, and Lady Wyvern finally deciding not to send her invitations to dinner.
Unlike that Semiramis who made laws to suit her practical licence, she live=
d,
poor soul, in the midst of desecrated sanctities, and of honours that looked
tarnished in the light of monotonous and weary suns. Glimpses of the Lingon
heraldry in their freshness were interesting to Esther; but it occurred to =
her
that when she had known about them a good while they would cease to be
succulent themes of converse or meditation, and Mrs Transome, having known =
them
all along, might have felt a vacuum in spite of them.
Nevertheless it was entertaining at
present to be seated on soft cushions with her netting before her, while Mrs
Transome went on with her embroidery, and told in that easy phrase, and with
that refined high-bred tone and accent which she possessed in perfection,
family stories that to Esther were like so many novelettes: what diamonds w=
ere
in the earl's family, own cousins to Mrs Transome; how poor Lady Sara's hus=
band
went off into jealous madness only a month after their marriage, and dragged
that sweet blue-eyed thing by the hair; and how the brilliant Fanny, having
married a country parson, became so niggardly that she had gone about almost
begging for fresh eggs from the farmers' wives, though she had done very we=
ll
with her six sons, as there was a bishop and no end of interest in the fami=
ly,
and two of them got appointments in India.
At present Mrs Transome did not to=
uch
at all on her own time of privation, or her troubles with her eldest son, o=
r on
anything that lay very close to her heart. She conversed with Esther, and a=
cted
the part of hostess as she performed her toilette and went on with her
embroidery: these things were to be done whether one were happy or miserabl=
e.
Even the patriarch Job, if he had been a gentleman of the modern West, would
have avoided picturesque disorder and poetical laments; and the friends who
called on him, though not less disposed than Bildad the Shuhite to hint that
their unfortunate friend was in the wrong, would have sat on chairs and held
their hats in their hands. The harder problems of our life have changed less
than our manners; we wrestle with the old sorrows, but more decorously.
Esther's inexperience prevented her from divining much about this fine
grey-haired woman, whom she could not help perceiving to stand apart from t=
he
family group, as if there were some cause of isolation for her both within =
and
without. To her young heart there was a peculiar interest in Mrs Transome. =
An
elderly woman, whose beauty, position, and graceful kindness towards hersel=
f,
made deference to her spontaneous, was a new figure in Esther's experience.=
Her
quick light movement was always ready to anticipate what Mrs Transome wante=
d;
her bright apprehension and silvery speech were always ready to cap Mrs
Transome's narratives or instructions even about doses and liniments, with =
some
lively commentary. She must have behaved charmingly; for one day when she h=
ad
tripped across the room to put the screen just in the right place, Mrs Tran=
some
said, taking her hand, 'My dear, you make me wish I had a daughter!'
That was pleasant; and so it was t=
o be
decked by Mrs Transome's own hands in a set of turquoise ornaments, which
became her wonderfully, worn with a white Cashmere dress, which was also
insisted on. Esther never reflected that there was a double intention in th=
ese
pretty ways towards her; with young generosity, she was rather preoccupied =
by
the desire to prove that she herself entertained no low triumph in the fact
that she had rights prejudicial to this family whose life she was learning.=
And
besides, through all Mrs Transome's perfect manners there pierced some inde=
finable
indications of a hidden anxiety much deeper than anything she could feel ab=
out
this affair of the estate - to which she often alluded slightly as a reason=
for
informing Esther of something. It was impossible to mistake her for a happy
woman; and young speculation is always stirred by discontent for which ther=
e is
no obvious cause. When we are older, we take the uneasy eyes and the bitter
lips more as a matter of course.
But Harold Transome was more
communicative about recent years than his mother was. He thought it well th=
at
Esther should know how the fortune of his family had been drained by law
expenses, owing to suits mistakenly urged by her family; he spoke of his
mother's lonely life and pinched circumstances, of her lack of comfort in h=
er
elder son, and of the habit she had consequently acquired of looking at the
gloomy side of things. He hinted that she had been accustomed to dictate, a=
nd
that, as he had left her when he was a boy, she had perhaps indulged the dr=
eam
that he would come back a boy. She was still sore on the point of his polit=
ics.
These things could not be helped, but, so far as he could, he wished to make
the rest of her life as cheerful as possible.
Esther listened eagerly, and took
these things to heart. The claim to an inheritance, the sudden discovery of=
a
right to a fortune held by others, was acquiring a very distinct and unexpe=
cted
meaning for her. Every day she was getting more clearly into her imagination
what it would be to abandon her own past, and what she would enter into in
exchange for it; what it would be to disturb a long possession, and how
difficult it was to fix a point at which the disturbance might begin, so as=
to
be contemplated without pain.
Harold Transome's thoughts turned =
on
the same subject, but accompanied by a different state of feeling and with =
more
definite resolutions. He saw a mode of reconciling all difficulties which
looked pleasanter to him the longer he looked at Esther. When she had been
hardly a week in the house, he had made up his mind to marry her; and it had
never entered into that mind that the decision did not rest entirely with h=
is
inclination. It was not that he thought slightly of Esther's demands; he saw
that she would require considerable attractions to please her, and that the=
re
were difficulties to be overcome. She was clearly a girl who must be wooed;=
but
Harold did not despair of presenting the requisite attractions, and the
difficulties gave more interest to the wooing than he could have believed. =
When
he had said that he would not marry an Englishwoman, he had always made a
mental reservation in favour of peculiar circumstances; and now the peculiar
circumstances were come. To be deeply in love was a catastrophe not likely =
to
happen to him; but he was readily amorous. No woman could make him miserabl=
e,
but he was sensitive to the presence of women, and was kind to them; not wi=
th
grimaces, like a man of mere gallantry, but beamingly, easily, like a man of
genuine good-nature. And each day that he was near Esther, the solution of =
all
difficulties by marriage became a more pleasing prospect; though he had to
confess to himself that the difficulties did not diminish on a nearer view,=
in
spite of the flattering sense that she brightened at his approach.
Harold was not one to fail in a pu=
rpose
for want of assiduity. After an hour or two devoted to business in the morn=
ing,
he went to look for Esther, and if he did not find her at play with Harry a=
nd
old Mr Transome, or chatting with his mother, he went into the drawing-room,
where she was usually either seated with a book on her knee and 'making a b=
ed
for her cheek' with one little hand, while she looked out of the window, or
else standing in front of one of the full-length family portraits with an a=
ir
of rumination. Esther found it impossible to read in these days; her life w=
as a
book which she seemed herself to be constructing - trying to make character
clear before her, and looking into the ways of destiny.
The active Harold had almost always
something definite to propose by way of filling the time: if it were fine, =
she
must walk out with him and see the grounds; and when the snow melted and it=
was
no longer slippery, she must get on horseback and learn to ride. If they st=
ayed
indoors, she must learn to play at billiards, or she must go over the house=
and
see the pictures he had hung anew, or the costumes he had brought from the
East, or come into his study and look at the map of the estate, and hear wh=
at -
if it had remained in his family - he had intended to do in every corner of=
it
in order to make the most of its capabilities.
About a certain time in the morning
Esther had learned to expect him. Let every woocr make himself strongly
expected; he may succeed by dint of being absent, but hardly in the first
instance. One morning Harold found her in the drawing-room, leaning against=
a
consol table, and looking at the full-length portrait of a certain Lady Bet=
ty
Transome, who had lived a century and a half before, and had the usual char=
m of
ladies in Sir Peter Lely's style.
'Don't move, pray,' he said on
entering; 'you look as if you were standing for your own portrait.'
'I take that as an insinuation,' s=
aid
Esther, laughing, and moving towards her seat on an ottoman near the fire, =
'for
I notice almost all the portraits are in a conscious, affected attitude. Th=
at
fair Lady Betty looks as if she had been drilled into that posture, and had=
not
will enough of her own ever to move again unless she had a little push give=
n to
her.'
'She brightens up that panel well =
with
her long satin skirt,' said Harold, as he followed Esther, 'but alive I dar=
esay
she would have been less cheerful company.'
'One would certainly think that she
had just been unpacked from silver paper. Ah, how chivalrous you are!' said
Esther, as Harold, kneeling on one knee, held her silken netting-stirrup for
hcr to put her foot through. She had often fancied pleasant scenes in which
such homage was rendered to her, and the homage was not disagreeable now it=
was
really come; but, strangely enough, a little darting sensation at that mome=
nt was
accompanied by the vivid remembrance of some one who had never paid the lea=
st
attention to her foot. There had been a slight blush, such as often came and
went rapidly, and she was silent a moment. Harold naturally believed that it
was he himself who was filling the field of vision He would have liked to p=
lace
himself on the ottoman near Esther, and behave very much more like a lover;=
but
he took a chair opposite to her at a circumspect distance. He dared not do
otherwise. Along with Esther's playful charm she conveyed an impression of
personal pride and high spirit which warned Harold's acuteness that in the
delicacy of their present position he might easily make a false move and of=
fend
her. A woman was likely to be credulous about adoration, and to find no
difficulty in referring it to her intrinsic attractions; but Esther was too
dangerously quick and critical not to discern the least awkwardness that lo=
oked
like offering her marriage as a convenient compromise for himself. Beforeha=
nd,
he might have said that such characteristics as hers were not lovable in a
woman; but, as it was, he found that the hope of pleasing her had a piquancy
quite new to him.
'I wonder,' said Esther, breaking =
her
silence in her usual light silvery tones - 'I wonder whether the woman who
looked in that way ever felt any troubles. I see there are two old ones
upstairs in the billiard-room who have only got fat; the expression of their
faces is just of the same sort.'
'A woman ought never to have any
trouble. There should always be a man to guard her from it.' (Harold Transo=
me
was masculine and fallible; he had incautiously sat down this morning to pay
his addresses by talk about nothing in particular; and, clever experienced =
man
as he was, he fell into nonsense.)
'But suppose the man himself got i=
nto
trouble - you would wish her to mind about that. Or suppose,' added Esther,
suddenly looking up merrily at Harold, 'the man himself was troublesome?'
'O you must not strain probabiliti=
es
in that way. The generality of men are perfect. Take me, for example.'
'You are a perfect judge of sauces=
,'
said Esther, who had her triumphs in letting Harold know that she was capab=
le
of taking notes.
'That is perfection number one. Pr=
ay
go on.'
'O, the catalogue is too long - I
should be tired before I got to your magnificent ruby ring and your gloves
always of the right colour.'
'If you would let me tell you your
perfections, I should not be tired.'
'That is not complimentary; it mea=
ns
that the list is short.'
'No; it means that the list is
pleasant to dwell upon.'
'Pray don't begin,' said Esther, w=
ith
her pretty toss of the head; 'it would be dangerous to our good understandi=
ng.
The person I liked best in the world was one who did nothing but scold me a=
nd
tell me of my faults.'
When Esther began to speak, she me=
ant
to do no more than make a remote unintelligible allusion, feeling, it must =
be
owned, a naughty will to flirt and be saucy, and thwart Harold's attempts t=
o be
felicitous in compliment. But she had no sooner uttered the words than they
seemed to her like a confession. A deep flush spread itself over her face a=
nd
neck, and the sense that she was blushing went on deepening her colour. Har=
old
felt himself unpleasantly illuminated as to a possibility that had never yet
occurred to him. His surprise made an uncomfortable pause, in which Esther =
had
time to feel much vexation.
'You speak in the past tense,' said
Harold, at last; 'yet I am rather envious of that person. I shall never be =
able
to win your regard in the same way. Is it any one at Treby? Because in that
case I can inquire about your faults.'
'O you know I have always lived am=
ong
grave people,' said Esther, more able to recover herself now she was spoken=
to.
'Before I came home to be with my father I was nothing but a school-girl fi=
rst,
and then a teacher in different stages of growth. People in those circumsta=
nces
are not usually flattered. But there are varieties in fault-finding. At our
Paris school the master I liked best was an old man who stormed at me terri=
bly
when I read Racine, but yet showed that he was proud of me.'
Esther was getting quite cool agai=
n.
But Harold was not entirely satisfied; if there was any obstacle in his way=
, he
wished to know exactly what it was.
'That must have been a wretched li=
fe
for you at Treby,' he said, - 'a person of your accomplishments.'
'I used to be dreadfully
discontented,' said Esther, much occupied with mistakes she had made in her
netting. 'But I was becoming less so. I have had time to get rather wise, y=
ou
know; I am two-and-twenty.'
'Yes,' said Harold, rising and wal=
king
a few paces backwards and forwards, 'you are past your majority; you are
empress of your own fortunes - and more besides.'
'Dear me,' said Esther, letting her
work fall, and leaning back against the cushions; 'I don't think I know very
well what to do with my empire.'
'Well,' said Harold, pausing in fr=
ont
of her, leaning one arm on the mantelpiece, and speaking very gravely, 'I h=
ope
that in any case, since you appear to have no near relative who understands
affairs, you will confide in me, and trust me with all your intentions as i=
f I
had no other personal concern in the matter than a regard for you. I hope y=
ou
believe me capable of acting as the guardian of your interest, even where it
turns out to be inevitably opposed to my own.'
'I am sure you have given me reaso=
n to
believe it,' said Esther, with seriousness, putting out her hand to Harold.=
She
had not been left in ignorance that he had had opportunities twice offered =
of
stifling her claims.
Harold raised the hand to his lips=
, but
dared not retain it more than an instant. Still the sweet reliance in Esthe=
r's
manner made an irresistible temptation to him. After standing still a momen=
t or
two, while she bent over her work, he glided to the ottoman and seated hims=
elf
close by her, looking at her busy hands.
'I see you have made mistakes in y=
our
work,' he said, bending still nearer, for he saw that she was conscious yet=
not
angry.
'Nonsense I you know nothing about
it,' said Esther, laughing, and crushing up the soft silk under her palms.
'Those blunders have a design in them.'
She looked round, and saw a handso=
me
face very near her. Harold was looking, as he felt, thoroughly enamoured of
this bright woman, who was not at all to his preconceived taste. Perhaps a
touch of hypothetic jealousy now helped to heighten the effect. But he mast=
ered
all indiscretion, and only looked at her as he said -
'I am wondering whether you have a=
ny
deep wishes and secrets that I can't guess.'
'Pray don't speak of my wishes,' s=
aid
Esther, quite overmastered by this new and apparently involuntary manifesta=
tion
in Harold; 'I could not possibly tell you one at this moment - I think I sh=
all
never find them out again. O yes she said, abruptly, struggling to relieve
herself from the oppression of unintelligible feelings - 'I do know one wish
distinctly. I want to go and see my father. He writes me word that all is w=
ell
with him, but still I want to see him.' 'You shall be driven there when you
like.'
'May I go now - I mean as soon as =
it
is convenient?' said Esther, rising.
'I will give the order immediately=
, if
you wish it,' said Harold, understanding that the audience was broken up.
He rates me as a merchant does the
wares
He will not purchase - 'quality not
high I -
'Twill lose its colour opened to t=
he
sun,
Has no aroma, and, in fine, is nau=
ght
-
I barter not for such commodities =
-
There is no ratio betwixt sand and
gems.'
'Tis wicked judgment ! for the soul
can grovv,
As embryos, that live and move but
blindly,
Burst from the dark, emerge
regenerate,
And lead a life of vision and of
choice.
ESTHER did not take the carriage i=
nto
Malthouse Lane, but left it to wait for her outside the town; and when she
entered the house she put her finger on her lip to Lyddy and ran lightly
upstairs. She wished to surprise her father by this visit, and she succeede=
d.
The little minister was just then almost surrounded by a wall of books, with
merely his head peeping above them, being much embarrassed to find a substi=
tute
for tables and desks on which to arrange the volumes he kept open for
reference. He was absorbed in mastering all those painstaking interpretatio=
ns
of the Book of Daniel, which are by this time well gone to the limbo of
mistaken criticism; and Esther, as she opened the door softly, heard him
rehearsing aloud a passage in which he declared, with some parenthetic
provisoes, that he conceived not how a perverse ingenuity could blunt the e=
dge
of prophetic explicitness, or how an open mind could fail to see in the
chronology of 'the little horn' the resplendent lamp of an inspired symbol
searching out the germinal growth of an antichristian power.
'You will not like me to interrupt
you, father?' said Esther slyly.
'Ah, my beloved child!' he exclaim=
ed,
upsetting a pile of books, and thus unintentionally making a convenient bre=
ach
in his wall, through which Esther could get up to him and kiss him. 'Thy
appearing is as a joy despaired of. I had thought of thee as the blinded th=
ink
of the daylight - which indeed is a thing to rejoice in, like all other goo=
d,
though we see it not nigh.'
'Are you sure you have been as well and comfortable as you said you were in your letters?' said Esther, seating herself close in front of her father, and laying her hand on his shoulder.<= o:p>
'I wrote truly, my dear, according=
to
my knowledge at the time. But to an old memory like mine the present days a=
re
but as a little water poured on the deep. It seems now that all has been as
usual, except my studies, which have gone somewhat curiously into prophetic
history. But I fear you will rebuke me for my negligent apparel,' said the
little man, feeling in front of Esther's brightness like a bat overtaken by=
the
morning.
'That is Lyddy's fault, who sits
crying over her want of Christian assurance instead of brushing your clothes
and putting out your clean cravat. She is always saying her righteousness is
filthy rags, and really I don't think that is a very strong expression for =
it.
I'm sure it is dusty clothes and furniture.'
'Nay, my dear, your playfulness
glances too severely on our faithful Lyddy. Doubtless I am myself deficient=
, in
that I do not aid her infirm memory by admonition. But now tell me aught th=
at
you have left untold about yourself Your heart has gone out somewhat towards
this family - the old man and the child, whom I had not reckoned of?'
'Yes, father. It is more and more
difficult to me to see how I can make up my mind to disturb these people at
all.'
'Something should doubtless be dev=
ised
to lighten the loss and the change to the aged father and mother. I would h=
ave
you in any case seek to temper a vicissitude, which is nevertheless a
providential arrangement not to be wholly set aside.'
'Do you think, father - do you feel
assured that a case of inheritance like this of mine is a sort of provident=
ial
arrangement that makes a command?'
'I have so held it,' said Mr Lyon,
solemnly; 'in all my meditations I have so held it. For you have to conside=
r,
my dear, that you have been led by a peculiar path, and into experience whi=
ch
is not ordinarily the lot of those who are seated in high places; and what I
have hinted to you already in my letters on this head, I shall wish on a fu=
ture
opportunity to enter into more at large.'
Esther was uneasily silent. On this
great question of her lot she saw doubts and difficulties, in which it seem=
ed
as if her father could not help her. There was no illumination for her in t=
his
theory of providential arrangement. She said suddenly (what she had not tho=
ught
of at all suddenly) -
'Have you been again to see Felix
Holt, father? You have not mentioned him in your letters.'
'I have been since I last wrote, my
dear, and I took his mother with me, who, I fear, made the time heavy to him
with her plaints. But afterwards I carried her away to the house of a broth=
er
minister of Loamford, and returned to Felix, and then we had much discourse=
.'
'Did you tell him of everything th=
at
has happened - I mean about me - about the Transomes?'
'Assuredly I told him, and he list=
ened
as one astonished. For he had much to hear, knowing nought of your birth, a=
nd
that you had any other father than Rufus Lyon. 'Tis a narrative I trust I s=
hall
not be called on to give to others; but I was not without satisfaction in
unfolding the truth to this young man, who hath wrought himself into my
affection strangely - I would fain hope for ends that will be a visible goo=
d in
his less way-worn life, when mine shall be no longer.'
'And you told him how the Transomes
had come, and that I was staying at Transome Court?'
'Yes, I told these things with some
particularity, as is my wont concerning what hath imprinted itself on my mi=
nd.'
'What did Felix say?'
'Truly, my dear, nothing desirable=
to
recite,' said Mr Lyon, rubbing his hand over his brow.
'Dear father, he did say something,
and you always remember what people say. Pray tell me; I want to know.'
'It was a hasty remark, and rather
escaped him than was consciously framed. He said, ‘Then she will marry
Transome; that is what Transome means.’ '
'That was all?' said Esther, turni=
ng
rather pale, and biting her lip with the determination that the tears should
not start.
'Yes, we did not go further into t=
hat
branch of the subject. I apprehend there is no warrant for his seeming
prognostic, and I should not be without disquiet if I thought otherwise. Fo=
r I
confess that in your accession to this great position and property, I
contemplate with hopeful satisfaction your remaming attached to that body of
congregational Dissent, which, as I hold, hath retained most of pure and
primitive discipline. Your education and peculiar history would thus be see=
n to
have coincided with a long train of events in making this family property a
means of honouring and illustrating a purer form of Christianity than that
which hath unhappily obtained the pre-eminence in this land. I speak, my ch=
ild,
as you know, always in the hope that you will fully join our communion; and
this dear wish of my heart - nay, this urgent prayer - would seem to be
frustrated by your marriage with a man, of whom there is at least no visible
indication that he would unite himself to our body.'
If Esther had been less agitated, =
she
would hardly have helped smiling at the picture her father's words suggeste=
d of
Harold Transome 'joining the church' in Malthouse Yard. But she was too
seriously preoccupied with what Felix had said, which hurt her in a two-edg=
ed
fashion that was highly significant. First, she was angry with him for dari=
ng
to say positively whom she would marry; secondly, she was angry at the
implication that there was from the
first a cool deliberate design in
Harold Transome to marry her. Esther said to herself that she was quite cap=
able
of discerning Harold Transome's disposition. and judging of his conduct. She
felt sure he was generous and open. It did not lower him in her opinion that
since circumstances had brought them together he evidently admired her - wa=
s in
love with her - in short, desired to marry her; and she thought that she
discerned the delicacy which hindered him from being more explicit. There i=
s no
point on which young women are more easily piqued than this of their suffic=
iency
to judge the men who make love to them. And Esther's generous nature deligh=
ted
to believe in generosity. All these thoughts were making a tumult in her mi=
nd
while her father was suggesting the radiance her lot might cast on the caus=
e of
congregational Dissent. She heard what he said, and remembered it afterward=
s,
but she made no reply at present, and chose rather to start up in search of=
a
brush - an action which would seem to her father quite a usual sequence with
her. It served the purpose of diverting him from a lengthy subject.
'Have you yet spoken with Mr Trans=
ome
concerning Mistress Holt, my dear?' he said, as Esther was moving about the
room. 'I hinted to him that you would best decide how assistance should be
tendered to her.'
'No, father, we have not approached
the subject. Mr Transome may have forgotten it, and, for several reasons, I
would rather not talk of this - of money matters to him at present. There is
money due to me from the Lukyns and the Pendrells.'
'They have paid it,' said Mr Lyon,=
opening
his desk. 'I have it here ready to deliver to you.'
'Keep it, father, and pay Mrs Holt=
's
rent with it, and do anything else that is wanted for her. We must consider
everything temporary now,' said Esther, enveloping her father in a towel, a=
nd
beginning to brush his auburn fringe of hair, while he shut his eyes in
preparation for this pleasant passivity. 'Everything is uncertain - what may
become of Felix - what may become of us all. O dear!' she went on, changing
suddenly to laughing merriment, 'I am beginning to talk like Lyddy, I think=
.'
'Truly,' said Mr Lyon, smiling, 't=
he
uncertainty of things is a text rather too wide and obvious for fruitful
application; and to discourse of it is, as one might say, to bottle up the =
air,
and make a present of it to those who are already standing out of doors.'
'Do you think,' said Esther, in the
course of their chat, 'that the Treby people know at all about the reasons =
of
my being at Transome Court?'
'I have had no sign thereof; and
indeed there is no one, as it appears, who could make the story public. The=
man
Christian is away in London with Mr Debarry, parliament now beginning; and =
Mr
Jermyn would doubtless respect the confidence of the Transomes. I have not =
seen
him lately. I know nothing of his movements. And so far as my own speech is
concerned, and my strict command to Lyddy, I have withheld the means of
information even as to your having returned to Transome Court in the carria=
ge,
not wishing to give any occasion to solicitous questioning till time hath s=
omewhat
inured me. But it hath got abroad that you are there, and is the subject of
conjectures, whereof, I imagine, the chief is, that you are gone as compani=
on
to Mistress Transome; for some of our friends have already hinted a rebuke =
to
me that I should permit your taking a position so little likely to further =
your
spiritual welfare.'
'Now, father, I think I shall be
obliged to run away from you, not to keep the carriage too long,' said Esth=
er,
as she finished her reforms in the minister's toilette. 'You look beautiful
now, and I must give Lyddy a little lecture before I go.'
'Yes, my dear; I would not detain = you, seeing that my duties demand me. But take with you this Treatise, which I h= ave purposely selected. It concerns all the main questions between ourselves and the establishment - government, discipline, state-support. It is seasonable that you should give a nearer attention to these polemics, lest you be drawn aside by the fallacious association of a state church with elevated rank.'<= o:p>
Esther chose to take the volume
submissively, rather than to adopt the ungraceful sincerity of saying that =
she
was unable at present to give her mind to the original functions of a bisho=
p,
or the comparative merit of endowments and voluntaryism. But she did not run
her eyes over the pages during her solitary drive to get a foretaste of the
argument, for she was entirely occupied with Felix Holt's prophecy that she
would marry Harold Transome.
'Thou sayst it, and not I; for thou
hast done
The ugly deed that made these ugly
words.'
SOPHOCLES: Electra.
'Yea, it becomes a man
To cherish memory, where he had
delight.
For kindness is the natural birth =
of
kindness.
Whose soul records not the great d=
ebt
of joy,
Is stamped for ever an ignoble man=
.'
SOPHOCLES: Ajax.
IT SO happened that, on the mornin=
g of
the day when Esther went to see her father, Jermyn had not yet heard of her
presence at Transome Court. One fact conducing to keep him in this ignorance
was, that some days after his critical interview with Harold - days during
which he had been wondering how long it would be before Harold made up his =
mind
to sacrifice the luxury of satisfied anger for the solid advantage of secur=
ing
fortune and position - he was peremptorily called away by business to the s=
outh
of England, and was obliged to inform Harold by letter of his absence. He t=
ook
care also to notify his return; but Harold made no sign in reply. The days
passed without bringing him any gossip concerning Esther's visit, for such
gossip was almost confined to Mr Lyon's congregation, her Church pupils, Mi=
ss
Louisa Jermyn among them, having been satisfied by her father's written
statement that she was gone on a visit of uncertain duration. But on this d=
ay
of Esther's call in Malthouse Yard, the Miss Jermyns in their walk saw her
getting into the Transome's carriage, which they had previously observed to=
be
waiting, and which they now saw bowled along on the road towards Little Tre=
by.
It followed that only a few hours later the news reached the astonished ear=
s of
Matthew Jermyn.
Entirely ignorant of those converg=
ing
indications and small links of incident which had raised Christian's
conjectures, and had gradually contributed to put him in possession of the
facts; ignorant too of some busy motives in the mind of his obliged servant
Johnson; Jermyn was not likely to see at once how the momentous information
that Esther was the surviving Bycliffe could possibly have reached Harold. =
His
daughters naturally leaped, as others had done, to the conclusion that the
Transomes, seeking a governess for little Harry, had had their choice direc=
ted
to Esther, and observed that they must have attracted her by a high salary =
to
induce her to take charge of such a small pupil; though of course it was
important that his English and French should be carefully attended to from =
the
first. Jermyn, hearing this suggestion, was not without a momentary hope th=
at
it might be true, and that Harold was still safely unconscious of having un=
der
the same roof with him the legal claimant of the family estate.
But a mind in the grasp of a terri=
ble
anxiety is not credulous of easy solutions. The one stay that bears up our
hopes is sure to appear frail, and if looked at long will seem to totter. T=
oo
much depended on that unconsciousness of Harold's; and although Jermyn did =
not
see the course of things that could have disclosed and combined the various
items of knowledge which he had imagined to be his own secret, and therefore
his safeguard, he saw quite clearly what was likely to be the result of the
disclosure. Not only would Harold Transome be no longer afraid of him, but
also, by marrying Esther (and Jermyn at once felt sure of this issue), he w=
ould
be triumphantly freed from my unpleasant consequences, and could pursue muc=
h at
his ease the gratification of ruining Matthew Jermyn. The prevision of an
enemy's triumphant case is in any case sufficiently irritating to hatred, a=
nd
there were reasons why it was peculiarly exasperating here; but Jermyn had =
not
the leisure now for mere fruitless emotion; he had to think of a possible
device which might save him from imminent ruin - not an indefinite adversit=
y,
but a ruin in detail, which his thoughts painted out with the sharpest, ugl=
iest
intensity. A man of sixty, with an unsuspicious wife and daughters capable =
of
shrieking and fainting at a sudden revelation, and of looking at him
reproachfully in their daily misery under a shabby lot to which he had redu=
ced
them - with a mind and with habits dried hard by the years - with no glimps=
e of
an endurable standing-ground except where he could domineer and be prospero=
us
according to the ambitions of pushing middle-class gentility, - such a man =
is
likely to find the prospect of worldly ruin ghastly enough to drive him to =
the
most uninviting means of escape. He will probably prefer any private scorn =
that
will save him from public infamy or that will leave him money in his pocket=
, to
the humiliation and hardship of new servitude in old age, a shabby hat, and=
a
melancholy hearth, where the firing must be used and the women look sad. But
though a man may be willing to escape through a sewer, a sewer with an outl=
et
into the dry air is not always at hand. Running away, especially when spoke=
n of
as absconding, seems at a distance to offer a good modern substitute for the
right of sanctuary; but seen closely, it is often found inconvenient and
scarcely possible.
Jermyn, on thoroughly considering =
his
position, saw that he had no very agreeable resources at command. But he so=
on
made up his mind what he would do next. He wrote to Mrs Transome requesting=
her
to appoint an hour in which he could see her privately: he knew she would
understand that it was to be an hour when Harold was not at home. As he sea=
led
the letter, he indulged a faint hope that in this interview he might be ass=
ured
of Esther's birth being unknown at Transome Court; but in the worst case,
perhaps some help might be found in Mrs Transome. To such uses may tender
relations come when they have ceased to be tender! The Hazaels of our world=
who
are pushed on quickly against their preconceived confidence in themselves t=
o do
doglike actions by the sudden suggestion of a wicked ambition, are much few=
er
than those who are led on through the years by the gradual demands of a
selfishness which has spread its fibres far and wide through the intricate
vanities and sordid cares of an everyday existence.
In consequence of that letter to M=
rs
Transome, Jennyn was two days afterwards ushered into the smaller drawing r=
oom
at Transome Court. It was a charming little room in its refurbished conditi=
on:
it had two pretty inlaid cabinets, great china vases with contents that sent
forth odours of paradise, groups of flowers in oval frames on the walls, and
Mrs Transome's own portrait in the evening costume of 1800, with a garden in
the background. That brilliant young woman looked smilingly down on Mr Jerm=
yn
as he passed in front of the fire; and at present hers was the only gaze in=
the
room. He could not help meeting the gaze as he waited, holding his hat behi=
nd
him - could not help seeing many memories lit up by it; but the strong bent=
of
his mind was to go on arguing each memory into a claim, and to see in the
regard others had for him a merit of his own. There had been plenty of roads
open to him when he was a young man; perhaps if he had not allowed himself =
to
be determined (chiefly, of course, by the feelings of others, for of what
effect would his own feelings have been without them?) into the road he
actually took, he might have done better for himself. At any rate, he was
likely at last to get the worst of it, and it was he who had most reason to
complain. The fortunate Jason, as we know from Euripides, piously thanked t=
he
goddess, and saw clearly that he was not at all obliged to Medea: Jermyn was
perhaps not aware of the precedent, but thought out his own freedom from
obligation and the indebtedness of others towards him with a native faculty=
not
inferior to Jason's. Before three minutes had passed, however, as if by some
sorcery, the brilliant smiling young woman above the mantel-piece seemed to=
be
appearing at the doorway withered and frosted by many winters, and with lips
and eyes from which the smile had departed. Jermyn advanced, and they shook
hands, but neither of them said anything by way of greeting. Mrs Transome
seated herself, and pointed to a chair opposite and near her.
'Harold has gone to Loamford,' she
said, in a subdued tone. 'You had something particular to say to me?'
'Yes,' said Jermyn, with his soft =
and
deferential air. 'The last time I was here I could not take the opportunity=
of
speaking to you. But I am anxious to know whether you are aware of what has
passed between me and Harold?'
'Yes, he has told me everything.'<= o:p>
'About his proceedings against me?=
and
the reason he stopped them?'
'Yes: have you had notice that he =
has
begun them again?'
'No,' said Jermyn, with a very
unpleasant sensation.
'Of course he will now,' said Mrs
Transome. 'There is no reason in his mind why he should not.'
'Has he resolved to risk the estate
then?'
'He feels in no danger on that sco=
re.
And if there were, the danger doesn't depend on you. The most likely thing =
is,
that he will marry this girl.'
'He knows everything then?' said
Jermyn, the expression of his face getting clouded.
'Everything. It's of no use for yo=
u to
think of mastering him: you can't do it. I used to wish Harold to be fortun=
ate
- and he is fortunate,' said Mrs Transome, with intense bitterness. 'It's n=
ot
my star that he inherits.'
'Do you know how he came by the
information about this girl?'
'No; but she knew it all before we
spoke to her. It's no secret.'
Jermyn was confounded by this hope=
less
frustration to which he had no key. Though he thought of Christian, the tho=
ught
shed no light; but the more fatal point was clear: he held no secret that c=
ould
help him.
'You are aware that these Chancery
proceedings may ruin me?'
'He told me they would. But if you=
are
imagining that I can do anything, dismiss the notion. I have told him as
plainly as I dare that I wish him to drop all public quarrel with you, and =
that
you could make an arrangement without scandal. I can do no more. He will not
listen to me; he doesn't mind about my feelings. He cares more for Mr Trans=
ome
than he does for me. He will not listen to me any more than if I were an old
ballad-singer.'
'It's very hard on me, I know,' sa=
id
Jermyn, in the tone with which a man flings out a reproach
'I besought you three months ago to
bear anything rather than quarrel with him.'
'I have not quarrelled with him. I= t is he who has been always seeking a quarrel with me. I have borne a good deal - more than any one else would. He set his teeth against me from the first.'<= o:p>
'He saw things that annoyed him - =
and
men are not like women,' said Mrs Transome. There was a bitter innuendo in =
that
truism.
'It's very hard on me - I know tha=
t,'
said Jermyn, with an intensification of his previous tone, rising and walki=
ng a
step or two, then turning and laying his hand on the back of the chair. 'Of
course the law in this case can't in the least represent the justice of the
matter. I made a good many sacrifices in times past. I gave up a great deal=
of
fine business for the sake of attending to the family affairs, and in that
lawsuit they would have gone to rack and ruin if it hadn't been for me.'
He moved away again, laid down his
hat, which he had been previously holding, and thrust his hands into his
pockets as he returned. Mrs Transome sat motionless as marble, and almost as
pale. Her hands lay crossed on her knees. This man, young, slim, and gracef=
ul,
with a selfishness which then took the form of homage to her, had at one ti=
me
kneeled to her and kissed those hands fervently; and she had thought there =
was
a poetry in such passion beyond any to be found in everyday domesticity.
'I stretched my conscience a good =
deal
in that affair of Bycliffe, as you know perfectly well. I told you everythi=
ng
at the time. I told you I was very uneasy about those witnesses, and about
getting him thrown into prison. I know it's the blackest thing anybody could
charge me with, if they knew my life from beginning to end; and I should ne=
ver
have done it, if I had not been under an infatuation such as makes a man do
anything. What did it signify to me about the loss of the lawsuit? I was a
young bachelor - I had the world before me.'
'Yes,' said Mrs Transome, in a low
tone. 'It was a pity you didn't make another choice.'
'What would have become of you?' s=
aid
Jermyn, carried along a climax, like other self-justifiers. 'I had to think=
of
you. You would not have liked me to make another choice then.'
'Clearly,' said Mrs Transome, with
concentrated bitterness, but still quietly; 'the greater mistake was mine.'=
Egoism is usually stupid in a
dialogue; but Jermyn's did not make him so stupid that he did not feel the =
edge
of Mrs Transome's words. They increased his irritation.
'I hardly see that,' he rcplied, w=
ith
a slight laugh of scorn. 'You had an estate and a position to save, to go no
further. I remember very well what you said to me - ‘A clever lawyer =
can
do anything if he has the will; if it's impossible, he will make it possibl=
e.
And the property is sure to be Harold's some day.’ He was a baby then=
.'
'I remember most things a little t=
oo
well: you had better say at once what is your object in recalling them.'
'An object that is nothing more th=
an
justice. With the relation I stood in, it was not likely I should think mys=
elf
bound by all the forms that are made to bind strangers. I had often immense
trouble to raise the money necessary to pay off debts and carry on the affa=
irs;
and, as I said before, I had given up other lines of advancement which would
have been open to me if I had not stayed in this neighbourhood at a critical
time when I was fresh to the world. Anybody who knew the whole circumstances
would say that my being hunted and run down on the score of my past
transactions with regard to the family affairs, is an abominably unjust and
unnatural thing.'
Jermyn paused a moment, and then
added, 'At my time of life ... and with a family about me - and after what =
has
passed ... I should have thought there was nothing you would care more to p=
revent.'
'I do care. It makes me miserable.
That is the extent of my power - to feel miserable.'
'No, it is not the extent of your
power. You could save me if you would. It is not to be supposed that Harold
would go on against me ... if he knew the whole truth.'
Jermyn had sat down before he utte=
red
the last words. He had lowered his voice slightly. He had the air of one who
thought that he had prepared the way for an understanding. That a man with =
so
much sharpness, with so much suavity at command - a man who piqued himself =
on
his persuasiveness towards women, - should behave just as Jermyn did on this
occasion, would be surprising, but for the constant experience that temper =
and
selfish insensibility will defeat excellent gifts - will make a sensible pe=
rson
shout when shouting is out of place, and will make a polished man rude when=
his
polish might be of eminent use to him.
As Jermyn, sitting down and leaning
forward with an elbow on his knee, uttered his last words - 'if he knew the
whole truth' - a slight shock seemed to pass through Mrs Transome's hitherto
motionless body, followed by a sudden light in her eyes, as in an animal's
about to spring.
'And you expect me to tell him?' s=
he
said, not loudly, but yet with a clear metallic ring in her voice.
'Would it not be right for him to
know?' said Jermyn, in a more bland and persuasive tone than he had yet use=
d.
Perhaps some of the most terrible
irony of the human lot is this of a deep truth coming to be uttered by lips
that have no right to it.
'I will never tell him!' said Mrs
Transome, starting up, her whole frame thrilled with a passion that seemed
almost to make her young again. Her hands hung beside her clenched tightly,=
her
eyes and lips lost the helpless repressed bitterness of discontent, and see=
med
suddenly fed with energy. 'You reckon up your sacrifices for me: you have k=
ept
a good account of them, and it is needful; they are some of them what no one
else could guess or find out. But you made your sacrifices when they seemed
pleasant to you; when you told me they were your happiness; when you told me
that it was I who stooped, and I who bestowed favours.'
Jermyn rose too, and laid his hand=
on
the back of the chair. He had grown visibly paler, but seemed about to spea=
k.
'Don't speak!' Mrs Transome said p=
eremptorily.
'Don't open your lips again. You have said enough; I will speak now. I have
made sacrifices too, but it was when I knew that they were not my happiness=
. It
was after I saw that I had stooped - after I saw that your tenderness had
turned into calculation - after I saw that you cared for yourself only, and=
not
for me. I heard your explanations - of your duty in life - of our mutual
reputation - of a virtuous young lady attached to you. I bore it; I let
everything go; I shut my eyes; I might almost have let myself starve, rather
than have scenes of quarrel with the man I had loved, in which I must accuse
him of turning my love into a good bargain.' There was a slight tremor in M=
rs
Transome's voice in the last words, and for a moment she paused; but when s=
he
spoke again it seemed as if the tremor had frozen into a cutting icicle. 'I
suppose if a lover picked one's pocket, there's no woman would like to own =
it.
I don't say I was not afraid of you: I was afraid of you, and I know now I =
was
right.'
'Mrs Transome,' said Jermyn, white=
to
the lips, 'it is needless to say more. I withdraw any words that have offen=
ded
you.' 'You can't withdraw them. Can a man apologise for being a dastard? ...
And I have caused you to strain your conscience, have I? - it is I who have
sullied your purity? I should think the demons have more honour - they are =
not
so impudent to one another. I would not lose the misery of being a woman, n=
ow I
see what can be the baseness of a man. One must be a man - first to tell a
woman that her love has made her your debtor, and then ask her to pay you by
breaking the last poor threads between her and her son.'
'I do not ask it,' said Jermyn, wi=
th a
certain asperity. He was beginning to find this intolerable. The mere brute
strength of a masculine creature rebelled. He felt almost inclined to throt=
tle
the voice out of this woman.
'You do ask it: it is what you wou= ld like. I have had a terror on me lest evil should happen to you. From the fi= rst, after Harold came home, I had a horrible dread. It seemed as if murder might come between you - I didn't know what. I felt the horror of his not knowing= the truth. I might have been dragged at last, by my own feeling - by my own mem= ory - to tell him all, and make him as well as myself miserable, to save you.'<= o:p>
Again there was a slight tremor, a=
s if
at the remembrance of womanly tenderness and pity. But immediately she laun=
ched
forth again.
'But now you have asked me, I will
never tell him! Be ruined - no - do something more dastardly to save yourse=
lf.
If I sinned, my judgment went beforehand - that I should sin for a man like
you.'
Swiftly upon those last words Mrs
Transome passed out of the room. The softly-padded door closed behind her
making no noise, and Jermyn found himself alone.
For a brief space he stood still.
Human beings in moments of passionate reproach and denunciation, especially
when their anger is on their own account, are never so wholly in the right =
that
the person who has to wince cannot possibly protest against some
unreasonableness or unfairness in their outburst. And if Jermyn had been
capable of feeling that he had thoroughly merited this infliction, he would=
not
have uttered the words that drew it down on him. Men do not become penitent=
and
learn to abhor themselves by having their backs cut open with the lash; rat=
her,
they learn to abhor the lash. What Jermyn felt about Mrs Transome when she
disappeared was, that she was a furious woman - who would not do what he wa=
nted
her to do. And he was supported as to his justifiableness by the inward
repetition of what he had already said to her: it was right that Harold sho=
uld
know the truth. He did not take into account (how should he?) the exasperat=
ion
and loathing excited by his daring to urge the plea of right. A man who had
stolen the pyx, and got frightened when justice was at his heels, might feel
the sort of penitence which would induce him to run back in the dark and lay
the pyx where the sexton might find it; but if in doing so he whispered to =
the
Blessed Virgin that he was moved by considering the sacredness of all prope=
rty,
and the peculiar sacredness of the pyx, it is not to be believed that she w=
ould
like him the better for it. Indeed, one often seems to see why the saints
should prefer candles to words, especially from penitents whose skin is in
danger. Some salt of generosity would have made Jermyn conscious that he had
lost the citizenship which authorised him to plead the right; still more, t=
hat
his self-vindication to Mrs Transome would be like the exhibition of a
brand-mark, and only show that he was shame-proof. There is heroism even in=
the
circles of hell for fellow-sinners who cling to each other in the fiery
whirlwind and never recriminate. But these things, which are easy to discern
when they are painted for us on the large canvas of poetic story, become
confused and obscure even for well-read gentlemen when their affection for
themselves is alarmed by pressing details of actual experience. If their
comparison of instances is active at such times, it is chiefly in showing t=
hem
that their own case has subde distinctions from all other cases, which shou=
ld
free them from unmitigated condemnation.
And it was in this way with Matthew
Jermyn. So many things were more distinctly visible to him, and touched him
more acutely, than the effect of his acts or words on Mrs Transome's feelin=
gs!
In fact - he asked, with a touch of something that makes us all akin - was =
it
not preposterous, this excess of feeling on points which he himself did not
find powerfully moving? She had treated him most unreasonably. It would have
been right for her to do what he had - not asked, but only hinted at in a m=
ild
and interrogatory manner. But the clearest and most unpleasant result of the
interview was, that this right thing which he desired so much would certain=
ly
not be done for him by Mrs Transome.
As he was moving his arm from the
chair-back, and turning to take his hat, there was a boisterous noise in the
entrance-hall; the door of the small drawing-room, which had closed without
latching, was pushed open, and old Mr Transome appeared with a face of feeb=
le
delight, playing horse to little Harry, who roared and flogged behind him,
while Moro yapped in a puppy voice at their heels. But when Mr Transome saw
Jermyn in the room he stood still in the doorway, as if he did not know whe=
ther
entrance were permissible. The majority of his thoughts were but ravelled
threads of the past. The attorney came forward to shake hands with due
politeness, but the old man said, with a bewildered look, and in a hesitati=
ng
way -
'Mr Jermyn? - why - why - where is=
Mrs
Transome?'
Jermyn smiled his way out past the
unexpected group; and little Harry, thinking he had an eligible opportunity,
turned round to give a parting stroke on the stranger's coattails.
'Whichever way my days decline,
I felt and feel, though left alone=
,
His being working in mine own,
The footsteps of his life in mine.=
Dear friend, far off, my lost desi=
re,
So far, so near, in woe and weal;<= o:p>
O, loved the most when most I feel=
There is a lower and a higher!'
TENNYSON: In Memoriam.
AFTER that moming on which Esther
found herself reddened and confused by the sense of having made a distant
allusion to Felix Holt, she felt it impossible that she should even, as she=
had
sometimes intended, speak of him explicitly to Harold, in order to discuss =
the
probabilities as to the issue of his trial. She was certain she could not d=
o it
without betraying emotion, and there were very complex reasons in Esther's =
mind
why she could not bear that Harold should detect her sensibility on this
subject. It was not only all the fibres of maidenly pride and reserve, of a
bashfulness undefinably peculiar towards this man, who, while much older th=
an
herself, and bearing the stamp of an experience quite hidden from her
imagination, was taking strongly the aspect of a lover - it was not only th=
is
exquisite kind of shame which was at work within her: there was another sor=
t of
susceptibility in Esther, which her present circumstances tended to encoura=
ge,
though she had come to regard it as not at all lofty, but rather as somethi=
ng
which condemned her to littleness in comparison with a mind she had learned=
to
venerate. She knew quite well that, to Harold Transome, Felix Holt was one =
of
the common people who could come into question in no other than a public li=
ght.
She had a native capability for discerning that the sense of ranks and degr=
ees
has its repulsions corresponding to the repulsions dependent on difference =
of
race and colour; and she remembered her own impressions too well not to for=
esee
that it would come on Harold Transome as a shock, if he suspected there had
been any love-passages between her and this young man, who to him was of co=
urse
no more than any other intelligent member of the working class. 'To him,' s=
aid
Esther to herself, with a reaction of her newer, better pride, 'who has not=
had
the sort of intercourse in which Felix Holt's cultured nature would have
asserted its superiority.' And in her fluctuations on this matter, she found
herself mentally protesting that, whatever Harold might think, there was a
light in which he was vulgar compared with Felix. Felix had ideas and motiv=
es
which she did not believe that Harold could understand. More than all, there
was this test: she herself had no sense of inferiority and just subjection =
when
she was with Harold Transome; there were even points in him for which she f=
elt
a touch, not of angry, but of playful scorn; whereas with Felix she had alw=
ays
a sense of dependence and possible illumination. In those large, grave, can=
did
grey eyes of his, love seemed something that belonged to the high enthusias=
m of
life, such as might now be for ever shut out from her.
All the same, her vanity winced at=
the
idea that Harold should discern what, from his point of view, would seem li=
ke a
degradation of her taste and refinement. She could not help being gratified=
by
all the manifestations from those around her that she was thought thoroughly
fitted for a high position - could not help enjoying, with more or less
keenness, a rehearsal of that demeanour amongst luxuries and dignities which
had often been a part of her daydreams, and the rehearsal included the
reception of more and more emphatic attentions from Harold, and of an
effusiveness in his manners, which, in proportion as it would have been off=
ensive
if it had appeared earlier, became flattering as the effect of a growing
acquaintance and daily contact. It comes in so many forms in this life of o=
urs
- the knowledge that there is something sweetest and noblest of which we
despair, and the sense of something present that solicits us with an immedi=
ate
and easy indulgence. And there is a pernicious falsity in the pretence that=
a
woman's love lies above the range of such temptations.
Day after day Esther had an arm
offered her, had very beaming looks upon her, had opportunities for a great
deal of light, airy talk, in which she knew herself to be charming, and had=
the
attractive interest of noticing Harold's practical cleverness - the masculi=
ne
ease with which he governed everybody and administered everything about him,
without the least harshness, and with a facile good-nature which yet was not
weak. In the background, too, there was the ever-present consideration, tha=
t if
Harold Transome wished to marry her, and she accepted him, the problem of h=
er lot
would be more easily solved than in any other way. It was difficult by any
theory of providence, or consideration of results, to see a course which she
could call duty: if something would come and urge itself strongly as pleasu=
re,
and save her from the effort to find a clue of principle amid the labyrinth=
ine
confusions of right and possession, the promise could not but seem alluring.
And yet, this life at Transome Court was not the life of her daydreams: the=
re
was dulness already in its ease, and in the absence of high demand; and the=
re
was the vague consciousness that the love of this not unfascinating man who
hovered about her gave an air of moral mediocrity to all her prospects. She
would not have been able perhaps to define this impression; but somehow or
other by this elevation of fortune it seemed that the higher ambition which=
had
begun to spring in her was for ever nullified. All life seemed cheapened; a=
s it
might seem to a young student who, having believed that to gain a certain
degree he must write a thesis in which he would bring his powers to bear wi=
th
memorable effect, suddenly ascertained that no thesis was expected, but the=
sum
(in English money) of twenty-seven pounds ten shillings and sixpence.
After all, she was a woman, and co=
uld
not make her own lot. As she had once said to Felix, 'A woman must choose
meaner things, because only meaner things are offered to her.' Her lot is m=
ade
for her by the love she accepts. And Esther began to think that her lot was
being made for her by the love that was surrounding her with the influence =
of a
garden on a summer morning.
Harold, on his side, was conscious
that the interest of his wooing was not standing still. He was beginning to
think it a conquest, in which it would be disappointing to fail, even if th=
is
fair nymph had no claim to the estate. He would have liked - and yet he wou=
ld
not have liked - that just a slight shadow of doubt as to his success shoul=
d be
removed. There was something about Esther that he did not altogether
understand. She was clearly a woman that could be governed; she was too
charming for him to fear that she would ever be obstinate or interfering. Y=
et
there was a lightning that shot out of her now and then, which seemed the s=
ign
of a dangerous judgment; as if she inwardly saw something more admirable th=
an
Harold Transome. Now, to be perfectly charming, a woman should not see this=
.
One fine February day, when already
the golden and purple crocuses were out on the terrace - one of those
flattering days which sometimes precede the north-east winds of March, and =
make
believe that the coming spring will be enjoyable - a very striking group, of
whom Esther and Harold made a part, came out at mid-day to walk upon the gr=
avel
at Transome Court. They did not, as usual, go towards the pleasure-grounds =
on
the eastern side, because Mr Lingon, who was one of them, was going home, a=
nd
his road lay through the stone gateway into the park.
Uncle Lingon, who disliked painful
confidences, and preferred knowing 'no mischief of anybody', had not object=
ed
to being let into the important secret about Esther, and was sure at once t=
hat
the whole affair, instead of being a misfortune, was a piece of excellent l=
uck.
For himself, he did not profess to be a judge of women, but she seemed to h=
ave
all the 'points', and carry herself as well as Arabella did, which was sayi=
ng a
good deal. Honest Jack Lingon's first impressions quickly became traditions,
which no subsequent evidence could disturb. He was fond of his sister, and
seemed never to be conscious of any change for the worse in her since their
early time. He considered that man a beast who said anything unpleasant abo=
ut
the persons to whom he was attached. It was not that he winked; his wide-op=
en
eyes saw nothing but what his easy disposition inclined him to see. Harold =
was
a good fellow; a clever chap; and Esther's peculiar fitness for him, under =
all
the circumstances, was extraordinary: it reminded him of something in the
classics, though he couldn't think exactly what - in fact, a memory was a n=
asty
uneasy thing. Esther was always glad when the old rector came. With an odd
contrariety to her former niceties she liked his rough attire and careless
frank speech; they were something not point device that seemed to connect t=
he
life of Transome Court with that rougher, commoner world where her home had
been.
She and Harold were walking a litt=
le
in advance of the rest of the party, who were retarded by various causes. O=
ld
Mr Transome, wrapped in a cloth cloak trimmed with sable, and with a soft w=
arm
cap also trimmed with fur on his head, had a shuffling uncertain walk. Litt=
le
Harry was dragging a toy-vehicle, on the seat of which he had insisted on t=
ying
Moro, with a piece of scarlet drapery round him, making him look like a
barbaric prince in a chariot. Moro, having little imagination, objected to
this, and barked with feeble snappishness as the tyrannous lad ran forward,
then whirled the chariot round, and ran back to 'Gappa', then came to a dead
stop, which overset the chariot, that he might watch Uncle Lingon's water-s=
paniel
run for the hurled stick and bring it in his mouth. Nimrod kept close to his
old master's legs, glancing with much indifference at this youthful ardour
about sticks - he had 'gone through all that'; and Dominic walked by, looki=
ng
on blandly, and taking care both of young and old. Mrs Transome was not the=
re.
Looking back and seeing that they =
were
a good deal in advance of the rest, Esther and Harold paused.
'What do you think about thinning =
the
trees over there?' said Harold, pointing with his stick. 'I have a bit of a
notion that if they were divided into clumps so as to show the oaks beyond,=
it
would be a great improvement. It would give an idea of extent that is lost =
now.
And there might be some very pretty clumps got out of those mixed trees. Wh=
at
do you think?'
'I should think it would be an
improvemcnt. One likes a ‘beyond’ everywhere. But I never heard=
you
express yourself so dubiously,' said Esther, looking at him rather archly: =
'you
generally see things so clearly, and are so convinced, that I shall begin to
feel quite tottering if I find you in uncertainty. Pray don't begin to be
doubtful; it is so infectious.'
'You think me a great deal too sur=
e -
too confident?' said Harold.
'Not at all. It is an immense
advantage to know your own will, when you always mean to have it.'
'But suppose I couldn't get it, in
spite of meaning?' said Harold, with a beaming inquiry in his eyes.
'O then,' said Esther, turning her
head aside, carelessly, as if she were considering the distant birch-stems,
'you` would bear it quite easily, as you did your not getting into parliame=
nt.
You would know you could get it another time - or get something else as goo=
d.'
'The fact is,' said Harold, moving=
on
a little, as if he did not want to be quite overtaken by the others, 'you
consider me a fat, fatuous, self-satisfied fellow.'
'O there are degrees,' said Esther,
with a silvery laugh; 'you have just as much of those qualities as is becom=
ing.
There are different styles. You are perfect in your own.'
'But you prefer another style, I
suspect. A more submissive, tearful, devout worshipper, who would offer his
incense with more trembling.'
'You are quite mistaken,' said Est=
her,
still lightly. 'I find I am very wayward. When anything is offered to me, it
seems that I prize it less, and don't want to have it.'
Here was a very baulking answer, b=
ut
in spite of it Harold could not help believing that Esther was very far from
objecting to the sort of incense he had been offering just then.
'I have often read that that is in
human nature,' she went on, 'yet it takes me by surprise in myself. I suppo=
se,'
she added, smiling, 'I didn't think of myself as human nature.'
'I don't confess to the same
waywardness,' said Harold. 'I am very fond of things that I can get. And I
never longed much for anything out of my reach. Whatever I feel sure of get=
ting
I like all the better. I think half those priggish maxims about human natur=
e in
the lump are no more to be relied on than universal remedies. There are
different sorts of human nature. Some are given to discontent and longing,
others to securing and enjoying. And let me tell you, the discontented long=
ing
style is unpleasant to live with.'
Harold nodded with a meaning smile=
at
Esther.
'O, I assure you I have abjured all
admiration for it,' she said, smiling up at him in return.
She was remembering the schooling
Felix had given her about her Byronic heroes, and was inwardly adding a thi=
rd
sort of human nature to those varieties which Harold had mentioned. He
naturally supposed that he might take the abjuration to be entirely in his =
own
favour. And his face did look very pleasant; she could not help liking him,
although he was certainly too particular about sauces, gravies, and wines, =
and
had a way of virtually measuring the value of everything by the contributio=
n it
made to his own pleasure. His very good-nature was unsympathetic: it never =
came
from any thorough understanding or deep respect for what was in the mind of=
the
person he obliged or indulged; it was like his kindness to his mother - an =
arrangement
of his for the happiness of others, which, if they were sensible, ought to
succeed. And an inevitable comparison which haunted her, showed her the same
quality in his political views: the utmost enjoyment of his own advantages =
was
the solvent that blended pride in his family and position, with the adhesio=
n to
changes that were to obliterate tradition and melt down enchased gold heirl=
ooms
into plating for the egg-spoons of 'the people.' It is terrible - the keen
bright eye of a woman when it has once been turned with admiration on what =
is
severely true; but then, the severely true rarely comes within its range of
vision. Esther had had an unusuaI illumination; Harold did not know how, bu=
t he
discerned enough of the effect to make him more cautious than he had ever b=
een
in his life before. That caution would have prevented him just then from
following up the question as to the style of person Esther would think plea=
sant
to live with, even if Uncle Lingon had not joined them, as he did, to talk
about soughing tiles; saying presently that he should turn across the grass=
and
get on to the Home Farm, to have a look at the improvements that Harold was
making with such racing speed.
'But you know, lad,' said the rect=
or,
as they paused at the expected parting, 'you can't do everything in a hurry.
The wheat must have time to grow, even when you've reformed all us old Tori=
es
off the face of the ground. Dash it! now the election's over: I'm an old To=
ry
again. You see, Harold, a Radical won't do for the county. At another elect=
ion,
you must be on the look-out for a borough where they want a bit of blood. I
should have liked you uncommonly to stand for the county; and a Radical of =
good
family squares well enough with a new-fashioned Tory like young Debarry; but
you see, these riots - it's been a nasty business. I shall have my hair com=
bed
at the sessions for a year to come. But hey-day ! What dame is this, with a
small boy? - not one of my parishioners?'
Harold and Esther turned, and saw =
an
elderly woman advancing with a tiny red-haired boy, scantily attired as to =
his
jacket, which merged into a small sparrow-tail a little higher than his wai=
st,
but muffled as to his throat with a blue woollen comforter. Esther recognis=
ed
the pair too well, and felt very uncomfortable. We are so pitiably in
subjection to all sorts of vanity - even the very vanities we are practical=
ly
renouncing! And in spite of the almost solemn memories connected with Mrs H=
olt,
Esther's first shudder was raised by the idea of what things this woman wou=
ld
say, and by the mortification of having Felix in any way represented by his
mother.
As Mrs Holt advanced into closer
observation, it became more evident that she was attired with a view not to
charm the eye, but rather to afflict it with all that expression of woe whi=
ch
belongs to very rusty bombazine and the limpest state of false hair. Still,=
she
was not a woman to lose the sense of her own value, or become abject in her
manners under any circumstances of depression; and she had a peculiar sense=
on
the present occasion that she was justly relying on the force of her own
character and judgment, in independence of anything that Mr Lyon or the
masterful Felix would have said, if she had thought them worthy to know of =
her
undertaking. She curtsied once, as if to the entire group, now including ev=
en
the dogs, who showed various degrees of curiosity, especially as to what ki=
nd
of game the smaller animal Job might prove to be after due investigation; a=
nd
then she proceeded at once towards Esther, who, in spite of her annoyance, =
took
her arm from Harold's, said, 'How do you do, Mrs Holt?' very kindly, and
stooped to pat little Job.
'Yes - you know him, Miss Lyon,' s=
aid
Mrs Holt, in that tone which implies that the conversation is intended for =
the
edification of the company generally; 'you know the orphin child, as Felix
brought home for me that am his mother to take care of. And it's what I've =
done
- nobody more so - though it's trouble is my reward.'
Esther had raised herself again, to
stand in helpless endurance of whatever might be coming. But by this time y=
oung
Harry, struck even more than the dogs by the appearance of Job Tudge, had c=
ome
round dragging his chariot, and placed himself close to the pale child, who=
m he
exceeded in height and breadth, as well as in depth of colouring. He looked
into Job's eyes, peeped round at the tail of his jacket and pulled it a lit=
tle,
and then, taking off the tiny cloth-cap, observed with much interest the ti=
ght
red curls which had been hidden underneath it. Job looked at his inspector =
with
the round blue eyes of astonishment, until Harry, purely by way of experime=
nt,
took a bon-bon from a fantastic wallet which hung over his shoulder, and
applied the test to Job's lips. The result was satisfactory to both. Every =
one
had been watching this small comedy, and when Job crunched the bon-bon while
Harry looked down at him inquiringly and patted his back, there was general
laughter except on the part of Mrs Holt, who was shaking her head slowly, a=
nd
slapping the back of her left hand with the painful patience of a tragedian
whose part is in abeyance to an ill-timed introduction of the humorous.
'I hope Job's cough has been better
lately,' said Esther, in mere uncertainty as to what it would be desirable =
to
say or do.
'I daresay you hope so, Miss Lyon,'
said Mrs Holt, looking at the distant landscape. 'I've no reason to disbeli=
eve
but what you wish well to the child, and to Felix, and to me. I'm sure nobo=
dy
has any occasion to wish me otherways. My character will bear inquiry, and =
what
you, as are young, don't know, others can tell you. That was what I said to
myself when I made up my mind to come here and see you, and ask you to get =
me
the freedom to speak to Mr Transome. I said, whatever Miss Lyon may be now,=
in
the way of being lifted up among great people, she's our minister's daughte=
r,
and was not above coming to my house and walking with my son Felix - though
I'll not deny he made that figure on the Lord's Day, that'll perhaps go aga=
inst
him with the judge, if anybody thinks well to tell him.'
Here Mrs Holt paused a moment, as =
with
a mind arrested by the painful image it had called up.
Esther's face was glowing, when Ha=
rold
glanced at her; and seeing this, he was considerate enough to address Mrs H=
olt
instead of her.
'You are then the mother of the
unfortunate young man who is in prison?'
'Indeed, I am, sir,' said Mrs Holt,
feeling that she was now in deep water. 'It's not likely I should claim him=
if
he wasn't my own; though it's not by my will, nor my advice, sir, that he e=
ver
walked; for I gave him none but good. But if everybody's son was guided by
their mothers, the world 'ud be different; my son is not worse than many
another woman's son, and that in Treby, whatever they may say as haven't got
their sons in prison. And as to his giving up the doctoring, and then stopp=
ing
his father's medicines, I know it's bad - that I know - but it's me as has =
had
to suffer, and it's me a king and parliament 'ud consider, if they meant to=
do
the right thing, and had anybody to make it known to 'em. And as for the
rioting and killing the constable - my son said most plain to me he never m=
eant
it, and there was his bit of potato-pie for his dinner getting dry by the f=
ire,
the whole blessed time as I sat and never knew what was coming on me. And i=
t's
my opinion as if great people make elections to get themselves into parliam=
ent,
and there's riot and murder to do it, they ought to see as the widow and the
widow's son doesn't suffer for it. I well know my duty: and I read my Bible;
and I know in Jude where it's been stained with the dried tulip-leaves this
many a year, as you're told not to rail at your betters if they was the dev=
il
himself; nor will I; but this I do say, if it's three Mr Transomes instead =
of
one as is listening to me, as there's them ought to go to the king and get =
him
to let off my son Felix.'
This speech, in its chief points, =
had
been deliberately prepared. Mrs Holt had set her face like a flint, to make=
the
gentry know their duty as she knew hers: her defiant, defensive tone was du=
e to
the consciousness, not only that she was braving a powerful audience, but t=
hat
she was daring to stand on the strong basis of her own judgment in oppositi=
on
to her son's. Her proposals had been waived off by Mr Lyon and Felix; but s=
he
had long had the feminine conviction that if she could 'get to speak' in the
right quarter, things might be different. The daring bit of impromptu about=
the
three Mr Transomes was immediately suggested by a movement of old Mr Transo=
me
to the foreground in a line with Mr Lingon and Harold; his furred and unusu=
al
costume appearing to indicate a mysterious dignity which she must hasten to
include in her appeal.
And there were reasons that none c=
ould
have foreseen, which made Mrs Holt's remonstrance immediately effective. Wh=
ile
old Mr Transome stared, very much like a waxen image in which the expressio=
n is
a failure, and the rector, accustomed to female parishioners and complainan=
ts,
looked on with a smile in his eyes, Harold said at once, with cordial kindn=
ess
-
'I think you are quite right, Mrs
Holt. And for my part, I am determined to do my best for your son, both in =
the
witness-box and elsewhere. Take comfort; if it is necessary, the king shall=
be
appealed to. And rely upon it, I shall bear you in mind, as Felix Holt's
mother.'
Rapid thoughts had convinced Harold
that in this way he was best commending himself to Esther.
'Well, sir,' said Mrs Holt, who was
not going to pour forth disproportionate thanks, 'I'm glad to hear you spea=
k so
becoming; and if you had been the king himself, I should have made free to =
tell
you my opinion. For the Bible says, the king's favour is towards a wise
servant; and it's reasonable to think he'd make all the more account of the=
m as
have never been in service, or took wage, which I never did, and never thou=
ght
of my son doing; and his father left money, meaning otherways, so as he mig=
ht
have been a doctor on horseback at this very minute, instead of being in
prison.'
'What! was he regularly apprentice=
d to
a doctor?' said Mr Lingon, who had not understood this before.
'Sir, he was, and most clever, like
his father before him, only he turned contrairy. But as for harming anybody,
Felix never meant to harm anybody but himself and his mother, which he
certainly did in respect of his clothes, and taking to be a low working man,
and stopping my living respectable, more particular by the pills, which had=
a
sale, as you may be sure they suited people's insides. And what folks can n=
ever
have boxes enough of to swallow, I should think you have a right to sell. A=
nd there's
many and many a text for it, as I've opened on without ever thinking; for if
it's true, ‘Ask, and you shall have,’ I should think it's truer
when you're willing to pay for what you have.'
This was a little too much for Mr
Lingon's gravity; he exploded, and Harold could not help following him. Mrs
Holt fixed her eyes on the distance, and slapped the back of her left hand
again: it might be that this kind of mirth was the peculiar effect produced=
by
forcible truth on high and worldly people who were neither in the Independe=
nt
nor the General Baptist connection.
'I'm sure you must be tired with y=
our
long walk, and little Job too,' said Esther, by way of breaking this awkward
scene. 'Aren't you, Job?' she added, stooping to caress the child, who was =
timidly
shrinking from Harry's invitation to him to pull the little chariot - Harry=
's
view being that Job would make a good horse for him to beat, and would run
faster than Gappa.
'It's well you can feel for the or=
phin
child, Miss Lyon,' said Mrs Holt, choosing an indirect answer rather than to
humble herself by confessing fatigue before gentlemen who seemed to be taki=
ng
her too lightly. 'I didn't believe but what you'd behave pretty, as you alw=
ays
did to me, though everybody used to say you held yourself high. But I'm sure
you never did to Felix, for you let him sit by you at the Free School before
all the town, and him with never a bit of stock round his neck. And it shows
you saw that in him worth taking notice of; - and it is but right, if you k=
now
my words are true, as you should speak for him to the gentleman.'
'I assure you, Mrs Holt,' said Har=
old,
coming to the rescue - 'I assure you that enough has been said to make me u=
se
my best efforts for your son. And now, pray, go on to the house with the li=
ttle
boy and take some rcst. Dominic show Mrs Holt the way, and ask Mrs Hickes to
make her comfortable, and see that somebody takes her back to Treby in the
buggy.'
'I will go back with Mrs Holt,' sa=
id
Esther, making an effort against herself.
'No, pray,' said Harold, with that
kind of entreaty which is rcally a decision. 'Let Mrs Holt have time to res=
t.
We shall have returned, and you can see her before she goes. We will say
good-bye for the present, Mrs Holt.'
The poor woman was not sorry to ha=
ve
the prospect of rest and food, especially for 'the orphin child', of whom s=
he
was tenderly careful. Like many women who appear to others to have a mascul=
ine
decisiveness of tone, and to themselves to have a masculine force of mind, =
and
who come into severe collision with sons arrived at the masterful stage, she
had the maternal cord vibrating strongly within her towards all tiny childr=
en.
And when she saw Dominic pick up Job and hoist him on his arm for a little
while, by way of making acquaintance, she regarded him with an approval whi=
ch
she had not thought it possible to extend to a foreigner. Since Dominic was
going, Harry and old Mr Transome chose to follow. Uncle Lingon shook hands =
and
turned off across the grass, and thus Esther was left alone with Harold.
But there was a new consciousness
between them. Harold's quick perception was least likely to be slow in seiz=
ing
indications of anything that might affect his position with regard to Esthe=
r.
Some time before, his jealousy had been awakened to the possibility that be=
fore
she had known him she had been deeply interested in some one else. Jealousy=
of
all sorts - whether for our fortune or our love - is ready at combinations,=
and
likely even to outstrip the fact. And Esther's renewed confusion, united wi=
th
her silence about Felix, which now first seemed noteworthy, and with Mrs Ho=
lt's
graphic details as to her walking with him and letting him sit by her before
all the town, were grounds not merely for a suspicion, but for a conclusion=
in
Harold's mind. The effect of this, which he at once regarded as a discovery,
was rather different from what Esther had anticipated. It seemed to him that
Felix was the least formidable person that he could have found out as an ob=
ject
of interest antecedent to himself. A young workman who had got himself thro=
wn
into prison, whatever recommendations he might have had for a girl at a
romantic age in the dreariness of Dissenting society at Treby, could hardly=
be
considered by Harold in the light of a rival. Esther was too clever and
tasteful a woman to make a ballad heroine of herself, by bestowing her beau=
ty
and her lands on this lowly lover. Besides, Harold cherished the belief tha=
t,
at the present time, Esther was more wisely disposed to bestow these things=
on
another lover in every way eligible. But in two directions this discovery h=
ad a
determining effect on him; his curiosity was stirred to know exactly what t=
he
relation with Felix had been, and he was solicitous that his behaviour with
regard to this young man should be such as to enhance his own merit in Esth=
er's
eyes. At the same time he was not inclined to any euphemisms that would see=
m by
any possibility to bring Felix into the lists with humself.
Naturally, when they were left alo=
ne,
it was Harold who spoke first. 'I should think there's a good deal of worth=
in
this young fellow - this Holt, notwithstanding the mistakes he has made. A
little queer and conceited, perhaps; but that is usually the case with men =
of
his class when they are at all superior to their fellows.'
'Felix Holt is a highly cultivated
man; he is not at all conceited,' said Esther. The different kinds of pride
within her were coalescing now. She was aware that there had been a betraya=
l.
'Ah?' said Harold, not quite liking
the tone of this answer. 'This eccentricity is a sort of fanaticism, then? -
this giving up being a doctor on horseback, as the old woman calls it, and
taking to - let me see - watchmaking, isn't it?'
'If it is eccentricity to be very =
much
better than other men, he is certainly eccentric; and fanatical too, if it =
is
fanatical to renounce all small selfish motives for the sake of a great and
unselfish one. I never knew what nobleness of character really was before I
knew Felix Holt!'
It seemed to Esther as if, in the
excitement of this moment, her own words were bringing her a clearer
revelation.
'God bless me!' said Harold, in a =
tone
of surprised yet thorough belief, and looking in Esther's face. 'I wish you=
had
talked to me about this before.'
Esther at that moment looked perfe=
ctly
beautiful, with an expression which Harold had never hitherto seen. All the
confusion which had depended on personal feeling had given way before the s=
ense
that she had to speak the truth about the man whom she felt to be admirable=
.
'I think I didn't see the meaning =
of
anything fine - I didn't even see the value of my father's character, until=
I
had been taught a little by hearing what Felix Holt said, and seeing that h=
is
life was like his words.'
Harold looked and listened, and fe=
lt
his slight jealousy allayed rather than heightened. 'This is not like love,=
' he
said to himself, with some satisfaction. With all due regard to Harold
Transome, he was one of those men who are liable to make the greater mistak=
es
about a particular woman's feelings, because they pique themselves on a pow=
er
of interpretation derived from much experience. Experience is enlightening,=
but
with a difference. Experiments on live animals may go on for a long period,=
and
yet the fauna on which they are made may be limited. There may be a passion=
in
the mind of a woman which precipitates her, not along the path of easy
beguilement, but into a great leap away from it. Harold's experience had not
taught him this; and Esther's enthusiasm about Felix Holt did not seem to h=
im
to be dangerous.
'He's quite an apostolic sort of
fellow, then,' was the self-quieting answer he gave to her last words. 'He
didn't look like that; but I had only a short interview with him, and I was
given to understand that he refused to see me in prison. I believe he's not
very well inclined towards me. But you saw a great deal of him, I suppose; =
and
your testimony to any one is enough for me,' said Harold, lowering his voice
rather tenderly. 'Now I know what your opinion is, I shall spare no effort =
on
behalf of such a young man. In fact, I had come to the same resolution befo=
re,
but your wish would make difficult things easy '
After that energetic speech of
Esther's, as often happens the tears had just suffused her eyes. It was not=
hing
more than might have been expected in a tender-hearted woman considering Fe=
lix
Holt's circumstances, and the tears only made more lovely the look with whi=
ch
she met Harold's when he spoke so kindly She felt pleased with him - she was
open to the fallacious delight of being assured that she had power over him=
to make
him do what she liked, and quite forgot the many impressions which had
convinced her that Harold had a padded yoke ready for the neck of every man,
woman, and child that depended on him.
After a short silence, they were
getting near the stone gateway, and Harold said, with an air of intimate
consultation -
'What could we do for this young m=
an,
supposing he were let off? I shall send a letter with fifty pounds to the o=
ld
woman to-morrow. I ought to have done it before, but it really slipped my
memory, amongst the many things that have occupied me lately. But this young
man - what do you think would be the best thing we could do for him, if he =
gets
at large again? He should be put in a position where his qualities could be
more telling.'
Esther was recovering her liveline=
ss a
little, and was disposed to encourage it for the sake of veiling other
feelings, about which she felt renewed reticence, now that the overpowering
influence of her enthusiasm was past. She was rather wickedly amused and
scornful at Harold's misconceptions and ill-placed intentions of patronage.=
'You are hopelessly in the dark,' =
she
said, with a light laugh and toss of her head. 'What would you offer Felix
Holt? a place in the Excise? You might as well think of offering it to John=
the
Baptist. Felix has chosen his lot. He means always to be a poor man.'
'Means? Yes,' said Harold, slightly
piqued, 'but what a man means usually depends on what happens. I mean to be=
a
commoner; but a peerage might present itself under acceptable circumstances=
.'
'O there is no sum in proportion t=
o be
done there,' said Esther, again gaily. 'As you are to a peerage, so is not
Felix Holt to any offer an advantage that you could imagine for him.'
'You must think him fit for any
position - the first in the county.'
'No, I don't,' said Esther shaking=
her
head mischievously. 'I think him too high for it.'
'I see you can be ardent in your
admiration.'
'Yes, it is my champagne; you know=
I
don't like the other kind.'
'That would be satisfactory if one
were sure of getting your admiration,' said Harold, leading her up to the
terrace, and amongst the crocuses, from whence they had a fine view of the =
park
and river. They stood still near the east parapet, and saw the dash of ligh=
t on
the water, and the pencilled shadows of the trees on the grassy lawn.
'Would it do as well to admire you,
instead of being worthy to be admired?' said Harold, turning his eyes from =
that
landscape to Esther's face.
'It would be a thing to be put up
with,' said Esther, smiling at him rather roguishly. 'But you are not in th=
at
state of self-despair.'
'Well, I am conscious of not having
those severe virtues that you have been praising.'
'That is true. You are quite in
another genre.'
'A woman would not find me a tragic
hero.'
'O, no! She must dress for genteel
comedy - such as your mother once described to me - where the most thrilling
event is the drawing of a handsome cheque.'
'You are a naughty fairy,' said
Harold, daring to press Esther's hand a little more closely to him, and dra=
wing
her down the eastern steps into the pleasure-ground, as if he were unwillin=
g to
give up the conversation. 'Confess that you are disgusted with my want of
romance.'
'I shall not confess to being disgusted. I shall ask you to confess that you are not a romantic figure.'<= o:p>
'I am a little too stout.'
'For romance - yes. At least you m=
ust
find security for not getting stouter.'
'And I don't look languishing enou=
gh?'
'O yes - rather too much so - at a
fine cigar.'
'And I am not in danger of committ=
ing
suicide?'
'No; you are a widower.'
Harold did not reply immediately to
this last thrust of Esther's. She had uttered it with innocent thoughtlessn=
ess
from the playful suggestions of the moment; but it was a fact that Harold's
previous married life had entered strongly into her impressions about him. =
The
presence of Harry made it inevitable. Harold took the allusion of Esther's =
as
an indication that his quality of widower was a point that made against him;
and after a brief silence he said, in an altered, more serious tone -
'You don't suppose, I hope, that a=
ny
other woman has ever held the place that you could hold in my life?'
Esther began to tremble a little, =
as
she always did when the love-talk between them seemed getting serious. She =
only
gave the rather stumbling answer, 'How so?' 'Harry's mother had been a slav=
e -
was bought, in fact.'
It was impossible for Harold to
preconceive the effect this had on Esther. His natural disqualification for
judging of a girl's feelings was heightened by the blinding effect of an
exclusive object - which was to assure her that her own place was peculiar =
and
supreme. Hitherto Esther's acquaintance with Oriental love was derived chie=
fly
from Byronic poems, and this had not sufficed to adjust her mind to a new
story, where the Giaour concerned was giving her his arm. She was unable to
speak; and Harold went on -
'Though I am close on thirty-five,=
I
never met with a woman at all like you before. There are new eras in one's =
life
that are equivalent to youth - are something better than youth. I was never=
an
aspirant till I knew you.'
Esther was still silent.
'Not that I dare to call myself th=
at.
I am not so confident a personage as you imagine. I am necessarily in a pai=
nful
position for a man who has any feeling.'
Here at last Harold had stirred the
right fibre. Esther's generosity seized at once the whole meaning implied in
that last sentence. She had a fine sensibility to the line at which flirtat=
ion
must cease; and she was now pale, and shaken with feelings she had not yet
defined for herself.
'Do not let us speak of difficult
things any more now,' she said, with gentle seriousness. 'I am come into a =
new
world of late, and have to learn life all over again. Let us go in. I must =
see
poor Mrs Holt again, and my little friend Job.'
She paused at the glass door that
opened on the terrace, and entered there, while Harold went round to the
stables.
When Esther had been upstairs and
descended again into the large entrance-hall, she found its stony spaciousn=
ess
made lively by human figures extremely unlike the statues. Since Harry insi=
sted
on playing with Job again, Mrs Holt and her orphan, after dining, had just =
been
brought to this delightful scene for a game at hide-and-seek, and for
exhibiting the climbing powers of the two pet squirrels. Mrs Holt sat on a =
stool,
in singular relief against the pedestal of the Apollo, while Dominic and De=
nner
(otherwise Mrs Hickes) bore her company; Harry, in his bright red and purpl=
e,
flitted about like a great tropic bird after the sparrow-tailed Job, who hid
himself with much intelligence behind the scagliola pillars and the pedesta=
ls;
while one of the squirrels perched itself on the head of the tallest statue,
and the other was already peeping down from among the heavy stuccoed angels=
on
the ceiling, near the summit of a pillar.
Mrs Holt held on her lap a basket
filled with good things for Job, and seemed much soothed by pleasant company
and excellent treatment. As Esther, descending softly and unobserved, leaned
over the stone bannisters and looked at the scene for a minute or two, she =
saw
that Mrs Holt's attention, having been directed to the squirrel which had
scampered on to the head of the Silenus carrying the infant Bacchus, had be=
en
drawn downward to the tiny babe looked at with so much affection by the rat=
her
ugly and hairy gentleman, of whom she nevertheless spoke with reserve as of=
one
who possibly belonged to the Transome family.
'It's most pretty to see its little
limbs, and the gentleman holding it. I should think he was amiable by his l=
ook;
but it was odd he should have his likeness took without any clothes. Was he
Transome by name?' (Mrs Holt suspected that there might be a mild madness in
the family.)
Denner, peering and smiling quietl=
y,
was about to reply, when she was prevented by the appearance of old Mr Tran=
some,
who since his walk had been having 'forty winks' on the sofa in the library,
and now came out to look for Harry. He had doffed his furred cap and cloak,=
but
in lying down to sleep he had thrown over his shoulders a soft Oriental sca=
rf
which Harold had given him, and this still hung over his scanty white hair =
and
down to his knees, held fast by his wooden-looking arms and laxly clasped
hands, which fell in front of him.
This singular appearance of an
undoubted Transome fitted exactly into Mrs Holt's thought at the moment. It=
lay
in the probabilities of things that gentry's intellects should be peculiar:
since they had not to get their own living, the good Lord might have econom=
ised
in their case that common sense which others were so much more in need of; =
and
in the shuffling figure before her she saw a descendant of the gentleman who
had chosen to be represented without his clothes - all the more eccentric w=
here
there were the means of buying the best. But these oddities 'said nothing' =
in
great folks, who were powerful in high quarters all the same. And Mrs Holt =
rose
and curtsied with a proud respect, precisely as she would have done if Mr
Transome had looked as wise as Lord Burleigh.
'I hope I'm in no ways taking a
liberty, sir,' she began, while the old gentleman looked at her with bland
feebleness; 'I'm not that woman to sit anywhere out of my own home without
inviting, and pressing too. But I was brought here to wait, because the lit=
tle
gentleman wanted to play with the orphin child.'
'Very glad, my good woman - sit do=
wn -
sit down,' said Mr Transome, nodding and smiling between his clauses. 'Nice
little boy. Your grandchild?'
'Indeed, sir, no,' said Mrs Holt,
continuing to stand. Quite apart from any awe of Mr Transome - sitting down,
she felt, would be a too great familiarity with her own pathetic importance=
on
this extra and unlooked-for occasion. 'It's not me has any grandchild, nor =
ever
shall have, though most fit. But with my only son saying he'll never be
married, and in prison besides, and some saying he'll be transported, you m=
ay
see yourself - though a gentleman - as there isn't much chance of my having
grandchildren of my own. And this is old Master Tudge's grandchild, as my o=
wn
Felix took to for pity because he was sickly and clemm'd, and I was noways
against it, being of a tender heart. For I'm a widow myself, and my son Fel=
ix,
though big, is fatherless, and I know my duty in consequence. And it's to be
wished, sir, as others should know it as are more in power and live in great
houses, and can ride in a carriage where they will. And if you're the gentl=
eman
as is the head of everything - and it's not to be thought you'd give up to =
your
son as a poor widow's been forced to do - it behoves you to take the part of
them as are deserving; for the Bible says, grey hairs should speak.'
'Yes, yes - poor woman - what shal=
l I
say?' said old Mr Transome, feeling himself scolded, and as usual desirous =
of
mollifying displeasure.
'Sir, I can tell you what to say f=
ast
enough; for it's what I should say myself if I could get to speak to the ki=
ng.
For I've asked them that know, and they say it's the truth both out of the
Bible and in, as the king can pardon anything and anybody. And judging by h=
is
countenance on the new signs, and the talk there was a while ago about his
being the people's friend, as the minister once said it from the very pulpi=
t -
if there's any meaning in words, he'll do the right thing by me and my son,=
if
he's asked proper.'
'Yes - a very good man - he'll do
anything right,' said Mr Transome, whose own ideas about the king just then
were somewhat misty, consisting chiefly in broken reminiscences of George t=
he
Third. 'I'll ask him anything you like,' he added, with a pressing desire to
satisfy Mrs Holt, who alarmed him slightly.
'Then, sir, if you'll go in your
carriage and say, This young man, Felix Holt by name, as his father was kno=
wn
the country round, and his mother most respectable - he never meant harm to
anybody, and so far from bloody murder and fighting, would part with his
victual to them that needed it more - and if you'd get other gentlemen to s=
ay
the same, and if they're not satisfied to inquire - I'll not believe but wh=
at
the king 'ud let my son out of prison. Or if it's true he must stand his tr=
ial,
the king 'ud take care no mischief happened to him. I've got my senses, and
I'll never believe as in a country where there's a God above and a king bel=
ow,
the right thing can't be done if great people was willing to do it.'
Mrs Holt, like all orators, had wa=
xed
louder and more energetic, ceasing to propel her arguments, and being prope=
lled
by them. Poor old Mr Transome, getting more and more frightened at this
severe-spoken woman, who had the horrible possibility to his mind of being a
novelty that was to become permanent, seemed to be fascinated by fear, and
stood helplessly forgetful that if he liked he might turn round and walk aw=
ay.
Little Harry, alive to anything th=
at
had relation to 'Gappa', had paused in his game, and, discerning what he
thought a hostile aspect in this naughty black old woman, rushed towards her
and proceeded first to beat her with his mimic jockey's whip, and then,
suspecting that her bombazine was not sensitive, to set his teeth in her ar=
m.
While Dominic rebuked him and pulled him off, Nimrod began to bark anxiousl=
y,
and the scene was become alarming even to the squirrels, which scrambled as=
far
off as possible.
Esther, who had been waiting for an
opportunity of intervention, now came up to Mrs Holt to speak some soothing
words; and old Mr Transome, seeing a sufficient screen between himself and =
his
formidable suppliant, at last gathered courage to turn round and shuffle aw=
ay
with unusual swiftness into the library.
'Dear Mrs Holt,' said Esther, 'do =
rest
comforted. I assure you, you have done the utmost that can be done by your
words. Your visit has not been thrown away. See how the children have enjoy=
ed
it I I saw little Job actually laughing. I think I never saw him do more th=
an
smile before.' Then, turning round to Dominic, she said, 'Will the buggy co=
me
round to this door?'
This hint was sufficient. Dominic =
went
to see if the vehicle was ready, and Denner, remarking that Mrs Holt would =
like
to mount it in the inner court, invited her to go back into the housekeeper=
's
room. But there was a fresh resistance raised in Harry by the threatened
departure of Job, who had seemed an invaluable addition to the menagerie of
tamed creatures; and it was barely in time that Esther had the relief of se=
eing
the entrance-hall cleared so as to prevent any further encounter of Mrs Holt
with Harold, who was now coming up the flight of steps at the entrance.
I'm sick at heart. The eye of day,=
The insistent summer noon, seems
pitiless,
Shining in all the barren crevices=
Of weary life, leaving no shade, no
dark,
Where I may dream that hidden wate=
rs
lie.
SHORTLY after Mrs Holt's striking
presentation of herself at Transome Court, Esther went on a second visit to=
her
father. The Loamford Assizes were approaching; it was expected that in about
ten days Felix Holt's trial would come on, and some hints in her father's
letters had given Esther the impression that he was taking a melancholy vie=
w of
the result. Harold Transome had once or twice mentioned the subject with a
facile hopefulness as to 'the young fellow's coming off easily', which, in =
her
anxious mind, was not a counterpoise to disquieting suggestions, and she had
not chosen to introduce another conversation about Felix Holt, by questioni=
ng
Harold concerning the probabilities he relied on. Since those moments on the
terrace, Harold had daily become more of the solicitous and indirectly
beseeching lover; and Esther, from the very fact that she was weighed on by
thoughts that were painfully bewildering to her - by thoughts which, in the=
ir
newness to her young mind, seemed to shake her belief that life could be
anything else than a compromise with things repugnant to the moral taste - =
had
become more passive to his attentions at the very time that she had begun to
feel more profoundly that in accepting Harold Transome she left the high
mountain air, the passionate serenity of perfect love for ever behind her, =
and
must adjust her wishes to a life of middling delights, overhung with the
languorous haziness of motiveless ease, where poetry was only literature, a=
nd
the fine ideas had to be taken down from the shelves of the library when her
husband's back was turned. But it seemed as if all outward conditions
concurred, along with her generous sympathy for the Transomes, and with tho=
se
native tendencies against which she had once begun to struggle, to make this
middling lot the best she could attain to. She was in this half-sad
half-satisfied resignation to something like what is called worldly wisdom,
when she went to see her father, and learn what she could from him about Fe=
lix.
The little minister was much
depressed, unable to resign himself to the dread which had begun to haunt h=
im,
that Felix might have to endure the odious penalty of transportation for the
manslaughter, which was the offence that no evidence in his favour could di=
sprove.
'I had been encouraged by the
assurances of men instructed in this regard,' said Mr Lyon, while Esther sa=
t on
the stool near him, and listened anxiously, 'that though he were pronounced
guilty in regard to this deed whereinto he hath calamitously fallen, yet th=
at a
judge mildly disposed, and with a due sense of that invisible activity of t=
he
soul whereby the deeds which are the same in the outward appearance and eff=
ect,
yet differ as the knife-stroke of the surgeon, even though it kill, differs
from the knife-stroke of a wanton mutilator, might use his discretion in
tempering the punishment, so that it would not be very evil to bear. But no=
w it
is said that the judge who cometh is a severe man, and one nourishing a
prejudice against the bolder spirits who stand not in the old paths.'
'I am going to be present at the
trial, father,' said Esther, who was preparing the way to express a wish, w=
hich
she was timid about even with her father. 'I mentioned to Mrs Transome that=
I
should like to do so, and she said that she used in old days always to atte=
nd
the assizes, and that she would take me. You will be there, father?'
'Assuredly I shall be there, having
been summoned to bear witness to Felix's character, and to his having utter=
ed
remonstrances and warnings long beforehand whereby he proved himself an ene=
my
to riot. In our ears, who knew him, it sounds strangely that aught else sho=
uld
be credible; but he hath few to speak for him, though I trust that Mr Harold
Transome's testimony will go far, if, as you say, he is disposed to set asi=
de
all minor regards, and not to speak the truth grudgingly and reluctantly. F=
or
the very truth hath a colour from the disposition of the utterer.' 'He is k=
ind;
he is capable of being generous,' said Esther.
'It is well. For I verily believe =
that
evil-minded men have been at work against Felix. The Duffield Watchman hath
written continually in allusion to him as one of those mischievous men who =
seek
to elevate themselves through the dishonour of their party; and as one of t=
hose
who go not heart and soul with the needs of the people, but seek only to ge=
t a
hearing for themselves by raising their voices in crotchety discord. It is
those things that cause me heaviness of spirit: the dark secret of this you=
ng
man's lot is a cross I carry daily.'
'Father,' said Esther, timidly, wh=
ile
the eyes of both were filling with tears, 'I should like to see him again,
before his trial. Might I? Will you ask him? Will you take me?'
The minister raised his suffused e=
yes
to hers, and did not speak for a moment or two. A new thought had visited h=
im.
But his delicate tenderness shrank even from an inward inquiry that was too
curious - that seemed like an effort to peep at sacred secrets.
'I see nought against it, my dear
child, if you arrived early enough, and would take the elderly lady into yo=
ur
confidence, so that you might descend from the carriage at some suitable pl=
ace
- the house of the Independent minister, for example - where I could meet a=
nd
accompany you. I would forewarn Felix, who would doubtless delight to see y=
our
face again; seeing that he may go away, and be, as it were, buried from you,
even though it may be only in prison, and not -
This was too much for Esther. She
threw her arms round her father's neck and sobbed like a child. It was an
unspeakable relief to her after all the pent-up stifling experience, all the
inward incommunicable debate of the last few weeks. The old man was deeply
moved too, and held his arm close round the dear child, praying silently.
No word was spoken for some minute=
s,
till Esther raised herself, dried her eyes, and with an action that seemed
playful, though there was no smile on her face, pressed her handkerchief
against her father's cheeks. Then, when she had put her hand in his, he sai=
d,
solemnly -
'Tis a great and mysterious gift, =
this
clinging of the heart, my Esther, whereby, it hath often seemed to me that =
even
in the very moment of suffering our souls have the keenest foretaste of hea=
ven.
I speak not lightly, but as one who hath endured. And 'tis a strange truth =
that
only in the agony of parting we look into the depths of love.'
So the interview ended, without any
question from Mr Lyon concerning what Esther contemplated as the ultimate
arrangement between herself and the Transomes.
After this conversation, which sho=
wed
him that what happened to Felix touched Esther more closely than he had
supposed, the minister felt no impulse to raise the images of a future so
unlike anything that Felix would share. And Esther would have been unable to
answer any such questions. The successive weeks, instead of bringing her ne=
arer
to clearness and decision, had only brought that state of disenchantment
belonging to the actual presence of things which have long dwelt in the
imagination with all the factitious charms of arbitrary arrangement. Her
imaginary mansion had not been inhabited just as Transome Court was; her
imaginary fortune had not been attended with circumstances which she was un=
able
to sweep away. She herself, in her Utopia, had never been what she was now =
- a
woman whose heart was divided and oppressed. The first spontaneous offering=
of
her woman's devotion, the first great inspiration of her life, was a sort of
vanished ecstasy which had left its wounds. It seemed to her a cruel misfor=
tune
of her young life that her best feeling, her most precious dependence, had =
been
called forth just where the conditions were hardest, and that all the easy
invitations of circumstance were towards something which that previous
consecration of her longing had made a moral descent for her. It was
characteristic of her that she scarcely at all entertained the alternative =
of
such a compromise, as would have given her the larger portion of the fortun=
e to
which she had a legal claim, and yet have satisfied her sympathy by leaving=
the
Transomes in possession of their old home. Her domestication with his family
had brought them into the foreground of her imagination; the gradual wooing=
of
Harold had acted on her with a constant immediate influence that predominat=
ed
over all indefinite prospects; and a solitary elevation to wealth, which ou=
t of
Utopia she had no notion how she should manage, looked as chill and dreary =
as
the offer of dignities in an unknown country.
In the ages since Adam's marriage,=
it
has been good for some men to be alone, and for some women also. But Esther=
was
not one of these women: she was intensely of the feminine type, verging nei=
ther
towards the saint nor the angel. She was 'a fair divided excellence, whose
fulness of perfection' must be in marriage. And, like all youthful creature=
s,
she felt as if the present conditions of choice were final. It belonged to =
the
freshness of her heart that, having had her emotions strongly stirred by re=
al
objects, she never speculated on possible relations yet to come. It seemed =
to her
that she stood at the first and last parting of the ways. And, in one sense,
she was under no illusion. It is only in that freshness of our time that the
choice is possible which gives unity to life, and makes the memory a temple
where all relics and all votive offerings, all worship and all grateful joy,
are an unbroken history sanctified by one religion.
We may not make this world a parad=
ise
By walking it together with clasped
hands
And eyes that meeting feed a double
strength.
We must be only joined by pains
divine,
Of spirits blent in mutual memorie=
s.
IT was a consequence of that inter=
view
with her father, that when Esther stepped early on a grey March morning into
the carriage with Mrs Transome, to go to the Loamford Assizes, she was full=
of
an expectation that held her lips in trembling silence, and gave her eyes t=
hat
sightless beauty which tells that the vision is all within.
Mrs Transome did not disturb her w=
ith
unnecessary speech. Of late, Esther's anxious observation had been drawn to=
a
change in Mrs Transome, shown in many small ways which only women notice. It
was not only that when they sat together the talk seemed more of an effort =
to
her: that might have come from the gradual draining away of matter for
discourse pertaining to most sorts of companionship, in which repetition is=
not
felt to be as desirable as novelty. But while Mrs Transome was dressed just=
as
usual, took her seat as usual, trifled with her drugs and had her embroidery
before her as usual, and still made her morning greetings with that finished
easy politeness and consideration of tone which to rougher people seems like
affection, Esther noticed a strange fitfulness in her movements. Sometimes =
the
stitches of her embroidery went on with silent unbroken swiftness for a qua=
rter
of an hour as if she had to work out her deliverance from bondage by finish=
ing
a scroll-patterned border; then her hands dropt suddenly and her gaze fell
blankly on the table before her, and she would sit in that way motionless a=
s a
seated statue, apparently unconscious of Esther's presence, till some thoug=
ht
darting within her seemed to have the effect of an external shock and rouse=
her
with a start, when she looked round hastily like a person ashamed of having
slept. Esther, touched with wondering pity at signs of unhappiness that were
new in her experience, took the most delicate care to appear inobservant, a=
nd
only tried to increase the gentle attention that might help to soothe or
gratify this uneasy woman. But, one morning, Mrs Transome had said, breaking
rather a long silence -
'My dear, I shall make this house =
dull
for you. You sit with me like an embodied patience. I am unendurable; I am
getting into a melancholy dotage. A fidgety old woman like me is as unpleas=
ant
to see as a rook with its wing broken. Don't mind me, my dear. Run away fro=
m me
without ceremony. Every one else does, you see. I am part of the old furnit=
ure
with new drapery.'
'Dear Mrs Transome,' said Esther,
gliding to the low ottoman close by the basket of embroidery, 'do you disli=
ke
my sitting with you?'
'Only for your sake, my fairy,' sa=
id
Mrs Transome, smiling faintly, and putting her hand under Esther's chin.
'Doesn't it make you shudder to look at me?'
'Why will you say such naughty
things?' said Esther, affectionately. 'If you had had a daughter, she would
have desired to be with you most when you most wanted cheering. And surely
every young woman has something of a daughter's feeling towards an older one
who has been kind to her.'
'I should like you to be really my=
daughter,'
said Mrs Transome, rousing herself to look a little brighter. 'That is
something still for an old woman to hope for.'
Esther blushed: she had not forese=
en
this application of words that came from pitying tenderness. To divert the
train of thought as quickly as possible, she at once asked what she had
previously had in her mind to ask. Before her blush had disappeared she sai=
d -
'O, you are so good; I shall ask y=
ou
to indulge me very much. It is to let us set out very early to Loamford on
Wednesday, and put me down at a particular house, that I may keep an engage=
ment
with my father. It is a private matter, that I wish no one to know about, if
possible. And he will bring me back to you wherever you appoint.'
In that way Esther won her end wit=
hout
needing to betray it; and as Harold was already away at Loamford, she was t=
he
more secure.
The Independent minister's house at
which she was set down, and where she was received by her father, was in a
quiet street not far from the jail. Esther had thrown a dark cloak over the
handsomer coverings which Denner had assured her was absolutely required of
ladies who sat anywhere near the judge at a great trial; and as the bonnet =
of
that day did not throw the face into high relief, but rather into perspecti=
ve,
a veil drawn down gave her a sufficiently inconspicuous appearance.
'I have arranged all things, my de=
ar,'
said Mr Lyon, 'and Felix expects us. We will lose no time.'
They walked away at once, Esther n=
ot
asking a question. She had no consciousness of the road along which they
passed; she could never remember anything but a dim sense of entering within
high walls and going along passages, till they were ushered into a larger s=
pace
than she expected, and her father said -
'It is here that we are permitted =
to
see Felix, my Esther. He will presently appear.'
Esther automatically took off her
gloves and bonnet, as if she had entered the house after a walk. She had lo=
st
the complete consciousness of everything except that she was going to see
Felix. She trembled. It seemed to her as if he too would look altered after=
her
new life - as if even the past would change for her and be no longer a
steadfast remembrance, but something she had been mistaken about, as she had
been about the new life. Perhaps she was growing out of that childhood to w=
hich
common things have rareness, and all objects look larger. Perhaps from
henceforth the whole world was to be meaner for her. The dread concentrated=
in
those moments seemed worse than anything she had known before. It was what =
the dread
of a pilgrim might be who has it whispered to him that the holy places are a
delusion, or that he will see them with a soul unstirred and unbelieving. E=
very
minute that passes may be charged with some such crisis in the little inner
world of man or woman.
But soon the door opened slightly;
some one looked in; then it opened wide, and Felix Holt entered.
'Miss Lyon - Esther!' and her hand=
was
in his grasp.
He was just the same - no, somethi=
ng
inexpressibly better, because of the distance and separation, and the
half-weary novelties, which made him like the return of morning.
'Take no heed of me, children,' sa=
id
Mr Lyon. 'I have some notes to make, and my time is precious. We may remain
here only a quarter of an hour.' And the old man sat down at a window with =
his
back to them, writing with his head bent close to the paper.
'You are very pale; you look ill,
compared with your old self,' said Esther. She had taken her hand away, but
they stood still near each other, she looking up at him.
'The fact is, I'm not fond of pris=
on,'
said Felix, smiling; 'but I suppose the best I can hope for is to have a go=
od
deal more of it.'
'It is thought that in the worst c=
ase
a pardon may be obtained,' said Esther, avoiding Harold Transome's name.
'I don't rely on that,' said Felix,
shaking his head. 'My wisest course is to make up my mind to the very uglie=
st
penalty they can condemn me to. If I can face that, anything less will seem
easy. But you know,' he went on, smiling at her brightly, 'I never went in =
for
fine company and cushions. I can't be very heavily disappointed in that way=
.'
'Do you see things just as you use=
d to
do?' said Esther, turning pale as she said it - 'I mean - about poverty, and
the people you will live among. Has all the misunderstanding and sadness le=
ft you
just as obstinate?' She tried to smile, but could not succeed.
'What - about the sort of life I
should lead if I were free again?' said Felix.
'Yes. I can't help being discourag=
ed
for you by all these things that have happened. See how you may fail!' Esth=
er
spoke timidly. She saw a peculiar smile, which she knew well, gathering in =
his
eyes. 'Ah, I daresay I am silly,' she said, deprecatingly.
'No, you are dreadfully inspired,'
said Felix. 'When the wicked tempter is tired of snarling that word failure=
in
a man's cell, he sends a voice like a thrush to say it for him. See now wha=
t a
messenger of darkness you are!' He smiled, and took her two hands between h=
is,
pressed together as children hold them up in prayer. Both of them felt too
solemnly to be bashful. They looked straight into each other's eyes, as ang=
els
do when they tell some truth. And they stood in that way while he went on
speaking.
'But I'm proof against that word
failure. I've seen behind it. The only failure a man ought to fear is failu=
re
in cleaving to the purpose he sees to be best. As to just the amount of res=
ult
he may see from his particular work - that's a tremendous uncertainty: the
universe has not been arranged for the gratification of his feelings. As lo=
ng
as a man sees and believes in some great good, he'll prefer working towards
that in the way he's best fit for, come what may. I put effects at their
minimum, but I'd rather have the minimum of effect, if it's of the sort I c=
are
for, than the maximum of effect I don't care for - a lot of fine things that
are not to my taste - and if they were, the conditions of holding them while
the world is what it is, are such as would jar on me like grating metal.'
'Yes,' said Esther, in a low tone,=
'I
think I understand that now, better than I used to do.' The words of Felix =
at
last seemed strangely to fit her own experience. But she said no more, thou=
gh
he seemed to wait for it a moment or two, looking at her. But then he went =
on -
'I don't mean to be illustrious, y=
ou
know, and make a new era, else it would be kind of you to get a raven and t=
each
it to croak ‘failure’ in my ears. Where great things can't happ=
en,
I care for very small things, such as will never be known beyond a few garr=
ets
and workshops. And then, as to one thing I believe in, I don't think I can
altogether fail. If there's anything our people want convincing of, it is, =
that
there's some dignity and happiness for a man other than changing his statio=
n.
That's one of the beliefs I choose to consecrate my life to. If anybody cou=
ld demonstrate
to me that I was a flat for it, I shouldn't think it would follow that I mu=
st
borrow money to set up genteelly and order new clothes. That's not a rigoro=
us
consequence to my understanding.'
They smiled at each other, with the
old sense of amusement they had so often had together.
'You are just the same,' said Esth=
er.
'And you?' said Felix. 'My affairs
have been settled long ago. But yours - a great change has come in them - m=
agic
at work.'
'Yes,' said Esther, rather
falteringly.
'Well,' said Felix, looking at her
gravely again, 'it's a case of fitness that seems to give a chance sanction=
to
that musty law. The first time I saw you, your birth was an immense puzzle =
to
me. However, the appropriate conditions are come at last.'
These words seemed cruel to Esther.
But Felix could not know all the reasons for their seeming so. She could not
speak; she was turning cold and feeling her heart beat painfully.
'All your tastes are gratified now=
,'
he went on innocently. 'But you'll remember the old pedagogue and his
lectures?'
One thought in the mind of Felix w=
as,
that Esther was sure to marry Harold Transome. Men readily believe these th=
ings
of the women who love them. But he could not allude to the marriage more
directly. He was afraid of this destiny for her, without having any very
distinct knowledge by which to justify his fear to the mind of another. It =
did
not satisfy him that Esther should marry Harold Transome.
'My children,' said Mr Lyon at this
moment, not looking round, but only looking close at his watch, 'we have ju=
st
two minutes more.' Then he went on writing.
Esther did not speak, but Felix co=
uld
not help observing now that her hands had turned to a deathly coldness, and
that she was trembling. He believed, he knew, that whatever prospects she h=
ad,
this feeling was for his sake. An overpowering impulse from mingled love,
gratitude, and anxiety, urged him to say -
'I had a horrible struggle, Esther.
But you see I was right. There was a fitting lot in reserve for you. But
remember you have cost a great price - don't throw what is precious away. I
shall want the news that you have a happiness worthy of you.'
Esther felt too miserable for tear=
s to
come. She looked helplessly at Felix for a moment, then took her hands from
his, and, turning away mutely, walked dreamily towards her father, and said,
'Father, I am ready - there is no more to say.'
She turned back again, towards the
chair where her bonnet lay, with a face quite corpse-like above her dark
garment.
'Esther!'
She heard Felix say the word, with=
an
entreating cry, and went towards him with the swift movement of a frightened
child towards its protector. He clasped her, and they kissed each other.
She never could recall anything el=
se
that happened, till she was in the carriage again with Mrs Transome.
Why, there are maidens of heroic
touch,
And yet they seem like things of
gossamer
You'd pinch the life out of, as ou=
t of
moths.
O, it is not loud tones and
mouthingness
'Tis not the arms akimbo and large
strides,
That makes a woman's force. The
tiniest birds,
With softest downy breasts, have
passions in them
And are brave with love.
ESTHER was so placed in the court,
under Mrs Transome's wing as to see and hear everything without effort. Har=
old
had received them at the hotel, and had observed that Esther looked ill, and
was unusually abstracted in her manner, but this seemed to be sufiiciently
accounted for by her sympathetic anxiety about the result of a trial in whi=
ch
the prisoner at the bar was a friend, and in which both her father and hims=
elf
were important witnesses. Mrs Transome had no reluctance to keep a small se=
cret
from her son, and no betrayal was made of that previous 'engagement' of
Esther's with her father. Harold was particularly delicate and unobtrusive =
in
his attentions to-day: he had the consciousness that he was going to behave=
in
a way that would gratify Esther and win her admiration, and we are all of us
made more graceful by the inward presence of what we believe to be a genero=
us
purpose; our actions move to a hidden music - 'a melody that's sweetly pitc=
hed
in tune'.
If Esther had been less absorbed by
supreme feelings, she would have been aware that she was an object of speci=
al
notice. In the bare squareness of a public hall, where there was not one
jutting angle to hang a guess or a thought upon, not an image or a bit of
colour to stir the fancy, and where the only objects of speculation, of
admiration, or of any interest whatever, were human beings, and especially =
the
human beings that occupied positions indicating some importance, the notice
bestowed on Esther would not have been surprising, even if it had been mere=
ly a
tribute to her youthful charm, which was well companioned by Mrs Transome's
elderly majesty. But it was due also to whisperings that she was an heredit=
ary
claimant of the Transome estates, whom Harold Transome was about to marry.
Harold himself had of late not cared to conceal either the fact or the
probability: they both tended rather to his honour than his dishonour. And
to-day, when there was a good proportion of Trebians present, the whisperin=
gs
spread rapidly.
The court was still more crowded t=
han
on the previous day, when our poor acquaintance Dredge and his two collier
companions were sentenced to a year's imprisonment with hard labour, and the
more enlightened prisoner, who stole the Debarrys' plate, to transportation=
for
life. Poor Dredge had cried, had wished he'd 'never heared of a 'lection,' =
and
in spite of sermons from the jail chaplain, fell back on the explanation th=
at
this was a world in which Spratt and Old Nick were sure to get the best of =
it;
so that in Dredge's case, at least, most observers must have had the melanc=
holy
conviction that there had been no enhancement of public spirit and faith in
progress from that wave of political agitation which had reached the Sproxt=
on
Pits.
But curiosity was necessarily at a
higher pitch to-day, when the character of the prisoner and the circumstanc=
es
of his offence were of a highly unusual kind. As soon as Felix appeared at =
the
bar, a murmur rose and spread into a loud buzz, which continued until there=
had
been repeated authoritative calls for silence in the court. Rather singular=
ly,
it was now for the first time that Esther had a feeling of pride in him on =
the
ground simply of his appearance. At this moment, when he was the centre of a
multitudinous gaze, which seemed to act on her own vision like a broad
unmitigated daylight, she felt that there was something pre-eminent in him,
notwithstanding the vicinity of numerous gentlemen. No apple-woman would ha=
ve
admired him; not only to feminine minds like Mrs Tiliot's, but to many mind=
s in
coat and waistcoat, there was something dangerous and perhaps unprincipled =
in
his bare throat and great Gothic head; and his somewhat massive person would
doubtless have come out very oddly from the hands of a fashionable tailor of
that time. But as Esther saw his large grey eyes looking round calmly and
undefiantly, first at the audience generally, and then with a more observant
expression at the lawyers and other persons immediately around him, she felt
that he bore the outward stamp of a distinguished nature. Forgive her if she
needed this satisfaction: all of us - whether men or women - are liable to =
this
weakness of liking to have our preference justified before others as well as
ourselves. Esther said inwardly, with a certain triumph, that Felix Holt lo=
oked
as worthy to be chosen in the midst of this large assembly, as he had ever
looked in their tete-a-tete under the sombre light of the little parlour in
Malthouse Yard.
Esther had felt some relief in hea=
ring
from her father that Felix had insisted on doing without his mother's prese=
nce;
and since to Mrs Holt's imagination, notwithstanding her general desire to =
have
her character inquired into, there was no greatly consolatory difference
between being a witness and a criminal, and an appearance of any kind 'befo=
re
the judge' could hardly be made to suggest anything definite that would
overcome the dim sense of unalleviated disgrace, she had been less inclined
than usual to complain of her son's decision. Esther had shuddered beforeha=
nd
at the inevitable farce there would be in Mrs Holt's testimony. But surely
Felix would lose something for want of a witness who could testify to his
behaviour in the morning before he became involved in the tumult?
'He is really a fine young fellow,'
said Harold, coming to speak to Esther after a colloquy with the prisoner's
solicitor. 'I hope he will not make a blunder in defending himself.'
'He is not likely to make a blunde=
r,'
said Esther. She had recovered her colour a little, and was brighter than s=
he
had been all the morning before.
Felix had seemed to include her in=
his
general glance, but had avoided looking at her particularly. She understood=
how
delicate feeling for her would prevent this, and that she might safely look=
at
him, and towards her father, whom she could see in the same direction. Turn=
ing
to Harold to make an observation, she saw that he was looking towards the s=
ame
point, but with an expression on his face that surprised her.
'Dear me,' she said, prompted to s=
peak
without any reflection; 'how angry you look! I never saw you look so angry
before. It is not my father you are looking at?'
'Oh no ! I am angry at something I=
'm
looking away from,' said Harold, making an effort to drive back the trouble=
some
demon who would stare out at window. 'It's that Jermyn,' he added, glancing=
at
his mother as well as Esther. 'He will thrust himself under my eyes everywh=
ere
since I refused him an interview and returned his letter. I'm determined ne=
ver
to speak to him directly again, if I can help it.'
Mrs Transome heard with a changele=
ss
face. She had for some time been watching, and had taken on her marble look=
of
immobility. She said an inward bitter 'Of course!' to everything that was
unpleasant.
After this Esther soon became
impatient of all speech: her attention was riveted on the proceedings of the
court, and on the mode in which Felix bore himself. In the case for the
prosecution there was nothing more than a reproduction, with irrelevancies
added by witnesses, of the facts already known to us. Spratt had retained
consciousness enough, in the midst of his terror, to swear that, when he was
tied to the finger-post, Felix was presiding over the actions of the mob. T=
he
landlady of the Seven Stars, who was indebted to Felix for rescue from purs=
uit
by some drunken rioters, gave evidence that went to prove his assumption of
leadership prior to the assault on Spratt, - remembering only that he had
called away her pursuers to 'better sport'. Various respectable witnesses s=
wore
to Felix's 'encouragement' of the rioters who were dragging Spratt in King
Street; to his fatal assault on Tucker; and to his attitude in front of the
drawing-room window at the Manor.
Three other witnesses gave evidenc=
e of
expressions used by the prisoner, tending to show the character of the acts
with which he was charged. Two were Treby tradesmen, the third was a clerk =
from
Duffield. The clerk had heard Felix speak at Duffield; the Treby men had
frequently heard him declare himself on public matters; and they all quoted
expressions which tended to show that he had a virulent feeling against the
respectable shop-keeping class, and that nothing was likely to be more
congenial to him than the gutting of retailers' shops. No one else knew - t=
he
witnesses themselves did not know fully - how far their strong perception a=
nd
memory on these points was due to a fourth mind, namely, that of Mr John
Johnson, the attorney, who was nearly related to one of the Treby witnesses,
and a familiar acquaintance of the Duffield clerk. Man cannot be defined as=
an
evidence-giving animal; and in the difficulty of getting up evidence on any
subject, there is room for much unrecognised action of diligent persons who
have the extra stimulus of some private motive. Mr Johnson was present in c=
ourt
to-day, but in a modest, retired situation. He had come down to give
information to Mr Jermyn, and to gather information in other quarters, which
was well illuminated by the appearance of Esther in company with the Transo=
mes.
When the case for the prosecution
closed, all strangers thought that it looked black for the prisoner. In two
instances only Felix had chosen to put a cross-examining question. The first
was to ask Spratt if he did not believe that his having been tied to the po=
st
had saved him from a probably mortal injury? The second was to ask the
tradesman who swore to his having heard Felix tell the rioters to leave Tuc=
ker
alone and come along with him, whether he had not, shortly before, heard cr=
ies
among the mob summoning to an attack on the wine-vaults and brewery.
Esther had hitherto listened close=
ly
but calmly. She knew that there would be this strong adverse testimony; and=
all
her hopes and fears were bent on what was to come beyond it. It was when th=
e prisoner
was asked what he had to adduce in reply that she felt herself in the grasp=
of
that tremor which does not disable the mind, but rather gives keener
consciousness of a mind having a penalty of body attached to it.
There was a silence as of night wh=
en
Felix Holt began to speak. His voice was firm and clear: he spoke with simp=
le
gravity, and evidently without any enjoyment of the occasion. Esther had ne=
ver
seen his face look so weary.
'My Lord, I am not going to occupy=
the
time of the court with unnecessary words. I believe the witnesses for the
prosecution have spoken the truth as far as a superficial observation would
enable them to do it; and I see nothing that can weigh with the jury in my
favour, unless they believe my statement of my own motives, and the testimo=
ny
that certain witnesses will give to my character and purposes as being
inconsistent with my willingly abetting disorder. I will tell the court in =
as
few words as I can, how I got entangled in the mob, how I came to attack the
constable, and how I was led to take a course which seems rather mad to mys=
elf,
now I look back upon it.'
Felix then gave a concise narrativ=
e of
his motives and conduct on the day of the riot, from the moment when he was
startled into quitting his work by the earlier uproar of the morning. He
omitted, of course, his visit to Malthouse Yard, and merely said that he we=
nt
out to walk again after returning to quiet his mother's mind. He got warmed=
by
the story of his experience, which moved him more strongly than ever, now he
recalled it in vibrating words before a large audience of his fellow-men. T=
he
sublime delight of truthful speech to one who has the great gift of uttering
it, will make itself felt even through the pangs of sorrow.
'That is all I have to say for mys=
elf,
my Lord. I pleaded ‘Not guilty’ to the charge of manslaughter,
because I know that word may carry a meaning which would not fairly apply t=
o my
act. When I threw Tucker down, I did not see the possibility that he would =
die
from a sort of attack which ordinarily occurs in fighting without any fatal
effect. As to my assaulting a constable, it was a quick choice between two
evils: I should else have been disabled. And he attacked me under a mistake
about my intentions. I'm not prepared to say I never would assault a consta=
ble
where I had more chance of deliberation. I certainly should assault him if I
saw him doing anything that made my blood boil: I reverence the law, but not
where it is a pretext for wrong, which it should be the very object of law =
to
hinder. I consider that I should be making an unworthy defence, if I let the
court infer from what I say myself, or from what is said by my witnesses, t=
hat
because I am a man who hates drunken disorder, or any wanton harm, therefor=
e I
am a man who would never fight against authority. I hold it blasphemy to say
that a man ought not to fight against authority: there is no great religion=
and
no great freedom that has not done it, in the beginning. It would be
impertinent for me to speak of this now, if I did not need to say in my own
defence, that I should hold myself the worst sort of traitor if I put my ha=
nd
either to fighting or disorder - which must mean injury to somebody - if I =
were
not urged to it by what I hold to be sacred feelings, making a sacred duty =
either
to my own manhood or to my fellow-man. And certainly,' Felix ended with a
strong ring of scorn in his voice, I never held it a sacred duty to try and=
get
a Radical candidate returned for North Loamshire, by willingly heading a
drunken howling mob, whose public action must consist in breaking windows,
destroying hard-got produce, and endangering the lives of men and women. I =
have
no more to say, my Lord.'
'I foresaw he would make a blunder=
,'
said Harold, in a low voice to Esther. Then, seeing her shrink a little, he
feared she might suspect him of being merely stung by the allusion to himse=
lf.
'I don't mean what he said about the Radical candidate,' he added hastily, =
in
correction. 'I don't mean the last sentence. I mean that whole peroration of
his, which he ought to have left unsaid. It has done him harm with the jury=
-
they won't understand it, or rather will misunderstand it. And I'll answer =
for
it, it has soured the judge. It remains to be seen what we witnesses can say
for him, to nullify the effect of what he has said for himself. I hope the
attorney has done his best in collecting the evidence: I understand the exp=
ense
of the witnesses is undertaken by some Liberals at Glasgow and in Lancashire
friends of Holt's. But I suppose your father has told you.'
The first witness called for the
defence was Mr Lyon. The gist of his statements was, that from the beginnin=
g of
September last until the day of election he was in very frequent intercourse
with the prisoner; that he had become intimately acquainted with his charac=
ter
and views of life, and his conduct with respect to the election, and that t=
hese
were totally inconsistent with any other supposition than that his being
involved in the riot, and his fatal encounter with the constable, were due =
to
the calamitous failure of a bold but good purpose. He stated further that he
had been present when an interview had occurred in his own house between the
prisoner and Mr Harold Transome, who was then canvassing for the representa=
tion
of North Loamshire. That the object of the prisoner in seeking this intervi=
ew
had been to inform Mr Transome of treating given in his name to the workmen=
in
the pits and on the canal at Sproxton, and to remonstrate against its
continuance; the prisoner fearing that disturbance and mischief might result
from what he believed to be the end towards which this treating was directe=
d -
namely, the presence of these men on the occasions of the nomination and
polling. Several times after this interview, Mr Lyon said, he had heard Fel=
ix
Holt recur to the subject therein discussed with expressions of grief and
anxiety. He himself was in the habit of visiting Sproxton in his ministerial
capacity: he knew fully what the prisoner had done there in order to found a
night-school, and was certain that the prisoner's interest in the working m=
en
of that district turned entirely on the possibility of converting them some=
what
to habits of soberness and to a due care for the instruction of their child=
ren.
Finally, he stated that the prisoner, in compliance with his request, had b=
een
present at Duffield on the day of the nomination, and had on his return
expressed himself with strong indignation concerning the employment of the
Sproxton men on that occasion, and what he called the wickedness of hiring
blind violence.
The quaint appearance and manner of
the little Dissenting minister could not fail to stimulate the peculiar wit=
of
the bar. He was subjected to a troublesome cross-examination, which he bore
with wide-eyed shortsighted quietude and absorption in the duty of truthful
response. On being asked, rather sneeringly, if the prisoner was not one of=
his
flock? he answered, in that deeper tone which made one of the most effective
transitions of his varying voice -
'Nay - would to God he were! I sho=
uld
then feel that the great virtues and the pure life I have beheld in him wer=
e a
witness to the efficacy of the faith I believe in and the discipline of the
church whereunto I belong.'
Perhaps it required a larger power=
of
comparison than was possessed by any of that audience to appreciate the mor=
al
elevation of an Independent minister who could utter those words. Neverthel=
ess
there was a murmur, which was clearly one of sympathy.
The next witness, and the one on w=
hom
the interest of the spectators was chiefly concentrated, was Harold Transom=
e.
There was a decided predominance of Tory feeling in the court, and the human
disposition to enjoy the infliction of a little punishment on an opposite
party, was, in this instance, of a Tory complexion. Harold was keenly alive=
to
this, and to everything else that might prove disagreeable to him in his ha=
ving
to appear in the witness-box. But he was not likely to lose his
self-possession, or to fail in adjusting himself gracefully, under conditio=
ns
which most men would find it difficult to carry without awkwardness. He had
generosity and candour enough to bear Felix Holt's proud rejection of his
advances without any petty resentment; he had all the susceptibilities of a
gentleman; and these moral qualities gave the right direction to his acumen=
, in
judging of the behaviour that would best secure his dignity. Everything
requiring self-command was easier to him because of Esther's presence; for =
her
admiration was just then the object which this well-tanned man of the world=
had
it most at heart to secure.
When he entered the witness-box he=
was
much admired by the ladies amongst the audience, many of whom sighed a litt=
le
at the thought of his wrong course in politics. He certainly looked like a
handsome portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence, in which that remarkable artist h=
ad
happily omitted the usual excess of honeyed blandness mixed with alert
intelligence, which is hardly compatible with the state of man out of parad=
ise.
He stood not far off Felix; and the two Radicals certainly made a striking
contrast. Felix might have come from the hands of a sculptor in the later R=
oman
period, when the plastic impulse was stirred by the grandeur of barbaric fo=
rms
- when rolled collars were not yet conceived, and satin stocks were not.
Harold Transome declared that he h=
ad
had only one interview with the prisoner: it was the interview referred to =
by
the previous witness, in whose presence and in whose house it was begun. The
interview, however, was continued beyond the observation of Mr Lyon. The pr=
isoner
and himself quitted the Dissenting minister's house in Malthouse Yard toget=
her,
and proceeded to the office of Mr Jermyn, who was then conducting
electioneering business on his behalf. His object was to comply with Holt's
remonstrance by inquiring into the alleged proceedings at Sproxton, and, if
possible to put a stop to them. Holt's language, both in Malthouse Yard and=
in
the attorney's office, was strong: he was evidently indignant, and his
indignation turned on the danger of employing ignorant men excited by drink=
on
an occasion of popular concourse. He believed that Holt's sole motive was t=
he
prevention of disorder, and what he considered the demoralisation of the
workmen by treating. The event had certainly justified his remonstrances. He
had not had any subsequent opportunities of observing the prisoner; but if =
any
reliance was to be placed on a rational conclusion, it must, he thought, be
plain that the anxiety thus manifested by Holt was a guarantee of the state=
ment
he had made as to his motives on the day of the riot. His entire impression
from Holt's manner in that single interview was, that he was a moral and
political enthusiast, who, if he sought to coerce others, would seek to coe=
rce
them into a difficult, and perhaps impracticable, scrupulosity.
Harold spoke with as noticeable a
directness and emphasis, as if what he said could have no reaction on himse=
lf.
He had of course not entered unnecessarily into what occurred in Jermyn's
office. But now he was subjected to a cross-examination on this subject, wh=
ich
gave rise to some subdued shrugs, smiles, and winks, among county gentlemen=
.
The questions were directed so as =
to
bring out, if possible, some indication that Felix Holt was moved to his
remonstrance by personal resentment against the political agents concerned =
in
setting on foot the treating at Sproxton, but such questioning is a sort of
target-shooting that sometimes hits about widely. The cross-examining couns=
el
had close connections among the Tories of Loamshire, and enjoyed his busine=
ss to-day.
Under the fire of various questions about Jermyn and the agent employed by =
him
at Sproxton, Harold got warm, and in one of his replies said, with his rapid
sharpness -
'Mr Jermyn was my agent then, not =
now:
I have no longer any but hostile relations with him.'
The sense that he had shown a slig=
ht
heat would have vexed Harold more if he had not got some satisfaction out of
the thought that Jermyn heard those words. He recovered his good temper
quickly, and when, subsequently, the question came -
'You acquiesced in the treating of=
the
Sproxton men, as necessary to the efficient working of the reformed
constituency?' Harold replied, with quiet fluency -
'Yes; on my return to England, bef=
ore
I put up for North Loamshire, I got the best advice from practised agents, =
both
Whig and Tory. They all agreed as to electioneering measures.'
The next witness was Michael Brinc=
ey,
otherwise Mike Brindle, who gave evidence of the sayings and doings of the
prisoner amongst the Sproxton men. Mike declared that Felix went 'uncommon
again' drink, and pitch-and-toss, and quarrelling, and sich,' and was 'all =
for
schooling and bringing up the little chaps'; but on being cross-examined, he
admitted that he 'couldn't give much account'; that Felix did talk again' i=
dle
folks, whether poor or rich, and that most like he meant the rich, who had =
'a
rights to be idle', which was what he, Mike, liked himself sometimes, though
for the most part he was 'a hard-working butty'. On being checked for this
superfluous allegation of his own theory and practice, Mike became timidly
conscious that answering was a great mystery beyond the reaches of a butty's
soul, and began to err from defect instead of excess. However, he reasserted
that what Felix most wanted was, 'to get 'em to set up a school for the lit=
tle
chaps'.
With the two succeeding witnesses,=
who
swore to the fact that Felix had tried to lead the mob along Hobb's Lane
instead of towards the Manor, and to the violently threatening character of
Tucker's attack on him, the case for the defence was understood to close.
Meanwhile Esther had been looking =
on
and listening with growing misery, in the sense that all had not been said
which might have been said on behalf of Felix. If it was the jury who were =
to
be acted on, she argued to herself, there might have been an impression mad=
e on
their feeling which would determine their verdict. Was it not constantly sa=
id
and seen that juries pronounced Guilty or Not Guilty from sympathy for or
against the accused? She was too inexperienced to check her own argument by
thoroughly representing to herself the course of things: how the counsel for
the prosecution would reply, and how the judge would sum up, with the objec=
t of
cooling down sympathy into deliberation. What she had painfully pressing on=
her
inward vision was, that the trial was coming to an end, and that the voice =
of
right and truth had not been strong enough.
When a woman feels purely and nobl=
y,
that ardour of hers which breaks through formulas too rigorously urged on m=
en
by daily practical needs, makes one of her most precious influences: she is=
the
added impulse that shatters the stiffening crust of cautious experience. Her
inspired ignorance gives a sublimity to actions so incongruously simple, th=
at
otherwise they would make men smile. Some of that ardour which has flashed =
out
and illuminated all poetry and history was burning to-day in the bosom of s=
weet
Esther Lyon. In this, at least, her woman's lot was perfect: that the man s=
he
loved was her hero; that her woman's passion and her reverence for rarest
goodness rushed together in an undivided current. And to-day they were maki=
ng
one danger, one terror, one irresistible impulse for her heart. Her feelings
were growing into a necessity for action, rather than a resolve to act. She
could not support the thought that the trial would come to an end, that
sentence would be passed on Felix, and that all the while something had been
omitted which might have been said for him. There had been no witness to te=
ll
what had been his behaviour and state of mind just before the riot. She mus=
t do
it. It was possible. There was time. But not too much time. All other agita=
tion
became merged in eagerness not to let the moment escape. The last witness w=
as
being called. Harold Transome had not been able to get back to her on leavi=
ng
the witness-box, but Mr Lingon was close by her. With firm quickness she sa=
id
to him -
'Pray tell the attorney that I have
evidence to give for the prisoner - lose no time.'
'Do you know what you are going to
say, my dear?' said Mr Lingon, looking at her in astonishment.
'Yes - I entreat you, for God's sa=
ke,'
said Esther, in that low tone of urgent beseeching which is equivalent to a
cry; and with a look of appeal more penetrating still, 'I would rather die =
than
not do it.'
The old rector, always leaning to =
the
good-natured view of things, felt chiefly that there seemed to be an additi=
onal
chance for the poor fellow who had got himself into trouble. He disputed no
farther, but went to the attorney.
Before Harold was aware of Esther's
intention she was on her way to the witness-box. When she appeared there, it
was as if a vibration, quick as light, had gone through the court and had
shaken Felix himself, who had hitherto seemed impassive. A sort of gleam se=
emed
to shoot across his face, and any one close to him could have seen that his
hand, which lay on the edge of the dock, trembled.
At the first moment Harold was
startled and alarmed; the next, he felt delight in Esther's beautiful aspec=
t,
and in the admiration of the court. There was no blush on her face: she sto=
od,
divested of all personal considerations whether of vanity or shyness. Her c=
lear
voice sounded as it might have done if she had been making a confession of
faith. She began and went on without query or interruption. Every face look=
ed
grave and respectful.
'I am Esther Lyon, the daughter of=
Mr
Lyon, the Independent minister at Treby, who has been one of the witnesses =
for
the prisoner. I know Felix Holt well. On the day of the election at Treby, =
when
I had been much alarmed by the noises that reached me from the main street,
Felix Holt came to call upon me. He knew that my father was away, and he
thought that I should be alarmed by the sounds of disturbance. It was about=
the
middle of the day, and he came to tell me that the disturbance was quieted,=
and
that the streets were nearly emptied. But he said he feared that the men wo=
uld
collect again after drinking, and that something worse might happen later in
the day. And he was in much sadness at this thought. He stayed a little whi=
le,
and then he left me. He was very melancholy. His mind was full of great
resolutions that came from his kind feeling towards others. It was the last
thing he would have done to join in riot or to hurt any man, if he could ha=
ve
helped it. His nature is very noble; he is tender-hearted; he could never h=
ave
had any intention that was not brave and good.'
There was something so naive and
beautiful in this action of Esther's, that it conquered every low or petty
suggestion even in the commonest minds. The three men in that assembly who =
knew
her best - even her father and Felix Holt - felt a thrill of surprise mingl=
ing
with their admiration. This bright, delicate, beautiful-shaped thing that
seemed most like a toy or ornament - some hand had touched the chords, and =
there
came forth music that brought tears. Half a year before, Esther's dread of
being ridiculous spread over the surface of her life; but the depth below w=
as
sleeping.
Harold Transome was ready to give =
her
his hand and lead her back to her place. When she was there, Felix, for the
first time, could not help looking towards her, and their eyes met in one
solemn glance.
Afterwards Esther found herself un=
able
to listen so as to form any judgment on what she heard. The acting out of t=
hat
strong impulse had exhausted her energy. There was a brief pause, filled wi=
th a
murmur, a buzz, and much coughing. The audience generally felt as if dull
weather was setting in again. And under those auspices the counsel for the
prosecution got up to make his reply. Esther's deed had its effect beyond t=
he
momentary one, but the effect was not visible in the rigid necessities of l=
egal
procedure. The counsel's duty of restoring all unfavourable facts to due
prominence in the minds of the jurors, had its effect altogether reinforced=
by
the summing-up of the judge. Even the bare discernment of facts, much more
their arrangement with a view to inferences, must carry a bias: human
impartiality, whether judicial or not, can hardly escape being more or less
loaded. It was not that the judge had severe intentions; it was only that he
saw with severity. The conduct of Felix was not such as inclined him to
indulgent consideration, and, in his directions to the jury, that mental
attitude necessarily told on the light in which he placed the homicide. Eve=
n to
many in the court who were not constrained by judicial duty, it seemed that
though this high regard felt for the prisoner by his friends, and especiall=
y by
a generous-hearted woman, was very pretty, such conduct as his was not the =
less
dangerous and foolish and assaulting and killing a constable was not the le=
ss
an offence to be regarded without leniency.
Esther seemed now so tremulous, and
looked so ill, that Harold begged her to leave the court with his mother an=
d Mr
Lingon. He would come and tell her the issue. But she said, quietly, that s=
he
would rather stay; she was only a little overcome by the exertion of speaki=
ng.
She was inwardly resolved to see Felix to the last moment before he left the
court.
Though she could not follow the ad=
dress
of the counsel or the judge, she had a keen ear for what was brief and
decisive. She heard the verdict, 'Guilty of manslaughter.' And every word
uttered by the judge in pronouncing sentence fell upon her like an
unforgettable sound that would come back in dreaming and in waking. She had=
her
eyes on Felix, and at the word, 'Imprisonment for four years,' she saw his =
lip
tremble. But otherwise he stood firm and calm.
Esther gave a start from her seat.=
Her
heart swelled with a horrible sensation of pain; but, alarmed lest she shou=
ld
lose her self-command, she grasped Mrs Transome's hand, getting some streng=
th
from that human contact.
Esther saw that Felix had turned. =
She
could no longer see his face. 'Yes,' she said, drawing down her veil, 'let =
us
go.'
The devil tempts us not - 'tis we
tempt him.
Beckoning his skill with opportuni=
ty.
THE more permanent effect of Esthe=
r's
action in the trial was visible in a meeting which took place the next day =
in
the principal room of the White Hart at Loamford. To the magistrates and ot=
her
county gentlemen who were drawn together about noon, some of the necessary
impulse might have been lacking but for that stirring of heart in certain
just-spirited men and good fathers among them, which had been raised to a h=
igh
pitch of emotion by Esther's maidenly fervour. Among these one of the forem=
ost
was Sir Maximus Debarry, who had come to the assizes with a mind, as usual,
slightly rebellious under an influence which he never ultimately resisted -=
the
influence of his son. Philip Debarry himself was detained in London, but in=
his
correspondence with his father he had urged him, as well as his uncle Augus=
tus,
to keep eyes and interest awake on the subject of Felix Holt, whom, from all
the knowledge of the case he had been able to obtain, he was inclined to
believe peculiarly unfortunate rather than guilty. Philip had said he was t=
he
more anxious that his family should intervene benevolently in this affair, =
if
it were possible, because he understood that Mr Lyon took the young man's c=
ase
particularly to heart, and he should always regard himself as obliged to the
old preacher. At this superfineness of consideration Sir Maximus had vented=
a
few 'pshaws!' and, in relation to the whole affair, had grumbled that Phil =
was
always setting him to do he didn't know what - always seeming to turn nothi=
ng
into something by dint of words which hadn't so much substance as a mote be=
hind
them. Nevertheless he was coerced; and in reality he was willing to do anyt=
hing
fair or good-natured which had a handle that his understanding could lay ho=
ld
of. His brother, the rector, desired to be rigorously just; but he had come=
to
Loamford with a severe opinion concerning Felix, thinking that some sharp
punishment might be a wholesome check on the career of a young man disposed=
to
rely too much on his own crude devices.
Before the trial commenced, Sir
Maximus had naturally been one of those who had observed Esther with curios=
ity,
owing to the report of her inheritance, and her probable marriage to his on=
ce
welcome but now exasperating neighbour, Harold Transome; and he had made the
emphatic comment - 'A fine girl! something thoroughbred in the look of her.=
Too
good for a Radical; that's all I have to say.' But during the trial Sir Max=
imus
was wrought into a state of sympathetic ardour that needed no fanning. As s=
oon
as he could take his brother by the buttonhole, he said -
'I tell you what, Gus! we must exe=
rt
ourselves to get a pardon for this young fellow. Confound it! what's the us=
e of
mewing him up for four years? Example? Nonsense. Will there be a man knocked
down the less for it? That girl made me cry. Depend upon it, whether she's
going to marry Transome or not, she's been fond of Holt - in her poverty, y=
ou
know. She's a modest, brave, beautiful woman. I'd ride a steeplechase, old =
as I
am, to gratify her feelings. Hang it ! the fellow's a good fellow if she th=
inks
so. And he threw out a fine sneer, I thought, at the Radical candidate. Dep=
end
upon it, he's a good fellow at bottom.'
The rector had not exactly the same
kind of ardour, nor was he open to precisely that process of proof which
appeared to have convinced Sir Maximus; but he had been so far influenced a=
s to
be inclined to unite in an effort on the side of mercy, observing, also, th=
at
he 'knew Phil would be on that side'. And by the co-operation of similar
movements in the minds of other men whose names were of weight, a meeting h=
ad
been determined on to consult about getting up a memorial to the Home Secre=
tary
on behalf of Felix Holt. His case had never had the sort of significance th=
at
could rouse political partisanship; and such interest as was now felt in him
was still more unmixed with that inducement. The gentlemen who gathered in =
the
room at the White Hart were - not as the large imagination of the North
Loamshire Herald suggested, 'of all shades of political opinion,' but - of =
as
many shades as were to be found among the gentlemen of that county.
Harold Transome has been energetic=
ally
active in bringing about this meeting. Over and above the stings of conscie=
nce
and a determination to act up to the level of all recognised honourableness=
, he
had the powerful motive of desiring to do what would satisfy Esther. His
gradually heightened perception that she had a strong feeling towards Felix
Holt had not made him uneasy. Harold had a conviction that might have seemed
like fatuity if it had not been that he saw the effect he produced on Esthe=
r by
the light of his opinions about women in general. The conviction was, that
Felix Holt could not be his rival in any formidable sense: Esther's admirat=
ion
for this eccentric young man was, he thought, a moral enthusiasm, a romantic
fervour, which was one among those many attractions quite novel in his own
experience; her distress about the trouble of one who had been a familiar
object in her former home, was no more than naturally followed from a tender
woman's compassion. The place young Holt had held in her regard had necessa=
rily
changed its relations now that her lot was so widely changed. It is undenia=
ble,
that what most conduced to the quieting nature of Harold's conclusions was =
the
influence on his imagination of the more or less detailed reasons that Felix
Holt was a watchmaker, that his home and dress were of a certain quality, t=
hat
his person and manners - that, in short (for Harold, like the rest of us, h=
ad
many impressions which saved him the trouble of distinct ideas), Felix Holt=
was
not the sort of man a woman would be likely to be in love with when she was
wooed by Harold Transome.
Thus, he was sufficiently at rest =
on
this point not to be exercising any painful self-conquest in acting as the
zealous advocate of Felix Holt's cause with all persons worth influencing; =
but
it was by no direct intercourse between him and Sir Maximus that they found
themselves in co-operation, for the old baronet would not recognise Harold =
by
more than the faintest bow, and Harold was not a man to expose himself to a
rebuff. Whatever he in his inmost soul regarded as nothing more than a narr=
ow
prejudice, he could defy, not with airs of importance, but with easy
indifference. He could bear most things good-humouredly where he felt that =
he
had the superiority. The object of the meeting was discussed, and the memor=
ial
agreed upon without any clashing. Mr Lingon was gone home, but it was expec=
ted
that his concurrence and signature would be given, as well as those of other
gentlemen who were absent. The business gradually reached that stage at whi=
ch
the concentration of interest ceases - when the attention of all but a few =
who
are more practically concerned drops off and disperses itself in private ch=
at,
and there is no longer any particular reason why everybody stays except that
everybody is there. The room was rather a long one, and invited to a little
movement: one gentleman drew another aside to speak in an under-tone about
Scotch bullocks, another had something to say about the North Loamshire Hun=
t to
a friend who was the reverse of good-looking, but who, nevertheless, while
listening, showed his strength of mind by giving a severe attention also to=
his
full-length reflection in the handsome tall mirror that filled the space
between two windows. And in this way the groups were continually shifting
But in the meantime there were mov=
ing
towards this room at the White Hart the footsteps of a person whose presence
had not been invited, and who, very far from being drawn thither by the bel=
ief
that he would be welcome, knew well that his entrance would, to one person =
at
least, be bitterly disagreeable. They were the footsteps of Mr Jermyn, whose
appearance that morning was not less comely and less carefully tended than
usual, but who was suffering the torment of a compressed rage, which, if not
impotent to inflict pain on another, was impotent to avert evil from himsel=
f.
After his interview with Mrs Transome there had been for some reasons a del=
ay
of positive procedures against him by Harold, of which delay Jermyn had twi=
ce
availed himself; first, to seek an interview with Harold and then to send h=
im a
letter. The interview had been refused; and the letter had been returned, w=
ith
the statement that no communication could take place except through Harold's
lawyers. And yesterday Johnson had brought Jermyn the information that he w=
ould
quickly hear of the proceedings in Chancery being resumed: the watch Johnson
kept in town had given him secure knowledge on this head. A doomed animal, =
with
every issue earthed up except that where its enemy stands, must, if it has
teeth and fierceness, try its one chance without delay. And a man may reach=
a point
in his life in which his impulses are not distinguished from those of a hun=
ted
brute by any capability of scruples. Our selfishness is so robust and
many-clutching, that, well encouraged, it easily devours all sustenance away
from our poor little scmples.
Since Harold would not give Jermyn
access to him, that vigorous attorney was resolved to take it. He knew all
about the meeting at the White Hart, and he was going thither with the
determination of accosting Harold. He thought he knew what he should say, a=
nd
the tone in which he should say it. It would be a vague intimation, carrying
the effect of a threat, which should compel Harold to give him a private
interview. To any counter-consideration that presented itself in his mind -=
to
anything that an imagined voice might say - that imagined answer arose, 'Th=
at's
all very fine, but I'm not going to be ruined if I can help it - least of a=
ll,
mined in that way.' Shall we call it degeneration or gradual development - =
this
effect of thirty additional winters on the soft-glancing, versifying young
Jermyn?
When Jermyn entered the room at the
White Hart he did not immediately see Harold. The door was at the extremity=
of
the room, and the view was obstructed by groups of gentlemen with figures
broadened by overcoats. His entrance excited no peculiar observation: sever=
al
persons had come in late. Only one or two, who knew Jermyn well, were not t=
oo
much pre-occupied to have a glancing remembrance of what had been chatted a=
bout
freely the day before - Harold's irritated reply about his agent, from the
witness-box. Receiving and giving a slight nod here and there, Jermyn pushed
his way, looking round keenly, until he saw Harold standing near the other =
end
of the room. The solicitor who had acted for Felix was just then speaking to
him. but having put a paper into his hand turned away; and Harold, standing
isolated, though at no great distance from others, bent his eyes on the pap=
er.
He looked brilliant that moming; his blood was flowing prosperously. He had
come in after a ride, and was additionally brightened by rapid talk and the
excitement of seeking to impress himself favourably, or at least powerfully=
, on
the minds of neighbours nearer or more remote. He had just that amount of f=
lush
which indicates that life is more enjoyable than usual; and as he stood with
his left hand caressing his whisker, and his right holding the paper and his
riding-whip, his dark eyes running rapidly along the written lines, and his
lips reposing in a curve of good-humour which had more happiness in it than=
a
smile, all beholders might have seen that his mind was at ease.
Jermyn walked quickly and quietly
close up to him. The two men were of the same height, and before Harold loo=
ked
round Jermyn's voice was saying, close to his ear, not in a whisper, but in=
a
hard, incisive, disrespectful and yet not loud tone -
'Mr Transome, I must speak to you =
in
private.'
The sound jarred through Harold wi=
th a
sensation all the more insufferable because of the revulsion from the
satisfied, almost elated, state in which it had seized him. He started and
looked round into Jermyn's eyes. For an instant, which seemed long, there w=
as
no sound between them, but only angry hatred gathering in the two faces. Ha=
rold
felt himself going to crush this insolence: Jermyn felt that he had words
within him that were fangs to clutch this obstinate strength, and wring for=
th
the blood and compel submission. And Jermyn's impulse was the more urgent. =
He
said, in a tone that was rather lower, but yet harder and more biting - 'Yo=
u will
repent else - for your mother's sake.'
At that sound, quick as a leaping
flame, Harold had struck Jermyn across the face with his whip. The brim of =
the
hat had been a defence. Jermyn, a powerful man, had instantly thrust out his
hand and clutched Harold hard by the clothes just below the throat, pushing=
him
slightly so as to make him stagger.
By this time everybody's attention=
had
been called to this end of the room, but both Jermyn and Harold were beyond
being arrested by any consciousness of spectators.
'Let me go, you scoundrel!' said
Harold, fiercely, 'or I'll be the death of you.'
'Do,' said Jermyn, in a grating vo=
ice;
'I am your father.'
In the thrust by which Harold had =
been
made to stagger backward a little, the two men had got very near the long
mirror. They were both white - both had anger and hatred in their faces; the
hands of both were upraised. As Harold heard the last terrible words he sta=
rted
at a leaping throb that went through him, and in the start turned his eyes =
away
from Jermyn's face. He turned them on the same face in the glass with his o=
wn
beside it, and saw the hated fatherhood reasserted.
The young strong man reeled with a
sick faintness. But in the same moment Jermyn released his hold, and Harold
felt himself supported by the arm. It was Sir Maximus Debarry who had taken
hold of him.
'Leave the room, sir!' the baronet
said to Jermyn, in a voice of imperious scorn. 'This is a meeting of
gentlemen.'
'Come, Harold,' he said, in the old
friendly voice, 'come away with me.'
'Tis law as stedfast as the throne=
of
Zeus -
Our days are heritors of days gone
by.'
AESCHYLUS: Agamemnon.
A LITTLE after five o'clock that d=
ay,
Harold arrived at Transome Court. As he was winding along the broad road of=
the
park, some parting gleams of the March sun pierced the trees here and there,
and threw on the grass a long shadow of himself and the groom riding, and
illuminated a window or two of the home he was approaching. But the bitteme=
ss
in his mind made these sunny gleams almost as odious as an artificial smile=
. He
wished he had never come back to this pale English sunshine.
In the course of his eighteen mile=
s'
drive, he had made up his mind what he would do. He understood now, as he h=
ad
never understood before, the neglected solitariness of his mother's life, t=
he
allusions and innuendoes which had come out during the election. But with a
proud insurrection against the hardship of an ignominy which was not of his=
own
making, he inwardly said, that if the circumstances of his birth were such =
as
to warrant any man in regarding his character of gentleman with ready
suspicion, that character should be the more strongly asserted in his condu=
ct.
No one should be able to allege with any show of proof that he had inherited
meanness.
As he stepped from the carriage and
entered the hall, there were the voice and the trotting feet of little Harr=
y as
usual, and the rush to clasp his father's leg and make his joyful puppy-like
noises. Harold just touched the boy's head, and then said to Dominic in a w=
eary
voice -
'Take the child away. Ask where my
mother is.'
Mrs Transome, Dominic said, was
upstairs. He had seen her go up after coming in from her walk with Miss Lyo=
n,
and she had not come down again.
Harold, throwing off his hat and
greatcoat, went straight to his mother's dressing-room. There was still hop=
e in
his mind. He might be suffering simply from a lie. There is much misery cre=
ated
in the world by mere mistake or slander, and he might have been stunned by a
lie suggested by such slander. He rapped at his mother's door.
Her voice said immediately, 'Come =
in.'
Mrs Transome was resting in her
easy-chair, as she often did between an afternoon walk and dinner. She had
taken off her walking-dress and wrapped herself in a soft dressinggown. She=
was
neither more nor less empty of joy than usual. But when she saw Harold, a
dreadful certainty took possession of her. It was as if a long-expected let=
ter,
with a black seal, had come at last.
Harold's face told her what to fear
the more decisively, because she had never before seen it express a man's d=
eep
agitation. Since the time of its pouting childhood and careless youth she h=
ad
seen only the confident strength and good-humoured imperiousness of maturit=
y.
The last five hours had made a change as great as illness makes. Harold loo=
ked
as if he had been wrestling, and had had some terrible blow. His eyes had t=
hat
sunken look which, because it is unusual, seems to intensify expression.
He looked at his mother as he ente=
red,
and her eyes followed him as he moved, till he came and stood in front of h=
er,
she looking up at him, with white lips.
'Mother,' he said, speaking with a
distant slowness, in strange contrast with his habitual manner, 'tell me the
truth, that I may know how to act.'
He paused a moment, and then said,=
'Who
is my father?'
She was mute: her lips only trembl= ed. Harold stood silent for a few moments, as if waiting. Then he spoke again.<= o:p>
'He has said - said it before othe=
rs -
that he is my father.'
He looked still at his mother. She
seemed as if age was striking her with a sudden wand - as if her trembling =
face
were getting haggard before him. She was mute. But her eyes had not fallen;
they looked up in helpless misery at her son.
Her son turned away his eyes from =
her,
and left her. In that moment Harold felt hard: he could show no pity. All t=
he
pride of his nature rebelled against his sonship.
Nay, falter not - 'tis an assured =
good
To seek the noblest - 'tis your on=
ly
good
Now you have seen it; for that hig=
her
vision
Poisons all meaner choice for ever=
more.
THAT day Esther dined with old Mr
Transome only. Harold sent word that he was engaged and had already dined, =
and
Mrs Transome that she was feeling ill. Esther was much disappointed that any
tidings Harold might have brought relating to Felix were deferred in this w=
ay;
and, her anxiety making her fearful, she was haunted by the thought that if
there had been anything cheering to tell, he would have found time to tell =
it
without delay. Old Mr Transome went as usual to his sofa in the library to
sleep after dinner, and Esther had to seat herself in the small drawing-roo=
m,
in a well-lit solitude that was unusually dispiriting to her. Pretty as this
room was, she did not like it. Mrs Transome's full-length portrait, being t=
he
only picture there, urged itself too strongly on her attention: the youthful
brilliancy it represented saddened Esther by its inevitable association with
what she daily saw had come instead of it - a joyless, embittered age. The
sense that Mrs Transome was unhappy, affected Esther more and more deeply as
the growing familiarity which relaxed the efforts of the hostess revealed m=
ore
and more the thread-bare tissue of this majestic lady's life. Even the flow=
ers
and the pure sunshine and the sweet waters of Paradise would have been spoi=
led
for a young heart, if the bowered walks had been haunted by an Eve gone grey
with bitter memories of an Adam who had complained, 'The woman ... she gave=
me
of the tree, and I did eat.' And many of us know how, even in our childhood,
some blank discontented face on the background of our home has marred our
summer mornings. Why was it, when the birds were singing, when the fields w=
ere
a garden, and when we were clasping another little hand just larger than our
own, there was somebody who found it hard to smile? Esther had got far beyo=
nd
that childhood to a time and circumstances when this daily presence of elde=
rly
dissatisfaction amidst such outward things as she had always thought must
greatly help to satisfy, awaked, not merely vague questioning emotion, but
strong determining thought. And now, in these hours since her return from
Loamford, her mind was in that state of highly-wrought activity, that large
discourse, in which we seem to stand aloof from our own life - weighing
impartially our own temptations and the weak desires that most habitually
solicit us. 'I think I am getting that power Felix wished me to have: I sha=
ll
soon see strong visions,' she said to herself, with a melancholy smile flit=
ting
across her face, as she put out the wax lights that she might get rid of the
oppressive urgency of walls and upholstery and that portrait smiling with
deluded brightness, unwitting of the future.
Just then Dominic came to say that=
Mr
Harold sent his compliments, and begged that she would grant him an intervi=
ew in
his study. He disliked the small drawing-room: if she would oblige him by g=
oing
to the study at once, he would join her very soon. Esther went, in some won=
der
and anxiety. What she most feared or hoped in these moments related to Felix
Holt, and it did not occur to her that Harold could have anything special to
say to her that evening on other subjects.
Certainly the study was pleasanter
than the small drawing-room. A quiet light shone on nothing but greenness a=
nd
dark wood, and Dominic had placed a delightful chair for her opposite to his
master's, which was still empty. All the little objects of luxury around
indicated Harold's habitual occupancy; and as Esther sat opposite all these
things along with the empty chair which suggested the coming presence, the
expectation of his beseeching homage brought with it an impatience and
repugnance which she had never felt before. While these feelings were stron=
gly
upon her, the door opened and Harold appeared.
He had recovered his self-possessi=
on
since his interview with his mother: he had dressed, and was perfectly calm=
. He
had been occupied with resolute thoughts, determining to do what he knew th=
at
perfect honour demanded, let it cost him what it would. It is true he had a
tacit hope behind, that it might not cost him what he prized most highly: i=
t is
true he had a glimpse even of reward; but it was not less true that he would
have acted as he did without that hope or glimpse. It was the most serious
moment in Harold Transome's life: for the first time the iron had entered i=
nto
his soul, and he felt the hard pressure of our common lot, the yoke of that
mighty resistless destiny laid upon us by the acts of other men as well as =
our
own.
When Esther looked at him she
relented, and felt ashamed of her gratuitous impatience. She saw that his m=
ind
was in some way burdened. But then immediately sprang the dread that he had=
to
say something hopeless about Felix.
They shook hands in silence, Esther
looking at him with anxious surprise. He released her hand, but it did not =
occur
to her to sit down, and they both continued standing on the hearth.
'Don't let me alarm you,' said Har=
old,
seeing that her face gathered solemnity from his. 'I suppose I carry the ma=
rks
of a past agitation. It relates entirely to troubles of my own - of my own
family. No one beyond is involved in them.'
Esther wondered still more, and fe=
lt
still more relenting.
'But,' said Harold, after a slight
pause, and in a voice that was weighted with new feeling, 'it involves a
difference in my position with regard to you; and it is on this point that I
wished to speak to you at once. When a man sees what ought to be done, he h=
ad
better do it forthwith. He can't answer for himself to-morrow.'
While Esther continued to look at =
him,
with eyes widened by anxious expectation, Harold turned a little, leaned on=
the
mantelpiece, and ceased to look at her as he spoke.
'My feelings drag me another way. I
need not tell you that your regard has become very important to me - that if
our mutual position had been different - that, in short, you must have seen=
-
if it had not seemed to be a matter of worldly interest, I should have told=
you
plainly already that I loved you, and that my happiness could be complete o=
nly
if you would consent to marry me.'
Esther felt her heart beginning to
beat painfully. Harold's voice and words moved her so much that her own task
seemed more difficult than she had before imagined. It seemed as if the
silence, unbroken by anything but the clicking of the fire, had been long,
before Harold turned round towards her again and said -
'But to-day I have heard something
that affects my own position. I cannot tell you what it is. There is no nee=
d.
It is not any culpability of my own. But I have not just the same unsullied
name and fame in the eyes of the world around us, as I believed that I had =
when
I allowed myself to entertain that wish about you. You are very young, ente=
ring
on a fresh life with bright prospects - you are worthy of everything that is
best. I may be too vain in thinking it was at all necessary; but I take this
precaution against myself. I shut myself out from the chance of trying, aft=
er
to-day, to induce you to accept anything which others may regard as specked=
and
stained by any obloquy, however slight.'
Esther was keenly touched. With a =
paradoxical
longing, such as often happens to us, she wished at that moment that she co=
uld
have loved this man with her whole heart. The tears came into her eyes; she=
did
not speak, but, with an angel's tenderness in her face, she laid her hand on
his sleeve. Harold commanded himself strongly, and said -
'What is to be done now is, that we
should proceed at once to the necessary legal measures for putting you in
possession of your own, and arranging mutual claims. After that I shall
probably leave England.'
Esther was oppressed by an
overpowering difficulty. Her sympathy with Harold at this moment was so str=
ong,
that it spread itself like a mist over all previous thought and resolve. It=
was
impossible now to wound him afresh. With her hand still resting on his arm,=
she
said timidly -
'Should you be urged - obliged to =
go -
in any case?'
'Not in every case, perhaps,' Haro=
ld
said, with an evident movement of the blood towards his face; 'at least not=
for
long, not for always.'
Esther was conscious of the gleam =
in his
eyes. With terror at herself, she said, in difficult haste, 'I can't speak.=
I
can't say anything to-night. A great decision has to be made: I must wait -
till to-morrow.'
She was moving her hand from his a= rm, when Harold took it reverentially and raised it to his lips. She turned tow= ards her chair, and as he released her hand she sank down on the seat with a sen= se that she needed that support. She did not want to go away from Harold yet. = All the while there was something she needed to know, and yet she could not bri= ng herself to ask it. She must resign herself to depend entirely on his recollection of anything beyond his own immediate trial. She sat helpless u= nder contending sympathies, while Harold stood at some distance from her, feeling more harassed by weariness and uncertainty, now that he had fulfilled his resolve, and was no longer under the excitement of actually fulfilling it.<= o:p>
Esther's last words had forbidden =
his
revival of the subject that was necessarily supreme with him. But still she=
sat
there, and his mind, busy as to the probabilities of her feeling, glanced o=
ver
all she had done and said in the later days of their intercourse. It was th=
is
retrospect that led him to say at last -
'You will be glad to hear that we
shall get a very powerfully signed memorial to the Home Secretary about you=
ng
Holt. I think your speaking for him helped a great deal. You made all the m=
en
wish what you wished.'
This was what Esther had been year=
ning
to hear and dared not ask, as well from respect for Harold's absorption in =
his
own sorrow, as from the shrinking that belongs to our dearest need. The int=
ense
relief of hearing what she longed to hear, affected her whole frame: her
colour, her expression, changed as if she had been suddenly freed from some
torturing constraint. But we interpret signs of emotion as we interpret oth=
er
signs - often quite erroneously, unless we have the right key to what they
signify. Harold did not gather that this was what Esther had waited for, or
that the change in her indicated more than he had expected her to feel at t=
his
allusion to an unusual act which she had done under a strong impulse.
Besides, the introduction of a new
subject after very momentous words have passed, and are still dwelling on t=
he
mind, is necessarily a sort of concussion, shaking us into a new adjustment=
of
ourselves.
It seemed natural that soon afterw=
ard
Esther put out her hand and said, 'Good-night.'
Harold went to his bedroom on the =
same
level with this study, thinking of the morning with an uncertainty that dip=
ped
on the side of hope. This sweet woman, for whom he felt a passion newer than
any he had expected to feel, might possibly make some hard things more bear=
able
- if she loved him. If not - well, he had acted so that he could defy any o=
ne
to say he was not a gentleman.
Esther went up-stairs to her bedro=
om,
thinking that she should not sleep that night. She set her light on a high
stand, and did not touch her dress. What she desired to see with undisturbed
clearness were things not present: the rest she needed was the rest of a fi=
nal
choice. It was difficult. On each side there was renunciation.
She drew up her blinds, liking to =
see
the grey sky, where there were some veiled glimmerings of moonlight, and the
lines of the for-ever running river, and the bending movement of the black
trees. She wanted the largeness of the world to help her thought. This young
creature, who trod lightly backward and forward, and leaned against the
window-frame, and shook back her brown curls as she looked at something not
visible, had lived hardly more than six months since she saw Felix Holt for=
the
first time. But life is measured by the rapidity of change, the succession =
of
influences that modify the being; and Esther had undergone something little
short of an inward revolution. The revolutionary struggle, however, was not
quite at an end.
There was something which she now =
felt
profoundly to be the best thing that life could give her. But - if it was t=
o be
had at all - it was not to be had without paying a heavy price for it, such=
as
we must pay for all that is greatly good. A supreme love, a motive that giv=
es a
sublime rhythm to a woman's life, and exalts habit into partnership with the
soul's highest needs, is not to be had where and how she wills: to know that
high initiation, she must often tread where it is hard to tread, and feel t=
he
chill air, and watch through darkness. It is not true that love makes all
things easy: it makes us choose what is difficult. Esther's previous life h=
ad
brought her into close acquaintance with many negations, and with many posi=
tive
ills too, not of the acutely painful, but of the distasteful sort. What if =
she
chose the hardship, and had to bear it alone, with no strength to lean upon=
-
no other better self to make a place for trust and joy? Her past experience
saved her from illusions. She knew the dim life of the back street, the con=
tact
with sordid vulgarity, the lack of refinement for the senses, the summons t=
o a
daily task; and the gain that was to make that life of privation something =
on
which she dreaded to turn her back, as if it were heaven - the presence and=
the
love of Felix Holt - was only a quivering hope, not a certainty. It was not=
in
her woman's nature that the hope should not spring within her and make a st=
rong
impulse. She knew that he loved her: had he not said how a woman might help=
a
man if she were worthy? and if she proved herself worthy? But still there w=
as
the dread that after all she might find herself on the stony road alone, and
faint and be weary. Even with the fulfilment of her hope, she knew that she
pledged herself to meet high demands.
And on the other side there was a =
lot
where everything seemed easy - but for the fatal absence of those feelings
which, now she had once known them, it seemed nothing less than a fall and a
degradation to do without. With a terrible prescience which a multitude of
impressions during her stay at Transome Court had contributed to form, she =
saw
herself in a silken bondage that arrested all motive, and was nothing better
than a well-cushioned despair. To be restless amidst ease, to be languid am=
ong
all appliances for pleasure, was a possibility that seemed to haunt the roo=
ms
of this house, and wander with her under the oaks and elms of the park. And
Harold Transome's love, no longer a hovering fancy with which she played, b=
ut
become a serious fact, seemed to threaten her with a stifling oppression. T=
he
homage of a man may be delightful until he asks straight for love, by which=
a
woman renders homage. Since she and Felix had kissed each other in the pris=
on,
she felt as if she had vowed herself away, as if memory lay on her lips lik=
e a
seal of possession. Yet what had happened that very evening had strengthened
her liking for Harold, and her care for all that regarded him: it had incre=
ased
her repugnance to turning him out of anything he had expected to be his, or=
to
snatching anything from him on the ground of an arbitrary claim. It had even
made her dread, as a coming pain, the task of saying anything to him that w=
as
not a promise of the utmost comfort under this newly-disclosed trouble of h=
is.
It was already near midnight, but =
with
these thoughts succeeding and returning in her mind like scenes through whi=
ch
she was living, Esther had a more intense wakefulness than any she had know=
n by
day. All had been stillness hitherto, except the fitful wind outside. But h=
er
ears now caught a sound within - slight, but sudden. She moved near her doo=
r,
and heard the sweep of something on the matting outside. It came closer, and
paused. Then it began again, and seemed to sweep away from her. Then it
approached, and paused as it had done before. Esther listened, wondering. T=
he
same thing happened again and again, till she could bear it no longer. She
opened her door, and in the dim light of the corridor, where the glass above
seemed to make a glimmering sky, she saw Mrs Transome's tall figure pacing
slowly, with her cheek upon her hand.
'The great question in life is the
suffering we cause; and the utmost ingenuity of metaphysics cannot justify =
the
man who has pierced the heart that loved him.' - BENJAMlN CONSTANT.
WHEN Denner had gone up to her
mistress's room to dress her for dinner, she had found her seated just as
Harold had found her, only with eyelids drooping and trembling over
slowly-rolling tears - nay, with a face in which every sensitive feature, e=
very
muscle, seemed to be quivering with a silent endurance of some agony.
Denner went and stood by the chair=
a
minute without speaking, only laying her hand gently on Mrs Transome's. At =
last
she said, beseechingly, 'Pray speak, madam. What has happened?'
'The worst, Denner - the worst.'
'You are ill. Let me undress you, =
and
put you to bed.'
'No, I am not ill, I am not going =
to
die! I shall live - I shall live!'
'What may I do?'
'Go and say I shall not dine. Then=
you
may come back, if you will.'
The patient waiting-woman came back
and sat by her mistress in motionless silence. Mrs Transome would not let h=
er
dress be touched, and waved away all proffers with a slight movement of her
hand. Denner dared not even light a candle without being told. At last, when
the evening was far gone, Mrs Transome said -
'Go down, Denner, and find out whe=
re
Harold is, and come back and tell me.'
'Shall I ask him to come to you,
madam?'
'No; don't dare to do it, if you l=
ove
me. Come back.'
Denner brought word that Mr Harold=
was
in his study, and that Miss Lyon was with him. He had not dined, but had se=
nt
later to ask Miss Lyon to go into his study. 'Light the candles and leave m=
e.'
'Mayn't I come again?' 'No. It may be that my son will come to me.' 'Mayn't=
I
sleep on the little bed in your bedroom?' 'No, good Denner; I am not ill. Y=
ou
can't help me.' 'That's the hardest word of all, madam.' 'The time will com=
e -
but not now. Kiss me. Now go.'
The small quiet old woman obeyed, =
as
she had always done. She shrank from seeming to claim an equal's share in h=
er
mistress's sorrow.
For two hours Mrs Transome's mind =
hung
on what was hardly a hope - hardly more than the listening for a bare
possibility. She began to create the sounds that her anguish craved to hear=
-
began to imagine a footfall, and a hand upon the door. Then, checked by
continual disappointment, she tried to rouse a truer consciousness by rising
from her seat and walking to her window, where she saw streaks of light mov=
ing
and disappearing on the grass, and the sound of bolts and closing doors. She
hurried away and threw herself into her seat again, and buried her head in =
the
deafening down of the cushions. There was no sound of comfort for her.
Then her heart cried out within her
against the cruelty of this son. When he turned from her in the first momen=
t,
he had not had time to feel anything but the blow that had fallen on himsel=
f.
But afterwards - was it possible that he should not be touched with a son's
pity - was it possible that he should not have been visited by some thought=
of
the long years through which she had suffered? The memory of those years ca=
me
back to her now with a protest against the cruelty that had all fallen on h=
er.
She started up with a new restlessness from this spirit of resistance. She =
was
not penitent. She had borne too hard a punishment. Always the edge of calam=
ity
had fallen on her. Who had felt for her? She was desolate. God had no pity,
else her son would not have been so hard. What dreary future was there after
this dreary past? She, too, looked out into the dim night; but the black
boundary of trees and the long line of the river seemed only part of the
loneliness and monotony of her life.
Suddenly she saw a light on the st=
one
balustrades of the balcony that projected in front of Esther's window, and =
the
flash of a moving candle falling on a shrub below. Esther was still awake a=
nd
up. What had Harold told her - what had passed between them? Harold was fon=
d of
this young creature, who had been always sweet and reverential to her. There
was mercy in her young heart; she might be a daughter who had no impulse to
punish and to strike her whom fate had stricken. On the dim loneliness befo=
re
her she seemed to see Esther's gentle look; it was possible still that the
misery of this night might be broken by some comfort. The proud woman yearn=
ed
for the caressing pity that must dwell in that young bosom. She opened her =
door
gently, but when she had reached Esther's she hesitated. She had never yet =
in her
life asked for compassion - had never thrown herself in faith on an unproff=
ered
love. And she might have gone on pacing the corridor like an uneasy spirit
without a goal, if Esther's thought, leaping towards her, had not saved her
from the need to ask admission.
Mrs Transome was walking towards t=
he
door when it opened. As Esther saw that image of restless misery, it blent
itself by a rapid flash with all that Harold had said in the evening. She
divined that the son's new trouble must be one with the mother's long sadne=
ss.
But there was no waiting. In an instant Mrs Transome felt Esther's arm round
her neck, and a voice saying softly -
'O why didn't you call me before?'=
They turned hand in hand into the
room, and sat down together on a sofa at the foot of the bed. The disordered
grey hair - the haggard face - the reddened eyelids under which the tears
seemed to be coming again with pain, pierced Esther to the heart. A passion=
ate
desire to soothe this suffering woman came over her. She clung round her ag=
ain,
and kissed her poor quivering lips and eyelids, and laid her young cheek
against the pale and haggard one. Words could not be quick or strong enough=
to
utter her yearning. As Mrs Transome felt that soft clinging, she said - 'God
has some pity on me.'
'Rest on my bed,' said Esther. 'You
are so tired. I will cover you up warmly, and then you will sleep.'
'No - tell me, dear - tell me what
Harold said.'
'That he has had some new trouble.=
'
'He said nothing hard about me?'
'No - nothing. He did not mention =
you.'
'I have been an unhappy woman, dea=
r.'
'I feared it,' said Esther, pressi=
ng
her gently.
'Men are selfish. They are selfish=
and
cruel. What they care for is their own pleasure and their own pride.'
'Not all,' said Esther, on whom th=
ese
words fell with a painful jar.
'All I have ever loved,' said Mrs
Transome. She paused a moment or two, and then said, 'For more than twenty
years I have not had an hour's happiness. Harold knows it, and yet he is ha=
rd
to me.'
'He will not be. To-morrow he will=
not
be. I am sure he will be good,' said Esther, pleadingly. 'Remember - he sai=
d to
me his trouble was new - he has not had time.'
'It is too hard to bear, dear,' Mrs
Transome said, a new sob rising as she clung fast to Esther in return. 'I am
old, and expect so little now - a very little thing would seem great. Why
should I be punished any more?'
Esther found it difficult to speak.
The dimly-suggested tragedy of this woman's life, the dreary waste of years
empty of sweet trust and affection, afflicted her even to horror. It seemed=
to
have come as a last vision to urge her towards the life where the draughts =
of
joy sprang from the unchanging fountains of reverence and devout love.
But all the more she longed to sti=
ll
the pain of this heart that beat against hers.
'Do let me go to your own room with
you, and let me undress you, and let me tend upon you,' she said, with a
woman's gentle instinct. 'It will be a very great thing to me. I shall seem=
to
have a mother again. Do let me.'
Mrs Transome yielded at last, and =
let
Esther soothe her with a daughter's tendance. She was undressed and went to
bed; and at last dozed fitfully, with frequent starts. But Esther watched by
her till the chills of morning came, and then she only wrapped more warmth
around her, and slept fast in the chair till Denner's movement in the room
roused her. She started out of a dream in which she was telling Felix what =
had
happened to her that night.
Mrs Transome was now in the sounder
morning sleep which sometimes comes after a long night of misery. Esther
beckoned Denner into the dressing-room, and said -
'It is late, Mrs Hickes. Do you th=
ink
Mr Harold is out of his room?'
'Yes, a long while; he was out ear=
lier
than usual.'
'Will you ask him to come up here?=
Say
I begged you.'
When Harold entered, Esther was
leaning against the back of the empty chair where yesterday he had seen his
mother sitting. He was in a state of wonder and suspense, and when Esther
approached him and gave him her hand, he said, in a startled way -
'Good God! how ill you look! Have =
you
been sitting up with my mother?'
'Yes. She is asleep now,' said Est=
her.
They had merely pressed hands by way of greeting, and now stood apart looki=
ng
at each other solemnly.
'Has she told you anything?' said
Harold.
'No - only that she is wretched. O=
, I
think I would bear a great deal of unhappiness to save her from having any
more.'
A painful thrill passed through
Harold, and showed itself in his face with that pale rapid flash which can
never be painted. Esther pressed her hands together, and said, timidly, tho=
ugh
it was from an urgent prompting -
'There is nothing in all this plac=
e -
nothing since ever I came here - I could care for so much as that you should
sit down by her now, and that she should see you when she wakes.'
Then with delicate instinct, she
added, just laying her hand on his sleeve, 'I know you would have come. I k=
now
you meant it. But she is asleep now. Go gently before she wakes.'
Harold just laid his right hand fo=
r an
instant on the back of Esther's as it rested on his sleeve, and then stepped
softly to his mother's bedside.
An hour afterwards, when Harold had
laid his mother's pillow afresh, and sat down again by her, she said -
'If that dear thing will marry you,
Harold, it will make up to you for a great deal.'
But before the day closed Harold k=
new
that this was not to be. That young presence, which had flitted like a white
new-winged dove over all the saddening relics and new finery of Transome Co=
urt,
could not find its home there. Harold heard from Esther's lips that she lov=
ed
some one else, and that she resigned all claim to the Transome estates.
She wished to go back to her fathe=
r.
The maiden said, I wis the londe
Is very fair to see,
But my true-love that is in bonde<= o:p>
Is fairer still to me.
ONE April day, when the sun shone =
on
the lingering raindrops, Lyddy was gone out, and Esther chose to sit in the
kitchen, in the wicker chair against the white table, between the fire and =
the
window. The kettle was singing, and the clock was ticking steadily towards =
four
o'clock.
She was not reading, but stitching;
and as her fingers moved nimbly, something played about her parted lips lik=
e a
ray. Suddenly she laid down her work, pressed her hands together on her kne=
es,
and bent forward a little. The next moment there came a loud rap at the doo=
r.
She started up and opened it, but kept herself hidden behind it.
'Mr Lyon at home?' said Felix, in =
his
firm tones.
'No, sir,' said Esther from behind=
her
screen; 'but Miss Lyon is, if you'll please to walk in.'
'Esther!' exclaimed Felix, amazed.=
They held each other by both hands,
and looked into each other's faces with delight.
'You are out of prison?'
'Yes, till I do something bad agai=
n.
But you? - how is it all?'
'Oh, it is,' said Esther, smiling
brightly as she moved towards the wicker chair, and seated herself again, '=
that
everything is as usual: my father is gone to see the sick; Lyddy is gone in
deep despondency to buy the groccry; and I am sitting here, with some vanit=
y in
me, needing to be scolded.'
Felix had seated himself on a chai=
r that
happened to be near her, at the corner of the table. He looked at her still
with questioning eyes - he grave, she mischievously smiling. 'Are you come =
back
to live here then?' 'Yes.'
'You are not going to be married to
Harold Transome, or to be rich?'
'No.' Something made Esther take up
her work again, and begin to stitch. The smiles were dying into a tremor.
'Why?' said Felix, in rather a low
tone, leaning his elbow on the table, and resting his head on his hand whil=
e he
looked at her.
'I did not wish to marry him, or t=
o be
rich.'
'You have given it all up?' said
Felix, leaning forward a little, and speaking in a still lower tone.
Esther did not speak. They heard t=
he
kettle singing and the clock loudly ticking. There was no knowing how it wa=
s:
Esther's work fell, their eyes met; and the next instant their arms were ro=
und
each other's necks, and once more they kissed each other.
When their hands fell again, their
eyes were bright with tears. Felix laid his hand on her shoulder.
'Could you share the life of a poor
man, then, Esther?'
'If I thought well enough of him,'=
she
said, the smile coming again, with the pretty saucy movement of her head.
'Have you considered well what it
would be? - that it will be a very bare and simple life?'
'Yes - without atta of roses.'
Felix suddenly removed his hand fr=
om
her shoulder, rose from his chair, and walked a step or two; then he turned
round and said, with deep gravity -
'And the people I shall live among,
Esther? They have not just the same follies and vices as the rich, but they
have their own forms of folly and vice; and they have not what are called t=
he
refinements of the rich to make their faults more bearable. I don't say more
bearable to me - I'm not fond of those refinements; but you are.'
Felix paused an instant, and then
added -
'It is very serious, Esther.'
'I know it is serious,' said Esthe=
r,
looking up at him. 'Since I have been at Transome Court I have seen many th=
ings
very seriously. If I had not, I should not have left what I did leave. I ma=
de a
deliberate choice.'
Felix stood a moment or two, dwell=
ing
on her with a face where the gravity gathered tenderness.
'And these curls?' he said, with a
sort of relenting, seating himself again, and putting his hand on them.
'They cost nothing - they are
natural.'
'You are such a delicate creature.=
'
'I am very healthy. Poor women, I
think, are healthier than the rich. Besides,' Esther went on, with a michie=
vous
meaning, 'I think of having some wealth.'
'How?' said Felix, with an anxious
start. 'What do you mean?'
'I think even of two pounds a-week:
one needn't live up to the splendour of all that, you know; we must live as
simply as you liked: there would be money to spare, and you could do wonder=
s,
and be obliged to work too, only not if sickness came. And then I think of a
little income for your mother, enough for her to live as she has been used =
to
live; and a little income for my father, to save him from being dependent w=
hen
he is no longer able to preach.'
Esther said all this in a playful
tone, but she ended, with a grave look of appealing submission -
'I mean - if you approve. I wish t=
o do
what you think it will be right to do.'
Felix put his hand on her shoulder
again and reflected a little while, looking on the hearth: then he said,
lifting up his eyes, with a smile at her -
'Why, I shall be able to set up a
great library, and lend the books to be dog's-eared and marked with
breadcrumbs.'
Esther said, laughing, 'You think =
you
are to do everything. You don't know how clever I am. I mean to go on teach=
ing
a great many things.'
'Teaching me?'
'Oh yes,' she said, with a little
toss; 'I shall improve your French accent.'
'You won't want me to wear a stock=
?'
said Felix, with a defiant shake of the head.
'No; and you will not attribute st=
upid
thoughts to me before I've uttered them.'
They laughed merrily, each holding=
the
other's arms, like girl and boy. There was the ineffable sense of youth in
common.
Then Felix leaned forward, that th=
eir
lips might meet again, and after that his eyes roved tenderly over her face=
and
curls.
'I'm a rough, severe fellow, Esthe=
r.
Shall you never repent? - never be inwardly reproaching me that I was not a=
man
who could have shared your wealth? Are you quite sure?'
'Quite sure!' said Esther, shaking=
her
head; 'for then I should have honoured you less. I am weak - my husband mus=
t be
greater and nobler than I am.'
'O, I tell you what, though!' said
Felix, starting up, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and creasing his =
brow
playfully, 'if you take me in that way I shall be forced to be a much better
fellow than I ever thought of being.'
'I call that retribution,' said
Esther, with a laugh as sweet as the morning thrush.
Our finest hope is finest memory;<= o:p>
And those who love in age think yo=
uth
is happy,
Because it has a life to fill with
love.
THE very next May, Felix and Esther
were married. Every one in those days was married at the parish church, but=
Mr
Lyon was not satisfied without an additional private solemnity, 'wherein th=
ere
was no bondage to questionable forms, so that he might have a more enlarged
utterance of joy and supplication.'
It was a very simple wedding; but =
no
wedding, even the gayest, ever raised so much interest and debate in Treby
Magna. Even very great people, like Sir Maximus and his family, went to the
church to look at this bride, who had renounced wealth and chosen to be the
wife of a man who said he would always be poor.
Some few shook their heads; could =
not
quite believe it; and thought there was 'more behind'. But the majority of
honest Trebians were affected somewhat in the same way as happy-looking Mr =
Wace
was, who observed to his wife, as they walked from under the churchyard
chestnuts, 'It's wonderful how things go through you - you don't know how. I
feel somehow as if I believed more in everything that's good.'
Mrs Holt that day, said she felt
herself to be receiving 'some reward', implying that justice certainly had =
much
more in reserve. Little Job Tudge had an entirely new suit, of which he
fingered every separate brass button in a way that threatened an arithmetic=
al
mania; and Mrs Holt had out her best tea-trays and put down her carpet agai=
n,
with the satisfaction of thinking that there would no more be boys coming in
all weathers with dirty shoes.
For Felix and Esther did not take =
up
their abode in Treby Magna; and after a while Mr Lyon left the town too, and
joined them where they dwelt. On his resignation the church in Malthouse Ya=
rd
chose a successor to him whose doctrine was rather higher.
There were other departures from
Treby. Mr Jermyn's establishment was broken up, and he was understood to ha=
ve
gone to reside at a great distance: some said 'abroad' that large home of
ruined reputations. Mr Johnson continued blond and sufficiently prosperous =
till
he got grey and rather more prosperous. Some persons, who did not think hig=
hly
of him, held that his prosperity was a fact to be kept in the background, as
being dangerous to the morals of the young; judging that it was not altoget=
her
creditable to the Divine Providence that anything but virtue should be rewa=
rded
by a front and back drawing-room in Bedford Row.
As for Mr Christian, he had no more
profitable secrets at his disposal. But he got his thousand pounds from Har=
old
Transome.
The Transome family were absent for
some time from Transome Court. The place was kept up and shown to visitors,=
but
not by Denner, who was away with her mistress. After a while the family came
back, and Mrs Transome died there. Sir Maximus was at her funeral, and
throughout that neighbourhood there was silence about the past.
Uncle Lingon continued to watch ov=
er
the shooting on the Manor and the covers until that event occurred which he=
had
predicted as a part of Church reform sure to come. Little Treby had a new
rector, but others were sorry besides the old pointers.
As to all that wide parish of Treby
Magna, it had since prospered as the rest of England has prospered. Doubtle=
ss
there is more enlightenment now. Whether the farmers are all public-spirite=
d,
the shopkeepers nobly independent, the Sproxton men entirely sober and judi=
cious,
the Dissenters quite without narrowness or asperity in religion and politic=
s,
and the publicans all fit, like Gaius, to be the friends of an apostle - th=
ese
things I have not heard, not having correspondence in those parts. Whether =
any
presumption may be drawn from the fact that North Loamshire does not yet re=
turn
a Radical candidate, I leave to the all-wise - I mean the newspapers.
As to the town in which Felix Holt=
now
resides, I will keep that a secret, lest he should be troubled by any visit=
or having
the insufferable motive of curiosity.
I will only say that Esther has ne= ver repented. Felix, however, grumbles a little that she has made his life too easy, and that, if it were not for much walking, he should be a sleek dog.<= o:p>
There is a young Felix, who has a
great deal more science than his father, but not much more money.
The End