 Chapter 17 The Election And now the important day of the election had arrived, and some men's hearts beat quickly enough to be or not to be a member of the British Parliament is a question of very considerable moment in a man's mind. Much is often said of the great penalties which the ambitious pay for enjoying this honour, of the tremendous expenses of elections, of the long tedious hours of unpaid labour, of the weary days passed in the house, but nevertheless the prize is one very well worth the price paid for it, well worth any price that can be paid for it, short of wading through dirt and dishonour. No other great European nation has anything like it to offer to the ambition of its citizens, for in no other great country of Europe, not even in those which are free, has the popular constitution obtained, as with us, true sovereignty and power of rule. Here it is so, and when a man lays himself out to be a member of Parliament, he plays the highest game and for the highest stakes which the country affords. To some men, born silverspooned, a seat in Parliament comes as a matter of course. From the time of their early manhood they hardly know what it is not to sit there, and the honour is hardly appreciated, being too much a matter of course. As a rule they never know how great a thing it is to be in Parliament, though when reverse comes, as reverses occasionally will come, they fully feel how dreadful it is to be left out. But to men aspiring to be members, or to those who having been once fortunate, have again to fight the battle without assurance of success, the coming election must be a matter of dread concern. Oh, how delightful to hear that the long-talked-of rival has declined the contest, and that the course is clear, or to find by a short canvas that one's majority is safe, and the pleasures of crowing over an unlucky, friendless foe quite secured. No such gratification as this filled the bosom of Mr. Moffat, on the morning of the Barchester election, to him had been brought no positive assurance of success by his indefatigable agent, Mr. Near the Wind. It was admitted on all sides that the contest would be a very close one, and Mr. Near the Wind would not do more than assert that they ought to win, unless things went very wrong with them. Mr. Near the Wind had other elections to attend to, and had not been remaining at Corsey Castle ever since the coming of Miss Dunstable, but he had been there, and at Barchester, as often as possible, and Mr. Moffat was made greatly uneasy by reflecting how very high the bill would be. The two parties had outdone each other in the loudness of their assertions, that each would, on his side, conduct the election in strict conformity to law. There was to be no bribery. Bribery, who indeed in these days would dare to bribe, to give absolute money for an absolute vote, and pay for such an article in downright palpable sovereigns. No purity was much too rampant for that, and the means of detection too well understood. But purity was to be carried much further than this. There should be no treating, no hiring of two hundred voters to act as messengers at twenty shillings a day in looking up some four hundred other voters. No bans were to be paid for, no carriages furnished, no ribbons supplied. British voters were to vote, if vote they would, for the love and respect they bore to their chosen candidate. If so actuated they would not vote, they might stay away. No other inducement would be offered. So much was said loudly, very loudly, by each party. But nevertheless Mr. Moffat, early in these election days, began to have some misgivings about the bill. The proclaimed arrangement had been one exactly suitable to his taste. For Mr. Moffat loved his money. He was a man in whose breast the ambition of being great in the world, and of joining himself to aristocratic people, was continually at war with the great cost which such tastes occasioned. His last election had not been a cheap triumph. In one way or another money had been dragged from him for purposes which had been to his mind unintelligible. And when, about the middle of his first session, he had, with much grumbling, settled all demands, he had questioned with himself whether his whistle was worth its cost. He was therefore a great stickler for purity of election. Although Hattie considered the matter, he should have known that with him money was his only passport into that Elysium, in which he had now lived for two years. He probably did not consider it. For when, in those canvassing days immediately preceding the election, he had seen that all the beer-houses were open, and half the population was drunk, he had asked Mr. Near the Wind whether this violation of the treaty was taking place only on the part of his opponent, and whether in such case it would not be duly noticed with a view to a possible future petition. Mr. Near the Wind assured him triumphantly that at least half of the wallowing swine were his only special friends, and that somewhat more than half of the publicans of the town were eagerly engaged in fighting his Mr. Moffat's battle. Mr. Moffat groaned, and would have expostulated, had Mr. Near the Wind been willing to hear him, but that gentleman's services had been put into requisition by Lord De Coursy, rather than by the candidate. The candidate, he cared but little. To pay the bill would be enough for him. He, Mr. Near the Wind, was doing his business as he well knew how to do it, and it was not likely that he should submit to be lectured by such a Mr. Moffat on a Trumpery's score of expense. It certainly did appear on the morning of the election, as though some great change had been made in that resolution of the candidates to be very pure. From an early hour, rough bands of music were to be heard in every part of the usually quiet town. Carts and gigs, omnibuses and flies, all the old carriages from all the in-yards, and every vehicle of any description which could be pressed into the service, were in motion. If the horses and post-boys were not to be paid for by the candidates, the voters themselves were certainly very liberal in their mode of bringing themselves to the poll. The election district of the city of Barchester extended for some miles on each side of the city, so that the omnibuses and flies had enough to do. Beer was to be had at the public houses almost without question by all who chose to ask for it, and rum and brandy were dispensed to select circles within the bars with equal profusion. As for ribbons, the merc's shops must have been emptied of that article as far as scarlet and yellow were concerned. Scarlet was Sir Roger's colour, while the friends of Mr. Moffat were decked with yellow. Seeing what he did see, Mr. Moffat might well ask whether there had not been a violation of the Treaty of Purity. At the time of this election there was some question whether England should go to war with all her energy, or whether it would not be better for her to save her breath to cool her porridge, and not meddle more than could be helped with foreign quarrels. The last view of the matter was advocated by Sir Roger, and his motto, of course, proclaimed the merits of domestic peace and quiet. Peace abroad, and a big glove at home, was consequently displayed on four or five huge scarlet banners, and carried waving over the heads of the people. But Mr. Moffat was a staunch supporter of the government who were already inclined to be belligerent, and England's honour was therefore the legend under which he selected to do battle. It may, however, be doubted whether there was in all Barchester one inhabitant, let alone one elector, so fatuous as to suppose that England's honour was in any special manner dear to Mr. Moffat, or that he would be a wit more sure of a big loaf than he was now, should Sir Roger happily become a member of the legislature. And then the fine arts were resorted to, seeing that language fell short in telling all that was found necessary to be told. Poor Sir Roger's failing as regards the bottle was too well known, and it was also known that in acquiring his title he had not quite laid aside the rough mode of speech which he had used in his early years. There was, consequently, a great daub painted up on sundry walls, on which a navvy, with a pimply bloated face, was to be seen standing on a railway bank, leaning on a spade, holding a bottle in one hand, while he invited a comrade to drink. Groomjack! Shall I serve a drop of some at short? Were the words coming out of the navvy's mouth? And under this was painted, in huge letters, the last new baronet. But Mr. Moffat hardly escaped on easier terms. The trade by which his father had made his money was as well known as that of the railway contractor, and every possible symbol of tailored them was displayed in graphic portraiture on the walls and hoardings of the city. He was drawn with his goose, with his scissors, with his needle, with his tapes. He might be seen measuring, cutting, stitching, pressing, carrying home his bundle and presenting his little bill, and under each of these representations was repeated his own motto, England's honour! Such were the pleasant little amenities with which the people of Barchester greeted the two candidates who were desirous of the honour of serving them in Parliament. The polling went on briskly and merrily. There were somewhat above nine hundred registered voters, of whom the greater portion recorded their votes early in the day. At two o'clock, according to Sir Rogers' committee, the numbers were as follows, Scatchard, 275, Moffat, 268, whereas by the light afforded by Mr. Moffat's people, they stood in a slightly different ratio to each other, being written thus. Moffat, 277, Scatchard, 269. This naturally heightened the excitement and gave additional delight to the proceedings. At half-past two it was agreed by both sides that Mr. Moffat was ahead. The Moffatites, claiming a majority of twelve, and the Scatchardites, allowing a majority of one, but by three o'clock Sundry good men and true belonging to the railway interest had made their way to the booth in spite of the efforts of a band of roughs from Coursey, and Sir Rogers was again leading by ten or a dozen, according to his own showing. One little transaction, which took place in the earlier part of the day, deserves to be recorded. There was in Barchester an honest publican, honest as the world of publicans goes, who not only was possessed of a vote, but possessed also of a son who was a voter. He was one ready palm, and in former days, before he had learnt to appreciate the full value of an Englishman's franchise, he had been a declared liberal, and an early friend of Roger Scatchard's. In latter days he had governed his political feelings with more decorum, and had not allowed himself to be carried away by such foolish fervour as he had evinced in his youth. On this special occasion, however, his line of conduct was so mysterious as for a while to baffle even those who knew him best. His house was apparently open in Sir Rogers' interest. Beer at any rate was flowing there, as elsewhere, and scarlet ribbons going in, not perhaps in a state of perfect steadiness, came out more unsteady than before. Still had Mr. Ready Palm been deaf to the voice of that charmer closer still, though he had charmed with all his wisdom. Mr. Ready Palm had stated, first his unwillingness to vote at all. He had, he said, given over politics, and was not inclined to trouble his mind again with the subject. Then he had spoken of his great devotion to the Duke of Omnium, and whose grandfather's, his grandfather, had been bred. Mr. Near the Wind had, as he said, been with him, and proved to him, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it would show the deepest ingratitude on his part to vote against the Duke's candidate. Mr. Closer still thought he understood all this, and sent more and still more men to drink beer. He even caused, taking infinite trouble to secure secrecy in the matter, three gallons of British brandy to be ordered and paid for as the best French. But, nevertheless, Mr. Ready Palm made no sign to show that he considered that the right thing had been done. On the evening before the election he told one of Mr. Closer still's confidential men that he had thought a good deal about it, and that he believed he should be constrained by his conscience to vote for Mr. Marford. We have said that Mr. Closer still was accompanied by a learned friend of his, one Mr. Roma, a barrister, who was greatly interested in Sir Roger, and who, being a strong liberal, was assisting in the canvas with much energy. He, hearing how matters were likely to go with this conscientious publican, and feeling himself peculiarly capable of dealing with such delicate scruples, undertook to look into the case in hand. Early, therefore, on the morning of the election, he sauntered down the cross-street in which hung out the sign of the brown bear, and, as he expected, found Mr. Ready Palm near his own door. Now it was quite an understood thing that there was to be no bribery. This was understood by no one better than Mr. Roma, who had in truth drawn up many of the published assurances to that effect, and, to give him his due, he was fully minded to act in accordance with these assurances. The object of all the parties was to make it worth the voter's while to give their votes, but to do so without bribery. Mr. Roma had repeatedly declared that he would have nothing to do with any illegal practising, but he had also declared that, as long as all was done according to law, he was ready to lend his best efforts to assist Sir Roger. How he assisted Sir Roger, and adhered to the law, will now be seen. Oh, Mr. Roma, Mr. Roma, is it not the case with thee that thou wouldst not play false, and yet wouldst wrongly win? Not in electioneering Mr. Roma any more than in other pursuits can a man touch pitch and not be defiled, as thou innocent as thou art, wilt soon learn to thy terrible cost. Well, Ready Palm! said Mr. Roma, shaking hands with him. Mr. Roma had not been equally cautious as near the wind, and had already drunk sundry glasses of ale at the brown bear, in the hope of softening the stern bear-warden. How is it to be today, which is to be the man? If any one knows that, Mr. Roma, you must be the man. A poor numscoe like me knows nothing of them matters. How should I? All I looks to, Mr. Roma, is selling a trifle of drink now and then. Selling it, and getting paid for it, you know, Mr. Roma. Yes, that's simple, no doubt. But come, Ready Palm, such an old friend of Sir Roger as you are, a man he speaks of as one of his intimate friends. I wonder how you can hesitate about it. Now, with another man, I should think that he wanted to be paid for voting. Oh, Mr. Roma, fight, fight, fight. I know it's not the case with you. It would be an insult to offer you money, even if money were going. I should not mention this only, as money is not going, neither on our side nor on the other. No harm can be done. Mr. Roma, if you speak of such a thing, you'll hurt me. I know the value of an Englishman's franchise too well to wish to sell it. I would not demean myself so low. No, not though five and twenty pound a vote was going, as there was in the good old times, and that's not so long ago, neither. I am sure you wouldn't, Ready Palm. I'm sure you wouldn't. But an honest man like you should stick to old friends. Now tell me, and putting his arms through Ready Palm's, he walked with him into the passage of his own house. Now tell me, is there anything wrong? It's between friends, you know. Is there anything wrong? I once sell my vote for untold gold, said Ready Palm, who was perhaps aware that untold gold would hardly be offered to him for it. I am sure you would not, said Mr. Roma. But, said Ready Palm, a man likes to be paid his little bill. Surely, surely, said the barrister, and I did say two years since, when your friend Mr. Closer still brought a friend of his down to stand here. It wasn't Sir Roger then, but when he brought a friend of his down, and when I drew two or three hogs heads of ale on their side, and when my bill was questioned, and only half settled, I did say that I wouldn't interfere with no election no more. And no more I will, Mr. Roma, unless it be to give a quiet vote for the nobleman under whom I and mine always lived respectable. Said Mr. Roma, a man do like to have his bill paid, you know, Mr. Roma. Mr. Roma could not but acknowledge that this was a natural feeling on the part of an ordinary mortal publican. It goes again the grain with a man not to have his little bill paid, and especially at election time. Again urged Mr. Ready Palm. Mr. Roma had not much time to think about it. But he knew well that matters were so nearly balanced, that the votes of Mr. Ready Palm and his son were of inestimable value. If it's only about your bill, said Mr. Roma, I'll see to have that settled. I'll speak to Cleisestill about that. All right! said Ready Palm, seizing the young barrister's hand and shaking it warmly. All right! And late in the afternoon, when a vote or two became matter of intense interest, Mr. Ready Palm and his son came up to the hustings, and boldly tended theirs for their old friend Sir Roger. There was a great deal of eloquence heard in Barchester on that day, so Roger had by this time so far recovered as to be able to go through the dreadfully hard work of canvassing and addressing the electors from eight in the morning till near sunset. A very perfect recovery, most men will say. Yes, a perfect recovery as regarded the temporary use of his faculties, both physical and mental, though it may be doubted whether there can be any permanent recovery from such disease as his, what amount of brandy he consumed to enable him to perform this election work, and what lurking evil effect the excitement might have on him, of these matters no record was kept in the history of those proceedings. Sir Roger's eloquence was of a rough kind, but not perhaps the less operative on those for whom it was intended. The aristocracy of Barchester consisted chiefly of clerical dignitaries, bishops, deans, preventaries, and such-like. On them and theirs it was not probable that anything said by Sir Roger would have much effect. Those men would either abstain from voting or vote for the railway hero with the view of keeping out the decorcy candidate. Then came the shopkeepers, who might also be regarded as a stiff-necked generation, impervious to electioneering eloquence. They would generally support Mr. Moffat. But there was an inferior class of voters, ten-pound freeholders and such-like, who at this period were somewhat given to have an opinion of their own, and over them it was supposed that Sir Roger did obtain some power by his gift of talking. "'Now, gentlemen, will you tell me this?' said he, bawling at the top of his voice from off the portico, which graced the door of the Dragon of Wantley, at which celebrated in Sir Roger's committees at. "'Who is Mr. Moffat? And what has he done for us? There have been some picture-makers about the town this week, past. The Lord knows who they are. I don't. These clever fellows do tell you who I am, and what I have done. I ain't very proud of the way they've painted me, though there's something about it I ain't ashamed of, either. See here! And he held up, on one side of him, one of the great doves of himself. Just hold it there till I can explain it!' and he handed the paper to one of his friends. "'That's me!' said Sir Roger, putting up his stick and pointing to the pimply-nosed representation of himself. "'Hurrah! Hurrah! More power to you! We all know who you are, Roger. You're the boy! When did you get drunk last?' Such like greetings, together with a dead cat, which was flung at him from the crowd, and which he dexterously parried with his stick, were the answers which he received to this exordium. "'Yes,' said he, quite undismayed by this little missile which had so nearly reached him. "'That's me. And look here! This brown, dirty-looking broad streak here is intended for a railway. And that thing in my hand—not the right hand—I'll come to that presently. I were about the brandy, Roger. I'll come to that presently. I'll tell you about the brandy in good time. But that thing in my left hand is a spade. Now, I never handled a spade, and never could. But, boys, I handled a chisel and mallet, and many a hundred block of stone has come out smooth from under that hand, and Sir Roger lifted up his great broad palm wide open. So you did, Roger, and well we mind that. The meaning, however, of that spade is to show that I made the railway. Now I'm very much obliged to those gentlemen over at the White Horse for putting up this picture on me. It's a true picture, and it tells you who I am. I did make that railway. I have made thousands of miles of railway. I am making thousands of miles of railways, some in Europe, some in Asia, some in America. It's a true picture, and he poked his stick through it and held it up to the crowd. A true picture. But for that spade and that railway I shouldn't be now here asking your votes. And when next February comes, I shouldn't be sitting in Westminster to represent you, as by God's grace I certainly will do. That tells you who I am. But now will you tell me who Mr Moffat is? Who about the brandy, Roger? Oh yes, the brandy. I was forgetting that, and the little speech that is coming out of my mouth. A deal shorter speech, and a better one than what I'm making now. Here in the right hand you see a brandy bottle. Well, boys, I'm not a bit ashamed of that. As long as a man does his work, and the spade shows that, it's only fair he should have something to comfort him. I'm always able to work, and few men work much harder. I'm always able to work, and no man has the right to expect more of me. I never expect more than that from those who work for me. No more you don't, Roger. A little drop's very good, ain't it, Roger? Keeps the cold from the stomach, eh, Roger? Then, as to this speech. Come, Jack, let's have a drop of some at short. Why, that's a good speech, too. When I do drink, I like to share with a friend, and I don't care how humble that friend is. Hoorah! More power! That's true, too, Roger. May you never be without a drop to wet your whistle. They say I'm the last new baronet. Well, I ain't ashamed of that. Not a bit. When will Mr Moffat get himself made a baronet? No man can truly say I'm too proud of it. I have never stuck myself up. No, nor stuck my wife up, either. But I don't see much to be ashamed of, because the bigwigs chose to make a baronet of me. No, no more the hand, Roger. Wait all be baronites, if so be we knew the way. But now, having polished off this bit of picture, let me ask you who Mr Moffat is. There are pictures enough about him, too, though heaven knows where they all come from. I think Sir Edwin Lanzier must have done this one of the goose. It is so deadly natural. Look at it! There he is. Upon my word, whoever did that ought to make his fortune at some of these exhibitions. Here he is again with a big pair of scissors. He calls himself England's honour. What the deuce England's honour has to do with tailoring, I can't tell you. Perhaps Mr Moffat can. But mind you, my friends, I don't say anything against tailoring. Some of you are tailors, I dare say. Yes, way be! said a little squeaking voice from out of the crowd. And a good trade it is. When I first knew, Rochester, there were tailors here could lick any stormation in the trade. I say nothing against tailors. But it isn't enough for a man to be a tailor unless he's something else along with it. You're not so fond of tailors that you'll send one up to Parliament merely because he is a tailor. We won't have no tailors. No, no, yet no, cabaging. Take a go, a brandy dodger. You're blown. No, I'm not blown yet. I have a deal more to say about Mr Moffat before I shall be blown. What has he done to entitle him to come here before you and ask you to send him to Parliament? Why, he isn't even a tailor. I wish he were. There's always some good in a fellow who knows how to earn his own bread. But he isn't a tailor. He can't even put a stitch in towards mending England's honour. His father was a tailor. Not a barchester tailor, mind you, so as to give him any claim on your affections. But a London tailor. Now, the question is, do you want to send the son of a London tailor up to Parliament to represent you? No, we don't. Nor yet we won't, either. I rather think not. You've had him once, and what has he done for you? As he said much for you in the House of Commons, why, he's so dumb a dog that he can't bark even for a bone. I'm told it's quite painful to hear him fumbling and mumbling, and trying to get up a speech there over at the White Horse. He doesn't belong to the city. He hasn't done anything for the city, and he hasn't the power to do anything for the city. Then why on earth does he come here? I'll tell you, the elder course he brings in. He's going to marry the elder course's niece. For they say he's very rich, this tailor's son. Only they do say also that he doesn't much like to spend his money. He's going to marry Lord D'Course's niece, and Lord D'Course wishes that his nephew should be in Parliament. There, that's the claim which Mr. Moffat has here on the people of Barchester. He's Lord D'Course's nominee, and those who feel themselves bound, hand and foot, heart and soul to Lord D'Course, had better vote for him. Such men have my leave. If there are enough of such at Barchester to send him to Parliament, the city in which I was born must be very much altered since I was a young man. And so, finishing his speech, Sir Roger retired within, and recruited himself in the usual manner. Such was the flood of eloquence at the Dragon of Wantley. At the White Horse, meanwhile, the friends of the D'Course's interest were treated perhaps to sounder political views, though not expressed in periods so intelligibly fluent as those of Sir Roger. Mr. Moffat was a young man, and there was no knowing to what proficiency in the Parliamentary gift of public talking he might yet attain, but hitherto his proficiency was not great. He had, however, endeavored to make up by study for any want of readiness of speech, and had come to Barchester daily, for the last four days, fortified with a very pretty harangue, which he had prepared for himself in the solitude of his chamber. On the three previous days matters had been allowed to progress with tolerable smoothness, and he had been permitted to deliver himself of his elaborate eloquence, with few other interruptions than those occasioned by his own want of practice. But on this, the day of days, the Barchesterian ruffs were not so complacent. It appeared to Mr. Moffat, when he essayed to speak, that he was surrounded by enemies, rather than friends, and in his heart he gave great plain to Mr. Near the Wind for not managing matters better for him. Men of Barchester! he began, in a voice which was every now and then preternaturally loud, but which, at each fourth or fifth word, gave way from want of power, and descended to its natural weak tone. Men of Barchester! electus and non-electus! Where is Hall-Electus? Hall honours my young caddy! Electus and non-electus! I now ask your suffrages not for the first time! Oh, we've tried you. We know what you're made on. Go on, Snip. Don't you let them put you down. I've had the honour of representing you in Parliament for the last two years, and a juice deal you did for us, didn't you? What could you expect from the ninth part of a man? Never mind, Snip. Go on. Don't you be put out by any of them. Stick to your wax and thread like a man, like the ninth part of a man. Go on a little faster, Snip. For the last two years and—and— Here, Mr. Moffat looked round to his friends for some little support, and the honourable George, who stood close behind him, suggested that he had gone through it like a brick. And—and I went through it like a brick, said Mr. Moffat with the gravest possible face, taking up in his utter confusion the words that were put into his mouth. Hooray! So you did. You're the real brick. Well done, Snip. Go it again with a wax and thread. I am a thorough-paced reformer, continued Mr. Moffat, somewhat reassured by the effect of the opportune words which his friend had whispered into his ear. A thorough-paced reformer? A thorough-paced reformer? Go on, Snip. We all know what that means. A thorough-paced reformer? Never mind your paces, man, but get on. Tell us something new. We're all reformers, we are. Poor Mr. Moffat was a little thrown back. It wasn't so easy to tell these gentlemen anything new, honest as he was at this moment. So he looked back at his honourable supporter for some further hint. Say something about their daughters, whispered George, whose own flights of oratory were always on that subject. Had he counseled Mr. Moffat to say a word or two about the tides, his advice would not have been less to the purpose. Gentlemen! he began again. You all know that I am a thorough-paced reformer? Oh, drat, your reform. He's a dung-dug. Go back to your goose, Snippy. You never were made for this work. Go to Cursey Castle and reform that. Mr. Moffat, grieved in his soul, was becoming inextricably bewildered by such facetiae as these, when an egg, and it may be feared not a fresh egg, flung with unerring precision, struck him on the open part of his well-platted shirt, and reduced him to speechless despair. An egg is a means of delightful support when properly administered, but it is not calculated to add much spirit to a man's eloquence, or to ensure his powers of endurance, when supplied in the manner above described. Men there are doubtless, whose tongues would not be stopped, even by such an argument as this. But Mr. Moffat was not one of them. As the insidious fluid trickled down beneath his waistcoat, he felt that all further powers of coaxing the electors out of their votes, by words flowing from his tongue sweeter than honey, was for that occasion denied to him. He could not be self-confident, energetic, witty and good-humoured, with a rotten egg drying through his clothes. He was forced, therefore, to give way, and with sadly disconcerted air retired from the open window, at which he had been standing. It was in vain that the honourable George, Mr. Near the Wind and Frank, endeavored again to bring him to the charge. He was like a beaten prize-fighter, whose pluck has been cowed out of him, and who, if he stands up, only stands up to fall, Mr. Moffat got sulky also, and when he was pressed, said that, barchester, and the people in it might be dashed, with all my heart, said Mr. Near the Wind, that wouldn't have any effect on their votes. But in truth it mattered very little whether Mr. Moffat spoke or whether he didn't speak. Four o'clock was the hour for closing the poll, and that was now fast coming. Tremendous exertions had been made about half-mast three by a safe emissary sent from Near the Wind to prove to Mr. Reddy-Palm that all manner of contingent advantages would accrue to the brown bear, if it should turn out that Mr. Moffat should take his seat for barchester. No bribe was, of course, offered, or even hinted at. The purity of barchester was not contaminated during the day by one such curse as this. But a man, and a publican, would be required to do some great deed in the public line, to open some colossal tap, to draw beer for the million, and no one would be so fit as Mr. Reddy-Palm. If only it might turn out that Mr. Moffat should in the coming February take his seat as member for barchester. But Mr. Reddy-Palm was a man of humble desires, whose ambitions soared no higher than this, that his little bills should be duly settled. It is wonderful what love an innkeeper has for his bill in its entirety. An account with the respectable total of five or six pounds is brought to you, and you complain but of one article. That fire in the bedroom was never lighted, or that second glass of brandy and water was never called for. You desire to have the shilling expunged. And all your host's pleasure in the whole transaction is destroyed. Oh, my friends, pay for the brandy and water, though you never drank it. Suffer the fire to pass, though it never warmed you. Why make a good man miserable for such a trifle? It became notified to Reddy-Palm with sufficient clearness, that his bill for the past election should be paid without further question, and therefore, at five o'clock, the mayor of barchester proclaimed the result of the contest in the following figures. Scattered 378. Morphet 376. Mr. Reddy-Palm's two votes had decided the question. Mr. Near the Wind immediately went up to town, and the dinner-party at Coorsie Castle that evening was not a particularly pleasant meal. This much, however, had been absolutely decided before the Yellow Committee concluded their labour at the White Horse. There should be a petition. Mr. Near the Wind had not been asleep, and already knew something of the manner in which Mr. Reddy-Palm's mind had been quieted. Chapter 18 The Rivals The intimacy between frank and misdonstable grew and prospered. That is to say, it prospered as an intimacy, though perhaps hardly as a love affair. There was a continued succession of jokes between them, which no one else in the castle understood, but the very fact of their being such a good understanding between them rather stood in the way of, than assisted, that consummation which the Countess desired. People, when they are in love with each other, or even when they pretend to be, do not generally show it by loud laughter. Nor is it frequently the case that a wife with two hundred thousand pounds can be one without some little preliminary despair. Now, there was no despair at all about frank Gresham. Lady Decorsie, who thoroughly understood that portion of the world in which she herself lived, saw that things were not going quite as they should do, and gave much and repeated advice to frank on the subject. She was the more eager in doing this because she imagined frank had done what he could to obey her first precepts. He had not turned up his nose at misdonstables curls, nor found fault with her loud voice. He had not objected to her as ugly, nor even shown any dislike to her age. A young man who had been so amenable to reason was worthy of further assistance, and so Lady Decorsie did what she could to assist him. Frank, my dear boy, she would say, you are a little too noisy, I think. I don't mean for myself, you know. I don't mind it. But misdonstable would like it better if you were a little more quiet with her. Would she aren't, said Frank, looking demurely up into the countess's face. I rather think she likes fun and noise and that sort of thing. You know she's not very quiet herself. Ah! But Frank, there are times, you know, when that sort of thing should be laid aside, fun, as you call it, is all very well in its place. Indeed, no one likes it better than I do. But that's not the way to show admiration. Young ladies, like to be admired, and if you'll be a little more soft-mannered with misdonstable, I'm sure you'll find it will answer better. And so the old bird taught the young bird how to fly, very needlessly, for in this matter of flying nature gives her own lessons thoroughly, and the ducklings will take the water, even though the maternal hen warn them against the perfidious element never so loudly. Soon after this Lady Decorsie began to be not very well pleased in the matter. She took it into her head that misdonstable was sometimes almost inclined to laugh at her, and on one or two occasions it almost seemed as though Frank was joining misdonstable in doing so. The fact, indeed, was that misdonstable was fond of fun, and in doubt as she was with all the privileges which two hundred thousand pounds may be supposed to give to a young lady did not very much care at whom she laughed. She was able to make a tolerably correct guess at Lady Decorsie's plan towards herself, but she did not for a moment think that Frank had any intention of furthering his aunt's views. She was therefore not at all inclined to have a revenge on the Countess. Her very fond your aunties of you, she said to him one wet morning, as he was sauntering through the house, now laughing and almost romping with her, then teasing his sister about Mr. Moffatt, and then bothering his Lady Cousins out of all their propriety. Oh, very, said Frank, she is a dear good woman is my aunt Decorsie. I declare she takes more notice of you and your doings than of any of your cousins. I wonder they ain't jealous. Oh, they're such good people. Bless me, they'd never be jealous. You were so much younger than they are that I suppose she thinks you want more of her care. Yes, that's it. You see, she's fond of having a baby to nurse. Tell me, Mr. Gresham, what was it she was saying to you last night? I know we had been misbehaving ourselves dreadfully. It was all your fault. You would make me laugh so. That's just what I said to her. She was talking about me, then. How on earth should she talk of anyone else, as long as you are here? Don't you know that all the world is talking about you? Is it? Dear me, how kind! But I don't care a straw about any world just at present, but Lady Decorsie's world. What did she say? She said you were very beautiful. Did she? How good of her! No, I forgot. It was I that said that, and she said—what was it, she said? She said that after all beauty was but skin deep, and that she valued you for your virtues and prudence, rather than your good looks. Virtues and prudence! She said I was prudent and virtuous. Yes, and you talked of my beauty. That was so kind of you. You didn't either of you say anything about other matters? What other matters? Oh, I don't know. Only some people are sometimes valued rather for what they've got, than for any good qualities belonging to themselves intrinsically. That can never be the case with Miss Dunstable. Especially not at Corsi Castle, said Frank, bowing easily from the corner of the sofa over which she was leaning. Of course not, said Miss Dunstable, and Frank at once perceived that she spoke in a tone of voice differing much from that half-bantering, half-good human manner that was customary with her. Of course not any such idea would be quite out of the question with Lady de Corsi. She paused for a moment, and then added in a tone different again, and unlike any that he had yet heard from her, it is at any rate out of the question with Mr. Frank Gresham, of that I am quite sure. Frank ought to have understood her, and have appreciated the good opinion which she intended to convey, but he did not entirely do so. He was hardly honest himself towards her, and he could not at first perceive that she intended to say that she thought him so. He knew very well that she was alluding to her own huge fortune, and was alluding also to the fact that people of fashion sought her because of it, but he did not know that she intended to express a true acquittal as regarded him of any such baseness. And did he deserve to be acquitted? Yes, upon the whole he did. To be acquitted of that special sin, his desire to make Miss Dunstable temporally subject to his sway arose not from a hankering after her fortune, but from an ambition to get the better of a contest in which other men around him seemed to be failing. But it must not be imagined that with such a prize to be struggled for, all others stood aloof, and allowed him to have his own way with the heiress undisputed. The chance of a wife with two hundred thousand pounds is a godsend which comes in a man's life too seldom to be neglected. Let that chance be never so remote. Frank was the heir to a large, embarrassed property, and therefore the heads of families, putting their wisdoms together, had thought it most meet that this daughter of Plutus should, if possible, fall to his lot. But not so thought the honorable George, and not so thought another gentleman who was at that time an inmate of Coorsie Castle. These suitors perhaps somewhat despised their young rival's efforts. It may be that they had sufficient worldly wisdom to know that so important a crisis of life is not settled among quips and jokes, and that Frank was too much in jest to be an earnest. But be that as it may, his love-making did not stand in the way of their love-making, nor his hopes, if he had any, in the way of their hopes. The honorable George had discussed the matter with the honorable John in a properly fraternal manner. It may be that John had also an eye to the heiress, but if so, he had ceded his views to his brother's superior claims, but it came about that they understood each other very well, and John favoured George with salutary advice on the occasion. If it is to be done at all, it should be done very sharp, said John. As sharp as you like, said George, and not the feller to be study in three months in what attitude I'll fall at a girl's feet. No, and when you are there, you mustn't take three months more to study how you'll get up again. If you do it at all, you must do it sharp, repeated John, putting great stress on his advice. They have said a few soft words to her already, and she didn't seem to take them badly, said George. She's no chicken, you know, remarked John, and with a woman like that, beaten about the bush, never does any good. The chances are she won't have you. That's, of course. Plums like that don't fall into a man's mouth merely for shaking the tree. But it's possible, she may, and if she will, she's as likely to take you to-day as this day six months. If I were you, I'd rate her a letter. Rate her a letter, eh? said George, who did not altogether dislike the advice, for it seemed to take from his shoulders the burden of preparing a spoken address. Though he was so glib in speaking about the farmer's daughters, he felt that he should have some little difficulty in making known his passion to misdonstable by word of mouth. Yes, rate a letter. If she'll take you at all, she'll take you that way. Half the matches going are made up by writing letters. Rate her a letter, and get it put on her dressing table. George said that he would, and so he did. George spoke quite truly when he hinted that he had said a few soft things to misdonstable. Misdonstable, however, was accustomed to hear soft things. She had been carried much about in society among fashionable people since, on the settlement of her father's will, she had been pronounced heiress to all the ointment of Lebanon, and many men had made calculations respecting her similar to those which were now animating the brain of the honourable George de Corsi. She was already quite accustomed to being the target at which spend thrifts and the needy rich might shoot their arrows, accustomed to being shot at, and tolerably accustomed to protect herself without making scenes in the world, or rejecting the advantageous establishments offered to her with any loud expressions of disdain. The honourable George, therefore, had been permitted to say soft things, very much of the matter, of course, and very little more outward fracar arose from the correspondence which followed than had arisen from the soft things, so said. George wrote the letter, and had it duly conveyed to misdonstable's bed-chamber. Misdonstable duly received it, and had her answer conveyed back discreetly to George's hands. The correspondence ran as follows. Corsi Castle, August the Dash, 1850 Dash. Nay, dearest misdonstable, I cannot but flatter myself that you must have perceived from my manner, that you are not indifferent to me. Indeed, indeed you are not. I may truly say, and swear, these last strong words had been put in by the special council of the honourable John, that if ever a man loved a woman truly, a truly love you, you may think it very odd that I should say this in a letter, instead of speaking it out before your face. But your powers of railery are so great, duch are up about her wit, had been the advice of the honourable John, that I am all but afraid to encounter them. Dearest, dearest Martha, oh, do not blame me for so addressing you. If you will trust your happiness to me, you shall never feign that you have been deceived. May ambition shall be to make you shane in that circle which you are so well qualified to adorn, and to see you firmly fixed in that sphere of fashion for which all your tastes adapt you. I may safely assert, and I do assert it with my hand on my heart, that I am actuated by no mercenary motives. Far be it from me to marry any woman, no, not a princess, on account of her money. No marriage can be happy without mutual affection, and I do fully trust, no, not trust, but hope, that there may be such between you and me, dearest Miss Dunstable, whatever settlements you might propose I should exceed to. It is you, your sweet person, that I love, not your money. For myself I need not remind you that I am the second son of my father, and that as such I hold no inconsiderable station in the world. May intention is to get into Parliament, and to make a name for myself, if I can, among those who shane in the House of Commons. May Elder Brother, Lord Paulock, is, you are aware, unmarried, and we all fear that the family honours are not likely to be perpetuated by him, as he has all manner of troublesome liaisons which will probably prevent his settling in life. There is nothing at all of that kind in my way. It will indeed be a delight to place a coronet on the head of my lovely Martha, a coronet which can give no fresh grace to her, but which will be so much adorned by her wearing it. Dearest Miss Dunstable, I shall wait with the utmost impatience for your answer, and now, burning with hope that it may not be altogether unfavourable to my love, I beg permission to say in myself your own, most devoted, George de Coursy. The ardent lover had not to wait long for an answer from his mistress. She found this letter on her toilet-table one night, as she went to bed. The next morning she came down to breakfast, and met her swaying with the most unconcerned air in the world, so much so that he began to think, as he munched his toast with rather a shame-faced look, that the letter on which so much was to depend had not yet come safely to hand. But his suspense was not of a prolonged duration. After breakfast, as was his want, he went out to the stables with his brother and Frank Gresham, and while there Miss Dunstable's man, coming up to him, touched his hat and put a letter into his hand. Frank, who knew the man, glanced at the letter and looked at his cousin, but he said nothing. He was, however, a little jealous, and felt that an injury was done to him by any correspondence between Miss Dunstable and his cousin George. Miss Dunstable's reply was as follows, and it may be remarked that it was written in a very clear and well penned hand, and one which certainly did not betray much emotion of the heart. My dear Mr. DeCourcy, I am sorry to say that I had not perceived from your manner that you entertained any peculiar feelings towards me, as had I done so, I should at once have endeavoured to put an end to them. I am much flattered by the way in which you speak of me, but I am in too humble a position to return your affection, and can therefore only express a hope that you may be soon able to eradicate it from your bosom. A letter is a very good way of making an offer, and as such I do not think it at all odd, but I certainly did not expect such an honour last night. As to my railery, I trust it has never yet hurt you. I can assure you it never shall. I hope you will soon have a worthier ambition than that to which you elude, but I am well aware that no attempt will ever make me shine anywhere. I am quite sure you have had no mercenary motives. Such motives in marriage are very base, and quite below your name and lineage. Any little fortune that I may have must be a matter of indifference to one who looks forward, as you do, to put a coronet on his wife's brow. Nevertheless, for the sake of the family, I trust that Lord Paulock, in spite of his obstacles, may live to do the same for a wife of his own some of these days. I am glad to hear that there is nothing to interfere with your own prospects of domestic felicity, sincerely hoping that you may be perfectly successful in your proud ambition to shine in Parliament, and regretting extremely that I cannot share that ambition with you, I beg to subscribe myself with very great respect, your sincere well-wisher, Martha Dunstable. The honourable George, with that modesty which so well became him, accepted Miss Dunstable's reply as a final answer to his little proposition, and troubled her with no further courtship. As he said to his brother John, no harm had been done, and he might have better luck next time. But there was an inmate of Corsi Castle, who was somewhat more pertinacious in his search after love and wealth. This was no other than Mr. Moffat, a gentleman whose ambition was not satisfied by the cares of his barchester contest, or the possession of one affianced bride. Mr. Moffat was, as we have said, a man of wealth. But we all know from the lessons of early youth how the love of money increases and gains strength by its own success, nor was he a man of so mean a spirit as to be satisfied with mere wealth. He desired also place and station, and gracious countenance among the great ones of the earth. Hence had come his adherence to the Decourses, hence his seat in Parliament, and hence also his perhaps ill-considered match with Miss Gresham. There is no doubt, but that the privilege of matrimony offers opportunities to money-loving young men which ought not to be lightly abused. Too many young men marry without giving any consideration to the matter whatever. It is not that they are indifferent to money, but that they recklessly miscalculate their own value, and omit to look around and see how much is done by those who are more careful. A man can be young but once, and except in cases of a special interposition of providence, can marry but once. The chance once thrown away may be said to be irrevocable, how in afterlife do men toil and turmoil through long years to attain some prospect of doubtful advancement. Half that trouble, half that care, a tithe of that circumspection would in early use have probably secured to them the enduring comfort of a wife's wealth. You will see men laboring night and day to become bank directors, and even a bank direction may only be the road to ruin. Others will spend years in degrading subserviency to obtain a niche in a will, and the niche, when at last obtained and enjoyed, is but a sorry payment for all that has been endured. Others again struggle harder still, and go through even deeper waters. They make wills for themselves, forge stock shares, and fight with unremitting painful labour to appear to be the thing that they are not. Now in many of these cases all this might have been spared had the men made adequate use of those opportunities which youth and youthful charms afford once, and once only. There is no road to wealth so easy and respectable as that of matrimony. That is, of course, provided that the aspirant declines the slow course of honest work, but then we can so seldom put old heads on young shoulders. In the case of Mr. Moffat we may perhaps say that a specimen was produced of this bird so rare in the land. His shoulders were certainly young, seeing that he was not yet six and twenty, but his head had ever been old. From the moment when he was first put forth to go alone at the age of twenty-one his life had been one calculation how he could make the most of himself. He had allowed himself to be betrayed into no folly by an unguarded heart. No youthful indiscretion had marred his prospects. He had made the most of himself. Without wit, or depth, or any mental gift, without honesty of purpose or industry for good work, he had been for two years sitting member for Barchester, was the guest of Lord D'Corsi, was engaged to the eldest daughter of one of the best commoners families in England, and was, when he first began to think of Ms. Dunstable, sanguine that his re-election to parliament was secure. When, however, at this period he began to calculate what his position in the world really was, it occurred to him that he was doing an ill-judged thing in marrying Ms. Gresham. Why marry a penidous girl? For Augustus' trifle of a fortune was not a penny in his estimation. While there was Ms. Dunstable in the world to be won, his own six or seven thousand a year, quite unembarrassed as it was, was certainly a great thing. But what might he not do if to that he could add the almost fabulous wealth of the great heiress? Was she not here put absolutely in his path? Would it not be a willful throwing away of a chance not to avail himself of it? He must, to be sure, lose the decorcy friendship. But if he should then have secured his barchester seat for the usual term of parliamentary session, he might be able to spare that. He would also perhaps encounter some Gresham enmity. This was a point on which he did think more than once. But what will not a man encounter for the sake of two hundred thousand pounds? It was thus that Mr. Moffat argued with himself with much prudence, and brought himself to resolve that he would at any rate become a candidate for the great prize. He also therefore began to say soft things, and it must be admitted that he said them with more considerate propriety than had the Honourable George. Mr. Moffat had an idea that Ms. Dunstable was not a fool, and that in order to catch her he must do more than endeavour to lay salt on her tail in the guise of flattery. It was evident to him that she was a bird of some cunning, not to be caught by an ordinary gin such as those commonly in use with the Honourable Georges of society. It seemed to Mr. Moffat that though Ms. Dunstable was so sprightly, so full of fun, and so ready to chatter on all subjects, she well knew the value of her own money, and of her position as dependent on it. He perceived that she never flattered the Countess, and seemed to be no whittled absorbed by the titled grandeur of her host's family. He gave her credit, therefore, for an independent spirit, and an independent spirit in his estimation was one that placed its sole dependence on a respectable balance at its bankers. Working on these ideas, Mr. Moffat commenced operations in such manner that his overtures to the heiress should not, if unsuccessful, interfere with the Greshamsbury engagement. He began by making common cause with Ms. Dunstable. Their positions in the world, he said to her, were closely similar. They had both risen from the lower class by the strength of honest industry. They were both now wealthy, and had both hitherto made such use of their wealth as to induce the highest aristocracy of England to admit them into their circles. Yes, Mr. Moffat had Ms. Dunstable remarked, and if all that are here be true, to admit you into their very families. At this, Mr. Moffat slightly demurred. He would not affect, he said, to misunderstand what Ms. Dunstable meant. There had been something said on the probability of such an event, but he begged Ms. Dunstable not to believe all that she heard on such subjects. I do not believe much, said she, but I certainly did think that that might be credited. Mr. Moffat then went on to show how it behoved them both, in holding out their hands half-way to meet the aristocratic overtures that were made to them, not to allow themselves to be made use of. The aristocracy, according to Mr. Moffat, were people of a very nice thought. The best acquaintance in the world, a portion of mankind, to be noticed by whom, should be one of the first objects in the life of the Dunstables and the Moffats. But the Dunstables and Moffats should be very careful to give little or nothing in return. Much, very much, in return, would be looked for. The aristocracy, said Mr. Moffat, were not a people to allow the light of their countenance to shine forth without looking for a quid pro quo for some compensating value. In all their intercourse with the Dunstables and Moffats, they would expect a payment. It was for the Dunstables and Moffats to see that at any rate they did not pay more for the article they got than its market value. The way in which she, Miss Dunstable, and he, Mr. Moffat, would be required to pay would be by taking each of them some poor siren of the aristocracy in marriage, and thus expending their hard-earned wealth in procuring high-priced pleasures for some well-born pauper. Against this peculiar caution was to be used. Of course the further induction to be shown was this, that people so circumstanced should marry among themselves the Dunstables and the Moffats each with the other, and not tumble into the pitfalls prepared for them. Whether these great lessons had any lasting effect on Miss Dunstable's mind may be doubted. Perhaps she had already made up her mind on the subject which Mr. Moffat so well discussed. She was older than Mr. Moffat, and in spite of his two years of parliamentary experience, had perhaps more knowledge of the world with which she had to deal. But she listened to what he said with complacency. Understood his object as well as she had that of his aristocratic rival, was no wit offended, but ground in her spirit as she thought of the wrongs of Augusta Gresham. But all this good advice, however, would not win the money for Mr. Moffat without some more decided step. And that step he soon decided on taking, feeling assured that what he had said would have its due weight with the heiress. The party at Corsi Castle was now soon about to be broken up. The male Decorses were going down to a Scotch mountain. The female Decorses were to be shipped off to an Irish castle. Mr. Moffat was to go up to town to prepare his petition. Miss Dunstable was again about to start on a foreign tour in behalf of her physician and attendants, and Frank Gresham was at last to be allowed to go to Cambridge, that is to say, unless his success with Miss Dunstable should render such a step on his part quite preposterous. I think you may speak now, Frank, said the Countess. I really think you may. You have known her now for a considerable time, and as far as I can judge she is very fond of you. Nonsense aunt, said Frank. She doesn't care a button for me. I think differently, and look us on, you know. Always understand the game best. I suppose you are not afraid to ask her. Afraid? said Frank in a tone of considerable scorn. He almost made up his mind that he would ask her to show that he was not afraid. His only obstacle to doing so was that he had not the slightest intention of marrying her. There was, to be but one other great event before the party broke up, and that was a dinner at the Duke of Omniums. The Duke had already declined to come to Corsi, but he had in a measure atoned for this by asking some of the guests to join a great dinner which he was about to give to his neighbours. Mr Moffat was to leave Corsi Castle the day after the dinner party, and he therefore determined to make his great attempt on the morning of that day. It was with some difficulty that he brought about an opportunity, but at last he did so, and found himself alone with Miss Dunstable in the walks of Corsi Park. It is a strange thing, is it not? said he, recurring to his old view of the same subject, that I should be going to dine with the Duke of Omnium, the richest man, they say, among the whole English aristocracy. Men of that kind entertain everybody, I believe, now and then, said Miss Dunstable not very civilly. I believe they do, but I am not going as one of the everybody's. I am going from Lord to Corsi's house with some of his own family. I have no pride in that, not the least. I have more pride in my father's honest industry, but it shows what money does in this country of ours. Yes, indeed, money does a great deal many queer things. In saying this, Miss Dunstable could not but think that money had done a very queer thing in inducing Miss Gresham to fall in love with Mr. Moffat. Yes, wealth is very powerful. Here we are, Miss Dunstable, the most honoured guests in the house. Oh, I don't know about that. You may be, for you are a Member of Parliament and all that. No, not a Member now, Miss Dunstable. Well, you will be, and that's all the same. But I have no such title to honour, thank God. They walked on in silence for a little while, for Mr. Moffat hardly knew how to manage the business he had in hand. It is quite delightful to watch these people, he said at last. Now they accuse us of being tough hunters. Do they? said Miss Dunstable. Upon my word I didn't know that anybody ever so accused me. I didn't mean you and me personally. Though I'm glad of that. But that is what the world says of persons of our class. Now it seems to me that the toadying is all on the other side. The Countess here does toadie you, and so do the young ladies. Do they? If so, upon my word I didn't know it. But to tell the truth I don't think much of such things. I live mostly to myself, Mr. Moffat. I see that you do, and I admire you for it. But Miss Dunstable, you cannot always live so. And Mr. Moffat looked at her in a manner which gave her the first intimation of his coming burst of tenderness. That's as may be, Mr. Moffat, said she. He went on beating about the bush for some time, giving her to understand how necessary it was that persons situated as they were should live either for themselves or for each other, and that above all things they should beware of falling into the mouths of voracious aristocratic lions who go about looking for prey till they came to a turn in the grounds, at which Miss Dunstable declared her determination of going in. She had walked enough, she said. As by this time Mr. Moffat's immediate intentions were becoming visible, she thought it prudent to retire. Don't let me take you in, Mr. Moffat. But my boots are a little damp, and Dr. Easiman will never forgive me if I do not hurry in as fast as I can. Your feet damp? I hope not. I do hope not, said he, with the look of the greatest solicitude. Oh, it's nothing to signify, but it's well to be prudent, you know. Good morning, Mr. Moffat. Miss Dunstable. Er, yes, and Miss Dunstable stopped in the grand path. I won't let you return with me, Mr. Moffat, because I know you are not coming in so soon. Miss Dunstable, I shall be leaving this tomorrow. Yes, and I go myself the day after. I know it. I am going to town, and you are going abroad. It may be long, very long, before we meet again. About Easter, said Miss Dunstable, that is, if the doctor doesn't knock up on the road. And I had, had wished to say something before we part for so long a time. Miss Dunstable, stop, Mr. Moffat. Let me ask you one question. I'll hear anything that you have got to say, but on one condition. That is, that Miss Augusta Gresham shall be by while you say it. Will you consent to that? Miss Augusta Gresham, said he, has no right to listen to my private conversation. Has she not, Mr. Moffat? Then I think she should have. I, at any rate, will not so far interfere with what I look on as her undoubted privileges, as to be a party to any secret in which she may not participate. But, Miss Dunstable, and to tell you fairly, Mr. Moffat, any secret that you do tell me, I shall most undoubtedly repeat to her before dinner. Good morning, Mr. Moffat. My feet are certainly a little damp, and if I stay a moment longer, Dr. Ezyman will put off my foreign trip for at least a week, and so she left him standing alone in the middle of the gravel-walk. For a moment or two, Mr. Moffat consoled himself in his misfortune by thinking how he might best avenge himself on Miss Dunstable. Soon, however, such futile ideas left his brain. Why should he give over the chase because the rich galleon had escaped him on this, his first cruise in pursuit of her? Such prizes were not to be won so easily. Her present objection clearly consisted in his engagement to Miss Gresham, and in that only, let that engagement be at an end, notoriously and publicly broken off, and this objection would fall to the ground. Yes, ships so richly freighted were not to be run down in one summer morning's plain sailing. Instead of looking for his revenge on Miss Dunstable, it would be more prudent in him, more in keeping with his character, to pursue his object, and overcome such difficulties as he might find in his way. CHAPTER 19 THE DUKE OF OMNIUM The Duke of Omnium was, as we have said, a bachelor. Not the less on that account did he, on certain rare gala days, entertain the beauty of the county at his magnificent rural seat, or the female fashion of London in Belgrade Square. But on this occasion, the dinner at Gatherham Castle, for such was the name of his mansion, was to be confined to the lords of the creation. It was to be one of those days on which he collected round his board all the notables of the county, in order that his popularity might not wane, or the established glory of his hospitable house become dim. On such an occasion it was not probable that Lord D'Courcy would be one of the guests. The party, indeed, who went from Courcy Castle, was not large, and consisted of the Honourable George, Mr. Moffat, and Frank Gresham. They went in a tax cart with a tandem horse, driven very knowingly by George D'Courcy, and the fourth seat on the back of the vehicle was occupied by a servant, who was to look after the horses at Gatherham. The Honourable George drove either well or luckily, for he reached the Duke's house in safety. But he drove very fast. Poor, misdunstable, what would have been her lot, had anything but good happened to that vehicle, so richly freighted with her three lovers. They did not quarrel after the prize, and all reached Gatherham Castle in good humour with each other. The castle was a new building of white stone, lately erected at an enormous cost by one of the first architects of the day. It was an immense pile, and seemed to cover ground enough for a moderate-sized town. But nevertheless, reports said that when it was completed, the noble owner found that he had no rooms to live in, and that on this account, when disposed to study his own comfort, he resided in a house of perhaps one tenth the size built by his grandfather in another county. Gatherham Castle would probably be called Italian in its style of architecture, though it may, I think, be doubted whether any such edifice, or anything like it, was ever seen in any part of Italy. It was a vast edifice, irregular in height, or it appeared to be so. Having long wings on each side, too high to be passed over by the eye as mere adjuncts to the mansion, and a portico so large as to make the house behind it look like another building of a greater altitude. This portico was supported by Ionic columns, and was in itself doubtless a beautiful structure. It was approached by a flight of steps, very broad and very grand. But as an approach by a flight of steps hardly suits an Englishman's house, to the immediate entrance of which it is necessary that his carriage should drive, there was another front door in one of the wings, which was commonly used. The carriage, however, could on very stupendously grand occasions. The visits, for instance, of queens and kings and royal dukes, be brought up under the portico, as the steps had been so constructed as to admit of a road, with a rather stiff ascent, being made close in front of the wing up into the very porch. Opening from the porch was the grand hall, which extended up to the top of the house. It was magnificent indeed, being decorated with many-coloured marbles, and hung round with various trophies of the House of Omnium. Banners were there, and armour, the sculptured busts of many noble progenitors, full-length figures in marble of those who had been especially prominent, and every monument of glory that wealth, long years, and great achievements, could bring together. If only a man could but live in his hall and be forever happy there, but the Duke of Omnium could not live happily in his hall. And the fact was that the architect, in contriving this magnificent entrance for his own honour and fame, had destroyed the Duke's house, as regards most of the ordinary purposes of residence. Nevertheless, Gatherham Castle is a very noble pile, and standing as it does on an eminence has a very fine effect, when seen from many a distant knoll and verdant wooded hill. At seven o'clock, Mr. D'Corsi and his friends got down from their drag at the smaller door, for this was no day on which to mount up under the portico, nor was that any suitable vehicle to have been entitled to such an honour. Frank felt some excitement a little stronger than that usual to him at such moments, for he had never yet been in company with the Duke of Omnium, and he rather puzzled himself to think on what points he would talk to the man who was the largest landowner in that county, in which he himself had so great an interest. He, however, made up his mind that he would allow the Duke to choose his own subjects. Merely reserving to himself, the right of pointing out how deficient in Gorse covers was West Barsature, that being the Duke's division. They were soon divested of their coats and hats, and without entering on the magnificence of the great hall, were conducted through rather a narrow passage into rather a small drawing-room. Small, that is, in proportion to the number of gentlemen there assembled. There might be about thirty, and Frank was inclined to think that they were almost crowded. A man came forward to greet them when their names were announced, but our hero at once knew that he was not the Duke, for this man was fat and short, whereas the Duke was thin and tall. There was a great hubbub going on, for everybody seemed to be talking to his neighbour, or in default of a neighbour, to himself. It was clear that the exalted rank of their host had put very little constraint on his guest's tongues, for they chatted away with as much freedom as farmers at an ordinary. Which is the Duke? At last Frank contrived to whisper to his cousin. Oh, he's not here, said George. I suppose he'll be in presently. I believe he never shows till just before dinner. Frank, of course, had nothing further to say, but he already began to feel himself a little snubbed. He thought that the Duke, Duke though he was, when he asked people to dinner, should be there to tell them that he was glad to see them. More people flashed into the room, and Frank found himself rather closely wedged in with a stout clergyman of his acquaintance. He was not badly off, for Mr. Athill was a friend of his own, who had held a living near Greshamsbury. Lately, however, at the lamented decease of Dr. Stanhope, who had died of apoplexy at his villa in Italy, Mr. Athill had been presented with the better preferment of Iderdown, and had therefore removed to another part of the county. He was somewhat of a bon vivant, and a man who thoroughly understood dinner parties, and with much good nature he took Frank under his special protection. You stick to me, Mr. Gresham, he said, when we go into the dining-room. I am an old hand at the Duke's dinners, and know how to make a friend comfortable, as well as myself. But why doesn't the Duke come in, demanded Frank. He'll be here as soon as dinner is ready, said Mr. Athill, or rather the dinner will be ready as soon as he is here. I don't care, therefore, how soon he comes. Frank did not understand this, but he had nothing to do but to wait and see how things went. He was beginning to be impatient, for the room was now nearly full, and it seemed evident that no other guests were coming, when suddenly a bell rang, and a gong was sounded, and at the same instant a door that had not yet been used flew open, and a very plainly dressed, plain, tall man entered the room. Frank at once knew that he was at last in the presence of the Duke of Omnium. But his grace, late as he was in commencing the duties as host, seemed in no hurry to make up for lost time. He quietly stood on the rug with his back to the empty grate, and spoke one or two words, in a very low voice, to one or two gentlemen who stood nearest to him. The crowd in the meanwhile became suddenly silent. Frank, when he found that the Duke did not come and speak to him, felt that he ought to go and speak to the Duke. But no one else did so, and when he whispered his surprise to Mr. Aso, that gentleman told him that this was the Duke's practice on all such occasions. Father Gill, said the Duke, and it was the only word he had yet spoken out loud, I believe we are ready for dinner. Now, Mr. Father Gill was the Duke's land agent, and he it was, who had greeted Frank and his friends at their entrance. Immediately the gong was again sounded, and another door, leading out of the drawing-room into the dining-room, was opened. The Duke led the way, and then the guests followed. Stick close to me, Mr. Gresham, said Aso, you'll get about the middle of the table, where we shall be cosy, and on the other side of the room, out of this dreadful draught. I know the place well, Mr. Gresham, stick to me. Mr. Aso, who was a pleasant, chatty companion, had hardly seated himself, and was talking to Frank as quickly as he could, when Mr. Father Gill, who sat at the bottom of the table, asked him to say grace. It seemed to be quite out of the question that the Duke should take any trouble with his guests whatever. Mr. Aso consequently dropped the word he was speaking, and uttered a prayer, if it was a prayer, that they might all have grateful hearts for that which God was about to give them, if it was a prayer. As far as my own experience goes, such utterances are seldom prayers, seldom can be prayers, and if not prayers, what then? To me it is unintelligible that the full tide of glibbest chatter can be stopped at a moment in the midst of profuse good living, and the giver thanked becomingly in words of heartfelt praise. Setting aside for the moment what one daily hears and sees, may not one declare that a change so sudden is not within the compass of the human mind? But then, to such reasoning, one cannot but add what one does here and see, one cannot but judge of the ceremony by the manner in which one sees it performed, uttered, that is, and listened to. Clergymen there are, one meets them now and then, who endeavour to give to the dinner-table grace some of the solemnity of a church ritual. And what is the effect? Much the same as though one were to be interrupted for a minute in the midst of one of our church liturgies to hear a drinking-song, and it will be argued that a man need be less thankful because, at the moment of receiving, he utters no thanksgiving. Or will it be thought that a man is made thankful because what is called a grace is uttered after dinner. It can hardly be imagined that any one will so argue or so think. Dinner-graces are probably the last remaining relic of certain daily services, footnote one, which the church in olden days enjoined. Nones, complains and vespers were others. Of the knowns and complains we have happily got quit, and it might be well if we could get rid of the dinner-graces also. Bet any man ask himself whether, on his own part, they are acts of prayer and thanksgiving. And if not that, what then? Footnote one, it is, I know, alleged that graces are said before dinner because our saviour uttered a blessing before his last supper. I cannot say that the idea of such analogy is pleasing to me. When the large party entered the dining-room, one or two gentlemen might be seen to come in from some other door and set themselves at the table near to the duke's chair. These were guests of his own who were staying in the house, his particular friends, the men with whom he lived. The others were strangers whom he fed, perhaps once a year, in order that his name might be known in the land, as that of one who distributed food and wine hospitably through the county. The food and wine, the attendance also, and the view of the vast repository of plate, he vouchsafed willingly to his county neighbours. But it was beyond his good nature to talk to them. To judge by the present appearance of most of them, they were quite as well satisfied to be left alone. Frank was altogether a stranger there. But Mr. Athol knew everyone at the table. That's Apjohn, said he. Don't you know, Mr. Apjohn, the attorney from Barchester? He is always here. He does some of Father Gill's law business, and makes himself useful. If any fellow knows the value of a good dinner, he does. You'll see that the duke's hospitality will not be thrown away on him. It's very much thrown away upon me, I know, said Frank, who could not at all put up with the idea of sitting down to dinner without having been spoken to by his host. Oh, nonsense! said his clerical friend. You'll enjoy yourself amazingly by and by. There is not such champagne in any other house in Barsicher. And then the claret! And Mr. Athol pressed his lips together, and gently shook his head, meaning to signify by the motion that the claret of Gatherham Castle was sufficient atonement for any penance which a man might have to go through in his mode of obtaining it. Who's that funny little man sitting there next but one to Mr. Decorsi? I never saw such a queer fellow in my life. Don't you know Old Bolas? Well, I thought everyone in Barsicher knew Bolas. You especially should do so, as he is such a dear friend of Dr. Thorn. A dear friend of Dr. Thorn? Yes, he was apothecary at Scarrington in the old days, before Dr. Philgrave came into vogue. I remember when Bolas was thought to be a very good sort of doctor. Is he, is he? whispered Frank. Is he by way of a gentleman? Well, I suppose he must be charitable, and say that he is quite as good at any rate as many others there are here. And Mr. Athol, as he spoke, whispered into Frank's ear. You see, there's Finney here, another barchester attorney. Now I really think where Finney goes, Bolas may go too. The more the merrier, I suppose, said Frank. Well, something a little like that. I wonder why Thorn is not here. I'm sure he was asked. Perhaps he did not particularly wish to meet Finney and Bolas. Do you know, Mr. Athol, I think he was quite right not to come. As for myself, I wish I was anywhere else. Ha-ha! You don't know the Duke's ways yet. And what's more, you're young, you happy fellow. But Thorn should have more sense. He ought to show himself here. The gormandising was now going on at a tremendous rate. Though the volubility of their tongues had been for a while stopped by the first shock of the Duke's presence, the guests seemed to feel no such constraint upon their teeth. They fed, one may almost say, rabidly, and gave their orders to the servants in an eager manner, much more impressive than that usual at smaller parties. Mr. Apchon, who sat immediately opposite to Frank, had, by some well-planned manoeuvre, contrived to get before him the jowl of a salmon. But, unfortunately, he was not for a while equally successful in the article of source. A very limited portion, so at least thought Mr. Apchon, had been put on his plate, and a servant with a huge sauce-tureen absolutely passed behind his back, inattentive to his audible requests. Poor Mr. Apchon, in his despair, turned round to arrest the man by his coat-tales, but he was a moment too late, and all but fell backwards on the floor. As he righted himself he muttered an anathema, and looked with a face of anguish at his plate. Anything the matter, Apchon? said Mr. Father Gill, kindly, seeing the utter despair written on the poor man's countenance. Can I get anything for you? The sauce! said Mr. Apchon, in a voice that would have melted a hermit, and as he looked at Mr. Father Gill, he pointed at the now distant sinner, who was dispensing his melted ambrosia at least ten heads upwards, away from the unfortunate supplicant. Mr. Father Gill, however, knew where to look for balm for such wounds, and in a minute or two Mr. Apchon was employed quite to his heart's content. Well, said Frank to his neighbour, it may be very well once in a way, but I think that on the whole Dr. Thorn is right. I dear Mr. Gresham, see the world on all sides! said Mr. Athill, who had also been somewhat intent on the gratification of his own appetite, though with an energy less evident, than that of the gentleman opposite. See the world on all sides if you have an opportunity, and believe me, a good dinner now and then, is a very good thing. Yes, but I don't like eating it with hogs. Whish softly softly, Mr. Gresham, or you'll disturb Mr. Apchon's digestion upon my word he'll want it all before he has done. Now I like this kind of thing once in a way. Do you, said Frank, in a term that was almost savage? Yes, indeed I do. One sees so much character. And after all, what harm does it do? My idea is that people should live with those whose society is pleasant to them. Live? Yes, Mr. Gresham. I agree with you there. It wouldn't do for me to live with the Duke of Omnium. I shouldn't understand, or probably approve, his ways. Nor should I perhaps much like the constant presence of Mr. Apchon. But now and then, once in a year or so, I do own I like to see them both. Here's the cup. Now whatever you do, Mr. Gresham, don't pass the cup without tasting it. And so the dinner passed off. Slowly enough, as Frank thought, but all too quickly for Mr. Apchon, it passed away, and the wine came circulating freely. The tongues again were loosed, the teeth being released from their labours, and under the influence of the claret the Duke's presence was forgotten. But very speedily the coffee was brought. This will soon be over now, said Frank to himself thankfully. For though he by no means despised good claret, he had lost his temper too completely to enjoy it at the present moment. But he was much mistaken. The farce as yet was only at its commencement. The Duke took his cup of coffee, and so did the few friends who sat close to him. But the beverage did not seem to be in great request with the majority of the guests. When the Duke had taken his modicum, he rose up and silently retired, saying no word and making no sign. And then the farce commenced. No, gentlemen, said Mr. Fothergill cheerily, we are all right. Apchon, is there claret there? Mr. Bolas, I know you stick to the Madeira. You are quite right, for there isn't much of it left, and my belief is they'll never be more like it. And so the Duke's hospitality went on, and the Duke's guests drank merrily for the next two hours. Shall't we see any more of him? asked Frank. Any more of whom? said Mr. Athol, of the Duke. Oh, no! you'll see no more of him. He always goes when the coffee comes. It's brought in as an excuse. We've had enough of the light of his countenance to last till next year. The Duke and I are excellent friends, and have been so these fifteen years, but I never see more of him than that. I shall go away, said Frank. Nonsense! Mr. De Coursy and your other friend won't stir for this hour yet. I don't care. I shall walk on, and they may catch me. I may be wrong, but it seems to me that a man insults me when he asks me to dine with him, and never speaks to me. I don't care if he be ten times Duke of Omnium. He can't be more than a gentleman, and as such I am his equal. And then, having thus given vent to his feelings in somewhat high-flown language, he walked forth and trudged away along the road towards Coursy. Frank Gresham had been born and bred a conservative, whereas the Duke of Omnium was well known as a consistent Whig. There is no one so devoutly resolved to admit of no superior as your conservative born and bred. No one so inclined to high domestic despotism as your thug-going consistent old Whig. When he had preceded about six miles, Frank was picked up by his friends, but even then his anger had hardly cooled. Was the Duke as civil as ever when you took your leave of him, said he to his cousin George, as he took his seat on the drag? The Duke was juiced in wine, let me tell you that old fellow! Hiccuped out the honourable George, as he touched up the leader under the flank. End of Chapter 19 Recording by Nick Whitley, Pearlie, United Kingdom