 CHAPTER XV When Frank Gresham expressed to his father an opinion that Corsi Castle was dull, the squire, as may be remembered, did not pretend to differ from him. To such men as the squire and such as the squire's son, Corsi Castle was dull. To what class of men it would not be dull the author is not prepared to say, but it may be presumed that the Decorsis found it to their liking, or they would have made it other than it was. The castle itself was a huge brick pile, built in the days of William III, which, though they were grand for days of the construction of the Constitution, were not very grand for architecture of a more material description. It had no doubt a perfect right to be called a castle, as it was entered by a castle gate which led into a court, the port is lodged for which was built as it were into the wall, there were attached to it also two round stumpy adjuncts which were, perhaps properly, called towers, though they did not do much in the way of towering, and moreover, along one side of the house, over what would otherwise have been the cornice, there ran a castellated parapet through the assistance of which the imagination, no doubt, was intended to supply the muzzles of defiant artillery. But any artillery which would have so presented its muzzle must have been very small, and it may be doubted whether even a bowman could have obtained shelter there. The grounds about the castle were not very inviting, nor, as grounds, very extensive, though no doubt the entire domain was such as suited the importance of so pretent a nobleman as Earl de Corsi. What indeed should have been the park was divided out into various large paddocks. The surface was flat and unbroken, and though there were magnificent elm trees standing in straight lines like hedgerows, the timber had not that beautiful, wild, scattered look which generally gives the great charm to English scenery. The town of Corsi, for the place claimed to rank as a town, was in many particulars like the castle. It was built of dingy red brick, almost more brown than red, and was solid, dull-looking, ugly, and comfortable. It consisted of four streets which were formed by two roads crossing each other, making at the point of junction a center for the town. Here stood the red lion. Had it been called the brown lion, the nomenclature would have been more strictly correct. And here, in the old days of coaching, some life had been want to stir itself at those hours in the day and night when the free traders, tally-hose, and royal males changed their horses. But now there was a railway station a mile and a half distant, and the moving life of the town of Corsi was confined to the red lion omnibus, which seemed to pass its entire time in going up and down between the town and the station quite unembarrassed by any weight of passengers. There were, so said the Corsiites, when away from Corsi, excellent shops in the place. But they were not the less accustomed, when at home among themselves, to complain to each other of the vile extortion with which they were treated by their neighbors. The iron monger, therefore, though he loudly asserted that he could beat Bristol in the quality of his wares in one direction, and undersell Gloucester in another, bought his tea and sugar on the sly in one of those larger towns, and the grocer, on the other hand, equally distrusted the pots and pans of home production. Trade, therefore, at Corsi, had not thriven since the railway had opened, and indeed had any patient inquirers stood at the cross through one entire day, counting customers who entered the neighbouring shops, he might well have wondered that any shops in Corsi could be kept open. And how changed has been the bustle of that once noisy inn to the present death-like silence of its green courtyard? There, a lame osler crawls about with his hands, thrust into the capacious pockets of his jacket, feeding on memory. That weary pair of omnibus jades, and three sorry posters, or all that now grace those stables where horses used to be stalled in close contiguity by the dozen, where twenty grains apiece, abstracted from every feed of oats consumed during the day, would have afforded a daily quart to the lucky pilferer. Come, my friend, and discourse with me. Let us know what are thy ideas of the inestimable benefits which science has conferred on us in these days, our latter days. How dost thou, among others, appreciate railways and the power of steam, telegraphs, telegrams, and our new express? But indifferently you say. Time was I've seen fifteen para-ausses go out of this ear-yard in four and twenty-hour, and now there being fifteen, no not ten in four and twenty days. There was the duke, not this one, he beant no guide, but this one's father. Why, when he'd come down the road, the cattle did be a-going, four days on end. Here'd be the tutor, and the young gentleman, and the governess, and the young leddies, and then the servants, they'd be always the grandest folk of all, and then the duke, and the duchess, Lord lovey sir, the money did fly in them days. But now, and the feeling of scorn and contempt, which the lame Osler was enabled by his native talent to throw into the word now, was quite as eloquent against the power of steam as anything that has been spoken at dinners, or written in pamphlets by the keenest admirers of latter day lights. Why, look at this ear-town, continued he of the sieve. The grass-spear growing in the very streets, that can't be no good. Why, look ye here, sir. I do be astanded at this ear-gateway, just this way, hour after hour, and my highs is hopin' mostly. I see's who's a-coming, and who's a-going. Nobody's a-coming, and nobody's a-going. That can't be no good. Look at that here omnibus. Why, darn me? And now, in his eloquence at this peculiar point, my friend became more loud and powerful than ever. Why, darn me? If Maester herns enough with that there, must the Buddha here on them, also his feet, all be blow'd. As he uttered this hypothetical denunciation on himself, he spoke very slowly, bringing out every word, as it were, separately, and lowering himself at his knees at every sound, moving at the same time his right hand up and down. When he had finished, he fixed his eyes upon the ground, pointing downwards, as if there was to be the sight of his doom, if the curse that he had called down upon himself should ever come to pass. And then, waiting no further converse, he hobbled away melancholy to his deserted stables. Oh, my friend, my poor lame friend, it will avail nothing to tell thee of Liverpool and Manchester, of the glories of Glasgow with their flourishing banks, of London with its third millions of inhabitants, of the great things which commerce is doing for this nation of thine. What is commerce to thee, unless it be commerce in posting on that worn-out, all but useless, great western turnpike road? There is nothing left for thee but to be carted away as rubbish, for thee and for many of us in these now prosperous days. Oh, my melancholy, care-ridden friend! Corsi Castle was certainly a dull place to look at, and Frank, in his form of visits, had found that the appearance did not belie the reality. He had been but little there when the Earl had been at Corsi, and as he had always felt from his childhood a peculiar distaste to the governance of his aunt the Countess, this perhaps may have added to his feeling of dislike. Now, however, the castle was to be fuller than he had ever known it before. The Earl was to be at home, there was some talk of the Duke of Omnium coming for a day or two, though that seemed doubtful. There was some faint doubt of Lord Porlock, Mr Moffat intent on the coming election, and also, let his hope on his coming bliss, there was to be one of the guests, and there was to be the great Miss Dunstable. Frank, however, found that those grandees were not expected quite immediately. I might go back to Gresham's brief for three or four days, as she is not to be here, he said naively to his aunt, expressing with tolerable perspicuity his feeling that he regarded his visit to Corsi Castle quite as a matter of business. But the Countess would hear of no such arrangement. Now that she had got him, she was not going to let him fall back into the perils of Miss Thorn's intrigues, or even of Miss Thorn's propriety. It is quite essential, she said, that you should be here a few days before her, so that she may see that you are at home. Frank did not understand the reasoning, but he felt himself unable to rebel, and he therefore remained there comforting himself as best he could, with the eloquence of the honourable George, and the sporting humours of the honourable John. Mr. Moffat's was the earliest arrival of any importance. Frank had not hitherto made the acquaintance of his future brother-in-law, and there was therefore some little interest in the first interview. Mr. Moffat was shown into the drawing-room before the ladies had gone up to dress, and it so happened that Frank was there also. As no one else was in the room but his sister and two of his cousins, he had expected to see the lovers rush into each other's arms. But Mr. Moffat restrained his ardour, and Miss Gresham seemed contented that he should do so. He was a nice dapper man, rather above the middle height, and good-looking enough had he had a little more expression in his face. He had dark hair, very nicely brushed, small black whiskers, and a small black moustache. His boots were excellently well made, and his hands were very white. He simpered gently as he took hold of Augusta's fingers, and expressed to hope that she had been quite well since last he had the pleasure of seeing her. Then he touched the hands of the Lady Rezina and the Lady Margareta. Mr. Moffat, allow me to introduce you to my brother? Most happy, I'm sure, said Mr. Moffat, again putting out his hand, and allowing it to slip through Frank's grasp, as he spoke in a pretty, mincing voice. Lady Arabella quite well, and your father and sisters. Very warm, isn't it? Quite hot in town, I do assure you. I hope Augusta likes him, said Frank to himself, arguing on the subject exactly as his father had done. But for an engaged lover, he seems to me to have a very queer way with him. Frank, poor fellow, who was of a coarser mould, would, under such circumstances, have been all for kissing, sometimes indeed, even under other circumstances. Mr. Moffat did not do much towards improving the conviviality of the castle. He was, of course, a good deal intent upon his coming election, and spent much of his time with Mr. Near the Wind, the celebrated parliamentary agent. It behooved him to be a good deal at Barchester, canvassing the electors, and underbinding, by Mr. Near the Wind's aid, the minds for blowing him out of his seat, which were daily being contrived, by Mr. Closer Still, on behalf of Sir Roger. The battle was to be fought on the Internessine principle, no quarter being given or taken on either side, and, of course, this gave Mr. Moffat as much as he knew how to do. Mr. Closer Still was well known to be the sharpest man at his business in all England, unless the palm should be given to his great rival, Mr. Near the Wind, and in this instance he was to be assisted in the battle by a very clever young barrister, Mr. Romer, who was an admirer of Sir Roger's career and life. Some people in Barchester, when they saw Sir Roger, Closer Still, and Mr. Romer sauntered down the high street arm in arm, declared that it was all up with poor Moffat, but others, in whose head the mump of veneration was strongly pronounced, whispered to each other that great chivaleth, the name of the Duke of Omnium, and mildly asserted it to be quite impossible that the Duke's nominee should be thrown out. Our poor friend the Squire did not take much interest in the matter, except in so far that he liked his son-in-law to be in Parliament. Both the candidates were, in his eye, equally wrong in their opinions. He had long since recanted those errors of his early youth, which had cost him his seat for the county, and had abjured the Ducorsi politics. He was staunch enough as a Tory now that his being so would no longer be of the slightest use to him. But the Duke of Omnium, and Lord Ducorsi, and Mr. Moffat were all wigs. Wigs, however, differing altogether in politics from Sir Roger, who belonged to the Manchester School, and whose pretensions, through some of those inscrutable twists in modern politics, which are quite unintelligible to the minds of ordinary men outside the circle, were on this occasion secretly favoured by the high Conservative Party. How, Mr. Moffat, who had been brought into the political world by Lord Ducorsi, obtained all the weight of the Duke's interest I never could exactly learn, for the Duke and the Earl did not generally act as twin brothers on such occasions. There is a great difference in wigs. Lord Ducorsi was a court-wig, following the fortunes and enjoying when he could get it, the sunshine of the throne. He was a sojourner at Windsor, and a visitor at Balmoral. He delighted in gold sticks, and was never so happy as when holding some cap of maintenance or spur of precedence with due dignity, and acknowledged grace in the presence of all the court. His means had been somewhat embarrassed by early extravagance, and therefore, as it was his taste to shine, it suited him to shine at the cost of the court, rather than at his own. The Duke of Omnium was a wig of a very different calibre. He rarely went near the presence of majesty, and when he did so he did it merely as a disagreeable duty incident to his position. He was very willing that the queen should be queen so long as he was allowed to be Duke of Omnium. Nor had he begrudged Prince Albert any of his honours till he was called Prince Consort. Then indeed he had, to his own intimate friends, made some remark in three words, not flattering to the discretion of the Prime Minister. The queen might be queen so long as he was Duke of Omnium. Their revenues were about the same, with the exception that the dukes were his own, and he could do what he liked with them. This remembrance did not unfrequently present itself to the duke's mind. In person he was a plain, thin man, tall, but undistinguished in appearance, except that there was a gleam of pride in his eye which seemed every moment to be saying, I am the Duke of Omnium. He was unmarried, and if reports said true, a great debauchee, but if so he had always kept his debaucheries decently away from the eyes of the world, and was not therefore open to that loud condemnation which should fall like a hail storm round the ears of some more open sinners. Why these two mighty nobles put their heads together in order that the Taylor's son should represent Barchester in Parliament I cannot explain. Mr. Moffatt was, as has been said, Lord D'Corsi's friend, and it may be that Lord D'Corsi was able to repay the duke for his kindness as touching Barchester with some little assistance in the county representation. The next arrival was that of the Bishop of Barchester, a meek, good, worthy man, much attached to his wife, and somewhat addicted to his ease. She, apparently, was made in a different mould, and by her energy and diligence atoned for any want in those qualities which might be observed in the bishop himself. When asked his opinion, his lordship would generally reply by saying, Mrs. Proudy and I think so and so. But before that opinion was given, Mrs. Proudy would take up the tale, and she, in her more concise manner, was not want to quote the bishop as having it all assisted in the consideration of the subject. It was well known in Barchester that no married pair consorted more closely or more tenderly together, and the example of such conjugal affection among persons in the upper classes is worth mentioning, as it is believed by those below them, and too often with truth, that the sweet bliss of cannubial reciprocity is not so common as it should be among the magnets of the earth. But the arrival, even of the bishop and his wife, did not make the place cheerful to Frank Gresham, and he began to long for Miss Dunstable in order that he might have something to do. He could not get on at all with Mr. Moffat. He had expected that the man would have once have called him Frank, and that he would have called the man Gustavus, but they did not even get beyond Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gresham. Very hot in Barchester today, very, was the nearest approach to conversation which Frank could attain with him, and as far as he, Frank, could see, Augusta never got much beyond it. There might be tit-a-tate meetings between them, but if so, Frank could not detect when they took place. And so, opening his heart at last to the honorable George for the want of a better confidant, he expressed his opinion that his future brother-in-law was a muff. A muff, I believe you too. What do you think now? I have been with him and near the wind in Barchester these three days past, looking up the electors' wives and daughters and that kind of thing. I say, if there is any fun in it, you might as well take me with you. Oh, there is not much fun. They are mostly so slobbered and dirty, a sharp fellow and near the wind, and knows what he is about well. Does he look up the wives and daughters too? Oh, he goes on every tack, just as it's wanted. But there was Moffat yesterday in a room behind the milliner's shop near Cuthbert's Gate. I was with him. The woman's husband is one of the choristers and an elector, you know, and Moffat went to look for his vote. Now there was no one there when we got there but the three young women, the wife, that is, and her two girls, very pretty women they are, too. I say, George, I'll go and get the choristers' vote for Moffat. I ought to do it, as he's to be my brother-in-law. But what do you think Moffat said to the women? Can't guess. He didn't kiss any of them, did he? Kiss any of them? No, but he begged to give them his positive assurances, a gentleman, that if he was returned to Parliament he would vote for an extension of the franchise and the admission of the Jews into Parliament. Well, he is a Moff, said Frank. Frank, when he heard that the heiress had arrived, felt some slight palpitation at his heart. He had not the remotest idea in the world of marrying her. Indeed, during the last week past, absence had so heightened his love for Mary Thorn that he was more than ever resolved that he would never marry anyone but her. He knew that he had made her a formal offer for her hand, and that it behooved him to keep to it, that the charms of Miss Dunstable be what they might, but nevertheless he was prepared to go through a certain amount of courtship, in obedience to his aunt's behests, and he felt a little nervous at being brought up in that way, face to face, to do battle with two hundred thousand pounds. Miss Dunstable has arrived, said his aunt to him, with great complacency, on his return from an electioneering visit to the beauties of the Barchester, which he made with his cousin George on the day after the conversation which was repeated at the end of the last chapter. She has arrived and is looking remarkably well. She has quite a distangue air, and will grace any circle to which she may be introduced. I will introduce you before dinner, and you can take her out. I couldn't propose to her to-night, I suppose, said Frank maliciously. Don't talk nonsense, Frank, said the Countess angrily. I am doing what I can for you, and taking on an infinity of trouble to endeavour to place you in an independent position, and now you talk nonsense to me." Frank muttered some sort of apology, and then went to prepare himself for the encounter. Miss Dunstable, though she had come by train, had brought with her her own carriage, her own horses, her own coachmen and footmen, and her own maid, of course. She had also brought with her half a score of trunks, full of wearing apparel, some of them nearly as rich as that wonderful box which was stolen a short time since from the top of a cab. But she brought all these things, not in the least because she wanted them herself, but because she had been instructed to do so. Frank was a little more than ordinarily careful in dressing. He spoiled a couple of white neckties before he was satisfied, and was rather fastidious as to the set of his hair. There was not much of the dandy about him in the ordinary meaning of the word, but he felt that it was incumbent on him to look his best, seeing what it was expected that he should now do. He certainly did not mean to marry Miss Dunstable, but as he was to have a flirtation with her, it was as well that he should do so under the best possible auspices. When he entered the drawing-room he perceived at once that the lady was there. She was seated between the Countess and Mrs. Proudy, and Mammon, in her person, was receiving worship from the temporalities and spiritualities of the land. He tried to look unconcerned and remained in the farther part of the room, talking with some of his cousins, but he could not keep his eye off the future possible, Mrs. Frank Gresham, and it seems as though she was as much constrained to scrutinize him as he felt to scrutinize her. Lady Decorsi had declared that she was looking extremely well, and had particularly eluded to her de-stangue appearance. Frank had once felt that he could not altogether go along with his aunt in this opinion. Miss Dunstable might be very well, but her style of beauty was one which did not quite meet with his warmest admiration. In age she was about thirty, but Frank, who was no great judge in these matters, and who was accustomed to have very young girls round him, had once put her down as being ten years older. She had a very high colour, very red cheeks, a large mouth, big white teeth, a broad nose, and bright small black eyes. Her hair also was black and bright, but very crisp and strong, and was combed close round her face and small, crisp black ringlets. Since she had been brought out into the fashionable world, some one of her instructors in fashion had given her to understand the curls were not the thing. They'll always pass muster, Miss Dunstable had replied, when they are done up with back-notes. It may therefore be presumed that Miss Dunstable had a will of her own. Frank, said the Countess, in the most natural and unpremeditated way, as soon as she had caught her nephew's eye, come here, I want to introduce you to Miss Dunstable. The introduction was then made. Mrs. Proudy, would you excuse me? I must positively go and say a few words to Mrs. Barlow, where the poor woman will feel herself huffed, and so saying she moved off, leaving the coast clear for Master Frank. He of course slipped into his aunt's place and expressed to hope that Miss Dunstable was not fatigued by her journey. Fatigued, said she, in a voice rather loud, but very good-humoured, and not altogether unpleasing, I am not to be fatigued by such a thing as that. Why, in May, we came through all the way from Rome to Paris without sleeping—that is, without sleeping in a bed—and we were upset three times out of the sledges coming over the Saint-Laune. It was such fun. Why, I wasn't to say tired even then. All the way from Rome to Paris, said Mrs. Proudy, in a tone of astonishment, meant to flatter the heiress. And what made you in such a hurry? Something about money-matters, said Miss Dunstable, speaking rather louder than usual. Something to do with the ointment. I was selling the business just then. Mrs. Proudy bowed, and immediately changed the conversation. Idolatry is, I believe, more rampant than ever in Rome, said she, and I fear there is no such thing at all as Sabbath observance. Oh! Not at the least, said Miss Dunstable, with a rather joyous air. These and weak days are all the same there. How very frightful, said Mrs. Proudy. But it's a delicious place. I do like Rome, I must say. And as for the Pope, if he wasn't quite so fat he would be the nicest old fellow in the world. Have you been in Rome, Mrs. Proudy? Mrs. Proudy sighed as she replied in the negative, and declared her belief that danger was to be apprehended from such visits. Oh! The malaria, of course. Yes, if you go at the wrong time, but nobody is such a fool as that now. I was thinking of the soul, Miss Dunstable, said the lady-bishop, in her peculiar grave-tone, a place where there are no Sabbath observances. And have you been in Rome, Mr. Gresham? said the young lady, turning almost abruptly round to Frank, and giving a somewhat uncivilely cold shoulder to Mrs. Proudy's exhortation. She, poor lady, was forced to finish her speech to the honourable George who was standing near to her. He, having an idea that bishops and all their belongings, like other things appertaining to religion, should, if possible, be avoided. But if that were not possible, should be treated with a much-assumed gravity, immediately put on a long face and remarked that, it was a deuce-chame for his party always like to see people go quiet on Sundays. The Parsons had only one day out of seven, and he thought they were fully entitled to that. Satisfied with which, or not satisfied, Mrs. Proudy had to remain silent till dinner time. No, said Frank. I never was in Rome. I was in Paris once, and that's all. And then feeling a not unnatural anxiety as to the present state of Miss Dunstable's worldly concerns, he took an opportunity of falling back on that part of the conversation which Mrs. Proudy had exercised so much tact in avoiding. And was it sold? said he. Sold? What sold? You were saying about the business, that you came back without going to bed because of selling the business. Oh, the ointment! No, it was not sold. After all, the affair did not come off, and I might have remained and had another roll in the snow. Wasn't it a pity? So, said Frank to himself, if I should do it I should be owner of the ointment of Lebanon. How odd! And then he gave her his arm and handed her down to dinner. He certainly found that the dinner was less dull than any other he had sat down to at Corsi Castle. He did not fancy that he should ever fall in love with Miss Dunstable, but she certainly was an agreeable companion. She told him of her tour and the fun she had in her journeys, how she took a physician with her for the benefit of her health, whom she generally was forced to nurse, of the trouble it was to her to look after and wait upon her numerous servants, of the tricks she played to bamboozle people who came to stare at her, and lastly she told him of a lover who had followed her from country to country, and was now in hot pursuit of her having arrived in London the evening before she left. A lover, said Frank, somewhat startled by the suddenness of the confidence. A lover? Yes, Mr. Gresham. Why should I not have a lover? Oh, no, of course not. I daresay you have a good many. Only three or four, upon my word, that is, only three or four that I favor, one is not bound to reckon the others, you know. No, they'd be too numerous, and so you have three whom you favor Miss Dunstable, and Frank sighed as though he intended to say that the number was too many for his peace of mind. It's not that quite enough, but of course I changed him sometimes, and she smiled at him very good-naturedly. It would be very dull if I were always to keep the same. Very dull indeed, said Frank, who did not quite know what to say. Do you think that Countess would mind my having one or two of them here if I were to ask her? I am quite sure she would, said Frank very briskly. She would not approve of it at all, nor should I. You? Why? What have you to do with it? A great deal, so much so that I positively forbid it, but Miss Dunstable? Well, Mr. Gresham, we will contrive to make up for the deficiency as well as possible if you will permit us to do so. Now for myself? Well, for yourself? At this moment the Countess gleamed her accomplished eye round the table, and Miss Dunstable rose from her chair as Frank was preparing his attack and accompanied the other ladies into the drawing-room. His aunt as she passed him touched his arm lightly with her fan, so likely that the action was perceived by no one else, but Frank well understood the meaning of the touch and appreciated the approbation which it conveyed. He merely blushed, however, at his own dissimulation, for he felt more certain than ever that he would never marry Miss Dunstable, and he felt nearly equally sure that Miss Dunstable would never marry him. Lord D'Corsi was now at home, but his presence did not add much hilarity to the claret-cup. The young men, however, were very keen about the election, and Mr. Near the Wind, who was one of the party, was full of the most sanguine hopes. I have done one good at any rate, said Frank. I have secured the chorus to his vote. What, bagly, said Near the Wind? The fellow kept out of my way, and I couldn't see him. I haven't exactly seen him, said Frank, but I've got his vote all the same. What, by a letter, said Mr. Moffat? No, not by letter, said Frank, speaking rather low as he looked at the bishop and the earl. I got a promise from his wife. I think he's a little in the hen-pecked line. Ha, ha, ha! laughed the good bishop, who in spite of Frank's modulation of voice had overheard what had passed. Is that the way you manage electioneering matters in our cathedral city? Ha, ha, ha! The idea of one of his choristers being in the hen-pecked line was very amusing to the bishop. Oh, I got a distinct promise, said Frank in his pride, and then added in cautiously. But I had to order bonnets for the whole family. Shhh! said Mr. Near the Wind, absolutely flabbergasted by such imprudence on the part of one of his client's friends. I am quite sure that your order had no effect and was intended to have no effect on Mr. Bagley's vote. Is that wrong, said Frank? Upon my word I thought it was quite legitimate. One should never admit anything in electioneering matters should one, said George, turning to Mr. Near the Wind. Very little, Mr. Decorsi, very little indeed, the less the better. It's hard to say in these days what is wrong and what is not. Now, there's Reddy-Palm, the publican, the man who has the brown bear. Well, I was there, of course. He's a voter, and if any man in Barchester ought to feel himself bound to vote for a friend of the Dukes, he ought. Now, I was so thirsty when I was in that man's house that I was dying for a glass of beer, but for the life of me I didn't dare order one. Why not, said Frank, whose mind was only just beginning to be enlightened by the great doctrine of purity of election as practised in English provincial towns? Oh, Closestill had some fellow looking at me. Why, I can't walk down that town without having my very steps counted. I like sharp fighting myself, but I never go so sharp as that. Nevertheless, I got Bagley's vote, said Frank, persisting in praise of his own electioneering prowess. And you may be sure of this, Mr. Near the Wind. None of Closestill's men were looking at me when I got it. Who'll pay for the bonnets, Frank? said George. Oh, I'll pay for them if Moffat won't. I think I shall keep an account there. They seem to have good gloves and those sorts of things. Very good. I have no doubt, said George. I suppose your lordship will be in town soon after the meeting of Parliament, said the Bishop, questioning the earl. Oh, yes, I suppose I must be there. I am never allowed to remain very long and quiet. It is a great nuisance, but it is too late to think of that now. Men in high places, my lord, never were and never will be allowed to consider themselves. They burned their torches not in their own behalf, said the Bishop, thinking perhaps as much of himself as he did of his noble friend. Rest and quiet are the comforts of those who have been content to remain in obscurity. Perhaps so, said the earl, finishing his glass of claret with an air of virtuous resignation. Perhaps so. His own martyrdom, however, had not been severe, for the rest and quiet of home had never been peculiarly satisfactory to his tastes. Soon after this they all went to the ladies. It was some little time before Frank could find an opportunity of recommencing his allotted task with Miss Dunstable. She got into conversation with the Bishop and some other people, and except that he took her teak up and nearly managed to squeeze one of her fingers as he did so, he made very little for the progress towards the close of the evening. At last he found her so nearly alone as to admit of his speaking to her in his low, confidential voice. Have you managed that matter with my aunt? What matter? said Miss Dunstable, and her voice was not low nor particularly confidential. About those three or four gentlemen whom you wish to invite here. Oh, my attendant knights! No, indeed, you gave me such very slight hope of success. Besides, you said something about my not wanting them. Yes, I did. I really think they'd be quite unnecessary if you should want any one to defend you. At these coming elections, for instance. Then or at any other time there are plenty here who will be ready to stand up for you. Plenty. I don't want plenty. One good lance in the olden days was always worth more than a score of ordinary men-at-arms. But you talked about three or four. Yes, but then you see, Mr. Gresham, I have never yet found the one good lance, at least not good enough to suit my ideas of true prowess. What could Frank do but declare that he was ready to lay his own in rest, now and always in her behalf? His aunt had been quite angry with him, and had thought that he turned her into ridicule when he spoke of making an offer to her guest that very evening. And yet here he was so placed that he had hardly an alternative. Let his inward resolution to abjure the heiress be ever so strong, he was now in a position which allowed him no choice in the matter. Even Mary Thorn could hardly have blamed it for saying, that so far as his own prowess went, it was quite at misdonstable service. Had Mary been looking on, she perhaps might have thought that he could have done so with less of that look of devotion which he threw into his eyes. Well, Mr. Gresham, that's very civil, very civil indeed, said misdonstable. Upon my word, if a lady wanted a true knight she might do worse than trust to you. Only I fear that your courage is of so exalted a nature that you would be ever ready to do battle for any beauty who might be in distress, or indeed who might not. You could never confine your valid of the protection of one maiden. Oh, yes, but I would, though, if I liked her, said Frank, there isn't a more constant fellow in the world than I am in that way. You try me, misdonstable. When young ladies make such trials as that, they sometimes find it too late to go back if the trial doesn't succeed, Mr. Gresham. Oh, of course, there's always some risk. It's like hunting. There would be no fun if there was no danger. But if you get a tumble one day you could retrieve your honor the next, but a poor girl, if she once trusts a man who says that he loves her, has no such chance. For myself I would never listen to a man unless I'd known him for seven years at least. Seven years, said Frank, who could not help thinking that in seven years' time, misdonstable would be almost an old woman. Seven days is enough to know any person. Or perhaps seven hours, eh, Mr. Gresham? Seven hours? Well, perhaps seven hours if they happen to be a good deal together during the time. There's nothing after all like love at first sight, is there, Mr. Gresham? Frank knew well enough that she was quizzing him and could not resist the temptation he felt to be revenge on her. I am sure it's very pleasant, said he, but as for myself I have never experienced it. Ha, ha, ha! laughed Miss Donstable. Upon my word, Mr. Gresham, I like you amazingly. I didn't expect to meet anybody down here that I should like have so much. You must come and see me in London, and I'll introduce you to my three knights. And so, saying, she moved away and fell into conversation with some of the higher powers. Frank felt himself to be rather snubbed, in spite of the strong expression which Miss Donstable had made in his favour. It was not quite clear to him that she did not take him for her boy. He was, to be sure, avenged on her for that, by taking her for a middle-aged woman, but nevertheless he was hardly satisfied with himself. I might give her a heartache yet, said he to himself, and she might find afterwards that she was left in the lurch with all her money. And so he retired, solitary, into a far part of the room, and began to think of Mary Thorn. As he did so, and as his eyes fell upon Miss Donstable's stiff curls, he almost shuddered. And then the ladies retired. His aunt, with a good-natured smile on her face, come to him as she was leaving the room, the last of the bevy, and putting her hand on his arm, led him out into a small, unoccupied chamber, which opened up from the grand saloon. "'Upon my word, Master Frank,' said she, you seem to be losing no time with the heiress. You have made quite an impression already.' "'I don't know much about that,' said he, looking rather sheepish. "'Oh, I declare you have. But, Frank, my dear boy, you should not precipitate these sorts of things too much. It is well to take a little more time. It is more valued, perhaps, you know, on the whole.' "'Perhaps Frank might know, but it was clear that Lady D'Corsi did not. At any rate, she did not know how to express herself. Had she set out her mind plainly, she would probably have spoken thus. I want you to make love to Miss Donstable, certainly, or at any rate to make an offer to her. But you need not make a show of yourself and of her, too, by doing it so openly as all that. The Countess, however, did not want to reprimand her obedient nephew, and therefore did not speak her thoughts. "'Well,' said Frank, looking up into her face, "'take a little more time. That is all, my dear boy. Slow and sure, you know.' So the Countess again patted his arm and went away to bed. "'Old fool!' muttered Frank to himself, as he returned to the room where the men were still standing. He was right in this. She was an old fool. Or she would have seen that there was no chance, whatever, that her nephew and Miss Donstable should become man and wife.' "'Well, Frank,' said the Honourable John, "'so you're after the heiress already. He won't give any of us a chance,' said the Honourable George. If he goes on in that way she'll be Mrs. Gresham before a month is over. But, Frank, what will she say of your manner of looking for barchester votes?' "'Mr. Gresham is certainly an excellent hand at canvassing,' said Mr. Near the Wind, only a little too open in his manner of proceeding.' "'I got that chorister for you at any rate,' said Frank, and you would never have had him without me.' "'I don't think half so much of the choristers' vote as that of Miss Donstable,' said the Honourable George. That's the interest that is really worth looking after.' "'But surely,' said Mr. Moffatt, Miss Donstable has no property in barchester. Poor man! His heart was so intent on his election that he had not a moment to devote to the claims of love.' CHAPTER XVII. 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 silver spooned, 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 reverse is 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 talk 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 Corsi 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. The 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, had he 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 half, at least, of the wallowing swine, were his own special friends, 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 Decorsi rather than by the candidate. For the candidate he cared but little. The pay-the-bill would be near 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 as Mr. Moffat on a trumpery 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 either 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 color, while the friends of Mr. Moffat were decked with yellow. Seeing what he did see, Mr. Moffat might well ask whether there had been not 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 loaf 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 was 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 an 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 bit 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. Come, Jack, shall us have a drop a summit short, with 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 Roger's 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 Moffat heights claiming a majority of twelve, and the Scatchard heights 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 Corsi, and Sir Roger 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 was not only 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 learned 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 Roger's 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 deft 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 it 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, under whose grandfathers 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. Closestill 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. Closestill'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. Moffat. We have said that Mr. Closestill was accompanied by a learned friend of his, one Mr. Romer, 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. No, it was quite an understood thing that there was to be no bribery. This was understood by no one better than Mr. Romer, 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 voters' while to give their votes, but to do so without bribery. Mr. Romer had repeatedly declared that he would have nothing to do with any illegal practicing. 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. Romer, Mr. Romer, is it not the case with thee that thou wouldst not play false, and yet wouldst wrongly win? Not an electioneering, Mr. Romer, any more than in any other pursuits, can a man touch pitch and not be defiled, as thou, innocent as thou art, will soon learn to thy terrible cost. Well, ready-palm, said Mr. Romer, shaking hands with him. Mr. Romer 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 to-day? Which is to be the man? If any one knows that, Mr. Romer, you must be the man. A poor numbskull like me knows nothing of them matters. How should I? All I looks to, Mr. Romer, is selling a trifle of drink now, and then selling it and getting paid for it, you know, Mr. Romer. Yes, that's important, 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. Romer, five, five, five. 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. Romer, 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 of voter were 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 arm through ready-palms, 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 wouldn't 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. Romer. 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. Closestill 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. Romer, unless it be to give a quiet vote for the nobleman under whom I and mine always lived respectable. Oh! said Mr. Romer. A man do like to have his bill paid, you know, Mr. Romer? Mr. Romer 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. Romer 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. Romer, I'll see to have that settled. I'll speak to Closestill about that. All right! said Ready-Palm, seizing the young barristers' hand and shaking it warmly. All right! And late in the afternoon, when a voter too became a 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. Sir Roger had by this time so far recovered as to be able to go through the dreadfully hard work of canvassing and addressing the electives 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 metal, 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, pre-menderies, and such like, on them and theirs that 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 neck 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, balling at the top of his voice, from off the portico which graced the door of the dragon of Wontley, at which celebrated in Sir Roger's committee sat. 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've 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 dogs 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, with 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. How 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 a 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 mined it. The meaning, however, of that spade is to show that I made the railway. Now, I'm very much obliged, those gentlemen over at the White Horse, for putting up this picture of 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 West Minster 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? How 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 am 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 that 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 a right to expect more of me. I never expect more than that from those who work for me. No more you don't, Roger. The 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 Summit 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. Hurrah, 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 big wigs chose to make a baronet of me. No, no more the ain't, Roger. We'd 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 were pictures enough about him, too, though heaven knows where they all come from. I think Sir Edwin Lancia must have done this one of a 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 we be, said a little squeaking voice from out of the crowd. And a good trade it is. When I first knew Barchester, there were tailors here could lick any stone basin 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, nor yet no cabaging. Take a go of Brandy, Roger. You're blown. No, I'm not blown yet. I've 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 into 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 bar just a 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? Has 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 Earl de Corsi brings him. He's going to marry the Earl de Corsi'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 de Corsi's niece, and Lord de Corsi wishes that his nephew should be in Parliament. There. That's the claim which Mr. Moffat here has on the people of Barchester. He's Lord de Corsi's nominee, and those who feel themselves bound hand and foot, heart and soul, to Lord de Corsi had better vote for him. Such men have my leave. If there are enough of such in Barchester to send up 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 de Corsi 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 his or two his proficiency was not great. He had, however, endeavored to make up by study for any want of readiness and 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 is said to speak, that he was surrounded by enemies rather than friends, and in his heart he gave great blame 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 preter naturally loud, but which at every fourth or fifth word gave way from want of power and descended to its natural weak tone, men of Barchester, electors and non-electors. We as hall-electors haul on us, my young kitty. Electors and non-electors, I now ask your suffrages not for the first time. Oh, we've tried you, we know what you're made on. Go on, SNP, 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 dew-steel you did for us, didn't you? What could you expect from the ninth part of a man? Never mind, SNP, go on, don't you be 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, SNP. For the last two years and a—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 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, SNP, go it again with the 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, SNP, 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. Mr. Moffat was a little thrown back. It wasn't so easy to tell these gentlemen anything new, harnessed as he was at this moment, so he looked back at his honourable support of him 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, you reform, he's a dumb dog. Go back to your goose, SNP, you never were made for this work. Go to Corsi Castle and reform that. Mr. Moffat, grieved in his soul, was becoming inextricably bewildered by such facetia 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-plated 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 fur the 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 humored 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 all the people in it might be d— 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 pole, and that was now fast coming. Tremendous exertions had been made about half-past three by a safe emissary sent from Near the Wind to prove to Mr. Ready-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, of course, was 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. Ready-Palm if only it might turn out that Mr. Moffat should, in the coming February, take his seat as member for Barchester. But Mr. Ready-Palm was the man of humble desires whose ambitions soared no higher than this, that his little bill should be duly settled. It is wonderful what love an innkeeper has for his bill in its entirety. An account, with a 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 is 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 Ready-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 results of the contest in the following figures. Mr. Ready-Palm's two votes had decided the question. Mr. Near-the-Wind immediately went up to town, and the dinner-party at Corsi 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. Ready-Palm's mind had been quieted. CHAPTER XVIII The intimacy between Frank and Ms. Dunstable 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 there being such a good understanding between them rather stood in the way of and 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 to Corsi, 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 Ms. Dunstable's 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 resistance, and so Lady to Corsi did which he 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 Ms. Dunstable would like it better if you were a little more quiet with her. Would she, Aunt? 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 Ms. Dunstable, 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 warned them against the perfidious element never so loudly. Soon after this, Lady Decorsi began to be not very well pleased in the matter. She took it into her head that Ms. Dunstable was sometimes almost inclined to laugh at her, and on one or two occasions it almost seemed as though Frank was joining Ms. Dunstable in doing so. The fact indeed was that Ms. Dunstable was fond of fun, and endowed 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 Decorsi'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 ill inclined to have her revenge on the Countess. How very fond your aunt is of you, she said to him one wet morning, as he was sauntering through the house, now laughing, and almost romping with her, and then teasing his sister about Mr. Moffat, and then bothering his lady-cousins out of all their propriety. O very, said Frank, she is a dear good woman is my aunt, Decorsi. I declare she takes more notice of you and your doings than any of your cousins, I wonder they ain't jealous. O, they're such good people, bless me, they'd never be jealous. You are 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 any one 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 Decorsi'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? Oh, I don't know. Only some people are sometimes valued 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 he was leaning. Of course not, said Miss Dunstable. And Frank had once perceived that she spoke in a tone of voice differing very much from that half-bannering, half-good-humored manner that was customary with her. Of course not. Any such idea would be quite out of the question with Lady D'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, on the whole he did, to be acquitted of that special sin. His desire to make Miss Dunstable temporarily 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. For 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 at most meet that this daughter of Plutus should, if possible, fall to his lot. But not so thought the honourable George, and not so thought another gentleman who was at that time an inmate of Corsi 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 ingest to be in 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 honourable George had discussed the matter with the honourable 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, for it came about that they understood each other very well, and John favored 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, I'm not the fellow to be studying 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. I 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 beating 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 write her a letter. Write 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 Pharma's daughters, he felt that he should have some little difficulty in making known his passion to mistrustable by word of mouth. Yes, write 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. Write 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 mistrustable. Mistrustable, 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 with outmaking 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 as a matter of course. And very little more outward fracas 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 Ms. Dunstable's bed-chamber. Ms. Dunstable duly received it, and had her answer conveyed back discreetly to George's hands. The correspondence ran as follows. Corsi Castle, August Blank, 1850 Blank. My dearest Ms. Dunstable, 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 counsel of the honourable John—that if ever a man loved a woman truly, I 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—touch her 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 find that you have been deceived. My ambition shall be to make you shine 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. My intention is to get into Parliament, and to make a name for myself, if I can, among those who shine in the House of Commons. My elder brother, Lord Porlock, is, you are aware, unmarried, and we all fear that the family honors 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. My dearest Miss Dunstable, I shall wait with the utmost impatience for your answer, and now, burning with hope that it may not be altogether unfavorable to my love, I beg permission to sign myself, your own, most devoted, George de Corsi. The ardent lover had not long to wait 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 swain with the most unconcerned air in the world, so much so that he began to think, as he munched his toast with a rather 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. Decorsi, 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 endeavored 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, for 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 Porlock, 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 course, he castled, 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 barters to 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 decoracies, 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 admit 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 youth, 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 hard to still, and go through even deeper waters. They make wills for themselves, forge stock shares, and fight with unremitting, painful labor 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 of calculation how he could make the most of himself. He had allowed himself to be portrayed 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 Decorsi, was engaged to the eldest daughter of one of the best commoners families in England, and was, when he first began to think of Mr. Unstable, sang when 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 Miss Gresham. Why marry a penniless girl, for Augustus' trifle of a fortune was not a penny in his estimation, while there was Miss 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? Were 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 Decorsi 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 Miss Dunstable was not a fool, and that in order to catch her he must do more than an endeavor 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 Miss 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 wit 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 Miss 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 Miss Dunstable remarked, and if all that I hear be true, to admit you into their very families. At this Mr. Moffat slightly demurred. He would not affect, he said, to misunderstand what Miss Dunstable meant. There had been something said on the probability of such an event, but he begged Miss 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 behooved them both in holding out their hands halfway 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 sort, 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, Mr. Dunstable, and he, Mr. Moffat, would be required to pay would be by taking each of them some poor scion 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 circumstance 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 Mr. 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 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 groaned at 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. Mr. 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 Mr. 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 lookers on, you know, always understand 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 neighbors. Tim 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-tunters. 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. Oh, I'm so glad of that. But that is what the world says of persons of our class. Now it seems to me that the toad-y-ing is all on the other side. The Countess here does toad-y-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. Not let me take you in, Mr. Moffat, but my boots are a little damp, and Dr. Easy-Man 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 a 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. Ah, yes, and Miss Dunstable stopped in the grand path. I won't let you return with thee, Mr. Moffat, because I know you are not coming in so soon. Miss Dunstable, I shall be leaving this to-morrow. 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 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. Easy-Man 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 and 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.