Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  To be turned out of a girls’ boarding-school! To be shown the door like some wretched philandering schoolboy, or a subaltern in his first folly! He, the man of the world, of experience, of ambition! The man with a career! He was furious.

  “The little cat!” he cried as he went. “I wish I had never seen her face! What a fool, what a fool I was to come!”

  Unheroic words and an unheroic mood. But though there were heroes before Agamemnon, it is not certain that there were any after George the Fourth. At any rate, any who, like that great man, were heroic always and in all circumstances.

  Probably Vaughan would have forgiven the little cat had he known that she was at that moment weeping very bitterly, with her face plunged into the pillow of her not over-luxurious bed. For she was young, and a woman. And because, in her position, the name of love was taboo; because to her the admiring look, which to a more fortunate sister was homage, was an insult; because the petits soins, the flower, the note, the trifle that to another were more precious than jewels, were not for her, it did not follow that she was not flesh and blood, that she had not feeling, affection, passion. True, the pang was soon deadened, for habit is strong. True, the bitter tears were soon dried, for employers like not gloomy looks. True, she soon cried shame on her own discontent, for she was good as gold. And yet to be debarred, in the tender springtime, from the sweet scents, the budding blooms, the gay carols, to have but one April coach-ride in a desert of days, is hard — is very hard. Mary Smith, weeping on her hopeless pillow — not without thought of the cruel arch stooping to crush her, the cruel fate from which he had snatched her, not without thought of her own ingratitude, her black ingratitude — felt that it was hard, very hard.

  IX

  THE BILL FOR GIVING EVERYBODY

  EVERYTHING!

  It is difficult to describe and impossible to exaggerate the heat of public feeling which preceded the elections of ‘31. Four-fifths of the people of this country believed that the Bill — from which they expected so much that a satirist has aptly given it the title at the head of this chapter — had been defeated in the late House by a trick. That trick the King, God bless him, had punished by dissolving the House. It remained for the people to show their sense of the trick by returning a very different House; such a House as would not only pass the Bill, but pass it by a majority so decisive that the Lords, and particularly the Bench of Bishops, whose hostility was known, would not dare to oppose the public will.

  But as no more than a small proportion of these four-fifths had votes, they were forced to act, if they would make their will obeyed, indirectly; in one place by the legitimate pressure of public opinion, in another by bribery, in a third by intimidation, in a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth by open violence; everywhere by the unspoken threat of revolution. And hence arose the one good, sound, and firm argument against the Bill which the Tory party enjoyed.

  One or two of their other arguments are not without interest, if only as the defence set up for a system so anomalous as to seem to us incredible — a system under which Gatton, with no inhabitants, returned two members, and Sheffield, with something like a hundred thousand inhabitants, returned none; under which Dunwich, long drowned under the North Sea, returned two members, and Birmingham returned none; under which the City of London returned four and Lord Lonsdale returned nine; under which Cornwall, with one-fourth of the population of Lancashire, returned thrice as many representatives; under which the South vastly outweighed the North, and land mightily outweighed all other property.

  Moreover, in no two boroughs was the franchise the same. One man lived in a hovel and had a vote; his neighbour lived in a mansion and had no vote. Frequently the whole of the well-to-do townsfolk were voteless. Then, while any man with five thousand pounds might buy a seat, nor see the face of a single elector, on the other hand, the poll might be kept open for fifteen days, and a single county election might cost two hundred thousand pounds. Bribery, forbidden in theory, was permitted in practice. The very Government bribed under the rose, and it was humorously said that all that a man’s constituents required was to be satisfied of the impurity of his intentions!

  An anomalous system; yet its defenders had something to say for it.

  First, that narrow as the franchise seemed, every class found somewhere in England its mouthpiece. At Preston, where all could vote who slept in the borough the previous night, the poorest class; in the potwalloping boroughs where a fireplace gave a vote, the next class; in a city like Westminster, the ratepayers; in the counties, the freeholders; in the universities, the clergy. And so on, the argument being that the very anomalies of the system provided a mixed representation without giving the masses a preponderant voice.

  Secondly, they said that it insured a House of ability, by enabling young men of parts, but small means, to obtain seats. Those who put this forward flourished a long list of statesmen who had come in for nomination boroughs. It began with Pitt and ended with Macaulay — a feather plucked from the enemy’s wing; and Burke stood for much in it. It became one of the commonplaces of the struggle.

  The third contention was of greater weight. It was that, with all its abuses, the old system had worked well. This argument, too, had its commonplace. The proverb, stare super antiquas vias, was thundered from a thousand platforms, coupled with copious references to the French wars, and to the pilot who had weathered the storm. This was the argument of the old, and the rich, and the timid — of those who clung to top-boots in the daytime and to pantaloons in the evening. But as the struggle progressed it came to be merged in the one sound argument to which reference has been made.

  “If you do not pass the Bill,” said the Whigs, “there will be a revolution.”

  “Possibly,” the Tories rejoined. “And whom have we to thank for that? Who, using the French Revolution of last July as a fulcrum, have unsettled the whole country? And now, having disturbed everything, tell us that we must grant to force what is not due to reason? You! But if the Bill is to pass, not because it is a good Bill, but because the mob desire it, where will this end? Pass Bills out of fear, and where will you end? Presently there will arise a ranting adventurer, more violent than Brougham, a hoary schemer more unscrupulous than Grey, an angry boy, outscolding Durham, a pedant more bloodless than Lord John, an honest fanatic blinder than Althorp! And when they threaten you with the terrors of the mob, what will you say?”

  To which the Whigs could only reply that the people must be trusted; and — and that the Bill must pass, or not only coronets but crowns would be flying.

  Dry arguments nowadays; but in those days alive, and to the party on its defence — the party which found itself thrust against the wall, that its pockets might be emptied — of vital interest. From scores of platforms candidates, leaning forward, bland and smiling, with one hand under the coat-tails and the other gently pumping, pumping, pumping, enunciated them — old hands these; or, red in the face, thundered them, striking fist into palm and overawing opposition; or, hopeless amid the rain of dead cats and stale eggs, muttered them in a reporter’s ear, since the hootings of the crowd made other utterance impossible. But ever as the contest went on, the smiling candidate grew rarer; for day by day the Tories, seeing their cause hopeless, seeing even Whigs, such as Sir Thomas Acland in Devonshire and Mr. Wilson Patten in Lancashire, cast out if they were lukewarm, grew more desperate, cried more loudly on high heaven, asserted more frantically that justice was dead on the earth. All this, while those who believed that the Bill was going to give everything to everybody pushed their advantage without mercy. Many a borough which had not known a contest for a generation, many a county, was fought and captured. No Tory felt safe; no bargain, though signed and sealed, held good; no patron, though he had held his income from his borough as secure as any part of his property, could say that his voters would dare to go to the poll.

  This last was the apprehension in the mind of Isaac White, Sir Robert Vermuyden’s agent, as on the day after Lady Lansdowne’
s visit he drove his gig and fast-trotting cob up the avenue. The treble front of the house looked down on him from its gentle eminence; its windows blinked in the afternoon sunshine, and the mellow tints of the stone harmonised with the russet bloom which in April garbs the poplar and the later-bursting trees. Tradition said that the second baronet had built a wing for each of his two sons. After the death of the elder, however, the east wing had been devoted to kitchens and offices, and the west to a splendid hospitality. In these days the latter wing was so seldom used that it had almost fallen into decay. Laurels grew up before the side windows and darkened them, and bats lived in the dry chimneys. The rooms above stairs were packed with the lumber of the last century, with the old wig-boxes, the old travelling-trunks, the old harpsichords, even an old sedan chair; while the lower rooms, swept and bare, and hung with flat, hard portraits, enjoyed an evil reputation in the servants’ quarters, where many a one could tell of skirts that rustled unseen, and dead feet that trod the polished floors.

  But to Isaac White all this was nought. He had seen the house in every aspect; and to-day his mind was filled with other things — with votes and voters, with some anxiety on his own account and more on his patron’s. What would Sir Robert say if aught went wrong at Chippinge? True, the loss of the borough seemed barely possible; it had been held securely for many years. But the times were so stormy, public feeling ran so high, the mob was so rough, that nothing seemed impossible, in view of the stress to which the soundest candidates were exposed. If Mr. Bankes stood to fail in Dorset, if Mr. Duncombe had small chance in Yorkshire, if Sir Edward Knatchbull was a lost man in Kent, if Mr. Hart Davies was no better in Bristol, if no man but an out-and-out Reformer could count on success, who was safe?

  White’s grandfather, his father, he himself had lived and thriven by the system which he saw tottering to its fall. He belonged to it, he was part of it; did he not mark his allegiance to it by wearing top-boots in the daytime and shorts in full dress? And he was prepared — were it only out of gratitude to the ladder by which he had risen — to stand by it and by his patron to the last. But, strange anomaly, White was at heart a Cobbett man. His sneaking sympathies were, in his own despite, with the class from which he sprang. He saw commons filched from the poor, while the labourers fell on the rates. He saw large taxes wrung from the country to be spent in the town. He saw the severity of the laws, and especially the game laws. He saw absentee rectors and starving curates. He saw the dumb impotence of nine-tenths of the people; and he felt that the system under which these things had grown up was wrong. But wrong or right, he was part of it, he was pledged to it; and all the theories in the world, and all the “Political Registers” which he digested of an evening, would not induce him to betray it.

  Notwithstanding, he feared that in the matter of the borough he had not been quite so wide-awake as became him; or Pybus, the Bowood man, would not have stolen a march upon him. His misgivings grew as he came in sight of the door, and saw Sir Robert on the flight of steps which led to it. Apparently the baronet had seen him, for as White drove up a servant appeared to lead the mare to the stables.

  Sir Robert looked her over as she was led away. “The grey looks well, White,” he said. She was of his breeding.

  “Yes, Sir Robert. Give me a good horse and they may have the new-fangled railroads that like them. But I am afraid, sir — —”

  “One moment!” The servant was out of hearing, and the baronet’s tone, as he caught White up, betrayed agitation. “Who is that looking over the Lower Wicket, White?” he continued. “She has been there a quarter of an hour, and — and I can’t make her out.”

  His tone surprised White, who looked and saw at a distance of a hundred paces the figure of a woman leaning on the wicket-gate nearest the stables. She was motionless, and he had not looked many seconds before he caught the thought in Sir Robert’s mind. “He’s heard,” he reflected, “that her ladyship is in the neighbourhood, and it has alarmed him.”

  “I cannot see at this distance, sir,” he answered prudently, “who it is.”

  “Then go and ask her her business,” Sir Robert said, as indifferently as he could. “She has been there a long time.”

  White went, a little excited himself; but half-way to the woman, who continued to gaze at the house as if unconscious of his approach, he discovered that, whoever she was, she was not Lady Sybil. She was stout, middle-aged, plain; and he took a curt tone with her when he came within earshot. “What are you doing here?” he said. “That’s the way to the servants’ hall.”

  The woman looked at him. “You don’t know me, Mr. White?” she said.

  He looked hard in return. “No,” he answered bluntly, “I don’t.”

  “Ah, well, I know you,” she replied. “More by token — —”

  He cut her short. “Have you any message?” he asked.

  “If I have, I’ll give it myself,” she retorted drily. “Truth is, I’m in two minds about it. What you have, you have, d’you see, Mr. White; but what you’ve given ain’t yours any more. Anyway — —”

  “Anyway,” impatiently, “you can’t stay here!”

  “Very good,” she replied, “very good. As you are so kind, I’ll take a day to think of it.” And with a cool nod she turned her back on the puzzled White, and went off down the park towards the town.

  He went back to Sir Robert. “She’s a stranger, sir,” he said; “and, I think, a bit gone in the head. I could make nothing of her.”

  Sir Robert drew a deep breath. “You’re sure she was a stranger?” he said.

  “She’s no one I know, sir. After one of the men, perhaps.”

  Sir Robert straightened himself. He had spent a bad ten minutes gazing at the distant figure. “Just so,” he said. “Very likely. And now what is it, White?”

  “I’ve bad news, sir, I’m afraid,” the agent said, in an altered tone.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s that d —— d Pybus, sir! I’m afraid that, after all — —”

  “They’re going to fight?”

  “I’m afraid, Sir Robert, they are.”

  The old gentleman’s eyes gleamed. “Afraid, sir, afraid?” he cried. “On the contrary, so much the better. It will cost me some money, but I can spare it; and it will cost them more, and nothing for it. Afraid? I don’t understand you.”

  The agent, standing on the step below him, coughed dubiously. “Well, sir,” he said, “what you say is reasonable. But — —”

  “But! But what?”

  “There is so much excitement in the country at this time — —”

  “So much greediness in the country,” Sir Robert retorted, striking his stick upon the stone steps. “So much unscrupulousness, sir; so many liars promising, and so many fools listening; so much to get, and so many who would like it! There’s all that, if you please; but for excitement, I don’t know” — with a severe look— “what you mean, or what it has to do with us.”

  “I am afraid, sir, there is bad news from Devon, where it is said our candidate is retiring.”

  “A good man, but weak; neither one side nor the other.”

  “And from Dorset, sir, where they say Mr. Bankes will be beaten.”

  “I’ll not believe it,” Sir Robert answered positively. “I’ll never believe it. Mr. Bankes beaten in Dorset! Absurd! Why do you listen to such tales? Why do you listen? By G — d, White, what is the matter with you? Or how does it touch us if Mr. Bankes is beaten? Nine votes to four! Nine will still be nine, and four four, if he be beaten. When you can make four to be more than nine you may come whining to me!”

  White coughed. “Dyas, the butcher — —”

  “What of him?”

  “Well, Sir Robert, I am afraid he has been getting some queer notions.”

  “Notions?” the baronet echoed in astonishment.

  “He has been listening to someone, and — and thinks he has views on the Bill.”

  Sir Robert exploded. “Views!” he cried. “Vi
ews! The butcher with views! Why, damme, White, you must be mad! Mad! Since when have butchers taken to politics, or had views?”

  “I don’t know anything about that, sir,” White mumbled.

  Sir Robert struck his stick fiercely on a step. “But I do! I do! And I know this,” he continued, “that for twenty years he’s had thirty pounds a year to vote as I tell him. By gad, I never heard such a thing in my life! Never! You don’t mean to tell me that the man thinks the vote’s his own to do what he likes with?”

  “I am afraid,” the agent admitted reluctantly, “that that is what he’s saying, sir.”

  Sir Robert’s thin face turned a dull red. “I never heard of such impudence in all my life,” he said, “never! A butcher with views! And going to vote for them! Why, damme,” he continued, with angry sarcasm, “we’ll have the tailors, the bakers, and the candlestickmakers voting their own way next. Good G — d! What does the man think he’s had thirty pounds a year for for all these years, if not to do as he is bid?”

  “He’s behaving very ill, sir,” White said, severely, “very ill.”

  “Ill!” Sir Robert cried; “I should think he was, the scoundrel!” And he foamed over afresh, though we need not follow him. When he had cooled somewhat, “Well,” he said, “I can turn him out, and that I’ll do, neck and crop! By G — d, I will! I’ll ruin him. But there, it’s the big rats set the fashion and the little ones follow it. This is Spinning Jenny’s work. I wish I had cut off my hand before I voted for him. Well, well, well!” And he stood a moment in bitter contemplation of Sir Robert Peel’s depravity. It was nothing that Sir Robert was sound on reform. By adopting the Catholic side on the claims he — he, whose very nickname was Orange Peel — had rent the party. And all these evils were the result!

  The agent coughed.

  Sir Robert, who was no fool, looked sharply at him. “What!” he said grimly. “Not another renegade?”