Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  And then — he had betrayed them. Suddenly, some held; in a panic, scared by God knows what bugbear! Coldly and deliberately, said others, spreading his treachery over years, laughing in his sleeve as he led them to the fatal edge. Those who took the former view made faint excuse for him, and perhaps still clung to him. Those who held the latter thought no price too high, no sacrifice too costly, no effort too great, if they could but punish the traitor! If they could but pillory him for all to see.

  So, in a moment, in the autumn of ‘45, as one drop of poison will cloud the fairest water, the face of public life was changed. Bitterness was infused into it, friend was parted from friend and son from father, the oldest alliances were dissolved. Men stood gaping, at a loss whither to turn and whom to trust. Many who had never in all their lives made up their own minds were forced to have an opinion and choose a side; and as that process is to some men as painful as a labor to a woman, the effect was to embitter things farther. How could one who for years past had cursed Cobden in all companies, and in moments of relaxation had drunk to a “Bloody War and a Wet Harvest,” turn round and join the Manchester School? It could be done, it was done, but with what a rending of bleeding sinews only the sufferers knew!

  Strange to say, few gave weight to Sir Robert’s plea of famine in Ireland. Still more strange, when events bore out his alarm, when in the course of a year or two a quarter of a million in that unhappy country died of want, public feeling changed little. Those who had remained with him, stood with him still. Those who had banded themselves against him, held their ground. Only a handful allowed that he was honest, after all. Nor was it until he, who rode his horse like a sack, had died like a demi-god, with a city hanging on his breath, and weeping women filling all the streets about the house, that the traitor became the patriot.

  But this is to anticipate. In December of ‘45, few men believed in famine. Few thought much of dearth. The world was angry, blood was hot, many dreamt of vengeance. Meantime Manchester exulted, and Coal, Iron, Cotton toasted Peel. But even they marvelled that the man who had been chosen to support the Corn Laws had the courage to repeal them!

  Upon no one in the whole country did the news fall with more stunning effect than upon poor Stubbs at Riddsley. He had suspected Peel. He had disliked his measures, and doubted whither he was moving. He had even on the occasion of his resignation predicted that Sir Robert would support the repeal; but he had not thought worse of him than that, and the event left him not uncertain, nor under any stress as to making up his mind, but naked, as it were, in an east wind. He felt older. He owned that his generation was passing. He numbered the friends he had left and found them few. And though he continued to assert that no man had ever pitted himself against the land whom the land had not broken, doubt began to creep into his mind. There were hours when he foresaw the end of the warm farming days, of game and sport, of Horn and Corn, ay, and of the old toast, “The farmer’s best friend — the landlord,” to which he had replied at many an audit dinner.

  One thing remained — the Riddsley election. He found some comfort in that. He drew some pleasure from the thought that Sir Robert might do what he pleased at Tamworth, he might do what he pleased in the Cabinet, in the Commons — there were toadies and turn-coats everywhere; but Riddsley would have none of him! Riddsley would remain faithful! Stubbs steeped himself in the prospect of the election, and in preparations for it. A dozen times a day he thanked his stars that the elder Mottisfont’s weakness for Peel had provided this opening for his energies.

  Not that even on this ground he was quite happy. There was a little bitter in the cup. He hardly owned it to himself, he did not dream of whispering it to others, but at the bottom of his mind he had ever so faint a doubt of his employer. A hint dropped here, a word there, a veiled question — he could not say which of these had given him the notion that his lordship hung between two opinions, and even — no wonder that Stubbs dared not whisper it to others — was weighing which would pay him best!

  Such a thought was treason, however, and Stubbs buried it and trampled on it, before he went jauntily into the snug little meeting at the Audley Arms, which he had summoned to hear the old member’s letter read and to accept the son as a candidate in his father’s place. Those whom the agent had called were few and trusty; young Mottisfont himself, the rector and Dr. Pepper, Bagenal the maltster, Hogg the saddler, Musters the landlord, the “Duke” from the Leasows (which was within the borough), and two other tradesmen. Stubbs had no liking for big meetings. He had been bred up to believe that speeches were lost labor, and if they must be made should be made at the Market Ordinary.

  At such a gathering as this he was happy. He had the strings in his own hands. The work to be done was at his fingers’ ends. At this table he was as great a man as my lord. With young Mottisfont, who was by way of being a Bond Street dandy, solemn, taciturn, and without an opinion of his own, he was not likely to have trouble. The rector was enthusiastic but indolent, Pepper an old friend. The rest were Stubbs’s most obedient.

  Stubbs read the retiring member’s letter, and introduced the candidate. The rector boomed through a few phrases of approbation, Dr. Pepper seconded, the rest cried “Hear! hear!”

  “There’s little to say,” Stubbs went on. “I take it that we are all of one mind, gentlemen, to return Mr. Mottisfont in his father’s place?”

  “Hear! hear!” from all. “In the old interest?” Stubbs went on, looking round the table. “And on the clear understanding that Mr. Mottisfont is returned to oppose any tampering with the protection of agriculture.”

  “That is so,” said Mr. Mottisfont.

  “I will see that that is embodied in Mr. Mottisfont’s address,” Stubbs continued. “There must be no mistake. These are queer times — —”

  “Sad times!” said the rector, shaking his head.

  “Terrible times!” said the maltster, shaking his.

  “Never did I dream I should live to see ‘em,” said old Hayward. “’Tisn’t a month since a chap came on my land, ay, up to my very door, and said things — I’ll be damned if I did not think he’d turn the cream sour! And when I cried ‘Sam! fetch a pitchfork and rid me of this rubbish — —’”

  “I know, Hayward,” Stubbs said, cutting him short. “I know. You told me about it. You did very well. But to business. It shall be a short address — just that one point. We are all agreed, I think, gentlemen?”

  All were agreed.

  “I’ll see that it is printed in good time,” Stubbs continued. “I don’t think that we need trouble you further, Mr. Mottisfont. There’s a fat-stock sale this day fortnight. Perhaps you’ll dine and say a few words? I’ll let you know if it is necessary. There’ll be no opposition. Hatton will have a meeting at the Institute, but nothing will come of it.”

  “That’s all then, is it?” said the London man, sticking his glass in his eye with a sigh of relief.

  “That’s all,” Stubbs replied. “If you can attend this day fortnight so much the better. The farmers like it, and they’ve fourteen votes in the borough. Thank you, gentlemen, that’s all.”

  “I think you’ve forgotten one thing, Mr. Stubbs,” said old Hayward, with a twinkle.

  “To be sure, I have. Ring the bell, Musters, and send up the two bottles of your ‘20 port that I ordered and some glasses. A glass of Musters’ ‘20 port, Mr. Mottisfont, won’t hurt you this cold day. And we must drink your health. And, Musters, when these gentlemen go down, see that they have what they call for.”

  The port was sipped, tasted. Mr. Mottisfont’s health was drunk, and various compliments were paid to his father. The rector took his two glasses; so did young Mottisfont, who woke up and vowed that he had tasted none better in St. James’s Street. “Is it Garland’s?” he asked.

  “It is, sir,” Musters said, much pleased.

  “I thought it was — none better!” said young Mottisfont, also pleased. “The old Duke drinks no other.”

  “Fine tipple! Fine tipple
!” said the other “Duke.” In the end a third bottle was ordered, of which Musters and old Hayward drank the better part.

  At one of these meetings a sad thing had happened. A rash tradesman had proposed his lordship’s health. Of course he had been severely snubbed. It had been considered most indecent. But on this occasion no one was so simple as to name my lord, and Stubbs felt with satisfaction that all had passed as it should. So had candidates been chosen as long as he could remember.

  But call no man happy until the day closes. As he left the house Bagenal the maltster tacked himself on to him. “I’d a letter from George this morning,” he said. George was his son, articled to Mr. Stubbs, and now with Mr. Stubbs’s agents in town. “He saw his lordship one day last week.”

  “Ay, ay. I suppose Master George was in the West End? Wasting his time, Bagenal, I’ll be bound.”

  “I don’t know about that. Young fellows like to see things. He went with a lot of chaps to see the crowd outside Sir Robert’s. They’d read in a paper that all the nobs were to be seen going in and out. Anyway, he went, and the first person he saw going in was his lordship!”

  Mr. Stubbs walked a few yards in silence. Then, “Well, he’s no sight to George,” he said. “It seems to me they were both wasting their time. I told his lordship he’d do no good. When half the dukes in England have been at Peel, d — n him, it wasn’t likely he’d change his course for his lordship! It wasn’t to be expected, Bagenal. Did George stop to see him come out?”

  “He did. And in a thundering temper my lord looked.”

  “Ay, ay! Well I told him how it would be.”

  “They were going in and out like bees, George said.”

  “Ay, ay.”

  They parted on that, and the lawyer went into his office. But his face was gloomy. “Ay, like bees!” he muttered. “After the honey! I wonder what he asked for! Whatever it was he couldn’t have paid the price! I thought he knew that. I’ve a good mind — but there, we’ve held it so long, grandfather, father, and son — I can’t afford to give it up.”

  He turned into his office, but the day was spoiled for him. And the day was not done yet. He had barely sat down before his clerk a thin, gray-haired man, high-nosed, with a look of breeding run to seed, came in, and closed the door behind him. Farthingale was as well known in Riddsley as the Maypole; gossip had it that he was a by-blow of an old name. “I’ve heard something,” he said darkly, “and the sooner you know it the better. They’ve got a man.”

  Stubbs shrugged his shoulders. “For repeal in Riddsley?” he said. “You’re dreaming.”

  The clerk smiled. “Well, you’d best be awake,” he said. He had been long enough with Stubbs to take a liberty. “Who do you think it is?” he continued, rubbing his chin with the feather-end of a quill.

  “Some methodist parson!”

  Farthingale shook his head. “Guess again, sir,” he said. “You’re cold at present. It’s a bird of another feather.”

  “A pretty big fool whoever he is!”

  “Mr. Basset of Blore. I have it on good authority.”

  Stubbs stared. He was silent for a time, thinking hard. “Somebody’s fooled you,” he said at last, but in a different tone. “He’s never shown a sign of coming out.”

  The clerk looked wise. “It’s true,” he said. “It cost me four goes of brown brandy at the Portcullis.”

  “Well, you may score that to me,” Stubbs answered. “Basset, eh? Well, he’s throwing his money into the gutter if it’s true, and he hasn’t much to spare. I see Hatton’s point. He’s not the fool.”

  “No. He’s an old bird is Hatton.”

  “But I don’t see where Squire Basset comes in.”

  Farthingale looked wiser than ever. “Well,” he said, “he may have a score to pay, too. And if he has, there’s more ways than one of paying it!”

  “What score?”

  “Ah, I’m not saying that. Mr. John Audley’s may be — against his lordship.”

  “Umph! If you paid off yours at the Portcullis,” Stubbs retorted, losing his temper, “the landlord wouldn’t be sorry! Scores are a deal too much in your way, Farthingale!” he continued, severely, forgetting in his annoyance the four goes of brown brandy. “You’re too much at home among ‘em. Don’t bring me cock-and-bull stories like this! I don’t believe it. And get to that lease!”

  But sure enough Farthingale’s story proved to be well founded, for a week later it was known for certain in Riddsley that Mr. Basset of Blore was coming out, and that there would be a fight for the borough.

  CHAPTER XXV

  MARY IS LONELY

  Mary Audley was one of the last to hear the news. Etruria brought it from the town one day in January, when the evenings were beginning to lengthen, and the last hour of daylight was the dreariest of the twenty-four. It had rained, and the oaks in the park were a-drip, the thorn trees stood in tiny pools, the moorland lay stark under a pall of fog. In the vale the Trent was in flood, its pale waters swirling past the willow-stools, creeping over the chilled meadows, and stealing inch by inch up the waterside lanes. Etruria’s feet were wet, and she was weary with her trudge through the mud; but when Mary met her on the tiny landing on which their rooms opened, there was a sparkle in the girl’s eyes as bright as the red petticoat that showed below her tucked-up gown.

  “You didn’t forget — —” Mary was beginning, and then, “Why, Etruria,” she exclaimed, “I believe you have seen Mr. Colet?”

  Etruria blushed like the dawn. “Oh no, Miss!” she said. “He’s at Blore.”

  “To be sure! Then what is it?”

  “I’ve heard some news, Miss,” Etruria said. “I don’t know whether you’ll be pleased or not.”

  “But it is certain that you are!” Mary replied with conviction. “What is it?”

  The girl told what she had heard: that there was to be an election at Riddsley in three weeks, and not only an election but a contest, and that the candidate who had come forward to oppose the Corn Laws was no other than Mr. Basset — their Mr. Basset! More, that only the evening before he had held his first meeting at the Institute, and though he had been interrupted and the meeting had been broken up, his short plain speech had made a considerable impression.

  “Indeed, Miss,” Etruria continued, carried away by the subject, “there was one told me that when he stood up to speak she could see his hand shake, and his face was the color of a piece of paper. But when they began to boo and shout at him, he grew as cool as cool, and the longer they shouted the braver he was, until they saw that if they let him go on he would be getting a hearing! So they put out the lights and stormed the platform, and there was a fine Stafford row, I’m told. Of course,” Etruria added simply, “the drink was in them.”

  Mary hardly knew what her feelings were. “Mr. Basset?” she said at last. “I can hardly believe it.”

  “Nor could I, Miss, when I first heard it. But it seems they have known it there for ten days and more, and the town is agog with it, everybody taking sides, and some so much against him as never was. It’s dreadful to think,” Etruria continued, “how misguided men can be. But oh, Miss, I’m thankful he’s on the right side, and for taking the burden off the bread! I’m sure it will be returned to him, win or lose. They’re farmers’ friends here, and they’re saying shameful things of him in the market! But there’s many a woman will bless him, and the lanes and alleys, they’ve no votes, but they’ll pray for him! Sometimes,” Etruria added shyly, “I think it is Mr. Colet has brought him to it.”

  “Mr. Colet?” Mary repeated — she did not know why she disliked the notion. “Why do you think that?”

  “He’s been at Blore,” Etruria murmured. “Mr. Basset has been so good to him.”

  “Mr. Basset has a mind of his own,” Mary answered sharply. “He is quite capable of forming his own opinion.”

  “Of course. Miss,” Etruria said, abashed. “I should have known that.”

  “Yes,” Mary repeated. “But what wa
s it they were saying of Mr. Basset in the market, Etruria? Not that it matters.”

  “Well, Miss,” Etruria explained, reluctantly. “They were saying it was some grudge Mr. Basset or the Master had against his lordship that brought Mr. Basset out.”

  “Against Lord Audley?” Mary cried. And she blushed suddenly and vividly. “Why? What has he to do with it?”

  “Well, Miss, it’s his lordship’s seat,” Etruria answered naïvely; “what he wishes has always been done in Riddsley. And he’s for Mr. Mottisfont.”

  Mary walked to a window and looked out. “Oh,” she said, “I did not know that. But you’d better go now, Etruria, and change your shoes. Your feet must be wet.”

  Etruria went, and Mary continued to gaze through the window. What strange news! And what a strange situation! The lover whom she had rejected and the lover whom she had taken, pitted against one another! And her words — she could hardly doubt it — the spur which had brought Basset to the post!

  So thinking, so pondering, she grew more and more ill at ease. Her sympathies should have been wholly with her betrothed, but they were not. She should have resented Basset’s action. She did not. Instead she thought of his shaking hand and his pale face, and of the courage that had grown firmer in the face of opposition; and she found something fine in that, something that appealed to her. And the cause he had adopted? It was the cause to which she naturally inclined. She might be wrong, he might be wrong. Lord Audley knew so much more of these things and looked at them from so enlightened a standpoint, that they must be wrong. And yet — her heart warmed to that cause.

  She turned from the window in some trouble, wondering if she were disloyal, wondering why she felt as she did; wondering a little, too, why she had lost the first rapture of her love, and was less happy in it than she had been.