Mr Williams, however, was sure that he had so opened out the inquities of the dissenters as to have convinced the borough. Yes; every Salem and Zion and Ebenezer2 in his large parish would be closed. ‘It is a great thing for the country,’ said Mr Williams.
‘He'll make a capital member,’ said Silverbridge, clapping his friend on the back.
‘I hope he'll never forget,’ said Mr Williams, ‘that he owes his seat to the protestant and Church-of-England principles which have sunk so deeply into the minds of the thoughtful portion of the inhabitants of this borough.’
‘Whom should they elect but a Tregear?’ said the mother, feeling that her rector took too much of the praise to himself.
‘I think you have done more for us than anyone else,’ whispered Miss Tregear to the young Lord. ‘What you said was so reassuring!' The father before he went to bed expressed to his son, with some trepidation, a hope that all this would lead to no great permanent increase of expenditure.
That evening before he went to bed Lord Silverbridge wrote to his father an account of what had taken place at Polpenno.
‘Polwenning, 15th December
‘MY DEAR FATHER,
‘Among us all we have managed to return Tregear. I am afraid you will not be quite pleased because it will be a vote lost to your party. But I really think that he is just the fellow to be in Parliament. If he were on your side I'm sure he's the kind of man you'd like to bring into office. He is always thinking about those sort of things. He says that, if there were no Conservatives, such Liberals as you and Mr Monk would be destroyed by the Jacobins.3 There is something in that. Whether a man is a Conservative or not himself, I suppose there ought to be Conservatives.’
The Duke as he read this made a memorandum in his own mind that he would explain to his son that every carriage should have a drag to its wheels, but that an ambitious soul would choose to be the coachman rather than the drag.
‘It was beastly work!’ The Duke made another memorandum to instruct his son that no gentleman above the age of a schoolboy should allow himself to use such a word in such a sense. ‘We had to go about in the rain up to our knees in mud for eight or nine days, always saying the same thing. And of course all that we said was bosh.’ Another memorandum – or rather two, one as to the slang, and another as to the expediency of teaching something to the poor voters on such occasions. ‘Our only comfort was that the Carbottle people were quite as badly off as us.’ Another memorandum as to the grammar. The absence of Christian charity did not at the moment affect the Duke. ‘I made ever so many speeches, till at last it seemed to be quite easy.’ Here there was a very grave memorandum. Speeches easy to young speakers are generally very difficult to old listeners. ‘But of course it was all bosh.’ This required no separate memorandum.
‘I have promised to go up to town with Tregear for a day or two. After that I will stick to my purpose of going to Matching again. I will be there about the 22nd, and will then stay over Christmas. After that I am going into the Brake country for some hunting. It is such a shame to have a lot of horses and never to ride them!
‘Your most affectionate Son,
‘SILVERBRIDGE.’
The last sentence gave rise in the Duke's mind to the necessity of a very elaborate memorandum on the subject of amusements generally.
By the same post another letter went from Polpenno to Matching which also gave rise to some mental memoranda. It was as follows;
‘MY DEAR MABEL,
‘I am a Member of the British House of Commons! I have sometimes regarded myself as being one of the most peculiarly unfortunate men in the world, and yet now I have achieved that which all commoners in England think to be the greatest honour within their reach, and have done so at an age at which very few achieve it but the sons of the wealthy and the powerful.
‘I now come to my misfortunes. I know that as a poor man I ought not to be a member of Parliament. I ought to be earning my bread as a lawyer or a doctor. I have no business to be what I am, and when I am forty I shall find that I have eaten up all my good things instead of having them to eat.
‘I have one chance before me. You know very well what that is. Tell her that my pride in being a member of Parliament is much more on her behalf than on my own. The man who dares to love her ought at any rate to be something in the world. If it might be, – if ever it may be, – I should wish to be something for her sake. I am sure you will be glad of my success yourself, for my own sake.
‘Your affectionate Friend and Cousin,
‘FRANCIS TREGEAR.’
The first mental memorandum in regard to this came from the writer's assertion that he at forty would have eaten up all his good things. No! He being a man might make his way to good things though he was not born to them. He surely would win his good things for himself. But what good things were in store for her? What chance of success was there for her? But the reflection which was the most bitter to her of all came from her assurance that his love for that other girl was so genuine. Even when he was writing to her there was no spark left of the old romance! Some hint of a recollection of past feelings, some half-concealed reference to the former passion might have been allowed to him! She as a woman, – as a woman all whose fortune must depend on marriage, – could indulge in no such allusions; but surely he need not have been so hard!
But still there was another memorandum. At the present moment she would do all that he desired as far as it was in her power. She was anxious that he should marry Lady Mary Palliser, though so anxious also that something of his love should remain with herself! She was quite willing to convey that message, – if it might be done without offence to the Duke. She was there with the object of ingratiating herself with the Duke. She must not impede her favour with the Duke by making herself the medium of any secret communications between Mary and her lover.
But how should she serve Tregear without risk of offending the Duke? She read the letter again and again, and thinking it to be a good letter she determined to show it to the Duke.
‘Mr Tregear has got in at Polpenno,’ she said on the day on which she and the Duke had received their letters.
‘So I hear from Silverbridge.’
‘It will be a good thing for him I suppose.’
‘I do not know,’ said the Duke coldly.
‘He is my cousin, and I have always been interested in his welfare.’
‘That is natural.’
‘And a seat in Parliament will give him something to do.’
‘Certainly it ought,’ said the Duke.
‘I do not think that he is an idle man.’ To this the Duke made no answer. He did not wish to be made to talk about Tregear. ‘May I tell you why I say all this?’ she asked softly, pressing her hand on the Duke's arm ever so gently. To this the Duke assented, but still coldly. ‘Because I want to know what I ought to do. Would you mind reading that letter? Of course you will remember that Frank and I have been brought up almost as brother and sister.’
The Duke took the letter in his hand and did read it, very slowly. ‘What he says about young men without means going into Parliament is true enough.’ This was not encouraging, but as the Duke went on reading, Mabel did not think it necessary to argue the matter. He had to read the last paragraph twice before he understood it. He did read it twice, and then folding the letter very slowly gave it back to his companion.
‘What ought I to do?’ asked Lady Mabel.
‘As you and I, my dear, are friends, I think that any carrying of a message to Mary would be breaking confidence. I think that you should not speak to Mary about Mr Tregear.’ Then he changed the subject. Lady Mabel of course understood that after that she could not say a word to Mary about the election at Polpenno.
CHAPTER 57
The Meeting at The Bobtailed Fox
It was now the middle of December, and matters were not comfortable in the Runnymede country. The Major with much pluck had carried on his operations in opposition to the wishes of the re
sident members of the hunt. The owners of coverts had protested, and farmers had sworn that he should not ride over their lands. There had even been some talk among the younger men of thrashing him if he persevered. But he did persevere, and had managed to have one or two good runs. Now it was the fortune of the Runnymede hunt that many of those who rode with the hounds were strangers to the country, – men who came down by train from London, gentlemen of perhaps no great distinction, who could ride hard, but as to whom it was thought that as they did not provide the land to ride over, or the fences to be destroyed, or the coverts for the foxes, or the greater part of the subscription, they ought not to oppose those by whom all these things were supplied. But the Major, knowing where his strength lay, had managed to get a party to support him. The contract to hunt the country had been made with him in last March, and was good for one year. Having the kennels and the hounds under his command he did hunt the country; but he did so amidst a storm of contumely and ill will.
At last it was decided that a general meeting of the members of the hunt should be called together with the express object of getting rid of the Major. The gentlemen of the neighbourhood felt that the Major was not to be borne, and the farmers were very much stronger against him than the gentlemen. It had now become a settled belief among sporting men in England that the Major had with his own hands driven the nail into the horse's foot. Was it to be endured that the Runnymede farmers should ride to hounds under a master who had been guilty of such an iniquity as that? ‘The Staines and Egham Gazette’, which had always supported the Runnymede hunt, declared in very plain terms that all who rode with the Major were enjoying their sport out of the plunder which had been extracted from Lord Silverbridge. Then a meeting was called for Saturday, the 18th December, to be held at that well-known sporting little inn The Bobtailed Fox. The members of the hunt were earnestly called upon to attend. It was, so said the printed document which was issued, the only means by which the hunt could be preserved. If gentlemen who were interested did not put their shoulders to the wheel the Runnymede hunt must be regarded as a thing of the past. One of the documents was sent to the Major with an intimation that if he wished to attend no objection would be made to his presence. The chair would be taken at half-past twelve punctually by that popular and well-known old sportsman Mr Mahogany Topps.
Was ever the master of a hunt treated in such a way! His presence not objected to! As a rule the master of a hunt does not attend hunt meetings, because the matter to be discussed is generally that of the money to be subscribed for him, as to which it is as well he should not hear the pros and cons. But it is presumed that he is to be the hero of the hour, and that he is to be treated to his face, and spoken of behind his back, with love, admiration, and respect. But now this master was told his presence would be allowed! And then this fox-hunting meeting was summoned for half-past twelve on a hunting day; – when, as all the world knew, the hounds were to meet at eleven, twelve miles off! Was ever anything so base? said the Major to himself. But he resolved that he would be equal to the occasion. He immediately issued cards to all the members, stating that on that day the meet had been changed from Croppingham Bushes, which was ever so much on the other side of Bagshot, to The Bobtailed Fox, – for the benefit of the hunt at large, said the card, – and that the hounds would be there at half-past one.
Whatever might happen, he must show a spirit. In all this there were one or two of the London brigade who stood fast to him. ‘Cock your tail, Tifto,’ said one hard-riding supporter, ‘and show 'em you aren't afraid of nothing.’ So Tifto cocked his tail and went to the meeting in his best new scarlet coat, with his whitest breeches, his pinkest boots, and his neatest little bows at his knees. He entered the room with his horn in his hand, as a symbol of authority, and took off his hunting-cap to salute the assembly with a jaunty air. He had taken two glasses of cherry brandy, and as long as the stimulant lasted would no doubt be able to support himself with audacity.
Old Mr Topps, in rising from his chair, did not say very much. He had been hunting in the Runnymede country for nearly fifty years, and had never seen anything so sad as this before. It made him, he knew, very unhappy. As for foxes, there were always plenty of foxes in his coverts. His friend Mr Jawstock, on the right, would explain what all this was about. All he wanted was to see the Runnymede hunt properly kept up. Then he sat down, and Mr Jawstock rose to his legs.
Mr Jawstock was a gentleman well known in the Runnymede country, who had himself been instrumental in bringing Major Tifto into these parts. There is often someone in a hunting country who never becomes a master of hounds himself, but who has almost as much to say about the business as the master himself. Sometimes at hunt meetings he is rather unpopular, as he is always inclined to talk. But there are occasions on which his services are felt to be valuable, – as were Mr Jawstock's at present. He was about forty-five years of age, was not much given to riding, owned no coverts himself, and was not a man of wealth; but he understood the nature of hunting, knew all its laws, and was a judge of horses, of hounds, – and of men; and could say a thing when he had to say it.
Mr Jawstock sat on the right hand of Mr Topps, and a place was left for the master opposite. The task to be performed was neither easy nor pleasant. It was necessary that the orator should accuse the gentleman opposite to him, – a man with whom he himself had been very intimate, – of iniquity so gross and so mean, that nothing worse can be conceived. ‘You are a swindler, a cheat, a rascal of the very deepest dye; – a rogue so mean that it is revolting to be in the same room with you!’ That was what Mr Jawstock had to say. And he said it. Looking round the room, occasionally appealing to Mr Topps, who on these occasions would lift up his hands in horror, but never letting his eye fall for a moment on the Major, Mr Jawstock told his story. ‘I did not see it done,’ said he. ‘I know nothing about it. I never was at Doncaster in my life. But you have evidence of what the Jockey Club thinks. The Master of our Hunt has been banished from racecourses.’ Here there was considerable opposition, and a few short but excited little dialogues were maintained; – throughout all which Tifto restrained himself like a Spartan. ‘At any rate he has been thoroughly disgraced,’ continued Mr Jawstock, ‘as a sporting man. He has been driven out of the Beargarden Club.’ ‘He resigned in disgust at their treatment,’ said a friend of the Major's. ‘Then let him resign in disgust at ours,’ said Mr Jawstock, ‘for we won't have him here. Caesar wouldn't keep a wife who was suspected of infidelity,1 nor will the Runnymede country endure a Master of Hounds who is supposed to have driven a nail into a horse's foot.’
Two or three other gentlemen had something to say before the Major was allowed to speak, – the upshot of the discourse of all of them being the same. The Major must go.
Then the Major got up, and certainly as far as attention went he had full justice done him. However clamorous they might intend to be afterwards that amount of fair play they were all determined to afford him. The Major was not excellent at speaking, but he did perhaps better than might have been expected. ‘This is a very disagreeable position,’ he said, ‘very disagreeable indeed. As for the nail in the horse's foot I know no more about it than the babe unborn. But I've got two things to say, and I'll say what aren't the most consequence first. These hounds belong to me.’ Here he paused, and a loud contradiction came from many parts of the room. Mr Jawstock, however, proposed that the Major should be heard to the end. ‘I say they belong to me,’ repeated the Major. ‘If anybody tries his hand at anything else the law will soon set that to rights. But that aren't of much consequence. What I've got to say is this. Let the matter be referred. If that ‘orse had a nail run into his foot, – and I don't say he hadn‘t, – who was the man most injured? Why, Lord Silverbridge. Everybody knows that. I suppose he dropped well on to eighty thousand pounds! I propose to leave it to him. Let him say. He ought to know more about it than anyone. He and I were partners in the horse. His Lordship aren't very sweet upon me just at present. Nobody need fear
that he'll do me a good turn. I say leave it to him.’
In this matter the Major had certainly been well advised. A rumour had become prevalent among sporting circles that Silverbridge had refused to condemn the Major. It was known that he had paid his bets without delay, and that he had, to some extent, declined to take advice from the leaders of the Jockey Club. The Major's friends were informed that the young lord had refused to vote against him at the club. Was it not more than probable that if this matter were referred to him he would refuse to give a verdict against his late partner?
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