“Gentlemen,” he began again—”you all know that I am a thorough-paced reformer—”
“Oh, drat your reform. He’s a dumb dog. Go back to your goose, Snippy; you never were made for this work. Go to Courcy Castle and reform that.”
Mr. Moffat, grieved in his soul, was becoming inextricably bewildered by such facetiæ 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-plaited shirt, and reduced him to speechless despair.
An egg is a means of delightful support when properly administered; but it is not calculated to add much spirit to a man’s eloquence, or to ensure his powers of endurance, when supplied in the manner above described. Men there are, doubtless, whose tongues would not be stopped even by such an argument as this; but Mr. Moffat was not one of them. As the insidious fluid trickled down beneath his waistcoat, he felt that all further powers of coaxing the electors out of their votes, by words flowing from his tongue sweeter than honey, was for that occasion denied to him. He could not be self-confident, energetic, witty, and good-humoured with a rotten egg drying in 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. Nearthewinde, and Frank endeavoured again to bring him to the charge. He was like a beaten prize-fighter, whose pluck has been cowed out of him, and who, if he stands up, only stands up to fall. Mr. Moffat got sulky also, and when he was pressed, said that Barchester and the people in it might be d——. “With all my heart,” said Mr. Nearthewinde. “That wouldn’t have any effect on their votes.”
But, in truth, it mattered very little whether Mr. Moffat spoke, or whether he didn’t speak. Four o’clock was the hour for closing the poll, and that was now fast coming. Tremendous exertions had been made about half-past three, by a safe emissary sent from Nearthewinde, to prove to Mr. Reddypalm that all manner of contingent advantages would accrue to the Brown Bear if it should turn out that Mr. Moffat should take his seat for Barchester. No bribe was, of course, offered or even hinted at. The purity of Barchester was not contaminated during the day by one such curse as this. But a man, and a publican, would be required to do some great deed in the public line; to open some colossal tap; to draw beer for the million; and no one would be so fit as Mr. Reddypalm—if only it might turn out that Mr. Moffat should, in the coming February, take his seat as member for Barchester.
But Mr. Reddypalm was a man of humble desires, whose ambitions soared no higher than this—that his little bills should be duly settled. It is wonderful what love an innkeeper has for his bill in its entirety. An account, with 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 was never called for. You desire to have the shilling expunged, and all your host’s pleasure in the whole transaction is destroyed. Oh! my friends, pay for the brandy and water, though you never drank it; suffer the fire to pass, though it never warmed you. Why make a good man miserable for such a trifle?
It became notified to Reddypalm 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—
Scatcherd: 378
Moffat: 376
Mr. Reddypalm’s two votes had decided the question. Mr. Nearthewinde immediately went up to town; and the dinner party at Courcy 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. Nearthewinde had not been asleep, and already knew something of the manner in which Mr. Reddypalm’s mind had been quieted.
CHAPTER XVIII
The Rivals
The intimacy between Frank and Miss 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, than assisted, that consummation which the countess desired. People, when they are in love with each other, or even when they pretend to be, do not generally show it by loud laughter. Nor is it frequently the case that a wife with two hundred thousand pounds can be won without some little preliminary despair. Now there was no despair at all about Frank Gresham.
Lady de Courcy, 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 Miss 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 assistance; and so Lady de Courcy did what she could to assist him.
“Frank, my dear boy,” she would say, “you are a little too noisy, I think. I don’t mean for myself, you know; I don’t mind it. But Miss 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 Miss 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 warn them against the perfidious element never so loudly.
Soon after this, Lady de Courcy began to be not very well pleased in the matter. She took it into her head that Miss Dunstable was sometimes almost inclined to laugh at her; and on one or two occasions it almost seemed as though Frank was joining Miss Dunstable in doing so. The fact indeed was, that Miss 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 de Courcy’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—then teasing his sister about Mr. Moffat—and then bothering his lady-cousins out of all their propriety.
“Oh, very!” said Frank: “she is a dear, good woman, is my Aunt de Courcy.”
“I declare she takes more notice of you and your doings than of any of your cousins. I wonder they ain’t jealous.”
“Oh! they’re such good people. Bless me, they’d never be jealous.”
“You 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 anyone else as long as you are here? Don’t you know that all the world is talking about you?”
“Is it?—dear me, how kind! But I don’t care a straw about any world just at present but Lady de Courcy’s world. What did she say?”
“She said you were very beautiful—”
“Did she?—how good of her!”
“No; I forgot. It—it was I that said that; and she said—what was it she said? She said, that after all, beauty was but skin deep—and that she valued you for your virtues and prudence rather than your good looks.”
“Virtues and prudence! She said I was prudent and virtuous?”
“Yes.”
“And you talked of my beauty? That was so kind of you. You didn’t either of you say anything about other matters?”
“What other matters?”
“Oh! I don’t know. Only some people are sometimes valued rather for what they’ve got than for any good qualities belonging to themselves intrinsically.”
“That can never be the case with Miss Dunstable; especially not at Courcy Castle,” said Frank, bowing easily from the corner of the sofa over which he was leaning.
“Of course not,” said Miss Dunstable; and Frank at once perceived that she spoke in a tone of voice differing much from that half-bantering, half-good-humoured manner that was customary with her. “Of course not: any such idea would be quite out of the question with Lady de Courcy.” She paused for a moment, and then added in a tone different again, and unlike any that he had yet heard from her—”It is, at any rate, out of the question with Mr. Frank Gresham—of that I am quite sure.”
Frank ought to have understood her, and have appreciated the good opinion which she intended to convey; but he did not entirely do so. He was hardly honest himself towards her; and he could not at first perceive that she intended to say that she thought him so. He knew very well that she was alluding to her own huge fortune, and was alluding also to the fact that people of fashion sought her because of it; but he did not know that she intended to express a true acquittal as regarded him of any such baseness.
And did he deserve to be acquitted? Yes, upon the whole he did—to be acquitted of that special sin. His desire to make Miss Dunstable 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 it 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 Courcy Castle.
These suitors perhaps somewhat despised their young rival’s efforts. It may be that they had sufficient worldly wisdom to know that so important a crisis of life is not settled among quips and jokes, and that Frank was too much in jest to be 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 favoured George with salutary advice on the occasion.
“If it is to be done at all, it should be done very sharp,” said John.
“As sharp as you like,” said George. “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 the farmers’ daughters, he felt that he should have some little difficulty in making known his passion to Miss Dunstable 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 Miss Dunstable. Miss Dunstable, 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 Courcy. She was already quite accustomed to being the target at which spendthrifts and the needy rich might shoot their arrows: accustomed to being shot at, and tolerably accustomed to protect herself without making scenes in the world, or rejecting the advantageous establishments offered to her with any loud expressions of disdain. The Honourable George, therefore, had been permitted to say soft things very much 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 Miss Dunstable’s bed-chamber. Miss Dunstable duly received it, and had her answer conveyed back discreetly to George’s hands. The correspondence ran as follows—
COURCY CASTLE, Aug. —, 185—.
MY DEAREST MISS 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 raillery 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 accede 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 honours are not likely to be perpetuated by him, as he has all manner of troublesome liaisons which will probably prevent his settling in life. There is nothing at all of that kind in my way. It will indeed be a delight to place a coronet on the head of my lovely Martha: a coronet which can give no fresh grace to her, but which will be so much adorned by her wearing it.
Dearest Miss Dunstable, I shall wait with the utmost impatience for your answer; and now, burning with hope that it may not be altogether unfavourable to my love, I beg permission to sign myself—Your own most devoted, GEORGE DE COURCY.
The ardent lover had not to wait long for an answer from his mistress. She found this letter on her toilet-table one night as she went to bed. The next morning she came down to breakfast and met her swain with the most unconcerned air in the world; so much so that he began to think, as he munched his toast with rather a shamefaced 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 wont, 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. DE COURCY, I am sorry to say that I had not perceived from your manner that you entertained any peculiar feelings towards me; as, had I done so, I should at once have endeavoured to put an end to them. I am much flattered by the way in which you speak of me; but I am in too humble a position to return your affection; and can, therefore, only express a hope that you may be soon able to eradicate it from your bosom. A letter is a very good way of making an offer, and as such I do not think it at all odd; but I certainly did not expect such an honour last night. As to my raillery, 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 allude; for I am well aware that no attempt will ever make me shine anywhere.