MR. SOWERBY WITHOUT COMPANY.
And now there were going to be wondrous doings in West Barsetshire,
and men’s minds were much disturbed. The fiat had gone forth from the
high places, and the Queen had dissolved her faithful Commons. The
giants, finding that they could effect little or nothing with the old
House, had resolved to try what a new venture would do for them, and
the hubbub of a general election was to pervade the country. This
produced no inconsiderable irritation and annoyance, for the House
was not as yet quite three years old; and members of Parliament,
though they naturally feel a constitutional pleasure in meeting
their friends and in pressing the hands of their constituents, are,
nevertheless, so far akin to the lower order of humanity that they
appreciate the danger of losing their seats; and the certainty of
a considerable outlay in their endeavours to retain them is not
agreeable to the legislative mind.
Never did the old family fury between the gods and giants rage higher
than at the present moment. The giants declared that every turn which
they attempted to take in their country’s service had been thwarted
by faction, in spite of those benign promises of assistance made
to them only a few weeks since by their opponents; and the gods
answered by asserting that they were driven to this opposition by
the Bœotian fatuity of the giants. They had no doubt promised
their aid, and were ready to give it to measures that were decently
prudent; but not to a bill enabling government at its will to pension
aged bishops! No; there must be some limit to their tolerance, and
when such attempts as these were made that limit had been clearly
passed.
All this had taken place openly only a day or two after that casual
whisper dropped by Tom Towers at Miss Dunstable’s party—by Tom
Towers, that most pleasant of all pleasant fellows. And how should
he have known it,—he who flutters from one sweetest flower of the
garden to another,
“Adding sugar to the pink, and honey to the rose,
So loved for what he gives, but taking nothing as he goes”?
But the whisper had grown into a rumour, and the rumour into a
fact, and the political world was in a ferment. The giants, furious
about their bishops’ pension bill, threatened the House—most
injudiciously; and then it was beautiful to see how indignant members
got up, glowing with honesty, and declared that it was base to
conceive that any gentleman in that House could be actuated in his
vote by any hopes or fears with reference to his seat. And so matters
grew from bad to worse, and these contending parties never hit at
each other with such envenomed wrath as they did now;—having entered
the ring together so lately with such manifold promises of good-will,
respect, and forbearance!
But going from the general to the particular, we may say that nowhere
was a deeper consternation spread than in the electoral division
of West Barsetshire. No sooner had the tidings of the dissolution
reached the county than it was known that the duke intended to change
his nominee. Mr. Sowerby had now sat for the division since the
Reform Bill! He had become one of the county institutions, and by the
dint of custom and long establishment had been borne with and even
liked by the county gentlemen, in spite of his well-known pecuniary
irregularities. Now all this was to be changed. No reason had as yet
been publicly given, but it was understood that Lord Dumbello was to
be returned, although he did not own an acre of land in the county.
It is true that rumour went on to say that Lord Dumbello was about
to form close connections with Barsetshire. He was on the eve of
marrying a young lady, from the other division indeed, and was
now engaged, so it was said, in completing arrangements with the
government for the purchase of that noble crown property usually
known as the Chace of Chaldicotes. It was also stated—this
statement, however, had hitherto been only announced in confidential
whispers—that Chaldicotes House itself would soon become the
residence of the marquis. The duke was claiming it as his own—would
very shortly have completed his claims and taken possession;—and
then, by some arrangement between them, it was to be made over to
Lord Dumbello.
But very contrary rumours to these got abroad also. Men said—such
as dared to oppose the duke, and some few also who did not dare
to oppose him when the day of battle came—that it was beyond his
grace’s power to turn Lord Dumbello into a Barsetshire magnate. The
crown property—such men said—was to fall into the hands of young
Mr. Gresham, of Boxall Hill, in the other division, and that the
terms of purchase had been already settled. And as to Mr. Sowerby’s
property and the house of Chaldicotes—these opponents of the Omnium
interest went on to explain—it was by no means as yet so certain
that the duke would be able to enter it and take possession. The
place was not to be given up to him quietly. A great fight would be
made, and it was beginning to be believed that the enormous mortgages
would be paid off by a lady of immense wealth. And then a dash of
romance was not wanting to make these stories palatable. This lady of
immense wealth had been courted by Mr. Sowerby, had acknowledged her
love,—but had refused to marry him on account of his character. In
testimony of her love, however, she was about to pay all his debts.
It was soon put beyond a rumour, and became manifest enough, that Mr.
Sowerby did not intend to retire from the county in obedience to the
duke’s behests. A placard was posted through the whole division in
which no allusion was made by name to the duke, but in which Mr.
Sowerby warned his friends not to be led away by any report that he
intended to retire from the representation of West Barsetshire. “He
had sat,” the placard said, “for the same county during the full
period of a quarter of a century, and he would not lightly give up an
honour that had been extended to him so often and which he prized so
dearly. There were but few men now in the House whose connection with
the same body of constituents had remained unbroken so long as had
that which bound him to West Barsetshire; and he confidently hoped
that that connection might be continued through another period of
coming years till he might find himself in the glorious position of
being the father of the county members of the House of Commons.” The
placard said much more than this, and hinted at sundry and various
questions, all of great interest to the county; but it did not say
one word of the Duke of Omnium, though every one knew what the
duke was supposed to be doing in the matter. He was, as it were, a
great Llama, shut up in a holy of holies, inscrutable, invisible,
inexorable,—not to be seen by men’s eyes or heard by their ears,
hardly to be mentioned by ordinary men at such periods as these
without an inward quaking. But nevertheless, it was he who was
supposed to rule them. Euphemism required that his name should
be mentioned at no public meetings in connection with the coming
election; but, nevertheless, most men in the county believed that
he could send his dog up to the House of Commons as member for West
Barsetshire if it so pleased him.
It was supposed, therefore, that our friend Sowerby would have no
chance; but he was lucky in finding assistance in a quarter from
which he certainly had not deserved it. He had been a staunch friend
of the gods during the whole of his political life,—as, indeed, was
to be expected, seeing that he had been the duke’s nominee; but,
nevertheless, on the present occasion, all the giants connected with
the county came forward to his rescue. They did not do this with the
acknowledged purpose of opposing the duke; they declared that they
were actuated by a generous disinclination to see an old county
member put from his seat;—but the world knew that the battle was to
be waged against the great Llama. It was to be a contest between the
powers of aristocracy and the powers of oligarchy, as those powers
existed in West Barsetshire,—and, it may be added, that democracy
would have very little to say to it, on one side or on the other.
The lower order of voters, the small farmers and tradesmen, would no
doubt range themselves on the side of the duke, and would endeavour
to flatter themselves that they were thereby furthering the views of
the liberal side; but they would in fact be led to the poll by an
old-fashioned, time-honoured adherence to the will of their great
Llama; and by an apprehension of evil if that Llama should arise and
shake himself in his wrath. What might not come to the county if the
Llama were to walk himself off, he with his satellites and armies and
courtiers? There he was, a great Llama; and though he came among them
but seldom, and was scarcely seen when he did come, nevertheless—and
not the less but rather the more—was obedience to him considered as
salutary and opposition regarded as dangerous. A great rural Llama is
still sufficiently mighty in rural England.
But the priest of the temple, Mr. Fothergill, was frequent enough
in men’s eyes, and it was beautiful to hear with how varied a voice
he alluded to the things around him and to the changes which were
coming. To the small farmers, not only on the Gatherum property
but on others also, he spoke of the duke as a beneficent influence,
shedding prosperity on all around him, keeping up prices by his
presence, and forbidding the poor rates to rise above one and
fourpence in the pound by the general employment which he occasioned.
Men must be mad, he thought, who would willingly fly in the duke’s
face. To the squires from a distance he declared that no one had a
right to charge the duke with any interference;—as far, at least, as
he knew the duke’s mind. People would talk of things of which they
understood nothing. Could any one say that he had traced a single
request for a vote home to the duke? All this did not alter the
settled conviction on men’s minds; but it had its effect, and tended
to increase the mystery in which the duke’s doings were enveloped.
But to his own familiars, to the gentry immediately around him, Mr.
Fothergill merely winked his eye. They knew what was what, and so
did he. The duke had never been bit yet in such matters, and Mr.
Fothergill did not think that he would now submit himself to any such
operation.
I never heard in what manner and at what rate Mr. Fothergill received
remuneration for the various services performed by him with reference
to the duke’s property in Barsetshire; but I am very sure that,
whatever might be the amount, he earned it thoroughly. Never was
there a more faithful partisan, or one who, in his partisanship, was
more discreet. In this matter of the coming election he declared
that he himself,—personally, on his own hook,—did intend to bestir
himself actively on behalf of Lord Dumbello. Mr. Sowerby was an old
friend of his, and a very good fellow. That was true. But all the
world must admit that Sowerby was not in the position which a county
member ought to occupy. He was a ruined man, and it would not be for
his own advantage that he should be maintained in a position which
was fit only for a man of property. He knew—he, Fothergill—that Mr.
Sowerby must abandon all right and claim to Chaldicotes; and if so,
what would be more absurd than to acknowledge that he had a right and
claim to the seat in Parliament? As to Lord Dumbello, it was probable
that he would soon become one of the largest landowners in the
county; and, as such, who could be more fit for the representation?
Beyond this, Mr. Fothergill was not ashamed to confess—so he
said—that he hoped to hold Lord Dumbello’s agency. It would be
compatible with his other duties, and therefore, as a matter of
course, he intended to support Lord Dumbello;—he himself, that is.
As to the duke’s mind in the matter—! But I have already explained
how Mr. Fothergill disposed of that.
In these days, Mr. Sowerby came down to his own house—for ostensibly
it was still his own house—but he came very quietly, and his arrival
was hardly known in his own village. Though his placard was stuck
up so widely, he himself took no electioneering steps; none, at
least, as yet. The protection against arrest which he derived from
Parliament would soon be over, and those who were most bitter against
the duke averred that steps would be taken to arrest him, should he
give sufficient opportunity to the myrmidons of the law. That he
would, in such case, be arrested was very likely; but it was not
likely that this would be done in any way at the duke’s instance. Mr.
Fothergill declared indignantly that this insinuation made him very
angry; but he was too prudent a man to be very angry at anything, and
he knew how to make capital on his own side of charges such as these
which overshot their own mark.
Mr. Sowerby came down very quietly to Chaldicotes, and there he
remained for a couple of days, quite alone. The place bore a very
different aspect now to that which we noticed when Mark Robarts drove
up to it, in the early pages of this little narrative. There were no
lights in the windows now, and no voices came from the stables; no
dogs barked, and all was dead and silent as the grave. During the
greater portion of those two days he sat alone within the house,
almost unoccupied. He did not even open his letters, which lay piled
on a crowded table in the small breakfast parlour in which he sat;
for the letters of such men come in piles, and there are few of
them which are pleasant in the reading. There he sat, troubled with
thoughts which were sad enough, now and then moving to and fro the
house, but for the most part occupied in thinking over the position
to which he had brought himself. What would he be in the world’s
eye, if he ceased to be the owner of Chaldicotes, and ceased also
to be the member for his county? He had lived ever before the world,
and, though always harassed by encumbrances, had been sustained and
comforted by the excitement of a prominent position. His debts and
difficulties had hitherto been bearable, and he had borne them with
ease so long that he had almost taught himself to think that they
would never be unendurable. But now,—
The order for foreclosing had gone forth, and the harpies of the law,
by their present speed in sticking their claws into the carcase of
his property, were atoning to themselves for the delay with which
they had hitherto been compelled to approach their prey. And the
order as to his seat had gone forth also. That placard had been drawn
up by the combined efforts of his sister, Miss Dunstable, and a
certain well-known electioneering agent, named Closerstill, presumed
to be in the interest of the giants. But poor Sowerby had but little
confidence in the placard. No one knew better than he how great was
the duke’s power.
He was hopeless, therefore, as he walked about through those empty
rooms, thinking of his past life and of that life which was to come.
Would it not be well for him that he were dead, now that he was dying
to all that had made the world pleasant! We see and hear of such men
as Mr. Sowerby, and are apt to think that they enjoy all that the
world can give, and that they enjoy that all without payment either
in care or labour; but I doubt that, with even the most callous
of them, their periods of wretchedness must be frequent, and that
wretchedness very intense. Salmon and lamb in February and green
pease and new potatoes in March can hardly make a man happy,
even though nobody pays for them; and the feeling that one is an
_antecedentem scelestum_ after whom a sure, though lame, Nemesis
is hobbling, must sometimes disturb one’s slumbers. On the present
occasion Scelestus felt that his Nemesis had overtaken him. Lame as
she had been, and swift as he had run, she had mouthed him at last,
and there was nothing left for him but to listen to the “whoop” set
up at the sight of his own death-throes.
It was a melancholy, dreary place now, that big house of Chaldicotes;
and though the woods were all green with their early leaves, and the
gardens thick with flowers, they also were melancholy and dreary.
The lawns were untrimmed and weeds were growing through the gravel,
and here and there a cracked Dryad, tumbled from her pedestal and
sprawling in the grass, gave a look of disorder to the whole place.
The wooden trellis-work was shattered here and bending there, the
standard rose-trees were stooping to the ground, and the leaves of
the winter still encumbered the borders. Late in the evening of the
second day Mr. Sowerby strolled out, and went through the gardens
into the wood. Of all the inanimate things of the world this wood
of Chaldicotes was the dearest to him. He was not a man to whom his
companions gave much credit for feelings or thoughts akin to poetry,
but here, out in the Chace, his mind would be almost poetical. While
wandering among the forest trees, he became susceptible of the
tenderness of human nature: he would listen to the birds singing,
and pick here and there a wild flower on his path. He would watch
the decay of the old trees and the progress of the young, and make
pictures in his eyes of every turn in the wood. He would mark the
colour of a bit of road as it dipped into a dell, and then, passing
through a water-course, rose brown, rough, irregular, and beautiful
against the bank on the other side. And then he would sit and think
of his old family: how they had roamed there time out of mind in
those Chaldicotes woods, father and son and grandson in regular
succession, each giving them over, without blemish or decrease, to
his successor. So he would sit; and so he did sit even now, and,
thinking of these things, wished that he had never been born.
It was dark night when he returned to the house, and as he did so he
resolved that he would quit the place altogether, and give up the
battle as lost. The duke should take it and do as he pleased with
it; and as for the seat in Parliament, Lord Dumbello, or any other
equally gifted young patrician, might hold it for him. He would
vanish from the scene and betake himself to some land from whence he
would be neither heard nor seen, and there—starve. Such were now his
future outlooks into the world; and yet, as regards health and all
physical capacities, he knew that he was still in the prime of his
life. Yes; in the prime of his life! But what could he do with what
remained to him of such prime? How could he turn either his mind or
his strength to such account as might now be serviceable? How could
he, in his sore need, earn for himself even the barest bread? Would
it not be better for him that he should die? Let not any one covet
the lot of a spendthrift, even though the days of his early pease and
champagne seem to be unnumbered; for that lame Nemesis will surely be
up before the game has been all played out.
When Mr. Sowerby reached his house he found that a message by
telegraph had arrived for him in his absence. It was from his sister,
and it informed him that she would be with him that night. She was
coming down by the mail train, had telegraphed to Barchester for
post-horses, and would be at Chaldicotes about two hours after
midnight. It was therefore manifest enough that her business was of
importance.
Exactly at two the Barchester post-chaise did arrive, and Mrs. Harold
Smith, before she retired to her bed, was closeted for about an hour
with her brother.
“Well,” she said, the following morning, as they sat together at the
breakfast-table, “what do you say to it now? If you accept her offer
you should be with her lawyer this afternoon.”
“I suppose I must accept it,” said he.
“Certainly, I think so. No doubt it will take the property out of
your own hands as completely as though the duke had it, but it will
leave you the house, at any rate, for your life.”
“What good will the house be, when I can’t keep it up?”
“But I am not so sure of that. She will not want more than her fair
interest; and as it will be thoroughly well managed, I should think
that there would be something over—something enough to keep up the
house. And then, you know, we must have some place in the country.”
“I tell you fairly, Harriet, that I will have nothing further to do
with Harold in the way of money.”
“Ah! that was because you would go to him. Why did you not come to
me? And then, Nathaniel, it is the only way in which you can have a
chance of keeping the seat. She is the queerest woman I ever met, but
she seems resolved on beating the duke.”
“I do not quite understand it, but I have not the slightest
objection.”
“She thinks that he is interfering with young Gresham about the crown
property. I had no idea that she had so much business at her fingers’
ends. When I first proposed the matter she took it up quite as a
lawyer might, and seemed to have forgotten altogether what occurred
about that other matter.”
“I wish I could forget it also,” said Mr. Sowerby.
“I really think that she does. When I was obliged to make some
allusion to it—at least I felt myself obliged, and was sorry
afterwards that I did—she merely laughed—a great loud laugh as she
always does, and then went on about the business. However, she was
clear about this, that all the expenses of the election should be
added to the sum to be advanced by her, and that the house should be
left to you without any rent. If you choose to take the land round
the house you must pay for it, by the acre, as the tenants do. She
was as clear about it all as though she had passed her life in a
lawyer’s office.”
My readers will now pretty well understand what last step that
excellent sister, Mrs. Harold Smith, had taken on her brother’s
behalf, nor will they be surprised to learn that in the course of
the day Mr. Sowerby hurried back to town and put himself into
communication with Miss Dunstable’s lawyer.