AN AGENT OF THE OLD SCHOOL
It is doubtful if even the great Reform Bill of ’32, which shifted the
base of power from the upper to the middle class, awoke more bitter
feelings that did the _volte face_ of Peel in the winter of ’45. Since
the days of Pitt no statesman had enjoyed the popularity or wielded the
power which had been Sir Robert’s when he had taken office four years
before. He had been more than the leader of the Tory party; he had been
its re-creator. He had been more than the leader of the landed
interest; he had been its pride. Men who believed that upon the welfare
of that interest rested the stability of the constitution, men with
historic names had walked on his right hand and on his left, had borne
his train and carried his messages. All things, his origin, his
formality, his pride, his quiet domestic life, even his moderation, had
been forgiven in the man who had guided the Tories through the bad
days, had led them at last to power, and still stood between them and
the mutterings of this new industrial England, that hydra-like
threatened and perplexed them.
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.