A PARTIAL DISPLAY OF BEAUCHAMP IN HIS COLOURS
Beauchamp presented himself at Mount Laurels next day, and formally
asked Colonel Halkett for his vote, in the presence of Cecilia.
She took it for a playful glance at his new profession of politician:
he spoke half-playfully. Was it possible to speak in earnest?
“I’m of the opposite party,” said the colonel; as conclusive a reply as
could be: but he at once fell upon the rotten navy of a Liberal
Government. How could a true sailor think of joining those Liberals!
The question referred to the country, not to a section of it, Beauchamp
protested with impending emphasis: Tories and Liberals were much the
same in regard to the care of the navy. “Nevil!” exclaimed Cecilia. He
cited beneficial Liberal bills recently passed, which she accepted for
a concession of the navy to the Tories, and she smiled. In spite of her
dislike of politics, she had only to listen a few minutes to be drawn
into the contest: and thus it is that one hot politician makes many
among women and men of a people that have the genius of strife, or else
in this case the young lady did unconsciously feel a deep interest in
refuting and overcoming Nevil Beauchamp. Colonel Halkett denied the
benefits of those bills. “Look,” said he, “at the scarecrow plight of
the army under a Liberal Government!” This laid him open to the charge
that he was for backing Administrations instead of principles.
“I do,” said the colonel. “I would rather have a good Administration
than all your talk of principles: one’s a fact, but principles?
principles?” He languished for a phrase to describe the hazy things. “I
have mine, and you have yours. It’s like a dispute between religions.
There’s no settling it except by main force. That’s what principles
lead you to.”
Principles may be hazy, but heavy artillery is disposable in defence of
them, and Beauchamp fired some reverberating guns for the eternal
against the transitory; with less of the gentlemanly fine taste, the
light and easy social semi-irony, than Cecilia liked and would have
expected from him. However, as to principles, no doubt Nevil was right,
and Cecilia drew her father to another position. “Are not we Tories to
have principles as well as the Liberals, Nevil?”
“They may have what they call principles,” he admitted, intent on
pursuing his advantage over the colonel, who said, to shorten the
controversy: “It’s a question of my vote, and my liking. I like a Tory
Government, and I don’t like the Liberals. I like gentlemen; I don’t
like a party that attacks everything, and beats up the mob for power,
and repays it with sops, and is dragging us down from all we were proud
of.”
“But the country is growing, the country wants expansion,” said
Beauchamp; “and if your gentlemen by birth are not up to the mark, you
must have leaders that are.”
“Leaders who cut down expenditure, to create a panic that doubles the
outlay! I know them.”
“A _panic_, Nevil.” Cecilia threw stress on the memorable word.
He would hear no reminder in it. The internal condition of the country
was now the point for seriously-minded Englishmen.
“My dear boy, what _have_ you seen of the country?” Colonel Halkett
inquired.
“Every time I have landed, colonel, I have gone to the mining and the
manufacturing districts, the centres of industry; wherever there was
dissatisfaction. I have attended meetings, to see and hear for myself.
I have read the papers....”
“The papers!”
“Well, they’re the mirror of the country.”
“Does one see everything in a mirror, Nevil?” said Cecilia: “even in
the smoothest?”
He retorted softly: “I should be glad to see what you see,” and felled
her with a blush.
For an example of the mirror offered by the Press, Colonel Halkett
touched on Mr. Timothy Turbot’s article in eulogy of the great
Commander Beauchamp. “Did you like it?” he asked. “Ah, but if you
meddle with politics, you must submit to be held up on the prongs of a
fork, my boy; soaped by your backers and shaved by the foe; and there’s
a figure for a gentleman! as your uncle Romfrey says.”
Cecilia did not join this discussion, though she had heard from her
father that something grotesque had been written of Nevil. Her
foolishness in blushing vexed body and mind. She was incensed by a
silly compliment that struck at her feminine nature when her intellect
stood in arms. Yet more hurt was she by the reflection that a too
lively sensibility might have conjured up the idea of the compliment.
And again, she wondered at herself for not resenting so rare a
presumption as it implied, and not disdaining so outworn a form of
flattery. She wondered at herself too for thinking of resentment and
disdain in relation to the familiar commonplaces of licenced
impertinence. Over all which hung a darkened image of her spirit of
independence, like a moon in eclipse.
Where lay _his_ weakness? Evidently in the belief that he had thought
profoundly. But what minor item of insufficiency or feebleness was
discernible? She discovered that he could be easily fretted by similes
and metaphors they set him staggering and groping like an ancient
knight of faery in a forest bewitched.
“Your specific for the country is, then, Radicalism,” she said, after
listening to an attack on the Tories for their want of a policy and
indifference to the union of classes.
“I would prescribe a course of it, Cecilia; yes,” he turned to her.
“The Dr. Dulcamara of a single drug?”
“Now you have a name for me! Tory arguments always come to epithets.”
“It should not be objectionable. Is it not honest to pretend to have
only one cure for mortal maladies? There can hardly be two panaceas,
can there be?”
“So you call me quack?”
“No, Nevil, no,” she breathed a rich contralto note of denial: “but if
the country is the patient, and you will have it swallow your
prescription...”
“There’s nothing like a metaphor for an evasion,” said Nevil, blinking
over it.
She drew him another analogy, longer than was at all necessary; so
tedious that her father struck through it with the remark:
“Concerning that quack—that’s one in the background, though!”
“I know of none,” said Beauchamp, well-advised enough to forbear
mention of the name of Shrapnel.
Cecilia petitioned that her stumbling ignorance, which sought the road
of wisdom, might be heard out. She had a reserve entanglement for her
argumentative friend. “You were saying, Nevil, that you were for
principles rather than for individuals, and you instanced Mr. Cougham,
the senior Liberal candidate of Bevisham, as one whom you would prefer
to see in Parliament instead of Seymour Austin, though you confess to
Mr. Austin’s far superior merits as a politician and servant of his
country: but Mr. Cougham supports Liberalism while Mr. Austin is a
Tory. You are for the principle.”
“I am,” said he, bowing.
She asked: “Is not that equivalent to the doctrine of election by
Grace?”
Beauchamp interjected: “Grace! election?”
Cecilia was tender to his inability to follow her allusion.
“Thou art a Liberal—then rise to membership,” she said. “Accept my
creed, and thou art of the chosen. Yes, Nevil, you cannot escape from
it. Papa, he preaches Calvinism in politics.”
“We stick to men, and good men,” the colonel flourished. “Old English
for me!”
“You might as well say, old timber vessels, when Iron’s afloat,
colonel.”
“I suspect you have the worst of it there, papa,” said Cecilia, taken
by the unexpectedness and smartness of the comparison coming from wits
that she had been undervaluing.
“I shall not own I’m worsted until I surrender my vote,” the colonel
rejoined.
“I won’t despair of it,” said Beauchamp.
Colonel Halkett bade him come for it as often as he liked. You’ll be
beaten in Bevisham, I warn you. Tory reckonings are safest: it’s an
admitted fact: and _we know_ you can’t win. According to my judgement a
man owes a duty to his class.”
“A man owes a duty to his class as long as he sees his class doing its
duty to the country,” said Beauchamp; and he added, rather prettily in
contrast with the sententious commencement, Cecilia thought, that the
apathy of his class was proved when such as he deemed it an obligation
on them to come forward and do what little they could. The deduction of
the proof was not clearly consequent, but a meaning was expressed; and
in that form it brought him nearer to her abstract idea of Nevil
Beauchamp than when he raged and was precise.
After his departure she talked of him with her father, to be charitably
satirical over him, it seemed.
The critic in her ear had pounced on his repetition of certain words
that betrayed a dialectical stiffness and hinted a narrow vocabulary:
his use of emphasis, rather reminding her of his uncle Everard, was, in
a young man, a little distressing. “The _apathy_ of the country, papa;
the _apathy_ of the rich; a state of universal _apathy_. Will you
inform me, papa, what the Tories are _doing?_ Do we really give our
consciences to the keeping of the parsons once a week, and let them
_dogmatize_ for us to save us from exertion? We must attach ourselves
to _principles; nothing_ is _permanent_ but _principles_. Poor Nevil!
And still I am sure you have, as I have, the feeling that one must
respect him. I am quite convinced that he supposes he is doing his best
to serve his country by trying for Parliament, fancying himself a
Radical. I forgot to ask him whether he had visited his great-aunt,
Mrs. Beauchamp. They say the dear old lady has influence with him.”
“I don’t think he’s been anywhere,” Colonel Halkett half laughed at the
quaint fellow. “I wish the other great-nephew of hers were in England,
for us to run him against Nevil Beauchamp. He’s touring the world. I’m
told he’s orthodox, and a tough debater. We have to take what we can
get.”
“My best wishes for your success, and you and I will not talk of
politics any more, papa. I hope Nevil will come often, for his own
good; he will meet his own set of people here. And if he should
dogmatize so much as to rouse our apathy to denounce his principles, we
will remember that we are British, and can be sweet-blooded in
opposition. Perhaps he may change, even _tra le tre ore a le quattro:_
electioneering should be a lesson. From my recollection of Blackburn
Tuckham, he was a boisterous boy.”
“He writes uncommonly clever letters home to his aunt Beauchamp. She
has handed them to me to read,” said the colonel. “I do like to see
tolerably solid young fellows: they give one some hope of the stability
of the country.”
“They are not so interesting to study, and not half so amusing,” said
Cecilia.
Colonel Halkett muttered his objections to the sort of amusement
furnished by firebrands.
“Firebrand is too strong a word for poor Nevil,” she remonstrated.
In that estimate of the character of Nevil Beauchamp, Cecilia soon had
to confess that she had been deceived, though not by him.