A LETTER TO THE PAPERS
Old Mr. Naseby had the sturdy, untutored nature of the upper middle
class. The universe seemed plain to him. "The thing's right," he would
say, or "the thing's wrong"; and there was an end of it. There was a
contained, prophetic energy in his utterances, even on the slightest
affairs; he _saw_ the damned thing; if you did not, it must be from
perversity of will, and this sent the blood to his head. Apart from
this, which made him an exacting companion, he was one of the most
upright, hot-tempered old gentlemen in England. Florid, with white hair,
the face of an old Jupiter, and the figure of an old fox-hunter, he
enlivened the vale of Thyme from end to end on his big, cantering
chestnut.
He had a hearty respect for Dick as a lad of parts. Dick had a respect
for his father as the best of men, tempered by the politic revolt of a
youth who has to see to his own independence. Whenever the pair argued,
they came to an open rupture; and arguments were frequent, for they were
both positive, and both loved the work of the intelligence. It was a
treat to hear Mr. Naseby defending the Church of England in a volley of
oaths, or supporting ascetic morals with an enthusiasm not entirely
innocent of port wine. Dick used to wax indignant, and none the less so
because, as his father was a skilful disputant, he found himself not
seldom in the wrong. On these occasions, he would redouble in energy,
and declare that black was white, and blue yellow, with much conviction
and heat of manner; but in the morning such a licence of debate weighed
upon him like a crime, and he would seek out his father, where he walked
before breakfast on a terrace overlooking all the vale of Thyme.
"I have to apologise, sir, for last night----" he would begin.
"Of course you have," the old gentleman would cut in cheerfully. "You
spoke like a fool. Say no more about it."
"You do not understand me, sir. I refer to a particular point. I confess
there is much force in your argument from the doctrine of
possibilities."
"Of course there is," returned his father. "Come down and look at the
stables. Only," he would add, "bear this in mind, and do remember that a
man of my age and experience knows more about what he is saying than a
raw boy."
He would utter the word "boy" even more offensively than the average of
fathers, and the light way in which he accepted these apologies cut Dick
to the heart. The latter drew slighting comparisons, and remembered that
he was the only one who ever apologised. This gave him a high station in
his own esteem, and thus contributed indirectly to his better behaviour;
for he was scrupulous as well as high-spirited, and prided himself on
nothing more than on a just submission.
So things went on until the famous occasion when Mr. Naseby, becoming
engrossed in securing the election of a sound party candidate to
Parliament, wrote a flaming letter to the papers. The letter had about
every demerit of party letters in general: it was expressed with the
energy of a believer; it was personal; it was a little more than half
unfair, and about a quarter untrue. The old man did not mean to say what
was untrue, you may be sure; but he had rashly picked up gossip, as his
prejudice suggested, and now rashly launched it on the public with the
sanction of his name.
"The Liberal candidate," he concluded, "is thus a public turncoat. Is
that the sort of man we want? He has been given the lie, and has
swallowed the insult. Is that the sort of man we want? I answer, No!
With all the force of my conviction, I answer, _No_!"
And then he signed and dated the letter with an amateur's pride, and
looked to be famous by the morrow.
Dick, who had heard nothing of the matter, was up first on that
inauspicious day, and took the journal to an arbour in the garden. He
found his father's manifesto in one column; and in another a leading
article. "No one that we are aware of," ran the article, "had consulted
Mr. Naseby on the subject, but if he had been appealed to by the whole
body of electors, his letter would be none the less ungenerous and
unjust to Mr. Dalton. We do not choose to give the lie to Mr. Naseby,
for we are too well aware of the consequences; but we shall venture
instead to print the facts of both cases referred to by this red-hot
partisan in another portion of our issue. Mr. Naseby is of course a
large proprietor in our neighbourhood; but fidelity to facts, decent
feeling, and English grammar, are all of them qualities more important
than the possession of land. Mr. N---- is doubtless a great man; in his
large gardens and that half-mile of greenhouses, where he has probably
ripened his intellect and temper, he may say what he will to his hired
vassals, but (as the Scots say)--
here
He maunna think to domineer.
Liberalism," continued the anonymous journalist, "is of too free and
sound a growth," etc.
Richard Naseby read the whole thing from beginning to end; and a
crushing shame fell upon his spirit. His father had played the fool; he
had gone out noisily to war, and come back with confusion. The moment
that his trumpets sounded, he had been disgracefully unhorsed. There was
no question as to the facts; they were one and all against the Squire.
Richard would have given his ears to have suppressed the issue; but as
that could not be done, he had his horse saddled, and, furnishing
himself with a convenient staff, rode off at once to Thymebury.
The editor was at breakfast in a large, sad apartment. The absence of
furniture, the extreme meanness of the meal, and the haggard,
bright-eyed, consumptive look of the culprit, unmanned our hero; but he
clung to his stick, and was stout and warlike.
"You wrote the article in this morning's paper?" he demanded.
"You are young Mr. Naseby? I _published_ it," replied the editor,
rising.
"My father is an old man," said Richard; and then with an outburst, "And
a damned sight finer fellow than either you or Dalton!" He stopped and
swallowed; he was determined that all should go with regularity. "I have
but one question to put to you, sir," he resumed. "Granted that my
father was misinformed, would it not have been more decent to withhold
the letter and communicate with him in private?"
"Believe me," returned the editor, "that alternative was not open to me.
Mr. Naseby told me in a note that he had sent his letter to three other
journals, and in fact threatened me with what he called exposure if I
kept it back from mine. I am really concerned at what has happened; I
sympathise and approve of your emotion, young gentleman; but the attack
on Mr. Dalton was gross, very gross, and I had no choice but to offer
him my columns to reply. Party has its duties, sir," added the scribe,
kindling, as one who should propose a sentiment; "and the attack was
gross."
Richard stood for half a minute digesting the answer; and then the god
of fair play came uppermost in his heart, and, murmuring "Good morning,"
he made his escape into the street.
His horse was not hurried on the way home, and he was late for
breakfast. The Squire was standing with his back to the fire in a state
bordering on apoplexy, his fingers violently knitted under his
coat-tails. As Richard came in, he opened and shut his mouth like a
cod-fish, and his eyes protruded.
"Have you seen that, sir?" he cried, nodding towards the paper.
"Yes, sir," said Richard.
"Oh, you've read it, have you?"
"Yes; I have read it," replied Richard, looking at his foot.
"Well," demanded the old gentleman, "and what have you to say to it,
sir?"
"You seem to have been misinformed," said Dick.
"Well? What then? Is your mind so sterile, sir? Have you not a word of
comment? no proposal?"
"I fear, sir, you must apologise to Mr. Dalton. It would be more
handsome, indeed it would be only just, and a free acknowledgment would
go far--" Richard paused, no language appearing delicate enough to suit
the case.
"That is a suggestion which should have come from me, sir," roared the
father. "It is out of place upon your lips. It is not the thought of a
loyal son. Why, sir, if my father had been plunged in such deplorable
circumstances, I should have thrashed the editor of that vile sheet
within an inch of his life. I should have thrashed the man, sir. It
would have been the action of an ass; but it would have shown that I had
the blood and the natural affections of a man. Son? You are no son, no
son of mine, sir!"
"Sir!" said Dick.
"I'll tell you what you are, sir," pursued the Squire. "You're a
Benthamite. I disown you. Your mother would have died for shame;
there was no modern cant about your mother; she thought--she said to me,
sir--I'm glad she's in her grave, Dick Naseby. Misinformed! Misinformed,
sir? Have you no loyalty, no spring, no natural affections? Are you
clockwork, hey? Away! This is no place for you. Away!" (Waving his hands
in the air.) "Go away! Leave me!"
At this moment Dick beat a retreat in a disarray of nerves, a whistling
and clamour of his own arteries, and in short in such a final bodily
disorder as made him alike incapable of speech or hearing. And in the
midst of all this turmoil, a sense of unpardonable injustice remained
graven in his memory.