The business that had taken Edward Beaumont to Caistorholm was
progressing satisfactorily, and the Archdeacon and the other
shareholders had every reason to congratulate themselves on having
invited his assistance. It had been the usual story, a large industrial
concern successfully and prosperously conducted so long as its founders
had been young, energetic, and single-eyed. When they had made their
fortunes and courted ease they had converted the business into a
company, retaining a connection with it as salaried directors. They had
put their own price on what they had to sell to the company and had not
felt called upon exactly to kill themselves by working too hard as
directors.
With a concern much over-capitalised and lax management, the natural
result had ensued; but Beaumont had seen that with some reduction of
sharemoney and better management, the situation might be saved. He had
impressed his views on the general body of shareholders without any
difficulty, and had cared not a rap for the black looks of the directors
compulsorily retired.
All this had kept him busy enough, and every post brought him letters,
copies of accounts, drafts of legal documents, and such like. One
morning, as the Vicarage party were at breakfast, and the Archdeacon had
opened the letter-bag and distributed its contents, Edward was smiling
over a petulant letter from Storth, who wanted to know if he intended to
spend the whole of the Long Vacation at Caistorholm, and if he expected
his long-suffering partner to submit to being cooped up in the office
when all the rest of the legal world was on the moors or drinking the
waters or sniffling the salt sea air.
“Poor Sam! it’s too bad, after he’d rigged himself out for the
moors. Ah, well! he must spell patience for another week anyhow,” he
reflected.
“Do Radicals dance, Mr. Beaumont?” asked Eleanor. “Yes, you’re
right, papa, it’s from the Countess.”
“Do Radicals dance? Some of them do, I believe. I know one who tries,
_et après_?”
“The Countess of Yarborough asks us to dinner for the —th, and
there’s to be dancing afterwards. It won’t be a ball, you know. Only
the house-party down with Lord Lindsey for the shooting and a few
neighbours. It will be very nice, though. Of course, we can go, papa?”
“Yes, why not? Write and accept at once, Eleanor. You’ll join us,
Beaumont?”
“If——”
“Oh! there’s neither if nor but in it. Lady Yarborough will be
delighted to see you, and you’ll get on well with young Lindsey,
that’s her son, you know. He’s been at Heidelburgh lately, studying
philosophy. Said Oxford was decadent and obstructive. I’m sure I
don’t know what’s come over all the young fellows now-a-days.”
“The sportsmen aren’t content with pheasants and partridges and
hares as their fathers were, they go to the Alleghanies and Central
Africa for big game, and the scholars, I suppose, think they’re
entitled to follow suit and try farther afield for fresh ideas,”
suggested Eleanor.
“Anyhow, I don’t know what to make of young Lindsey. When I talked
with him last he didn’t seem to know his own mind. But he’ll have to
make it up one way or another before the next election. Richardson says
he’s tired of playing warming-pan for him, and, of course, it’s out
of the question that anyone but a Yarborough or his nominee should sit
for this division. But Lindsey will be getting married before long, no
doubt, and that will take the nonsense out of him. Say we’re bringing
a friend, Eleanor.”
Norton Towers, the ancestral home of the Yarboroughs is a large and
rambling structure in various styles of architecture, built originally
in the Wars of the Roses, but added to and altered many times. It stands
pleasantly and picturesquely on a rising stretch of knoll, Some eight
miles distant from Caistorholm The noble family, whose principal seat it
is, has for many generations been of paramount consideration and
influence in Lincolnshire. The founder of the family is commonly
supposed to have been a Venetian adventurer, one of the many merchant
princes of the Adriatic’s queen, who, settling in London, became Lord
Mayor under the second Richard. Then, in time, the family withdrew from
commerce, acquired by prudent purchases and equally prudent marriages
considerable estates in Lincolnshire, and became in time as racy of the
soil as though not a trace of Italian blood intermingled with the blue
blood their alliances had incorporated.
In the Civil War the heir of the house had a narrow escape of perishing
on Cavendish Bog at the hand of Oliver himself, then a captain of Horse
in the Parliamentary forces not yet known to fame, though marked by the
observant. The Royalist soldier was borne from the field with Oliver’s
bullet in his sword-arm, and that and the fever that supervened had like
to have finished him, and gave him a distaste for further adventures of
the kind. When the Commonwealth came the family compounded for past
offences by a smart money-fine, and accepted with what grace they might
the Roundhead régime. Cromwell bore no malice, perhaps remembering
Cavendish Bog, and the Yarboroughs, though but sullenly acquiescent in
the new order of things, and indifferent psalm-singers, kept themselves
clear of the plots against the Protector’s life and rule.
When the glorious Restoration came the Lincolnshire lord was welcomed at
Whitehall, perhaps because, having made few sacrifices for the Stuarts,
Charles felt he owed the family nothing, and they wanted nothing from
him. The Court of the second James smelt too much of incense for the
stomach of the Earl, and he kept to his hunting and farming in the Fens,
and had no difficulty in wearing the Orange favours when James fled the
country. Since that time the Yarboroughs had been consistent Whigs, but
they did not conceive that their Whiggery compelled them to quarrel with
their neighbours. They had made no bones about Catholic emancipation,
and, indeed, were on friendly terms with not a few of the Catholic
families to be found in Lincolnshire. They had supported Jack Russell
and his Reform Bill, had made a wry face over Household Suffrage, and
now the Earl, who cared little for politics, but thought Lord Granville
an ideal Foreign Secretary, was counted a friend of Mr. Gladstone,
thinking that his dangerous political proclivities would be finally
corrected by his admirable High Church principles.
But it was whispered in the county that the heir and hope of the family
had returned from the Continent tainted with rank heresies of every
kind. This was the Lord Lindsey, whom marriage was expected to sober.
“I don’t suppose we shall see the Earl,” said the Archdeacon, as
the carriage rapidly traversed the distance between the Vicarage and the
Towers. “He is a great invalid and seldom shows at the dinner table.
Like the Speaker of the House he takes his homely chop when his guests
are dining. I shall go to him in his room and smoke my cigar with him
whilst you young folk are romping. Wright will, no doubt, be invited,
and he’ll find you some partners.”
Edward had not much confidence in any help likely to be vouchsafed by
the master of Thorsby Manor.
Some thirty guests gathered in the drawing room a few minutes before the
clanging of the dinner-gong, and a sparkling, blue-eyed damsel of some
twenty summers fell to Edward’s lot. He would have preferred to take
down Miss St. Clair, but Miss Edith des Forges left him no leisure to
indulge regrets.
“You’re staying at Caistorholme Vicarage, Eleanor St. Clair tells
me. I stayed there three years ago, just after I left school. Eleanor
and I were at school together. Mrs. St. Clair was alive then, poor dear.
I flirted outrageously with the Archdeacon, and she wasn’t a bit
jealous. It’s such fun flirting with a parson, don’t you know.”
“Can’t say, I’m sure. I’ll take your opinion, Miss des Forges.
Are you an authority on flirting?”
“Well, pretty fair. I ought to be. Practice makes perfect. Don’t you
think Eleanor simply beautiful? Don’t look at her. She is looking at
us. I’m sure that stupid George Wright is boring her to death. But I
suppose she’ll have to get used to it.”
“Ah! Why?”
“How long have you been at the Vicarage?”
“A fortnight.”
“And you don’t know why?”
“’Pon my word I don’t.”
“And you a lawyer! and Eleanor said you were so awfully clever. I
quite quaked when the Countess sent me down with you. Are you very
clever, Mr. Beaumont?”
“You must find out, Miss des Forges.”
“Do you know, I’ve never talked to a Solicitor before. I’ve wanted
to meet a real live Solicitor this ever so long.”
“Question of marriage settlement, I suppose?”
“Nonsense. Anybody that takes me will have to take me just as I am
without one stiver. Not much of a bargain, am I?”
“I should say cheap at any price.”
“That’s what Charlie says.”
“And who’s Charlie?”
“Ah! that’s why I wanted to meet a solicitor. Charlie’s my cousin
and awfully nice. Just ask Eleanor.”
“I’ll be content with your opinion.”
“But perhaps you know him. He’s in the Temple, Paper Buildings.
Isn’t it ridiculous? Paper Buildings! I’ve heard of men of straw.”
“There are a good many Charlies in Paper Buildings, Miss des Forges. I
suppose your cousin is a barrister?”
“That’s just what he is—a what d’ye call it barrister, short,
no, not short.”
“Briefless, perhaps?”
“How clever of you to guess it. Eleanor must be right. And he’s
delightfully poor, and gives luncheon to us girls in his chambers when
we go up to town, and takes us down the river. He’s awfully good; but
he’s only had one brief, and then the wretched people went and settled
out of Court, as Charlie calls it. I think it was a conspiracy. I’d
settle ’em,” and Miss des Forgess glared vindictively across the
table, to the great discomfiture of the curate of an adjoining village,
who blushed distressedly.
“Quite possibly,” agreed Edward. “So your cousin’s one chance of
distinction was taken from him. Never mind, he may have another brief
some day.”
Miss des Forges shook her head dolefully.
“Charlie says not. He writes for the papers and magazines now and
lives on air. Tell me, how do barristers get on—at first, you know.
What gives them the start?”
“There are three ways never known to fail.”
“Oh! do tell one. How I wish Charlie were here!”
“Well, first, he can write a book, not a book likely to run through
the fictional monthlies, you know, but a sound, solid, substantial book,
say, on Estovers.”
“What’s Estovers? It sounds like something to eat. Charlie could
manage that.”
“You’d better ask your cousin to tell you all about Estovers. It
will help him to write the book.”
“And how long will that take?”
“Oh! not long. Say, ten or fifteen years for it to be written and get
known.”
The sunshine faded from the bright face of Miss des Forges.
“As well say a lifetime,” she pouted. “And what’s another
way—a short way, you understand, Mr. Beaumont?”
“Well, there’s huggery.”
“Heavens, what a name! Now, pray, Mr. Beaumont, what is huggery, It
sounds like a crime of the Middle Ages.”
“Well, it has a smack of the Middle Ages. You’ve heard of ‘the
rich attorney’s elderly ugly daughter’?”
Miss des Forges nodded.
“Well, that’s huggery.”
“Then that won’t do at all, sir, and you ought to know it.”
“Perhaps I do, Miss des Forges. But don’t be angry. There’s still
another way.”
“Oh, yes! the third—and what is that?”
“A miracle!”
“Oh! you stupid. And Eleanor praised you ever so much.”
“Well, you haven’t told me your cousin’s name yet. There may be
still another, but it isn’t recorded in the books.”
“And the heart of a certain young barrister in the Temple, sighing
like hundreds of other young fellows for the chance so long a-coming,
was made glad within a week from the dinner at the Temple by receipt of
a ponderous parcel, bearing the Caistorholm postmark.”
“And may I post it with my own hands, Mr. Beaumont?”
“Come over to Caistorholm the day after tomorrow. The brief shall be
ready then.”
And if the saucy lips of Miss des Forges were pressed just above the
words, “With you, Mr. Dryasdust, Q.C.,” was ever brief better
endorsed.
“I think you owe me a dance to-night, Miss des Forges.”
“A dozen, if you like. But Eleanor will want some. Oh! do just cut in
and shake that stupid George Wright out of his self-centred serenity.
Estovers was the word, wasn’t it? Write it me down on a slip of paper,
and I’ll give you any dance you ask for in exchange for it.”
“You found a lot to talk about with Mr. Beaumont, Ethel,” said Miss
St. Clair to the vivacious girl, as they awaited the gentlemen in the
drawing-room. “He talks politics chiefly to me. But you wouldn’t
look so radiant on politics. What was it all about?”
“Oh! huggery!” said Ethel, gaily, and Miss St. Clair wondered
mightily.
Edward was standing later in the evening gazing on the pretty scene
musingly. The large drawing-room was brilliantly lighted. The huge,
candelabras, with their crystal pendants cunningly cut, broke and
reflected the soft lights of tapers of purest wax. The mirrors, posed
with art, reflected the shifting scene. There was the soft frou-frou of
sweeping trains, the low hum of broken converse, the rippling music of
maiden voices, and the dreamy strains of a Danubian waltz. Edward,
though dancing sufficiently well, well enough, as he thought, for a man,
was no votary of the graceful art; the party, happily, was a
well-balanced one—there was no need for him to dance from mere
complaisance. His mind carried him to a festive gathering he had
recently attended in Yorkshire. The son of an acquaintance and
client—a large manufacturer—had come of age and a treat was given to
the millhands. After their own repast in the house the guests of the
millowner had adjourned willingly enough to the vast weaving shed in
which the “hands” held their revel. The bare, whitewashed walls had
been hung with gay festoons and appropriate devices. The Linthwaite
Brass Band, victor in historic contests, discoursed sweet music. The
employees danced not ungracefully. Instead of languourous movement,
swimming smoothly to a dying strain, there was the grigging romp of
lusty lads and lasses. The couples in the quadrilles had no sort of
notion of the challenge, the equivoque, the alluring and the feigned
retreat the movements symbolise. But the music caught their feet, the
unwonted excitement stirred their young blood, and their cheeks mantled
and eyes glowed with the unrestrained and undisguised rapture of the
fleeting hour. There was the rude and rustic humour of the looms, the
lively sally, the broad retort, and the ringing laugh. Was it not as
good in its way, mused Edward, as the veiled innuendo, the sneer in
silky tones, the languid smile of an earl’s drawing-room—and was not
that way a better way?
“Are you so soon tired of dancing—shall I find you a partner?”
asked a voice at his elbow, as Edward started out of his reverie and
came back from the weaving shed to the gilded saloon. He did not know
the young man who had addressed him, a youth of medium height, with
features none too classical, but with a smooth and lofty brow, dreamy
eyes, a nascent moustache of brown down upon the upper lip. The
complexion was pale to pallor, the small white hand that caressed the
lips’ adorning was thin and delicate, the figure frail and almost
effeminate.
“You don’t know me, Mr. Beaumont. I didn’t get the chance of an
introduction before dinner. I took in Miss St. Clair—stunning
creature, isn’t she?—and she told me all about you. If you aren’t
dancing for a while let us slip off to my den and have a cigarette.
I’m Lindsay, Lord Lindsay, you know.”
Then Beaumont knew he was speaking to the heir of the house.
“We must slip out quietly, or my mother ’ll collar us. Keep your eye
on me, and hook it when we near the door. I’ll pilot you.”
The manœuver was executed.
“Take that chair; you can lose yourself in it. Try this smoke. Seltzer
or soda. Mix your own liquor. Ain’t this a cozy little hole? This is
my hermitage. What were you thinking of when I spoke to you? You looked
miles away.”
“So I was. I was wondering, I think, whether I’d rather be a
Lifeguardsman or a power-loom weaver, and contrasting that six feet two
of quintessential boredom, Captain Bouverie, I think his name is, with a
shuttle-thrower of my native valley.”
“Ah! yes. You’re Yorkshire, aren’t you? Any relation of Beaumont,
of White Meadows? I met him once at Baden.”
“I can’t say I am and I can’t say I’m not. I’ve heard my
mother say there’s some distant connection, but it is of the remotest.
If we are of the same blood, it’s about run itself out by this
time.”
“But you know Beaumont, of White Meadows. Plunges a lot at the tables,
they say. Great friend of the Prince.”
“So I have heard. But I don’t know much about him. I’ve spoken
once or twice on the same platform and probably shall again.”
“Beaumont’s a Liberal, isn’t he? Then you’re a Liberal, too.
I’m glad of that. I’m to go into the House at the next Election. I
suppose we’ll all have to talk extension of the suffrage to the
counties?”
“That won’t be a very difficult matter in my district. I pity the
poor devil of a candidate who has to address a lot of unenfranchised
weavers and tell them they’re not fit to have the franchise enjoyed by
their mates who work in the same shed, but happen to live the other side
of an inky stream you could hop over, but that divides the county from
the borough. It’s preposterous!”
“Of course it is. But how do your manufacturers like the idea?”
“Like it! Why shouldn’t they like it? If they don’t they’ll have
to lump it, that’s all. It’s sure to come. If not from Gladstone
then from Salisbury.”
“Do you know, Beaumont, I never saw a weaver in my life, not to talk
to, that is. I should awfully like to.”
“Well, come up to Yorkshire. I’ll take you the round of the mills.
But if you want to see the genuine article you must drop the Lord and
come as plain Lindsay. They’ll think you’re home spun. We make
lindseys our way.”
“Do you mean the hands would fawn? I shouldn’t like that.”
“No, they wouldn’t fawn. But you’d be seized on by the masters.
They’d ‘my lord’ up hill and down dale. The ‘hands’ would try
to equalise matters by being as unapproachable as they knew how, and
that’s saying something I can tell you.”
“But I should like that.”
“I don’t think you would. But, anyway, you wouldn’t see them just
as they are. To do that plain Lindsay’s the ticket.”
“Our farmers don’t take half kindly to enfranchising Hodge.”
“That’s because your farmer is only a step removed from Hodge.
Intellectually, I should imagine there isn’t much difference between
the farmer and the hind nor between the hind and his sheep.”
“Oh! come; we’re not so bad as that. Anyway, I tell you household
suffrage for the counties is a bitter pill. Our clergy pull a sour face
over it. It will take a lot of gilding to make it go down. I’m not
sure I shall be returned, and I shall be the first Lindsay to be
rejected since good old Noll’s days.”
“Oh! come to the West Riding and we’ll console you. We dearly love a
lord.”
“Young Fitzwilliam didn’t find it so.”
“Ah! he was weighted by a banker.”
“But, seriously, do you think the people will be any better off when
they get the vote?”
“That depends.”
“On how they use it? Not for revolution, I hope.”
“For reform, I hope. For revolution if they cannot get reform.”
“You don’t stick at tries.”
“No; three acres and a cow is my minimum, and that is to be only
typical of inroads in other directions.”
“A leveller you?”
“No! a diffuser.”
“That’s a bitter word. I must throw that at the Archdeacon. He moans
over my dangerous principles. He must rend himself over yours. How do
you get on with him?”
“Oh! I change the subject when he winces.”
“See much of Wright these days?”
“Enough.”
“I suppose it’s a settled thing between the Manor and the Vicarage.
She is too good for him.”
“He hasn’t got her yet.”
Lord Lindsay stole a glance out of the corner of his eyes.
“Phew! sets the wind in that corner. Well, time’s up. That’s a
waltz they’re starting and I’m booked.”
When Lord Lindsay and Beaumont reentered the drawing-room Edward sought
Eleanor St. Clair to claim the dance she had promised him. He was
received with gay rebuke.
“This is the way you fulfil your trust, Mr. Beaumont. Papa makes his
bow to the Countess and sidles off incontinent to the sanctum of the
Earl. I have no doubt he is at this moment smoking a cigar and
discoursing learnedly on the virtues of the Earl’s very particular and
precious Madeira to which my lord, they say, is indebted for his very
particular and precious gout. It’s a mercy if the wine is so very
particular and precious, or I should have papa prostrate with the gout,
and from all accounts that would be as bad for me as for him. Deprived
of my natural protector I rely, of course, on a certain cavalier from
Yorkshire, and, lo! he, too, has vanished, spirited away by Lord Lindsay
to his own secret cave, there to demolish institutions, or was it only
reputations?”
“As I was being spirited away I caught a vision of a radiant being
threading the mazes of the Lancers on the arm of a dashing son of Mars,
and looking in need neither of protection nor consolation.”
“I am a woman and therefore can dissemble, Mr. Beaumont; but see, the
sets are filling.”
“Do you really want to dance every dance? See how brightly the moon
shines above the trees, and the air is still and warm without. Will you
not show me the view from the Terrace. It must be lovely at this hour,
stretched beneath the harvest moon.”
“Papa will miss me should he tear himself away from the Earl and the
Madeira.”
“He will miss me, too, and know you are in safe keeping.”
“H’m, perhaps. Well, it is hot within.”
“Adjust my wrap, so. Now, your arm, and you shall see as sweet a vista
as ever eyes gazed upon—the Axholme winding through the shorn fields
with the moon upon its bosom.”
In silence, side by side, they drank into their souls the solemn beauty
of the darkling scene. The music of the instruments floated through the
casement and fell with mellowed cadence on their ears. An owl hooted
from the ivy that clung about the ancient towers; the river beneath them
coiled sinuously almost at the Castle base, and the full moon with
harvest beam played upon the rich treasures of the ripened grain.
“We have nothing to equal this in my part of the country. ’Tis an
idyll. It breathes the spirit of peace, the gospel of content. Sure
everything is for the best in this best of all possible worlds.”
“That’s the first Christian sentiment I have ever heard you utter,
sir.”
“Miss St. Clair,” said Edward very gravely, “I had a purpose in
asking you to forego the dance and bear me company a while where I could
say to you that of which my heart is full. And now I seek in vain for
words to tell you what I would. Miss St. Clair, Eleanor, I have presumed
to love you. How great is that presuming none can know so acutely as
myself. But I love you. To-morrow I must return to Yorkshire and I could
not go, my love untold. Perhaps I ought to have spoken first to the
Archdeacon, to your father; but it is not so we woo in my class. I can
offer you nothing but my love to make my suit more pleasing in your
ears. Unless your own heart, fair Eleanor, should be my mediator, I must
sue as one without hope. Say, Eleanor, that I do not speak too
presumptuously, can I hope the love I offer you, the life I would
dedicate to you are not spurned as worthless and unfit.”
“Not spurned, Mr. Beaumont—surely not spurned!” said Eleanor, in a
voice so low, ’twas scarce a whisper.
“I will not win you, Eleanor, by false pretences. Though my profession
is an honourable one, and my social position respectable, it does not
equal yours. I number no Earls and no Countesses among my friends, and
the great mansions do not receive me as a guest. But I am young, the
world is all before me, and for your sweet sake I feel I could greatly
dare and perhaps greatly do. Give me your glove, Eleanor, to wear in the
fray and it shall not be soiled in the dust of the lists.”
“I do not fear, Mr. Beaumont, nay, let me say I do not tremble,
Edward, lest you should lack courage and high endeavour. ’Tis for
myself I tremble. I had looked to spend my life, if not by my father’s
side, at least near him. I had schooled myself to anticipate without
other yearnings the serene uneventful round of a village life. But you
have touched my soul to fiercer longings, you have opened my eyes to a
wider vision. I do not fear poverty, and there can be no meanness in the
life that contents you. But it is all so strange, so unreal, you know me
so little. You lure me to a nobler and a grander life, and I dread lest
the past of my upbringing may fetter my limbs and keep my feet from
those giddier heights you would tread.”
“If you can love me, Eleanor, as I love you, your soul will grow into
my own. We shall have one heart, one hope, one life. Say, oh! Eleanor,
can such bliss be mine!” He stole his arm round her waist, the proud
head drooped upon his shoulder, and upon the lips that breathed “I
love you true!” he pressed the kindling kiss.
It was only with a qualified satisfaction that Archdeacon St. Clair
received Edward’s formal proposal for his daughter’s hand.
“I had other views for her, Beaumont, other views. And I have had them
so long that they seem part of my life, part of the natural order of
things. Everything was going just as I wished till—till you came.
Eleanor would make an ideal chatelaine, and I had hoped to see her
established almost at my Vicarage gates.”
“At Thoresby Manor in effect?”
“Well, yes. I’ve no doubt the Squire took the thing as settled.”
“It doesn’t do, Archdeacon, to take a woman’s hand for granted. I
haven’t much experience of the sex, but I fancy a lady does not care
to be regarded as to be had for the asking. A woman likes to be wooed
before she is won.”
“Well, it seems you have both wooed and won. There’s one comfort, I
shan’t have to explain all about those confounded Skerne Iron Works in
which Eleanor’s fortune is invested. You’ll have to take it in
shares instead of cash.”
“I want neither the shares nor the cash. I want Eleanor.”
“I don’t see it’s much use coming to me now. Eleanor’s her own
mistress. Well, Beaumont, you know I like you. Of course, I think your
opinions are horrid, but you’ll wear out of them, just as young men of
poetical fancies wear out of long hair and Byron collars. But, frankly,
and though it’s a nasty thing to say to a fellow in my own house, I
aspired higher for my only daughter than a provincial attorney.”
Edward winced and flushed.
“A provincial attorney may rise to the Woolsack, Archdeacon St. Clair.
He is not more remote from it than a curate from a mitre.”
“Now, you’re huffed, and I don’t wish you to be. You may thank
your stars you haven’t Eleanor’s mother to deal with instead of me.
You’d have heard a great deal about her grandfather, the Earl. I know
I did.”
“Well, he’s dead and buried now, Archdeacon.”
“All the same, I am ambitious for my child. I should not like to think
of her settling down to the somewhat vulgar mediocrity of your
manufacturing middle-classes. And, what’s more, Beaumont, Eleanor
won’t like it. Depend on it. She will not like your bejewelled dames
sprung from the loom, with good hearts, maybe, and excellent principles,
but lax notions about the letter H. She may not think so now. No doubt
she’ll think that for life and eternity you will be all in all. But it
won’t do. She’ll miss the kind of society she has been used to, and
I don’t think she’s the sort of girl to find her compensation in the
nursery and household idolatry. You must go into Parliament, Beaumont.
With your ability you can count on a Junior Lordship, at least. That is,
if you shred some of your impracticabilities and vote the party ticket,
as I think they phrase it in America. And, of course, you’ll do
that.”
“I have thought of Parliament, sir, but as a remote possibility.
Something to crown my days, not to begin them on. But I should not run
well in official harness.”
“Oh, we won’t insist on that. After all, an M.P.’s an M.P., if
he’s but a Radical member. I don’t like that Labouchere, though
he’s an amusing fellow, and of good family, too. Well, go into
Parliament, and then come to me for my blessing.”
“And meanwhile, sir?”
“Meanwhile? meanwhile? Why, if Eleanor St. Clair has said she will
have you, have you she will, and I don’t and won’t withhold my
consent from your engagement. But I ask you not to press for an early
marriage. Win your spurs, Edward, and then we’ll set the wedding bells
ringing. You’re both young, and waiting will try you and do you good.
Now, admit I’m reasonable.”
“I don’t say you’re not. So hey! for Westminster and my bride.”
“What did papa say to you, Edward?” asked Eleanor when he sought her
to tell her the issue of the dreaded interview. “Wasn’t he awfully
cross?”
“Not a bit of it. I can bring a ring for the prettiest hand in the
world the next time I come down. But I’m to get into Parliament before
I bring the plain gold loop.”
Eleanor’s eyes sparkled.
“Did papa really say that?”
Edward nodded.
“Oh! won’t that be glorious! And I can go up to town for the season.
Shall we be so very poor, Edward? Shall we have to live in a garret when
we go to London, and shall I have to sit in the Ladies’ Gallery in a
print frock whilst you make your maiden speech in fustian.”
“Not so bad as that, Eleanor mine. But I’m not in yet. Can you wait;
will you wait?”
“Wait, you know I will wait, sir. Besides, we shan’t have to wait
long. You’re sure to be elected as soon as you try. I wish there was
an election to-morrow. I’ll canvas for you, Edward!”
“And bribe the electors as the Duchess bribed for Fox?”
“Are Yorkshiremen _very_ fond of kisses, sir?”
“What should you say?”
“Well, yes. Pretty fair. There, that will do. Oh! I am so happy.
Edward Beaumont, M.P. You’ll be Sir Edward in no time and a Peer
before your first twinge of the gout.”
“They don’t make Peers of men whose greatest worldly wealth is a
beautiful wife. At least, they don’t now-a-days.”
“Of course, I’m joking, Edward. Isn’t papa thoughtful? I don’t
suppose you’d have thought of it yourself.”
“I don’t suppose I should,” conceded Edward. “I thought only of
you.”