CANVASSING.
Splendid as was the opportunity just offered to Walter Joyce by the
parliamentary agents, it is more than probable that he would have
declined to profit by it had the scene of action been laid anywhere
else than in Brocksopp, and his opponent been any one other than Mr.
Creswell. Although utterly changed from the usher in a country school,
who was accustomed to take life as it came,--or indeed from the young
man who, when he obtained Lord Hetherington's private secretaryship,
looked upon himself as settled for life,--Joyce had even now scarcely
any ambition, in the common acceptation of the word. To most men
brought up as he had been, membership of parliament would have meant
London life in good society, excellent station of one's own, power of
dispensing patronage and conferring favours on others, and very
excellent opportunity for getting something pleasant and remunerative
for one's self, when the chance offered. To Walter Joyce it meant the
acceptance of a sacred trust, to the proper discharge and fulfilment
of which all his energies were pledged by the mere fact of his
acceptance of the candidature. Not, indeed, that he had ever had any
thoughts of relinquishing his recently acquired profession, the press;
he looked to that as his sole means of support; but he felt that
should he be successful in obtaining a seat in the House, his work
would be worth a great deal more than it bad hitherto been, and he
should be able to keep his income at the same amount while he devoted
half of the time thus saved to his political duties.
But being, as has been said, thoroughly happy in his then career,
Joyce would never have thought of entertaining the proposition made to
him through the medium of Messrs. Potter and Fyfe had it not been for
the desire of revenging himself on Marian Creswell by opposing to the
last, and, if possible, in every honourable way, by defeating, her
husband. Joyce felt perfectly certain that Mr. Creswell--quiet,
easy-going old gentleman as he had been of late years, and more likely
than ever to be disinclined to leave his retirement and do battle in
the world since his son's death--was a mere puppet in the hands of his
wife, whose ambition had prompted her to make her husband seek the
honour, and whose vanity would be deeply wounded at his failure.
Walter Joyce's personal vanity was also implicated in the result, and
he certainly would not have accepted the overtures had there not been
a good chance of success; but Mr. Harrington, who, out of his
business, was a remarkably sharp, shrewd, and farseeing man of the
world and of business, spoke very positively on this point, and
declared their numbers were so strong, and the popular excitement so
great in their favour, that they could scarcely fail of success,
provided they had the right man to bring forward. To win the day
against her; to show her that the man she basely rejected and put
aside was preferred, in a great struggle, to the man she had chosen;
that the position which she had so coveted for her husband, and
towards the attainment of which she had brought into play all the
influence of her wit and his money, had been snatched from her by the
poor usher whom she had found good enough to play with in her early
days, but who was thrust aside, his fidelity and devotion availing him
nothing, directly a more eligible opportunity offered itself--that
would be sweet indeed! Yes, his mind was made up; he would use all his
energies for the prosecution of the scheme: it should be war to the
knife between him and Marian Creswell.
Joyce's manner was so thorough and so hearty, his remarks were so
practical, and his spirits so high, when he called on Messrs. Potter
and Fyfe on the next day, that those gentlemen were far better pleased
with him, and far more sanguine of his popularity and consequent
success at Brocksopp, than they had been after the first interview.
Modesty and self-depreciation were qualities very seldom seen, and
very little esteemed, in the parliamentary agents' offices in Abingdon
Street. The opinion of the head of the firm was that Walter wanted
"go;" and it was only owing to the strenuous Interposition of Mr.
Harrington, who knew Joyce's writings, and had more than once heard
him speak in public, that they did not openly bemoan their choice and
proceed to look out for somebody else. This, however, they did not do;
neither did they mention their doubts to the deputation from
Brocksopp, the members of which did not, indeed, give them time to do
so, had they been so inclined, clearing out so soon as the interview
was over, and harking back to the Tavistock Hotel, in Covent Garden,
there to eat enormous dinners, and thence to sally forth for the
enjoyment of those festivities in which our provincials so much
delight, and the reminiscences of which serve for discussion for
months afterwards. The parliamentary agents were very glad of their
reticence the next day. The young man's heartiness and high spirits
seemed contagious; the sound of laughter, a phenomenon in Abingdon
Street, was heard by Mr. Harrington to issue from "the governors'
room;" and old Mr. Potter forgot so far the staid dignity of a
chapel-deacon as to clap Walter Joyce on the back, and wish him luck.
Joyce was going down on his first canvass to Brocksopp by himself; he
would not take any one with him, not even Mr. Harrington; he was much
obliged to them; he knew something of Mr. South, the local Liberal
agent (he laughed inwardly as he said this, remembering how he used to
look upon Mr. South as a tremendous gun), and he had no doubt they
would get on very well together.
"You know South, Mr. Joyce?" said Mr. Fyfe; "what a very curious
thing! I should have thought that old South's celebrity was entirely
local, or at all events confined to the county."
"Doubtless it is," replied Joyce; "but then you know I----"
"Ah! I forgot," interrupted Mr. Fyfe. "You have some relations with
the place. Yes, yes, I heard! By the way, then, I suppose you know
your opponent, Mr. Kerswill--Creswell--what's his name?"
"Oh yes, I remember Mr. Creswell perfectly; but he never saw much of
me, and I should scarcely think would recollect me!"
"Ah! you'll excuse me, my dear sir," Mr. Fyfe added, after a short
pause; "but of course there's no necessity to impress upon you the
importance of courtesy towards your opponent--I mean Kerswill. You're
certain to meet on the hustings; and most probably, in a swellish
place like Brocksopp, you'll be constantly running across each other
in the streets while you're on your canvass. Then, courtesy, my dear
sir, before everything else!"
"You need not be afraid, Mr. Fyfe," said Joyce, smiling; "I shall be
perfectly courteous to Mr. Creswell."
"Of course you will, my dear sir; of course you will! Mustn't think it
odd in me to suggest it; part of my business to point these things out
when I'm coaching a candidate; and necessary too, deuced necessary
sometimes, though you wouldn't think it. Less than six months ago,
when poor Wiggington was lost in his yacht in the Mediterranean--you
remember?--we sent down a man to stand for his borough. Lord---- No! I
won't tell you his name; but the eldest son of an earl. The other side
sent down a man too--a brewer, or a maltster, or something of that
kind; but a deucedly gentlemanly fellow. They met on their canvass,
these two, just as you and Kerswill might; and this man, like a
gentleman, took off his hat. What did our man do? Stopped still, stuck
his glass in his eye, and stared; never bowed, never moved; give you
my word. Had to withdraw him at once; his committee stood by and saw
it, and wouldn't act for him any more. 'Lordship be damned!' that's
what they said. Strong language, but that's what they said; give you
my word. Had to withdraw him, too late to find another man; so our
people lost the seat."
The first thing that astonished Joyce on his arrival at Brocksopp was
the sight of his own name printed in large letters on flaming
placards, and affixed in all the conspicuous places of the town. He
had not given consideration to this sudden notoriety, and his first
realisation of it was in connection with the thought of the effect it
would have on Marian, who must have seen it; her husband must have
told her of the name of his opponent; she must have been certain that
it was not a person of similar name, but her discarded lover himself
who was waging battle against her, and attacking her husband in the
stronghold which he might have even considered safe. She would know
the sentiments which had prompted him in leaving her last letter
unanswered, in taking no notice of her since the avowal of her
perfidy. Up to this time she might have pictured him to herself as
ever bewailing her loss--as would have been the case had she been
taken from him by death--as the prey of despair. Now she must know him
as actuated by feelings far stronger and sterner; he was prepared to
do battle to the death. This feeling was pre-eminent above all others;
this desire for revenge, this delight at the occasion which had been
offered him for lowering the pride and thwarting the designs of the
woman who had done him such great wrong. He never faltered in his
intention for a moment; he abated his scheming not one jot. He had
some idea on the journey down to Brocksopp that perhaps the old
reminiscences, which would naturally be kindled by the sight of the
familiar scenes among which he would soon find himself, and of the
once familiar faces by which he would be surrounded, would have a
softening effect on his anger, and perhaps somewhat shake his
determination. But on experience he did not find it so. As yet he had
religiously kept away from the neighbourhood of Helmingham; he thought
it better taste to do so, and his duties in canvassing had not called
him thither. He had quite enough to do in calling on the voters
resident in Brocksopp.
As Walter Joyce had not been to Helmingham, the village folk, who in
their old-fashioned way were oddly punctilious, thought it a point of
etiquette not to call upon him, though such as were politically of his
way of thinking took care to let him know he might reckon on their
support; and of all the people whom Walter had been in the habit of
seeing almost daily in the village, Jack Forman, the ne'er-do-weel,
was the only one who came over expressly to Brocksopp for the purpose
of visiting his old friend. It was not so much friendship as constant
thirst that prompted Jack's visit; he had been in the habit of looking
on elections as institutions for the gratuitous supply of ale and
spirits, extending more or less over the term of a month, to all who
chose to ask for them, and hitherto he had been greatly disappointed
in not finding his name on the free list of the Helmingham taverns. So
it was well worth Jack's while to spend a day in staggering over to
Brocksopp, and on his arrival he met with a very kind reception from
Walter, sufficiently kind to enable him to bear up against the black
looks and ill-suppressed growls of Mr. South, who, in his capacity of
clerk to the magistrates, only knew Jack as a bit of a poacher, and a
great deal of a drunkard.
Immediately on his arrival in Brocksopp, and after one or two
preliminary interviews with Mr. South, who, as he imagined, had
forgotten all about him, and was much struck by his knowledge of
neighbouring persons and localities, Joyce proceeded with his canvass,
and after a very brief experience felt that Mr. Harrington had not
taken too rose-coloured a view of his chance of success. Although to
most of the electors of Brocksopp he was personally unknown, and
though such as remembered his father held him in recollection only as
a sour, cross-grained man, with a leaning towards "Methodee" and a
suspicion of avarice, the fact that Walter was not an entire stranger
had great influence with many of the electors, and his appearance and
manner won him troops of friends. They liked his frank face and hearty
demeanour, they felt that he was eminently "thorough," the lack of
which quality had been the chief ground of complaint against young
Bokenham, and they delighted in his lucid argument and terse way of
laying a question before them and driving it home to their
understanding. In this he had the advantage of his opponent; and many
waverers, with undefined political opinions, who attended the public
meetings of both parties, were won over to Joyce's side by the
applause with which his speeches were received, and by the feeling
that a man who could produce such an effect on his hearers must
necessarily be a clever man, and the right person to be sent by them
to Parliament. The fact was allowed even by his opponents. Mr.
Teesdale wrote up to Mr. Gould that things were anything but bright,
that the new man was amazingly popular, and quite young, which was not
a bad thing when great exertion was required; that he was, moreover, a
clever, rapid, forcible speaker, and seemed to be leaving their man
very much behind. And old Croke, who had been induced to attend a
meeting convened by the Liberals, and who, though for respectability's
sake he had made no open disturbance, had been dreadfully shocked at
the doctrines which he had heard, not merely promulgated, but loudly
applauded, was afterwards compelled to confess to a select few at the
Lion that the manner, if not the matter of Walter Joyce's speech was
excellent. "Our squire," he said, "speaks like a gen'alman as he is,
soft and quiet like, on and on like the droppin' o' watter, but this
un du screw it into you hard and fast; and not content wi' drivin' on
it home, he rivets un on t'other side."
Electioneering matters in Brocksopp wore a very different aspect to
that which they had borne a short time previously. Mr. Teesdale had
seen from the beginning that the candidature of young Mr. Bokenham was
not likely to be very dangerous to his opponent, however liberally he
might be backed by his indulgent father. The local agent, who had
lived all his life among the Brocksoppians, was quite aware that they
required a man who would at all events pretend to be in earnest,
whichever suffrages he courted, and his keen eyes told him at the
first glance that young Tommy was a vacillating, purposeless
pleasure-lover, who would command no confidence, and receive but few
votes. When the Bokenham escapade took place Mr. Teesdale telegraphed
the news to his principal, Mr. Gould, and in writing to him on the
same subject by the next post said, "It is exactly what I always
anticipated of young B., though his friends did not apparently see it.
I think it will be a shock to the L.'s, and should not be surprised if
our man had a walk-over." Mr. Teesdale was essentially a country
gentleman, and though he thought Mr. Harrington a "turfy cad," saw no
harm in occasionally employing a sporting phrase, even in his
business. But now all was altered; the appearance of Walter Joyce upon
the scene, the manner in which he was backed, his gentlemanly conduct
and excellent speaking had an immediate and extraordinary effect. The
Tory influence under Sir George Kent had been so all-powerful for
many years, that all thoughts of a contest had, been abandoned, and
there were scores of men, farmers and manufacturers, on the register,
who had never taken the trouble to record their vote. To the
astonishment and dismay of Mr. Teesdale, most of them on being waited
on in Mr. Creswell's interest, declared that their leanings were more
towards Liberalism than Conservatism, and that now they had the chance
of returning a candidate who would do them credit and be a proper
advocate of their views, they should certainly give him their support.
The fact, too, that Joyce was a self-made man told immensely in his
favour, especially with the manufacturing classes. Mr. Harrington, who
had paid a couple of flying visits to the town, had possessed himself
of certain portions of Walter's family history, and disseminated them
in such quarters as he thought would be advantageous.
"Father were grocer in village hard by!" they would repeat to one
another in wonder, "and this young un stuck to his buke, and so
crammed his head wi' lurnin' that he's towt tu three Lards up in
London, and writes in newspapers--think o' that now!" It was in vain
that Mr. Teesdale, when he heard of the success of his opponent's
move, went about pointing out that Mr. Creswell was not only a
self-made man, having risen from nothing to his then eminence, but
that all the money which he had made was engaged in the employment and
development of labour. The argument was sound, but it did not seem to
have the same effect; whatever it was, it had the same result, a
decided preference for Mr. Joyce as against Mr. Creswell, amongst
those who, possessing votes, had hitherto declined to use them.
But there was another class which it was necessary to propitiate, and
with which Mr. Teesdale was afraid he stood but little chance. Many of
the "hands" had obtained votes since the last election, and intended
making use of their newly acquired prerogative. There was no fear of
their not voting; the only question was on which side they would cast
the preponderance of their influence. This was soon seen. Naturally
they were inclined to support Walter Joyce, but whatever lingering
doubts they may have had were dispelled as soon as Jack Byrne appeared
upon the scene, and, despite of Joyce's protests, determined on
remaining to assist in the canvass. "Why not?" said Jack; "let me have
my way. I'm an old man now, lad, and haven't so many fancies that I
mayn't indulge one now and again. The business suffer!" he said, in
reply to something that Walter had said; "the business, indeed! You
know well enough that the bird-stuffing now is a mere pretext--a mere
something that I keep for my 'idle hands to do,' and that it's no
necessity, thank the Lord! So let me bide here, lad, and aid in the
good work. I think I may be of use among a few of them yet." And he
was right. Not merely was the old man's name known and venerated among
the older "hands," as one of the "martyrs of '48," but his quaint
caustic tongue made him an immense favourite with the younger men; and
soon there were no meetings brought to a close without loud demands
for a "bit speech" from Jack Byrne.
Nor was it amongst the farmer and manufacturing classes alone that Mr.
Joyce received pledges of support. Several of the neighbouring county
gentry and clergy, who had hung back during Mr. Bokenham's
candidature, enrolled themselves on the committee of the new-comer;
and one of his most active adherents was Mr. Benthall. It was not
until after due deliberation, and much weighing of pros and cons, that
the head-master of Helmingham Grammar School took this step; but he
smiled when he had thoroughly made up his mind, and muttered something
to himself about its being "a shot for madam in more ways than one."
When he had decided he was by no means underhand in his conduct, but
went straight to Mr. Creswell, taking the opportunity of catching him
away from home and alone, and told him that the Benthall family had
been staunch Liberals for generations; and that, however much he might
regret being opposed in politics to a gentleman for whom he
entertained such a profound esteem and regard, he could not forswear
the family political faith. Mr. Creswell made him a polite reply, and
forthwith forgot all about it; and Marian, though she was in the habit
of questioning her husband pretty closely at the end of each day as to
the progress he had made, looked upon Mr. Benthall's vote as so
perfectly secure that she never asked about the matter.
Notwithstanding the favourable reception which he met with everywhere,
and the success which seemed invariably to attend him in his canvass,
Joyce found it very heavy work. The constant excitement soon began to
tell upon him, and the absurdity of the questions sometimes asked, or
the pledges occasionally required of him, irritated him so much that
he began to inquire of himself whether he was really wise in going
through with the affair, and whether he was not paying a little too
dearly even for that revenge for which he had longed, and which was
almost within his grasp. His fidelity to the cause to which he had
pledged himself would doubtless have caused him to smother these
murmurings without any extraneous aid; but just at that time he had an
adventure which at once put an end to all doubt on the subject.
One bright wintry morning he arose at the hotel with the determination
to take a day's rest from his labours, and to endeavour to recruit
himself by a little quiet and fresh air. He had been up late the
previous night at a very large meeting of his supporters, the largest
as yet gathered together, which he had addressed with even more than
wonted effect. He felt that he was speaking more forcibly than usual;
he could not tell why, he did not even know what prompted him; but he
felt it. It could not have been the presence of the parliamentary
agent, Mr. Fyfe, who had come down from London to see bow his young
friend was getting on, and who was really very much astonished at his
young friend's eloquence. Walter Joyce was speaking of the way in
which the opposite party had, when in power, broken the pledges they
had given, and laughed to scorn the promises they had made when
seeking power, and in dilating upon it he used a personal
illustration, comparing the voters to a girl who had been jilted and
betrayed by her lover, who had been unexpectedly raised to riches.
Unconsciously fired by his own experience, he displayed a most
forcible and highly wrought picture of the despair of the girl and the
villainy of the man, and roused his audience to a perfect storm of
enthusiasm. No one who heard him, as he thought, except Jack Byrne,
had the least inkling of his story, or of its effect upon his
eloquence; but the "hands" were immensely touched and delighted, and
the effect was electrical. Walter went home thoroughly knocked up, and
the next morning the reaction had set in. He felt it impossible to
attend to business, sent messages to Mr. Fyfe and to Byrne, telling
them they must get on without him for the day, and, after a slight
breakfast, hurried out of the hotel by the back way. There were always
plenty of loafers and idlers hanging round all sides of the house,
eager to stare at him, to prefer a petition to him, or to point him
out to their friends; but this morning he was lucky enough to escape
them, and, thanks to his knowledge of the locality, to strike upon an
unfrequented path, which soon took him clear of the town and brought
him to the open fields.
He had forgotten the direction in which the path led, or he would most
probably have avoided it and chosen some other, for there lay
Helmingham village directly before him. Hitherto he had carefully
avoided even looking towards it, but there it was, under his eyes. At
some distance it is true, but still sufficiently near for him, with
his knowledge of the place, to recognise every outline. There, away on
the horizon, was the schoolhouse; there the church; there, dipping
down towards the middle of the High Street, the house which had been
so long his father's. What years ago it seemed! There were
alterations, too; several newly built houses, a newly made road
leading, he supposed, to Woolgreaves. Woolgreaves! he could not see
the house, he was thankful for that, but he overlooked a portion of
the grounds from where he stood, and saw the sun reflected from much
sparkling glass, evidently conservatories of recent erection. "She's
spending the price for which she sold me!" he muttered to himself.
He crossed a couple of fields, clambered over a hedge, and jumped down
into the newly made road which he had noticed, intending, after
pursuing it a short distance, to strike across, leaving Woolgreaves on
his right, and make for Helmingham. He could roam about the outskirts
of the old place without attracting attention and without any chance
of meeting with her. He had gone but a very little way when he heard a
sharp, clear, silvery tinkling of little bells, then the noise of
horse-hoofs on the hard, dry road, and presently came in sight a
little low carriage, drawn by a very perfect pair of iron-gray ponies,
and driven by a lady dressed in a sealskin cloak and a coquettish
sealskin hat. He knew her in an instant. Marian!
While he was deliberating what to do, whether to remain where he was
or jump the hedge and disappear, before he could take any action the
pony carriage had neared him, and the ponies were stopped by his side.
She had seen him in the distance, and recognised him too; he knew that
by the flush that overspread her usually pale face. She was looking
bright and well, and far handsomer than he ever remembered her. He had
time to notice all that in one glance, before she spoke.
"I am glad of this accidental meeting, Mr. Joyce!" she said, with the
slightest tremor in her voice, "for though I had made up my mind to
see you I did not see the opportunity."
Walter merely bowed.
"Do you mind walking with me for five minutes? I'll not detain you
longer." Walter bowed again. "Thank you very much. James, follow with
the ponies." She stepped out of the carriage with perfect grace and
dignity, just touching with the tips of her fingers the arm which
Walter, half in spite of himself, held out.
"You will not expect me to act any part in this matter, Mr. Joyce,"
she said, after a moment's pause. "I mean to make no pretence of being
astonished at finding you here, in direct opposition to me and mine!"
"No, indeed! that would be time wasted, Mrs. Creswell," said Walter,
speaking for the first time. "Opposition to you and yours is surely
the thing most likely to be expected in me."
"Exactly! Although at first I scarcely thought you would take the
breaking off of our relations in the way you did, I guessed it when
you did not write; I knew it, of course, when you started here, but I
was never so certain of your feelings in regard to me as I was last
night."
"Last night?"
"Last night! I was present at the Mechanics' Institute, sitting in the
gallery with my maid and her brother as escort. I had heard much of
your eloquence, and wanted to be convinced. It seems I selected a
specially good occasion. You were particularly scathing."
"I spoke what I felt----"
"No doubt; you could not have spoken so without having felt all you
described, so that I can completely imagine how you feel towards me.
But you are a sensible man, as well as a good speaker, and that is why
I have determined to apply to you."
"What do you want, Mrs. Creswell?"
"I want you to go out of this place, Mr. Joyce; to take your name off
the walls, and your candidature out of the county! I want you to give
up your opposition to my husband. You are too strong for him--you
personally; not your cause, but you. We know that; the last three days
have convinced everybody of that, and you'll win the election if you
stop."
Joyce laughed aloud. "I know I shall," he said, his eyes gleaming.
"What then?" said Marian, quietly. "Do you know what a poor member of
Parliament is, 'hanging on' at every one's beck and call, bunted by
all, respected by none, not knowing which to serve most as most likely
to be able to serve him--would you like to be that, would your pride
suffer that? That's all these people want of you--to make you their
tool, their party's tool; for you yourself they have not the remotest
care. Do you hear?"
"I do. But you have not told me, Mrs. Creswell, what I should get for
retiring?"
"Your own terms, Walter Joyce, whatever they were. A competence for
life--enough to give you leisure to follow the life in which, as I
understand, you have engaged, in ease, when and where you liked. No
drudgery, no anxiety, all your own settled on yourself!"
"You are strangely anxious about the result of this election, Mrs.
Creswell."
"It am--and I am willing to pay for it."
Joyce laughed again--a very unpleasant laugh. "My dear Mrs. Creswell,"
said he, "if government could promise me ten times your husband's
fortune to withdraw from this contest, I would refuse. If I had your
husband's fortune, I would gladly forfeit it for the chance of winning
this election, and defeating you. You will excuse my naming a money
value for such pleasure; but I know that hitherto it has been the only
one you could understand or appreciate. Good morning!" And he took off
his hat and left her standing in the road.