THE ELECTION AT PEASMARSH.
Goaded as Lady Bell was, and with the summer sunshine on the wane, and
the autumn gloom approaching, she was ready to welcome any change. She
heard with satisfaction, one afternoon, a surly announcement from her
husband that she was to accompany him to Peasmarsh, and that she had
better make preparations for remaining several weeks in the county town.
Lady Bell took such slight notice of what was passing around her, and
had so little knowledge of the world, that she did not connect the
announcement with the circumstance that there had been a great deal of
whipping and spurring of gentlemen lately to Trevor Court, where they
were shut up with the Squire of a morning, or drinking with him after
dinner. They were visitors to whom Lady Bell was indifferent, in
addition to the Squire’s not caring for her having intercourse with
them.
Lady Bell had no idea what the family were going into Peasmarsh for,
till Sally Walsh insulted her by the incredulous demand—
“You don’t mean to say, Lady Bell, that you don’t know the elections are
coming on, and that the Squire is to stand as member? My ears, what do
you hear? Father and mother and I, knew this a fortnight ago.”
The Squire, who doted on Trevor Court and hated town, who was for his
day a lukewarm politician—seeing that politics concerned more men than
Dick Trevor, and more places than Trevor Court—what should he do in
Parliament? But Lady Bell hardly stopped to ask, and to put two and two
together, to argue that there must be an opponent in the field, for the
Squire, like a mad bull, would run blindly at an opponent.
Here was deliverance, here was a lightening of her load. With the
giddiness by no means rooted out of her, and without considering that
she had made the same reflection not greatly to her profit once before
now, she reflected, it is an ill wind which blows nobody good.
To escape from Trevor Court, to leave the Walshes behind her, even for a
season, to have a chance of being restored to her beloved town and the
countenance of her old friends, for such a gain it was almost worth
while to have married Squire Trevor.
The occasion of Lady Bell’s leaving was the first time that she had
contemplated her world with complacence since she came to Trevor Court.
Sitting in the travelling chariot by her husband’s side, Lady Bell was
faintly conscious that the fine old place, which he leant out to regard
so fondly, deserved the love and honour which had not been hers to give.
The clustering stacks of chimneys, with their hospitable spirals of blue
smoke, the yew terrace, with its deep shade and broad light, were very
fair to see.
Lady Bell actually looked round her with interest on the road, as the
travellers, at nine miles distance from home, approached the first
straggling buildings of Peasmarsh. These were humble enough, but the
market-place presented an imposing array of country gentry’s winter
houses, an old square-towered Norman church, and a curious town-hall and
steeple. There were also, dropped down within its bounds, a
thatch-roofed tavern, a dark, cavernous shop, having its gable to the
street, with a hanging sign, and a door divided in the middle, a row of
coopers’, cobblers’—and booksellers’ stalls, and the jail, with its pair
of stocks, yawning for rascally limbs, fixed into the wall.
The market-place of Peasmarsh was gay to the young student of human
nature, after Trevor Court in the company of Squire Trevor.
To Lady Bell’s juvenile satisfaction, the Trevors’ lodging was in the
market-place, so that she could hope to see all that was going on, and
hear constantly the social patter of clogs and pattens on the flags
beneath her windows.
Lady Bell was so full of the novelty of the expected gaiety, that as
soon as she had thrown off her travelling equipments, and swallowed her
two o’clock dinner, she sat down at the window to lose nothing of the
sight. She even began to convey the impressions which she received to
Mr. Trevor, in a freedom of intercourse which had hardly existed between
them before, in the course of their three months’ wedlock. In the
meantime he sat swallowing his wine and smoking his pipe, in an interval
of repose, ere he sallied forth to meet his supporters.
“They are posting up bills at the corner; a gentleman from the tavern is
taking care of the operation. I see in at the open door—there is the
company sitting round the table, covered with glasses. Now I am sure
they are drinking a toast—one of them has leapt on the table before the
door is shut. What a trade they are driving in blue ribands in that
shop! Do all the women in Peasmarsh wear knots of blue ribands? Here
comes a chair. I vow the lady is going to be set down at the tavern
door; no, she has only made one of her chairmen beckon to a person
within, and a billet is flung to her from the window. Why, Mr. Trevor,
the street lads must know that one of the candidates is arrived in the
town, for they are beginning to gather materials for a bonfire.”
“You are easily tickled, my lady, for one who has seen so many fine
sights; the town air, even of a hole like Peasmarsh, seems to agree
mightily with you, when it sets your tongue a-wagging,” sneered the
Squire; yet the man, in the middle of his grudging spite, was not
unamused with the girl’s amusement, and was not unwilling that his young
wife should be a little happier than she had been; only she had despised
him and Trevor Court, and she should not immediately cease to suffer for
it.
Lady Bell drew back into her shell, stiffened not stung; she did not
care enough for the man who had made himself her husband to be stung by
him.
Lady Bell had nothing to do in what followed with the innumerable
meetings of influential gentlemen, the speeches, including the bawling
of speakers till they were hoarse, the rows, extending to the raising of
walking canes and unsheathing of rapiers. All this was echoed by the
clamour, the fisticuffing, the brickbatting, the cutlass-wielding of the
populace. And the whole was but a small by-play preceding the close
canvassing, the show on the hustings, the polling, the proclaiming, and
the chairing.
But Lady Bell had her own part to play. She was ordered to drive out all
day, and every day, in the streets and lanes of Peasmarsh. At first when
she did so, her relish for the town was impaired. Excited tradesmen, and
their apprentices, mechanics, drawers from the tavern taps,
street-criers, came round her, cheering or hooting. They cried the party
cries which were then rending the nation, “Down with Wilkes,” or “Wilkes
for ever,” according as they were tory or whig (Squire Trevor was a
tory), as if she were Wilkes, or Wilkes’s wife at least.
The mob pressed up to the chariot, and would either have had out the
horses and harnessed themselves instead, dragging their future member’s
wife with wild jolts and wilder hurrahs, or would have pelted “the
machine which held Trevor’s wife” with mingled opprobrium and filth, and
Lady Bell quailed before the ordeal.
But Lady Bell’s courage merely wanted steeling—she belonged to a class
of rulers. Soon she could smile—a pale, handsome, child-like young woman
as she was—and look around her unmoved, save by the necessity of
graciously acknowledging greetings, whether she were applauded or
abused, bowed before or bemired. It came naturally to her, and
stimulated her to sit aloft there in her born element of leadership
amidst historic feuds.
Then Lady Bell was commanded to go into every shop in the town to make
abundant purchases, of the most diverse description, from satin to
moleskin, from buttons to carriage-wheels, from sheep’s tar to
_eau-de-luce_. She was next directed to go into every householder’s
dwelling, with her “fellows” bearing after her, from the stuffed and
piled carriage, any article that was portable, that Lady Bell might give
gifts and bestow largesses, like an eastern princess on her progress.
“And see that you show none of your confounded insolence, Lady Bell,”
was roared after her by her husband, as she departed on her mission, for
between bating and fuddling, in the extreme exigencies of an election,
Squire Trevor was fast being driven beside himself.
It was a misconception and an untruth that Lady Bell’s airs took the
form of insolence to her inferiors in rank, when they did not trespass
against her notions of decorum and the respect which she believed was
due to her. On the contrary, she was gracious and affable in these
circumstances.
Lady Bell loved to confer favours; she was in a state of crass ignorance
in many respects, knew nothing whatever of the merits of political
questions, and had little to say when the people were strangers to her.
But her simple smile, her youth and its charms, her rank, went a far way
to insure her popularity and promote her cause. It was hers, she was
eager for it, she had worked herself up into eagerness even apart from
the selfish consideration that Mr. Trevor’s being returned member for
Peasmarsh, was the sole chance of Lady Bell’s being restored to her
Elysian fields.
There had been a little mystery about the candidate on the whig side,
some uncertain bringing forward and withdrawal of suitable men, and Lady
Bell had been ten days at Peasmarsh before she was aware of who was her
husband’s opponent.
The enlightenment broke upon Lady Bell suddenly, and with a little
shock. Her course in driving one day was interrupted by the rival course
of another chariot, with a similar train of friends and foes. In the
chariot sat the handsome young lady whom Lady Bell had first seen in
church, but the lady’s young husband had not left her to brave a street
mob alone, he was seated beside her.
Mrs. Sundon’s fine face was pointed keenly for contest. Mr. Sundon
looked almost animated and alive—as people seldom saw him look—not
beside the real prize of his life, the beautiful, witty, wealthy woman
who had elected him, against all hostile representations, her husband,
but only in a tavern over the last bottle, when brawls were impending
and blood was ready to flow, over cards and dice, in a dog-fight or a
cock-pit, on a race-ground.
One need not condemn that man alone—there were hundreds and thousands of
men like him, desperately jaded, mind and body, with the springs of life
poisoned early, who might have been capable of higher and better things.
The couple were swift to recognise Lady Bell’s position, as she
recognised theirs, and to show her what had become the courtesy of foes.
It touched her all the more when she recalled it, after she had happened
to see from her window Mr. Trevor’s encounter with Mr. Sundon in the
market-place. In return for the grace of Mr. Sundon’s punctilious bow,
Squire Trevor had vouchsafed only a savage scowl.
Into the house of one of the voters Lady Bell walked on the heels of
Mrs. Sundon, going her rounds on a similar errand, so that the two
ladies had nearly jostled each other in the doorway.
But the elder lady gave way to the younger, before Lady Bell, in her
agitation, could think of what she ought to do. “The place is yours,
Lady Bell Trevor,” said a sweet, sonorous voice, with a shade of
emphasis on the Lady Bell. Then, as if regretting even that slightly
ungracious inference, Mrs. Sundon added, “I am happy to yield it to you;
ladies need not quarrel though gentlemen contest seats in Parliament;”
finally, she remarked with a still franker, more winning cordiality, “I
think that you and I should not quarrel, Lady Bell.”
“I think not, madam,” sighed Lady Bell, in a troubled fashion,
conscious, with no ignoble envy, that Mrs. Sundon was her superior in
manners as well as in years.
“If I don’t have a care,” reflected Lady Bell in alarm, and with the
crude unmincing expression of opinion which belonged to her years and
her generation, “I’ll soon be as great a brute as Trevor.”
The heat of the election grew intense and consuming, overthrowing all
barriers, swallowing up all scruples, till it was not without call that
the sheriff, and the company of soldiers were looked for, at the last
moment, to keep the tottering peace.
Lady Bell’s room in the Trevor’s lodgings had come to be invaded with
the Squire’s supporters, agents, and whippers-in, as they sought privacy
in which to make up their lists, yell the sum total, wrangle, start new
and more audacious schemes, and openly discuss infamous and scoundrelly
plans.
In spite of the weight of Mr. Trevor’s character and stake in the
county, there arose a horrible suspicion that the whig interest had
gained ground in Peasmarsh, and that the tories might be defeated.
Forbid it, all ye powers of moral orthodox landowners, since Gregory
Sundon, of Chevely, in addition to having been a gamester of the first
water, a hard drinker, a frequenter of riotous company, after the
pattern of his worthy master in statesmanship, was also a renegade to
Charles James Fox’s revolutionary American creed. Let all the powers of
torydom be fitly called in to circumvent such vile traitors!
“Egad! I would rather call Greg. Sundon out, and wing him before the
nomination day,” suggested a fire-eater.
“Sooner be winged yourself, Ted,” said a listener, mockingly. “Sundon is
the best shot and swordsman between this and London.”
“Had large practice, you see,” a third took up the tale briskly, “has us
at a shameful disadvantage. Why not steal a march upon him—not wing him,
but deal him a stray blow with a cudgel, or the flight of a stone, to
crack his conceited pate or smash a limb? That would keep him out of our
way for a week or two; teach him better manners,—be for his good in the
long-run;” the speaker looked round triumphantly.
Squire Trevor was sitting, leaning back, in an arm-chair, a member of
his tumultuous council, but preserving a grim silence. At the proposal
his florid face darkened to purple, his red-brown eyes glared, he smote
the table with his fist, and swore, with a ghastly grin, that he should
like to be there to see when the barbarous stroke was dealt to his
rival.
No one looking on the squire’s inflamed, distorted face could doubt that
if he took vengeance into his own hand, there might be grievous danger
of the rattening—the word might not exist then, but the thing was there,
and in higher walks of life—passing swiftly into murder.
“Gentlemen, let me warn you,” interposed an anxious attorney, “that
kidnapping on the occasion of an election is set down as a grave crime
in the calendar, and is punished accordingly.”
“Who talked of kidnapping, Torney, unless it were your long-nosed,
pettifogging self?” the nervous hint was angrily put down.
“Said and done, Bennet, what you wot of. But Sundon parades the town,
backed by a ragged regiment of democratic dogs.”
“Not always,” was rejoined significantly. “He goes privately every time
the London mail comes in to meet and receive his duns’ letters,
_billet-doux_, and what not, into his own hands, rather than his fellow
of a servant should bring them to him before his stuck-up madam of a
wife. I warrant there are plenty of scores to settle unknown to her. I
can see him myself walking up and down, wearing a muffler, which don’t
disguise him from me, for as good as half-an-hour sometimes, in front of
the inn-yard, before the coach comes in.”
“Is the mail extraordinary true to its hour?” investigated one of the
conclave, curiously.
“Lord! no; how should it be, when it has to run the risk of being
stopped by highwaymen at any one of the half-dozen lone bits between
this and London?” replied the last speaker, in some surprise.
“Suppose it to be stopped on Toosday,” insinuated the satisfied
inquirer, with an accent of the utmost cheerfulness, as he lolled
against the wainscot, and kept his hands in his pockets, “when there may
be more than Master Sundon on the out-look, a score of our fellows,
armed with a hazel twig or two, in case their neighbour townsmen be up
also, and a little too warm; hey, Mister Torney?”
“Excuse me, Sir John,” stammered the man of law and peace, “I cannot be
a party to any sort of outrage, however provoked, or pardonable, or
mitigated.”
“Nobody’s asking you, man,” was the contemptuous dismissal; “hold your
tongue and shut your ears, that’s all, or worse may come of it.”
There was another pair of ears inquisitive, bewildered, appalled, which,
whatever came of it, were not shut, though sometimes they had grown
weary within the last few days of the incessant, harsh gabble.
Farmer Huggins was down with rheumatism, and must be wrapped in blankets
and brought to the booth in a chair, at the peril of his life.
Butcher Green was trimming, the low rogue, standing out on a
presentation to the grammar school for his clever son. What business had
butchers with clever sons? or having them, couldn’t the butchers keep
their lads to the slaughter-house and the scales, as a better trade,
after all, than the beggarly professions without patrons?
Dame Mellish had all the odd voters at her finger ends, in return for
her vintner’s custom, bought up in the first place, to be lavished
gratis in the second.
Lady Bell had little to do with these unattractive details. Her part in
the business of the election was well past, till Mr. Trevor was member,
if he should be member. She was overlooked by the gentlemen, because
they had no time to spend upon her, and because they had found out for
themselves that it did not chime in with Squire Trevor’s humour to have
his aristocratic young wife noticed, and it was not for them to thwart
the Squire at the present moment.
But there was a fascination to Lady Bell in the very name of Sundon,
conjuring up, as it did, the beautiful young woman of the rank and
fashion to which Lady Bell was born and bred, more fortunate than Lady
Bell, inasmuch as Mrs. Sundon’s sun had not been eclipsed before noon.
She had not been sentenced to be the desolate young wife of an old bear
of a country Squire, who would tie her down to his bear-garden, and bait
her with his cousins—parsons’ wives and daughters. Mrs. Sundon had hope
and heart in her youth and beauty as she shared and enjoyed life with
her comely and elegant young husband, whose listlessness and haggardness
even had a charm, by force of contrast, in Lady Bell’s eyes.
Lady Bell sat with her knotting in the far window, her hand with its
shuttle arrested, her scared eyes and ears watching furtively and
greedily the club of men by whom her presence was forgotten.
In the absorbing, horrified speculation on the broken words and dark
hints which reached her, Lady Bell forgot the market-place and the
country-town sights which had occupied her when she had arrived at
Peasmarsh, and on which the declining September sun was now brooding
peacefully.
With her woman’s faculty of leaping at a conclusion, and anticipating
every result—painting it in extreme and exaggerated colours—Lady Bell
saw the couple whom she had wistfully admired and envied in a new light.
She saw the slim, refined gentleman suddenly set upon in the dusk, by a
band of hired and armed ruffians, and brutally mauled and beaten.
She saw his battered, disfigured body carried home to his wife.
She saw the high-spirited, dignified woman flinging herself down, in the
abandonment of grief, by the wreck, apostrophizing it under fond names,
lifting the unconscious head on her knees, wiping the blood-stains from
the face, to leave it white and blank, tearing her hair at the shame and
anguish of the sight.