DEFEAT OR VICTORY?
On the morning of the day of the election Scourby was fairly quiet,
although many of the people had taken a holiday, and were spending it in
the public-houses and the streets. The noise would come later, when the
votes had been counted and the result was known. The greatest enthusiasm
was evinced whenever Mr. Lavender appeared on the scene. If only the
enthusiasm had been for a better man, how good this feeling of
exultation and loyalty would have proved! Alas, for the nation that is
not enthusiastic! Few sights in England have been more pleasant than the
rapture with which the men have welcomed their Parliamentary
representative, when the man has been worthy. Such elections, even when
they have been stormy, have been among the glories of our land. It was
new for such men as Lavender to be “the chosen of the people,” and
because it was new the steady, stable middle classes could not believe
in it. But much had been going on of which they had little idea.
Unfortunately, it had long been the case that many of the best men of
the Churches had altogether held aloof from politics, when they ought to
have been in the very forefront of the battle. The reason they gave was
that Christianity and politics seemed to have little in common. Many a
party had had its birth in some public-house, and many a seat had been
won by exaggerations and lies told of the opposite side, and by
broadcast promises that had never been kept, nor were ever intended to
be. To buy the more ignorant part of the working men by flattering their
vanity, by setting class against class, by misrepresentations, and the
stirring up of their worst passions of hate and selfishness—these had
been the policy of more than a few who had by these means won the
highest honours in the land; but men with consciences educated at the
Cross could not stoop to these things; if they tried, they generally
failed; and, in the end, far too many withdrew from politics altogether,
thereby exhibiting a pusillanimity which was little creditable to
themselves or their Church, since, together, they were well able to
insist that political contests should be fought on quite other lines,
and with different weapons.
In the meantime strong efforts were made by the opponents of the
Churches. The bar-room in many instances was the canvassing ground, and
one notable feature in the case was that hundreds of young men were
Lavender’s adherents. When they grew older they might become wiser; but
at present a very large proportion of young householders voted for him.
The fact was that he and his party had helped them to their votes, for
certain men who had cheap house-property had been careful to encourage
young men to become occupiers that they might exercise the franchise;
and these men had been well looked after, not only on the eve of the
contest, but for more than a year, and had by this means been secured by
these far-seeing men of the world.
It was these facts which gave to the new party its hopes; and the party,
not only in Scourby, but throughout the country, was dangerous because
of its numbers. It sought to pose as “the Labour Party,” and whichever
side can persuade the multitude to believe it to be that is pretty
certain of success. But there were hundreds of honourable, high-souled
working men in Scourby who were as much humiliated as the wealthiest,
when the state of the poll was declared at night.
For the figures proved the stubborn fact that, though by only a small
majority, Richard Lavender was duly elected.
From the yells of delight, and the groans of disgust that followed, two
astute working men turned away with hot anger and indignation in their
hearts. “There will be a reckoning for somebody or other over this,”
said one. “What have all the parsons been doing that they could not save
the town from such disgrace?”
“Smoking their pipes in their studies, I suppose. We have been perfectly
sold! Isn’t it a pity that none but fools can be found to manage
affairs? We ought to have had a local man. Both the Tory and the Radical
are complete strangers to us. How is it that a man seldom represents his
own town, but nearly always comes seeking the suffrages of some place
that knows nothing about him, except what he and the newspapers say?”
“Oh, they are too well known in their own town. But this shows that they
are not of the best. If a man has lived an honourable life, and served
the interests of the town, he ought to be chosen and sent to Parliament
by the men who know him. It is a disgrace if we cannot grow our own
members.”
“So I think. If this had happened a year ago, and Dr. Stapleton had been
a candidate, he would have gone in.”
“Do you believe all they are saying about him? It is very strange that
he has scarcely put in an appearance over this election. It is really
most mysterious.”
It was less mysterious than it seemed; and, perhaps, it will be as well
to let our readers into the secret, such as it is, while we give the
Scourby men a little breathing time. Really, this election proved to be
for the salvation of the town, and the sting of shame was for the
healing of the people; but all this could not be accomplished in a day.
The truth is that Dr. Stapleton had cared for Mary Wythburn, and, though
he had never said so, she had guessed it, and he feared she had. He did
not believe that he had awakened the slightest feeling in her toward
him, nor that it had influenced her decision in regard to Mr.
Greenholme. But when she disappeared he was overwhelmed with trouble and
anxiety, and he had been to London several times in the vain hope of
finding her.
Indeed, worry had made him so ill, that he resolved to take a few days
for a holiday, and see his brother, Mr. Felix Stapleton, of Granchester.
He was ten years older than the Doctor. Their mother died when they were
both young, and their father when Felix was twenty-nine and Frederick
nineteen. He left a small fortune to be equally divided; but Felix
needed money more than Fred, for he was married and settled, while his
younger brother was at college, preparing for his future. His own share
of his father’s money and part of his brother’s enabled Felix to take
full advantage of the tide that led to fortune. He was a builder and
contractor, as his father had been before him, and a keen man of
business. He saw that Granchester was destined to a rapid increase, so
he bought up land and built houses upon it. His foresight was abundantly
rewarded; odd fields and acres and pieces of land that had come into his
possession were one after another wanted, and he sold some of them at a
considerable profit, others he covered with houses. Several building
societies existed in the town, and hundreds of working men were paying
by degrees the money which would make the houses in which they lived
their own. This praiseworthy ambition on their part had been a great
financial benefit to Mr. Felix Stapleton. He lived in a fine new house
in one of the outskirts of Granchester. It stood on a hill which
commanded the best view in the neighbourhood, and was itself—with its
bright red bricks, its towers and pinnacles and glass-houses—a striking
object, visible for many miles around. It goes without saying that Mr.
Stapleton, having rapidly accumulated wealth, had also rapidly
accumulated honours, both municipal and religious, and that his wife and
daughters were among the acknowledged leaders of Granchester society.
Dr. Stapleton was very proud of his brother and all his successes, and
there was a glow at his heart when he stepped from the train and saw his
nieces on the platform, and beyond them, outside the station, the
carriage with the handsome horses and smart livery servants, which told
so pleasant a story.
“Here we are, Uncle Fred,” exclaimed two girlish voices together.
“Father could not come to meet you, so he sent us. How are you? You
don’t look well; you need doctoring yourself, Doctor. You must get
married, or have one of us to keep house for you.”
The girls took possession of him, and beamed upon him with their bright
eyes, and one of them at once offered to prescribe for him. His
sister-in-law gave him a sisterly welcome, and half an hour afterward
the strong grasp of his brother’s hand brought a flush of joy to the
Doctor’s face.
“It is good to see you, old fellow. I thought you never meant to come
again.”
“I have been sticking pretty closely to work. And so have you, I should
say. Why, how grey you have grown!”
“Grey? Yes. Quite the old man. You must blame these romping, rollicking
boys and girls for that. A man with such a family can scarcely keep his
youthful appearance.”
The Doctor thought there could not be a more delightful, well-appointed
home in all England than this. The house had every modern convenience
that science could devise, and it was artistic, as well as comfortable,
in all its arrangements. Mrs. Stapleton had proved herself equal to
their change of fortune, and the house had a very gracious lady at the
head of its domestic affairs. There had been no stint of money anywhere.
The young people had their own rooms, simply but not cheaply furnished.
The pictures were some of the most beautiful and costly of modern times.
All the latest books were in the library, and all the latest fashions in
the drawing-room. Servants, with perfect manners, moved about the place,
forestalling the wishes of the household and their guests. Dr. Stapleton
had never dined before as he dined at his brother’s table, nor listened
to finer music than that which was provided for him afterwards, nor
slept in such a sumptuous chamber. The next morning it seemed to him
that the proofs of immense wealth were even more abundant than had been
apparent the night before. The stables and coach-houses were buildings
that might have served a poor man for his home, and were filled with
expensive carriages and horses. And the gardens were fit for a nobleman.
At the breakfast-table the members of the family appeared dressed in
exquisite taste. Not a bit of vulgar finery was to be seen upon any of
them. The children, not particularly pretty, perhaps, had been made to
look so by the careful arrangement of hair and clothes. Stapleton was
sure that more than money was expended in order to produce the
harmonious whole which proved so attractive; and that thought, care,
culture, and talent had been summoned to the aid of his brother and his
sister-in-law in order to make their home what it was.
A very merry party partook of the morning meal; for there is always
plenty of fun where young people live; and the Doctor was glad to
observe how clever and refined were even the jokes. But he noticed
something else which qualified his pleasure, and this was a look of care
and harassment which sat like a black shadow upon the brow of his
brother, who took little food, and scarcely joined in the conversation.
At first this seemed to escape the notice of all but himself; but at
last his eldest daughter, Matilda, remarked upon it.
“Is there anything you could eat, father? We will get it from the ends
of the earth if you will name it.”
Mr. Stapleton laughed. “My appetite has not come yet, Mat; but perhaps
it will later.”
“You are worried as usual about those horrible men. I wish you would
retire from business altogether, and let the wretched creatures find
work somewhere else, or starve, as they deserve to do.”
“I wish I could retire,” said her father. “But, Mat, you must not forget
that the wretched creatures, as you call them, have a right to live
which equals your own.”
“Is there another labour dispute on?” asked the eldest son, a lad of
sixteen.
“Yes, the usual thing. These labour strikes are constantly occurring
with us, Fred. I suppose you know a little about them at Scourby?”
“Oh, yes; we have had our troubles there, and the victories have usually
gone with the men.”
“The men are often very unreasonable. They ought not to expect to be
paid in bad times the wages which they receive when trade is at its
best; but they do.”
“And they seldom save anything for a rainy day,” remarked Mrs.
Stapleton, “but live up to their income every week, whatever it may be.”
“And they are awfully extravagant,” said Matilda. “I had the curiosity
to ascertain how many of the girls in my Sunday-school class were
learning to play the piano, and found that eight out of fourteen are
taking lessons. And their parents are buying pianos on the hire
system—so much a week for three years. Eight girls! And I believe that,
without exception, their parents are artisans. Is it not absurd? I
laughed at the idea, and this so offended one child that she left the
class. I told her it would be more to her credit if she learned to scrub
floors and mend stockings. She became saucy, and said she knew already
how to do those things, and should not ask my leave to learn the piano
or anything else her parents pleased.”
“You are most partial to the violin yourself, Mat, are you not?” asked
the Doctor.
“Oh yes,” said her brother, answering for her. “Mat is wild on the
violin, and she has a little beauty.”
“I heard you playing it this morning, I think?”
“Yes; I am as lazy as any of my set, but my dear violin can draw me out
of bed in the dead of the night, we are such great friends.”
“Do you think it right to keep that pleasure to yourself?”
“To myself? Why, Uncle Fred, I am willing to play for any one. I will
play to you all day if you like.”
“Thank you very much. But what I mean to suggest is, that your
Sunday-scholars may be musically inclined, too, and can get as much real
pleasure out of a cheap harmonium or piano as you out of your harp and
violin. Why, then, should they not?”
Matilda coloured partly with vexation. “I think the cases are
different,” she said.
“Yes, they are. You get your instruments without trouble, and pay for
them with a ‘thank you’ or a kiss; they have to practise self-denial,
and part from the weekly payments with difficulty; but if they are
willing to do this, why in the world should they not? A working man has
as much right to a piano in his home, if he can pay for it, as you have.
Surely it is better to spend money on pianos than on beer.”
“Why, uncle, I declare you are a rabid socialist. I had no idea you were
such a dangerous character!”
“And you forget one little consideration,” added Mrs. Stapleton. “The
money with which these are bought has all to come out of our pockets.”
“Indeed! I had certainly not looked at the matter in that light,”
replied the Doctor, and he could not altogether repress the ring of
irony in his voice.
But the mistress of the house adroitly introduced a happier subject of
conversation, and “Uncle Fred” resolved that he would no more give
utterance to sentiments that brought a frown to his brother’s face. He
enjoyed his visit very much, and especially appreciated the attention
paid him by his sister-in-law, who drove a pair of beautiful ponies
every day for his especial benefit.
But he could not get rid of the feeling that all was not well with
Felix, who, however, vouchsafed no confidence until the last evening of
Fred’s stay.
When dinner was over the master of the house playfully observed that no
one would be invited to the library that night but Dr. Stapleton. It was
a hint which all understood and respected.
Mr. Stapleton appeared nervous and ill at ease, first drawing his
brother’s attention to one thing and then to another, and all the time
pacing the room as if he could settle to nothing. At last the Doctor
broke the ice.
“If you were a patient of mine, Felix, I should say that you had
something on your mind.”
“And so I have, old fellow. And I am afraid it is likely to remain
there. Fred, do you ever feel the need of confession? I think it must be
an immense relief to a man sometimes to tell out his troubles and his
sins.”
“I cannot say that I have myself ever experienced the longing; but I can
imagine that in some cases, when a man is borne down by a secret burden,
it does him good to talk it over with another.”
“I will try it. In whom should a man confide if not in his brother? And
if I keep it much longer to myself it will kill me. Mine is a very
common trouble. Fred, I am in dire need of money.”
The Doctor had felt that something terrible was coming, and the end of
his brother’s sentence seemed so tame that he laughed outright. “You
want money?” he cried, incredulously; “then, my dear fellow, what must
_I_ do?”
The tone and the laugh hurt Mr. Stapleton, and caused him actual pain.
“Ah! you do not understand,” he said; “how should you? But it is true
nevertheless.”
“Of course I have heard before of large businesses, with plenty of
capital at the back of them, coming to a standstill for lack of
ready-money. I remember one or two failures where there was enough to
pay everybody twenty shillings in the pound when affairs were looked
into. Is it something of the same kind with you, Felix?”
“I could not pay everybody twenty shillings in the pound, and that is
not the worst of it.”
“Really! You amaze me! But,” and the Doctor gave a glance at the books
and the pictures, “you could realise some money if it became necessary,
for, of course, a man, and especially a Christian man, must pay his
debts.”
“Am I a Christian? Sometimes I doubt it,” said Mr. Stapleton, bitterly.
“You know, Fred, I have had nearly twenty years of commercial success.
And at first I deserved it. Every bit of work that I did at the
beginning was well done; the houses that I built during the first ten
years of my business life will stand as long as houses of the kind ever
do or can. And chances flowed in upon me; and profits, honestly gained,
too, grew and increased year by year until it seemed to me that my
wealth was so enormous it would last for ever. When this place and the
things on it were bought I was justified, or believed that I was, in
spending the money; and trade was so good that I had no difficulties
whatever then. But a change has taken place during the last few years,
the building trade has been slack, the cost of labour has been great,
and materials have been costly. Profits have fallen; I have had some bad
debts to contend with; and all the time my own expenses have been
increasing. It is not easy for a man of my position to retrench, and I
have been constantly hoping for better times, and now——” He stopped, and
paced the room three or four minutes before he proceeded.
“It is a pity you cut such a dash, old fellow,” said the Doctor; “but I
am sure your intentions were right enough.”
“If I had only myself I would not care. It is my wife and children of
whom I think. It has been my one great joy to see how they have
delighted in the beautiful things which I have been able to give them;
and how naturally the children especially have taken to the new manner
of life. How can I now drag them down from the position in which I have
placed them? I cannot do it, God help me!”
“It is very hard for you—harder, perhaps, than it would be for them,”
said the Doctor. “But things may right themselves in time. Let me lend
you my money. I have a couple of thousands.”
“I have not told you the worst. A drowning man will clutch at straws.
Fred, I have lost my own self-respect and I am going to forfeit yours.”
He hesitated, and finally said, “No, it is no use; I cannot tell you.”
“Oh, tell me the worst, old man. Make a clean breast of it; you will
feel better afterward. I will find some way of helping you.”
“The fact is that I am ashamed, and have reason to be, of much of my
later work. I have built houses that cannot stand, without foundations
and with thin walls, and green wood, and everything of the cheapest. I
have been in haste to sell them, and they have sold all the more readily
because, as I had built them, people took them on trust—and now the time
of retribution is at hand. One house collapsed last night in a high
wind. I am afraid others will follow. Two evenings ago a little
mission-room which I built, and poor people paid for with coppers hardly
spared, and which is packed on Sundays and many evenings beside, was
pronounced unsafe for occupation.”
The builder groaned, and the Doctor buried his face in his hands. He
would rather have given all that he had, and ten years of his life into
the bargain, than have listened to such a confession from the brother
whom he had loved and honoured. He knew that all this was common enough
in those days, but Dr. Stapleton held it a crime, nevertheless, and that
his brother should have committed it nearly broke his heart.
“Did they pass a vote of censure upon you at the mission hall?” he
asked, presently.
“Oh, no! I have not heard that they blamed me; and I have the usual
excuses about dry rot and all that to offer.”
“But—you know!”
“Yes, alas! I know.”
“Felix, there is one thing, at least, that you can do. Rebuild this
little mission chapel as it ought to be done. I will pay for it, and the
prayers of the grateful people may help you.”
“Yes. I have thought of that myself. Thank you, Fred. I can do that, and
I will, without your help. It will be like an acknowledgment of my
fault; but that I must not mind, it is only justice. O God, I wish I
could be just! That is what I have not been. I cannot think how I could
have done some of the things which I have done. I think my conscience
has been asleep, and is awake now with a vengeance. But competition is
ruining many beside me. The little men do some of the mischief. They
work themselves for workmen’s wages, and get a few to help them who are
unskilled, and therefore take less; and I suppose they get some profit,
for they go on for a few years, and then, having cheapened things for
every one else and having nothing to lose themselves, they fail—while
the men of capital have to suffer for their folly and ambition.”
“Yes; perhaps some trades are being ruined in this way. But if any
people are able to prevent it, the big men, as you call them, are; for
they might make a stand, and insist on having none but good work done,
or giving up business altogether. And, of course, capital ought not to
monopolise the trades. Other men, as well as you, have tried and hoped
for success.”
“Certainly; and deserved it more than I. I have been too grasping and
ambitious. I am truly sorry now that I did not find some plan of making
my workmen sharers in my prosperity. I have not trusted them, nor they
me. Excepting at first there has been no friendliness or goodwill
between us, and this has cost us both dear. I have lost thousands of
pounds through strikes, and more than a few through speculation. Ah! if
I could have my time over again, how differently I would order my life!
But I am afraid the crash must come, though I am not quite sure even now
that if I had, say, seven or eight thousand pounds of ready-money, I
could not tide over the worst and wait for better times. Forgive me, old
fellow, I have put my burden on your shoulders, though it still rests
upon my own. Pray for me, as you used to do. I cannot pray myself; and
yet I am uttering words of verity when I say that now, as never before
in my life, my one desire is to do the right, if I only could be sure
what it is.”
The words came brokenly, and the speaker threw himself wearily into a
chair. The Doctor put his arm over his shoulder.
“You may count on me, you know, without my saying it. I will go home
to-morrow and think all this over, and come and see you again soon. You
must reduce your expenditure in the meantime—that is certainly necessary
and right; but we will avert the crash if it can be done. Go to bed now,
Felix; you looked tired to death.” And the brothers parted.
The Scourby people were perfectly correct in their opinion that Dr.
Stapleton had a secret trouble on his mind. After his return he was a
very much sadder man than they had ever known him. He gave offence to
his patients by raising his fees, and soon became conscious that his
practice was leaving him.
And on the eve of the Scourby election a temptation assailed him. Dr.
Stapleton late at night was asked to receive a visitor. At first the two
men spoke on ordinary subjects in ordinary tones, but afterwards they
were lowered. Once only Stapleton’s voice rang out, indignantly, “Am I a
dog that I should do this thing?” and the two men, with white faces,
glared in each other’s eyes; but after awhile they calmed down, and
when, an hour later, the stranger left, Stapleton himself let him out,
neither lifting his eyes to the other’s face.
The Doctor fastened the door after his guest, and then returned to his
study, and locked himself into it. He did not stand with his back to the
fire, as is an Englishman’s wont, but he stood with his back to the
table and his face to the fire for half an hour, thinking all the time
of his brother, and going over again the trouble which had been confided
to him. Presently one little sentence he had uttered came back to his
mind, and he repeated it aloud, “Am I a Christian? Am I a Christian? Am
_I_ a Christian?” He clasped his hands together on the mantelpiece, and
leaned his head upon them, and so stood, as if oblivious of time. At
last he turned with a sigh, and forced his eyes to the table which he
had avoided, and, as though it had been some venomous beast, he looked
at the only thing that lay upon it. It was a cheque for a thousand
pounds!