The Election.
They fought all day with might and main;
And when the sun was set
The victors longed to fight again--
The vanquished, to forget.
Paul Seaton was one of the men who possess the useful knack of
knowing when the tide of their affairs is at the flood; so when Mr.
Ford asked him to come down and fight the Liberal battle at Chayford
in Edgar's stead, Paul consented without an hour's delay.
At the beginning of the campaign Joanna came home, completely
restored to health, bringing Isabel with her; and the inhabitants of
the Cottage gave themselves up body and soul to the election, and
talked and thought and dreamed of nothing else. Great was the
excitement all over England, and Chayford was no exception to the
rule. For three weeks Paul made several speeches per day, and was
treated as if he were a combination of Juggernaut and a popular
preacher, with a flavour of Royalty thrown in.
Everybody in the town, including even the babies and the cats, wore
colours, if it were nothing better than a scrap of tea paper; and
there was all that delicious love of fighting in the air which makes
an election like a glorious war with no death or danger in it.
"Isn't it fun?" exclaimed Isabel one day. "I adore every minute of
it. It makes you hate the other side with such an exquisite frenzy
of hatred, which has neither malice nor uncharitableness in it and
yet which is so charmingly violent while it lasts."
"I know," agreed Joanna, "it is that nice sort of hatred which would
never let you really injure people, but which makes you want their
chimneys to smoke and their hats to blow off."
Isabel laughed. "And your love for your own side is equally
enjoyable. I assure you I feel the most fervent glow of affection
for all the Liberals in Chayford--just as if they were relations and
it was Christmas Day."
"Yet all the time you know that these feelings will completely die
out within a week of the declaration of the poll!" added Joanna.
"Of course you do; that is why they are so delightful. Feelings that
last, take a good deal out of you I have discovered; the really
delicious sort are those that you think will last for ever and that
you know won't," said Isabel.
"I am afraid, my dear girl, that you are becoming an epicure in
emotions," remarked Paul, who had just come in.
"I know I am; an election, supervening on a love-affair, is enough to
intoxicate any woman, especially when the beloved object and the
candidate are one. You can't think what glorious thrills I have all
down my back when the crowds applaud you. Liberalism and love
combined so overwhelm my soul that I feel you are the only man in the
whole world, and the English nation rolled into one; and I am as
tearful as if people were singing 'God Save the Queen' and 'Auld
Robin Gray' at the same time. Oh! it is a delicious feeling, and I
am eternally grateful to you for giving it to me."
Paul beamed with delight, but, being a man, did not say pretty things
before a third person; Isabel, being a woman, did.
"I adore elections," she continued, waltzing round the room, "they
are simply heavenly!"
"A general election and my idea of heaven are by no means
synonymous," replied her lover quietly.
"My idea of heaven is pretty much the same as Beatrice's," Isabel
said; "I shall go 'where the bachelors sit, and there live as merry
as the day is long'. I shall say, 'Please reserve the place next to
Mr. Paul Seaton for me'; and if I find it already occupied, there
will be unpleasantness, and I shall contest the seat."
"You are very brilliant to-day." And Paul looked at her proudly.
She was worth looking at just then, as she had dressed herself
entirely in blue, the Liberal colour in Chayford; and a woman always
looks her best when her gown is of the same shade as her eyes.
"It is this lovely election! It has got into my head."
"Well, don't let it tire you; I would rather lose the seat than that
you should knock yourself up in helping me to win it."
"I am glad you have warned her," said Joanna, "I am sure she works
too hard, but she won't listen to me. She has too much spirit for
her strength."
An anxious expression came over Paul's face. "You do look a bit
tired, Isabel," he said.
"Rubbish!" she replied; then she looked at herself in the glass.
"Should you call me a brilliant woman or a sweet woman?" she asked
thoughtfully.
"Brilliant," replied Joanna.
"Both," replied Paul.
"That is absurd! I can't be both; nobody could."
"But you are."
Isabel carefully arranged her fringe: "That is just like your
interesting but incomprehensible sex, my good sir. If you happen to
care for a woman, you at once endow her with every possible virtue,
totally irrespective of the fact that some of the virtues won't go
together."
"Oh! that's what we do, is it?"
"Now we women behave differently. If we love a man, we don't plaster
him over with all the good qualities; but we merely say that the
virtues he doesn't possess are not virtues at all, and that no decent
man would be seen with such things. But though the _modus operandi_
in each case is different, the result is the same; that is to say,
the beloved object in both instances has the monopoly of human
excellencies."
"Well, I must be off," said Joanna rising; "I have some work to do."
After his sister had left the room, Paul made up his deficiency in
the saying of pretty things.
"Where is Isabel?" asked Mrs. Seaton of her daughter, as the latter
was going out.
"With Paul in the drawing-room."
Mrs. Seaton drew a sigh of perfect contentment. "That is all right."
"What they have to say to each other that they are always wanting to
be alone together, I cannot imagine," continued Joanna. "I never
said anything in my life to anybody that a third person was not
welcome to hear."
Her mother smiled. "You have not said all that there is to be said
yet, then."
"Evidently not. There are still some things in heaven and earth
undreamed of in my philosophy, and what those two good people talk to
each other about is one of them. If I were Isabel I could say all I
wanted to say before us all, I am certain."
"But you couldn't if you were Paul, my dear."
Joanna rolled up her umbrella. "Well, mother, I don't pretend to
understand it; I could never exchange confidences with anybody for
all those hours on end, least of all with a man. I should be
'gravelled for lack of matter' in no time; but those dear, silly
people go on for sixty minutes at a stretch, and then, if I happen to
disturb them, look at me as reproachfully as if they had only had
five seconds together, instead of 'a long hour by Shrewsbury clock'."
Among the most enthusiastic of Paul's political supporters was the
faithful Martha. Whenever she was able, she attended his meetings,
and regarded them almost as means of grace.
"I don't believe that the Pope of Rome or the President of the
Conference could make finer speeches than Master Paul does," she said
one day, as she was dusting the drawing-room, and Joanna was
arranging the flowers.
Joanna laughed. "He is certainly a born orator, Martha; he plays
upon his audience as if he were playing upon an organ."
"He does indeed, miss; and never seems at a loss for a word. I'm
bound to say I didn't think Master Paul had it in him to speak like
that. When you listen to him, you wonder how the folks that think
differently have managed to keep themselves out of the lunatic
asylums; and that is the sort of speaking, and the sort of preaching,
that does real good, to my thinking."
"Still, I suppose, one ought to hear both sides of a question,"
argued the wise Joanna.
"Certainly not, miss; there is nothing so unsettling. Besides,
where's the good? Only one side can be right, that is plain; and
what is the use of wasting the time in listening to the side that is
wrong?"
"But, Martha, how can you tell which side is right without hearing
both?"
Martha dusted so fiercely that the ornaments fairly danced. "Bless
your dear heart, if you are a woman, you know who is right and who is
wrong before you've heard a single word; and if you are a man, you
don't know who is right and who is wrong after you've heard all there
is to be said. But Mr. Paul's speeches are very convincing, all the
same; especially to folks as think the same as he does to begin with."
"Oratory is a great power," remarked Joanna, half to herself; "it
must be lovely to see hundreds of people hanging upon every word you
utter, and to know that you can sway them for the time being as it
pleases you!"
"It must indeed, my dear--in fact, it seems almost too great a power
to be put into the hands of a man, even though the man be dear Master
Paul himself. But it is a wonder to me that men get on in the world
as well as they do, considering that they know nothing and can't bear
to be taught. They say Providence takes special care of children and
naturals, so I suppose Providence looks after men in the same sort of
way. If it wasn't so, goodness knows what would become of them--the
unmarried ones in particular!"
"You used to be such a strong Conservative," Joanna suggested, as she
filled a vase with daffodils.
"So I was, miss; at one time the Conservatives seemed to me to do the
least mischief of the two parties, because they were better able to
mind their own business and leave the country to look after itself.
As I have often passed the remark, interference is the one thing that
I can't stand. I have no objection to speaking a word in season or
out of season, whenever I think it is needed; but I know my own
business, and I won't stand being taught it by anybody. And, I take
it, the country is the same as me, miss; and doesn't want Governments
to come poking their noses into things that don't concern them."
"So now I suppose you are a Liberal, Martha?"
"Well, I don't know that I'd go as far as that," replied Martha
cautiously, "my father was a Liberal, and the love of reform got into
his blood till he couldn't eat a bit of bacon without telling us how
much better it might have been cooked if he'd had the doing of it
himself. I've noticed, miss, that when the master of a house is a
reformer, there's often trouble in the kitchen; so I set my face
against reforms of any kind, as it were." And the good woman shook
her duster to and fro, as if the whole Liberal party were wrapped up
in it.
"Still some changes are improvements," persisted Joanna.
"I never came across them, miss; it seems to me that a new way of
governing the country is like a new way of frying potatoes--the
potatoes are no better than they were before, and the grease always
smells. Still, my dear, I am no longer a Conservative. Take my word
for that."
"What made you change your politics?" Joanna asked.
"Why, the way the Conservatives have turned against our Paul. As
long as they kept themselves to themselves, and acted according to
their lights, I had no objections to them; though I confess they
sometimes made mistakes, like their betters. But when they turned
against Master Paul, it was a different thing, and then I washed my
hands once for all of the whole boiling of them."
Joanna smiled, as she disposed of her last daffodil. Martha's
politics were so essentially feminine. As long as a political party
contents itself with revolutionizing States and annexing continents
and disestablishing Churches, and other trifling pastimes such as
these, no right-minded woman troubles her head about it; these things
amuse it and do not hurt her. But when the political party takes
advantage of this patience and forbearance on her part, and goes to
the length of actually contesting the seat in Parliament of some
particular man, the sleeping tigress wakes up and shows all the claws
wherewith provident Nature has endowed her. Which conduct is, after
all, only natural; and the offending faction has no one but itself to
blame.
But it is the same with parties as with individuals; if one gives
them an inch they take an ell.
At last the day of the Chayford election dawned; and--as is the way
of election days--it was so long, that it seemed as if the sun had
stood still to watch the battle, as it did in the time of Joshua.
But it came to an end at last; and the little party at the Cottage
sat up till midnight awaiting Paul and the result. At first
everybody said it would be a walk-over; but anybody who knows
anything about electioneering will be aware that, however certain a
seat may be, and however enormous the majority last time, fears come
with fighting, whilst agonizing doubts foreshadow the declaration of
the poll.
Paul's little home-circle felt very anxious; and the more they
doubted the result, the more they kept repeating that there was no
room for doubt at all. The Liberal majority at Chayford at the last
election had been nine hundred; and they continually assured each
other (and themselves) that a majority of that size could no more
melt away than an Alp could.
"You see," said Mr. Seaton, "though of course it might have
diminished, a majority of that size could not possibly have
transformed itself into a minority in three years." He was thinking
to himself that if only four hundred and fifty voters had gone over
to the other side, Paul would be beaten.
"Of course not," replied Joanna, "the result really is a foregone
conclusion; it is only a question as to the size of the majority.
She felt sure that the Conservative papers could not write as they
did, if they had not grounds for their hope of which she knew nothing.
"It is really absurd to think that a mere boy like Lord Gailey should
beat a brilliant politician like Paul; the idea is simply ludicrous!"
exclaimed Isabel; but she wished to goodness that Paul had not had an
aristocrat for his opponent, as there is an underlying respect for
titles at the bottom of every British heart.
"It is no use our expecting Paul for a couple of hours yet," remarked
Paul's mother; "it would be impossible for him to be here before
then." She was feeling that something dreadful must have
happened--either that the mob had killed Paul or else had not elected
him--otherwise he would have been at home an hour ago.
And so they went on telling little comforting fibs to each other, and
inwardly wondering how much longer this suspense could be endured.
Suddenly they heard the sound of wheels, and the stamping and
shouting of a multitude.
"Here he is," said Mr. Seaton gently; and he went very white and took
his wife's hand.
Joanna and Isabel were past speaking; so they tried to laugh--and
failed.
The noise grew louder. The crowd had taken the horses out of Paul's
carriage, and were drawing it along with deafening cheers. At last
they pulled up at the Cottage gate, and Paul sprang out and thanked
them, and rushed inside.
"It is all right!" he cried, "I am in with a majority of twelve
hundred."
Then he went straight up to Isabel and kissed her before them all.
"I am very glad I have won," he said simply, "because it gives me
something to give to you, who have given me so much."
So it came to pass that the old wastes and the former desolations
were built up and repaired in the life of Paul Seaton: and the name
of the builder and repairer was Love.
A few days after the election--while Paul was helping a brother
candidate and Joanna was working in her district--Isabel made her
confession to Paul's father and mother. She told them the whole
story: how she had written _Shams and Shadows_ in a fit of
temper--how Paul had saved her from the consequences of her mad
act--how she had selfishly let him bear the blame--how his love for
her had at last conquered the weakness and worldliness of her nature,
and taught her that it is not in the power of outside things to make
a woman happy--and how she had promised to keep the secret all her
life, after she had once told the truth to his own people.
"I could not rest till I had your forgiveness," she said in
conclusion, "but if you will only say you forgive me, I have promised
I will never mention the subject again."
"I forgive you utterly, my child," replied the minister; "the deed
shall be blotted out as though it had never been; and I thank my son
for having taught me how divine a thing sometimes is human love."
"And you?" whispered Isabel to Mrs. Seaton.
Paul's mother took Isabel in her arms. "Of course I forgive you, my
dear one, because Paul has forgiven you, and because you have loved
much; and I thank you for having given my son back to me again."
"I understand," said Isabel softly, "the Paul that you know, never
could have written that horrid book, so you felt that there were two
Pauls."
"That was just it," Mrs. Seaton replied, "and I could not make the
two Pauls agree with one another in my mind. But now you have not
only given the old Paul back to me; you have shown me that he is not
merely as good as I believed he was, but infinitely nobler and better
than I had dreamed. I did not think that my son could ever have
written _Shams and Shadows_; but, on the other, hand, I did not think
that he could ever have performed so noble an act of self-sacrifice
as this. So you have restored him to me fourfold."
"I can never forgive myself," sobbed Isabel.
Mrs. Seaton drew the weeping girl close to her. "My dear, you must,
for Paul's sake. Remember he loves you so much, that he could not
forgive anybody for not forgiving you."
"And we must not forget," added the minister, "that it is love for
you which has made Paul into the man he is; so you have had much to
do with the making of Paul, and therefore his mother and I love you
for it."
"I did not do it. It was God who made Paul what he is, and I was
just the instrument."
Mr. Seaton smiled. "Exactly, my dear; but there is nothing
remarkable in that. The man who does the most, is nothing more than
God's instrument for fulfilling His purposes; and the man who does
the least, is no less than that. But we love best the instruments
whereby the most good is wrought; and so also, I think, does God."
Paul and his mother were left together for a few minutes that evening.
"My dear," she said, "Isabel has told me everything."
Paul's face fell. "I am sorry she told you, mother; but she would do
it."
"Don't be sorry, Paul; it is the greatest joy to me to find that I
have nothing for which to blame my dear son; but that he has been all
that I believed and hoped, and far more."
"Still, I had rather that you blamed me than that you blamed her;
that is the one thing that I could not bear even from you, mother."
"I do not blame her as I blamed you; the two cases are so different.
Don't you know that when a woman is angry she says far more than she
means, but that a man--however angry--never says as much? So one can
hardly pass the same judgment on the utterances of both."
Paul looked relieved. "You think then that she was--but no; I may
find fault with what she writes, but never with what she is; and no
one else shall find fault with her at all. You will remember that
this confidence is sacred, mother; and that no one but my father and
Joanna must ever share it with you."
"Certainly; you may trust us, Paul."
"And you will love Isabel always?"
"Always, dear; both for your sake and her own."