Ralph felt that it would be necessary that he should say something. "Lord Fitzadam would be only too glad to buy it. He owns every acre in the parish except Ingram's farm."

"There'll be no difficulty about selling it,—when we have the power to sell. It'll fetch thirty years' purchase. I'd give thirty years' purchase for it, at the present rent myself, if I had the money. Lord Fitzadam shall have it, if he pleases, of course. There's four hundred acres of it."

"Four hundred and nine," said Ralph.

"And it's worth over twelve thousand pounds. It would have gone against the grain with me to part with any of the land in Bostock; but I think we can squeeze through without that."

"Is it arranged, sir?" asked the son at last.

"Well;—no; I can't say it is. He is to give me his answer on the 20th. But I cannot see that he has any alternative. He must pay his debts, and he has no other way of paying them. He must live, and he has nothing else to live on. A fellow like that will have money, if he can lay his hands on it, and he can't lay his hands on it elsewhere. Of course he could get money; but he couldn't get it on such terms as I have offered him. He is to have down thirty thousand pounds, and then,—after that,—I am to pay him whatever more than that they may think the thing is worth to him. Under no circumstances is he to have less. It's a large sum of money, Ralph."

"Yes, indeed;—though not so much as you had expected, sir."

"Well,—no; but then there are drawbacks. However, I shall only be too glad to have it settled. I don't think, Ralph, you have ever realised what it has been for me not to be able to lay out a shilling on the property, as to which I was not satisfied that I should see it back again in a year or two."

"And yet, sir, I have thought much about it."

"Thought! By heavens, I have thought of nothing else. As I stand here, the place has hardly been worth the having to me, because of such thinking. Your uncle, from the very first, was determined to make it bitter enough. I shall never forget his coming to me when I cut down the first tree. Was I going to build houses for a man's son who begrudged me the timber I wanted about the place?"

"He couldn't stop you there."

"But he said he could,—and he tried. And if I wanted to change a thing here or there, was it pleasant, do you think, to have to go to him? And what pleasure could there be in doing anything when another was to have it all? But you have never understood it, Ralph. Well;—I hope you'll understand it some day. If this goes right, nobody shall ever stop you in cutting a tree. You shall be free to do what you please with every sod, and every branch, and every wall, and every barn. I shall be happy at last, Ralph, if I think that you can enjoy it." Then there was again a silence, for tears were in the eyes both of the father and of the son. "Indeed," continued the Squire, as he rubbed the moisture away, "my great pleasure, while I remain, will be to see you active about the place. As it is now, how is it possible that you should care for it?"

"But I do care for it, and I think I am active about it."

"Yes,—making money for that idiot, who is to come after me. But I don't think he ever will come. I dare say he won't be ashamed to shoot your game and drink your claret, if you'll allow him. For the matter of that, when the thing is settled he may come and drink my wine if he pleases. I'll be his loving uncle then, if he don't object. But as it is now;—as it has been, I couldn't have borne him."

Even yet there had been no clear statement as to what had been done between father and son. There was so much of clinging, trusting, perfect love in the father's words towards the son, that the latter could not bear to say a word that should produce sorrow. When the Squire declared that Ralph should have it all, free,—to do just as he pleased with it, with all the full glory of ownership, Ralph could not bring himself to throw a doubt upon the matter. And yet he did doubt;—more than doubted;—felt almost certain that his father was in error. While his father had remained alone up in town he had been living with Gregory, and had known what Gregory thought and believed. He had even seen his namesake's letter to Gregory, in which it was positively stated that the reversion would not be sold. Throughout the morning the Squire went on speaking of his hopes, and saying that this and that should be done the very moment that the contract was signed; at last Ralph spoke out, when, on some occasion, his father reproached him for indifference. "I do so fear that you will be disappointed," he said.

"Why should I be disappointed?"

"It is not for my own sake that I fear, for in truth the arrangement, as it stands, is no bar to my enjoyment of the place."

"It is a most absolute bar to mine," said the Squire.

"I fear it is not settled."

"I know that;—but I see no reason why it should not be settled. Do you know any reason?"

"Gregory feels sure that his brother will never consent."

"Gregory is all very well. Gregory is the best fellow in the world. Had Gregory been in his brother's place I shouldn't have had a chance. But Gregory knows nothing about this kind of thing, and Gregory doesn't in the least understand his brother."

"But Ralph has told him so."

"Ralph will say anything. He doesn't mind what lies he tells."

"I think you are too hard on him," said the son.

"Well;—we shall see. But what is it that Ralph has said? And when did he say it?" Then the son told the father of the short letter which the parson had received from his brother, and almost repeated the words of it. And he told the date of the letter, only a day or two before the Squire's return. "Why the mischief could he not be honest enough to tell me the same thing, if he had made up his mind?" said the Squire, angrily. "Put it how you will, he is lying either to me or to his brother;—probably to both of us. His word either on one side or on the other is worth nothing. I believe he will take my money because he wants money, and because he likes money. As for what he says, it is worth nothing. When he has once written his name, he cannot go back from it, and there will be comfort in that." Ralph said nothing more. His father had talked himself into a passion, and was quite capable of becoming angry, even with him. So he suggested something about the shooting for next day, and proposed that the parson should be asked to join them. "He may come if he likes," said the Squire, "but I give you my word if this goes on much longer, I shall get to dislike even the sight of him." On that very day the parson dined with them, and early in the evening the Squire was cold, and silent, and then snappish. But he warmed afterwards under the double influence of his own port-wine, and the thorough sweetness of his nephew's manner. His last words as Gregory left him that night in the hall were as follows:—"Bother about the church. I'm half sick of the church. You come and shoot to-morrow. Don't let us have any new fads about not shooting."

"There are no new fads, uncle Greg, and I'll be with you by twelve o'clock," said the parson.

"He is very good as parsons go," said the Squire as he shut the door.

"He's as good as gold," said the Squire's son.



CHAPTER XIX.

POLLY'S ANSWER.

Moggs's bill became due before the 20th of September, and Ralph Newton received due notice,—as of course he had known that he would do,—that it had not been cashed at his banker's. How should it be cashed at his banker's, seeing that he had not had a shilling there for the last three months? Moggs himself, Moggs senior, came to Ralph, and made himself peculiarly disagreeable. He had never heard of such a thing on the part of a gentleman! Not to have his bill taken up! To have his paper dishonoured! Moggs spoke of it as though the heavens would fall; and he spoke of it, too, as though, even should the heavens not fall, the earth would be made a very tumultuous and unpleasant place for Mr. Newton, if Mr. Newton did not see at once that these two hundred and odd pounds were forthcoming. Moggs said so much that Ralph became very angry, turned him out of the room, and told him that he should have his dirty money on the morrow. On the morrow the dirty money was paid, Ralph having borrowed the amount from Mr. Neefit. Mr. Moggs was quite content. His object had been achieved, and, when the cash was paid, he was quite polite. But Ralph Newton was not happy as he made the payment. He had declared to himself, after writing that letter to his brother, that the thing was settled by the very declaration made by him therein. When he assured his brother that he would not sell his interest in the property, he did, in fact, resolve that he would make Polly Neefit his wife. And he did no more than follow up that resolution when he asked Neefit for a small additional advance. His due would not be given to the breeches-maker if it were not acknowledged that on this occasion he behaved very well. He had told Ralph to come to him when Moggs's "bit of stiff" came round. Moggs's "bit of stiff" did come round, and "the Captain" did as he had been desired to do. Neefit wrote out the cheque without saying a word about his daughter. "Do you just run across to Argyle Street, Captain," said the breeches-maker, "and get the stuff in notes." For Mr. Neefit's bankers held an establishment in Argyle Street. "There ain't no need, you know, to let on, Captain; is there?" said the breeches-maker. Ralph Newton, clearly seeing that there was no need to "let on," did as he was bid, and so the account was settled with Mr. Moggs. But now as to settling the account with Mr. Neefit? Neefit had his own idea of what was right between gentlemen. As the reader knows, he could upon an occasion make his own views very clearly intelligible. He was neither reticent nor particularly delicate. But there was something within him which made him give the cheque to Ralph without a word about Polly. That something, let it be what it might, was not lost upon Ralph.

Any further doubt on his part was quite out of the question. If his mind had not been made up before it must, at least, be made up now. He had twice borrowed Mr. Neefit's money, and on this latter occasion had taken it on the express understanding that he was to propose to Mr. Neefit's daughter. And then, in this way, and in this way only, he could throw over his uncle and save the property. As soon as he had paid the money to Moggs, he went to his room and dressed himself for the occasion. As he arranged his dress with some small signs of an intention to be externally smart, he told himself that it signified nothing at all, that the girl was only a breeches-maker's daughter, and that there was hardly a need that he should take a new pair of gloves for such an occasion as this. In that he was probably right. An old pair of gloves would have done just as well, though Polly did like young men to look smart.

He went out in a hansom of course. A man does not become economical because he is embarrassed. And as for embarrassment, he need not trouble himself with any further feelings on that score. When once he should be the promised husband of Polly Neefit, he would have no scruple about the breeches-maker's money. Why should he, when he did the thing with the very view of getting it? They couldn't expect him to be married till next spring at the earliest, and he would take another winter out of himself at the Moonbeam. As the sacrifice was to be made he might as well enjoy all that would come of the sacrifice. Then as he sat in the cab he took to thinking whether, after any fashion at all, he did love Polly Neefit. And from that he got to thinking,—not of poor Clary,—but of Mary Bonner. If his uncle could at once be translated to his fitting place among the immortals, oh,—what a life might be his! But his uncle was still mortal, and,—after all,—Polly Neefit was a very jolly girl.

When he got to the house he asked boldly for Miss Neefit. He had told himself that no repulse could be injurious to him. If Mrs. Neefit were to refuse him admission into the house, the breeches-maker would be obliged to own that he had done his best. But there was no repulse. In two minutes he found himself in the parlour, with Polly standing up to receive him. "Dear me, Mr. Newton; how odd! You might have come weeks running before you'd find me here and mother out. She's gone to fetch father home. She don't do it,—not once a month." Ralph assured her that he was quite contented as it was, and that he did not in the least regret the absence of Mrs. Neefit. "But she'll be ever so unhappy. She likes to see gentlemen when they call."

"And you dislike it?" asked Ralph.

"Indeed I don't then," said Polly.

And now in what way was he to do it? Would it be well to allude to her father's understanding with himself? In the ordinary way of love-making Ralph was quite as much at home as another. He had found no difficulty in saying a soft word to Clarissa Underwood, and in doing more than that. But with Polly the matter was different. There was an inappropriateness in his having to do the thing at all, which made it difficult to him,—unless he could preface what he did by an allusion to his agreement with her father. He could hardly ask Polly to be his wife without giving her some reason for the formation of so desperate a wish on his own part. "Polly," he said at last, "that was very awkward for us all,—that evening when Mr. Moggs was here."

"Indeed it was, Mr. Newton. Poor Mr. Moggs! He shouldn't have stayed;—but mother asked him."

"Has he been here since?"

"He was then, and he and I were walking together. There isn't a better fellow breathing than Ontario Moggs,—in his own way. But he's not company for you, Mr. Newton, of course."

Ralph quailed at this. To be told that his own boot-maker wasn't "company" for him,—and that by the young lady whom he intended to make his wife! "I don't think he is company for you either Polly," he said.

"Why not, Mr. Newton? He's as good as me. What's the difference between him and father?" He wondered whether, when she should be his own, he would be able to teach her to call Mr. Neefit her papa. "Mr. Newton, when you know me better, you'll know that I'm not one to give myself airs. I've known Mr. Moggs all my life, and he's equal to me, anyways,—only he's a deal better."

"I hope there's nothing more than friendship, Polly."

"What business have you to hope?"

Upon that theme he spoke, and told her in plain language that his reason for so hoping was that he trusted to be able to persuade her to become his own wife. Polly, when the word was spoken, blushed ruby red, and trembled a little. The thing had come to her, and, after all, she might be a real lady if she pleased. She blushed ruby red, and trembled, but she said not a word for a while. And then, having made his offer, he began to speak of love. In speaking of it, he was urgent enough, but his words had not that sort of suasiveness which they would have possessed had he been addressing himself to Clary Underwood. "Polly," he said, "I hope you can love me. I will love you very dearly, and do all that I can to make you happy. To me you shall be the first woman in the world. Do you think that you can love me, Polly?"

Polly was, perhaps, particular. She had not quite approved of the manner in which Ontario had disclosed his love, though there had been something of the eloquence of passion even in that;—and now she was hardly satisfied with Ralph Newton. She had formed to herself, perhaps, some idea of a soft, insinuating, coaxing whisper, something that should be half caress and half prayer, but something that should at least be very gentle and very loving. Ontario was loving, but he was not gentle. Ralph Newton was gentle, but then she doubted whether he was loving. "Will you say that it shall be so?" he asked, standing over her, and looking down upon her with his most bewitching smile.

Polly amidst her blushing and her trembling made up her mind that she would say nothing of the kind at this present moment. She would like to be a lady though she was not ashamed of being a tradesman's daughter;—but she would not buy the privilege of being a lady at too dear a price. The price would be very high indeed were she to give herself to a man who did not love her, and perhaps despised her. And then she was not quite sure that she could love this man herself, though she was possessed of a facility for liking nice young men. Ralph Newton was well enough in many ways. He was good looking, he could speak up for himself, he did not give himself airs,—and then, as she had been fully instructed by her father, he must ultimately inherit a large property. Were she to marry him her position would be absolutely that of one of the ladies of the land. But then she knew,—she could not but know,—that he sought her because he was in want of money for his present needs. To be made a lady of the land would be delightful; but to have a grand passion,—in regard to which Polly would not be satisfied unless there were as much love on one side as on the other,—would be more delightful. That latter was essentially necessary to her. The man must take an absolute pleasure in her company, or the whole thing would be a failure. So she blushed and trembled, and thought and was silent. "Dear Polly, do you mean that you cannot love me?" said Ralph.

"I don't know," said Polly.

"Will you try?" demanded Ralph.

"And I don't know that you can love me."

"Indeed, indeed, I can."

"Ah, yes;—you can say so, I don't doubt. There's a many of them as can say so, and yet it's not in 'em to do it. And there's men as don't know hardly how to say it, and yet it's in their hearts all the while." Polly must have been thinking of Ontario as she made this latter oracular observation.

"I don't know much about saying it; but I can do it, Polly."

"Oh, as for talking, you can talk. You've been brought up that way. You've had nothing else much to do."

She was very hard upon him, and so he felt it. "I think that's not fair, Polly. What can I say to you better than that I love you, and will be good to you?"

"Oh, good to me! People are always good to me. Why shouldn't they?"

"Nobody will be so good as I will be,—if you will take me. Tell me, Polly, do you not believe me when I say I love you?"

"No;—I don't."

"Why should I be false to you?"

"Ah;—well;—why? It's not for me to say why. Father's been putting you up to this. That's why."

"Your father could put me up to nothing of the kind if it were not that I really loved you."

"And there's another thing, Mr. Newton."

"What's that, Polly?"

"I'm not at all sure that I'm so very fond of you."

"That's unkind."

"Better be true than to rue," said Polly. "Why, Mr. Newton, we don't know anything about each other,—not as yet. I may be, oh, anything bad, for what you know. And for anything I know you may be idle, and extravagant, and a regular man flirt." Polly had a way of speaking the truth without much respect to persons. "And then, Mr. Newton, I'm not going to be given away by father just as he pleases. Father thinks this and that, and he means it all for the best. I love father dearly. But I don't mean to take any body as I don't feel I'd pretty nigh break my heart if I wasn't to have him. I ain't come to breaking my heart for you yet, Mr. Newton."

"I hope you never will break your heart."

"I don't suppose you understand, but that's how it is. Let it just stand by for a year or so, Mr. Newton, and see how it is then. Maybe we might get to know each other. Just now, marrying you would be like taking a husband out of a lottery." Ralph stood looking at her, passing his hand over his head, and not quite knowing how to carry on his suit. "I'll tell father what you was saying to me and what I said to you," continued Polly, who seemed quite to understand that Ralph had done his duty by his creditor in making the offer, and that justice to him demanded that this should be acknowledged by the whole family.

"And is that to be all, Polly?" asked Ralph in a melancholy voice.

"All at present, Mr. Newton."

Ralph, as he returned to London in his cab, felt more hurt by the girl's refusal of him than he would before have thought to be possible. He was almost disposed to resolve that he would at once renew the siege and carry it on as though there were no question of twenty thousand pounds, and of money borrowed from the breeches-maker. Polly had shown so much spirit in the interview, and had looked so well in showing it, had stood up such a perfect specimen of healthy, comely, honest womanhood, that he thought that he did love her. There was, however, one comfort clearly left to him. He had done his duty by old Neefit. The money due must of course be paid;—but he had in good faith done that which he had pledged himself to do in taking the money.

As to the surrender of the estate there were still left to him four days in which to think of it.



CHAPTER XX.

THE CONSERVATIVES OF PERCYCROSS.

Early in this month of September there had come a proposition to Sir Thomas, which had thoroughly disturbed him, and made him for a few days a most miserable man. By the tenth of the month, however, he had so far recovered himself as to have made up his mind in regard to the proposition with some feeling of triumphant expectation. On the following day he went home to Fulham, and communicated his determination to his eldest daughter in the following words; "Patience, I am going to stand for the borough of Percycross."

"Papa!"

"Yes. I dare say I'm a fool for my pains. It will cost me some money which I oughtn't to spend; and if I get in I don't know that I can do any good, or that it can do me any good. I suppose you think I'm very wrong?"

"I am delighted,—and so will Clary be. I'm so much pleased! Why shouldn't you be in Parliament? I have always longed that you should go back to public life, though I have never liked to say so to you."

"It is very kind of you to say it now, my dear."

"And I feel it." There was no doubt of that, for, as she spoke, the tears were streaming from her eyes. "But will you succeed? Is there to be anybody against you?"

"Yes, my dear; there is to be somebody against me. In fact, there will be three people against me; and probably I shall not succeed. Men such as I am do not have seats offered to them without a contest. But there is a chance. I was down at Percycross for two days last week, and now I've put out an address. There it is." Upon which he handed a copy of a placard to his daughter, who read it, no doubt, with more enthusiasm than did any of the free and independent electors to whom it was addressed.

The story in regard to the borough of Percycross was as follows. There were going forward in the country at this moment preparations for a general election, which was to take place in October. The readers of this story have not as yet been troubled on this head, there having been no connection between that great matter and the small matters with which our tale has concerned itself. In the Parliament lately dissolved, the very old borough of Percycross,—or Percy St. Cross, as the place was properly called,—had displayed no political partiality, having been represented by two gentlemen, one of whom always followed the conservative leader, and the other the liberal leader, into the respective lobbies of the House of Commons. The borough had very nearly been curtailed of the privilege in regard to two members in the great Reform Bill which had been initiated and perfected and carried through as a whole by the almost unaided intellect and exertions of the great reformer of his age; but it had had its own luck, as the Irishmen say, and had been preserved intact. Now the wise men of Percycross, rejoicing in their salvation, and knowing that there might still be danger before them should they venture on a contest,—for bribery had not been unknown in previous contests at Percycross, nor petitions consequent upon bribery; and some men had marvelled that the borough should have escaped so long; and there was now supposed to be abroad a spirit of assumed virtue in regard to such matters under which Percycross might still be sacrificed if Percycross did not look very sharp after itself;—thinking of all this, the wise men at Percycross had concluded that it would be better, just for the present, to let things run smoothly, and to return their two old members. When the new broom which was to sweep up the dirt of corruption was not quite so new, they might return to the old game,—which was, in truth, a game very much loved in the old town of Percycross. So thought the wise men, and for a while it seemed that the wise men were to have their own way. But there were men at Percycross who were not wise, and who would have it that such an arrangement as this showed lack of spirit. The conservative foolish men at Percycross began by declaring that they could return two members for the borough if they pleased, and that they would do so, unless this and that were conceded to them. The liberal foolish men swore that they were ready for the battle. They would concede nothing, and would stand up and fight if the word concession were named to them. They would not only have one member, but would have half the aldermen, half the town-councillors, half the mayor, half the patronage in beadles, bell-ringers and bumbledom in general. Had the great reformer of the age given them household suffrage for nothing? The liberal foolish men of Percycross declared, and perhaps thought, that they could send two liberal members to Parliament. And so the borough grew hot. There was one very learned pundit in those parts, a pundit very learned in political matters, who thus prophesied to one of the proposed candidates;—"You'll spend a thousand pounds in the election. You won't get in, of course, but you'll petition. That'll be another thousand. You'll succeed there, and disfranchise the borough. It will be a great career, and no doubt you'll find it satisfactory. You mustn't show yourself in Percycross afterwards;—that's all." But the spirit was afloat, and the words of the pundit were of no avail. The liberal spirit had been set a going, and men went to work with the new lists of borough voters. By the end of August it was seen that there must be a contest. But who should be the new candidates?

The old candidates were there,—one on each side: an old Tory and a young Radical. In telling our tale we will not go back to the old sins of the borough, or say aught but good of the past career of the members. Old Mr. Griffenbottom, the Tory, had been very generous with his purse, and was beloved, doubtless, by many in the borough. It is so well for a borough to have some one who is always ready with a fifty-pound note in this or that need! It is so comfortable in a borough to know that it can always have its subscription lists well headed! And the young Radical was popular throughout the county. No one could take a chair at a mechanics' meeting with better grace or more alacrity, or spin out his half-hour's speech with greater ease and volubility. And then he was a born gentleman, which is so great a recommendation for a Radical. So that, in fact, young Mr. Westmacott, though he did not spend so much money as old Griffenbottom, was almost as popular in the borough. There was no doubt about Griffenbottom and Westmacott,—if only the borough would have listened to its wise men and confined itself to the political guardianship of such excellent representatives! But the foolish men prevailed over the wise men, and it was decided that there should be a contest.

It was an evil day for Griffenbottom when it was suggested to him that he should bring a colleague with him. Griffenbottom knew what this meant almost as well as the learned pundit whose words we have quoted. Griffenbottom had not been blessed with uncontested elections, and had run through many perils. He had spent what he was accustomed to call, when speaking of his political position among his really intimate friends, "a treasure" in maintaining the borough. He must often have considered within himself whether his whistle was worth the price. He had petitioned and been petitioned against, and had had evil things said of him, and had gone through the very heat of the fire of political warfare. But he had kept his seat, and now at last,—so he thought,—the ease and comfort of an unopposed return was to repay him for everything. Alas! how all this was changed; how his spirits sank within him, when he received that high-toned letter from his confidential agent, Mr. Trigger, in which he was invited to suggest the name of a colleague! "I'm sure you'll be rejoiced to hear, for the sake of the old borough," said Mr. Trigger, "that we feel confident of carrying the two seats." Could Mr. Trigger have heard the remarks which his patron made on reading that letter, Mr. Trigger would have thought that Mr. Griffenbottom was the most ungrateful member of Parliament in the world. What did not Mr. Griffenbottom owe to the borough of Percycross? Did he not owe all his position in the world, all his friends, the fact that he was to be seen on the staircases of Cabinet Ministers, and that he was called "honourable friend" by the sons of dukes,—did he not owe it all to the borough of Percycross? Mr. Trigger and other friends of his, felt secure in their conviction that they had made a man of Mr. Griffenbottom. Mr. Griffenbottom understood enough of all this to answer Mr. Trigger without inserting in his letter any of those anathemas which he uttered in the privacy of his own closet. He did, indeed, expostulate, saying, that he would of course suggest a colleague, if a colleague were required; but did not Mr. Trigger and his other friends in the dear old borough think that just at the present moment a pacific line of action would be best for the interests of the dear old borough? Mr. Trigger answered him very quickly, and perhaps a little sharply. The Liberals had decided upon having two men in the field, and therefore a pacific line of action was no longer possible. Mr. Griffenbottom hurried over to the dear old borough, still hoping,—but could do nothing. The scent of the battle was in the air, and the foolish men of Percycross were keen for blood. Mr. Griffenbottom smiled and promised, and declared to himself that there was no peace for the politician on this side the grave. He made known his desires,—or the desire rather of the borough,—to a certain gentleman connected with a certain club in London, and the gentleman in question on the following day waited upon Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas had always been true "to the party,"—so the gentleman in question was good enough to say. Everybody had regretted the loss of Sir Thomas from the House. The present opportunity of returning to it was almost unparalleled, seeing that thing was so nearly a certainty. Griffenbottom had always been at the top of the poll, and the large majority of the new voters were men in the employment of conservative masters. The gentleman in question was very clear in his explanation that there was a complete understanding on this matter between the employers and employed at Percycross. It was the nature of the Percycross artizan to vote as his master voted. They made boots, mustard, and paper at Percycross. The men in the mustard and paper trade were quite safe;—excellent men, who went in a line to the poll, and voted just as the master paper-makers and master mustard-makers desired. The gentleman from the club acknowledged that there was a difficulty about the boot-trade. All the world over, boots do affect radical sentiments. The master bootmakers,—there were four in the borough,—were decided; but the men could not be got at with any certainty.

"Why should you wish to get at them?" demanded Sir Thomas.

"No;—of course not; one doesn't wish to get at them," said the gentleman from the club,—"particularly as we are safe without them." Then he went into statistics, and succeeded in proving to Sir Thomas that there would be a hard fight. Sir Thomas, who was much pressed as to time, took a day to consider. "Did Mr. Griffenbottom intend to fight the battle with clean hands?" The gentleman from the club was eager in declaring that everything would be done in strict accordance with the law. He could give no guarantee as to expenses, but presumed it would be about L300,—perhaps L400,—certainly under L500. The other party no doubt would bribe. They always did. And on their behalf,—on behalf of Westmacott and Co.,—there would be treating, and intimidation, and subornation, and fictitious voting, and every sin to which an election is subject. It always was so with the Liberals at Percycross. But Sir Thomas might be sure that on his side everything would be—"serene." Sir Thomas at last consented to go down to Percycross, and see one or two of his proposed supporters.

He did go down, and was considerably disgusted. Mr. Trigger took him in hand and introduced him to three or four gentlemen in the borough. Sir Thomas, in his first interview with Mr. Trigger, declared his predilection for purity. "Yes, yes; yes, yes; of course," said Mr. Trigger. Mr. Trigger, seeing that Sir Thomas had come among them as a stranger to whom had been offered the very great honour of standing for the borough of Percycross,—offered to him before he had subscribed a shilling to any of the various needs of the borough,—was not disposed to listen to dictation. But Sir Thomas insisted. "It's as well that we should understand each other at once," said Sir Thomas. "I should throw up the contest in the middle of it,—even if I were winning,—if I suspected that money was being spent improperly." How often has the same thing been said by a candidate, and what candidate ever has thrown up the sponge when he was winning? Mr. Trigger was at first disposed to tell Sir Thomas that he was interfering in things beyond his province. Had it not been that the day was late, and that the Liberals were supposed to be hard at work,—that the candidate was wanted at once, Mr. Trigger would have shown his spirit. As it was he could only assent with a growl, and say that he had supposed all that was to be taken as a matter of course.

"But I desire to have it absolutely understood by all those who act with me in this matter," said Sir Thomas. "At any rate I will not be petitioned against."

"Petitions never come to much at Percycross," said Mr. Trigger. He certainly ought to have known, as he had had to do with a great many of them. Then they started to call upon two or three of the leading conservative gentlemen. "If I were you, I wouldn't say anything about that, Sir Thomas."

"About what?"

"Well;—bribery and petitions, and the rest of it. Gentlemen when they're consulted don't like to be told of those sort of things. There has been a little of it, perhaps. Who can say?" Who, indeed, if not Mr. Trigger,—in regard to Percycross? "But it's better to let all that die out of itself. It never came to much in Percycross. I don't think there was ever more than ten shillings to be had for a vote. And I've known half-a-crown a piece buy fifty of 'em," he added emphatically. "It never was of much account, and it's best to say nothing about it."

"It's best perhaps to make one's intentions known," said Sir Thomas mildly. Mr. Trigger hummed and hawed, and shook his head, and put his hands into his trousers pockets;—and in his heart of hearts he despised Sir Thomas.

On that day Sir Thomas was taken to see four gentlemen of note in Percycross,—a mustard-maker, a paper-maker, and two bootmakers. The mustard-maker was very cordial in offering his support. He would do anything for the cause. Trigger knew him. The men were all right at his mills. Then Sir Thomas said a word. He was a great foe to intimidation;—he wouldn't for worlds have the men coerced. The mustard-maker laughed cheerily. "We know what all that comes to at Percycross; don't we, Trigger? We shall all go straight from this place;—shan't we, Trigger? And he needn't ask any questions;—need he, Trigger?" "Lord 'a mercy, no," said Trigger, who was beginning to be disgusted. Then they went on to the paper-maker's.

The paper-maker was a very polite gentleman, who seemed to take great delight in shaking Sir Thomas by the hand, and who agreed with energy to every word Sir Thomas said. Trigger stood a little apart at the paper-maker's, as soon as the introduction had been performed,—perhaps disapproving in part of the paper-maker's principles. "Certainly not, Sir Thomas; not for the world, Sir Thomas. I'm clean against anything of that kind, Sir Thomas," said the paper-maker. Sir Thomas assured the paper-maker that he was glad to hear it;—and he was glad. As they went to the first bootmaker's, Mr. Trigger communicated to Sir Thomas a certain incident in the career of Mr. Spiveycomb, the paper-maker. "He's got a contract for paper from the 'Walhamshire Herald,' Sir Thomas;—the largest circulation anywhere in these parts. Griffenbottom gets him that; and if ere a man of his didn't vote as he bade 'em, he wouldn't keep 'em, not a day. I don't know that we've a man in Percycross so stanch as old Spiveycomb." This was Mr. Trigger's revenge.

The first bootmaker had very little to say for himself, and hardly gave Sir Thomas much opportunity of preaching his doctrine of purity. "I hope you'll do something for our trade, Sir Thomas," said the first bootmaker. Sir Thomas explained that he did not at present see his way to the doing of anything special for the bootmakers; and then took his leave. "He's all right," said Mr. Trigger. "He means it. He's all right. And he'll say a word to his men too, though I don't know that much 'll come of it. They're a rum lot. If they're put out here to-day, they can get in there to-morrow. They're a cankery independent sort of chaps, are bootmakers. Now we'll go and see old Pile. He'll have to second one of you,—will Pile. He's a sort of father of the borough in the way of Conservatives. And look here, Sir Thomas;—let him talk. Don't you say much to him. It's no use in life talking to old Pile." Sir Thomas said nothing, but he determined that he would speak to old Pile just as freely as he had to Mr. Trigger himself.

"Eh;—ah;"—said old Pile; "you're Sir Thomas Underwood, are you? And you wants to go into Parliament?"

"If it please you and your townsmen to send me there."

"Yes;—that's just it. But if it don't please?"

"Why, then I'll go home again."

"Just so;—but the people here ain't what they are at other places, Sir Thomas Underwood. I've seen many elections here, Sir Thomas."

"No doubt you have, Mr. Pile."

"Over a dozen;—haven't you, Mr. Pile?" said Trigger.

"And carried on a deal better than they have been since you meddled with them," said Mr. Pile, turning upon Trigger. "They used to do the thing here as it should be done, and nobody wasn't extortionate, nor yet cross-grained. They're changing a deal about these things, I'm told; but they're changing all for the worse. They're talking of purity,—purity,—purity; and what does it all amount to? Men is getting greedier every day."

"We mean to be pure at this election, Mr. Pile," said Sir Thomas. Mr. Pile looked him hard in the face. "At least I do, Mr. Pile. I can answer for myself." Mr. Pile turned away his face, and opened his mouth, and put his hand upon his stomach, and made a grimace, as though,—as though he were not quite as well as he might be. And such was the case with him. The idea of purity of election at Percy-cross did in truth make him feel very sick. It was an idea which he hated with his whole heart. There was to him something absolutely mean and ignoble in the idea of a man coming forward to represent a borough in Parliament without paying the regular fees. That somebody, somewhere, should make a noise about it,—somebody who was impalpable to him, in some place that was to him quite another world,—was intelligible. It might be all very well in Manchester and such-like disagreeable places. But that candidates should come down to Percycross and talk about purity there, was a thing abominable to him. He had nothing to get by bribery. To a certain extent he was willing to pay money in bribery himself. But that a stranger should come to the borough and want the seat without paying for it was to him so distasteful, that this assurance from the mouth of one of the candidates did make him very sick.

"I think you'd better go back to London, Sir Thomas," said Mr. Pile, as soon as he recovered himself sufficiently to express his opinion.

"You mean that my ideas as to standing won't suit the borough."

"No, they won't, Sir Thomas. I don't suppose anybody else will tell you so,—but I'll do it. Why should, a poor man lose his day's wages for the sake of making you a Parliament man? What have you done for any of 'em?"

"Half an hour would take a working man to the poll and back," argued Sir Thomas.

"That's all you know about elections. That's not the way we manage matters here. There won't be any place of business agait that day." Then Mr. Trigger whispered a few words to Mr. Pile. Mr. Pile repeated the grimace which he had made before, and turned on his heel although he was in his own parlour, as though he were going to leave them. But he thought better of this, and turned again. "I always vote Blue myself," said Mr. Pile, "and I don't suppose I shall do otherwise this time. But I shan't take no trouble. There's a many things that I don't like, Sir Thomas. Good morning, Sir Thomas. It's all very well for Mr. Trigger. He knows where the butter lies for his bread."

"A very disagreeable old man," said Sir Thomas, when they had left the house, thinking that as Mr. Trigger had been grossly insulted by the bootmaker he would probably coincide in this opinion.

But Mr. Trigger knew his townsman well, and was used to him. "He's better than some of 'em, Sir Thomas. He'll do as much as he says, and more. Now there was that chap Spicer at the mustard works. They say Westmacott people are after him, and if they can make it worth his while he'll go over. There's some talk about Apothecary's Hall;—I don't know what it is. But you couldn't buy old Pile if you were to give him the Queen and all the Royal family to make boots for."

This was to have been the last of Sir Thomas's preliminary visits among the leading Conservatives of the borough, but as they were going back to the "Percy Standard,"—for such was the name of the Blue inn in the borough,—Mr. Trigger saw a gentleman in black standing at an open hall door, and immediately proposed that they should just say a word or two to Mr. Pabsby. "Wesleyan minister," whispered the Percycross bear-leader into the ear of his bear;—"and has a deal to say to many of the men, and more to the women. Can't say what he'll do;—split his vote, probably." Then he introduced the two men, explaining the cause of Sir Thomas's presence in the borough. Mr. Pabsby was delighted to make the acquaintance of Sir Thomas, and asked the two gentlemen into the house. In truth he was delighted. The hours often ran heavily with him, and here there was something for him to do. "You'll give us a help, Mr. Pabsby?" said Mr. Trigger. Mr. Pabsby smiled and rubbed his hands, and paused and laid his head on one side.

"I hope he will," said Sir Thomas, "if he is of our way cf thinking, otherwise I should be sorry to ask him." Still Mr. Pabsby said nothing;—but he smiled very sweetly, and laid his head a little lower.



"He knows we're on the respectable side," said Mr. Trigger. "The Wesleyans now are most as one as the Church of England,—in the way of not being roughs and rowdies." Sir Thomas, who did not know Mr. Pabsby, was afraid that he would be offended at this; but he showed no sign of offence as he continued to rub his hands. Mr. Pabsby was meditating his speech.

"We're a little hurried, Mr. Pabsby," said Mr. Trigger; "perhaps you'll think of it."

But Mr. Pabsby was not going to let them escape in that way. It was not every day that he had a Sir Thomas, or a candidate for the borough, or even a Mr. Trigger, in that little parlour. The fact was that Mr. Trigger, who generally knew what he was about, had made a mistake. Sir Thomas, who was ready enough to depart, saw that an immediate escape was impossible. "Sir Thomas," began Mr. Pabsby, in a soft, greasy voice,—a voice made up of pretence, politeness and saliva,—"if you will give me three minutes to express myself on this subject I shall be obliged to you."

"Certainly," said Sir Thomas, sitting bolt upright in his chair, and holding his hat as though he were determined to go directly the three minutes were over.

"A minister of the Gospel in this town is placed in a peculiar position, Sir Thomas," said Mr. Pabsby very slowly, "and of all the ministers of religion in Percycross mine is the most peculiar. In this matter I would wish to be guided wholly by duty, and if I could see my way clearly I would at once declare it to you. But, Sir Thomas, I owe much to the convictions of my people."

"Which way do you mean to vote?" asked Mr. Trigger.

Mr. Pabsby did not even turn his face at this interruption. "A private man, Sir Thomas, may follow the dictates of—of—of his own heart, perhaps." Here he paused, expecting to be encouraged by some words. But Sir Thomas had acquired professionally a knowledge that to such a speaker as Mr. Pabsby any rejoinder or argument was like winding up a clock. It is better to allow such clocks to run down. "With me, I have to consider every possible point. What will my people wish? Some of them are eager in the cause of reform, Sir Thomas; and some others—"

"We shall lose the train," said Mr. Trigger, jumping up and putting on his hat.

"I'm afraid we shall," said Sir Thomas rising, but not putting on his.

"Half a minute," said Mr. Pabsby pleading, but not rising from his chair. "Perhaps you will do me the honour of calling on me when you are again here in Percycross. I shall have the greatest pleasure in discussing a few matters with you, Sir Thomas; and then, if I can give you my poor help, it will give me and Mrs. Pabsby the most sincere pleasure." Mrs. Pabsby had now entered the room, and was introduced; but Trigger would not sit down again, nor take off his hat. He boldly marshalled the way to the door, while Sir Thomas followed, subject as he came to the eloquence of Mr. Pabsby. "If I can only see my way clearly, Sir Thomas," were the last words which Mr. Pabsby spoke.

"He'll give one to Griffenbottom, certainly," said Mr. Trigger. "Westmacott 'll probably have the other. I thought perhaps your title might have gone down with him, but it didn't seem to take."

All this was anything but promising, anything but comfortable; and yet before he went to bed that night Sir Thomas had undertaken to stand. In such circumstances it is very hard for a man to refuse. He feels that a certain amount of trouble has been taken on his behalf, that retreat will be cowardly, and that the journey for nothing will be personally disagreeable to his own feelings. And then, too, there was that renewed ambition in his breast,—an ambition which six months ago he would have declared to be at rest for ever,—but which prompted him, now as strongly as ever, to go forward and do something. It is so easy to go and see;—so hard to retreat when one has seen. He had not found Percycross to be especially congenial to him. He had felt himself to be out of his element there,—among people with whom he had no sympathies; and he felt also that he had been unfitted for this kind of thing by the life which he had led for the last few years. Still he undertook to stand.

"Who is coming forward on the other side?" he asked Mr. Trigger late at night, when this matter had been decided in regard to himself.

"Westmacott, of course," said Trigger, "and I'm told that the real Rads of the place have got hold of a fellow named Moggs."

"Moggs!" ejaculated Sir Thomas.

"Yes;—Moggs. The Young Men's Reform Association is bringing him forward. He's a Trades' Union man, and a Reform Leaguer, and all that kind of thing. I shouldn't be surprised if he got in. They say he's got money."



CHAPTER XXI.

THE LIBERALS OF PERCYCROSS.

Yes;—Ontario Moggs was appalled, delighted, exalted, and nearly frightened out of his wits by an invitation, conveyed to him by certain eager spirits of the town, to come down and stand on the real radical interest for the borough of Percycross. The thing was not suggested to him till a day or two after Sir Thomas had been sounded, and he was then informed that not an hour was to be lost. The communication was made in the little back parlour of the Cheshire Cheese, and Moggs was expected to give an answer then and there. He stood with his hand on his brow for five minutes, and then asked that special question which should always come first on such occasions. Would it cost any money? Well;—yes. The eager spirits of Percycross thought that it would cost something. They were forced to admit that Percycross was not one of those well-arranged boroughs in which the expenses of an election are all defrayed by the public spirit of the citizens. It soon became clear that the deputation had waited upon Moggs, not only because Moggs was a good Radical, but because also Moggs was supposed to be a Radical with a command of money. Ontario frowned and expressed an opinion that all elections should be made absolutely free to the candidates. "And everybody ought to go to 'eaven, Mr. Moggs," said the leading member of the deputation, "but everybody don't, 'cause things ain't as they ought to be." There was no answer to be made to this. Ontario could only strike his forehead and think. It was clear to him that he could not give an affirmative answer that night, and he therefore, with some difficulty, arranged an adjournment of the meeting till the following afternoon at 2 P.M. "We must go down by the 4.45 express to-morrow," said the leading member of the deputation, who even by that arrangement would subject himself to the loss of two days' wages,—for he was a foreman in the establishment of Mr. Spicer the mustard-maker,—and whose allowance for expenses would not admit of his sleeping away from home a second night. Ontario departed, promising to be ready with his answer by 2 P.M. on the following day.

How bright with jewels was the crown now held before his eyes, and yet how unapproachable, how far beyond his grasp! To be a member of Parliament, to speak in that august assembly instead of wasting his eloquence on the beery souls of those who frequented the Cheshire Cheese, to be somebody in the land at his early age,—something so infinitely superior to a maker of boots! A member of Parliament was by law an esquire, and therefore a gentleman. Ralph Newton was not a member of Parliament;—not half so great a fellow as a member of Parliament. Surely if he were to go to Polly Neefit as a member of Parliament Polly would reject him no longer! And to what might it not lead? He had visions before his eyes of very beautiful moments in his future life, in which, standing, as it were, on some well-chosen rostrum in that great House, he would make the burning thoughts of his mind, the soaring aspirations of his heart, audible to all the people. How had Cobden begun his career,—and Bright? Had it not been in this way? Why should not he be as great,—greater than either;—greater, because in these coming days a man of the people would be able to wield a power more extensive than the people had earned for themselves in former days? And then, as he walked alone through the streets, he took to making speeches,—some such speeches as he would make when he stood up in his place in the House of Commons as the member for Percycross. The honourable member for Percycross! There was something ravishing in the sound. Would not that sound be pleasant to the ears of Polly Neefit?

But then, was not the thing as distant as it was glorious? How could he be member for Percycross, seeing that in all matters he was subject to his father? His father hated the very name of the Cheshire Cheese, and was, in every turn and feeling of his life, diametrically opposed to his son's sentiments. He would, nevertheless, go to his father and demand assistance. If on such an occasion as this his father should give him a stone when he asked for bread, he and his father must be two! "If, when such a prospect as this is held out to his son, he cannot see it," said Ontario, "then he can see nothing!" But yet he was sure that his father wouldn't see it.

To his extreme astonishment Mr. Moggs senior did see it. It was some time before Mr. Moggs senior clearly understood the proposition which was made to him, but when he did he became alive to the honour,—and perhaps profit,—of having a member of his firm in Parliament. Of politics in the abstract Mr. Moggs senior knew very little. Nor, indeed, did he care much. In matters referring to trade he was a Conservative, because he was a master. He liked to be able to manage his people, and to pay 5s. 3d. instead of 5s. 8d. for the making of a pair of boots. He hated the Cheshire Cheese because his son went there, and because his son entertained strange and injurious ideas which were propagated at that low place. But if the Cheshire Cheese would send his son to Parliament, Mr. Moggs did not know but what the Cheshire Cheese might be very well. At any rate, he undertook to pay the bills, if Ontario, his son, were brought forward as a candidate for the borough. He lost his head so completely in the glory of the thing, that it never occurred to him to ask what might be the probable amount of the expenditure. "There ain't no father in all London as 'd do more for his son than I would, if only I see'd there was something in it," said Moggs senior, with a tear in his eye. Moggs junior was profuse in gratitude, profuse in obedience, profuse in love. Oh, heavens, what a golden crown was there now within his grasp!

All this occurred between the father and son early in the morning at Shepherd's Bush, whither the son had gone out to the father after a night of feverish longing and ambition. They went into town together, on the top of the omnibus, and Ontario felt that he was being carried heavenwards. What a heaven had he before him, even in that fortnight's canvass which it would be his glory to undertake! What truths he would tell to the people, how he would lead them with him by political revelations that should be almost divine, how he would extract from them bursts of rapturous applause! To explain to them that labour is the salt of the earth;—that would be his mission. And then, how sweet to teach them the value, the inestimable value, of the political privilege lately accorded to them,—or, as Ontario would put it, lately wrested on their behalf from the hands of an aristocracy which was more timid even than it was selfish;—how sweet to explain this, and then to instruct them, afterwards, that it was their duty now, having got this great boon for themselves, to see at once that it should be extended to those below them. "Let the first work of household suffrage be a demand for manhood suffrage." This had been enunciated by Ontario Moggs with great effect at the Cheshire Cheese;—and now, as the result of such enunciation, he was going down to Percycross to stand as a candidate for the borough! He was almost drunk with delight as he sat upon the knife-board of the Shepherd's Bush omnibus, thinking of it all.

He, too, went down to Percycross, making a preliminary journey,—as had done Sir Thomas Underwood,—timing his arrival there a day or two after the departure of the lawyer. Alas, he, also, met much to disappoint him even at that early period of the contest. The people whom he was taken to see were not millionaires and tradesmen in a large way of business, but leading young men of warm political temperaments. This man was president of a mechanics' institute, that secretary to an amalgamation of unions for general improvement, and a third chairman of the Young Men's Reform Association. They were delighted to see him, and were very civil; but he soon found that they were much more anxious to teach him than they were to receive his political lessons. When he began, as unfortunately he did very early in his dealings with them, to open out his own views, he soon found that they had views also to open out. He was to represent them,—that is to say, become the mouthpiece of their ideas. He had been selected because he was supposed to have some command of money. Of course he would have to address the people in the Mechanics' Hall; but the chairman of the Young Men's Reform Association was very anxious to tell him what to say on that occasion. "I am accustomed to addressing people," said Ontario Moggs, with a considerable accession of dignity.

He had the satisfaction of addressing the people, and the people received him kindly. But he thought he observed that the applause was greater when the secretary of the Amalgamation-of-Improvement-Unions spoke, and he was sure that the enthusiasm for the Young Men's chairman mounted much higher than had done any ardour on his own behalf. And he was astonished to find that these young men were just as fluent as himself. He did think, indeed, that they did not go quite so deep into the matter as he did, that they had not thought out great questions so thoroughly, but they had a way of saying things which,—which would have told even at the Cheshire Cheese. The result of all this was, that at the end of three days,—though he was, no doubt, candidate for the borough of Percycross, and in that capacity a great man in Percycross,—he did not seem to himself to be so great as he had been when he made the journey down from London. There was a certain feeling that he was a cat's-paw, brought there for certain objects which were not his objects,—because they wanted money, and some one who would be fool enough to fight a losing battle! He did not reap all that meed of personal admiration for his eloquence which he expected.

And, then, during these three days there arose another question, the discussion of which embarrassed him not a little. Mr. Westmacott was in the town, and there was a question whether he and Mr. Westmacott were to join forces. It was understood that Mr. Westmacott and Mr. Westmacott's leading friends objected to this; but the chairmen of the young men, and the presidents and the secretaries on the Radical side put their heads together, and declared that if Mr. Westmacott were proud they would run their horse alone;—they would vote for Moggs, and for Moggs only. Or else,—as it was whispered,—they would come to terms with Griffenbottom, and see that Sir Thomas was sent back to London. The chairmen, and the presidents, and the secretaries were powerful enough to get the better of Mr. Westmacott, and large placards were printed setting forward the joint names of Westmacott and Moggs. The two liberal candidates were to employ the same agent, and were to canvass together. This was all very well,—was the very thing which Moggs should have desired. But it was all arranged without any consultation with him, and he felt that the objection which had been raised was personal to himself. Worse than all, when he was brought face to face with Mr. Westmacott he had not a word to say for himself! He tried it and failed. Mr. Westmacott had been a member of Parliament, and was a gentleman. Ontario, for aught he himself knew, might have called upon Mr. Westmacott for the amount of Mr. Westmacott's little bill. He caught himself calling Mr. Westmacott, sir, and almost wished that he could bite out his own tongue. He felt that he was a nobody in the interview, and that the chairmen, the secretaries, and the presidents were regretting their bargain, and saying among themselves that they had done very badly in bringing down Ontario Moggs as a candidate for their borough. There were moments before he left Percycross in which he was almost tempted to resign.

But he left the town the accepted candidate of his special friends, and was assured, with many parting grasps of the hand on the platform, that he would certainly be brought in at the top of the poll. Another little incident should be mentioned. He had been asked by the electioneering agent for a small trifle of some hundred pounds towards the expenses, and this, by the generosity of his father, he had been able to give. "We shall get along now like a house on fire," said the agent, as he pocketed the cheque. Up to that moment there may have been doubts upon the agent's mind.

As he went back to London he acknowledged to himself that he had failed hitherto,—he had failed in making that impression at Percycross which would have been becoming to him as the future member of Parliament for the borough; but he gallantly resolved that he would do better in the future. He would speak in such a way that the men of Percycross should listen to him and admire. He would make occasion for himself. He thought that he could do better than Mr. Westmacott,—put more stuff in what he had got to say. And, whatever might happen to him, he would hold up his head. Why should he not be as good a man as Westmacott? It was the man that was needed,—not the outside trappings. Then he asked himself a question whether, as trappings themselves were so trivial, a man was necessarily mean who dealt in trappings. He did not remember to have heard of a bootmaker in Parliament. But there should be a bootmaker in Parliament soon;—and thus he plucked up his courage.

On his journey down to Percycross he had thought that immediately on his return to London he would go across to Hendon, and take advantage of his standing as a candidate for the borough; but as he returned he resolved that he would wait till the election was over. He would go to Polly with all his honours on his head.



CHAPTER XXII.

RALPH NEWTON'S DECISION.

Ontario Moggs was at Percycross when Ralph Newton was making his formal offer to Polly Neefit. Ralph when he had made his offer returned to London with mixed feelings. He had certainly been oppressed at times by the conviction that he must make the offer even though it went against the grain with him to do so;—and at these moments he had not failed to remind himself that he was about to make himself miserable for life because he had been weak enough to take pecuniary assistance in the hour of his temporary necessities from the hands of Polly's father. Now he had made his offer; it had not been accepted, and he was still free. He could see his way out of that dilemma without dishonour. But then that dilemma became very much smaller to his sight when it was surmounted,—as is the nature with all dilemmas; and the other dilemma, which would have been remedied had Polly accepted him, again loomed very large. And as he looked back at the matrimonial dilemma which he had escaped, and at Polly standing before him, comely, healthy, and honest, such a pleasant armful, and so womanly withal,—so pleasant a girl if only she was not to be judged and sentenced by others beside himself,—he almost thought that that dilemma was one which he could have borne without complaint. But Polly's suggestion that they should allow a year to run round in order that they might learn to know each other was one which he could not entertain. He had but three days in which to give an answer to his uncle, and up to this time two alternatives had been open to him,—the sale of his reversion and independence, or Polly and the future lordship of Newton. He had thought that there was nothing but to choose. It had not occurred to him that Polly would raise any objection. He had felt neither fear nor hope in that direction. It followed as a consequence now that the lordship must go. He would not, however, make up his mind that it should go till the last moment.

On the following morning he was thinking that he might as well go to the shop in Conduit Street, feeling that he could encounter Neefit without any qualms of conscience, when Mr. Neefit came to him. This was certainly a better arrangement. It was easier to talk of his own affairs sitting at ease in his own arm-chair, than to carry on the discussion among the various sporting garments which adorned Mr. Neefit's little back room, subject to interruption from customers, and possibly within the hearing of Mr. Waddle and Herr Bawwah. Neefit, seated at the end of the sofa in Ralph's comfortable room, looking out of his saucer eyes with all his energy, was in a certain degree degrading,—but was not quite so degrading as Neefit at his own barn-door in Conduit Street. "I was just coming to you," he said, as he made the breeches-maker welcome.

"Well;—yes; but I thought I'd catch you here, Captain. Them men of mine has such long ears! That German who lets on that he don't understand only just a word or two of English, hears everything through a twelve-inch brick wall. Polly told me as you'd been with her."

"I suppose so, Mr. Neefit."

"Oh, she ain't one as 'd keep anything from me. She's open and straightforward, anyways."

"So I found her."

"Now look here, Captain. I've just one word to say about her. Stick to her." Ralph was well aware that he must explain the exact circumstances in which he stood to the man who was to have been his father-in-law, but hardly knew how to begin his explanation. "She ain't nowise again you," continued Mr. Neefit. "She owned as much when I put her through her facings. I did put her through her facings pretty tightly. 'What is it that you want, Miss?' said I. 'D' you want to have a husband, or d' you want to be an old maid?' They don't like that word old maid;—not as used again themselves, don't any young woman."

"Polly will never be an old maid," said Ralph.

"She owned as she didn't want that. 'I suppose I'll have to take some of 'em some day,' she said. Lord, how pretty she did look as she said it;—just laughing and crying, smiling and pouting all at once. She ain't a bad 'un to look at, Captain?"

"Indeed she is not."

"Nor yet to go. Do you stick to her. Them's my words. 'D' you want to have that ugly bootmaker?' said I. 'He ain't ugly,' said she. 'D' you want to have him, Miss?' said I. 'No, I don't,' said she. 'Well!' said I. 'But I do know him,' said Polly, 'and I don't know Mr. Newton no more than Adam!' Them were her very words, Captain. Do you stick to her, Captain. I'll tell you what. Let's all go down to Margate together for a week." That was Mr. Neefit's plan of action.

Then Ralph got up from his easy-chair and began his explanation. He couldn't very well go down to Margate, delightful as it would be to sit upon the sands with Polly. He was so situated that he must at once decide as to the sale of his property at Newton. Mr. Neefit put his hands in his pockets, and sat perfectly silent, listening to his young friend's explanation. If Polly would have accepted him at once, Ralph went on to explain, everything would have been straight; but, as she would not do so, he must take his uncle's offer. He had no other means of extricating himself from his embarrassments. "Why, Mr. Neefit, I could not look you in the face unless I were prepared to pay you your money," he said.

"Drat that," replied Neefit, and then again he listened.

Ralph went on. He could not go on long in his present condition. His bill for L500 to Mr. Horsball of the Moonbeam was coming round. He literally had not L20 in his possession to carry on the war. His uncle's offer would be withdrawn if it were not accepted the day after to-morrow. Nobody else would give half so much. The thing must be done, and then;—why, then he would have nothing to offer to Polly worthy of her acceptance. "Bother," said Mr. Neefit, who had not once taken his eyes off Ralph's face. Ralph said that that might be all very well, but such were the facts. "You ain't that soft that you're going to let 'em rob you of the estate?" said the breeches-maker in a tone of horror. Ralph raised his hands and his eyebrows together. Yes;—that was what he intended to do.

"There shan't be nothing of the kind," said the breeches-maker. "What! L7,000 a year, ain't it? All in land, ain't it? And it must be your own, let 'em do what they will; mustn't it?" He paused a moment, and Ralph nodded his head. "What you have to do is to get a wife,—and a son before any of 'em can say Jack Robinson. Lord bless you! Just spit at 'em if they talks of buying it. S'pose the old gent was to go off all along of apperplexy the next day, how'd you feel then? Like cutting your throat;—wouldn't you, Captain?"

"But my uncle's life is very good."

"He ain't got no receipt against kingdom come, I dare say." Ralph was surprised by his tradesman's eloquence and wit. "You have a chick of your own, and then you'll know as it'll be yours some way or other. If I'd the chance I'd sooner beg, borrow, starve, or die, before I'd sell it;—let alone working, Captain." There was satire too as well as eloquence in the breeches-maker. "No;—you must run your chance, somehow."

"I don't see my way," said Ralph.

"You have got something, Captain;—something of your own?"

"Well;—just enough to pay my debts, if all were sold, and buy myself a rope to hang myself."

"I'll pay your debts, Captain."

"I couldn't hear of it, Mr. Neefit."

"As for not hearing of it,—that's bother. You do hear of it now. And how much more do you want to keep you? You shall have what you want. You meant honest along of Polly yesterday, and you mean honest now." Ralph winced, but he did not deny what Neefit said, nor aught that was implied in the saying. "We'll bring you and Polly together, and I tell you she'll come round." Ralph shook his head. "Anyways you shall have the money;—there now. We'll have a bit of a paper, and if this marriage don't come off there'll be the money to come back, and five per cent. when the old gent dies."

"But I might die first."

"We'll insure your life, Captain. Only we must be upon the square."

"Oh, yes," said Ralph.

"I'd rather a'most lose it all than think such a chance should be missed. L7,000 a year, and all in land? When one knows how hard it is to get, to think of selling it!"

Ralph made no positive promise, but when Mr. Neefit left him, there was,—so at least thought Mr. Neefit,—an implied understanding that "the Captain" would at once put an end to this transaction between him and his uncle. And yet Ralph didn't feel quite certain. The breeches-maker had been generous,—very generous, and very trusting; but he hated the man's generosity and confidence. The breeches-maker had got such a hold of him that he seemed to have lost all power of thinking and acting for himself. And then such a man as he was, with his staring round eyes, and heavy face, and dirty hands, and ugly bald head! There is a baldness that is handsome and noble, and a baldness that is peculiarly mean and despicable. Neefit's baldness was certainly of the latter order. Now Moggs senior, who was grey and not bald, was not bad looking,—at a little distance. His face when closely inspected was poor and greedy, but the general effect at a passing glance was not contemptible. Moggs might have been a banker, or an officer in the Commissariat, or a clerk in the Treasury. A son-in-law would have had hopes of Moggs. But nothing of the kind was possible with Neefit. One would be forced to explain that he was a respectable tradesman in Conduit Street in order that he might not be taken for a dealer in potatoes from Whitechapel. He was hopeless. And yet he had taken upon himself the absolute management of all Ralph Newton's affairs!

Ralph was very unhappy, and in his misery he went to Sir Thomas's chambers. This was about four o'clock in the day, at which hour Sir Thomas was almost always in his rooms. But Stemm with much difficulty succeeded in making him believe that the lawyer was not at home. Stemm at this time was much disturbed by his master's terrible resolution to try the world again, to stand for a seat in Parliament, and to put himself once more in the way of work and possible promotion. Stemm had condemned the project,—but, nevertheless, took glory in it. What if his master should become,—should become anything great and magnificent. Stemm had often groaned in silence,—had groaned unconsciously, that his master should be nothing. He loved his master thoroughly,—loving no one else in the whole world,—and sympathised with him acutely. Still he had condemned the project. "There's so many of them, Sir Thomas, as is only wanting to put their fingers into somebody's eyes." "No doubt, Stemm, no doubt," said Sir Thomas; "and as well into mine as another's." "That's it, Sir Thomas." "But I'll just run down and see, Stemm." And so it had been settled. Stemm, who had always hated Ralph Newton, and who now regarded his master's time as more precious than ever, would hardly give any answer at all to Ralph's enquiries. His master might be at home at Fulham,—probably was. Where should a gentleman so likely be as at home,—that is, when he wasn't in chambers? "Anyways, he's not here," said Stemm, bobbing his head, and holding the door ready to close it. Ralph was convinced, then dined at his club, and afterwards went down to Fulham. He had heard nothing from Stemm, or elsewhere, of the intended candidature.

Sir Thomas was not at Fulham, nor did the girls know aught of his whereabouts. But the great story was soon told. Papa was going to stand for Percycross. "We are so glad," said Mary Bonner, bursting out into enthusiasm. "We walk about the garden making speeches to the electors all day. Oh dear, I do wish we could do something."

"Glad is no word," said Clarissa. "But if he loses it!"

"The very trying for it is good," said Patience. "It is just the proper thing for papa."

"I shall feel so proud when uncle is in Parliament again," said Mary Bonner. "A woman's pride is always vicarious;—but still it is pride."

Ralph also was surprised,—so much surprised that for a few minutes his own affairs were turned out of his head. He, too, had thought that Sir Thomas would never again do anything in the world,—unless that book should be written of which he had so often heard hints,—though never yet, with any accuracy, its name or subject. Sir Thomas, he was told, had been at Percycross, but was not supposed to be there now. "Of course he was in his chambers," said Clarissa. "Old Stemm does know how to tell lies so well!" It was, however, acknowledged that, having on his hands a piece of business so very weighty, Sir Thomas might be almost anywhere without any fault on his part. A gentleman in the throes of an election for Parliament could not be expected to be at home. Even Patience did not feel called upon to regret his absence.

Before he went back to town Ralph found himself alone with Mary for a few minutes. "Mr. Newton," she said, "why don't you stand for Parliament?"

"I have not the means."

"You have great prospects. I should have thought you were just the man who ought to make it the work of your life to get into Parliament." Ralph began to ask himself what had been the work of his life. "They say that to be of real use a man ought to begin young."

"Nobody ought to go into the House without money," said Ralph.

"That means, I suppose, that men shouldn't go in who want their time to earn their bread. But you haven't that to do. If I were a man such as you are I would always try to be something. I am sure Parliament was meant for men having estates such as you will have."

"When I've got it, I'll think about Parliament, Miss Bonner."

"Perhaps it will be too late then. Don't you know that song of 'Excelsior,' Mr. Newton? You ought to learn to sing it."

Yes;—he was learning to sing it after a fine fashion;—borrowing his tradesman's money, and promising to marry his tradesman's daughter! He was half inclined to be angry with this interference from Mary Bonner;—and yet he liked her for it. Could it be that she herself felt an interest in what concerned him? "Ah me,"—he said to himself,—"how much better would it have been to have learned something, to have fitted myself for some high work; and to have been able to choose some such woman as this for my wife!" And all that had been sacrificed to horses at the Moonbeam, and little dinners with Captain Fooks and Lieutenant Cox! Every now and again during his life Phoebus had touched his trembling ears, and had given him to know that to sport with the tangles of Naaera's hair was not satisfactory as the work of a man's life. But, alas, the god had intervened but to little purpose. The horses at the Moonbeam, which had been two, became four, and then six; and now he was pledged to marry Polly Neefit,—if only he could induce Polly Neefit to have him. It was too late in the day for him to think now of Parliament and Mary Bonner.

And then, before he left them, poor Clary whispered a word into his ear,—a cousinly, brotherly word, such as their circumstances authorised her to make. "Is it settled about the property, Ralph?" For she, too, had heard that this question of a sale was going forward.

"Not quite, Clary."

"You won't sell it; will you?"

"I don't think I shall."

"Oh, don't;—pray don't. Anything will be better than that. It is so good to wait." She was thinking only of Ralph, and of his interests, but she could not forget the lesson which she was daily teaching to herself.

"If I can help it, I shall not sell it."

"Papa will help you;—will he not? If I were you they should drag me in pieces before I would part with my birthright;—and such a birthright!" It had occurred to her once that Ralph might feel that, after what had passed between them one night on the lawn, he was bound not to wait, that it was his duty so to settle his affairs that he might at once go to her father and say,—"Though I shall never be Mr. Newton of Newton, I have still such and such means of supporting your daughter." Ah! if he would only be open with her, and tell her everything, he would soon know how unnecessary it was to make a sacrifice for her. He pressed her hand as he left her, and said a word that was a word of comfort. "Clary, I cannot speak with certainty, but I do not think that it will be sold."

"I am so glad!" she said. "Oh, Ralph, never, never part with it." And then she blushed, as she thought of what she had said. Could it be that he would think that she was speaking for her own sake;—because she looked forward to reigning some day as mistress of Newton Priory? Ah, no, Ralph would never misinterpret her thoughts in a manner so unmanly as that!

The day came, and it was absolutely necessary that the answer should be given. Neefit came to prompt him again, and seemed to sit on the sofa with more feeling of being at home than he had displayed before. He brought his cheque-book with him, and laid it rather ostentatiously upon the table. He had good news, too, from Polly. "If Mr. Newton would come down to Margate, she would be ever so glad." That was the message as given by Mr. Neefit, but the reader will probably doubt that it came exactly in those words from Polly's lips. Ralph was angry, and shook his head in wrath. "Well, Captain, how's it to be?" asked Mr. Neefit.

"I shall let my uncle know that I intend to keep my property," said Ralph, with as much dignity as he knew how to assume.

The breeches-maker jumped up and crowed,—actually crowed, as might have crowed a cock. It was an art that he had learned in his youth. "That's my lad of wax," he said, slapping Ralph on the shoulder. "And now tell us how much it's to be," said he, opening the cheque-book. But Ralph declined to take money at the present moment, endeavouring to awe the breeches-maker back into sobriety by his manner. Neefit did put up his cheque-book, but was not awed back into perfect sobriety. "Come to me, when you want it, and you shall have it, Captain. Don't let that chap as 'as the 'orses be any way disagreeable. You tell him he can have it all when he wants it. And he can;—be blowed if he can't. We'll see it through, Captain. And now, Captain, when'll you come out and see Polly?" Ralph would give no definite answer to this,—on account of business, but was induced at last to send his love to Miss Neefit. "That man will drive me into a lunatic asylum at last," he said to himself, as he threw himself into his arm-chair when Neefit had departed.

Nevertheless, he wrote his letter to his uncle's lawyer, Mr. Carey, as follows:—

—— Club, 20 Sept., 186—.

DEAR SIR,—

After mature consideration I have resolved upon declining the offer made to me by my uncle respecting the Newton property.

Faithfully yours,

RALPH NEWTON.

Richard Carey, Esq.

It was very short, but it seemed to him to contain all that there was to be said. He might, indeed, have expressed regret that so much trouble had been occasioned;—but the trouble had been taken not for his sake, and he was not bound to denude himself of his property because his uncle had taken trouble.

When the letter was put into the Squire's hands in Mr. Carey's private room, the Squire was nearly mad with rage. In spite of all that his son had told him, in disregard of all his own solicitor's cautions, in the teeth of his nephew Gregory's certainty, he had felt sure that the thing would be done. The young man was penniless, and must sell; and he could sell nowhere else with circumstances so favourable. And now the young man wrote a letter as though he were declining to deal about a horse! "It's some sham, some falsehood," said the Squire. "Some low attorney is putting him up to thinking that he can get more out of me."

"It's possible," said Mr. Carey; "but there's nothing more to be done." The Squire when last in London had asserted most positively that he would not increase his bid.

"But he's penniless," said the Squire.

"There are those about him that will put him in the way of raising money," said the lawyer.

"And so the property will go to the hammer,—and I can do nothing to help it!" Mr. Carey did not tell his client that a gentleman had no right to complain because he could not deal with effects which were not his own; but that was the line which his thoughts took. The Squire walked about the room, lashing himself in his rage. He could not bear to be beaten. "How much more would do it?" he said at last. It would be terribly bitter to him to be made to give way, to be driven to increase the price; but even that would be less bitter than failure.