Part 2

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And so the crowd of young people who had been invited to the ‘little dance’ had no hint of the accident to mar their pleasure. Outside, the brilliant light shining through the canvas of the marquee contended for precedence with the ruddy harvest-moon. Inside, the place was like an illuminated hall of flowers and plants. Sam Culver and Pansy with assistants had been at work for two days here. The dresses, the wreaths, the feathers, the jewels of the girls and matrons, with their faces brightened by the excitement of the moment, formed a living kaleidoscope, as they moved and mingled in the dance or promenade. The strains of the band were heard in the village; and little groups of village lads and maidens hung around the gates of Ringsford to listen to the music.

‘I suppose I must be Phil’s deputy for a time here as well as in the house,’ said Coutts in his suavest manner to Madge. ‘I hope you don’t mind very much?’

‘I do mind a great deal,’ she answered with a frankness which would have been rude in any one else, and yet in her appeared to be the kindliest answer to his question. ‘But I suppose I must go through the first quadrille.’

And reluctantly she did so. When it was over, and Coutts would fain have retained his position as deputy, she said:

‘Will you take me to Mr Hadleigh, please? He is there speaking to the vicar, near the entrance.’

Mr Hadleigh advanced to meet them, and she, relinquishing the arm of Coutts, took that of his father.

‘She requires taming. Poor Phil,’ was the reflection of the practical-minded Coutts, as he turned away to bestow his attentions on beauties who would appreciate them more.

Mr Hadleigh understood why she desired to speak to him, and they went outside, walking slowly across the lawn towards the house.

‘There is no great danger,’ he assured her at once; ‘but he will probably be a prisoner for a few weeks. At present his chief idea is that we should say nothing about it.’

‘I should like to see him—if the doctors will allow me,’ she said after a brief pause, her head bowed as if she were studying the long shadows on the grass.

‘We can ask them.... Are you sorry that he will not be able to go with the _Hertford Castle_?’

‘How can I be otherwise?’

He did not speak for a few seconds—Then:

‘You sometimes puzzle me very much, Miss Heathcote.’

‘Why?’ she asked, looking up, and the moon shone full on her face. His was in darkness.

‘You seem to wish him to go away.’

‘I have already explained,’ she answered with a degree of constraint.

‘Yes, I understand,’ he said dreamily. ‘Mine is a selfish way of considering the matter. I grudge every moment that what I—prize most, is out of sight. I suppose it is because we feel how short the time is we can possess our treasures, that in growing old we grow selfish.’

‘But you are not an old man, Mr Hadleigh.’ She was trying to find something gentle to say.

He shook his head.

‘I know men who are nearly twice my age in years and yet are boys compared with me. I feel very old just now.’

‘But you know his absence will not be long.’

‘True—his absence will not be long.... Here is Dr Guy.—Well, doctor, what news do you bring us now?’

They had entered through the conservatory, and encountered the doctor on the way to seek his host.

‘He has had a rest, and there is not much harm done. But it was foolish of him not to lie up at once and send for us.’

‘Miss Heathcote would like to see him.’

‘Well, it won’t do him any harm for her to see him—especially as it is his wish that she should; but he ought to be kept as quiet as possible. I have been sent for; but Joy will stay as long as may be necessary.’

Mr Hadleigh himself took Madge to the door of Philip’s room, and it was opened by Mrs Picton, the housekeeper.

‘That’s her now,’ said Philip. He was lying on his right side on the bed, his back towards the door.—‘Now, doctor, give us the ten minutes you promised.’

‘I trust to you, Miss Heathcote,’ said Dr Joy, ‘not to allow him to move from his present position until I return; and not to let him speak too much.’

She bowed. The doctor and Mrs Picton left the room.

‘Isn’t this a nuisance, Madge?’ began Philip, by an effort refraining from turning round to look at her. ‘It upsets everything.’

‘But there is no danger, Philip,’ she answered, laying her hand soothingly on his head.

‘That’s just it—if it had been a real knock-up, one could have said, “There’s no help for it,” and settled down to enjoy a month or two in bed. But with a mere scratch like this, which only threatens to be troublesome if you don’t behave yourself, it’s—well, it’s irritating.’

‘What was it you wanted to say to me, Philip? You know, we have only a few minutes, and you heard what the doctor said to me.’

‘O yes, of course.... Are they having a good time out there?... I can hear the music—there, they are at the Lancers now—and it makes my feet go in spite of me. I did hope to have such a jolly time with you, Madge. I had put my name down for nearly every dance in the programme.’

‘I am afraid we should both have been rather tired,’ she said, smiling, glad to find him in such good spirits.

‘The next dance is a waltz.—Ah!’

He had moved his arm incautiously, and a sharp pang reminded him of his condition. With that little cry he had uttered, Madge felt the pang too.

‘I am going away now,’ she said, trying to speak firmly; ‘I am only doing you harm by staying.’

‘No, no; don’t go, Madge—the touch of your hand has done me more good than all their bandages. I will be quiet. There is something very particular you have to do for me. (What a capital band they have got.)’

‘If you speak again about anything except what you want me to do, I shall leave the room.’

That quieted him, and he kept still for a little.

‘I want you to write to Uncle Shield,’ he said at length tranquilly. ‘If you write to-morrow, it will be in time for the next mail.’

‘What am I to say to him?’

‘Say that I have attended to all his instructions, and have everything ready to start in the _Hertford Castle_ on the sixth, and that I still hope to do so.’

‘Oh, that isn’t possible, Philip.’

‘We’ll see. Tell him next about this accident, which the doctors say will prevent me from getting on to my feet for some weeks. I hope to prove they are wrong; but send him this warning through you, so that he may not be disappointed.’

‘Would it not be better that your father or your brother should send this message?’

‘Not at all. He would not open a letter from either of them, as he has warned me; and they would not write one, as I know. I hope to set that old misunderstanding between my father and him right some day. Meanwhile, I very much want you to do this for me.’

‘As you please, Philip.’

‘Thanks, Madge, thanks. Then tell him particularly that Wrentham’s affairs are all right.... He’s a good fellow, Wrentham. You remember, I did not like him at first; since I have come to know him better, I have altered my opinion. He is a real good fellow, and made everything in this troublesome business quite smooth and easy for me. Only I wish he hadn’t asked me to try that mare to-day, or that I hadn’t been so unlucky as to agree to do it.’

‘Uncle is very angry about it. He says the mare has been shamefully treated, for she had no vice at all when she left him, and he intends to buy her back.’

‘I hope he won’t.... Now let me see; was there anything else? No; I have told you all that I want to say. You will find an envelope with his full address on the table over there.’

As she was getting the envelope, there was a tap at the door.

‘That’s the doctor, I suppose,’ muttered Philip disappointedly. ‘Why, you can’t have been five minutes here. You won’t be worrying yourself about this, Madge. I’ll be all right in a few days.’

‘Don’t speak any more,’ she said, bending over and touching his somewhat feverish brow with her lips. ‘I shall be here to-morrow. We are going home now. Good-night.’

Dr Joy was at the door, waiting to enter.

‘Will you look at him, doctor, and tell me how he is before I go?’ said Madge softly. The doctor went in, and after feeling his patient’s pulse, returned.

‘He has been a little excited. Don’t leave for half an hour, and I will send a message to you.’

In half an hour Mrs Picton brought her the message: Philip was sleeping.

SOME PARLIAMENTARY MAIDEN SPEECHES.

There have probably been very few members of parliament who have risen in their place for the first time without an unpleasant nervous tremor. Even if a parliamentary neophyte be not, as the familiar phrase has it, ‘unaccustomed to public speaking,’ he has certainly been unaccustomed to such an audience; and to hear himself called upon by the Speaker to address the first legislative assembly in the world, is an ordeal which is none the less trying because it has been voluntarily courted. Seeing that in past times so large a number of those returned to parliament have been comparatively unpractised speakers, the fact that absolute break-downs in maiden speeches are rare must be attributed to the sympathetic encouragement which the House always accords to the new member. Audiences at St Stephen’s are fastidious, but they are also kindly; the maiden speech which is a notorious failure is generally made such by over-confident fluency rather than by nervous hesitation; and, to mention one example only, Lord Beaconsfield’s early _fiasco_, the story of which has been told a hundred times, was not due to nervous timidity, but to the ambition of a young and clever man, conscious of power, to achieve a parliamentary reputation by a single _coup_.

There are, of course, a few early failures on record which cannot be thus accounted for. The maiden speech of Sheridan, who was destined to become one of the greatest of British orators, was not exactly a break-down, but its escape from being such was very narrow. In Sheridan’s case, the audience was more than usually sympathetic, for his literary reputation had excited curiosity and interest; but his indistinctness of utterance and hesitancy of manner impressed his hearers with the belief that, great as were his mental powers, he had not the physical qualifications for effective speech, and that—to quote the words of one verdict—‘nature never intended him for an orator.’ Woodfall, the celebrated parliamentary reporter, was fond of telling how, at the conclusion of his speech, Sheridan came up to him, and asked with evident anxiety what he thought of his first attempt. Woodfall’s reply was: ‘I am sorry to say I do not think this is your line; you had much better have stuck to your former pursuits.’ This was discouraging; but Sheridan was not easily discouraged; and his subsequent career justified the confident boldness of his reply to the depreciatory estimate: ‘It is in me, however, and it shall come out!’

The failure of another distinguished man of letters, Joseph Addison, was much more complete. He sat for Malmesbury, in the House of Commons which was elected in 1708, and rose once to make a speech; but his diffidence completely silenced him, and he never made a second attempt. In the Irish parliament, where Lord Wharton’s influence procured him a seat for the borough of Cavan, he made another failure, the story of which is told by Mr O’Flanagan, whom we quote at second-hand from Mr G. H. Jenning’s _Anecdotal History of the British Parliament_, a capital compilation, to which we acknowledge a general indebtedness. ‘On a motion before the House,’ writes Mr O’Flanagan, ‘Addison rose, and having said, “Mr Speaker, I conceive,” paused, as if frightened by the sound of his own voice. He again commenced, “I conceive, Mr Speaker,” when he stopped, until roused by cries of “Hear, hear,” when he once more essayed with, “Sir, I conceive.” Power of further utterance was denied, so he sat down amidst the scarcely suppressed laughter of his brother-members.’

The name of Addison recalls that of Steele; and one of the most interesting incidents in Steele’s first brief parliamentary career was the maiden speech of his young friend Lord Finch, which began as a break-down, and ended as a success. In Queen Anne’s time, shortly after Steele’s election for Stockbridge, a motion was made to expel him from parliament, on the ground that in one of his periodical publications he had ‘maliciously insinuated that the Protestant succession in the House of Hanover was in danger under Her Majesty’s administration.’ It so happened that very shortly before this time a libel directed against Lord Finch’s sister had been scathingly denounced and exposed in Steele’s paper the _Guardian_; and the young nobleman felt that he could not be silent when Steele in his turn was attacked. He leaped to his feet, determined to do his best; but though his heart was in the right place, he found it very difficult to get his words there, and after managing to get out a few confused sentences, he sat down, utterly discomfited. The failure would have been unredeemed, had it not been that as he resumed his seat he exclaimed: ‘It is strange I cannot speak for this man, when I would readily fight for him.’ The words were heard all over the House; and Lord Finch’s audience, though hostile to Steele, was one which could be trusted to respond at once, the moment an appeal was made to its chivalrous instincts. From both sides of the House came a spontaneous burst of cheering, which so encouraged the young speaker, that he rose again to his feet; and this time made a telling and eloquent speech, which was the beginning of a successful parliamentary career.

Many years before the occurrence of this incident, another failure had been turned into a success by a happy thought on the part of the speaker himself, which proved that his break-down could hardly be attributed to want of presence of mind. During the latter part of the seventeenth century, a young man, who was afterwards to become celebrated as third Earl of Shaftesbury, and author of _Characteristics_, sat in the House of Commons as Lord Ashley. A bill was introduced to grant the services of counsel to prisoners tried for high-treason; and though the proposal was based on the commonest principles of justice, it found many and bitter opponents. Lord Ashley, however, was among its warmest supporters, and rose to argue in its defence; but, unfortunately, after saying a few words, he found himself unable to proceed. A little time was given him to collect his thoughts; but at last the patience of his hearers was exhausted, and they called loudly upon him to go on, when, looking at the Speaker, he said: ‘If, sir, I, who rise only to give my opinion on the bill now depending, am so confounded that I am unable to express the least of what I proposed to say, what must the condition of that man be who, without any assistance, is pleading for his life, and is apprehensive of being deprived of it?’ It may safely be said that the most elaborately prepared and eloquently delivered oration could hardly have been more rhetorically effective than this happily extemporised argument.

A record of oratorical triumphs is less entertaining than a record of failures; but the stories of one or two maiden speeches which owed their success to simple assurance are amusing enough. Modesty and timidity have not been characteristics of _all_ the members who have ever sat in parliament. They do not, for example, seem to have been very prominent in Mr Lechmere, afterwards Lord Lechmere, who, on his election for Appleby, turned round to address the House immediately after having taken the oath, and before he had gone through the formality of taking his seat. Mr Cowper, made Lord Chancellor in 1707, was not quite so precipitate, but much more copious in his rhetorical outpourings, for he spoke three times during his first evening in the House; and even he was excelled by the notorious ‘Orator Hunt,’ who on a similar occasion gave his fellow-members no fewer than six samples of his peculiar eloquence. The hero of one of the amusing stories just referred to was the well-known Thomas Slingsby—generally shortened to Tom—Duncombe. The speech itself was an extraordinary affair, being an all-round attack upon various prominent statesmen, delivered in a manner which may be described as fascinatingly impudent; but the funniest thing about it was the story of its production, which has been told by Mr Greville. ‘The history of Tom Duncombe and his speech,’ says this collector of gossip, ‘is instructive as well as amusing. Tommy came to Henry de Ros, and told him that his constituents at Hertford were very anxious that he should make a speech, but that he did not know what to say, and begged Henry to provide him with the necessary materials. He advised him to strike out something new; and having received his assurance that he should be able to recollect anything that he had learned by heart, and that he was not afraid of his courage failing, Henry composed for him the speech which Duncombe delivered.’ What it was in this story which Mr Greville found instructive, is not so clear; but its amusing quality may be readily conceded.

Teetotalers have so many good anecdotes, that those who take the other side in the great alcoholic controversy have doubtless made the most of a tremendous maiden speech which was delivered in the House of Lords in the year 1678 by the Lord Carnarvon of that period, and which was said to have been inspired entirely by claret. Lord Carnarvon had been dining, not wisely but too well, with the Duke of Buckingham; and the Duke, seeing his condition, induced him, by combination of raillery and flattery, to pledge himself to address his brother peers that night upon any subject they happened to be discussing. The Duke of course regarded the thing as a capital practical joke, and doubtless anticipated immense enjoyment from the flounderings of a half-intoxicated man, who had never spoken before, and who was not supposed to have any oratorical gifts even when sober. The debate was on the impeachment of the Earl of Danby, then Lord Treasurer; and as soon as an opening occurred, up rose Lord Carnarvon. ‘My lords,’ he said, ‘I understand but little of Latin, but a good deal of English, and not a little of English history; from which I have learned the mischiefs of such kind of prosecutions as these, and the ill fate of the prosecutors. I could bring many instances, and those very, ancient; but, my lords, I shall go no farther back than the latter end of Queen Elizabeth’s reign, at which time the Earl of Essex was run down by Sir Walter Raleigh; and your lordships very well know what became of Sir Walter Raleigh. My Lord Bacon, he ran down Sir Walter Raleigh; and your lordships know what became of my Lord Bacon. The Duke of Buckingham, he ran down my Lord Bacon; and your lordships know what happened to the Duke of Buckingham. Sir Thomas Wentworth, afterwards Earl of Strafford, ran down the Duke of Buckingham; and you all know what became of him. Sir Harry Vane, he ran down the Earl of Strafford; and your lordships know what became of Sir Harry Vane. Chancellor Hyde, he ran down Sir Harry Vane; and your lordships know what became of the Chancellor. Sir Thomas Osbourn, now Earl of Danby, ran down Chancellor Hyde; but what will become of the Earl of Danby, your lordships best can tell. But let me see the man that dare run the Earl of Danby down, and we shall soon see what shall become of him.’ The assembled peers must have felt as if they were being swept from their feet by an historical avalanche, riddled by a fusilade of facts; and the Duke of Buckingham could only exclaim: ‘The claret has done the business!’ And indeed it looks like it, for Lord Carnarvon never had another such success.

Of course, maiden speeches which are in any way memorable either for their matter or their manner, the greatness of their success or the completeness of their failure, are comparatively rare. As a rule, the first speech of any member in either House resembles closely all his succeeding speeches; it may lack the force and fluency given by practice, but in its general characteristics there is nothing exceptional. The able man shows at least something of his ability; the dull man lets his hearers into the secret of his dullness. When Cobbett, the very first night he sat in the House, began his maiden speech with the words, ‘It appears to me that since I have been sitting here I have heard a great deal of vain and unprofitable conversation,’ his fellow-members probably thought that here was a unique display of self-sufficient assurance; but when Cobbett had delivered his second speech, the first was unique no longer, and when he had spoken half a dozen times, it had come to be regarded as comparatively mild. Brougham and Canning, who both became parliamentary speakers of the first rank, may perhaps, with Sheridan and Disraeli, be considered as exceptions to the general rule just given, for their maiden speeches were described as failures; but in their cases, all that probably was meant by the word failure was that they did not fulfil the expectations which had been formed. None of Lord Palmerston’s early speeches seem to have had the brilliance of his later utterances; but that he made a favourable impression at starting is proved by the fact that Mr Perceval offered him the Chancellorship of the Exchequer when he had only spoken once in the House; while Earl Grey, Lord Castlereagh, Lord Macaulay, and the late Lord Derby, who began their political careers in the House of Commons, delivered maiden speeches which immediately gave them a reputation.

During the last half-century, there has been such a change in the conditions of public life, that no maiden speech can excite the same curiosity as of old. One result of the lowering of the franchise has been to diminish the chances of any parliamentary candidate who has not some measure of ease and ability in speaking; and public meetings of all kinds are so numerous, that the quality and amount of oratorical talent possessed by every prominent man become well known long before he has a chance of displaying it upon the floor of the House of Commons. This change is not one to be regretted on the whole; but of course parliamentary life has lost one element of interest which it possessed in the days when a maiden speech might be looked forward to as a revelation of all kinds of unsuspected possibilities.

THE MINER’S PARTNER.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.

On a morning only a couple of days after the opening of our story, the sun had not yet risen high enough to strike the plains, which stretched as far as the eye could reach; but the mountains were all bright with his rays, from their peaks down almost to the ‘foothills,’ which, tolerable eminences in themselves, projected like so many capes out on the level ground, when a man came to the opening of a tent and looked out. Although he gazed across the rugged intervening ground and out upon the plain, and although sunrise in Colorado is worth seeing from a position of vantage, yet it was evident that it was from no appreciation of the scenery that the man stood there. From the spot, an irregular line of tents and huts—or ‘shanties’—led to the centre of Flume City; while the trenches cut in all directions, and the odd implements and vessels lying about, gave ample evidence that this was a mining camp, or town.