CHAPTER XIV.

AN ENCOUNTER.

One morning, shortly after the events described in the previous chapter, all England was startled by the intelligence that the Ministry had been beaten, that the leader of the Liberal Party had resigned, and that the free and independent were to be called on to exercise their privileges by returning members to Parliament likely to serve them well, and to promote the honour of the country, and the best interests of the community at large. I write this last sentence with peculiar pleasure. It sounds nice and pleasant. The fact is, I fear, the free and independent electors, as a rule, take little interest in politics. The working man is, as he has every right to be, suspicious of both parties alike, and especially of his oratorical brother of his own class, who comes to him with a pocket well lined as the result of his professional talk.

Liberal and Conservative clubs and newspapers were much excited. According to them never had there been such tremendous interests at stake. They, the enlightened, were to rally round the altar and the throne, both in danger, said the latter, while the former called on the intelligent manhood of the country to take one more step in the paths of progress and reform, and by that step to secure for ever the triumphs our forefathers had won for us with their blood.

Never were there such tremendous gatherings at Sloville. The Liberal leaders had held an open air meeting, which was the grandest thing of the kind ever known, but it was surpassed by an artfully got up demonstration by the Tories, accompanied by popular sports and cakes and ale. The one drawback to the success of the Liberal Party was that they had been in office for half a dozen years, and had disgusted all their friends, and had given the enemy occasion to blaspheme by their utter inability to pass any good measures, by their irresolute policy on foreign matters, by their extravagant expenditure at home, by their complete abandonment of their old battle-cry of ‘peace, retrenchment, and reform.’ Trade also was bad, and that did not mend matters. People are always discontented when times are bad. That is always the fault of the Government for the time being. It is generally assumed also that they are, to a certain extent, responsible for the weather. There had been a great deal of wet, and that the farmers attributed to the Radical element.

Farmers are naturally averse to Radicals. The Radical naturally thinks the farmers fools, because they are averse to change, and prefer to vote for their landlords to strangers sent down to agitate the country, who did not own an acre of land in it, who resided chiefly in our great cities, and who had little sympathy with agriculturists or agriculture in any shape.

The farmers are not quite such fools as the town radicals are apt to fancy. Most of them had good landlords, and few of them were averse to the Church, and it was pretty clear to the agricultural mind that whilst the big loaf, like the celebrated Pickwick pen, was a boon and a blessing to men, it was a grievous loss to themselves; much more so than was anticipated by the learned, who assured the farmers that it was impossible to flood the market with American wheat under fifty shillings the quarter. At Sloville also the brewers were afraid of the Liberal Party, who seemed much inclined to shut up the public-houses or, at any rate, to worry the trade. They struck up an alliance with the Church, and that alliance between the friends of the Bible and beer threatened serious danger to Liberals at Sloville as well as elsewhere.

It was clear that the battle to be fought was a very severe one; that a good deal of money would have to be spent on both sides; a great many windy orations made, and a good deal of the trickery usual at election time would have to be resorted to. The theory of representative institutions is beautiful. Nothing sounds finer than an appeal to the country. It is a grand thing for the rulers of the people to have to come to them at times, and ask for a renewal of their confidence, and a new lease of political power. It presumes that the public take an interest in public questions, that they are educated and intelligent; that they know their duty, and are prepared to discharge it; that they are above all paltry and personal considerations; that they only care for the public good. It assumes also that the candidates are men of intelligence and patriotism—not merely wealthy nobodies anxious for the social distinction of a seat in Parliament; or barristers in search of office; or aristocratic hangers-on, hoping, by means of Parliamentary influence, to secure an honourable position in one or other of the services: diplomatic, or naval, or military.

For a long time Sloville had rejoiced in an independent Radical as a representative, and yet Sloville was hard up. It is true that he had feathered his own nest by securing for his son a good Government appointment, but that had been no benefit to Sloville. He had also offended his constituents by the paltry way in which he subscribed to the local charities and local amusements. He was believed to be niggardly. It was known that he dealt at the Civil Service Stores. It was clear that no Sloville tradesman would vote for him. He had declined to pay the expenses of local Liberals, and in disgust they had hawked about the borough to anyone who would come down handsomely on their behalf. The managers of the party were in despair. Happily Sir Watkin Strahan offered them his services. He had property in the borough. His family were always good to the poor, and as a racing and betting man he was popular with the sporting fraternity. Sir Watkin was accepted as a matter of course.

A day or two after the dissolution of Parliament had been announced, as Wentworth was breakfasting in his solitary chambers in Clifford’s Inn, slowly reading the morning papers, and meditating out of what material he could make best a leader, he heard a rap at the door. Opening it, a stranger met his view—tall, aristocratic, well dressed, in the prime of life, with the air and appearance of a gentleman.

‘You’re Mr. Wentworth, I believe,’ he said.

‘That’s my name, sir.’

‘I am Sir Watkin Strahan,’ was the reply, as he handed his card to Wentworth.

‘Pray walk in, Sir Watkin.’

Sir Watkin complied with the request.

Taking a chair, and lighting a cigar offered him by Wentworth, who did the same, the stranger continued:

‘I am commissioned to call on you by Mr. Blank,’ naming the proprietor of a morning journal with which Mr. Wentworth was connected. ‘The fact is, we are on the eve of a General Election.’

‘I am perfectly aware of that,’ said Wentworth, smiling.

‘Undoubtedly; and I come to solicit your aid.’

‘How can I help you?’

‘Why, the fact is, I am anxious for a seat in Parliament.’

‘For what purpose: public or private?’

‘Why, Mr. Wentworth, how can you ask? I am a Liberal.’

‘And, then, are all Liberals public spirited, and not averse to feathering their own nest when they have a chance?’

‘Well, you know,’ replied the Baronet, ‘our party always aim at the public good.’

‘Yes; but professions and practice don’t always harmonize. Sometimes private interest draws one way, and public duty points another.’

Sir Watkin coloured. He had consented to fight Sloville in the Liberal interest, but he had made a bargain on the subject with his party, and Wentworth’s casual remark had gone home.

Wentworth continued:

‘In what way can I help you, Sir Watkin?’

‘Mr. Blank tells me that you know something of Sloville.’

‘Very little, indeed. I was there a short while some years ago. That is all. I doubt whether I can do you any good there.’

‘Oh yes, you can. I recollect hearing you speak on the night of the Chartist meeting, and upon my word you spoke out well. There are many who still remember that speech.’

‘Yes; but it did not gain me many friends.’

‘Well, it was talked about for a good while after.’

‘Do you want me to repeat it?’

‘Not exactly, but I am not much of a speaker myself, and I want a clever man like yourself to be by my side, and speak now and then on my behalf. Of course I should be prepared to pay handsomely for such assistance.’

‘I am much obliged for the offer. Of course I feel complimented by it,’ said Wentworth; ‘but I fear that sort of thing is not much in my line. Indeed, I hear so much oratory that I am sick of it, and have come to regard an orator as a personal enemy, who really desires to do me wrong. In the heat of the moment an orator is apt to forget himself, to fling charges against his opponents which he cannot justify, and make promises to the people which he cannot perform. I fear a good deal of humbug goes on when there is much oratory, and that a man who gets into a habit of public speaking later on becomes a humbug himself. At any rate, I know this is true of some of our London popular orators. You may be better in the country. It is to be hoped you are.’

‘As to oratory, we are very badly off. And that is the real reason,’ said Sir Watkin, ‘why I came to you. I am not, as I have said, much of a speaker myself. Whereas my Conservative opponent is a clever barrister, with a tremendous gift of gab.’

‘Yes, that is it. You ought to go to a barrister and take him down with you. So long as a barrister is well paid he is ready to speak on any side.’

‘But there are difficulties which I fear will prevent my doing that. I want a novelty—a newspaper man, in fact. Lawyers have such a professional style of talking. They deceive no one; no one believes them. If a lawyer ever does by accident make a good speech it carries no weight with it. It is expected as a matter of course. If a lawyer can’t talk we don’t think much of him or his law, and then there is another reason.’

‘What is that?’ said Wentworth, lazily puffing his cigar.

‘Lawyers ain’t popular at Sloville with the Radicals. They say that our present law is a disgrace to the country, and that as long as we fill the House with lawyers, we shall never get a proper measure of law reform. In our town the people are very much opposed to lawyers and parsons.’

‘Very wrong of them,’ said Wentworth ironically.

‘Very wrong, indeed,’ replied the Baronet; ‘but we must take people as we find them, and act accordingly. It is no use sending down a lawyer to fight for me. The people would not go to hear him. Their last representative won by the aid of a lawyer, and they won’t stand another.’

‘But, then, in London there are no end of men who pass themselves off as working-men politicians, though it is precious little work they do. I believe they are to be had at a very moderate figure, and they can do the roaring part of the business first-rate. They are always trotted out when the Liberals want to get up a grand demonstration, more especially when the Conservatives are in place and power. Had not you better take one or two of them down with you? They’ll be sure to fetch the rest.’

‘Alas, I’ve tried them,’ said the Baronet, ‘and I found they were of no use. As soon as they had fingered a fiver or two they began to give themselves such airs. I could not get on with them at all, and after all,’ said the speaker, looking down complacently at his well-dressed figure, ‘people prefer a gentleman.’

‘Perhaps so; but real gentlemen are scarce nowadays,’ said Wentworth. ‘Where is the real gentleman now, brave, truthful, unsullied, with hands and heart clean, without fear or reproach? In political life, at any rate, he seems to me almost as extinct as the dodo.’

Wentworth was getting on dangerous ground. He had a faint suspicion that his visitor was not one of this class. The visitor felt it himself, and was getting rather uncomfortable in consequence. He had come on business to hire a speaker, and to pay him for his services, and to be helped in other ways. Fellows who wrote in newspapers had, he knew, many ways of obliging a friend. It was important to him to get into Parliament. If he carried Sloville he conferred a favour on Ministers, who would reward him in due time with a comfortable office, where the pay was heavy and the burden light, and just at that time money was an object to our Baronet, who as a gambler and man of the world managed to get rid of a good deal of it in the course of a year. At any rate he rather liked the look of M.P. after his name, and M.P. he was determined to be. All his life he had lived in excitement, and now he had reached an age when the excitement of politics in lieu of wine or women or horse-racing or gambling had special charms.

‘You see,’ he remarked, ‘we are an old family in the neighbourhood, and we have a certain amount of legitimate influence which will certainly be in my favour.’

He might have added that in the day of rotten boroughs it was as proprietor of Sloville, and as in that capacity a useful servant of the Government, that the first baronet of the family had been adorned with his hereditary rank. A Royal Duke had been guilty of gross misconduct—a slight indiscretion it was termed by his friends. The matter was brought before Parliament, and a vote by no means complimentary to H.R.H.—either as regards morals, or manners, or understanding—would have been carried, had not the Strahan of that day saved the Government by his casting vote. Government was grateful, and so was Strahan—in the sense of further favours to come.

‘Well, that is something,’ said Wentworth; ‘birth and connection are of some account in politics.’

‘I should think so,’ said the Baronet.

‘And the borough is Liberal?’

‘Most decidedly.’

‘And you have a good chance of success?’

‘Yes; if it were not for the publicans, who have great influence, and are bitterly opposed to the Liberals.’

‘Naturally; their craft is in danger. Well, I might run down to one or two of your meetings.’

‘Thanks; I’m much obliged. I thought about having a public meeting next week. There is no time to lose. It is a great thing to be first in the field.’

Just as Wentworth was about to reply, the door opened, and the actress rushed in. Suddenly perceiving that Wentworth had company, she exclaimed:

‘I beg pardon. I thought you were alone.’

‘Never mind, madam,’ said the Baronet; ‘we have just finished what we had to say,’ turning to address the last comer. All at once he faltered, and turned all the colours of the rainbow. Could it be? Yes, it was the poor girl he had brought up to London, and then deserted—left, as he coolly supposed, to perish on the streets, and whom, to his surprise, he had seen radiant on the stage.

A stony and contemptuous stare was the actress’s only reply.

‘Dear me,’ said the Baronet, recovering his self-possession. ‘’Pon my honour, this is an unexpected pleasure;’ but before he had finished his sentence Rose had gone.

‘You’ll excuse me, I am sure,’ said the Baronet, turning round to Wentworth; ‘I believe that young lady and I are old friends. I had lost sight of her for a long while, and to my intense astonishment and gratification I found her acting at Drury Lane. I followed her the other night in a cab in order to overtake her and explain everything; but her coachman was quicker than mine, and I was obliged to give up the chase.’

‘I am sorry you should have had so much trouble, Sir Watkin. That young lady needs no attention from you, nor will she require any explanation.’

‘Well, I am sure I congratulate you, Mr. Wentworth, to have such an acquaintance,’ returned the Baronet ungraciously. ‘Her beauty as a girl quite overcame me, and I was very much tempted to act in a foolish manner to her. We men of the world are apt to do silly things.’

‘Instead,’ said Wentworth, with increasing anger, ‘you preferred to make a fool of her. I found her when you had thrown her off, and abandoned her to the cruel mercies of the world. I saw her in her bitter agony and despair. I saved her from dishonour. For all you cared she might have been on the streets in infamy and rags. She has little to thank you for. I know how she had been deceived. Weeping, she told me the story of her life; but I never knew who was the wrong-doer until this moment. I have an account to settle with him,’ he added angrily.

‘And you find him penitent,’ said the Baronet.

‘Penitent or not, I vowed I would call him to account.’

‘My good sir,’ said the Baronet, ‘how was I to know that the lady was in any danger? I was not even in England at the time. I felt she would soon forget me, as indeed she seems to have done,’ added the speaker sarcastically. ‘Now I come to think of it,’ he continued, ‘I think it is I, indeed, who have reason to complain. You see with what scorn she treated me as she came into the room.’

‘Surely, Sir Watkin cannot wonder at that.’

‘On the contrary, I think it rather hard, after the money I spent on her.’

‘That won’t do, Sir Watkin! You, and such as you, are a disgrace to your class; cruel as wild beasts you spend your lives in pursuit of victims whom you ruin with fair words and foul lies and for foul ends. A time must come when England will no longer tolerate such men in her midst. English women will come to the rescue of their tempted sisters. Society will demand that wealth should not thus be iniquitously squandered in pursuit of vice and selfish gratifications. There is no greater crime a rich man can commit, and yet there is no punishment can reach him. The rich man can always get off, or take himself off. He leaves the seduced to perish of want and infamy, while he is honoured and admired.’

‘Upon my word, Mr. Wentworth, you are using language which I am quite unaccustomed to.’

‘I dare say you are, Sir Watkin; but it is the language of truth and soberness, nevertheless.’

‘Why, one would fancy you were a parson, and availing yourself of the privileges of the cloth,’ said the Baronet with sneer.

‘I was very near being one,’ said Wentworth; ‘and now I recollect that it was then you and I met for the first time. I remember you nearly ran over a poor old woman who was coming to hear me preach.’

‘Upon my word you have a good memory. I’d forgotten all about it.’

‘So good a memory,’ said Wentworth, ‘that for the future I recommend you to keep out of my way.’

‘By all means,’ replied the Baronet; ‘but you ought to hear what I have to say in my defence. I own my conduct was shabby.’

‘It was infamous.’

‘But recollect what a mess I was in.’

‘I will not hear another word,’ said Wentworth. ‘Leave this room, or—’

But there was no occasion to say what he meant to say. Putting on his hat and gathering up his gloves, the Baronet retreated as quickly as he could, looking very different to the finished and self-satisfied appearance of respectability he presented when he first knocked at the door.

‘The scoundrel!’ said Wentworth to himself when alone. ‘He will hear from me further. I have not done with him yet. I’ll meet him at Philippi. I’ll take care that he does not get in for Sloville after all.’

And he kept his word.