Beauchamps Career, v3
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George Meredith >> Beauchamps Career, v3
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Remember that; for I for one shall combat it and expose it. Good day.'
Beauchamp continued, in the street: 'Tyrannies like this fellow's have
made the English the dullest and wretchedest people in Europe.'
Palmet animadverted on Carpendike: 'The dog looks like a deadly fungus
that has poisoned the woman.'
'I'd trust him with a post of danger, though,' said Beauchamp.
Before the candidate had opened his mouth to the next elector he was
beamed on. M'Gilliper, baker, a floured brick face, leaned on folded
arms across his counter and said, in Scotch: 'My vote? and he that asks
me for my vote is the man who, when he was midshipman, saved the life of
a relation of mine from death by drowning! my wife's first cousin, Johnny
Brownson--and held him up four to five minutes in the water, and never
left him till he was out of danger! There 's my hand on it, I will, and
a score of householders in Bevisham the same.' He dictated precious
names and addresses to Beauchamp, and was curtly thanked for his pains.
Such treatment of a favourable voter seemed odd to Palmet.
'Oh, a vote given for reasons of sentiment!' Beauchamp interjected.
Palmet reflected and said: 'Well, perhaps that's how it is women don't
care uncommonly for the men who love them, though they like precious well
to be loved. Opposition does it.'
'You have discovered my likeness to women,' said Beauchamp, eyeing him
critically, and then thinking, with a sudden warmth, that he had seen
Renee: 'Look here, Palmet, you're too late for Itchincope, to-day; come
and eat fish and meat with me at my hotel, and come to a meeting after
it. You can run by rail to Itchincope to breakfast in the morning, and
I may come with you. You'll hear one or two men speak well to-night.'
'I suppose I shall have to be at this business myself some day,' sighed
Palmet. 'Any women on the platform? Oh, but political women! And the
Tories get the pick of the women. No, I don't think I 'll stay. Yes, I
will; I'll go through with it. I like to be learning something. You
wouldn't think it of me, Beauchamp, but I envy fellows at work.'
'You might make a speech for me, Palmet.'
'No man better, my dear fellow, if it were proposing a toast to the poor
devils and asking them to drink it. But a dry speech, like leading them
over the desert without a well to cheer them--no oasis, as we used to
call a five-pound note and a holiday--I haven't the heart for that. Is
your Miss Denham a Radical?'
Beauchamp asserted that he had not yet met a woman at all inclining in
the direction of Radicalism. 'I don't call furies Radicals. There may
be women who think as well as feel; I don't know them.'
'Lots of them, Beauchamp. Take my word for it. I do know women. They
haven't a shift, nor a trick, I don't know. They're as clear to me as
glass. I'll wager your Miss Denham goes to the meetings. Now, doesn't
she? Of course she does. And there couldn't be a gallanter way of
spending an evening, so I'll try it. Nothing to repent of next morning!
That's to be said for politics, Beauchamp, and I confess I'm rather
jealous of you. A thoroughly good-looking girl who takes to a fellow for
what he's doing in the world, must have ideas of him precious different
from the adoration of six feet three and a fine seat in the saddle. I
see that. There's Baskelett in the Blues; and if I were he I should
detest my cuirass and helmet, for if he's half as successful as he
boasts--it's the uniform.'
Two notorious Radicals, Peter Molyneux and Samuel Killick, were called
on. The first saw Beauchamp and refused him; the second declined to see
him. He was amazed and staggered, but said little.
Among the remainder of the electors of Bevisham, roused that day to a
sense of their independence by the summons of the candidates, only one
man made himself conspicuous, by premising that he had two important
questions to ask, and he trusted Commander Beauchamp to answer them
unreservedly. They were: first, What is a FRENCH MARQUEES? arid second:
Who was EURYDICEY?
Beauchamp referred him to the Tory camp, whence the placard alluding to
those ladies had issued.
'Both of them 's ladies! I guessed it,' said the elector.
'Did you guess that one of them is a mythological lady?'
'I'm not far wrong in guessing t'other's not much better, I reckon. Now,
sir, may I ask you, is there any tale concerning your morals?'
'No: you may not ask; you take a liberty.'
'Then I'll take the liberty to postpone talking about my vote. Look
here, Mr. Commander; if the upper classes want anything of me and come to
me for it, I'll know what sort of an example they're setting; now that's
me.'
'You pay attention to a stupid Tory squib?'
'Where there's smoke there's fire, sir.'
Beauchamp glanced at his note-book for the name of this man, who was a
ragman and dustman.
'My private character has nothing whatever to do with my politics,' he
said, and had barely said it when he remembered having spoken somewhat
differently, upon the abstract consideration of the case, to Mr.
Tomlinson.
'You're quite welcome to examine my character for yourself, only I don't
consent to be catechized. Understand that.'
'You quite understand that, Mr. Tripehallow,' said Oggler, bolder in
taking up the strange name than Beauchamp had been.
'I understand that. But you understand, there's never been a word
against the morals of Mr. Cougham. Here's the point: Do we mean to be a
moral country? Very well, then so let our representatives be, I say.
And if I hear nothing against your morals, Mr. Commander, I don't say you
shan't have my vote. I mean to deliberate. You young nobs capering over
our heads--I nail you down to morals. Politics secondary. Adew, as the
dying spirit remarked to weeping friends.'
'Au revoir--would have been kinder,' said Palmet.
Mr. Tripehallow smiled roguishly, to betoken comprehension.
Beauchamp asked Mr. Oggler whether that fellow was to be taken for a
humourist or a five-pound-note man.
'It may be both, sir. I know he's called Morality Joseph.'
An all but acknowledged five-pound-note man was the last they visited.
He cut short the preliminaries of the interview by saying that he was a
four-o'clock man; i.e. the man who waited for the final bids to him upon
the closing hour of the election day.
'Not one farthing!' said Beauchamp, having been warned beforehand of the
signification of the phrase by his canvassing lieutenant.
'Then you're nowhere,' the honest fellow replied in the mystic tongue of
prophecy.
Palmet and Beauchamp went to their fish and meat; smoked a cigarette or
two afterward, conjured away the smell of tobacco from their persons as
well as they could, and betook themselves to the assembly-room of the
Liberal party, where the young lord had an opportunity of beholding Mr.
Cougham, and of listening to him for an hour and forty minutes. He heard
Mr. Timothy Turbot likewise. And Miss Denham was present. Lord Palmet
applauded when she smiled. When she looked attentive he was deeply
studious. Her expression of fatigue under the sonorous ring of
statistics poured out from Cougham was translated by Palmet into yawns
and sighs of a profoundly fraternal sympathy. Her face quickened on the
rising of Beauchamp to speak. She kept eye on him all the while, as
Palmet, with the skill of an adept in disguising his petty larceny of the
optics, did on her. Twice or thrice she looked pained: Beauchamp was
hesitating for the word. Once she looked startled and shut her eyes: a
hiss had sounded; Beauchamp sprang on it as if enlivened by hostility,
and dominated the factious note. Thereat she turned to a gentleman
sitting beside her; apparently they agreed that some incident had
occurred characteristic of Nevil Beauchamp; for whom, however, it was not
a brilliant evening. He was very well able to account for it, and did
so, after he had walked a few steps with Miss Denham on her homeward way.
'You heard Cougham, Palmet! He's my senior, and I'm obliged to come
second to him, and how am I to have a chance when he has drenched the
audience for close upon a couple of hours!'
Palmet mimicked the manner of Cougham.
'They cry for Turbot naturally; they want a relief,' Beauchamp groaned.
Palmet gave an imitation of Timothy Turbot.
He was an admirable mimic, perfectly spontaneous, without stressing any
points, and Beauchamp was provoked to laugh his discontentment with the
evening out of recollection.
But a grave matter troubled Palmet's head.
'Who was that fellow who walked off with Miss Denham?'
'A married man,' said Beauchamp: 'badly married; more 's the pity; he has
a wife in the madhouse. His name is Lydiard.'
'Not her brother! Where's her uncle?'
'She won't let him come to these meetings. It's her idea; well-
intended, but wrong, I think. She's afraid that Dr. Shrapnel will alarm
the moderate Liberals and damage Radical me.'
Palmet muttered between his teeth, 'What queer things they let their
women do!' He felt compelled to say, 'Odd for her to be walking home at
night with a fellow like that.'
It chimed too consonantly with a feeling of Beauchamp's, to repress which
he replied: 'Your ideas about women are simply barbarous, Palmet. Why
shouldn't she? Her uncle places his confidence in the man, and in her.
Isn't that better--ten times more likely to call out the sense of honour
and loyalty, than the distrust and the scandal going on in your class?'
'Please to say yours too.'
'I've no class. I say that the education for women is to teach them to
rely on themselves.'
'Ah! well, I don't object, if I'm the man.'
'Because you and your set are absolutely uncivilized in your views of
women.'
'Common sense, Beauchamp!'
'Prey. You eye them as prey. And it comes of an idle aristocracy. You
have no faith in them, and they repay you for your suspicion.'
'All the same, Beauchamp, she ought not to be allowed to go about at
night with that fellow. "Rich and rare were the gems she wore": but that
was in Erin's isle, and if we knew the whole history, she'd better have
stopped at home. She's marvellously pretty, to my mind. She looks a
high-bred wench. Odd it is, Beauchamp, to see a lady's-maid now and then
catch the style of my lady. No, by Jove! I've known one or two--you
couldn't tell the difference! Not till you were intimate. I know one
would walk a minuet with a duchess. Of course--all the worse for her.
If you see that uncle of Miss Denham's--upon my honour, I should advise
him: I mean, counsel him not to trust her with any fellow but you.'
Beauchamp asked Lord Palmet how old he was.
Palmet gave his age; correcting the figures from six-and-twenty to one
year more. 'And never did a stroke of work in my life,' he said,
speaking genially out of an acute guess at the sentiments of the man he
walked with.
It seemed a farcical state of things.
There was a kind of contrition in Palmet's voice, and to put him at his
ease, as well as to stamp something in his own mind, Beauchamp said:
'It's common enough.'
CHAPTER XX
A DAY AT ITCHINCOPE
An election in Bevisham was always an exciting period at Itchincope, the
large and influential old estate of the Lespels, which at one time, with
but a ceremonious drive through the town, sent you two good Whig men to
Parliament to sit at Reform banquets; two unswerving party men, blest
subscribers to the right Review, and personally proud of its trenchancy.
Mr. Grancey Lespel was the survivor of them, and well could he remember
the happier day of his grandfather, his father, and his own hot youth.
He could be carried so far by affectionate regrets as to think of the
Tories of that day benignly:--when his champion Review of the orange and
blue livery waved a wondrous sharp knife, and stuck and bled them,
proving to his party, by trenchancy alone, that the Whig was the cause of
Providence. Then politics presented you a table whereat two parties
feasted, with no fear of the intrusion of a third, and your backs were
turned on the noisy lower world, your ears were deaf to it.
Apply we now the knocker to the door of venerable Quotation, and call the
aged creature forth, that he, half choked by his eheu!--
'A sound between a sigh and bray,'
may pronounce the familiar but respectable words, the burial-service of a
time so happy!
Mr. Grancey Lespel would still have been sitting for Bevisham (or
politely at this elective moment bowing to resume the seat) had not those
Manchester jugglers caught up his cry, appropriated his colours,
displaced and impersonated him, acting beneficent Whig on a scale
approaching treason to the Constitution; leaning on the people in
earnest, instead of taking the popular shoulder for a temporary lift, all
in high party policy, for the clever manoeuvre, to oust the Tory and sway
the realm. See the consequences. For power, for no other consideration,
those manufacturing rascals have raised Radicalism from its primaeval
mire--from its petty backslum bookseller's shop and public-house back-
parlour effluvia of oratory--to issue dictates in England, and we,
England, formerly the oak, are topsy-turvy, like onions, our heels in the
air!
The language of party is eloquent, and famous for being grand at
illustration; but it is equally well known that much of it gives us
humble ideas of the speaker, probably because of the naughty temper party
is prone to; which, while endowing it with vehemence, lessens the stout
circumferential view that should be taken, at least historically.
Indeed, though we admit party to be the soundest method for conducting
us, party talk soon expends its attractiveness, as would a summer's
afternoon given up to the contemplation of an encounter of rams' heads.
Let us be quit of Mr. Grancey Lespel's lamentations. The Whig gentleman
had some reason to complain. He had been trained to expect no other
attack than that of his hereditary adversary-ram in front, and a sham
ram--no honest animal, but a ramming engine rather--had attacked him in
the rear. Like Mr. Everard Romfrey and other Whigs, he was profoundly
chagrined by popular ingratitude: 'not the same man,' his wife said of
him. It nipped him early. He took to proverbs; sure sign of the sere
leaf in a man's mind.
His wife reproached the people for their behaviour to him bitterly. The
lady regarded politics as a business that helped hunting-men a stage
above sportsmen, for numbers of the politicians she was acquainted with
were hunting-men, yet something more by virtue of the variety they could
introduce into a conversation ordinarily treating of sport and the
qualities of wines. Her husband seemed to have lost in that
Parliamentary seat the talisman which gave him notions distinguishing him
from country squires; he had sunk, and he no longer cared for the months
in London, nor for the speeches she read to him to re-awaken his mind and
make him look out of himself, as he had done when he was a younger man
and not a suspended Whig. Her own favourite reading was of love-
adventures written in the French tongue. She had once been in love, and
could be so sympathetic with that passion as to avow to Cecilia Halkett a
tenderness for Nevil Beauchamp, on account of his relations with the
Marquise de Rouaillout, and notwithstanding the demoniacal flame-halo of
the Radical encircling him.
The allusion to Beauchamp occurred a few hours after Cecilia's arrival at
Itchincope.
Cecilia begged for the French lady's name to be repeated; she had not
heard it before, and she tasted the strange bitter relish of realization
when it struck her ear to confirm a story that she believed indeed, but
had not quite sensibly felt.
'And it is not over yet, they say,' Mrs. Grancey Lespel added, while
softly flipping some spots of the colour proper to radicals in morals on
the fame of the French lady. She possessed fully the grave judicial
spirit of her countrywomen, and could sit in judgement on the personages
of tales which had entranced her, to condemn the heroines: it was
impolitic in her sex to pity females. As for the men--poor weak things!
As for Nevil Beauchamp, in particular, his case, this penetrating lady
said, was clear: he ought to be married. 'Could you make a sacrifice?'
she asked Cecilia playfully.
'Nevil Beauchamp and I are old friends, but we have agreed that we are
deadly political enemies,' Miss Halkett replied.
'It is not so bad for a beginning,' said Mrs. Lespel.
'If one were disposed to martyrdom.'
The older woman nodded. 'Without that.'
'My dear Mrs. Lespel, wait till you have heard him. He is at war with
everything we venerate and build on. The wife you would give him should
be a creature rooted in nothing--in sea-water. Simply two or three
conversations with him have made me uncomfortable ever since; I can see
nothing durable; I dream of surprises, outbreaks, dreadful events. At
least it is perfectly true that I do not look with the same eyes on my
country. He seems to delight in destroying one's peaceful contemplation
of life. The truth is that he blows a perpetual gale, and is all
agitation,' Cecilia concluded, affecting with a smile a slight shiver.
'Yes, one tires of that,' said Mrs. Lespel. 'I was determined I would
have him here if we could get him to come. Grancey objected. We shall
have to manage Captain Beauchamp and the rest as well. He is sure to
come late to-morrow, and will leave early on Thursday morning for his
canvass; our driving into Bevisham is for Friday or Saturday. I do not
see that he need have any suspicions. Those verses you are so angry
about cannot be traced to Itchincope. My dear, they are a childish
trifle. When my husband stood first for Bevisham, the whole of his
University life appeared in print. What we have to do is to forewarn the
gentlemen to be guarded, and especially in what they say to my nephew
Lord Palmet, for that boy cannot keep a secret; he is as open as a
plate.'
'The smoking-room at night?' Cecilia suggested, remembering her father's
words about Itchincope's tobacco-hall.
'They have Captain Beauchamp's address hung up there, I have heard,' said
Mrs. Lespel. 'There may be other things--another address, though it is
not yet, placarded. Come with me. For fifteen years I have never once
put my head into that room, and now I 've a superstitious fear about it.'
Mrs. Lespel led the way to the deserted smoking-room, where the stale
reek of tobacco assailed the ladies, as does that dire place of Customs
the stranger visiting savage (or too natural) potentates.
In silence they tore down from the wall Beauchamp's electoral Address--
flanked all its length with satirical pen and pencil comments and
sketches; and they consigned to flames the vast sheet of animated verses
relating to the FRENCH MARQUEES. A quarter-size chalk-drawing of a
slippered pantaloon having a duck on his shoulder, labelled to say
'Quack-quack,' and offering our nauseated Dame Britannia (or else it was
the widow Bevisham) a globe of a pill to swallow, crossed with the
consolatory and reassuring name of Shrapnel, they disposed of likewise.
And then they fled, chased forth either by the brilliancy of the
politically allusive epigrams profusely inscribed around them on the
walls, or by the atmosphere. Mrs. Lespel gave her orders for the walls
to be scraped, and said to Cecilia: 'A strange air to breathe, was it
not? The less men and women know of one another, the happier for them.
I knew my superstition was correct as a guide to me. I do so much wish
to respect men, and all my experience tells me the Turks know best how to
preserve it for us. Two men in this house would give their wives for
pipes, if it came to the choice. We might all go for a cellar of old
wine. After forty, men have married their habits, and wives are only an
item in the list, and not the most important.'
With the assistance of Mr. Stukely Culbrett, Mrs. Lespel prepared the
house and those of the company who were in the secret of affairs for the
arrival of Beauchamp. The ladies were curious to see him. The
gentlemen, not anticipating extreme amusement, were calm: for it is an
axiom in the world of buckskins and billiard-cues, that one man is very
like another; and so true is it with them, that they can in time teach it
to the fair sex. Friends of Cecil Baskelett predominated, and the
absence of so sprightly a fellow was regretted seriously; but he was
shooting with his uncle at Holdesbury, and they did not expect him before
Thursday.
On Wednesday morning Lord Palmet presented himself at a remarkably well-
attended breakfast-table at Itchincope. He passed from Mrs. Lespel to
Mrs. Wardour-Devsreux and Miss Halkett, bowed to other ladies, shook
hands with two or three men, and nodded over the heads of half-a-dozen,
accounting rather mysteriously for his delay in coming, it was thought,
until he sat down before a plate of Yorkshire pie, and said:
'The fact is I've been canvassing hard. With Beauchamp!'
Astonishment and laughter surrounded him, and Palmet looked from face to
face, equally astonished, and desirous to laugh too.
'Ernest! how could you do that?' said Mrs. Lespel; and her husband
cried in stupefaction, 'With Beauchamp?'
'Oh! it's because of the Radicalism,' Palmet murmured to himself. 'I
didn't mind that.'
'What sort of a day did you have?' Mr. Culbrett asked him; and several
gentlemen fell upon him for an account of the day.
Palmet grimaced over a mouthful of his pie.
'Bad!' quoth Mr. Lespel; 'I knew it. I know Bevisham. The only chance
there is for five thousand pounds in a sack with a hole in it.'
'Bad for Beauchamp? Dear me, no'; Palmet corrected the error. 'He is
carrying all before him. And he tells them,' Palmet mimicked Beauchamp,
'they shall not have one penny: not a farthing. I gave a couple of young
ones a shilling apiece, and he rowed me for bribery; somehow I did
wrong.'
Lord Palmet described the various unearthly characters he had inspected
in their dens: Carpendike, Tripehallow, and the radicals Peter Molyneux
and Samuel Killick, and the ex-member for the borough, Cougham, posing to
suit sign-boards of Liberal inns, with a hand thrust in his waistcoat,
and his head well up, the eyes running over the under-lids, after the
traditional style of our aristocracy; but perhaps more closely resembling
an urchin on tiptoe peering above park-palings. Cougham's remark to
Beauchamp, heard and repeated by Palmet with the object of giving an
example of the senior Liberal's phraseology: 'I was necessitated to
vacate my town mansion, to my material discomfort and that of my wife,
whose equipage I have been compelled to take, by your premature canvass
of the borough, Captain Beauchamp: and now, I hear, on undeniable
authority, that no second opponent to us will be forthcoming'---this
produced the greatest effect on the company.
'But do you tell me,' said Mr. Lespel, when the shouts of the gentlemen
were subsiding, 'do you tell me that young Beauchamp is going ahead?'
'That he is. They flock to him in the street.'
'He stands there, then, and jingles a money-bag.'
Palmet resumed his mimicry of Beauchamp: 'Not a stiver; purity of
election is the first condition of instruction to the people!
Principles! Then they've got a capital orator: Turbot, an Irishman. I
went to a meeting last night, and heard him; never heard anything finer
in my life. You may laugh he whipped me off my legs; fellow spun me like
a top; and while he was orationing, a donkey calls, "Turbot! ain't you a
flat fish?" and he swings round, "Not for a fool's hook!" and out they
hustled the villain for a Tory. I never saw anything like it.'
'That repartee wouldn't have done with a Dutchman or a Torbay trawler,'
said Stukely Culbrett. 'But let us hear more.'
'Is it fair?' Miss Halkett murmured anxiously to Mrs. Lespel, who
returned a flitting shrug.
'Charming women follow Beauchamp, you know,' Palmet proceeded, as he
conceived, to confirm and heighten the tale of success. 'There's a Miss
Denham, niece of a doctor, a Dr . . . . Shot--Shrapnel! a
wonderfully good-looking, clever-looking girl, comes across him in half-
a-dozen streets to ask how he's getting on, and goes every night to his
meetings, with a man who 's a writer and has a mad wife; a man named
Lydia-no, that's a woman--Lydiard. It's rather a jumble; but you should
see her when Beauchamp's on his legs and speaking.'
'Mr. Lydiard is in Bevisham?' Mrs. Wardour-Devereux remarked.
'I know the girl,' growled Mr. Lespel. 'She comes with that rascally
doctor and a bobtail of tea-drinking men and women and their brats to
Northeden Heath--my ground. There they stand and sing.'
'Hymns?'inquired Mr. Culbrett.
'I don't know what they sing. And when it rains they take the liberty to
step over my bank into my plantation. Some day I shall have them
stepping into my house.'
'Yes, it's Mr. Lydiard; I'm sure of the man's name,' Palmet replied to
Mrs. Wardour-Devereux.
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