Back Aa

Ralph the Heir

<h3>CHAPTER LI.</h3> <h4>MUSIC HAS CHARMS.  </h4> The Commission appointed to examine into the condition of the borough of Percycross cannot exactly be said to have made short work of it, for it sat daily for many consecutive weeks, and examined half the voters in the town; but it made sharp work, and reported to the Speaker of the House such a tale of continual corruption, that all the world knew that the borough would be disfranchised. The glory of Percycross was gone, and in regard to political influence it was to be treated as the cities of the plain, and blotted from off the face of existence. The learned gentlemen who formed the Commission had traced home to Mr. Griffenbottom's breeches-pockets large sums of money which had been expended in the borough for purposes of systematised corruption during the whole term of his connection with it;—and yet they were not very hard upon Mr. Griffenbottom personally in their report. He had spent the money no doubt, but had so spent it that at every election it appeared that he had not expected to spend it till the bills were sent to him. He frankly owned that the borough had been ruinous to him; had made a poor man of him,—but assured the Commission at the same time that all this had come from his continued innocence. As every new election came round, he had hoped that that would at least be pure, and had been urgent in his instructions to his agents to that effect. He had at last learned, he said, that he was not a sufficient Hercules to cleanse so foul a stable. All this created no animosity against him in Percycross during the sitting of the Commission. His old friends, the Triggers, and Piles, and Spiveycombs, clung to him as closely as ever. Every man in Percycross knew that the borough was gone, and there really seemed at last to be something of actual gratitude in their farewell behaviour to the man who had treated the place as it liked to be treated. As the end of it all, the borough was undoubtedly to be disfranchised, and Mr. Griffenbottom left it,—a ruined man, indeed, according to his own statement,—but still with his colours flying, and, to a certain extent, triumphantly. So we will leave him, trusting,—or perhaps rather hoping,—that the days of Mr. Griffenbottom are nearly at an end. His colleague, Sir Thomas, on the occasion of his third visit to Percycross,—a visit which he was constrained to make, sorely against his will, in order that he might give his evidence before the Commission,—remained there but a very short time. But while there he made a clean breast of it. He had gone down to the borough with the most steadfast purpose to avoid corruption; and had done his best in that direction. But he had failed. There had been corruption, for which he had himself paid in part. There had been treating of the grossest kind. Money had been demanded from him since the election, as to the actual destination of which he was profoundly ignorant. He did not, however, doubt but that this money had been spent in the purchase of votes. Sir Thomas was supposed to have betrayed the borough in his evidence, and was hooted out of the town. On this occasion he only remained there one night, and left Percycross for ever, after giving his evidence. This happened during the second week in May. On his return to London he did not go down to Fulham, but remained at his chambers in a most unhappy frame of mind. This renewed attempt of his to enter the world and to go among men that he might do a man's work, had resulted in the loss of a great many hundred pounds, in absolute failure, and, as he wrongly told himself, in personal disgrace. He was almost ashamed to show himself at his club, and did for two days absolutely have his dinner brought to him in his chambers from an eating-house. "I'm sure you won't like that, Sir Thomas," Stemm had said to him, expostulating, and knowing very well the nature of his master's sufferings. "I don't know that I like anything very much," said Sir Thomas. "I wouldn't go and not show my face because of other people's roguery," rejoined Stemm, with cruel audacity. Sir Thomas looked at him, but did not answer a word, and Stemm fetched the food. "Stemm," said Sir Thomas the same evening, "it's getting to be fine weather now." "It's fine enough," said Stemm. "Do you take your nieces down to Southend for an outing. Go down on Thursday and come back on Saturday. I shall be at home. There's a five-pound note for the expenses." Stemm slowly took the note, but grunted and grumbled. The girls were nuisances to him, and he didn't want to take them an outing. They wouldn't care to go before July, and he didn't care to go at all. "You can go when you please," said Sir Thomas. Stemm growled and grumbled, and at last left the room with the money. The morning afterwards Sir Thomas was sitting alone in his room absolutely wretched. He had so managed his life that there seemed to be nothing left to him in it worth the having. He had raised himself to public repute by his intellect and industry, and had then, almost at once, allowed himself to be hustled out of the throng simply because others had been rougher than he,—because other men had pushed and shouldered while he had been quiet and unpretending. Then he had resolved to make up for this disappointment by work of another kind,—by work which would, after all, be more congenial to him. He would go back to the dream of his youth, to the labours of former days, and would in truth write his Life of Bacon. He had then surrounded himself with his papers, had gotten his books together and read up his old notes, had planned chapters and sections, and settled divisions, had drawn up headings, and revelled in those paraphernalia of work which are so dear to would-be working men;—and then nothing had come of it. Of what use was it that he went about ever with a volume in his pocket, and read a page or two as he sat over his wine? When sitting alone in his room he did read; but when reading he knew that he was not working. He went, as it were, round and round the thing, never touching it, till the labour which he longed to commence became so frightful to him that he did not dare to touch it. To do that thing was the settled purpose of his life, and yet, from day to day and from month to month, it became more impossible to him even to make a beginning. There is a misery in this which only they who have endured it can understand. There are idle men who rejoice in idleness. Their name is legion. Idleness, even when it is ruinous, is delightful to them. They revel in it, look forward to it, and almost take a pride in it. When it can be had without pecuniary detriment, it is to such men a thing absolutely good in itself. But such a one was not Sir Thomas Underwood. And there are men who love work, who revel in that, who attack it daily with renewed energy, almost wallowing in it, greedy of work, who go to it almost as the drunkard goes to his bottle, or the gambler to his gaming-table. These are not unhappy men, though they are perhaps apt to make those around them unhappy. But such a one was not Sir Thomas Underwood. And again there are men, fewer in number, who will work though they hate it, from sheer conscience and from conviction that idleness will not suit them or make them happy. Strong men these are;—but such a one certainly was not Sir Thomas Underwood. Then there are they who love the idea of work, but want the fibre needful for the doing it. It may be that such a one will earn his bread as Sir Thomas Underwood had earned his, not flinching from routine task or even from the healthy efforts necessary for subsistence. But there will ever be present to the mind of the ambitious man the idea of something to be done over and above the mere earning of his bread;—and the ambition may be very strong, though the fibre be lacking. Such a one will endure an agony protracted for years, always intending, never performing, self-accusing through every wakeful hour, self-accusing almost through every sleeping hour. The work to be done is close there by the hand, but the tools are loathed, and the paraphernalia of it become hateful. And yet it can never be put aside. It is to be grasped to-morrow, but on every morrow the grasping of it becomes more difficult, more impossible, more revolting. There is no peace, no happiness for such a man;—and such a one was Sir Thomas Underwood. In this strait he had been tempted to make another effort in political life, and he had made it. There had been no difficulty in this,—only that the work itself had been so disagreeable, and that he had failed in it so egregiously. During his canvass, and in all his intercourse with the Griffenbottomites, he had told himself, falsely, how pleasant to him it would be to return to his books;—how much better for him would be a sedentary life, if he could only bring himself to do, or even attempt to do, the work which he had appointed for himself. Now he had returned to his solitude, had again dragged out his papers, his note-book, his memoranda, his dates, and yet he could not in truth get into his harness, put his neck to the collar, and attempt to drag the burden up the hill. He was sitting alone in his room in this condition, with a book in his hand of no value to his great purpose, hating himself and wretched, when Stemm opened his door, ushering Patience and Mary Bonner into his room. "Ah, my dears," he said, "what has brought you up to London? I did not think of seeing you here." There was no expression of positive displeasure in his voice, but it was understood by them all, by the daughter, by the cousin, by old Stemm, and by Sir Thomas himself, that such a visit as this was always to be regarded more or less as an intrusion. However, he kissed them both, and handed them chairs, and was more than usually civil to them. "We do so want to hear about Percycross, papa," said Patience. "There is nothing to be told about Percycross." "Are you to stand again, papa?" "Nobody will ever stand for Percycross again. It will lose its members altogether. The thing is settled." "And you have had all the trouble for nothing, uncle?" Mary asked. "All for nothing,—and the expense. But that is a very common thing, and I have no ground of complaint beyond many others." "It does seem so hard," said Patience. "So very hard," said Mary. And then they were silent. They had not come without a purpose; but, as is common with young ladies, they kept their purpose for the end of the interview. "Are you coming home, papa?" Patience asked. "Well, yes; I won't settle any day now, because I am very busy just at present. But I shall be home soon,—very soon." "I do so hope you'll stay some time with us, papa." "My dear, you know—" And then he stopped, having been pounced upon so suddenly that he had not resolved what excuse he would for the moment put forward. "I've got my papers and things in such confusion here at present,—because of Percycross and the trouble I have had,—that I cannot leave them just now." "But why not bring the papers with you, papa?" "My dear, you know I can't." Then there was another pause. "Papa, I think you ought," said Patience. "Indeed I do, for Clary's sake,—and ours." But even this was not the subject which had specially brought them on that morning to Southampton Buildings. "What is there wrong with Clary?" asked Sir Thomas. "There is nothing wrong," said Patience "What do you mean then?" "I think it would be so much more comfortable for her that you should see things as they are going on." "I declare I don't know what she means. Do you know what she means, Mary?" "Clary has not been quite herself lately," said Mary. "I suppose it's something about that scamp, Ralph Newton," said Sir Thomas. "No, indeed, papa; I am sure she does not think of him now." On this very morning, as the reader may perhaps remember, the scamp had gone down to Fulham, and from Fulham back to Brompton, in search of Clarissa; but of the scamp's energy and renewed affections, Patience as yet knew nothing. "Gregory has been up in London and has been down at Fulham once or twice. We want him to come again before he goes back on Saturday, and we thought if you would come home on Thursday, we could ask him to dinner." Sir Thomas scratched his head, and fidgeted in his chair. "Their cousin is in London also," continued Patience. "The other Ralph; he who has bought Beamingham Hall?" "Yes, papa; we saw him at the Academy. I told him how happy you would be to see him at Fulham." "Of course I should be glad to see him; that is, if I happened to be at home," said Sir Thomas. "But I could not name a day without asking you, papa." "He will have gone back by this time," said Sir Thomas. "I think not, papa." "And what do you say, Mary?" "I have nothing to say at all, uncle. If Mr. Newton likes to come to the villa, I shall be glad to see him. Why should I not? He has done nothing to offend me." There was a slight smile on her face as she spoke, and the merest hint of a blush on her cheek. "They tell me that Beamingham Hall isn't much of a place after all," said Sir Thomas. "From what Mr. Newton says, it must be a very ugly place," said Mary, with still the same smile and the same hint of a blush;—"only I don't quite credit all he tells us." "If there is anything settled you ought to tell me," said Sir Thomas. "There is nothing settled, uncle, or in any way of being settled. It so happened that Mr. Newton did speak to me about his new house. There is nothing more." "Nevertheless, papa, pray let us ask him to dinner on Thursday." It was for the purpose of making this request that Patience had come to Southampton Buildings, braving her father's displeasure. Sir Thomas scratched his head, and rubbed his face, and yielded. Of course he had no alternative but to yield, and yet he did it with a bad grace. Permission, however, was given, and it was understood that Patience would write to the two young men, Ralph of Beamingham Hall and the parson, asking them to dinner for the day but one following. "As the time is so short, I've written the notes ready," said Patience, producing them from her pocket. Then the bell was rung, and the two notes were confided to Stemm. Patience, as she was going, found a moment in which to be alone with her father, and to speak one more word to him. "Dear papa, it would be so much better for us that you should come and live at home. Think of those two, with nobody, as it were, to say a word for them." Sir Thomas groaned, and again scratched his head; but Patience left him before he had arranged his words for an answer. When they were gone, Sir Thomas sat for hours in his chair without moving, making the while one or two faint attempts at the book before him, but in truth giving up his mind to contemplation of the past and to conjectures as to the future, burdened by heavy regrets, and with hopes too weak to afford him any solace. The last words which Patience had spoken rang in his ears,—"Think of those two, with nobody, as it were, to say a word for them." He did think of them, and of the speaker also, and knew that he had neglected his duty. He could understand that such a girl as his own Clarissa did require some one "to say a word for her," some stalwart arm to hold her up, some loving strength to support her, some counsel to direct her. Of course those three girls were as other girls, looking forward to matrimony as their future lot in life, and it would not be well that they should be left to choose or to be chosen, or left to reject and be rejected, without any aid from their remaining parent. He knew that he had been wrong, and he almost resolved that the chambers in Southampton Buildings should be altogether abandoned, and his books removed to Popham Villa. But such men do not quite resolve. Before he could lay his hand upon the table and assure himself that the thing should be done, the volume had been taken up again, used for a few minutes, and then the man's mind had run away again to that vague contemplation which is so much easier than the forming of a steady purpose. It was one of those almost sultry days which do come to us occasionally amidst the ordinary inclemency of a London May, and he was sitting with his window open, though there was a fire in the grate. As he sat, dreaming rather than thinking, there came upon his ear the weak, wailing, puny sound of a distant melancholy flute. He had heard it often before, and had been roused by it to evil wishes, and sometimes even to evil words, against the musician. It was the effort of some youth in the direction of Staple's Inn to soothe with music the savageness of his own bosom. It was borne usually on the evening air, but on this occasion the idle swain had taken up his instrument within an hour or two of his early dinner. His melody was burdened with no peculiar tune, but consisted of a few low, wailing, melancholy notes, such as may be extracted from the reed by a breath and the slow raising and falling of the little finger, much, we believe, to the comfort of the player, but to the ineffable disgust of, too often, a large circle of hearers. Sir Thomas was affected by the sound long before he was aware that he was listening to it. To-whew, to-whew; to-whew, to-whew; whew-to-to, whew-to-to, whew, to-whew. On the present occasion the variation was hardly carried beyond that; but so much was repeated with a persistency which at last seemed to burden the whole air round Southampton Buildings. The little thing might have been excluded by the closing of the window; but Sir Thomas, though he suffered, did not reflect for a while whence the suffering came. Who does not know how such sounds may serve to enhance the bitterness of remorse, to add a sorrow to the present thoughts, and to rob the future of its hopes? There come upon us all as we grow up in years, hours in which it is impossible to keep down the conviction that everything is vanity, that the life past has been vain from folly, and that the life to come must be vain from impotence. It is the presence of thoughts such as these that needs the assurance of a heaven to save the thinker from madness or from suicide. It is when the feeling of this pervading vanity is strongest on him, that he who doubts of heaven most regrets his incapacity for belief. If there be nothing better than this on to the grave,—and nothing worse beyond the grave, why should I bear such fardels? Sir Thomas, as he sat there listening and thinking, unable not to think and not to listen, found that the fardels were very heavy. What good had come to him of his life,—to him or to others? And what further good did he dare to promise to himself? Had it not all been vanity? Was it not all vain to him now at the present? Was not life becoming to him vainer and still vainer every day? He had promised himself once that books should be the solace of his age, and he was beginning to hate his books, because he knew that he did no more than trifle with them. He had found himself driven to attempt to escape from them back into public life; but had failed, and had been inexpressibly dismayed in the failure. While failing, he had promised himself that he would rush at his work on his return to privacy and to quiet; but he was still as the shivering coward, who stands upon the brink, and cannot plunge in among the bathers. And then there was sadness beyond this, and even deeper than this. Why should he have dared to arrange for himself a life different from the life of the ordinary men and women who lived around him? Why had he not contented himself with having his children around him; walking with them to church on Sunday morning, taking them to the theatre on Monday evening, and allowing them to read him to sleep after tea on the Tuesday? He had not done these things, was not doing them now, because he had ventured to think himself capable of something that would justify him in leaving the common circle. He had left it, but was not justified. He had been in Parliament, had been in office, and had tried to write a book. But he was not a legislator, was not a statesman, and was not an author. He was simply a weak, vain, wretched man, who, through false conceit, had been induced to neglect almost every duty of life! To-whew, to-whew, to-whew, to-whew! As the sounds filled his ears, such were the thoughts which lay heavy on his bosom. So idle as he had been in thinking, so inconclusive, so frail, so subject to gusts of wind, so incapable of following his subject to the end, why had he dared to leave that Sunday-keeping, church-going, domestic, decent life, which would have become one of so ordinary a calibre as himself? There are men who may doubt, who may weigh the evidence, who may venture to believe or disbelieve in compliance with their own reasoning faculties,—who may trust themselves to think it out; but he, too clearly, had not been, was not, and never would be one of these. To walk as he saw other men walking around him,—because he was one of the many; to believe that to be good which the teachers appointed for him declared to be good; to do prescribed duties without much personal inquiry into the causes which had made them duties; to listen patiently, and to be content without excitement; that was the mode of living for which he should have known himself to be fit. But he had not known it, and had strayed away, and had ventured to think that he could think,—and had been ambitious. And now he found himself stranded in the mud of personal condemnation,—and that so late in life, that there remained to him no hope of escape. Whew-to-to; whew-to-to; whew,—to-whew. "Stemm, why do you let that brute go on with his cursed flute?" Stemm at that moment had opened the door to suggest that as he usually dined at one, and as it was now past three, he would go out and get a bit of something to eat. "He's always at it, sir," said Stemm, pausing for a moment before he alluded to his own wants. "Why the deuce is he always at it? Why isn't he indited for a nuisance? Who's to do anything with such a noise as that going on for hours together? He has nearly driven me mad." "It's young Wobble as has the back attic, No. 17, in the Inn," said Stemm. "They ought to turn him out," said Sir Thomas. "I rather like it myself," said Stemm. "It suits my disposition, sir." Then he made his little suggestion in regard to his own personal needs, and of course was blown up for not having come in two hours ago to remind Sir Thomas that it was dinner-time. "It's because I wouldn't disturb you when you has the Bacon papers out, Sir Thomas," said Stemm serenely. Sir Thomas winced and shook his head; but such scenes as this were too common to have much effect. "Stemm!" he called aloud, as soon as the old clerk had closed the door; "Stemm!" Whereupon Stemm reappeared. "Stemm, have some one here next week to pack all these books." "Pack all the books, Sir Thomas!" "Yes;—to pack all the books. There must be cases. Now, go and get your dinner." "New cases, Sir Thomas!" "That will do. Go and get your dinner." And yet his mind was not quite made up. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.