Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (interesting books to read TXT) 📖

on his part to vote against the duke’s

candidate.

 

Mr Closerstil thought he understood all this, and sent more, and

still more men to drink beer. He even caused—taking infinite trouble

to secure secrecy in the matter—three gallons of British brandy to

be ordered and paid for as the best French. But, nevertheless, Mr

Reddypalm made no sign to show that he considered that the right

thing had been done. On the evening before the election, he told

one of Mr Closerstil’s confidential men, that he had thought a good

deal about it, and that he believed he should be constrained by his

conscience to vote for Mr Moffat.

 

We have said that Mr Closerstil was accompanied by a learned friend

of his, one Mr Romer, a barrister, who was greatly interested in Sir

Roger, and who, being a strong Liberal, was assisting in the canvass

with much energy. He, hearing how matters were likely to go with

this conscientious publican, and feeling himself peculiarly capable

of dealing with such delicate scruples, undertook to look into the

case in hand. Early, therefore, on the morning of the election, he

sauntered down the cross street in which hung out the sign of the

Brown Bear, and, as he expected, found Mr Reddypalm near his own

door.

 

Now it was quite an understood thing that there was to be no bribery.

This was understood by no one better than by Mr Romer, who had, in

truth, drawn up many of the published assurances to that effect. And,

to give him his due, he was fully minded to act in accordance with

these assurances. The object of all the parties was to make it worth

the voters’ while to give their votes; but to do so without bribery.

Mr Romer had repeatedly declared that he would have nothing to do

with any illegal practising; but he had also declared that, as long

as all was done according to law, he was ready to lend his best

efforts to assist Sir Roger. How he assisted Sir Roger, and adhered

to the law, will now be seen.

 

Oh, Mr Romer! Mr Romer! is it not the case with thee that thou

“wouldst not play false, and yet wouldst wrongly win?” Not in

electioneering, Mr Romer, any more than in other pursuits, can a man

touch pitch and not be defiled; as thou, innocent as thou art, wilt

soon learn to thy terrible cost.

 

“Well, Reddypalm,” said Mr Romer, shaking hands with him. Mr Romer

had not been equally cautious as Nearthewinde, and had already drunk

sundry glasses of ale at the Brown Bear, in the hope of softening the

stern Bear-warden. “How is it to be to-day? Which is to be the man?”

 

“If any one knows that, Mr Romer, you must be the man. A poor

numbskull like me knows nothing of them matters. How should I?

All I looks to, Mr Romer, is selling a trifle of drink now and

then—selling it, and getting paid for it, you know, Mr Romer.”

 

“Yes, that’s important, no doubt. But come, Reddypalm, such an old

friend of Sir Roger as you are, a man he speaks of as one of his

intimate friends, I wonder how you can hesitate about it? Now with

another man, I should think that he wanted to be paid for voting—”

 

“Oh, Mr Romer!—fie—fie—fie!”

 

“I know it’s not the case with you. It would be an insult to offer

you money, even if money were going. I should not mention this, only

as money is not going, neither on our side nor on the other, no harm

can be done.”

 

“Mr Romer, if you speak of such a thing, you’ll hurt me. I know the

value of an Englishman’s franchise too well to wish to sell it. I

would not demean myself so low; no, not though five-and-twenty pound

a vote was going, as there was in the good old times—and that’s not

so long ago neither.”

 

“I am sure you wouldn’t, Reddypalm; I’m sure you wouldn’t. But an

honest man like you should stick to old friends. Now, tell me,” and

putting his arm through Reddypalm’s, he walked with him into the

passage of his own house; “Now, tell me—is there anything wrong?

It’s between friends, you know. Is there anything wrong?”

 

“I wouldn’t sell my vote for untold gold,” said Reddypalm, who was

perhaps aware that untold gold would hardly be offered to him for it.

 

“I am sure you would not,” said Mr Romer.

 

“But,” said Reddypalm, “a man likes to be paid his little bill.”

 

“Surely, surely,” said the barrister.

 

“And I did say two years since, when your friend Mr Closerstil

brought a friend of his down to stand here—it wasn’t Sir Roger

then—but when he brought a friend of his down, and when I drew

two or three hogsheads of ale on their side, and when my bill was

questioned and only half-settled, I did say that I wouldn’t interfere

with no election no more. And no more I will, Mr Romer—unless it be

to give a quiet vote for the nobleman under whom I and mine always

lived respectable.”

 

“Oh!” said Mr Romer.

 

“A man do like to have his bill paid, you know, Mr Romer.”

 

Mr Romer could not but acknowledge that this was a natural feeling on

the part of an ordinary mortal publican.

 

“It goes agin the grain with a man not to have his little bill paid,

and specially at election time,” again urged Mr Reddypalm.

 

Mr Romer had not much time to think about it; but he knew well that

matters were so nearly balanced, that the votes of Mr Reddypalm and

his son were of inestimable value.

 

“If it’s only about your bill,” said Mr Romer, “I’ll see to have that

settled. I’ll speak to Closerstil about that.”

 

“All right!” said Reddypalm, seizing the young barrister’s hand, and

shaking it warmly; “all right!” And late in the afternoon when a vote

or two became matter of intense interest, Mr Reddypalm and his son

came up to the hustings and boldly tendered theirs for their old

friend, Sir Roger.

 

There was a great deal of eloquence heard in Barchester on that day.

Sir Roger had by this time so far recovered as to be able to go

through the dreadfully hard work of canvassing and addressing the

electors from eight in the morning till near sunset. A very perfect

recovery, most men will say. Yes; a perfect recovery as regarded the

temporary use of his faculties, both physical and mental; though

it may be doubted whether there can be any permanent recovery from

such disease as his. What amount of brandy he consumed to enable

him to perform this election work, and what lurking evil effect the

excitement might have on him—of these matters no record was kept in

the history of those proceedings.

 

Sir Roger’s eloquence was of a rough kind; but not perhaps the less

operative on those for whom it was intended. The aristocracy of

Barchester consisted chiefly of clerical dignitaries, bishops, deans,

prebendaries, and such like: on them and theirs it was not probable

that anything said by Sir Roger would have much effect. Those men

would either abstain from voting, or vote for the railway hero,

with the view of keeping out the de Courcy candidate. Then came the

shopkeepers, who might also be regarded as a stiff-necked generation,

impervious to electioneering eloquence. They would, generally,

support Mr Moffat. But there was an inferior class of voters,

ten-pound freeholders, and such like, who, at this period, were

somewhat given to have an opinion of their own, and over them it was

supposed that Sir Roger did obtain some power by his gift of talking.

 

“Now, gentlemen, will you tell me this,” said he, bawling at the top

of his voice from off the portico which graced the door of the Dragon

of Wantley, at which celebrated inn Sir Roger’s committee sat:—“Who

is Mr Moffat, and what has he done for us? There have been some

picture-makers about the town this week past. The Lord knows who

they are; I don’t. These clever fellows do tell you who I am, and

what I’ve done. I ain’t very proud of the way they’ve painted me,

though there’s something about it I ain’t ashamed of either. See

here,” and he held up on one side of him one of the great daubs of

himself—“just hold it there till I can explain it,” and he handed

the paper to one of his friends. “That’s me,” said Sir Roger, putting

up his stick, and pointing to the pimply-nosed representation of

himself.

 

“Hurrah! Hur-r-rah! more power to you—we all know who you are,

Roger. You’re the boy! When did you get drunk last?” Such-like

greetings, together with a dead cat which was flung at him from the

crowd, and which he dexterously parried with his stick, were the

answers which he received to this exordium.

 

“Yes,” said he, quite undismayed by this little missile which had

so nearly reached him: “that’s me. And look here; this brown,

dirty-looking broad streak here is intended for a railway; and that

thing in my hand—not the right hand; I’ll come to that presently—”

 

“How about the brandy, Roger?”

 

“I’ll come to that presently. I’ll tell you about the brandy in good

time. But that thing in my left hand is a spade. Now, I never handled

a spade, and never could; but, boys, I handled a chisel and mallet;

and many a hundred block of stone has come out smooth from under that

hand;” and Sir Roger lifted up his great broad palm wide open.

 

“So you did, Roger, and well we minds it.”

 

“The meaning, however, of that spade is to show that I made the

railway. Now I’m very much obliged to those gentlemen over at the

White Horse for putting up this picture of me. It’s a true picture,

and it tells you who I am. I did make that railway. I have made

thousands of miles of railway; I am making thousands of miles of

railways—some in Europe, some in Asia, some in America. It’s a

true picture,” and he poked his stick through it and held it up to

the crowd. “A true picture: but for that spade and that railway, I

shouldn’t be now here asking your votes; and, when next February

comes, I shouldn’t be sitting in Westminster to represent you, as, by

God’s grace, I certainly will do. That tells you who I am. But now,

will you tell me who Mr Moffat is?”

 

“How about the brandy, Roger?”

 

“Oh, yes, the brandy! I was forgetting that and the little speech

that is coming out of my mouth—a deal shorter speech, and a better

one than what I am making now. Here, in the right hand you see a

brandy bottle. Well, boys, I’m not a bit ashamed of that; as long

as a man does his work—and the spade shows that—it’s only fair he

should have something to comfort him. I’m always able to work, and

few men work much harder. I’m always able to work, and no man has a

right to expect more of me. I never expect more than that from those

who work for me.”

 

“No more you don’t, Roger: a little drop’s very good, ain’t it,

Roger? Keeps the cold from the stomach, eh, Roger?”

 

“Then as to this speech, ‘Come, Jack, let’s have a drop of some’at

short.’ Why, that’s a good speech too. When I do drink I like to

share with a friend; and I don’t care how humble that friend is.”

 

“Hurrah! more power. That’s true too, Roger;