Yes and no, Volume 1 (of 2)

The long-expected dissolution of Parliament at length took place. The day of reckoning at length arrived; and M. P.s of every degree were called to render up an account of their conduct, trembling, lest utter extinction should alone suffice to expiate their various offences of every contradictory kind.

One has assisted to perpetuate unrepealed millions, upon an overtaxed constituency; another, neglected to procure an exciseman’s place for Mr. Jones’s wife’s second cousin. The name of one is not found in the last list of minorities; the name of the other was not left with Mr. Mayor last time he was in town. One was squeamish enough to stay away on the night of his patron’s pet job; another has been suspected of joint-stockery. In short, offences of every sort occur to the recollection of those who still hope for a resurrection in the new Parliament; whilst the desperate shades of departed legislators, for whom there is no hope to rise again, crowd in shoals across (not Charon’s ferry, but) the Dover Channel—a destination arising from no longer having the power to put off bills for “six months,” whether public or private.

And now that legislation is again out of lease, new bidders start up on every side; here you may see candidates, like children at puss-in-the-corner, running about in search of a seat; there, a borough, acting on the principles of free trade, awaiting the offer of a third man. Great is the flight of wise men of the East over the western road, hastening to take their periodical dip in the Cornish mines, whence they may rise re-lackered as legislators; a process for which that district is peculiarly celebrated. Here you may see an embryo member, who is obliged to spout by the hour, drink by the dozen, kiss by the hundred, squander by the thousand; whilst his next-door neighbour quietly sends for his friend from London, walks with him to his own summer-house as a town-hall, where they are proposed by his gardener, seconded by his game-keeper, returned by his butler; who having, as returning-officer, returned his master to the House, returns himself to the sideboard, and the two new members drink their own healths tête-à-tête, over a bottle of claret. And yet, though these two modes of proceeding are somewhat different, the production is the same; and they equally mould members of Parliament, who equally become representatives of the people of England. The choice of a whole city, paved with heads and lined with faces, count but the same as the delegate from four dead walls of an old ruin; nay, like Aladdin’s lamp, it is often the old and shabby, dirty and despised, that possess this hidden virtue, which would in vain be sought in new, bright, prosperous-looking possessions of the same kind. A village cobbler in one place, may make members according to his own fancy; he and all about him, even to the very last: whilst in another, the employer of hundreds of hands, and the proprietor of a square mile of warehouse, is told, that his interests are very safe in the hands of Squire Somebody, the county member, who thinks commerce unconstitutional, and votes against any change in the Corn Laws.

But, although at the dissection of a dead Parliament, one detects all the rotten parts in the composition of its frame, yet, without disputing that it might be better, it is wonderful how well the machine works when put together; particularly when one considers, that patriotism is no more the unmixed motive of coming there, than that popular election is the means by which it is effected. Mr. Scraggs comes in, because Mrs. Scraggs was afraid that Mrs. Swails should take precedence of her as an M. P.’s lady. One fool wants to frank; another only wishes to go free himself. But, perhaps, the reader may think that this analysis may as well be spared of that which is collectively the greatest aggregate of talent, and the nicest criterion of taste, which the age can produce.

Therefore, to return to one of our heroes—(for though the freeholders of the county will be called on to decide between them, I will not acknowledge a preference for either)—it was at the identical inn where they separated before, that Oakley found himself alone, after a hard day’s canvassing. He had begun the day with a brilliant speech at a public meeting, held at one of the principal market-towns in the county. The well-merited applause which his sentiments had there elicited from an admiring audience, had produced a sensation of exultation, which had gradually subsided under the wearisome duties of the subsequent canvas, during the last two hours of which, his even more than ordinary taciturnity had by degrees worn out the attendant friends and agents who had accompanied him; and they had severally dropped off, with assurances of being punctual at the place of rendezvous on the morrow. His groom too, he had despatched with an important note to an agent. When therefore, from his horse casting a shoe, he found it would be difficult to reach home that night, he determined to take up his quarters at this inn, which was a sort of neutral ground, for being only a single house in one corner of the county, it had not been taken by any of the parties.

Here, it happened, he was not known personally, and it never was suspected that the name which filled every corner of the county paper, could belong to the jaded-looking traveller, who arrived alone, leading a lame horse; and no longer having Germain to claim attention for him, he seemed likely to receive even less of it than formerly from the much more occupied inmates of the inn.

The sight of the room in which he had passed the last evening of fellowship with the companion of his youth, excited under present circumstances an unpleasant train of thought. He was about to enter with him into an eager, if not angry contest; and though this species of public competition is far from necessarily leading to permanent estrangement in private, yet he was too justly distrustful of his own temper and disposition, not to be well aware that his was a soil in which the kindly feelings of our nature are of slow growth, requiring careful culture, and therefore to fear that such matter of exasperation would inevitably arise as must prevent Germain and himself from ever again meeting on those terms on which they had formerly lived. And how was such a friend to be replaced by one of such an unsocial turn as himself?

It has been often truly said, that uniformity of character is by no means necessary or desirable in permanent companionship. Germain’s mind was fully capable of doing justice to that of his friend, whilst the playful fancy in which his ideas were decked, served to enliven the somewhat sombre colouring which tinged the thoughts of the other; and the kindly over-flowings of his nature washed away the asperities of Oakley’s disposition. And now that these ties were severed, what had he as an equivalent? Those with whom he at present associated were persons with whom nothing but a community of interest during a moment of political excitement might temporarily connect him. He had that morning, in the course of his public speech, revelled in those abstract theories of philanthropy and patriotism upon which liberal ideas in politics are founded—but what availed these general doctrines, when he sought in vain for an individual link of sympathy which might connect him with his kind?

True, there was one gentle nature with whom he would gladly have established a claim to sympathy, which if acknowledged, would amply compensate to him for the indifference of the rest of the world; but here again his evil star seemed to persecute him. He had parted from her in doubt and in darkness, and his present residence not only separated her from him, but placed her in a situation of natural hostility to his wishes.

All this, and much more from which he had in vain endeavoured to extract comfort, had passed through his mind before the waiter interrupted his reverie by bringing supper. “Beg pardon, Sir,” he said; “but we’re mortal throng at present with this here election.”

That propriety of deportment which is the peculiar characteristic of the present age, has very much narrowed the field which was open to former writers, of detailing familiar communications between different ranks. A dramatist of the present day, for instance, is completely debarred from indulging in that alternation of confidence and caning with servants which formed so much of the dialogue and action of the old plays. If a gentleman now-a-days ever does unbend, it is as likely as not with a waiter at an inn, when, for want of other company, he lets himself out for the night for a few shillings’ worth of familiarity.

Oakley, generally speaking, was very little likely to give into even this temporary condescension; but, besides that his own thoughts had not been, as we have seen, very pleasant company, he felt the general, though dangerous desire to which all are subject, to avail himself of an opportunity to hear himself talked over by a person to whom he was unknown.

He therefore detained the waiter, and gave him an opening to continue the conversation by saying: “I should have thought that here you were quite out of the way of the election, and knew or cared nothing about any of the candidates.”

His present attendant was not slow to avail himself of the privilege of talking, though not in the flippant frothy style of a southern knight of the napkin, but with the true deliberate drawl of the north country.

“Lord, sur, there’s not a man, woman, or choild in all the country round, but has made a bit of a favourite of one of them; and as for our house, we’re no two of a moind here. There’s Betty Chambermaid all for Germain, because his colours are prattyest for to look on. Cook’s all for ould Squire Stedman, because he’s most against the Pope’s roasting-alive consarn. As for me, from what I sees in the papers of Squire Oakley’s talk, I conceits him the most, only I doubt its all gammon he says.”

“Why so?” enquired Oakley.

“Why, you see, he talks a deal about liberty and natural rights, and that all property is only in trust for the public;—well, he’s gotten a mortal foine place, and park, and gardens, such as thare’s not the loike in the county, and he wont let a living soul get a soight of it, though master might have five pair of horses out a-day, I dare say, of boithing company from —— going cross country to see it. And much harm that would do. Then, as to economy which he preaches, I doubt he practises that better: it’s nothing to me that for certain, for the more as don’t dine with him the more may come here. But I am tould that neither man, woman, nor choild, have ever had their trotters under his mahogany.”

“Get me some more mutton-chops,” said Oakley, whose pleasure in the conversation had quite ceased. The waiter obediently retired, but to return no more, as the arrival of a carriage-and-four more worthily occupied his attention; and the fresh mutton-chops were carelessly consigned to Betty Chambermaid, who, flaunting in a cap covered with Germain’s ribbons, tossed them upon the table.

Wearied and dissatisfied, Oakley retired early to bed to prepare for the fatigues of the next day; but upon coming down in the morning to the sitting-room, where he had been the night before, he found it occupied. Breakfast was already laid, and a lady was standing at the window with her back towards him. He was hastily retiring, when, upon her turning round, to his surprise he beheld Helen Mordaunt.

“Miss Mordaunt! and alone! Can it be possible?”

“Only alone,” said she, “from too implicit a faith in Lord and Lady Latimer’s intention of early rising. I arrived here late last night with them; we had been detained on the road for hours, and therefore could not reach——, where we are going, in order to be more in the way of hearing the news of——of——”

“Of the election,” added Oakley, observing that she hesitated to mention the subject—“to be ready to triumph in my final defeat, after seeing me die by inches,”—he continued in a tone that was meant, though not very successfully, for careless banter.

“Nay, you cannot wish me seriously to defend myself from such an imputation,” she replied, detecting through his assumed pleasantry a little soreness about it. “Or why should that be the feeling of any of our party? You forget that only one need fail, and I am sure I hope that you will come in with Mr. Germain.”

“Then, provided he is safe, I may flatter myself that my chance is a matter of indifference to Miss Mordaunt?”

“You are determined, I see, to misconstrue all I say upon the subject; and as that ignorance I have always professed about it makes it the easier for you to do so, I will say nothing more—but let me take this opportunity of conveying to you my mother’s thanks for all your kindness to me when we met at Boreton. In a letter I lately received from her, she says: ‘Pray tell Mr. Oakley how much his kindness to my child doubles the obligations I already owe him.’ You know her then, Mr. Oakley, and have perhaps endeavoured to cheer her occasional melancholy, and wondered with me, why she is not as happy as she deserves to be?”

“And what did Mrs. Mordaunt mean by my particular kindness to you?” inquired Oakley, and for a moment an unworthy suspicion of the mother’s manœuvring for her daughter came across him; but he quickly banished it, as altogether misplaced, and continued: “If it was attempting to monopolize the only society in which I found pleasure, that ought rather to be punished as selfishness, than rewarded with thanks.”

In most mouths this would have been a mere common-place compliment; but Oakley could not have said it if he had not thought it; and therefore the whole tone of its delivery was different, coming from him, and its effect might have been proportionate, but that at this moment Lady Latimer opened the door, and beheld, not a little bewildered at seeing that which of all things that had “a local habitation and a name” she least expected—the full-length figure of Ernest Oakley.

“I beg your pardon,” said he, rather confusedly; “it was quite an unintentional intrusion on my part. I was shown into the room last night, and returned to it as a matter of course this morning.”

“Pray let us profit by the mistake,” graciously replied Lady Latimer, “by your staying to breakfast with us. We will not poison you. Breakfast is a notoriously innocent meal; a dinner is more dangerous, and bears the stamp of party. A cabinet-dinner governs our own country; a public-dinner saves foreign patriots abroad; but breakfast is entirely without meaning, and compromises no man’s political principles. So pray sit down.”

Oakley, excusing himself on the score of hurry, retreated towards the door, and was met on the threshold by Lord Latimer, ushered in by the waiter, who, turning towards him, informed him that his hat was in the traveller’s room. Lord Latimer bowed civilly, looking at first rather puzzled, and afterwards not a little amused at the waiter’s cool treatment of a man of Oakley’s character and importance.

When the mistake was explained to him—“A good omen!” said Lord Latimer; “we shall be the means of turning him out of another public house too,” and after that thought no more about it.

Not so Helen—and yet why should each succeeding interview with Oakley have left a stronger impression upon her? All that he had ever said would hardly amount to an avowal of common-place interest, and yet she felt assured that common-place was not the characteristic of his conduct towards her. Hers was no singular case. If nothing has been here recorded to justify that conviction on her part, it is because it is impossible to try by the test of words that which purposely avoids the responsibility of speech, those thousand little nameless attentions which too often by implying attachment create it in return; whilst, shunning verbal explanation, they evade every thing of the compromising nature of an engagement.

Oakley’s conduct, such as it was, had such an effect; though I am far from asserting that it originated in such an intention.