Doctor Thorne, Anthony Trollope [an ebook reader .TXT] 📗

navvy, with a pimply, bloated face, was to be seen standing on a railway bank, leaning on a spade holding a bottle in one hand, while he invited a comrade to drink. “Come, Jack, shall us have a drop of some’at short?” were the words coming out of the navvy’s mouth; and under this was painted in huge letters,

The Last New Baronet

But Mr. Moffat hardly escaped on easier terms. The trade by which his father had made his money was as well known as that of the railway contractor; and every possible symbol of tailordom was displayed in graphic portraiture on the walls and hoardings of the city. He was drawn with his goose, with his scissors, with his needle, with his tapes; he might be seen measuring, cutting, stitching, pressing, carrying home his bundle, and presenting his little bill; and under each of these representations was repeated his own motto: “England’s honour.”

Such were the pleasant little amenities with which the people of Barchester greeted the two candidates who were desirous of the honour of serving them in Parliament.

The polling went on briskly and merrily. There were somewhat above nine hundred registered voters, of whom the greater portion recorded their votes early in the day. At two o’clock, according to Sir Roger’s committee, the numbers were as follows:⁠—

Scatcherd 275 Moffat 268

Whereas, by the light afforded by Mr. Moffat’s people, they stood in a slightly different ratio to each other, being written thus:⁠—

Moffat 277 Scatcherd 269

This naturally heightened the excitement, and gave additional delight to the proceedings. At half-past two it was agreed by both sides that Mr. Moffat was ahead; the Moffatites claiming a majority of twelve, and the Scatcherdites allowing a majority of one. But by three o’clock sundry good men and true, belonging to the railway interest, had made their way to the booth in spite of the efforts of a band of roughs from Courcy, and Sir Roger was again leading, by ten or a dozen, according to his own showing.

One little transaction which took place in the earlier part of the day deserves to be recorded. There was in Barchester an honest publican⁠—honest as the world of publicans goes⁠—who not only was possessed of a vote, but possessed also of a son who was a voter. He was one Reddypalm, and in former days, before he had learned to appreciate the full value of an Englishman’s franchise, he had been a declared Liberal and an early friend of Roger Scatcherd’s. In latter days he had governed his political feelings with more decorum, and had not allowed himself to be carried away by such foolish fervour as he had evinced in his youth. On this special occasion, however, his line of conduct was so mysterious as for a while to baffle even those who knew him best.

His house was apparently open in Sir Roger’s interest. Beer, at any rate, was flowing there as elsewhere; and scarlet ribbons going in⁠—not, perhaps, in a state of perfect steadiness⁠—came out more unsteady than before. Still had Mr. Reddypalm been deaf to the voice of that charmer, Closerstil, though he had charmed with all his wisdom. Mr. Reddypalm had stated, first his unwillingness to vote at all:⁠—he had, he said, given over politics, and was not inclined to trouble his mind again with the subject; then he had spoken of his great devotion to the Duke of Omnium, under whose grandfathers his grandfather had been bred: Mr. Nearthewinde had, as he said, been with him, and proved to him beyond a shadow of a doubt that it would show the deepest ingratitude 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