CHAPTER XXVIII.
_Titus._ But what says Jupiter, I ask thee?
_Clown._ Alas, sir, I know not Jupiter: I never drank with him in all my life.
--_Titus Andronicus_
The multiplication of uncomplimentary placards noticed by Mr. Lyon andFelix Holt was one of several signs that the days of nomination andelection were approaching. The presence of the Revising Barrister inTreby was not only an opportunity for all persons not otherwise busy toshow their zeal for the purification of the voting-lists, but also toreconcile private ease and public duty by standing about the streets andlounging at doors.
It was no light business for Trebians to form an opinion the mere factof a public functionary with an unfamiliar title was enough to givethem pause, as a premise that was not to be quickly started from. To Mr.Pink, the saddler, for example, until some distinct injury or benefithad accrued to him, the existence of the Revising Barrister was like theexistence of the young giraffe which Wombwell had lately brought intothose parts--it was to be contemplated, and not criticised. Mr. Pinkprofessed a deep-dyed Toryism; but he regarded all fault-finding asRadical and somewhat impious, as disturbing to trade, and likely tooffend the gentry, or the servants through whom their harness wasordered: there was a Nemesis in things which made objection unsafe, andeven the Reform Bill was a sort of electric eel which a thrivingtradesman had better leave alone. It was only the "Papists" who livedfar enough off to be spoken of uncivilly.
But Mr. Pink was fond of news, which he collected and retailed withperfect impartiality, noting facts and rejecting comments. Hence he waswell pleased to have his shop so constant a place of resort forloungers, that to many Trebians there was a strong association betweenthe pleasures of gossip and the smell of leather. He had thesatisfaction of chalking and cutting, and of keeping his journeymenclose at work, at the very time that he learned from his visitors whowere those whose votes had been called in question before His Honor, howLawyer Jermyn had been too much for Lawyer Labron about Todd's cottages,and how, in the opinion of some townsmen, this looking into the value ofpeople's property, and swearing it down below a certain sum, was a nastyinquisitorial kind of thing; while others observed that being nice to afew pounds was all nonsense--they should put the figure high enough, andthen never mind if a voter's qualification was thereabouts. But, saidMr. Sims, the auctioneer, everything was done for the sake of thelawyers. Mr. Pink suggested impartially that lawyers must live; but Mr.Sims, having a ready auctioneering wit, did not see that so many of themneed live, or that babies were born lawyers. Mr. Pink felt that thisspeculation was complicated by the ordering of side-saddles for lawyers'daughters, and, returning to the firm ground of fact, stated that it wasgetting dusk.
The dusk seemed deepened the next moment by a tall figure obstructingthe doorway, at sight of whom Mr. Pink rubbed his hands and smiled andbowed more than once, with evident solicitude to show honor where honorwas due, while he said:
"Mr. Christian, sir, how do you do, sir?"
Christian answered with the condescending familiarity of a superior."Very badly, I can tell you, with these confounded braces that you wereto make such a fine job of. See, old fellow, they've burst out again."
"Very sorry, sir. Can you leave them with me?"
"Oh, yes, I'll leave them. What's the news, eh?" said Christian, halfseating himself on a high stool, and beating his boot with a hand-whip.
"Well, sir, we look to you to tell us that," said Mr. Pink, with aknowing smile. "You're at headquarters--eh, sir? That was what I said toMr. Scales the other day. He came up for some straps, Mr. Scales did,and he asked that question in pretty near the same terms that you'vedone, sir, and I answered him, as I may say, ditto. Not meaning anydisrespect to you, sir, but a way of speaking."
"Come, that's gammon, Pink," said Christian. "You know everything. Youcan tell me if you will, who is the fellow employed to paste upTransome's handbills?"
"What do _you_ say, Mr. Sims?" said Pink, looking at the auctioneer.
"Why, you know and I know well enough. It's Tommy Trounsem--an old,crippling, half-mad fellow. Most people know Tommy. I've employed himmyself for charity."
"Where shall I find him?" said Christian.
"At the Cross-Keys, in Pollard's End, most likely," said Mr. Sims. "Idon't know where he puts himself when he isn't at the public."
"He was a stoutish fellow fifteen year ago, when he carried pots," saidMr. Pink.
"Ay, and has snared many a hare in his time," said Mr. Sims. "But he wasalways a little cracked. Lord bless you! he used to swear he had a rightto the Transome estate."
"Why, what put that notion into his head?" said Christian, who hadlearned more than he expected.
"The lawing, sir--nothing but the lawing about the estate. There was adeal of it twenty year ago," said Mr. Pink. "Tommy happened to turn uphereabout at that time; a big, lungeous fellow, who would speakdisrespectfully of hanybody."
"Oh, he meant no harm," said Mr. Sims. "He was fond of a drop to drink,and not quite right in the upper story, and he could hear no differencebetween Trounsem and Transome. It's an odd way of speaking they have inthat part where he was born--a little north'ard. You'll hear it in histongue now, if you talk to him."
"At the Cross-Keys I shall find him, eh?" said Christian, getting offhis stool. "Good-day, Pink--good-day."
Christian went straight from the saddler's to Quorlen's, the Toryprinter's, with whom he had contrived a political spree. Quorlen was anew man in Treby, who had so reduced the trade of Dow, the oldhereditary printer, that Dow had lapsed to Whiggery and Radicalism andopinions in general, so far as they were contented to express themselvesin a small stock of types. Quorlen had brought his Duffield wit withhim, and insisted that religion and joking were the handmaids ofpolitics; on which principle he and Christian undertook the joking, andleft the religion to the rector. The joke at present in question was apractical one. Christian, turning into the shop, merely said, "I'vefound him out--give me the placards"; and, tucking a thickish flatbundle, wrapped in a black glazed cotton bag, under his arm, walked outinto the dusk again.
"Suppose now," he said to himself, as he strode along--"suppose thereshould be some secret to be got out of this old scamp, or some notionthat's as good as a secret to those who know how to use it? That wouldbe virtue rewarded. But I'm afraid the old tosspot is not likely to begood for much. There's truth in wine, and there may be some in gin andmuddy beer; but whether it's truth worth my knowing, is anotherquestion. I've got plenty of truth, but never any that was worth asixpence to me."
The Cross-Keys was a very old-fashioned "public"; its bar was a bigrambling kitchen, with an undulating brick floor; the small-panedwindows threw an interesting obscurity over the far-off dresser,garnished with pewter and tin, and with large dishes that seemed tospeak of better times; the two settles were half pushed under thewide-mouthed chimney; and the grate with its brick hobs, massive ironcrane, and various pothooks, suggested a generous plenty possiblyexistent in all moods and tenses except the indicative present. One wayof getting an idea of our fellow-countrymen's miseries is to go and lookat their pleasures. The Cross-Keys had a fungous-featured landlord and ayellow sickly landlady, with a large white kerchief bound round her cap,as if her head had recently required surgery; it had doctored ale, anodor of bad tobacco, and remarkably strong cheese. It was not whatAstraea, when come back, might be expected to approve as the scene ofecstatic enjoyment for the beings whose special prerogative it is tolift their sublime faces toward heaven. Still, there was ample space onthe hearth--accommodation for narrative bagmen or boxmen--room for a manto stretch his legs; his brain was not pressed upon by a white wallwithin a yard of him, and the light did not stare in mercilessly on bareugliness, turning the fire to ashes. Compared with some beerhouses ofthis more advanced period, the Cross-Keys of that day presented a highstandard of pleasure.
But though this venerable "public" had not faile
d to share in the recentpolitical excitement of drinking, the pleasures it offered were not atthis hour of the evening sought by a numerous company. There were onlythree or four pipes being smoked by the firelight, but it was enough forChristian when he found that one of these was being smoked by thebill-sticker, whose large flat basket, stuffed with placards, leanednear him against the settle. So splendid an apparition as Christian wasnot a little startling at the Cross-Keys, and was gazed at in expectantsilence; but he was a stranger in Pollard's End, and was taken for thehighest style of traveller when he declared that he was deucedlythirsty, ordered sixpenny worth of gin and a large jug of water, and,putting a few drops of the spirit into his own glass, invited TommyTrounsem, who sat next him, to help himself. Tommy was not slower than ashaking hand obliged him to be in accepting this invitation. He was atall, broad-shouldered old fellow, who had once been good-looking; buthis cheeks and chest were both hollow now, and his limbs were shrunken.
"You've got some bills there, master, eh?" said Christian, pointing tothe basket. "Is there an auction coming on?"
"Auction? no," said Tommy, with a gruff hoarseness, which was theremnant of a jovial bass, and with an accent which differed from theTrebian fitfully, as an early habit is wont to reassert itself. "I'venought to do wi' auctions; I'm a pol'tical charicter. It's me am gettingTrounsem into Parl'ment."
"Trounsem, said he," the landlord observed, taking out his pipe with alow laugh. "It's Transome, sir. Maybe you don't belong to this part.It's the candidate 'ull do most for the workingmen, and's proved it too,in the way o' being open-handed and wishing 'em to enjoy themselves. IfI'd twenty votes, I'd give one for Transome, and I don't care who hearsme."
The landlord peered out from his fungous cluster of features with abeery confidence that the high figure of twenty had somehow raised thehypothetic value of his vote.
"Spilkins, now," said Tommy, waving his hand to the landlord, "you letone gentelman speak to another, will you? This genelman wants to knowabout my bills. Does he, or doesn't he?"
"What then? I spoke according," said the landlord, mildly holding hisown.
"You're all very well, Spilkins," returned Tommy, "but y'aren't me. Iknow what the bills are. It's public business. I'm none o' your commonbill-stickers, master; I've left off sticking up ten guineas reward fora sheep-stealer, or low stuff like that. These are Trounsem's bills; andI'm the rightful family, and so I give him a lift. A Trounsem I am, anda Trounsem I'll be buried; and if Old Nick tries to lay hold on me forpoaching, I'll say, 'You be hanged for a lawyer, Old Nick; every hareand pheasant on the Trounsem's land is mine'; and what rises the family,rises old Tommy; and we're going to get into Parl'ment--that's the longand the short on't, master. And I'm the head o' the family, and I stickthe bills. There's Johnsons, and Thomsons, and Jacksons, and Billsons;but I'm a Trounsem, I am. What do you say to that, master?"
This appeal, accompanied by a blow on the table, while the landlordwinked at the company, was addressed to Christian, who answered, withsevere gravity--
"I say there isn't any work more honorable than bill-sticking."
"No, no," said Tommy, wagging his head from side to side. "I thoughtyou'd come in to that. I thought you'd know better than say contrairy.But I'll shake hands wi' you; I don't want to knock any man's head off.I'm a good chap--a sound crock--an old family kep' out o' my rights. Ishall go to heaven, for all Old Nick."
As these celestial prospects might imply that a little extra gin wasbeginning to tell on the bill-sticker, Christian wanted to lose no timein arresting his attention. He laid his hand on Tommy's and spokeemphatically.
"But I'll tell you what you bill-stickers are not up to. You should beon the look-out when Debarry's side have stuck up fresh bills, and goand paste yours over them. I know where there's a lot of Debarry's billsnow. Come along with me and I'll show you. We'll paste them over, andthen we'll come back and treat the company."
"Hooray!" said Tommy. "Let's be off then."
He was one of the thoroughly inured, originally hale drunkards, and didnot easily lose his head or legs or the ordinary amount of method in histalk. Strangers often supposed that Tommy was tipsy when he had onlytaken what he called "one blessed pint," chiefly from that gloriouscontentment with himself and his adverse fortunes which is not usuallycharacteristic of the sober Briton. He knocked the ashes out of hispipe, seized his paste-vessel and his basket, and prepared to start witha satisfactory promise that he could know what he was about.
The landlord and some others had confidently concluded that theyunderstood all about Christian now. He was a Transome's man, come to seeafter the bill-sticking in Transome's interest. The landlord, tellinghis yellow wife snappishly to open the door for the gentleman, hopedsoon to see him again.
"This is a Transome's house, sir," he observed, "in respect ofentertaining customers of that color. I do my duty as a publican, which,if I know it, is to turn back no genelman's money. I say, give everygenelman a chance, and the more the merrier, in Parl'ment and out of it.And if anybody says they want but two Parl'ment men, I say it 'ud bebetter for trade if there was six of 'em, and voters according."
"Ay, ay," said Christian; "you're a sensible man, landlord. You don'tmean to vote for Debarry, then, eh?"
"Not nohow," said the landlord, thinking that where negatives were goodthe more you had of them the better.
As soon as the door had closed behind Christian and his new companionTommy said--
"Now, master, if you're to be my lantern, don't you be a Jacky Lantern,which I take to mean one as leads you the wrong way. For I'll tell youwhat--if you've had the luck to fall in wi' Tommy Trounsem, don't youlet him drop."
"No, no--to be sure not," said Christian. "Come along here. We'll go tothe Back Brewery wall first."
"No, no; don't you let me drop. Give me a shilling any day you like, andI'll tell you more nor you'll hear from Spilkins in a week. There isnamany men like me. I carried pots for fifteen year off and on--what doyou think o' that now, for a man as might ha' lived up there at TrounsemPark, and snared his own game? Which I'd ha' done," said Tommy, wagginghis head at Christian in the dimness undisturbed by gas. "None o' yourshooting for me--it's two to one you'll miss. Snaring's morefishing-like. You bait your hook, and if it isna the fishes' good-willto come, that's nothing again' the sporting genelman. And that's what Isay by snaring."
"But if you'd a right to the Transome estate, how was it you were keptout of it, old boy? It was some foul shame or other, eh?"
"It's the law--that's what it is. You're a good sort of chap; I don'tmind telling you. There's folks born to property, and there's folkscatch hold on it; and the law's made for them to catch hold. I'm prettydeep; I see a good deal further than Spilkins. There was Ned Patch, thepeddler, used to say to me, 'You canna read, Tommy,' says he. 'No; thankyou,' says I; 'I'm not going to crack my headpiece to make myself as biga fool as you.' I was fond o' Ned. Many's the pot we've had together."
"I see well enough you're deep, Tommy. How came you to know you wereborn to property?"
"It was the regester--the parish regester," said Tommy, with his knowingwag of the head, "that shows as you was born. I allays felt it inside meas I was somebody, and I could see other chaps thought it on me too; andso one day at Littleshaw, where I kep' ferrets and a little bit of apublic, there come a fine man looking after me, and walking me up anddown wi' questions. And I made out from the clerk as he'd been at theregester; and I gave the clerk a pot or two, and he got it off ourparson as the name o' Trounsem was a great name hereabout. And I waits abit for my fine man to come again. Thinks I, if there's property wants aright owner, I shall be called for; for I didn't know the law then. AndI waited and waited, till I see'd no fun i' waiting. So I parted with mypublic and my ferrets--for she was dead a' ready, my wife was, and Ihadn't no cumbrance. And off I started a pretty long walk to thiscountry-side, for I could walk for a wager in them days."
"Ah! well, here we are at the Back Brewery wall. Put down your paste andyour basket
now, old boy, and I'll help you. You paste, and I'll giveyou the bills, and then you can go on talking."
Tommy obeyed automatically, for he was now carried away by the rareopportunity of talking to a new listener, and was only eager to go onwith his story. As soon as his back was turned, and he was stooping overhis paste-pot, Christian, with quick adroitness, exchanged the placardsin his own bag for those in Tommy's basket. Christian's placards had notbeen printed at Treby, but were a new lot which had been sent fromDuffield that very day--"highly spiced," Quorlen had said, "coming froma pen that was up to that sort of thing." Christian had read the firstof the sheaf, and supposed they were all alike. He proceeded to hand oneto Tommy and said--
"Here, old boy, paste this over the other. And so, when you got intothis country-side, what did you do?"
"Why, I put up at a good public and ordered the best, for I'd a bit o'money in my pocket; and I axed about, and they said to me, if it'sTrounsem business you're after, you go to Lawyer Jermyn. And I went; andsays I, going along, he's maybe the fine man as walked me up and down.But no such thing. I'll tell you what Lawyer Jermyn was. He stands youthere, and holds you away from him wi' a pole three yard long. He staresat you, and says nothing, till you feel like a Tomfool; and then hethreats you to set the justice on you; and then he's sorry for you, andhands you money, and preaches you a sarmint, and tells you you're a poorman, and he'll give you a bit of advice--and you'd better not bemeddling wi' things belonging to the law, else you be catched up in abig wheel and fly to bits. And I went of a cold sweat, and I wished Imight never come i' sight o' Lawyer Jermyn again. But he says, if youkeep i' this neighborhood, behave yourself well, and I'll pertect you. Iwere deep enough, but it's no use being deep, 'cause you can never knowthe law. And there's times when the deepest fellow's most frightened."
"Yes, yes. There! Now for another placard. And so that was all?"
"All?" said Tommy, turning round and holding the paste-brush in suspense."Don't you be running too quick. Thinks I, 'I'll meddle no more. I'vegot a bit o' money--I'll buy a basket, and be a pot-man. It's a pleasantlife. I shall live at publics and see the world, and pick 'quaintance,and get a chance penny.' But when I'd turned into the Red Lion, and gotmyself warm again wi' a drop o' hot, something jumps into my head.Thinks I, Tommy, you've done finely for yourself: you're a rat as hasbroke up your house to take a journey, and show yourself to a ferret.And then it jumps into my head: I'd once two ferrets as turned on oneanother, and the little un killed the big un. Says I to the landlady,'Missus, could you tell me of a lawyer,' says I, 'not very big or fine,but a second-size--a big-potato, like?' 'That I can,' says she; 'there'sone now in the bar parlor.' 'Be so kind as bring us together,' says I.And she cries out--I think I hear her now--'Mr. Johnson!' And what doyou think?"
At this crisis in Tommy's story the gray clouds, which had beengradually thinning, opened sufficiently to let down the suddenmoonlight, and show his poor battered old figure and face in theattitude and with the expression of a narrator sure of the coming effecton his auditor; his body and neck stretched a little on one side, andhis paste-brush held out with an alarming intention of tappingChristian's coat-sleeve at the right moment. Christian started to a safedistance, and said--
"It's wonderful. I can't tell what to think."
"Then never do you deny Old Nick," said Tommy, with solemnity. "I'vebelieved in him more ever since. Who was Johnson? Why, Johnson was thefine man as had walked me up and down with questions. And I out with itto him then and there. And he speaks me civil, and says, 'Come away wi'me, my good fellow.' And he told me a deal o' law. And he says, 'Whetheryou're a Tommy Trounsem or no, it's no good to you, but only to them ashave got hold o' the property. If you was a Tommy Trounsem twenty timesover, it 'ud be no good, for the law's bought you out; and your life'sno good, only to them as have catched hold o' the property. The more youlive, the more they'll stick in. Not as they want you now,' sayshe--'you're no good to anybody, and you might howl like a dog foriver,and the law 'ud take no notice on you.' Says Johnson, 'I'm doing a kindthing by you to tell you. For that's the law.' And if you want to knowthe law, master, you ask Johnson. I heard 'em say after, as he was anunderstrapper at Jermyn's. I've never forgot it from that day to this.But I saw clear enough, as if the law hadn't been again' me, theTrounsem estate 'ud ha' been mine. But folks are fools hereabouts, andI've left off talking. The more you tell 'em the truth, the more they'llniver believe you. And I went and bought my basket and the pots,and----"
"Come then, fire away," said Christian. "Here's another placard."
"I'm getting a bit dry, master."
"Well, then, make haste, and you'll have something to drink all thesooner."
Tommy turned to his work again, and Christian, continuing his help,said, "And how long has Mr. Jermyn been employing you?"
"Oh, no particular time--off and on but a week or two ago he sees meupo' the road, and speaks to me uncommon civil, and tells me to go up tohis office and he'll give me employ. And I was noways unwilling to stickthe bills to get the family into Parl'ment. For there's no man can helpthe law. And the family's the family, whether you carry pots or no.Master, I'm uncommon dry; my head's a-turning round; it's talking solong on end."
The unwonted excitement of poor Tommy's memory was producing a reaction.
"Well, Tommy," said Christian, who had just made a discovery among theplacards which altered the bent of his thoughts, "you may go back to theCross-Keys now, if you like; here's a half-crown for you to spendhandsomely. I can't go back there myself just yet; but you may give myrespects to Spilkins, and mind you paste the rest of the bills earlyto-morrow morning."
"Ay, ay. But don't you believe too much i' Spilkins," said Tommy,pocketing the half-crown, and showing his gratitude by giving thisadvice--"he's no harm much--but weak. He thinks he's at the bottom o'things because he scores you up. But I bear him no ill-will. TommyTrounsem's a good chap; and any day you like to give me half-a-crown,I'll tell you the same story over again. Not now; I'm dry. Come, help meup wi' these things; you're a younger chap than me. Well, I'll tellSpilkins you'll come again another day."
The moonlight, which had lit up poor Tommy's oratorical attitude, hadserved to light up for Christian the print of the placards. He hadexpected the copies to be various, and had turned them half over atdifferent depths of the sheaf before drawing out those he offered to thebill-sticker. Suddenly the clearer light had shown him on one of them aname which was just then especially interesting to him, and all the morewhen occurring in a placard intended to dissuade the electors of NorthLoamshire from voting for the heir of the Transomes. He hastily turnedover the bills that preceded and succeeded, that he might draw out andcarry away all of this pattern; for it might turn out to be wiser forhim not to contribute to the publicity of handbills which containedallusions to Bycliffe _versus_ Transome. There were about a dozen ofthem; he pressed them together and thrust them into his pocket,returning all the rest to Tommy's basket. To take away this dozen mightnot be to prevent similar bills from being posted up elsewhere, but hehad reason to believe that these were all of the same kind which hadbeen sent to Treby from Duffield.
Christian's interest in his practical joke had died out like a morningrushlight. Apart from this discovery in the placards, old Tommy's storyhad some indications in it that were worth pondering over. Where wasthat well-informed Johnson now? Was he still an understrapper ofJermyn's?
With this matter in his thoughts, Christian only turned in hastily atQuorlen's, threw down the black bag which contained the captured Radicalhandbills, said he had done the job, and hurried back to the Manor thathe might study his problem.