FELIX HOLT, THE RADICAL


By George Eliot


Introduction

Five-and-thirty years ago the glory had not yet departed from the old coach-
roads; the great roadside inns were still brilliant with well-polished 
tankards, the smiling glances of pretty barmaids, and the repartees of 
jocose ostlers; the mail still announced itself by the merry notes of the 
horn; the hedgecutter or the rick-thatcher might still know the exact hour 
by the unfailing yet otherwise meteoric apparition of the pea-green Tally-
ho or the yellow Independent; and elderly gentlemen in pony-chaises, 
quartering nervously to make way for the rolling swinging swiftness, had 
not ceased to remark that times were finely changed since they used to see 
the pack-horses and hear the tinkling of their bells on this very highway. 
In those days there were pocket boroughs, a Birmingham unrepresented in 
parliament and compelled to make strong representations out of it, 
unrepealed corn laws, three-and-sixpenny letters, a brawny and many-
breeding pauperism, and other departed evils; but there were some pleasant 
things too, which have also departed. Non omnia grandior aetas quae 
fugiamus habet, says the wise goddess: you have not the best of it in all 
things, O youngsters! the elderly man has his enviable memories, and not 
the least of them is the memory of a long journey in mid-spring or autumn 
on the outside of a stage-coach. Posterity may be shot, like a bullet 
through a tube, by atmospheric pressure from Winchester to Newcastle: that 
is a fine result to have among our hopes; but the slow old-fashioned way of 
getting from one end of our country to the other is the better thing to 
have in the memory. The tube-journey can never lend much to picture and 
narrative; it is as barren as an exclamatory O! Whereas the happy outside 
passenger seated on the box from the dawn to the gloaming gathered enough 
stories of English life, enough of English labours in town and country, 
enough aspects of earth and sky, to make episodes for a modern Odyssey. 
Suppose only that his journey took him through that central plain, watered 
at one extremity by the Avon, at the other by the Trent. As the morning 
silvered the meadows with their long lines of bushy willows marking the 
watercourses, or burnished the golden corn-ricks clustered near the long 
roofs of some midland homestead, he saw the full-uddered cows driven from 
their pasture to the early milking. Perhaps it was the shepherd, 
headservant of the farm, who drove them, his sheep-dog following with a 
heedless unofficial air as of a beadle in undress. The shepherd with a slow 
and slouching walk, timed by the walk of grazing beasts, moved aside, as if 
unwillingly, throwing out a monosyllabic hint to his cattle; his glance, 
accustomed to rest on things very near the earth, seemed to lift itself 
with difficulty to the coachman. Mail or stage coach for him belonged to 
that mysterious distant system of things called "Gover'ment," which, 
whatever it might be, was no business of his, any more than the most 
outlying nebula or the coal-sacks of the southern hemisphere: his solar 
system was the parish; the master's temper and the casualties of lambing-
time were his region of storms. He cut his bread and bacon with his pocket-
knife, and felt no bitterness except in the matter of pauper labourers and 
the bad-luck that sent contrarious seasons and the sheeprot. He and his 
cows were soon left behind, and the homestead too, with its pond overhung 
by elder-trees, its untidy kitchen-garden and cone-shaped yew-tree arbour. 
But everywhere the bushy hedgerows wasted the land with their straggling 
beauty, shrouded the grassy borders of the pastures with cat-kined hazels, 
and tossed their long blackberry branches on the cornfields. Perhaps they 
were white with May, or starred with pale pink dogroses; perhaps the 
urchins were already nutting amongst them, or gathering the plenteous 
crabs. It was worth the journey only to see those hedgerows, the liberal 
homes of unmarketable beauty - of the purple-blossomed ruby-berried 
nightshade, of the wild convolvulus climbing and spreading in tendrilled 
strength till it made a great curtain of pale-green hearts and white 
trumpets, of the many-tubed honeysuckle which, in its most delicate 
fragrance, hid a charm more subtle and penetrating than beauty. Even if it 
were winter the hedgerows showed their coral, the scarlet haws, the deep-
crimson hips, with lingering brown leaves to make a resting-place for the 
jewels of the hoar-frost. Such hedgerows were often as tall as the 
labourers' cottages dotted along the lanes, or clustered into a small 
hamlet, their little dingy windows telling, like thick-filmed eyes, of 
nothing but the darkness within. The passenger on the coach-box, bowled 
along above such a hamlet, saw chiefly the roofs of it: probably it turned 
its back on the road, and seemed to lie away from everything but its own 
patch of earth and sky, away from the parish church by long fields and 
green lanes, away from all intercourse except that of tramps. If its face 
could be seen, it was most likely dirty; but the dirt was Protestant dirt, 
and the big, bold, gin-breathing tramps were Protestant tramps. There was 
no sign of superstition near, no crucifix or image to indicate a misguided 
reverence: the inhabitants were probably so free from superstition that 
they were in much less awe of the parson than of the overseer. Yet they 
were saved from the excesses of Protestantism by not knowing how to read, 
and by the absence of handlooms and mines to be the pioneers of Dissent: 
they were kept safely in the via media of indifference, and could have 
registered themselves in the census by a big black mark as members of the 
Church of England. 
But there were trim cheerful villages too, with a neat or handsome 
parsonage and grey church set in the midst; there was the pleasant tinkle 
of the blacksmith's anvil, the patient cart-horses waiting at his door; the 
basket-maker peeling his willow wands in the sunshine; the wheelwright 
putting the last touch to a blue cart with red wheels; here and there a 
cottage with bright transparent windows showing pots full of blooming 
balsams or geraniums, and little gardens in front all double daisies or 
dark wallflowers; at the well, clean and comely women carrying yoked 
buckets, and towards the free school small Britons dawdling on, and 
handling their marbles in the pockets of unpatched corduroys adorned with 
brass buttons. The land around was rich and marly, great corn-stacks stood 
in the rick-yards - for the rick-burners had not found their way hither; 
the homesteads were those of rich farmers who paid no rent, or had the rare 
advantage of a lease, and could afford to keep their corn till prices had 
risen. The coach would be sure to overtake some of them on their way to 
their outlying fields or to the market-town, sitting heavily on their well-
groomed horses, or weighing down one side of an olive-green gig. They 
probably thought of the coach with some contempt, as an accommodation for 
people who had not their own gigs, or who, wanting to travel to London and 
such distant places, belonged to the trading and less solid part of the 
nation. The passenger on the box could see that this was the district of 
protuberant optimists, sure that old England was the best of all possible 
countries, and that if there were any facts which had not fallen under 
their own observation, they were facts not worth observing: the district of 
clean little market-towns without manufactures, of fat livings, an 
aristocratic clergy, and low poor-rates. But as the day wore on the scene 
would change: the land would begin to be blackened with coal-pits, the 
rattle of handlooms to be heard in hamlets and villages. Here were powerful 
men walking queerly with knees bent outward from squatting in the mine, 
going home to throw themselves down in their blackened flannel and sleep 
through the daylight, then rise and spend much of their high wages at the 
ale-house with their fellows of the Benefit Club; here the pale eager faces 
of handloom-weavers, men and women, haggard from sitting up late at night 
to finish the week's work, hardly begun till the Wednesday. Everywhere the 
cottages and the small children were dirty, for the languid mothers gave 
their strength to the loom; pious Dissenting women, perhaps, who took life 
patiently, and thought that salvation depended chiefly on predestination, 
and not at all on cleanliness. The gables of Dissenting chapels now made a 
visible sign of religion, and of a meeting-place to counterbalance the ale-
house, even in the hamlets; but if a couple of old termagants were seen 
tearing each other's caps, it was a safe conclusion that, if they had not 
received the sacraments of the Church, they had not at least given in to 
schismatic rites, and were free from the errors of Voluntaryism. The breath 
of the manufacturing town, which made a cloudy day and a red gloom by night 
on the horizon, diffused itself over all the surrounding country, filling 
the air with eager unrest. Here was a population not convinced that old 
England was as good as possible; here were multitudinous men and women 
aware that their religion was not exactly the religion of their rulers, who 
might therefore be better than they were, and who, if better, might alter 
many things which now made the world perhaps more painful than it need be, 
and certainly more sinful. Yet there were the grey steeples too, and the 
churchyards, with their grassy mounds and venerable headstones, sleeping in 
the sunlight; there were broad fields and homesteads, and fine old woods 
covering a rising ground, or stretching far by the roadside, allowing only 
peeps at the park and mansion which they shut in from the working-day 
world. In these midland districts the traveller passed rapidly from one 
phase of English life to another: after looking down on a village dingy 
with coal-dust, noisy with the shaking of looms, he might skirt a parish 
all of fields, high hedges, and deep-rutted lanes! After the coach had 
rattled over the pavement of a manufacturing town, the scene of riots and 
trade-sunion meetings, it would take him in another ten minutes into a 
rural region, where the neighbourhood of the town was only felt in the 
advantages of a near market for corn, cheese, and hay, and where men with a 
considerable banking account were accustomed to say that "they never 
meddled with politics themselves." The busy scenes of the shuttle and the 
wheel, of the roaring furnace, of the shaft and the pulley, seemed to make 
but crowded nests in the midst of the large-spaced, slow-moving life of 
homesteads and far-away cottages and oak-sheltered parks. Looking at the 
dwellings scattered amongst the woody flats and the ploughed uplands, under 
the low grey sky which overhung them with an unchanging stillness as if 
Time itself were pausing, it was easy for the traveller to conceive that 
town and country had no pulse in common, except where the handlooms made a 
far-reaching straggling fringe about the great centres of manufacture; that 
till the agitation about the Catholics in '29, rural Englishmen had hardly 
known more of Catholics than of the fossil mammals; and that their notion 
of Reform was a confused combination of rick-burners, trades-union, 
Nottingham riots, and in general whatever required the calling-out of the 
yeomanry. It was still easier to see that, for the most part, they resisted 
the rotation of crops and stood by their fallows: and the coachman would 
perhaps tell how in one parish an innovating farmer, who talked of Sir 
Humphrey Davy, had been fairly driven out by popular dislike, as if he had 
been a confounded Radical; and how, the parson having one Sunday preached 
from the words, "Plough up the fallow-ground of your hearts," the people 
thought he had made the text out of his own head, otherwise it would never 
have come "so pat" on a matter of business; but when they found it in the 
Bible at home, some said it was an argument for fallows (else why should 
the Bible mention fallows?), but a few of the weaker sort were shaken, and 
thought it was an argument that fallows should be done away with, else the 
Bible would have said, "Let your hearts lie fallow;" and the next morning 
the parson had a stroke of apoplexy, which, as coincident with a dispute 
about fallows, so set the parish against the innovating farmer and the 
rotation of crops, that he could stand his ground no longer, and 
transferred his lease. The coachman was an excellent travelling companion 
and commentator on the landscape; he could tell the names of sites and 
persons, and explained the meaning of groups, as well as the shade of 
Virgil in a more memorable journey; he had as many stories about parishes, 
and the men and women in them, as the Wanderer in the "Excursion," only his 
style was different. His view of life had originally been genial, and such 
as became a man who was well warmed within and without, and held a position 
of easy, undisputed authority; but the recent initiation of railways had 
embittered him: he now, as in a perpetual vision, saw the ruined country 
strewn with shattered limbs, and regarded Mr Huskisson's death as a proof 
of God's anger against Stephenson. "Why, every inn on the road would be 
shut up!" and at that word the coachman looked before him with the blank 
gaze of one who had driven his coach to the outermost edge of the universe, 
and saw his leaders plunging into the abyss. Still he would soon relapse 
from the high prophetic strain to the familiar one of narrative. He knew 
whose the land was wherever he drove; what noblemen had half-ruined 
themselves by gambling; who made handsome returns of rent; and who was at 
daggers-drawn with his eldest son. He perhaps remembered the fathers of 
actual baronets, and knew stories of their extravagant or stingy 
housekeeping; whom they had married, whom they had horsewhipped, whether 
they were particular about preserving their game, and whether they had had 
much to do with canal companies. About any actual landed proprietor he 
could also tell whether he was a Reformer or an anti-Reformer. That was a 
distinction which had "turned up" in latter times, and along with it the 
paradox, very puzzling to the coachman's mind, that there were men of old 
family and large estate who voted for the Bill. He did not grapple with the 
paradox; he let it pass, with all the discreetness of an experienced 
theologian or learned scholiast, preferring to point his whip at some 
object which could raise no questions. 
No such paradox troubled our coachman when, leaving the town of Treby Magna 
behind him, he drove between the hedges for a mile or so, crossed the queer 
long bridge over the river Lapp, and then put his horses to a swift gallop 
up the hill by the low-nestled village of Little Treby, till they were on 
the fine level road, skirted on one side by grand larches, oaks, and wych 
elms, which sometimes opened so far as to let the traveller see that there 
was a park behind them. 
How many times in the year, as the coach rolled past the neglected-looking 
lodges which interrupted the screen of trees, and showed the river winding 
through a finely-timbered park, had the coachman answered the same 
questions, or told the same things without being questioned! That? - oh, 
that was Transome Court, a place there had been a fine sight of lawsuits 
about. Generations back, the heir of the Transome name had somehow 
bargained away the estate, and it fell to the Durfeys, very distant 
connections, who only called themselves Transomes because they had got the 
estate. But the Durfeys' claim had been disputed over and over again; and 
the coachman, if he had been asked, would have said, though he might have 
to fall down dead the next minute, that property didn't always get into the 
right hands. However, the lawyers had found their luck in it; and people 
who inherited estates that were lawed about often lived in them as poorly 
as a mouse in a hollow cheese; and, by what he could make out, that had 
been the way with these present Durfeys, or Transomes, as they called 
themselves. As for Mr Transome, he was as poor, half-witted a fellow as 
you'd wish to see; but she was master, had come of a high family, and had a 
spirit-you might see it in her eye and the way she sat her horse. Forty 
years ago, when she came into this country, they said she was a pictur'; 
but her family was poor, and so she took up with a hatchet-faced fellow 
like this Transome. And the eldest son had been just such another as his 
father, only worse-a wild sort of half-natural, who got into bad company. 
They said his mother hated him and wished him dead; for she'd got another 
son, quite of a different cut, who had gone to foreign parts when he was a 
youngster, and she wanted her favourite to be heir. But heir or no heir, 
Lawyer Jermyn had had his picking out of the estate. Not a door in his big 
house but what was the finest polished oak, all got off the Transome 
estate. If anybody liked to believe he paid for it, they were welcome. 
However, Lawyer Jermyn had sat on that box-seat many and many a time. He 
had made the wills of most people thereabout. The coachman would not say 
that Lawyer Jermyn was not the man he would choose to make his own will 
some day. It was not so well for a lawyer to be over-honest, else he might 
not be up to other people's tricks. And as for the Transome business, there 
had been ins and outs in time gone by, so that you couldn't look into it 
straight backward. At this Mr Sampson (everybody in North Loamshire knew 
Sampson's coach) would screw his features into a grimace expressive of 
entire neutrality, and appear to aim his whip at a particular spot on the 
horse's flank. If the passenger was curious for further knowledge 
concerning the Transome affairs, Sampson would shake his head and say there 
had been fine stories in his time; but he never condescended to state what 
the stories were. Some attributed this reticence to a wise incredulity, 
others to a want of memory, others to simple ignorance. But at least 
Sampson was right in saying that there had been fine stories-meaning, 
ironically, stories not altogether creditable to the parties concerned. 
And such stories often come to be fine in a sense that is not ironical. For 
there is seldom any wrong-doing which does not carry along with it some 
downfall of blindly-climbing hopes, some hard entail of suffering, some 
quickly-satiated desire that survives, with the life in death of old 
paralytic vice, to see itself cursed by its woeful progeny some tragic mark 
of kinship in one brief life to the far-stretching life that went before, 
and to the life that is to come after, such as has raised the pity and 
terror of men ever since they began to discern between will and destiny. 
But these things are often unknown to the world; for there is much pain 
that is quite noiseless; and vibrations that make human agonies are often a 
mere whisper in the roar of hurrying existence. There are glances of hatred 
that stab and raise no cry of murder; robberies that leave man or woman for 
ever beggared of peace and joy, yet kept secret by the sufferer - committed 
to no sound except that of low moans in the night, seen in no writing 
except that made on the face by the slow months of suppressed anguish and 
early morning tears. Many an inherited sorrow that has marred a life has 
been breathed into no human ear. 
The poets have told us of a dolorous enchanted forest in the under world. 
The thorn-bushes there, and the thick-barked stems, have human histories 
hidden in them; the power of unuttered cries dwells in the passionless-
seeming branches, and the red warm blood is darkly feeding the quivering 
nerves of a sleepless memory that watches through all dreams. These things 
are a parable.


Chapter 1

He left me when the down upon his lip
Lay like the shadow of a hovering kiss.
"Beautiful mother, do not grieve," he said;
"I will be great, and build our fortunes high,
And you shall wear the longest train at court,
And look so queenly, all the lords shall say,
'She is a royal changeling: there's some crown
Lacks the right head, since hers wears nought but braids.' " 
O, he is coming now - but I am grey:
And he -


On the 1st of September, in the memorable year 1832, some one was expected 
at Transome Court. As early as two o'clock in the afternoon the aged lodge-
keeper had opened the heavy gate, green as the tree trunks were green with 
nature's powdery paint, deposited year after year. Already in the village 
of Little Treby, which lay on the side of a steep hill not far off the 
lodge gates, the elder matrons sat in their best gowns at the few cottage 
doors bordering the road, that they might be ready to get up and make their 
curtsy when a travelling carriage should come in sight; and beyond the 
village several small boys were stationed on the lookout, intending to run 
a race to the barn-like old church, where the sexton waited in the belfry 
ready to set the one bell in joyful agitation just at the right moment. 
The old lodge-keeper had opened the gate and left it in the charge of his 
lame wife, because he was wanted at the Court to sweep away the leaves, and 
perhaps to help in the stables. For though Transome Court was a large 
mansion, built in the fashion of Queen Anne's time, with a park and grounds 
as fine as any to be seen in Loamshire, there were very few servants about 
it. Especially, it seemed, there must be a lack of gardeners; for, except 
on the terrace surrounded with a stone parapet in front of the house, where 
there was a parterre kept with some neatness, grass had spread itself over 
the gravel walks, and over all the low mounds once carefully cut as black 
beds for the shrubs and larger plants. Many of the windows had the shutters 
closed, and under the grand Scotch fir that stooped towards one corner, the 
brown fir-needles of many years lay in a small stone balcony in front of 
two such darkened windows. All round, both near and far, there were grand 
trees, motionless in the still sunshine, and, like all large motionless 
things, seeming to add to the stillness. Here and there a leaf fluttered 
down; petals fell in a silent shower; a heavy moth floated by, and, when it 
settled, seemed to fall wearily; the tiny birds alighted on the walks, and 
hopped about in perfect tranquillity; even a stray rabbit sat nibbling a 
leaf that was to its liking, in the middle of a grassy space, with an air 
that seemed quite impudent in so timid a creature. No sound was to be heard 
louder than a sleepy hum, and the soft monotony of running water hurrying 
on to the river that divided the park. Standing on the south or east side 
of the house, you would never have guessed that an arrival was expected. 
But on the west side, where the carriage entrance was, the gates under the 
stone archway were thrown open; and so was the double door of the entrance-
hall, letting in the warm light on the scagliola pillars, the marble 
statues, and the broad stone staircase, with its matting worn into large 
holes. And, stronger sign of expectation than all, from one of the doors 
which surrounded the entrance-hall, there came forth from time to time a 
lady, who walked lightly over the polished stone floor, and stood on the 
doorsteps and watched and listened. She walked lightly, for her figure was 
slim and finely formed, though she was between fifty and sixty. She was a 
tall, proud-looking woman, with abundant grey hair, dark eyes and eyebrows, 
and a somewhat eagle-like yet not unfeminine face. Her tight-fitting black 
dress was much worn; the fine lace of her cuffs and collar, and of the 
small veil which fell backwards over her high comb, was visibly mended; but 
rare jewels flashed on her hands, which lay on her folded black-clad arms 
like finely cut onyx cameos. 
Many times Mrs Transome went to the doorsteps, watching and listening in 
vain. Each time she returned to the same room: it was a moderate-sized 
comfortable room, with low ebony bookshelves round it, and it formed an 
ante-room to a large library, of which a glimpse could be seen through an 
open doorway, partly obstructed by a heavy tapestry curtain drawn on one 
side. There was a great deal of tarnished gilding and dinginess on the 
walls and furniture of this smaller room, but the pictures above the 
bookcases were all of a cheerful kind: portraits in pastel of pearly-
skinned ladies with hair-powder, blue ribbons, and low bodices; a splendid 
portrait in oils of a Transome in the gorgeous dress of the Restoration; 
another of a Transome in his boyhood, with his hand on the neck of a small 
pony; and a large Flemish battle-piece, where war seemed only a picturesque 
blue-and-red accident in a vast sunny expanse of plain and sky. Probably 
such cheerful pictures had been chosen because this was Mrs Transome's 
usual sitting-room: it was certainly for this reason that, near the chair 
in which she seated herself each time she re-entered, there hung a picture 
of a youthful face which bore a strong resemblance to her own: a beardless 
but masculine face, which rich brown hair hanging low on the forehead, and 
undulating beside each cheek down to the loose white cravat. Near this same 
chair were her writing-table, with vellum-covered account-books on it, the 
cabinet in which she kept her neatly-arranged drugs, her basket for her 
embroidery, a folio volume of architectural engravings from which she took 
her embroidery patterns, a number of the North Loamshire Herald, and the 
cushion for her fat Blenheim, which was too old and sleepy to notice its 
mistress's restlessness. For, just now, Mrs Transome could not abridge the 
sunny tedium of the day by the feeble interest of her usual indoor 
occupations. Her consciousness was absorbed by memories and prospects, and 
except when she walked to the entrance-door to look out, she sat motionless 
with folded arms, involuntarily from time to time turning towards the 
portrait close by her, and as often, when its young brown eyes met hers, 
turning away again with self-checking resolution. 
At last, prompted by some sudden thought or by some sound, she rose and 
went hastily beyond the tapestry curtain into the library. She paused near 
the door without speaking: apparently she only wished to see that no harm 
was being done. A man nearer seventy than sixty was in the act of ranging 
on a large library-table a series of shallow drawers, some of them 
containing dried insects, others mineralogical specimens. His pale mild 
eyes, receding lower jaw, and slight frame, could never have expressed much 
vigour, either bodily or mental; but he had now the unevenness of gait and 
feebleness of gesture which tell of a past paralytic seizure. His 
threadbare clothes were thoroughly brushed; his soft white hair was 
carefully parted and arranged: he was not a neglected-looking old man; and 
at his side a fine black retriever, also old, sat on its haunches, and 
watched him as he went to and fro. But when Mrs Transome appeared within 
the doorway, her husband paused in his work and shrank like a timid animal 
looked at in a cage where flight is impossible. He was conscious of a 
troublesome intention, for which he had been rebuked before - that of 
disturbing all his specimens with a view to a new arrangement. 
After an interval, in which his wife stood perfectly still, observing him, 
he began to put back the drawers in their places in the row of cabinets 
which extended under the bookshelves at one end of the library. When they 
were all put back and closed, Mrs Transome turned away, and the frightened 
old man seated himself with Nimrod the retriever on an ottoman. Peeping at 
him again, a few minutes after, she saw that he had his arm round Nimrod's 
neck, and was uttering his thoughts to the dog in a loud whisper, as little 
children do to any object near them when they believe themselves unwatched. 
At last the sound of the church-bell reached Mrs Transome's ear and she 
knew that before long the sound of wheels must be within hearing; but she 
did not at once start up and walk to the entrance-door. She sat still, 
quivering and listening; her lips became pale, her hands were cold and 
trembling. Was her son really coming? She was far beyond fifty; and since 
her early gladness in this best-loved boy, the harvest of her life had been 
scanty. Could it be that now - when her hair was grey, when sight had 
become one of the day's fatigues, when her young accomplishments seemed 
almost ludicrous, like the tone of her first harpsichord and the words of 
the songs long browned with age - she was going to reap an assured joy? - 
to feel that the doubtful deeds of her life were justified by the result, 
since a kind Providence had sanctioned them? - to be no longer tacitly 
pitied by her neighbours for her lack of money, her imbecile husband, her 
graceless eldest-born, and the loneliness of her life; but to have at her 
side a rich, clever, possibly a tender, son? Yes; but there were the 
fifteen years of separation, and all that had happened in that long time to 
throw her into the background in her son's memory and affection. And yet - 
did not mean sometimes become more filial in their feeling when experience 
had mellowed them, and they had themselves become fathers? Still, if Mrs 
Transome had expected only her son, she would have trembled less; she 
expected a little grandson also: and there were reasons why she had not 
been enraptured when her son had written to her only when he was on the eve 
of returning that he already had an heir born to him. 
But the facts must be accepted as they stood, and, after all, the chief 
thing was to have her son back again. Such pride, such affection, such 
hopes as she cherished in this fifty-sixth year of her life, must find 
their gratification in him - or nowhere. Once more she glanced at the 
portrait. The young brown eyes seemed to dwell on her pleasantly; but, 
turning from it with a sort of impatience, and saying aloud, "Of course he 
will be altered!" she rose almost with difficulty, and walked more slowly 
than before across the hall to the entrance-door. 
Already the sound of wheels was loud upon the gravel. The momentary 
surprise of seeing that it was only a post-chaise, without a servant or 
much luggage, that was passing under the stone archway and then wheeling 
round against the flight of stone steps, was at once merged in the sense 
that there was a dark face under a red travelling-cap looking at her from 
the window. She saw nothing else: she was not even conscious that the small 
group of her own servants had mustered, or that old Hickes the butler had 
come forward to open the chaise door. She heard herself called "Mother!" 
and felt a light kiss on each cheek; but stronger than all that sensation 
was the consciousness which no previous thought could prepare her for, that 
this son who had come back to her was a stranger. Three minutes before, she 
had fancied that, in spite of all changes wrought by fifteen years of 
separation, she should clasp her son again as she had done at their 
parting; but in the moment when their eyes met, the sense of strangeness 
came upon her like a terror. It was not hard to understand that she was 
agitated, and the son led her across the hall to the sitting-room, closing 
the door behind them. Then he turned towards her and said, smiling - 
"You would not have known me, eh, mother?"
It was perhaps the truth. If she had seen him in a crowd, she might have 
looked at him without recognition - not, however, without startled wonder; 
for though the likeness to herself was no longer striking, the years had 
overlaid it with another likeness which would have arrested her. Before she 
answered him, his eyes, with a keen restlessness, as unlike as possible to 
the lingering gaze of the portrait, had travelled quickly over the room, 
alighting on her again as she said - 
"Everything is changed, Harold. I am an old woman, you see." 
"But straighter and more upright than some of the young ones!" said Harold; 
inwardly, however, feeling that age had made his mother's face very anxious 
and eager. "The old women at Smyrna are like sacks. You've not got clumsy 
and shapeless. How is it I have the trick of getting fat?" (Here Harold 
lifted his arm and spread out his plump hand.) "I remember my father was as 
thin as a herring. How is my father? Where is he?"
Mrs Transome just pointed to the curtained doorway, and let her son pass 
through it alone. She was not given to tears; but now, under the pressure 
of emotion that could find no other vent, they burst forth. She took care 
that they should be silent tears, and before Harold came out of the library 
again they were dried. Mrs Transome had not the feminine tendency to seek 
influence through pathos; she had been used to rule in virtue of 
acknowledged superiority. The consciousness that she had to make her son's 
acquaintance, and that her knowledge of the youth of nineteen might help 
her little in interpreting the man of thirty-four, had fallen like lead on 
her soul; but in this new acquaintance of theirs she cared especially that 
her son, who had seen a strange world, should feel that he was come home to 
a mother who was to be consulted on all things, and who could supply his 
lack of the local experience necessary to an English landholder. Her part 
in life had been that of the clever sinner, and she was equipped with the 
views, the reasons, and the habits which belonged to that character: life 
would have little meaning for her if she were to be gently thrust aside as 
a harmless elderly woman. And besides, there were secrets which her son 
must never know. So, by the time Harold came from the library again, the 
traces of tears were not discernible, except to a very careful observer. 
And he did not observe his mother carefully; his eyes only glanced at her 
on their way to the North Loamshire Herald, lying on the table near her, 
which he took up with his left hand, as he said - 
"Gad! what a wreck poor father is! Paralysis, eh? Terribly shrunk and 
shaken - crawls about among his books and beetles as usual, though. Well, 
it's a slow and easy death. But he's not much over sixty-five, is he?"
"Sixty-seven, counting by birthdays; but your father was born old, I 
think," said Mrs Transome, a little flushed with the determination not to 
show any unasked-for feeling. 
Her son did not notice her. All the time he had been speaking his eyes had 
been running down the columns of the newspaper. 
"But your little boy, Harold - where is he? How is it he has not come with 
you?"
"O, I left him behind, in town," said Harold, still looking at the paper. 
"My man Dominic will bring him, with the rest of the luggage. Ah, I see it 
is young Debarry, and not my old friend Sir Maximus, who is offering 
himself as candidate for North Loamshire." 
"Yes. You did not answer me when I wrote to you to London about your 
standing. There is no other Tory candidate spoken of, and you would have 
all the Debarry interest." 
"I hardly think that," said Harold, significantly. 
"Why? Jermyn says a Tory candidate can never be got in without it." 
"But I shall not be a Tory candidate." 
Mrs Transome felt something like an electric shock. 
"What then?" she said, almost sharply. "You will not call yourself a Whig?"
"God forbid! I'm a Radical." 
Mrs Transome's limbs tottered; she sank into a chair. Here was a distinct 
confirmation of the vague but strong feeling that her son was a stranger to 
her. Here was a revelation to which it seemed almost as impossible to 
adjust her hopes and notions of a dignified life as if her son had said 
that he had been converted to Mahometanism at Smyrna, and had four wives, 
instead of one son, shortly to arrive under the care of Dominic. For the 
moment she had a sickening feeling that it was all of no use that the long-
delayed good fortune had come at last - all of no use though the unloved 
Durfey was dead and buried, and though Harold had come home with plenty of 
money. There were rich Radicals, she was aware, as there were rich Jews and 
Dissenters, but she had never thought of them as county people. Sir Francis 
Burdett had been generally regarded as a madman. It was better to ask no 
questions, but silently to prepare herself for anything else there might be 
to come. 
"Will you go to your rooms, Harold, and see if there is anything you would 
like to have altered?"
"Yes, let us go," said Harold, throwing down the newspaper, in which he had 
been rapidly reading almost every advertisement while his mother had been 
going through her sharp inward struggle. "Uncle Lingon is on the bench 
still, I see," he went on, as he followed her across the hall; "is he at 
home - will he be here this evening?"
"He says you must go to the rectory when you want to see him. You must 
remember you have come back to a family who have old-fashioned notions. 
Your uncle thought I ought to have you to myself in the first hour or two. 
He remembered that I had not seen my son for fifteen years." 
"Ah, by Jove! fifteen years - so it is!" said Harold, taking his mother's 
hand and drawing it under his arm; for he had perceived that her words were 
charged with an intention. "And you are as straight as an arrow still; you 
will carry the shawls I have brought you as well as ever." 
They walked up the broad stone steps together in silence. Under the shock 
of discovering her son's Radicalism, Mrs Transome had no impulse to say one 
thing rather than another; as in a man who had just been branded on the 
forehead all wonted motives would be uprooted. Harold, on his side, had no 
wish opposed to filial kindness, but his busy thoughts were imperiously 
determined by habits which had no reference to any woman's feeling; and 
even if he could have conceived what his mother's feeling was, his mind, 
after that momentary arrest, would have darted forward on its usual course. 
"I have given you the south rooms, Harold," said Mrs Transome, as they 
passed along a corridor lit from above, and lined with old family pictures. 
"I thought they would suit you best, as they all open into each other, and 
this middle one will make a pleasant sitting-room for you." 
"Gad! the furniture is in a bad state," said Harold, glancing round at the 
middle room which they had just entered; "the moths seem to have got into 
the carpets and hangings." 
"I had no choice except moths or tenants who would pay rent," said Mrs 
Transome. "We have been too poor to keep servants for uninhabited rooms." 
"What! you've been rather pinched, eh?"
"You find us living as we have been living these twelve years." 
"Ah, you've had Durfey's debts as well as the lawsuits - confound them! It 
will make a hole in sixty thousand pounds to pay off the mortgages. 
However, he's gone now, poor fellow; and I suppose I should have spent more 
in buying an English estate some time or other. I always meant to be an 
Englishman, and thrash a lord or two who thrashed me at Eton." 
"I hardly thought you could have meant that, Harold, when I found you had 
married a foreign wife." 
"Would you have had me wait for a consumptive lackadaisical Englishwoman, 
who would have hung all her relations round my neck? I hate English wives; 
they want to give their opinion about everything. They interfere with a 
man's life. I shall not marry again." 
Mrs Transome bit her lip, and turned away to draw up a blind. She would not 
reply to words which showed how com'pletely any conception of herself and 
her feelings was excluded from her son's inward world. 
As she turned round again she said, "I suppose you have been used to great 
luxury; these rooms look miserable to you, but you can soon make any 
alteration you like." 
"O, I must have a private sitting-room fitted up for myself downstairs. And 
the rest are bedrooms, I suppose," he went on, opening a side-door. "Ah, I 
can sleep here a night or two. But there's a bedroom downstairs, with an 
anteroom, I remember, that would do for my man Dominic and the little boy. 
I should like to have that." 
"Your father has slept there for years. He will be like a distracted 
insect, and never know where to go, if you alter the track he has to walk 
in." 
"That's a pity. I hate going upstairs." 
"There is the steward's room: it is not used, and might be turned into a 
bedroom. I can't offer you my room, for I sleep upstairs." (Mrs Transome's 
tongue could be a whip upon occasion, but the lash had not fallen on a 
sensitive spot.) 
"No; I'm determined not to sleep upstairs. We'll see about the steward's 
room tomorrow, and I daresay I shall find a closet of some sort for 
Dominic. It's a nuisance he had to stay behind, for I shall have nobody to 
cook for me. Ah, there's the old river I used to fish in. I often thought, 
when I was at Smyrna, that I would buy a park with a river through it as 
much like the Lapp as possible. Gad, what fine oaks those are opposite! 
Some of them must come down, though." 
"I've held every tree sacred on the demesne, as I told you, Harold. I 
trusted to your getting the estate some time, and releasing it; and I 
determined to keep it worth releasing. A park without fine timber is no 
better than a beauty without teeth and hair." 
"Bravo, mother!" said Harold, putting his hand on her shoulder. "Ah, you've 
had to worry yourself about things that don't properly belong to a woman - 
my father being weakly. We'll set all that right. You shall have nothing to 
do now but to be grandmamma on satin cushions." 
"You must excuse me from the satin cushions. That is a part of the old 
woman's duty I am not prepared for. I am used to be chief bailiff, and to 
sit in the saddle two or three hours every day. There are two farms on our 
hands besides the Home Farm." 
"Phew-ew! Jermyn manages the estate badly, then. That will not last under 
my reign," said Harold, turning on his heel and feeling in his pockets for 
the keys of his portmanteaus, which had been brought up. 
"Perhaps when you've been in England a little longer," said Mrs Transome, 
colouring as if she had been a girl, "you will understand better the 
difficulties there is in letting farms in these times." 
"I understand the difficulty perfectly, mother. To let farms, a man must 
have the sense to see what will make them inviting to farmers, and to get 
sense supplied on demand is just the most difficult transaction I know of. 
I suppose if I ring there's some fellow who can act as valet and learn to 
attend to my hookah?"
"There is Hickes the butler, and there is Jabez the footman; those are all 
the men in the house. They were here when you left." 
"O, I remember Jabez - he was a dolt. I'll have old Hickes. He was a neat 
little machine of a butler; his words used to come like the clicks of an 
engine. He must be an old machine now, though." 
"You seem to remember some things about home wonderfully well, Harold." 
"Never forget places and people - how they look and what can be done with 
them. All the country round here lies like a map in my brain. A deuced 
pretty country too; but the people were a stupid set of old Whigs and 
Tories. I suppose they are much as they were." 
"I am, at least, Harold. You are the first of your family that every talked 
of being a Radical. I did not think I was taking care of our old oaks for 
that. I always thought Radicals' houses stood staring above poor sticks of 
young trees and iron hurdles." 
"Yes, but the Radical sticks are growing, mother, and half the Tory oaks 
are rotting," said Harold, with gay carelessness. "You've arranged for 
Jermyn to be early tomorrow?"
"He will be here to breakfast at nine. But I leave you to Hickes now; we 
dine in an hour." 
Mrs Transome went away and shut herself in her own dressing-room. It had 
come to pass now - this meeting with the son who had been the object of so 
much longing; whom she had longed for before he was born, for whom she had 
sinned, from whom she had wrenched herself with pain at their parting, and 
whose coming again had been the one great hope of her years. The moment was 
gone by; there had been no ecstasy, no gladness even; hardly half an hour 
had passed, and few words had been spoken, yet with that quickness in 
weaving new futures which belongs to women whose actions have kept them in 
habitual fear of consequences, Mrs Transome thought she saw with all the 
clearness of demonstration that her son's return had not been a good for 
her in the sense of making her any happier. 
She stood before a tall mirror, going close to it and looking at her face 
with hard scrutiny, as if it were unrelated to herself. No elderly face can 
be handsome, looked at in that way; every little detail is startlingly 
prominent, and the effect of the whole is lost. She saw the dried-up 
complexion, and the deep lines of bitter discontent about the mouth. 
"I am a hag!" she said to herself (she was accustomed to give her thoughts 
a very sharp outline), "an ugly old woman who happens to be his mother. 
That is what he sees in me, as I see a stranger in him. I shall count for 
nothing. I was foolish to expect anything else." 
She turned away from the mirror and walked up and down her room. 
"What a likeness!" she said, in a loud whisper; "yet, perhaps, no one will 
see it besides me." 
She threw herself into a chair, and sat with a fixed look, seeing nothing 
that was actually present, but inwardly seeing with painful vividness what 
had been present with her a little more than thirty years ago - the little 
round-limbed creature that had been leaning against her knees, and stamping 
tiny feet, and looking up at her with gurgling laughter. She had thought 
that the possession of this child would give unity to her life, and make 
some gladness through the changing years that would grow up as fruit out of 
these early maternal caresses. But nothing had come just as she had wished. 
The mother's early raptures had lasted but a short time, and even while 
they lasted there had grown up in the midst of them a hungry desire, like a 
black poisonous plant feeding in the sunlight, - the desire that her first, 
rickety, ugly, imbecile child should die, and leave room for her darling, 
of whom she could be proud. Such desires make life a hideous lottery, where 
every day may turn up a blank; where men and women who have the softest 
beds and the most delicate eating, who have a very large share of that sky 
and earth which some are born to have no more of than the fraction to be 
got in a crowded entry, yet grow haggard, fevered, and restless, like those 
who watch in other lotteries, Day after day, year after year, had yielded 
blanks; new cares had come, bringing other desires for results quite beyond 
her grasp, which must also be watched for in the lottery; and all the while 
the round-limbed pet had been growing into a strong youth, who liked many 
things better than his mother's caresses, and which had a much keener 
consciousness of his independent existence than of his relation to her: the 
lizard's egg, that white rounded passive prettiness, had become a brown, 
darting, determined lizard. The mother's love is at first an absorbing 
delight, blunting all other sensibilities; it is an expansion of the animal 
existence; it enlarges the imagined range for self to move in: but in after 
years it can only continue to be joy on the same terms as other long-lived 
love - that is, by much suppression of self, and power of living in the 
experience of another. Mrs Transome had darkly felt the pressure of that 
unchangeable fact. Yet she had clung to the belief that somehow the 
possession of this son was the best thing she lived for; to believe 
otherwise would have made her memory too ghastly a companion. Some time or 
other, by some means, the estate she was struggling to save from the grasp 
of the law would be Harold's. Somehow the hated Durfey, the imbecile 
eldest, who seemed to have become tenacious of a despicable squandering 
life, would be got rid of; vice might kill him. Meanwhile the estate was 
burthened: there was no good prospect for any heir. Harold must go and make 
a career for himself: and this was what he was bent on, with a precocious 
clearness of perception as to the conditions on which he could hope for any 
advantages in life. Like most energetic natures, he had a strong faith in 
his luck; he had been gay at their parting, and had promised to make his 
fortune; and in spite of past disappointments, Harold's possible fortune 
still made some ground for his mother to plant her hopes in. His luck had 
not failed him; yet nothing had turned out according to her expectations. 
Her life had been like a spoiled shabby pleasure-day, in which the music 
and the processions are all missed, and nothing is left at evening but the 
weariness of striving after what has been failed of. Harold had gone with 
the Embassy to Constantinople, under the patronage of a high relative, his 
mother's cousin; he was to be a diplomatist, and work his way upward in 
public life. But his luck had taken another shape: he had saved the life of 
an Armenian banker, who in gratitude had offered him a prospect which his 
practical mind had preferred to the problematic promises of diplomacy and 
high-born cousinship. Harold had become a merchant and banker at Smyrna; 
had let the years pass without caring to find the possibility of visiting 
his early home, and had shown no eagerness to make his life at all familiar 
to his mother, asking for letters about England, but writing scantily about 
himself. Mrs Transome had kept up the habit of writing to her son, but 
gradually the unfruitful years had dulled her hopes and yearnings; 
increasing anxieties about money had worried her, and she was more sure of 
being fretted by bad news about her dissolute eldest son than of hearing 
anything to cheer her from Harold. She had begun to live merely in small 
immediate cares and occupations, and, like all eager-minded women who 
advance in life without any activity of tenderness or any large sympathy, 
she had contracted small rigid habits of thinking and acting, she had her 
"ways" which must not be crossed, and had learned to fill up the great void 
of life with giving small orders to tenants, insisting on medicines for 
infirm cottagers, winning small triumphs in bargains and personal 
economies, and parrying ill-natured remarks of Lady Debarry's by lancet-
edged epigrams. So her life had gone on till more than a year ago, when the 
desire which had been so hungry while she was a blooming young mother, was 
at last fulfilled - at last, when her hair was grey, and her face looked 
bitter, restless, and unenjoying, like her life. The news came from Jersey 
that Durfey, the imbecile son, was dead. Now Harold was heir to the estate; 
now the wealth he had gained could release the land from its burthens; now 
he would think it worth while to return home. A change had at last come 
over her life, and the sunlight breaking the clouds at evening was 
pleasant, though the sun must sink before long. Hopes, affections, the 
sweeter part of her memories, started from their wintry sleep, and it once 
more seemed a great good to have had a second son who in some ways had cost 
her dearly. But again there were conditions she had not reckoned on. When 
the good tidings had been sent to Harold, and he had announced that he 
would return so soon as he could wind up his affairs, he had for the first 
time informed his mother that he had been married, that his Greek wife was 
no longer living, but that he should bring home a little boy, the finest 
and most desirable of heirs and grandsons. Harold, seated in his distant 
Smyrna home, considered that he was taking a rational view of what things 
must have become by this time at the old place in England, when he figured 
his mother as a good elderly lady, who would necessarily be delighted with 
the possession on any terms of a healthy grandchild, and would not mind 
much about the particulars of the long-concealed marriage. 
Mrs Transome had torn up that letter in a rage. But in the months which had 
elapsed before Harold could actually arrive, she had prepared herself as 
well as she could to suppress all reproaches or queries which her son might 
resent, and to acquiesce in his evident wishes. The return was still looked 
for with longing; affection and satisfied pride would again warm her later 
years. She was ignorant what sort of man Harold had become now, and of 
course he must be changed in many ways; but though she told herself this, 
still the image that she knew, the image fondness clung to, necessarily 
prevailed over the negatives insisted on by her reason. 
And so it was, that when she had moved to the door to meet him, she had 
been sure that she should clasp her son again, and feel that he was the 
same who had been her boy, her little one, the loved child of her 
passionate youth. An hour seemed to have changed everything for her. A 
woman's hopes are woven of sunbeams; a shadow annihilates them. The shadow 
which had fallen over Mrs Transome in this first interview with her son was 
the presentiment of her powerlessness. If things went wrong, if Harold got 
unpleasantly disposed in a certain direction where her chief dread had 
always lain, she seemed to foresee that her words would be of no avail. The 
keenness of her anxiety in this matter had served as insight; and Harold's 
rapidity, decision, and indifference to any impressions in others which did 
not further or impede his own purposes, had made themselves felt by her as 
much as she would have felt the unmanageable strength of a great bird which 
had alighted near her, and allowed her to stroke its wing for a moment 
because food lay near her. 
Under the cold weight of these thoughts Mrs Transome shivered. That 
physical reaction roused her from her reverie, and she could now hear the 
gentle knocking at the door to which she had been deaf before. 
Notwithstanding her activity and the fewness of her servants, she had never 
dressed herself without aid; nor would that small, neat, exquisitely clean 
old woman who now presented herself have wished that her labour should be 
saved at the expense of such a sacrifice on her lady's part. The small old 
woman was Mrs Hickes, the butler's wife, who acted as housekeeper, lady's-
maid, and superintendent of the kitchen - the large stony scene of 
inconsiderable cooking. Forty years ago she had entered Mrs Transome's 
service, when that lady was beautiful Miss Lingon, and her mistress still 
called her Denner, as she had done in the old days. 
"The bell has rung, then, Denner, without my hearing it?" said Mrs 
Transome, rising. 
"Yes, madame," said Denner, reaching from a wardrobe an old black velvet 
dress trimmed with much mended point, in which Mrs Transome was wont to 
look queenly of an evening. 
Denner had still strong eyes of that short-sighted kind which sees through 
the narrowest chink between the eyelashes. The physical contrast between 
the tall, eagle-faced, dark-eyed lady, and the little peering waiting-
woman, who had been round-featured and of pale mealy complexion from her 
youth up, had doubtless had a strong influence in determining Denner's 
feeling towards her mistress, which was of that worshipful sort paid to a 
goddess in ages when it was not thought necessary or likely that a goddess 
should be very moral. There were different orders of beings - so ran 
Denner's creed - and she belonged to another order than that to which her 
mistress belonged. She had a mind as sharp as a needle, and would have seen 
through and through the ridiculous pretensions of a born servant who did 
not submissively accept the rigid fate which had given her born superiors. 
She would have called such pretensions the wrigglings of a worm that tried 
to walk on its tail. There was a tacit understanding that Denner knew all 
her mistress's secrets, and her speech was plain and unflattering; yet with 
wonderful subtlety of instinct she never said anything which Mrs Transome 
could feel humiliated by, as by a familiarity from a servant who knew too 
much. Denner identified her own dignity with that of her mistress. She was 
a hard-headed godless little woman, but with a character to be reckoned on 
as you reckon on the qualities of iron. 
Peering into Mrs Transome's face, she saw clearly that the meeting with the 
son had been a disappointment in some way. She spoke with a refined accent, 
in a low, quick, monotonous tone - 
"Mr Harold is drest; he shook me by the hand in the corridor, and was very 
pleasant." 
"What an alteration, Denner! No likeness to me now." 
"Handsome, though, spite of his being so browned and stout. There's a fine 
presence about Mr Harold. I remember you used to say, madam, there were 
some people you would always know were in the room though they stood round 
a corner, and others you might never see till you ran against them. That's 
as true as truth. And as for likenesses, thirty-five and sixty are not much 
alike, only to people's memories." 
Mrs Transome knew perfectly that Denner had divined her thoughts. 
"I don't know how things will go on now; but it seems something too good to 
happen that they will go on well. I am afraid of ever expecting anything 
good again." 
"That's weakness, madam. Things don't happen because they're bad or good, 
else all eggs would be addled or none at all, and at the most it is but six 
to the dozen. There's good chances and bad chances, and nobody's luck is 
pulled only by one string." 
"What a woman you are, Denner! You talk like a French infidel. It seems to 
me you are afraid of nothing. I have been full of fears all my life - 
always seeing something or other hanging over me that I couldn't bear to 
happen." 
"Well, madam, put a good face on it, and don't seem to be on the look-out 
for crows, else you'll set other people watching. Here you have a rich son 
come home, and the debts will all be paid, and you have your health and can 
ride about, and you've such a face and figure, and will have if you live to 
be eighty, that everybody is cap in hand to you before they know who you 
are - let me fasten up your veil a little higher: there's a good deal of 
pleasure in life for you yet." 
"Nonsense! there's no pleasure for old women, unless they get it out of 
tormenting other people. What are your pleasures, Denner - besides being a 
slave to me?"
"Oh, there's pleasure in knowing one's not a fool, like half the people one 
sees about. And managing one's husband is some pleasure; and doing all 
one's business well. Why, if I've only got some orange flowers to candy, I 
shouldn't like to die till I see them all right. Then there's the sunshine 
now and then; I like that, as the cats do. I look upon it, life is like our 
game at whist, when Banks and his wife come to the still-room of an 
evening. I don't enjoy the game much, but I like to play my cards well, and 
see what will be the end of it; and I want to see you make the best of your 
hand, madam, for your luck has been mine these forty years now. But I must 
go and see how Kitty dishes up the dinner, unless you have any more 
commands." 
"No, Denner; I am going down immediately." 
As Mrs Transome descended the stone staircase in her old black velvet and 
point, her appearance justified Denner' personal compliment. She had that 
high-born imperious air which would have marked her as an object of hatred 
and reviling by a revolutionary mob. Her person was too typical of social 
distinctions to be passed by with indifference by any one: it would have 
fitted an empress in her own right, who had had to rule in spite of 
faction, to dare the violation of treaties and dread retributive invasions, 
to grasp after new territories, to be defiant in desperate circumstances, 
and to feel a woman's hunger of the heart for ever unsatisfied. Yet Mrs 
Transome's cares and occupations had not been at all of an imperial sort. 
For thirty years she had led the monotonous narrowing life which used to be 
the lot of our poorer gentry, who never went to town, and were probably not 
on speaking terms with two out of the five families whose parks lay within 
the distance of a drive. When she was young she had been thought 
wonderfully clever and accomplished, and had been rather ambitious of 
intellectual superiority - had secretly picked out for private reading the 
lighter parts of dangerous French authors - and in company had been able to 
talk of Mr Burke's style, or of Chateaubriand's eloquence - had laughed at 
the Lyrical Ballads and admired Mr Southey's "Thalaba." She always thought 
that the dangerous French writers were wicked, and that her reading of them 
was a sin; but many sinful things were highly agreeable to her, and many 
things which she did not doubt to be good and true were dull and 
meaningless. She found ridicule of Biblical characters very amusing, and 
she was interested in stories of illicit passion: but she believed all the 
while that truth and safety lay in due attendance on prayers and sermons, 
in the admirable doctrines and ritual of the Church of England, equally 
remote from Puritanism and Popery; in fact, in such a view of this world 
and the next as would preserve the existing arrangements of English society 
quite unshaken, keeping down the obtrusiveness of the vulgar and the 
discontent of the poor. The history of the Jews, she knew, ought to be 
preferred to any profane history; the Pagans, of course, were vicious, and 
their religions quite nonsensical, considered as religions - but classical 
learning came from the Pagans; the Greeks were famous for sculpture; the 
Italians for painting; the middle ages were dark and papistical; but now 
Christianity went hand in hand with civilisation, and the providential 
government of the world, though a little confused and entangled in foreign 
countries, in our favoured land was clearly seen to be carried forward on 
Tory and Church of England principles, sustained by the succession of the 
House of Brunswick, and by sound English divines. For Miss Lingon had had a 
superior governess, who held that a woman should be able to write a good 
letter, and to express herself with propriety on general subjects. And it 
is astonishing how effective this education appeared in a handsome girl, 
who sat supremely well on horseback, sang and played a little, painted 
small figures in water-colours, had a naughty sparkle in her eyes when she 
made a daring quotation, and an air of serious dignity when she recited 
something from her store of correct opinions. But however such a stock of 
ideas may be made to tell in elegant society, and during a few seasons in 
town, no amount of bloom and beauty can make them a perennial source of 
interest in things not personal; and the notion that what is true and, in 
general, good for mankind, is stupid and drug-like, is not a safe theoretic 
basis in circumstances of temptation and difficulty. Mrs Transome had been 
in her bloom before this century began, and in the long painful years since 
then, what she had once regarded as her knowledge and accomplishments had 
become as valueless as old-fashioned stucco ornaments, of which the 
substance was never worth anything, while the form is no longer to the 
taste of any living mortal. Crosses, mortifications, money-cares, conscious 
blameworthiness had changed the aspect of the world for her: there was 
anxiety in the morning sunlight; there was unkind triumph or disapproving 
pity in the glances of greeting neighbours; there was advancing age, and a 
contracting prospect in the changing seasons as they came and went. And 
what could then sweeter. the days to a hungry much-exacting self like Mrs 
Transome's? Under protracted ill every living creature will find something 
that makes a comparative ease, and even when life seems woven of pain, will 
convert the fainter pang into a desire. Mrs Transome, whose imperious will 
had availed little to ward off the great evils of her life, found the 
opiate for her discontent in the exertion of her will about smaller things. 
She was not cruel and could not enjoy thoroughly what she called the old 
woman's pleasure of tormenting; but she liked every little sign of power 
her lot had left her. She liked that a tenant should stand bare-headed 
below her as she sat on horseback. She liked to insist that work done 
without her orders should be undone from beginning to end. She liked to be 
curtsied and bowed to by all the congregation as she walked up the little 
barn of a church. She liked to change a labourer's medicine fetched from 
the doctor, and substitute a prescription of her own. If she had only been 
more haggard and less majestic, those who had glimpses of her outward life 
might have said she was a tyrannical, griping harridan, with a tongue like 
a razor. No one said exactly that; but they never said anything like the 
full truth about her, or divined what was hidden under that outward life - 
a woman's keen sensibility and dread, which lay screened behind all her 
petty habits and narrow notions, as some quivering thing with eyes and 
throbbing heart may lie crouching behind withered rubbish. The sensibility 
and dread had palpitated all the faster in the prospect of her son's 
return; and now that she had seen him, she said to herself, in her bitter 
way, "It is a lucky eel that escapes skinning. The best happiness I shall 
ever know, will be to escape the worst misery." 



Chapter 2

A jolly paarson of the good old stock,
By birth a gentleman, yet homely too,
Suiting his phrase to Hodge and Margery
Whom he once christened, and has married since,
A little lax in doctrine and in life,
Not thinking God was captious in such things
As what a man might drink on holidays,
But holding true religion was to do
As you'd be done by-which could never mean
That he should preach three sermons in a week.


Harold Transome did not choose to spend the whole evening with his mother. 
It was his habit to compress a great deal of effective conversation into a 
short space of time, asking rapidly all the questions he wanted to get 
answered, and diluting no subject with irrelevancies, paraphrase, or 
repetitions. He volunteered no information about himself and his past life 
at Smyrna, but answered pleasantly enough, though briefly, whenever his 
mother asked for any detail. He was evidently ill-satisfied as to his 
palate, trying red pepper to everything, then asking if there were any 
relishing sauces in the house, and when Hickes brought various home-filled 
bottles, trying several, finding them failures, and finally falling back 
from his plate in despair. Yet he remained good-humoured, saying something 
to his father now and then for the sake of being kind, and looking on with 
a pitying shrug as he saw him watch Hickes cutting his food. Mrs Transome 
thought with some bitterness that Harold showed more feeling for her feeble 
husband who had never cared in the least about him, than for her, who had 
given him more than the usual share of mother's love. An hour after dinner, 
Harold, who had already been turning over the leaves of his mother's 
account-books, said - 
"I shall just cross the park to the parsonage to see my uncle Lingon." 
"Very well. He can answer more questions for you." 
"Yes," said Harold, quite deaf to the innuendo, and accepting the words as 
a simple statement of the fact. "I want to hear all about the game and the 
North Loamshire hunt. I'm fond of sport; we had a great deal of it at 
Smyrna, and it keeps down my fat."
The Reverend John Lingon became very talkative over his second bottle of 
port, which was opened on his nephew's arrival. He was not curious about 
the manners of Smyrna, or about Harold's experience, but he unbosomed 
himself very freely as to what he himself liked and disliked, which of the 
farmers he suspected of killing the foxes, what game he had bagged that 
very morning, what spot he would recommend as a new cover, and the 
comparative flatness of all existing sport compared with cock-fighting, 
under which Old England had been prosperous and glorious, while, so far as 
he could see, it had gained little by the abolition of a practice which 
sharpened the faculties of men, gratified the instincts of the fowl, and 
carried out the designs of heaven in its admirable device of spurs. From 
these main topics which made his points of departure and return, he rambled 
easily enough at any new suggestion or query; so that when Harold got home 
at a late hour, he was conscious of having gathered from amidst the pompous 
full-toned triviality of his uncle's chat some impressions which were of 
practical importance. Among the rector's dislikes, it appeared, was Mr 
Matthew Jermyn. 
"A fat-handed, glib-tongued fellow, with a scented cambric handkerchief; 
one of your educated low-bred fellows; a foundling who got his Latin for 
nothing at Christ's Hospital; one of your middle-class upstarts who want to 
rank with gentlemen, and think they'll do it with kid gloves and new 
furniture." 
But since Harold meant to stand for the county, Mr Lingon was equally 
emphatic as to the necessity of his not quarrelling with Jermyn till the 
election was over. Jermyn must be his agent; Harold must wink hard till he 
found himself safely returned; and even then it might be well to let Jermyn 
drop gently and raise no scandal. He himself had no quarrel with the 
fellow: a clergyman should have no quarrels, and he made it a point to be 
able to take wine with any man he met at table. And as to the estate, and 
his sister's going too much by Jermyn's advice, he never meddled with 
business: it was not his duty as a clergyman. That, he considered, was the 
meaning of Melchisedec and the tithe, a subject into which he had gone to 
some depth thirty years ago, when he preached the Visitation sermon. 
The discovery that Harold meant to stand on the Liberal side - nay, that he 
boldly declared himself a Radical - was rather startling; but to his 
uncle's good-humour, beatified by the sipping of port-wine, nothing could 
seem highly objectionable, provided it did not disturb that operation. In 
the course of half an hour he had brought himself to see that anything 
really worthy to be called British Toryism had been entirely extinct since 
the Duke of Wellington and Sir Robert Peel had passed the Catholic 
Emancipation Bill; that Whiggery, with its rights of man stopping short at 
ten-pound householders, and its policy of pacifying a wild beast with a 
bite, was a ridiculous monstrosity; that therefore, since an honest man 
could not call himself a Tory, which it was, in fact, as impossible to be 
now as to fight for the old Pretender, and could still less become that 
execrable monstrosity a Whig, there remained but one course open to him. 
"Why, lad, if the world was turned into a swamp, I suppose we should leave 
off shoes and stockings, and walk about like cranes" - whence it followed 
plainly enough that, in these hopeless times, nothing was left to men of 
sense and good family but to retard the national ruin by declaring 
themselves Radicals, and take the inevitable process of changing everything 
out of the hands of beggarly demagogues and purse-proud tradesmen. It is 
true the rector was helped to this chain of reasoning by Harold's remarks; 
but he soon became quite ardent in asserting the conclusion. 
"If the mob can't be turned back, a man of family must try and head the 
mob, and save a few homes and hearths, and keep the country up on its last 
legs as long as he can. And you're a man of family, my lad - dash it! 
you're a Lingon, whatever else you may be, and I'll stand by you. I've no 
great interest; I'm a poor parson. I've been forced to give up hunting; my 
pointers and a glass of good wine are the only decencies becoming my 
station that I can allow myself. But I'll give you my countenance - I'll 
stick to you as my nephew. There's no need for me to change sides exactly. 
I was born a Tory, and I shall never be a bishop. But if anybody says 
you're in the wrong, I shall say, 'My nephew is in the right; he has turned 
Radical to save his country.' If William Pitt had been living now, he'd 
have done the same; for what did he say when he was dying? Not 'O save my 
party!' but 'O save my country, heaven!' That was what they dinned in our 
ears about Peel and the duke; and now I'll turn it round upon them. They 
shall be hoist with their own petard. Yes, yes, I'll stand by you." 
Harold did not feel sure that his uncle would thoroughly retain this 
satisfactory thread of argument in the uninspired hours of the morning; but 
the old gentleman was sure to take the facts easily in the end, and there 
was no fear of family coolness or quarrelling on this side. Harold was glad 
of it. He was not to be turned aside from any course he had chosen; but he 
disliked all quarrelling as an unpleasant expenditure of energy that could 
have no good practical result. He was at once active and luxurious; fond of 
mastery, and good-natured enough to wish that every one about him should 
like his mastery; not caring greatly to know other people's thoughts, and 
ready to despise them as blockheads if their thoughts differed from his, 
and yet solicitous that they should have no colourable reason for slight 
thoughts about him. The blockheads must be forced to respect him. Hence, in 
proportion as he foresaw that his equals in the neighbourhood would be 
indignant with him for his political choice, he cared keenly about making a 
good figure before them in every other way. His conduct as a landholder was 
to be judicious, his establishment was to be kept up generously, his 
imbecile father treated with careful regard, his family relations entirely 
without scandal. He knew that affairs had been unpleasant in his youth - 
that there had been ugly lawsuits - and that his scapegrace brother Durfey 
had helped to lower still farther the depressed condition of the family. 
All this must be retrieved, now that events had made Harold the head of the 
Transome name. 
Jermyn must be used for the election, and after that, if he must be got rid 
of, it would be well to shake him loose quietly: his uncle was probably 
right on both those points. But Harold's expectation that he should want to 
get rid of Jermyn was founded on other reasons than his scented 
handkerchief and his charity-school Latin. 
If the lawyer had been presuming on Mrs Transome's ignorance as a woman, 
and on the stupid rakishness of the original heir, the new heir would prove 
to him that he had calculated rashly. Otherwise, Harold had no prejudice 
against him. In his boyhood and youth he had seen Jermyn frequenting 
Transome Court, but had regarded him with that total indifference with 
which youngsters are apt to view those who neither deny them pleasures nor 
give them any. Jermyn used to smile at him, and speak to him affably; but 
Harold, half proud, half shy, got away from such patronage as soon as 
possible: he knew Jermyn was a man of business; his father, his uncle, and 
Sir Maximus Debarry did not regard him as a gentleman and their equal. He 
had known no evil of the man; but he saw now that if he were really a 
covetous upstart, there had been a temptation for him in the management of 
the Transome affairs; and it was clear that the estate was in a bad 
condition. 
When Mr Jermyn was ushered into the breakfast-room the next morning, Harold 
found him surprisingly little altered by the fifteen years. He was grey, 
but still remarkably handsome; fat, but tall enough to bear that trial to 
man's dignity. There was as strong a suggestion of toilette about him as if 
he had been five-and-twenty instead of nearly sixty. He chose always to 
dress in black, and was especially addicted to black satin waistcoats, 
which carried out the general sleekness of his appearance; and this, 
together with his white, fat, but beautifully shaped hands, which he was in 
the habit of rubbing gently on his entrance into a room, gave him very much 
the air of a lady's physician. Harold remembered with some amusement his 
uncle's dislike of those conspicuous hands; but as his own were soft and 
dimpled, and as he too was given to the innocent practice of rubbing those 
members, his suspicions were not yet deepened. 
"I congratulate you, Mrs Transome," said Jermyn, with a soft and 
deferential smile, "all the more," he added, turning towards Harold, "now I 
have the pleasure of actually seeing your son. I am glad to perceive that 
an Eastern climate has not been unfavourable to him." 
"No," said Harold, shaking Jermyn's hand carelessly, and speaking with more 
than his usual rapid brusqueness, "the question is, whether the English 
climate will agree with me. It's deuced shifting and damp; and as for the 
food, it would be the finest thing in the world for this country if the 
southern cooks would change their religion, get persecuted, and fly to 
England, as the old silk-weavers did." 
"There are plenty of foreign cooks for those who are rich enough to pay for 
them, I suppose," said Mrs Transome, "but they are unpleasant people to 
have about one's house." 
"Gad! I don't think so," said Harold. 
"The old servants are sure to quarrel with them." 
"That's no concern of mine. The old servants will have to put up with my 
man Dominic, who will show them how to cook and do everything else, in a 
way that will rather astonish them." 
"Old people are not so easily taught to change all their ways, Harold." 
"Well, they can give up and watch the young ones," said Harold, thinking 
only at that moment of old Mrs Hickes and Dominic. But his mother was not 
thinking of them only. "You have a valuable servant, it seems," said 
Jermyn, who understood Mrs Transome better than her son did, and wished to 
smoothen the current of their dialogue. 
"O! one of those wonderful southern fellows that make one's life easy. He's 
of no country in particular. I don't know whether he's most of a Jew, a 
Greek, an Italian, or a Spaniard. He speaks five or six languages, one as 
well as another. He's cook, valet, major-domo, and secretary all in one; 
and what's more, he's an affectionate fellow - I can trust to his 
attachment. That's a sort of human specimen that doesn't grow here in 
England, I fancy. I should have been badly off if I could not have brought 
Dominic." 
They sat down to breakfast with such slight talk as this going on. Each of 
the party was preoccupied and uneasy. Harold's mind was busy constructing 
probabilities about what he should discover of Jermyn's mismanagement or 
dubious application of funds, and the sort of self-command he must in the 
worst case exercise in order to use the man as long as he wanted him. 
Jermyn was closely observing Harold with an unpleasant sense that there was 
an expression of acuteness and determination about him which would make him 
formidable. He would certainly have preferred at that moment that there had 
been no second heir of the Transome name to come back upon him from the 
East. Mrs Transome was not observing the two men; rather, her hands were 
cold, and her whole person shaken by their presence; she seemed to hear and 
see what they said and did with preternatural acuteness, and yet she was 
also seeing and hearing what had been said and done many years before, and 
feeling a dim terror about the future. There were piteous sensibilities in 
this faded woman, who thirty-four years ago, in the splendour of her bloom, 
had been imperious to one of these men, and had rapturously pressed the 
other as an infant to her bosom, and now knew that she was of little 
consequence to either of them. 
"Well, what are the prospects about the election?" said Harold, as the 
breakfast was advancing. "There are two Whigs and one Conservative likely 
to be in the field, I know. What is your opinion of the chances?"
Mr Jermyn had a copious supply of words, which often led him into 
periphrase, but he cultivated a hesitating stammer, which, with a handsome 
impassiveness of face, except when he was smiling at a woman, or when the 
latent savageness of his nature was thoroughly roused, he had found useful 
in many relations, especially in business. No one could have found out that 
he was not at his ease. "My opinion," he replied, "is in a state of balance 
at present. This division of the county, you are aware, contains one 
manufacturing town of the first magnitude, and several smaller ones. The 
manufacturing interest is widely dispersed. So far - a - there is a 
presumption - a - in favour of the two Liberal candidates. Still with a 
careful canvass of the agricultural districts, such as those we have round 
us at Treby Magna, I think - a - the auguries - a - would not be 
unfavourable to the return of a Conservative. A fourth candidate of good 
position, who should coalesce with Mr Debarry - a - "
Here Mr Jermyn hesitated for the third time, and Harold broke in. 
"That will not be my line of action, so we need not discuss it. If I put up 
it will be as a Radical; and I fancy, in any county that would return Whigs 
there would be plenty of voters to be combed off by a Radical who offered 
himself with good pretensions." 
There was the slightest possible quiver discernible across Jermyn's face. 
Otherwise he sat as he had done before, with his eyes fixed abstractedly on 
the frill of a ham before him, and his hand trifling with his fork. He did 
not answer immediately, but when he did, he looked round steadily at 
Harold. 
"I'm delighted to perceive that you have kept yourself so thoroughly 
acquainted with English politics." 
"O, of course," said Harold, impatiently. "I'm aware how things have been 
going on in England. I always meant to come back ultimately. I suppose I 
know the state of Europe as well as if I'd been stationary at Little Treby 
for the last fifteen years. If a man goes to the East, people seem to think 
he gets turned into something like the one-eyed calender in the Arabian 
Nights." 
"Yet I should think there are some things which people who have been 
stationary at Little Treby could tell you, Harold," said Mrs Transome. "It 
did not signify about your holding Radical opinions at Smyrna; but you seem 
not to imagine how your putting up as a Radical will affect your position 
here, and the position of your family. No one will visit you. And then  - 
the sort of people who will support you! You really have no idea what an 
impression it conveys when you say you are a Radical. There are none of our 
equals who will not feel that you have disgraced yourself."
"Pooh!" said Harold, rising and walking along the room. 
But Mrs Transome went on with growing anger in her voice - "It seems to me 
that a man owes something to his birth and station, and has no right to 
take up this notion or the other, just as it suits his fancy; still less to 
work at the overthrow of his class. That was what every one said of Lord 
Grey, and my family at least is as good as Lord Grey's. You have wealth 
now, and might distinguish yourself in the county; and if you had been true 
to your colours as a gentleman, you would have had all the greater 
opportunity because the times are so bad. The Debarrys and Lord Wyvern 
would have set all the more store by you. For my part, I can't conceive 
what good you propose to yourself. I only entreat you to think again before 
you take any decided step." 
"Mother," said Harold, not angrily or with any raising of his voice, but in 
a quick, impatient manner, as if the scene must be got through as quickly 
as possible; "it is natural that you should think in this way. Women, very 
properly, don't change their views, but keep to the notions in which they 
have been brought up. It doesn't signify what they think - they are not 
called upon to judge or to act. You must really leave me to take my own 
course in these matters, which properly belong to men. Beyond that, I will 
gratify any wish you choose to mention. You shall have a new carriage and a 
pair of bays all to yourself; you shall have the house done up in first-
rate style, and I am not thinking of marrying. But let us understand that 
there shall be no further collision between us on subjects in which I must 
be master of my own actions." 
"And you will put the crown to the mortifications of my life, Harold. I 
don't know who would be a mother if she could foresee what a slight thing 
she will be to her son when she is old." 
Mrs Transome here walked out of the room by the nearest way - the glass 
door open towards the terrace. Mr Jermyn had risen too, and his hands were 
on the back of his chair. He looked quite impassive: it was not the first 
time he had seen Mrs Transome angry; but now, for the first time, he 
thought the outburst of her temper would be useful to him. She, poor woman, 
knew quite well that she had been unwise, and that she had been making 
herself disagreeable to Harold to no purpose. But half the sorrows of women 
would be averted if they could repress the speech they know to be useless; 
nay, the speech they have resolved not to utter. Harold continued his 
walking a moment longer, and then said to Jermyn - "You smoke?"
"No, I always defer to the ladies. Mrs Jermyn is peculiarly sensitive in 
such matters, and doesn't like tobacco." 
Harold, who, underneath all the tendencies which had made him a Liberal, 
had intense personal pride, thought, "Confound the fellow - with his Mrs 
Jermyn! Does he think we are on a footing for me to know anything about his 
wife?"
"Well, I took my hookah before breakfast," he said aloud; "so, if you like, 
we'll go into the library. My father never gets up till mid-day, I find." 
"Sit down, sit down," said Harold, as they entered the handsome, spacious 
library. But he himself continued to stand before a map of the county which 
he had opened from a series of rollers occupying a compartment among the 
bookshelves. "The first question, Mr Jermyn, now you know my intentions, 
is, whether you will undertake to be my agent in this election, and help me 
through? There's no time to be lost, and I don't want to lose my chance, as 
I may not have another for seven years. I understand," he went on, flashing 
a look straight at Jermyn, "that you have not taken any conspicuous course 
in politics; and I know that Labron is agent for the Debarrys." 
"O - a - my dear sir - a man necessarily has his political convictions, but 
of what use is it for a professional man - a - of some education, to talk 
of them in a little country town? There really is no comprehension of 
public questions in such places. Party feeling, indeed, was quite asleep 
here before the agitation about the Catholic Relief Bill. It is true that I 
concurred with our incumbent in getting up a petition against the Reform 
Bill, but I did not state my reasons. The weak points in that Bill are - a 
- too palpable, and I fancy you and I should not differ much on that head. 
The fact is, when I knew that you were to come back to us, I kept myself in 
reserve, though I was much pressed by the friends of Sir James Clement, the 
Ministerial candidate, who is - " 
"However, you will act for me - that's settled?" said Harold. 
"Certainly," said Jermyn, inwardly irritated by Harold's rapid manner of 
cutting him short. 
"Which of the Liberal candidates, as they call themselves, has the better 
chance, eh?"
"I was going to observe that Sir James Clement has not so good a chance as 
Mr Garstin, supposing that a third Liberal candidate presents himself. 
There are two senses in which a politician can be liberal" - here Mr Jermyn 
smiled - "Sir James Clement is a poor baronet, hoping for an appointment, 
and can't be expected to be liberal in that wider sense which commands 
majorities." 
"I wish this man were not so much of a talker," thought Harold; "he'll bore 
me. We shall see," he said aloud, "what can be done in the way of 
combination. I'll come down to your office after one o'clock, if it will 
suit you?"
"Perfectly." 
"Ah, and you'll have all the lists and papers and necessary information 
ready for me there. I must get up a dinner for the tenants, and we can 
invite whom we like besides the tenants. Just now, I'm going over one of 
the farms on hand with the bailiff. By the way, that's a desperately bad 
business, having three farms unlet - how comes that about, eh?"
"That is precisely what I wanted to say a few words about to you. You have 
observed already how strongly Mrs Transome takes certain things to heart. 
You can imagine that she has been severely tried in many ways. Mr 
Transome's want of health; Mr Durfey's habits - a"
"Yes, yes." 
"She is a woman for whom I naturally entertain the highest respect, and she 
has had hardly any gratification for many years, except the sense of having 
affairs to a certain extent in her own hands. She objects to changes; she 
will not have a new style of tenants; she likes the old stock of farmers 
who milk their own cows, and send their younger daughters out to service: 
all this makes it difficult to do the best with the estate. I am aware 
things are not as they ought to be, for, in point of fact, an improved 
agricultural management is a matter in which I take considerable interest, 
and the farm which I myself hold on the estate you will see, I think, to be 
in a superior condition. But Mrs Transome is a woman of strong feeling, and 
I would urge you, my dear sir, to make the changes which you have, but 
which I had not, the right to insist on, as little painful to her as 
possible." 
"I shall know what to do, sir, never fear," said Harold, much offended. 
"You will pardon, I hope, a perhaps undue freedom of suggestion from a man 
of my age, who has been so long in a close connection with the family 
affairs - a - I have never considered that connection simply in the light 
of business - a -"
"Damn him, I'll soon let him know that I do," thought Harold. But in 
proportion as he found Jermyn's manners annoying, he felt the necessity of 
controlling himself. He despised all persons who defeated their own 
projects by the indulgence of momentary impulses. 
"I understand, I understand," he said aloud. "You've had more awkward 
business on your hands than usually falls to the share of a family lawyer. 
We shall set everything right by degrees. But now as to the canvassing. 
I've made arrangements with a first-rate man in London, who understands 
these matters thoroughly - a solicitor of course - he has carried no end of 
men into parliament. I'll engage him to meet us at Duffield - say when?"
The conversation after this was driven carefully clear of all angles, and 
ended with determined amicableness. When Harold, in his ride an hour or two 
afterwards, encountered his uncle shouldering a gun, and followed by one 
black and one liver-spotted pointer, his muscular person with its red eagle 
face set off by a velveteen jacket and leather leggings, Mr Lingon's first 
question was - 
"Well, lad, how have you got on with Jermyn?"
"O, I don't think I shall like the fellow. He's a sort of amateur 
gentleman. But I must make use of him. I expect whatever I get out of him 
will only be something short of fair pay for what he has got out of us. But 
I shall see." 
"Ay, ay, use his gun to bring down your game, and after that beat the thief 
with the butt-end. That's wisdom and justice and pleasure all in one 
talking between ourselves, as uncle and nephew. But I say, Harold, I was 
going to tell you, now I come to think of it, this is rather a nasty 
business, your calling yourself a Radical. I've been turning it over in 
after-dinner speeches, but it looks awkward - it's not what people are used 
to - it wants a good deal of Latin to make it go down. I shall be worried 
about it at the sessions, and I can think of nothing neat enough to carry 
about in my pocket by way of answer." 
"Nonsense, uncle; I remember what a good speechifier you always were: 
you'll never be at a loss. You only want a few more evenings to think of 
it." 
"But you'll not be attacking the church and the institutions of the country 
- you'll not be going those lengths; you'll keep up the bulwarks, and so 
on, eh?"
"No, I shan't attack the church - only the incomes of the bishops, perhaps, 
to make them eke out the incomes of the poor clergy." 
"Well, well, I have no objection to that. Nobody likes our bishop: he's all 
Greek and greediness; too proud to dine with his own father. You may pepper 
the bishops a little. But you'll respect the constitution handed down, etc. 
- and you'll rally round the throne - and the king, God bless him, and the 
usual toasts, eh?"
"Of course, of course. I am a Radical only in rooting out abuses." 
"That's the word I wanted, my lad!" said the vicar, slapping Harold's knee. 
"That's a spool to wind a speech on. Abuses is the very word; and if 
anybody shows himself offended, he'll put the cap on for himself." 
"I remove the rotten timbers," said Harold, inwardly amused, "and 
substitute fresh oak, that's all." 
"Well done, my boy! By George, you'll be a speaker. But, I say, Harold, I 
hope you've got a little Latin left. This young Debarry is a tremendous 
fellow at the classics, and walks on stilts to any length. He's one of the 
new Conservatives. Old Sir Maximus doesn't understand him at all." 
"That won't do at the hustings," said Harold. "He'll get knocked off his 
stilts pretty quickly there." 
"Bless me! it's astonishing how well you're up in the affairs of the 
country, my boy. But rub up a few quotations - 'Quod turpe bonis decebat 
Crispinum' - and that sort of thing - just to show Debarry what you could 
do if you liked. But you want to ride on?"
"Yes; I have an appointment at Treby. Good-bye." 
"He's a cleverish chap," muttered the vicar, as Harold rode away. "When 
he's had plenty of English exercise, and brought out his knuckle a bit, 
he'll be a Lingon again as he used to be. I must go and see how Arabella 
takes his being a Radical. It's a little awkward; but a clergyman must keep 
peace in a family. Confound it! I'm not bound to love Toryism better than 
my own flesh and blood, and the manor I shoot over. That's a heathenish, 
Brutus-like sort of thing, as if Providence couldn't take care of the 
country without my quarrelling with my own sister's son!" 



Chapter 3

'Twas town, yet country too; you felt the warmth
Of clustering houses in the wintry time;
Supped with a friend, and went with a lantern home.
Yet from your chamber window you could hear
The tiny bleat of new-yeaned lambs, or see
The children bend beside the hedgerow banks
To pluck the primroses.


Treby Magna, on which the Reform Bill had thrust the new honour of being a 
polling-place, had been, at the beginning of the century, quite a typical 
old market-town, lying in pleasant sleepiness among green pastures, with a 
rush-fringed river meandering through them. Its principal street had 
various handsome and tall-windowed brick houses with walled gardens behind 
them; and at the end, where it widened into the market-place, there was the 
cheerful rough-stuccoed front of that excellent inn, the Marquis of Granby, 
where the farmers put up their gigs, not only on fair and market days, but 
on exceptional Sundays when they came to church. And the church was one of 
those fine old English structures worth travelling to see, standing in a 
broad churchyard with a line of solemn yew-trees beside it, and lifting a 
majestic tower and spire far above the red-and-purple roofs of the town. It 
was not large enough to hold all the parishioners of a parish which 
stretched over distant villages and hamlets; but then they were never so 
unreasonable as to wish to be all in at once, and had never complained that 
the space of a large side-chapel was taken up by the tombs of the Debarrys, 
and shut in by a handsome iron screen. For when the black Benedictines 
ceased to pray and chant in this church, when the Blessed Virgin and St. 
Gregory were expelled, the Debarrys, as lords of the manor, naturally came 
next to Providence and took the place of the saints. Long before that time, 
indeed there had been a Sir Maximus Debarry who had been at the fortifying 
of the old castle, which now stood in ruins in the midst of the green 
pastures, and with its sheltering wall towards the north made an excellent 
strawyard for the pigs of Wace & Co., brewers of the celebrated Treby beer. 
Wace & Co. did not stand alone in the town as prosperous traders on a large 
scale, to say nothing of those who had retired from business; and in no 
country town of the same small size as Treby was there a larger proportion 
of families who had handsome sets of china without handles, hereditary 
punchbowls, and large silver ladles with a Queen Anne's guinea in the 
centre. Such people naturally took tea and supped together frequently; and 
as there was no professional man or tradesman in Treby who was not 
connected by business, if not by blood, with the farmers of the district, 
the richer sort of these were much invited, and gave invitations in their 
turn. They played at whist, ate and drank generously, praised Mr Pitt and 
the war as keeping up prices and religion, and were very humorous about 
each other's property, having much the same coy pleasure in allusions to 
their secret ability to purchase, as blushing lasses sometimes have in 
jokes about their secret preferences. The rector was always of the Debarry 
family, associated only with county people, and was much respected for his 
affability; a clergyman who would have taken tea with the townspeople would 
have given a dangerous shock to the mind of a Treby churchman. 
Such was the old-fashioned, grazing, brewing, wool-packing, cheese-loading 
life of Treby Magna, until there befell new conditions, complicating its 
relating with the rest of the world, and gradually awakening in it that 
higher consciousness which is known to bring higher pains. First came the 
canal; next, the working of the coal-mines at Sproxton, two miles off the 
town; and, thirdly, the discovery of a saline spring, which suggested to a 
too constructive brain the possibility of turning Treby Magna into a 
fashionable watering-place. So daring an idea was not originated by a 
native Trebian, but by a young lawyer who came from a distance, knew the 
dictionary by heart, and was probably an illegitimate son of somebody or 
other. The idea, although it promised an increase of wealth to the town, 
was not well received at first; ladies objected to seeing "objects" drawn 
about in hand-carriages, the doctor foresaw the advent of unsound 
practitioners, and most retail tradesmen concurred with him that new doings 
were usually for the advantage of new people. The more unanswerable 
reasoners urged that Treby had prospered without baths, and it was yet to 
be seen how it would prosper with them; while a report that the proposed 
name for them was Bethesda Spa, threatened to give the whole affair a 
blasphemous aspect. Even Sir Maximus Debarry, who was to have an 
unprecedented return for the thousands he would lay out on a pump-room and 
hotel, regarded the thing as a little too new, and held back for some time. 
But the persuasive powers of the young lawyer, Mr Matthew Jermyn, together 
with the opportune opening of a stone-quarry, triumphed at last; the 
handsome buildings were erected, an excellent guide-book and descriptive 
cards, surmounted by vignettes, were printed, and Treby Magna became 
conscious of certain facts in its own history, of which it had previously 
been in contented ignorance. 
But it was all in vain. The Spa, for some mysterious reason, did not 
succeed. Some attributed the failure to the coal-mines and the canal, 
others to the peace, which had had ruinous effects on the country, and 
others, who disliked Jermyn, to the original folly of the plan. Among these 
last was Sir Maximus himself, who never forgave the too persuasive 
attorney: it was Jermyn's fault not only that a useless hotel had been 
built, but that he, Sir Maximus, being straitened for money, had at last 
let the building, with the adjacent land lying on the river, on a long 
lease, on the supposition that it was to be turned into a benevolent 
college, and had seen himself subsequently powerless to prevent its being 
turned into a tape manufactory - a bitter thing to any gentleman, and 
especially to the representative of one of the oldest families in England. 
In this way it happened that Treby Magna gradually passed from being simply 
a respectable market-town - the heart of a great rural district, where the 
trade was only such as had close relations with the local landed interest - 
and took on the more complex life brought by mines and manufactures, which 
belong more directly to the great circulating system of the nation than to 
the local system to which they have been superadded - and in this way it 
was that Trebian Dissent gradually altered its character. Formerly it had 
been of a quiescent, well-to-do kind, represented architecturally by a 
small, venerable, dark-pewed chapel, built by Presbyterians, but long 
occupied by a sparse congregation of Independents, who were as little moved 
by doctrinal zeal as their church-going neighbours, and did not feel 
themselves deficient in religious liberty, inasmuch as they were not 
hindered from occasionally slumbering in their pews, and were not obliged 
to go regularly to the weekly prayer-meeting. But when stone-pits and coal-
pits made new hamlets that threatened to spread up to the very town, when 
the tape-weavers came with their news-reading inspectors and bookkeepers, 
the Independent chapel began to be filled with eager men and women, to whom 
the exceptional possession of religious truth was the condition which 
reconciled them to a meagre existence, and made them feel in secure 
alliance with the unseen but supreme rule of a world in which their own 
visible part was small. There were Dissenters in Treby now who could not be 
regarded by the church people in the light of old neighbours to whom the 
habit of going to chapel was an innocent, unenviable inheritance along with 
a particular house and garden, a tan-yard, or a grocery business - 
Dissenters who, in their turn, without meaning to be in the least abusive, 
spoke of the high-bred rector as a blind leader of the blind. And Dissent 
was not the only thing that the times had altered; prices had fallen, poor-
rates had risen, rent and tithe were not elastic enough, and the farmer's 
fat sorrow had become lean; he began to speculate on causes, and to trace 
things back to that causeless mystery, the cessation of one-pound notes. 
Thus, when political agitation swept in a great current through the 
country, Treby Magna was prepared to vibrate. The Catholic Emancipation 
Bill opened the eyes of neighbours, and made them aware how very injurious 
they were to each other and to the welfare of mankind generally. Mr Tiliot, 
the church spirit-merchant, knew now that Mr Nuttwood, the obliging grocer, 
was one of those Dissenters, Deists, Socinians, Papists, and Radicals, who 
were in league to destroy the constitution. A retired old London tradesman, 
who was believed to understand politics, said that thinking people must 
wish George the Third alive again in all his early vigour of mind; and even 
the farmers became less materialistic in their view of causes, and referred 
much to the agency of the devil and the Irish Romans. The rector, the Rev. 
Augustus Debarry, really a fine specimen of the old-fashioned aristocratic 
clergyman, preaching short sermons, understanding business, and acting 
liberally about his tithe, had never before found himself in collision with 
Dissenters; but now he began to feel that these people were a nuisance in 
the parish, that his brother Sir Maximus must take care lest they should 
get land to build more chapels, and that it might not have been a bad thing 
if the law had furnished him as a magistrate with a power of putting a stop 
to the political sermons of the Independent preacher, which, in their way, 
were as pernicious sources of intoxication as the beerhouses. The 
Dissenters, on their side, were not disposed to sacrifice the cause of 
truth and freedom to a temporising mildness of language; but they defended 
themselves from the charge of religious indifference, and solemnly 
disclaimed any lax expectations that Catholics were likely to be saved - 
urging, on the contrary, that they were not too hopeful about Protestants 
who adhered to a bloated and worldly prelacy. Thus Treby Magna, which had 
lived quietly through the great earthquakes of the French Revolution and 
the Napoleonic wars, which had remained unmoved by the Rights of Man, and 
saw little in Mr Cobbett's Weekly Register except that he held eccentric 
views about potatoes, began at last to know the higher pains of a dim 
political consciousness; and the development had been greatly helped by the 
recent agitation about the Reform Bill. Tory, Whig, and Radical did not 
perhaps become clearer in their definition of each other; but the names 
seemed to acquire so strong a stamp of honour or infamy, that definitions 
would only have weakened the impression. As to the short and easy method of 
judging opinions by the personal character of those who held them, it was 
liable to be much frustrated in Treby. It so happened in that particular 
town that the Reformers were not all of them large-hearted patriots or 
ardent lovers of justice; indeed, one of them, in the very midst of the 
agitation, was detected in using unequal scales - a fact to which many 
Tories pointed with disgust as showing plainly enough, without further 
argument, that the cry for a change in the representative system was hollow 
trickery. Again, the Tories were far from being all oppressors, disposed to 
grind down the working classes into serfdom; and it was undeniable that the 
inspector at the tape manufactory, who spoke with much eloquence on the 
extension of the suffrage, was a more tyrannical personage than open-handed 
Mr Wace, whose chief political tenet was, that it was all nonsense giving 
men votes when they had no stake in the country. On the other hand, there 
were some Tories who gave themselves a great deal of leisure to abuse 
hypocrites, Radicals, Dissenters, and atheism generally, but whose inflamed 
faces, theistic swearing, and frankness in expressing a wish to borrow, 
certainly did not mark them out strongly as holding opinions likely to save 
society. 
The Reformers had triumphed: it was clear that the wheels were going 
whither they were pulling, and they were in fine spirits for exertion. But 
if they were pulling towards the country's ruin, there was the more need 
for others to hang on behind and get the wheels to stick if possible. In 
Treby, as elsewhere, people were told they must "rally" at the coming 
election; but there was now a large number of waverers - men of flexible, 
practical minds, who were not such bigots as to cling to any views when a 
good tangible reason could be urged against them; while some regarded it as 
the most neighbourly thing to hold a little with both sides, and were not 
sure that they should rally or vote at all. It seemed an invidious thing to 
vote for one gentleman rather than another. 
These social changes in Treby parish are comparatively public matters, and 
this history is chiefly concerned with the private lot of a few men and 
women; but there is no private life which has not been determined by a 
wider public life, from the time when the primeval milkmaid had to wander 
with the wanderings of her clan, because the cow she milked was one of a 
herd which had made the pastures bare. Even in that conservatory existence 
where the fair Camelia is sighed for by the noble young Pineapple, neither 
of them needing to care about the frost or rain outside, there is a nether 
apparatus of hot-water pipes liable to cool down on a strike of the 
gardeners or a scarcity of coal. And the lives we are about to look back 
upon do not belong to those conservatory species; they are rooted in the 
common earth, having to endure all the ordinary chances of past and present 
weather. As to the weather of 1832, the Zadkiel of that time had predicted 
that the electrical condition of the clouds in the political hemisphere 
would produce unusual perturbations in organic existence, and he would 
perhaps have seen a fulfilment of his remarkable prophecy in that mutual 
influence of dissimilar destinies which we shall see gradually unfolding 
itself. For if the mixed political conditions of Treby Magna had not been 
acted on by the passing of the Reform Bill, Mr Harold Transome would not 
have presented himself as a candidate for North Loamshire, Treby would not 
have been a polling-place, Mr Matthew Jermyn would not have been on affable 
terms with a Dissenting preacher and his flock, and the venerable town 
would not have been placarded with handbills, more or less complimentary 
and retrospective - conditions in this case essential to the "where," and 
the "what," without which, as the learned know, there can be no event 
whatever. 
For example, it was through these conditions that a young man named Felix 
Holt made a considerable difference in the life of Harold Transome, though 
nature and fortune seemed to have done what they could to keep the lots of 
the two men quite aloof from each other. Felix was heir to nothing better 
than a quack medicine; his mother lived up a back street in Treby Magna, 
and her sitting-room was ornamented with her best tea-tray and several 
framed testimonials to the virtues of Holt's Cathartic Lozenges and Holt's 
Restorative Elixir. There could hardly have been a lot less like Harold 
Transome's than this of the quack doctor's son, except in the superficial 
facts that he called himself a Radical, that he was the only son of his 
mother, and that he had lately returned to his home with ideas and resolves 
not a little disturbing to that mother's mind. 
But Mrs Holt, unlike Mrs Transome, was much disposed to reveal her 
troubles, and was not without a counsellor into whose ear she could pour 
them. On this 2nd of September, when Mr Harold Transome had had his first 
interview with Jermyn, and when the attorney went back to his office with 
new views of canvassing in his mind, Mrs Holt had put on her bonnet as 
early as nine o'clock in the morning, and had gone to see the Rev. Rufus 
Lyon, minister of the Independent Chapel usually spoken of as "Malthouse 
Yard."



Chapter 4

"A pious and painful preacher" - Fuller

Mr Lyon lived in a small house, not quite so good as the parish clerk's, 
adjoining the entry which led to the Chapel Yard. The new prosperity of 
Dissent at Treby had led to an enlargement of the chapel, which absorbed 
all extra funds and left none for the enlargement of the minister's income. 
He sat this morning, as usual, in a low upstairs room, called his study, 
which, by means of a closet capable of holding his bed, served also as a 
sleeping-room. The bookshelves did not suffice for his store of old books, 
which lay about him in piles so arranged as to leave narrow lanes between 
them; for the minister was much given to walking about during his hours of 
meditation, and very narrow passages would serve for his small legs, 
unencumbered by any other drapery than his black silk stockings and the 
flexible, though prominent, bows of Mack ribbon that tied his knee-
breeches. He was walking about now, with his hands clasped behind him, an 
attitude in which his body seemed to bear about the same proportion to his 
head as the lower part of a stone Hermes bears to the carven image that 
crowns it. His face looked old and worn, yet the curtain of hair that fell 
from his bald crown and hung about his neck retained much of its original 
auburn tint, and his large, brown, short-sighted eyes were still clear and 
bright. At the first glance, every one thought him a very odd-looking rusty 
old man; the free-school boys often hooted after him, and called him 
"Revelations;" and to many respectable church people, old Lyon's little 
legs and large head seemed to make Dissent additionally preposterous. But 
he was too short-sighted to notice those who tittered at him - too absent 
from the world of small facts and petty impulses in which titterers live. 
With Satan to argue against on matters of vital experience as well as of 
church government, with great texts to meditate on, which seemed to get 
deeper as he tried to fathom them, it had never occurred to him to reflect 
what sort of image his small person made on the retina of a light-minded 
beholder. The good Rufus had his ire and his egoism; but they existed only 
as the red heat which gave force to his belief and his teaching. He was 
susceptible concerning the true office of deacons in the primitive church, 
and his small nervous body was jarred from head to foot by the concussion 
of an argument to which he saw no answer. In fact, the only moments when he 
could be said to be really conscious of his body, were when he trembled 
under the pressure of some agitating thought. 
He was meditating on the text for his Sunday morning sermon: "And all the 
people said, Amen" - a mere mustard-seed of a text, which had split at 
first only into two divisions, "What was said," and "Who said it;" but 
these were growing into a many-branched discourse, and the preacher's eyes 
dilated, and a smile played about his mouth till, as his manner was, when 
he felt happily inspired, he had begun to utter his thoughts aloud in the 
varied measure and cadence habitual to him, changing from a rapid but 
distinct undertone to a loud emphatic rallentando. 
"My brethren, do you think that great shout was raised in Israel by each 
man's waiting to say 'amen' till his neighbours had said amen? Do you think 
there will ever be a great shout for the right - the shout of a nation as 
of one man, rounded and whole, like the voice of the archangel that bound 
together all the listeners of earth and heaven - if every Christian of you 
peeps round to see what his neighbours in good coats are doing, or else 
puts his hat before his face that he may shout and never be heard? But this 
is what you do: when the servant of God stands up to deliver his message, 
do you lay your souls beneath the Word as you set out your plants beneath 
the falling rain? No; one of you sends his eyes to all corners, he smothers 
his soul with small questions, 'What does brother Y. think?' 'Is this 
doctrine high enough for brother Z?' 'Will the church members be pleased?' 
And another-"
Here the door was opened, and old Lyddy, the minister's servant, put in her 
head to say, in a tone of despondency, finishing with a groan, "Here is Mrs 
Holt wanting to speak to you; she says she comes out of season, but she's 
in trouble." 
"Lyddy," said Mr Lyon, falling at once into a quiet conversational tone, 
"if you are wrestling with the enemy, let me refer you to Ezekiel the 
thirteenth and twenty-second, and beg of you not to groan. It is a 
stumbling-block and offence to my daughter; she would take no broth 
yesterday, because she said you had cried into it. Thus you cause the truth 
to be lightly spoken of, and make the enemy rejoice. If your face-ache 
gives him an advantage, take a little warm ale with your meat - I do not 
grudge the money." 
"If I thought my drinking warm ale would hinder poor dear Miss Esther from 
speaking light - but she hates the smell of it." 
"Answer not again, Lyddy, but send up Mistress Holt to me." 
Lyddy closed the door immediately. 
"I lack grace to deal with these weak sisters," said the minister, again 
thinking aloud, and walking. "Their needs lie too much out of the track of 
my meditations, and take me often unawares. Mistress Holt is another who 
darkens counsel by words without knowledge, and angers the reason of the 
natural man. Lord, give me patience. My sins were heavier to bear than this 
woman's folly. Come in, Mistress Holt, come in." 
He hastened to disencumber a chair of Matthew Henry's Commentary, and 
begged his visitor to be seated. She was a tall elderly woman, dressed in 
black, with a light-brown front and a black band over her forehead. She 
moved the chair a little and seated herself in it with some emphasis, 
looking fixedly at the opposite wall with a hurt and argumentative 
expression. Mr Lyon had placed himself in the chair against his desk, and 
waited with the resolute resignation of a patient who is about to undergo 
an operation. But his visitor did not speak. 
"You have something on your mind, Mistress Holt?" he said, at last. 
"Indeed I have, sir, else I shouldn't be here." 
"Speak freely." 
"It's well known to you, Mr Lyon, that my husband, Mr Holt, came from the 
north, and was a member in Malthouse Yard long before you began to be 
pastor of it, which was seven year ago last Michaelmas. It's the truth, Mr 
Lyon, and I'm not that woman to sit here and say it if it wasn't true." 
"Certainly, it is true." 
"And if my husband had been alive when you'd come to preach upon trial, 
he'd have been as good a judge of your gifts as Mr Nuttwood or Mr Muscat, 
though whether he'd have agreed with some that your doctrine wasn't high 
enough, I can't say. For myself, I've my opinion about high doctrine." 
"Was it my preaching you came to speak about?" said the minister, hurrying 
in the question. 
"No, Mr Lyon, I'm not that woman. But this I will say, for my husband died 
before your time, that he had a wonderful gift in prayer, as the old 
members well know, if anybody likes to ask 'em, not believing my words; and 
he believed himself that the receipt for the Cancer Cure, which I've sent 
out in bottles till this very last April before September as now is, and 
have bottles standing by me, - he believed it was sent him in answer to 
prayer; and nobody can deny it, for he prayed most regular, and read out of 
the green baize Bible." 
Mrs Holt paused, appearing to think that Mr Lyon had been successfully 
confuted, and should show himself convinced. 
"Has any one been aspersing your husband's character?" said Mr Lyon, with a 
slight initiative towards that relief of groaning for which he had reproved 
Lyddy. 
"Sir, they daredn't. For though he was a man of prayer, he didn't want 
skill and knowledge to find things out for himself; and that was what I 
used to say to my friends when they wondered at my marrying a man from 
Lancashire, with no trade or fortune but what he'd got in his head. But my 
husband's tongue 'ud have been a fortune to anybody, and there was many a 
one said it was as good as a dose of physic to hear him talk; not but what 
that got him into trouble in Lancashire, but he always said, if the worst 
came to the worst, he could go and preach to the blacks. But he did better 
than that, Mr Lyon, for he married me; and this I will say, that for age, 
and conduct, and managing -"
"Mistress Holt," interrupted the minister, "these are not the things 
whereby we may edify one another. Let me beg of you to be as brief as you 
can. My time is not my own." 
"Well, Mr Lyon, I've a right to speak to my own character; and I'm one of 
your congregation, though I'm not a church member, for I was born in the 
general Baptist connection: and as for being saved without works, there's a 
man, I dares, can't do without that doctrine; but I thank the Lord I never 
needed to put myself on a level with the thief on the cross. I've done my 
duty, and more, if anybody comes to that; for I've gone without my bit of 
meat to make broth for a sick neighbour: and if there's any of the church 
members say they've done the same, I'd ask them if they had the sinking at 
the stomach as I have; for I've ever strove to do the right thing, and 
more, for good-natured I always was; and I little thought, after being 
respected by everybody, I should come to be reproached by my own son. And 
my husband said, when he was a-dying - 'Mary,' he said, 'the elixir, and 
the pills, and the cure will support you, for they've a great name in all 
the country round, and you'll pray for a blessing on them.' And so I have 
done, Mr Lyon; and to say they're not good medicines, when they've been 
taken for fifty miles round by high and low, and rich and poor, and nobody 
speaking against 'em but Dr Lukin, it seems to me it's a flying in the face 
of Heaven; for if it was wrong to take the medicines, couldn't the blessed 
Lord have stopped it?"
Mrs Holt was not given to tears; she was much sustained by conscious 
unimpeachableness, and by an argumentative tendency which usually checks 
the too great activity of the lachrymal gland; nevertheless her eyes had 
become moist, her fingers played on her knee in an agitated manner, and she 
finally plucked a bit of her gown and held it with great nicety between her 
thumb and finger. Mr Lyon, however, by listening attentively, had begun 
partly to divine the source of her trouble. 
"Am I wrong in gathering from what you say, Mistress Holt, that your son 
has objected in some way to your sale of your late husband's medicines?"
"Mr Lyon, he's masterful beyond everything, and he talks more than his 
father did. I've got my reason, Mr Lyon, and if anybody talks sense I can 
follow him; but Felix talks so wild, and contradicts his mother. And what 
do you think he says, after giving up his 'prenticeship, and going off to 
study at Glasgow, and getting through all the bit of money his father saved 
for his bringing-up - what has all his learning come to? He says I'd better 
never open my Bible, for it's as bad poison to me as the pills are to half 
the people as swallow 'em. You'll not speak of this again, Mr Lyon - I 
don't think ill enough of you to believe that. For I suppose a Christian 
can understand the word o' God without going to Glasgow, and there's texts 
upon texts about ointment and medicine, and there's one as might have been 
made for a receipt of my husband's - it's just as if it was a riddle, and 
Holt's Elixir was the answer"
"Your son uses rash words, Mistress Holt," said the minister, "but it is 
quite true that we may err in giving a too private interpretation to the 
Scripture. The word of God has to satisfy the larger needs of His people, 
like the rain and the sunshine - which no man must think to be meant for 
his own patch of seed-ground solely. Will it not be well that I should see 
your son, and talk with him on these matters? He was at chapel, I observed, 
and I suppose I am to be his pastor"
"That was what I wanted to ask you, Mr Lyon. For perhaps he'll listen to 
you, and not talk you down as he does his poor mother. For after we'd been 
to chapel, he spoke better of you than he does of most: he said you was a 
fine old fellow, and an old-fashioned Puritan - he uses dreadful language, 
Mr Lyon; but I saw he didn't mean you ill, for all that. He calls most 
folks' religion rottenness; and yet another time he'll tell me I ought to 
feel myself a sinner, and do God's will and not my own. But it's my belief 
he says first one thing and then another only to abuse his mother. Or else 
he's going off his head, and must be sent to a 'sylum. But if he writes to 
the North Loamshire Herald first, to tell everybody the medicines are good 
for nothing, how can I ever keep him and myself?"
"Tell him I shall feel favoured if he will come and see me this evening," 
said Mr Lyon, not without a little prejudice in favour of the young man, 
whose language about the preacher in Malthouse Yard did not seem to him to 
be altogether dreadful. "Meanwhile, my friend, I counsel you to send up a 
supplication, which I shall not fail to offer also, that you may receive a 
spirit of humility and submission, so that you may not be hindered from 
seeing and following the divine guidance in this matter by any false lights 
of pride and obstinacy. Of this more when I have spoken with your son." 
"I'm not proud or obstinate, Mr Lyon. I never did say I was everything that 
was bad, and I never will. And why this trouble should be sent on me above 
everybody else - for I haven't told you all. He's made himself a journeyman 
to Mr Prowd the watchmaker - after all this learning - and he says he'll go 
with patches on his knees, and he shall like himself the better. And as for 
his having little boys to teach, they'll come in all weathers with dirty 
shoes. If it's madness, Mr Lyon, it's no use your talking to him." 
"We shall see. Perhaps it may even be the disguised working of grace within 
him. We must not judge rashly. Many eminent servants of God have been led 
by ways as strange." 
"Then I'm sorry for their mothers, that's all, Mr Lyon; and all the more if 
they'd been well-spoken-on women. For not my biggest enemy, whether it's he 
or she, if they'll speak the truth, can turn round and say I've deserved 
this trouble. And when everybody gets their due, and people's doings are 
spoke of on the house-tops, as the Bible says they will be, it'll be known 
what I've gone through with those medicines - the pounding, and the 
pouring, and the letting stand, and the weighing-up early and down late - 
there's nobody knows yet but One that's worthy to know; and the pasting o' 
the printed labels right side upwards. There's few women would have gone 
through with it; and it's reasonable to think it'll be made up to me; for 
if there's promised and purchased blessings, I should think this trouble is 
purchasing 'em. For if my son Felix doesn't have a strait-waistcoat put on 
him, he'll have his way. But I say no more. I wish you good-morning, Mr 
Lyon, and thank you, though I well know it's your duty to act as you're 
doing. And I never troubled you about my own soul, as some do who look down 
on me for not being a church member." 
"Farewell, Mistress Holt, farewell. I pray that a more powerful teacher 
than I am may instruct you." 
The door was closed, and the much-tried Rufus walked about again, saying 
aloud, groaningly - 
"This woman has sat under the gospel all her life, and she is as blind as a 
heathen, and as proud and stiff-necked as a Pharisee; yet she is one of the 
souls I watch for. 'Tis true that even Sara, the chosen mother of God's 
people, showed a spirit of unbelief, and perhaps of selfish anger; and it 
is a passage that bears the unmistakable signet, "doing honour to the wife 
or woman, as unto the weaker vessel." For therein is the greatest check put 
on the ready scorn of the natural man." 



Chapter 5

1st Citizen		Sir, there's a hurry in the veins of youth
						That makes vice of virtue by excess.
2nd Citizen		What if the coolness of our tardier veins
						Be loss of virtue?
1st Citizen							All things cool with time -
						The sun itself, they say, till heat shall find
						A general level, nowhere in excess.
2nd Citizen		'Tis a poor climax, to my weaker thought,
						That future middlingness.

In the evening, when Mr Lyon was expecting the knock at the door that would 
announce Felix Holt, he occupied his cushionless armchair in the sitting-
room, and was skimming rapidly, in his short-sighted way, by the light of 
one candle, the pages of a missionary report, emitting occasionally a 
slight "Hm-m" that appeared to be expressive of criticism rather than of 
approbation. The room was dismally furnished, the only objects indicating 
an intention of ornament being a bookcase, a map of the Holy Land, an 
engraved portrait of Dr Doddridge, and a black bust with a coloured face, 
which for some reason or other was covered with green gauze. Yet any one 
whose attention was quite awake must have been aware, even on entering, of 
certain things that were incongruous with the general air of sombreness and 
privation. There was a delicate scent of dried rose-leaves; the light by 
which the minister was reading was a wax-candle in a white earthenware 
candlestick, and the table on the opposite side of the fireplace held a 
dainty work-basket frilled with blue satin. 
Felix Holt, when he entered, was not in an observant mood; and when, after 
seating himself, at the minister's invitation, near the little table which 
held the work-basket, he stared at the wax-candle opposite to him he did so 
without any wonder or consciousness that the candle was not of tallow. But 
the minister's sensitiveness gave another interpretation to the gaze which 
he divined rather than saw; and in alarm lest this inconsistent 
extravagance should obstruct his usefulness, he hastened to say - 
"You are doubtless amazed to see me with a wax-light, my young friend; but 
this undue luxury is paid for with the earnings of my daughter, who is so 
delicately framed that the smell of tallow is loathsome to her." 
"I heeded not the candle, sir. I thank Heaven I am not a mouse to have a 
nose that takes note of wax or tallow." 
The loud abrupt tones made the old man vibrate a little. He had been 
stroking his chin gently before, with a sense that he must be very quiet 
and deliberate in his treatment of the eccentric young man; but now, quite 
unreflectingly, he drew forth a pair of spectacles, which he was in the 
habit of using when he wanted to observe his interlocutor more closely than 
usual. 
"And I myself, in fact, am equally indifferent," he said, as he opened and 
adjusted his glasses, "so that I have a sufficient light on my book." Here 
his large eyes looked discerningly through the spectacles. 
"'Tis the quality of the page you care about, not of the candle," said 
Felix, smiling pleasantly enough at his inspector. "You're thinking that 
you have a roughly-written page before you now." 
That was true. The minister, accustomed to the respectable air of 
provincial townsmen, and especially to the sleek well-clipped gravity of 
his own male congregation, felt a slight shock as his glasses made 
perfectly clear to him the shaggy-headed, large-eyed, strong-limbed person 
of this questionable young man, without waistcoat or cravat. But the 
possibility, supported by some of Mrs Holt's words, that a disguised work 
of grace might be going forward in the son of whom she complained so 
bitterly, checked any hasty interpretations 
"I abstain from judging by the outward appearance only," he answered, with 
his usual simplicity. "I myself have experienced that when the spirit is 
much exercised it is difficult to remember neck-bands and strings and such 
small accidents of our vesture, which are nevertheless decent and needful 
so long as we sojourn in the flesh. And you too, my young friend, as I 
gather from your mother's troubled and confused report, are undergoing some 
travail of mind. You will not, I trust, object to open yourself fully to 
me, as to an aged pastor who has himself had much inward wrestling, and has 
especially known much temptation from doubt." 
"As to doubt," said Felix, loudly and brusquely as before, "if it is those 
absurd medicines and gulling advertisements that my mother has been talking 
of to you - and I suppose it is - I've no more doubt about them than I have 
about pocket-picking. I know there's a stage of speculation in which a man 
may doubt whether a pickpocket is blameworthy - but I'm not one of your 
subtle fellows who keep looking at the world through their own legs. If I 
allowed the sale of those medicines to go on, and my mother to live out of 
the proceeds when I can keep her by the honest labour of my hands, I've not 
the least doubt that I should be a rascal." 
"I would fain inquire more particularly into your objection to these 
medicines," said Mr Lyon, gravely. Notwithstanding his conscientiousness 
and a certain originality in his own mental disposition, he was too little 
used to high principle quite dissociated from sectarian phraseology to be 
as immediately in sympathy with it as he would otherwise have been. "I know 
they have been well reported of, and many wise persons have tried remedies 
providentially discovered by those who are not regular physicians, and have 
found a blessing in the use of them. I may mention the eminent Mr Wesley, 
who, though I hold not altogether with his Arminian doctrine, nor with the 
usages of his institution, was nevertheless a man of God; and the journals 
of various Christians whose names have left a sweet savour might be cited 
in the same sense. Moreover, your father, who originally concocted these 
medicines and left them as a provision for your mother, was, as I 
understand, a man whose walk was not unfaithful." 
"My father was ignorant," said Felix, bluntly. "He knew neither the 
complication of the human system, nor the way in which drugs counteract 
each other. Ignorance is not so damnable as humbug, but when it prescribes 
pills it may happen to do more harm. I know something about these things. I 
was 'prentice for five miserable years to a stupid brute of a country 
apothecary - my poor father left money for that - he thought nothing could 
be finer for me. No matter: I know that the Cathartic Pills are a drastic 
compound which may be as bad as poison to half the people who swallow them; 
that the Elixir is an absurd farrago of a dozen incompatible things; and 
that the Cancer Cure might as well be bottled ditch-water." 
Mr Lyon rose and walked up and down the room. His simplicity was strongly 
mixed with sagacity as well as sectarian prejudice, and he did not rely at 
once on a loud-spoken integrity - Satan might have flavoured it with 
ostentation. Presently he asked in a rapid low tone, "How long have you 
known this, young man?"
"Well put, sir," said Felix. "I've known it a good deal longer than I've 
acted on it, like plenty of other things. But you believe in conversion?"
"Yea, verily." 
"So do I. I was converted by six weeks' debauchery." 
The minister started. "Young man," he said, solemnly, going up close to 
Felix and laying a hand on his shoulder, "speak not lightly of the divine 
operations, and restrain unseemly words." 
"I'm not speaking lightly," said Felix. "If I had not seen that I was 
making a hog of myself very fast, and that pig-wash, even if I could have 
got plenty of it, was a poor sort of thing, I should never have looked life 
fairly in the face to see what was to be done with it. I laughed out loud 
at last to think of a poor devil like me, in a Scotch garret, with my 
stockings out at heel and a shilling or two to be dissipated upon, with a 
smell of raw haggis mounting from below, and old women breathing gin as 
they passed me on the stairs - wanting to turn my life into easy pleasure. 
Then I began to see what else it could be turned into. Not much, perhaps. 
This world is not a very fine place for a good many of the people in it. 
But I've made up my mind it shan't be the worse for me, if I can help it. 
They may tell me I can't alter the world - that there must be a certain 
number of sneaks and robbers in it, and if I don't lie and filch somebody 
else will. Well, then, somebody else shall, for I won't. That's the upshot 
of my conversion, Mr Lyon, if you want to know it." 
Mr Lyon removed his hand from Felix's shoulder and walked about again. "Did 
you sit under any preacher at Glasgow, young man?"
"No: I heard most of the preachers once, but I never wanted to hear them 
twice." 
The good Rufus was not without a slight rising of resentment at this young 
man's want of reverence. It was not yet plain whether he wanted to hear 
twice the preacher in Malthouse Yard. But the resentful feeling was 
carefully repressed: a soul in so peculiar a condition must be dealt with 
delicately. 
"And now, may I ask," he said, "what course you mean to take, after 
hindering your mother from making and selling these drugs? I speak no more 
in their favour after what you have said. God forbid that I should strive 
to hinder you from seeking whatsoever things are honest and honourable. But 
your mother is advanced in years; she needs comfortable sustenance; you 
have doubtless considered how you may make her amends? 'He that provideth 
not for his own - ' I trust you respect the authority that so speaks. And I 
will not suppose that, after being tender of conscience towards strangers, 
you will be careless towards your mother. There be indeed some who, taking 
a mighty charge on their shoulders, must perforce leave their households to 
Providence, and to the care of humbler brethren, but in such a case the 
call must be clear." 
"I shall keep my mother as well - nay, better - than she has kept herself. 
She has always been frugal. With my watch and clock cleaning, and teaching 
one or two little chaps that I've got to come to me, I can earn enough. As 
for me, I can live on bran porridge. I have the stomach of a rhinoceros." 
"But for a young man so well furnished as you, who can questionless write a 
good hand and keep books, were it not well to seek some higher situation as 
clerk or assistant? I could speak to Brother Muscat, who is well acquainted 
with all such openings. Any place in Pendrell's Bank, I fear, is now closed 
against such as are not Churchmen. It used not to be so, but a year ago he 
discharged Brother Bodkin, although he was a valuable servant. Still, 
something might be found. There are ranks and degrees - and those who can 
serve in the higher must not unadvisedly change what seems to be a 
providential appointment. Your poor mother is not altogether -"
"Excuse me, Mr Lyon; I've had all that out with my mother, and I may as 
well save you any trouble by telling you that my mind has been made up 
about that a long while ago. I'll take no employment that obliges me to 
prop up my chin with a high cravat, and wear straps, and pass the livelong 
day with a set of fellows who spend their spare money on shirt-pins. That 
sort of work is really lower than many handicrafts; it only happens to be 
paid out of proportion. That's why I set myself to learn the watchmaking 
trade. My father was a weaver first of all. It would have been better for 
him if he had remained a weaver. I came home through Lancashire and saw an 
uncle of mine who is a weaver still. I mean to stick to the class I belong 
to - people who don't follow the fashions." 
Mr Lyon was silent a few moments. This dialogue was far from plain sailing; 
he was not certain of his latitude and longitude. If the despiser of 
Glasgow preachers had been arguing in favour of gin and Sabbath-breaking, 
Mr Lyon's course would have been clearer. "Well, well," he said, 
deliberately, "it is true that St. Paul exercised the trade of tent-making, 
though he was learned in all the wisdom of the Rabbis."
"St. Paul was a wise man," said Felix. "Why should I want to get into the 
middle class because I have some learning? The most of the middle class are 
as ignorant as the working people about everything that doesn't belong to 
their own Brummagem life. That's how the working men are left to foolish 
devices and keep worsening themselves: the best heads among them forsake 
their born comrades, and go in for a house with a high door-step and a 
brass knocker." 
Mr Lyon stroked his mouth and chin, perhaps because he felt some 
disposition to smile; and it would not be well to smile too readily at what 
seemed but a weedy resemblance of Christian unworldliness. On the contrary, 
there might be a dangerous snare in an unsanctified outstepping of average 
Christian practice. 
"Nevertheless," he observed, gravely, "it is by such self-advancement that 
many have been enabled to do good service to the cause of liberty and to 
the public well-being. The ring and the robe of Joseph were no objects for 
a good man's ambition, but they were the signs of that credit which he won 
by his divinely-inspired skill, and which enabled him to act as a saviour 
to his brethren." 
"O yes, your ringed and scented men of the people! - I won't be one of 
them. Let a man once throttle himself with a satin stock, and he'll get new 
wants and new motives. Metamorphosis will have begun at his neck-joint, and 
it will go on till it has changed his likings first and then his reasoning, 
which will follow his likings as the feet of a hungry dog follow his nose. 
I'll have none of your clerkly gentility. I might end by collecting greasy 
pence from poor men to buy myself a fine coat and a glutton's dinner, on 
pretence of serving the poor men. I'd sooner be Paley's fat pigeon than a 
demagogue all tongue and stomach, though " - here Felix changed his voice a 
little - "I should like well enough to be another sort of demagogue, if I 
could." 
"Then you have a strong interest in the great political movements of these 
times?" said Mr Lyon, with a perceptible flashing of the eyes. 
"I should think so. I despise every man who has not - or, having it, 
doesn't try to rouse it in other men." 
"Right, my young friend, right," said the minister, in a deep cordial tone. 
Inevitably his mind was drawn aside from the immediate consideration of 
Felix Holt's spiritual interest by the prospect of political sympathy. In 
those days so many instruments of God's cause in the fight for religious 
and political liberty held creeds that were painfully wrong, and, indeed, 
irreconcilable with salvation. "That is my own view, which I maintain in 
the face of some opposition from brethren who contend that a share in 
public movements is a hindrance to the closer walk, and that the pulpit is 
no place for teaching men their duties as members of the commonwealth. I 
have had much puerile blame cast upon me because I have uttered such names 
as Brougham and Wellington in the pulpit. Why not Wellington as well as 
Rabshakeh? and why not Brougham as well as Balaam? Does God know less of 
men than He did in the days of Hezekiah and Moses? - is His arm shortened, 
and is the world become too wide for His providence? But, they say, there 
are no politics in the New Testament"
"Well, they're right enough there," said Felix, with his usual 
unceremoniousness. 
"What! you are of those who hold that a Christian minister should not 
meddle with public matters in the pulpit?" said Mr Lyon, colouring. "I am 
ready to join issue on that point." 
"Not I, sir," said Felix; "I should say, teach any truth you can, "whether 
it's in the Testament or out of it. It's little enough anybody can get hold 
of, and still less what he can drive into the skulls of a pence-counting, 
parcel-tying generation, such as mostly fill your chapels." 
"Young man," said Mr Lyon, pausing in front of Felix. He spoke rapidly, as 
he always did, except when his words were specially weighted with emotion: 
he overflowed with matter, and in his mind matter was always completely 
organised into words. "I speak not on my own behalf, for not only have I no 
desire that any man should think of me above that which he seeth me to be, 
but I am aware of much that should make me patient under a disesteem 
resting even on too hasty a construction. I speak not as claiming reverence 
for my own age and office not to shame you, but to warn you. It is good 
that you should use plainness of speech, and I am not of those who would 
enforce a submissive silence on the young, that they themselves, being 
elders, may be heard at large; for Elihu was the youngest of Job's friends, 
yet was there a wise rebuke in his words; and the aged Eli was taught by a 
revelation to the boy Samuel. I have to keep a special watch over myself in 
this matter, inasmuch as I have a need of utterance which makes the thought 
within me seem as a pent-up fire, until I have shot it forth, as it were, 
in arrowy words, each one hitting its mark. Therefore I pray for a 
listening spirit, which is a great mark of grace. Nevertheless, my young 
friend, I am bound, as I said, to warn you. The temptations that most beset 
those who have great natural gifts, and are wise after the flesh, are pride 
and scorn, more particularly towards those weak things of the world which 
have been chosen to confound the things which are mighty. The scornful 
nostril and the high head gather not the odours that lie on the track of 
truth. The mind that is too ready at contempt and reprobation is -"
Here the door opened, and Mr Lyon paused to look round, but seeing only 
Lyddy with the tea-tray, he went on: 
"Is, I may say, as a clenched fist that can give blows, but is shut up from 
receiving and holding ought that is precious - though it were heaven-sent 
manna." 
"I understand you, sir," said Felix, good-humouredly, putting out his hand 
to the little man, who had come close to him as he delivered the last 
sentence with sudden emphasis and slowness. "But I'm not inclined to clench 
my fist at you." 
"Well, well," said Mr Lyon, shaking the proffered hand, "we shall see more 
of each other, and I trust shall have much profitable communing. You will 
stay and have a dish of tea with us: we take the meal late on Thursdays, 
because my daughter is detained by giving a lesson in the French tongue. 
But she is doubtless returned now, and will presently come and pour out tea 
for us." 
"Thank you; I'll stay," said Felix, not from any curiosity to see the 
minister's daughter, but from a liking for the society of the minister 
himself - for his quaint looks and ways, and the transparency of his talk, 
which gave a charm even to his weaknesses. The daughter was probably some 
prim Miss, neat, sensible, pious, but all in a small feminine way, in which 
Felix was no more interested than in Dorcas meetings, biographies of devout 
women, and that amount of ornamental knitting which was not inconsistent 
with Nonconforming seriousness. 
"I'm perhaps a little too fond of banging and smashing," he went on; "a 
phrenologist at Glasgow told me I had large veneration; another man there, 
who knew me, laughed out and said I was the most blasphemous iconoclast 
living. 'That,' says my phrenologist, 'is because of his large Ideality, 
which prevents him from finding anything perfect enough to be venerated.' 
Of course I put my ears down and wagged my tail at that stroking." 
"Yes, yes; I have had my own head explored with somewhat similar results. 
It is, I fear, but a vain show of fulfilling the heathen precept, 'Know 
thyself,' and too often leads to a self-estimate which will subsist in the 
absence of that fruit by which alone the quality of the tree is made 
evident. Nevertheless - Esther, my dear, this is Mr Holt, whose 
acquaintance I have even now been making with more than ordinary interest. 
He will take tea with us." 
Esther bowed slightly as she walked across the room to fetch the candle and 
place it near her tray. Felix rose and bowed also with an air of 
indifference, which was perhaps exaggerated by the fact that he was 
inwardly surprised. The minister's daughter was not the sort of person he 
expected. She was quite incongruous with his notion of ministers' daughters 
in general; and though he had expected something nowise delightful, the 
incongruity repelled him. A very delicate scent, the faint suggestion of a 
garden, was wafted as she went. He would not observe her, but he had a 
sense of an elastic walk, the tread of small feet, a long neck and a high 
crown of shining brown plaits with curls that floated backward - things, in 
short, that suggested a fine lady to him, and determined him to notice her 
as little as possible. A fine lady was always a sort of spun-glass affair - 
not natural, and with no beauty for him as art; but a fine lady as the 
daughter of this rusty old Puritan was especially offensive. 
"Nevertheless," continued Mr Lyon, who rarely let drop any thread of 
discourse, "that phrenological science is not irreconcilable with the 
revealed dispensations. And it is undeniable that we have our varying 
native dispositions which even grace will not obliterate. I myself, from my 
youth up, have been given to question too curiously concerning the truth - 
to examine and sift the medicine of the soul rather than to apply it." 
"If your truth happens to be such medicine as Holt's Pills and Elixir, the 
less you swallow of it the better," said Felix. "But truth-vendors and 
medicine-vendors usually recommend swallowing. When a man sees his 
livelihood in a pill or a proposition, he likes to have orders for the 
dose, and not curious inquiries." 
This speech verged on rudeness, but it was delivered with a brusque 
openness that implied the absence of any personal intention. The minister's 
daughter was now for the first time startled into looking at Felix. But her 
survey of this unusual speaker was soon made, and she relieved her father 
from the need to reply by saying - 
"The tea is poured out, father." That was the signal for Mr Lyon to advance 
towards the table, raise his right hand, and ask a blessing at sufficient 
length for Esther to glance at the visitor again. There seemed to be no 
danger of his looking at her; he was observing her father. She had time to 
remark that he was a peculiar-looking person, but not insignificant, which 
was the quality that most hopelessly consigned a man to perdition. He was 
massively built. The striking points in his face were large clear grey eyes 
and full lips. 
"Will you draw up to the table, Mr Holt?" said the minister. 
In the act of rising, Felix pushed back his chair too suddenly against the 
rickety table close by him, and down went the blue-frilled work-basket, 
flying open, and dispersing on the floor reels, thimble, muslin work, a 
small sealed bottle of atta of rose and something heavier than these - a 
duodecimo volume which fell close to him between the table and the fender. 
"O my stars!" said Felix, "I beg your pardon." Esther had already started 
up, and with wonderful quickness had picked up half the small rolling 
things while Felix was lifting the basket and the book. This last had 
opened, and had its leaves crushed in falling; and, with the instinct of a 
bookish man, he saw nothing more pressing to be done than to flatten the 
corners of the leaves. 
"Byron's Poems!" he said, in a tone of disgust, while Esther was recovering 
all the other articles. " 'The Dream' - he'd better have been asleep and 
snoring. What! do you stuff your memory with Byron, Miss Lyon?"
Felix, on his side. was led at last to look straight at Esther, but it was 
with a strong denunciatory and pedagogic intention. Of course he saw more 
clearly than ever that she was a fine lady. 
She reddened, drew up her long neck, and said, as she retreated to her 
chair again - 
"I have a great admiration for Byron." 
Mr Lyon had paused in the act of drawing his chair to the tea-table, and 
was looking on at this scene, wrinkling the corners of his eyes with a 
perplexed smile. Esther would not have wished him to know anything about 
the volume of Byron, but she was too proud to show any concern. 
"He is a worldly and vain writer, I fear." said Mr Lyon. He knew scarcely 
anything of the poet, whose books embodied the faith and ritual of many 
young ladies and gentlemen. 
"A misanthropic debauchee," said Felix, lifting a chair with one hand, and 
holding the book open in the other, "whose notion of a hero was that he 
should disorder his stomach and despise mankind. His corsairs and 
renegades, his Alps and Manfreds, are the most paltry puppets that were 
ever pulled by the strings of lust and pride." 
"Hand the book to me," said Mr Lyon. 
"Let me beg of you to put it aside till after tea, father," said Esther. 
"However objectionable Mr Holt may find its pages, they would certainly be 
made worse by being greased with bread-and-butter." 
"That is true, my dear," said Lyon, laying down the book on the small table 
behind him. He saw that his daughter was angry. 
"Ho, ho!" thought Felix, "her father is frightened at her. How came he to 
have such a nice-stepping, long-necked peacock for his daughter? but she 
shall see that I am not frightened." Then he said aloud, "I should like to 
know how you will justify your admiration for such a writer, Miss Lyon." 
"I should not attempt it with you, Mr Holt," said Esther. "You have such 
strong words at command, that they make the smallest argument seem 
formidable. If I had ever met the giant Cormoran, I should have made a 
point of agreeing with him in his literary opinions." 
Esther had that excellent thing in woman, a soft voice with a clear fluent 
utterance. Her sauciness was always charming because it was without 
emphasis, and was accompanied with graceful little turns of the head. 
Felix laughed at her thrust with young heartiness. 
"My daughter is a critic of words, Mr Holt," said the minister, smiling 
complacently, "and often corrects mine on the ground of niceties, which I 
profess are as dark to me as if they were the reports of a sixth sense 
which I possess not. I am an eager seeker for precision, and would fain 
find language subtle enough to follow the utmost intricacies of the soul's 
pathways, but I see not why a round word that means some object, made and 
blessed by the Creator, should be branded and banished as a malefactor." 
"O, your niceties - I know what they are," said Felix, in his usual 
fortissimo. "They all go on your system of make-believe. 'Rottenness' may 
suggest what is unpleasant, so you'd better say 'sugar-plums', or something 
else such a long way off the fact that nobody is obliged to think of it. 
Those are your roundabout euphuisms that dress up swindling till it looks 
as well as honesty, and shoot with boiled pease instead of bullets. I hate 
your gentlemanly speakers."
"Then you would not like Mr Jermyn, I think," said Esther, "That reminds 
me, father, that today, when I was giving Miss Louisa Jermyn her lesson, Mr 
Jermyn came in and spoke to me with grand politeness, and asked me at what 
times you were likely to be disengaged, because he wished to make your 
better acquaintance, and consult you on matters of importance. He never 
took the least notice of me before. Can you guess the reason of his sudden 
ceremoniousness?"
"Nay, child," said the minister, ponderingly. 
"Politics, of course," said Felix. "He's on some committee. An election is 
coming. Universal peace is declared, and the foxes have a sincere interest 
in prolonging the lives of the poultry. Eh, Mr Lyon? Isn't that it?"
"Nay, not so. He is the close ally of the Transome family, who are blind 
hereditary Tories like the Debarrys, and will drive their tenants to the 
poll as if they were sheep. And it has even been hinted that the heir who 
is coming from the East may be another Tory candidate, and coalesce with 
the younger Debarry. It is said that he has enormous wealth, and could 
purchase every vote in the county that has a price." 
"He is come," said Esther. "I heard Miss Jermyn tell her sister that she 
had seen him going out of her father's room." 
"'Tis strange," said Mr Lyon. 
"Something extraordinary must have happened," said Esther, "for Mr Jermyn 
to intend courting us. Miss Jermyn said to me only the other day that she 
could not think how I came to be so well educated and ladylike. She always 
thought Dissenters were ignorant, vulgar people. I said, so they were, 
usually, and Church people also in small towns. She considers herself a 
judge of what is ladylike, and she is vulgarity personified - with large 
feet, and the most odious scent on her handkerchief, and a bonnet that 
looks like 'The Fashion' printed in capital letters." 
"One sort of fine-ladyism is as good as another," said Felix. 
"No, indeed. Pardon me," said Esther. "A real fine-lady does not wear 
clothes that flare in people's eyes, or use importunate scents, or make a 
noise as she moves: she is something refined, and graceful, and charming, 
and never obtrusive." 
"O yes," said Felix, contemptuously. "And she reads Byron also, and admires 
Childe Harold - gentlemen of unspeakable woes, who employ a hairdresser, 
and look seriously at themselves in the glass." 
Esther reddened, and gave a little toss. Felix went on triumphantly. "A 
fine lady is a squirrel-headed thing, with small airs and small notions, 
about as applicable to the business of life as a pair of tweezers to the 
clearing of a forest. Ask your father what those old persecuted emigrant 
Puritans would have done with fine-lady wives and daughters." 
"O there is no danger of such misalliances," said Esther. "Men who are 
unpleasant companions and make frights of themselves, are sure to get wives 
tasteless enough to suit them." 
"Esther, my dear," said Mr Lyon, "let not your playfulness betray you into 
disrespect towards those venerable pilgrims. They struggled and endured in 
order to cherish and plant anew the seeds of scriptural doctrine and of a 
pure discipline." 
"Yes, I know," said Esther, hastily, dreading a discourse on the pilgrim 
fathers. 
"O they were an ugly lot!" Felix burst in, making Mr Lyon start. "Miss 
Medora wouldn't have minded if they had all been put into the pillory and 
lost their ears. She would have said, 'Their ears did stick out so.' I 
shouldn't wonder if that's a bust of one of them." Here Felix, with sudden 
keenness of observation, nodded at the black bust with the gauze over its 
coloured face. 
"No," said Mr Lyon; "that is the eminent George Whitfield, who, you well 
know, had a gift of oratory as of one on whom the tongue of flame had 
rested visibly. Put Providence - doubtless for wise ends in relation to the 
inner man, for I would not inquire too closely into minutiae which carry 
too many plausible interpretations for any one of them to be stable - 
Providence, I say, ordained that the good man should squint; and my 
daughter has not yet learned to bear with this infirmity." 
"So she has put a veil over it. Suppose you had squinted yourself?" said 
Felix, looking at Esther. 
"Then, doubtless, you could have been more polite to me, Mr Holt," said 
Esther, rising and placing herself at her worktable. "You seem to prefer 
what is unusual and ugly." 
"A peacock!" thought Felix. "I should like to come and scold her every day, 
and make her cry and cut her fine hair off." 
Felix rose to go, and said, "I will not take up more of your valuable time, 
Mr Lyon. I know that you have not many spare evenings." 
"That is true, my young friend; for I now go to Sproxton one evening in the 
week. I do not despair that we may some day need a chapel there, though the 
hearers do not multiply save among the women, and there is no work as yet 
begun among the miners themselves. I shall be glad of your company in my 
walk thither tomorrow at five o'clock, if you would like to see how that 
population has grown of late years." 
"O, I've been to Sproxton already several times. I had a congregation of my 
own there last Sunday evening." 
"What! do you preach?" said Mr Lyon, with a brightened glance. 
"Not exactly. I went to the alehouse." 
Mr Lyon started. "I trust you are putting a riddle to me, young man, even 
as Samson did to his companions. From what you said but lately, it cannot 
be that you are given to tippling and to taverns." 
"O, I don't drink much. I order a pint of beer, and I get into talk with 
the fellows over their pots and pipes. Somebody must take a little 
knowledge and common sense to them in this way, else how are they to get 
it? I go for educating the non-electors, so I put myself in the way of my 
pupils - my academy is the beer-house. I'll walk with you tomorrow with 
great pleasure." 
"Do so, do so," said Mr Lyon, shaking hands with his odd acquaintance. "We 
shall understand each other better by-and-by, I doubt not." 
"I wish you good-evening, Miss Lyon." 
Esther bowed very slightly, without speaking. 
"That is a singular young man, Esther," said the minister, walking about 
after Felix was gone. "I discern in him a love for whatsoever things are 
honest and true, which I would fain believe to be an earnest of further 
endowment with the wisdom that is from on high. It is true that, as the 
traveller in the desert is often lured, by a false vision of water and 
freshness, to turn aside from the track which leads to the tried and 
established fountains, so the Evil One will take advantage of a natural 
yearning towards the better, to delude the soul with a self-flattering 
belief in a visionary virtue, higher than the ordinary fruits of the 
Spirit. But I trust it is not so here. I feel a great enlargement in this 
young man's presence, notwithstanding a certain licence in his language, 
which I shall use my efforts to correct." 
"I think he is very coarse and rude," said Esther, with a touch of temper 
in her voice. "But he speaks better English than most of our visitors. What 
is his occupation?"
"Watch and clock making, by which, together with a little teaching, as I 
understand, he hopes to maintain his mother, not thinking it right that she 
should live by the sale of medicines whose virtues he distrusts. It is no 
common scruple." 
"Dear me," said Esther, "I thought he was something higher than that." She 
was disappointed. 
Felix, on his side, as he strolled out in the evening air, said to himself: 
"Now by what fine meshes of circumstance did that queer devout old man, 
with his awful creed, which makes this world a vestibule with double doors 
to hell, and a narrow stair on one side whereby the thinner sort may mount 
to heaven - by what subtle play of flesh and spirit did he come to have a 
daughter so little in his own likeness? Married foolishly, I suppose. I'll 
never marry, though I should have to live on raw turnips to subdue my 
flesh. I'll never look back and say, 'I had a fine purpose once - I meant 
to keep my hands clean, and my soul upright, and to look truth in the face; 
but pray excuse me, I have a wife and children - I must lie and simper a 
little, else they'll starve;' or, 'My wife is nice, she must have her bread 
well buttered, and her feelings will be hurt if she is not thought 
genteel.' That is the lot Miss Esther is preparing for some man or other. I 
could grind my teeth at such self-satisfied minxes, who think they can tell 
everybody what is the correct thing, and the utmost stretch of their ideas 
will not place them on a level with the intelligent fleas. I should like to 
see if she could be made ashamed of herself."



Chapter 6 

"Though she may be dead, yet let me think she lives,
And feed my mind, that dies for want of her."
							- Marlowe: Tamburlaine the Great

Hardly any one in Treby who thought at all of Mr Lyon and his daughter had 
not felt the same sort of wonder about Esther as Felix felt. She was not 
much liked by her father's church and congregation. The less serious 
observed that she had too many airs and graces, and held her head much too 
high; the stricter sort feared greatly that Mr Lyon had not been 
sufficiently careful in placing his daughter among God-fearing people, and 
that, being led astray by the melancholy vanity of giving her exceptional 
accomplishments, he had sent her to a French school, and allowed her to 
take situations where she had contracted notions not only above her own 
rank, but of too worldly a kind to be safe in any rank. But no one knew 
what sort of a woman her mother had been, for Mr Lyon never spoke of his 
past domesticities. When he was chosen as pastor at Treby in 1825, it was 
understood that he had been a widower many years, and he had no companion 
but the tearful and much-exercised Lyddy, his daughter being still at 
school. It was only two years ago that Esther had come home to live 
permanently with her father, and take pupils in the town. Within that time 
she had excited a passion in two young Dissenting breasts that were clad in 
the best style of Treby waistcoat - a garment which at that period 
displayed much design both in the stuff and the wearer; and she had secured 
an astonished admiration of her cleverness from the girls of various ages 
who were her pupils; indeed, her knowledge of French was generally held to 
give a distinction to Treby itself as compared with other market-towns. But 
she had won little regard of any other kind. Wise Dissenting matrons were 
divided between fear lest their sons should want to marry her and 
resentment that she should treat those "undeniable" young men with a 
distant scorn which was hardly to be tolerated in a minister's daughter; 
not only because that parentage appeared to entail an obligation to show an 
exceptional degree of Christian humility, but because, looked at from a 
secular point of view, a poor minister must be below the substantial 
householders who kept him. For at that time the preacher who was paid under 
the Voluntary system was regarded by his flock with feelings not less mixed 
than the spiritual person who still took his tithe-pig or his modus. His 
gifts were admired, and tears were shed under best bonnets at his sermons; 
but the weaker tea was thought good enough for him; and even when he went 
to preach a charity sermon in a strange town, he was treated with home-made 
wine and the smaller bedroom. As the good churchman's reverence was often 
mixed with growling, and was apt to be given chiefly to an abstract parson 
who was what a parson ought to be, so the good Dissenter sometimes mixed 
his approval of ministerial gifts with considerable criticism and 
cheapening of the human vessel which contained those treasures. Mrs Muscat 
and Mrs Nuttwood applied the principle of Christian equality by remarking 
that Mr Lyon had his oddities, and that he ought not to allow his daughter 
to indulge in such unbecoming expenditure on her gloves, shoes, and 
hosiery, even if she did pay for them out of her earnings. As for the 
Church people who engaged Miss Lyon to give lessons in their families, 
their imaginations were altogether prostrated by the incongruity between 
accomplishments and Dissent, between weekly prayer-meetings and a 
conversance with so lively and altogether worldly a language as the French. 
Esther's own mind was not free from a sense of irreconcilableness between 
the objects of her taste and the conditions of her lot. She knew that 
Dissenters were looked down upon by those whom she regarded as the most 
refined classes; her favourite companions, both in France and at an English 
school where she had been a junior teacher, had thought it quite ridiculous 
to have a father who was a Dissenting preacher; and when an ardently 
admiring schoolfellow induced her parents to take Esther as a governess to 
the younger children, all her native tendencies towards luxury, 
fastidiousness, and scorn of mock gentility, were strengthened by 
witnessing the habits of a well-born and wealthy family. Yet the position 
of servitude was irksome to her, and she was glad at last to live at home 
with her father; for though, throughout her girlhood, she had wished to 
avoid this lot, a little experience had taught her to prefer its 
comparative independence. But she was not contented with her life: she 
seemed to herself to be surrounded with ignoble, uninteresting conditions, 
from which there was no issue; for even if she had been unamiable enough to 
give her father pain deliberately, it would have been no satisfaction to 
her to go to Treby church, and visibly turn her back on Dissent. It was not 
religious differences, but social differences, that Esther was concerned 
about, and her ambitious taste would have been no more gratified in the 
society of the Waces than in that of the Muscats. The Waces spoke imperfect 
English and played whist; the Muscats spoke the same dialect and took in 
the Evangelical Magazine. Esther liked neither of these amusements. She had 
one of those exceptional organisations which are quick and sensitive 
without being in the least morbid; she was alive to the finest shades of 
manner, to the nicest distinctions of tone and accent; she had a little 
code of her own about scents and colours, textures and behaviour, by which 
she secretly condemned or sanctioned all things and persons. And she was 
well satisfied with herself for her fastidious taste, never doubting that 
hers was the highest standard. She was proud that the best-born and 
handsomest girls at school had always said that she might be taken for a 
born lady. Her own pretty instep, clad in a silk stocking, her little heel, 
just rising from a kid slipper, her irreproachable nails and delicate 
wrist, were the objects of delighted consciousness to her; and she felt 
that it was her superiority which made her unable to use without disgust 
any but the finest cambric handkerchiefs and freshest gloves. Her money all 
went in the gratification of these nice tastes, and she saved nothing from 
her earnings. I cannot say that she had any pangs of conscience on this 
score; for she felt sure that she was generous: she hated all meanness, 
would empty her purse impulsively on some sudden appeal to her pity, and if 
she found out that her father had a want, she would supply it with some 
pretty device of a surprise. But then the good man so seldom had a want - 
except the perpetual desire, which she could never gratify, of seeing her 
under convictions, and fit to become a member of the church. 
As for little Mr Lyon, he loved and admired this unregenerate child more, 
he feared, than was consistent with the due preponderance of impersonal and 
ministerial regards: he prayed and pleaded for her with tears, humbling 
himself for her spiritual deficiencies in the privacy of his study; and 
then came downstairs to find himself in timorous subjection to her wishes, 
lest, as he inwardly said, he should give his teaching an ill savour, by 
mingling it with outward crossing. There will be queens in spite of Salic 
or other laws of later date than Adam and Eve; and here, in this small 
dingy house of the minister in Malthouse Yard, there was a light-footed, 
sweet-voiced Queen Esther. 
The stronger will always rule, say some, with an air of confidence which is 
like a lawyer's flourish, forbidding exceptions or additions. But what is 
strength? Is it blind wilfulness that sees no terrors, no many-linked 
consequences, no bruises and wounds of those whose cords it tightens? Is it 
the narrowness of a brain that conceives no needs differing from its own 
and looks to no results beyond the bargains of today; that tugs with 
emphasis for every small purpose, and thinks it weakness to exercise the 
sublime power of resolved renunciation? There is a sort of subjection which 
is the peculiar heritage of largeness and of love; and strength is often 
only another name for willing bondage to irremediable weakness. 
Esther had affection for her father: she recognised the purity of his 
character, and a quickness of intellect in him which responded to her own 
liveliness, in spite of what seemed a dreary piety, which selected 
everything that was least interesting and romantic in life and history. But 
his old clothes had a smoky odour, and she did not like to walk with him, 
because, when people spoke to him in the street, it was his wont, instead 
of remarking on the weather and passing on, to pour forth in an absent 
manner some reflections that were occupying his mind about the traces of 
the divine government, or about a peculiar incident narrated in the life of 
the eminent Mr Richard Baxter. Esther had a horror of appearing ridiculous 
even in the eyes of vulgar Trebians. She fancied that she should have loved 
her mother better than she was able to love her father; and she wished she 
could have remembered that mother more thoroughly. 
But she had no more than a broken vision of the time before she was five 
years old - the time when the word oftenest on her lips was "Mamma;" when a 
low voice spoke caressing French words to her, and she in her turn repeated 
the words to her rag-doll; when a very small white hand, different from any 
that came after, used to pat her, and stroke her, and tie on her frock and 
pinafore, and when at last there was nothing but sitting with a doll on a 
bed where mamma was lying, till her father once carried her away. Where 
distinct memory began, there was no longer the low caressing voice and the 
small white hand. She knew that her mother was a Frenchwoman, that she had 
been in want and distress, and that her maiden name was Annette Ledru. Her 
father had told her no more than this; and once, in her childhood, when she 
had asked him some question, he had said, "My Esther, until you are a 
woman, we will only think of your mother: when you are about to be married 
and leave me, we will speak of her, and I will deliver to you her ring and 
all that was hers; but, without a great command laid upon me, I cannot 
pierce my heart by speaking of that which was and is not." Esther had never 
forgotten these words, and the older she became, the more impossible she 
felt it that she should urge her father with questions about the past. 
His inability to speak of that past to her depended on manifold causes. 
Partly it came from an initial concealment. He had not the courage to tell 
Esther that he was not really her father: he had not the courage to 
renounce that hold on her tenderness which the belief in his natural 
fatherhood must help to give him, or to incur any resentment that her quick 
spirit might feel at having been brought up under a false supposition. But 
there were other things yet more difficult for him to be quite open about - 
deep sorrows of his life as a Christian minister that were hardly to be 
told to a girl. 
Twenty-two years before, when Rufus Lyon was no more than thirty-six years 
old, he was the admired pastor of a large Independent congregation in one 
of our southern seaport towns. He was unmarried, and had met all 
exhortations of friends who represented to him that a bishop i.e., the 
overseer of an Independent church and congregation - should be the husband 
of one wife, by saying that St. Paul meant this particular as a limitation, 
and not as an injunction; that a minister was permitted to have one wife, 
but that he, Rufus Lyon, did not wish to avail himself of that permission, 
finding his studies and other labours of his vocation all-absorbing, and 
seeing that mothers in Israel were sufficiently provided by those who had 
not been set apart for a more special work. His church and congregation 
were proud of him: he was put forward on platforms, was made a 
"deputation," and was requested to preach anniversary sermons in far-off 
towns. Wherever noteworthy preachers were discussed, Rufus Lyon was almost 
sure to be mentioned as one who did honour to the Independent body; his 
sermons were said to be full of study yet full of fire; and while he had 
more of human knowledge than many of his brethren, he showed in an eminent 
degree the marks of a true ministerial vocation. But on a sudden this 
burning and shining light seemed to be quenched: Mr Lyon voluntarily 
resigned his charge and withdrew from the town. A terrible crisis had come 
upon him; a moment in which religious doubt and newly-awakened passion had 
rushed together in a common flood, and had paralysed his ministerial gifts. 
His life of thirty-six years had been a story of purely religious and 
studious fervour; his passion had been for doctrines, for argumentative 
conquest on the side of right; the sins he had had chiefly to pray against 
had been those of personal ambition (under such forms as ambition takes in 
the mind of a man who has chosen the career of an Independent preacher), 
and those of a too restless intellect, ceaselessly urging questions 
concerning the mystery of that which was assuredly revealed, and thus 
hindering the due nourishment of the soul on the substance of the truth 
delivered. Even at that time of comparative youth, his unworldliness and 
simplicity in small matters (for he was keenly awake to the larger affairs 
of this world) gave a certain oddity to his manners and appearance; and 
though his sensitive face had much beauty, his person altogether seemed so 
irrelevant to a fashionable view of things, that well-dressed ladies and 
gentlemen usually laughed at him, as they probably did at Mr John Milton 
after the Restoration and ribbons had come in, and still more at that 
apostle, of weak bodily presence, who preached in the back streets of 
Ephesus and elsewhere, a new view of a new religion that hardly anybody 
believed in. Rufus Lyon was the singular-looking apostle of the meeting in 
Skipper's Lane. Was it likely that any romance should befall such a man? 
Perhaps not; but romance did befall him. 
One winter's evening in 1812, Mr Lyon was returning from a village 
preaching. He walked at his usual rapid rate, with busy thoughts 
undistracted by any sight more distinct than the bushes and hedgerow trees, 
black beneath a faint moonlight, until something suggested to him that he 
had perhaps omitted to bring away with him a thin account-book in which he 
recorded certain subscriptions. He paused, unfastened his outer coat and 
felt in all his pockets, then he took off his hat and looked inside it. The 
book was not to be found, and he was about to walk on, when he was startled 
by hearing a low, sweet voice say, with a strong foreign accent - 
"Have pity on me, sir." 
Searching with his short-sighted eyes, he perceived some one on a side-
bank; and approaching, he found a young woman with a baby on her lap. She 
spoke again, more faintly than before - 
"Sir, I die with hunger, in the name of God take the little one."
 There was no distrusting the pale face and the sweet low voice. Without 
pause, Mr Lyon took the baby in his arms and said, "Can you walk by my 
side, young woman?"
She rose, but seemed tottering. "Lean on me," said Mr Lyon. And so they 
walked slowly on, the minister for the first time in his life carrying a 
baby. 
Nothing better occurred to him than to take his charge to his own house; it 
was the simplest way of relieving the woman's wants, and finding out how 
she could be helped further; and he thought of no other possibilities. She 
was too feeble for more words to be spoken between them till she was seated 
by his fireside. His elderly servant was not easily amazed at anything her 
master did in the way of charity, and at once took the baby, while Mr Lyon 
unfastened the mother's damp bonnet and shawl, and gave her something warm 
to drink. Then, waiting by her till it was time to offer her more, he had 
nothing to do but to notice the loveliness of her face, which seemed to him 
as that of an angel, with a benignity in its repose that carried a more 
assured sweetness than any smile. Gradually she revived, lifted up her 
delicate hands between her face and the firelight, and looked at the baby 
which lay opposite to her on the old servant's lap, taking in spoonfuls 
with much content, and stretching out naked feet towards the warmth. Then, 
as her consciousness of relief grew into contrasting memory, she lifted up 
her eyes to Mr Lyon, who stood close by her, and said, in her pretty broken 
way - 
"I knew you had a good heart when you took your hat off. You seemed to me 
as the image of the bien-aime Saint Jean." 
The grateful glance of those blue-grey eyes, with their long shadow-making 
eyelashes, was a new kind of good to Rufus Lyon; it seemed to him as if a 
woman had never really looked at him before. Yet this poor thing was 
apparently a blind French Catholic - of delicate nurture, surely, judging 
from her hands. He was in a tremor; he felt that it would be rude to 
question her, and he only urged her now to take a little food. She accepted 
it with evident enjoyment, looking at the child continually, and then, with 
a fresh burst of gratitude, leaning forward to press the servant's hand, 
and say, "O, you are good!" Then she looked up at Mr Lyon again and said, 
"Is there in the world a prettier marmot ?"
The evening passed; a bed was made up for the strange woman, and Mr Lyon 
had not asked her so much as her name. He never went to bed himself that 
night. He spent it in misery, enduring a horrible assault of Satan. He 
thought a frenzy had seized him. Wild visions of an impossible future 
thrust themselves upon him. He dreaded lest the woman had a husband; he 
wished that he might call her his own, that he might worship her beauty, 
that she might love and caress him. And what to the mass of men would have 
been only one of many allowable follies - a transient fascination, to be 
dispelled by daylight and contact with those common facts of which common-
sense is the reflex - was to him a spiritual convulsion. He was as one who 
raved, and knew that he raved. These mad wishes were irreconcilable with 
what he was, and must be, as a Christian minister; nay, penetrating his 
soul as tropic heat penetrates the frame, and changes for it all aspects 
and all flavours, they were irreconcilable with that conception of the 
world which made his faith. All the busy doubt which had before been mere 
impish shadows flitting around a belief that was strong with the strength 
of an unswerving moral bias, had now gathered blood and substance. The 
questioning spirit had become suddenly bold and blasphemous: it no longer 
insinuated scepticism - it prompted defiance; it no longer expressed cool 
inquisitive thought, but was the voice of a passionate mood. Yet he never 
ceased to regard it as the voice of the tempter: the conviction which had 
been the law of his better life remained within him as a conscience. 
The struggle of that night was an abridgement of all the struggles that 
came after. Quick souls have their intensest life in the first anticipatory 
sketch of what may or will be, and the pursuit of their wish is the pursuit 
of that paradisaic vision which only impelled them, and is left farther and 
farther behind, vanishing for ever even out of hope in the moment which is 
called success. 
The next morning Mr Lyon heard his guest's history. She was the daughter of 
a French officer of considerable rank, who had fallen in the Russian 
campaign. She had escaped from France to England with much difficulty in 
order to rejoin her husband, a young Englishman, to whom she had become 
attached during his detention as a prisoner of war on parole at Vesoul, 
where she was living under the charge of some relatives, and to whom she 
had been married without the consent of her family. Her husband had served 
in the Hanoverian army, had obtained his discharge in order to visit 
England on some business, with the nature of which she was not acquainted, 
and had been taken prisoner as a suspected spy. A short time after their 
marriage he and his fellow-prisoners had been moved to a town nearer the 
coast, and she had remained in wretched uncertainty about him, until at 
last a letter had come from him telling her that an exchange of prisoners 
had occurred, that he was in England, that she must use her utmost effort 
to follow him, and that on arriving on English ground she must send him 
word under a cover which he enclosed, bearing an address in London. Fearing 
the opposition of her friends, she started unknown to them, with a very 
small supply of money; and after enduring much discomfort and many fears in 
waiting for a passage, which she at last got in a small trading smack, she 
arrived at Southampton - ill. Before she was able to write her baby was 
born; and before her husband's answer came, she had been obliged to pawn 
some clothes and trinkets. He desired her to travel to London, where he 
would meet her at the Belle Sauvage, adding that he was himself in distress 
and unable to come to her: when once she was in London they would take ship 
and quit the country. Arrived at the Belle Sauvage, the poor thing waited 
three days in vain for her husband: on the fourth a letter came in a 
strange hand, saying that in his last moments he had desired this letter to 
be written to inform her of his death, and recommend her to return to her 
friends. She could choose no other course, but she had soon been reduced to 
walking, that she might save her pence to buy bread with; and on the 
evening when she made her appeal to Mr Lyon, she had pawned the last thing, 
over and above needful clothing, that she could persuade herself to part 
with. The things she had not borne to part with were her marriage-ring and 
a locket containing her husband's hair, and bearing his baptismal name. 
This locket, she said, exactly resembled one worn by her husband on his 
watch-chain, only that his bore the name Annette, and contained a lock of 
her hair. The precious trifle now hung round her neck by a cord, for she 
had sold the small gold chain which formerly held it. 
The only guarantee of this story, besides the exquisite candour of her 
face, was a small packet of papers which she carried in her pocket, 
corsisting of her husband's few letters, the letter which announced his 
death, and her marriage certificate. It was not so probable a story as that 
of many an inventive vagrant; but Mr Lyon did not doubt it for a moment. It 
was impossible to him to suspect this angelic-faced woman, but he had 
strong suspicions concerning her husband. He could not help being glad that 
she had not retained the address he had desired her to send to in London, 
as that removed any obvious means of learning particulars about him. But 
inquiries might have been made at Vesoul by letter, and her friends there 
might have been appealed to. A consciousness, not to be quite silenced, 
told Mr Lyon that this was the course he ought to take, but it would have 
required an energetic self-conquest, and he was excused from it by 
Annette's own disinclination to return to her relatives if any other 
acceptable possibility could be found. 
He dreaded, with a violence of feeling which surmounted all struggles, lest 
anything should take her away, and place such barriers between them as 
would make it unlikely or impossible that she should ever love him well 
enough to become his wife. Yet he saw with perfect clearness that unless he 
tore up this mad passion by the roots, his ministerial usefulness would be 
frustrated, and the repose of his soul would be destroyed. This woman was 
an unregenerate Catholic; ten minutes' listening to her artless talk made 
that plain to him: even if her position had been less equivocal, to unite 
himself to such a woman was nothing less than a spiritual fall. It was 
already a fall that he had wished there was no high purpose to which he 
owed an allegiance - that he had longed to fly to some backwoods where 
there was no church to reproach him, and where he might have this sweet 
woman to wife, and know the joys of tenderness. Those sensibilities which 
in most lives are diffused equally through the youthful years, were aroused 
suddenly in Mr Lyon, as some men have their special genius revealed to them 
by a tardy concurrence of conditions. His love was the first love of a 
fresh young heart full of wonder and worship. But what to one man is the 
virtue which he has sunk below the possibility of aspiring to, is to 
another the backsliding by which he forfeits his spiritual crown. 
The end was, that Annette remained in his house. He had striven against 
himself so far as to represent her position to some chief matrons in his 
congregations, praying and yet dreading that they would so take her by the 
hand as to impose on him that denial of his own longing not to let her go 
out of his sight, which he found it too hard to impose on himself. But they 
regarded the case coldly: the woman was, after all, a vagrant. Mr Lyon was 
observed to be surprisingly weak on the subject - his eagerness seemed 
disproportionate and unbecoming; and this young Frenchwoman, unable to 
express herself very clearly, was no more interesting to those matrons and 
their husbands than other pretty young women suspiciously circumstanced. 
They were willing to subscribe something to carry her on her way, or if she 
took some lodgings they would give her a little sewing, and endeavour to 
convert her from papistry. If, however, she was a respectable person, as 
she said, the only proper thing for her was to go back to her own country 
and friends. In spite of himself, Mr Lyon exulted. There seemed a reason 
now that he should keep Annette under his own eyes. He told himself that no 
real object would be served by his providing food and lodging for her 
elsewhere - an expense which he could ill afford. And she was apparently so 
helpless, except as to the one task of attending to her baby, that it would 
have been folly to think of her exerting herself for her own support. 
But this course of his was severely disapproved by his church. There were 
various signs that the minister was under some evil influence: his 
preaching wanted its old fervour, he seemed to shun the intercourse of his 
brethren, and very mournful suspicions were entertained. A formal 
remonstrance was presented to him, but he met it as if he had already 
determined to act in anticipation of it. He admitted that external 
circumstances, conjoined with a peculiar state of mind, were likely to 
hinder the fruitful exercise of his ministry, and he resigned it. There was 
much sorrowing, much expostulation, but he declared that for the present he 
was unable to unfold himself more fully; he only wished to state solemnly 
that Annette Ledru, though blind in spiritual things, was in a worldly 
sense a pure and virtuous woman. No more was to be said, and he departed to 
a distant town. Here he maintained himself, Annette, and the child, with 
the remainder of his stipend, and with the wages he earned as a printer's 
reader. Annette was one of those angelic-faced helpless women who take all 
things as manna from heaven: the good image of the well-beloved Saint John 
wished her to stay with him, and there was nothing else that she wished for 
except the unattainable. Yet for a whole year Mr Lyon never dared to tell 
Annette that he loved her: he trembled before this woman; he saw that the 
idea of his being her lover was too remote from her mind for her to have 
any idea that she ought not to live with him. She had never known, never 
asked the reason why he gave up his ministry. She seemed to entertain as 
little concern about the strange world in which she lived as a bird in its 
nest: an avalanche had fallen over the past, but she sat warm and uncrushed 
- there was food for many morrows, and her baby flourished. She did not 
seem even to care about a priest, or about having her child baptised; and 
on the subject of religion Mr Lyon was as timid, and shrank as much from 
speaking to her, as on the subject of his love. He dreaded anything that 
might cause her to feel a sudden repulsion towards him. He dreaded 
disturbing her simple gratitude and content. In these days his religious 
faith was not slumbering; it was awake and achingly conscious of having 
fallen in a struggle. He had had a great treasure committed to him, and had 
flung it away: he held himself a backslider. His unbelieving thoughts never 
gained the full ear and consent of his soul. His prayers had been stifled 
by the sense that there was something he preferred to complete obedience: 
they had ceased to be anything but intermittent cries and confessions, and 
a submissive presentiment, rising at times even to an entreaty, that some 
great discipline might come, that the dulled spiritual sense might be 
roused to full vision and hearing as of old, and the supreme facts become 
again supreme in his soul. Mr Lyon will perhaps seem a very simple 
personage, with pitiably narrow theories; but none of our theories are 
quite large enough for all the disclosures of time, and to the end of men's 
struggles a penalty will remain for those who sink from the ranks of the 
heroes into the crowd for whom the heroes fight and die. 
One day, however, Annette learned Mr Lyon's secret. The baby had a tooth 
coming, and being large and strong now, was noisily fretful. Mr Lyon, 
though he had been working extra hours and was much in need of repose, took 
the child from its mother immediately on entering the house and walked 
about with it, patting and talking soothingly to it. The stronger grasp, 
the new sensations, were a successful anodyne, and baby went to sleep on 
his shoulder. But fearful lest any movement should disturb it, he sat down, 
and endured the bondage of holding it still against his shoulder. 
"You do nurse baby well," said Annette, approvingly. "Yet you never nursed 
before I came?"
"No," said Mr Lyon. "I had no brothers and sisters." 
"Why were you not married?" Annette had never thought of asking that 
question before. 
"Because I never loved any woman - till now. I thought I should never 
marry. Now I wish to marry." 
Annette started. She did not see at once that she was the woman he wanted 
to marry; what had flashed on her mind was, that there might be a great 
change in Mr Lyon's life. It was as if the lightning had entered into her 
dream and half awaked her.
 "Do you think it foolish, Annette, that I should wish to marry?"
"I did not expect it," she said, doubtfully. "I did not know you thought 
about it." 
"You know the woman I should like to marry ?"
"I know her?" she said, interrogatively, blushing deeply. 
"It is you, Annette - you whom I have loved better than my duty. I forsook 
everything for you." 
Mr Lyon paused: he was about to do what he felt would be ignoble - to urge 
what seemed like a claim. 
"Can you love me, Annette? Will you be my wife?" Annette trembled and 
looked miserable. 
"Do not speak - forget it," said Mr Lyon, rising suddenly and speaking with 
loud energy. "No, no - I do not want it - I do not wish it." 
The baby awoke as he started up; he gave the child into Annette's arms, and 
left her. 
His work took him away early the next morning and the next again. They did 
not need to speak much to each other. The third day Mr Lyon was too ill to 
go to work. His frame had been overwrought; he had been too poor to have 
sufficiently nourishing food, and under the shattering of his long-deferred 
hope his health had given way. They had no regular servant - only 
occasional help from an old woman, who lit the fires and put on the 
kettles. Annette was forced to be the sick-nurse, and this sudden demand on 
her shook away some of her torpor. The illness was a serious one, and the 
medical man one day hearing Mr Lyon in his delirium raving with an 
astonishing fluency in Biblical language, suddenly looked round with 
increased curiosity at Annette, and asked if she were the sick man's wife, 
or some other relative. 
"No - no relation," said Annette, shaking her head. "He has been good to 
me." 
"How long have you lived with him?"
' More than a year." 
"Was he a preacher once?"
"Yes." 
"When did he leave off being a preacher?"
"Soon after he took care of me." 
"Is that his child?"
"Sir," said Annette, colouring indignantly. "I am a widow." 
The doctor, she thought, looked at her oddly, but he asked no more 
questions. When the sick man was getting better, and able to enjoy 
invalid's food, he observed one day, while he was taking some broth, that 
Annette was looking at him; he paused to look at her in return, and was 
struck with a new expression in her face, quite distinct from the merely 
passive sweetness which usually characterised it. She laid her little hand 
on his, which was now transparently thin, and said, "I am getting very 
wise; I have sold some of the books to make money - the doctor told me 
where; and I have looked into the shops where they sell caps and bonnets 
and pretty things, and I can do all that, and get more money to keep us. 
And when you are well enough to get up, we will go out and be married - 
shall we not? See! and la petite (the baby had never been named anything 
else) shall call you papa - and then we shall never part." 
Mr Lyon trembled. This illness - something else, perhaps - had made a great 
change in Annette. A fortnight after that they were married. The day 
before, he had ventured to ask her if she felt any difficulty about her 
religion, and if she would consent to have la petite baptised and brought 
up as a Protestant. She shook her head and said very simply - 
"No: in France, in other days, I would have minded; but all is changed. I 
never was fond of religion, but I knew it was right. J'aimais les fleurs, 
les bals, la musique, et mon mari qui etait beau. But all that is gone 
away. There is nothing of my religion in this country. But the good God 
must be here, for you are good; I leave all to you." 
It was clear that Annette regarded her present life as a sort of death to 
the world - an existence on a remote island where she had been saved from 
wreck. She was too indolent mentally, too little interested, to acquaint 
herself with any secrets of the isle. The transient energy, the more vivid 
consciousness and sympathy which had been stirred in her during Mr Lyon's 
illness, had soon subsided into the old apathy to everything except her 
child. She withered like a plant in strange air, and the three years of 
life that remained were but a slow and gentle death. Those three years were 
to Mr Lyon a period of such self-suppression and life in another as few men 
know. Strange! that the passion for this woman, which he felt to have drawn 
him aside from the right as much as if he had broken the most solemn vows - 
for that only was right to him which he held the best and highest - the 
passion for a being who had no glimpse of his thoughts induced a more 
thorough renunciation than he had ever known in the time of his complete 
devotion to his ministerial career. He had no flattery now, either from 
himself or the world; he knew that he had fallen, and his world had 
forgotten him, or shook their heads at his memory. The only satisfaction he 
had was the satisfaction of his tenderness - which meant untiring work, 
untiring patience, untiring wakefulness even to the dumb signs of feeling 
in a creature whom he alone cared for. 
The day of parting came, and he was left with little Esther as the one 
visible sign of that four years' break in his life. A year afterwards he 
entered the ministry again, and lived with the utmost sparingness that 
Esther might be so educated as to be able to get her own bread in case of 
his death. Her probable facility in acquiring French naturally suggested 
his sending her to a French school, which would give her a special 
advantage as a teacher. It was a Protestant school, and French 
Protestantism had the high recommendation of being non-prelatical. It was 
understood that Esther would contract no papistical superstitions; and this 
was perfectly true; but she contracted, as we see, a good deal of non-
papistical vanity. 
Mr Lyon's reputation as a preacher and devoted pastor had revived; but some 
dissatisfaction beginning to be felt by his congregation at a certain 
laxity detected by them in his views as to the limits of salvation, which 
he had in one sermon even hinted might extend to unconscious recipients of 
mercy, he had found it desirable seven years ago to quit this ten years' 
pastorate and accept a call from the less important church in Malthouse 
Yard, Treby Magna. 
This was Rufus Lyon's history, at that time unknown in its fullness to any 
human being besides himself. We can perhaps guess what memories they were 
that relaxed the stringency of his doctrine on the point of salvation. In 
the deepest of all senses his heart said - 

"Though she be dead, yet let me think she lives,
And feed my mind, that dies for want of her,"




Chapter 7

M.   It was but yesterday you spoke him well-
		You've changed your mind so soon?
											Not I-'tis he
N.	That, changing to my thought, has changed my mind.
		No man puts rotten apples in his pouch
		Because their upper side looked fair to him.
		Constancy in mistake is constant folly.


The news that the rich heir of the Transomes was actually come back, and 
had been seen at Treby, was carried to some one else who had more reasons 
for being interested in it than the Reverend Rufus Lyon was yet conscious 
of having. It was owing to this that at three o'clock, two days afterwards, 
a carriage and pair, with coachman and footman in crimson and drab, passed 
through the lodge-gates of Transome Court. Inside there was a hale good-
natured-looking man of sixty, whose hands rested on a knotted stick held 
between his knees; and a blue-eyed, well-featured lady, fat and middle-aged 
- a mountain of satin, lace, and exquisite muslin embroidery. They were not 
persons of highly remarkable appearance, but to most Trebians they seemed 
absolutely unique, and likely to be known anywhere. If you had looked down 
on them from the box of Sampson's coach, he would have said, after lifting 
his hat, "Sir Maximus and his lady - did you see?" thinking it needless to 
add the surname. 
"We shall find her greatly elated, doubtless," Lady Debarry was saying. 
"She has been in the shade so long." 
"Ah, poor thing!" said Sir Maximus. "A fine woman she was in her bloom. I 
remember the first county ball she attended we were all ready to fight for 
the sake of dancing with her. I always liked her from that time - I never 
swallowed the scandal about her myself." 
"If we are to be intimate with her," said Lady Debarry, "I wish you would 
avoid making such allusions, Sir Maximus. I should not like Selina and 
Harriet to hear them." 
"My dear, I should have forgotten all about the scandal, only you remind me 
of it sometimes," retorted the baronet, smiling and taking out his snuff-
box. 
"These sudden turns of fortune are often dangerous to an excitable 
constitution," said Lady Debarry, not choosing to notice her husband's 
epigram. "Poor Lady Alicia Methurst got heart-disease from a sudden piece 
of luck - the death of her uncle, you know. If Mrs Transome were wise she 
would go to town - she can afford it now - and consult Dr Truncheon. I 
should say myself he would order her digitalis: I have often guessed 
exactly what a prescription would be. But it certainly was always one of 
her weak points to think that she understood medicine better than other 
people." 
"She's a healthy woman enough, surely: see how upright she is, and she 
rides about like a girl of twenty." 
"She is so thin that she makes me shudder." 
"Pooh! she's slim and active; women are not bid for by the pound." 
"Pray don't be so coarse." 
Sir Maximus laughed and showed his good teeth, which made his laughter very 
becoming. The carriage stopped, and they were soon ushered into Mrs 
Transome's sitting-room, where she was working at her worsted embroidery. A 
little daily embroidery had been a constant element in Mrs Transome's life; 
that soothing occupation of taking stitches to produce what neither she nor 
any one else wanted, was then the resource of many a well-born and unhappy 
woman. 
She received much warm congratulation and pressure of her hand with perfect 
composure of manner; but she became paler than usual, and her hands turned 
quite cold. The Debarrys did not yet know what Harold's politics were. 
"Well, our lucky youngster is come in the nick of time," said Sir Maximus: 
"if he'll stand, he and Philip can run in harness together and keep out 
both the Whigs." 
"It is really quite a providential thing - his returning just now," said 
Lady Debarry. "I couldn't help thinking that something would occur to 
prevent Philip from having such a man as Peter Garstin for his colleague." 
"I call my friend Harold a youngster," said Sir Maximus, "for, you know, I 
remember him only as he was when that portrait was taken." 
"That is a long while ago," said Mrs Transome. "My son is much altered, as 
you may imagine." 
There was a confused sound of voices in the library while this talk was 
going on. Mrs Transome chose to ignore that noise, but her face, from being 
pale, began to flush a little. 
"Yes, yes, on the outside, I daresay. But he was a fine fellow - I always 
liked him. And if anybody had asked me what I should choose for the good of 
the county, I couldn't have thought of anything better than having a young 
Transome for a neighbour who will take an active part. The Transomes and 
the Debarrys were always on the right side together in old days. Of course 
he'll stand - he has made up his mind to it?"
The need for an answer to this embarrassing question was deferred by the 
increase of inarticulate sounds accompanied by a bark from the library, and 
the sudden appearance at the tapestry - hung doorway of old Mr Transome 
with a cord round his waist, playing a very poor-paced horse for a black-
maned little boy about three years old, who was urging him on with loud 
encouraging noises and occasional thumps from a stick which he wielded with 
some difficulty. The old man paused with a vague gentle smile at the 
doorway, while the baronet got up to speak to him. Nimrod snuffed at his 
master's legs to ascertain that he was not hurt, and the little boy, 
finding something new to be looked at, let go the cord and came round in 
front of the company, dragging his stick, and standing at a safe war-
dancing distance as he fixed his great black eyes on Lady Debarry. 
"Dear me, what a splendid little boy, Mrs Transome! why - it cannot be - 
can it be - that you have the happiness to be a grandmamma?"
"Yes; that is my son's little boy." 
"Indeed!" said Lady Debarry, really amazed. "I never heard you speak of his 
marriage. He has brought you home a daughter-in-law, then?"
"No," said Mrs Transome, coldly; "she is dead." 
"O~oh!" said Lady Debarry, in a tone ludicrously undecided between 
condolence, satisfaction, and general mistiness. "How very singular - I 
mean that we should not have heard of Mr Harold's marriage. But he's a 
charming little fellow: come to me, you round-cheeked cherub." 
The black eyes continued fixed as if by a sort of fascination on Lady 
Debarry's face, and her affable invitation was unheeded. At last, putting 
his head forward and pouting his lips, the cherub gave forth with marked 
intention the sounds, "Nau-o-oom," many times repeated: apparently they 
summed up his opinion of Lady Debarry, and may perhaps have meant "naughty 
old woman," but his speech was a broken lisping polyglot of hazardous 
interpretation. Then he turned to pull at the Blenheim spaniel, which, 
being old and peevish, gave a little snap. "Go, go, Harry; let poor Puff 
alone - he'll bite you," said Mrs Transome, stooping to release her aged 
pet. 
Her words were too suggestive, for Harry immediately laid hold of her arm 
with his teeth, and bit with all his might. Happily the stuffs upon it were 
some protection, but the pain forced Mrs Transome to give a low cry; and 
Sir Maximus, who had now turned to reseat himself, shook the little rascal 
off, whereupon he burst away and trotted into the library again. 
"I fear you are hurt," said Lady Debarry, with sincere concern. "What a 
little savage! Do have your arm attended to, my dear - I recommend 
fomentation - don't think of me." 
"O thank you, it is nothing," said Mrs Transome, biting her lip and smiling 
alternately; "it will soon go off. The pleasures of being a grandmamma, you 
perceive. The child has taken a dislike to me; but he makes quite a new 
life for Mr Transome; they were playfellows at once." 
"Bless my heart!" said Sir Maximus, "it is odd to think of Harold having 
been a family man so long. I made up my mind he was a young bachelor. What 
an old stager I am, to be sure I And whom has he married? I hope we shall 
soon have the pleasure of seeing Mrs Harold Transome." Sir Maximus, 
occupied with old Mr Transome, had not overheard the previous conversation 
on that subject. 
"She is no longer living," Lady Debarry hastily interposed; "but now, my 
dear Sir Maximus, we must not hinder Mrs Transome from attending to her 
arm. I am sure she is in pain. Don't say another word, my dear - we shall 
see you again - you and Mr Harold will come and dine with us on Thursday - 
say yes, only yes. Sir Maximus is longing to see him; and Philip will be 
down." 
"Yes, yes!" said Sir Maximus; "he must lose no time in making Philip's 
acquaintance. Tell him Philip is a fine fellow - carried everything before 
him at Oxford. And your son must be returned along with him for North 
Loamshire. You said he meant to stand?"
"I will write and let you know if Harold has any engagement for Thursday; 
he would of course be happy otherwise," said Mrs Transome, evading the 
question. 
"If not Thursday, the next day - the very first day he can." 
The visitor's left, and Mrs Transome was almost glad of the painful bite 
which had saved her from being questioned further about Harold's politics. 
"This is the last visit I shall receive from them, she said to herself as 
the door closed behind them, and she rang for Denner. 
"That poor creature is not happy, Sir Maximus," said Lady Debarry as they 
drove along. "Something annoys her about her son. I hope there is nothing 
unpleasant in his character. Either he kept his marriage a secret from her, 
or she was ashamed of it. He is thirty-four at least by this time. After 
living in the East so long he may have become a sort of person one would 
not care to be intimate with; and that savage boy - he doesn't look like a 
lady's child." 
"Pooh, my dear," said Sir Maximus, "women think so much of those minutiae. 
In the present state of the country it is our duty to look at a man's 
position and politics. Philip and my brother are both of that opinion, and 
I think they know what's right, if any man does. We are bound to regard 
every man of our party as a public instrument, and to pull all together. 
The Transomes have always been a good Tory family, but it has been a cipher 
of late years. This young fellow coming back with a fortune to give the 
family a head and a position is a clear gain to the county; and with Philip 
he'll get into the right hands - of course he wants guiding, having been 
out of the country so long. All we have to ask is, whether a man's a Tory, 
and will make a stand for the good of the country? - that's the plain 
English of the matter. And I do beg of you, my dear, to set aside all these 
gossiping niceties, and exert yourself, like a woman of sense and spirit as 
you are, to bring the right people together." 
Here Sir Maximus gave a deep cough, took out his snuff-box, and tapped it: 
he had made a serious marital speech, an exertion to which he was rarely 
urged by anything smaller than a matter of conscience. And this outline of 
the whole duty of a Tory was matter of conscience with him; though the 
Duffield Watchman had pointed expressly to Sir Maximus Debarry amongst 
others, in branding the co-operation of the Tories as a conscious 
selfishness and reckless immorality, which, however, would be defeated by 
the co-operation of all the friends of truth and liberty, who, the Watchman 
trusted, would subordinate all non-political differences in order to return 
representatives pledged to support the present government. 
"I am sure, Sir Maximus," Lady Debarry answered, "you could not have 
observed that anything was wanting in my manners to Mrs Transome." 
"No, no, my dear; but I say this by way of caution. Never mind what was 
done at Smyrna, or whether Transome likes to sit with his heels tucked up. 
We may surely wink at a few things for the sake of the public interest, if 
God Almighty does; and if He didn't, I don't know what would have become of 
the country-government could never have been carried on, and many a good 
battle would have been lost. That's the philosophy of the matter, and the 
common sense too." 
Good Sir Maximus gave a deep cough and tapped his box again, inwardly 
remarking, that if he had not been such a lazy fellow he might have made as 
good a figure as his son Philip. 
Put at this point the carriage, which was rolling by a turn towards Treby 
Magna, passed a well-dressed man, who raised his hat to Sir Maximus, and 
called to the coachman to stop. 
"Excuse me, Sir Maximus," said this personage, standing uncovered at the 
carriage-door, "but I have just learned something of importance at Treby, 
which I thought you would like to know as soon as possible." 
"Ah! what's that? Something about Garstin or Clement?" said Sir Maximus, 
seeing the other draw a poster from his pocket. 
"No; rather worse, I fear you will think. A new Radical candidate. I got 
this by a stratagem from the printer's boy. They're not posted yet." 
"A Radical!" said Sir Maximus, in a tone of incredulous disgust, as he took 
the folded bill. "What fool is he? - he'll have no chance." 
"They say he's richer than Garstin." 
"Harold Transome!" shouted Sir Maximus, as he read the name in three-inch 
letters. "I don't believe it - it's a trick - it's a squib: why - why - 
we've just been to his place eh? do you know any more? Speak, sir - speak; 
don't deal out your story like a damned mountebank, who wants to keep 
people gaping." 
"Sir Maximus, pray don't give way so," said Lady Debarry. 
"I'm afraid there's no doubt about it, sir," said Christian. "After getting 
the bill, I met Mr Labron's clerk, and he said he had just had the whole 
story from Jermyn's clerk. The Ram Inn is engaged already, and a committee 
is being made up. He says Jermyn goes like a steam-engine, when he has a 
mind, although he makes such long-winded speeches." 
"Jermyn be hanged for a two-faced rascal! Tell Mitchell to drive on. It's 
of no use to stay chattering here. Jump up on the box and go home with us. 
I may want you." 
"You see I was right, Sir Maximus," said the baronet's wife, "I had an 
instinct that we should find him an unpleasant person." 
"Fudge! if you had such a fine instinct, why did you let us go to Transome 
Court and make fools of ourselves?"
"Would you have listened to me? But of course you will not have him to dine 
with you?"
"Dine with me? I should think not. I'd sooner he should dine off me. I see 
how it is clearly enough. He has become a regular beast among those 
Mahometans - he's got neither religion nor morals left. He can't know 
anything about English politics. He'll go and cut his own nose off as a 
landholder, and never know. However, he won't get in - he'll spend his 
money for nothing." 
"I fear he is a very licentious man," said Lady Debarry. "We know now why 
his mother seemed so uneasy. I should think she reflects a little, poor 
creature." 
"It's a confounded nuisance we didn't meet Christian on our way, instead of 
coming back; but better now than later. He's an uncommonly adroit, useful 
fellow, that factotum of Philip's. I wish Phil would take my man and give 
me Christian. I'd make him house-steward; he might reduce the accounts a 
little." 
Perhaps Sir Maximus would not have been so sanguine as to Mr Christian's 
economical virtues if he had seen that gentleman relaxing himself the same 
evening among the other distinguished dependants of the family and 
frequenters of the steward's room. But a man of Sir Maximus's rank is like 
those antediluvian animals whom the system of things condemned to carry 
such a huge bulk that they really could not inspect their bodily 
appurtenance, and had no conception of their own tails: their parasites 
doubtless had a merry time of it, and often did extremely well when the 
high-bred saurian himself was ill at ease. Treby Manor, measured from the 
front saloon to the remotest shed, was as large as a moderate-sized 
village, and there were certainly more lights burning in it every evening, 
more wine, spirits, and ale drunk, more waste and more folly, than could be 
found in some large villages. There was fast revelry in the steward's room, 
and slow revelry in the Scotch bailiff's room; short whist, costume, and 
flirtation in the housekeeper's room, and the same at a lower price in the 
servants' hall; a select Olympian feast in the private apartment of the 
cook, who was a much grander person than her ladyship, and wore gold and 
jewellery to a vast amount of suet; a gambling group in the stables, and 
the coachman, perhaps the most innocent member of the establishment, 
tippling in majestic solitude by a fire in the harness room. For Sir 
Maximus, as every one said, was a gentleman of the right sort, condescended 
to no mean inquiries, greeted his head-servants with a "good evening, 
gentlemen," when he met them in the park, and only snarled in a subdued way 
when he looked over the accounts, willing to endure some personal 
inconvenience in order to keep up the institutions of the country, to 
maintain his hereditary establishment, and do his duty in that station of 
life - the station of the long-tailed saurian - to which it had pleased 
Providence to call him. 
The focus of brilliancy at Treby Manor that evening was in no way the 
dining-room, where Sir Maximus sipped his port under some mental 
depression, as he discussed with his brother, the Reverend Augustus, the 
sad fact, that one of the oldest names in the county was to be on the wrong 
side - not in the drawing-room, where Miss Debarry and Miss Selina, quietly 
elegant in their dress and manners, were feeling rather dull than 
otherwise, having finished Mr Bulwer's Eugerle Aram, and being thrown back 
on the last great prose work of Mr Southey, while their mamma slumbered a 
little on the sofa. No; the centre of eager talk and enjoyment was the 
steward's room, where Mr Scales, house-steward and head-butler, a man most 
solicitous about his boots, wristbands, the roll of his whiskers, and other 
attributes of a gentleman, distributed cigars, cognac, and whisky, to 
various colleagues and guests who were discussing, with that freedom of 
conjecture which is one of our inalienable privileges as Britons, the 
probable amount of Harold Transome's fortune, concerning which fame had 
already been busy long enough to have acquired vast magnifying power. 
The chief part in this scene was undoubtedly Mr Christian's, although he 
had hitherto been comparatively silent; but he occupied two chairs with so 
much grace, throwing his right leg over the seat of the second, and resting 
his right hand on the back; he held his cigar and displayed a splendid seal-
ring with such becoming nonchalance, and had his grey hair arranged with so 
much taste, that experienced eyes would at once have seen even the great 
Scales himself to be but a secondary character. 
"Why," said Mr Crowder, an old respectable tenant, though much in arrear as 
to his rent, who condescended frequently to drink in the steward's room for 
the sake of the conversation; "why, I suppose they get money so fast in the 
East - it's wonderful. Why," he went on, with a hesitating look towards Mr 
Scales, "this Transome has p'raps got a matter of a hundred thousand." 
"A hundred thousand, my dear sir! fiddle-stick's end of a hundred 
thousand," said Mr Scales, with a contempt very painful to be borne by a 
modest man. 
"Well," said Mr Crowder, giving way under torture, as the all-knowing 
butler puffed and stared at him, "perhaps not so much as that." 
"Not so much, sir! I tell you that a hundred thousand pounds is a 
bagatelle." 
"Well, I know it's a big sum," said Mr Crowder, deprecatingly. 
Here there was a general laugh. All the other intellects present were more 
cultivated than Mr Crowder's. 
"Bagatelle is the French for trifle, my friend," said Mr Christian. "Don't 
talk over people's heads so, Scales. I shall have hard work to understand 
you myself soon." 
"Come, that's a good one," said the head-gardener, who was a ready admirer; 
"I should like to hear the thing you don't understand, Christian." 
"He's a first-rate hand at sneering," said Mr Scales, rather nettled. 
"Don't be waspish, man. I'll ring the bell for lemons, and make some punch. 
That's the thing for putting people up to the unknown tongues," said Mr 
Christian, starting up, and slapping Scales's shoulder as he passed him. 
"What I mean, Mr Crowder, is this."
 Here Mr Scales paused to puff, and pull down his waistcoat in a 
gentlemanly manner, and drink. He was wont in this way to give his hearers 
time for meditation. 
"Come, then, speak English; I'm not against being taught," said the 
reasonable Crowder. 
"What I mean is, that in a large way of trade a man turns his capital over 
almost as soon as he can turn himself. Bless your soul! I know something 
about these matters, eh, Brent?"
"To be sure you do - few men more," said the gardener, who was the person 
appealed to. 
"Not that I've had anything to do with commercial families myself. I've 
those feelings that I look to other things besides lucre. But I can't say 
that I've not been intimate with parties who have been less nice than I am 
myself; and knowing what I know, I shouldn't wonder if Transome had as much 
as five hundred thousand. Bless your soul, sir! people who get their money 
out of land are as long scraping five pounds together as your trading men 
are in turning five pounds into a hundred." 
"That's a wicked thing, though," said Mr Crowder, meditatively. "However," 
he went on, retreating from this difficult ground, "trade or no trade, the 
Transomes have been poor enough this many a long year. I've a brother a 
tenant on their estate - I ought to know a little bit about that." 
"They've kept up no establishment at all," said Mr Scales, with disgust. 
"They've even let their kitchen gardens. I suppose it was the eldest son's 
gambling. I've seen something of that. A man who has always lived in first-
rate families is likely to know a thing or two on that subject." 
"Ah, but it wasn't gambling did the first mischief," said Mr Crowder, with 
a slight smile, feeling that it was his turn to have some superiority. "New-
comers don't know what happened in this country twenty and thirty year ago. 
I'm turned fifty myself, and my father lived under Sir Maximus's father. 
But if anybody from London can tell me more than I know about this country-
side, I'm willing to listen." 
"What was it, then, if it wasn't gambling?" said Mr Scales, with some 
impatience. "I don't pretend to know." 
"It was law - law - that's what it was. Not but what the Transomes always 
won." 
"And always lost," said the too-ready Scales. "Yes, yes; I think we all 
know the nature of law." 
"There was the last suit of all made the most noise, as I understood," 
continued Mr Crowder; "but it wasn't tried hereabout. They said there was a 
deal o' false swearing. Some young man pretended to be the true heir - let 
me see - I can't justly remember the names - he'd got two. He swore he was 
one man, and they swore he was another. However, Lawyer Jermyn won it - 
they say he'd win a game against the Old One himself - and the young fellow 
turned out to be a scamp. Stop a bit - his name was Scaddon - Henry 
Scaddon." 
Mr Christian here let a lemon slip from his hand into the punch-bowl with a 
plash which sent some of the nectar into the company's faces. 
"Hallo! What a bungler I am!" he said, looking as if he were quite jarred 
by this unusual awkwardness of his. "Go on with your tale, Mr Crowder - a 
scamp named Harry Scaddon." 
"Well, that's the tale," said Mr Crowder. "He was never seen nothing of any 
more. It was a deal talked of at the time - and I've sat by; and my father 
used to shake his head; and always when this Mrs Transome was talked of, he 
used to shake his head, and say she carried things with a high hand once. 
But, Lord! it was before the battle of Waterloo, and I'm a poor hand at 
tales; I don't see much good in 'em myself - but if anybody'll tell me a 
cure for the sheep-rot I'll thank him." 
Here Mr Crowder relapsed into smoking and silence, a little discomfited 
that the knowledge of which he had been delivered had turned out rather a 
shapeless and insignificant birth. 
"Well, well, bygones should be bygones; there are secrets in most good 
families," said Mr Scales, winking, "and this young Transome, coming back 
with a fortune to keep up the establishment, and have things done in a 
decent and gentlemanly way - it would all have been right if he'd not been 
this sort of Radical madman. But now he's done for himself. I heard Sir 
Maximus say at dinner that he would be excommunicated; and that's a pretty 
strong word, I take it." 
"What does it mean, Scales?" said Mr Christian, who loved tormenting. 
"Ay, what's the meaning?" insisted Mr Crowder, encouraged by finding that 
even Christian was in the dark. 
"Well, it's a law term - speaking in a figurative sort of way - meaning 
that a Radical was no gentleman." 
"Perhaps it's partly accounted for by his getting his money so fast, and in 
foreign countries," said Mr Crowder, tentatively. "It's reasonable to think 
he'd be against the land and this country - eh, Sircome?"
Sircome was an eminent miller who had considerable business transactions at 
the manor, and appreciated Mr Scales's merits at a handsome percentage on 
the yearly account. He was a highly honourable tradesman, but in this and 
in other matters submitted to the institutions of his country; for great 
houses, as he observed, must have great butlers. He replied to his friend 
Crowder sententiously. 
"I say nothing. Before I bring words to market, I should like to see 'em a 
bit scarcer. There's the land and there's trade - I hold with both. I swim 
with the stream." 
"Hey - day, Mr Sircome! that's a Radical maxim," said Mr Christian, who 
knew that Mr Sircome's last sentence was his favourite formula. "I advise 
you to give it up, else it will injure the quality of your flour." 
"A Radical maxim!" said Mr Sircome, in a tone of angry astonishment. "I 
should like to hear you prove that. It's as old as my grandfather, anyhow."
"I'll prove it in one minute," said the glib Christian. "Reform has set in 
by the will of the majority - that's the rabble, you know; and the 
respectability and good sense of the country, which are in the minority, 
are afraid of Reform running on too fast. So the stream must be running 
towards Reform and Radicalism; and if you swim with it, Mr Sircome, you're 
a Reformer and a Radical, and your flour is objectionable, and not full 
weight - and being tried by Scales, will be found wanting." 
There was a roar of laughter. This pun upon Scales was highly appreciated 
by every one except the miller and the butler. The latter pulled down his 
waistcoat, and puffed and stared in rather an excited manner. Mr 
Christian's wit, in general, seemed to him a poor kind of quibbling. 
"What a fellow you are for fence, Christian," said the gardener. "Hang me, 
if I don't think you're up to everything." 
"That's a compliment you might pay Old Nick, if you come to that," said Mr 
Sircome, who was in the painful position of a man deprived of his formula. 
"Yes, yes," said Mr Scales; "I'm no fool myself, and could parry a thrust 
if I liked, but I shouldn't like it to be said of me that I was up to 
everything. I'll keep a little principle if you please." 
"To be sure," said Christian, ladling out the punch. "What would justice be 
without Scales?"
The laughter was not quite so full-throated as before. Such excessive 
cleverness was a little Satanic. 
"A joke's a joke among gentlemen," said the butler, getting exasperated; "I 
think there has been quite liberties enough taken with my name. But if you 
must talk about names, I've heard of a party before now calling himself a 
Christian, and being anything but it." 
"Come, that's beyond a joke," said the surgeon's assistant, a fast man, 
whose chief scene of dissipation was the Manor "Let it drop, Scales." 
"Yes, I daresay it's beyond a joke. I'm not a harlequin to talk nothing but 
jokes. I leave that to other Christians, who are up to everything, and have 
been everywhere - to the hulks, for what I know; and more than that, they 
come from nobody knows where, and try to worm themselves into gentlemen's 
confidence, to the prejudice of their betters." 
There was a stricter sequence in Mr Scales's angry eloquence than was 
apparent - some chief links being confined to his own breast, as is often 
the case in energetic discourse. The company were in a state of 
expectation. There was something behind worth knowing, and something before 
them worth seeing. In the general decay of other fine British pugnacious 
sports, a quarrel between gentlemen was all the more exciting, and though 
no one would himself have liked to turn on Scales, no one was sorry for the 
chance of seeing him put down. But the amazing Christian was unmoved. He 
had taken out his handkerchief and was rubbing his lips carefully. After a 
slight pause, he spoke with perfect coolness. 
"I don't intend to quarrel with you, Scales. Such talk as this is not 
profitable to either of us. It makes you purple in the face - you ere 
apoplectic, you know - and it spoils good company. Better tell a few fibs 
about me behind my back - it will heat you less, and do me more harm. I'll 
leave you to it; I shall go and have a game at whist with the ladies." 
As the door closed behind the questionable Christian, Mr Scales was in a 
state of frustration that prevented speech. Every one was rather 
embarrassed. 
"That's a most uncommon sort o' fellow," said Mr Crowder, in an under-tone, 
to his next neighbour, the gardener. "Why, Mr Philip picked him up in 
foreign parts, didn't he?"
"He was a courier," said the gardener. "He's had a deal of experience. And 
I believe, by what I can make out - for he's been pretty free with me 
sometimes - there was a time when he was in that rank of life that he 
fought a duel." 
"Ah! that makes him such a cool chap," said Mr Crowder. 
"He's what I call an overbearing fellow," said Mr Sircome, also sotto voce, 
to his next neighbour, Mr Filmore, the surgeon's assistant. "He runs you 
down with a sort of talk that's neither here nor there. He's got a deal too 
many samples in his pocket for me." 
"All I know is, he's a wonderful hand at cards," said Mr Filmore, whose 
whiskers and shirt-pin were quite above the average. "I wish I could play 
ecarte as he does; it's beautiful to see him; he can make a man look pretty 
blue - he'll empty his pocket for him in no time." 
"That's none to his credit," said Mr Sircome. 
The conversation had in this way broken up into tete-a-tete, and the 
hilarity of the evening might be considered a failure. Still the punch was 
drunk, the accounts were duly swelled, and, notwithstanding the innovating 
spirit of the time, Sir Maximus Debarry's establishment was kept up in a 
sound hereditary British manner.



Chapter 8

"Rumour doth double like the voice and echo."
													-Shakespeare

The mind of a man is as a country which was once open to squatters, who 
have bred and multiplied and become masters of the land. But then happeneth 
a time when new and hungry comers dispute the land; and there is trial of 
strength, and the stronger wins. Nevertheless the first squatters be they 
who have prepared the ground, and the crops to the end will be sequent 
(though chiefly on the nature of the soil, as of light sand, mixed loam, or 
heavy clay, yet) somewhat on the primal labour and sowing.

 That talkative maiden, Rumour, though in the interest of art she is 
figured as a youthful winged beauty with flowing garments, soaring above 
the heads of men, and breathing world-thrilling news through a gracefully-
curved trumpet, is in fact a very old maid, who puckers her silly face by 
the fireside, and really does no more than chirp a wrong guess or a lame 
story into the ear of a fellow-gossip; all the rest of the work attributed 
to her is done by the ordinary working of those passions against which men 
pray in the Litany, with the help of a plentiful stupidity against which we 
have never yet had any authorised form of prayer. 
When Mr Scales's strong need to make an impressive figure in conversation, 
together with his very slight need of any other premise than his own sense 
of his wide general knowledge and probable infallibility, led him to 
specify five hundred thousand as the lowest admissible amount of Harold 
Transome's commercially-acquired fortune, it was not fair to put this down 
to poor old Miss Rumour, who had only told Scales that the fortune was 
considerable. And again, when the curt Mr Sircome found occasion at Treby 
to mention the five hundred thousand as a fact that folks seemed pretty 
sure about, this expansion of the butler into "folks" was entirely due to 
Mr Sircome's habitual preference for words which could not be laid hold of 
or give people a handle over him. It was in this simple way that the report 
of Harold Transome's fortune spread and was magnified, adding much lustre 
to his opinions in the eyes of Liberals, and compelling even men of the 
opposite party to admit that it increased his eligibility as a member for 
North Loamshire. It was observed by a sound thinker in these parts that 
property was ballast; and when once the aptness of that metaphor had been 
perceived, it followed that a man was not fit to navigate the sea of 
politics without a great deal of such ballast; and that, rightly 
understood, whatever increased the expense of election, inasmuch as it 
virtually raised the property qualification, was an unspeakable boon to the 
country. 
Meanwhile the fortune that was getting larger in the imagination of 
constituents was shrinking a little in the imagination of its owner. It was 
hardly more than a hundred and fifty thousand; and there were not only the 
heavy mortgages to be paid off, but also a large amount of capital was 
needed in order to repair the farm-buildings all over the estate, to carry 
out extensive draining, and make allowances to incoming tenants which might 
remove the difficulty of newly letting the farms in a time of agricultural 
depression. The farms actually tenanted were held by men who had begged 
hard to succeed their fathers in getting a little poorer every year, on 
land which was also getting poorer, where the highest rate of increase was 
in the arrears of rent, and where the master, in crushed hat and corduroys, 
looked pitiably lean and care-worn by the side of pauper labourers, who 
showed that superior assimilating power often observed to attend 
nourishment by the public money. Mr Goffe, of Rabbit's End, had never had 
it explained to him that, according to the true theory of rent, land must 
inevitably be given up when it would not yield a profit equal to the 
ordinary rate of interest; so that from want of knowing what was 
inevitable, and not from a Titanic spirit of opposition, he kept on his 
land. He often said of himself, with a melancholy wipe of his sleeve across 
his brow, that he "didn't know which way to turn;" and he would have been 
still more at a loss on the subject if he had quitted Rabbit's End with a 
waggonful of furniture and utensils, a file of receipts, a wife with five 
children, and a shepherd-dog in low spirits. 
It took no long time for Harold Transome to discover this state of things, 
and to see, moreover, that, except on the demesne immediately around the 
house, the timber had been mismanaged. The woods had been recklessly 
thinned, and there had been insufficient planting. He had not yet 
thoroughly investigated the various accounts kept by his mother, by Jermyn, 
and by Banks the bailiff; but what had been done with the large sums which 
had been received for timber was a suspicious mystery to him. He observed 
that the farm held by Jermyn was in first-rate order, that a good deal had 
been spent on the buildings, and that the rent had stood unpaid. Mrs 
Transome had taken an opportunity of saying that Jermyn had had some of the 
mortgage-deeds transferred to him, and that his rent was set against so 
much interest. Harold had only said, in his careless yet decisive way, "O, 
Jermyn be hanged! It seems to me if Durfey hadn't died and made room for 
me, Jermyn would have ended by coming to live here, and you would have had 
to keep the lodge and open the gate for his carriage. But I shall pay him 
off - mortgages and all - by-and-by. I'll owe him nothing - not even a 
curse." Mrs Transome said no more. Harold did not care to enter fully into 
the subject with his mother. The fact that she had been active in the 
management of the estate - had ridden about it continually, had busied 
herself with accounts, had been head-bailiff of the vacant farms, and had 
yet allowed things to go wrong - was set down by him simply to the general 
futility of women's attempts to transact men's business. He did not want to 
say anything to annoy her: he was only determined to let her understand, as 
quietly as possible, that she had better cease all interference. 
Mrs Transome did understand this; and it was very little that she dared to 
say on business, though there was a fierce struggle of her anger and pride 
with a dread which was nevertheless supreme. As to the old tenants, she 
only observed, on hearing Harold burst forth about their wretched 
condition, "that with the estate so burthened, the yearly loss by arrears 
could better be borne than the outlay and sacrifice necessary in order to 
let the farms anew." 
"I was really capable of calculating, Harold," she ended, with a touch of 
bitterness. "It seems easy to deal with farmers and their affairs when you 
only see them in print, I daresay; but it's not quite so easy when you live 
among them. You have only to look at Sir Maximus's estate: you will see 
plenty of the same thing. The times have been dreadful, and old families 
like to keep their old tenants. But I daresay that is Toryism." 
"It's a hash of odds and ends, if that is Toryism, my dear mother. However, 
I wish you had kept three more old tenants; for then I should have had 
three more fifty-pound voters. And, in a hard run, one may be beaten by a 
head. But," Harold added, smiling and handing her a ball of worsted which 
had fallen, "a woman ought to be a Tory, and graceful, and handsome, like 
you. I should hate a woman who took up my opinions, and talked for me. I'm 
an Oriental, you know. I say, mother, shall we have this room furnished 
with rose-colour? I notice that it suits your bright grey hair." 
Harold thought it was only natural that his mother should have been in a 
sort of subjection to Jermyn throughout the awkward circumstances of the 
family. It was the way of women, and all weak minds, to think that what 
they had been used to was inalterable, and any quarrel with a man who 
managed private affairs was necessarily a formidable thing. He himself was 
proceeding very cautiously, and preferred not even to know too much just at 
present, lest a certain personal antipathy he was conscious of toward 
Jermyn, and an occasional liability to exasperation, should get the better 
of a calm and clear-sighted resolve not to quarrel with the man while he 
could be of use. Harold would have been disgusted with himself if he had 
helped to frustrate his own purpose. And his strongest purpose now was to 
get returned for parliament, to make a figure there as a Liberal member, 
and to become on all grounds a personage of weight in North Loamshire. 
How Harold Transome came to be a Liberal in opposition to all the 
traditions of his family, was a more subtle inquiry than he had ever cared 
to follow out. The newspapers undertook to explain it. The North Loamshire 
Herald witnessed with a grief and disgust certain to be shared by all 
persons who were actuated by wholesome British feeling, an example of 
defection in the inheritor of a family name which in times past had been 
associated with attachment to right principle, and with the maintenance of 
our constitution in Church and State; and pointed to it as an additional 
proof that men who had passed any large portion of their lives beyond the 
limits of our favoured country, usually contracted not only a laxity of 
feeling towards Protestantism, nay, towards religion itself - a 
latitudinarian spirit hardly distinguishable from atheism - but also a 
levity of disposition, inducing them to tamper with those institutions by 
which alone Great Britain had risen to her pre-eminence among the nations. 
Such men, infected with outlandish habits, intoxicated with vanity, 
grasping at momentary power by flattery of the multitude, fearless because 
godless, liberal because un-English, were ready to pull one stone from 
under another in the national edifice, till the great structure tottered to 
its fall. On the other hand, the Duffield Watchman saw in this signal 
instance of self-liberation from the trammels of prejudice, a decisive 
guarantee of intellectual pre-eminence, united with a generous sensibility 
to the claims of man as man, which had burst asunder, and cast off, by a 
spontaneous exertion of energy, the cramping out-worn shell of hereditary 
bias and class interest. 
But these large-minded guides of public opinion argued from wider data than 
could be furnished by any knowledge of the particular case concerned. 
Harold Transome was neither the dissolute cosmopolitan so vigorously 
sketched by the Tory Herald, nor the intellectual giant and moral lobster 
suggested by the liberal imagination of the Watchman. Twenty years ago he 
had been a bright, active, good-tempered lad, with sharp eyes and a good 
aim; he delighted in success and in predominance; but he did not long for 
an impossible predominance, and become sour and sulky because it was 
impossible. He played at the games he was clever in, and usually won; all 
other games he let alone, and thought them of little worth. At home and at 
Eton he had been side by side with his stupid elder brother Durfey, whom he 
despised; and he very early began to reflect that since this Caliban in 
miniature was older than himself, he must carve out his own fortune. That 
was a nuisance; and on the whole the world seemed rather ill-arranged, at 
Eton especially, where there were many reasons why Harold made no great 
figure. He was not sorry the money was wanting to send him to Oxford; he 
did not see the good of Oxford; he had been surrounded by many things 
during his short life, of which he had distinctly said to himself that he 
did not see the good, and he was not disposed to venerate on the strength 
of any good that others saw. He turned his back on home very cheerfully, 
though he was rather fond of his mother, and very fond of Transome Court, 
and the river where he had been used to fish; but he said to himself as he 
passed the lodge-gates, "I'll get rich somehow, and have an estate of my 
own, and do what I like with it." This determined aiming at something not 
easy but clearly possible, marked the direction in which Harold's nature 
was strong; he had the energetic will and muscle, the self-confidence, the 
quick perception, and the narrow imagination which make what is admiringly 
called the practical mind. 
Since then his character had been ripened by a various experience, and also 
by much knowledge which he had set himself deliberately to gain. But the 
man was no more than the boy writ large, with an extensive commentary. The 
years had nourished an inclination to as much opposition as would enable 
him to assert his own independence and power without throwing himself into 
that tabooed condition which robs power of its triumph. And this 
inclination had helped his shrewdness in forming judgements which were at 
once innovating and moderate. He was addicted at once to rebellion and to 
conformity, and only an intimate personal knowledge could enable any one to 
predict where his conformity would begin. The limit was not defined by 
theory, but was drawn in an irregular zigzag by early disposition and 
association; and his resolution, of which he had never lost hold, to be a 
thorough Englishman again some day, had kept up the habit of considering 
all his conclusions with reference to English politics and English social 
conditions. He meant to stand up for every change that the economical 
condition of the country required, and he had an angry contempt for men 
with coronets on their coaches, but too small a share of brains to see when 
they had better make a virtue of necessity. His respect was rather for men 
who had no coronets, but who achieved a just influence by furthering all 
measures which the common sense of the country, and the increasing self-
assertion of the majority, peremptorily demanded. He could be such a man 
himself. 
In fact Harold Transome was a clever, frank, good-natured egoist; not 
stringently consistent, but without any disposition to falsity; proud, but 
with a pride that was moulded in an individual rather than an hereditary 
form; unspeculative, unsentimental, unsympathetic; fond of sensual 
pleasures, but disinclined to all vice, and attached as a healthy, clear-
sighted person, to all conventional morality, construed with a certain 
freedom, like doctrinal articles to which the public order may require 
subscription. A character is apt to look but indifferently, written out in 
this way. Reduced to a map, our premises seem insignificant, but they make, 
nevertheless, a very pretty freehold to live in and walk over; and so, if 
Harold Transome had been among your acquaintances, and you had observed his 
qualities through the medium of his agreeable person, bright smile, and a 
certain easy charm which accompanies sensuousness when unsullied by 
coarseness - through the medium also of the many opportunities in which he 
would have made himself useful or pleasant to you - you would have thought 
him a good fellow, highly acceptable as a guest, a colleague, or a brother-
in-law. Whether all mothers would have liked him as a son, is another 
question. 
It is a fact perhaps kept a little too much in the background, that mothers 
have a self larger than their maternity, and that when their sons have 
become taller than themselves, and are gone from them to college or into 
the world, there are wide spaces of their time which are not filled with 
praying for their boys, reading old letters, and envying yet blessing those 
who are attending to their shirt-buttons. Mrs Transome was certainly not 
one of those bland, adoring, and gently tearful women. After sharing the 
common dream that when a beautiful man-child was born to her, her cup of 
happiness would be full, she had travelled through long years apart from 
that child to find herself at last in the presence of a son of whom she was 
afraid, who was utterly unmanageable by her, and to whose sentiments in any 
given case she possessed no key. Yet Harold was a kind son: he kissed his 
mother's brow, offered her his arm, let her choose what she liked for the 
house and garden, asked her whether she would have bays or greys for her 
new carriage, and was bent on seeing her make as good a figure in the 
neighbourhood as any other woman of her rank. She trembled under this 
kindness: it was not enough to satisfy her; still, if it should ever cease 
and give place to something else - she was too uncertain about Harold's 
feelings to imagine clearly what that something would be. The finest 
threads, such as no eye sees, if bound cunningly about the sensitive flesh, 
so that the movement to break them would bring torture, may make a worse 
bondage than any fetters. Mrs Transome felt the fatal threads about her, 
and the bitterness of this helpless bondage mingled itself with the new 
elegancies of the dining and drawing rooms, and all the household changes 
which Harold had ordered to be brought about with magical quickness. 
Nothing was as she had once expected it would be. If Harold had shown the 
least care to have her stay in the room with him - if he had really cared 
for her opinion - if he had been what she had dreamed he would be in the 
eyes of those people who had made her world - if all the past could be 
dissolved, and leave no solid trace of itself - mighty ifs that were all 
impossible she would have tasted some joy; but now she began to look back 
with regret to the days when she sat in loneliness among the old drapery, 
and still longed for something that might happen. Yet, save in a bitter 
little speech, or in deep sigh heard by no one besides Denner, she kept all 
these things hidden in her heart, and went out in the autumn sunshine to 
overlook the alterations in the pleasure-grounds very much as a happy woman 
might have done. One day, however, when she was occupied in this way, an 
occasion came on which she chose to express indirectly a part of her inward 
care. She was standing on the broad gravel in the afternoon; the long 
shadows lay on the grass; the light seemed the more glorious because of the 
reddened and golden trees. The gardeners were busy at their pleasant work; 
the newly-turned soil gave out an agreeable fragrance; and little Harry was 
playing with Nimrod round old Mr Transome, who sat placidly on a low garden-
chair. The scene would have made a charming picture of English domestic 
life, and the handsome, majestic, grey-haired woman (obviously grandmamma) 
would have been especially admired. But the artist would have felt it 
requisite to turn her face towards her husband and little grandson, and to 
have given her an elderly amiability of expression which would have divided 
remark with his exquisite rendering of her Indian shawl. Mrs Transome's 
face was turned the other way, and for this reason she only heard an 
approaching step, and did not see whose it was; yet it startled her: it was 
not quick enough to be her son's step, and besides, Harold was away at 
Duffield. It was Mr Jermyn's.




Chapter 9


"A woman, naturally born to fears."-King John.
												"Methinks
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb,
Is coming towards me; and my inward soul
With nothing trembles."-King Richard II.


 Matthew Jermyn approached Mrs Transome taking off his hat and smiling. She 
did not smile, but said
"You knew Harold was not at home?"
"Yes; I came to see you, to know if you had any wishes that I could 
further, since I have not had an opportunity of consulting you since he 
came home." 
"Let us walk towards the Rookery, then." 
They turned together, Mr Jermyn still keeping his hat off and holding it 
behind him; the air was so soft and agreeable that Mrs Transome herself had 
nothing but a large veil over her head. 
They walked for a little while in silence till they were out of sight, 
under tall trees, and treading noiselessly on fallen leaves. What Jermyn 
was really most anxious about, was to learn from Mrs Transome whether 
anything had transpired that was significant of Harold's disposition 
towards him, which he suspected to be very far from friendly. Jermyn was 
not naturally flinty-hearted: at five-and-twenty he had written verses, and 
had got himself wet through in order not to disappoint a dark-eyed woman 
whom he was proud to believe in love with him; but a family man with grown-
up sons and daughters, a man with a professional position and complicated 
affairs that make it hard to ascertain the exact relation between property 
and liabilities, necessarily thinks of himself and what may be impending. 
"Harold is remarkably acute and clever," he began at last, since Mrs 
Transome did not speak. "If he gets into parliament, I have no doubt he 
will distinguish himself. He has a quick eye for business of all kinds." 
"That is no comfort to me," said Mrs Transome. Today she was more conscious 
than usual of that bitterness which was always in her mind in Jermyn's 
presence, but which was carefully suppressed: - suppressed because she 
could not endure that the degradation she inwardly felt should ever become 
visible or audible in acts or words of her own - should ever be reflected 
in any word or look of his. For years there had been a deep silence about 
the past between them: on her side, because she remembered; on his, because 
he more and more forgot. 
"I trust he is not unkind to you in any way. I know his opinions pain you; 
but I trust you find him in everything else disposed to be a good son." 
"O, to be sure - good as men are disposed to be to women, giving them 
cushions and carriages, and recommending them to enjoy themselves, and then 
expecting them to be contented under contempt and neglect I have no power 
over him - remember that - none." 
Jermyn turned to look in Mrs Transome's face: it was long since he had 
heard her speak to him as if she were losing her self-command. 
"Has he shown any unpleasant feeling about your management of the affairs?"
"My management of the affairs!" Mrs Transome said, with concentrated rage, 
flashing a fierce look at Jermyn. She checked herself: she felt as if she 
were lighting a torch to flare on her own past folly and misery. It was a 
resolve which had become a habit, that she would never quarrel with this 
man - never tell him what she saw him to be. She had kept her woman's pride 
and sensibility intact: through all her life there had vibrated the maiden 
need to have her hand kissed and be the object of chivalry. And so she sank 
into silence again, trembling. 
Jermyn felt annoyed - nothing more. There was nothing in his mind 
corresponding to the intricate meshes of sensitiveness in Mrs Transome's. 
He was anything but stupid; yet he always blundered when he wanted to be 
delicate or magnanimous; he constantly sought to soothe others by praising 
himself. Moral vulgarity cleaved to him like an hereditary odour. He 
blundered now. 
"My dear Mrs Transome," he said in a tone of bland kindness, "you are 
agitated - you appear angry with me. Yet I think, if you consider, you will 
see that you have nothing to complain of in me, unless you will complain of 
the inevitable course of man's life. I have always met your wishes both in 
happy circumstances and in unhappy ones. I should be ready to do so now, if 
it were possible." Every sentence was as pleasant to her as if it had been 
cut in her bared arm. Some men's kindness and love-making are more 
exasperating, more humiliating than others' derision; but the pitiable 
woman who has once made herself secretly dependent on a man who is beneath 
her in feeling, must bear that humiliation for fear of worse. Coarse 
kindness is at least better than coarse anger; and in all private quarrels 
the duller nature is triumphant by reason of its dullness. Mrs Transome 
knew in her inmost soul that those relations which had sealed her lips on 
Jermyn's conduct in business matters, had been with him a ground for 
presuming that he should have impunity in any lax dealing into which 
circumstances had led him. She knew that she herself had endured all the 
more privation because of his dishonest selfishness. And now, Harold's long-
deferred heir-ship, and his return with startlingly unexpected penetration, 
activity, and assertion of mastery, had placed them both in the full 
presence of a difficulty which had been prepared by the years of vague 
uncertainty as to issues. In this position, with a great dread hanging over 
her, which Jermyn knew, and ought to have felt that he had caused her, she 
was inclined to lash him with indignation, to scorch him with the words 
that were just the fit names for his doings - inclined all the more when he 
spoke with an insolent blandness, ignoring all that was truly in her heart. 
But no sooner did the words "You have brought it on me" rise within her 
than she heard within also the retort, "You brought it on yourself." Not 
for all the world beside could she bear to hear that retort uttered from 
without. What did she do? With strange sequence to all that rapid tumult, 
after a few moments' silence she said, in a gentle and almost tremulous 
voice - 
"Let me take your arm." 
He gave it immediately, putting on his hat and wondering. For more than 
twenty years Mrs Transome had never chosen to take his arm. 
"I have but one thing to ask you. Make me a promise." 
"What is it?"
"That you will never quarrel with Harold." 
"You must know that it is my wish not to quarrel with him." 
"But make a vow - fix it in your mind as a thing not to be done. Bear 
anything from him rather than quarrel with him." 
"A man can't make a vow not to quarrel," said Jermyn, who was already a 
little irritated by the implication that Harold might be disposed to use 
him roughly. "A man's temper may get the better of him at any moment. I am 
not prepared to bear anything." 
"Good God!" said Mrs Transome, taking her hand from his arm, "is it 
possible you don't feel how horrible it would be?"
As she took away her hand, Jermyn let his arm fall, put both his hands in 
his pockets, and shrugging his shoulders said, "I shall use him as he uses 
me." 
Jermyn had turned round his savage side, and the blandness was out of 
sight. It was this that had always frightened Mrs Transome: there was a 
possibility of fierce insolence in this man who was to pass with those 
nearest to her as her indebted servant, but whose brand she secretly bore. 
She was as powerless with him as she was with her son. 
This woman, who loved rule, dared not speak another word of attempted 
persuasion. They were both silent, taking the nearest way into the sunshine 
again. There was a half-formed wish in both their minds - even in the 
mother's - that Harold Transome had never been born. 
"We are working hard for the election," said Jermyn, recovering himself, as 
they turned into the sunshine again. "I think we shall get him returned, 
and in that case he will be in high good-humour. Everything will be more 
propitious than you are apt to think. You must persuade yourself," he 
added, smiling at her, "that it is better for a man of his position to be 
in parliament on the wrong side than not be in at all." 
"Never," said Mrs Transome. "I am too old to learn to call bitter sweet and 
sweet bitter. But what I may think or feel is of no consequence now. I am 
as unnecessary as a chimney ornament." 
And in this way they parted on the gravel, in that pretty scene where they 
had met. Mrs Transome shivered as she stood alone: all around her, where 
there had once been brightness and warmth, there were white ashes, and the 
sunshine looked dreary as it fell on them. 
Mr Jermyn's heaviest reflections in riding homeward turned on the 
possibility of incidents between himself and Harold Transome which would 
have disagreeable results, requiring him to raise money, and perhaps 
causing scandal, which in its way might also help to create a monetary 
deficit. A man of sixty, with a wife whose Duffield connections were of the 
highest respectability, with a family of tall daughters, an expensive 
establishment, and a large professional business, owed a great deal more to 
himself as the mainstay of all those solidities, than to feelings and ideas 
which were quite unsubstantial. There were many unfortunate coincidences 
which placed Mr Jermyn in an uncomfortable position just now; he had not 
been much to blame, he considered; if it had not been for a sudden turn of 
affairs no one would have complained. He defied any man to say that he had 
intended to wrong people; he was able to refund, to make reprisals, if they 
could be fairly demanded. Only he would certainly have preferred that they 
should not be demanded. 
A German poet was intrusted with a particularly fine sausage, which he was 
to convey to the donor's friend at Paris. In the course of a long journey 
he smelt the sausage; he got hungry, and desired to taste it; he pared a 
morsel off, then another, and another, in successive moments of temptation, 
till at last the sausage was, humanly speaking, at an end. The offence had 
not been premeditated. The poet had never loved meanness, but he loved 
sausage; and the result was undeniably awkward. 
So it was with Matthew Jermyn. He was far from liking that ugly abstraction 
rascality, but he had liked other things which had suggested nibbling. He 
had had to do many things in law and in daily life which, in the abstract, 
he would have condemned; and indeed he had never been tempted by them in 
the abstract. Here, in fact, was the inconvenience; he had sinned for the 
sake of particular concrete things, and particular concrete consequences 
were likely to follow. 
But he was a man of resolution, who, having made out what was the best 
course to take under a difficulty, went straight to his work. The election 
must be won: that would put Harold in good-humour, give him something to 
do, and leave himself more time to prepare for any crisis. 
He was in anything but low spirits that evening. It was his eldest 
daughter's birthday, and the young people had a dance. Papa was delightful 
- stood up for a quadrille and a country-dance, told stories at supper, and 
made humorous quotations from his early readings: if these were Latin, he 
apologised, and translated to the ladies; so that a deaf lady-visitor from 
Duffield kept her trumpet up continually, lest she should lose any of Mr 
Jermyn's conversation, and wished that her niece Maria had been present, 
who was young and had a good memory. 
Still the party was smaller than usual, for some families in Treby refused 
to visit Jermyn, now that he was concerned for a Radical candidate. 



Chapter 10

"He made love neither with roses, nor with apples, nor with locks of 
hair."-Theocritus.

One Sunday afternoon Felix Holt rapped at the door of Mr Lyon's house, 
although he could hear the voice of the minister preaching in the chapel. 
He stood with a book under his arm, apparently confident that there was 
some one in the house to open the door for him. In fact, Esther never went 
to chapel in the afternoon: that "exercise" made her head ache 
In these September weeks Felix had got rather intimate with Mr Lyon. They 
shared the same political sympathies; and though, to Liberals who had 
neither freehold nor copyhold nor leasehold, the share in a county election 
consisted chiefly of that prescriptive amusement of the majority known as 
"looking on," there was still something to be said on the occasion, if not 
to be done. Perhaps the most delightful friendships are those in which 
there is much agreement, much disputation, and yet more personal liking; 
and the advent of the public-spirited, contradictory, yet affectionate 
Felix, into Treby life, had made a welcome epoch to the minister. To talk 
with this young man, who, though hopeful, had a singularity which some 
might at once have pronounced heresy, but which Mr Lyon persisted in 
regarding as orthodoxy "in the making," was like a good bite to strong 
teeth after a too plentiful allowance of spoon meat. To cultivate his 
society with a view to checking his erratic tendencies was a laudable 
purpose; but perhaps if Felix had been rapidly subdued and reduced to 
conformity, little Mr Lyon would have found the conversation much flatter. 
Esther had not seen so much of their new acquaintance as her father had. 
But she had begun to find him amusing, and also rather irritating to her 
woman's love of conquest. He always opposed and criticised her; and besides 
that, he looked at her as if he never saw a single detail about her person 
- quite as if she were a middle-aged woman in a cap. She did not believe 
that he had ever admired her hands, or her long neck, or her graceful 
movements, which had made all the girls at school call her Calypso 
(doubtless from their familiarity with Telemaque). Felix ought properly to 
have been a little in love with her - never mentioning it, of course, 
because that would have been disagreeable, and his being a regular lover 
was out of the question. But it was quite clear that, instead of feeling 
any disadvantage on his own side, he held himself to be immeasurably her 
superior: and, what was worse, Esther had a secret consciousness that he 
was her superior. She was all the more vexed at the suspicion that he 
thought slightly of her; and wished in her vexation that she could have 
found more fault with him - that she had not been obliged to admire more 
and more the varying expressions of his open face and his deliciously good-
humoured laugh, always loud at a joke against himself. Besides, she could 
not help having her curiosity roused by the unusual combinations both in 
his mind and in his outward position, and she had surprised herself as well 
as her father one day by suddenly starting up and proposing to walk with 
him when he was going to pay an afternoon visit to Mrs Holt, to try and 
soothe her concerning Felix. "What a mother he has!" she said to herself 
when they came away again; "but, rude and queer as he is, I cannot say 
there is anything vulgar about him. Yet - I don't know - if I saw him by 
the side of a finished gentleman." Esther wished that finished gentleman 
were among her acquaintances: he would certainly admire her, and make her 
aware of Felix's inferiority. 
On this particular Sunday afternoon, when she heard the knock at the door, 
she was seated in the kitchen corner between the fire and the window 
reading Rene. Certainly, in her well-fitting light-blue dress - she almost 
always wore some shade of blue - with her delicate sandalled slipper 
stretched towards the fire, her little gold watch, which had cost her 
nearly a quarter's earnings, visible at her side, her slender fingers 
playing with a shower of brown curls, and a coronet of shining plaits at 
the summit of her head, she was a remarkable Cinderella. When the rap came, 
she coloured, and was going to shut her book and put it out of the way on 
the window-ledge behind her; but she desisted with a little toss, laid it 
open on the table beside her, and walked to the outer door, which opened 
into the kitchen. There was rather a mischievous gleam in her face: the rap 
was not a small one; it came probably from a large personage with a 
vigorous arm. 
"Good afternoon, Miss Lyon," said Felix, taking off his cloth cap: he 
resolutely declined the expensive ugliness of a hat, and in a poked cap and 
without a cravat, made a figure at which his mother cried every Sunday, and 
thought of with a slow shake of the head at several passages in the 
minister's prayer. 
"Dear me, it is you, Mr Holt! I fear you will have to wait some time before 
you can see my father. The sermon is not ended yet, and there will be the 
hymn and the prayer, and perhaps other things to detain him." 
"Well, will you let me sit down in the kitchen? I don't want to be a bore." 
"O no," said Esther, with her pretty light laugh, "I always give you credit 
for not meaning it. Pray come in, if you don't mind waiting. I was sitting 
in the kitchen: the kettle is singing quite prettily. It is much nicer than 
the parlour - not half so ugly." 
"There I agree with you." 
"How very extraordinary! But if you prefer the kitchen, and don't want to 
sit with me, I can go into the parlour." 
"I came on purpose to sit with you," said Felix, in his blunt way, "but I 
thought it likely you might be vexed at seeing me. I wanted to talk to you, 
but I've got nothing pleasant to say. As your father would have it, I'm not 
given to prophesy smooth things - to prophesy deceit." 
"I understand," said Esther, sitting down. "Pray be seated. You thought I 
had no afternoon sermon, so you came to give me one." 
"Yes," said Felix, seating himself sideways in a chair not far off her, and 
leaning over the back to look at her with his large clear grey eyes, "and 
my text is something you said the other day. You said you didn't mind about 
people having right opinions so that they had good taste. Now I want you to 
see what shallow stuff that is." 
"Oh, I don't doubt it if you say so. I know you are a person of right 
opinions." 
"But by opinions you mean men's thoughts about great subjects, and by taste 
you mean their thoughts about small ones; dress, behaviour, amusements, 
ornaments." 
"Well - yes - or rather, their sensibilities about those things." 
"It comes to the same thing; thoughts, opinions, knowledge, are only a 
sensibility to facts and ideas. If I understand a geometrical problem, it 
is because I have a sensibility to the way in which lines and figures are 
related to each other; and I want you to see that the creature who has the 
sensibilities that you call taste, and not the sensibilities that you call 
opinions, is simply a lower, pettier sort of being - an insect that notices 
the shaking of the table, but never notices the thunder." 
"Very well, I am an insect; yet I notice that you are thundering at me." 
"No, you are not an insect. That is what exasperates me at your making a 
boast of littleness. You have enough understanding to make it wicked that 
you should add one more to the women who hinder men's lives from having any 
nobleness in them." 
Esther coloured deeply: she resented this speech, yet she disliked it less 
than many Felix had addressed to her. 
"What is my horrible guilt?" she said, rising and standing, as she was 
wont, with one foot on the fender, and looking at the fire. If it had been 
any one but Felix who was near her, it might have occurred to her that this 
attitude showed her to advantage; but she had only a mortified sense that 
he was quite indifferent to what others praised her for. 
"Why do you read this mawkish stuff on a Sunday, for example?" he said, 
snatching up Rene, and running his eye over the pages. 
"Why don't you always go to chapel, Mr Holt, and read Howe's Living Temple, 
and join the church?"
"There's just the difference between us - I know why I don't do those 
things. I distinctly see that I can do something better. I have other 
principles, and should sink myself by doing what I don't recognise as the 
best." 
"I understand," said Esther, as lightly as she could, to conceal her 
bitterness. "I am a lower kind of being, and could not so easily sink 
myself." 
"Not by entering into your father's ideas. If a woman really believes 
herself to be a lower kind of being, she should place herself in 
subjection: she should be ruled by the thoughts of her father or husband. 
If not, let her show her power of choosing something better. You must know 
that your father's principles are greater and worthier than what guides 
your life. You have no reason but idle fancy and selfish inclination for 
shirking his teaching and giving your soul up to trifles." 
"You are kind enough to say so. But I am not aware that I have ever 
confided my reasons to you." 
"Why, what worth calling a reason could make any mortal hang over this 
trash? - idiotic immorality dressed up to look fine, with a little bit of 
doctrine tacked to it, like a hare's foot on a dish, to make believe the 
mess is not cat's flesh. Look here! ' Est-ce ma faute, si je trouve partout 
les bornes, si ce qui est fini n'a pour moi aucune valeur? ' Yes, sir, 
distinctly your fault, because you're an ass. Your dunce who can't do his 
sums always has a taste for the infinite. Sir, do you know what a rhomboid 
is? O no, I don't value these things with limits. ' Cependant, j'aime la 
monotonie des sentimens de la vie, et si j'avais encore la folie de croire 
au bonheur '"
"O pray, Mr Holt, don't go on reading with that dreadful accent; it sets 
one's teeth on edge." Esther, smarting helplessly under the previous 
lashes, was relieved by this diversion of criticism. 
"There it is!" said Felix, throwing the book on the table, and getting up 
to walk about. "You are only happy when you can spy a tag or a tassel loose 
to turn the talk, and get rid of any judgement that must carry grave action 
after it." 
"I think I have borne a great deal of talk without turning it." 
"Not enough, Miss Lyon - not all that I came to say. I want you to change. 
Of course I am a brute to say so. I ought to say you are perfect. Another 
man would, perhaps. But I say, I want you to change." 
"How am I to oblige you? By joining the church?"
"No; but by asking yourself whether life is not as solemn a thing as your 
father takes it to be - in which you may be either a blessing or a curse to 
many. You know you have never done that. You don't care to be better than a 
bird trimming its feathers, and pecking about after what pleases it. You 
are discontented with the world because you can't get just the small things 
that suit your pleasure, not because it's a world where myriads of men and 
women are ground by wrong and misery, and tainted with pollution." 
Esther felt her heart swelling with mingled indignation at this liberty, 
wounded pride at this depreciation, and acute consciousness that she could 
not contradict what Felix said. He was outrageously ill-bred; but she felt 
that she should be lowering herself by telling him so, and manifesting her 
anger: in that way she would be confirming his accusation of a littleness 
that shrank from severe truth; and, besides, through all her mortification 
there pierced a sense that this exasperation of Felix against her was more 
complimentary than anything in his previous behaviour. She had self-command 
enough to speak with her usual silvery voice. 
"Pray go on Mr Holt. Relieve yourself of these burning truths. I am sure 
they must be troublesome to carry unuttered."
"Yes, they are," said Felix, pausing, and standing not far off her. "I 
can't bear to see you going the way of the foolish women who spoil men's 
lives. Men can't help loving them, and so they make themselves slaves to 
the petty desires of petty creatures. That's the way those who might do 
better spend their lives for nought - get checked in every great effort - 
toil with brain and limb for things that have no more to do with a manly 
life than tarts and confectionery. That's what makes women a curse; all 
life is stunted to suit their littleness. That's why I'll never love, if I 
can help it; and if I love, I'll bear it, and never marry." 
The tumult of feeling in Esther's mind - mortification, anger, the sense of 
a terrible power over her that Felix seemed to have as his angry words 
vibrated through her - was getting almost too much for her self-control. 
She felt her lips quivering; but her pride, which feared nothing so much as 
the betrayal of her emotion, helped her to a desperate effort. She pinched 
her own hand hard to overcome her tremor, and said, in a tone of scorn - 
"I ought to be very much obliged to you for giving me your confidence so 
freely. 
"Ah I now you are offended with me, and disgusted with me. I expected it 
would be so. A woman doesn't like a man who tells her the truth." 
"I think you boast a little too much of your truth-telling, Mr Holt," said 
Esther, flashing out at last. "That virtue is apt to be easy to people when 
they only wound others and not themselves. Telling the truth often means no 
more than taking a liberty." 
"Yes, I suppose I should have been taking a liberty if I had tried to drag 
you back by the skirt when I saw you running into a pit." 
"You should really found a sect. Preaching is your vocation. It is a pity 
you should ever have an audience of only one." 
"I see; I have made a fool of myself. I thought you had a more generous 
mind - that you might be kindled to a better ambition. But I've set your 
vanity aflame - nothing else. I'm going. Good-bye." 
"Good-bye," said Esther, not looking at him. He did not open the door 
immediately. He seemed to be adjusting his cap and pulling it down. Esther 
longed to be able to throw a lasso round him and compel him to stay, that 
she might say what she chose to him; her very anger made this departure 
irritating, especially as he had the last word, and that a very bitter one. 
But soon the latch was lifted and the door closed behind him. She ran up to 
her bedroom and burst into tears. Poor maiden! There was a strange 
contradiction of impulses in her mind in those first moments. She could not 
bear that Felix should not respect her, yet she could not bear that he 
should see her bend before his denunciation. She revolted against his 
assumption of superiority, yet she felt herself in a new kind of subjection 
to him. He was ill-bred, he was rude, he had taken an unwarrantable 
liberty; yet his indignant words were a tribute to her: he thought she was 
worth more pains than the women of whom he took no notice. It was 
excessively impertinent in him to tell her of his resolving not to love - 
not to marry - as if she cared about that; as if he thought himself likely 
to inspire an affection that would incline any woman to marry him after 
such eccentric steps as he had taken. Had he ever for a moment imagined 
that she had thought of him in the light of a man who would make love to 
her?... But did he love her one little bit, and was that the reason why 
he wanted her to change? Esther felt less angry at that form of freedom; 
though she was quite sure that she did not love him, and that she could 
never love any one who was so much of a pedagogue and a master, to say 
nothing of his oddities. But he wanted her to change. For the first time in 
her life Esther felt herself seriously shaken in her self-contentment. She 
knew there was a mind to which she appeared trivial, narrow, selfish. Every 
word Felix had said to her seemed to have burnt itself into her memory. She 
felt as if she should for evermore be haunted by self-criticism, and never 
do anything to satisfy those fancies on which she had simply piqued herself 
before without being dogged by inward questions. Her father's desire for 
her conversion had never moved her; she saw that he adored her all the 
while, and he never checked her unregenerate acts as if they degraded her 
on earth, but only mourned over them as unfitting her for heaven. Unfitness 
for heaven (spoken of as "Jerusalem" and "glory"), the prayers of a good 
little father, whose thoughts and motives seemed to her like the Life of Dr 
Doddridge, which she was content to leave unread, did not attack her self-
respect and self-satisfaction. But now she had been stung stung even into a 
new consciousness concerning her father. Was it true that his life was so 
much worthier than her own? She could not change for anything Felix said, 
but she told herself he was mistaken if he supposed her incapable of 
generous thoughts. She heard her father coming into the house. She dried 
her tears, tried to recover herself hurriedly, and went down to him. 
"You want your tea, father; how your forehead burns!" she said gently, 
kissing his brow, and then putting her cool hand on it. 
Mr Lyon felt a little surprise; such spontaneous tenderness was not quite 
common with her; it reminded him of her mother. 
"My sweet child," he said gratefully, thinking with wonder of the treasures 
still left in our fallen nature.



Chapter 11

Truth is the precious harvest of the earth.
But once, when harvest waved upon a land,
The noisome cankerworm and caterpillar,
Locusts, and all the swarming foul-born broods,
Fastened upon it with swift, greedy jaws,
And turned the harvest into pestilence,
Until men said, What profits it to sow?

Felix was going to Sproxton that Sunday afternoon. He always enjoyed his 
walk to that out-lying hamlet; it took him (by a short cut) through a 
corner of Sir Maximus Debarry's park; then across a piece of common, broken 
here and there into red ridges below dark masses of furze; and for the rest 
of the way alongside the canal, where the Sunday peacefulness that seemed 
to rest on the bordering meadows and pastures was hardly broken if a horse 
pulled into sight along the towing-path, and a boat, with a little curl of 
blue smoke issuing from its tin chimney, came slowly gliding behind. Felix 
retained something of his boyish impression that the days in a canal-boat 
were all like Sundays; but the horse, if it had been put to him, would 
probably have preferred a more Judaic or Scotch rigour with regard to canal-
boats, or at least that the Sunday towing should be done by asses, as a 
lower order.
This canal was only a branch of the grand trunk, and ended among the coal-
pits, where Felix, crossing a network of black tram-roads, soon came to his 
destination - that public institute of Sproxton, known to its frequenters 
chiefly as Chubb's, but less familiarly as the Sugar Loaf or the New Pits; 
this last being the name for the more modern and lively nucleus of the 
Sproxton hamlet. The other nucleus, known as the Old Pits, also supported 
its "public," but it had something of the forlorn air of an abandoned 
capital; and the company at the Blue Cow was of an inferior kind - equal, 
of course, in the fundamental attributes of humanity, such as desire for 
beer, but not equal in ability to pay for it.
When Felix arrived, the great Chubb was standing at the door. Mr Chubb was 
a remarkable publican; none of your stock Bonifaces, red, bloated, jolly, 
and joking. He was thin and sallow, and was never, as his constant guests 
observed, seen to be the worse (or the better) for liquor; indeed, as among 
soldiers an eminent general was held to have a charmed life, Chubb was held 
by the members of the Benefit Club to have a charmed sobriety, a vigilance 
over his own interest that resisted all narcotics. His very dreams, as 
stated by himself, had a method in them beyond the waking thoughts of other 
men. Pharaoh's dream, he observed, was nothing to them; and, as lying so 
much out of ordinary experience, they were held particularly suitable for 
narration on Sunday evenings, when the listening colliers, well washed and 
in their best coats, shook their heads with a sense of that peculiar 
edification which belongs to the inexplicable. Mr Chubb's reasons for 
becoming landlord of the Sugar Loaf were founded on the severest 
calculation. Having an active mind, and being averse to bodily labour, he 
had thoroughly considered what calling would yield him the best livelihood 
with the least possible exertion, and in that sort of line he had seen that 
a "public" amongst miners who earned high wages was a fine opening. He had 
prospered according to the merits of such judicious calculation, was 
already a forty-shilling freeholder, and was conscious of a vote for the 
county. He was not one of those mean-spirited men who found the franchise 
embarrassing, and would rather have been without it: he regarded his vote 
as part of his investment, and meant to make the best of it. He called 
himself a straightforward man, and at suitable moments expressed his views 
freely; in fact, he was known to have one fundamental division for all 
opinion - "my idee" and "humbug".
When Felix approached, Mr Chubb was standing, as usual, with his hands 
nervously busy in his pockets, his eyes glancing round with a detective 
expression at the black landscape, and his lipless mouth compressed yet in 
constant movement. On a superficial view it might be supposed that so eager-
seeming a personality was unsuited to the publican's business; but in fact 
it was a great provocative to drinking. Like the shrill biting talk of a 
vixenish wife, it would have compelled you to "take a little something" by 
way of dulling your sensibility.
Hitherto, notwithstanding Felix drank so little ale, the publican had 
treated him with high civility. The coming election was a great opportunity 
for applying his political "idee," which was, that society existed for the 
sake of the individual, and that the name of that individual was Chubb. 
Now, from a conjunction of absurd circumstances inconsistent with that 
idea, it happened that Sproxton had been hitherto somewhat neglected in the 
canvass. The head member of the company that worked the mines was Mr Peter 
Garstin, and the same company received the rent for the Sugar Loaf. Hence, 
as the person who had the most power of annoying Mr Chubb, and being of 
detriment to him, Mr Garstin was naturally the candidate for whom he had 
reserved his vote. But where there is this intention of ultimately 
gratifying a gentleman by voting for him in an open British manner on the 
day of the poll, a man, whether publican or pharisee (Mr Chubb used this 
generic classification of mankind as one that was sanctioned by Scripture), 
is all the freer in his relations with those deluded persons who take him 
for what he is not, and imagine him to be a waverer. But for some time 
opportunity had seemed barren. There were but three dubious votes besides 
Mr Chubb's in the small district of which the Sugar Loaf could be regarded 
as the centre of intelligence and inspiration: the colliers, of course, had 
no votes, and did not need political conversion; consequently, the 
interests of Sproxton had only been tacitly cherished in the breasts of 
candidates. But ever since it had been known that a Radical candidate was 
in the field, that in consequences of this Mr Debarry had coalesced with Mr 
Garstin, and that Sir James Clement, the poor baronet, had retired, Mr 
Chubb had been occupied with the most ingenious mental combinations in 
order to ascertain what possibilities of profit to the Sugar Loaf might lie 
in this altered state of the canvass.
He had a cousin in another county, also a publican, but in a larger way, 
and resident in a borough, and from him Mr Chubb had gathered more detailed 
political information than he could find in the Loamshire newspapers. He 
was now enlightened enough to know that there was a way of using voteless 
miners and navvies at nominations and elections. He approved of that; it 
entered into his political "idee"; and indeed he would have been for 
extending the franchise to this class - at least in Sproxton. If any one 
had observed that you must draw a line somewhere, Mr Chubb would have 
concurred at once, and would have given permission to draw it at a radius 
of two miles from his own tap.
From the first Sunday evening when Felix had appeared at the Sugar Loaf, Mr 
Chubb had made up his mind that this 'cute man who kept himself sober was 
an electioneering agent. That he was hired for some purpose or other there 
was not a doubt; a man didn't come and drink nothing without a good reason. 
In proportion as Felix's purpose was not obvious to Chubb's mind, it must 
be deep; and this growing conviction had even led the publican on the last 
Sunday evening privately to urge his mysterious visitor to let a little ale 
be chalked up for him - it was of no consequence. Felix knew his man, and 
had taken care not to betray too soon that his real object was so to win 
the ear of the best fellows about him as to induce them to meet him on a 
Saturday evening in the room where Mr Lyon, or one of his deacons, 
habitually held his Wednesday preachings. Only women and children, three 
old men, a journeyman tailor, and a consumptive youth, attended those 
preachings; not a collier had been won from the strong ale of the Sugar 
Loaf, not even a navvy from the muddier drink of the Blue Cow. Felix was 
sanguine; he saw some pleasant faces among the miners when they were washed 
on Sundays; they might be taught to spend their wages better. At all 
events, he was going to try: he had great confidence in his powers of 
appeal, and it was quite true that he never spoke without arresting 
attention. There was nothing better than a dame school in the hamlet; he 
thought that if he could move the fathers, whose blackened week-day persons 
and flannel caps, ornamented with tallow candles by way of plume, were a 
badge of hard labour for which he had a more sympathetic fibre than for any 
ribbon in the button-hole - if he could move these men to save something 
from their drink and pay a schoolmaster for their boys, a greater service 
would be done them than if Mr Garstin and his company were persuaded to 
establish a school.
"I'll lay hold of them by their fatherhood," said Felix; "I'll take one of 
their little fellows and set him in the midst. Till they can show there's 
something they love better than swilling themselves with ale, extension of 
the suffrage can never mean anything for them but extension of boozing. One 
must begin somewhere: I'll begin at what is under my nose. I'll begin at 
Sproxton. That's what a man would do if he had a red-hot superstition. 
Can't one work for sober truth as hard as for megrims?"
Felix Holt had his illusions, like other young men, though they were not of 
a fashionable sort; referring neither to the impression his costume and 
horsemanship might make on beholders, nor to the ease with which he would 
pay the Jews when he gave a loose to his talents and applied himself to 
work. He had fixed his choice on a certain Mike Brindle (not that Brindle 
was his real name - each collier had his sobriquet) as the man whom he 
would induce to walk part of the way home with him this very evening, and 
get to invite some of his comrades for the next Saturday. Brindle was one 
of the head miners; he had a bright good-natured face, and had given 
especial attention to certain performances with a magnet which Felix 
carried in his pocket.
Mr Chubb, who had also his illusions, smiled graciously as the enigmatic 
customer came up to the door-step.
"Well, sir, Sunday seems to be your day: I begin to look for you on a 
Sunday now."
"Yes, I'm a working man; Sunday is my holiday," said Felix, pausing at the 
door since the host seemed to expect this.
"Ah, sir, there's many ways of working. I look at it you're one of those as 
work with your brains. That's what I do myself."
"One may do a good deal of that and work with one's hands too."
"Ah, sir," said Mr Chubb, with a certain bitterness in his smile, "I've 
that sort of head that I've often wished I was stupider. I use things up, 
sir; I see into things a deal too quick. I eat my dinner, as you may say, 
at breakfast-time. That's why I hardly ever smoke a pipe. No sooner do I 
stick a pipe in my mouth than I puff and puff till it's gone before other 
folks are well lit; and then, where am I? I might as well have let it 
alone. In this world it's better not to be too quick. But you know what it 
is, sir."
"Not I," said Felix, rubbing the back of his head, with a grimace. "I 
generally feel myself rather a blockhead. This world's a largish place, and 
I haven't turned everything inside out yet."
"Ah, that's your deepness. I think we understand one another. And about 
this here election, I lay two to one we should agree if we was to come to 
talk about it."
"Ah ! " said Felix, with an air of caution.
"You're none of a Tory, eh, sir? You won't go to vote for Debarry? That was 
what I said at the very first go-off. Says I, he's no Tory. I think I was 
right, sir - eh?"
"Certainly; I'm no Tory."
"No, no, you don't catch me wrong in a hurry. Well, between you and me, I 
care no more for the Debarrys than I care for Johnny Groats. I live on none 
o' their land, and not a pot's worth did they ever send to the Sugar Loaf. 
I'm not frightened at the Debarrys: there's no man more independent than 
me. I'll plump or I'll split for them as treat me the handsomest and are 
the most of what I call gentlemen; that's my idee. And in the way of 
hacting for any man, them are fools that don't employ me."
We mortals sometimes cut a pitiable figure in our attempts at display. We 
may be sure of our own merits, yet fatally ignorant of the point of view 
from which we are regarded by our neighbour. Our fine patterns in tattooing 
may be far from throwing him into a swoon of admiration, though we turn 
ourselves all round to show them. Thus it was with Mr Chubb.
"Yes," said Felix, dryly; "I should think there are some sorts of work for 
which you are just fitted."
"Ah, you see that? Well, we understand one another. You're no Tory; no more 
am I. And if I'd got four hands to show at a nomination, the Debarry's 
shouldn't have one of 'em. My idee is, there's a deal too much of their 
scutchins and their moniments in Treby church. What's their scutchins mean? 
They're a sign with little liquor behind 'em; that's how I take it. There's 
nobody can give account of 'em as I ever heard."
Mr Chubb was hindered from further explaining his views as to the 
historical element in society by the arrival of new guests, who approached 
in two groups. The foremost group consisted of well-known colliers, in 
their good Sunday beavers and coloured handkerchiefs serving as cravats, 
with the long ends floating. The second group was a more unusual one, and 
caused Mr Chubb to compress his mouth and agitate the muscles about it in 
rather an excited manner.
First came a smartly-dressed personage on horseback, with a conspicuous 
expansive shirt-front and figured satin stock. He was a stout man, and gave 
a strong sense of broadcloth. A wild idea shot through Mr Chubb's brain: 
could this grand visitor be Harold Transome? Excuse him: he had been given 
to understand by his cousin from the distant borough that a Radical 
candidate in the condescension of canvassing had even gone the length of 
eating bread-and-treacle with the children of an honest freeman, and 
declaring his preference for that simple fare. Mr Chubb's notion of a 
Radical was that he was a new and agreeable kind of lick-spittle who fawned 
on the poor instead of on the rich, and so was likely to send customers to 
a "public;" so that he argued well enough from the premises at his command.
The mounted man of broadcloth had followers: several shabby-looking men, 
and Sproxton boys of all sizes, whose curiosity had been stimulated by 
unexpected largesse. A stranger on horseback scattering halfpence on a 
Sunday was so unprecedented that there was no knowing what he might do 
next; and the smallest hindmost fellows in sealskin caps were not without 
hope that an entirely new order of things had set in.
Every one waited outside for the stranger to dismount, and Mr Chubb 
advanced to take the bridle.
"Well, Mr Chubb," were the first words when the great man was safely out of 
the saddle, "I've often heard of your fine tap, and I'm come to taste it."
"Walk in, sir - pray walk in," said Mr Chubb, giving the horse to the 
stable-boy. "I shall be proud to draw for you. If anybody's been praising 
me, I think my ale will back him."
All entered in the rear of the stranger except the boys, who peeped in at 
the window.
"Won't you please to walk into the parlour, sir?" said Chubb, obsequiously.
"No, no, I'll sit down here. This is what I like to see," said the 
stranger, looking round at the colliers, who eyed him rather shyly - "a 
bright hearth where working men can enjoy themselves. However, I'll step 
into the other room for three minutes, just to speak half-a-dozen words 
with you."
Mr Chubb threw open the parlour door, and then stepping back, took the 
opportunity of saying, in a low tone, to Felix, "Do you know this 
gentleman?"
"Not I; no."
Mr Chubb's opinion of Felix Holt sank from that moment. The parlour door 
was closed, but no one sat down or ordered beer.
"I say, master," said Mike Brindle, going up to Felix, "don't you think 
that's one o' the 'lection men?"
"Very likely."
"I heard a chap say they're up and down everywhere," said Brindle; "and 
now's the time, they say, when a man can get beer for nothing."
"Ay, that's sin' the Reform," said a big, red-whiskered man, called Dredge. 
"That's brought the 'lections and the drink into these parts; for afore 
that, it was all kep up the Lord knows wheer."
"Well, but the Reform's niver come anigh Sprox'on," said a grey-haired but 
stalwart man called Old Sleck. "I don't believe nothing about'n, I don't."
"Don't you?" said Brindle, with some contempt. "Well, I do. There's folks 
won't believe beyond the end o' their own pickaxes. You can't drive nothing 
into 'em, not if you split their skulls. I know for certain sure, from a 
chap in the cartin' way, as he's got money and drink too, only for 
hollering. Eh, master, what do you say?" Brindle ended, turning with some 
deference to Felix.
"Should you like to know all about the Reform?" said Felix, using his 
opportunity. "If you would, I can tell you."
"Ay, ay - tell's; you know, I'll be bound," said several voices at once.
"Ah, but it will take some little time. And we must be quiet. The cleverest 
of you - those who are looked up to in the club - must come and meet me at 
Peggy Button's cottage next Saturday, at seven o'clock, after dark. And, 
Brindle, you must bring that little yellow-haired lad of yours. And anybody 
that's got a little boy - a very little fellow, who won't understand what 
is said - may bring him. But you must keep it close, you know. We don't 
want fools there. But everybody who hears me may come. I shall be at Peggy 
Button's."
"Why, that's where the Wednesday preachin' is," said Dredge. "I've been 
aforced to give my wife a black eye to hinder her from going to the 
preachin'. Lors-a-massy, she thinks she knows better nor me, and I can't 
make head nor tail of her talk."
"Why can't you let the woman alone?" said Brindle, with some disgust. "I'd 
be ashamed to beat a poor crawling thing 'cause she likes preaching."
"No more I did beat her afore, not if she scrat' me," said Dredge, in 
vindication; "but if she jabbers at me, I can't abide it. Howsomever, I'll 
bring my Jack to Peggy's o' Saturday. His mother shall wash him. He is but 
four year old, and he'll swear and square at me a good un, if I set him 
on."
"There you go blatherin'," said Brindle, intending a mild rebuke.
This dialogue, which was in danger of becoming too personal, was 
interrupted by the reopening of the parlour door, and the reappearance of 
the impressive stranger with Mr Chubb, whose countenance seemed unusually 
radiant.
"Sit you down here, Mr Johnson," said Chubb, moving an arm-chair. "This 
gentleman is kind enough to treat the company," he added, looking round, 
"and what's more, he'll take a cup with 'em; and I think there's no man but 
what'll say that's a honour."
The company had nothing equivalent to a "hear, hear", at command, but they 
perhaps felt the more, as they seated themselves with an expectation 
unvented by utterance. There was a general satisfactory sense that the 
hitherto shadowy Reform had at length come to Sproxton in a good round 
shape, with broadcloth and pockets. Felix did not intend to accept the 
treating, but he chose to stay and hear, taking his pint as usual.
"Capital ale, capital ale," said Mr Johnson, as he set down his glass, 
speaking in a quick, smooth treble. "Now," he went on, with a certain 
pathos in his voice, looking at Mr Chubb, who sat opposite, "there's some 
satisfaction to me in finding an establishment like this at the Pits. For 
what would higher wages do for the working man if he couldn't get a good 
article for his money? Why, gentlemen" - here he looked round - "I've been 
into alehouses where I've seen a fine fellow of a miner or a stone-cutter 
come in and have to lay down money for beer that I should be sorry to give 
to my pigs!" Here Mr Johnson leaned forward with squared elbows, hands 
placed on his knees, and a defiant shake of the head.
"Aw, like at the Blue Cow," fell in the irrepressible Dredge, in a deep 
bass; but he was rebuked by a severe nudge from Brindle.
"Yes, yes, you know what it is, my friend," said Mr Johnson, looking at 
Dredge, and restoring his self-satisfaction. "But it won't last much 
longer, that's one good thing. Bad liquor will be swept away with other bad 
articles. Trade will prosper - and what's trade now without steam? and what 
is steam without coal? And mark you this, gentlemen - there's no man and no 
government can make coal."
A brief loud "Haw, haw," showed that this fact was appreciated.
"Nor freeston' nayther," said a wide-mouthed wiry man called Gills, who 
wished for an exhaustive treatment of the subject, being a stone-cutter.
"Nor freestone, as you say; else, I think, if coal could be made above 
ground, honest fellows who are the pith of our population would not have to 
bend their backs and sweat in a pit six days out of the seven. No, no: I 
say, as this country prospers it has more and more need of you, sirs. It 
can do without a pack of lazy lords and ladies, but it can never do without 
brave colliers. And the country will prosper. I pledge you my word, sirs, 
this country will rise to the tip-top of everything, and there isn't a man 
in it but what shall have his joint in the pot, and his spare money 
jingling in his pocket, if we only exert ourselves to send the right men to 
parliament - men who will speak up for the collier, and the stone-cutter, 
and the navvy" (Mr Johnson waved his hand liberally), "and will stand no 
nonsense. This is a crisis, and we must exert ourselves. We've got Reform, 
gentlemen, but now the thing is to make Reform work. It's a crisis - I 
pledge you my word it's a crisis."
Mr Johnson threw himself back as if from the concussion of that great noun. 
He did not suppose that one of his audience knew what a crisis meant; but 
he had large experience in the effect of uncomprehended words; and in this 
case the colliers were thrown into a state of conviction concerning they 
did not know what, which was a fine preparation for "hitting out", or any 
other act carrying a due sequence to such a conviction.
Felix felt himself in danger of getting into a rage. There is hardly any 
mental misery worse than that of having our own serious phrases, our own 
rooted beliefs, caricatured by a charlatan or a hireling. He began to feel 
the sharp lower edge of his tin pint-measure, and to think it a tempting 
missile.
Mr Johnson certainly had some qualifications as an orator. After this 
impressive pause he leaned forward again, and said, in a lowered tone, 
looking round -
"I think you all know the good news."
There was a movement of shoe-soles on the quarried floor, and a scrape of 
some chair legs, but no other answer.
"The good news I mean is, that a first-rate man, Mr Transome of Transome 
Court, has offered himself to represent you in parliament, sirs. I say you 
in particular, for what he has at heart is the welfare of the working man - 
of the brave fellows that wield the pickaxe, and the saw, and the hammer. 
He's rich - has more money than Garstin - but he doesn't want to keep it to 
himself. What he wants is, to make a good use of it, gentlemen. He's come 
back from foreign parts with his pockets full of gold. He could buy up the 
Debarry's if they were worth buying, but he's got something better to do 
with his money. He means to use it for the good of the working men in these 
parts. I know there are some men who put up for parliament and talk a 
little too big. They may say they want to befriend the colliers, for 
example. But I should like to put a question to them. I should like to ask 
them, "What colliers?" There are colliers up at Newcastle, and there are 
colliers down in Wales. Will it do any good to honest Tom, who is hungry in 
Sproxton, to hear that Jack at Newcastle has his bellyful of beef and 
pudding?"
"It ought to do him good," Felix burst in, with his loud abrupt voice, in 
odd contrast with glib Mr Johnson's. "If he knows it's a bad thing to be 
hungry and not have enough to eat, he ought to be glad that another fellow, 
who is not idle, is not suffering in the same way."
Every one was startled. The audience was much impressed with the grandeur, 
the knowledge, and the power of Mr Johnson. His brilliant promises 
confirmed the impression that Reform had at length reached the New Pits; 
and Reform, if it were good for anything, must at last resolve itself into 
spare money - meaning "sport" and drink, and keeping away from work for 
several days in the week. These "brave" men of Sproxton liked Felix as one 
of themselves, only much more knowing - as a working man who had seen many 
distant parts, but who must be very poor, since he never drank more than a 
pint or so. They were quite inclined to hear what he had got to say on 
another occasion, but they were rather irritated by his interruption at the 
present moment. Mr Johnson was annoyed, but he spoke with the same glib 
quietness as before, though with an expression of contempt.
"I call it a poor-spirited thing to take up a man's straight-forward words 
and twist them. What I meant to say was plain enough - that no man can be 
saved from starving by looking on while others eat. I think that's common 
sense, eh, sirs?"
There was again an approving "Haw, haw." To hear anything said, and 
understand it, was a stimulus that had the effect of wit. Mr Chubb cast a 
suspicious and viperous glance at Felix, who felt that he had been a 
simpleton for his pains.
"Well, then," continued Mr Johnson, "I suppose I may go on. But if there is 
any one here better able to inform the company than I am, I give way - I 
give way."
"Sir," said Mr Chubb, magisterially, "no man shall take the words out of 
your mouth in this house." And, he added, looking pointedly at Felix, 
"company that's got no more orders to give, and wants to turn up rusty to 
them that has, had better be making room than filling it. Love an' 
'armony's the word on our club's flag, an' love an' 'armony's the meaning 
of "The Sugar Loaf, William Chubb." Folks of a different mind had better 
seek another house of call."
"Very good," said Felix, laying down his money and taking his cap, "I'm 
going." He saw clearly enough that if he said more, there would be a 
disturbance which could have no desirable end.
When the door had closed behind him, Mr Johnson said, "What is that 
person's name?"
"Does anybody know it?" said Mr Chubb.
A few noes were heard.
"I've heard him speak like a downright Reformer, else I should have looked 
a little sharper after him. But you may see he's nothing partic'lar."
"It looks rather bad that no one knows his name," said Mr Johnson. "He's 
most likely a Tory in disguise - a Tory spy. You must be careful, sirs, of 
men who come to you and say they're Radicals, and yet do nothing for you. 
They'll stuff you with words - no lack of words - but words are wind. Now, 
a man like Transome comes forward and says to the working men of this 
country: "Here I am, ready to serve you and to speak for you in parliament, 
and to get the laws made all right for you; and in the meanwhile, if 
there's any of you who are my neighbours who want a day's holiday, or a cup 
to drink with friends, or a copy of the king's likeness - why, I'm your 
man. I'm not a paper handbill - all words and no substance - nor a man with 
land and nothing else; I've got bags of gold as well as land." I think you 
know what I mean by the king's likeness?"
Here Mr Johnson took a half-crown out of his pocket and held the head 
towards the company.
"Well, sirs, there are some men who like to keep this pretty picture a 
great deal too much to themselves. I don't know whether I'm right, but I 
think I've heard of such a one not a hundred miles from here. I think his 
name was Spratt, and he managed some company's coal-pits."
"Haw, haw! Spratt - Spratt's his name," was rolled forth to an 
accompaniment of scraping shoe-soles.
"A screwing fellow, by what I understand - a domineering fellow - who would 
expect men to do as he liked without paying them for it. I think there's 
not an honest man who wouldn't like to disappoint such an upstart."
There was a murmur which was interpreted by Mr Chubb. "I'll answer for 'em, 
sir."
"Now, listen to me. Here's Garstin: he's one of the company you work under. 
What's Garstin to you? who sees him? and when they do see him they see a 
thin miserly fellow who keeps his pockets buttoned. He calls himself a 
Whig, yet he'll split votes with a Tory - he'll drive with the Debarrys. 
Now, gentlemen, if I said I'd got a vote, and anybody asked me what I 
should do with it, I should say, "I'll plump for Transome". You've got no 
votes, and that's a shame. But you will have some day, if such men as 
Transome are returned; and then you'll be on a level with the first 
gentleman in the land, and if he wants to sit in Parliament, he must take 
off his hat and ask your leave. But though you haven't got a vote you can 
give a cheer for the right man, and Transome's not a man like Garstin; if 
you lost a day's wages by giving a cheer for Transome, he'll make you 
amends. That's the way a man who has no vote can yet serve himself and his 
country: he can lift up his hand and shout "Transome for ever" - "hurray 
for Transome". Let the working men - let colliers and navvies and stone-
cutters, who between you and me have a good deal too much the worst of it, 
as things are now - let them join together and give their hands and voices 
for the right man, and they'll make the great people shake in their shoes a 
little; and when you shout for Transome, remember you shout for more wages, 
and more of your rights, and you shout to get rid of rats and sprats and 
such small animals, who are the tools the rich make use of to squeeze the 
blood out of the poor man."
"I wish there'd be a row - I'd pommel him," said Dredge, who was generally 
felt to be speaking to the question.
"No, no, my friend - there you're a little wrong. No pommelling - no 
striking first. There you have the law and the constable against you. A 
little rolling in the dust and knocking hats off, a little pelting with 
soft things that'll stick and not bruise - all that doesn't spoil the fun. 
If a man is to speak when you don't like to hear him, it is but fair you 
should give him something he doesn't like in return. And the same if he's 
got a vote and doesn't use it for the good of the country; I see no harm in 
splitting his coat in a quiet way. A man must be taught what's right if he 
doesn't know it. But no kicks, no knocking down, no pommelling."
"It 'ud be good fun, though, if so-be," said Old Sleck, allowing himself an 
imaginative pleasure.
"Well, well, if a Spratt wants you to say Garstin, it's some pleasure to 
think you can say Transome. Now, my notion is this. You are men who can put 
two and two together - I don't know a more solid lot of fellows than you 
are; and what I say is, let the honest men in this country who've got no 
vote show themselves in a body when they have the chance. Why, sirs, for 
every Tory sneak that's got a vote, there's fifty-five fellows who must 
stand by and be expected to hold their tongues. But I say, let 'em hiss the 
sneaks, let 'em groan at the sneaks, and the sneaks will be ashamed of 
themselves. The men who've got votes don't know how to use them. There's 
many a fool with a vote, who is not sure in his mind whether he shall poll, 
say for Debarry, or Garstin, or Transome - whether he'll plump or whether 
he'll split; a straw will turn him. Let him know your mind if he doesn't 
know his own. What's the reason Debarry gets returned? Because people are 
frightened at the Debarrys. What's that to you? You don't care for the 
Debarrys. If people are frightened at the Tories, we'll turn round and 
frighten them. You know what a Tory is - one who wants to drive the working 
men as he'd drive cattle. That's what a Tory is; and a Whig is no better, 
if he's like Garstin. A Whig wants to knock the Tory down and get the whip, 
that's all. But Transome's neither Whig nor Tory; he's the working man's 
friend, the collier's friend, the friend of the honest navvy. And if he 
gets into Parliament, let me tell you, it will be the better for you. I 
don't say it will be the better for overlookers and screws, and rats and 
sprats; but it will be the better for every good fellow who takes his pot 
at the Sugar Loaf."
Mr Johnson's exertions for the political education of the Sproxton men did 
not stop here, which was the more disinterested in him as he did not expect 
to see them again, and could only set on foot an organisation by which 
their, instruction could be continued without him. In this he was quite 
successful. A man known among the "butties" as Pack, who had already been 
mentioned by Mr Chubb, presently joined the party, and had a private 
audience of Mr Johnson, that he might be instituted as the "shepherd" of 
this new flock.
"That's a right down genelman," said Pack, as he took the seat vacated by 
the orator, who had ridden away.
"What's his trade, think you?" said Gills, the wiry stone-cutter.
"Trade?" said Mr Chubb. "He's one of the top-sawyers of the country. He 
works with his head, you may see that."
"Let's have our pipes, then," said Old Sleck; "I'm pretty well tired o' 
jaw."
"So am I," said Dredge. "It's wriggling work - like follering a stoat. It 
makes a man dry. I'd as lief hear preaching, on'y there's nought to be got 
by't. I shouldn't know which end I stood on if it wasn't for the tickets 
and the treatin'."



Chapter 12

"Oh, sir, "twas that mixture of spite and over-fed merriment which passes 
for humour with the vulgar. In their fun they have much resemblance to a 
turkey-cock. It has a cruel beak, and a silly iteration of ugly sounds; it 
spreads its tail in self-glorification, but shows you the wrong side of 
that ornament - liking admiration, but knowing not what is admirable."

This Sunday evening, which promised to be so memorable in the experience of 
the Sproxton miners, had its drama also for those unsatisfactory objects to 
Mr Johnson's moral sense, the Debarrys. Certain incidents occurring at 
Treby Manor caused an excitement there which spread from the dining-room to 
the stables; but no one underwent such agitating transitions of feeling as 
Mr Scales. At six o'clock that superior butler was chuckling in triumph at 
having played a fine and original practical joke on his rival Mr Christian. 
Some two hours after that time, he was frightened, sorry, and even meek; he 
was on the brink of a humiliating confession; his cheeks were almost livid; 
his hair was flattened for want of due attention from his fingers; and the 
fine roll of his whiskers, which was too firm to give way, seemed only a 
sad reminiscence of past splendour and felicity. His sorrow came about in 
this wise.
After service on that Sunday morning, Mr Philip Debarry had left the rest 
of the family to go home in the carriage, and had remained at the Rectory 
to lunch with his uncle Augustus, that he might consult him touching some 
letters of importance. He had returned the letters to his pocket-book but 
had not returned the book to his pocket, and he finally walked away leaving 
the enclosure of private papers and bank-notes on his uncle's escritoire. 
After his arrival at home he was reminded of his omission, and immediately 
despatched Christian with a note begging his uncle to seal up the pocket-
book and send it by the bearer. This commission, which was given between 
three and four o'clock, happened to be very unwelcome to the courier. The 
fact was that Mr Christian, who had been remarkable through life for that 
power of adapting himself to circumstances which enables a man to fall 
safely on all-fours in the most hurried expulsions and escapes, was not 
exempt from bodily suffering - a circumstance to which there is no known 
way of adapting one's self so as to be perfectly comfortable under it, or 
to push it off on to other people's shoulders. He did what he could: he 
took doses of opium when he had an access of nervous pains, and he consoled 
himself as to future possibilities by thinking that if the pains ever 
became intolerably frequent a considerable increase in the dose might put 
an end to them altogether. He was neither Cato nor Hamlet, and though he 
had learned their soliloquies at his first boarding-school, he would 
probably have increased his dose without reciting those masterpieces. Next 
to the pain itself he disliked that any one should know of it: defective 
health diminished a man's market value; he did not like to be the object of 
the sort of pity he himself gave to a poor devil who was forced to make a 
wry face or "give in' altogether.
He had felt it expedient to take a slight dose this afternoon, and still he 
was not altogether relieved at the time he set off to the rectory. On 
returning with the valuable case safely deposited in his hind pocket he 
felt increasing bodily uneasiness, and took another dose. Thinking it 
likely that he looked rather pitiable, he chose not to proceed to the house 
by the carriage-road. The servants often walked in the park on a Sunday, 
and he wished to avoid any meeting. He would make a circuit, get into the 
house privately, and after delivering his packet to Mr Debarry, shut 
himself up till the ringing of the half-hour bell. But when he reached an 
elbowed seat under some sycamores, he felt so ill at ease that he yielded 
to the temptation of throwing himself on it to rest a little. He looked at 
his watch: it was but five; he had done his errand quickly hitherto, and Mr 
Debarry had not urged haste. But in less than ten minutes he was in a sound 
sleep. Certain conditions of his system had determined a stronger effect 
than usual from the opium.
As he had expected, there were servants strolling in the park, but they did 
not all choose the most frequented part. Mr Scales, in pursuit of a slight 
flirtation with the younger lady's-maid, had preferred a more sequestered 
walk in the company of that agreeable nymph. And it happened to be this 
pair, of all others, who alighted on the sleeping Christian - a sight which 
at the very first moment caused Mr Scales a vague pleasure as at an 
incident that must lead to something clever on his part. To play a trick, 
and make some one or other look foolish, was held the most pointed form of 
wit throughout the back regions of the Manor, and served as a constant 
substitute for theatrical entertainment: what the farce wanted in costume 
or "make up" it gained in the reality of the mortification which excited 
the general laughter. And lo ! here was the offensive, the exasperatingly 
cool and superior, Christian caught comparatively helpless, with his head 
hanging on his shoulder, and one coat-tail hanging out heavily below the 
elbow of the rustic seat. It was this coat-tail which served as a 
suggestion to Mr Scales's genius. Putting his finger up in warning to Mrs 
Cherry, and saying, "Hush - be quiet - I see a fine bit of fun' - he took a 
knife from his pocket, stepped behind the unconscious Christian, and 
quickly cut off the pendent coat-tail. Scales knew nothing of the errand to 
the rectory; and as he noticed that there was something in the pocket, 
thought it was probably a large cigar-case. So much the better - he had no 
time to pause. He threw the coat-tail as far as he could, and noticed that 
it fell among the elms under which they had been walking. Then, beckoning 
to Mrs Cherry, he hurried away with her towards the more open part of the 
park, not daring to explode in laughter until it was safe from the chance 
of waking the sleeper. And then the vision of the graceful well-appointed 
Mr Christian, who sneered at Scales about his "get-up", having to walk back 
to the house with only one tail to his coat, was a source of so much 
enjoyment to the butler, that the fair Cherry began to be quite jealous of 
the joke. Still she admitted that it really was funny, tittered 
intermittently, and pledged herself to secrecy. Mr Scales explained to her 
that Christian would try to creep in unobserved, but that this must be made 
impossible; and he requested her to imagine the figure this interloping 
fellow would cut when everybody was asking what had happened. "Hallo, 
Christian! where's your coat-tail?" would become a proverb at the Manor, 
where jokes kept remarkably well without the aid of salt; and Mr 
Christian's comb would be cut so effectually that it would take a long time 
to grow again. Exit Scales, laughing, and presenting a fine example of 
dramatic irony to any one in the secret of Fate.
When Christian awoke, he was shocked to find himself in the twilight. He 
started up, shook himself, missed something, and soon became aware what it 
was he missed. He did not doubt that he had been robbed, and he at once 
foresaw that the consequence would be highly unpleasant. In no way could 
the cause of the accident be so represented to Mr Philip Debarry as to 
prevent him from viewing his hitherto unimpeachable factotum in a new and 
unfavourable light. And though Mr Christian did not regard his present 
position as brilliant, he did not see his way to anything better. A man 
nearly fifty who is not always quite well is seldom ardently hopeful: he is 
aware that this is a world in which merit is often overlooked. With the 
idea of robbery in full possession of his mind, to peer about and search in 
the dimness, even if it had occurred to him, would have seemed a 
preposterous waste of time and energy. He knew it was likely that Mr 
Debarry's pocket-book had important and valuable contents, and that he 
should deepen his offence by deferring his announcement of the unfortunate 
fact. He hastened back to the house, relieved by the obscurity from that 
mortification of his vanity on which the butler had counted. Indeed, to 
Scales himself the affair had already begun to appear less thoroughly 
jocose than he had anticipated. For he observed that Christian's non-
appearance before dinner had caused Mr Debarry some consternation; and he 
gathered that the courier had been sent on a commission to the rectory. "My 
uncle must have detained him for some reason or other," he heard Mr Philip 
say; "but it is odd. If he were less trusty about commissions, or had ever 
seemed to drink too much, I should be uneasy." Altogether the affair was 
not taking the turn Mr Scales had intended. At last, when dinner had been 
removed and the butler's chief duties were at an end, it was understood 
that Christian had entered without his coat-tail, looking serious and even 
agitated; that he had asked leave at once to speak to Mr Debarry; and that 
he was even then in parley with the gentlemen in the dining-room. Scales 
was in alarm; it must have been some property of Mr Debarry's that had 
weighted the pocket. He took a lantern, got a groom to accompany him with 
another lantern, and with the utmost practicable speed reached the fatal 
spot in the park. He searched under the elms - he was certain that the 
pocket had fallen there - and he found the pocket; but he found it empty, 
and, in spite of further search, did not find the contents, though he had 
at first consoled himself with thinking that they had fallen out, and would 
be lying not far off. He returned with the lanterns and the coat-tail and a 
most uncomfortable consciousness in that great seat of a butler's emotion, 
the stomach. He had no sooner re-entered than he was met by Mrs Cherry, 
pale and anxious, who drew him aside to say that if he didn't tell 
everything, she would; that the constables were to be sent for; that there 
had been no end of bank-notes and letters and things in Mr Debarry's pocket-
book, which Christian was carrying in that very pocket Scales had cut off; 
that the rector was sent for, the constable was coming, and they should all 
be hanged. Mr Scales's own intellect was anything but clear as to the 
possible issues. Crest-fallen, and with the coal-tail in his hands as an 
attestation that he was innocent of anything more than a joke, he went and 
made his confession. His story relieved Christian a little, but did not 
relieve Mr Debarry, who was more annoyed at the loss of the letters, and 
the chance of their getting into hands that might make use of them, than at 
the loss of the bank-notes. Nothing could be done for the present, but that 
the rector, who was a magistrate, should instruct the constables, and that 
the spot in the park indicated by Scales should again be carefully 
searched. This was done, but in vain; and many of the family at the manor 
had disturbed sleep that night.



Chapter 13

"Give sorrow leave awhile, to tutor me
To this submission." - Richard II.

Meanwhile Felix Holt had been making his way back from Sproxton to Treby in 
some irritation and bitterness of spirit. For a little while he walked 
slowly along the direct road, hoping that Mr Johnson would overtake him, in 
which case he would have the pleasure of quarrelling with him, and telling 
him what he thought of his intentions in coming to cant at the Sugar Loaf. 
But he presently checked himself in this folly and turned off again towards 
the canal, that he might avoid the temptation of getting into a passion to 
no purpose.
"Where's the good," he thought, "of pulling at such a tangled skein as this 
electioneering trickery? As long as three-fourths of the men in this 
country see nothing in an election but self-interest, and nothing in self-
interest but some form of greed, one might as well try to purify the 
proceedings of the fishes and say to a hungry cod-fish - "My good friend, 
abstain; don't goggle your eyes so, or show such a stupid gluttonous mouth, 
or think the little fishes are worth nothing except in relation to your own 
inside." He'd be open to no argument short of crimping him. I should get 
into a rage with this fellow, and perhaps end by thrashing him. There's 
some reason in me as long as I keep my temper, but my rash humour is 
drunkenness without wine. I shouldn't wonder if he upsets all my plans with 
these colliers. Of course he's going to treat them for the sake of getting 
up a posse at the nomination and speechifyings. They'll drink double, and 
never come near me on a Saturday evening. I don't know what sort of man 
Transome really is. It's no use my speaking to anybody else, but if I could 
get at him, he might put a veto on this thing. Though, when once the men 
have been promised and set agoing, the mischief is likely to be past 
mending. Hang the Liberal cod-fish! I shouldn't have minded so much if he'd 
been a Tory!"
Felix went along in the twilight struggling in this way with the 
intricacies of life, which would certainly be greatly simplified if corrupt 
practices were the invariable mark of wrong opinions. When he had crossed 
the common and had entered the park, the overshadowing trees deepened the 
grey gloom of the evening; it was useless to try and keep the blind path, 
and he could only be careful that his steps should be bent in the direction 
of the park-gate. He was striding along rapidly now, whistling 
"Bannockburn' in a subdued way as an accompaniment to his inward 
discussion, when something smooth and soft on which his foot alighted 
arrested him with an unpleasant startling sensation, and made him stoop to 
examine the object he was treading on. He found it to be a large leather 
pocket-book swelled by its contents, and fastened with a sealed ribbon as 
well as a clasp. In stooping he saw about a yard off something whitish and 
square lying on the dark grass. This was an ornamental note-book of pale 
leather stamped with gold. Apparently it had burst open in falling, and out 
of the pocket, formed by the cover, there protruded a small gold chain 
about four inches long, with various seals and other trifles attached to it 
by a ring at the end. Felix thrust the chain back, and finding that the 
clasp of the note-book was broken, he closed it and thrust it into his side-
pocket, walking along under some annoyance that fortune had made him the 
finder of articles belonging most probably to one of the family at Treby 
Manor. He was much too proud a man to like any contact with the 
aristocracy, and he could still less endure coming within speech of their 
servants. Some plan must be devised by which he could avoid carrying these 
things up to the Manor himself: he thought at first of leaving them at the 
lodge, but he had a scruple against placing property, of which the 
ownership was after all uncertain, in the hands of persons unknown to him. 
It was possible that the large pocket-book contained papers of high 
importance, and that it did not belong to any of the Debarry family. He 
resolved at last to carry his findings to Mr Lyon, who would perhaps be 
good-natured enough to save him from the necessary transactions with the 
people at the Manor by undertaking those transactions himself. With this 
determination he walked straight to Malthouse Yard, and waited outside the 
chapel until the congregation was dispersing, when he passed along the 
aisle to the vestry in order to speak to the minister in private.
But Mr Lyon was not alone when Felix entered. Mr Nuttwood, the grocer, who 
was one of the deacons, was complaining to him about the obstinate 
demeanour of the singers, who had declined to change the tunes in 
accordance with a change in the selection of hymns, and had stretched short 
metre into long out of pure wilfulness and defiance, irreverently adapting 
the most sacred monosyllables to a multitude of wandering quavers, 
arranged, it was to be feared, by some musician who was inspired by conceit 
rather than by the true spirit of psalmody.
"Come in, my friend," said Mr Lyon, smiling at Felix, and then continuing 
in a faint voice, while he wiped the perspiration from his brow and bald 
crown, "Brother Nuttwood, we must be content to carry a thorn in our sides 
while the necessities of our imperfect state demand that there should be a 
body set apart and called a choir, whose special office it is to lead the 
singing, not because they are more disposed to the devout uplifting of 
praise, but because they are endowed with better vocal organs, and have 
attained more of the musician's art. For all office, unless it be 
accompanied by peculiar grace, becomes, as it were, a diseased organ, 
seeking to make itself too much of a centre. Singers, specially so called, 
are, it must be confessed, an anomaly among us who seek to reduce the 
church to its primitive simplicity, and to cast away all that may obstruct 
the direct communion of spirit with spirit."
"They are so headstrong," said Mr Nuttwood, in a tone of sad perplexity, 
"that if we dealt not warily with them, they might end in dividing the 
church, even now that we have had the chapel enlarged. Brother Kemp would 
side with them, and draw the half part of the members after him. I cannot 
but think it a snare when a professing Christian has a bass voice like 
Brother Kemp's. It makes him desire to be heard of men; but the weaker song 
of the humble may have more power in the ear of God."
"Do you think it any better vanity to flatter yourself that God likes to 
hear you, though men don't?" said Felix, with unwarrantable bluntness.
The civil grocer was prepared to be scandalised by anything that came from 
Felix. In common with many hearers in Malthouse Yard, he already felt an 
objection to a young man who was notorious for having interfered in a 
question of wholesale and retail, which should have been left to 
Providence. Old Mr Holt, being a church member, had probably had "leadings" 
which were more to be relied on than his son's boasted knowledge. In any 
case, a little visceral disturbance and inward chastisement to the 
consumers of questionable medicines would tend less to obscure the divine 
glory than a show of punctilious morality in one who was not a "professor". 
Besides, how was it to be known that the medicines would not be blessed, if 
taken with due trust in a higher influence? A Christian must consider not 
the medicines alone in their relation to our frail bodies (which are dust), 
but the medicines with Omnipotence behind them. Hence a pious vendor will 
look for "leadings", and he is likely to find them in the cessation of 
demand and the disproportion of expenses and returns. The grocer was thus 
on his guard against the presumptuous disputant.
"Mr Lyon may understand you, sir," he replied. "He seems to be fond of your 
conversation. But you have too much of the pride of human learning for me. 
I follow no new lights."
"Then follow an old one," said Felix, mischievously disposed towards a 
sleek tradesman. "Follow the light of the old-fashioned Presbyterians that 
I've heard sing at Glasgow. The preacher gives out the psalm, and then 
everybody sings a different tune, as it happens to turn up in their 
throats. It's a domineering thing to set a tune and expect everybody else 
to follow it. It's a denial of private judgement."
"Hush, hush, my young friend," said Mr Lyon, hurt by this levity, which 
glanced at himself as well as at the deacon. "Play not with paradoxes. That 
caustic which you handle in order to scorch others may happen to sear your 
own fingers and make them dead to the quality of things. "Tis difficult 
enough to see our way and keep our torch steady in this dim labyrinth: to 
whirl the torch and dazzle the eyes of our fellow-seekers is a poor daring, 
and may end in total darkness. You yourself are a lover of freedom, and a 
bold rebel against usurping authority. But the right to rebellion is the 
right to seek a higher rule, and not to wander in mere lawlessness. 
Wherefore, I beseech you, seem not to say that liberty is licence. And I 
apprehend - though I am not endowed with an ear to seize those earthly 
harmonies, which to some devout souls have seemed, as it were, the broken 
echoes of the heavenly choir - I apprehend that there is a law in music, 
disobedience whereunto would bring us in our singing to the level of 
shrieking maniacs or howling beasts: so that herein we are well instructed 
how true liberty can be nought but the transfer of obedience from the will 
of one or of a few men to that will which is the norm or rule for all men. 
And though the transfer may sometimes be but an erroneous direction of 
search, yet is the search good and necessary to the ultimate finding. And 
even as in music, where all obey and concur to one end, so that each has 
the joy of contributing to a whole whereby he is ravished and lifted up 
into the courts of heaven so will it be in that crowning time of the 
millennial reign, when our daily prayer will be fulfilled, and one law 
shall be written on all hearts, and be the very structure of all thought, 
and be the principle of all action.
Tired, even exhausted, as the minister had been when Felix Holt entered, 
the gathering excitement of speech gave more and more energy to his voice 
and manner; he walked away from the vestry table, he paused, and came back 
to it; he walked away again, then came back, and ended with his deepest-
toned largo, keeping his hands clasped behind him, while his brown eyes 
were bright with the lasting youthfulness of enthusiastic thought and love. 
But to any one who had no share in the energies that were thrilling his 
little body, he would have looked queer enough. No sooner had he finished 
his eager speech, than he held out his hand to the deacon, and said, in his 
former faint tone of fatigue -
"God be with you, brother. We shall meet tomorrow, and we will see what can 
be done to subdue these refractory spirits."
When the deacon was gone, Felix said, "Forgive me, Mr Lyon; I was wrong, 
and you are right."
"Yes, yes, my friend; you have that mark of grace within you, that you are 
ready to acknowledge the justice of a rebuke. Sit down; you have something 
to say - some packet there."
They sat down at a corner of the small table, and Felix drew the note-book 
from his pocket to lay it down with the pocket-book, saying -
"I've had the ill-luck to be the finder of these things in the Debarrys' 
Park. Most likely they belong to one of the family at the Manor, or to some 
grandee who is staying there. I hate having anything to do with such 
people. They'll think me a poor rascal, and offer me money. You are a known 
man, and I thought you would be kind enough to relieve me by taking charge 
of these things, and writing to Debarry, not mentioning me, and asking him 
to send some one for them. I found them on the grass in the park this 
evening about half-past seven, in the corner we cross going to Sproxton."
"Stay," said Mr Lyon, "this little book is open; we may venture to look in 
it for some sign of ownership. There be others who possess property, and 
might be crossing that end of the park, beside the Debarrys."
As he lifted the note-book close to his eyes, the chain again slipped out. 
He arrested it and held it in his hand, while he examined some writing, 
which appeared to be a name on the inner leather. He looked long, as if he 
were trying to decipher something that was partly rubbed out; and his hands 
began to tremble noticeably. He made a movement in an agitated manner, as 
if he were going to examine the chain and seals, which he held in his hand. 
But he checked himself, closed his hand again, and rested it on the table, 
while with the other hand he pressed sides of the note-book together.
Felix observed his agitation, and was much surprised; but with a delicacy 
of which he was capable under all his abruptness, he said, "You are 
overcome with fatigue, sir. I was thoughtless to tease you with these 
matters at the end of Sunday, when you have been preaching three sermons."
Mr Lyon did not speak for a few moments, but at last he said -
"It is true. I am overcome. It was a name I saw - a name that called up a 
past sorrow. Fear not; I will do what is needful with these things. You may 
trust them to me."
With trembling fingers he replaced the chain, and tied both the large 
pocket-book and the note-book in his handkerchief. He was evidently making 
a great effort over himself. But when he had gathered the knot of the 
handkerchief in his hand, he said -
"Give me your arm to the door, my friend. I feel ill. Doubtless I am over-
wearied."
The door was already open, and Lyddy was watching for her master's return. 
Felix therefore said "Good-night" and passed on, sure that this was what Mr 
Lyon would prefer. The minister's supper of warm porridge was ready by the 
kitchen-fire, where he always took it on a Sunday evening, and afterwards 
smoked his weekly pipe up the broad chimney - the one great relaxation he 
allowed himself. Smoking, he considered, was a recreation of the travailed 
spirit, which, if indulged in, might endear this world to us by the ignoble 
bonds of mere sensuous ease. Daily smoking might be lawful, but it was not 
expedient. And in this Esther concurred with a doctrinal eagerness that was 
unusual in her. It was her habit to go to her own room, professedly to bed, 
very early on Sundays - immediately on her return from chapel - that she 
might avoid her father's pipe. But this evening she had remained at home, 
under a true plea of not feeling well; and when she heard him enter, she 
ran out of the parlour to meet him.
"Father, you are ill," she said, as he tottered to the wicker-bottomed arm-
chair, while Lyddy stood by, shaking her head.
"No, my dear," he answered feebly, as she took off his hat and looked in 
his face inquiringly; "I am weary."
"Let me lay these things down for you," said Esther, touching the bundle in 
the handkerchief.
"No; they are matters which I have to examine," he said, laying them on the 
table, and putting his arm across them. "Go you to bed, Lyddy."
"Not me, sir. If ever a man looked as if he was struck with death, it's 
you, this very night as here is."
"Nonsense, Lyddy," said Esther angrily. "Go to bed when my father desires 
it. I will stay with him."
Lyddy was electrified by surprise at this new behaviour of Miss Esther's. 
She took her candle silently and went.
"Go you too, my dear," said Mr Lyon, tenderly, giving his hand to Esther, 
when Lyddy was gone. "It is your wont to go early. Why are you up?"
"Let me lift your porridge from before the fire, and stay with you, father. 
You think I'm so naughty that I don't like doing anything for you," said 
Esther, smiling rather sadly at him.
"Child, what has happened? you have become the image of your mother 
tonight," said the minister, in a loud whisper. The tears came and relieved 
him, while Esther, who had stooped to lift the porridge from the fender, 
paused on one knee and looked up at him.
"She was very good to you?" asked Esther, softly.
"Yes, dear. She did not reject my affection. She thought not scorn of my 
love. She would have forgiven me, if I had erred against her, from very 
tenderness. Could you forgive me, child?"
"Father, I have not been good to you; but I will be, I will be," said 
Esther, laying her head on his knee.
He kissed her head. "Go to bed, my dear; I would be alone."
When Esther was lying down that night, she felt as if the little incidents 
between herself and her father on this Sunday had made it an epoch. Very 
slight words and deeds may have a sacramental efficacy, if we can cast our 
self-love behind us, in order to say or do them. And it has been well 
believed through many ages that the beginning of compunction is the 
beginning of a new life; that the mind which sees itself blameless may be 
called dead in trespasses - in trespasses on the love of others, in 
trespasses on their weakness, in trespasses on all those great claims which 
are the image of our own need.
But Esther persisted in assuring herself that she was not bending to any 
criticism from Felix. She was full of resentment against his rudeness, and 
yet more against his too harsh conception of her character. She was 
determined to keep as much at a distance from him as possible.



Chapter 14

This man's metallic; at a sudden blow
His soul rings hard. I cannot lay my palm,
Trembling with life, upon that jointed brass.
I shudder at the cold unanswering touch;
But if it press me in response, I'm bruised.

The next morning, when the Debarrys, including the rector, who had ridden 
over to the Manor early, were still seated at breakfast, Christian came in 
with a letter, saying that it had been brought by a man employed at the 
chapel in Malthouse Yard, who had been ordered by the minister to use aLi 
speed and care in the delivery. The letter was addressed to Sir Maximus.
"Stay, Christian, it may possibly refer to the lost pocket-book," said 
Philip Debarry, who was beginning to feel rather sorry for his factotum, as 
a reaction from previous suspicions and indignation.
Sir Maximus opened the letter and felt for his glasses, but then said, 
"Here, you read it, Phil: the man writes a hand like small print."
Philip cast his eyes over it, and then read aloud in a tone of 
satisfaction: -

Sir, - I send this letter to apprise you that I have now in my possession 
certain articles, which, last evening, at about half-past seven o'clock, 
were found lying on the grass at the western extremity of your park. The 
articles are - 1∞, a well-filled pocket-book, of brown leather, fastened 
with a black ribbon and with a seal of red wax; 2∞, a small note-book, 
covered with gilded vellum, whereof the clasp was burst, and from out 
whereof had partly escaped a small gold chain, with seals and a locket 
attached, the locket bearing on the back a device, and round the face a 
female name.
Wherefore I request that you will further my effort to place these articles 
in the right hands, by ascertaining whether any person within your walls 
claims them as his property, and by sending that person to me (if such be 
found); for I will on no account let them pass from my care save into that 
of one who, declaring himself to be the owner, can state to me what is the 
impression on the seal, and what the device and name upon the locket. - I 
am, Sir, yours to command in all right dealing,
Rufus Lyon.
Malthouse Yard, Oct. 3, 1832.

"Well done, old Lyon," said the rector; "I didn't think that any 
composition of his would ever give me so much pleasure."
"What an old fox it is!" said Sir Maximus. "Why couldn't he send the things 
to me at once along with the letter?"
"No, no, Max; he uses a justifiable caution," said the rector, a refined 
and rather severe likeness of his brother, with a ring of fearlessness and 
decision in his voice which startled all flaccid men and unruly boys. "What 
are you going to do, Phil?" seeing his nephew rise.
"To write, of course. Those other matters are yours, I suppose?" said Mr 
Debarry, looking at Christian.
"Yes, sir."
"I shall send you with a letter to the preacher. You can describe your own 
property. And the seal, uncle - was it your coat-of-arms?"
"No, it was this head of Achilles. Here, I can take it off the ring, and 
you can carry it, Christian. But don't lose that, for I've had it ever 
since eighteen hundred. I should like to send my compliments with it," the 
rector went on, looking at his brother, "and beg that since he has so much 
wise caution at command, he would exercise a little in more public matters, 
instead of making himself a firebrand in my parish, and teaching hucksters 
and tape-weavers that it's their business to dictate to statesmen."
"How did Dissenters, and Methodists, and Quakers, and people of that sort 
first come up, uncle?" said Miss Selina, a radiant girl of twenty, who had 
given much time to the harp.
"Dear me, Selina," said her elder sister, Harriet, whose forte was general 
knowledge, "don't you remember Woodstock? They were in Cromwell's time."
"O! Holdenough, and those people? Yes; but they preached in the churches; 
they had no chapels. Tell me, uncle Gus; I like to be wise," said Selina, 
looking up at the face which was smiling down on her with a sort of severe 
benignity. "Phil says I'm an ignorant puss."
"The seeds of Nonconformity were sown at the Reformation, my dear, when 
some obstinate men made scruples about surplices and the place of the 
communion-table, and other trifles of that sort. But the Quakers came up 
about Cromwell's time, and the Methodists only in the last century. The 
first Methodists were regular clergymen, the more's the pity."
"But all those wrong things - why didn't government put them down?"
"Ah, to be sure," fell in Sir Maximus, in a cordial tone of corroboration.
"Because error is often strong, and government is often weak, my dear. 
Well, Phil, have you finished your letter?"
"Yes, I will read it to you," said Philip, turning and leaning over the 
back of his chair with the letter in his hand.
There is a portrait of Mr Philip Debarry still to be seen at Treby Manor, 
and a very fine bust of him at Rome, where he died fifteen years later, a 
convert to Catholicism. His face would have been plain but for the 
exquisite setting of his hazel eyes, which fascinated even the dogs of the 
household. The other features, though slight and irregular, were redeemed 
from triviality by the stamp of gravity and intellectual preoccupation in 
his face and bearing. As he read aloud, his voice was what his uncle's 
might have been if it had been modulated by delicate health and a 
visitation of self-doubt.

Sir, - In reply to the letter with which you have favoured me this morning, 
I beg to state that the articles you describe were lost from the pocket of 
my servant, who is the bearer of this letter to you, and is the claimant of 
the vellum note-book and the gold chain. The large leathern pocket-book is 
my own property, and the impression on the wax, a helmeted head of 
Achilles, was made by my uncle, the Rev. Augustus Debarry, who allows me to 
forward his seal to you in proof that I am not making a mistaken claim.
I feel myself under deep obligation to you, sir, for the care and trouble 
you have taken in order to restore to its right owner a piece of property 
which happens to be of particular importance to me. And I shall consider 
myself doubly fortunate if at any time you can point out to me some method 
by which I may procure you as lively a satisfaction as I am now feeling, in 
that full and speedy relief from anxiety which I owe to your considerate 
conduct.
I remain, sir, your obliged and faithful servant, 
Philip Debarry.

"You know best, Phil, of course," said Sir Maximus, pushing his plate from 
him, by way of interjection. "But it seems to me you exaggerate 
preposterously every little service a man happens to do for you. Why should 
you make a general offer of that sort? How do you know what he will be 
asking you to do? Stuff and nonsense! Tell Willis to send him a few head of 
game. You should think twice before you give a blank cheque of that sort to 
one of these quibbling, meddle-some Radicals."
"You are afraid of my committing myself to "the bottomless perjury of an et 
cetera"," said Philip, smiling, as he turned to fold his letter. "But I 
think I am not doing any mischief; at all events I could not be content to 
say less. And I have a notion that he would regard a present of game just 
now as an insult. I should, in his place."
"Yes, yes, you; but you don't make yourself a measure of dissenting 
preachers, I hope," said Sir Maximus, rather wrathfully. "What do you say, 
Gus?"
"Phil is right," said the rector, in an absolute tone. "I would not deal 
with a Dissenter, or put profits into the pocket of a Radical which I might 
put into the pocket of a good churchman and a quiet subject. But if the 
greatest scoundrel in the world made way for me, or picked my hat up, I 
would thank him. So would you, Max."
"Pooh! I didn't mean that one shouldn't behave like a gentleman," said Sir 
Maximus, in some vexation. He had great pride in his son's superiority even 
to himself; but he did not enjoy having his own opinion argued down as it 
always was, and did not quite trust the dim vision opened by Phil's new 
words and new notions. He could only submit in silence while the letter was 
delivered to Christian, with the order to start for Malthouse Yard 
immediately.
Meanwhile, in that somewhat dim locality the possible claimant of the note-
book and the chain was thought of and expected with palpitating agitation. 
Mr Lyon was seated in his study, looking haggard and already aged from a 
sleepless night. He was so afraid lest his emotion should deprive him of 
the presence of mind necessary to the due attention to particulars in the 
coming interview, that he continued to occupy his sight and touch with the 
objects which had stirred the depths, not only of memory, but of dread. 
Once again he unlocked a small box which stood beside his desk, and took 
from it a little oval locket, and compared this with one which hung with 
the seals on the stray gold chain. There was the same device in enamel on 
the back of both: clasped hands surrounded with blue flowers. Both had 
round the face a name in gold italics on a blue ground: the name on the 
locket taken from the drawer was Maurice; the name on the locket which hung 
with the seals was Annette, and within the circle of this name there was a 
lover's knot of light-brown hair, which matched a curl that lay in the box. 
The hair in the locket which bore the name of Maurice was of a very dark 
brown, and before returning it to the drawer Mr Lyon noted the colour and 
quality of this hair more carefully than ever. Then he recurred to the note-
book: undoubtedly there had been something, probably a third name, beyond 
the names Maurice Christian, which had themselves been rubbed and slightly 
smeared as if by accident; and from the very first examination in the 
vestry, Mr Lyon could not prevent himself from transferring the mental 
image of the third name in faint lines to the rubbed leather. The leaves of 
the note-book seemed to have been recently inserted; they were of fresh 
white paper, and only bore some abbreviations in pencil with a notation of 
small sums. Nothing could be gathered from the comparison of the writing in 
the book with that of the yellow letters which lay in the box: the smeared 
name had been carefully printed, and so bore no resemblance to the 
signature of those letters; and the pencil abbreviations and figures had 
been made too hurriedly to bear any decisive witness. "I will ask him to 
write - to write a description of the locket," had been one of Mr Lyon's 
thoughts; but he faltered in that intention. His power of fulfilling it 
must depend on what he saw in this visitor, of whose coming he had a 
horrible dread, at the very time he was writing to demand it. In that 
demand he was obeying the voice of his rigid conscience, which had never 
left him perfectly at rest under his one act of deception - the concealment 
from Esther that he was not her natural father, the assertion of a false 
claim upon her. "Let my path be henceforth simple," he had said to himself 
in the anguish of that night; "let me seek to know what is, and if possible 
to declare it." If he was really going to find himself face to face with 
the man who had been Annette's husband, and who was Esther's father - if 
that wandering of his from the light had brought the punishment of a blind 
sacrilege as the issue of a conscious transgression, - he prayed that he 
might be able to accept all consequences of pain to himself. But he saw 
other possibilities concerning the claimant of the book and chain. His 
ignorance and suspicions as to the history and character of Annette's 
husband made it credible that he had laid a plan for convincing her of his 
death as a means of freeing himself from a burthensome tie; but it seemed 
equally probable that he was really dead, and that these articles of 
property had been a bequest, or a payment, or even a sale, to their present 
owner. Indeed, in all these years there was no knowing into how many hands 
such pretty trifles might have passed. And the claimant might, after all, 
have no connection with the Debarrys; he might not come on this day or the 
next. There might be more time left for reflection and prayer.
All these possibilities, which would remove the pressing need for difficult 
action, Mr Lyon represented to himself, but he had no effective belief in 
them; his belief went with his strongest feeling, and in these moments his 
strongest feeling was dread. He trembled under the weight that seemed 
already added to his own sin; he felt himself already confronted by 
Annette's husband and Esther's father. Perhaps the father was a gentleman 
on a visit to the Debarrys. There was no hindering the pang with which the 
old man said to himself -
"The child will not be sorry to leave this poor home, and I shall be guilty 
in her sight."
He was walking about among the rows of books when there came a loud rap at 
the outer door. The rap shook him so that he sank into his chair, feeling 
almost powerless. Lyddy presented herself.
"Here's ever such a fine man from the Manor wants to see you, sir. Dear 
heart, dear heart I shall I tell him you're too bad to see him?"
"Show him up," said Mr Lyon, making an effort to rally. When Christian 
appeared, the minister half rose, leaning on an arm of his chair, and said, 
"Be seated, sir," seeing nothing but that a tall man was entering.
"I've brought you a letter from Mr Debarry," said Christian, in an off-hand 
manner. This rusty little man, in his dismal chamber, seemed to the Ulysses 
of the steward's room a pitiable sort of human curiosity, to whom a man of 
the world would speak rather loudly, in accommodation to an eccentricity 
which was likely to be accompanied with deafness. One cannot be eminent in 
everything; and if Mr Christian had dispersed his faculties in study that 
would have enabled him to share unconventional points of view, he might 
have worn a mistaken kind of boot, and been less competent to win at 
ecarte, or at betting, or in any other contest suitable to a person of 
figure.
As he seated himself, Mr Lyon opened the letter, and held it close to his 
eyes, so that his face was hidden. But at the word "servant" he could not 
avoid starting, and looking off the letter towards the bearer. Christian, 
knowing what was in the letter, conjectured that the old man was amazed to 
learn that so distinguished-looking a personage was a servant; he leaned 
forward with his elbows on his knees, balanced his cane on his fingers, and 
began a whispering whistle. The minister checked himself, finished the 
reading of the letter, and then slowly and nervously put on his spectacles 
to survey this man, between whose fate and his own there might be a 
terrible collision. The word "servant" had been a fresh caution to him. He 
must do nothing rashly. Esther's lot was deeply concerned. "Here is the 
seal mentioned in the letter," said Christian.
Mr Lyon drew the pocket-book from his desk, and, after comparing the seal 
with the impression, said, "It is right, sir: I deliver the pocket-book to 
you."
He held it out with the seal, and Christian rose to take them, saying, 
carelessly, "The other things - the chain and the little book - are mine."  
"Your name then is - "
"Maurice Christian."
A spasm shot through Mr Lyon. It had seemed possible that he might hear 
another name, and be freed from the worse half of his anxiety. His next 
words were not wisely chosen, but escaped him impulsively.
"And you have no other name?"
"What do you mean?" said Christian, sharply.
"Be so good as to reseat yourself."
Christian did not comply. "I'm rather in a hurry, sir," he said, recovering 
his coolness. "If it suits you to restore to me those small articles of 
mine, I shall be glad; but I would rather leave them behind than be 
detained." He had reflected that the minister was simply a punctilious old 
bore. The question meant nothing else. But Mr Lyon had wrought himself up 
to the task of finding out, then and there, if possible, whether or not 
this were Annette's husband. How could he lay himself and his sin before 
God if he wilfully declined to learn the truth?
"Nay, sir, I will not detain you unreasonably," he said, in a firmer tone 
than before. "How long have these articles been your property?"
"Oh, for more than twenty years," said Christian, carelessly. He was not 
altogether easy under the minister's persistence, but for that very reason 
he showed no more impatience.
"You have been in France and in Germany?"
"I have been in most countries on the continent."
"Be so good as to write me your name," said Mr Lyon, dipping a pen in the 
ink, and holding it out with a piece of paper.
Christian was much surprised, but not now greatly alarmed. In his rapid 
conjectures as to the explanation of the minister's curiosity, he had 
alighted on one which might carry advantage rather than inconvenience. But 
he was not going to commit himself.
"Before I oblige you there, sir," he said, laying down the pen, and looking 
straight at Mr Lyon, "I must know exactly the reasons you have for putting 
these questions to me. You are a stranger to me - an excellent person, I 
daresay - but I have no concern about you farther than to get from you 
those small articles. Do you still doubt that they are mine? You wished, I 
think, that I should tell you what the locket is like. It has a pair of 
hands and blue flowers on one side, and the name Annette round the hair on 
the other side. That is all I have to say. If you wish for anything more 
from me, you will be good enough to tell me why you wish it. Now then, sir, 
what is your concern with me?"
The cool stare, the hard challenging voice, with which these words were 
uttered, made them fall like the beating, cutting chill of heavy hail on Mr 
Lyon. He sank back in his chair in utter irresolution and helplessness. How 
was it possible to lay bare the sad and sacred past in answer to such a 
call as this? The dread with which he had thought of this man's coming, the 
strongly-confirmed suspicion that he was really Annette's husband, 
intensified the antipathy created by his gestures and glances. The 
sensitive little minister knew instinctively that words which would cost 
him efforts as painful as the obedient footsteps of a wounded bleeding 
hound that wills a foreseen throe, would fall on this man as the pressure 
of tender fingers falls on a brazen glove. And Esther - if this man was her 
father - every additional word might help to bring down irrevocable, 
perhaps cruel, consequences on her. A thick mist seemed to have fallen 
where Mr Lyon was looking for the track of duty: the difficult question, 
how far he was to care for consequences in seeking and avowing the truth, 
seemed anew obscured. All these things, like the vision of a coming 
calamity, were compressed into a moment of consciousness. Nothing could be 
done today; everything must be deferred. He answered Christian in a low 
apologetic tone.
"It is true, sir; you have told me all I can demand. I have no sufficient 
reason for detaining your property further."
He handed the note-book and chain to Christian, who had been observing him 
narrowly, and now said, in a tone of indifference, as he pocketed the 
articles -
"Very good, sir. I wish you a good-morning."
"Good-morning," said Mr Lyon, feeling, while the door closed behind his 
guest, that mixture of uneasiness and relief which all procrastination of 
difficulty produces in minds capable of strong forecast. The work was still 
to be done. He had still before him the task of learning everything that 
could be learned about this man's relation to himself and Esther.
Christian, as he made his way back along Malthouse Lane, was thinking, 
"This old fellow has got some secret in his head. It's not likely he can 
know anything about me; it must be about Bycliffe. But Bycliffe was a 
gentleman: how should he ever have had anything to do with such a seedy old 
ranter as that?"



Chapter 15

And doubt shall be as lead upon the feet
Of thy most anxious will.

Mr Lyon was careful to look in at Felix as soon as possible after 
Christian's departure, to tell him that his trust was discharged. During 
the rest of the day he was somewhat relieved from agitating reflections by 
the necessity of attending to his ministerial duties, the rebuke of 
rebellious singers being one of them; and on his return from the Monday 
evening prayer-meeting he was so overcome with weariness that he went to 
bed without taking note of any objects in his study. But when he rose the 
next morning, his mind, once more eagerly active, was arrested by Philip 
Debarry's letter, which still lay open on his desk, and was arrested by 
precisely that portion which had been unheeded the day before: "I shall 
consider myself doubly fortunate if at any time you can point out to me 
some method by which I may procure you as lively a satisfaction as I am now 
feeling, in that full and speedy relief from anxiety which I owe to your 
considerate conduct."
To understand how these words could carry the suggestion they actually had 
for the minister in a crisis of peculiar personal anxiety and struggle, we 
must bear in mind that for many years he had walked through life with the 
sense of having for a space been unfaithful to what he esteemed the highest 
trust ever committed to man - the ministerial vocation. In a mind of any 
nobleness, a lapse into transgression against an object still regarded as 
supreme, issues in a new and purer devotedness, chastised by humility and 
watched over by a passionate regret. So it was with that ardent spirit 
which animated the little body of Rufus Lyon. Once in his life he had been 
blinded, deafened, hurried along by rebellious impulse; he had gone astray 
after his own desires, and had let the fire die out on the altar; and as 
the true penitent, hating his self-besotted error, asks from all coming 
life duty instead of joy, and service instead of ease, so Rufus was 
perpetually on the watch lest he should ever again postpone to some private 
affection a great public opportunity which to him was equivalent to a 
command.
Now here was an opportunity brought by a combination of that unexpected 
incalculable kind which might be regarded as the divine emphasis invoking 
especial attention to trivial events - an opportunity of securing what 
Rufus Lyon had often wished for as a means of honouring truth, and 
exhibiting error in the character of a stammering, halting, short-breathed 
usurper of office and dignity. What was more exasperating to a zealous 
preacher, with whom copious speech was not a difficulty but a relief - who 
never lacked argument, but only combatants and listeners - than to reflect 
that there were thousands on thousands of pulpits in this kingdom, supplied 
with handsome sounding-boards, and occupying an advantageous position in 
buildings far larger than the chapel in Malthouse Yard - buildings sure to 
be places of resort, even as the markets were, if only from habit and 
interest; and that these pulpits were filled, or rather made vacuous, by 
men whose privileged education in the ancient centres of instruction issued 
in twenty minutes' formal reading of tepid exhortation or probably infirm 
deductions from premises based on rotten scaffolding? And it is in the 
nature of exasperation gradually to concentrate itself. The sincere 
antipathy of a dog towards cats in general, necessarily takes the form of 
indignant barking at the neighbour's black cat which makes daily trespass; 
the bark at imagined cats, though a frequent exercise of the canine mind, 
is yet comparatively feeble. Mr Lyon's sarcasm was not without an edge when 
he dilated in general on an elaborate education for teachers which issued 
in the minimum of teaching, but it found a whetstone in the particular 
example of that bad system known as the rector of Treby Magna. There was 
nothing positive to be said against the Rev. Augustus Debarry; his life 
could not be pronounced blame-worthy except for its negatives. And the good 
Rufus was too pure-minded not to be glad of that. He had no delight in vice 
as discrediting wicked opponents; he shrank from dwelling on the images of 
cruelty or of grossness, and his indignation was habitually inspired only 
by those moral and intellectual mistakes which darken the soul but do not 
injure or degrade the temple of the body. If the rector had been a less 
respectable man, Rufus would have more reluctantly made him an object of 
antagonism; but as an incarnation of soul-destroying error, dissociated 
from those baser sins which have no good repute even with the worldly, it 
would be an argumentative luxury to get into close quarters with him, and 
fight with a dialectic short-sword in the eyes of the Treby world (sending 
also a written account thereof to the chief organs of dissenting opinion). 
Vice was essentially stupid - a deaf and eyeless monster, insusceptible to 
demonstration: the Spirit might work on it by unseen ways, and the 
unstudied sallies of sermons were often as the arrows which pierced and 
awakened the bmtified conscience; but illuminated thought, finely-dividing 
speech, were the choicer weapons of the divine armoury, which whoso could 
wield must be careful not to leave idle.
Here, then, was the longed-for opportunity. Here was an engagement - an 
expression of a strong wish - on the part of Philip Debarry, if it were in 
his power, to procure a satisfaction to Rufus Lyon. How had that man of God 
and exemplary Independent minister, Mr Ainsworth, of persecuted sanctity, 
conducted himself when a similar occasion had befallen him at Amsterdam? " 
He had thought of nothing but the glory of the highest cause, and had 
converted the offer of recompense into a public debate with a Jew on the 
chief mysteries of the faith. Here was a model: the case was nothing short 
of a heavenly indication, and he, Rufus Lyon, would seize the occasion to 
demand a public debate with the rector on the constitution of the true 
church.
What if he were inwardly torn by doubt and anxiety concerning his own 
private relations and the facts of his past life? That danger of absorption 
within the narrow bounds of self only urged him the more towards action 
which had a wider bearing, and might tell on the welfare of England at 
large. It was decided. Before the minister went down to his breakfast that 
morning he had written the following letter to Mr Philip Debarry:-

Sir, - Referring to your letter of yesterday, I find the following words: 
"I shall consider myself doubly fortunate if at any time you can point out 
to me some method by which I may procure you as lively a satisfaction as I 
am now feeling, in that full and speedy relief from anxiety which I owe to 
your considerate con duct."
I am not unaware, sir, that, in the usage of the world, there are words of 
courtesy (so called) which are understood, by those amongst whom they are 
current, to have no precise meaning, and to constitute no bond or 
obligation. I will not now insist that this is an abuse of language, 
wherein our fallible nature requires the strictest safeguards against 
laxity and misapplication, for I do not apprehend that in writing the words 
I have above quoted, you were open to the reproach of using phrases which, 
while seeming to carry a specific meaning, were really no more than what is 
called a polite form. I believe, sir, that you used these words advisedly, 
sincerely, and with an honourable intention of acting on them as a pledge, 
should such action be demanded. No other supposition on my part would 
correspond to the character you bear as a young man who aspires (albeit 
mistakenly) to engraft the finest fruits of public virtue on a creed and 
institutions, whereof the sap is composed rather of human self-seeking than 
of everlasting truth.
Wherefore I act on this my belief in the integrity of your written word; 
and I beg you to procure for me (as it is doubtless in your power) that I 
may be allowed a public discussion with your near relative, the rector of 
this parish, the Reverend Augustus Debarry, to be held in the large room of 
the Free School, or in the Assembly Room of the Marquis of Granby, these 
being the largest covered spaces at our command. For I presume he would 
neither allow me to speak within his church, nor would consent himself to 
speak within my chapel; and the probable inclemency of the approaching 
season forbids an assured expectation that we could discourse in the open 
air. The subjects I desire to discuss are, - first, the constimtion of the 
true church; and, secondly, the bearing thereupon of the English 
Reformation. Confidently expecting that you will comply with this request, 
which is the sequence of your expressed desire, I remain, sir, yours, with 
the respect offered to a sincere with-stander,
Rufus Lyon.
Malthouse Yard.

After writing this letter, the good Rufus felt that serenity and elevation 
of mind which is infallibly brought by a preoccupation with the wider 
relations of things. Already he was beginning to sketch the course his 
argument might most judiciously take in the coming debate; his thoughts 
were running into sentences, and marking off careful exceptions in 
parentheses; and he had come down and seated himself at the breakfast-table 
quite automatically, without expectation of toast or coffee, when Esther's 
voice and touch recalled him to an inward debate of another kind, in which 
he felt himself much weaker. Again there arose before him the image of that 
cool, hard-eyed, worldly man, who might be this dear child's father, and 
one against whose rights he had himself greviously offended. Always as the 
image recurred to him Mr Lyon's heart sent forth a prayer for guidance, but 
no definite guidance had yet made itself visible for him. It could not be 
guidance - it was a temptation - that said, "Let the matter rest: seek to 
know no more; know only what is thrust upon you." The remembrance that in 
his time of wandering he had wilfully remained in ignorance of facts which 
he might have inquired after, deepened the impression that it was now an 
imperative duty to seek the fullest attainable knowledge. And the inquiry 
might possibly issue in a blessed repose, by putting a negative on all his 
suspicions. But the more vividly all the circumstances became present to 
him, the more unfit he felt himself to set about any investigation 
concerning this man who called himself Maurice Christian. He could seek no 
confidant or helper among "the brethren'; he was obliged to admit to 
himself that the members of his church, with whom he hoped to go to heaven, 
were not easy to converse with on earth touching the deeper secrets of his 
experience, and were still less able to advise him as to the wisest 
procedure, in a case of high delicacy, with a worldling who had a carefully-
trimmed whisker and a fashionable costume. For the first time in his life 
it occurred to the minister that he should be glad of an adviser who had 
more worldly than spiritual experience, and that it might not be 
inconsistent with his principles to seek some light from one who had 
studied human law. But it was a thought to be paused upon, and not followed 
out rashly; some other guidance might intervene.
Esther noticed that her father was in a fit of abstraction, that he seemed 
to swallow his coffee and toast quite unconsciously, and that he vented 
from time to time a low guttural interjection, which was habitual with him 
when he was absorbed by an inward discussion. She did not disturb him by 
remarks, and only wondered whether anything unusua, had occurred on Sunday 
evening. But at last she thought it needful to say, "You recollect what I 
told you yesterday, father?"
"Nay, child; what?" said Mr Lyon, rousing himself
"That Mr Jermyn asked me if you would probably be at home this morning 
before one o'clock."
Esther was surprised to see her father start and change colour as if he had 
been shaken by some sudden collision before he answered -
"Assuredly; I do not intend to move from my study after I have once been 
out to give this letter to Zachary."
"Shall I tell Lyddy to take him up at once to your study if he comes? If 
not, I shall have to stay in my own room, because I shall be at home all 
this morning, and it is rather cold now to sit without a fire."
"Yes, my dear, let him come up to me; unless, indeed, he should bring a 
second person, which might happen, seeing that in all likelihood he is 
coming, as hitherto, on electioneering business. And I could not well 
accommodate two visitors up-stairs."
While Mr Lyon went out to Zachary, the pew-opener, to give him a second 
time the commission of carrying a letter to Treby Manor, Esther gave her 
injunction to Lyddy that if one gentleman came he was to be shown up-stairs 
- if two, they were to be shown into the parlour. But she had to resolve 
various questions before Lyddy clearly saw what was expected of her, - as 
that, "if it was the gentleman as came on Thursday in the pepper-and-salt 
coat, was he to be shown up-stairs? And the gentleman from the Manor 
yesterday as went out whistling - had Miss Esther heard about him? There 
seemed no end of these great folks coming to Malthouse Yard since there was 
talk of the election; but they might be poor lost creatures the most of 
'em." Whereupon Lyddy shook her head and groaned, under an edifying despair 
as to the future lot of gentlemen callers.
Esther always avoided asking questions of Lyddy, who found an answer as she 
found a key, by pouring out a pocketful of miscellanies. But she had 
remarked so many indications that something had happened to cause her 
father unusual excitement and mental preoccupation, that she could not help 
connecting with them the fact of this visit from the Manor, which he had 
not mentioned to her.
She sat down in the dull parlour and took up her netting; for since Sunday 
she had felt unable to read when she was alone, being obliged, in spite of 
herself, to think of Felix Holt - to imagine what he would like her to be, 
and what sort of views he took of life so as to make it seem valuable in 
the absence of all elegance, luxury, gaiety, or romance. Had he yet 
reflected that he had behaved very rudely to her on Sunday? Perhaps not. 
Perhaps he had dismissed her from his mind with contempt. And at that 
thought Esther's eyes smarted unpleasantly. She was fond of netting, 
because it showed to advantage both her hand and her foot; and across this 
image of Felix Holt's indifference and contempt there passed the vaguer 
image of a possible somebody who would admire her hands and feet, and 
delight in looking at their beauty, and long, yet not dare, to kiss them. 
Life would be much easier in the presence of such a love. But it was 
precisely this longing after her own satisfaction that Felix had reproached 
her with. Did he want her to be heroic? That seemed impossible without some 
great occasion. Her life was a heap of fragments, and so were her thoughts: 
some great energy was needed to bind them together. Esther was beginning to 
lose her complacency at her own wit and criticism; to lose the sense of 
superiority in an awakening need for reliance on one whose vision was 
wider, whose nature was purer and stronger than her own. But then, she said 
to herself, that "one" must be tender to her, not rude and predominating in 
his manners. A man with any chivalry in him could never adopt a scolding 
tone towards a woman - that is, towards a charming woman. But Felix had no 
chivalry in him. He loved lecturing and opinion too well ever to love any 
woman.
In this way Esther strove to see that Felix was thoroughly in the wrong - 
at least, if he did not come again expressly to show that he was sorry.



Chapter 16

Trueblue. These men have no votes. Why should I court them ?
Greyfox. No votes, but power.
Trueblue. What I over charities ?
Greyfox. No, over brains; which disturbs the canvass. In a natural state of 
things the average price of a vote at Paddlebrook is nine-and-sixpence, 
throwing the fifty-pound tenants, who cost nothing, into the divisor. But 
these talking men cause an artificial rise of prices.

The expected important knock at the door came about twelve o'clock, and 
Esther could hear that there were two visitors. Immediately the parlour 
door was opened and the shaggy-haired, cravatless image of Felix Holt, 
which was then just full in the mirror of Esther's mind, was displaced by 
the highly-contrasted appearance of a personage whose name she guessed 
before Mr Jermyn had announced it. The perfect morning costume of that day 
differed much from our present ideal: it was essential that a gentleman's 
chin should be well propped, that his collar should have a voluminous roll, 
that his waistcoat should imply much discrimination, and that his buttons 
should be arranged in a manner which would now expose him to general 
contempt. And it must not be forgotten that at the distant period when 
Treby Magna first knew the excitements of an election, there existed many 
other anomalies now obsolete, besides short-waisted coats and broad 
stiffeners.
But we have some notions of beauty and fitness which withstand the 
centuries; and quite irrespective of dates, it would be pronounced that at 
the age of thirty-four Harold Transome was a striking and handsome man. He 
was one of those people, as Denner had remarked, to whose presence in the 
room you could not be indifferent: if you do not hate or dread them, you 
must find the touch of their hands, nay, their very shadows, agreeable.
Esther felt a pleasure quite new to her as she saw his finely-embrowned 
face and full bright eyes turned towards her with an air of deference by 
which gallantry must commend itself to a refined woman who is not 
absolutely free from vanity. Harold Transome regarded women as slight 
things, but he was fond of slight things in the intervals of business; and 
he held it among the chief arts of life to keep these pleasant diversions 
within such bonds that they should never interfere with the course of his 
serious ambition. Esther was perfectly aware, as he took a chair near her, 
that he was under some admiring surprise at her appearance and manner. How 
could it be otherwise? She believed that in the eyes of a high-bred man no 
young lady in Treby could equal her: she felt a glow of delight at the 
sense that she was being looked at.
"My father expected you," she said to Mr Jermyn. "I delivered your letter 
to him yesterday. He will be down immediately."
She disentangled her foot from her netting and wound it up.
"I hope you are not going to let us disturb you," said Harold, noticing her 
action. "We come to discuss election affairs, and particularly desire to 
interest the ladies."
"I have no interest with any one who is not already on the right side," 
said Esther, smiling.
"I am happy to see at least that you wear the Liberal colours."
"I fear I must confess that it is more from love of blue than from love of 
Liberalism. Yellow opinions could only have brunettes on their side." 
Esther spoke with her usual pretty fluency, but she had no sooner uttered 
the words than she thought how angry they would have made Felix.
"If my cause is to be recommended by the becomingness of my colours, then I 
am sure you are acting in my interest by wearing them."
Esther rose to leave the room.
"Must you really go?" said Harold, preparing to open the door for her.
"Yes; I have an engagement - a lesson at half-past twelve," said Esther, 
bowing and floating out like a blue-robed Naiad, but not without a suffused 
blush as she passed through the doorway.
It was a pity the room was so small, Harold Transome thought: this girl 
ought to walk in a house where there were halls and corridors. But he had 
soon dismissed this chance preoccupation with Esther; for before the door 
was closed again Mr Lyon had entered, and Harold was entirely bent on what 
had been the object of his visit. The minister, though no elector himself, 
had considerable influence over Liberal electors, and it was the part of 
wisdom in a candidate to cement all political adhesion by a little personal 
regard, if possible. Garstin was a harsh and wiry fellow; he seemed to 
suggest that sour whey, which some say was the original meaning of Whig in 
the Scottish, and it might assist the theoretic advantages of Radicalism if 
it could be associated with a more generous presence. What would conciliate 
the personal regard of old Mr Lyon became a curious problem to Harold, now 
the little man made his appearance. But canvassing makes a gentleman 
acquainted with many strange animals, together with the ways of catching 
and taming them; and thus the knowledge of natural history advances amongst 
the aristocracy and the wealthy commoners of our land.
"I am very glad to have secured this opportunity of making your personal 
acquaintance, Mr Lyon," said Harold, putting out his hand to the minister 
when Jermyn had mentioned his name. "I am to address the electors here, in 
the Market-Place, tomorrow; and I should have been sorry to do so without 
first paying my respects privately to my chief friends, as there may be 
points on which they particularly wish me to explain myself."
"You speak civilly, sir, and reasonably," said Mr Lyon, with a vague 
shortsighted gaze, in which a candidate's appearance evidently went for 
nothing. "Pray be seated, gentlemen. It is my habit to stand."
He placed himself at right angle with his visitors, his worn look of 
intellectual eagerness, slight frame, and rusty attire, making an odd 
contrast with their flourishing persons, unblemished costume, and 
comfortable freedom from excitement. The group was fairly typical of the 
difference between the men who are animated by ideas and the men who are 
expected to apply them. Then he drew forth his spectacles, and began to rub 
them with the thin end of his coat-tail. He was inwardly exercising great 
self-mastery - suppressing the thought of his personal needs, which 
Jermyn's presence tended to suggest, in order that he might be equal to the 
larger duties of this occasion.
"I am aware - Mr Jermyn has told me," said Harold, "what good service you 
have done me already, Mr Lyon. The fact is, a man of intellect like you was 
especially needed in my case. The race I am running is really against 
Garstin only, who calls himself a Liberal, though he cares for nothing, and 
understands nothing, except the interests of the wealthy traders. And you 
have been able to explain the difference between Liberal and Liberal, 
which, as you and I know, is something like the difference between fish and 
fish."
"Your comparison is not unapt, sir," said Mr Lyon, still holding his 
spectacles in his hand, "at this epoch, when the mind of the nation has 
been strained on the passing of one measure. Where a great weight has to be 
moved, we require not so much selected instruments as abundant horse-power. 
But it is an unavoidable evil of these massive achievements that they 
encourage a coarse undiscriminatingness obstructive of more nicely-wrought 
results, and an exaggerated expectation inconsistent with the intricacies 
of our fallen and struggling condition. I say not that compromise is 
unnecessary, but it is an evil attendant on our imperfection; and I would 
pray every one to mark that, where compromise broadens, intellect and 
conscience are thrust into narrower room. Wherefore it has been my object 
to show our people that there are many who have helped to draw the car of 
Reform, whose ends are but partial, and who forsake not the ungodly 
principle of selfish alliances, but would only substitute Syria for Egypt - 
thinking chiefly of their own share in peacocks, gold, and ivory."
"Just so," said Harold, who was quick at new languages, and still quicker 
at translating other men's generalities into his own special and immediate 
purposes, "men who will be satisfied if they can only bring in a 
plutocracy, buy up the land, and stick the old crests on their new 
gateways. Now the practical point to secure against these false Liberals at 
present is, that our electors should not divide their votes. As it appears 
that many who vote for Debarry are likely to split their votes in favour of 
Garstin, it is of the first consequence that my voters should give me 
plumpers. If they divide their votes they can't keep out Debarry, and they 
may help to keep out me. I feel some confidence in asking you to use your 
influence in this direction, Mr Lyon. We candidates have to praise 
ourselves more than is graceful; but you are aware that, while I belong by 
my birth to the classes that have their roots in tradition and all the old 
loyalties, my experience has lain chiefly among those who make their own 
career, and depend on the new rather than the old. I have had the advantage 
of considering national welfare under varied lights: I have wider views 
than those of a mere cotton lord. On questions connected with religious 
liberty I would stop short at no measure that was not thorough."
"I hope not, sir - I hope not," said Mr Lyon, gravely; finally putting on 
his spectacles and examining the face of the candidate, whom he was 
preparing to turn into a catechumen. For the good Rufus, conscious of his 
political importance as an organ of persuasion, felt it his duty to 
catechise a little, and also to do his part towards impressing a probable 
legislator with a sense of his responsibility. But the latter branch of 
duty somewhat obstructed the catechising, for his mind was so urged by 
considerations which he held in danger of being overlooked, that the 
questions and answers bore a very slender proportion to his exposition. It 
was impossible to leave the question of church-rates without noting the 
grounds of their injustice, and without a brief enumeration of reasons why 
Mr Lyon, for his own part, would not present that passive resistance to a 
legal imposition which had been adopted by the Friends (whose heroism in 
this regard was nevertheless worthy of all honour).
Comprehensive talkers are apt to be tiresome when we are not athirst for 
information, but, to be quite fair, we must admit that superior reticence 
is a good deal due to the lack of matter. Speech is often barren; but 
silence also does not necessarily brood over a full nest. Your still fowl, 
blinking at you without remark, may all the while be sitting on one addled 
nest-egg; and when it takes to cackling, will have nothing to announce but 
that addled delusion.
Harold Transome was not at all a patient man, but in matters of business he 
was quite awake to his cue, and in this case it was perhaps easier to 
listen than to answer questions. But Jermyn, who had plenty of work on his 
hands, took an opportunity of rising, and saying, as he looked at his watch 
-
"I must really be at the office in five minutes. You will find me there, Mr 
Transome; you have probably still many things to say to Mr Lyon."
"I beseech you, sir," said the minister, changing colour, and by a quick 
movement laying his hand on Jermyn's arm - "I beseech you to favour me with 
an interview on some private business - this evening, if it were possible."
Mr Lyon, like others who are habitually occupied with impersonal subjects, 
was liable to this impulsive sort of action. He snatched at the details of 
life as if they were darting past him - as if they were like the ribbons at 
his knees, which would never be tied all day if they were not tied on the 
instant. Through these spasmodic leaps out of his abstractions into real 
life, it constantly happened that he suddenly took a course which had been 
the subject of too much doubt with him ever to have been determined on by 
continuous thought. And if Jermyn had not startled him by threatening to 
vanish just when he was plunged in politics, he might never have made up 
his mind to confide in a worldly attorney.
("An odd man," as Mrs Muscat observed, "to have such a gift in the pulpit. 
But there's One knows better than we do - " which, in a lady who rarely 
felt her judgment at a loss, was a concession that showed much piety.)
Jermyn was surprised at the little man's eagemess. "By all means," he 
answered, quite cordially. "Could you come to my office at eight o'dock?"
"For several reasons, I must beg you to come to me."
"O, very good. I'll walk out and see you this evening, if possible. I shall 
have much pleasure in being of any use to you." Jermyn felt that in the 
eyes of Harold he was appearing all the more valuable when his services 
were thus in request. He went out, and Mr Lyon easily relapsed into 
politics, for he had been on the brink of a favourite subject on which he 
was at issue with his fellow-Liberals.
At that time, when faith in the efficacy of political change was at fever-
heat in ardent Reformers, many measures which men are still discussing with 
little confidence on either side, were then talked about and disposed of 
like property in near reversion. Crying abuses - "bloated paupers", 
"bloated pluralists", and other corruptions hindering men from being wise 
and happy - had to be fought against and slain. Such a time is a time of 
hope. Afterwards, when the corpses of those monsters have been held up to 
the public wonder and abhorrence, and yet wisdom and happiness do not 
follow, but rather a more abundant breeding of the foolish and unhappy, 
comes a time of doubt and despondency. But in the great Reform year hope 
was mighty: the prospect of reform had even served the voters instead of 
drink; and in one place, at least, there had been a "dry election'. And now 
the speakers at Reform banquets were exuberant in congratulation and 
promise: Liberal clergymen of the Establishment toasted Liberal Catholic 
clergymen without any allusion to scarlet, and Catholic clergymen replied 
with a like tender reserve. Some dwelt on the abolition of all abuses, and 
on millennial blessedness generally; others, whose imaginations were less 
suffused with exhalations of the dawn, insisted chiefly on the ballot-box.
Now on this question of the ballot the minister strongly took the negative 
side. Our pet opinions are usually those which place us in a minority of a 
minority amongst our own party: - very happily, else those poor opinions, 
born with no silver spoon in their mouths - how would they get nourished 
and fed? So it was with Mr Lyon and his objection to the ballot. But he had 
thrown out a remark on the subject which was not quite clear to his hearer, 
who interpreted it according to his best calculation of probabilities.
"I have no objection to the ballot," said Harold, "but I think that is not 
the sort of thing we have to work at just now. We shouldn't get it. And 
other questions are imminent."
"Then, sir, you would vote for the ballot?" said Mr Lyon, stroking his 
chin.
"Certainly, if the point came up. I have too much respect for the freedom 
of the voter to oppose anything which offers a chance of making that 
freedom more complete."
Mr Lyon looked at the speaker with a pitying smile and a subdued "h'm - m - 
*m", which Harold took for a sign of satisfaction. He was soon undeceived.
"You grieve me, sir; you grieve me much. And I pray you to reconsider this 
question, for it will take you to the root, as I think, of political 
morality. I engage to show to any impartial mind, duly furnished with the 
principles of public and private rectitude, that the ballot would be 
pernicious, and that if it were not pernicious it would still be futile. I 
will show, first, that it would be futile as a preservative from bribcry 
and illegitimate influence; and, secondly, that it would be in the worst 
kind pernicious, as shutting the door against those influences whereby the 
soul of a man and the character of a citizen are duly educated for their 
great functions. Be not alarmed if I detain you, sir. It is well worth the 
while."
"Confound this old man," thought Harold. "I'll never make a canvassing call 
on a preacher again, unless he has lost his voice from a cold." He was 
going to excuse himself as prudently as he could, by deferring the subject 
till the morrow, and inviting Mr Lyon to come to him in the committee-room 
before the time appointed for his public speech; but he was relieved by the 
opening of the door. Lyddy put in her head to say -
"If you please! sir, here's Mr Holt wants to know if he may come in and 
speak to the gentleman. He begs your pardon, but you're to say "no" if you 
don't like him to come."
"Nay, show him in at once, Lyddy. A young man," Mr Lyon went on, speaking 
to Harold, "whom a representative ought to know - no voter, but a man of 
ideas and study."
"He is thoroughly welcome," said Harold, truthfully enough, though he felt 
little interest in the voteless man of ideas except as a diversion from the 
subject of the ballot. He had been standing for the last minute or two, 
feeling less of a victim in that attitude, and more able to calculate on 
means of escape.
"Mr Holt, sir," said the minister, as Felix entered, "is a young friend of 
mine, whose opinions on some points I hope to see altered, but who has a 
zeal for public justice which I trust he will never lose."
"I am glad to see Mr Holt," said Harold, bowing. He perceived from the way 
in which Felix bowed to him and turned to the most distant spot in the 
room, that the candidate's shake of the hand would not be welcome here. "A 
formidable fellow," he thought, "capable of mounting a cart in the market-
place tomorrow and cross-examining me, if I say anything that doesn't 
please him."
"Mr Lyon," said Felix, "I have taken a liberty with you in asking to see Mr 
Transome when he is engaged with you. But I have to speak to him on a 
matter which I shouldn't care to make public at present, and it is one on 
which I am sure you will back me. I heard that Mr Transome was here, so I 
ventured to come. I hope you will both excuse me, as my business refers to 
some electioneering measures which are being taken by Mr Transome's 
agents."
"Pray go on," said Harold, expecting something unpleasant.
"I'm not going to speak against treating voters," said Felix; "I suppose 
buttered ale, and grease of that sort to make the wheels go, belong to the 
necessary humbug of representation. But I wish to ask you, Mr Transome, 
whether it is with your knowledge that agents of yours are bribing rough 
fellows who are no voters - the colliers and navvies at Sproxton - with the 
chance of extra drunkenness, that they may make a posse on your side at the 
nomination and polling?"
"Certainly not," said Harold. "You are aware, my dear sir, that a candidate 
is very much at the mercy of his agents as to the means by which he is 
returned, especially when many years' absence has made him a stranger to 
the men actually conducting business. But are you sure of your facts?"
"As sure as my senses can make me," said Felix, who then briefly described 
what had happened on Sunday. "I believed that you were ignorant of all 
this, Mr Transome," he ended, "and that was why I thought some good might 
be done by speaking to you. If not, I should be tempted to expose the whole 
affair as a disgrace to the Radical party. I'm a Radical myself, and mean 
to work all my life long against privilege, monopoly, and oppression. But I 
would rather be a livery-servant proud of my master's title, than I would 
seem to make common cause with scoundrels who turn the best hopes of men 
into by-words for cant and dishonesty."
"Your energetic protest is needless here, sir," said Harold, offended at 
what sounded like a threat, and was certainly premature enough to be in bad 
taste. In fact, this error of behaviour in Felix proceeded from a repulsion 
which was mutual. It was a constant source of irritation to him that the 
public men on his side were, on the whole, not conspicuously better than 
the public men on the other side; that the spirit of innovation, which with 
him was a part of religion, was in many of its mouthpieces no more of a 
religion than the faith in rotten boroughs; and he was thus predisposed to 
distrust Harold Transome. Harold, in his turn, disliked impracticable 
notions of loftiness and purity - disliked all enthusiasm; and he thought 
he saw a very troublesome, vigorous incorporation of that nonsense in 
Felix. But it would be foolish to exasperate him in any way.
"If you choose to accompany me to Jermyn's office," he went on, "the matter 
shall be inquired into in your presence. I think you will agree with me, Mr 
Lyon, that this will be the most satisfactory course?"
"Doubtless," said the minister, who liked the candidate very well, and 
believed that he would be amenable to argument; "and I would caution my 
young friend against a too great hastiness of words and action. David's 
cause against Saul was a righteous one; nevertheless not all who clave unto 
David were righteous men."
"The more was the pity, sir," said Felix. "Especially if he winked at their 
malpractices."
Mr Lyon smiled, shook his head, and stroked his favourite's arm 
deprecatingly.
"It is rather too much for any man to keep the consciences of all his 
party," said Harold. "If you had lived in the East, as I have, you would be 
more tolerant. More tolerant, for example, of an active industrious 
selfishness, such as we have here, though it may not always be quite 
scrupulous: you would see how much better it is than an idle selfishness. I 
have heard it said, a bridge is a good thing - worth helping to make, 
though half the men who worked at it were rogues."
"O yes I " said Felix, scornfully, "give me a handful of generalities and 
analogies, and I'll undertake to justify Burke and Hare, and prove them 
benefactors of their species. I'll tolerate no nuisances but such as I 
can't help; and the question now is, not whether we can do away with all 
the nuisances in the world, but with a particular nuisance under our 
noses."
"Then we had better cut the matter short, as I propose, by going at once to 
Jermyn's," said Harold. "In that case, I must bid you good-morning, Mr 
Lyon."
"I would fain," said the minister, looking uneasy - "I would fain have had 
a further opportunity of considering that question of the ballot with you. 
The reasons against it need not be urged lengthily; they only require 
complete enumeration to prevent any seeming hiatus, where an opposing 
fallacy might thrust itself in."
"Never fear, sir," said Harold, shaking Mr Lyon's hand cordially, "there 
will be opportunities. Shall I not see you in the committee-room tomorrow?"
"I think not," said Mr Lyon, rubbing his brow, with a sad remembrance of 
his personal anxieties. "But I will send you, if you will permit me, a 
brief writing, on which you can meditate at your leisure."
"I shall be delighted. Good-bye."
Harold and Felix went out together; and the minister, going up to his dull 
study, asked himself whether, under the pressure of conflicting experience, 
he had faithfully discharged the duties of the past interview?
If a cynical sprite were present, riding on one of the motes in that dusty 
room, he may have made himself merry at the illusions of the little 
minister who brought so much conscience to bear on the production of so 
slight an effect. I confess to smiling myself, being sceptical as to the 
effect of ardent appeals and nice distinctions on gentlemen who are got up, 
both inside and out, as candidates in the style of the period; but I never 
smiled at Mr Lyon's trustful energy without falling to penitence and 
veneration immediately after. For what we call illusions are often, in 
truth, a wider vision of past and present realities - a willing movement of 
a man's soul with the larger sweep of the world's forces - a movement 
towards a more assured end than the chances of a single life. We see human 
heroism broken into units and say, this unit did little - might as well not 
have been. But in this way we might break up a great army into units; in 
this way we might break the sunlight into fragments, and think that this 
and the other might be cheaply parted with. Let us rather raise a monument 
to the soldiers whose brave hearts only kept the ranks unbroken, and met 
death - a monument to the faithful who were not famous, and who are 
precious as the continuity of the sunbeams is precious, though some of them 
fall unseen and on barrenness.
At present, looking back on that day at Treby, it seems to me that the 
sadder illusion lay with Harold Transome, who was trusting in his own skill 
to shape the success of his own morrows, ignorant of what many yesterdays 
had determined for him beforehand.



Chapter 17

It is a good and soothfast saw;
Half-roasted never will be raw;
No dough is dried once more to meal
No crock new-shapen by the wheel;
You can't turn curds to milk again,
Nor Now, by wishing, back to Then;
And having tasted stolen honey,
You can't buy innocence for money.

Jermyn was not particularly pleased that some chance had apparently 
hindered Harold Transome from making other canvassing visits immediately 
after leaving Mr Lyon, and so had sent him back to the office earlier than 
he had been expected to come. The inconvenient chance he guessed at once to 
be represented by Felix Holt, whom he knew very well by Trebian report to 
be a young man with so little of the ordinary Christian motives as to 
making an appearance and getting on in the world, that he presented no 
handle to any judicious and respectable person who might be willing to make 
use of him.
Harold Transome, on his side, was a good deal annoyed at being worried by 
Felix into an inquiry about electioneering details. The real dignity and 
honesty there was in him made him shrink from this necessity of satisfying 
a man with a troublesome tongue; it was as if he were to show indignation 
at the discovery of one barrel with a false bottom, when he had invested 
his money in a manufactory where a larger or smaller number of such barrels 
had always been made. A practical man must seek a good end by the only 
possible means; that is to say, if he is to get into parliament he must not 
be too particular. It was not disgraceful to be neither a Quixote nor a 
theorist, aiming to correct the moral rules of the world; but whatever 
actually was, or might prove to be, disgraceful, Harold held in 
detestation. In this mood he pushed on unceremoniously to the inner office 
without waiting to ask questions; and when he perceived that Jermyn was not 
alone, he said, with haughty quickness -
"A question about the electioneering at Sproxton. Can you give your 
attention to it at once? Here is Mr Holt, who has come to me about the 
business."
"A - yes - a - certainly," said Jermyn, who, as usual, was the more cool 
and deliberate because he was vexed. He was standing, and, as he turned 
round, his broad figure concealed the person who was seated writing at the 
bureau. "Mr Holt - a - will doubtless - a - make a point of saving a busy 
man's time. You can speak at once. This gentleman' - here Jermyn made a 
slight backward movement of his head - "is one of ourselves; he is a true-
blue."
"I have simply to complain," said Felix, "that one of your agents has been 
sent on a bribing expedition to Sproxton - with what purpose you, sir, may 
know better than I do. Mr Transome, it appears, was ignorant of the affair, 
and does not approve it."
Jermyn, looking gravely and steadily at Felix while he was speaking, at the 
same time drew forth a small sheaf of papers from his side-pocket, and 
then, as he turned his eyes slowly on Harold, felt in his waistcoat-pocket 
for his pencil-case.
"I don't approve it at all," said Harold, who hated Jermyn's calculated 
slowness and conceit in his own impenetrability. "Be good enough to put a 
stop to it, will you?"
"Mr Holt, I know, is an excellent Liberal," said Jermyn, just inclining his 
head to Harold, and then alternately looking at Felix and docketing his 
bills; "but he is perhaps too inexperienced to be aware that no canvass - a 
- can be conducted without the action of able men, who must - a - be 
trusted, and not interfered with. And as to any possibility of promising to 
put a stop - a - to any procedure - a - that depends. If he had ever held 
the coachman's ribbons in his hands, as I have in my younger days - a - he 
would know that stopping is not always easy."
"I know very little about holding ribbons," said Felix; "but I saw clearly 
enough at once that more mischief had been done than could be well mended. 
Though I believe, if it were heartily tried, the treating might be reduced, 
and something might be done to hinder the men from turning out in a body to 
make a noise, which might end in worse."
"They might be hindered from making a noise on our side," said Jermyn, 
smiling. "That is perfectly true. But if they made a noise on the other - 
would your purpose be answered better, sir?"
Harold was moving about in an irritated manner while Felix and Jermyn were 
speaking. He preferred leaving the talk to the attorney, of whose talk he 
himself liked to keep as clear as possible.
"I can only say," answered Felix, "that if you make use of those heavy 
fellows when the drink is in them, I shouldn't like your responsibility. 
You might as well drive bulls to roar on our side as bribe a set of 
colliers and navvies to shout and groan."
"A lawyer may well envy your command of language, Mr Holt," said Jermyn, 
pocketing his bills again, and shutting up his pencil; "but he would not be 
satisfied with the accuracy - a - of your terms. You must permit me to 
check your use of the word "bribery". The essence of bribery is, that it 
should be legally proved; there is not such a thing - a - in rerum natura - 
a - as unproved bribery. There has been no such thing as bribery at 
Sproxton, I'll answer for it. The presence of a body of stalwart fellows on 
- a - the Liberal side will tend to preserve order; for we know that the 
benefit clubs from the Pitchley district will show for Debarry. Indeed, the 
gentleman who has conducted the canvass at Sproxton is experienced in 
parliamentary affairs, and would not exceed - a - the necessary measures 
that a rational judgment would dictate!"
"What! you mean the man who calls himself Johnson?" said Felix, in a tone 
of disgust.
Before Jermyn chose to answer, Harold broke in, saying, quickly and 
peremptorily, "The long and short of it is this, Mr Holt: I shall desire 
and insist that whatever can be done by way of remedy shall be done. Will 
that satisfy you? You see now some of a candidate's difficulties?" said 
Harold, breaking into his most agreeable smile. "I hope you will have some 
pity for me."
"I suppose I must be content," said Felix, not thoroughly propitiated. "I 
bid you good-morning, gentlemen."
When he was gone out, and had closed the door behind him, Harold, turning 
round and flashing, in spite of himself, an angry look at Jermyn, said -
"And who is Johnson? an alias, I suppose. It seems you are fond of the 
name."
Jermyn turned perceptibly paler, but disagreeables of this sort between 
himself and Harold had been too much in his anticipations of late for him 
to be taken by surprise. He turned quietly round and just touched the 
shoulder of the person seated at the bureau, who now rose.
"On the contrary," Jermyn answered, "the Johnson in question is this 
gentleman, whom I have the pleasure of introducing to you as one of my most 
active helpmates in electioneering business - Mr Johnson, of Bedford Row, 
London. I am comparatively a novice - a - in these matters. But he was 
engaged with James Putty in two hardly-contested elections, and there could 
scarcely be a better initiation. Putty is one of the first men of the 
country as an agent - a - on the Liberal side - a - eh, Johnson? I think 
Makepiece is - a - not altogether a match for him, not quite of the same 
calibre - a - haud consimili ingenio - a - in tactics - a - and in 
experience?"
"Makepiece is a wonderful man, and so is Putty," said the glib Johnson, too 
vain not to be pleased with an opportunity of speaking, even when the 
situation was rather awkward. "Makepiece for scheming, but Putty for 
management. Putty knows men, sir," he went on, turning to Harold; "it's a 
thousand pities that you have not had his talents employed in your service. 
He's beyond any man for saving a candidate's money - does half the work 
with his tongue. He'll talk of anything, from the Areopagus, and that sort 
of thing, down to the joke about "Where are you going, Paddy?" - you know 
what I mean, sir! "Back again, says Paddy" - an excellent electioneering 
joke. Putty understands these things. He has said to me, "Johnson, bear in 
mind there are two ways of speaking an audience will always like: one is, 
to tell them what they don't understand; and the other is, to tell them 
what they're used to." I shall never be the man to deny that I owe a great 
deal to Putty. I always say it was a most providential thing in the Mugham 
election last year that Putty was not on the Tory side. He managed the 
women; and if you'll believe me, sir, one fourth of the men would never 
have voted if their wives hadn't driven them to it for the good of their 
families. And as for speaking - it's currently reported in our London 
circles that Putty writes regularly for the Times. He has that kind of 
language; and I needn't tell you, Mr Transome, that it's the apex, which, I 
take it, means the tiptop - and nobody can get higher than that, I think. 
I've belonged to a political debating society myself; I've heard a little 
language in my time; but when Mr Jermyn first spoke to me about having the 
honour to assist in your canvass of North Loamshire" - here Johnson played 
with his watch-seals and balanced himself a moment on his toes - "the very 
first thing I said was, "And there's Garstin has got Putty! No Whig could 
stand against a Whig," I said, "who had Putty on his side: I hope Mr 
Transome goes in for something of a deeper colour." I don't say that, as a 
general rule, opinions go for much in a return, Mr Transome; it depends on 
who are in the field before you, and on the skill of your agents. But as a 
Radical, and a moneyed Radical, you are in a fine position, sir; and with 
care and judgment - with care and judgment - "
It had been impossible to interrupt Johnson before, without the most 
impolite rudeness. Jermyn was not sorry that he should talk, even if he 
made a fool of himself; for in that solid shape, exhibiting the average 
amount of human foibles, he seemed less of the alias which Harold had 
insinuated him to be, and had all the additional plausibility of a lie with 
a circumstance.
Harold had thrown himself with contemptuous resignation into a chair, had 
drawn off one of his buff gloves, and was looking at his hand. But when 
Johnson gave his iteration with a slightly slackened pace, Harold looked up 
at him and broke in -
"Well, then, Mr Johnson, I shall be glad if you will use your care and 
judgment in putting an end as well as you can to this Sproxton affair; else 
it may turn out an ugly business."
"Excuse me, sir, I must beg you to look at the matter a little more 
closely. You will see that it is impossible to take a single step backward 
at Sproxton. It was a matter of necessity to get the Sproxton men; else I 
know to a certainty the other side would have laid hold of them first, and 
now I've undermined Garstin's people. They'll use their authority, and give 
a little shabby treating, but I've taken all the wind out of their sails. 
But if, by your orders, I or Mr Jermyn here were to break promise with the 
honest fellows, and offend Chubb the publican, what would come of it? Chubb 
would leave no stone unturned against you, sir; he would egg on his 
customers against you; the colliers and navvies would be at the nomination 
and at the election all the same, or rather not all the same, for they 
would be there against us; and instead of hustling people good-humouredly 
by way of a joke, and counterbalancing Debarry's cheers, they'd help to 
kick the cheering and the voting out of our men, and instead of being, let 
us say, half-a-dozen ahead of Garstin, you'd be half-a-dozen behind him, 
that's all. I speak plain English to you, Mr Transome, though I've the 
highest respect for you as a gentleman of first-rate talents and position. 
But, sir, to judge of these things a man must know the English voter and 
the English publican; and it would be a poor tale indeed" - here Mr 
Johnson's mouth took an expression at once bitter and pathetic - "that a 
gentleman like you, to say nothing of the good of the country, should have 
gone to the expense and trouble of a canvass for nothing but to find 
himself out of parliament at the end of it. I've seen it again and again; 
it looks bad in the cleverest man to have to sing small."
Mr Johnson's argument was not the less stringent because his idioms were 
vulgar. It requires a conviction and resolution amounting to heroism not to 
wince at phrases that class our foreshadowed endurance among those common 
and ignominious troubles which the world is more likely to sneer at than to 
pity. Harold remained a few moments in angry silence looking at the floor, 
with one hand on his knee, and the other on his hat, as if he were 
preparing to start up.
"As to undoing anything that's been done down there," said Johnson, 
throwing in this observation as something into the bargain, "I must wash my 
hands of it, sir. I couldn't work knowingly against your interest. And that 
young man who is just gone out, - you don't believe that he need be 
listened to, I hope? Chubb, the publican, hates him. Chubb would guess he 
was at the bottom of your having the treating stopped, and he'd set half-a-
dozen of the colliers to duck him in the canal, or break his head by 
mistake. I'm an experienced man, sir. I hope I've put it clear enough."
"Certainly, the exposition befits the subject," said Harold, scornfully, 
his dislike of the man Johnson's personality being stimulated by causes 
which Jermyn more than conjectured. "It's a damned, unpleasant, ravelled 
business that you and Mr Jermyn have knit up between you. I've no more to 
say."
"Then, sir, if you've no more commands, I don't wish to intrude. I shall 
wish you good-morning, sir," said Johnson, passing out quickly.
Harold knew that he was indulging his temper, and he would probably have 
restrained it as a foolish move if he had thought there was great danger in 
it. But he was beginning to drop much of his caution and self-mastery where 
Jermyn was concerned, under the growing conviction that the attorney had 
very strong reasons for being afraid of him; reasons which would only be 
reinforced by any action hostile to the Transome interest. As for a sneak 
like this Johnson, a gendeman had to pay him, not to please him. Harold had 
smiles at command in the right place, but he was not going to smile when it 
was neither necessary nor agreeable. He was one of those good-humoured, yet 
energetic men, who have the gift of anger, hatred, and scom upon occasion, 
though they are too healthy and selfcontented for such feelings to get 
generated in them without external occasion. And in relation to Jermyn the 
gift was coming into fine exercise.
"A - pardon me, Mr Harold," said Jermyn, speaking as soon as Johnson went 
out, "but I am sorry - a - you should behave disobligingly to a man who has 
it in his power to do much service - who, in fact, holds many threads in 
his hands. I admit that - a - nemo mortalium omnibus horis sapit, as we say 
- a - "
"Speak for yourself," said Harold. "I don't talk in tags of Latin, which 
might be learned by a schoolmaster's footboy. I find the King's English 
express my meaning better."
"In the King's English, then," said Jermyn who could be idiomatic enough 
when he was stung, "a candidate should keep his kicks till he's a member."
"O, I suppose Johnson will bear a kick if you bid him. You're his 
principal, I believe."
"Certainly, thus far - a - he is my London agent. But he is a man of 
substance, and - "
"I shall know what he is if it's necessary, I daresay. But I must jump into 
the carriage again. I've no time to lose; I must go to Hawkins at the 
factory. Will you go?"
When Harold was gone, Jermyn's handsome face gathered blackness. He hardly 
ever wore his worst expression in the presence of others, and but seldom 
when he was alone, for he was not given to believe that any game would 
ultimately go against him. His luck had been good. New conditions might 
always turn up to give him new chances; and if affairs threatened to come 
to an extremity between Harold and himself, he trusted to finding some sure 
resource.
"He means to see to the bottom of everything if he can, that's quite 
plain," said Jermyn to himself. "I believe he has been getting another 
opinion; he has some new light about those annuities on the estate that are 
held in Johnson's name. He has inherited a deuced faculty for business - 
there's no denying that. But I shall beg leave to tell him that I've 
propped up the family. I don't know where they would have been without me; 
and if it comes to balancing, I know into which scale the gratitude ought 
to go. Not that he's likely to feel any - but he can feel something else; 
and if he makes signs of setting the dogs on me, I shall make him feel it. 
The people named Transome owe me a good deal more than I owe them."
In this way Mr Jermyn inwardly appealed against an unjust construction 
which he foresaw that his old acquaintance the Law might put on certain 
items in his history.
I have known persons who have been suspected of undervaluing gratitude, and 
excluding it from the list of virtues; but on closer observation it has 
been seen that, if they have never felt grateful, it has been for want of 
an opportunity; and that, far from despising gratitude, they regard it as 
the virtue most of all incumbent - on others towards them.



Chapter 18

"The little, nameless, unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love."
				Wordswvorth: Tintern Abbey.

Jermyn did not forget to pay his visit to the minister in Malthouse Yard 
that evening. The mingled irritation, dread, and defiance which he was 
feeling towards Harold Transome in the middle of the day, depended on too 
many and far-stretching causes to be dissipated by eight o'clock; but when 
he left Mr Lyon's house he was in a state of comparative triumph in the 
belief that he, and he alone, was now in possession of facts which, once 
grouped together, made a secret that gave him new power over Harold.
Mr Lyon, in his need for help from one who had that wisdom of the serpent 
which, he argued, is not forbidden, but is only of hard acquirement to dove-
like innocence, had been gradually led to pour out to the attorney all the 
reasons which made him desire to know the truth about the man who called 
himself Maurice Christian: he had shown all the precious relics, the 
locket, the letters, and the marriage certificate. And Jermyn had comforted 
him by confidently promising to ascertain, without scandal or premature 
betrayals, whether this man were really Annette's husband, Maurice 
Christian Bycliffe.
Jermyn was not rash in making this promise, since he had excellent reasons 
for believing that he had already come to a true conclusion on the subject. 
But he wished both to know a little more of this man himself, and to keep 
Mr Lyon in ignorance - not a difficult precaution - in an affair which it 
cost the minister so much pain to speak of. An easy opportunity of getting 
an interview with Christian was sure to offer itself before long - might 
even offer itself tomorrow. Jermyn had seen him more than once, though 
hitherto without any reason for observing him with interest; he had heard 
that Philip Debarry's courier was often busy in the town, and it seemed 
especially likely that he would be seen there when the market was to be 
agitated by politics, and the new candidate was to show his paces.
The world of which Treby Magna was the centre was naturally curious to see 
the young Transome, who had come from the East, was as rich as a Jew, and 
called himself a Radical; characteristics all equally vague in the minds of 
various excellent ratepayers, who drove to market in their taxed carts, or 
in their hereditary gigs. Places at convenient windows had been secured 
beforehand for a few best bonnets; but, in general, a Radical candidate 
excited no ardent feminine partisanship, even among the Dissenters in 
Treby, if they were of the prosperous and longresident class. Some chapel-
going ladies were fond of remembering that "their family had been Church"; 
others objected to politics altogether as having spoiled old 
neighbourliness, and sundered friends who had kindred views as to cowslip 
wine and Michaelmas cleaning; others, of the melancholy sort, said it would 
be well if people would think less of reforming parliament and more of 
pleasing God. Irreproachable Dissenting matrons, like Mrs Muscat, whose 
youth had been passed in a short-waisted bodice and tight skirt, had never 
been animated by the struggle for liberty, and had a timid suspicion that 
religion was desecrated by being applied to the things of this world. Since 
Mr Lyon had been in Malthouse Yard there had been far too much mixing up of 
politics with religion; but, at any rate, these ladies had never yet been 
to hear speechifying in the market-place, and they were not going to begin 
that practice.
Esther, however, had heard some of her feminine acquaintances say that they 
intended to sit at the druggist's upper window, and she was inclined to ask 
her father if he could think of a suitable place where she also might see 
and hear. Two inconsistent motives urged her. She knew that Felix cared 
earnestly for all public questions, and she supposed that he held it one of 
her deficiencies not to care about them: well, she would try to learn the 
secret of this ardour, which was so strong in him that it animated what she 
thought the dullest form of life. She was not too stupid to find it out. 
But this self-correcting motive was presently displaced by a motive of a 
different sort. It had been a pleasant variety in her monotonous days to 
see a man like Harold Transome, with a distinguished appearance and 
polished manners, and she would like to see him again: he suggested to her 
that brighter and more luxurious life on which her imagination dwelt 
without the painful effort it required to conceive the mental condition 
which would place her in complete sympathy with Felix Holt. It was this 
less unaccustomed prompting of which she was chiefly conscious when she 
awaited her father's coming down to breakfast. Why, indeed, should she 
trouble herself so much about Felix?
Mr Lyon, more serene now that he had unbosomed his anxieties and obtained a 
promise of help, was already swimming so happily in the deep water of 
polemics in expectation of Philip Debarry's answer to his challenge, that, 
in the occupation of making a few notes lest certain felicitous 
inspirations should be wasted, he had forgotten to come down to breakfast. 
Esther, suspecting his abstraction, went up to his study, and found him at 
his desk looking up with wonder at her interruption.
"Come, father, you have forgotten your breakfast."
"It is true, child; I will come," he said, lingering to make some final 
strokes.
"O you naughty father!" said Esther, as he got up from his chair, "your 
coat-collar is twisted, your waistcoat is buttoned all wrong, and you have 
not brushed your hair. Sit down and let me brush it again as I did 
yesterday."
He sat down obediently, while Esther took a towel, which she threw over his 
shoulders, and then brushed the thick long fringe of soft auburn hair. This 
very trifling act, which she had brought herself to for the first time 
yesterday, meant a great deal in Esther's little history. It had been her 
habit to leave the mending of her father's clothes to Lyddy; she had not 
liked even to touch his cloth garments; still less had it seemed a thing 
she would willingly undertake to correct his toilette, and use a brush for 
him. But having once done this, under her new sense of faulty omission, the 
affectionateness that was in her flowed so pleasantly, as she saw how much 
her father was moved by what he thought a great act of tenderness, that she 
quite longed to repeat it. This morning, as he sat under her hands, his 
face had such a calm delight in it that she could not help kissing the top 
of his bald head; and afterwards, when they were seated at breakfast, she 
said, merrily -
"Father, I shall make a petit maitre of you by-and-by; your hair looks so 
pretty and silken when it is well brushed."
"Nay, child, I trust that while I would willingly depart from my evil habit 
of a somewhat slovenly forgetfulness in my attire, I shall never arrive at 
the opposite extreme. For though there is that in apparel which pleases the 
eye, and I deny not that your neat gown and the colour thereof - which is 
that of certain little flowers that spread themselves in the hedgerows, and 
make a blueness there as of the sky when it is deepened in the water, - I 
deny not, I say, that these minor strivings after a perfection which is, as 
it were, an irrecoverable yet haunting memory, are a good in their 
proportion. Nevertheless, the brevity of our life, and the hurry and crush 
of the great battle with error and sin, often oblige us to an advised 
neglect of what is less momentous This, I conceive, is the principle on 
which my friend Felix Holt acts; and I cannot but think the light comes 
from the true fount, though it shines through obstructions."
"You have not seen Mr Holt since Sunday, have you, father?"
"Yes; he was here yesterday. He sought Mr Transome, having a matter of some 
importance to speak upon with him. And I saw him afterwards in the street, 
when he agreed that I should call for him this morning before I go into the 
market-place. He will have it," Mr Lyon went on, smiling, "that I must not 
walk about in the crowd without him to act as my special constable."
Esther felt vexed with herself that her heart was suddenly beating with 
unusual quickness, and that her last resolution not to trouble herself 
about what Felix thought, had transformed itself with magic swiftness into 
mortification that he evidently avoided coming to the house when she was 
there, though he used to come on the slightest occasion. He knew that she 
was always at home until the afternoon on market days; that was the reason 
why he would not call for her father. Of course, it was because he 
attributed such littleness to her that he supposed she would retain nothing 
else than a feeling of offence towards him for what he had said to her. 
Such distrust of any good in others, such arrogance of immeasurable 
superiority, was extremely ungenerous. But presently she said -
"I should have liked to hear Mr Transome speak, but I suppose it is too 
late to get a place now."
"I am not sure; I would fain have you go if you desire it, my dear," said 
Mr Lyon, who could not bear to deny Esther any lawful wish. "Walk with me 
to Mistress Holt's, and we will learn from Felix, who will doubtless 
already have been out, whether he could lead you in safety to Friend 
Lambert's."
Esther was glad of the proposal, because, if it answered no other purpose, 
it would be an easy way of obliging Felix to see her, and of showing him 
that it was not she who cherished offence. But when, later in the morning, 
she was walking towards Mrs Holt's with her father, they met Mr Jermyn, who 
stopped them to ask, in his most affable manner, whether Miss Lyon intended 
to hear the candidate, and whether she had secured a suitable place. And he 
ended by insisting that his daughters, who were presently coming in an open 
carriage, should call for her, if she would permit them. It was impossible 
to refuse this civility, and Esther turned back to await the carriage, 
pleased with the certainty of hearing and seeing, yet sorry to miss Felix. 
There was another day for her to think of him with unsatisfied resentment, 
mixed with some longings for a better understanding; and in our spring-time 
every day has its hidden growths in the mind, as it has in the earth when 
the little folded blades are getting ready to pierce the ground.



Chapter 19

Consistency? - I never changed my mind,
Which is, and always was, to live at ease.

It was only in the time of the summer fairs that the market-place had ever 
looked more animated than it did under that autumn mid-day sun. There were 
plenty of blue cockades  and streamers, faces at all the windows, and a 
crushing buzzing crowd, urging each other backwards and forwards round the 
small hustings in front of the Ram Inn, which showed its more plebeian sign 
at right angles with the venerable Marquis of Granby. Sometimes there were 
scornful shouts, sometimes a rolling cascade of cheers, sometimes the 
shriek of a penny whistle; but above all these fitful and feeble sounds, 
the fine old church-tower, which looked down from above the trees on the 
other side of the narrow stream, sent vibrating, at every quarter, the 
sonorous tones of its great bell, the Good Queen Bess.
Two carriages, with blue ribbons on the hamess, were conspicuous near the 
hustings. One was Jermyn's, filled with the brilliantly-attired daughters, 
accompanied by Esther, whose quieter dress helped to mark her out for 
attention as the most striking of the group. The other was Harold 
Transsome's; but in this there was no lady - only the olive-skinned 
Dominic, whose acute yet mild face was brightened by the occupation of 
amusing little Harry and rescuing from his tyrannies a King Charles puppy, 
with big eyes, much after the pattern of the boy's.
This Trebian crowd did not count for much in the political force of the 
nation, but it was not the less determined as to lending or not lending its 
ears. No man was permitted to speak from the platform except Harold and his 
uncle Lingon, though, in the interval of expectation, several Liberals had 
come forward. Among these ill-advised persons the one whose attempt met the 
most emphatic resistance was Rufus Lyon. This might have been taken for 
resentment at the unreasonableness of the cloth, that, not content with 
pulpits, from whence to tyrannise over the ears of men, wishes to have the 
larger share of the platforms; but it was not so, for Mr Lingon was heard 
with much cheering, and would have been welcomed again.
The rector of Little Treby had been a favourite in the neighbourhood since 
the beginning of the century. A clergy-man thoroughly unclerical in his 
habits had a piquancy about him which made him a sort of practical joke. He 
had always been called Jack Lingon, or Parson Jack - sometimes, in older 
and less serious days, even "Cock-fighting Jack". He swore a little when 
the point of a joke seemed to demand it, and was fond of wearing a coloured 
bandana tied loosely over his cravat, together with large brown leather 
leggings; he spoke in a pithy familiar way that people could understand, 
and had none of that frigid mincingness called dignity, which some have 
thought a peculiar clerical disease. In fact, he was "a character" - 
something cheerful to think of, not entirely out of connection with Sunday 
and sermons. And it seemed in keeping that he should have turned sharp 
round in politics, his opinions being only part of the excellent joke 
called Parson Jack. When his red eagle face and white hair were seen on the 
platform, the Dissenters hardly cheered this questionable Radical; but to 
make amends, all the Tory farmers gave him a friendly "hurray". "Let's hear 
what old Jack will say for himself," was the predominant feeling among 
them; "he'll have something funny to say, I'll bet a penny."
It was only Lawyer Labron's young clerks and their hangers-on who were 
sufficiently dead to Trebian traditions to assail the parson with various 
sharp-edged interjections, such as broken shells, and cries of "Cock-a-
doodle-doo".
"Come now, my lads," he began, in his full, pompous, yet jovial tones, 
thrusting his hands into the stuffed-out pockets of his greatcoat, "I'll 
tell you what; I'm a parson, you know; I ought to return good for evil. So 
here are some good nuts for you to crack in return for your shells."
There was a roar of laughter and cheering as he threw handfuls of nuts and 
filberts among the crowd.
"Come, now, you'll say I used to be a Tory; and some of you, whose faces I 
know as well as I know the head of my own crab-stick, will say that's why 
I'm a good fellow. But now I'll tell you something else. It's for that very 
reason - that I used to be a Tory, and am a good fellow - that I go along 
with my nephew here, who is a thoroughgoing Liberal. For will anybody here 
come forward and say, "A good fellow has no need to tack about and change 
his road?" No, there's not one of you such a Tom-noddy. What's good for one 
time is bad for another. If anybody contradicts that, ask him to eat 
pickled pork when he's thirsty, and to bathe in the Lapp there when the 
spikes of ice are shooting. And that's the  eason why the men who are the 
best Liberals now are the very men who used to be the best Tories. There 
isn't a nastier horse than your horse that'll jib and back and turn round 
when there is but one road for him to go, and that's the road before him.
"And my nephew here - he comes of a Tory breed, you know - I'll answer for 
the Lingons. In the old Tory times there was never a pup belonging to a 
Lingon but would howl if a Whig came near him. The Lingon blood is good, 
rich old Tory blood - like good rich milk - and that's why, when the right 
time comes, it throws up a Liberal cream. The best sort of Tory turns to 
the best sort of Radical. There's plenty of Radical scum - I say, beware of 
the scum, and look out for the cream. And here's my nephew - some of the 
cream, if there is any: none of your Whigs, none of your painted water that 
looks as if it ran, and it's standing still all the while; none of your 
spinning-jenny fellows. A gentleman; but up to all sorts of business. I'm 
no fool myself; I'm forced to wink a good deal, for fear of seeing too 
much, for a neighbourly man must let himself be cheated a little. But 
though I've never been out of my own country, I know less about it than my 
nephew does. You may tell what he is, and only look at him. There's one 
sort of fellow sees nothing but the end of his own nose, and another sort 
that sees nothing but the hinder side of the moon; but my nephew Harold is 
of another sort; he sees everything that's at hitting distance, and he's 
not one to miss his mark. A good-looking man in his prime! Not a greenhorn; 
not a shrivelled old fellow, who'll come to speak to you and find he's left 
his teeth at home by mistake. Harold Transome will do you credit; if 
anybody says the Radicals are a set of sneaks, Brummagem halfpennies, 
scamps who want to play pitch and toss with the property of the country, 
you can say, "Look at the member for North Loamshire ! " And mind what 
you'll hear him say; he'll go in for making everything right - Poor-laws 
and charities and church - he wants to reform 'em all. Perhaps you'll say, 
"There's that Parson Lingon talking about church reform - why, he belongs 
to the church himself - he wants reforming too." Well, well, wait a bit, 
and you'll hear by-and-by that old Parson Lingon is reformed - shoots no 
more cracks his joke no more, has drunk his last bottle: the dogs the old 
pointers, will be sorry; but you'll hear that the parson at Little Treby is 
a new man. That's what church reform is sure to come to before long. So now 
here are some more nuts for you, lads, and I leave you to listen to your 
candidate. Here he is - give him a good hurray; wave your hats, and I'll 
begin. Hurray!
Harold had not been quite confident beforehand as to the good effect of his 
uncle's introduction; but he was soon reassured. There was no acrid 
partisanship among the oldfashioned Tories who mustered strong about the 
Marquis of Granby, and Parson Jack had put them in a good humour. Harold's 
only interruption came from his own party. The oratorical clerk at the 
factory, acting as the tribune of the dissenting interest, and feeling 
bound to put questions, might have been troublesome; but his voice being 
unpleasantly sharp, while Harold's was full and penetrating, the 
questioning was cried down. Harold's speech "did": it was not of the glib-
nonsensical sort, not ponderous, not hesitating - which is as much as to 
say, that it was remarkable among British speeches. Read in print the next 
day, perhaps it would be neither pregnant nor conclusive, which is saying 
no more than that its excellence was not of an abnormal kind, but such as 
is usually found in the best efforts of eloquent candidates. Accordingly 
the applause drowned the opposition, and content predominated.
But, perhaps, the moment of most diffusive pleasure from public speaking is 
that in which the speech ceases and the audience can turn to commenting on 
it. The one speech, sometimes uttered under great responsibility as to 
missiles and other consequences, has given a text to twenty speakers who 
are under no responsibility. Even in the days of duelling a man was not 
challenged for being a bore, nor does this quality apparently hinder him 
from being much invited to dinner, which is the great index of social 
responsibility in a less barbarous age.
Certainly the crowd in the market-place seemed to experience this 
culminating enjoyment when the speaking on the platform in front of the Ram 
had ceased, and there were no less than three orators holding forth from 
the elevation of chance vehicles, not at all to the prejudice of the 
talking among those who were on a level with their neighbours. There was 
little ill-humour among the listeners, for Queen Bess was striking the last 
quarter before two, and a savoury smell from the inn kitchens inspired them 
with an agreeable consciousness that the speakers were helping to trifle 
away the brief time before dinner.
Two or three of Harold's committee had lingered talking to each other on 
the platform, instead of re-entering; and Jermyn, after coming out to speak 
to one of them, had tunred to the corner near which the carriages were 
standing, that he might tell the Transomes' coachman to drive round to the 
side door, and signal to his own coachman to follow. But a dialogue which 
was going on below induced him to pause, and, instead of giving the order, 
to assume the air of a careless gazer. Christian, whom the attorney had 
already observed looking out of a window at the Marquis of Granby, was 
talking to Dominic. The meeting appeared to be one of new recognition, for 
Christian was saying -
"You've not got grey as I have, Mr Lenoni; you're not a day older for the 
sixteen years. But no wonder you didn't know me; I'm bleached like a dried 
bone."
"Not so. It is true I was confused a meenute - I could put your face 
nowhere; but after that, Naples came behind it, and I said, Mr Creestian. 
And so you reside at the Manor, and I am at Transome Court."
"Ah I it's a thousand pities you're not on our side, else we might have 
dined together at the Marquis," said Christian. "Eh, could you manage it?" 
he added, languidly, knowing there was no chance of a yes.
"No - much obliged - couldn't leave the leetle boy. Ahi I Arry, Arry, pinch 
not poor Moro."
While Dominic was answering, Christian had stared about him, as his manner 
was when he was being spoken to, and had had his eyes arrested by Esther, 
who was leaning forward to look at Mr Harold Transome's extraordinary 
little gipsy of a son. But happening to meet Christian's stare, she felt 
annoyed, drew back, and turned away her head, colouring.
"Who are those ladies?" said Christian, in a low tone, to Dominic, as if he 
had been startled into a sudden wish for this information.
"They are Meester Jermyn's daughters," said Dominic, who knew nothing 
either of the lawyer's family or of Esther.
Christian looked puzzled a moment or two, and was silent.
"O, well - au revoir," he said, kissing the tips of his fingers, as the 
coachman, having had Jermyn's order, began to urge on the horses.
"Does he see some likeness in the girl?" thought Jermyn, as he turned away. 
"I wish I hadn't invited her to come in the carriage, as it happens."



Chapter 20

"Good earthenware pitchers, sir! - of an excellent quaint pattern and sober 
colour."

The market dinner at "the Marquis" was in high repute in Treby and its 
neighbourhood. The frequenters of this three-and-sixpenny ordinary liked to 
allude to it, as men allude to anything which implies that they move in 
good society, and habitually converse with those who are in the secret of 
the highest affairs. The guests were not only such rural residents as had 
driven to market, but some of the most substantial townsmen, who had always 
assured their wives that business required this weekly sacrifice of 
domestic pleasure. The poorer farmers, who put up at the Ram or the Seven 
Stars, where there was no fish, felt their disadvantage, bearing it 
modestly or bitterly, as the case might be; and although the Marquis was a 
Tory house, devoted to Debarry, it was too much to expect that such tenants 
of the Transomes as had always been used to dine there, should consent to 
eat a worse dinner, and sit with worse company, because they suddenly found 
themselves under a Radical landlord, opposed to the political party known 
as Sir Maxim's. Hence the recent political divisions had not reduced the 
handsome length of the table at the Marquis; and the many gradations of 
dignity - from Mr Wace, the brewer, to the rich butcher from Leek Malton, 
who always modestly took the lowest seat, though without the reward of 
being asked to come up higher - had not been abbreviated by any secessions.
To-day there was an extra table spread for expected supernumeraries, and it 
was at this that Christian took his place with some of the younger farmers, 
who had almost a sense of dissipation in talking to a man of his 
questionable station and unknown experience. The provision was especially 
liberal, and on the whole the presence of a minority destined to vote for 
Transome was a ground for joking, which added to the good-humour of the 
chief talkers. A respectable old acquaintance turned Radical rather against 
his will, was rallied with even greater gusto than if his wife had had 
twins twice over. The best Trebian Tories were far too sweet-blooded to 
turn against such old friends, and to make no distinction between them and 
the Radical, Dissenting, Papistical, Deistical set with whom they never 
dined, and probably never saw except in their imagination. But the talk was 
necessarily in abeyance until the more serious business of dinner was 
ended, and the wine, spirits, and tobacco raised mere satisfaction into 
beatitude.
Among the frequent though not regular guests, whom every one was glad to 
see, was Mr Nolan, the retired London hosier, a wiry old gentleman past 
seventy, whose square tight forehead, with its rigid hedge of grey hair, 
whose bushy eyebrows, sharp dark eyes, and remarkable hooked nose, gave a 
handsome distinction to his face in the midst of rural physiognomies. He 
had married a Miss Pendrell early in life, when he was a poor young 
Londoner, and the match had been thought as bad as ruin by her family; but 
fifteen years ago he had had the satisfaction of bringing his wife to 
settle amongst her own friends, and of being received with pride as a 
brother-in-law, retired from business, possessed of unknown thousands, and 
of a most agreeable talent for anecdote and conversation generally. No 
question had ever been raised as to Mr Nolan's extraction on the strength 
of his hooked nose, or of his name being Baruch. Hebrew names "ran' in the 
best Saxon families; the Bible accounted for them; and no one among the 
uplands and hedgerows of that district was suspected of having an Oriental 
origin unless he carried a pedlar's jewel-box. Certainly, whatever 
genealogical research might have discovered, the worthy Baruch Nolan was so 
free from any distinctive marks of religious persuasion - he went to church 
with so ordinary an irregularity, and so often grumbled at the sermon - 
that there was no ground for classing him otherwise than with good Trebian 
Churchmen. He was generally regarded as a good-looking old gentleman, and a 
certain thin eagerness in his aspect was attributed to the life of the 
metropolis, where narrow space had the same sort of effect on men as on 
thickly-planted trees. Mr Nolan always ordered his pint of port, which, 
after he had sipped it a little, was wont to animate his recollections of 
the Royal Family, and the various ministries which had been contemporary 
with the successive stages of his prosperity. He was always listened to 
with interest: a man who had been born in the year when good old King 
George I came to the throne - who had been acquainted with the nude leg of 
the Prince Regent, and hinted at private reasons for believing that the 
Princess Charlotte ought not to have died - had conversational matter as 
special to his auditors as Marco Polo could have had on his return from 
Asiatic travel.
"My good sir," he said to Mr Wace, as he crossed his knees and spread his 
silk handkerchief over them, "Transome may be returned, or he may not be 
returned - that's a question for North Loamshire; but it makes little 
difference to the kingdom. I don't want to say things which may put younger 
men out of spirits, but I believe this country has seen its best days - I 
do indeed."
"I am sorry to hear it from one of your experience, Mr Nolan," said the 
brewer, a large happy-looking man. "I'd make a good fight myself before I'd 
leave a worse world for my boys than I've found for myself. There isn't a 
greater pleasure than doing a bit of planting and improving one's 
buildings, and investing one's money in some pretty acres of land, when it 
turns up here and there - land you've known from a boy. It's a nasty 
thought that these Radicals are to turn things round so as one can 
calculate on nothing. One doesn't like it for one's self, and one doesn't 
like it for one's neighbours. But somehow, I believe it won't do: if we 
can't trust the government just now, there's providence and the good sense 
of the country; and there's a right in things - that's what I've always 
said - there's a right in things. The heavy end will get downmost. And if 
church and king, and every man being sure of his own, are things good for 
this country, there's a God above will take care of 'em."
"It won't do, my dear sir," said Mr Nolan - "it won't do. When Peel and the 
duke turned round about the Catholics in "29, I saw it was all over with 
us. We could never trust ministers any more. It was to keep off a 
rebellion, they said; but I say it was to keep their places. They're 
monstrously fond of place, both of them - that I know." Here Mr Nolan 
changed the crossing of his legs, and gave a deep cough, conscious of 
having made a point. Then he went on - "What we want is a king with a good 
will of his own. If we'd had that, we shouldn't have heard what we've heard 
today; reform would never have come to this pass. When our good old King 
George the Third heard his ministers talking about Catholic Emancipation, 
he boxed their ears all round. Ah, poor soul! he did indeed, gentlemen," 
ended Mr Nolan, shaken by a deep laugh of admiration.
"Well, now, that's something like a king," said Mr Crowder, who was an 
eager listener.
"It was uncivil, though. How did they take it?" said Mr Timothy Rose, a 
"gentleman farmer" from Leek Malton, against whose independent position 
nature had provided the safeguard of a spontaneous servility. His large 
porcine cheeks, round twinkling eyes, and thumbs habitually twirling, 
expressed a concentrated effort not to get into trouble, and to speak 
everybody fair except when they were safely out of hearing.
"Take it! they'd be obliged to take it," said the impetuous young Joyce, a 
farmer of superior information. "Have you ever heard of the king's 
prerogative?"
"I don't say but what I have," said Rose, retreating. "I've nothing against 
it - nothing at all."
"No, but the Radicals have," said young Joyce, winking. "The prerogative is 
what they want to clip close. They want us to be governed by delegates from 
the trades-unions, who are to dictate to everybody, and make everything 
square to their mastery."
"They're a pretty set, now, those delegates," said Mr Wace, with disgust. 
"I once heard two of 'em spouting away. They're a sort of fellow I'd never 
employ in my brewery, or anywhere else. I've seen it again and again. If a 
man takes to tongue-work it's all over with him. "Everything's wrong," says 
he. That's a big text. But does he want to make everything right? Not he. 
He'd lose his text. "We want every man's good," say they. Why, they never 
knew yet what a man's good is. How should they? It's working for his 
victual - not getting a slice of other people's."
"Ay, ay," said young Joyce, cordially. "I should just have liked all the 
delegates in the country mustered for our yeomanry to go into - that's all. 
They'd see where the strength of Old England lay then. You may tell what it 
is for a country to trust to trade when it breeds such spindling fellows as 
those."
"That isn't the fault of trade, my good sir," said Mr Nolan, who was often 
a little pained by the defects of provincial culture. "Trade, properly 
conducted, is good for a man's constitution. I could have shown you, in my 
time, weavers past seventy, with all their faculties as sharp as a 
penknife, doing without spectacles. It's the new system of trade that's to 
blame: a country can't have too much trade, if it's properly managed. 
Plenty of sound Tories have made their fortune by trade. You've heard of 
Calibut & Co. - everybody has heard of Calibut. Well, sir, I knew old Mr 
Calibut as well as I know you. He was once a crony of mine in a city 
warehouse; and now, I'll answer for it, he has a larger rent-roll than Lord 
Wyvern. Bless your soul! his subscriptions to charities would make a fine 
income for a nobleman. And he's as good a Tory as I am. And as for his town 
establishment - why, how much butter do you think is consumed there 
annually?"
Mr Nolan paused, and then his face glowed with triumph as he answered his 
own question. "Why, gentlemen, not less than two thousand pounds of butter 
during the few months the family is in town! Trade makes property, my good 
sir, and property is Conservative, as they say now. Calibut's son-in-law is 
Lord Fortinbras. He paid me a large debt on his marriage. It's all one web, 
sir. The prosperity of the country is one web."
"To be sure," said Christian, who, smoking his cigar with his chair turned 
away from the table, was willing to make himself agreeable in the 
conversation. "We can't do without nobility. Look at France. When they got 
rid of the old nobles they were obliged to make new."
"True, very true," said Mr Nolan, who thought Christian a little too wise 
for his position, but could not resist the rare gift of an instance in 
point. "It's the French Revolution that has done us harm here. It was the 
same at the end of the last century, but the war kept it off - Mr Pitt 
saved us. I knew Mr Pitt. I had a particular interview with him once. He 
joked me about getting the length of his foot. "Mr Nolan," said he, "there 
are those on the other side of the water whose name begins with N. who 
would be glad to know what you know." I was recommended to send an account 
of that to the newspapers after his death, poor man! but I'm not fond of 
that kind of show myself." Mr Nolan swung his upper leg a little, and 
pinched his lip between thumb and finger, naturally pleased with his own 
moderation.
"No, no, very right," said Mr Wace, cordially. "But you never said a truer 
word than that about property. If a man's got a bit of property, a stake in 
the country, he'll want to keep things square. Where Jack isn't safe, Tom's 
in danger. But that's what makes it such an uncommonly nasty thing that a 
man like Transome should take up with these Radicals. It's my belief he 
does it only to get into parliament; he'll turn round when he gets there. 
Come, Dibbs, there's something to put you in spirits," added Mr Wace, 
raising his voice a little and looking at a guest lower down. "You've got 
to vote for a Radical with one side of your mouth, and make a wry face with 
the other; but he'll turn round by-and-by. As Parson Jack says, he's got 
the right sort of blood in him."
"I don't care two straws who I vote for," said Dibbs, sturdily. "I'm not 
going to make a wry face. It stands to reason a man should vote for his 
landlord. My farm's in good condition, and I've got the best pasture on the 
estate. The rot's never come nigh me. Let them grumble as are on the wrong 
side of the hedge."
"I wonder if Jermyn'll bring him in, though," said Mr Sircome, the great 
miller. "He's an uncommon fellow for carrying things through. I know he 
brought me through that suit about my weir; it cost a pretty penny, but he 
brought me through."
"It's a bit of a pill for him, too, having to turn Radical," said Mr Wace. 
"They say he counted on making friends with Sir Maximus, by this young one 
coming home and joining with Mr Philip."
"But I'll bet a penny he brings Transome in," said Mr Sircome. "Folks say 
he hasn't got many votes hereabout; but towards Duffield, and all there, 
where the Radicals are, everybody's for him. Eh, Mr Christian? Come - 
you're at the fountainhead - what do they say about it now at the Manor?"
When general attention was called to Christian, young Joyce looked down at 
his own legs and touched the curves of his own hair, as if measuring his 
own approximation to that correct copy of a gentleman. Mr Wace turned his 
head to listen for Christian's answer with that tolerance of inferiority 
which becomes men in places of public resort.
"They think it will be a hard run between Transome and Garstin," said 
Christian. "It depends on Transome's getting plumpers."
"Well, I know I shall not split for Garstin," said Mr Wace. "It's nonsense 
for Debarry's voters to split for a Whig. A man's either a Tory or not a 
Tory."

"It seems reasonable there should be one of each side," said Mr Timothy 
Rose. "I don't like showing favour either way. If one side can't lower the 
poor's rates and take off the tithe, let the other try."
"But there's this in it, Wace," said Mr Sircome. "I'm not altogether 
against the Whigs. For they don't want to go so far as the Radicals do, and 
when they find they've slipped a bit too far, they'll hold on all the 
tighter. And the Whigs have got the upper hand now, and it's no use 
fighting with the current. I run with the - "
Mr Sircome checked himself, looked furtively at Christian, and, to divert 
criticism, ended with - "eh, Mr Nolan?"
"There have been eminent Whigs, sir. Mr Fox was a Whig," said Mr Nolan. "Mr 
Fox was a great orator. He gambled a good deal. He was very intimate with 
the Prince of Wales. I've seen him, and the Duke of York" too, go home by 
daylight with their hats crushed. Mr Fox was a great leader of the 
Opposition: Government requires an Opposition. The Whigs should always be 
in opposition, and the Tories on the ministerial side. That's what the 
country used to like. "The Whigs for salt and mustard, the Tories for 
meat," Mr Gottlib the banker used to say to me. Mr Gottlib was a worthy 
man. When there was a great run on Gottlib's bank in "16, I saw a gentleman 
come in with bags of gold, and say, "Tell Mr Gottlib there's plenty more 
where that came from." It stopped the run, gentlemen - it did indeed."
This anecdote was received with great admiration, but Mr Sircome returned 
to the previous question.
"There now, you see, Wace - it's right there should be Whigs as well as 
Tories - Pitt and Fox - I've always heard them go together."
"Well, I don't like Garstin," said the brewer. "I didn't like his conduct 
about the canal company. Of the two, I like Transome best. If a nag is to 
throw me, I say, let him have some blood."
"As for blood, Wace," said Mr Salt, the wool-factor, a relious man, who 
only spoke when there was a good opportunity of contradicting, "ask my 
brother-in-law Labron a little about that. These Transomes are not the old 
blood."
"Well, they're the oldest that's forthcoming, I suppose," said Mr Wace, 
laughing. "Unless you believe in mad old Tommy Trounsem. I wonder where 
that old poaching fellow is now."
"I saw him half-drunk the other day," said young Joyce. "He'd got a flag-
basket with hand-bills in it over his shoulder."
"I thought the old fellow was dead," said Mr Wace. "Hey I why, Jermyn," he 
went on merrily, as he turned round and saw the attorney entering; "you 
Radical! how dare you show yourself in this Tory house? Come, this is going 
a bit too far. We don't mind Old Harry managing our law for us - that's his 
proper business from time immemorial; but - "
"But - a - " said Jermyn, smiling, always ready to carry on a joke, to 
which his slow manner gave the piquancy of surprise, "if he meddles with 
politics he must be a Tory."
Jermyn was not afraid to show himself anywhere in Treby. He knew many 
people were not exactly fond of him, but a man can do without that, if he 
is prosperous. A provincial lawyer in those old-fashioned days was as 
independent of personal esteem as if he had been a Lord Chancellor.
There was a good-humoured laugh at this upper end of the room as Jermyn 
seated himself at about an equal angle between Mr Wace and Christian.
"We were talking about old Tommy Trounsem; you remember him? They say he's 
turned up again," said Mr Wace.
"Ah?" said Jermyn, indifferently. "But - a - Wace - I'm very busy today - 
but I wanted to see you about that bit of land of yours at the corner of 
Pod's End. I've had a handsome offer for you - I'm not at liberty to say 
from whom - but an offer that ought to tempt you."
"It won't tempt me," said Mr Wace, peremptorily; "if I've got a bit of 
land, I'll keep it. It's hard enough to get hereabouts."
"Then I'm to understand that you refuse all negotiation?" said Jermyn, who 
had ordered a glass of sherry, and was looking round slowly as he sipped 
it, till his eyes seemed to rest for the first time on Christian, though he 
had seen him at once on entering the room.
"Unless one of the confounded railways should come. But then I'll stand out 
and make 'em bleed for it."
There was a murmur of approbation; the railways were a public wrong much 
denunciated in Treby.
"A - Mr Philip Debarry at the Manor now?" said Jermyn, suddenly questioning 
Christian, in a haughty tone of superiority which he often chose to use.
"No," said Christian, "he is expected tomorrow morning."
"Ah! - " Jermyn paused a moment or two, and then said, "You are 
sufficiently in his confidence, I think, to carry a message to him with a 
small document?"
"Mr Debarry has often trusted me so far," said Christian, with much 
coolness; "but if the business is yours, you can probably find some one you 
know better."
There was a little winking and grimacing among those of the company who 
heard this answer.
"A - true - a," said Jermyn, not showing any offence; "if you decline. But 
I think, if you will do me the favour to step round to my residence on your 
way back, and learn the business, you will prefer carrying it yourself. At 
my residence, if you please - not my office."
"O very well," said Christian. "I shall be very happy." Christian never 
allowed himself to be treated as a servant by any one but his master, and 
his master treated a servant more deferentially than an equal.
"Will it be five o'clock? what hour shall we say?" said Jermyn.
Christian looked at his watch and said, "About five I can be there."
"Very good," said Jermyn, finishing his sherry.
"Well - a - Wace - a - so you will hear nothing about Pod's End?"
"Not I."
"A mere pocket-handkerchief, not enough to swear by - a - " here Jermyn's 
face broke into a smile - "without a magnifying-glass."
"Never mind. It's mine into the bowels of the earth and up to the sky. I 
can build the Tower of Babel on it if I like - eh, Mr Nolan?"
"A bad investment, my good sir," said Mr Nolan, who enjoyed a certain 
flavour of infidelity in this smart reply, and laughed much at it in his 
inward way.
"See now, how blind you Tories are," said Jermyn, rising; "if I had been 
your lawyer, I'd have had you make another forty-shilling freeholder with 
that land, and all in time for this election. But - a - the verbum 
sapientibus comes a little too late now."
Jermyn was moving away as he finished speaking, but Mr Wace called out 
after him, "We're not so badly off for voices as you are - good sound 
votes, that'll stand the revising barrister. Debarry at the top of the 
poll!"
The lawyer was already out of the doorway.



Chapter 21

"Tis grievous, that with all amplification of travel both by sea and land, 
a man can never separate himself from his past history.

Mr Jermyn's handsome house stood a little way out of the town, surrounded 
by garden and lawn and plantations of hopeful trees. As Christian 
approached it he was in a perfectly easy state of mind: the business he was 
going on was none of his, otherwise than as he was well satisfied with any 
opportunity of making himself valuable to Mr Philip Debarry. As he looked 
at Jermyn's length of wall and iron railing, he said to himself, "These 
lawyers are the fellows for getting on in the world with the least expense 
of civility. With this cursed conjuring secret of theirs called Law, they 
think everybody's frightened at them. My Lord Jermyn seems to have his 
insolence as ready as his soft sawder. He's as sleek as a rat, and has as 
vicious a tooth. I know the sort of vermin well enough. I've helped to 
fatten one or two."
In this mood of conscious, contemptuous penetration, Christian was shown by 
the footman into Jermyn's private room, where the attorney sat surrounded 
with massive oaken bookcases, and other furniture to correspond, from the 
thickest-legged library-table to the calendar frame and card-rack. It was 
the sort of room a man prepares for himself when he feels sure of a long 
and respectable future. He was leaning back in his leather chair, against 
the broad window opening on the lawn, and had just taken off his spectacles 
and let the newspaper fall on his knees, in despair of reading by the 
fading light.
When the footman opened the door and said, "Mr Christian," Jermyn said, 
"Good evening, Mr Christian. Be seated," pointing to a chair opposite 
himself and the window. "Light the candles on the shelf, John, but leave 
the blinds alone."
He did not speak again till the man was gone out, but appeared to be 
referring to a document which lay on the bureau before him. When the door 
was closed he drew himself up again, began to rub his hands, and turned 
towards his visitor, who seemed perfectly indifferent to the fact that the 
attorney was in shadow, and that the light fell on himself. "A - your name 
- a - is Henry Scaddon."
There was a start through Christian's frame which he was quick enough, 
almost simultaneously, to try and disguise as a change of position. He 
uncrossed his legs and unbuttoned his coat. But before he had time to say 
anything, Jermyn went on with slow emphasis.
"You were born on the 16th of December 1782, at Blackheath Your father was 
a cloth-merchant in London: he died when you were barely of age, leaving an 
extensive business; before you were five-and-twenty you had run through the 
greater part of the property, and had compromised your safety by an attempt 
to defraud your creditors. Subsequently you forged a cheque on your 
father's elder brother, who had intended to make you his heir."
Here Jermyn paused a moment and referred to the document. Christian was 
silent.
"In 1808 you found it expedient to leave this country in a military 
disguise, and were taken prisoner by the French. On the occasion of an 
exchange of prisoners you had the opportunity of returning to your own 
country, and to the bosom of your own family. You were generous enough to 
sacrifice that prospect in favour of a fellow-prisoner, of about your own 
age and figure, who had more pressing reasons than yourself for wishing to 
be on this side of the water. You exchanged dress, luggage, and names with 
him, and he passed to England instead of you as Henry Scaddon. Almost 
immediately afterwards you escaped from your imprisonment, after feigning 
an illness which prevented your exchange of names from being discovered; 
and it was reported that you - that is, you under the name of your fellow-
prisoner - were drowned in an open boat, trying to reach a Neapolitan 
vessel bound for Malta. Nevertheless I have to congratulate you on the 
falsehood of that report, and on the certainty that you are now, after the 
lapse of more than twenty years, seated here in perfect safety."
Jermyn paused so long that he was evidently awaiting some answer. At last 
Christian replied, in a dogged tone -
"Well, sir, I've heard much longer stories than that told quite as 
solemnly, when there was not a word of truth in them. Suppose I deny the 
very peg you hang your statement on. Suppose I say I am not Henry Scaddon."
"A - in that case - a," said Jermyn, with a wooden indifference, "you would 
lose the advantage which - a - may attach to your possession of Henry 
Scaddon's knowledge. And at the same time, if it were in the least - a - 
inconvenient to you that you should be recognised as Henry Scaddon, your 
denial would not prevent me from holding the knowledge and evidence which I 
possess on that point; it would only prevent us from pursuing the present 
conversation."
"Well, sir, suppose we admit, for the sake of the conversation, that your 
account of the matter is the true one: what advantage have you to offer the 
man named Henry Scaddon ?"
"The advantage - a - is problematical; but it may be considerable. It 
might, in fact, release you from the necessity of acting as courier, or - a 
- valet, or whatever other office you may occupy which prevents you from 
being your own master. On the other hand, my acquaintance with your secret 
is not necessarily a disadvantage to you. To put the matter in a nutshell, 
I am not inclined - a - gratuitously - to do you any harm, and I may be 
able to do you a considerable service."
"Which you want me to earn somehow?" said Christian. "You offer me a turn 
in a lottery?"
"Precisely. The matter in question is of no earthly interest to you, except 
- a - as it may yield you a prize. We lawyers have to do with complicated 
questions, and - a - legal subtleties, which are never - a - fully known 
even to the parties immediately interested, still less to the witnesses. 
Shall we agree, then, that you continue to retain two-thirds of the name 
which you gained by exchange, and that you oblige me by answering certain 
questions as to the experience of Henry Scaddon?"
"Very good. Go on."
"What articles of property, once belonging to your fellow-prisoner, Maurice 
Christian Bycliffe, do you still retain?"
"This ring," said Christian, twirling round the fine seal-ring on his 
finger, "his watch, and the little matters that hung with it, and a case of 
papers. I got rid of a gold snuff-box once when I was hard-up. The clothes 
are all gone, of course. We exchanged everything; it was all done in a 
hurry. Bycliffe thought we should meet again in England before long, and he 
was mad to get there. But that was impossible - I mean that we should meet 
soon after. I don't know what's become of him, else I would give him up his 
papers and the watch, and so on - though, you know, it was I who did him 
the service, and he felt that."
"You were at Vesoul together before being moved to Verdun?"
"Yes."
"What else do you know about Bycliffe?"
"O, nothing very particular," said Christian, pausing, and rapping his boot 
with his cane. "He'd been in the Hanoverian army - a high-spirited fellow, 
took nothing easily; not overstrong in health. He made a fool of himself 
with marrying at Vesoul; and there was the devil to pay with the girl's 
relations; and then, when the prisoners were ordered off, they had to part. 
Whether they ever got together again I don't know."
"Was the marriage all right, then?"
"O, all on the square - civil marriage, church - everything. Bycliffe was a 
fool - a good-natured, proud, head-strong fellow."
"How long did the marriage take place before you left Vesoul?"
"About three months. I was a witness to the marriage."
"And you know no more about the wife?"
"Not afterwards. I knew her very well before - pretty Annette - Annette 
Ledru was her name. She was of a good family, and they had made up a fine 
match for her. But she was one of your meek little diablesses, who have a 
will of their own once in their lives - the will to choose their own 
master."
"Bycliffe was not open to you about his other affairs7"
"O no - a fellow you wouldn't dare to ask a question of. People told him 
everything, but he told nothing in return. If Madame Annette ever found him 
again, she found her lord and master with a vengeance; but she was a 
regular lapdog. However, her family shut her up - made a prisoner of her - 
to prevent her running away."
"Ah - good. Much of what you have been so obliging as to say is irrelevant 
to any possible purpose of mine, which, in fact, has to do only with a 
mouldy law-case that might be aired some day. You will doubtless, on your 
own account, maintain perfect silence on what has passed between us, and 
with that condition duly preserved - a - it is possible that - a - the 
lottery you have put into - as you observe - may turn up a prize."
"This, then, is all the business you have with me?" said Christian, rising.
"All. You will, of course, preserve carefully all the papers and other 
articles which have so many - a - recollections - a - attached to them?"
"O yes. If there's any chance of Bycliffe turning up again, I shall be 
sorry to have parted with the snuff-box; but I was hard-up at Naples. In 
fact, as you see, I was obliged at last to turn courier."
"An exceedingly agreeable life for a man of some - a - accomplishments and 
- a - no income," said Jermyn, rising, and reaching a candle, which he 
placed against his desk.
Christian knew this was a sign that he was expected to go, but he lingered 
standing, with one hand on the back of his chair. At last he said, rather 
sulkily -
"I think you're too clever, Mr Jermyn, not to perceive that I'm not a man 
to be made a fool of."
"Well - a - it may perhaps be a still better guarantee for you," said 
Jermyn, smiling, "that I see no use in attempting that - a - 
metamorphosis."
The old gentleman, who ought never to have felt himself injured, is dead 
now, and I'm not afraid of creditors after more than twenty years."
"Certainly not; - a - there may indeed be claims which can't assert 
themselves - a - legally, which yet are molesting to a man of some 
reputation. But you may perhaps be happily free from such fears."
Jermyn drew round his chair towards the bureau, and Christian, too acute to 
persevere uselessly, said, "Good-day," and left the room.
After leaning back in his chair to reflect a few minutes, Jermyn wrote the 
following letter:

Dear Johnson, - I learn from your letter, received this morning, that you 
intend returning to town on Saturday.
While you are there, be so good as to see Medwin, who used to be with Batt 
& Cowley, and ascertain from him indirectly, and in the course of 
conversation on other topics, whether in that old business in 1810-11, 
Scaddon alias Bycliffe, or Bycliffe alias Scaddon, before his imprisonment, 
gave Batt & Cowley any reason to believe that he was married and expected 
to have a child. The question, as you know, is of no practical importance; 
but I wish to draw up an abstract of the Bycliffe case, and the exact 
position in which it stood before the suit was closed by the death of the 
plaintiiff, in order that, if Mr Harold Transome desires it, he may see how 
the failure of the last claim has secured the Durfey-Transome title, and 
whether there is a hair's-breadth of a chance that another claim should be 
set up.
Of course there is not a shadow of such a chance. For even if Batt & Cowley 
were to suppose that they had alighted on a surviving representative of the 
Bycliffes, it would not enter into their heads to set up a new claim, since 
they brought evidence that the last life which suspended the Bycliffe 
remainder was extinct before the case was closed, a good twenty years ago.
Still, I want to show the present heir of the Durfey-Transomes the exact 
condition of the family title to the estates. So get me an answer from 
Medwin on the above-mentioned point.
I shall meet you at Duffield next week. We must get Transome returned. 
Never mind his having been a little rough the other day, but go on doing 
what you know is necessary for his interest. His interest is mine, which I 
need not say is John Johnson's. - Yours faithfully, 
	Matthew Jermyn.

When the attorney had sealed this letter and leaned back in his chair 
again, he was inwardly saying -
"Now, Mr Harold, I shall shut up this affair in a private drawer till you 
choose to take any extreme measures which will force me to bring it out. I 
have the matter entirely in my own power. No one but old Lyon knows about 
the girl's birth. No one but Scaddon can clinch the evidence about 
Bycliffe, and I've got Scaddon under my thumb. No soul except myself and 
Johnson, who is a limb of myself, knows that there is one half-dead life 
which may presently leave the girl a new claim to the Bycliffe heirship. I 
shall learn through Methurst whether Batt & Cowley knew, through Bycliffe, 
of this woman having come to England. I shall hold all the threads between 
my thumb and finger. I can use the evidence or I can nullify it.
"And so, if Mr Harold pushes me to extremity, and threatens me with 
Chancery and ruin, I have an opposing threat, which will either save me or 
turn into a punishment for him."
He rose, put out his candles, and stood with his back to the fire, looking 
out on the dim lawn, with its black twilight fringe of shrubs, still 
meditating. Quick thought was gleaming over five-and-thirty years filled 
with devices more or less clever, more or less desirable to be avowed. 
Those which might be avowed with impunity were not always to be 
distinguished as innocent by comparison with those which it was advisable 
to conceal. In a profession where much that is noxious may be done without 
disgrace, is a conscience likely to be without balm when circumstances have 
urged a man to overstep the line where his good technical information makes 
him aware that (with discovery) disgrace is likely to begin?
With regard to the Transome affairs, the family had been in pressing need 
of money, and it had lain with him to get it for them: was it to be 
expected that he would not consider his own advantage where he had rendered 
services such as are never fully paid? If it came to a question of right 
and wrong instead of law, the least justifiable things he had ever done had 
been done on behalf of the Transomes. It had been a deucedly unpleasant 
thing for him to get Bycliffe arrested and thrown into prison as Henry 
Scaddon - perhaps hastening the man's death in that way. But if it had not 
been done by dint of his (Jermyn's) exertions and tact, he would like to 
know where the Durfey-Transomes might have been by this time. As for right 
or wrong, if the truth were known, the very possession of the estate by the 
Durfey-Transomes was owing to law-tricks that took place nearly a century 
ago, when the original old Durfey got his base fee.
But inward argument of this sort now, as always, was merged in anger, in 
exasperation, that Harold, precisely Harold Transome should have turned out 
to be the probable instrument of a visitation which would be bad luck, not 
justice; for is there any justice where ninety-nine out of a hundred 
escape? He felt himself beginning to hate Harold as he had never -
Just then Jermyn's third daughter, a tall slim girl wrapped in a white 
woollen shawl, which she had hung over her blanketwise, skipped across the 
lawn towards the greenhouse to get a flower. Jermyn was startled, and did 
not identify the figure, or rather he identified it falsely with another 
tall white-wrapped figure which had sometimes set his heart beating quickly 
more than thirty years before. For a moment he was fully back in those 
distant years when he and another bright-eyed person had seen no reason why 
they should not indulge their passion and their vanity, and determine for 
themselves how their lives should be made delightful in spite of 
unalterable external conditions. The reasons had been unfolding themselves 
gradually ever since through all the years which had converted the 
handsome, soft-eyed, slim young Jermyn (with a touch of sentiment) into a 
portly lawyer of sixty, for whom life had resolved itself into the means of 
keeping up his head among his professional brethren and maintaining an 
establishment - into a grey-haired husband and father, whose third 
affectionate and expensive daughter now rapped at the window and called to 
him, "Papa, papa, get ready for dinner; don't you remember the Lukyns are 
coming?"



Chapter 22

Her gentle looks shot arrows, piercing him
As gods are pierced, with poison of sweet pity.

The evening of the market-day had passed, and Felix had not looked in at 
Malthouse Yard to talk over the public events with Mr Lyon. When Esther was 
dressing the next morning, she had reached a point of irritated anxiety to 
see Felix, at which she found herself devising little schemes for attaining 
that end in some way that would be so elaborate as to seem perfectly 
natural. Her watch had a long-standing ailment of losing; possibly it 
wanted cleaning; Felix would tell her if it merely wanted regulating, 
whereas Mr Prowd might detain it unnecessarily, and cause her useless 
inconvenience. Or could she not get a valuable hint from Mrs Holt about the 
home-made bread, which was something as "sad" as Lyddy herself? Or, if she 
came home that way at twelve o'clock, Felix might be going out, she might 
meet him, and not be obliged to call. Or - but it would be very much 
beneath her to take any steps of this sort. Her watch had been losing for 
the last two months - why should it not go on losing a little longer? She 
could think of no devices that were not so transparent as to be 
undignified. All the more undignified because Felix chose to live in a way 
that would prevent any one from classing him according to his education and 
mental refinement - "which certainly are very high", said Esther inwardly, 
colouring, as if in answer to some contrary allegation, "else I should not 
think his opinion of any consequence". But she came to the conclusion that 
she could not possibly call at Mrs Holt's.
It followed that up to a few minutes past twelve, when she reached the 
turning towards Mrs Holt's, she believed that she should go home the other 
way; but at the last moment there is always a reason not existing before - 
namely, the impossibility of further vacillation. Esther turned the corner 
without any visible pause, and in another minute was knocking at Mrs Holt's 
door, not without an inward flutter, which she was bent on disguising.
"It's never you, Miss Lyon! who'd have thought of seeing you at this time? 
Is the minister ill? I thought he looked creechy. If you want help, I'll 
put my bonnet on."
"Don't keep Miss Lyon at the door, mother; ask her to come in," said the 
ringing voice of Felix, surmounting various small shufflings and babbling 
voices within.
"It's my wish for her to come in, I'm sure," said Mrs Holt, making way; 
"but what is there for her to come in to? a floor worse than any public. 
But step in, pray, if you're so inclined. When I've been forced to take my 
bit of carpet up, and have benches, I don't see why I need mind nothing no 
more."
"I only came to ask Mr Holt if he would look at my watch for me," said 
Esther, entering, and blushing a general rose-colour.
"He'll do that fast enough," said Mrs Holt, with emphasis; "that's one of 
the things he will do."
"Excuse my rising, Miss Lyon," said Felix; "I'm binding up Job's finger."
Job was a small fellow about five, with a germinal nose, large round blue 
eyes, and red hair that curled close to his head like the wool on the back 
of an infantine lamb. He had evidently been crying, and the corners of his 
mouth were still dolorous. Felix held him on his knee as he bound and tied 
up very cleverly a tiny forefinger. There was a table in front of Felix and 
against the window, covered with his watchmaking implements and some open 
books. Two benches stood at right angles on the sanded floor, and six or 
seven boys of various ages up to twelve were getting their caps and 
preparing to go home. They huddled themselves together and stood still when 
Esther entered. Felix could not look up till he had finished his surgery, 
but he went on speaking.
"This is a hero, Miss Lyon. This is Job Tudge, a bold Briton whose finger 
hurts him, but who doesn't mean to cry. Good morning, boys. Don't lose your 
time. Get out into the air."
Esther seated herself on the end of the bench near Felix, much relieved 
that Job was the immediate object of attention; and the other boys rushed 
out behind her with a brief chant of "Good morning!"
"Did you ever see," said Mrs Holt, standing to look on, "how wonderful 
Felix is at that small work with his large fingers? And that's because he 
learnt doctoring. It isn't for want of cleverness he looks like a poor man, 
Miss Lyon. I've left off speaking, else I should say it's a sin and a 
shame."
"Mother," said Felix, who often amused himself and kept good-humoured by 
giving his mother answers that were unintelligible to her, "you have an 
astonishing readiness in the Ciceronian antiphrasis, considering you have 
never studied oratory. There, Job - thou patient man - sit still if thou 
wilt; and now we can look at Miss Lyon."
Esther had taken off her watch and was holding it in her hand. But he 
looked at her face, or rather at her eyes, as he said, "You want me to 
doctor your watch?"
Esther's expression was appealing and timid, as it had never been before in 
Felix's presence; but when she saw the perfect calmness, which to her 
seemed coldness, of his clear grey eyes, as if he saw no reason for 
attaching any emphasis to this first meeting, a pang swift as an electric 
shock darted through her. She had been very foolish to think so much of it. 
It seemed to her as if her inferiority to Felix made a great gulf between 
them. She could not at once rally her pride and self-command, but let her 
glance fall on her watch, and said, rather tremulously, "It loses. It is 
very troublesome. It has been losing a long while."
Felix took the watch from her hand; then, looking round and seeing that his 
mother was gone out of the room, he said, very gently -
"You look distressed, Miss Lyon. I hope there is no trouble at home" (Felix 
was thinking of the minister's agitation on the previous Sunday). "But I 
ought perhaps to beg your pardon for saying so much."
Poor Esther was quite helpless. The mortification which had come like a 
bruise to all the sensibilities that had been in keen activity, insisted on 
some relief. Her eyes filled instantly, and a great tear rolled down while 
she said in a loud sort of whisper, as involuntary as her tears -
"I wanted to tell you that I was not offended - that I am not ungenerous - 
I thought you might think - but you have not thought of it."
Was there ever more awkward speaking? - or any behaviour less like that of 
the graceful, self-possessed Miss Lyon, whose phrases were usually so well 
turned, and whose repartees were so ready?
For a moment there was silence. Esther had her two little delicately-gloved 
hands clasped on the table. The next moment she felt one hand of Felix 
covering them both and pressing them firmly; but he did not speak. The 
tears were both on her cheeks now, and she could look up at him. His eyes 
had an expression of sadness in them, quite new to her. Suddenly little 
Job, who had his mental exercises on the occasion, called out, impatiently 
-
"She's tut her finger!"
Felix and Esther laughed, and drew their hands away; and as Esther took her 
handkerchief to wipe the tears from her cheeks, she said -
"You see, Job, I am a naughty coward I can't help crying when I've hurt 
myself."
"Zoo soodn't kuy," said Job, energetically, being much impressed with a 
moral doctrine which had come to him after a sufficient transgression of 
it.
"Job is like me," said Felix, "fonder of preaching than of practice. But 
let us look at this same watch," he went on, opening and examining it. 
"These little Geneva toys are cleverly constructed to go always a little 
wrong. But if you wind them up and set them regularly every night, you may 
know at least that it's not noon when the hand points there."
Felix chatted, that Esther might recover herself; but now Mrs Holt came 
back and apologised.
"You'll excuse my going away, I know, Miss Lyon. But there were the 
dumplings to see to, and what little I've got left on my hands now, I like 
to do well. Not but what I've more cleaning to do than ever I had in my 
life before, as you may tell soon enough if you look at this floor. But 
when you've been used to doing things, and they've been taken away from 
you, it's as if your hands had been cut off, and you felt the fingers as 
are of no use to you."
"That's a great image, mother," said Felix, as he snapped the watch 
together, and handed it to Esther: "I never heard you use such an image 
before."
"Yes, I know you've always some fault to find with what your mother says. 
But if ever there was a woman could talk with the open Bible before her, 
and not be afraid, it's me. I never did tell stories, and I never will - 
though I know it's done, Miss Lyon, and by church members too, when they 
have candles to sell, as I could bring you the proof. But I never was one 
of 'em, let Felix say what he will about the printing on the tickets. His 
father believed it was gospel truth, and it's presumptious to say it 
wasn't. For as for curing, how can anybody know? There's no physic'll cure 
without a blessing, and with a blessing I know I've seen a mustard plaister 
work when there was no more smell nor strength in the mustard than so much 
flour. And reason good - for the mustard had laid in paper nobody knows how 
long - so I'll leave you to guess."
Mrs Holt looked hard out of the window and gave a slight inarticulate sound 
of scorn.
Felix had leaned back in his chair with a resigned smile, and was pinching 
Job's ears.
Esther said, "I think I had better go now," not knowing what else to say, 
yet not wishing to go immediately, lest she should seem to be running away 
from Mrs Holt. She felt keenly how much endurance there must be for Felix. 
And she had often been discontented with her father, and called him 
tiresome!
"Where does Job Tudge live?" she said, still sitting, and looking at the 
droll little figure, set off by a ragged jacket with a tail about two 
inches deep sticking out above the funniest of corduroys.
"Job has two mansions," said Felix. "He lives here chiefly; but he has 
another home, where his grandfather, Mr Tudge the stone-breaker, lives. My 
mother is very good to Job, Miss Lyon. She has made him a little bed in a 
cupboard, and she gives him sweetened porridge."
The exquisite goodness implied in these words of Felix impressed Esther the 
more, because in her hearing his talk had usually been pungent and 
denunciatory. Looking at Mrs Holt, she saw that her eyes had lost their 
bleak north-easterly expression, and were shining with some mildness on 
little Job, who had turned round towards her, propping his head against 
Felix.
"Well, why shouldn't I be motherly to the child, Miss Lyon?" said Mrs Holt, 
whose strong powers of argument required the file of an imagined 
contradiction, if there were no real one at hand. "I never was hard-
hearted, and I never will be. It was Felix picked the child up and took to 
him, you may be sure, for there's nobody else master where he is; but I 
wasn't going to beat the orphin child and abuse him because of that, and 
him as straight as an arrow when he's stript, and me so fond of children, 
and only had one of my own to live. I'd three babies, Miss Lyon, but the 
blessed Lord only spared Felix, and him the masterfullest and the brownest 
of 'em all. But I did my duty by him, and I said, he'll have more schooling 
than his father, and he'll grow up a doctor, and marry a woman with money 
to furnish - as I was myself, spoons and everything - and I shall have the 
grandchildren to look up to me, and be drove out in the gig sometimes, like 
old Mrs Lukyn. And you see what it's all come to, Miss Lyon: here's Felix 
made a common man of himself, and says he'll never be married - which is 
the most unreasonable thing, and him never easy but when he's got the child 
on his lap, or when - "
"Stop, stop, mother," Felix burst in; "pray don't use that limping argument 
again - that a man should marry because he's fond of children. That's a 
reason for not marrying. A bachelor's children are always young: they're 
immortal children - always lisping, waddling, helpless, and with a chance 
of turning out good."
"The Lord above may know what you mean! And haven't other folk's children a 
chance of turning out good?"
"O, they grow out of it very fast. Here's Job Tudge now," said Felix, 
turning the little one round on his knee, and holding his head by the back 
- "Job's limbs will get lanky; this little fist, that looks like a puff-
ball, and can hide nothing bigger than a gooseberry, will get large and 
bony, and perhaps want to clutch more than its share; these wide blue eyes 
that tell me more truth than Job knows, will narrow and narrow and try to 
hide truth that Job would be better without knowing; this little negative 
nose will become long and self-asserting; and this little tongue - put out 
thy tongue, Job" - Job, awe-struck under this ceremony, put out a little 
red tongue very timidly - "this tongue, hardly bigger than a rose-leaf, 
will get large and thick, wag out of season, do mischief, brag and cant for 
gain or vanity, and cut as cruelly, for all its clumsiness as if it were a 
sharp-edge blade. Big Job will perhaps be naughty - " As Felix, speaking 
with the loud emphatic distinctness habitual to him, brought out this 
terribly familiar word, Job's sense of mystification became too painful: he 
hung his lip, and began to cry.
"See there," said Mrs Holt, "you're frightening the innicent child with 
such talk - and it's enough to frighten them that think themselves the 
safest."
"Look here, Job, my man," said Felix, setting the boy down and turning him 
towards Esther; "go to Miss Lyon, ask her to smile at you, and that will 
dry up your tears like the sunshine."
Job put his two brown fists on Esther's lap, and she stooped to kiss him. 
Then holding his face between her hands, she said, "Tell Mr Holt we don't 
mean to be naughty, Job. He should believe in us more. But now I must 
really go home."
Esther rose and held out her hand to Mrs Holt who kept it while she said, a 
little to Esther's confusion -
"I'm very glad it's took your fancy to come here sometimes, Miss Lyon. I 
know you're thought to hold your head high, but I speak of people as I find 
'em. And I'm sure anybody had need be humble that comes where there's a 
floor like this - for I've put by my best tea-trays, they're so out of all 
charicter - I must look Above for comfort now; but I don't say I'm not 
worthy to be called on for all that."
Felix had risen and moved towards the door that he might open it and shield 
Esther from more last words on his mother's part.
"Good-bye, Mr Holt."
"Will Mr Lyon like me to sit with him an hour this evening, do you think?"
"Why not? He always likes to see you."
"Then I will come. Good-bye."
"She's a very straight figure," said Mrs Holt. "How she carries herself! 
But I doubt there's some truth in what our people say. If she won't look at 
young Muscat, it's the better for him. He'd need have a big fortune that 
marries her."
"That's true, mother," said Felix, sitting down, snatching up little Job, 
and finding a vent for some unspeakable feeling in the pretence of worrying 
him.
Esther was rather melancholy as she went home, yet happier withal than she 
had been for many days before. She thought, "I need not mind having shown 
so much anxiety about his opinion. He is too clear-sighted to mistake our 
mutual position; he is quite above putting a false interpretation on what I 
have done. Besides, he had not thought of me at all - I saw that plainly 
enough. Yet he was very kind. There is something greater and better in him 
than I had imagined. His behaviour today - to his mother and me too - I 
should call it the highest gentlemanliness, only it seems in him to be 
something deeper. But he has chosen an intolerable life; though I suppose, 
if I had a mind equal to his, and if he loved me very dearly, I should 
choose the same life."
Esther felt that she had prefixed an impossible "if" to that result. But 
now she had known Felix, her conception of what a happy love must be had 
become like a dissolving view, in which the once-clear images were 
gradually melting into new forms and new colours. The favourite Byronic 
heroes  were beginning to look something like last night's decorations seen 
in the sober dawn. So fast does a little leaven spread within us - so 
incalculable is the effect of one personality on another. Behind all 
Esther's thoughts, like an unacknowledged yet constraining presence, there 
was the sense, that if Felix Holt were to love her, her life would be 
exalted into something quite new - into a sort of difficult blessedness, 
such as one may imagine in beings who are conscious of painfully growing 
into the possession of higher powers.
It was quite true that Felix had not thought the more of Esther because of 
that Sunday afternoon's interview which had shaken her mind to the very 
roots. He had avoided intruding on Mr Lyon without special reason, because 
he believed the minister to be preoccupied with some private care. He had 
thought a great deal of Esther with a mixture of strong disapproval and 
strong liking, which both together made a feeling the reverse of 
indifference; but he was not going to let her have any influence on his 
life. Even if his determination had not been fixed, he would have believed 
that she would utterly scorn him in any other light than that of an 
acquaintance, and the emotion she had shown today did not change that 
belief. But he was deeply touched by this manifestation of her better 
qualities, and felt that there was a new tie of friendship between them. 
That was the brief history Felix would have given of his relation to 
Esther. And he was accustomed to observe himself. But very close and 
diligent looking at living creatures, even through the best microscope, 
will leave room for new and contradictory discoveries.
Felix found Mr Lyon particularly glad to talk to him. The minister had 
never yet disburthened himself about his letter to Mr Philip Debarry 
concerning the public conference; and as by this time he had all the heads 
of his discussion thoroughly in his mind, it was agreeable to recite them, 
as well as to express his regret that time had been lost by Mr Debarry's 
absence from the Manor, which had prevented the immediate fulfilment of his 
pledge.
"I don't see how he can fulfil it if the rector refuses," said Felix, 
thinking it well to moderate the little man's confidence.
"The rector is of a spirit that will not incur earthly impeachment, and he 
cannot refuse what is necessary to his nephew's honourable discharge of an 
obligation," said Mr Lyon. "My young friend, it is a case wherein the 
prearranged conditions tend by such a beautiful fitness to the issue I have 
sought, that I should have for ever held myself a traitor to my charge had 
I neglected the indication."



Chapter 23

"I will not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be 
admitted; there's no excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused." -
	 													Henry IV.

When Philip Debarry had come home that morning and read the letters which 
had not been forwarded to him, he laughed so heartily at Mr Lyon's that he 
congratulated himself on being in his private room. Otherwise his laughter 
would have awakened the curiosity of Sir Maximus, and Philip did not wish 
to tell any one the contents of the letter until he had shown them to his 
uncle. He determined to ride over to the rectory to lunch; for as Lady Mary 
was away, he and his uncle might be tete-a-tete.
The rectory was on the other side of the river, close to the church of 
which it was the fitting companion: a fine old brick-and-stone house, with 
a great bow-window opening from the library on to the deep-turfed lawn, one 
fat dog sleeping on the door-stone, another fat dog waddling on the gravel, 
the autumn leaves duly swept away, the lingering chrysanthemums cherished, 
tall trees stooping or soaring in the most picturesque variety, and a 
Virginian creeper turning a little rustic hut into a scarlet pavilion. It 
was one of those rectories which are among the bulwarks of our venerable 
institutions - which arrest disintegrating doubt, serve as a double 
embankment against Popery and Dissent, and rally feminine instinct and 
affection to reinforce the decisions of masculine thought.
"What makes you look so merry, Phil?" said the rector, as his nephew 
entered the pleasant library.
"Something that concerns you," said Philip, taking out the letter. "A 
clerical challenge. Here's an opportunity for you to emulate the divines of 
the sixteenth century and have a theological duel. Read this letter."
"What answer have you sent the crazy little fellow?" said the rector, 
keeping the letter in his hand and running over it again and again, with 
brow knit, but eyes gleaming without any malignity. "O, I sent no answer. I 
awaited yours."
"Mine!" said the rector, throwing down the letter on the table. "You don't 
suppose I'm going to hold a public debate with a schismatic of that sort? I 
should have an infidel shoe-maker next expecting me to answer blasphemies 
delivered in bad grammar."
"But you see how he puts it," said Philip. With all his gravity of nature 
he could not resist a slightly michievous prompting, though he had a 
serious feeling that he should not like to be regarded as failing to fulfil 
his pledge. "I think if you refuse, I shall be obliged to offer myself."
"Nonsense! Tell him he is himself acting a dishonourable part in 
interpreting your words as a pledge to do any preposterous thing that suits 
his fancy. Suppose he had asked you to give him land to build a chapel on; 
doubtless that would have given him a "lively satisfaction." A man who puts 
a non-natural strained sense on a promise is no better than a robber."
"But he has not asked for land. I daresay he thinks you won't object to his 
proposal. I confess there's a simplicity and quaintness about the letter 
that rather pleases me."
"Let me tell you, Phil, he's a crazy little firefly, that does a great deal 
of harm in my parish. He inflames the Dissenters' minds on politics. 
There's no end to the mischief done by these busy prating men. They make 
the ignorant multitude the judges of the largest questions, both political 
and religious, till we shall soon have no institution left that is not on a 
level with the comprehension of a huckster or a drayman. There can be 
nothing more retrograde - losing all the results of civilisation, all the 
lessons of Providence - letting the windlass run down after men have been 
turning at it painfully for generations. If the instructed are not to judge 
for the uninstructed, why, let us set Dick Stubbs to make our almanacs, and 
have a President of the Royal Society elected by universal suffrage."
The rector had risen, placed himself with his back to the fire, and thrust 
his hands in his pockets, ready to insist further on this wide argument. 
Philip sat nursing one leg, listening respectfully, as he always did, 
though often listening to the sonorous echo of his own statements, which 
suited his uncle's needs so exactly that he did not distinguish them from 
his old impressions.
"True," said Philip, "but in special cases we have to do with special 
conditions. You know I defend the casuists. And it may happen that, for the 
honour of the church in Treby and a little also for my honour, 
circumstances may demand a concession even to some notions of a dissenting 
preacher."
"Not at all. I should be making a figure which my brother clergy might well 
take as an affront to themselves. The character of the establishment has 
suffered enough already through the Evangelicals, with their extempore 
incoherence and their pipe-smoking piety. Look at Wimple, the man who is 
vicar of Shuttleton - without his gown and bands, anybody would take him 
for a grocer in mourning."
"Well, I shall cut a still worse figure, and so will you, in the dissenting 
magazines and newspapers. It will go the round of the kingdom. There will 
be a paragraph headed, 'Tory Falsehood and Clerical Cowardice,' or else 
'The Meanness of the Aristocracy and the Incompetence of the Beneficed 
Clergy.' "
"There would be a worse paragraph if I were to consent to the debate. Of 
course it would be said that I was beaten hollow, and that now the question 
had been cleared up at Treby Magna, the church had not a sound leg to stand 
on. Besides," the rector went on, frowning and smiling, "it's all very well 
for you to talk, Phil, but this debating is not so easy when a man's close 
upon sixty. What one writes or says must be something good and scholarly; 
and after all had been done, this little Lyon would buzz about one like a 
wasp, and cross-question and rejoin. Let me tell you, a plain truth may be 
so worried and mauled by fallacies as to get the worst of it. There's no 
such thing as tiring a talking machine like Lyon."
"Then you absolutely refuse?"
"Yes, I do."
"You remember that when I wrote my letter of thanks to Lyon you approved my 
offer to serve him if possible."
"Certainly I remember it. But suppose he had asked you to vote for civil 
marriage, or to go and hear him preach every Sunday?"
"But he has not asked that."
"Something as unreasonable, though."
"Well," said Philip, taking up Mr Lyon's letter and looking graver - 
looking even vexed, "it is rather an unpleasant business for me. I really 
felt obliged to him. I think there's a sort of worth in the man beyond his 
class. Whatever may be the reason of the case, I shall disappoint him 
instead of doing him the service I offered."
"Well, that's a misfortune; we can't help it."
"The worst of it is, I should be insulting him to say, "I will do anything 
else, but not just this that you want." He evidently feels himself in 
company with Luther and Zwingli and Calvin and considers our letters part 
of the history of Protestantism."
"Yes, yes. I know it's rather an unpleasant thing, Phil. You are aware that 
I would have done anything in reason to prevent you from becoming unpopular 
here. I consider your character a possession to all of us."
"I think I must call on him forthwith, and explain and apologise."
"No, sit still; I've thought of something," said the rector, with a sudden 
revival of spirits. "I've just seen Sherlock coming in. He is to lunch with 
me today. It would do no harm for him to hold the debate - a curate and a 
young man - he'll gain by it; and it would release you from any 
awkwardness, Phil. Sherlock is not going to stay here long, you know; he'll 
soon have his title. I'll put the thing to him. He won't object if I wish 
it. It's a capital idea. It will do Sherlock good. He's a clever fellow, 
but he wants confidence."
Philip had not time to object before Mr Sherlock appeared - a young divine 
of good birth and figure, of sallow complexion and bashful address.
"Sherlock, you have came in most opportunely," said the rector. "A case has 
turned up in the parish in which you can be of eminent use. I know that is 
what you have desired ever since you have been with me. But I'm about so 
much myself that there really has not been sphere enough for you. You are a 
studious man, I know; I daresay you have all the necessary matter prepared 
- at your finger-ends, if not on paper."
Mr Sherlock smiled with rather a trembling lip, willing to distinguish 
himself, but hoping that the rector only alluded to a dialogue on baptism 
by aspersion, or some other pamphlet suited to the purposes of the 
Christian Knowledge Society. But as the rector proceeded to unfold the 
circumstances under which his eminent service was to be rendered, he grew 
more and more nervous.
"You'll oblige me very much, Sherlock," the rector ended, "by going into 
this thing zealously. Can you guess what time you will require? because it 
will rest with us to fix the day."
"I should be rejoiced to oblige you, Mr Debarry, but I really think I am 
not competent to - "
"That's your modesty, Sherlock. Don't let me hear any more of that. I know 
Filmore of Corpus said you might be a first-rate man if your diffidence 
didn't do you injustice. And you can refer anything to me, you know. Come, 
you will set about the thing at once. But, Phil, you must tell the preacher 
to send a scheme of the debate - all the different heads - and he must 
agree to keep rigidly within the scheme. There, sit down at my desk and 
write the letter now; Thomas shall carry it."
Philip sat down to write, and the rector, with his firm ringing voice, went 
on at his ease, giving "indications" to his agitated curate.
"But you can begin at once preparing a good, cogent, clear statement, and 
considering the probable points of assault. You can look into Jewel, Hall, 
Hooker, Whitgift, and the rest: you'll find them all here. My library wants 
nothing in English divinity. Sketch the lower ground taken by Usher and 
those men, but bring all your force to bear on marking out the true High-
Church doctrine. Expose the wretched cavils of the Nonconformists, and the 
noisy futility that belongs to schismatics generally. I will give you a 
telling passage from Burke on the Dissenters, and some good quotations 
which I brought together in two sermons of my own on the Position of the 
English Church in Christendom. How long do you think it will take you to 
bring your thoughts together? You can throw them afterwards into the form 
of an essay; we'll have the thing printed; it will do you good with the 
bishop."
With all Mr Sherlock's timidity, there was fascination for him in this 
distinction. He reflected that he could take coffee and sit up late, and 
perhaps produce something rather fine. It might be a first step towards 
that eminence which it was no more than his duty to aspire to. Even a 
polemical fame like that of a Philpotts must have had a beginning. Mr 
Sherlock was not insensible to the pleasure of turning sentences 
successfully, and it was a pleasure not always unconnected with preferment. 
A diffident man likes the idea of doing something remarkable, which will 
create belief in him without any immediate display of brilliancy. Celebrity 
may blush and be silent, and win a grace the more. Thus Mr Sherlock was 
constrained, trembling all the while, and much wishing that his essay were 
already in print.
"I think I could hardly be ready under a fortnight."
"Very good. Just write that, Phil, and tell him to fix the precise day and 
place. And then we'll go to lunch."
The rector was quite satisfied. He had talked himself into thinking that he 
should like to give Sherlock a few useful hints, look up his own earlier 
sermons, and benefit the curate by his criticism, when the argument had 
been got into shape. He was a healthy-natured man, but that was not at all 
a reason why he should not have those sensibilities to the odour of 
authorship which belong to almost everybody who is not expected to be a 
writer - and especially to that form of authorship which is called 
suggestion, and consists in telling another man that he might do a great 
deal with a given subject, by bringing a sufficient amount of knowledge, 
reasoning, and wit to bear upon it.
Philip would have had some twinges of conscience about the curate, if he 
had not guessed that the honour thrust upon him was not altogether 
disagreeable. The church might perhaps have had a stronger supporter; but 
for himself, he had done what he was bound to do: he had done his best 
towards fulfilling Mr Lyon's desire.



Chapter 24

"If he come not, the play is marred."
 - Midsummer Night's Dream

Rufus Lyon was very happy on that mild November morning appointed for the 
great conference in the larger room at the Free School, between himself and 
the Rev. Theodore Sherlock, B.A. The disappointment of not contending with 
the rector in person, which had at first been bitter, had been gradually 
lost sight of in the positive enjoyment of an opportunity for debating on 
any terms. Mr Lyon had two grand elements of pleasure on such occasions: 
confidence in the strength of his case, and confidence in his own power of 
advocacy. Not - to use his own phrase - not that he "glorified himself 
herein'; for speech and exposition were so easy to him, that if he argued 
forcibly, he believed it to be simply because the truth was forcible. He 
was not proud of moving easily in his native medium. A panting man thinks 
of himself as a clever swimmer; but a fish swims much better, and takes his 
performance as a matter of course.
Whether Mr Sherlock were that panting, self-gratulating man, remained a 
secret. Philip Debarry, much occupied with his electioneering affairs, had 
only once had an opportunity of asking his uncle how Sherlock got on, and 
the rector had said, curtly, "I think he'll do. I've supplied him well with 
references. I advise him to read only, and decline everything else as out 
of order. Lyon will speak to a point, and then Sherlock will read: it will 
be all the more telling. It will give variety." But on this particular 
morning peremptory business connected with the magistracy called the rector 
away.
Due notice had been given, and the feminine world of Treby Magna was much 
more agitated by the prospect than by that of any candidate's speech. Mrs 
Pendrell at the Bank, Mrs Tiliot, and the church ladies generally, felt 
bound to hear the curate, who was known, apparently by an intuition 
concerning the nature of curates, to be a very clever young man; and he 
would show them what learning had to say on the right side. One or two 
Dissenting ladies were not without emotion at the thought that, seated on 
the front benches, they should be brought near to old Church friends, and 
have a longer greeting than had taken place since the Catholic 
Emancipation. Mrs Muscat, who had been a beauty, and was as nice in her 
millinery as any Trebian lady belonging to the establishment, reflected 
that she should put on her best large embroidered collar, and that she 
should ask Mrs Tiliot where it was in Duffield that she once got her 
bedhangings dyed so beautifully. When Mrs Tiliot was Mary Salt, the two 
ladies had been bosom friends; but Mr Tiliot had looked higher and higher 
since his gin had become so famous; and in the year "29 he had, in Mr 
Muscat's hearing, spoken of Dissenters as sneaks, - a personality which 
could not be overlooked.
The debate was to begin at eleven, for the rector would not allow the 
evening to be chosen, when low men and boys might want to be admitted out 
of mere mischief. This was one reason why the female part of the audience 
outnumbered the males. But some chief Trebians were there, even men whose 
means made them as independent of theory as Mr Pendrell and Mr Wace; 
encouraged by reflecting that they were not in a place of worship, and 
would not be obliged to stay longer than they chose. There was a muster of 
all Dissenters who could spare the morning time, and on the back benches 
were all the aged churchwomen who shared the remnants of the sacrament 
wine, and who were humbly anxious to neglect nothing ecclesiastical or 
connected with "going to a better place".
At eleven the arrival of listeners seemed to have ceased. Mr Lyon was 
seated on the school tribune or dais at his particular round table; another 
round table, with a chair, awaited the curate, with whose superior position 
it was quite in keeping that he should not be first on the ground. A couple 
of extra chairs were placed further back, and more than one important 
personage had been requested to act as chairman; but no churchman would 
place himself in a position so equivocal as to dignity of aspect, and so 
unequivocal as to the obligation of sitting out the discussion; and the 
rector had beforehand put a veto on any Dissenting chairman.
Mr Lyon sat patiently absorbed in his thoughts, with his notes in minute 
handwriting lying before him, seeming to look at the audience, but not 
seeing them. Every one else was contented that there should be an interval 
in which there could be a little neighbourly talk.
Esther was particularly happy, seated on a side-bench near her father's 
side of the tribune, with Felix close behind her, so that she could turn 
her head and talk to him. He had been very kind ever since that morning 
when she had called at his home, more disposed to listen indulgently to 
what she had to say, and less blind to her looks and movements. If he had 
never railed at her or ignored her, she would have been less sensitive to 
the attention he gave her; but as it was, the prospect of seeing him seemed 
to light up her life, and to disperse the old dulness. She looked unusually 
charming today, from the very fact that she was not vividly conscious of 
anything but of having a mind near her that asked her to be something 
better than she actually was. The consciousness of her own superiority 
amongst the people around her was superseded, and even a few brief weeks 
had given a softened expression to her eyes, a more feminine beseechingness 
and self-doubt to her manners. Perhaps, however, a little new defiance was 
rising in place of the old contempt - defiance of the Trebian views 
concerning Felix Holt.
"What a very nice-looking young woman your minister's daughter is ! " said 
Mrs Tiliot in an undertone to Mrs Muscat, who, as she had hoped, had found 
a seat next to her quondam friend - "quite the lady".
"Rather too much so, considering," said Mrs Muscat. "She's thought proud, 
and that's not pretty in a girl, even if there was anything to back it up. 
But now she seems to be encouraging that young Holt, who scoffs at 
everything, as you may judge by his appearance. She has despised his 
betters before now; but I leave you to judge whether a young man who has 
taken to low ways of getting his living can pay for fine cambric 
handkerchiefs and light kid gloves."
Mrs Muscat lowered her blond eyelashes and swayed her neat head just 
perceptibly from side to side, with a sincere desire to be moderate in her 
expressions, not withstanding any shock that facts might have given her.
"Dear, dear," said Mrs Tiliot. "What! that is young Holt leaning forward 
now without a cravat? I've never seen him before to notice him, but I've 
heard Tiliot talking about him. They say he's a dangerous character, and 
goes stirring up the working men at Sproxton. And - well, to be sure, such 
great eyes and such a great head of hair - it is enough to frighten one. 
What can she see in him? Quite below her."
"Yes, and brought up a governess," said Mrs Muscat; "you'd have thought 
she'd know better how to choose. But the minister has let her get the upper 
hand sadly too much. It's a pity in a man of God - I don't deny he's that."
"Well, I am sorry," said Mrs Tiliot, "for I meant her to give my girls 
lessons when they came from school."
Mr Wace and Pendrell meanwhile were standing up and looking round at the 
audience, nodding to their fellow-townspeople with the affability due from 
men in their position.
"It's time he came now," said Mr Wace, looking at his watch and comparing 
it with the schoolroom clock. "This debating is a newfangled sort of thing; 
but the rector would never have given in to it if there hadn't been good 
reasons. Nolan said he wouldn't come. He says this debating is an 
atheistical sort of thing; the Atheists are very fond of it. Theirs is a 
bad book to take a leaf out of. However, we shall hear nothing but what's 
good from Mr Sherlock. He preaches a capital sermon - for such a young 
man."
"Well, it was our duty to support him - not to leave him alone among the 
Dissenters," said Mr Pendrell. "You see, everybody hasn't felt that. Labron 
might have shown himself, if not Lukyn. I could have alleged business 
myself if I had thought proper."
"Here he comes, I think," said Mr Wace, turning round on hearing a movement 
near the small door on a level with the platform. "By George! it's Mr 
Debarry. Come now, this is handsome."
Mr Wace and Mr Pendrell clapped their hands, and the example was followed 
even by most of the Dissenters. Philip was aware that he was doing a 
popular thing, of a kind that Treby was not used to from the elder 
Debarrys; but his appearance had not been long premeditated. He was driving 
through the town towards an engagement at some distance, but on calling at 
Labron's office he had found that the affair which demanded his presence 
had been deferred, and so had driven round to the Free School. Christian 
came in behind him.
Mr Lyon was now roused from his abstraction, and, stepping from his slight 
elevation, begged Mr Debarry to act as moderator or president on the 
occasion.
"With all my heart," said Philip. "But Mr Sherlock has not arrived, 
apparently?"
"He tarries somewhat unduly," said Mr Lyon. "Nevertheless there may be a 
reason of which we know not. Shall I collect the thoughts of the assembly 
by a brief introductory address in the interval?"
"No, no, no," said Mr Wace, who saw a limit to his powers of endurance. "Mr 
Sherlock is sure to be here in a minute or two."
"Christian," said Philip Debarry, who felt a slight misgiving, "just be so 
good - but stay, I'll go myself. Excuse me, gentlemen; I'll drive round to 
Mr Sherlock's lodgings. He may be under a little mistake as to the time. 
Studious men are sometimes rather absent. You needn't come with me, 
Christian."
As Mr Debarry went out, Rufus Lyon stepped on to the tribune again in 
rather an uneasy state of mind. A few ideas had occurred to him, eminently 
fitted to engage the audience profitably, and so to wrest some edification 
out of an unforeseen delay. But his native delicacy made him feel that in 
this assembly the church people might fairly decline any "deliverance" on 
his part which exceeded the programme, and Mr Wace's negative had been 
energetic. But the little man suffered from imprisoned ideas, and was as 
restless as a racer held in. He could not sit down again, but walked 
backwards and forwards, stroking his chin, emitting his low guttural 
interjection under the pressure of clauses and sentences which he longed to 
utter aloud, as he would have done in his own study. There was a low buzz 
in the room which helped to deepen the minister's sense that the thoughts 
within him were as divine messengers unheeded or rejected by a trivial 
generation. Many of the audience were standing; all, except the old 
churchwomen on the back seats, and a few devout Dissenters who kept their 
eyes shut and gave their bodies a gentle oscillating motion, were 
interested in chat. "Your father is uneasy," said Felix to Esther.
"Yes; and now, I think, he is feeling for his spectacles. I hope he has not 
left them at home: he will not be able to see anything two yards before him 
without them; - and it makes him so unconscious of what people expect or 
want."
"I'll go and ask him whether he has them," said Felix, striding over the 
form in front of him, and approaching Mr Lyon, whose face showed a gleam of 
pleasure at this relief from his abstracted isolation.
"Miss Lyon is afraid that you are at a loss for your spectacles, sir," said 
Felix.
"My dear young friend," said Mr Lyon, laying his hand on Felix Holt's fore-
arm, which was about on a level with the minister's shoulder, "it is a very 
glorious truth, albeit made somewhat painful to me by the circumstances of 
the present moment, that as a counterpoise to the brevity of our mortal 
life (wherein, as I apprehend, our powers are being trained not only for 
the transmission of an improved heritage, as I have heard you insist, but 
also for our own entrance into a higher initiation in the divine scheme) - 
it is, I say, a very glorious truth, that even in what are called the waste 
minutes of our time, like those of expectation, the soul may soar and 
range, as in some of our dreams which are brief as a broken rainbow in 
duration, yet seem to comprise a long history of terror or of joy. And 
again, each moment may be a beginning of a new spiritual energy; and our 
pulse would doubtless be a coarse and clumsy notation of the passage from 
that which was not to that which is, even in the finer processes of the 
material world - and how much more - "
Esther was watching her father and Felix, and though she was not within 
hearing of what was being said, she guessed the actual state of the case - 
that the inquiry about the spectacles had been unheeded, and that her 
father was losing himself and embarrassing Felix in the intricacies of a 
dissertation. There was not the stillness around her that would have made a 
movement on her part seem conspicuous, and she was impelled by her anxiety 
to step on the tribune and walk up to her father, who paused, a little 
startled.
"Pray see whether you have forgotten your spectacles, father. If so, I will 
go home at once and look for them."
Mr Lyon was automatically obedient to Esther, and he began immediately to 
feel in his pockets.
"How is it that Miss Jermyn is so friendly with the Dissenting parson?" 
said Christian to Quorlen, the Tory printer, who was an intimate of his. 
"Those grand Jermyns are not Dissenters surely?"
"What Miss Jermyn?"
"Why - don't you see? - that fine girl who is talking to him."
"Miss Jermyn! Why, that's the little parson's daughter."
"His daughter!" Christian gave a low brief whistle, which seemed a natural 
expression of surprise that "the rusty old ranter" should have a daughter 
of such distinguished appearance.
Meanwhile the search for the spectacles had proved vain.
"Tis a grievous fault in me, my dear," said the little man, humbly; "I 
become thereby sadly burthensome to you."
"I will go at once," said Esther, refusing to let Felix go instead of her. 
But she had scarcely stepped off the tribune when Mr Debarry re-entered, 
and there was a commotion which made her wait. After a low-toned 
conversation with Mr Pendrell and Mr Wace, Philip Debarry stepped on to the 
tribune with his hat in his hand, and said, with an air of much concern and 
annoyance -
"I am sorry to have to tell you, ladies and gentlemen, that - doubtless 
owing to some accidental cause which I trust will soon be explained as 
nothing serious - Mr Sherlock is absent from his residence, and is not to 
be found. He went out early, his landlady informs me, to refresh himself by 
a walk on this agreeable morning, as is his habit, she tells me, when he 
has been kept up late by study; and he has not returned. Do not let us be 
too anxious. I shall cause inquiry to be made in the direction of his walk. 
It is easy to imagine many accidents, not of a grave character, by which he 
might nevertheless be absolutely detained against his will. Under these 
circumstances, Mr Lyon," continued Philip, turning to the minister, "I 
presume that the debate must be adjourned."
"The debate, doubtless," began Mr Lyon; but his further speech was drowned 
by a general rising of the church people from their seats, many of them 
feeling that even if the cause were lamentable, the adjournment was not 
altogether disagreeable.
"Good gracious me!" said Mrs Tiliot, as she took her husband's arm, "I hope 
the poor young man hasn't fallen into the river or broken his leg."
But some of the more acrid Dissenters, whose temper was not controlled by 
the habits of retail business, had begun to hiss, implying that in their 
interpretation the curate's absence had not depended on any injury to life 
or limb.
"He's turned tail, sure enough," said Mr Muscat to the neighbour behind 
him, lifting his eyebrows and shoulders, and laughing in a way that showed 
that, deacon as he was, he looked at the affair in an entirely secular 
light.
But Mrs Muscat thought it would be nothing but right to have all the waters 
dragged, agreeing in this with the majority of the church ladies.
"I regret sincerely, Mr Lyon," said Philip Debarry, addressing the minister 
with politeness, "that I must say goodmorning to you, with the sense that I 
have not been able at present to contribute to your satisfaction as I had 
wished."
"Speak not of it in the way of apology, sir," said Mr Lyon, in a tone of 
depression. "I doubt not that you yourself have acted in good faith. Nor 
will I open any door of egress to constructions such as anger often deems 
ingenious, but which the disclosure of the simple truth may expose as 
erroneous and uncharitable fabrications. I wish you goodmorning, sir."
When the room was deared of the church people, Mr Lyon wished to soothe his 
own spirit and that of his flock by a few reflections introductory to a 
parting prayer. But there was a general resistance to this effect. The men 
mustered round the minister, and declared their opinion that the whole 
thing was disgraceful to the church. Some said the curate's absence had 
been contrived from the first. Others more than hinted that it had been a 
folly in Mr Lyon to set on foot any procedure in common with Tories and 
clergymen, who, if they ever aped civility to Dissenters, would never do 
anything but laugh at them in their sleeves. Brother Remp urged in his 
heavy bass that Mr Lyon should lose no time in sending an account of the 
affair to the Patriot; and Brother Hawkins, in his high tenor, observed 
that it was an occasion on which some stinging things might be said with 
all the extra effect of an apro pos.
The position of receiving a many-voiced lecture from the members of his 
church was familiar to Mr Lyon, but now he felt weary, frustrated, and 
doubtful of his own temper. Felix, who stood by and saw that this man of 
sensitive fibre was suffering from talkers whose noisy superficiality cost 
them nothing, got exasperated. "It seems to me, sirs," he burst in, with 
his predominant voice, "that Mr Lyon has hitherto had the hard part of the 
business, while you of his congregation have had the easy one. Punish the 
church clergy, if you like - they can take care of themselves. But don't 
punish your own minister. It's no business of mine, perhaps, except so far 
as fair-play is everybody's business; but it seems to me the time to ask Mr 
Lyon to take a little rest, instead of setting on him like so many wasps."
By this speech Felix raised a displeasure which fell on the minister as 
well as on himself; but he gained his immediate end. The talkers dropped 
off after a slight show of persistence, and Mr Lyon quitted the field of no 
combat with a small group of his less imperious friends, to whom he 
confided his intention of committing his argument fully to paper, and 
forwarding it to a discriminating editor.
"But regarding personalities," he added, "I have not the same clear 
showing. For, say that this young man was pusillanimous - I were but ill 
provided with arguments if I took my stand even for a moment on so poor an 
irrelevancy as that because one curate is ill furnished therefore 
episcopacy is false. If I held up any one to just obloquy, it would be the 
well-designated incumbent of this parish, who, calling himself one of the 
church militant, sends a young and weak-kneed substitute to take his place 
in the fight."
Mr Philip Debarry did not neglect to make industrious inquiry concerning 
the accidents which had detained the Rev. Theodore Sherlock on his moming 
walk. That well-intentioned young divine was seen no more in Treby Magna. 
But the river was not dragged, for by the evening coach the rector received 
an explanatory letter. The Rev. Theodore's agitation had increased so much 
during his walk, that the passing coach had been a means of deliverance not 
to be resisted, and, literally at the eleventh hour, he had hailed and 
mounted the cheerful Tally-ho! and carried away his portion of the debate 
in his pocket.
But the rector had subsequently the satisfaction of receiving Mr Sherlock's 
painstaking production in print, with a dedication to the Rev. Augustus 
Debarry, a motto from St Chrysostum, and other additions, the fruit of 
ripening leisure. He was "sorry for poor Sherlock, who wanted confidence"; 
but he was convinced that for his own part he had taken the course which 
under the circumstances was the least compromising to the church. Sir 
Maximus, however, observed to his son and brother that he had been right 
and they had been wrong as to the danger of vague, enormous expressions of 
gratitude to a Dissenting preacher, and on any differences of opinion 
seldom failed to remind them of that precedent.



Chapter 25

Your fellow-man? - Divide the epithet:
Say rather, you're the fellow, he the man.

When Christian quitted the Free School with the discovery that the young 
lady whose appearance had first startled him with an indefinable impression 
in the market-place was the daughter of the old Dissenting preacher who had 
shown so much agitated curiosity about his name, he felt very much like an 
uninitiated chess-player who sees that the pieces are in a peculiar 
position on the board, and might open the way for him to give checkmate, if 
he only knew how. Ever since his interview with Jermyn, his mind had been 
occupied with the charade it offered to his ingenuity. What was the real 
meaning of the lawyer's interest in him, and in his relations with Maurice 
Christian Bycliffe? Here was a secret; and secrets were often a source of 
profit, of that agreeable kind which involved little labour. Jermyn had 
hinted at profit which might possibly come through him; but Christian said 
inwardly, with well-satisfied self-esteem, that he was not so pitiable a 
nincompoop as to trust Jermyn. On the contrary, the only problem before him 
was to find out by what combination of independent knowledge he could 
outwit Jermyn, elude any purchase the attorney had on him through his past 
history, and get a handsome bonus, by which a somewhat shattered man of 
pleasure might live well without a master. Christian, having early 
exhausted the more impulsive delights of life, had become a sober 
calculator; and he had made up his mind that, for a man who had long ago 
run through his own money, servitude in a great family was the best kind of 
retirement after that of a pensioner; but if a better chance offered, a 
person of talent must not let it slip through his fingers. He held various 
ends of threads, but there was danger in pulling at them too impatiently. 
He had not forgotten the surprise which had made him drop the punch-ladle, 
when Mr Crowder, talking in the steward's room, had said that a scamp named 
Henry Scaddon had been concerned in a lawsuit about the Transome estate. 
Again, Jermyn was the family lawyer of the Transomes; he knew about the 
exchange of names between Scaddon and Bycliffe; he clearly wanted to know 
as much as he could about Bycliffe's history. The conclusion was not remote 
that Bycliffe had had some claim on the Transome property, and that a 
difficulty had arisen from his being confounded with Henry Scaddon. But 
hitherto the other incident which had been apparently connected with the 
interchange of names - Mr Lyon's demand that he should write down the name 
Maurice Christian, accompanied with the question whether that were his 
whole name - had had no visible link with the inferences arrived at through 
Crowder and Jermyn.
The discovery made this morning at the Free School that Esther was the 
daughter of the Dissenting preacher at last suggested a possible link. 
Until then, Christian had not known why Esther's face had impressed him so 
peculiarly; but the minister's chief association for him was with Bycliffe, 
and that association served as a flash to show him that Esther's features 
and expression, and still more her bearing, now she stood and walked, 
revived Bycliffe's image. Daughter? There were various ways of being a 
daughter. Suppose this were a case of adoption: suppose Bycliffe were known 
to be dead, or thought to be dead. "Begad, if the old parson had fancied 
the original father was come to life again, it was enough to frighten him a 
little. Slow and steady," Christian said to himself; "I'll get some talk 
with the old man again. He's safe enough: one can handle him without 
cutting one's self. I'll tell him I knew Bycliffe, and was his fellow-
prisoner. I'll worm out the truth about this daughter. Could pretty Annette 
have married again, and married this little scarecrow? There's no knowing 
what a woman will not do."
Christian could see no distinct result for himself from his industry; but 
if there were to be any such result, it must be reached by following out 
every clue; and to the non-legal mind there are dim possibilities in law 
and heirship which prevent any issue from seeming too miraculous.
The consequence of these meditations was, that Christian hung about Treby 
more than usual in his leisure time, and that on the first opportunity he 
accosted Mr Lyon in the street with suitable civility, stating that since 
the occasion which had brought them together some weeks before he had often 
wished to renew their conversation, and, with Mr Lyon's permission, would 
now ask to do so. After being assured, as he had been by Jermyn, that this 
courier, who had happened by some accident to possess the memorable locket 
and pocket-book, was certainly not Annette's husband, and was ignorant 
whether Maurice Christian Bycliffe were living or dead, the minister's mind 
had become easy again; his habitual lack of interest in personal details 
rendering him gradually oblivious of Jermyn's precautionary statement that 
he was pursuing inquiries, and that if anything of interest turned up, Mr 
Lyon should be made acquainted with it. Hence, when Christian addressed 
him, the minister, taken by surprise and shaken by the recollections of 
former anxieties, said, helplessly -
"If it is business, sir, you would perhaps do better to address yourself to 
Mr Jermyn."
He could not have said anything that was a more valuable hint to Christian. 
He inferred that the minister had made a confidant of Jermyn, and it was 
needful to be wary
"On the contrary, sir," he answered, "it may be of the utmost importance to 
you that what passes between us should not be known to Mr Jermyn."
Mr Lyon was perplexed, and felt at once that he was no more in clear 
daylight concerning Jermyn than concerning Christian. He dared not neglect 
the possible duty of hearing what this man had to say, and he invited him 
to proceed to Malthouse Yard, where they could converse in private.
Once in Mr Lyon's study, Christian opened the dialogue by saying that since 
he was in this room before it had occurred to him that the anxiety he had 
observed in Mr Lyon might be owing to some acquaintance with Maurice 
Christian Bycliffe - a fellow-prisoner in France whom he, Christian, had 
assisted in getting freed from his imprisonment, and who, in fact, had been 
the owner of the trifles which Mr Lyon had recently had in his possession 
and had restored. Christian hastened to say that he knew nothing of 
Bycliffe's history since they had parted in France, but that he knew of his 
marriage with Annette Ledru, and had been acquainted with Annette herself. 
He would be very glad to know what became of Bycliffe, if he could, for he 
liked him uncommonly.
Here Christian paused; but Mr Lyon only sat changing colour and trembling. 
This man's bearing and tone of mind were made repulsive to him by being 
brought in contact with keenly-felt memories, and he could not readily 
summon the courage to give answers or ask questions.
"May I ask if you knew my friend Bycliffe?" said Christian, trying a more 
direct method.
"No, sir; I never saw him."
"Ah I well - you have seen a very striking likeness of him. It's wonderful 
- unaccountable; but when I saw Miss Lyon at the Free School the other day, 
I could have sworn she was Bycliffe's daughter."
"Sir!" said Mr Lyon, in his deepest tone, half rising, and holding by the 
arms of his chair, "these subjects touch me with too sharp a point for you 
to be justified in thrusting them on me out of mere levity. Is there any 
good you seek or any injury you fear in relation to them?"
"Precisely, sir. We shall come now to an understanding. Suppose I believed 
that the young lady who goes by the name of Miss Lyon was the daughter of 
Bycliffe?"
Mr Lyon moved his lips silently.
"And suppose I had reason to suspect that there would be some great 
advantage for her if the law knew who was her father?"
"Sir!" said Mr Lyon, shaken out of all reticence, "I would not conceal it. 
She believes herself to be my daughter. But I will bear all things rather 
than deprive her of a right. Nevertheless I will appeal to the pity of any 
fellow-man, not to thrust himself between her and me, but to let me 
disclose the truth to her myself."
"All in good time," said Christian. "We must do nothing rash. Then Miss 
Lyon is Annette's child?"
The minister shivered as if the edge of a knife had been drawn across his 
hand. But the tone of the question, by the very fact that it intensified 
his antipathy to Christian, enabled him to collect himself for what must be 
simply the endurance of a painful operation. After a moment or two he said 
more coolly, "It is true, sir. Her mother became my wife. Proceed with any 
statement which may concern my duty."
"I have no more to say than this: If there's a prize that the law might 
hand over to Bycliffe's daughter, I am much mistaken if there isn't a 
lawyer who'll take precious good care to keep the law hoodwinked. And that 
lawyer is Mat Jermyn. Why, my good sir, if you've been taking Jermyn into 
your confidence, you've been setting the fox to keep off the weasel. It 
strikes me that when you were made a little anxious about those articles of 
poor Bycliffe's, you put Jermyn on making inquiries of me. Eh? I think I am 
right?"
"I do not deny it."
"Ah! - it was very well you did, for by that means I've found out that he's 
got hold of some secrets about Bycliffe which he means to stifle. Now, sir, 
if you desire any justice for your daughter, step-daughter, I should say - 
don't so much as wink to yourself before Jermyn; and if you've got any 
papers or things of that sort that may come in evidence, as these 
confounded rescals the lawyers call it, clutch them tight, for if they get 
into Jermyn's hands they may soon fly up the chimney. Have I said enough?"
"I had not purposed any further communication with Mr Jermyn, sir; indeed, 
I have nothing further to communicate. Except that one fact concerning my 
daughter's birth, which I have erred in concealing from her, I neither seek 
disclosures nor do I tremble before them."
"Then I have your word that you will be silent about this conversation 
between us? It is for your daughter's interest, mind."
"Sir, I shall be silent," said Mr Lyon, with cold gravity. "Unless," he 
added, with an acumen as to possibilities rather disturbing to Christian's 
confident contempt for the old man - "unless I were called upon by some 
tribunal to declare the whole truth in this relation; in which case I 
should submit myself to that authority of investigation which is a 
requisite of social order."
Christian departed, feeling satisfied that he had got the utmost to be 
obtained at present out of the Dissenting preacher, whom he had not dared 
to question more closely. He must look out for chance lights, and perhaps, 
too, he might catch a stray hint by stirring the sediment of Mr Crowder's 
memory. But he must not venture on inquiries that might be noticed. He was 
in awe of Jermyn.
When Mr Lyon was alone he paced up and down among his books, and thought 
aloud, in order to relieve himself after the constraint of this interview. 
"I will not wait for the urgency of necessity," he said, more than once. "I 
will tell the child, without compulsion. And then I shall fear nothing. And 
an unwonted spirit of tenderness has filled her of late. She will forgive 
me."



Chapter 26

"Consideration like an angel came
And whipped the of ending Adam out of her
Leaving her body as a paradise
To envelop and contain celestial spirits."
										Shakespeare: Henry V.

The next morning, after much prayer for the needful strength and wisdom, Mr 
Lyon came downstairs with the resolution that another day should not pass 
without the fulfilment of the task he had laid on himself; but what hour he 
should choose for his solemn disclosure to Esther, must depend on their 
mutual occupations. Perhaps he must defer it till they sat up alone 
together, after Lyddy was gone to bed. But at breakfast Esther said -
"To-day is a holiday, father. My pupils are all going to Duffield to see 
the wild beasts. What have you got to do today? Come, you are eating no 
breakfast. O, Lyddy, Lyddy, the eggs are hard again. I wish you would not 
read Alleyne's Alarm before breakfast; it makes you cry and forget the 
eggs."
"They are hard, and that's the truth; but there's hearts as are harder, 
Miss Esther," said Lyddy.
"I think not," said Esther. "This is leathery enough for the heart of the 
most obdurate Jew. Pray give it little Zachary for a football."
"Dear, dear, don't you be so light, miss. We may all be dead before night."
"You speak out of season, my good Lyddy," said Mr Lyon, wearily; "depart 
into the kitchen."
"What have you got to do today, father?" persisted Esther. "I have a 
holiday."
Mr Lyon felt as if this were a fresh summons not to delay. "I have 
something of great moment to do, my dear; and since you are not otherwise 
demanded, I will ask you to come and sit with me up-stairs."
Esther wondered what there could be on her father's mind more pressing than 
his morning studies.
She soon knew. Motionless, but mentally stirred as she had never been 
before, Esther listened to her mother's story, and to the outpouring of her 
step-father's long-pent-up experience. The rays of the morning sun which 
fell athwart the books, the sense of the beginning day, had deepened the 
solemnity more than night would have done. All knowledge which alters our 
lives penetrates us more when it comes in the early morning: the day that 
has to be travelled with something new and perhaps for ever sad in its 
light, is an image of the life that spreads beyond. But at night the time 
of rest is near.
Mr Lyon regarded his narrative as a confession - as a revelation to this 
beloved child of his own miserable weakness and error. But to her it seemed 
a revelation of another sort: her mind seemed suddenly enlarged by a vision 
of passion and struggle, of delight and renunciation, in the lot of beings 
who had hitherto been a dull enigma to her. And in the act of unfolding to 
her that he was not her real father, but had only striven to cherish her as 
a father, had only longed to be loved as a father, the odd, wayworn, 
unworldly man became the object of a new sympathy in which Esther felt 
herself exalted. Perhaps this knowledge would have been less powerful 
within her, but for the mental preparation that had come during the last 
two months from her acquaintance with Felix Holt, which had taught her to 
doubt the infallibility of her own standard, and raised a presentiment of 
moral depths that were hidden from her.
Esther had taken her place opposite to her father, and had not moved even 
her clasped hands while he was speaking. But after the long out-pouring in 
which he seemed to lose the sense of everything but the memories he was 
giving utterance to, he paused a little while and then said timidly -
"This is a late retrieval of a long error, Esther. I make not excuses for 
myself, for we ought to strive that our affections be rooted in the truth. 
Nevertheless you - "
Esther had risen, and had glided on to the wooden stool on a level with her 
father's chair, where he was accustomed to lay books. She wanted to speak, 
but the floodgates could not be opened for words alone. She threw her arms 
round the old man's neck and sobbed out with a passionate cry, "Father, 
father! forgive me if I have not loved you enough I will - I will!"
The old man's little delicate frame was shaken by a surprise and joy that 
were almost painful in their intensity. He had been going to ask 
forgiveness of her who asked it for herself. In that moment of supreme 
complex emotion one ray of the minister's joy was the thought, "Surely the 
work of grace is begun in her - surely here is a heart that the Lord hath 
touched."
They sat so, enclasped in silence, while Esther relieved her full heart. 
When she raised her head, she sat quite still for a minute or two looking 
fixedly before her, and keeping one little hand in the minister's. 
Presently she looked at him and said -
"Then you lived like a working man, father; you were very, very poor. Yet 
my mother had been used to luxury. She was well born - she was a lady."
"It is true, my dear; it was a poor life that I could give her."
Mr Lyon answered in utter dimness as to the course Esther's mind was 
taking. He had anticipated before his disclosure, from his long-standing 
discernment of tendencies in her which were often the cause of silent grief 
to him, that the discovery likely to have the keenest interest for her 
would be that her parents had a higher rank than that of the poor 
Dissenting preacher; but she had shown that other and better sensibilities 
were predominant. He rebuked himself now for a hasty and shallow judgment 
concerning the child's inner life, and waited for new clearness.
"But that must be the best life, father," said Esther, suddenly rising, 
with a flush across her paleness, and standing with her head thrown a 
little backward, as if some illumination had given her a new decision. 
"That must be the best life."
"What life, my dear child?"
"Why, that where one bears and does everything because of some great and 
strong feeling - so that this and that in one's circumstances don't 
signify."
"Yea, verily; but the feeling that should be thus supreme is devotedness to 
the Divine Will."
Esther did not speak; her father's words did not fit on to the impressions 
wrought in her by what he had told her. She sat down again, and said, more 
quietly -
"Mamma did not speak much of my - first father?"
"Not much, dear. She said he was beautiful to the eye, and good and 
generous; and that his family was of those who have been long privileged 
among their fellows. But now I will deliver to you the letters, which, 
together with a ring and locket, are the only visible memorials she 
retained of him."
Mr Lyon reached and delivered to Esther the box containing the relics. 
"Take them, and examine them in privacy, my dear. And that I may no more 
err by concealment, I will tell you some late occurrences that bear on 
these memorials, though to my present apprehension doubtfully and 
confusedly."
He then narrated to Esther all that had passed between himself and 
Christian. The possibility - to which Mr Lyon's alarms had pointed - that 
her real father might still be living, was a new shock. She could not speak 
about it to her present father, but it was registered in silence as a 
painful addition to the uncertainties which she suddenly saw hanging over 
her life.
"I have little confidence in this man's allegations," Mr Lyon ended. "I 
confess his presence and speech are to me as the jarring of metal. He bears 
the stamp of one who has never conceived aught of more sanctity than the 
lust of the eye and the pride of life. He hints at some possible 
inheritance for you, and denounces mysteriously the devices of Mr Jermyn. 
All this may or may not have a true foundation. But it is not my part to 
move in this matter save on a clearer showing.
"Certainly not, father," said Esther, eagerly. A little while ago, these 
problematic prospects might have set her dreaming pleasantly; but now, for 
some reasons that she could not have put distinctly into words, they 
affected her with dread.



Chapter 27

"To hear with eyes is part of love's rare wit."
							-- Shakespeare: Sonnets.

				"Custom calls me to't :-
What custom wills, in all things should we do't?
The dust on antique time would lie unswept,
And mountainous error be too highly heaped
For truth to over-peer." - Coriolanus.

In the afternoon Mr Lyon went out to see the sick amongst his flock, and 
Esther, who had been passing the morning in dwelling on the memories and 
the few remaining relics of her parents, was left alone in the parlour 
amidst the lingering odours of the early dinner, not easily got rid of in 
that small house. Rich people, who know nothing of these vulgar details, 
can hardly imagine their significance in the history of multitudes of human 
lives in which the sensibilities are never adjusted to the external 
conditions. Esther always felt so much discomfort from those odours that 
she usually seized any possibility of escaping from them, and today they 
oppressed her the more because she was weary with long-continued agitation. 
Why did she not put on her bonnet as usual and get out into the open air? 
It was one of those pleasant November afternoons - pleasant in the wide 
country - when the sunshine is on the clinging brown leaves of the young 
oaks, and the last yellow leaves of the elms flutter down in the fresh but 
not eager breeze. But Esther sat still on the sofa - pale and with reddened 
eyelids, her curls all pushed back carelessly, and her elbow resting on the 
ridgy black horse-hair, which usually almost set her teeth on edge if she 
pressed it even through her sleeve - while her eyes rested blankly on the 
dull street. Lyddy had said, "Miss, you look sadly; if you can't take a 
walk, go and lie down." She had never seen the curls in such disorder, and 
she reflected that there had been a death from typhus recently. But the 
obstinate miss only shook her head.
Esther was waiting for the sake of - not a probability, but - a mere 
possibility, which made the brothy odours endurable. Apparently, in less 
than half an hour, the possibility came to pass, for she changed her 
attitude, almost started from her seat, sat down again, and listened 
eagerly. If Lyddy should send him away, could she herself rush out and call 
him back? Why not? Such things were permissible where it was understood, 
from the necessity of the case, that there was only friendship. But Lyddy 
opened the door and said, "Here's Mr Holt, miss, wants to know if you'll 
give him leave to come in. I told him you was sadly."
"O yes, Lyddy, beg him to come in."
"I should not have persevered," said Felix, as they shook hands, "only I 
know Lyddy's dismal way. But you do look ill," he went on, as he seated 
himself at the other end of the sofa. "Or rather - for that's a false way 
of putting it - you look as if you had been very much distressed. Do you 
mind about my taking notice of it?"
He spoke very kindly, and looked at her more persistently than he had ever 
done before, when her hair was perfect.
"You are quite right. I am not at all ill. But I have been very much 
agitated this morning. My father has been telling me things I never heard 
before about my mother, and giving me things that belonged to her. She died 
when I was a very little creature."
"Then it is no new pain or trouble for you and Mr Lyon? I could not help 
being anxious to know that."
Esther passed her hand over her brow before she answered. "I hardly know 
whether it is pain, or something better than pleasure. It has made me see 
things I was blind to before - depths in my father's nature."
As she said this, she looked at Felix, and their eyes met very gravely.
"It is such a beautiful day," he said, "it would do you good to go into the 
air. Let me take you along the river towards Little Treby, will you?"
"I will put my bonnet on," said Esther, unhesitatingly, though they had 
never walked out together before.
It is true that to get into the fields they had to pass through the street; 
and when Esther saw some acquaintances, she reflected that her walking 
alone with Felix might be a subject of remark - all the more because of his 
cap, patched boots, no cravat, and thick stick. Esther was a little amazed 
herself at what she had come to. So our lives glide on: the river ends we 
don't know where, and the sea begins, and then there is no more jumping 
ashore.
When they were in the streets Esther hardly spoke. Felix talked with his 
usual readiness, as easily as if he were not doing it solely to divert her 
thoughts, first about Job Tudge's delicate chest, and the probability that 
the little white-faced monkey would not live long; and then about a 
miserable beginning of a night-school, which was all he could get together 
at Sproxton; and the dismalness of that hamlet, which was a sort of lip to 
the coalpit on one side and the "public" on the other - and yet a paradise 
compared with the wynds of Glasgow, where there was little more than a 
chink of daylight to show the hatred in women's faces.
But soon they got into the fields, where there was a right of way towards 
Little Treby, now following the course of the river, now crossing towards a 
lane, and now turning into a cart-track through a plantation.
"Here we are!" said Felix, when they had crossed the wooden bridge, and 
were treading on the slanting shadows made by the elm trunks. "I think this 
is delicious. I never feel less unhappy than in these late autumn 
afternoons when they are sunny."
"Less unhappy! There now!" said Esther, smiling at him with some of her 
habitual sauciness, "I have caught you in self-contradiction. I have heard 
you quite furious against puling, melancholy people. If I had said what you 
have just said, you would have given me a long lecture, and told me to go 
home and interest myself in the reason of the rule of three."
"Very likely," said Felix, beating the weeds, according to the foible of 
our common humanity when it has a stick in its hand. "But I don't think 
myself a fine fellow because I'm melancholy. I don't measure my force by 
the negations in me, and think my soul must be a mighty one because it is 
more given to idle suffering than to beneficent activity. That's what your 
favourite gentlemen do, of the Byronic bilious style."
"I don't admit that those are my favourite gentlemen."
"I've heard you defend them - gentlemen like your Renes, who have no 
particular talent for the finite, but a general sense that the infinite is 
the right thing for them. They might as well boast of nausea as a proof of 
a strong inside."
"Stop, stop! You run on in that way to get out of my reach. I convicted you 
of confessing that you are melancholy."
"Yes!" said Felix, thrusting his left hand into his pocket, with a shrug; 
"as I could confess to a great many other things I'm not proud of. The fact 
is, there are not many easy lots to be drawn in the world at present; and 
such as they are I am not envious of them. I don't say life is not worth 
having: it is worth having to a man who has some sparks of sense and 
feeling and bravery in him. And the finest fellow of all would be the one 
who could be glad to have lived because the world was chiefly miserable, 
and his life had come to help some one who needed it. He would be the man 
who had the most powers and the fewest selfish wants. But I'm not up to the 
level of what I see to be best. I'm often a hungry discontented fellow."
"Why have you made life so hard then?" said Esther, rather frightened as 
she asked the question. "It seems to me you have tried to find just the 
most difficult task."
"Not at all," said Felix, with curt decision. "My course was a very simple 
one. It was pointed out to me by conditions that I saw as clearly as I see 
the bars of this stile. It's a difficult stile too," added Felix, striding 
over. "Shall I help you, or will you be left to yourself?"
"I can do without help, thank you."
"It was all simple enough," continued Felix, as they walked on. "If I meant 
to put a stop to the sale of those drugs, I must keep my mother, and of 
course at her age she would not leave the place she had been used to. And I 
had made up my mind against what they call genteel businesses."
"But suppose every one did as you do? Please to forgive me for saying so; 
but I cannot see why you could not have lived as honourably with some 
employment that presupposes education and refinement."
"Because you can't see my history or my nature," said Felix, bluntly. "I 
have to determine for myself, and not for other men. I don't blame them, or 
think I am better than they; their circumstances are different. I would 
never choose to withdraw myself from the labour and common burthen of the 
world; but I do choose to withdraw myself from the push and the scramble 
for money and position. Any man is at liberty to call me a fool, and say 
that mankind are benefited by the push and the scramble in the long-run. 
But I care for the people who live now and will not be living when the long-
run comes. As it is, I prefer going shares with the unlucky."
Esther did not speak, and there was silence between them for a minute or 
two, till they passed through a gate into a plantation where there was no 
large timber, but only thin-stemmed trees and underwood, so that the 
sunlight fell on the mossy spaces which lay open here and there.
"See how beautiful those stooping birch-stems are with the light on them!" 
said Felix. "Here is an old felled trunk they have not thought worth 
carrying away. Shall we sit down a little while?"
"Yes, the mossy ground with the dry leaves sprinkled over it is delightful 
to one's feet." Esther sat down and took off her bonnet, that the light 
breeze might fall on her head. Felix, too, threw down his cap and stick, 
lying on the ground with his back against the felled trunk.
"I wish I felt more as you do," she said, looking at the point of her foot, 
which was playing with a tuft of moss. "I can't help caring very much what 
happens to me. And you seem to care so little about yourself."
"You are thoroughly mistaken," said Felix. "It is just because I'm a very 
ambitious fellow, with very hungry passions, wanting a great deal to 
satisfy me, that I have chosen to give up what people call worldly good. At 
least that has been one determining reason. It all depends on what a man 
gets into his consciousness - what life thrusts into his mind, so that it 
becomes present to him as remorse is present to the guilty, or a mechanical 
problem to an inventive genius. There are two things I've got present in 
that way: one of them is the picture of what I should hate to be. I'm 
determined never to go about making my face simpering or solemn, and 
telling professional lies for profit; or to get tangled in affairs where I 
must wink at dishonesty and pocket the proceeds, and justify that knavery 
as part of a system that I can't alter. If I once went into that sort of 
struggle for success, I should want to win - I should defend the wrong that 
I had once identified myself with. I should become everything that I see 
now beforehand to be detestable. And what's more, I should do this, as men 
are doing it every day, for a ridiculously small prize - perhaps for none 
at all - perhaps for the sake of two parlours, a rank eligible for the 
church-wardenship, a discontented wife and several unhopeful children."
Esther felt a terrible pressure on her heart - the certainty of her 
remoteness from Felix - the sense that she was utterly trivial to him.
"The other thing that's got into my mind like a splinter," said Felix, 
after a pause, "is the life of the miserable - the spawning life of vice 
and hunger. I'll never be one of the sleek dogs. The old Catholics are 
right, with their higher rule and their lower. Some are called to subject 
themselves to a harder discipline, and renounce things voluntarily which 
are lawful for others. It is the old word - "necessity is laid upon me"."
"It seems to me you are stricter than my father is."
"No! I quarrel with no delight that is not base or cruel, but one must 
sometimes accommodate one's self to a small share. That is the lot of the 
majority. I would wish the minority joy, only they don't want my wishes."
Again there was silence. Esther's cheeks were hot in spite of the breeze 
that sent her hair floating backward. She felt an inward strain, a demand 
on her to see things in a light that was not easy or soothing. When Felix 
had asked her to walk, he had seemed so kind, so alive to what might be her 
feelings, that she had thought herself nearer to him than she had ever been 
before; but since they had come out, he had appeared to forget all that. 
And yet she was conscious that this impatience of hers was very petty. 
Battling in this way with her own little impulses, and looking at the birch-
stems opposite till her gaze was too wide for her to see anything 
distinctly, she was unaware how long they had remained without speaking. 
She did not know that Felix had changed his attitude a little, and was 
resting his elbow on the tree-trunk, while he supported his head, which was 
turned towards her. Suddenly he said, in a lower tone than was habitual to 
him -
"You are very beautiful."
She started and looked round at him, to see whether his face would give 
some help to the interpretation of this novel speech. He was looking up at 
her quite calmly, very much as a reverential Protestant might look at a 
picture of the Virgin, with a devoutness suggested by the type rather than 
by the image. Esther's vanity was not in the least gratified: she felt 
that, somehow or other, Felix was going to reproach her.
"I wonder," he went on, still looking at her, "whether the subtle measuring 
of forces will ever come to measuring the force there would be in one 
beautiful woman whose mind was as noble as her face was beautiful - who 
made a man's passion for her rush in one current with all the great aims of 
his life."
Esther's eyes got hot and smarting. It was no use trying to be dignified. 
She had turned away her head, and now said, rather bitterly, "It is 
difficult for a woman ever to try to be anything good when she is not 
believed in - when it is always supposed that she must be contemptible."
"No, dear Esther" - it was the first time Felix had been prompted to call 
her by her Christian name, and as he did so he laid his large hand on her 
two little hands, which were clasped on her knees. "You don't believe that 
I think you contemptible. When I first saw you - "
"I know, I know," said Esther, interrupting him impetuously, but still 
looking away. "You mean you did think me contemptible then. But it was very 
narrow of you to judge me in that way, when my life had been so different 
from yours. I have great faults. I know I am selfish, and think too much of 
my own small tastes and too little of what affects others. But I am not 
stupid. I am not unfeeling. I can see what is better."
"But I have not done you injustice since I knew more of you," said Felix, 
gently.
"Yes, you have," said Esther, turning and smiling at him through her tears. 
"You talk to me like an angry pedagogue. Were you always wise? Remember the 
time when you were foolish or naughty."
"That is not far off," said Felix, curtly, taking away his hand and 
clasping it with the other at the back of his head. The talk, which seemed 
to be introducing a mutual understanding, such as had not existed before, 
seemed to have undergone some check.
"Shall we get up and walk back now?" said Esther, after a few moments.
"No," said Felix, entreatingly. "Don't move yet. I daresay we shall never 
walk together or sit here again."
"Why not?"
"Because I am a man who am warned by visions. Those old stories of visions 
and dreams guiding men have their truth: we are saved by making the future 
present to ourselves."
"I wish I could get visions, then," said Esther, smiling at him, with an 
effort at playfulness, in resistance to something vaguely mournful within 
her.
"That is what I want," said Felix, looking at her very earnestly. "Don't 
turn your head. Do look at me, and then I shall know if I may go on 
speaking. I do believe in you; but I want you to have such a vision of the 
future that you may never lose your best self. Some charm or other may be 
flung about you - some of your atta-of-rose fascinations - and nothing but 
a good strong terrible vision will save you. And if it did save you, you 
might be that woman I was thinking of a little while ago when I looked at 
your face: the woman whose beauty makes a great task easier to men instead 
of turning them away from it. I am not likely to see such fine issues; but 
they may come where a woman's spirit is finely touched. I should like to be 
sure they would come to you."
"Why are you not likely to know what becomes of me?" said Esther, turning 
away her eyes in spite of his command. "Why should you not always be my 
father's friend and mine?"
"O, I shall go away as soon as I can to some large town," said Felix, in 
his more usual tone, - "some ugly, wicked, miserable place. I want to be a 
demagogue of a new sort; an honest one, if possible, who will tell the 
people they are blind and foolish, and neither flatter them nor fatten on 
them. I have my heritage - an order I belong to. I have the blood of a line 
of handicraftsmen in my veins, and I want to stand up for the lot of the 
handicraftsmen as a good lot, in which a man may be better trained to all 
the best functions of his nature than if he belonged to the grimacing set 
who have visiting-cards, and are proud to be thought richer than their 
neighbours."
"Would nothing ever make it seem right to you to change your mind?" said 
Esther (she had rapidly woven some possibilities out of the new 
uncertainties in her own lot, though she would not for the world have had 
Felix know of her weaving). "Suppose, by some means or other, a fortune 
might come to you honourably - by marriage, or in any other unexpected way 
- would you see no change in your course?"
"No," said Felix, peremptorily: "I will never be rich. I don't count that 
as any peculiar virtue. Some men do well to accept riches, but that is not 
my inward vocation: I have no fellow-feeling with the rich as a class; the 
habits of their lives are odious to me. Thousands of men have wedded 
poverty because they expect to go to heaven for it; I don't expect to go to 
heaven for it, but I wed it because it enables me to do what I most want to 
do on earth. Whatever the hopes for the world may be - whether great or 
small - I am a man of this generation; I will try to make life less bitter 
for a few within my reach. It is held reasonable enough to toil for the 
fortunes of a family, though it may turn to imbecility in the third 
generation. I choose a family with more chances in it."
Esther looked before her dreamily till she said, "That seems a hard lot; 
yet it is a great one." She rose to walk back.
"Then you don't think I'm a fool," said Felix, loudly, starting to his 
feet, and then stooping to gather up his cap and stick.
"Of course you suspected me of that stupidity."
"Well - women, unless they are Saint Theresas or Elizabeth Frys, generally 
think this sort of thing madness, unless when they read of it in the 
Bible."
"A woman can hardly ever choose in that way; she is dependent on what 
happens to her. She must take meaner things, because only meaner things are 
within her reach."
"Why, can you imagine yourself choosing hardship as the better lot?" said 
Felix, looking at her with a sudden question in his eyes.
"Yes, I can," she said, flushing over neck and brow.
Their words were charged with a meaning dependent entirely on the secret 
consciousness of each. Nothing had been said which was necessarily 
personal. They walked a few yards along the road by which they had come, 
without further speech, till Felix said gently, "Take my arm." She took it, 
and they walked home so, entirely without conversation. Felix was 
struggling as a firm man struggles with a temptation, seeing beyond it and 
disbelieving its lying promise. Esther was struggling as a woman struggles 
with the yearning for some expression of love, and with vexation under that 
subjection to a yearning which is not likely to be satisfied. Each was 
conscious of a silence which each was unable to break, till they entered 
Malthouse Lane, and were within a few yards of the minister's door.
"It is getting dusk," Felix then said; "will Mr Lyon be anxious about you?"
"No, I think not. Lyddy would tell him that I went out with you, and that 
you carried a large stick," said Esther, with her light laugh.
Felix went in with Esther to take tea, but the conversation was entirely 
between him and Mr Lyon about the tricks of canvassing, and foolish 
personality of the placards, and the probabilities of Transome's return, as 
to which Felix declared himself to have become indifferent. This scepticism 
made the minister uneasy: he had great belief in the old political 
watchwords, had preached that universal suffrage and no ballot were 
agreeable to the will of God, and liked to believe that a visible 
"instrument" was forthcoming in the Radical candidate who had pronounced 
emphatically against Whig finality. Felix, being in a perverse mood, 
contended that universal suffrage would be equally agreeable to the devil; 
that he would change his politics a little, having a larger traffic, and 
see himself more fully represented in parliament.
"Nay, my friend," said the minister, "you are again sporting with paradox; 
for you will not deny that you glory in the name of Radical, or Root-and-
branch man, as they said in the great times when Nonconformity was in its 
giant youth."
"A Radical - yes; but I want to go to some roots a good deal lower down 
than the franchise."
"Truly there is a work within which cannot be dispensed with; but it is our 
preliminary work to free men from the stifled life of political nullity, 
and bring them into what Milton calls "the liberal air", wherein alone can 
be wrought the final triumphs of the Spirit."
"With all my heart. But while Caliban is Caliban, though you multiply him 
by a million, he'll worship every Trinculo that carries a bottle. I forget, 
though - you don't read Shakspeare, Mr Lyon."
"I am bound to confess that I have so far looked into a volume of Esther's 
as to conceive your meaning; but the fantasies therein were so little to be 
reconciled with a steady contemplation of that divine economy which is 
hidden from sense and revealed to faith, that I forbore the reading, as 
likely to perturb my ministrations."
Esther sat by in unusual silence. The conviction that Felix willed her 
exclusion from his life was making it plain that something more than 
friendship between them was not so thoroughly out of the question as she 
had always inwardly asserted. In her pain that his choice lay aloof from 
her, she was compelled frankly to admit to herself the longing that it had 
been otherwise, and that he had entreated her to share his difficult life. 
He was like no one else to her: he had seemed to bring at once a law, and 
the love that gave strength to obey the law. Yet the next moment, stung by 
his independence of her, she denied that she loved him; she had only longed 
for a moral support under the negations of her life. If she were not to 
have that support, all effort seemed useless.
Esther had been so long used to hear the formulas of her father's belief 
without feeling or understanding them, that they had lost all power to 
touch her. The first religious experience of her life - the first self-
questioning, the first voluntary subjection, the first longing to acquire 
the strength of greater motives and obey the more strenuous rule - had come 
to her through Felix Holt. No wonder that she felt as if the loss of him 
were inevitable backsliding.
But was it certain that she should lose him? She did not believe that he 
was really indifferent to her.



Chapter 28

"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 and Felix 
Holt was one of several signs that the days of nomination and election were 
approaching. The presence of the revising barrister in Treby was not only 
an opportunity for all persons not otherwise busy to show their zeal for 
the purification of the voting-lists, but also to reconcile private ease 
and public duty by standing about the streets and lounging at doors.
It was no light business for Trebians to form an opinion; the mere fact of 
a public functionary with an unfamiliar title was enough to give them 
pause, as a premiss that was not to be quickly started from. To Mr Pink the 
saddler, for example, until some distinct injury or benefit had accrued to 
him, the existence of the revising barrister was like the existence of the 
young giraffe which Wombwell had lately brought into those parts - it was 
to be contemplated, and not criticised. Mr Pink professed a deep-dyed 
Toryism; but he regarded all fault-finding as Radical and somewhat impious, 
as disturbing to trade, and likely to offend the gentry or the servants 
through whom their harness was ordered: there was a Nemesis in things which 
made objection unsafe, and even the Reform Bill was a sort of electric eel 
which a thriving tradesman had better leave alone. It was only the 
"Papists" who lived far enough off to be spoken of uncivilly.
But Mr Pink was fond of news, which he collected and retailed with perfect 
impartiality, noting facts and rejecting comments. Hence he was well 
pleased to have his shop so constant a place of resort for loungers, that 
to many Trebians there was a strong association between the pleasures of 
gossip and the smell of leather. He had the satisfaction of chalking and 
cutting, and of keeping his journeymen close at work, at the very time that 
he learned from his visitors who were those whose votes had been called in 
question before His Honour, how Lawyer 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 of people's property, and swearing it down 
below a certain sum, was a nasty, inquisitorial kind of thing; while others 
observed that being nice to a few pounds was all nonsense - they should put 
the figure high enough, and then never mind if a voter's qualification was 
thereabouts. But, said Mr Sims the auctioneer, everything was done for the 
sake of the lawyers. Mr Pink suggested impartially that lawyers must live; 
but Mr Sims, having a ready auctioneering wit, did not see that so many of 
them need live, or that babies were born lawyers. Mr Pink felt that this 
speculation was complicated by the ordering of side-saddles for lawyers' 
daughters, and, returning to the firm ground of fact, stated that it was 
getting dusk.
The dusk seemed deepened the next moment by a tall figure obstructing the 
doorway, at sight of whom Mr Pink rubbed his hands and smiled and bowed 
more than once, with evident solicitude to show honour where honour was 
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 were to make 
such a fine job of. See, old fellow, they've burst out again."
"Very sorry, sir. Can you leave them with me?"
"O yes, I'll leave them. What's the news, eh?" said Christian, half seating 
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 a knowing 
smile. "You're at headquarters - eh, sir? That was what I said to Mr Scales 
the other day. He came for some straps, Mr Scales did, and he asked that 
question in pretty near the same terms that you've done, sir, and I 
answered him, as I may say, ditto. Not meaning any disrespect to you, sir, 
but a way of speaking."
"Come, that's gammon, Pink," said Christian. "You know everything. You can 
tell me, if you will, who is the fellow employed to paste up Transome'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 him 
myself for charity."
"Where shall I find him?" said Christian.
"At the Cross-Keys, in Pollard's End, most likely," said Mr Sims. "I don'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," said Mr 
Pink.
"Ay, and has snared many a hare in his time," said Mr Sims. "But he was 
always a little cracked. Lord bless you! he used to swear he'd a right to 
the Transome estate."
"Why, what put that notion into his head?" said Christian, who had learned 
more than he expected.
"The lawing, sir - nothing but the lawing about the estate. There was a 
deal of it twenty year ago," said Mr Pink. "Tommy happened to turn up 
hereabout at that time; a big, lungeous fellow, who would speak 
disrespectfully of hanybody."
"O, he meant no harm," said Mr Simms. "He was fond of a drop to drink, and 
not quite right in the upper story, and he could hear no difference between 
Trounsem and Transome. It's an odd way of speaking they have in that part 
where he was born - a little north'ard. You'll hear it in his tongue now, 
if you talk to him."
"At the Cross-Keys I shall find him, eh?" said Christian, getting off his 
stool. "Good-day, Pink, good-day."
Christian went straight from the saddler's to Quorlen's, the Tory 
printer's, with whom he had contrived a political spree. Quorlen was a new 
man in Treby, who had so reduced the trade of Dow, the old hereditary 
printer, that Dow had lapsed to Whiggery and Radicalism and opinions in 
general, so far as they were contented to express themselves in a small 
stock of types. Quorlen had brought his Duffield wit with him, and insisted 
that religion and joking were the handmaids of politics; on which principle 
he and Christian undertook the joking, and left the religion to the rector. 
The joke at present in question was a practical one. Christian, turning 
into the shop, merely said, "I've found him out - give me the placards"; 
and, tucking a thickish flat bundle, wrapped in a black glazed cotton bag, 
under his arm, walked out into the dusk again.
"Suppose now," he said to himself, as he strode along - "suppose there 
should be some secret to be got out of this old scamp, or some notion 
that's as good as a secret to those who know how to use it? That would be 
virtue rewarded. But I'm afraid the old tosspot is not likely to be good 
for much. There's truth in wine, and there may be some in gin and muddy 
beer; but whether it's truth worth my knowing, is another question. I've 
got plenty of truth in my time out of men who were half-seas-over, but 
never any that was worth a sixpence to me."
The Cross-Keys was a very old-fashioned "public": its bar was a big 
rambling kitchen, with an undulating brick floor; the small-paned windows 
threw an interesting obscurity over the far-off dresser, garnished with 
pewter and tin, and with large dishes that seemed to speak of better times; 
the two settles were half pushed under the wide-mouthed chimney; and the 
grate, with its brick hobs, massive iron crane, and various pothooks, 
suggested a generous plenty possibly existent in all moods and tenses 
except the indicative present. One way of getting an idea of our fellow-
countrymen's miseries is to go and look at their pleasures. The Cross-Keys 
had a fungous-featured landlord and a yellow sickly landlady, with a napkin 
bound round her head like a resuscitated
Lazarus; it had doctored ale, an odour of bad tobacco, and remarkably 
strong cheese. It was not what Astraea, when come back, might be expected 
to approve as the scene of ecstatic enjoyment for the beings whose special 
prerogative it is to lift their sublime faces towards heaven. Still, there 
was ample space on the hearth - accommodation for narrative bagmen or 
boxmen - room for a man to stretch his legs; his brain was not pressed upon 
by a white wall within a yard of him, and the light did not stare in 
mercilessly on bare ugliness, turning the fire to ashes. Compared with some 
beerhouses of this more advanced period, the Cross-Keys of that day 
presented a high standard of pleasure.
But though this venerable "public" had not failed to share in the recent 
political excitement of drinking, the pleasures it offered were not at this 
early hour of the evening sought by a numerous company. There were only 
three or four pipes being smoked by the firelight, but it was enough for 
Christian when he found that one of these was being smoked by the bill-
sticker, whose large flat basket stuffed with placards, leaned near him 
against the settle. So splendid an apparition as Christian was not a little 
startling at the Cross-Keys, and was gazed at in expectant silence; but he 
was a stranger in Pollard's End, and was taken for the highest style of 
traveller when he declared that he was deucedly thirsty, ordered six-
pennyworth of gin and a large jug of water, and, putting a few drops of the 
spirit into his own glass, invited Tommy Trounsem, who sat next him, to 
help himself. Tommy was not slower than a shaking hand obliged him to be in 
accepting this invitation. He was a tall broad-shouldered old fellow, who 
had once been good-looking; but his cheeks and chest were both hollow now, 
and his limbs were shrunken.
"You've got some bills there, master, eh?" said Christian, pointing to the 
basket. "Is there an auction coming on?"
"Auction? no," said Tommy, with a gruff hoarseness, which was the remnant 
of a jovial bass, and with an accent which differed from the Trebian 
fitfully, as an early habit is wont to reassert itself "I've nought to do 
wi' auctions; I'm a pol'tical charicter. It's me am getting Trounsem into 
parliament."
"Trounsem, says he," the landlord observed, taking out his pipe with a low 
laugh. "It's Transome, sir. Maybe you don't belong to this part. It's the 
candidate "ull do most for the working men, and's proved it too, in the way 
o' being openhanded and wishing 'em to enjoy themselves. If I'd twenty 
votes, I'd give one for Transome, and I don't care who hears me."
The landlord peeped out from his fungous cluster of features with a beery 
confidence that the high figure of twenty had somehow raised the hypothetic 
value of his vote.
"Spilkins, now," said Tommy, waving his hand to the landlord, "you let one 
genelman speak to another, will you? This genelman wants to know about my 
bills. Does he, or doesn't he?"
"What then? I spoke according," said the landlord, mildly holding his own.
"You're all very well, Spilkins," returned Tommy, "but y'aren't me. I know 
what the bills are. It's public business. I'm none o' your common bill-
stickers, master; I've left off sticking up ten guineas reward for a sheep-
stealer, or low stuff like that. These are Trounsem's bills; and I'm the 
rightful family, and so I give him a lift. A Trounsem I am, and a Trounsem 
I'll be buried; and if Old Nick tries to lay hold on me for poaching, I'll 
say, "You be hanged for a lawyer, Old Nick; every hare and 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 long and the short on't, 
master. And I'm the head o' the family, and I stick the 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 landlord winked 
at the company, was addressed to Christian, who answered, with severe 
gravity -
"I say there isn't any work more honourable than bill-sticking."
"No, no," said Tommy, wagging his head from side to side. "I thought you'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. I shall go to 
heaven, for all Old Nick."
As these celestial prospects might imply that a little extra gin was 
beginning to tell on the bill-sticker, Christian wanted to lose no time in 
arresting his attention. He laid his hand on Tommy's arm and spoke 
emphatically.
"But I'll tell you what you bill-stickers are not up to. You should be on 
the look-out when Debarry's side have stuck up fresh bills, and go and 
paste yours over them. I know where there's a lot of Debarry's bills now. 
Come along with me, and I'll show you. We'll paste them over, and then 
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 did not 
easily lose his head or legs or the ordinary amount of method in his talk. 
Strangers often supposed that Tommy was tipsy when he had only taken what 
he called "one blessed pint", chiefly from that glorious contentment with 
himself and his adverse fortunes which is not usually characteristic of the 
sober Briton. He knocked the ashes out of his pipe, seized his paste-vessel 
and his basket, and prepared to start, with a satisfactory promise that he 
could know what he was about.
The landlord and some others had confidently concluded that they understood 
all about Christian now. He was a Transome's man, come to see after the 
bill-sticking in Transome's interest. The landlord, telling his yellow wife 
snappishly to open the door for the gentleman, hoped soon to see him again.
"This is a Transome's house, sir," he observed, "in respect of entertaining 
customers of that colour. I do my duty as a publican, which, if I know it, 
is to turn back no genelman's money. I say, give every genelman a chanch, 
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 be better for trade if there 
was six of 'em, and voters according."
"Ay, ay," said Christian; "you're a sensible man, landlord. You don't mean 
to vote for Debarry then, eh?"
"Not nohow," said the landlord, thinking that where negatives were good the 
more you heard of them the better.
As soon as the door had closed behind Christian and his new companion, 
Tommy 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 you what 
- if you've had the luck to fall in wi' Tommy Trounsem, don't you let him 
drop."
"No, no - to be sure not," said Christian. "Come along here. We'll go to 
the Back Brewery wall first."
"No, no; don't you let me drop. Give me a shilling any day you like, and 
I'll tell you more nor you'll hear from Spilkins in a week. There isna many 
men like me. I carried pots for fifteen years off and on - what do you 
think o' that now, for a man as might ha" lived up there at Trounsem Park, 
and snared his own game? Which I'd ha" done," said Tommy, wagging his head 
at Christian in the dimness undisturbed by gas. "None o' your shooting for 
me - it's two to one you'll miss. Snaring's more fishing-like. You bait 
your hook, and if it isna the fishes' goodwill to come, that's nothing 
again' the sporting genelman. And that's what I say by snaring."
"But if you'd a right to the Transome estate, how was it you were kept out 
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 o' chap; I don't mind 
telling you. There's folks born to property, and there's folks catch hold 
on it; and the law's made for them as catch hold. I'm pretty deep; I see a 
good deal further than Spilkins. There was Ned Patch, the pedlar, used to 
say to me "You canna read, Tommy," says he. "No; thank you," says I; "I'm 
not going to crack my headpiece to make myself as big a 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 were born 
to property?"
"It was the regester - the parish regester," said Tommy, with his knowing 
wag of the head, "that shows as you was born. I allays felt it inside me as 
I was somebody, and I could see other chaps thought it on me too; and so 
one day at Littleshaw, where I kept ferrets and a little bit of a public, 
there comes a fine man looking after me, and walking me up and down wi' 
questions. And I made out from the clerk as he'd been at the regester; and 
I gave the clerk a pot or two, and he got it of our parson as the name o' 
Trounsem was a great name hereabout. And I waits a bit for my fine man to 
come again. Thinks I, if there's property wants a right owner, I shall be 
called for; for I didn't know the law then. And I waited and waited, till I 
see'd no fun i' waiting. So I parted wi' my public and my ferrets - for she 
was dead a'ready, my wife was, and I hadn't no cumbrance. And off I started 
a pretty long walk to this countryside, for I could walk for a wager in 
them days."
"Ah! well, here we are at the Back Brewery wall. Put down your paste and 
your basket now, old boy, and I'll help you. You paste, and I'll give you 
the bills, and then you can go on talking."
Tommy obeyed automatically, for he was now carried away by the rare 
opportunity of talking to a new listener, and was only eager to go on with 
his story. As soon as his back was turned, and he was stooping over his 
paste-pot, Christian, with quick adroitness, exchanged the placards in his 
own bag for those in Tommys basket. Christian's placards had not been 
printed at Treby, but were a new lot which had been sent from Duffield that 
very day - "highly spiced", Quorlen had said, "coming from a pen that was 
up to that sort of thing". Christian had read the first of the sheaf, and 
supposed they were all alike. He proceeded to hand one to Tommy, and said -
"Here, old boy, paste this over the other. And so, when you got into this 
country-side, what did you do?"
"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's Trounsem 
business you're after, you go to Lawyer Jermyn. And I went; and says 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 you there, and holds 
you away from him wi' a pole three yards long. He stares at you, and says 
nothing, till you feel like a Tomfool; and then he threats you to set the 
justice on you; and then he's sorry for you, and hands you money, and 
preaches you a sarmint, and tells you you're a poor man, and he'll give you 
a bit of advice - and you'd better not be meddling wi' things belonging to 
the law, else you'll be catched up in a big wheel and fly to bits. And I 
went of a cold sweat, and I wished I might never come i' sight o' Lawyer 
Jermyn again. But he says, if you keep i' this neighbourhood, behave 
yourself well, and I'll pertect you. I were deep enough, but it's no use 
being deep, 'cause you can never know the law. And there's times when the 
deepest fellow's worst frightened."
"Yes, yes. There! Now for another placard. And so that was all?"
"All?" said Tommy, turning round and holding the pastebrush in suspense. 
"Don't you be running too quick. Thinks I, "I'll meddle no more. I've got a 
bit o' money - I'll buy a basket, and be a potman. It's a pleasant life. I 
shall live at publics and see the world, and pick up 'quaintance, and get a 
chanch penny." But when I'd turned into the Red Lion, and got myself 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 has broke 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 one another, and the little un 
killed the big un. Says I to the landlady, 'Missis, could you tell me of a 
lawyer,' says I, 'not very big or fine, but a second size - a pig-potato, 
like?' 'That I can,' says she; 'there's one now in the bar-parlour.' 'Be so 
kind as bring us together,' says I. And she cries out - I think I hear her 
now - 'Mr Johnson !' And what do you think?"
At this crisis in Tommy's story the grey clouds, which had been gradually 
thinning, opened sufficiently to let down the sudden moonlight, and show 
his poor battered old figure and face in the attitude and with the 
expression of a narrator sure of the coming effect on his auditor; his body 
and neck stretched a little on one side, and his paste-brush held out with 
an alarming intention of tapping Christian's coat-sleeve at the right 
moment. Christian started to a safe distance, and said -
"It's wonderful. I can't tell what to think."
"Then never do you deny Old Nick," said Tommy, with solemnity. "I've 
believed in him more ever since. Who was Johnson? Why, Johnson was the fine 
man as had walked me up and down with questions. And I out with it to 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, whether you're a 
Tommy Trounsem or no, it's no good to you, but only to them as have got 
hold o' the property. If you was a Tommy Trounsem twenty times over, it 'ud 
be no good, for the law's bought you out; and your life's no good, only to 
them as have catched hold o' the property. The more you live, the more 
they'll stick in. Not as they want you now, says he - you're no good to 
anybody, and you might howl like a dog for iver, and the law 'ud take no 
notice on you. Says Johnson. I'm doing a kind thing by you, to tell you. 
For that's the law. And if you want to know the law, master, you ask 
Johnson. I heard 'em say after, as he was an understrapper 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, the Trounsem estate 'ud ha" been mine. But 
folks are fools hereabouts, and I've left off talking. The more you tell 
'em the truth, the more they'll niver 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 the 
sooner."
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 me upo' 
the road, and speaks to me uncommon civil, and tells me to go up to his 
office, and he'll give me employ. And I was noways unwilling to stick the 
bills to get the family into parl'ment. For there's no man can help the 
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 so long 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 the 
placards which altered the bent of his thoughts, "you may go back to the 
Cross-Keys now, if you like; here's a half-crown for you to spend 
handsomely. I can't go back there myself just yet; but you may give my 
respects to Spilkins, and mind you paste the rest of the bills early 
tomorrow morning.
"Ay, ay. But don't you believe too much i' Spilkins," said Tommy, pocketing 
the half-crown, and showing his gratitude by giving this advice - "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. Tommy Trounsem'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 me up wi' these things; you're a 
younger chap than me. Well, I'll tell Spilkins you'll come again another 
day."
The moonlight, which had lit up poor Tommy's oratorical attitude, had 
served to light up for Christian the print of the placards. He had expected 
the copies to be various, and had turned them half over at different depths 
of the sheaf before drawing out those he offered to the bill-sticker. 
Suddenly the clear light had shown him on one of them a name which was just 
then especially interesting to him, and all the more when occurring in a 
placard intended to dissuade the electors of North Loamshire from voting 
for the heir of the Transomes. He hastily turned over the lists that 
preceded and succeeded, that he might draw out and carry away all of this 
pattern; for it might turn out to be wiser for him not to contribute to the 
publicity of handbills which contained allusions to Bycliffe versus 
Transome. There were about a dozen of them; he pressed them together and 
thrust them into his pocket, returning all the rest to Tommy's basket. To 
take away this dozen might not be to prevent similar bills from being 
posted up elsewhere, but he had reason to believe that these were all of 
the same kind which had been sent to Treby from Duffield.
Christian's interest in his practical joke had died out like a morning 
rushlight. Apart from this discovery in the placards, old Tommy's story had 
some indications in it that were worth pondering over. Where was that well-
informed Johnson now? Was he still an understrapper of Jermyn's?
With this matter in his thoughts, Christian only turned in hastily at 
Quorlen's, threw down the black bag which contained the captured Radical 
handbills, said he had done the job, and hurried back to the Manor that he 
might study his problem.



Chapter 29

"I doe believe that, as the gall has several receptacles in several 
creatures, soe there's scarce any creature but hath that emunctorye
 somewhere." - Sir Thomas Browne.

Fancy what a game at chess would be if all the chessmen had passions and 
intellects, more or less small and cunning: if you were not only uncertain 
about your adversary's men, but a little uncertain also about your own; if 
your knight could shuffle himself on to a new square by the sly; if your 
bishop, in disgust at your castling, could wheedle your pawns out of their 
places; and if your pawns, hating you because they are pawns, could make 
away from their appointed posts that you might get checkmate on a sudden. 
You might be the longest-headed of deductive reasoners, and yet you might 
be beaten by your own pawns. You would be especially likely to be beaten, 
if you depended arrogantly on your mathematical imagination, and regarded 
your passionate pieces with contempt.
Yet this imaginary chess is easy compared with the game a man has to play 
against his fellow-men with other fellow-men for his instruments. He thinks 
himself sagacious, perhaps, because he trusts no bond except that of self-
interest; but the only self-interest he can safely rely on is what seems to 
be such to the mind he would use or govern. Can he ever be sure of knowing 
this?
Matthew Jermyn was under no misgivings as to the fealty of Johnson. He had 
"been the making of Johnson"; and this seems to many men a reason for 
expecting devotion, in spite of the fact that they themselves, though very 
fond of their own persons and lives, are not at all devoted to the Maker 
they believe in. Johnson was a most serviceable subordinate. Being a man 
who aimed at respectability, a family man, who had a good church-pew, 
subscribed for engravings of banquet pictures where there were portraits of 
political celebrities, and wished his children to be more unquestionably 
genteel than their father, he presented all the more numerous handles of 
worldly motive by which a judicious superior might keep a hold on him. But 
this useful regard to respectability had its inconvenience in relation to 
such a superior: it was a mark of some vanity and some pride, which, if 
they were not touched just in the right handlling-place, were liable to 
become raw and sensitive. Jermyn was aware of Johnson's weaknesses, and 
thought he had flattered them sufficiently. But on the point of knowing 
when we are disagreeable, our human nature is fallible. Our lavender-water, 
our smiles, our compliments, and other polite falsities, are constantly 
offensive, when in the very nature of them they can only be meant to 
attract admiration and regard. Jermyn had often been unconsciously 
disagreeable to Johnson, over and above the constant offence of being an 
ostentatious patron. He would never let Johnson dine with his wife and 
daughters; he would not himself dine at Johnson's house when he was in 
town. He often did what was equivalent to pooh-poohing his conversation by 
not even appearing to listen, and by suddenly cutting it short with a query 
on a new subject. Jermyn was able and politic enough to have commanded a 
great deal of success in his life, but he could not help being handsome, 
arrogant, fond of being heard, indisposed to any kind of comradeship, 
amorous and bland towards women, cold and self-contained towards men. You 
will hear very strong denial that an attorney's being handsome could enter 
into the dislike he excited; but conversation consists a good deal in the 
denial of what is true. From the British point of view masculine beauty is 
regarded very much as it is in the drapery business: as good solely for the 
fancy department - for young noblemen, artists, poets, and the clergy. Some 
one who, like Mr Lingon, was disposed to revile Jermyn (perhaps it was Sir 
Maximus), had called him "a cursed, sleek, handsome, long-winded, over-
bearing sycophant;" epithets which expressed, rather confusedly, the 
mingled character of the dislike he excited. And serviceable John Johnson, 
himself sleek, and mindful about his broadcloth and his cambric fronts, had 
what he considered "spirit" enough within him to feel that dislike of 
Jermyn gradually gathering force through years of obligation and 
subjection, till it had become an actuating motive disposed to use an 
opportunity, if not to watch for one.
It was not this motive, however, but rather the ordinary course of 
business, which accounted for Johnson's playing a double part as an 
electioneering agent. What men do in elections is not to be classed either 
among sins or marks of grace: it would be profane to include business in 
religion, and conscience refers to failure, not to success. Still, the 
sense of being galled by Jermyn's harness was an additional reason for 
cultivating all relations that were independent of him; and pique at Harold 
Transome's behaviour to him in Jermyn's office perhaps gave all the more 
zest to Johnson's use of his pen and ink when he wrote a handbill in the 
service of Garstin, and Garstin's incomparable agent, Putty, full of 
innuendoes against Harold Transome, as a descendant of the Durfey-
Transomes. It is a natural subject of self-congratulation to a man, when 
special knowledge, gained long ago without any forecast, turns out to 
afford a special inspiration in the present; and Johnson felt a new 
pleasure in the consciousness that he of all people in the world next to 
Jermyn had the most intimate knowledge of the Transome affairs. Still 
better - some of these affairs were secrets of Jermyn's. If in an 
uncomplimentary spirit he might have been called Jermyn's "man of straw", 
it was a satisfaction to know that the unreality of the man John Johnson 
was confined to his appearance in annuity deeds, and that elsewhere he was 
solid, locomotive, and capable of remembering anything for his own pleasure 
and benefit. To act with doubleness towards a man whose own conduct was 
double, was so near an approach to virtue that it deserved to be called by 
no meaner name than diplomacy.
By such causes it came to pass that Christian held in his hands a bill in 
which Jermyn was playfully alluded to as Mr
German Cozen, who won games by clever shuffling and odd tricks without any 
honour, and backed Durfey's crib against Bycliffe, - in which it was 
adroitly implied that the so-called head of the Transomes was only the tail 
of the Durfeys, - and that some said the Durfeys would have died out and 
left their nest empty if it had not been for their German Cozen.
Johnson had not dared to use any recollections except such as might 
credibly exist in other minds besides his own. In the truth of the case, no 
one but himself had the prompting to recall these outworn scandals; but it 
was likely enough that such foul-winged things should be revived by 
election heats for Johnson to escape all suspicion.
Christian could gather only dim and uncertain inferences from this "dat 
irony and heavy joking; but one chief thing was clear to him. He had been 
right in his conjecture that Jermyn's interest about Bycliffe had its 
source in some claim of Bycliffe's on the Transome property. And then, 
there was that story of the old bill-sticker's, which, closely considered, 
indicated that the right of the present Transomes depended, or at least had 
depended, on the continuance of some other lives. Christian in his time had 
gathered enough legal notions to be aware that possession by one man 
sometimes depended on the life of another; that a man might sell his own 
interest in property, and the interest of his descendants, while a claim on 
that property would still remain to some one else than the purchaser, 
supposing the descendants became extinct, and the interest they had sold 
were at an end. But under what conditions the claim might be valid or void 
in any particular case, was all darkness to him. Suppose Bycliffe had any 
such claim on the Transome estates: how was Christian to know whether at 
the present moment it was worth anything more than a bit of rotten 
parchment? Old Tommy Trounsem had said that Johnson knew all about it. But 
even if Johnson were still above-ground - and all Johnsons are mortal - he 
might still be an understrapper of Jermyn's, in which case his knowledge 
would be on the wrong side of the hedge for the purposes of Henry Scaddon. 
His immediate care must be to find out all he could about Johnson. He 
blamed himself for not having questioned Tommy further while he had him at 
command; but on this head the bill-sticker could hardly know more than the 
less dilapidated denizens of Treby.
Now it had happened that during the weeks in which Christian had been at 
work in trying to solve the enigma of Jermyn's interest about Bycliffe, 
Johnson's mind also had been somewhat occupied with suspicion and 
conjecture as to new information on the subject of the old Bycliffe claims 
which Jermyn intended to conceal from him. The letter which, after his 
interview with Christian, Jermyn had written with a sense of perfect safety 
to his faithful ally Johnson, was, as we know, written to a Johnson who had 
found his self-love incompatible with that faithfulness of which it was 
supposed to be the foundation. Anything that the patron felt it 
inconvenient for his obliged friend and servant to know, became by that 
very fact an object of peculiar curiosity. The obliged friend and servant 
secretly doted on his patron's inconvenience, provided that he himself did 
not share it; and conjecture naturally became active.
Johnson's legal imagination, being very differently furnished from 
Christian's, was at no loss to conceive conditions under which there might 
arise a new claim on the Transome estates. He had before him the whole 
history of the settlement of those estates made a hundred years ago by John 
Justus Transome, entailing them, whilst in his possession, on his son 
Thomas and his heirs-male, with remainder to the Bycliffes in fee. He knew 
that Thomas, son of John Justus, proving a prodigal, had, without the 
knowledge of his father, the tenant in possession, sold his own and his 
descendants' rights to a lawyer-cousin named Durfey; that, therefore, the 
title of the Durfey-Transomes, in spite of that old Durfey's tricks to show 
the contrary, depended solely on the purchase of the "base fee" thus 
created by Thomas Transome; and that the Bycliffes were the "remainder-men" 
who might fairly oust the Durfey-Transomes if ever the issue of the 
prodigal Thomas went clean out of existence, and ceased to represent a 
right which he had bargained away from them.
Johnson, as Jermyn's subordinate, had been closely cognisant of the details 
concerning the suit instituted by successive Bycliffes, of whom Maurice 
Christian Bycliffe was the last, on the plea that the extinction of Thomas 
Transome's line had actually come to pass - a weary suit, which had eaten 
into the fortunes of two families, and had only made the cankerworms fat. 
The suit had closed with the death of Maurice Christian Bycliffe in prison; 
but before his death, Jermyn's exertions to get evidence that there was 
still issue of Thomas Transome's line surviving, as a security of the 
Durfey title, had issued in the discovery of a Thomas Transome at 
Littleshaw, in Stonyshire, who was the representative of a pawned 
inheritance. The death of Maurice had made this discovery useless - had 
made it seem the wiser part to say nothing about it; and the fact had 
remained a secret known only to Jermyn and Johnson. No other Bycliffe was 
known or believed to exist, and the Durfey-Transomes might be considered 
safe, unless - yes, there was an "unless" which Johnson could conceive: an 
heir or heiress of the Bycliffes - if such a personage turned out to be in 
existence - might some time raise a new and valid claim when once informed 
that wretched old Tommy Trounsem the bill-sticker, tottering drunkenly on 
the edge of the grave, was the last issue remaining above ground from that 
dissolute Thomas who played his Esau part a century before. While the poor 
old bill-sticker breathed, the Durfey-Transomes could legally keep their 
possession in spite of a possible Bycliffe proved real; but not when the 
parish had buried the bill-sticker.
Still, it is one thing to conceive conditions, and another to see any 
chance of proving their existence. Johnson at present had no glimpse of 
such a chance; and even if he ever gained the glimpse, he was not sure that 
he should ever make any use of it. His inquiries of Medwin, in obedience to 
Jermyn's letter, had extracted only a negative as to any information 
possessed by the lawyers of Bycliffe concerning a marriage, or expectation 
of offspring on his part. But Johnson felt not the less stung by curiosity 
to know what Jermyn had found out that he had found something in relation 
to a possible Bycliffe, Johnson felt pretty sure. And he thought with 
satisfaction that Jermyn could not hinder him from knowing what he already 
knew about Thomas Transome's issue. Many things might occur to alter his 
policy and give a new value to facts. Was it certain that Jermyn would 
always be fortunate?
When greed and unscrupulousness exhibit themselves on a grand historical 
scale, and there is question of peace or war or amicable partition, it 
often occurs that gentlemen of high diplomatic talents have their minds 
bent on the same object from different points of view. Each, perhaps, is 
thinking of a certain duchy or province, with a view to arranging the 
ownership in such a way as shall best serve the purposes of the gentleman 
with high diplomatic talents in whom each is more especially interested. 
But these select minds in high office can never miss their aims from 
ignorance of each other's existence or whereabouts. Their high titles may 
be learned even by common people from every pocket almanac.
But with meaner diplomatists, who might be mutually useful, such ignorance 
is often obstructive. Mr John Johnson and Mr Christian, otherwise Henry 
Scaddon, might have had a concentration of purpose and an ingenuity of 
device fitting them to make a figure in the parcelling of Europe, and yet 
they might never have met, simply because Johnson knew nothing of 
Christian, and because Christian did not know where to find Johnson.



Chapter 30

"His nature is too noble for the world:
He would not flatter Neptune for his trident,
Or Jove for his power to thunder. His heart's his mouth:
What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent;
And, being angry, doth forget that ever
He heard the name of death." - Coriolanus.

Christian and Johnson did meet, however, by means that were quite 
incalculable. The incident which brought them into communication was due to 
Felix Holt, who of all men in the world had the least affinity either for 
the indusuious or the idle parasite.
Mr Lyon had urged Felix to go to Duffield on the 15th of December, to 
witness the nomination of the candidates for North Loamshire. The minister 
wished to hear what took place; and the pleasure of gratifying him helped 
to outweigh some opposing reasons.
"I shall get into a rage at something or other," Felix had said. "I've told 
you one of my weak points. Where I have any particular business, I must 
incur the risks my nature brings. But I've no particular business at 
Duffield. However, I'll make a holiday and go. By dint of seeing folly, I 
shall get lessons in patience."
The weak point to which Felix referred was his liability to be carried 
completely out of his own mastery by indignant anger. His strong health, 
his renunciation of selfish claims, his habitual preoccupation with large 
thoughts and with purposes independent of everyday casualties, secured him 
a fine and even temper, free from moodiness or irritability. He was full of 
long-suffering towards his unwise mother, who "pressed him daily with her 
words and urged him, so that his soul was vexed"; he had chosen to fill his 
days in a way that required the utmost exertion of patience, that required 
those little rill-like out-flowings of goodness which in minds of great 
energy must be fed from deep sources of thought and passionate devotedness. 
In this way his energies served to make him gentle; and now, in this twenty-
sixth year of his life, they had ceased to make him angry, except in the 
presence of something that roused his deep indignation. When once 
exasperated, the passionateness of his nature threw off the yoke of a long-
trained consciousness in which thought and emotion had been more and more 
completely mingled and concentrated itself in a rage as ungovernable as 
that of boyhood. He was thoroughly aware of the liability, and knew that in 
such circumstances he could not answer for himself. Sensitive people with 
feeble frames have often the same sort of fury within them; but they are 
themselves shattered, and shatter nothing. Felix had a terrible arm: he 
knew that he was dangerous; and he avoided the conditions that might cause 
him exasperation, as he would have avoided intoxicating drinks if he had 
been in danger of intemperance.
The nomination-day was a great epoch of successful trickery, or, to speak 
in a more parliamentary manner, of war-stratagem, on the part of skilful 
agents. And Mr Johnson had his share of inward chuckling and self-approval, 
as one who might justly expect increasing renown, and be some day in as 
general request as the great Putty himself. To have the pleasure and the 
praise of electioneering ingenuity, and also to get paid for it, without 
too much anxiety whether the ingenuity will achieve its ultimate end, 
perhaps gives to some select persons a sort of satisfaction in their 
superiority to their more agitated fellow-men that is worthy to be classed 
with those generous enjoyments of having the truth chiefly to yourself, and 
of seeing others in danger of drowning while you are high and dry, which 
seem to have been regarded as unmixed privileges by Lucretius and Lord 
Bacon.
One of Mr Johnson's great successes was this. Spratt, the hated manager of 
the Sproxton Colliery, in careless confidence that the colliers and other 
labourers under him would follow his orders, had provided carts to carry 
some loads of voteless enthusiasm to Duffield on behalf of Garstin; 
enthusiasm which, being already paid for by the recognised benefit of 
Garstin's existence as a capitalist with a share in the Sproxton mines, was 
not to cost much in the form of treating. A capitalist was held worthy of 
pious honour as the cause why working men existed. But Mr Spratt did not 
sufficiently consider that a cause which has to be proved by argument or 
testimony is not an object of passionate devotion to colliers: a visible 
cause of beer acts on them much more strongly. And even if there had been 
any love of the far-off Garstin, hatred of the too-immediate Spratt would 
have been the stronger motive. Hence Johnson's calculations, made long ago 
with Chubb, the remarkable publican, had been well founded, and there had 
been diligent care to supply treating at Duffield in the name of Transome. 
After the election was over, it was not improbable that there would be much 
friendly joking between Putty and Johnson as to the success of this trick 
against Putty's employer, and Johnson would be conscious of rising in the 
opinion of his celebrated senior.
For the show of hands and the cheering, the hustling and the pelting, the 
roaring and the hissing, the hard hits with small missiles, and the soft 
hits with small jokes, were strong enough on the side of Transome to 
balance the similar "demonstrations" for Garstin, even with the Debarry 
interest in his favour. And the inconvenient presence of Spratt was early 
got rid of by a dexterously managed accident, which sent him bruised and 
limping from the scene of action. Mr Chubb had never before felt so 
thoroughly that the occasion was up to a level with his talents, while the 
clear daylight in which his virtue would appear when at the election he 
voted, as his duty to himself bound him, for Garstin only, gave him 
thorough repose of conscience.
Felix Holt was the only person looking on at the senseless exhibitions of 
this nomination-day, who knew from the beginning the history of the trick 
with the Sproxton men. He had been aware all along that the treating at 
Chubb's had been continued, and that so far Harold Transome's promise had 
produced no good fruits; and what he was observing today, as he watched the 
uproarious crowd, convinced him that the whole scheme would be carried out 
just as if he had never spoken about it. He could be fair enough to 
Transome to allow that he might have wished, and yet have been unable, with 
his notions of success, to keep his promise; and his bitterness towards the 
candidate only took the form of contemptuous pity; for Felix was not 
sparing in his contempt for men who put their inward honour in pawn by 
seeking the prizes of the world. His scorn fell too readily on the 
fortunate. But when he saw Johnson passing to and fro, and speaking to 
Jermyn on the hustings, he felt himself getting angry, and jumped off the 
wheel of the stationary cart on which he was mounted that he might no 
longer be in sight of this man, whose vitiating cant had made his blood hot 
and his fingers tingle on the first day of encountering him at Sproxton. It 
was a little too exasperating to look at this pink-faced rotund specimen of 
prosperity, to witness the power for evil that lay in his vulgar cant, 
backed by another man's money, and to know that such stupid iniquity 
flourished the flags of Reform, and Liberalism, and justice to the needy. 
While the roaring and the scuffling were still going on, Felix, with his 
thick stick in his hand, made his way through the crowd, and walked on 
through the Duffield streets till he came out on a grassy suburb, where the 
houses surrounded a small common: Here he walked about in the breezy air, 
and ate his bread and apples, telling himself that this angry haste of his 
about evils that could only be remedied slowly, could be nothing else than 
obstructive, and might some day - he saw it so clearly that the thought 
seemed like a presentiment - be obstructive of his own work.
"Not to waste energy, to apply force where it would tell, to do small work 
close at hand, not waiting for speculative chances of heroism, but 
preparing for them" - these were the rules he had been constantly urging on 
himseIf. But what could be a greater waste than to beat a scoundrel who had 
law and opodeldoc at command? After this meditation, Felix felt cool and 
wise enough to return into the town, not, however, intending to deny 
himself the satisfaction of a few pungent words wherever there was place 
for them. Blows are sarcasms turned stupid: wit is a form of force that 
leaves the limbs at rest.
Anything that could be called a crowd was no longer to be seen. The show of 
hands having been pronounced to be in favour of Debarry and Transome, and a 
poll having been demanded for Garstin, the business of the day might be 
considered at an end. But in the street where the hustings were erected, 
and where the great hotels stood, there were many groups, as well as 
strollers and steady walkers to and fro. Men in superior greatcoats and 
well-brushed hats were awaiting with more or less impatience an important 
dinner, either at the Crown, which was Debarry's house, or at the Three 
Cranes, which was Garstin's, or at the Fox and Hounds, which was 
Transome's. Knots of sober retailers, who had already dined, were to be 
seen at some shop-doors; men in very shabby coats and miscellaneous head-
coverings, inhabitants of Duffield and not county voters, were lounging 
about in dull silence, or listening, some to a grimy man in a flannel 
shirt, hatless and with turbid red hair, who was insisting on political 
points with much more ease than had seemed to belong to the gentlemen 
speakers on the hustings, and others to a Scotch vendor of articles useful 
to sell, whose unfamiliar accent seemed to have a guarantee of truth in it 
wanting as an association with everyday English. Some rough-looking pipe-
smokers, or distinguished cigar-smokers, chose to walk up and down in 
isolation and silence. But the majority of those who had shown a buming 
interest in the nomination had disappeared, and cockades no longer studded 
a close-pressed crowd, like, and also very unlike, meadow flowers among the 
grass. The street pavement was strangely painted with fragments of 
perishable missiles ground flat under heavy feet: but the workers were 
resting from their toil, and the buzz and tread and the fitfully 
discernible voices seemed like stillness to Felix after the roar with whuch 
the wide space had been filled when he left it.
The group round the speaker in the flannel shirt stood at the corner of a 
side-street, and the speaker himself was elevated by the head and shoulders 
above his hearers, not because he was tall, but because he stood on a 
projecting stone. At the opposite corner of the turning was the great inn 
of the Fox and Hounds, and this was the ultra-Liberal quarter of the High 
Street. Felix was at once attracted by this group; he liked the look of the 
speaker, whose bare arms were powerfully muscular, though he had the pallid 
complexion of a man who lives chiefly amidst the heat of furnaces. He was 
leaning against the dark stone building behind him with folded arms, the 
grimy paleness of his shirt and skin standing out in high relief against 
the dark stone building behind him. He lifted up one fore-finger, and 
marked his emphasis with it as he spoke. His voice was high and not strong, 
but Felix recognised the fluency and the method of a habitual preacher or 
lecturer.
"It's the fallacy of all monopolists," he was saying. "We know what 
monopolists are: men who want to keep a trade all to themselves, under the 
pretence that they'll furnish the public with a better article. We know 
what that comes to: in some countries a poor man can't afford to buy a 
spoonful of salt, and yet there's salt enough in the world to pickle every 
living thing in it. That's the sort of benefit monopolists do to mankind. 
And these are the men who tell us we're to let politics alone; they'll 
govern us better without our knowing anything about it. We must mind our 
business; we are ignorant; we've no time to study great questions. But I 
tell them this: the greatest question in the world is, how to give every 
man a man's share in what goes on in life - "
"Hear, hear!" said Felix, in his sonorous voice, which seemed to give a new 
impressiveness to what the speaker had said. Every one looked at him: the 
well-washed face and its educated expression, along with a dress more 
careless than that of most well-to-do workmen on a holiday, made his 
appearance strangely arresting.
"Not a pig's share," the speaker went on, "not a horse's share, not the 
share of a machine fed with oil only to make it work and nothing else. It 
isn't a man's share just to mind your pin-making, or your glass-blowing, 
and higgle about your own wages, and bring up your family to be ignorant 
sons of ignorant fathers, and no better prospect; that's a slave's share; 
we want a freeman's share, and that is to think and speak and act about 
what concerns us all, and see whether these fine gentlemen who undertake to 
govern us are doing the best they can for us. They've got the knowledge, 
say they. Very well, we've got the wants. There's many a one who would be 
idle if hunger didn't pinch him; but the stomach sets us to work. There's a 
fable told where the nobles are the belly and the people the members. But I 
make another sort of fable. I say, we are the belly that feels the pinches, 
and we'll set these aristocrats, these great people who call themselves our 
brains, to work at some way of satisfying us a bit better. The aristocrats 
are pretty sure to try and govern for their own benefit; but how are we to 
be sure they'll try and govern for ours? They must be looked after, I 
think, like other workmen. We must have what we call inspectors, to see 
whether the work's well done for us. We want to send our inspectors to 
parliament. Well, they say - you've got the Reform Bill; what more can you 
want? Send your inspectors. But I say, the Reform Bill is a trick - it's 
nothing but swearing-in special constables to keep the aristocrats safe in 
their monopoly; it's bribing some of the people with votes to make them 
hold their tongues about giving votes to the rest. I say, if a man doesn't 
beg or steal, but works for his bread, the poorer and the more miserable he 
is, the more he'd need have a vote to send an inspector to parliament - 
else the man who is worst off is likely to be forgotten; and I say, he's 
the man who ought to be first remembered. Else what does their religion 
mean? Why do they build churches and endow them that their sons may get 
well paid for preaching a Saviour, and making themselves as little like Him 
as can be? If I want to believe in Jesus Christ, I must shut my eyes for 
fear I should see a parson. And what's a bishop? A bishop's a parson 
dressed up, who sits in the House of Lords to help and throw out Reform 
Bills. And because it's hard to get anything in the shape of a man to dress 
himself up like that, and do such work, they gave him a palace for it, and 
plenty of thousands a-year. And then they cry out - "The church is in 
danger," - "the poor man's church". And why is it the poor man's church? 
Because he can have a seat for nothing. I think it is for nothing; for it 
would be hard to tell what he gets by it. If the poor man had a vote in the 
matter, I think he'd choose a different sort of a church to what that is. 
But do you think the aristocrats will ever alter it, if the belly doesn't 
pinch them? Not they. It's part of their monopoly. They'll supply us with 
our religion like everything else, and get a profit on it. They'll give us 
plenty of heaven. We may have land there. That's the sort of religion they 
like - a religion that gives us working men heaven, and nothing else. But 
we'll offer to change with 'em. Well give them back some of their heaven, 
and take it out in something for us and our children in this world. They 
don't seem to care so much about heaven themselves till they feel the gout 
very bad - but you won't get them to give up anything else, if you don't 
pinch 'em for it. And to pinch them enough, we must get the suffrage, we 
must get votes, that we may send the men to parliament who will do our work 
for us; and we must have parliament dissolved every year, that we may 
change our man if he doesn't do what we want him to do; and we must have 
the country divided so that the little kings of the counties can't do as 
they like, but must be shaken up in one bag with us. I say, if we working 
men are ever to get a man's share, we must have universal suffrage, and 
annual parliaments, and the vote by ballot, and electoral districts."
"No! - something else before all that," said Felix, again startling the 
audience into looking at him. But the speaker glanced coldly at him and 
went on.
"That's what Sir Francis Burdett went in for fifteen years ago; and it's 
the right thing for us, if it was Tomfool who went in for it. You must lay 
hold of such handles as you can. I don't believe much in Liberal 
aristocrats; but if there's any fine carved gold-headed stick of an 
aristocrat will make a broom-stick of himself, I'll lose no time but I'll 
sweep with him. And that's what I think about Transome. And if any of you 
have acquaintance among county voters, give 'em a hint that you wish 'em to 
vote for Transome."
At the last word, the speaker stepped down from his slight eminence, and 
walked away rapidly, like a man whose leisure was exhausted, and who must 
go about his business. But he had left an appetite in his audience for 
further oratory, and one of them seemed to express a general sentiment as 
he turned immediately to Felix, and said, "Come, sir, what do you say?"
Felix did at once what he would very likely have done without being asked - 
he stepped on to the stone, and took off his cap by an instinctive 
prompting that always led him to speak uncovered. The effect of his figure 
in relief against the stone background was unlike that of the previous 
speaker. He was considerably taller, his head and neck were more massive, 
and the expression of his mouth and eyes was something very different from 
the mere acuteness and rather hard-lipped antagonism of the trades-union 
man. Felix Holt's face had the look of the habitual meditative abstraction 
from objects of mere personal vanity or desire, which is the peculiar stamp 
of culture, and makes a very roughly-cut face worthy to be called "the 
human face divine". Even lions and dogs know a distinction between men's 
glances; and doubtless those Duffield men, in the expectation with which 
they looked up at Felix, were unconsciously influenced by the grandeur of 
his full yet firm mouth, and the calm clearness of his grey eyes, which 
were somehow unlike what they were accustomed to see along with an old 
brown velveteen coat, and an absence of chin-propping. When he began to 
speak, the contrast of voice was still stronger than that of appearance. 
The man in the flannel shirt had not been heard - had probably not cared to 
be heard - beyond the immediate group of listeners. But Felix at once drew 
the attention of persons comparatively at a distance.
"In my opinion," he said, almost the moment after he was addressed, "that 
was a true word spoken by our friend when he said the great question was 
how to give every man a man's share in life. But I think he expects voting 
to do more towards it than I do. I want the working men to have power. I'm 
a working man myself, and I don't want to be anything else. But there are 
two sorts of power. There's a power to do mischief - to undo what has been 
done with great expense and labour, to waste and destroy, to be cruel to 
the weak, to lie and quarrel, and to talk poisonous nonsense. That's the 
sort of power that ignorant numbers have. It never made a joint stool or 
planted a potato. Do you think it's likely to do much towards governing a 
great country, and making wise laws, and giving shelter, food, and clothes 
to millions of men? Ignorant power comes in the end to the same thing as 
wicked power; it makes misery. It's another sort of power that I want us 
working men to have, and I can see plainly enough that our all having votes 
will do little towards it at present. I hope we, or the children that come 
after us, will get plenty of political power some time. I tell everybody 
plainly, I hope there will be great changes, and that some time, whether we 
live to see it or not, men will have come to be ashamed of things they're 
proud of now. But I should like to convince you that votes would never give 
you political power worth having while things are as they are now, and that 
if you go the right way to work you may get power sooner without votes. 
Perhaps all you who hear me are sober men, who try to learn as much of the 
nature of things as you can, and to be as little like fools as possible. A 
fool or idiot is one who expects things to happen that never can happen; he 
pours milk into a can without a bottom, and expects the milk to stay there. 
The more of such vain expectations a man has, the more he is of a fool or 
idiot. And if any working man expects a vote to do for him what it never 
can do, he's foolish to that amount, if no more. I think that's clear 
enough, eh?"
"Hear, hear," said several voices, but they were not those of the original 
group; they belonged to some strollers who had been attracted by Felix 
Holt's vibrating voice, and were Tories from the Crown. Among them was 
Christian, who was smoking a cigar with a pleasure he always felt in being 
among people who did not know him, and doubtless took him to be something 
higher than he really was. Hearers from the Fox and Hounds also were slowly 
adding themselves to the nucleus. Felix, accessible to the pleasure of 
being listened to, went on with more and more animation -
"The way to get rid of folly is to get rid of vain expectations, and of 
thoughts that don't agree with the nature of things. The men who have had 
true thoughts about water, and what it will do when it is turned into steam 
and under all sorts of circumstances, have made themselves a great power in 
the world: they are turning the wheels of engines that will help to change 
most things. But no engines would have done, if there had been false 
notions about the way water would act. Now, all the schemes about voting, 
and districts, and annual parliaments, and the rest, are engines, and the 
water or steam - the force that is to work them - must come out of human 
nature - out of men's passions, feelings, desires. Whether the engines will 
do good work or bad depends on these feelings; and if we have false 
expectations about men's characters, we are very much like the idiot who 
thinks he'll carry milk in a can without a bottom. In my opinion, the 
notions about what mere voting will do are very much of that sort."
"That's very fine," said a man in dirty fustian, with a scornful laugh. 
"But how are we to get the power without votes?"
"I'll tell you what's the greatest power under heaven," said Felix, "and 
that is public opinion - the ruling belief in society about what is right 
and what is wrong, what is honourable and what is shameful. That's the 
steam that is to work the engines. How can political freedom make us better 
any more than a religion we don't believe in, if people laugh and wink when 
they see men abuse and defile it? And while public opinion is what it is - 
while men have no better beliefs about public duty - while corruption is 
not felt to be a damning disgrace - while men are not ashamed in parliament 
and out of it to make public questions which concern the welfare of 
millions a mere screen for their own petty private ends, - I say, no fresh 
scheme of voting will much mend our condition. For, take us working men of 
all sorts. Suppose out of every hundred who had a vote there were thirty 
who had some soberness, some sense to choose with, some good feeling to 
make them wish the right thing for all. And suppose there were seventy out 
of the hundred who were, half of them, not sober, who had no sense to 
choose one thing in politics more than another, and who had so little good 
feeling in them that they wasted on their own drinking the money that 
should have helped to feed and clothe their wives and children; and another 
half of them who, if they didn't drink, were too ignorant or mean or stupid 
to see any good for themselves better than pocketing a five-shilling piece 
when it was offered them. Where would be the political power of the thirty 
sober men? The power would lie with the seventy drunken and stupid votes; 
and I'll tell you what sort of men would get the power - what sort of men 
would end by returning whom they pleased to parliament."
Felix had seen every face around him, and had particularly noticed a recent 
addition to his audience; but now he looked before him without appearing to 
fix his glance on any one. In spite of his cooling meditations an hour ago, 
his pulse was getting quickened by indignation, and the desire to crush 
what he hated was likely to vent itself in articulation. His tone became 
more biting.
"They would be men who would undertake to do the business for a candidate, 
and return him: men who have no real opinions, but who pilfer the words of 
every opinion, and turn them into a cant which will serve their purpose at 
the moment; men who look out for dirty work to make their fortunes by, 
because dirty work wants little talent and no conscience; men who know aU 
the ins and outs of bribery, because there is not a cranny in their own 
souls where a bribe can't enter. Such men as these will be the masters 
wherever there's a majority of voters who care more for money, more for 
drink, more for some mean little end which is their own and nobody else's, 
than for anything that has ever been called Right in the world. For suppose 
there's a poor voter named Jack, who has seven children, and twelve or 
fifteen shillings a-week wages, perhaps less. Jack can't read - I don't say 
whose fault that is - he never had the chance to learn; he knows so little 
that he perhaps thinks God made the poor-laws, and if anybody said the 
pattem of the workhouse was laid down in the Testament, he wouldn't be able 
to contradict them. What is poor Jack likely to do when he sees a smart 
stranger coming to him, who happens to be just one of those men that I say 
will be the masters till public opinion gets too hot for them? He's a 
middle-sized man, we'll say; stout, with coat upon coat of fine broadcloth, 
open enough to show a fine gold chain: none of your dark, scowling men, but 
one with an innocent pink-and-white skin and very smooth light hair - a 
most respectable man, who calls himself by a good, sound, well-known 
English name - as Green, or Baker, or Wilson, or, let us say, Johnson - "
Felix was interrupted by an explosion of laughter from a majority of the 
bystanders. Some eyes had been turned on Johnson, who stood on the right 
hand of Felix, at the very beginning of the description, and these were 
gradually followed by others, till at last every hearer's attention was 
fixed on him, and the first burst of laughter from the two or three who 
knew the attorney's name, let every one sufficiently into the secret to 
make the amusement common. Johnson, who had kept his ground till his name 
was mentioned, now turned away, looking unusually white after being 
unusually red, and feeling by an attorney's instinct for his pocket-book, 
as if he felt it was a case for taking down the names of witnesses.
All the well-dressed hearers turned away too, thinking they had had the 
cream of the speech in the joke against Johnson, which, as a thing worth 
telling, helped to recall them to the scene of dinner.
"Who is this Johnson?" said Christian to a young man who had been standing 
near him, and had been one of the first to laugh. Christian's curiosity had 
naturally been awakened by what might prove a golden opportunity.
"O - a London attorney. He acts for Transome. That tremendous fellow at the 
comer there is some red-hot Radical demagogue, and Johnson has offended 
him, I suppose; else he wouldn't have turned in that way on a man of their 
own party."
"I had heard there was a Johnson who was an understrapper of Jermyn's," 
said Christian.
"Well, so this man may have been for what I know. But he's a London man now 
- a very busy fellow - on his own legs in Bedford Row. Ha ha! It's capital, 
though, when these Liberals get a slap in the face from the working men 
they're so very fond of."
Another turn along the street enabled Christian to come to a resolution. 
Having seen Jermyn drive away an hour before, he was in no fear: he walked 
at once to the Fox and Hounds and asked to speak to Mr Johnson. A brief 
interview, in which Christian ascertained that he had before him the 
Johnson mentioned by the bill-sticker, issued in the appointment of a 
longer one at a later hour; and before they left Duffield they had come not 
exactly to a mutual understanding, but to an exchange of information 
mutually welcome.
Christian had been very cautious in the commencement, only intimating that 
he knew something important which some chance hints had induced him to 
think might be interesting to Mr Johnson, but that this entirely depended 
on how far he had a common interest with Mr Jermyn. Johnson replied that he 
had much business in which that gentleman was not concerned, but that to a 
certain extent they had a common interest. Probably then, Christian 
observed, the affairs of the Transome estate were part of the business in 
which Mr Jermyn and Mr Johnson might be understood to represent each other 
- in which case he need not detain Mr Johnson? At this hint Johnson could 
not conceal that he was becoming eager. He had no idea what Christian's 
information was, but there were many grounds on which Johnson desired to 
know as much as he could about the Transome affairs independently of 
Jermyn. By little and little an understanding was arrived at. Christian 
told of his interview with Tommy Trounsem, and stated that if Johnson could 
show him whether the knowledge could have any legal value, he could bring 
evidence that a legitimate child of Bycliffe's existed: he felt certain of 
this fact, and of his proof. Johnson explained, that in this case the death 
of the old bill-sticker would give the child the first valid claim to the 
Bycliffe heirship; that for his own part he should be glad to further a 
true claim, but that caution must be observed. How did Christian know that 
Jermyn was informed on this subject? Christian, more and more convinced 
that Johnson would be glad to counteract Jermyn, at length became explicit 
about Esther, but still withheld his own real name, and the nature of his 
relations with Bycliffe. He said he would bring the rest of his information 
when Mr Johnson took the case up seriously, and placed it in the hands of 
Bycliffe's old lawyers - of course he would do that? Johnson replied that 
he would certainly do that; but that there were legal niceties which Mr 
Christian was probably not acquainted with; that Esther's claim had not yet 
accrued; and that hurry was useless.
The two men parted, each in distrust of the other, but each well pleased to 
have learned something. Johnson was not at all sure how he should act, but 
thought it likely that events would soon guide him. Christian was beginning 
to meditate a way of securing his own ends without depending in the least 
on Johnson's procedure. It was enough for him that he was now assured of 
Esther's legal claim on the Transome estates.



Chapter 31

"In the copia of the factious language the word Tory was entertained,... 
and being a vocal clever-sounding word, readily pronounced, it kept its 
hold, and took possession of the foul mouths of the faction.... The 
Loyalists began to cheer up and to take heart of grace, and in the working 
of this crisis, according to the common laws of scolding, they considered 
which way to make payment for so much of Tory as they had been treated 
with, to clear scores.... Immediately the train took, and ran like 
wildfire and became general. And so the account of Tory was balanced, and 
soon began to run up a sharp score on the other side." - North's Examen, p. 
321.

At last the great epoch of the election for North Loamshire had arrived. 
The roads approaching Treby were early traversed by a large number of 
vehicles, horsemen, and also foot-passengers, than were ever seen there at 
the annual fair. Treby was the polling-place for many voters whose faces 
were quite strange in the town; and if there were some strangers who did 
not come to poll, though they had business not unconnected with the 
election, they were not liable to be regarded with suspicion or especial 
curiosity. It was understood that no division of a county had ever been 
more thoroughly canvassed, and that there would be a hard run between 
Garstin and Transome. Mr Johnson's head-quarters were at Duffield; but it 
was a maxim which he repeated after the great Putty, that a capable agent 
makes himself omnipresent; and quite apart from the express between him and 
Jermyn, Mr John Johnson's presence in the universe had potent effects on 
this December day at Treby Magna.
A slight drizzling rain which was observed by some Tories who looked out of 
their bedroom windows before six o'clock, made them hope that, after all, 
the day might pass off better than alarmists had expected. The rain was 
felt to be somehow on the side of quiet and Conservatism; but soon the 
breaking of the clouds and the mild gleams of a December sun brought back 
previous apprehensions. As there were already precedents for riot at a 
Reformed election, and as the Trebian district had had its confidence in 
the natural course of things somewhat shaken by a landed proprietor with an 
old name offering himself as a Radical candidate, the election had been 
looked forward to by many with a vague sense that it would be an occasion 
something like a fighting match, when bad characters would probably 
assemble, and there might be struggles and alarms for respectable men, 
which would make it expedient for them to take a little neat brandy as a 
precaution beforehand and a restorative afterwards. The tenants on the 
Transome estate were comparatively fearless: poor Mr Goffe, of Rabbit's 
End, considered that "one thing was as mauling as another", and that an 
election was no worse than the sheep-rot, while Mr Dibbs, taking the more 
cheerful view of a prosperous man, reflected that if the Radicals were 
dangerous, it was safer to be on their side. It was the voters for Debarry 
and Garstin who considered that they alone had the right to regard 
themselves as targets for evil-minded men; and Mr Crowder, if he could have 
got his ideas countenanced, would have recommended a muster of farm-
servants with defensive pitchforks on the side of church and king. But the 
bolder men were rather gratified by the prospect of being groaned at, so 
that they might face about and groan in return.
Mr Crow, the high constable of Treby, inwardly rehearsed a brief address to 
a riotous crowd in case it should be wanted, having been warned by the 
rector that it was a primary duty on these occasions to keep a watch 
against provocation as well as violence. The rector, with a brother 
magistrate who was on the spot, had thought it desirable to swear in some 
special constables, but the presence of loyal men not absolutely required 
for the polling was not looked at in the light of a provocation. The 
benefit clubs from various quarters made a show, some with the orange-
coloured ribbons and streamers of the true Tory candidate, some with the 
mazarine of the Whig. The orange-coloured bands played "Auld Langsyne", and 
a louder mazarine band came across them with "O whistle and I will come to 
thee, my lad" - probably as the tune the most symbolical of Liberalism 
which their repertory would furnish. There was not a single club bearing 
the Radical blue: the Sproxton Club members wore the mazarine, and Mr Chubb 
wore so much of it that he looked (at a sufficient distance) like a very 
large gentianella. It was generally understood that "these brave fellows", 
representing the fine institution of benefit clubs, and holding aloft the 
motto, "Let brotherly love continue", were a civil force calculated to 
encourage voters of sound opinions and keep up their spirits. But a 
considerable number of unadorned heavy navvies, colliers, and stone-pit 
men, who used their freedom as British subjects to be present in Treby on 
this great occasion, looked like a possibly uncivil force whose politics 
were dubious until it was clearly seen for whom they cheered and for whom 
they groaned.
Thus the way up to the polling-booths was variously lined, and those who 
walked it, to whatever side they belonged, had the advantage of hearing 
from the opposite side what were the most marked defects or excesses in 
their personal appearance; for the Trebians of that day held, without being 
aware that they had Cicero's authority for it, that the bodily blemishes of 
an opponent were a legitimate ground for ridicule; but if the voter 
frustrated wit by being handsome, he was groaned at and satirised according 
to a formula, in which the adjective was Tory, Whig, or Radical, as the 
case might be, and the substantive blank to be filled up after the taste of 
the speaker.
Some of the more timid had chosen to go through this ordeal as early as 
possible in the morning. One of the earliest was Mr Timothy Rose, the 
gentleman-farmer from Leek Malton. He had left home with some foreboding, 
having swathed his more vital parts in layers of flannel, and put on two 
greatcoats as a soft kind of armour. But reflecting with some trepidation 
that there were no resources for protecting his head, he once more wavered 
in his intention to vote; he once more observed to Mrs Rose that these were 
hard times when a man of independent property was expected to vote "willy-
nilly;" but finally, coerced by the sense that he should be looked ill on 
"in these times" if he did not stand by the gentlemen round about, he set 
out in his gig, taking with him a powerful waggoner, whom he ordered to 
keep him in sight as he went to the polling-booth. It was hardly more than 
nine o'clock when Mr Rose, having thus come up to the level of his times, 
cheered himself with a little cherry-brandy at the Marquis, drove away in a 
much more courageous spirit, and got down at Mr Nolan's, just outside the 
town. The retired Londoner, he considered, was a man of experience, who 
would estimate properly the judicious course he had taken, and could make 
it known to others. Mr Nolan was superintending the removal of some shrubs 
in his garden.
"Well, Mr Nolan," said Rose, twinkling a self-complacent look over the red 
prominence of his cheeks, "have you been to give your vote yet?"
"No; all in good time. I shall go presently."
"Well, I wouldn't lose an hour, I wouldn't. I said to myself, if I've got 
to do gentlemen a favour, I'll do it at once. You see, I've got no 
landlord, Nolan - I'm in that position o' life that I can be independent."
"Just so, my dear sir," said the wiry-faced Nolan, pinching his under-lip 
between his thumb and finger, and giving one of those wonderful universal 
shrugs, by which he seemed to be recalling all his garments from a tendency 
to disperse themselves. "Come in and see Mrs Nolan?"
"No, no, thankye. Mrs Rose expects me back. But, as I was saying, I'm an 
independent man, and I consider it's not my part to show favour to one more 
than another, but to make things as even as I can. If I'd been a tenant to 
anybody, well, in course I must have voted for my landlord - that stands to 
sense. But I wish everybody well; and if one's returned to parliament more 
than another, nobody can say it's my doing; for when you can vote for two, 
you can make things even. So I gave one to Debarry and one to Transome; and 
I wish Garstin no ill, but I can't help the odd number, and he hangs on to 
Debarry, they say."
"God bless me, sir," said Mr Nolan, coughing down a laugh, "don't you 
perceive that you might as well have stayed at home, and not voted at all, 
unless you would rather send a Radical to parliament than a sober Whig?"
"Well, I'm sorry you should have anything to say against what I've done, 
Nolan," said Mr Rose, rather crestfallen, though sustained by inward 
warmth. "I thought you'd agree with me, as you're a sensible man. But the 
most an independent man can do is to try and please all; and if he hasn't 
the luck - here's wishing I may do it another time," added Mr Rose, 
apparently confounding a toast with a salutation, for he put out his hand 
for a passing shake, and then stepped into his gig again.
At the time that Mr Timothy Rose left the town, the crowd in King Street 
and in the market-place, where the polling-booths stood, was fluctuating. 
Voters as yet were scanty, and brave fellows who had come from any distance 
this morning, or who had sat up late drinking the night before, required 
some reinforcement of their strength and spirits. Every public-house in 
Treby, not excepting the venerable and sombre Cross-Keys, was lively with 
changing and numerous company. Not, of course, that there was any treating: 
treating necessarily had stopped, from moral scruples, when once "the writs 
were out"; but there was drinking, which did equally well under any name.
Poor Tommy Trounsem, breakfasting here on Falstaff's proportion of bread, 
and something which, for gentility's sake, I will call sack, was more than 
usually victorious over the ills of life, and felt himself one of the 
heroes of the day. He had an immense light-blue cockade in his hat, and an 
amount of silver in a dirty little canvas bag which astonished himself. For 
some reason, at first inscrutable to him, he had been paid for his bill-
sticking with great liberality at Mr Jermyn's office, in spite of his 
having been the victim of a trick by which he had once lost his own bills 
and pasted up Debarry's; but he soon saw that this was simply a recognition 
of his merit as "an old family kept out of its rights", and also of his 
peculiar share in an occasion when the family was to get into parliament. 
Under these circumstances, it was due from him that he should show himself 
prominently where business was going forward, and give additional value by 
his presence to every vote for Transome. With this view he got a half-pint 
bottle filled with his peculiar kind of "sack", and hastened back to the 
market-place, feeling good-natured and patronising towards all political 
parties, and only so far partial as his family bound him to be.
But a disposition to concentrate at that extremity of Ring Street which 
issued in the market-place was not universal among the increasing crowd. 
Some of them seemed attracted towards another nucleus at the other 
extremity of King Street, near the Seven Stars. This was Garsdn's chief 
house, where his committee sat, and it was also a point which must 
necessarily be passed by many voters entering the town on the eastern side. 
It seemed natural that the mazarine colours should be visible here, and 
that Pack, the tall "shepherd" of the Sproxton men, should be seen moving 
to and fro where there would be a frequent opportunity of cheering the 
voters for a gentleman who had the chief share in the Sproxton mines. But 
the side lanes and entries out of Ring Street were numerous enough to 
relieve any pressure if there was need to make way. The lanes had a 
distinguished reputation. Two of them had odours of brewing; one had a side 
entrance to Mr Tiliot's wine and spirit vaults; up another Mr Muscat's 
cheeses were frequently being unloaded; and even some of the entries had 
those cheerful suggestions of plentiful provision which were among the 
characteristics of Treby.
Between ten and eleven the voters came in more rapid succession, and the 
whole scene became spirited. Cheers, sarcasms, and oaths, which seemed to 
have a flavour of wit for many hearers, were beginning to be reinforced by 
more practical demonstrations, dubiously jocose. There was a disposition in 
the crowd to close and hem in the way for voters, either going or coming, 
until they had paid some kind of toll. It was difficult to see who set the 
example in the transition from words to deeds. Some thought it was due to 
Jacob Cuff, a Tory charity-man, who was a well-known ornament of the 
pothouse, and gave his mind much leisure for amusing devices; but questions 
of origination in stirring periods are notoriously hard to settle. It is by 
no means necessary in human things that there should be only one beginner. 
This, however, is certain - that Mr Chubb, who wished it to be noticed that 
he voted for Garstin solely, was one of the first to get rather more notice 
than he wished, and that he had his hat knocked off and crushed in the 
interest of Debarry by Tories opposed to coalition. On the other hand, some 
said it was at the same time that Mr Pink, the saddler, being stopped on 
his way and made to declare that he was going to vote for Debarry, got 
himself well chalked as to his coat, and pushed up an entry, where he 
remained the prisoner of terror combined with the want of any back outlet, 
and never gave his vote that day.
The second Tory joke was performed with much gusto. The majority of the 
Transome tenants came in a body from the Ram Inn, with Mr Banks the bailiff 
leading them. Poor Goffe was the last of them, and his worn melancholy look 
and forward-leaning gait gave the jocose Cuff the notion that the farmer 
was not what he called "compus". Mr Goffe was cut off from his companions 
and hemmed in; asked, by voices with hot breath close to his ear, how many 
horses he had, how many cows, how many fat pigs; then jostled from one to 
another, who made trumpets with their hands and deafened him by telling him 
to vote for Debarry. In this way the melancholy Goffe was hustled on till 
he was at the polling-booth - filled with confused alarms, the immediate 
alarm being that of having to go back in still worse fashion than he had 
come. Arriving in this way after the other tenants had left, he astonished 
all hearers who knew him for a tenant of the Transomes by saying "Debarry", 
and was jostled back trembling amid shouts of laughter.
By stages of this kind the fun grew faster, and was in danger of getting 
rather serious. The Tories began to feel that their jokes were returned by 
others of a heavier sort, and that the main strength of the crowd was not 
on the side of sound opinion, but might come to be on the side of sound 
cudgelling and kicking. The navvies and pitmen in dishabille seemed to be 
multiplying, and to be clearly not belonging to the party of Order. The 
shops were freely resorted to for various forms of playful missiles and 
weapons; and news came to the magistrates, watching from the large window 
of the Marquis, that a gentleman coming in on horseback at the other end of 
the street to vote for Garstin had had his horse turned round and 
frightened into a head-long gallop out of it again.
Mr Crow and his subordinates, and all the special constables, felt that it 
was necessary to make some energetic effort, or else every voter would be 
intimidated and the poll must be adjoumed. The rector determined to get on 
horseback and go amidst the crowd with the constables; and he sent a 
message to Mr Lingon, who was at the Ram, calling on him to do the same. 
"Sporting Jack" was sure the good fellows meant no harm, but he was 
courageous enough to face any bodily dangers, and rode out in his brown 
leggings and coloured bandanna, speaking persuasively.
It was nearly twelve o'clock when this sally was made: the constables and 
magistrates tried the most pacific measures, and they seemed to succeed. 
There was a rapid thinning of the crowd: the most boisterous disappeared, 
or seemed to do so by becoming quiet; missiles ceased to fly, and a 
sufficient way was cleared for voters along King Street. The magistrates 
returned to their quarters, and the constables took convenient posts of 
observation. Mr Wace, who was one of Debarry's committee, had suggested to 
the rector that it might be wise to send for the military from Duffield, 
with orders that they should station themselves at Hathercote, three miles 
off: there was so much property in the town that it would be better to make 
it secure against risks. But the rector felt that this was not the part of 
a moderate and wise magistrate, unless the signs of riot recurred. He was a 
brave man, and fond of thinking that his own authority sufficed for the 
maintenance of the general good in Treby.



Chapter 32

"Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Never more
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before
Without the sense of that which I forbore -
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two."
													Mrs Browning.
Felix Holt, seated at his work without his pupils, who had asked for a 
holiday with a notion that the wooden booths promised some sort of show, 
noticed about eleven o'clock that the noises which reached him from the 
main street were getting more and more tumultuous. He had long seen bad 
auguries for this election, but, like all people who dread the prophetic 
wisdom that ends in desiring the fulfilment of its own evil forebodings, he 
had checked himself with remembering that, though many conditions were 
possible which might bring on violence, there were just as many which might 
avert it. There would, perhaps, be no other mischief than what he was 
already certain of. With these thoughts he had sat down quietly to his 
work, meaning not to vex his soul by going to look on at things he would 
fain have made different if he could. But he was of a fibre that vibrated 
too strongly to the life around him to shut himself away in quiet, even 
from suffering and irremediable wrong. As the noises grew louder, and 
wrought more and more strongly on his imagination, he was obliged to lay 
down his delicate wheel-work. His mother came from her turnip-paring in the 
kitchen, where little Job was her companion, to observe that they must be 
killing everybody in the High Street, and that the election, which had 
never been before at Treby, must have come for a judgment; that there were 
mercies where you didn't look for them, and that she thanked God in His 
wisdom for making her live up a back street.
Felix snatched his cap and rushed out. But when he got to the turning into 
the market-place the magistrates were already on horseback there, the 
constables were moving about, and Felix observed that there was no strong 
spirit of resistance to them. He stayed long enough to see the partial 
dispersion of the crowd and the restoration of tolerable quiet, and then 
went back to Mrs Holt to tell her that there was nothing to fear now: he 
was going out again, and she must not be in any anxiety at his absence. She 
might set by his dinner for him.
Felix had been thinking of Esther and her probable alarm at the noises that 
must have reached her more distinctly than they had reached him, for 
Malthouse Yard was removed but a little way from the main street. Mr Lyon 
was away from home, having been called to preach charity sermons and attend 
meetings in a distant town; and Esther, with the plaintive Lyddy for her 
sole companion, was not cheerfully circumstanced. Felix had not been to see 
her yet since her father's departure, but today he gave way to new reasons.
"Miss Esther was in the garret," Lyddy said, trying to see what was going 
on. But before she was fetched she came running down the stairs, drawn by 
the knock at the door, which had shaken the small dwelling.
"I am so thankful to see you," she said eagerly. "Pray come in."
When she had shut the parlour door behind him, Felix said, "I suspected 
that you might have been made anxious by the noises. I came to tell you 
that things are quiet now. Though, indeed, you can hear that they are."
"I was frightened," said Esther. "The shouting and roaring of rude men is 
so hideous. It is a relief to me that my father is not at home - that he is 
out of the reach of any danger he might have fallen into if he had been 
here. But I gave you credit for being in the midst of the danger," she 
added, smiling, with a determination not to show much feeling. "Sit down 
and tell me what has happened."
They sat down at the extremities of the old black sofa, and Felix said -
"To tell you the truth, I had shut myself up, and tried to be as 
indifferent to the election as if I'd been one of the fishes in the Lapp, 
till the noises got too strong for me. But I only saw the tail end of the 
disturbance. The poor noisy simpletons seemed to give way before the 
magistrates and the constables. I hope nobody has been much hurt. The fear 
is that they may turn out again by-and-by; their giving way so soon may not 
be altogether a good sign. There's a great number of heavy fellows in the 
town. If they go and drink more, the last end may be worse than the first. 
However - "
Felix broke off, as if this talk were futile, clasped his hands behind his 
head, and, leaning backward, looked at Esther, who was looking at him.
"May I stay here a little while?" he said, after a moment, which seemed 
long.
"Pray do," said Esther, colouring. To relieve herself she took some work 
and bowed her head over her stitching. It was in reality a little heaven to 
her that Felix was there, but she saw beyond it - saw that by-and-by he 
would be gone, and that they should be farther on their way, not towards 
meeting, but parting. His will was impregnable. He was a rock, and she was 
no more to him than the white clinging mist-cloud.
"I wish I could be sure that you see things just as I do," he said, 
abruptly, after a minute's silence.
"I am sure you see them much more wisely than I do," said Esther, almost 
bitterly, without looking up.
"There are some people one must wish to judge one truly. Not to wish it 
would be mere hardness. I know you think I am a man without feeling - at 
least, without strong affections. You think I love nothing but my own 
resolutions."
"Suppose I reply in the same sort of strain?" said Esther, with a little 
toss of the head.
"How?"
"Why, that you think me a shallow woman, incapable of believing what is 
best in you, setting down everything that is too high for me as a 
deficiency."
"Don't parry what I say. Answer me." There was an expression of painful 
beseeching in the tone with which Felix said this. Esther let her work fall 
on her lap and looked at him, but she was unable to speak.
"I want you to tell me - once - that you know it would be easier to me to 
give myself up to loving and being loved, as other men do, when they can, 
than to - "
This breaking-off in speech was something quite new in Felix. For the first 
time he had lost his self-possession, and turned his eyes away. He was at 
variance with himself. He had begun what he felt that he ought not to 
finish
Esther, like a woman as she was - a woman waiting for love, never able to 
ask for it - had her joy in these signs of her power; but they made her 
generous, not chary, as they might have done if she had had a pettier 
disposition. She said, with deep yet timid earnestness -
"What you have chosen to do has only convinced me that your love would be 
the better worth having."
All the finest part of Esther's nature trembled in those words. To be right 
in great memorable moments, is perhaps the thing we need most desire for 
ourselves.
Felix as quick as lightning turned his look upon her again, and, leaning 
forward, took her sweet hand and held it to his lips some moments before he 
let it fall again and raised his head.
"We shall always be the better for thinking of each other," he said, 
leaning his elbow on the back of the sofa, and supporting his head as he 
looked at her with calm sadness. "This thing can never come to me twice 
over. It is my knight-hood. That was always a business of great cost."
He smiled at her, but she sat biting her inner lip, and pressing her hands 
together. She desired to be worthy of what she reverenced in Felix, but the 
inevitable renunciation was too difficult. She saw herself wandering 
through the future weak and forsaken. The charming sauciness was all gone 
from her face, but the memory of it made this child-like dependent sorrow 
all the more touching.
"Tell me what you would - " Felix burst out, leaning nearer to her; but the 
next instant he started up, went to the table, took his cap in his hand, 
and came in front of her.
"Good-bye," he said, very gently, not daring to put out his hand. But 
Esther put up hers instead of speaking. He just pressed it and then went 
away.
She heard the doors close behind him, and felt free to be miserable. She 
cried bitterly. If she might have married Felix Holt, she could have been a 
good woman. She felt no trust that she could ever be good without him.
Felix reproached himself. He would have done better not to speak in that 
way. But the prompting to which he had chiefly listened had been the desire 
to prove to Esther that he set a high value on her feelings. He could not 
help seeing that he was very important to her; and he was too simple and 
sincere a man to ape a sort of humility which would not have made him any 
the better if he had possessed it. Such pretences turn our lives into sorry 
dramas. And Felix wished Esther to know that her love was dear to him as 
the beloved dead are dear. He felt that they must not marry - that they 
would ruin each other's lives. But he had longed for her to know fully that 
his will to be always apart from her was renunciation, not an easy 
preference. In this he was thoroughly generous; and yet, now some subtle, 
mysterious conjuncture of impressions and circumstances had made him speak, 
he questioned the wisdom of what he had done. Express confessions give 
definiteness to memories that might more easily melt away without them; and 
Felix felt for Esther's pain as the strong soldier, who can march on 
hungering without fear that he shall faint, feels for the young brother - 
the maiden-cheeked conscript whose load is too heavy for him.



Chapter 33

"Mischief, thou art afoot." - Julius Caesar.

Felix could not go home again immediately after quitting Esther. He got out 
of the town, skirted it a little while, looking across the December 
stillness of the fields, and then re-entered it by the main road into the 
market-place, thinking that, after all, it would be better for him to look 
at the busy doings of men than to listen in solitude to the voices within 
him; and he wished to know how things were going on.
It was now nearly half-past one, and Felix perceived that the street was 
filling with more than the previous crowd. By the time he got in front of 
the booths, he was himself so surrounded by men who were being thrust 
hither and thither that retreat would have been impossible; and he went 
where he was obliged to go, although his height and strength were above the 
average even in a crowd where there were so many heavy-armed workmen used 
to the pick-axe. Almost all shabby-coated Trebians must have been there, 
but the entries and back-streets of the town did not supply the mass of the 
crowd; and besides the rural incomers, both of the more decent and the 
rougher sort, Felix, as he was pushed along, thought he discerned here and 
there men of that keener aspect which is only common in manufacturing 
towns.
But at present there was no evidence of any distinctly mischievous design. 
There was only evidence that the majority of the crowd were excited with 
drink, and that their action could hardly be calculated on more than those 
of oxen and pigs congregated amidst hootings and pushings. The confused 
deafening shouts, the incidental fighting, the knocking over, pulling and 
scuffling, seemed to increase every moment. Such of the constables as were 
mixed with the crowd were quite helpless; and if an official staff was seen 
above the heads, it moved about fitfully, showing as little sign of a 
guiding hand as the summit of a buoy on the waves. Doubtless many hurts and 
bruises had been received but no one could know the amount of injuries that 
were wildly scattered.
It was clear that no more voting could be done, and the poll had been 
adjourned. The probabilities of serious mischief had grown strong enough to 
prevail over the rector's objection to getting military aid within reach; 
and when Felix re-entered the town, a galloping messenger had already been 
despatched to Duffield. The rector wished to ride out again, and read the 
Riot Act from a point where he could be better heard than from the window 
of the Marquis; but Mr Crow, the high constable, who had returned from 
closer observation, insisted that the risk would be too great. New special 
constables had been sworn in, but Mr Crow said prophetically that if once 
mischief began, the mob was past caring for constables.
But the rector's voice was ringing and penetrating, and when he appeared on 
the narrow balcony and read the formula, commanding all men to go to their 
homes or about their lawful business, there was a strong transient effect. 
Every one within hearing listened, and for a few moments after the final 
words, "God save the King!" the comparative silence continued. Then the 
people began to move, the buzz rose again, and grew, and grew, till it 
turned to shouts and roaring as before. The movement was that of a flood 
hemmed in; it carried nobody away. Whether the crowd would obey the order 
to disperse themselves within an hour, was a doubt that approached nearer 
and nearer to a negative certainty.
Presently Mr Crow, who held himself a tactician, took a well-intentioned 
step, which went far to fulfill his own prophecy. He had arrived with the 
magistrates by a back way at the Seven Stars, and here again the Riot Act 
was read from a window, with much the same result as before. The rector had 
returned by the same way to the Marquis, as the headquarters most suited 
for administration, but Mr Crow remained at the other extremity of King 
Street, where some awe-striking presence was certainly needed. Seeing that 
the time was passing, and all effect from the voice of law had disappeared, 
he showed himself at an upper window, and addressed the crowd, telling them 
that the soldiers had been sent for, and that if they did not disperse they 
would have cavalry upon them instead of constables.
Mr Crow, like some other high constables more celebrated in history, 
"enjoyed a bad reputation"; that is to say, he enjoyed many things which 
caused his reputation to be bad, and he was anything but popular in Treby. 
It is probable that a pleasant message would have lost something from his 
lips, and what he actually said was so unpleasant, that, instead of 
persuading the crowd, it appeared to enrage them. Some one, snatching a raw 
potato from a sack in the greengrocer's shop behind him, threw it at the 
constable, and hit him on the mouth. Straightway raw potatoes and turnips 
were flying by twenties at the windows of the Seven Stars, and the panes 
were smashed. Felix, who was half-way up the street, heard the voices 
turning to a savage roar, and saw a rush towards the hardware shop, which 
furnished more effective weapons and missiles than turnips and potatoes. 
Then a cry ran along that the Tories had sent for the soldiers, and if 
those among the mob who called themselves Tories as willingly as anything 
else were disposed to take whatever called itself the Tory side, they only 
helped the main result of reckless disorder.
But there were proofs that the predominant will of the crowd was against 
"Debarry's men," and in favour of Transome. Several shops were invaded, and 
they were all of them "Tory shops". The tradesmen who could do so, now 
locked their doors and barricaded their windows within. There was a panic 
among the householders of this hitherto peaceful town, and a general 
anxiety for the military to arrive. The rector was in painful anxiety on 
this head: he had sent out two messengers as secretly as he could towards 
Hathercote, to order the soldiers to ride straight to the town; but he 
feared that these messengers had been somehow intercepted.
It was three o'clock: more than an hour had elapsed since the reading of 
the Riot Act. The rector of Treby Magna wrote an indignant message and sent 
it to the Ram, to Mr Lingon, the rector of Little Treby, saying that there 
was evidently a Radical animus in the mob, and that Mr Transome's party 
should hold themselves peculiarly responsible. Where was Mr Jermyn?
Mr Lingon replied that he was going himself out towards Duffield to see 
after the soldiers. As for Jermyn, he was not that attorney's sponsor: he 
believed that Jermyn was gone away somewhere on business - to fetch voters.
A serious effort was now being made by all the civil force at command. The 
December day would soon be passing into evening, and all disorder would be 
aggravated by obscurity. The horrors of fire were as likely to happen as 
any minor evil. The constables, as many of them as could do so, armed 
themselves with carbines and sabres; all the respectable inhabitants who 
had any courage prepared themselves to struggle for order; and many felt 
with Mr Wace and Mr Tiliot that the nearest duty was to defend the 
breweries and the spirit and wine vaults, where the property was of a sort 
at once most likely to be threatened and most dangerous in its effects. The 
rector, with fine determination, got on horseback again, as the best mode 
of leading the constables, who could only act efficiently in a close body. 
By his direction the column of armed men avoided the main street, and made 
their way along a back road, that they might occupy the two chief lanes 
leading to the wine-vaults and the brewery, and bear down on the crowd from 
these openings, which it was especially desirable to guard.
Meanwhile Felix Holt had been hotly occupied in King Street. After the 
first window-smashing at the Seven Stars, there was a sufficient reason for 
damaging that inn to the utmost. The destructive spirit tends towards 
completeness; and any object once maimed or otherwise injured, is as 
readily doomed by unreasoning men as by unreasoning boys. Also the Seven 
Stars sheltered Spratt; and to some Sproxton men in front of that inn it 
was exasperating that Spratt should be safe and sound on a day when blows 
were going, and justice might be rendered. And again, there was the general 
desirableness of being inside a public-house.
Felix had at last been willingly urged on to this spot. Hitherto swayed by 
the crowd, he had been able to do nothing but defend himself and keep on 
his legs; but he foresaw that the people would burst into the inn; he heard 
cries of "Spratt!" "Fetch him out!" "We'll pitch him out!" "Pummel him!" It 
was not unlikely that lives might be sacrificed; and it was intolerable to 
Felix to be witnessing the blind outrages of this mad crowd, and yet be 
doing nothing to counteract them. Even some vain effort would satisfy him 
better than mere gazing. Within the walls of the inn he might save some 
one. He went in with a miscellaneous set, who dispersed themselves with 
different objects - some to the taproom, and to search for the cellar; some 
upstairs to search in all rooms for Spratt, or any one else perhaps, as a 
temporary scapegoat for Spratt. Guided by the screams of women, Felix at 
last got to a high up-stairs passage, where the landlady and some of her 
servants were running away in helpless terror from two or three half-tipsy 
men, who had been emptying a spirit-decanter in the bar. Assuming the tone 
pf a mob-leader, he cried out, "Here, boys, here's better fun this way - 
come with me ! " and drew the men back with him along the passage. They 
reached the lower staircase in time to see the unhappy Spratt being 
dragged, coatless and screaming, down the steps. No one at present was 
striking or kicking him; it seemed as if he were being reserved for 
punishment on some wider area, where the satisfaction might be more 
generally shared. Felix followed close, determined, if he could, to rescue 
both assailers and assaulted from the worst consequences. His mind was busy 
with possible devices.
Down the stairs, out along the stones through the gateway, Spratt was 
dragged as a mere heap of linen and cloth rags. When he was got outside the 
gateway, there was an immense hooting and roaring, though many there had no 
grudge against him, and only guessed that others had the grudge. But this 
was the narrower part of the street; it widened as it went onwards, and 
Spratt was dragged on, his enemies crying, "We'll make a ring - we'll see 
how frightened he looks ! "
"Kick him, and have done with him," Felix heard another say. "Let's go to 
Tiliot's vaults - there's more gin there!"
Here were two hideous threats. In dragging Spratt onward the people were 
getting very near to the lane leading up to Tiliot's. Felix kept as close 
as he could to the threatened victim. He had thrown away his own stick, and 
carried a bludgeon which had escaped from the hands of an invader at the 
Seven Stars! his head was bare; he looked, to undiscerning eyes, like a 
leading spirit of the mob. In this condition he was observed by several 
persons looking anxiously from their upper windows, and finally observed to 
push himself, by violent efforts, close behind the dragged man.
Meanwhile the foremost among the constables, who, coming by the back way, 
had now reached the opening of Tiliot's Lane, discerned that the crowd had 
a victim amongst them. One spirited fellow, named Tucker, who was a regular 
constable, feeling that no time was to be lost in meditation, called on his 
neighbour to follow him, and with the sabre that happened to be his weapon 
got a way for himself where he was not expected, by dint of quick 
resolution. At this moment Spratt had been let go - had been dropped, in 
fact, almost lifeless with terror, on the street stones, and the men round 
him had retreated for a little space, as if to amuse themselves with 
looking at him. Felix had taken his opportunity; and seeing the first step 
towards a plan he was bent on, he sprang forward close to the cowering 
Spratt. As he did this, Tucker had cut his way to the spot, and imagining 
Felix to be the destined executioner of Spratt - for any discrimination of 
Tucker's lay in his muscles rather than his eyes - he rushed up to Felix, 
meaning to collar him and throw him down. But Felix had rapid senses and 
quick thoughts; he discerned the situation; he chose between two evils. 
Quick as lightning he frustrated the constable, fell upon him, and tried to 
master his weapon. In the struggle, which was watched without interference, 
the constable fell undermost, and Felix got his weapon. He started up with 
the bare sabre in his hand. The crowd round him cried "Hurray ! " with a 
sense that he was on their side against the constable. Tucker did not rise 
immediately; but Felix did not imagine that he was much hurt.
"Don't touch him!" said Felix. "Let him go. Here, bring Spratt, and follow 
me."
Felix was perfectly conscious that he was in the midst of a tangled 
business. But he had chiefly before his imagination the horrors that might 
come if the mass of wild chaotic desires and impulses around him were not 
diverted from any further attack on places where they would get in the 
midst of intoxicating and inflammable materials. It was not a moment in 
which a spirit like his could calculate the effect of misunderstanding as 
to himself: nature never makes men who are at once energetically 
sympathetic and minutely calculating. He believed he had the power, and he 
was resolved to try, to carry the dangerous mass out of mischief till the 
military came to awe them - which he supposed, from Mr Crow's announcement 
long ago, must be a near event.
He was followed the more willingly, because Tiliot's Lane was seen by the 
hindmost to be now defended by constables, some of whom had fire-arms; and 
where there is no strong counter-movement, any proposition to do something 
unspecified stimulates stupid curiosity. To many of the Sproxton men who 
were within sight of him, Felix was known personally, and vaguely believed 
to be a man who meant many queer things, not at all of an every-day kind.
Pressing along like a leader, with the sabre in his hand, and inviting them 
to bring on Spratt, there seemed a better reason for following him than for 
doing anything else. A man with a definite will and an energetic 
personality acts as a sort of flag to draw and bind together the foolish 
units of a mob. It was on this sort of influence over men whose mental 
state was a mere medley of appetites and confused impressions, that Felix 
had dared to count. He hurried them along with words of invitation, telling 
them to hold up Spratt and not drag him; and those behind followed him, 
with a growing belief that he had some design worth knowing, while those in 
front were urged along partly by the same notion, partly by the sense that 
there was a motive in those behind them, not knowing what the motive was. 
It was that mixture of pushing forward and being pushed forward, which is a 
brief history of most human things.
What Felix really intended to do, was to get the crowd by the nearest way 
out of the town, and induce them to skirt it on the north side with him, 
keeping up in them the idea that he was leading them to execute some 
strategem by which they would surprise something worth attacking, and 
circumvent the constables who were defending the lanes. In the meantime he 
trusted that the soldiers would have arrived, and with this sort of mob, 
which was animated by no real political passion or fury against social 
distinctions it was in the highest degree unlikely that there would be any 
resistance to a military force. The presence of fifty soldiers would 
probably be enough to scatter the rioting hundreds. How numerous the mob 
was, no one ever knew: many inhabitants afterwards were ready to swear that 
there must have been at least two thousand rioters. Felix knew he was 
incurring great risks; but "his blood was up:" we hardly allow enough in 
common life for the results of that enkindled passionate enthusiasm which, 
under other conditions, makes world-famous deeds.
He was making for a point where the street branched off on one side towards 
a speedy opening between hedgerows, on the other towards the shabby 
wideness of Pollard's End. At this forking of the street there was a large 
space, in the centre of which there was a small stone platform, mounting by 
three steps, with an old green finger-post upon it. Felix went straight to 
this platform and stepped upon it, crying "Halt ! " in a loud voice to the 
men behind and before him, and calling to those who held Spratt to bring 
him there. All came to a stand with faces towards the finger-post, and 
perhaps for the first time the extremities of the crowd got a definite idea 
that a man with a sabre in his hand was taking the command.
"Now!" said Felix, when Spratt had been brought on to the stone platform, 
faint and trembling, "has anybody got cord? if not, handkerchiefs knotted 
fast; give them to me."
He drew out his own handkerchief, and two or three others were mustered and 
handed to him. He ordered them to be knotted together, while curious eyes 
were fixed on him. Was he going to have Spratt hanged? Felix kept fast hold 
of his weapon, and ordered others to act.
"Now, put it round his waist, wind his arms in, draw them a little backward 
- so I and tie it fast on the other side of the post."
When that was done, Felix said, imperatively -
"Leave him there - we shall come back to him; let us make haste; march 
along, lads! Up Park Street and down Hobb's Lane."
It was the best chance he could think of for saving Spratt's life. And he 
succeeded. The pleasure of seeing the helpless man tied up sufficed for the 
moment, if there were any who had ferocity enough to count much on coming 
back to him. Nobody's imagination represented the certainty that some one 
out of the houses at hand would soon come and untie him when he was left 
alone.
And the rioters pushed up Park Street, a noisy stream, with Felix still in 
the midst of them, though he was labouring hard to get his way to the 
front. He wished to determine the course of the crowd along a by-road 
called Hobb's Lane, which would have taken them to the other - the Duffield 
end of the town. He urged several of the men round him, one of whom was no 
less a person than the big Dredge, our old Sproxton acquaintance, to get 
forward, and be sure that all the fellows would go down the lane, else they 
would spoil sport. Hitherto Felix had been successful, and he had gone 
along with an unbroken impulse. But soon something occurred which brought 
with a terrible shock the sense that his plan might turn out to be as mad 
as all bold projects are seen to be when they have failed.
Mingled with the more headlong and half-drunken crowd there were some sharp-
visaged men who loved the irrationality of riots for something else than 
its own sake, and who at present were not so much the richer as they 
desired to be, for the pains they had taken in coming to the Treby 
election, induced by certain prognostics gathered at Duffield on the 
nomination-day that there might be the conditions favourable to that 
confusion which was always a harvest-time. It was known to some of these 
sharp men that Park Street led out towards the grand house of Treby Manor, 
which was as good - nay, better for their purpose than the bank. While 
Felix was entertaining his ardent purpose, these other sons of Adam were 
entertaining another ardent purpose of their peculiar sort, and the moment 
was come when they were to have their triumph
From the front ranks backward towards Felix there ran a new summons - a new 
invitation.
"Let us go to Treby Manor!"
From that moment Felix was powerless; a new definite suggestion overrode 
his vaguer influence. There was a determined rush past Hobb's Lane, and not 
down it. Felix was carried along too. He did not know whether to wish the 
contrary. Once on the road, out of the town, with openings into fields and 
with the wide park at hand, it would have been easy for him to liberate 
himself from the crowd. At first it seemed to him the better part to do 
this, and to get back to the town as fast as he could, in the hope of 
finding the military and getting a detachment to come and save the Manor. 
But he reflected that the course of the mob had been sufficiently seen, and 
that there were plenty of people in Park Street to carry the information 
faster than he could. It seemed more necessary that he should secure the 
presence of some help for the family at the Manor by going there himself. 
The Debarrys were not of the class he was wont to be anxious about; but 
Felix Holt's conscience was alive to the accusation that any danger they 
might be in now was brought on by a deed of his. In these moments of bitter 
vexation and disappointment, it did occur to him that very unpleasant 
consequences might be hanging over him of a kind quite different from 
inward dissatisfaction; but it was useless now to think of averting such 
consequences. As he was pressed along with the multitude into Treby Park, 
his very movement seemed to him only an image of the day's fatalities, in 
which the multitudinous small wickednesses of small selfish ends, really 
undirected towards any larger result, had issued in widely-shared mischief 
that might yet be hideous.
The light was declining: already the candles shone through many windows of 
the Manor. Already the foremost part of the crowd had burst into the 
offices, and adroit men were busy in the right places to find plate, after 
setting others to force the butler into unlocking the cellars; and Felix 
had only just been able to force his way on to the front terrace, with the 
hope of getting to the rooms where he would find the ladies of the 
household and comfort them with the assurance that rescue must soon come, 
when the sound of horses' feet convinced him that the rescue was nearer 
than he had expected. Just as he heard the horses, he had approached the 
large window of a room, where a brilliant light suspended from the ceiling 
showed him a group of women clinging together in terror. Others of the 
crowd were pushing their way up the terrace-steps and gravel-slopes at 
various points. Hearing the horses, he kept his post in front of the 
window, and, motioning with his sabre, cried out to the oncomers, "Keep 
back! I hear the soldiers coming." Some scrambled back, some paused 
automatically.
The louder and louder sound of the hoofs changed its pace and distribution. 
"Halt! Fire!" Bang! bang! bang! - came deafening the ears of the men on the 
terrace.
Before they had time or nerve to move, there was a rushing sound closer to 
them - again "Fire!" a bullet whizzed, and passed through Felix Holt's 
shoulder - the shoulder of the arm that held the naked weapon which shone 
in the light from the window.
Felix fell. The rioters ran confusedly, like terrified sheep. Some of the 
soldiers, turning, drove them along vvith the flat of their swords. The 
greater difficulty was to clear the invaded offices.
The rector, who with another magistrate and several other gentlemen on 
horseback had accompanied the soldiers, now jumped on to the terrace, and 
hurried to the ladies of the family.
Presently, there was a group round Felix, who had fainted and, reviving, 
had fainted again. He had had little food during the day, and had been 
overwrought. Two of the group were civilians, but only one of them knew 
Felix, the other being a magistrate not resident in Treby. The one who knew 
Felix was Mr John Johnson, whose zeal for the public peace had brought him 
from Duffield when he heard that the soldiers were summoned.
"I know this man very well," said Mr Johnson. "He is a dangerous character 
- quite revolutionary."
It was a weary night; and the next day, Felix, whose wound was declared 
trivial, was lodged in Loamford Jail. He was committed on three counts - 
for having assaulted a constable, for having committed manslaughter (Tucker 
was dead from spinal concussion), and for having led a riotous onslaught on 
a dwelling-house.
Four other men were committed: one of them for possessing himself of a gold 
cup with the Debarry arms on it; the three others, one of whom was the 
collier Dredge, for riot and assault.
That morning Treby town was no longer in terror; but it was in much 
sadness. Other men, more innocent than the hated Spratt, were groaning 
under severe bodily injuries. And poor Tucker's corpse was not the only one 
that had been lifted from the pavement. It is true that none grieved much 
for the other dead man, unless it be grief to say, "Poor old fellow!" He 
had been trampled upon, doubtless where he fell drunkenly, near the 
entrance of the Seven Stars. This second corpse was old Tommy Trounsem, the 
bill-sticker - otherwise Thomas Transome, the last of a very old family-
line.



Chapter 34

The fields are hoary with December's frost.
I too am hoary with the chills of age.
But through the fields and through the untrodden woods
Is rest and stillness - only in my heart
The pall of winter shrouds a throbbing life.

A Week after that Treby Riot, Harold Transome was at Transome Court. He had 
returned from a hasty visit to town, to keep his Christmas at this 
delightful country home, not in the best Christmas spirits. He had lost the 
election; but if that had been his only annoyance, he had good humour and 
good sense enough to have borne it as well as most men, and to have paid 
the eight or nine thousand, which had been the price of ascertaining that 
he was not to sit in the next parliament, without useless grumbling. But 
the disappointments of life can never, any more than its pleasures, be 
estimated singly; and the healthiest and most agreeable of men is exposed 
to that coincidence of various vexations, each heightening the effect of 
the other, which may produce in him something corresponding to the 
spontaneous and externally unaccountable moodiness of the morbid and 
disagreeable.
Harold might not have grieved much at a small riot in Treby, even if it had 
caused some expenses to fall on the county; but the turn which the riot had 
actually taken, was a bitter morsel for rumination, on more grounds than 
one. However the disturbances had arisen and been aggravated - and probably 
no one knew the whole truth on these points - the conspicuous, gravest 
incidents had all tended to throw the blame on the Radical party, that is 
to say, on Transome and on Transome's agents; and so far the candidateship 
and its results had done Harold dishonour in the county: precisely the 
opposite effect to that which was a dear object of his ambition. More than 
this, Harold's conscience was active enough to be very unpleasantly 
affected by what had befallen Felix Holt. His memory, always good, was 
particularly vivid in its retention of Felix Holt's complaint to him about 
the treating of the Sproxton men, and of the subsequent irritating scene in 
Jermyn's office when the personage with the inauspicious name of Johnson 
had expounded to him the impossibility of revising an electioneering scheme 
once begun, and of turning your vehicle back when it had already begun to 
roll downhill. Remembering Felix Holt's words of indignant warning about 
hiring men with drink in them to make a noise, Harold could not resist the 
urgent impression that the offences for which Felix was committed were 
fatalities, not brought about by any willing co-operation of his with the 
rioters, but arising probably from some ill-judged efforts to counteract 
their violence. And this impression, which insisted on growing into a 
conviction, became in one of its phases an uneasy sense that he held 
evidence which would at once tend to exonerate Felix, and to place himself 
and his agents in anything but a desirable light. It was likely that some 
one else could give equivalent evidence in favour of Felix - the little 
talkative Dissenting preacher, for example; but, anyhow, the affair with 
the Sproxton men would be ripped open and made the worst of by the opposite 
parties. The man who has failed in the use of some indirectness, is helped 
very little by the fact that his rivals are men to whom that indirectness 
is a something human, very far from being alien. There remains this grand 
distinction, that he has failed, and that the jet of light is thrown 
entirely on his misdoings.
In this matter Harold felt himself a victim. Could he hinder the tricks of 
his agents? In this particular case he had tried to hinder them, and had 
tried in vain. He had not loved the two agents in question, to begin with; 
and now at this later stage of events he was more innocent than ever of 
bearing them anything but the most sincere ill-will. He was more utterly 
exasperated with them than he would probably have been if his one great 
passion had been for public virtue. Jermyn, with his John Johnson, had 
added this ugly dirty business of the Treby election to all the long-
accumulating list of offences, which Harold was resolved to visit on him to 
the utmost. He had seen some handbills carrying the insinuation that there 
was a discreditable indebtedness to Jermyn on the part of the Transomes. If 
any such notions existed apart from electioneering slander, there was all 
the more reason for letting the world see Jermyn severely punished for 
abusing his power over the family affairs, and tampering with the family 
property. And the world certainly should see this with as little delay as 
possible. The cool confident assuming fellow should be bled to the last 
drop in compensation, and all connection with him be finally got rid of. 
Now that the election was done with, Harold meant to devote himself to 
private affairs, till everything lay in complete order under his own 
supervision.
This morning he was seated as usual in his private room, which had now been 
handsomely fitted up for him. It was but the third morning after the first 
Christmas he had spent in his English home for fifteen years, and the home 
looked like an eminently desirable one. The white frost lay on the broad 
lawn, on the many-formed leaves of the evergreens, and on the giant trees 
at a distance. Logs of dry oak blazed on the hearth; the carpet was like 
warm moss under his feet; he had breakfasted just according to his taste, 
and he had the interesting occupations of a large proprietor to fill the 
morning. All through the house now, steps were noiseless on carpets or on 
fine matting; there was warmth in hall and corridors; there were servants 
enough to do everything, and to do it at the right time. Skilful Dominic 
was always at hand to meet his master's demands, and his bland presence 
diffused itself like a smile over the household, infecting the gloomy 
English mind with the belief that life was easy, and making his real 
predominance seem as soft and light as a down quilt. Old Mr Transome had 
gathered new courage and strength since little Harry and Dominic had come 
and since Harold had insisted on his taking drives. Mrs Transome herself 
was seen on a fresh background with a gown of rich new stuff. And if, in 
spite of this, she did not seem happy, Harold either did not observe it, or 
kindly ignored it as the necessary frailty of elderly women whose lives 
have had too much of dulness and privation. Our minds get tricks and 
attitudes as our bodies do, thought Harold, and age stiffens them into 
unalterableness. "Poor mother! I confess I should not like to be an elderly 
woman myself. One requires a good deal of the purring cat for that, or else 
of the loving grandame. I wish she would take more to little Harry. I 
suppose she has her suspicions about the lad's mother, and is as rigid in 
those matters as in her Toryism. However, I do what I can; it would be 
difficult to say what there is wanting to her in the way of indulgence and 
luxury to make up for the old niggardly life."
And certainly Transome Court was now such a home as many women would covet. 
Yet even Harold's own satisfaction in the midst of its elegant comfort 
needed at present to be sustained by the expectation of gratified 
resentment. He was obviously less bright and enjoying than usual, and his 
mother, who watched him closely without daring to ask questions, had 
gathered hints and drawn inferences enough to make her feel sure that there 
was some storm gathering between him and Jermyn. She did not dare to ask 
questions, and yet she had not resisted the temptation to say something 
bitter about Harold's failure to get returned as a Radical, helping, with 
feminine self-defeat, to exclude herself more completely from any 
consultation by him. In this way poor women, whose power lies solely in 
their influence, make themselves like music out of tune, and only move men 
to run away.
This morning Harold had ordered his letters to be brought to him at the 
breakfast-table, which was not his usual practice. His mother could see 
that there were London business letters about which he was eager, and she 
found out that the letter brought by a clerk the day before was to make an 
appointment with Harold for Jermyn to come to Transome Court at eleven this 
morning. She observed Harold swallow his coffee and push away his plate 
with an early abstraction from the business of breakfast which was not at 
all after his usual manner. She herself ate nothing; her sips of tea seemed 
to excite her; her cheeks flushed, and her hands were cold. She was still 
young and ardent in her terrors; the passions of the past were living in 
her dread.
When Harold left the table she went into the long drawing-room, where she 
might relieve her restlessness by walking up and down, and catch the sound 
of Jermyn's entrance into Harold's room, which was close by. Here she moved 
to and fro amongst the rose-coloured satin of chairs and curtains - the 
great story of this world reduced for her to the little tale of her own 
existence - dull obscurity everywhere, except where the keen light fell on 
the narrow track of her own lot, wide only for a woman's anguish. At last 
she heard the expected ring and footstep, and the opening and closing door. 
Unable to walk about any longer, she sank into a large cushioned chair, 
helpless and prayerless. She was not thinking of God's anger or mercy, but 
of her son's. She was thinking of what might be brought, not by death, but 
by life.



Chapter 35

M. Check to your queen!
N.           					Nay, your own king is bare,
And moving so, you give yourself checkmate.

When Jermyn entered the room, Harold, who was seated at his library table 
examining papers, with his back towards the light and his face towards the 
door, moved his head coldly. Jermyn said an ungracious "Good-morning" - as 
little as possible like a salutation to one who might regard himself as a 
patron. On the attorney's handsome face there was a black cloud of defiant 
determination, slightly startling to Harold, who had expected to feel that 
the overpowering weight of temper in the interview was on his own side. 
Nobody was ever prepared beforehand for this expression of Jermyn's face, 
which seemed as strongly contrasted with the cold inpenetrableness which he 
preserved under the ordinary annoyances of business as with the bland 
radiance of his lighter moments.
Harold himself did not look amiable just then, but his anger was of the 
sort that seeks a vent without waiting to give a fatal blow; it was that of 
a nature more subtly mixed than Jermyn's - less animally forcible, less 
unwavering in selfishness, and with more of high-bred pride. He looked at 
Jermyn with increased disgust and secret wonder.
"Sit down," he said, curtly.
Jermyn seated himself in silence, opened his greatcoat, and took some 
papers from a side-pocket.
"I have written to Makepeace," said Harold, "to tell him to take the entire 
management of the election expenses. So you will transmit your accounts to 
him."
"Very well. I am come this morning on other business."
"If it's about the riot and the prisoners, I have only to say that I shall 
enter into no plans. If I am called on, I shall say what I know about that 
young fellow Felix Holt. People may prove what they can about Johnson's 
damnable tricks, or yours either."
"I am not come to speak about the riot. I agree with you in thinking that 
quite a subordinate subject." (When Jermyn had the black cloud over his 
face, he never hesitated or drawled, and made no Latin quotations.)
"Be so good, then, as to open your business at once," said Harold, in a 
tone of imperious indifference.
"That is precisely what I wish to do. I have here information from a London 
correspondent that you are about to file a bill against me in Chancery." 
Jermyn, as he spoke, laid his hand on the papers before him, and looked 
straight at Harold.
"In that case the question for you is, how far your conduct as the family 
solicitor will bear investigation. But it is a question which you will 
consider quite apart from me."
"Doubtless. But prior to that there is a question which we must consider 
together."
The tone in which Jermyn said this gave an unpleasant shock to Harold's 
sense of mastery. Was it possible that he should have the weapon wrenched 
out of his hand?
"I shall know what to think of that," he replied, as haughtily as ever, 
"when you have stated what the question is."
"Simply, whether you will choose to retain the family estates, or lay 
yourself open to be forthwith legally deprived of them."
"I presume you refer to some underhand scheme of your own, on a par with 
the annuities you have drained us by in the name of Johnson," said Harold, 
feeling a new movement of anger. "If so, you had better state your scheme 
to my lawyers, Dymock and Halliwell."
"No. I think you will approve of my stating in your own ear first of all, 
that it depends on my will whether you remain an important landed 
proprietor in North Loamshire, or whether you retire from the county with 
the remainder of the fortune you have acquired in trade."
Jermyn paused, as if to leave time for this morsel to be tasted.
"What do you mean?" said Harold, sharply
"Not any scheme of mine; but a state of the facts, resulting from the 
settlement of the estate made in 1729: a state of the facts which renders 
your father's title and your own title to the family estates utterly 
worthless as soon as the true claimant is made aware of his right."
"And you intend to inform him?"
"That depends. I am the only person who has the requisite knowledge. It 
rests with you to decide whether I shall use that knowledge against you; or 
whether I shall use it in your favour - by putting an end to the evidence 
that would serve to oust you in spite of your "robust title of occupancy"."
Jermyn paused again. He had been speaking slowly, but without the least 
hesitation, and with a bitter definiteness of enunciation. There was a 
moment or two before Harold answered, and then he said abruptly -
"I don't believe you."
"I thought you were more shrewd," said Jermyn, with a touch of scorn. "I 
thought you understood that I had had too much experience to waste my time 
in telling fables to persuade a man who has put himself into the attitude 
of my deadly enemy."
"Well, then, say at once what your proofs are," said Harold, shaking in 
spite of himself, and getting nervous.
"I have no inclination to be lengthy. It is not more than a few weeks since 
I ascertained that there is in existence an heir of the Bycliffes, the old 
adversaries of your family. More curiously, it is only a few days ago - in 
fact, only since the day of the riot - that the Bycliffe claim has become 
valid, and that the right of remainder accrues to the heir in question."
"And how pray?" said Harold, rising from his chair, and making a turn in 
the room, with his hands thrust in his pockets. Jermyn rose too, and stood 
near the hearth facing Harold, as he moved to and fro.
"By the death of an old fellow who got drunk, and was trampled to death in 
the riot. He was the last of that Thomas Transome's line, by the purchase 
of whose interest your family got its title to the estate. Your title died 
with him. It was supposed that the line had become extinct before - and on 
that supposition the old Bycliffes founded their claim. But I hunted up 
this man just about the time the last suit was closed. His death would have 
been of no consequence to you if there had not been a Bycliffe in 
existence; but I happen to know that there is, and that the fact can be 
legally proved."
For a minute or two Harold did not speak, but continued to pace the room, 
while Jermyn kept his position, holding his hands behind him. At last 
Harold said, from the other end of the room, speaking in a scornful tone -
"That sounds alarming. But it is not to be proved simply by your 
statement."
"Clearly. I have here a document, with a copy, which will back my 
statement. It is the opinion given on the case more than twenty years ago, 
and it bears the signature of the Attorney-General and the first 
conveyancer of the day."
Jermyn took up the papers he had laid on the table, opening them slowly and 
coolly as he went on speaking, and as Harold advanced towards him.
"You may suppose that we spared no pains to ascertain the state of the 
title in the last suit against Maurice Christian Bycliffe, which threatened 
to be a hard run. This document is the result of a consultation; it gives 
an opinion which must be taken as a final authority. You may cast your eyes 
over that, if you please; I will wait your time. Or you may read the 
summing-up here," Jermyn ended, holding out one of the papers to Harold, 
and pointing to a final passage.
Harold took the paper, with a slight gesture of impatience. He did not 
choose to obey Jermyn's indication, and confine himself to the summing-up. 
He ran through the document. But in truth he was too much excited really to 
follow the details, and was rather acting than reading, till at length he 
threw himself into his chair and consented to bend his attention on the 
passage to which Jermyn had pointed. The attorney watched him as he read 
and twice re-read:-

To sum up... we are of opinion that the title of the present possessors 
of the Transome estates can be strictly proved to rest solely upon a base 
fee created under the original settlement of 1729, and to be good so long 
only as issue exists of the tenant in tail by whom that base fee was 
created. We feel satisfied by the evidence that such issue exists in the 
person of Thomas Transome, otherwise Trounsem, of Littleshaw. But upon his 
decease without issue we are of opinion that the right in remainder of the 
Bycliffe family will arise, which right would not be barred by any statute 
of limitation.

When Harold's eyes were on the signatures to this document for the third 
time, Jermyn said -
"As it turned out, the case being closed by the death of the claimant, we 
had no occasion for producing Thomas Transome, who was the old fellow I 
tell you of. The inquiries about him set him agog, and after they were 
dropped he came into this neighbourhood, thinking there was something fine 
in store for him. Here, if you like to take it, is a memorandum about him. 
I repeat, that he died in the riot. The proof is ready. And I repeat, that, 
to my knowledge, and mine only, there is a Bycliffe in existence; and that 
I know how the proof can be made out."
Harold rose from his chair again, and again paced the room. He was not 
prepared with any defiance.
"And where is he - this Bycliffe?" he said at last, stopping in his walk, 
and facing round towards Jermyn.
"I decline to say more till you promise to suspend proceedings against me."
Harold turned again, and looked out of the window without speaking for a 
moment or two. It was impossible that there should not be a conflict within 
him, and at present it was a very confused one. At last he said -
"This person is in ignorance of his claim?"
"Yes."
"Has been brought up in an inferior station?"
"Yes," said Jermyn, keen enough to guess part of what was going on in 
Harold's mind. "There is no harm in leaving him in ignorance. The question 
is a purely legal one. And, as I said before, the complete knowledge of the 
case, as one of evidence, lies exclusively with me. I can nullify the 
evidence, or I can make it tell with certainty against you. The choice lies 
with you."
"I must have time to think of this," said Harold, conscious of a terrible 
pressure.
"I can give you no time unless you promise me to suspend proceedings."
"And then, when I ask you, you will lay the details before me?"
"Not without a thorough understanding beforehand. If I engage not to use my 
knowledge against you, you must engage in writing that on being satisfied 
by the details, you will cancel all hostile proceedings against me, and 
will not institute fresh ones on the strength of any occurrences now past."
"Well, I must have time," said Harold, more than ever inclined to thrash 
the attorney, but feeling bound hand and foot with knots that he was not 
sure he could ever unfasten.
"That is to say," said Jermyn, with his black-browed persistence, "you will 
write to suspend proceedings."
Again Harold paused. He was more than ever exasperated, but he was 
threatened, mortified, and confounded by the necessity for an immediate 
decision between alternatives almost equally hateful to him. It was with 
difficulty that he could prevail on himself to speak any conclusive words. 
He walked as far as he could from Jermyn - to the other end of the room - 
then walked back to his chair and threw himself into it. At last he said, 
without looking at Jermyn, "I agree - I must have time."
"Very well. It is a bargain."
"No further than this," said Harold, hastily, flashing a look at Jermyn - 
"no further than this, that I require time, and therefore I give it to 
you."
"Of course. You require time to consider whether the pleasure of trying to 
ruin me - me to whom you are really indebted - is worth the loss of the 
Transome estates. I shall wish you good-morning."
Harold did not speak to him or look at him again, and Jermyn walked out of 
the room. As he appeared outside the door and closed it behind him, Mrs 
Transome showed her white face at another door which opened on a level with 
Harold's in such a way that it was just possible for Jermyn not to see her. 
He availed himself of that possibility, and walked straight across the 
hall, where there was no servant in attendance to let him out, as if he 
believed that no one was looking at him who could expect recognition. He 
did not want to speak to Mrs Transome at present; he had nothing to ask 
from her, and one disagreeable interview had been enough for him this 
morning.
She was convinced that he had avoided her, and she was too proud to arrest 
him. She was as insignificant now in his eyes as in her son's. "Men have no 
memories in their hearts," she said to herself, bitterly. Turning into her 
sitting-room she heard the voices of Mr Transome and little Harry at play 
together. She would have given a great deal at this moment if her feeble 
husband had not always lived in dread of her temper and her tyranny, so 
that he might have been fond of her now. She felt herself loveless - if she 
was important to any one, it was only to her old waiting-woman Denner.



Chapter 36

"Are these things then necessities?
Then let us meet them like necessities."
									Shakespeare: Henry IV.

See now the virtue living in a word I
Hobson will think of swearing it was noon
When he saw Dobson at the May-day fair,
To prove poor Dobson did not rob the mail.
"Tis neighbourly to save a neighbour's neck:
What harm is lying when you mean no harm?
But say 'tis perjury, then Hobson quakes -
He'll none of perjury.
									Thus words embalm
The conscience of mankind; and Roman laws
Bring still a conscience to poor Hobson's aid.

Few men would have felt otherwise than Harold Transome felt, if, having a 
reversion tantamount to possession of a fine estate, carrying an 
association with an old name and considerable social importance, they were 
suddenly informed that there was a person who had a legal right to deprive 
them of these advantages; that person's right having never been 
contemplated by any one as more than a chance, and being quite unknown to 
himself. In ordinary cases a shorter possession than Harold's family had 
enjoyed was allowed by the law to constitute an indefeasible right; and if 
in rare and peculiar instances the law left the possessor of a long 
inheritance exposed to deprivation as a consequence of old obscure 
transactions, the moral reasons for giving legal validity to the title of 
long occupancy were not the less strong. Nobody would have said that Harold 
was bound to hunt out this alleged remainder-man and urge his rights upon 
him; on the contrary, all the world would have laughed at such conduct, and 
he would have been thought an interesting patient for a mad-doctor. The 
unconscious remainder-man was probably much better off left in his original 
station: Harold would not have been called upon to consider his existence, 
if it had not been presented to him in the shape of a threat from one who 
had power to execute the threat.
In fact, what he would have done had the circumstances been different was 
much clearer than what he should choose to do or feel himself compelled to 
do in the actual crisis. He would not have been disgraced if, on a valid 
claim being urged, he had got his lawyers to fight it out for him on the 
chance of eluding the claim by some adroit technical management. Nobody off 
the stage could be sentimental about these things, or pretend to shed tears 
of joy because an estate was handed over from a gentleman to a mendicant 
sailor with a wooden leg. And this chance remainder-man was perhaps some 
such specimen of inheritance as the drunken fellow killed in the riot. All 
the world would think the actual Transomes in the right to contest any 
adverse claim to the utmost. But then - it was not certain that they would 
win in the contest; and not winning, they would incur other loss besides 
that of the estate. There had been a little too much of such loss already.
But why, if it were not wrong to contest the claim, should he feel the most 
uncomfortable scruples about robbing the claim of its sting by getting rid 
of its evidence? It was a mortal disappointment - it was a sacrifice of 
indemnification - to abstain from punishing Jermyn. But even if he brought 
his mind to contemplate that as the wiser course, he still shrank from what 
looked like complicity with Jermyn; he still shrank from the secret 
nullification of a just legal claim. If he had only known the details, if 
he had known who this alleged heir was, he might have seen his way to some 
course that would not have grated on his sense of honour and dignity. But 
Jermyn had been too acute to let Harold know this: he had even carefully 
kept to the masculine pronoun. And he believed that there was no one 
besides himself who would or could make Harold any wiser. He went home 
persuaded that between this interview and the next which they would have 
together, Harold would be left to an inward debate, founded entirely on the 
information he himself had given. And he had not much doubt that the result 
would be what he desired. Harold was no fool: there were many good things 
he liked better in life than an irrational vindictiveness.
And it did happen that, after writing to London in fulfilment of his 
pledge, Harold spent many hours over that inward debate, which was not very 
different from what Jermyn imagined. He took it everywhere with him, on 
foot and on horseback, and it was his companion through a great deal of the 
night. His nature was not of a kind given to internal conflict, and he had 
never before been long undecided and puzzled. This unaccustomed state of 
mind was so painfully irksome to him - he rebelled so impatiently against 
the oppression of circumstances in which his quick temperament and habitual 
decision could not help him - that it added tenfold to his hatred of 
Jermyn, who was the cause of it. And thus, as the temptation to avoid all 
risk of losing the estate grew and grew till scruples looked minute by the 
side of it, the difficulty of bringing himself to make a compact with 
Jermyn seemed more and more insurmountable.
But we have seen that the attorney was much too confident in his 
calculations. And while Harold was being galled by his subjection to 
Jermyn's knowledge, independent information was on its way to him. The 
messenger was Christian, who, after as complete a survey of probabilities 
as he was capable of, had come to the conclusion that the most profitable 
investment he could make of his peculiar experience and testimony in 
relation to Bycliffe and Bycliffe's daughter, was to place them at the 
disposal of Harold Transome. He was afraid of Jermyn; he utterly distrusted 
Johnson; but he thought he was secure in relying on Harold Transome's care 
for his own interest; and he preferred above all issues the prospect of 
forthwith leaving the country with a sum that at least for a good while 
would put him at his ease.
When, only three mornings after the interview with Jermyn, Dominic opened 
the door of Harold's sitting-room, and said that "Meester Chreestian", Mr 
Philip Debarry's courier and an acquaintance of his own at Naples, 
requested to be admitted on business of importance, Harold's immediate 
thought was that the business referred to the so-called political affairs 
which were just now his chief association with the name of Debarry, though 
it seemed an oddness requiring explanation that a servant should be 
personally an intermediary. He assented, expecting something rather 
disagreeable than otherwise.
Christian wore this morning those perfect manners of a subordinate who is 
not servile, which he always adopted towards his unquestionable superiors. 
Mr Debarry, who preferred having some one about him with as little 
resemblance as possible to a regular servant, had a singular liking for the 
adroit, quiet-mannered Christian, and would have been amazed to see the 
insolent assumption he was capable of in the presence of people like Lyon, 
who were of no account in society. Christian had that sort of cleverness 
which is said to "know the world" - that is to say, he knew the price-
current of most things.
Aware that he was looked at as a messenger while he remained standing near 
the door with his hat in his hand, he said, with respectful ease -
"You will probably be surprised, sir, at my coming to speak to you on my 
own account; and, in fact, I could not have thought of doing so if my 
business did not happen to be something of more importance to you than to 
any one else."
"You don't come from Mr Debarry, then?" said Harold, with some surprise.
"No, sir. My business is a secret; and, if you please, must remain so."
"Is it a pledge you are demanding from me?" said Harold, rather 
suspiciously, having no ground for confidence in a man of Christian's 
position.
"Yes, sir; I am obliged to ask no less than that you will pledge yourself 
not to take Mr Jermyn into confidence concerning what passes between us."
"With all my heart," said Harold, something like a gleam passing over his 
face. His circulation had become more rapid. "But what have you had to do 
with Jermyn?"
"He has not mentioned me to you then - has he, sir?"
"No; certainly not - never."
Christian thought, "Aha, Mr Jermyn! you are keeping the secret well are 
you?" He said, aloud -
"Then Mr Jermyn has never mentioned to you, sir, what I believe he is aware 
of - that there is danger of a new suit being raised against you on the 
part of a Bycliffe, to get the estate?"
"Aha !" said Harold, starting up, and placing himself with his back against 
the mantelpiece. He was electrified by surprise at the quarter from which 
this information was coming. Any fresh alarm was counteracted by the 
flashing thought that he might be enabled to act independently of Jermyn; 
and in the rush of feelings he could utter no more than an interjection. 
Christian concluded that Harold had had no previous hint.
"It is this fact, sir, that I came to tell you of "
"From some other motive than kindness to me, I presume," said Harold, with 
a slight approach to a smile.
"Certainly," said Christian, as quietly as if he had been stating 
yesterday's weather. "I should not have the folly to use any affectation 
with you, Mr Transome. I lost considerable property early in life, and am 
now in the receipt of a salary simply. In the affair I have just mentioned 
to you I can give evidence which will turn the scale against you. I have no 
wish to do so, if you will make it worth my while to leave the country."
Harold listened as if he had been a legendary hero, selected for peculiar 
solicitation by the Evil One. Here was temptation in a more alluring form 
than before, because it was sweetened by the prospect of eluding Jermyn. 
But the desire to gain time served all the purposes of caution and 
resistance, and his indifference to the speaker in this case helped him to 
preserve perfect self-command.
"You are aware," he said, coolly, "that silence is not a commodity worth 
purchasing unless it is loaded. There are many persons, I dare say, who 
would like me to pay their travelling expenses for them. But they might 
hardly be able to show me that it was worth my while."
"You wish me to state what I know?"
"Well, that is a necessary preliminary to any further conversation."
"I think you will see, Mr Transome, that, as a matter of justice, the 
knowledge I can give is worth something, quite apart from my future 
appearance or non-appearance as a witness. I must take care of my own 
interest, and if anything should hinder you from choosing to satisfy me for 
taking an essential witness out of the way, I must at least be paid for 
bringing you the information."
"Can you tell me who and where this Bycliffe is?"
"I can."
"And give me a notion of the whole affair?"
"Yes: I have talked to a lawyer - not Jermyn - who is at the bottom of the 
law in the affair."
"You must not count on any wish of mine to suppress evidence or remove a 
witness. But name your price for the information."
"In that case I must be paid the higher for my information. Say, two 
thousand pounds."
"Two thousand devils!" burst out Harold, throwing himself into his chair 
again, and turning his shoulder towards Christian. New thoughts crowded 
upon him. "This fellow may want to decamp for some reason or other," he 
said to himself. "More people besides Jermyn know about his evidence, it 
seems. The whole thing may look black for me if it comes out. I shall be 
believed to have bribed him to run away, whether or not." Thus the outside 
conscience came in aid of the inner.
"I will not give you one sixpence for your information," he said, 
resolutely, "until time has made it clear that you do not intend to decamp, 
but will be forthcoming when you are called for. On those terms I have no 
objection to give you a note, specifying that after the fulfilment of that 
condition - that is, after the occurrence of a suit, or the understanding 
that no suit is to occur - I will pay you a certain sum in consideration of 
the information you now give me!"
Christian felt himself caught in a vice. In the first instance he had 
counted confidently on Harold's ready seizure of his offer to disappear, 
and after some words had seemed to cast a doubt on this presupposition, he 
had inwardly determined to go away, whether Harold wished it or not, if he 
could get a sufficient sum. He did not reply immediately, and Harold waited 
in silence, inwardly anxious to know what Christian could tell, but with a 
vision at present so far cleared that he was determined not to risk 
incurring the imputation of having anything to do with scoundrelism. We are 
very much indebted to such a linking of events as makes a doubtful action 
look wrong.
Christian was reflecting that if he stayed, and faced some possible 
inconveniences of being known publicly as Henry Scaddon for the sake of 
what he might get from Esther, it would at least be wise to be certain of 
some money from Harold Transome, since he turned out to be of so peculiar a 
disposition as to insist on a punctilious honesty to his own disadvantage. 
Did he think of making a bargain with the other side? If so, he might be 
content to wait for the knowledge till it came in some other way. Christian 
was beginning to be afraid lest he should get nothing by this clever move 
of coming to Transome Court. At last he said -
"I think, sir, two thousand would not be an unreasonable sum, on those 
conditions."
"I will not give two thousand."
"Allow me to say, sir, you must consider that there is no one whose 
interest it is to tell you as much as I shall, even if they could; since Mr 
Jermyn, who knows it, has not thought fit to tell you. There may be use you 
don't think of in getting the information at once."
"Well?"
"I think a gentleman should act liberally under such circumstances."
"So I will."
I could not take less than a thousand pounds. It really would not be worth 
my while. If Mr Jermyn knew I gave you the information, he would endeavour 
to injure me."
"I will give you a thousand," said Harold, immediately, for Christian had 
unconsciously touched a sure spring. "At least, I'll give you a note to the 
effect I spoke of."
He wrote as he had promised, and gave the paper to Christian.
"Now, don't be circuitous," said Harold. "You seem to have a business-like 
gift of speech Who and where is this Bycliffe?"
"You will be surprised to hear, sir, that she is supposed to be the 
daughter of the old preacher, Lyon, in Malthouse."
"Good God! How can that be?" said Harold. At once, the first occasion on 
which he had seen Esther rose in his memory - the little dark parlour - the 
graceful girl in blue, with the surprisingly distinguished manners and 
appearance.
"In this way. Old Lyon, by some strange means or other, married Bycliffe's 
widow when this girl was a baby. And the preacher didn't want the girl to 
know that he was not her real father: he told me that himself. But she is 
the image of Bycliffe, whom I knew well - an uncommonly fine woman - steps 
like a queen."
I have seen her," said Harold, more than ever glad to have purchased this 
knowledge. "But now, go on."
Christian proceeded to tell all he knew, including his conversation with 
Jermyn, except so far as it had an unpleasant relation to himself.
"Then," said Harold, as the details seemed to have come to a close, "you 
believe that Miss Lyon and her supposed father are at present unaware of 
the claims that might be urged for her on the strength of her birth?"
"I believe so. But I need not tell you that where the lawyers are on the 
scent you can never be sure of anything long together. I must remind you, 
sir, that you have promised to protect me from Mr Jermyn by keeping my 
confidence."
"Never fear. Depend upon it, I shall betray nothing to Mr Jermyn."
Christian was dismissed with a "good-morning"; and while he cultivated some 
friendly reminiscences with Dominic, Harold sat chewing the cud of his new 
knowledge, and finding it not altogether so bitter as he had expected.
From the first, after his interview with Jermyn, the recoil of Harold's 
mind from the idea of strangling a legal right threw him on the alternative 
of attempting a compromise. Some middle course might be possible, which 
would be a less evil than a costly lawsuit, or than the total renunciation 
of the estates. And now he had learned that the new claimant was a woman - 
a young woman, brought up under circumstances that would make the fourth of 
the Transome property seem to her an immense fortune. Both the sex and the 
social condition were of the sort that lies open to many softening 
influences. And having seen Esther, it was inevitable that, amongst the 
various issues, agreeable and disagreeable, depicted by Harold's 
imagination, there should present itself a possibility that would unite the 
two claims - his own, which he felt to be the rational, and Esther's, which 
apparently was the legal claim.
Harold, as he had constantly said to his mother, was "not a marrying man;" 
he did not contemplate bringing a wife to Transome Court for many years to 
come, if at all. Having little Harry as an heir, he preferred freedom. 
Western women were not to his taste: they showed a transition from the 
feebly animal to the thinking being, which was simply troublesome. Harold 
preferred a slow-witted large-eyed woman, silent and affectionate, with a 
load of black hair weighing much more heavily than her brains. He had seen 
no such woman in England, except one whom he had brought with him from the 
East.
Therefore Harold did not care to be married until or unless some surprising 
chance presented itself; and now that such a chance had occurred to suggest 
marriage to him, he would not admit to himself that he contemplated 
marrying Esther as a plan; he was only obliged to see that such an issue 
was not inconceivable. He was not going to take any step expressly directed 
towards that end: what he had made up his mind to, as the comse most 
satisfactory to his nature under present urgencies, was to behave to Esther 
with a frank gentlemanliness, which must win her good-will, and incline her 
to save his family interest as much as possible. He was helped to this 
determination by the pleasure of frustrating Jermyn's contrivance to shield 
himself from punishment; and his most distinct and cheering prospect was, 
that within a very short space of time he should not only have effected a 
satisfactory compromise with Esther, but should have made Jermyn aware, by 
a very disagreeable form of announcement, that Harold Transome was no 
longer afraid of him. Jermyn should bite the dust.
At the end of these meditations he felt satisfied with himself and light-
hearted. He had rejected two dishonest propositions, and he was going to do 
something that seemed eminently graceful. But he needed his mother's 
assistance, and it was necessary that he should both confide in her and 
persuade her.
Within two hours after Christian left him, Harold begged his mother to come 
into his private room, and there he told her the strange and startling 
story, omitting, however, any particulars which would involve the 
identification of Christian as his informant. Harold felt that his 
engagement demanded this reticence; and he told his mother that he was 
bound to conceal the source of that knowledge which he had got 
independently of Jermyn.

Mrs Transome said little in the course of the story: she made no 
exclamations, but she listened with close attention, and asked a few 
questions so much to the point as to surprise Harold. When he showed her 
the copy of the legal opinion which Jermyn had left with him, she said she 
knew it very well; she had a copy herself. The particulars of that last 
lawsuit were too well engraven on her mind: it happened at a time when 
there was no one to supersede her, and she was the virtual head of the 
family affairs. She was prepared to understand how the estate might be in 
danger; but nothing had prepared her for the strange details - for the way 
in which the new claimant had been reared and brought within the range of 
converging motives that had led to this revelation, least of all for the 
part Jermyn had come to play in the revelation. Mrs Transome saw these 
things through the medium of certain dominant emotions that made them seem 
like a long-ripening retribution. Harold perceived that she was painfully 
agitated, that she trembled, and that her white lips would not readily lend 
themselves to speech. And this was hardly more than he expected. He had not 
liked the revelation himself when it had first come to him.
But he did not guess what it was in his narrative which had most pierced 
his mother. It was something that made the threat about the estate only a 
secondary alarm. Now, for the first time, she heard of the intended 
proceedings against Jermyn. Harold had not chosen to speak of them before; 
but having at last called his mother into consultation, there was nothing 
in his mind to hinder him from speaking without reserve of his 
determination to visit on the attorney his shameful maladministration of 
the family affairs.
Harold went through the whole narrative - of what he called Jermyn's scheme 
to catch him in a vice, and his power of triumphantly frustrating that 
scheme - in his usual rapid way, speaking with a final decisiveness of 
tone: and his mother felt that if she urged any counter-consideration at 
all, she could only do so when he had no more to say.
"Now, what I want you to do, mother, if you can see this matter as I see 
it," Harold said in conclusion, "is to go with me to call on this girl in 
Malthouse Yard. I will open the affair to her; it appears she is not likely 
to have been informed yet; and you will invite her to visit you here at 
once, that all scandal, all hatching of law-mischief, may be avoided, and 
the thing may be brought to an amicable conclusion."
"It seems almost incredible - extraordinary - a girl in her position," said 
Mrs Transome, with difficulty. It would have seemed the bitterest 
humiliating penance if another sort of suffering had left any room in her 
heart.
"I assure you she is a lady; I saw her when I was canvassing, and was 
amazed at the time. You will be quite struck with her. It is no indignity 
for you to invite her."
"Oh," said Mrs Transome, with low-toned bitterness, "I must put up with all 
things as they are determined for me. When shall we go?"
"Well," said Harold, looking at his watch, "it is hardly two yet. We could 
really go today, when you have lunched. It is better to lose no time. I'll 
order the carriage."
"Stay," said Mrs Transome, making a desperate effort. "There is plenty of 
time. I shall not lunch. I have a word to say."
Harold withdrew his hand from the bell, and leaned against the mantelpiece 
to listen.
"You see I comply with your wish at once, Harold?"
"Yes, mother, I'm much obliged to you for making no difficulties."
"You ought to listen to me in return."
"Pray go on," said Harold, expecting to be annoyed.
"What is the good of having these Chancery proceedings against Jermyn?"
"Good? This good; that fellow has burdened the estate with annuities and 
mortgages to the extent of three thousand a-year; and the bulk of them, I 
am certain, he holds himself under the name of another man. And the 
advances this yearly interest represents, have not been much more than 
twenty thousand. Of course he has hoodwinked you, and my father never gave 
attention to these things. He has been up to all sorts of devil's work with 
the deeds; he didn't count on my coming back from Smyrna to fill poor 
Durfey's place. He shall feel the difference. And the good will be, that I 
shall save almost all the annuities for the rest of my father's life, which 
may be ten years or more, and I shall get back some of the money, and I 
shall punish a scoundrel. That is the good."
"He will be ruined."
"That's what I intend," said Harold, sharply.
"He exerted himself a great deal for us in the old suits: every one said he 
had wonderful zeal and ability," said Mrs Transome, getting courage and 
warmth as she went on. Her temper was rising.
"What he did, he did for his own sake, you may depend on that," said 
Harold, with a scornful laugh.
"There were very painful things in that last suit. You seem anxious, about 
this young woman, to avoid all further scandal and contests in the family. 
Why don't you wish to do it in this case? Jermyn might be willing to 
arrange things amicably - to make restitution as far as he can - if he has 
done anything wrong."
"I will arrange nothing amicably with him," said Harold, decisively. "If he 
has ever done anything scandalous as our agent, let him bear the infamy. 
And the right way to throw the infamy on him is to show the world that he 
has robbed us, and that I mean to punish him. Why do you wish to shield 
such a fellow, mother? It has been chiefly through him that you have had to 
lead such a thrifty miserable life - you who used to make as brilliant a 
figure as a woman need wish."
Mrs Transome's rising temper was turned into a horrible sensation, as 
painful as a sudden concussion from something hard and immovable when we 
have struck out with our fist, intending to hit something warm, soft, and 
breathing, like ourselves. Poor Mrs Transome's strokes were sent jarring 
back on her by a hard unalterable past. She did not speak in answer to 
Harold, but rose from the chair as if she gave up the debate.
"Women are frightened at everything, I know," said Harold, kindly, feeling 
that he had been a little harsh after his mother's compliance. "And you 
have been used for so many years to think Jermyn a law of nature. Come, 
mother," he went on, looking at her gently, and resting his hands on her 
shoulders, "look cheerful. We shall get through all these difficulties. And 
this girl - I daresay she will be quite an interesting visitor for you. You 
have not had any young girl about you for a long while. Who knows? she may 
fall deeply in love with me, and I may be obliged to marry her."
He spoke laughingly, only thinking how he could make his mother smile. But 
she looked at him seriously and said, "Do you mean that, Harold?"
"Am I not capable of making a conquest? Not too fat yet - a handsome, well-
rounded youth of thirty-four?"
She was forced to look straight at the beaming face with its rich dark 
colour, just bent a little over her. Why could she not be happy in this son 
whose future she had once dreamed of, and who had been as fortunate as she 
had ever hoped? The tears came, not plenteously, but making her dark eyes 
as large and bright as youth had once made them without tears.
"There, there!" said Harold, coaxingly. "Don't be afraid. You shall not 
have a daughter-in-law unless she is a pearl. Now we will get ready to go."
In half an hour from that time Mrs Transome came down, looking majestic in 
sables and velvet, ready to call on "the girl in Malthouse Yard". She had 
composed herself to go through this task. She saw there was nothing better 
to be done. After the resolutions Harold had taken, some sort of compromise 
with this oddly-placed heiress was the result most to be hoped for; if the 
compromise turned out to be a marriage - well, she had no reason to care 
much: she was already powerless. It remained to be seen what this girl was.
The carriage was to be driven round the back way, to avoid too much 
observation. But the late election affairs might account for Mr Lyon's 
receiving a visit from the unsuccessful Radical candidate.



Chapter 37

"I also could speak as ye do; if your soul were in my soul's stead, I could 
heap up words against you, and shake mine head at you." - Book of Job.

In the interval since Esther parted with Felix Holt on the day of the riot, 
she had gone through so much emotion, and had already had so strong a shock 
of surprise, that she was prepared to receive any new incident of an 
unwonted kind with comparative equanimity.
When Mr Lyon had got home again from his preaching excursion, Felix was 
already on his way to Loamford Jail. The little minister was terribly 
shaken by the news. He saw no clear explanation of Felix Holt's conduct; 
for the statements Esther had heard were so conflicting that she had not 
been able to gather distinctly what had come out in the examination by the 
magistrates. But Mr Lyon felt confident that Felix was innocent of any wish 
to abet a riot or the infliction of injuries; what he chiefly feared was 
that in the fatal encounter with Tucker he had been moved by a rash temper, 
not sufficiently guarded against by a prayerful and humble spirit.
"My poor young friend is being taught with mysterious severity the evil of 
a too confident self-reliance," he said to Esther, as they sat opposite to 
each other, listening and speaking sadly.
"You will go and see him, father?"
"Verily will I. But I must straightway go and see that poor afflicted 
woman, whose soul is doubtless whirled about in this trouble like a 
shapeless and unstable thing driven by divided winds." Mr Lyon rose and 
took his hat hastily, ready to walk out, with his greatcoat flying open and 
exposing his small person to the keen air.
"Stay, father, pray, till you have had some food," said Esther, putting her 
hand on his arm. "You look quite weary and shattered."
"Child, I cannot stay. I can neither eat bread nor drink water till I have 
learned more about this young man's deeds, what can be proved and what 
cannot be proved against him. I fear he has none to stand by him in this 
town, for even by the friends of our church I have been oft times rebuked 
because he seemed dear to me. But, Esther, my beloved child - "
Here Mr Lyon grasped her arm, and seemed in the need of speech to forget 
his previous haste. "I bear in mind this: the Lord knoweth them that are 
His; but we - we are left to judge by uncertain signs, that so we may learn 
to exercise hope and faith towards one another; and in this uncertainty I 
cling with awful hope to those whom the world loves not because their 
conscience, albeit mistakenly, is at war with the habits of the world. Our 
great faith, my Esther, is the faith of martyrs: I will not lightly turn 
away from any man who endures harshness because he will not lie; nay, 
though I would not wantonly grasp at ease of mind through an arbitrary 
choice of doctrine, I cannot but believe that the merits of the divine 
sacrifice are wider than our utmost charity. I once believed otherwise - 
but not now, not now."
The minister paused, and seemed to be abstractedly gazing at some memory: 
he was always liable to be snatched away by thoughts from the pursuit of a 
purpose which had seemed pressing. Esther seized the opportunity and 
prevailed on him to fortify himself with some of Lyddy's porridge before he 
went out on his tiring task of seeking definite trustworthy knowledge from 
the lips of various witnesses, beginning with that feminine darkener of 
counsel, poor Mrs Holt.
She, regarding all her trouble about Felix in the light of a fulfilment of 
her own prophecies, treated the sad history with a preference for 
edification above accuracy, and for mystery above relevance, worthy of a 
commentator on the Apocalypse. She insisted chiefly, not on the important 
facts that Felix had sat at his work till after eleven, like a deaf man, 
had rushed out in surprise and alarm, had come back to report with 
satisfaction that things were quiet, and had asked her to set by his dinner 
for him - facts which would tell as evidence that Felix was disconnected 
with any project of disturbances, and was averse to them. These things came 
out incidentally in her long plaint to the minister - but what Mrs Holt 
felt it essential to state was, that long before Michaelmas was turned, 
sitting in her chair, she had said to Felix that there would be a judgment 
on him for being so certain sure about the pills and the elixir.
"And now, Mr Lyon," said the poor woman, who had dressed herself in a gown 
previously cast off, a front all out of curl, and a cap with no starch in 
it, while she held little coughing Job on her knee, - "and now you see - my 
words have come true sooner than I thought they would. Felix may contradict 
me if he will; but there he is in prison, and here am I, with nothing in 
the world to bless myself with but half-a-crown a-week as I've saved by my 
own scraping and this house I've got to pay rent for. It's not me has done 
wrong. Mr Lyon; there's nobody can say it of me - not the orphin child on 
my knee is more innicent o' riot and murder and anything else as is bad. 
But when you've got a son so masterful and stopping medicines as providence 
has sent, and his betters have been taking up and down the country since 
before he was a baby, it's o' no use being good here below. But he was a 
baby, Mr Lyon, and I gave him the breast," - here poor Mrs Holt's motherly 
love overcame her expository eagerness, and she fell more and more to 
crying as she spoke - "And to think there's folks saying now as he'll be 
transported, and his hair shaved off, and the treadmill, and everything. O 
dear!"
As Mrs Holt broke off into sobbing, little Job also, who had got a confused 
yet profound sense of sorrow, and of Felix being hurt and gone away, set up 
a little wail of wondering misery.
"Nay, Mistress Holt," said the minister soothingly, "enlarge not your grief 
by more than warrantable grounds. I have good hope that my young friend 
your son will be delivered from any severe consequences beyond the death of 
the man Tucker, which I fear will ever be a sore burthen on his memory. I 
feel confident that a jury of his countrymen will discern between 
misfortune or it may be misjudgment, and an evil will, and that he will be 
acquitted of any grave offence."
"He never stole anything in his life, Mr Lyon," said Mrs Holt, reviving. 
"Nobody can throw it in my face as my son ran away with money like the 
young man at the bank - though he looked most respectable, and far 
different on a Sunday to what Felix ever did. And I know it's very hard 
fighting with constables; but they say Tucker's wife'll be a deal better 
off than she was before, for the great folks'll pension her, and she'll be 
put on all the charities, and her children at the Free School, and 
everything. Your trouble's easy borne when everybody gives it a lift for 
you; and if judge and jury wants to do right by Felix, they'll think of his 
poor mother, with the bread took out of her mouth, all but half-a-crown a-
week and furniture - which, to be sure, is most excellent, and of my own 
buying - and got to keep this orphin child as Felix himself brought on me. 
And I might send him back to his old grandfather on parish pay, but I'm not 
that woman, Mr Lyon; I've a tender heart. And here's his little feet and 
toes, like marbil; do but look" - here Mrs Holt drew off Job's sock and 
shoe, and showed a well-washed little foot - "and you'll perhaps say I 
might take a lodger; but it's easy talking; it isn't everybody at a loose-
end wants a parlour and a bedroom; and if anything bad happens to Felix, I 
may as well go and sit in the parish pound, and nobody to buy me out; for 
it's beyond everything how the church members find fault with my son. But I 
think they might leave his mother to find fault; for queer and masterful he 
might be, and flying in the face of the very Scripture about the physic, 
but he was most clever beyond anything - that I will say - and was his own 
father's lawful child, and me his mother, that was Mary Wall thirty years 
before ever I married his father." Here Mrs Holt's feelings again became 
too much for her, but she struggled on to say, sobbingly, "And if they're 
to transport him, I should like to go to the prison and take the orphin 
child; for he was most fond of having him on his lap, and said he'd never 
marry; and there was One above overheard him, for he's been took at his 
word."
Mr Lyon listened with low groans, and then tried to comfort her by saying 
that he would himself go to Loamford as soon as possible, and would give 
his soul no rest till he had done all he could do for Felix.
On one point Mrs Holt's plaint tallied with his own forebodings, and he 
found them verified: the state of feeling in Treby among the Liberal 
dissenting flock was unfavourable to Felix. None who had observed his 
conduct from the windows saw anything tending to excuse him, and his own 
account of his motives, given on his examination, was spoken of with head-
shaking; if it had not been for his habit of always thinking himself wiser 
than other people, he would never have entertained such a wild scheme. He 
had set himself up for something extraordinary, and had spoken ill of 
respectable tradespeople. He had put a stop to the making of saleable 
drugs, contrary to the nature of buying and selling, and to a due reliance 
on what providence might effect in the human inside through the 
instrumentality of remedies unsuitable to the stomach, looked at in a 
merely secular light; and the result was what might have been expected. He 
had brought his mother to poverty, and himself into trouble. And what for? 
He had done no good to "the cause"; if he had fought about churchrates, or 
had been worsted in some struggle in which he was distinctly the champion 
of Dissent and Liberalism, his case would have been one for gold, silver, 
and copper subscriptions, in order to procure the best defence; sermons 
might have been preached on him, and his name might have floated on flags 
from Newcastle to Dorchester. But there seemed to be no edification in what 
had befallen Felix. The riot at Treby, "turn it which way you would," as Mr 
Muscat observed, was no great credit to Liberalism; and what Mr Lyon had to 
testify as to Felix Holt's conduct in the matter of the Sproxton men, only 
made it clear that the defence of Felix was the accusation of his party. 
The whole affair, Mr Nuttwood said, was dark and inscrutable, and seemed 
not to be one in which the interference of God's servants would tend to 
give the glory where the glory was due. That a candidate for whom the 
richer church members had all voted should have his name associated with 
the encouragement of drunkenness, riot, and plunder, was an occasion for 
the enemy to blaspheme; and it was not clear how the enemy's mouth would be 
stopped by exertions in favour of a rash young man, whose interference had 
made things worse instead of better. Mr Lyon was warned lest his human 
partialities should blind him to the interests of truth; it was God's cause 
that was endangered in this matter.
The little minister's soul was bruised; he himself was keenly alive to the 
complication of public and private regards in this affair, and suffered a 
good deal at the thought of Tory triumph in the demonstration that, 
excepting the attack on the Seven Stars, which called itself a Whig house, 
all damage to property had been borne by Tories. He cared intensely for his 
opinions, and would have liked events to speak for them in a sort of 
picture-writing that everybody could understand. The enthusiasms of the 
world are not to be stimulated by a commentary in small and subtle 
characters which alone can tell the whole truth; and the picture-writing in 
Felix Holt's troubles was of an entirely puzzling kind: if he were a 
martyr, neither side wanted to claim him. Yet the minister, as we have 
seen, found in his Christian faith a reason for clinging the more to one 
who had not a large party to back him. That little man's heart was heroic: 
he was not one of those Liberals who make their anxiety for "the cause" of 
Liberalism a plea for cowardly desertion.
Besides himself, he believed there was no one who could bear testimony to 
the remonstrances of Felix concerning the treating of the Sproxton men, 
except Jermyn, Johnson, and Harold Transome. Though he had the vaguest idea 
of what could be done in the case, he fixed his mind on the probability 
that Mr Transome would be moved to the utmost exertion, if only as an 
atonement; but he dared not take any step until he had consulted Felix, who 
he foresaw was likely to have a very strong determination as to the help he 
would accept or not accept.
This last expectation was fulfilled. Mr Lyon returned to Esther, after his 
days journey to Loamford and back, with less of trouble and perplexity in 
his mind: he had at least got a definite course marked out, to which he 
must resign himself. Felix had declared that he would receive no aid from 
Harold Transome, except the aid he might give as an honest witness. There 
was nothing to be done for him but what was perfectly simple and direct. 
Even if the pleading of counsel had been permitted (and at that time it was 
not) on behalf of a prisoner on trial for felony, Felix would have declined 
it: he would in any case have spoken in his own defence. He had a perfectly 
simple account to give, and needed not to avail himself of any legal 
adroitness. He consented to accept the services of a respectable solicitor 
in Loamford, who offered to conduct his case without any fees. The work was 
plain and easy, Felix said. The only witnesses who had to be hunted up at 
all were some who could testify that he had tried to take the crowd down 
Hobb's Lane, and that they had gone to the Manor in spite of him.
"Then he is not so much cast down as you feared, father?" said Esther.
"No, child; albeit he is pale and much shaken for one so stalwart. He hath 
no grief, he says, save for the poor man Tucker, and for his mother; 
otherwise his heart is without a burthen. We discoursed greatly on the sad 
effect of all this for his mother, and on the perplexed condition of human 
things, whereby even right action seems to bring evil consequences, if we 
have respect only to our own brief lives, and not to that larger rule 
whereby we are stewards of the eternal dealings, and not contrivers of our 
own success."
"Did he say nothing about me, father?" said Esther, trembling a little, but 
unable to repress her egoism.
"Yea; he asked if you were well, and sent his affectionate regards. Nay, he 
bade me say something which appears to refer to your discourse together 
when I was not present. "Tell her," he said, "whatever they sentence me to, 
she knows they can't rob me of my vocation. With poverty for my bride, and 
preaching and pedagogy for my business, I am sure of a handsome 
establishment." He laughed - doubtless bearing in mind some playfulness of 
thine."
Mr Lyon seemed to be looking at Esther as he smiled, but she was not near 
enough for him to discern the expression of her face. Just then it seemed 
made for melancholy rather than for playfulness. Hers was not a childish 
beauty; and when the sparkle of mischief, wit, and vanity was out of her 
eyes, and the large look of abstracted sorrow was there, you would have 
been surprised by a certain grandeur which the smiles had hidden. That 
changing face was the perfect symbol of her mixed susceptible nature, in 
which battle was inevitable, and the side of victory uncertain.
She began to look on all that had passed between herself and Felix as 
something not buried, but embalmed and kept as a relic in a private 
sanctuary. The very entireness of her preoccupation about him, the 
perpetual repetition in her memory of all that had passed between them, 
tended to produce this effect. She lived with him in the past; in the 
future she seemed shut out from him. He was an influence above her life, 
rather than a part of it; some time or other, perhaps, he would be to her 
as if he belonged to the solemn admonishing skies, checking her self-
satisfied pettiness with the suggestion of a wider life.
But not yet - not while her trouble was so fresh For it was still her 
trouble, and not Felix Holt's. Perhaps it was a subtraction from his power 
over her, that she could never think of him with pity, because he always 
seemed to her too great and strong to be pitied: he wanted nothing. He 
evaded calamity by choosing privation. The best part of a woman's love is 
worship; but it is hard to her to be sent away with her precious spikenard 
rejected, and her long tresses too, that were let fall ready to soothe the 
wearied feet.
While Esther was carrying these things in her heart, the January days were 
beginning to pass by with their wonted wintry monotony, except that there 
was rather more of good cheer than usual remaining from the feast of 
Twelfth Night among the triumphant Tories, and rather more scandal than 
usual excited among the mortified Dissenters by the wilfulness of their 
minister. He had actually mentioned Felix Holt by name in his evening 
sermon, and offered up a petition for him in the evening prayer, also by 
name - not as "a young Ishmaelite, whom we would fain see brought back from 
the lawless life of the desert, and seated in the same fold even with the 
sons of Judah and of Benjamin", a suitable periphrasis which Brother Kemp 
threw off without any effort, and with all the felicity of a suggestive 
critic. Poor Mrs Holt, indeed, even in the midst of her grief, experienced 
a proud satisfaction, that though not a church member she was now an object 
of congregational remark and ministerial allusion. Feeling herself a 
spotless character standing out in relief on a dark background of 
affliction, and a practical contradiction to that extreme doctrine of human 
depravity which she had never "given in to", she was naturally gratified 
and soothed by a notice which must be a recognition. But more influential 
hearers were of opinion, that in a man who had so many long sentences at 
command as Mr Lyon, so many parentheses and modifying clauses, this naked 
use of a non-scriptural Treby name in an address to the Almighty was all 
the more offensive. In a low unlettered local preacher of the Wesleyan 
persuasion such things might pass; but a certain style in prayer was 
demanded from Independents, the most educated body in the ranks of orthodox 
Dissent. To Mr Lyon such notions seemed painfully perverse, and the next 
morning he was declaring to Esther his resolution stoutly to withstand 
them, and to count nothing common or unclean on which a blessing could be 
asked, when the tenor of his thoughts was completely changed by a great 
shock of surprise which made both himself and Esther sit looking at each 
other in speechless amazement.
The cause was a letter brought by a special messenger from Duffield; a 
heavy letter addressed to Esther in a business-like manner, quite 
unexampled in her correspondence. And the contents of the letter were more 
startling than its exterior. It began:-

Madam, - Herewith we send you a brief abstract of evidence which has come 
within our knowledge, that the right of remainder whereby the lineal issue 
of Edward Bycliffe can claim possession of the estates of which the entail 
was settled by John Justus Transome in 1729, now first accrues to you as 
the sole and lawful issue of Maurice Christian Bycliffe. We are confident 
of success in the prosecution of this claim, which will result to you in 
the possession of estates to the value, at the lowest, of from five to six 
thousand per annum -

It was at this point that Esther, who was reading aloud, let her hand fall 
with the letter on her lap, and with a pal pitating heart looked at her 
father, who looked again, in silence that lasted for two or three minutes. 
A certain terror was upon them both, though the thoughts that laid that 
weight on the tongue of each were different.
It was Mr Lyon who spoke first.
"This, then, is what the man named Christian referred to. I distrusted him, 
yet it seems he spoke truly."
"But," said Esther, whose imagination ran necessarily to those conditions 
of wealth which she could best appreciate, "do they mean that the Transomes 
would be turned out of Transome Court, and that I should go and live there? 
It seems quite an impossible thing."
"Nay, child, I know not. I am ignorant in these things, and the thought of 
worldly grandeur for you hath more of terror than of gladness for me. 
Nevertheless we must duly weigh all things, not considering aught that 
befalls us as a bare event, but rather as an occasion for faithful 
stewardship. Let us go to my study and consider this writing further."
How this announcement, which to Esther seemed as unprepared as if it had 
fallen from the skies, came to be made to her by solicitors other than Batt 
& Cowley, the old lawyers of the Bycliffes, was by a sequence as natural, 
that is to say, as legally-natural, as any in the world. The secret worker 
of the apparent wonder was Mr Johnson, who, on the very day when he wrote 
to give his patron, Mr Jermyn, the serious warning that a bill was likely 
to be filed in Chancery against him, had carried forward with added zeal 
the business already commenced, of arranging with another firm his share in 
the profits likely to result from the prosecution of Esther Bycliffe's 
claim.
Jermyn's star was certainly going down, and Johnson did not feel an 
unmitigated grief. Beyond some troublesome declarations as to his actual 
share in transactions in which his name had been used, Johnson saw nothing 
formidable in prospect for himself. He was not going to be ruined, though 
Jermyn probably was: he was not a highflyer, but a mere climbing-bird, who 
could hold on and get his livelihood just as well if his wings were clipped 
a little. And, in the meantime, here was something to be gained in this 
Bycliffe business, which, it was not unpleasant to think, was a nut that 
Jermyn had intended to keep for his own particular cracking, and which 
would be rather a severe astonishment to Mr Harold Transome, whose manners 
towards respectable agents were such as leave a smart in a man of spirit.
Under the stimulus of small many-mixed motives like these, a great deal of 
business has been done in the world by well-clad and, in 1833, clean-shaven 
men, whose names are on charity-lists, and who do not know that they are 
base. Mr Johnson's character was not much more exceptional than his double 
chin.
No system, religious or political, I believe, has laid it down as a 
principle that all men are alike virtuous, or even that all the people 
rated for ú80 houses are an honour to their species.



Chapter 38

The down we rest on in our aery dreams
Has not been plucked from birds that live and smart:
"Tis but warm snow, that melts not.

The story and the prospect revealed to Esther by the lawyers' letter, which 
she and her father studied together, had made an impression on her very 
different from what she had been used to figure to herself in her many 
daydreams as to the effect of a sudden elevation in rank and fortune. In 
her day-dreams she had not traced out the means by which such a change 
could be brought about; in fact, the change had seemed impossible to her, 
except in her little private Utopia, which, like other Utopias, was filled 
with delightful results, independent of processes. But her mind had fixed 
itself habitually on the signs and luxuries of ladyhood, for which she had 
the keenest perception. She had seen the very mat in her carriage, had 
scented the dried rose-leaves in her corridors, had felt the soft carpets 
under her pretty feet, and seen herself, as she rose from her sofa 
cushions, in the crystal panel that reflected a long drawing-room, where 
the conservatory flowers and the pictures of fair women left her still with 
the supremacy of charm. She had trodden the marble-firm gravel of her 
garden-walks and the soft deep turf of her lawn; she had had her servants 
about her filled with adoring respect, because of her kindness as well as 
her grace and beauty; and she had had several accomplished cavaliers all at 
once suing for her hand - one of whom, uniting very high birth with long 
dark eyelashes and the most distinguished talents, she secretly preferred, 
though his pride and hers hindered an avowal, and supplied the inestimable 
interest of retardation. The glimpses she had had in her brief life as a 
family governess, supplied her ready faculty with details enough of 
delightful still life to furnish her day-dreams; and no one who has not, 
like Esther, a strong natural prompting and susceptibility towards such 
things, and has at the same time suffered from the presence of opposite 
conditions, can understand how powerfully those minor accidents of rank 
which please the fastidious sense can preoccupy the imagination.
It seemed that almost everything in her day-dreams - cavaliers apart - must 
be found at Transome Court. But now that fancy was becoming real, and the 
impossible appeared possible, Esther found the balance of her attention 
reversed: now that her ladyhood was not simply in Utopia, she found herself 
arrested and painfully grasped by the means through which the ladyhood was 
to be obtained. To her inexperience this strange story of an alienated 
inheritance, of such a last representative of pure-blooded lineage as old 
Thomas Transome the bill-sticker, above all of the dispossession hanging 
over those who actually held, and had expected always to hold, the wealth 
and position which were suddenly announced to be rightfully hers - all 
these things made a picture, not for her own tastes and fancies to float in 
with Elysian indulgence, but in which she was compelled to gaze on the 
degrading hard experience of other human beings, and on a humiliating loss 
which was the obverse of her own proud gain. Even in her times of most 
untroubled egoism Esther shrank from anything ungenerous; and the fact that 
she had a very lively image of Harold Transome and his gipsy-eyed boy in 
her mind, gave additional distinctness to the thought that if she entered 
they must depart. Of the elder Transomes she had a dimmer vision, and they 
were necessarily in the background to her sympathy.
She and her father sat with their hands locked, as they might have done if 
they had been listening to a solemn oracle in the days of old revealing 
unknown kinship and rightful heirdom. It was not that Esther had any 
thought of renouncing her fortune; she was incapable, in these moments, of 
condensing her vague ideas and feelings into any distinct plan of action, 
nor indeed did it seem that she was called upon to act with any 
promptitude. It was only that she was conscious of being strangely awed by 
something that was called good fortune; and the awe shut out any scheme of 
rejection as much as any triumphant joy in acceptance. Her first father, 
she learned, had died disappointed and in wrongful imprisonment, and an 
undefined sense of Nemesis seemed half to sanctify her inheritance, and 
counteract its apparent arbitrariness.
Felix Holt was present in her mind throughout: what he would say was an 
imaginary commentary that she was constantly framing, and the words that 
she most frequently gave him - for she dramatised under the inspiration of 
a sadness slightly bitter - were of this kind: "That is clearly your 
destiny - to be aristocratic, to be rich. I always saw that our lots lay 
widely apart. You are not fit for poverty, or any work of difficulty. But 
remember what I once said to you about a vision of consequences; take care 
where your fortune leads you."
Her father had not spoken since they had ended their study and discussion 
of the story and the evidence as it was presented to them. Into this he had 
entered with his usual penetrating activity; but he was so accustomed to 
the impersonal study of narrative, that even in these exceptional moments 
the habit of half a century asserted itself, and he seemed sometimes not to 
distinguish the case of Esther's inheritance from a story in ancient 
history, until some detail recalled him to the profound feeling that a 
great, great change might be coming over the life of this child who was so 
close to him. At last he relapsed into total silence, and for some time 
Esther was not moved to interrupt it. He had sunk back in his chair, with 
his hand locked in hers, and was pursuing a sort of prayerful meditation: 
he lifted up no formal petition, but it was as if his soul travelled again 
over the facts he had been considering in the company of a guide ready to 
inspire and correct him. He was striving to purify his feeling in this 
matter from selfish or worldly dross - a striving which is that prayer 
without ceasing, sure to wrest an answer by its sublime importunity.
There is no knowing how long they might have sat in this way, if it had not 
been for the inevitable Lyddy reminding them dismally of dinner.
"Yes, Lyddy, we come," said Esther; and then, before moving -
"Is there any advice you have in your mind for me, father?" The sense of 
awe was growing in Esther. Her intensest life was no longer in her dreams, 
where she made things to her own mind; she was moving in a world charged 
with forces.
"Not yet, my dear - save this: that you will seek special illumination in 
this juncture, and, above all, be watchful that your soul be not lifted up 
within you by what, righdy considered, is rather an increase of charge, and 
a call upon you to walk along a path which is indeed easy to the flesh, but 
dangerous to the spirit."
"You would always live with me, father?" Esther spoke under a strong 
impulse - partly affection, partly the need to grasp at some moral help. 
But she had no sooner uttered the words than they raised a vision, showing, 
as by a flash of lightning, the incongruity of that past which had created 
the sanctities and affections of her life with that future which was coming 
to her.... The little rusty old minister, with the one luxury of his 
Sunday evening pipe, smoked up the kitchen chimney, coming to live in the 
midst of grandeur... but not her father, with the grandeur of his past 
sorrow and his long struggling labours, forsaking his vocation, and 
vulgarly accepting an existence unsuited to him.... Esther's face 
flushed with the excitement of this vision and its reversed interpretation, 
which five months ago she would have been incapable of seeing. Her question 
to her father seemed like a mockery; she was ashamed. He answered slowly -
"Touch not that chord yet, child. I must learn to think of thy lot 
according to the demands of Providence. We will rest a while from the 
subject; and I will seek calmness in my ordinary duties."
The next morning nothing more was said. Mr Lyon was absorbed in his sermon-
making, for it was near the end of the week, and Esther was obliged to 
attend to her pupils. Mrs Holt came by invitation with little Job to share 
their dinner of roast-meat; and, after much of what the minister called 
unprofitable discourse, she was quitting the house when she hastened back 
with an astonished face, to tell Mr Lyon and Esther, who were already in 
wonder at crashing, thundering sounds on the pavement, that there was a 
carriage stopping and stamping at the entry into Malthouse Yard, with "all 
sorts of fine liveries", and a lady and gentleman inside. Mr Lyon and 
Esther looked at each other, both having the same name in their minds.
"If it's Mr Transome or somebody else as is great, Mr Lyon," urged Mrs 
Holt, "you'll remember my son, and say he's got a mother with a character 
they may inquire into as much as they like. And never mind what Felix says, 
for he's so masterful he'd stay in prison and be transported whether or no, 
only to have his own way. For it's not to be thought but what the great 
people could get him off if they would; and it's very hard with a king in 
the country and all the texts in Proverbs about the king's countenance, and 
Solomon and the live baby - "
Mr Lyon lifted up his hand deprecatingly, and Mrs Holt retreated from the 
parlour-door to a comer of the kitchen, the outer doorway being occupied by 
Dominic, who was inquiring if Mr and Miss Lyon were at home, and could 
receive Mrs Transome and Mr Harold Transome. While Dominic went back to the 
carriage Mrs Holt escaped with her tiny companion to Zachary's, the pew-
opener, observing to Lyddy that she knew herself, and was not that woman to 
stay where she might not be wanted; whereupon Lyddy, differing 
fundamentally, admonished her parting ear that it was well if she knew 
herself to be dust and ashes - silently extending the application of this 
remark to Mrs Transome as she saw the tall lady sweep in arrayed in her 
rich black and fur, with that fine gentleman behind her whose thick topknot 
of wavy hair, sparkling ring, dark complexion, and general air of worldly 
exaltation unconnected with chapel were painfully suggestive to Lyddy of 
Herod, Pontius Pilate or the much-quoted Gallio.
Harold Transome, greeting Esther gracefully, presented his mother, whose 
eagle-like glance, fixed on her from the first moment of entering, seemed 
to Esther to pierce her through. Mrs Transome hardly noticed Mr Lyon, not 
from studied haughtiness, but from sheer mental inability to consider him - 
as a person ignorant of natural history is unable to consider a fresh-water 
polype otherwise than as a sort of animated weed, certainly not fit for 
table. But Harold saw that his mother was agreeably struck by Esther, who 
indeed showed to much advantage. She was not at all taken by surprise, and 
maintained a dignified quietude; but her previous knowledge and reflection 
about the possible dispossession of these Transomes gave her a softened 
feeling towards them which tinged her manners very agreeably.
Harold was carefully polite to the minister, throwing out a word to make 
him understand that he had an important part in the important business 
which had brought this unannounced visit; and the four made a group seated 
not far off each other near the window, Mrs Transome and Esther being on 
the sofa.
"You must be astonished at a visit from me, Miss Lyon," Mrs Transome began; 
"I seldom come to Treby Magna. Now I see you, the visit is an unexpected 
pleasure; but the cause of my coming is business of a serious nature, which 
my son will communicate to you."
"I ought to begin by saying that what I have to announce to you is the 
reverse of disagreeable, Miss Lyon," said Harold, with lively ease. "I 
don't suppose the world would consider it very good news for me; but a 
rejected candidate, Mr Lyon," Harold went on, turning graciously to the 
minister, "begins to be inured to loss and misfortune."
"Truly, sir," said Mr Lyon, with a rather sad solemnity, "your allusion 
hath a grievous bearing for me, but I will not retard your present purpose 
by further remark."
"You will never guess what I have to disclose," said Harold, again looking 
at Esther, "unless, indeed, you have had some previous intimation of it."
"Does it refer to law and inheritance?" said Esther, with a smile. She was 
already brightened by Harold's manner. The news seemed to be losing its 
chillness, and to be something really belonging to warm, comfortable, 
interesting life.
"Then you have already heard of it?" said Harold, inwardly vexed, but 
sufficiendy prepared not to seem so.
"Only yesterday," said Esther, quite simply. "I received a letter from some 
lawyers with a statement of many surprising things, showing that I was an 
heiress" - here she turned very prettily to address Mrs Transome - "which, 
as you may imagine, is one of the last things I could have supposed myself 
to be."
"My dear," said Mrs Transome with elderly grace, just laying her hand for 
an instant on Esther's, "it is a lot that would become you admirably."
Esther blushed, and said playfully -
"O, I know what to buy with fifty pounds a-year, but I know the price of 
nothing beyond that."
Her father sat looking at her through his spectacles, stroking his chin. It 
was amazing to herself that she was taking so lightly now what had caused 
her such deep emotion yesterday.
"I daresay, then," said Harold, "you are more fully possessed of 
particulars than I am. So that my mother and I need only tell you what no 
one else can tell you - that is, what are her and my feelings and wishes 
under these new and unexpected circumstances."
"I am most anxious," said Esther, with a grave beautiful look of respect to 
Mrs Transome - "most anxious on that point. Indeed, being of course in 
uncertainty about it, I have not yet known whether I could rejoice." Mrs 
Transome's glance had softened. She liked Esther to look at her.
"Our chief anxiety," she said, knowing what Harold wished her to say, "is, 
that there may be no contest, no useless expenditure of money. Of course we 
will surrender what can be rightfully claimed."
"My mother expresses our feeling precisely, Miss Lyon," said Harold. "And 
I'm sure, Mr Lyon, you will understand our desire."
"Assuredly, sir. My daughter would in any case have had my advice to seek a 
conclusion which would involve no strife. We endeavour, sir, in our body, 
to hold to the apostolic rule that one Christian brother should not go to 
law with another; and I, for my part, would extend this rule to all my 
fellow-men, apprehending that the practice of our courts is little 
consistent with the simplicity that is in Christ."
"If it is to depend on my will," said Esther, "there is nothing that would 
be more repugnant to me than any struggle on such a subject. But can't the 
lawyers go on doing what they will in spite of me? It seems that this is 
what they mean?"
"Not exactly," said Harold, smiling. "Of course they live by such struggles 
as you dislike. But we can thwart them by determining not to quarrel. It is 
desirable that we should consider the affair together, and put it into the 
hands of honourable solicitors. I assure you we Transomes will not contend 
for what is not our own."
"And this is what I have come to beg of you," said Mrs Transome. "It is 
that you will come to Transome Court - and let us take full time to arrange 
matters. Do oblige me: you shall not be teased more than you like by an old 
woman: you shall do just as you please, and become acquainted with your 
future home, since it is to be yours. I can tell you a world of things that 
you will want to know; and the business can proceed properly."
"Do consent," said Harold, with winning brevity.
Esther was flushed, and her eyes were bright. It was impossible for her not 
to feel that the proposal was a more tempting step towards her change of 
condition than she could have thought of beforehand. She had forgotten that 
she was in any trouble. But she looked towards her father, who was again 
stroking his chin, as was his habit when he was doubting and deliberating.
"I hope you do not disapprove of Miss Lyon's granting us this favour?" said 
Harold to the minister.
"I have nothing to oppose to it, sir, if my daughter's own mind is clear as 
to her course."
"You will come - now - with us," said Mrs Transome, persuasively. "You will 
go back with us in the carriage."
Harold was highly gratified with the perfection of his mother's manner on 
this occasion, which he had looked forward to as difficult. Since he had 
come home again, he had never seen her so much at her ease, or with so much 
benignancy in her face. The secret lay in the charm of Esther's sweet young 
deference, a sort of charm that had not before entered into Mrs Transome's 
elderly life. Esther's pretty behaviour, it must be confessed, was not fed 
entirely from lofty moral sources: over and above her really generous 
feeling, she enjoyed Mrs Transome's accent, the high-bred quietness of her 
speech, the delicate odour of her drapery. She had always thought that life 
must be particularly easy if one could pass it among refined people; and so 
it seemed at this moment. She wished, unmixedly, to go to Transome Court.
"Since my father has no objection," she said, "and you urge me so kindly. 
But I must beg for time to pack up a few clothes.
"By all means," said Mrs Transome. "We are not at all pressed."
When Esther had left the room, Harold said, "Apart from our immediate 
reason for coming, Mr Lyon, I could have wished to see you about these 
unhappy consequences of the election contest. But you will understand that 
I have been much preoccupied with private affairs."
"You have well said that the consequences are unhappy, sir. And but for a 
reliance on something more than human calculation, I know not which I 
should most bewail - the scandal which wrong-dealing has brought on right 
principles, or the snares which it laid for the feet of a young man who is 
dear to me. "One soweth, and another reapeth," is a verity that applies to 
evil as well as good."
"You are referring to Felix Holt. I have not neglected steps to secure the 
best legal help for the prisoners; but I am given to understand that Holt 
refuses any aid from me. I hope he will not go rashly to work in speaking 
in his own defence without any legal instruction. It is an opprobrium of 
our law that no counsel is allowed to plead for the prisoner in cases of 
felony. A ready tongue may do a man as much harm as good in a court of 
justice. He piques himself on making a display, and displays a little too 
much."
"Sir, you know him not," said the little minister, in his deeper tone. "He 
would not accept, even if it were accorded, a defence wherein the truth was 
screened or avoided - not from a vainglorious spirit of self-exhibition, 
for he hath a singular directness and simplicity of speech; but from an 
averseness to a profession wherein a man may without shame seek to justify 
the wicked for reward, and take away the righteousness of the righteous 
from him."
"It's a pity a fine young fellow should do himself harm by fanatical 
notions of that sort. I could at least have procured the advantage of first-
rate consultation. He didn't look to me like a dreamy personage."
"Nor is he dreamy; rather, his excess lies in being too practical."
"Well, I hope you will not encourage him in such irrationality: the 
question is not one of misrepresentation, but of adjusting fact, so as to 
raise it to the power of evidence. Don't you see that?"
"I do, I do. But I distrust not Felix Holt's discernment in regard to his 
own case. He builds not on doubtful things, and hath no illusory hopes; on 
the contrary, he is of a too-scornful incredulity where I would fain see a 
more childlike faith. But we will hold no belief without action 
corresponding thereto; and the occasion of his return to this his native 
place at a time which has proved fatal, was no other than his resolve to 
hinder the sale of some drugs, which had chiefly supported his mother, but 
which his better knowledge showed him to be pernicious to the human frame. 
He undertook to support her by his own labour: but, sir, I pray you to mark 
- and old as I am, I will not deny that this young man instructs me herein 
- I pray you to mark the poisonous confusion of good and evil which is the 
wide-spreading effect of vicious practices. Through the use of undue 
electioneering means - concerning which, however, I do not accuse you 
farther than of having acted the part of him who washes his hands when he 
delivers up to others the exercise of an iniquitous power - Felix Holt is, 
I will not scruple to say, the innocent victim of a riot; and that deed of 
strict honesty, whereby he took on himself the charge of his aged mother, 
seems now to have deprived her of sufficient bread, and is even an occasion 
of reproach to him from the weaker brethren."
"I shall be proud to supply her as amply as you think desirable," said 
Harold, not enjoying this lecture.
"I will pray you to speak of this question with my daughter, who, it 
appears, may herself have large means at command, and would desire to 
minister to Mistress Holt's needs with all friendship and delicacy. For the 
present, I can take care that she lacks nothing essential."
As Mr Lyon was speaking, Esther re-entered, equipped for her drive. She 
laid her hand on her father's arm, and said, "You will let my pupils know 
at once, will you, father?"
"Doubtless, my dear," said the old man, trembling a little under the 
feeling that this departure of Esther's was a crisis. Nothing again would 
be as it had been in their mutual life. But he feared that he was being 
mastered by a too-tender self-regard, and struggled to keep himself calm.
Mrs Transome and Harold had both risen.
"If you are quite ready, Miss Lyon," said Harold, divining that the father 
and daughter would like to have an unobserved moment, "I will take my 
mother to the carriage, and come back for you."
When they were alone, Esther put her hands on her father's shoulders, and 
kissed him.
"This will not be a grief to you, I hope, father? You think it is better 
that I should go?"
"Nay, child, I am weak. But I would fain be capable of a joy quite apart 
from the accidents of my aged earthly existence, which, indeed, is a petty 
and almost dried-up fountain - whereas to the receptive soul the river of 
life pauseth not, nor is diminished."
"Perhaps you will see Felix Holt again, and tell him everything?"
"Shall I say aught to him for you?"
"O no; only that Job Tudge has a little flannel shirt and a box of 
lozenges," said Esther, smiling. "Ah, I hear Mr Transome coming back. I 
must say good-bye to Lyddy, else she will cry over my hard heart."
In spite of all the grave thoughts that had been, Esther felt it a very 
pleasant as well as new experience to be led to the carriage by Harold 
Transome, to be seated on soft cushions, and bowled along, looked at 
admiringly and deferentially by a person opposite, whom it was agreeable to 
look at in return, and talked to with suavity and liveliness. Towards what 
prospect was that easy carriage really leading her? She could not be always 
asking herself Mentor-like questions. Her young bright nature was rather 
weary of the sadness that had grown heavier in these last weeks, like a 
chill white mist hopelessly veiling the day. Her fortune was beginning to 
appear worthy of being called good fortune. She had come to a new stage in 
her journey; a new day had arisen on new scenes, and her young untired 
spirit was full of curiosity.



Chapter 39

No man believes that many-textured knowledge and skill - as a just idea of 
the solar system, or the power of painting flesh, or of reading written 
harmonies - can come late and of a sudden; yet many will not stick at 
believing that happiness can come at any day and hour solely by a new 
disposition of events; though there is nought less capable of a magical 
production than a mortal's happiness, which is mainly a complex of habitual 
relations and dispositions not to be wrought by news from foreign parts, or 
any whirling of fortune's wheel for one on whose brow Time has written 
legibly.

Some days after Esther's arrival at Transome Court, Denner, coming to dress 
Mrs Transome before dinner - a labour of love for which she had ample 
leisure now - found her mistress seated with more than ever of that marble 
aspect of self-absorbed suffering, which to the waiting-woman's keen 
observation had been gradually intensifying itself during the past week. 
She had tapped at the door without having been summoned, and she had 
ventured to enter though she had heard no voice saying "Come in."
Mrs Transome had on a dark warm dressing-gown, hanging in thick folds about 
her, and she was seated before a mirror which filled a panel from the floor 
to the ceiling. The room was bright with the light of the fire and of wax 
candles. For some reason, contrary to her usual practice, Mrs Transome had 
herself unfastened her abundant grey hair, which rolled backward in a pale 
sunless stream over her dark dress. She was seated before the mirror 
apparently looking at herself, her brow knit in one deep furrow, and her 
jewelled hands laid one above the other on her knee. Probably she had 
ceased to see the reflection in the mirror, for her eyes had the fixed wide-
open look that belongs not to examination, but to reverie. Motionless in 
that way, her clear-cut features keeping distinct record of past beauty, 
she looked like an image faded, dried, and bleached by uncounted suns, 
rather than a breathing woman who had numbered the years as they passed, 
and had a consciousness within her which was the slow deposit of those 
ceaseless rolling years."
Denner, with all her ingrained and systematic reserve, could not help 
showing signs that she was startled, when, peering from between her half-
closed eyelids, she saw the motionless image in the mirror opposite to her 
as she entered. Her gentle opening of the door had not roused her mistress, 
to whom the sensations produced by Denner's presence were as little 
disturbing as those of a favourite cat. But the slight cry, and the start 
reflected in the glass, were unusual enough to break the reverie: Mrs 
Transome moved, leaned back in her chair, and said -
"So you're come at last, Denner?"
"Yes, madam; it is not late. I'm sorry you should have undone your hair 
yourself."
"I undid it to see what an old hag I am. These fine clothes you put on me, 
Denner, are only a smart shroud."
"Pray don't talk so, madam. If there's anybody doesn't think it pleasant to 
look at you, so much the worse for them. For my part, I've seen no young 
ones fit to hold up your train. Look at your likeness down below; and 
though you're older now, what signifies? I wouldn't be Letty in the 
scullery because she's got red cheeks. She mayn't know she's a poor 
creature, but I know it, and that's enough for me: I know what sort of a 
dowdy draggletail she'll be in ten years' time. I would change with nobody, 
madam. And if troubles were put up to market, I'd sooner buy old than new. 
It's something to have seen the worst."
"A woman never has seen the worst till she is old, Denner," said Mrs 
Transome, bitterly.
The keen little waiting-woman was not clear as to the cause of her 
mistress's added bitterness; but she rarely brought herself to ask 
questions, when Mrs Transome did not authorise them by beginning to give 
her information. Banks the bailiff and the head-servant had nodded and 
winked a good deal over the certainty that Mr Harold was "none so fond" of 
Jermyn, but this was a subject on which Mrs Transome had never made up her 
mind to speak, and Denner knew nothing definite. Again, she felt quite sure 
that there was some important secret connected with Esther's presence in 
the house; she suspected that the close Dominic knew the secret, and was 
more trusted than she was, in spite of her forty years' service; but any 
resentment on this ground would have been an entertained reproach against 
her mistress, inconsistent with Denner's creed and character. She inclined 
to the belief that Esther was the immediate cause of the new discontent.
"If there's anything worse coming to you, I should like to know what it is, 
madam," she said, after a moment's silence, speaking always in the same low 
quick way, and keeping up her quiet labours. "When I awake at cock-crow, 
I'd sooner have one real grief on my mind than twenty false. It's better to 
know you're robbed than to think one's going to be murdered."
"I believe you are the creature in the world that loves me best, Denner; 
yet you will never understand what I suffered. It's of no use telling you. 
There's no folly in you and no heartache. You are made of iron. You have 
never had any trouble."
"I've had some of your trouble, madam."
"Yes, you good thing. But as a sick-nurse, that never caught the fever. You 
never even had a child."
"I can feel for things I never went through. I used to be sorry for the 
poor French queen when I was young: I'd have lain cold for her to lie warm. 
I know people have feelings according to their birth and station. And you 
always took things to heart, madam, beyond anybody else. But I hope there's 
nothing new, to make you talk of the worst."
"Yes, Denner, there is - there is," said Mrs Transome, speaking in a low 
tone of misery, while she bent for her headdress to be pinned on.
"Is it this young lady?"
"Why, what do you think about her, Denner?" said Mrs Transome, in a tone of 
more spirit, rather curious to hear what the old woman would say.
"I don't deny she's graceful, and she has a pretty smile and very good 
manners: it's quite unaccountable by what Banks says about her father. I 
know nothing of those Treby townsfolk myself, but for my part I'm puzzled. 
I'm fond of Mr Harold. I always shall be, madam. I was at his bringing into 
the world, and nothing but his doing wrong by you would turn me against 
him. But the servants all say he's in love with Miss Lyon."
"I wish it were true, Denner," said Mrs Transome, energetically. "I wish he 
were in love with her, so that she could master him, and make him do what 
she pleased."
"Then it is not true - what they say?"
"Not true that she will ever master him. No woman ever will. He will make 
her fond of him, and afraid of him. That's one of the things you have never 
gone through, Denner. A woman's love is always freezing into fear. She 
wants everything, she is secure of nothing. This girl has a fine spirit - 
plenty of fire and pride and wit. Men like such captives, as they like 
horses that champ the bit and paw the ground: they feel more triumph in 
their mastery. What is the use of a woman's will? - if she tries, she 
doesn't get it, and she ceases to be loved. God was cruel when he made 
women."
Denner was used to such outbursts as this. Her mistress's rhetoric and 
temper belonged to her superior rank, her grand person, and her piercing 
black eyes. Mrs Transome had a sense of impiety in her words which made 
them all the more tempting to her impotent anger. The waiting-woman had 
none of that awe which could be turned into defiance: the Sacred Grove was 
a common thicket to her.
"It mayn't be good-luck to be a woman," she said. "But one begins with it 
from a baby: one gets used to it. And I shouldn't like to be a man - to 
cough so loud, and stand straddling about on a wet day, and be so wasteful 
with meat and drink. They're a coarse lot, I think. Then I needn't make a 
trouble of this young lady, madam," she added, after a moment's pause.
"No, Denner. I like her. If that were all - I should like Harold to marry 
her. It would be the best thing. If the truth were known - and it will be 
known soon - the estate is hers by law - such law as it is. It's a strange 
story: she's a Bycliffe really."
Denner did not look amazed, but went on fastening her mistress's dress, as 
she said -
"Well, madam, I was sure there was something wonderful at the bottom of it. 
And turning the old lawsuits and everything else over in my mind, I thought 
the law might have something to do with it. Then she is a born lady?"
"Yes; she has good blood in her veins."
"We talked that over in the housekeeper's room - what a hand and an instep 
she has, and how her head is set on her shoulders - almost like your own, 
madam. But her lightish complexion spoils her, to my thinking. And Dominic 
said Mr Harold never admired that sort of woman before. There's nothing 
that smooth fellow couldn't tell you if he would: he knows the answers to 
riddles before they're made. However, he knows how to hold his tongue; I'll 
say that for him. And so do I, madam."
"Yes, yes; you will not talk of it till other people are talking of it."
"And so, if Mr Harold married her, it would save all fuss and mischief?"
"Yes - about the estate."
"And he seems inclined; and she'll not refuse him, I'll answer for it. And 
you like her, madam. There's everything to set your mind at rest."
Denner was putting the finishing-touch to Mrs Transome's dress by throwing 
an Indian scarf over her shoulders, and so completing the contrast between 
the majestic lady in costume and the dishevelled Hecuba-like woman whom she 
had found half an hour before.
"I am not at rest!" Mrs Transome said, with slow distinctness, moving from 
the mirror to the window, where the blind was not drawn down, and she could 
see the chill white landscape and the far-off unheeding stars.
Denner, more distressed by her mistress's suffering than she could have 
been by anything else, took up with the instinct of affection a gold 
vinaigrette which Mrs Transome often liked to carry with her, and going up 
to her put it into her hand gently. Mrs Transome grasped the little woman's 
hand hard, and held it so.
"Denner," she said, in a low tone, "if I could choose at this moment, I 
would choose that Harold should never have been born."
"Nay, my dear" (Denner had only once before in her life said "my dear" to 
her mistress), "it was a happiness to you then."
"I don't believe I felt the happiness then as I feel the misery now. It is 
foolish to say people can't feel much when they are getting old. Not 
pleasure, perhaps - little comes. But they can feel they are forsaken - 
why, every fibre in me seems to be a memory that makes a pang. They can 
feel that all the love in their lives is turned to hatred or contempt."
"Not mine, madam, not mine. Let what would be, I should want to live for 
your sake, for fear you should have nobody to do for you as I would."
"Ah, then, you are a happy woman, Denner; you have loved somebody for forty 
years who is old and weak now, and can't do without you."
The sound of the dinner-gong resounded below, and Mrs Transome let the 
faithful hand fall again.



Chapter 40

"She's beautiful; and therefore to be wooed:
She is a woman; therefore to be won." - Henry VI.

If Denner had had a suspicion that Esther's presence at Transome Court was 
not agreeable to her mistress, it was impossible to entertain such a 
suspicion with regard to the other members of the family. Between her and 
little Harry there was an extraordinary fascination. This creature, with 
the soft broad brown cheeks, low forehead, great black eyes, tiny well-
defined nose, fierce biting tricks towards every person and thing he 
disliked, and insistence on entirely occupying those he liked, was a human 
specimen such as Esther had never seen before, and she seemed to be equally 
original in Harry's experience. At first sight her light complexion and her 
blue gown, probably also her sunny smile and her hands stretched out 
towards him, seemed to make a show for him as of a new sort of bird: he 
threw himself backward against his "Gappa", as he called old Mr Transome, 
and stared at this new-comer with the gravity of a wild animal. But she had 
no sooner sat down on the sofa in the library than he climbed up to her, 
and began to treat her as an attractive object in natural history, snatched 
up her curls with his brown fist, and, discovering that there was a little 
ear under them, pinched it and blew into it, pulled at her coronet of 
plaits, and seemed to discover with satisfaction that it did not grow at 
the summit of her head, but could be dragged down and altogether undone. 
Then finding that she laughed, tossed him back, kissed, and pretended to 
bite him - in fact, was an animal that understood fun - he rushed off and 
made Dominic bring a small menagerie of white-mice, squirrels, and birds, 
with Moro, the black spaniel, to make her acquaintance. Whomsoever Harry 
liked, it followed that Mr Transome must like: "Gappa", along with Nimrod 
the retriever, was part of the menagerie, and perhaps endured more than all 
the other live creatures in the way of being tumbled about. Seeing that 
Esther bore having her hair pulled down quite merrily, and that she was 
willing to be harnessed and beaten, the old man began to confide in her, in 
his feeble, smiling, and rather jerking fashion, Harry's remarkable feats: 
how he had one day, when Gappa was asleep, unpinned a whole drawerful of 
beetles, to see if they would fly away; then, disgusted with their 
stupidity, was about to throw them all on the ground and stamp on them, 
when Dominic came in and rescued these valuable specimens; also, how he had 
subtly watched Mrs Transome at the cabinet where she kept her medicines, 
and, when she had left it for a little while without locking it, had gone 
to the drawers and scattered half the contents on the floor. But what old 
Mr Transome thought the most wonderful proof of an almost preter-natural 
cleverness was, that Harry would hardly ever talk, but preferred making 
inarticulate noises, or combining syllables after a method of his own.
"He can talk well enough if he likes," said Gappa, evidently thinking that 
Harry, like the monkeys, had deep reasons for his reticence.
"You mind him," he added, nodding at Esther, and shaking with low-toned 
laughter. "You'll hear: he knows the right names of things well enough, but 
he likes to make his own. He'll give you one all to yourself before long."
And when Harry seemed to have made up his mind distinctly that Esther's 
name was "Boo", Mr Transome nodded at her with triumphant satisfaction, and 
then told her in a low whisper, looking round cautiously beforehand, that 
Harry would never call Mrs Transome "Gamma," but always "Bite."
"It's wonderful ! " said he, laughing slyly.
The old man seemed so happy now in the new world created for him by Dominic 
and Harry, that he would perhaps have made a holocaust of his flies and 
beetles if it had been necessary in order to keep this living, lively 
kindness about him. He no longer confined himself to the library, but 
shuffled along from room to room, staying and looking on at what was going 
forward wherever he did not find Mrs Transome alone.
To Esther the sight of this feeble-minded, timid, paralytic man, who had 
long abdicated all mastery over the things that were his, was something 
piteous. Certainly this had never been part of the furniture she had 
imagined for the delightful aristocratic dwelling in her Utopia; and the 
sad irony of such a lot impressed her the more because in her father she 
was accustomed to age accompanied with mental acumen and activity. Her 
thoughts went back in conjecture over the past life of Mr and Mrs Transome, 
a couple so strangely different from each other. She found it impossible to 
arrange their existence in the seclusion of this fine park and in this 
lofty large-roomed house, where it seemed quite ridiculous to be anything 
so small as a human being, without finding it rather dull. Mr Transome had 
always had his beetles, but Mrs Transome - ? It was not easy to conceive 
that the husband and wife had ever been very fond of each other.
Esther felt at her ease with Mrs Transome: she was gratified by the 
consciousness - for on this point Esther was very quick - that Mrs Transome 
admired her, and looked at her with satisfied eyes. But when they were 
together in the early days of her stay, the conversation turned chiefly on 
what happened in Mrs Transome's youth - what she wore when she was 
presented at Court - who were the most distinguished and beautiful women at 
that time - the terrible excitement of the French Revolution - the 
emigrants she had known, and the history of various titled members of the 
Lingon family. And Esther, from native delicacy, did not lead to more 
recent topics of a personal kind. She was copiously instructed that the 
Lingon family was better than that even of the elder Transomes, and was 
privileged with an explanation of the various quarterings, which proved 
that the Lingon blood had been continually enriched. Poor Mrs Transome, 
with her secret bitterness and dread, still found a flavour in this sort of 
pride; none the less because certain deeds of her own life had been in 
fatal inconsistency with it. Besides, genealogies entered into her stock of 
ideas, and her talk on such subjects was as necessary as the notes of the 
linnet or the blackbird. She had no ultimate analysis of things that went 
beyond blood and family - the Herons of Fenshore or the Badgers of 
Hillbury. She had never seen behind the canvas with which her life was 
hung. In the dim background there was the burning mount and the tables of 
the law; in the foreground there was Lady Debarry privately gossiping about 
her, and Lady Wyvern finally deciding not to send her invitations to 
dinner. Unlike that Semiramis who made laws to suit her practical licence, 
she lived, poor soul, in the midst of desecrated sanctities, and of honours 
that looked tarnished in the light of monotonous and weary suns. Glimpses 
of the Lingon heraldry in their freshness were interesting to Esther; but 
it occurred to her that when she had known about them a good while they 
would cease to be succulent themes of converse or meditation, and Mrs 
Transome, having known them all along, might have felt a vacuum in spite of 
them.
Nevertheless it was entertaining at present to be seated on soft cushions 
with her netting before her, while Mrs Transome went on with her 
embroidery, and told in that easy phrase, and with that refined high-bred 
tone and accent which she possessed in perfection, family stories that to 
Esther were like so many novelettes: what diamonds were in the earl's 
family, own cousins to Mrs Transome; how poor Lady Sara's husband went off 
into jealous madness only a month after their marriage, and dragged that 
sweet blue-eyed thing by the hair; and how the brilliant Fanny, having 
married a country parson, became so niggardly that she had gone about 
almost begging for fresh eggs from the farmers' wives, though she had done 
very well with her six sons, as there was a bishop and no end of interest 
in the family, and two of them got appointments in India.
At present Mrs Transome did not touch at all on her own time of privation, 
or her troubles with her eldest son, or on anything that lay very close to 
her heart. She conversed with Esther, and acted the part of hostess as she 
performed her toilette and went on with her embroidery: these things were 
to be done whether one were happy or miserable. Even the patriarch Job, if 
he had been a gentleman of the modern West, would have avoided picturesque 
disorder and poetical laments; and the friends who called on him, though 
not less disposed than Bildad the Shuhite to hint that their unfortunate 
friend was in the wrong, would have sat on chairs and held their hats in 
their hands. The harder problems of our life have changed less than our 
manners; we wrestle with the old sorrows, but more decorously. Esther's 
inexperience prevented her from divining much about this fine grey-haired 
woman, whom she could not help perceiving to stand apart from the family 
group, as if there were some cause of isolation for her both within and 
without. To her young heart there was a peculiar interest in Mrs Transome. 
An elderly woman, whose beauty, position, and graceful kindness towards 
herself, made deference to her spontaneous, was a new figure in Esther's 
experience. Her quick light movement was always ready to anticipate what 
Mrs Transome wanted; her bright apprehension and silvery speech were always 
ready to cap Mrs Transome's narratives or instructions even about doses and 
liniments, with some lively commentary. She must have behaved charmingly; 
for one day when she had tripped across the room to put the screen just in 
the right place, Mrs Transome said, taking her hand, "My dear, you make me 
wish I had a daughter!"
That was pleasant; and so it was to be decked by Mrs Transome's own hands 
in a set of turquoise ornaments, which became her wonderfully, worn with a 
white Cashmere dress, which was also insisted on. Esther never reflected 
that there was a double intention in these pretty ways towards her; with 
young generosity, she was rather preoccupied by the desire to prove that 
she herself entertained no low triumph in the fact that she had rights 
prejudicial to this family whose life she was learning. And besides, 
through all Mrs Transome's perfect manners there pierced some indefinable 
indications of a hidden anxiety much deeper than anything she could feel 
about this affair of the estate - to which she often alluded slightly as a 
reason for informing Esther of something. It was impossible to mistake her 
for a happy woman; and young speculation is always stirred by discontent 
for which there is no obvious cause. When we are older, we take the uneasy 
eyes and the bitter lips more as a matter of course.
But Harold Transome was more communicative about recent years than his 
mother was. He thought it well that Esther should know how the fortune of 
his family had been drained by law expenses, owing to suits mistakenly 
urged by her family; he spoke of his mother's lonely life and pinched 
circumstances, of her lack of comfort in her elder son, and of the habit 
she had consequently acquired of looking at the gloomy side of things. He 
hinted that she had been accustomed to dictate, and that, as he had left 
her when he was a boy, she had perhaps indulged the dream that he would 
come back a boy. She was still sore on the point of his politics. These 
things could not be helped, but, so far as he could, he wished to make the 
rest of her life as cheerful as possible.
Esther listened eagerly, and took these things to heart. The claim to an 
inheritance, the sudden discovery of a right to a fortune held by others, 
was acquiring a very distinct and unexpected meaning for her. Every day she 
was getting more clearly into her imagination what it would be to abandon 
her own past, and what she would enter into in exchange for it; what it 
would be to disturb a long possession, and how difficult it was to fix a 
point at which the disturbance might begin, so as to be contemplated 
without pain.
Harold Transome's thoughts turned on the same subject, but accompanied by a 
different state of feeling and with more definite resolutions. He saw a 
mode of reconciling all difficulties which looked pleasanter to him the 
longer he looked at Esther. When she had been hardly a week in the house, 
he had made up his mind to marry her; and it had never entered into that 
mind that the decision did not rest entirely with his inclination. It was 
not that he thought slightly of Esther's demands; he saw that she would 
require considerable attractions to please her, and that there were 
difficulties to be overcome. She was clearly a girl who must be wooed; but 
Harold did not despair of presenting the requisite attractions, and the 
difficulties gave more interest to the wooing than he could have believed. 
When he had said that he would not marry an Englishwoman, he had always 
made a mental reservation in favour of peculiar circumstances; and now the 
peculiar circumstances were come. To be deeply in love was a catastrophe 
not likely to happen to him; but he was readily amorous. No woman could 
make him miserable, but he was sensitive to the presence of women, and was 
kind to them; not with grimaces, like a man of mere gallantry, but 
beamingly, easily, like a man of genuine good-nature. And each day that he 
was near Esther, the solution of all difficulties by marriage became a more 
pleasing prospect; though he had to confess to himself that the 
difficulties did not diminish on a nearer view, in spite of the flattering 
sense that she brightened at his approach.
Harold was not one to fail in a purpose for want of assiduity. After an 
hour or two devoted to business in the morning, he went to look for Esther, 
and if he did not find her at play with Harry and old Mr Transome, or 
chatting with his mother, he went into the drawing-room, where she was 
usually either seated with a book on her knee and "making a bed for her 
cheek" with one little hand, while she looked out of the window, or else 
standing in front of one of the full-length family portraits with an air of 
rumination. Esther found it impossible to read in these days; her life was 
a book which she seemed herself to be constructing - trying to make 
character clear before her, and looking into the ways of destiny.
The active Harold had almost always something definite to propose by way of 
filling the time: if it were fine, she must walk out with him and see the 
grounds; and when the snow melted and it was no longer slippery, she must 
get on horseback and learn to ride. If they stayed indoors, she must learn 
to play at billiards, or she must go over the house and see the pictures he 
had hung anew, or the costumes he had brought from the East, or come into 
his study and look at the map of the estate, and hear what - if it had 
remained in his family - he had intended to do in every corner of it in 
order to make the most of its capabilities.
About a certain time in the morning Esther had learned to expect him. Let 
every woocr make himself strongly expected; he may succeed by dint of being 
absent, but hardly in the first instance. One morning Harold found her in 
the drawing-room, leaning against a consol table, and looking at the full-
length portrait of a certain Lady Betty Transome, who had lived a century 
and a half before, and had the usual charm of ladies in Sir Peter Lely's 
style.
"Don't move, pray," he said on entering; "you look as if you were standing 
for your own portrait."
"I take that as an insinuation," said Esther, laughing, and moving towards 
her seat on an ottoman near the fire, "for I notice almost all the 
portraits are in a conscious, affected attitude. That fair Lady Betty looks 
as if she had been drilled into that posture, and had not will enough of 
her own ever to move again unless she had a little push given to her."
"She brightens up that panel well with her long satin skirt," said Harold, 
as he followed Esther, "but alive I daresay she would have been less 
cheerful company."
"One would certainly think that she had just been unpacked from silver 
paper. Ah, how chivalrous you are!" said Esther, as Harold, kneeling on one 
knee, held her silken netting-stirrup for hcr to put her foot through. She 
had often fancied pleasant scenes in which such homage was rendered to her, 
and the homage was not disagreeable now it was really come; but, strangely 
enough, a little darting sensation at that moment was accompanied by the 
vivid remembrance of some one who had never paid the least attention to her 
foot. There had been a slight blush, such as often came and went rapidly, 
and she was silent a moment. Harold naturally believed that it was he 
himself who was filling the field of vision He would have liked to place 
himself on the ottoman near Esther, and behave very much more like a lover; 
but he took a chair opposite to her at a circumspect distance. He dared not 
do otherwise. Along with Esther's playful charm she conveyed an impression 
of personal pride and high spirit which warned Harold's acuteness that in 
the delicacy of their present position he might easily make a false move 
and offend her. A woman was likely to be credulous about adoration, and to 
find no difficulty in referring it to her intrinsic attractions; but Esther 
was too dangerously quick and critical not to discern the least awkwardness 
that looked like offering her marriage as a convenient compromise for 
himself. Beforehand, he might have said that such characteristics as hers 
were not lovable in a woman; but, as it was, he found that the hope of 
pleasing her had a piquancy quite new to him.
"I wonder," said Esther, breaking her silence in her usual light silvery 
tones - "I wonder whether the woman who looked in that way ever felt any 
troubles. I see there are two old ones upstairs in the billiard-room who 
have only got fat; the expression of their faces is just of the same sort."
"A woman ought never to have any trouble. There should always be a man to 
guard her from it." (Harold Transome was masculine and fallible; he had 
incautiously sat down this morning to pay his addresses by talk about 
nothing in particular; and, clever experienced man as he was, he fell into 
nonsense.)
"But suppose the man himself got into trouble - you would wish her to mind 
about that. Or suppose," added Esther, suddenly looking up merrily at 
Harold, "the man himself was troublesome?"
"O you must not strain probabilities in that way. The generality of men are 
perfect. Take me, for example."
"You are a perfect judge of sauces," said Esther, who had her triumphs in 
letting Harold know that she was capable of taking notes.
"That is perfection number one. Pray go on."
"O, the catalogue is too long - I should be tired before I got to your 
magnificent ruby ring and your gloves always of the right colour."
"If you would let me tell you your perfections, I should not be tired."
"That is not complimentary; it means that the list is short."
"No; it means that the list is pleasant to dwell upon."
"Pray don't begin," said Esther, with her pretty toss of the head; "it 
would be dangerous to our good understanding. The person I liked best in 
the world was one who did nothing but scold me and tell me of my faults."
When Esther began to speak, she meant to do no more than make a remote 
unintelligible allusion, feeling, it must be owned, a naughty will to flirt 
and be saucy, and thwart Harold's attempts to be felicitous in compliment. 
But she had no sooner uttered the words than they seemed to her like a 
confession. A deep flush spread itself over her face and neck, and the 
sense that she was blushing went on deepening her colour. Harold felt 
himself unpleasantly illuminated as to a possibility that had never yet 
occurred to him. His surprise made an uncomfortable pause, in which Esther 
had time to feel much vexation.
"You speak in the past tense," said Harold, at last; "yet I am rather 
envious of that person. I shall never be able to win your regard in the 
same way. Is it any one at Treby? Because in that case I can inquire about 
your faults."
"O you know I have always lived among grave people," said Esther, more able 
to recover herself now she was spoken to. "Before I came home to be with my 
father I was nothing but a school-girl first, and then a teacher in 
different stages of growth. People in those circumstances are not usually 
flattered. But there are varieties in fault-finding. At our Paris school 
the master I liked best was an old man who stormed at me terribly when I 
read Racine, but yet showed that he was proud of me."
Esther was getting quite cool again. But Harold was not entirely satisfied; 
if there was any obstacle in his way, he wished to know exactly what it 
was.
"That must have been a wretched life for you at Treby," he said, - "a 
person of your accomplishments."
"I used to be dreadfully discontented," said Esther, much occupied with 
mistakes she had made in her netting. "But I was becoming less so. I have 
had time to get rather wise, you know; I am two-and-twenty."
"Yes," said Harold, rising and walking a few paces backwards and forwards, 
"you are past your majority; you are empress of your own fortunes - and 
more besides."
"Dear me," said Esther, letting her work fall, and leaning back against the 
cushions; "I don't think I know very well what to do with my empire."
"Well," said Harold, pausing in front of her, leaning one arm on the 
mantelpiece, and speaking very gravely, "I hope that in any case, since you 
appear to have no near relative who understands affairs, you will confide 
in me, and trust me with all your intentions as if I had no other personal 
concern in the matter than a regard for you. I hope you believe me capable 
of acting as the guardian of your interest, even where it turns out to be 
inevitably opposed to my own."
"I am sure you have given me reason to believe it," said Esther, with 
seriousness, putting out her hand to Harold. She had not been left in 
ignorance that he had had opportunities twice offered of stifling her 
claims.
Harold raised the hand to his lips, but dared not retain it more than an 
instant. Still the sweet reliance in Esther's manner made an irresistible 
temptation to him. After standing still a moment or two, while she bent 
over her work, he glided to the ottoman and seated himself close by her, 
looking at her busy hands.
"I see you have made mistakes in your work," he said, bending still nearer, 
for he saw that she was conscious yet not angry.
"Nonsense I you know nothing about it," said Esther, laughing, and crushing 
up the soft silk under her palms. "Those blunders have a design in them."
She looked round, and saw a handsome face very near her. Harold was 
looking, as he felt, thoroughly enamoured of this bright woman, who was not 
at all to his preconceived taste. Perhaps a touch of hypothetic jealousy 
now helped to heighten the effect. But he mastered all indiscretion, and 
only looked at her as he said -
"I am wondering whether you have any deep wishes and secrets that I can't 
guess."
"Pray don't speak of my wishes," said Esther, quite overmastered by this 
new and apparently involuntary manifestation in Harold; "I could not 
possibly tell you one at this moment - I think I shall never find them out 
again. O yes she said, abruptly, struggling to relieve herself from the 
oppression of unintelligible feelings - "I do know one wish distinctly. I 
want to go and see my father. He writes me word that all is well with him, 
but still I want to see him."
"You shall be driven there when you like."
"May I go now - I mean as soon as it is convenient?" said Esther, rising.
"I will give the order immediately, if you wish it," said Harold, 
understanding that the audience was broken up.



Chapter 41

He rates me as a merchant does the wares
He will not purchase - "quality not high I -
"Twill lose its colour opened to the sun,
Has no aroma, and, in fine, is naught -
I barter not for such commodities -
There is no ratio betwixt sand and gems."
"Tis wicked judgment ! for the soul can grovv,
As embryos, that live and move but blindly,
Burst from the dark, emerge regenerate,
And lead a life of vision and of choice.

Esther did not take the carriage into Malthouse Lane, but left it to wait 
for her outside the town; and when she entered the house she put her finger 
on her lip to Lyddy and ran lightly upstairs. She wished to surprise her 
father by this visit, and she succeeded. The little minister was just then 
almost surrounded by a wall of books, with merely his head peeping above 
them, being much embarrassed to find a substitute for tables and desks on 
which to arrange the volumes he kept open for reference. He was absorbed in 
mastering all those painstaking interpretations of the Book of Daniel, 
which are by this time well gone to the limbo of mistaken criticism; and 
Esther, as she opened the door softly, heard him rehearsing aloud a passage 
in which he declared, with some parenthetic provisoes, that he conceived 
not how a perverse ingenuity could blunt the edge of prophetic 
explicitness, or how an open mind could fail to see in the chronology of 
"the little horn" the resplendent lamp of an inspired symbol searching out 
the germinal growth of an antichristian power.
"You will not like me to interrupt you, father?" said Esther slyly.
"Ah, my beloved child!" he exclaimed, upsetting a pile of books, and thus 
unintentionally making a convenient breach in his wall, through which 
Esther could get up to him and kiss him. "Thy appearing is as a joy 
despaired of. I had thought of thee as the blinded think of the daylight - 
which indeed is a thing to rejoice in, like all other good, though we see 
it not nigh."
"Are you sure you have been as well and comfortable as you said you were in 
your letters?" said Esther, seating herself close in front of her father, 
and laying her hand on his shoulder.
"I wrote truly, my dear, according to my knowledge at the time. But to an 
old memory like mine the present days are but as a little water poured on 
the deep. It seems now that all has been as usual, except my studies, which 
have gone somewhat curiously into prophetic history. But I fear you will 
rebuke me for my negligent apparel," said the little man, feeling in front 
of Esther's brightness like a bat overtaken by the morning.
"That is Lyddy's fault, who sits crying over her want of Christian 
assurance instead of brushing your clothes and putting out your clean 
cravat. She is always saying her righteousness is filthy rags, and really I 
don't think that is a very strong expression for it. I'm sure it is dusty 
clothes and furniture."
"Nay, my dear, your playfulness glances too severely on our faithful Lyddy. 
Doubtless I am myself deficient, in that I do not aid her infirm memory by 
admonition. But now tell me aught that you have left untold about yourself 
Your heart has gone out somewhat towards this family - the old man and the 
child, whom I had not reckoned of?"
"Yes, father. It is more and more difficult to me to see how I can make up 
my mind to disturb these people at all."
"Something should doubtless be devised to lighten the loss and the change 
to the aged father and mother. I would have you in any case seek to temper 
a vicissitude, which is nevertheless a providential arrangement not to be 
wholly set aside."
"Do you think, father - do you feel assured that a case of inheritance like 
this of mine is a sort of providential arrangement that makes a command?"
"I have so held it," said Mr Lyon, solemnly; "in all my meditations I have 
so held it. For you have to consider, my dear, that you have been led by a 
peculiar path, and into experience which is not ordinarily the lot of those 
who are seated in high places; and what I have hinted to you already in my 
letters on this head, I shall wish on a future opportunity to enter into 
more at large."
Esther was uneasily silent. On this great question of her lot she saw 
doubts and difficulties, in which it seemed as if her father could not help 
her. There was no illumination for her in this theory of providential 
arrangement. She said suddenly (what she had not thought of at all 
suddenly) -
"Have you been again to see Felix Holt, father? You have not mentioned him 
in your letters."
"I have been since I last wrote, my dear, and I took his mother with me, 
who, I fear, made the time heavy to him with her plaints. But afterwards I 
carried her away to the house of a brother minister of Loamford, and 
returned to Felix, and then we had much discourse."
"Did you tell him of everything that has happened - I mean about me - about 
the Transomes?"
"Assuredly I told him, and he listened as one astonished. For he had much 
to hear, knowing nought of your birth, and that you had any other father 
than Rufus Lyon. "Tis a narrative I trust I shall not be called on to give 
to others; but I was not without satisfaction in unfolding the truth to 
this young man, who hath wrought himself into my affection strangely - I 
would fain hope for ends that will be a visible good in his less way-worn 
life, when mine shall be no longer."
"And you told him how the Transomes had come, and that I was staying at 
Transome Court?"
"Yes, I told these things with some particularity, as is my wont concerning 
what hath imprinted itself on my mind."
"What did Felix say?"
"Truly, my dear, nothing desirable to recite," said Mr Lyon, rubbing his 
hand over his brow.
"Dear father, he did say something, and you always remember what people 
say. Pray tell me; I want to know."
"It was a hasty remark, and rather escaped him than was consciously framed. 
He said, 'Then she will marry Transome; that is what Transome means.' "
"That was all?" said Esther, turning rather pale, and biting her lip with 
the determination that the tears should not start.
"Yes, we did not go further into that branch of the subject. I apprehend 
there is no warrant for his seeming prognostic, and I should not be without 
disquiet if I thought otherwise. For I confess that in your accession to 
this great position and property, I contemplate with hopeful satisfaction 
your remaming attached to that body of congregational Dissent, which, as I 
hold, hath retained most of pure and primitive discipline. Your education 
and peculiar history would thus be seen to have coincided with a long train 
of events in making this family property a means of honouring and 
illustrating a purer form of Christianity than that which hath unhappily 
obtained the pre-eminence in this land. I speak, my child, as you know, 
always in the hope that you will fully join our communion; and this dear 
wish of my heart - nay, this urgent prayer - would seem to be frustrated by 
your marriage with a man, of whom there is at least no visible indication 
that he would unite himself to our body."
If Esther had been less agitated, she would hardly have helped smiling at 
the picture her father's words suggested of Harold Transome "joining the 
church" in Malthouse Yard. But she was too seriously preoccupied with what 
Felix had said, which hurt her in a two-edged fashion that was highly 
significant. First, she was angry with him for daring to say positively 
whom she would marry; secondly, she was angry at the implication that there 
was from the first a cool deliberate design in Harold Transome to marry 
her. Esther said to herself that she was quite capable of discerning Harold 
Transome's disposition. and judging of his conduct. She felt sure he was 
generous and open. It did not lower him in her opinion that since 
circumstances had brought them together he evidently admired her - was in 
love with her - in short, desired to marry her; and she thought that she 
discerned the delicacy which hindered him from being more explicit. There 
is no point on which young women are more easily piqued than this of their 
sufficiency to judge the men who make love to them. And Esther's generous 
nature delighted to believe in generosity. All these thoughts were making a 
tumult in her mind while her father was suggesting the radiance her lot 
might cast on the cause of congregational Dissent. She heard what he said, 
and remembered it afterwards, but she made no reply at present, and chose 
rather to start up in search of a brush - an action which would seem to her 
father quite a usual sequence with her. It served the purpose of diverting 
him from a lengthy subject.
"Have you yet spoken with Mr Transome concerning Mistress Holt, my dear?" 
he said, as Esther was moving about the room. "I hinted to him that you 
would best decide how assistance should be tendered to her."
"No, father, we have not approached the subject. Mr Transome may have 
forgotten it, and, for several reasons, I would rather not talk of this - 
of money matters to him at present. There is money due to me from the 
Lukyns and the Pendrells."
"They have paid it," said Mr Lyon, opening his desk. "I have it here ready 
to deliver to you."
"Keep it, father, and pay Mrs Holt's rent with it, and do anything else 
that is wanted for her. We must consider everything temporary now," said 
Esther, enveloping her father in a towel, and beginning to brush his auburn 
fringe of hair, while he shut his eyes in preparation for this pleasant 
passivity. "Everything is uncertain - what may become of Felix - what may 
become of us all. O dear!" she went on, changing suddenly to laughing 
merriment, "I am beginning to talk like Lyddy, I think."
"Truly," said Mr Lyon, smiling, "the uncertainty of things is a text rather 
too wide and obvious for fruitful application; and to discourse of it is, 
as one might say, to bottle up the air, and make a present of it to those 
who are already standing out of doors."
"Do you think," said Esther, in the course of their chat, "that the Treby 
people know at all about the reasons of my being at Transome Court?"
"I have had no sign thereof; and indeed there is no one, as it appears, who 
could make the story public. The man Christian is away in London with Mr 
Debarry, parliament now beginning; and Mr Jermyn would doubtless respect 
the confidence of the Transomes. I have not seen him lately. I know nothing 
of his movements. And so far as my own speech is concerned, and my strict 
command to Lyddy, I have withheld the means of information even as to your 
having returned to Transome Court in the carriage, not wishing to give any 
occasion to solicitous questioning till time hath somewhat inured me. But 
it hath got abroad that you are there, and is the subject of conjectures, 
whereof, I imagine, the chief is, that you are gone as companion to 
Mistress Transome; for some of our friends have already hinted a rebuke to 
me that I should permit your taking a position so little likely to further 
your spiritual welfare."
"Now, father, I think I shall be obliged to run away from you, not to keep 
the carriage too long," said Esther, as she finished her reforms in the 
minister's toilette. "You look beautiful now, and I must give Lyddy a 
little lecture before I go."
"Yes, my dear; I would not detain you, seeing that my duties demand me. But 
take with you this Treatise, which I have purposely selected. It concerns 
all the main questions between ourselves and the establishment - 
government, discipline, state-support. It is seasonable that you should 
give a nearer attention to these polemics, lest you be drawn aside by the 
fallacious association of a state church with elevated rank."
Esther chose to take the volume submissively, rather than to adopt the 
ungraceful sincerity of saying that she was unable at present to give her 
mind to the original functions of a bishop, or the comparative merit of 
endowments and voluntaryism. But she did not run her eyes over the pages 
during her solitary drive to get a foretaste of the argument, for she was 
entirely occupied with Felix Holt's prophecy that she would marry Harold 
Transome.



Chapter 42

"Thou sayst it, and not I; for thou hast done
The ugly deed that made these ugly words."
Sophocles: Electra.

"Yea, it becomes a man
To cherish memory, where he had delight.
For kindness is the natural birth of kindness.
Whose soul records not the great debt of joy,
Is stamped for ever an ignoble man."
Sophocles: Ajax.

It So happened that, on the morning of the day when Esther went to see her 
father, Jermyn had not yet heard of her presence at Transome Court. One 
fact conducing to keep him in this ignorance was, that some days after his 
critical interview with Harold - days during which he had been wondering 
how long it would be before Harold made up his mind to sacrifice the luxury 
of satisfied anger for the solid advantage of securing fortune and position 
- he was peremptorily called away by business to the south of England, and 
was obliged to inform Harold by letter of his absence. He took care also to 
notify his return; but Harold made no sign in reply. The days passed 
without bringing him any gossip concerning Esther's visit, for such gossip 
was almost confined to Mr Lyon's congregation, her Church pupils, Miss 
Louisa Jermyn among them, having been satisfied by her father's written 
statement that she was gone on a visit of uncertain duration. But on this 
day of Esther's call in Malthouse Yard, the Miss Jermyns in their walk saw 
her getting into the Transome's carriage, which they had previously 
observed to be waiting, and which they now saw bowled along on the road 
towards Little Treby. It followed that only a few hours later the news 
reached the astonished ears of Matthew Jermyn.
Entirely ignorant of those converging indications and small links of 
incident which had raised Christian's conjectures, and had gradually 
contributed to put him in possession of the facts; ignorant too of some 
busy motives in the mind of his obliged servant Johnson; Jermyn was not 
likely to see at once how the momentous information that Esther was the 
surviving Bycliffe could possibly have reached Harold. His daughters 
naturally leaped, as others had done, to the conclusion that the Transomes, 
seeking a governess for little Harry, had had their choice directed to 
Esther, and observed that they must have attracted her by a high salary to 
induce her to take charge of such a small pupil; though of course it was 
important that his English and French should be carefully attended to from 
the first. Jermyn, hearing this suggestion, was not without a momentary 
hope that it might be true, and that Harold was still safely unconscious of 
having under the same roof with him the legal claimant of the family 
estate.
But a mind in the grasp of a terrible anxiety is not credulous of easy 
solutions. The one stay that bears up our hopes is sure to appear frail, 
and if looked at long will seem to totter. Too much depended on that 
unconsciousness of Harold's; and although Jermyn did not see the course of 
things that could have disclosed and combined the various items of 
knowledge which he had imagined to be his own secret, and therefore his 
safeguard, he saw quite clearly what was likely to be the result of the 
disclosure. Not only would Harold Transome be no longer afraid of him, but 
also, by marrying Esther (and Jermyn at once felt sure of this issue), he 
would be triumphantly freed from my unpleasant consequences, and could 
pursue much at his ease the gratification of ruining Matthew Jermyn. The 
prevision of an enemy's triumphant case is in any case sufficiently 
irritating to hatred, and there were reasons why it was peculiarly 
exasperating here; but Jermyn had not the leisure now for mere fruitless 
emotion; he had to think of a possible device which might save him from 
imminent ruin - not an indefinite adversity, but a ruin in detail, which 
his thoughts painted out with the sharpest, ugliest intensity. A man of 
sixty, with an unsuspicious wife and daughters capable of shrieking and 
fainting at a sudden revelation, and of looking at him reproachfully in 
their daily misery under a shabby lot to which he had reduced them - with a 
mind and with habits dried hard by the years - with no glimpse of an 
endurable standing-ground except where he could domineer and be prosperous 
according to the ambitions of pushing middle-class gentility, - such a man 
is likely to find the prospect of worldly ruin ghastly enough to drive him 
to the most uninviting means of escape. He will probably prefer any private 
scorn that will save him from public infamy or that will leave him money in 
his pocket, to the humiliation and hardship of new servitude in old age, a 
shabby hat, and a melancholy hearth, where the firing must be used and the 
women look sad. But though a man may be willing to escape through a sewer, 
a sewer with an outlet into the dry air is not always at hand. Running 
away, especially when spoken of as absconding, seems at a distance to offer 
a good modern substitute for the right of sanctuary; but seen closely, it 
is often found inconvenient and scarcely possible.
Jermyn, on thoroughly considering his position, saw that he had no very 
agreeable resources at command. But he soon made up his mind what he would 
do next. He wrote to Mrs Transome requesting her to appoint an hour in 
which he could see her privately: he knew she would understand that it was 
to be an hour when Harold was not at home. As he sealed the letter, he 
indulged a faint hope that in this interview he might be assured of 
Esther's birth being unknown at Transome Court; but in the worst case, 
perhaps some help might be found in Mrs Transome. To such uses may tender 
relations come when they have ceased to be tender! The Hazaels of our world 
who are pushed on quickly against their preconceived confidence in 
themselves to do doglike actions by the sudden suggestion of a wicked 
ambition, are much fewer than those who are led on through the years by the 
gradual demands of a selfishness which has spread its fibres far and wide 
through the intricate vanities and sordid cares of an everyday existence.
In consequence of that letter to Mrs Transome, Jennyn was two days 
afterwards ushered into the smaller drawing room at Transome Court. It was 
a charming little room in its refurbished condition: it had two pretty 
inlaid cabinets, great china vases with contents that sent forth odours of 
paradise, groups of flowers in oval frames on the walls, and Mrs Transome's 
own portrait in the evening costume of 1800, with a garden in the 
background. That brilliant young woman looked smilingly down on Mr Jermyn 
as he passed in front of the fire; and at present hers was the only gaze in 
the room. He could not help meeting the gaze as he waited, holding his hat 
behind him - could not help seeing many memories lit up by it; but the 
strong bent of his mind was to go on arguing each memory into a claim, and 
to see in the regard others had for him a merit of his own. There had been 
plenty of roads open to him when he was a young man; perhaps if he had not 
allowed himself to be determined (chiefly, of course, by the feelings of 
others, for of what effect would his own feelings have been without them?) 
into the road he actually took, he might have done better for himself. At 
any rate, he was likely at last to get the worst of it, and it was he who 
had most reason to complain. The fortunate Jason, as we know from 
Euripides, piously thanked the goddess, and saw clearly that he was not at 
all obliged to Medea: Jermyn was perhaps not aware of the precedent, but 
thought out his own freedom from obligation and the indebtedness of others 
towards him with a native faculty not inferior to Jason's.  Before three 
minutes had passed, however, as if by some sorcery, the brilliant smiling 
young woman above the mantel-piece seemed to be appearing at the doorway 
withered and frosted by many winters, and with lips and eyes from which the 
smile had departed. Jermyn advanced, and they shook hands, but neither of 
them said anything by way of greeting. Mrs Transome seated herself, and 
pointed to a chair opposite and near her.
"Harold has gone to Loamford," she said, in a subdued tone. "You had 
something particular to say to me?"
"Yes," said Jermyn, with his soft and deferential air. "The last time I was 
here I could not take the opportunity of speaking to you. But I am anxious 
to know whether you are aware of what has passed between me and Harold?"
"Yes, he has told me everything."
"About his proceedings against me? and the reason he stopped them?"
"Yes: have you had notice that he has begun them again?"
"No," said Jermyn, with a very unpleasant sensation.
"Of course he will now," said Mrs Transome. "There is no reason in his mind 
why he should not."
"Has he resolved to risk the estate then?"
"He feels in no danger on that score. And if there were, the danger doesn't 
depend on you. The most likely thing is, that he will marry this girl."
"He knows everything then?" said Jermyn, the expression of his face getting 
clouded.
"Everything. It's of no use for you to think of mastering him: you can't do 
it. I used to wish Harold to be fortunate - and he is fortunate," said Mrs 
Transome, with intense bitterness. "It's not my star that he inherits."
"Do you know how he came by the information about this girl?"
"No; but she knew it all before we spoke to her. It's no secret."
Jermyn was confounded by this hopeless frustration to which he had no key. 
Though he thought of Christian, the thought shed no light; but the more 
fatal point was clear: he held no secret that could help him.
"You are aware that these Chancery proceedings may ruin me?"
"He told me they would. But if you are imagining that I can do anything, 
dismiss the notion. I have told him as plainly as I dare that I wish him to 
drop all public quarrel with you, and that you could make an arrangement 
without scandal. I can do no more. He will not listen to me; he doesn't 
mind about my feelings. He cares more for Mr Transome than he does for me. 
He will not listen to me any more than if I were an old ballad-singer."
"It's very hard on me, I know," said Jermyn, in the tone with which a man 
flings out a reproach
"I besought you three months ago to bear anything rather than quarrel with 
him."
"I have not quarrelled with him. It is he who has been always seeking a 
quarrel with me. I have borne a good deal - more than any one else would. 
He set his teeth against me from the first."
"He saw things that annoyed him - and men are not like women," said Mrs 
Transome. There was a bitter innuendo in that truism.
"It's very hard on me - I know that," said Jermyn, with an intensification 
of his previous tone, rising and walking a step or two, then turning and 
laying his hand on the back of the chair. "Of course the law in this case 
can't in the least represent the justice of the matter. I made a good many 
sacrifices in times past. I gave up a great deal of fine business for the 
sake of attending to the family affairs, and in that lawsuit they would 
have gone to rack and ruin if it hadn't been for me."
He moved away again, laid down his hat, which he had been previously 
holding, and thrust his hands into his pockets as he returned. Mrs Transome 
sat motionless as marble, and almost as pale. Her hands lay crossed on her 
knees. This man, young, slim, and graceful, with a selfishness which then 
took the form of homage to her, had at one time kneeled to her and kissed 
those hands fervently; and she had thought there was a poetry in such 
passion beyond any to be found in everyday domesticity.
"I stretched my conscience a good deal in that affair of Bycliffe, as you 
know perfectly well. I told you everything at the time. I told you I was 
very uneasy about those witnesses, and about getting him thrown into 
prison. I know it's the blackest thing anybody could charge me with, if 
they knew my life from beginning to end; and I should never have done it, 
if I had not been under an infatuation such as makes a man do anything. 
What did it signify to me about the loss of the lawsuit? I was a young 
bachelor - I had the world before me."
"Yes," said Mrs Transome, in a low tone. "It was a pity you didn't make 
another choice."
"What would have become of you?" said Jermyn, carried along a climax, like 
other self-justifiers. "I had to think of you. You would not have liked me 
to make another choice then."
"Clearly," said Mrs Transome, with concentrated bitterness, but still 
quietly; "the greater mistake was mine."
Egoism is usually stupid in a dialogue; but Jermyn's did not make him so 
stupid that he did not feel the edge of Mrs Transome's words. They 
increased his irritation.
"I hardly see that," he rcplied, with a slight laugh of scorn. "You had an 
estate and a position to save, to go no further. I remember very well what 
you said to me - "A clever lawyer can do anything if he has the will; if 
it's impossible, he will make it possible. And the property is sure to be 
Harold's some day." He was a baby then."
"I remember most things a little too well: you had better say at once what 
is your object in recalling them."
"An object that is nothing more than justice. With the relation I stood in, 
it was not likely I should think myself bound by all the forms that are 
made to bind strangers. I had often immense trouble to raise the money 
necessary to pay off debts and carry on the affairs; and, as I said before, 
I had given up other lines of advancement which would have been open to me 
if I had not stayed in this neighbourhood at a critical time when I was 
fresh to the world. Anybody who knew the whole circumstances would say that 
my being hunted and run down on the score of my past transactions with 
regard to the family affairs, is an abominably unjust and unnatural thing."
Jermyn paused a moment, and then added, "At my time of life... and with 
a family about me - and after what has passed... I should have thought 
there was nothing you would care more to prevent."
"I do care. It makes me miserable. That is the extent of my power - to feel 
miserable."
"No, it is not the extent of your power. You could save me if you would. It 
is not to be supposed that Harold would go on against me... if he knew 
the whole truth."
Jermyn had sat down before he uttered the last words. He had lowered his 
voice slightly. He had the air of one who thought that he had prepared the 
way for an understanding. That a man with so much sharpness, with so much 
suavity at command - a man who piqued himself on his persuasiveness towards 
women, - should behave just as Jermyn did on this occasion, would be 
surprising, but for the constant experience that temper and selfish 
insensibility will defeat excellent gifts - will make a sensible person 
shout when shouting is out of place, and will make a polished man rude when 
his polish might be of eminent use to him.
As Jermyn, sitting down and leaning forward with an elbow on his knee, 
uttered his last words - "if he knew the whole truth" - a slight shock 
seemed to pass through Mrs Transome's hitherto motionless body, followed by 
a sudden light in her eyes, as in an animal's about to spring.
"And you expect me to tell him?" she said, not loudly, but yet with a clear 
metallic ring in her voice.
"Would it not be right for him to know?" said Jermyn, in a more bland and 
persuasive tone than he had yet used.
Perhaps some of the most terrible irony of the human lot is this of a deep 
truth coming to be uttered by lips that have no right to it.
"I will never tell him!" said Mrs Transome, starting up, her whole frame 
thrilled with a passion that seemed almost to make her young again. Her 
hands hung beside her clenched tightly, her eyes and lips lost the helpless 
repressed bitterness of discontent, and seemed suddenly fed with energy. 
"You reckon up your sacrifices for me: you have kept a good account of 
them, and it is needful; they are some of them what no one else could guess 
or find out. But you made your sacrifices when they seemed pleasant to you; 
when you told me they were your happiness; when you told me that it was I 
who stooped, and I who bestowed favours."
Jermyn rose too, and laid his hand on the back of the chair. He had grown 
visibly paler, but seemed about to speak.
"Don't speak!" Mrs Transome said peremptorily. "Don't open your lips again. 
You have said enough; I will speak now. I have made sacrifices too, but it 
was when I knew that they were not my happiness. It was after I saw that I 
had stooped - after I saw that your tenderness had turned into calculation 
- after I saw that you cared for yourself only, and not for me. I heard 
your explanations - of your duty in life - of our mutual reputation - of a 
virtuous young lady attached to you. I bore it; I let everything go; I shut 
my eyes; I might almost have let myself starve, rather than have scenes of 
quarrel with the man I had loved, in which I must accuse him of turning my 
love into a good bargain." There was a slight tremor in Mrs Transome's 
voice in the last words, and for a moment she paused; but when she spoke 
again it seemed as if the tremor had frozen into a cutting icicle. "I 
suppose if a lover picked one's pocket, there's no woman would like to own 
it. I don't say I was not afraid of you: I was afraid of you, and I know 
now I was right."
"Mrs Transome," said Jermyn, white to the lips, "it is needless to say 
more. I withdraw any words that have offended you."
"You can't withdraw them. Can a man apologise for being a dastard?... 
And I have caused you to strain your conscience, have I? - it is I who have 
sullied your purity? I should think the demons have more honour - they are 
not so impudent to one another. I would not lose the misery of being a 
woman, now I see what can be the baseness of a man. One must be a man - 
first to tell a woman that her love has made her your debtor, and then ask 
her to pay you by breaking the last poor threads between her and her son."
"I do not ask it," said Jermyn, with a certain asperity. He was beginning 
to find this intolerable. The mere brute strength of a masculine creature 
rebelled. He felt almost inclined to throttle the voice out of this woman.
"You do ask it: it is what you would like. I have had a terror on me lest 
evil should happen to you. From the first, after Harold came home, I had a 
horrible dread. It seemed as if murder might come between you - I didn't 
know what. I felt the horror of his not knowing the truth. I might have 
been dragged at last, by my own feeling - by my own memory - to tell him 
all, and make him as well as myself miserable, to save you."
Again there was a slight tremor, as if at the remembrance of womanly 
tenderness and pity. But immediately she launched forth again.
"But now you have asked me, I will never tell him! Be ruined - no - do 
something more dastardly to save yourself. If I sinned, my judgment went 
beforehand - that I should sin for a man like you."
Swiftly upon those last words Mrs Transome passed out of the room. The 
softly-padded door closed behind her making no noise, and Jermyn found 
himself alone.
For a brief space he stood still. Human beings in moments of passionate 
reproach and denunciation, especially when their anger is on their own 
account, are never so wholly in the right that the person who has to wince 
cannot possibly protest against some unreasonableness or unfairness in 
their outburst. And if Jermyn had been capable of feeling that he had 
thoroughly merited this infliction, he would not have uttered the words 
that drew it down on him. Men do not become penitent and learn to abhor 
themselves by having their backs cut open with the lash; rather, they learn 
to abhor the lash. What Jermyn felt about Mrs Transome when she disappeared 
was, that she was a furious woman - who would not do what he wanted her to 
do. And he was supported as to his justifiableness by the inward repetition 
of what he had already said to her: it was right that Harold should know 
the truth. He did not take into account (how should he?) the exasperation 
and loathing excited by his daring to urge the plea of right. A man who had 
stolen the pyx, and got frightened when justice was at his heels, might 
feel the sort of penitence which would induce him to run back in the dark 
and lay the pyx where the sexton might find it; but if in doing so he 
whispered to the Blessed Virgin that he was moved by considering the 
sacredness of all property, and the peculiar sacredness of the pyx, it is 
not to be believed that she would like him the better for it. Indeed, one 
often seems to see why the saints should prefer candles to words, 
especially from penitents whose skin is in danger. Some salt of generosity 
would have made Jermyn conscious that he had lost the citizenship which 
authorised him to plead the right; still more, that his self-vindication to 
Mrs Transome would be like the exhibition of a brand-mark, and only show 
that he was shame-proof. There is heroism even in the circles of hell for 
fellow-sinners who cling to each other in the fiery whirlwind and never 
recriminate. But these things, which are easy to discern when they are 
painted for us on the large canvas of poetic story, become confused and 
obscure even for well-read gentlemen when their affection for themselves is 
alarmed by pressing details of actual experience. If their comparison of 
instances is active at such times, it is chiefly in showing them that their 
own case has subde distinctions from all other cases, which should free 
them from unmitigated condemnation.
And it was in this way with Matthew Jermyn. So many things were more 
distinctly visible to him, and touched him more acutely, than the effect of 
his acts or words on Mrs Transome's feelings! In fact - he asked, with a 
touch of something that makes us all akin - was it not preposterous, this 
excess of feeling on points which he himself did not find powerfully 
moving? She had treated him most unreasonably. It would have been right for 
her to do what he had - not asked, but only hinted at in a mild and 
interrogatory manner. But the clearest and most unpleasant result of the 
interview was, that this right thing which he desired so much would 
certainly not be done for him by Mrs Transome.
As he was moving his arm from the chair-back, and turning to take his hat, 
there was a boisterous noise in the entrance-hall; the door of the small 
drawing-room, which had closed without latching, was pushed open, and old 
Mr Transome appeared with a face of feeble delight, playing horse to little 
Harry, who roared and flogged behind him, while Moro yapped in a puppy 
voice at their heels. But when Mr Transome saw Jermyn in the room he stood 
still in the doorway, as if he did not know whether entrance were 
permissible. The majority of his thoughts were but ravelled threads of the 
past. The attorney came forward to shake hands with due politeness, but the 
old man said, with a bewildered look, and in a hesitating way -
"Mr Jermyn? - why - why - where is Mrs Transome?"
Jermyn smiled his way out past the unexpected group; and little Harry, 
thinking he had an eligible opportunity, turned round to give a parting 
stroke on the stranger's coattails.



Chapter 43

"Whichever way my days decline,
I felt and feel, though left alone,
His being working in mine own,
The footsteps of his life in mine.
Dear friend, far off, my lost desire,
So far, so near, in woe and weal;
O, loved the most when most I feel
There is a lower and a higher!"
Tennyson: In Memoriam.

After that moming on which Esther found herself reddened and confused by 
the sense of having made a distant allusion to Felix Holt, she felt it 
impossible that she should even, as she had sometimes intended, speak of 
him explicitly to Harold, in order to discuss the probabilities as to the 
issue of his trial. She was certain she could not do it without betraying 
emotion, and there were very complex reasons in Esther's mind why she could 
not bear that Harold should detect her sensibility on this subject. It was 
not only all the fibres of maidenly pride and reserve, of a bashfulness 
undefinably peculiar towards this man, who, while much older than herself, 
and bearing the stamp of an experience quite hidden from her imagination, 
was taking strongly the aspect of a lover - it was not only this exquisite 
kind of shame which was at work within her: there was another sort of 
susceptibility in Esther, which her present circumstances tended to 
encourage, though she had come to regard it as not at all lofty, but rather 
as something which condemned her to littleness in comparison with a mind 
she had learned to venerate. She knew quite well that, to Harold Transome, 
Felix Holt was one of the common people who could come into question in no 
other than a public light. She had a native capability for discerning that 
the sense of ranks and degrees has its repulsions corresponding to the 
repulsions dependent on difference of race and colour; and she remembered 
her own impressions too well not to foresee that it would come on Harold 
Transome as a shock, if he suspected there had been any love-passages 
between her and this young man, who to him was of course no more than any 
other intelligent member of the working class. "To him," said Esther to 
herself, with a reaction of her newer, better pride, "who has not had the 
sort of intercourse in which Felix Holt's cultured nature would have 
asserted its superiority." And in her fluctuations on this matter, she 
found herself mentally protesting that, whatever Harold might think, there 
was a light in which he was vulgar compared with Felix. Felix had ideas and 
motives which she did not believe that Harold could understand. More than 
all, there was this test: she herself had no sense of inferiority and just 
subjection when she was with Harold Transome; there were even points in him 
for which she felt a touch, not of angry, but of playful scorn; whereas 
with Felix she had always a sense of dependence and possible illumination. 
In those large, grave, candid grey eyes of his, love seemed something that 
belonged to the high enthusiasm of life, such as might now be for ever shut 
out from her.
All the same, her vanity winced at the idea that Harold should discern 
what, from his point of view, would seem like a degradation of her taste 
and refinement. She could not help being gratified by all the 
manifestations from those around her that she was thought thoroughly fitted 
for a high position - could not help enjoying, with more or less keenness, 
a rehearsal of that demeanour amongst luxuries and dignities which had 
often been a part of her daydreams, and the rehearsal included the 
reception of more and more emphatic attentions from Harold, and of an 
effusiveness in his manners, which, in proportion as it would have been 
offensive if it had appeared earlier, became flattering as the effect of a 
growing acquaintance and daily contact. It comes in so many forms in this 
life of ours - the knowledge that there is something sweetest and noblest 
of which we despair, and the sense of something present that solicits us 
with an immediate and easy indulgence. And there is a pernicious falsity in 
the pretence that a woman's love lies above the range of such temptations.
Day after day Esther had an arm offered her, had very beaming looks upon 
her, had opportunities for a great deal of light, airy talk, in which she 
knew herself to be charming, and had the attractive interest of noticing 
Harold's practical cleverness - the masculine ease with which he governed 
everybody and administered everything about him, without the least 
harshness, and with a facile good-nature which yet was not weak. In the 
background, too, there was the ever-present consideration, that if Harold 
Transome wished to marry her, and she accepted him, the problem of her lot 
would be more easily solved than in any other way. It was difficult by any 
theory of providence, or consideration of results, to see a course which 
she could call duty: if something would come and urge itself strongly as 
pleasure, and save her from the effort to find a clue of principle amid the 
labyrinthine confusions of right and possession, the promise could not but 
seem alluring. And yet, this life at Transome Court was not the life of her 
daydreams: there was dulness already in its ease, and in the absence of 
high demand; and there was the vague consciousness that the love of this 
not unfascinating man who hovered about her gave an air of moral mediocrity 
to all her prospects. She would not have been able perhaps to define this 
impression; but somehow or other by this elevation of fortune it seemed 
that the higher ambition which had begun to spring in her was for ever 
nullified. All life seemed cheapened; as it might seem to a young student 
who, having believed that to gain a certain degree he must write a thesis 
in which he would bring his powers to bear with memorable effect, suddenly 
ascertained that no thesis was expected, but the sum (in English money) of 
twenty-seven pounds ten shillings and sixpence.
After all, she was a woman, and could not make her own lot. As she had once 
said to Felix, "A woman must choose meaner things, because only meaner 
things are offered to her." Her lot is made for her by the love she 
accepts. And Esther began to think that her lot was being made for her by 
the love that was surrounding her with the influence of a garden on a 
summer morning.
Harold, on his side, was conscious that the interest of his wooing was not 
standing still. He was beginning to think it a conquest, in which it would 
be disappointing to fail, even if this fair nymph had no claim to the 
estate. He would have liked - and yet he would not have liked - that just a 
slight shadow of doubt as to his success should be removed. There was 
something about Esther that he did not altogether understand. She was 
clearly a woman that could be governed; she was too charming for him to 
fear that she would ever be obstinate or interfering. Yet there was a 
lightning that shot out of her now and then, which seemed the sign of a 
dangerous judgment; as if she inwardly saw something more admirable than 
Harold Transome. Now, to be perfectly charming, a woman should not see 
this.
One fine February day, when already the golden and purple crocuses were out 
on the terrace - one of those flattering days which sometimes precede the 
north-east winds of March, and make believe that the coming spring will be 
enjoyable - a very striking group, of whom Esther and Harold made a part, 
came out at mid-day to walk upon the gravel at Transome Court. They did 
not, as usual, go towards the pleasure-grounds on the eastern side, because 
Mr Lingon, who was one of them, was going home, and his road lay through 
the stone gateway into the park.
Uncle Lingon, who disliked painful confidences, and preferred knowing "no 
mischief of anybody", had not objected to being let into the important 
secret about Esther, and was sure at once that the whole affair, instead of 
being a misfortune, was a piece of excellent luck. For himself, he did not 
profess to be a judge of women, but she seemed to have all the "points", 
and carry herself as well as Arabella did, which was saying a good deal. 
Honest Jack Lingon's first impressions quickly became traditions, which no 
subsequent evidence could disturb. He was fond of his sister, and seemed 
never to be conscious of any change for the worse in her since their early 
time. He considered that man a beast who said anything unpleasant about the 
persons to whom he was attached. It was not that he winked; his wide-open 
eyes saw nothing but what his easy disposition inclined him to see. Harold 
was a good fellow; a clever chap; and Esther's peculiar fitness for him, 
under all the circumstances, was extraordinary: it reminded him of 
something in the classics, though he couldn't think exactly what - in fact, 
a memory was a nasty uneasy thing. Esther was always glad when the old 
rector came. With an odd contrariety to her former niceties she liked his 
rough attire and careless frank speech; they were something not point 
device that seemed to connect the life of Transome Court with that rougher, 
commoner world where her home had been.
She and Harold were walking a little in advance of the rest of the party, 
who were retarded by various causes. Old Mr Transome, wrapped in a cloth 
cloak trimmed with sable, and with a soft warm cap also trimmed with fur on 
his head, had a shuffling uncertain walk. Little Harry was dragging a toy-
vehicle, on the seat of which he had insisted on tying Moro, with a piece 
of scarlet drapery round him, making him look like a barbaric prince in a 
chariot. Moro, having little imagination, objected to this, and barked with 
feeble snappishness as the tyrannous lad ran forward, then whirled the 
chariot round, and ran back to "Gappa", then came to a dead stop, which 
overset the chariot, that he might watch Uncle Lingon's water-spaniel run 
for the hurled stick and bring it in his mouth. Nimrod kept close to his 
old master's legs, glancing with much indifference at this youthful ardour 
about sticks - he had "gone through all that"; and Dominic walked by, 
looking on blandly, and taking care both of young and old. Mrs Transome was 
not there.
Looking back and seeing that they were a good deal in advance of the rest, 
Esther and Harold paused.
"What do you think about thinning the trees over there?" said Harold, 
pointing with his stick. "I have a bit of a notion that if they were 
divided into clumps so as to show the oaks beyond, it would be a great 
improvement. It would give an idea of extent that is lost now. And there 
might be some very pretty clumps got out of those mixed trees. What do you 
think?"
"I should think it would be an improvemcnt. One likes a "beyond" 
everywhere. But I never heard you express yourself so dubiously," said 
Esther, looking at him rather archly: "you generally see things so clearly, 
and are so convinced, that I shall begin to feel quite tottering if I find 
you in uncertainty. Pray don't begin to be doubtful; it is so infectious."
"You think me a great deal too sure - too confident?" said Harold.
"Not at all. It is an immense advantage to know your own will, when you 
always mean to have it."
"But suppose I couldn't get it, in spite of meaning?" said Harold, with a 
beaming inquiry in his eyes.
"O then," said Esther, turning her head aside, carelessly, as if she were 
considering the distant birch-stems, "you' would bear it quite easily, as 
you did your not getting into parliament. You would know you could get it 
another time - or get something else as good."
"The fact is," said Harold, moving on a little, as if he did not want to be 
quite overtaken by the others, "you consider me a fat, fatuous, self-
satisfied fellow."
"O there are degrees," said Esther, with a silvery laugh; "you have just as 
much of those qualities as is becoming. There are different styles. You are 
perfect in your own."
"But you prefer another style, I suspect. A more submissive, tearful, 
devout worshipper, who would offer his incense with more trembling."
"You are quite mistaken," said Esther, still lightly. "I find I am very 
wayward. When anything is offered to me, it seems that I prize it less, and 
don't want to have it."
Here was a very baulking answer, but in spite of it Harold could not help 
believing that Esther was very far from objecting to the sort of incense he 
had been offering just then.
"I have often read that that is in human nature," she went on, "yet it 
takes me by surprise in myself. I suppose," she added, smiling, "I didn't 
think of myself as human nature."
"I don't confess to the same waywardness," said Harold. "I am very fond of 
things that I can get. And I never longed much for anything out of my 
reach. Whatever I feel sure of getting I like all the better. I think half 
those priggish maxims about human nature in the lump are no more to be 
relied on than universal remedies. There are different sorts of human 
nature. Some are given to discontent and longing, others to securing and 
enjoying. And let me tell you, the discontented longing style is unpleasant 
to live with."
Harold nodded with a meaning smile at Esther.
"O, I assure you I have abjured all admiration for it," she said, smiling 
up at him in return.
She was remembering the schooling Felix had given her about her Byronic 
heroes, and was inwardly adding a third sort of human nature to those 
varieties which Harold had mentioned. He naturally supposed that he might 
take the abjuration to be entirely in his own favour. And his face did look 
very pleasant; she could not help liking him, although he was certainly too 
particular about sauces, gravies, and wines, and had a way of virtually 
measuring the value of everything by the contribution it made to his own 
pleasure. His very good-nature was unsympathetic: it never came from any 
thorough understanding or deep respect for what was in the mind of the 
person he obliged or indulged; it was like his kindness to his mother - an 
arrangement of his for the happiness of others, which, if they were 
sensible, ought to succeed. And an inevitable comparison which haunted her, 
showed her the same quality in his political views: the utmost enjoyment of 
his own advantages was the solvent that blended pride in his family and 
position, with the adhesion to changes that were to obliterate tradition 
and melt down enchased gold heirlooms into plating for the egg-spoons of 
"the people." It is terrible - the keen bright eye of a woman when it has 
once been turned with admiration on what is severely true; but then, the 
severely true rarely comes within its range of vision. Esther had had an 
unusuaI illumination; Harold did not know how, but he discerned enough of 
the effect to make him more cautious than he had ever been in his life 
before. That caution would have prevented him just then from following up 
the question as to the style of person Esther would think pleasant to live 
with, even if Uncle Lingon had not joined them, as he did, to talk about 
soughing tiles; saying presently that he should turn across the grass and 
get on to the Home Farm, to have a look at the improvements that Harold was 
making with such racing speed.
"But you know, lad," said the rector, as they paused at the expected 
parting, "you can't do everything in a hurry. The wheat must have time to 
grow, even when you've reformed all us old Tories off the face of the 
ground. Dash it! now the election's over: I'm an old Tory again. You see, 
Harold, a Radical won't do for the county. At another election, you must be 
on the look-out for a borough where they want a bit of blood. I should have 
liked you uncommonly to stand for the county; and a Radical of good family 
squares well enough with a new-fashioned Tory like young Debarry; but you 
see, these riots - it's been a nasty business. I shall have my hair combed 
at the sessions for a year to come. But hey-day ! What dame is this, with a 
small boy? - not one of my parishioners?"
Harold and Esther turned, and saw an elderly woman advancing with a tiny 
red-haired boy, scantily attired as to his jacket, which merged into a 
small sparrow-tail a little higher than his waist, but muffled as to his 
throat with a blue woollen comforter. Esther recognised the pair too well, 
and felt very uncomfortable. We are so pitiably in subjection to all sorts 
of vanity - even the very vanities we are practically renouncing! And in 
spite of the almost solemn memories connected with Mrs Holt, Esther's first 
shudder was raised by the idea of what things this woman would say, and by 
the mortification of having Felix in any way represented by his mother.
As Mrs Holt advanced into closer observation, it became more evident that 
she was attired with a view not to charm the eye, but rather to afflict it 
with all that expression of woe which belongs to very rusty bombazine and 
the limpest state of false hair. Still, she was not a woman to lose the 
sense of her own value, or become abject in her manners under any 
circumstances of depression; and she had a peculiar sense on the present 
occasion that she was justly relying on the force of her own character and 
judgment, in independence of anything that Mr Lyon or the masterful Felix 
would have said, if she had thought them worthy to know of her undertaking. 
She curtsied once, as if to the entire group, now including even the dogs, 
who showed various degrees of curiosity, especially as to what kind of game 
the smaller animal Job might prove to be after due investigation; and then 
she proceeded at once towards Esther, who, in spite of her annoyance, took 
her arm from Harold's, said, "How do you do, Mrs Holt?" very kindly, and 
stooped to pat little Job.
"Yes - you know him, Miss Lyon," said Mrs Holt, in that tone which implies 
that the conversation is intended for the edification of the company 
generally; "you know the orphin child, as Felix brought home for me that am 
his mother to take care of. And it's what I've done - nobody more so - 
though it's trouble is my reward."
Esther had raised herself again, to stand in helpless endurance of whatever 
might be coming. But by this time young Harry, struck even more than the 
dogs by the appearance of Job Tudge, had come round dragging his chariot, 
and placed himself close to the pale child, whom he exceeded in height and 
breadth, as well as in depth of colouring. He looked into Job's eyes, 
peeped round at the tail of his jacket and pulled it a little, and then, 
taking off the tiny cloth-cap, observed with much interest the tight red 
curls which had been hidden underneath it. Job looked at his inspector with 
the round blue eyes of astonishment, until Harry, purely by way of 
experiment, took a bon-bon from a fantastic wallet which hung over his 
shoulder, and applied the test to Job's lips. The result was satisfactory 
to both. Every one had been watching this small comedy, and when Job 
crunched the bon-bon while Harry looked down at him inquiringly and patted 
his back, there was general laughter except on the part of Mrs Holt, who 
was shaking her head slowly, and slapping the back of her left hand with 
the painful patience of a tragedian whose part is in abeyance to an ill-
timed introduction of the humorous.
"I hope Job's cough has been better lately," said Esther, in mere 
uncertainty as to what it would be desirable to say or do.
"I daresay you hope so, Miss Lyon," said Mrs Holt, looking at the distant 
landscape. "I've no reason to disbelieve but what you wish well to the 
child, and to Felix, and to me. I'm sure nobody has any occasion to wish me 
otherways. My character will bear inquiry, and what you, as are young, 
don't know, others can tell you. That was what I said to myself when I made 
up my mind to come here and see you, and ask you to get me the freedom to 
speak to Mr Transome. I said, whatever Miss Lyon may be now, in the way of 
being lifted up among great people, she's our minister's daughter, and was 
not above coming to my house and walking with my son Felix - though I'll 
not deny he made that figure on the Lord's Day, that'll perhaps go against 
him with the judge, if anybody thinks well to tell him."
Here Mrs Holt paused a moment, as with a mind arrested by the painful image 
it had called up.
Esther's face was glowing, when Harold glanced at her; and seeing this, he 
was considerate enough to address Mrs Holt instead of her.
"You are then the mother of the unfortunate young man who is in prison?"
"Indeed, I am, sir," said Mrs Holt, feeling that she was now in deep water. 
"It's not likely I should claim him if he wasn't my own; though it's not by 
my will, nor my advice, sir, that he ever walked; for I gave him none but 
good. But if everybody's son was guided by their mothers, the world 'ud be 
different; my son is not worse than many another woman's son, and that in 
Treby, whatever they may say as haven't got their sons in prison. And as to 
his giving up the doctoring, and then stopping his father's medicines, I 
know it's bad - that I know - but it's me as has had to suffer, and it's me 
a king and parliament 'ud consider, if they meant to do the right thing, 
and had anybody to make it known to 'em. And as for the rioting and killing 
the constable - my son said most plain to me he never meant it, and there 
was his bit of potato-pie for his dinner getting dry by the fire, the whole 
blessed time as I sat and never knew what was coming on me. And it's my 
opinion as if great people make elections to get themselves into 
parliament, and there's riot and murder to do it, they ought to see as the 
widow and the widow's son doesn't suffer for it. I well know my duty: and I 
read my Bible; and I know in Jude where it's been stained with the dried 
tulip-leaves this many a year, as you're told not to rail at your betters 
if they was the devil himself; nor will I; but this I do say, if it's three 
Mr Transomes instead of one as is listening to me, as there's them ought to 
go to the king and get him to let off my son Felix."
This speech, in its chief points, had been deliberately prepared. Mrs Holt 
had set her face like a flint, to make the gentry know their duty as she 
knew hers: her defiant, defensive tone was due to the consciousness, not 
only that she was braving a powerful audience, but that she was daring to 
stand on the strong basis of her own judgment in opposition to her son's. 
Her proposals had been waived off by Mr Lyon and Felix; but she had long 
had the feminine conviction that if she could "get to speak" in the right 
quarter, things might be different. The daring bit of impromptu about the 
three Mr Transomes was immediately suggested by a movement of old Mr 
Transome to the foreground in a line with Mr Lingon and Harold; his furred 
and unusual costume appearing to indicate a mysterious dignity which she 
must hasten to include in her appeal.
And there were reasons that none could have foreseen, which made Mrs Holt's 
remonstrance immediately effective. While old Mr Transome stared, very much 
like a waxen image in which the expression is a failure, and the rector, 
accustomed to female parishioners and complainants, looked on with a smile 
in his eyes, Harold said at once, with cordial kindness -
"I think you are quite right, Mrs Holt. And for my part, I am determined to 
do my best for your son, both in the witness-box and elsewhere. Take 
comfort; if it is necessary, the king shall be appealed to. And rely upon 
it, I shall bear you in mind, as Felix Holt's mother."
Rapid thoughts had convinced Harold that in this way he was best commending 
himself to Esther.
"Well, sir," said Mrs Holt, who was not going to pour forth 
disproportionate thanks, "I'm glad to hear you speak so becoming; and if 
you had been the king himself, I should have made free to tell you my 
opinion. For the Bible says, the king's favour is towards a wise servant; 
and it's reasonable to think he'd make all the more account of them as have 
never been in service, or took wage, which I never did, and never thought 
of my son doing; and his father left money, meaning otherways, so as he 
might have been a doctor on horseback at this very minute, instead of being 
in prison."
"What! was he regularly apprenticed to a doctor?" said Mr Lingon, who had 
not understood this before.
"Sir, he was, and most clever, like his father before him, only he turned 
contrairy. But as for harming anybody, Felix never meant to harm anybody 
but himself and his mother, which he certainly did in respect of his 
clothes, and taking to be a low working man, and stopping my living 
respectable, more particular by the pills, which had a sale, as you may be 
sure they suited people's insides. And what folks can never have boxes 
enough of to swallow, I should think you have a right to sell. And there's 
many and many a text for it, as I've opened on without ever thinking; for 
if it's true, "Ask, and you shall have," I should think it's truer when 
you're willing to pay for what you have."
This was a little too much for Mr Lingon's gravity; he exploded, and Harold 
could not help following him. Mrs Holt fixed her eyes on the distance, and 
slapped the back of her left hand again: it might be that this kind of 
mirth was the peculiar effect produced by forcible truth on high and 
worldly people who were neither in the Independent nor the General Baptist 
connection.
"I'm sure you must be tired with your long walk, and little Job too," said 
Esther, by way of breaking this awkward scene. "Aren't you, Job?" she 
added, stooping to caress the child, who was timidly shrinking from Harry's 
invitation to him to pull the little chariot - Harry's view being that Job 
would make a good horse for him to beat, and would run faster than Gappa.
"It's well you can feel for the orphin child, Miss Lyon," said Mrs Holt, 
choosing an indirect answer rather than to humble herself by confessing 
fatigue before gentlemen who seemed to be taking her too lightly. "I didn't 
believe but what you'd behave pretty, as you always did to me, though 
everybody used to say you held yourself high. But I'm sure you never did to 
Felix, for you let him sit by you at the Free School before all the town, 
and him with never a bit of stock round his neck. And it shows you saw that 
in him worth taking notice of; - and it is but right, if you know my words 
are true, as you should speak for him to the gentleman."
"I assure you, Mrs Holt," said Harold, coming to the rescue - "I assure you 
that enough has been said to make me use my best efforts for your son. And 
now, pray, go on to the house with the little boy and take some rcst. 
Dominic show Mrs Holt the way, and ask Mrs Hickes to make her comfortable, 
and see that somebody takes her back to Treby in the buggy."
"I will go back with Mrs Holt," said Esther, making an effort against 
herself.
"No, pray," said Harold, with that kind of entreaty which is rcally a 
decision. "Let Mrs Holt have time to rest. We shall have returned, and you 
can see her before she goes. We will say good-bye for the present, Mrs 
Holt."
The poor woman was not sorry to have the prospect of rest and food, 
especially for "the orphin child", of whom she was tenderly careful. Like 
many women who appear to others to have a masculine decisiveness of tone, 
and to themselves to have a masculine force of mind, and who come into 
severe collision with sons arrived at the masterful stage, she had the 
maternal cord vibrating strongly within her towards all tiny children. And 
when she saw Dominic pick up Job and hoist him on his arm for a little 
while, by way of making acquaintance, she regarded him with an approval 
which she had not thought it possible to extend to a foreigner. Since 
Dominic was going, Harry and old Mr Transome chose to follow. Uncle Lingon 
shook hands and turned off across the grass, and thus Esther was left alone 
with Harold.
But there was a new consciousness between them. Harold's quick perception 
was least likely to be slow in seizing indications of anything that might 
affect his position with regard to Esther. Some time before, his jealousy 
had been awakened to the possibility that before she had known him she had 
been deeply interested in some one else. Jealousy of all sorts - whether 
for our fortune or our love - is ready at combinations, and likely even to 
outstrip the fact. And Esther's renewed confusion, united with her silence 
about Felix, which now first seemed noteworthy, and with Mrs Holt's graphic 
details as to her walking with him and letting him sit by her before all 
the town, were grounds not merely for a suspicion, but for a conclusion in 
Harold's mind. The effect of this, which he at once regarded as a 
discovery, was rather different from what Esther had anticipated. It seemed 
to him that Felix was the least formidable person that he could have found 
out as an object of interest antecedent to himself. A young workman who had 
got himself thrown into prison, whatever recommendations he might have had 
for a girl at a romantic age in the dreariness of Dissenting society at 
Treby, could hardly be considered by Harold in the light of a rival. Esther 
was too clever and tasteful a woman to make a ballad heroine of herself, by 
bestowing her beauty and her lands on this lowly lover. Besides, Harold 
cherished the belief that, at the present time, Esther was more wisely 
disposed to bestow these things on another lover in every way eligible. But 
in two directions this discovery had a determining effect on him; his 
curiosity was stirred to know exactly what the relation with Felix had 
been, and he was solicitous that his behaviour with regard to this young 
man should be such as to enhance his own merit in Esther's eyes. At the 
same time he was not inclined to any euphemisms that would seem by any 
possibility to bring Felix into the lists with humself.
Naturally, when they were left alone, it was Harold who spoke first. "I 
should think there's a good deal of worth in this young fellow - this Holt, 
notwithstanding the mistakes he has made. A little queer and conceited, 
perhaps; but that is usually the case with men of his class when they are 
at all superior to their fellows."
"Felix Holt is a highly cultivated man; he is not at all conceited," said 
Esther. The different kinds of pride within her were coalescing now. She 
was aware that there had been a betrayal.
"Ah?" said Harold, not quite liking the tone of this answer. "This 
eccentricity is a sort of fanaticism, then? - this giving up being a doctor 
on horseback, as the old woman calls it, and taking to - let me see - 
watchmaking, isn't it?"
"If it is eccentricity to be very much better than other men, he is 
certainly eccentric; and fanatical too, if it is fanatical to renounce all 
small selfish motives for the sake of a great and unselfish one. I never 
knew what nobleness of character really was before I knew Felix Holt!"
It seemed to Esther as if, in the excitement of this moment, her own words 
were bringing her a clearer revelation.
"God bless me!" said Harold, in a tone of surprised yet thorough belief, 
and looking in Esther's face. "I wish you had talked to me about this 
before."
Esther at that moment looked perfectly beautiful, with an expression which 
Harold had never hitherto seen. All the confusion which had depended on 
personal feeling had given way before the sense that she had to speak the 
truth about the man whom she felt to be admirable.
"I think I didn't see the meaning of anything fine - I didn't even see the 
value of my father's character, until I had been taught a little by hearing 
what Felix Holt said, and seeing that his life was like his words."
Harold looked and listened, and felt his slight jealousy allayed rather 
than heightened. "This is not like love," he said to himself, with some 
satisfaction. With all due regard to Harold Transome, he was one of those 
men who are liable to make the greater mistakes about a particular woman's 
feelings, because they pique themselves on a power of interpretation 
derived from much experience. Experience is enlightening, but with a 
difference. Experiments on live animals may go on for a long period, and 
yet the fauna on which they are made may be limited. There may be a passion 
in the mind of a woman which precipitates her, not along the path of easy 
beguilement, but into a great leap away from it. Harold's experience had 
not taught him this; and Esther's enthusiasm about Felix Holt did not seem 
to him to be dangerous.
"He's quite an apostolic sort of fellow, then," was the self-quieting 
answer he gave to her last words. "He didn't look like that; but I had only 
a short interview with him, and I was given to understand that he refused 
to see me in prison. I believe he's not very well inclined towards me. But 
you saw a great deal of him, I suppose; and your testimony to any one is 
enough for me," said Harold, lowering his voice rather tenderly. "Now I 
know what your opinion is, I shall spare no effort on behalf of such a 
young man. In fact, I had come to the same resolution before, but your wish 
would make difficult things easy "
After that energetic speech of Esther's, as often happens the tears had 
just suffused her eyes. It was nothing more than might have been expected 
in a tender-hearted woman considering Felix Holt's circumstances, and the 
tears only made more lovely the look with which she met Harold's when he 
spoke so kindly She felt pleased with him - she was open to the fallacious 
delight of being assured that she had power over him to make him do what 
she liked, and quite forgot the many impressions which had convinced her 
that Harold had a padded yoke ready for the neck of every man, woman, and 
child that depended on him.
After a short silence, they were getting near the stone gateway, and Harold 
said, with an air of intimate consultation -
"What could we do for this young man, supposing he were let off? I shall 
send a letter with fifty pounds to the old woman tomorrow. I ought to have 
done it before, but it really slipped my memory, amongst the many things 
that have occupied me lately. But this young man - what do you think would 
be the best thing we could do for him, if he gets at large again? He should 
be put in a position where his qualities could be more telling."
Esther was recovering her liveliness a little, and was disposed to 
encourage it for the sake of veiling other feelings, about which she felt 
renewed reticence, now that the overpowering influence of her enthusiasm 
was past. She was rather wickedly amused and scornful at Harold's 
misconceptions and ill-placed intentions of patronage.
"You are hopelessly in the dark," she said, with a light laugh and toss of 
her head. "What would you offer Felix Holt? a place in the Excise? You 
might as well think of offering it to John the Baptist. Felix has chosen 
his lot. He means always to be a poor man."
"Means? Yes," said Harold, slightly piqued, "but what a man means usually 
depends on what happens. I mean to be a commoner; but a peerage might 
present itself under acceptable circumstances."
"O there is no sum in proportion to be done there," said Esther, again 
gaily. "As you are to a peerage, so is not Felix Holt to any offer an 
advantage that you could imagine for him."
"You must think him fit for any position - the first in the county."
"No, I don't," said Esther shaking her head mischievously. "I think him too 
high for it."
"I see you can be ardent in your admiration."
"Yes, it is my champagne; you know I don't like the other kind."
"That would be satisfactory if one were sure of getting your admiration," 
said Harold, leading her up to the terrace, and amongst the crocuses, from 
whence they had a fine view of the park and river. They stood still near 
the east parapet, and saw the dash of light on the water, and the pencilled 
shadows of the trees on the grassy lawn.
"Would it do as well to admire you, instead of being worthy to be admired?" 
said Harold, turning his eyes from that landscape to Esther's face.
"It would be a thing to be put up with," said Esther, smiling at him rather 
roguishly. "But you are not in that state of self-despair."
"Well, I am conscious of not having those severe virtues that you have been 
praising."
"That is true. You are quite in another genre."
"A woman would not find me a tragic hero."
"O, no! She must dress for genteel comedy - such as your mother once 
described to me - where the most thrilling event is the drawing of a 
handsome cheque."
"You are a naughty fairy," said Harold, daring to press Esther's hand a 
little more closely to him, and drawing her down the eastern steps into the 
pleasure-ground, as if he were unwilling to give up the conversation. 
"Confess that you are disgusted with my want of romance."
"I shall not confess to being disgusted. I shall ask you to confess that 
you are not a romantic figure."
"I am a little too stout."
"For romance - yes. At least you must find security for not getting 
stouter."
"And I don't look languishing enough?"
"O yes - rather too much so - at a fine cigar."
"And I am not in danger of committing suicide?"
"No; you are a widower."
Harold did not reply immediately to this last thrust of Esther's. She had 
uttered it with innocent thoughtlessness from the playful suggestions of 
the moment; but it was a fact that Harold's previous married life had 
entered strongly into her impressions about him. The presence of Harry made 
it inevitable. Harold took the allusion of Esther's as an indication that 
his quality of widower was a point that made against him; and after a brief 
silence he said, in an altered, more serious tone -
"You don't suppose, I hope, that any other woman has ever held the place 
that you could hold in my life?"
Esther began to tremble a little, as she always did when the love-talk 
between them seemed getting serious. She only gave the rather stumbling 
answer, "How so?"
"Harry's mother had been a slave - was bought, in fact."
It was impossible for Harold to preconceive the effect this had on Esther. 
His natural disqualification for judging of a girl's feelings was 
heightened by the blinding effect of an exclusive object - which was to 
assure her that her own place was peculiar and supreme. Hitherto Esther's 
acquaintance with Oriental love was derived chiefly from Byronic poems, and 
this had not sufficed to adjust her mind to a new story, where the Giaour 
concerned was giving her his arm. She was unable to speak; and Harold went 
on -
"Though I am close on thirty-five, I never met with a woman at all like you 
before. There are new eras in one's life that are equivalent to youth - are 
something better than youth. I was never an aspirant till I knew you."
Esther was still silent.
"Not that I dare to call myself that. I am not so confident a personage as 
you imagine. I am necessarily in a painful position for a man who has any 
feeling."
Here at last Harold had stirred the right fibre. Esther's generosity seized 
at once the whole meaning implied in that last sentence. She had a fine 
sensibility to the line at which flirtation must cease; and she was now 
pale, and shaken with feelings she had not yet defined for herself.
"Do not let us speak of difficult things any more now," she said, with 
gentle seriousness. "I am come into a new world of late, and have to learn 
life all over again. Let us go in. I must see poor Mrs Holt again, and my 
little friend Job."
She paused at the glass door that opened on the terrace, and entered there, 
while Harold went round to the stables.
When Esther had been upstairs and descended again into the large entrance-
hall, she found its stony spaciousness made lively by human figures 
extremely unlike the statues. Since Harry insisted on playing with Job 
again, Mrs Holt and her orphan, after dining, had just been brought to this 
delightful scene for a game at hide-and-seek, and for exhibiting the 
climbing powers of the two pet squirrels. Mrs Holt sat on a stool, in 
singular relief against the pedestal of the Apollo, while Dominic and 
Denner (otherwise Mrs Hickes) bore her company; Harry, in his bright red 
and purple, flitted about like a great tropic bird after the sparrow-tailed 
Job, who hid himself with much intelligence behind the scagliola pillars 
and the pedestals; while one of the squirrels perched itself on the head of 
the tallest statue, and the other was already peeping down from among the 
heavy stuccoed angels on the ceiling, near the summit of a pillar.
Mrs Holt held on her lap a basket filled with good things for Job, and 
seemed much soothed by pleasant company and excellent treatment. As Esther, 
descending softly and unobserved, leaned over the stone bannisters and 
looked at the scene for a minute or two, she saw that Mrs Holt's attention, 
having been directed to the squirrel which had scampered on to the head of 
the Silenus carrying the infant Bacchus, had been drawn downward to the 
tiny babe looked at with so much affection by the rather ugly and hairy 
gentleman, of whom she nevertheless spoke with reserve as of one who 
possibly belonged to the Transome family.
"It's most pretty to see its little limbs, and the gentleman holding it. I 
should think he was amiable by his look; but it was odd he should have his 
likeness took without any clothes. Was he Transome by name?" (Mrs Holt 
suspected that there might be a mild madness in the family.)
Denner, peering and smiling quietly, was about to reply, when she was 
prevented by the appearance of old Mr Transome, who since his walk had been 
having "forty winks" on the sofa in the library, and now came out to look 
for Harry. He had doffed his furred cap and cloak, but in lying down to 
sleep he had thrown over his shoulders a soft Oriental scarf which Harold 
had given him, and this still hung over his scanty white hair and down to 
his knees, held fast by his wooden-looking arms and laxly clasped hands, 
which fell in front of him.
This singular appearance of an undoubted Transome fitted exactly into Mrs 
Holt's thought at the moment. It lay in the probabilities of things that 
gentry's intellects should be peculiar: since they had not to get their own 
living, the good Lord might have economised in their case that common sense 
which others were so much more in need of; and in the shuffling figure 
before her she saw a descendant of the gentleman who had chosen to be 
represented without his clothes - all the more eccentric where there were 
the means of buying the best. But these oddities "said nothing" in great 
folks, who were powerful in high quarters all the same. And Mrs Holt rose 
and curtsied with a proud respect, precisely as she would have done if Mr 
Transome had looked as wise as Lord Burleigh.
"I hope I'm in no ways taking a liberty, sir," she began, while the old 
gentleman looked at her with bland feebleness; "I'm not that woman to sit 
anywhere out of my own home without inviting, and pressing too. But I was 
brought here to wait, because the little gentleman wanted to play with the 
orphin child."
"Very glad, my good woman - sit down - sit down," said Mr Transome, nodding 
and smiling between his clauses. "Nice little boy. Your grandchild?"
"Indeed, sir, no," said Mrs Holt, continuing to stand. Quite apart from any 
awe of Mr Transome - sitting down, she felt, would be a too great 
familiarity with her own pathetic importance on this extra and unlooked-for 
occasion. "It's not me has any grandchild, nor ever shall have, though most 
fit. But with my only son saying he'll never be married, and in prison 
besides, and some saying he'll be transported, you may see yourself - 
though a gentleman - as there isn't much chance of my having grandchildren 
of my own. And this is old Master Tudge's grandchild, as my own Felix took 
to for pity because he was sickly and clemm'd, and I was noways against it, 
being of a tender heart. For I'm a widow myself, and my son Felix, though 
big, is fatherless, and I know my duty in consequence. And it's to be 
wished, sir, as others should know it as are more in power and live in 
great houses, and can ride in a carriage where they will. And if you're the 
gentleman as is the head of everything - and it's not to be thought you'd 
give up to your son as a poor widow's been forced to do - it behoves you to 
take the part of them as are deserving; for the Bible says, grey hairs 
should speak."
"Yes, yes - poor woman - what shall I say?" said old Mr Transome, feeling 
himself scolded, and as usual desirous of mollifying displeasure.
"Sir, I can tell you what to say fast enough; for it's what I should say 
myself if I could get to speak to the king. For I've asked them that know, 
and they say it's the truth both out of the Bible and in, as the king can 
pardon anything and anybody. And judging by his countenance on the new 
signs, and the talk there was a while ago about his being the people's 
friend, as the minister once said it from the very pulpit - if there's any 
meaning in words, he'll do the right thing by me and my son, if he's asked 
proper."
"Yes - a very good man - he'll do anything right," said Mr Transome, whose 
own ideas about the king just then were somewhat misty, consisting chiefly 
in broken reminiscences of George the Third. "I'll ask him anything you 
like," he added, with a pressing desire to satisfy Mrs Holt, who alarmed 
him slightly.
"Then, sir, if you'll go in your carriage and say, This young man, Felix 
Holt by name, as his father was known the country round, and his mother 
most respectable - he never meant harm to anybody, and so far from bloody 
murder and fighting, would part with his victual to them that needed it 
more - and if you'd get other gentlemen to say the same, and if they're not 
satisfied to inquire - I'll not believe but what the king 'ud let my son 
out of prison. Or if it's true he must stand his trial, the king 'ud take 
care no mischief happened to him. I've got my senses, and I'll never 
believe as in a country where there's a God above and a king below, the 
right thing can't be done if great people was willing to do it."
Mrs Holt, like all orators, had waxed louder and more energetic, ceasing to 
propel her arguments, and being propelled by them. Poor old Mr Transome, 
getting more and more frightened at this severe-spoken woman, who had the 
horrible possibility to his mind of being a novelty that was to become 
permanent, seemed to be fascinated by fear, and stood helplessly forgetful 
that if he liked he might turn round and walk away.
Little Harry, alive to anything that had relation to "Gappa", had paused in 
his game, and, discerning what he thought a hostile aspect in this naughty 
black old woman, rushed towards her and proceeded first to beat her with 
his mimic jockey's whip, and then, suspecting that her bombazine was not 
sensitive, to set his teeth in her arm. While Dominic rebuked him and 
pulled him off, Nimrod began to bark anxiously, and the scene was become 
alarming even to the squirrels, which scrambled as far off as possible.
Esther, who had been waiting for an opportunity of intervention, now came 
up to Mrs Holt to speak some soothing words; and old Mr Transome, seeing a 
sufficient screen between himself and his formidable suppliant, at last 
gathered courage to turn round and shuffle away with unusual swiftness into 
the library.
"Dear Mrs Holt," said Esther, "do rest comforted. I assure you, you have 
done the utmost that can be done by your words. Your visit has not been 
thrown away. See how the children have enjoyed it I I saw little Job 
actually laughing. I think I never saw him do more than smile before." 
Then, turning round to Dominic, she said, "Will the buggy come round to 
this door?"
This hint was sufficient. Dominic went to see if the vehicle was ready, and 
Denner, remarking that Mrs Holt would like to mount it in the inner court, 
invited her to go back into the housekeeper's room. But there was a fresh 
resistance raised in Harry by the threatened departure of Job, who had 
seemed an invaluable addition to the menagerie of tamed creatures; and it 
was barely in time that Esther had the relief of seeing the entrance-hall 
cleared so as to prevent any further encounter of Mrs Holt with Harold, who 
was now coming up the flight of steps at the entrance.



Chapter 44

I'm sick at heart. The eye of day,
The insistent summer noon, seems pitiless,
Shining in all the barren crevices
Of weary life, leaving no shade, no dark,
Where I may dream that hidden waters lie.

Shortly after Mrs Holt's striking presentation of herself at Transome 
Court, Esther went on a second visit to her father. The Loamford Assizes 
were approaching; it was expected that in about ten days Felix Holt's trial 
would come on, and some hints in her father's letters had given Esther the 
impression that he was taking a melancholy view of the result. Harold 
Transome had once or twice mentioned the subject with a facile hopefulness 
as to "the young fellow's coming off easily", which, in her anxious mind, 
was not a counterpoise to disquieting suggestions, and she had not chosen 
to introduce another conversation about Felix Holt, by questioning Harold 
concerning the probabilities he relied on. Since those moments on the 
terrace, Harold had daily become more of the solicitous and indirectly 
beseeching lover; and Esther, from the very fact that she was weighed on by 
thoughts that were painfully bewildering to her - by thoughts which, in 
their newness to her young mind, seemed to shake her belief that life could 
be anything else than a compromise with things repugnant to the moral taste 
- had become more passive to his attentions at the very time that she had 
begun to feel more profoundly that in accepting Harold Transome she left 
the high mountain air, the passionate serenity of perfect love for ever 
behind her, and must adjust her wishes to a life of middling delights, 
overhung with the languorous haziness of motiveless ease, where poetry was 
only literature, and the fine ideas had to be taken down from the shelves 
of the library when her husband's back was turned. But it seemed as if all 
outward conditions concurred, along with her generous sympathy for the 
Transomes, and with those native tendencies against which she had once 
begun to struggle, to make this middling lot the best she could attain to. 
She was in this half-sad half-satisfied resignation to something like what 
is called worldly wisdom, when she went to see her father, and learn what 
she could from him about Felix.
The little minister was much depressed, unable to resign himself to the 
dread which had begun to haunt him, that Felix might have to endure the 
odious penalty of transportation for the manslaughter, which was the 
offence that no evidence in his favour could disprove.
"I had been encouraged by the assurances of men instructed in this regard," 
said Mr Lyon, while Esther sat on the stool near him, and listened 
anxiously, "that though he were pronounced guilty in regard to this deed 
whereinto he hath calamitously fallen, yet that a judge mildly disposed, 
and with a due sense of that invisible activity of the soul whereby the 
deeds which are the same in the outward appearance and effect, yet differ 
as the knife-stroke of the surgeon, even though it kill, differs from the 
knife-stroke of a wanton mutilator, might use his discretion in tempering 
the punishment, so that it would not be very evil to bear. But now it is 
said that the judge who cometh is a severe man, and one nourishing a 
prejudice against the bolder spirits who stand not in the old paths."
"I am going to be present at the trial, father," said Esther, who was 
preparing the way to express a wish, which she was timid about even with 
her father. "I mentioned to Mrs Transome that I should like to do so, and 
she said that she used in old days always to attend the assizes, and that 
she would take me. You will be there, father?"
"Assuredly I shall be there, having been summoned to bear witness to 
Felix's character, and to his having uttered remonstrances and warnings 
long beforehand whereby he proved himself an enemy to riot. In our ears, 
who knew him, it sounds strangely that aught else should be credible; but 
he hath few to speak for him, though I trust that Mr Harold Transome's 
testimony will go far, if, as you say, he is disposed to set aside all 
minor regards, and not to speak the truth grudgingly and reluctantly. For 
the very truth hath a colour from the disposition of the utterer."
"He is kind; he is capable of being generous," said Esther.
"It is well. For I verily believe that evil-minded men have been at work 
against Felix. The Duffield Watchman hath written continually in allusion 
to him as one of those mischievous men who seek to elevate themselves 
through the dishonour of their party; and as one of those who go not heart 
and soul with the needs of the people, but seek only to get a hearing for 
themselves by raising their voices in crotchety discord. It is those things 
that cause me heaviness of spirit: the dark secret of this young man's lot 
is a cross I carry daily."
"Father," said Esther, timidly, while the eyes of both were filling with 
tears, "I should like to see him again, before his trial. Might I? Will you 
ask him? Will you take me?"
The minister raised his suffused eyes to hers, and did not speak for a 
moment or two. A new thought had visited him. But his delicate tenderness 
shrank even from an inward inquiry that was too curious - that seemed like 
an effort to peep at sacred secrets.
"I see nought against it, my dear child, if you arrived early enough, and 
would take the elderly lady into your confidence, so that you might descend 
from the carriage at some suitable place - the house of the Independent 
minister, for example - where I could meet and accompany you. I would 
forewarn Felix, who would doubtless delight to see your face again; seeing 
that he may go away, and be, as it were, buried from you, even though it 
may be only in prison, and not -
This was too much for Esther. She threw her arms round her father's neck 
and sobbed like a child. It was an unspeakable relief to her after all the 
pent-up stifling experience, all the inward incommunicable debate of the 
last few weeks. The old man was deeply moved too, and held his arm close 
round the dear child, praying silently.
No word was spoken for some minutes, till Esther raised herself, dried her 
eyes, and with an action that seemed playful, though there was no smile on 
her face, pressed her handkerchief against her father's cheeks. Then, when 
she had put her hand in his, he said, solemnly -
"Tis a great and mysterious gift, this clinging of the heart, my Esther, 
whereby, it hath often seemed to me that even in the very moment of 
suffering our souls have the keenest foretaste of heaven. I speak not 
lightly, but as one who hath endured. And 'tis a strange truth that only in 
the agony of parting we look into the depths of love."
So the interview ended, without any question from Mr Lyon concerning what 
Esther contemplated as the ultimate arrangement between herself and the 
Transomes.
After this conversation, which showed him that what happened to Felix 
touched Esther more closely than he had supposed, the minister felt no 
impulse to raise the images of a future so unlike anything that Felix would 
share. And Esther would have been unable to answer any such questions. The 
successive weeks, instead of bringing her nearer to clearness and decision, 
had only brought that state of disenchantment belonging to the actual 
presence of things which have long dwelt in the imagination with all the 
factitious charms of arbitrary arrangement. Her imaginary mansion had not 
been inhabited just as Transome Court was; her imaginary fortune had not 
been attended with circumstances which she was unable to sweep away. She 
herself, in her Utopia, had never been what she was now - a woman whose 
heart was divided and oppressed. The first spontaneous offering of her 
woman's devotion, the first great inspiration of her life, was a sort of 
vanished ecstasy which had left its wounds. It seemed to her a cruel 
misfortune of her young life that her best feeling, her most precious 
dependence, had been called forth just where the conditions were hardest, 
and that all the easy invitations of circumstance were towards something 
which that previous consecration of her longing had made a moral descent 
for her. It was characteristic of her that she scarcely at all entertained 
the alternative of such a compromise, as would have given her the larger 
portion of the fortune to which she had a legal claim, and yet have 
satisfied her sympathy by leaving the Transomes in possession of their old 
home. Her domestication with his family had brought them into the 
foreground of her imagination; the gradual wooing of Harold had acted on 
her with a constant immediate influence that predominated over all 
indefinite prospects; and a solitary elevation to wealth, which out of 
Utopia she had no notion how she should manage, looked as chill and dreary 
as the offer of dignities in an unknown country.
In the ages since Adam's marriage, it has been good for some men to be 
alone, and for some women also. But Esther was not one of these women: she 
was intensely of the feminine type, verging neither towards the saint nor 
the angel. She was "a fair divided excellence, whose fulness of perfection" 
must be in marriage. And, like all youthful creatures, she felt as if the 
present conditions of choice were final. It belonged to the freshness of 
her heart that, having had her emotions strongly stirred by real objects, 
she never speculated on possible relations yet to come. It seemed to her 
that she stood at the first and last parting of the ways. And, in one 
sense, she was under no illusion. It is only in that freshness of our time 
that the choice is possible which gives unity to life, and makes the memory 
a temple where all relics and all votive offerings, all worship and all 
grateful joy, are an unbroken history sanctified by one religion.



Chapter 45

We may not make this world a paradise
By walking it together with clasped hands
And eyes that meeting feed a double strength.
We must be only joined by pains divine,
Of spirits blent in mutual memories.

It was a consequence of that interview with her father, that when Esther 
stepped early on a grey March morning into the carriage with Mrs Transome, 
to go to the Loamford Assizes, she was full of an expectation that held her 
lips in trembling silence, and gave her eyes that sightless beauty which 
tells that the vision is all within.
Mrs Transome did not disturb her with unnecessary speech. Of late, Esther's 
anxious observation had been drawn to a change in Mrs Transome, shown in 
many small ways which only women notice. It was not only that when they sat 
together the talk seemed more of an effort to her: that might have come 
from the gradual draining away of matter for discourse pertaining to most 
sorts of companionship, in which repetition is not felt to be as desirable 
as novelty. But while Mrs Transome was dressed just as usual, took her seat 
as usual, trifled with her drugs and had her embroidery before her as 
usual, and still made her morning greetings with that finished easy 
politeness and consideration of tone which to rougher people seems like 
affection, Esther noticed a strange fitfulness in her movements. Sometimes 
the stitches of her embroidery went on with silent unbroken swiftness for a 
quarter of an hour as if she had to work out her deliverance from bondage 
by finishing a scroll-patterned border; then her hands dropt suddenly and 
her gaze fell blankly on the table before her, and she would sit in that 
way motionless as a seated statue, apparently unconscious of Esther's 
presence, till some thought darting within her seemed to have the effect of 
an external shock and rouse her with a start, when she looked round hastily 
like a person ashamed of having slept. Esther, touched with wondering pity 
at signs of unhappiness that were new in her experience, took the most 
delicate care to appear inobservant, and only tried to increase the gentle 
attention that might help to soothe or gratify this uneasy woman. But, one 
morning, Mrs Transome had said, breaking rather a long silence -
"My dear, I shall make this house dull for you. You sit with me like an 
embodied patience. I am unendurable; I am getting into a melancholy dotage. 
A fidgety old woman like me is as unpleasant to see as a rook with its wing 
broken. Don't mind me, my dear. Run away from me without ceremony. Every 
one else does, you see. I am part of the old furniture with new drapery."
"Dear Mrs Transome," said Esther, gliding to the low ottoman close by the 
basket of embroidery, "do you dislike my sitting with you?"
"Only for your sake, my fairy," said Mrs Transome, smiling faintly, and 
putting her hand under Esther's chin. "Doesn't it make you shudder to look 
at me?"
"Why will you say such naughty things?" said Esther, affectionately. "If 
you had had a daughter, she would have desired to be with you most when you 
most wanted cheering. And surely every young woman has something of a 
daughter's feeling towards an older one who has been kind to her."
"I should like you to be really my daughter," said Mrs Transome, rousing 
herself to look a little brighter. "That is something still for an old 
woman to hope for."
Esther blushed: she had not foreseen this application of words that came 
from pitying tenderness. To divert the train of thought as quickly as 
possible, she at once asked what she had previously had in her mind to ask. 
Before her blush had disappeared she said -
"O, you are so good; I shall ask you to indulge me very much. It is to let 
us set out very early to Loamford on Wednesday, and put me down at a 
particular house, that I may keep an engagement with my father. It is a 
private matter, that I wish no one to know about, if possible. And he will 
bring me back to you wherever you appoint."
In that way Esther won her end without needing to betray it; and as Harold 
was already away at Loamford, she was the more secure.
The Independent minister's house at which she was set down, and where she 
was received by her father, was in a quiet street not far from the jail. 
Esther had thrown a dark cloak over the handsomer coverings which Denner 
had assured her was absolutely required of ladies who sat anywhere near the 
judge at a great trial; and as the bonnet of that day did not throw the 
face into high relief, but rather into perspective, a veil drawn down gave 
her a sufficiently inconspicuous appearance.
"I have arranged all things, my dear," said Mr Lyon, "and Felix expects us. 
We will lose no time."
They walked away at once, Esther not asking a question. She had no 
consciousness of the road along which they passed; she could never remember 
anything but a dim sense of entering within high walls and going along 
passages, till they were ushered into a larger space than she expected, and 
her father said -
"It is here that we are permitted to see Felix, my Esther. He will 
presently appear."
Esther automatically took off her gloves and bonnet, as if she had entered 
the house after a walk. She had lost the complete consciousness of 
everything except that she was going to see Felix. She trembled. It seemed 
to her as if he too would look altered after her new life - as if even the 
past would change for her and be no longer a steadfast remembrance, but 
something she had been mistaken about, as she had been about the new life. 
Perhaps she was growing out of that childhood to which common things have 
rareness, and all objects look larger. Perhaps from henceforth the whole 
world was to be meaner for her. The dread concentrated in those moments 
seemed worse than anything she had known before. It was what the dread of a 
pilgrim might be who has it whispered to him that the holy places are a 
delusion, or that he will see them with a soul unstirred and unbelieving. 
Every minute that passes may be charged with some such crisis in the little 
inner world of man or woman.
But soon the door opened slightly; some one looked in; then it opened wide, 
and Felix Holt entered.
"Miss Lyon - Esther!" and her hand was in his grasp.
He was just the same - no, something inexpressibly better, because of the 
distance and separation, and the half-weary novelties, which made him like 
the return of morning.
"Take no heed of me, children," said Mr Lyon. "I have some notes to make, 
and my time is precious. We may remain here only a quarter of an hour." And 
the old man sat down at a window with his back to them, writing with his 
head bent close to the paper.
"You are very pale; you look ill, compared with your old self," said 
Esther. She had taken her hand away, but they stood still near each other, 
she looking up at him.
"The fact is, I'm not fond of prison," said Felix, smiling; "but I suppose 
the best I can hope for is to have a good deal more of it."
"It is thought that in the worst case a pardon may be obtained," said 
Esther, avoiding Harold Transome's name.
"I don't rely on that," said Felix, shaking his head. "My wisest course is 
to make up my mind to the very ugliest penalty they can condemn me to. If I 
can face that, anything less will seem easy. But you know," he went on, 
smiling at her brightly, "I never went in for fine company and cushions. I 
can't be very heavily disappointed in that way."
"Do you see things just as you used to do?" said Esther, turning pale as 
she said it - "I mean - about poverty, and the people you will live among. 
Has all the misunderstanding and sadness left you just as obstinate?" She 
tried to smile, but could not succeed.
"What - about the sort of life I should lead if I were free again?" said 
Felix.
"Yes. I can't help being discouraged for you by all these things that have 
happened. See how you may fail!" Esther spoke timidly. She saw a peculiar 
smile, which she knew well, gathering in his eyes. "Ah, I daresay I am 
silly," she said, deprecatingly.
"No, you are dreadfully inspired," said Felix. "When the wicked tempter is 
tired of snarling that word failure in a man's cell, he sends a voice like 
a thrush to say it for him. See now what a messenger of darkness you are!" 
He smiled, and took her two hands between his, pressed together as children 
hold them up in prayer. Both of them felt too solemnly to be bashful. They 
looked straight into each other's eyes, as angels do when they tell some 
truth. And they stood in that way while he went on speaking.
"But I'm proof against that word failure. I've seen behind it. The only 
failure a man ought to fear is failure in cleaving to the purpose he sees 
to be best. As to just the amount of result he may see from his particular 
work - that's a tremendous uncertainty: the universe has not been arranged 
for the gratification of his feelings. As long as a man sees and believes 
in some great good, he'll prefer working towards that in the way he's best 
fit for, come what may. I put effects at their minimum, but I'd rather have 
the minimum of effect, if it's of the sort I care for, than the maximum of 
effect I don't care for - a lot of fine things that are not to my taste - 
and if they were, the conditions of holding them while the world is what it 
is, are such as would jar on me like grating metal."
"Yes," said Esther, in a low tone, "I think I understand that now, better 
than I used to do." The words of Felix at last seemed strangely to fit her 
own experience. But she said no more, though he seemed to wait for it a 
moment or two, looking at her. But then he went on -
"I don't mean to be illustrious, you know, and make a new era, else it 
would be kind of you to get a raven and teach it to croak "failure" in my 
ears. Where great things can't happen, I care for very small things, such 
as will never be known beyond a few garrets and workshops. And then, as to 
one thing I believe in, I don't think I can altogether fail. If there's 
anything our people want convincing of, it is, that there's some dignity 
and happiness for a man other than changing his station. That's one of the 
beliefs I choose to consecrate my life to. If anybody could demonstrate to 
me that I was a flat for it, I shouldn't think it would follow that I must 
borrow money to set up genteelly and order new clothes. That's not a 
rigorous consequence to my understanding."
They smiled at each other, with the old sense of amusement they had so 
often had together.
"You are just the same," said Esther.
"And you?" said Felix. "My affairs have been settled long ago. But yours - 
a great change has come in them - magic at work."
"Yes," said Esther, rather falteringly.
"Well," said Felix, looking at her gravely again, "it's a case of fitness 
that seems to give a chance sanction to that musty law. The first time I 
saw you, your birth was an immense puzzle to me. However, the appropriate 
conditions are come at last."
These words seemed cruel to Esther. But Felix could not know all the 
reasons for their seeming so. She could not speak; she was turning cold and 
feeling her heart beat painfully.
"All your tastes are gratified now," he went on innocently. "But you'll 
remember the old pedagogue and his lectures?"
One thought in the mind of Felix was, that Esther was sure to marry Harold 
Transome. Men readily believe these things of the women who love them. But 
he could not allude to the marriage more directly. He was afraid of this 
destiny for her, without having any very distinct knowledge by which to 
justify his fear to the mind of another. It did not satisfy him that Esther 
should marry Harold Transome.
"My children," said Mr Lyon at this moment, not looking round, but only 
looking close at his watch, "we have just two minutes more." Then he went 
on writing.
Esther did not speak, but Felix could not help observing now that her hands 
had turned to a deathly coldness, and that she was trembling. He believed, 
he knew, that whatever prospects she had, this feeling was for his sake. An 
overpowering impulse from mingled love, gratitude, and anxiety, urged him 
to say -
"I had a horrible struggle, Esther. But you see I was right. There was a 
fitting lot in reserve for you. But remember you have cost a great price - 
don't throw what is precious away. I shall want the news that you have a 
happiness worthy of you."
Esther felt too miserable for tears to come. She looked helplessly at Felix 
for a moment, then took her hands from his, and, turning away mutely, 
walked dreamily towards her father, and said, "Father, I am ready - there 
is no more to say."
She turned back again, towards the chair where her bonnet lay, with a face 
quite corpse-like above her dark garment.
"Esther!"
She heard Felix say the word, with an entreating cry, and went towards him 
with the swift movement of a frightened child towards its protector. He 
clasped her, and they kissed each other.
She never could recall anything else that happened, till she was in the 
carriage again with Mrs Transome.


Chapter 46

Why, there are maidens of heroic touch,
And yet they seem like things of gossamer
You'd pinch the life out of, as out of moths.
O, it is not loud tones and mouthingness
"Tis not the arms akimbo and large strides,
That makes a woman's force. The tiniest birds,
With softest downy breasts, have passions in them
And are brave with love.

Esther was so placed in the court, under Mrs Transome's wing as to see and 
hear everything without effort. Harold had received them at the hotel, and 
had observed that Esther looked ill, and was unusually abstracted in her 
manner, but this seemed to be sufiiciently accounted for by her sympathetic 
anxiety about the result of a trial in which the prisoner at the bar was a 
friend, and in which both her father and himself were important witnesses. 
Mrs Transome had no reluctance to keep a small secret from her son, and no 
betrayal was made of that previous "engagement" of Esther's with her 
father. Harold was particularly delicate and unobtrusive in his attentions 
today: he had the consciousness that he was going to behave in a way that 
would gratify Esther and win her admiration, and we are all of us made more 
graceful by the inward presence of what we believe to be a generous 
purpose; our actions move to a hidden music - "a melody that's sweetly 
pitched in tune".
If Esther had been less absorbed by supreme feelings, she would have been 
aware that she was an object of special notice. In the bare squareness of a 
public hall, where there was not one jutting angle to hang a guess or a 
thought upon, not an image or a bit of colour to stir the fancy, and where 
the only objects of speculation, of admiration, or of any interest 
whatever, were human beings, and especially the human beings that occupied 
positions indicating some importance, the notice bestowed on Esther would 
not have been surprising, even if it had been merely a tribute to her 
youthful charm, which was well companioned by Mrs Transome's elderly 
majesty. But it was due also to whisperings that she was an hereditary 
claimant of the Transome estates, whom Harold Transome was about to marry. 
Harold himself had of late not cared to conceal either the fact or the 
probability: they both tended rather to his honour than his dishonour. And 
today, when there was a good proportion of Trebians present, the 
whisperings spread rapidly.
The court was still more crowded than on the previous day, when our poor 
acquaintance Dredge and his two collier companions were sentenced to a 
year's imprisonment with hard labour, and the more enlightened prisoner, 
who stole the Debarrys' plate, to transportation for life. Poor Dredge had 
cried, had wished he'd "never heared of a 'lection," and in spite of 
sermons from the jail chaplain, fell back on the explanation that this was 
a world in which Spratt and Old Nick were sure to get the best of it; so 
that in Dredge's case, at least, most observers must have had the 
melancholy conviction that there had been no enhancement of public spirit 
and faith in progress from that wave of political agitation which had 
reached the Sproxton Pits.
But curiosity was necessarily at a higher pitch today, when the character 
of the prisoner and the circumstances of his offence were of a highly 
unusual kind. As soon as Felix appeared at the bar, a murmur rose and 
spread into a loud buzz, which continued until there had been repeated 
authoritative calls for silence in the court. Rather singularly, it was now 
for the first time that Esther had a feeling of pride in him on the ground 
simply of his appearance. At this moment, when he was the centre of a 
multitudinous gaze, which seemed to act on her own vision like a broad 
unmitigated daylight, she felt that there was something pre-eminent in him, 
notwithstanding the vicinity of numerous gentlemen. No apple-woman would 
have admired him; not only to feminine minds like Mrs Tiliot's, but to many 
minds in coat and waistcoat, there was something dangerous and perhaps 
unprincipled in his bare throat and great Gothic head; and his somewhat 
massive person would doubtless have come out very oddly from the hands of a 
fashionable tailor of that time. But as Esther saw his large grey eyes 
looking round calmly and undefiantly, first at the audience generally, and 
then with a more observant expression at the lawyers and other persons 
immediately around him, she felt that he bore the outward stamp of a 
distinguished nature. Forgive her if she needed this satisfaction: all of 
us - whether men or women - are liable to this weakness of liking to have 
our preference justified before others as well as ourselves. Esther said 
inwardly, with a certain triumph, that Felix Holt looked as worthy to be 
chosen in the midst of this large assembly, as he had ever looked in their 
tete-a-tete under the sombre light of the little parlour in Malthouse Yard.
Esther had felt some relief in hearing from her father that Felix had 
insisted on doing without his mother's presence; and since to Mrs Holt's 
imagination, notwithstanding her general desire to have her character 
inquired into, there was no greatly consolatory difference between being a 
witness and a criminal, and an appearance of any kind "before the judge" 
could hardly be made to suggest anything definite that would overcome the 
dim sense of unalleviated disgrace, she had been less inclined than usual 
to complain of her son's decision. Esther had shuddered beforehand at the 
inevitable farce there would be in Mrs Holt's testimony. But surely Felix 
would lose something for want of a witness who could testify to his 
behaviour in the morning before he became involved in the tumult?
"He is really a fine young fellow," said Harold, coming to speak to Esther 
after a colloquy with the prisoner's solicitor. "I hope he will not make a 
blunder in defending himself."
"He is not likely to make a blunder," said Esther. She had recovered her 
colour a little, and was brighter than she had been all the morning before.
Felix had seemed to include her in his general glance, but had avoided 
looking at her particularly. She understood how delicate feeling for her 
would prevent this, and that she might safely look at him, and towards her 
father, whom she could see in the same direction. Turning to Harold to make 
an observation, she saw that he was looking towards the same point, but 
with an expression on his face that surprised her.
"Dear me," she said, prompted to speak without any reflection; "how angry 
you look! I never saw you look so angry before. It is not my father you are 
looking at?"
"Oh no ! I am angry at something I'm looking away from," said Harold, 
making an effort to drive back the troublesome demon who would stare out at 
window. "It's that Jermyn," he added, glancing at his mother as well as 
Esther. "He will thrust himself under my eyes everywhere since I refused 
him an interview and returned his letter. I'm determined never to speak to 
him directly again, if I can help it."
Mrs Transome heard with a changeless face. She had for some time been 
watching, and had taken on her marble look of immobility. She said an 
inward bitter "Of course!" to everything that was unpleasant.
After this Esther soon became impatient of all speech: her attention was 
riveted on the proceedings of the court, and on the mode in which Felix 
bore himself. In the case for the prosecution there was nothing more than a 
reproduction, with irrelevancies added by witnesses, of the facts already 
known to us. Spratt had retained consciousness enough, in the midst of his 
terror, to swear that, when he was tied to the finger-post, Felix was 
presiding over the actions of the mob. The landlady of the Seven Stars, who 
was indebted to Felix for rescue from pursuit by some drunken rioters, gave 
evidence that went to prove his assumption of leadership prior to the 
assault on Spratt, - remembering only that he had called away her pursuers 
to "better sport". Various respectable witnesses swore to Felix's 
"encouragement" of the rioters who were dragging Spratt in King Street; to 
his fatal assault on Tucker; and to his attitude in front of the drawing-
room window at the Manor.
Three other witnesses gave evidence of expressions used by the prisoner, 
tending to show the character of the acts with which he was charged. Two 
were Treby tradesmen, the third was a clerk from Duffield. The clerk had 
heard Felix speak at Duffield; the Treby men had frequently heard him 
declare himself on public matters; and they all quoted expressions which 
tended to show that he had a virulent feeling against the respectable shop-
keeping class, and that nothing was likely to be more congenial to him than 
the gutting of retailers' shops. No one else knew - the witnesses 
themselves did not know fully - how far their strong perception and memory 
on these points was due to a fourth mind, namely, that of Mr John Johnson, 
the attorney, who was nearly related to one of the Treby witnesses, and a 
familiar acquaintance of the Duffield clerk. Man cannot be defined as an 
evidence-giving animal; and in the difficulty of getting up evidence on any 
subject, there is room for much unrecognised action of diligent persons who 
have the extra stimulus of some private motive. Mr Johnson was present in 
court today, but in a modest, retired situation. He had come down to give 
information to Mr Jermyn, and to gather information in other quarters, 
which was well illuminated by the appearance of Esther in company with the 
Transomes.
When the case for the prosecution closed, all strangers thought that it 
looked black for the prisoner. In two instances only Felix had chosen to 
put a cross-examining question. The first was to ask Spratt if he did not 
believe that his having been tied to the post had saved him from a probably 
mortal injury? The second was to ask the tradesman who swore to his having 
heard Felix tell the rioters to leave Tucker alone and come along with him, 
whether he had not, shortly before, heard cries among the mob summoning to 
an attack on the wine-vaults and brewery.
Esther had hitherto listened closely but calmly. She knew that there would 
be this strong adverse testimony; and all her hopes and fears were bent on 
what was to come beyond it. It was when the prisoner was asked what he had 
to adduce in reply that she felt herself in the grasp of that tremor which 
does not disable the mind, but rather gives keener consciousness of a mind 
having a penalty of body attached to it.
There was a silence as of night when Felix Holt began to speak. His voice 
was firm and clear: he spoke with simple gravity, and evidently without any 
enjoyment of the occasion. Esther had never seen his face look so weary.
"My Lord, I am not going to occupy the time of the court with unnecessary 
words. I believe the witnesses for the prosecution have spoken the truth as 
far as a superficial observation would enable them to do it; and I see 
nothing that can weigh with the jury in my favour, unless they believe my 
statement of my own motives, and the testimony that certain witnesses will 
give to my character and purposes as being inconsistent with my willingly 
abetting disorder. I will tell the court in as few words as I can, how I 
got entangled in the mob, how I came to attack the constable, and how I was 
led to take a course which seems rather mad to myself, now I look back upon 
it."
Felix then gave a concise narrative of his motives and conduct on the day 
of the riot, from the moment when he was startled into quitting his work by 
the earlier uproar of the morning. He omitted, of course, his visit to 
Malthouse Yard, and merely said that he went out to walk again after 
returning to quiet his mother's mind. He got warmed by the story of his 
experience, which moved him more strongly than ever, now he recalled it in 
vibrating words before a large audience of his fellow-men. The sublime 
delight of truthful speech to one who has the great gift of uttering it, 
will make itself felt even through the pangs of sorrow.
"That is all I have to say for myself, my Lord. I pleaded "Not guilty" to 
the charge of manslaughter, because I know that word may carry a meaning 
which would not fairly apply to my act. When I threw Tucker down, I did not 
see the possibility that he would die from a sort of attack which 
ordinarily occurs in fighting without any fatal effect. As to my assaulting 
a constable, it was a quick choice between two evils: I should else have 
been disabled. And he attacked me under a mistake about my intentions. I'm 
not prepared to say I never would assault a constable where I had more 
chance of deliberation. I certainly should assault him if I saw him doing 
anything that made my blood boil: I reverence the law, but not where it is 
a pretext for wrong, which it should be the very object of law to hinder. I 
consider that I should be making an unworthy defence, if I let the court 
infer from what I say myself, or from what is said by my witnesses, that 
because I am a man who hates drunken disorder, or any wanton harm, 
therefore I am a man who would never fight against authority. I hold it 
blasphemy to say that a man ought not to fight against authority: there is 
no great religion and no great freedom that has not done it, in the 
beginning. It would be impertinent for me to speak of this now, if I did 
not need to say in my own defence, that I should hold myself the worst sort 
of traitor if I put my hand either to fighting or disorder - which must 
mean injury to somebody - if I were not urged to it by what I hold to be 
sacred feelings, making a sacred duty either to my own manhood or to my 
fellow-man. And certainly," Felix ended with a strong ring of scorn in his 
voice, I never held it a sacred duty to try and get a Radical candidate 
returned for North Loamshire, by willingly heading a drunken howling mob, 
whose public action must consist in breaking windows, destroying hard-got 
produce, and endangering the lives of men and women. I have no more to say, 
my Lord."
"I foresaw he would make a blunder," said Harold, in a low voice to Esther. 
Then, seeing her shrink a little, he feared she might suspect him of being 
merely stung by the allusion to himself. "I don't mean what he said about 
the Radical candidate," he added hastily, in correction. "I don't mean the 
last sentence. I mean that whole peroration of his, which he ought to have 
left unsaid. It has done him harm with the jury - they won't understand it, 
or rather will misunderstand it. And I'll answer for it, it has soured the 
judge. It remains to be seen what we witnesses can say for him, to nullify 
the effect of what he has said for himself. I hope the attorney has done 
his best in collecting the evidence: I understand the expense of the 
witnesses is undertaken by some Liberals at Glasgow and in Lancashire 
friends of Holt's. But I suppose your father has told you."
The first witness called for the defence was Mr Lyon. The gist of his 
statements was, that from the beginning of September last until the day of 
election he was in very frequent intercourse with the prisoner; that he had 
become intimately acquainted with his character and views of life, and his 
conduct with respect to the election, and that these were totally 
inconsistent with any other supposition than that his being involved in the 
riot, and his fatal encounter with the constable, were due to the 
calamitous failure of a bold but good purpose. He stated further that he 
had been present when an interview had occurred in his own house between 
the prisoner and Mr Harold Transome, who was then canvassing for the 
representation of North Loamshire. That the object of the prisoner in 
seeking this interview had been to inform Mr Transome of treating given in 
his name to the workmen in the pits and on the canal at Sproxton, and to 
remonstrate against its continuance; the prisoner fearing that disturbance 
and mischief might result from what he believed to be the end towards which 
this treating was directed - namely, the presence of these men on the 
occasions of the nomination and polling. Several times after this 
interview, Mr Lyon said, he had heard Felix Holt recur to the subject 
therein discussed with expressions of grief and anxiety. He himself was in 
the habit of visiting Sproxton in his ministerial capacity: he knew fully 
what the prisoner had done there in order to found a night-school, and was 
certain that the prisoner's interest in the working men of that district 
turned entirely on the possibility of converting them somewhat to habits of 
soberness and to a due care for the instruction of their children. Finally, 
he stated that the prisoner, in compliance with his request, had been 
present at Duffield on the day of the nomination, and had on his return 
expressed himself with strong indignation concerning the employment of the 
Sproxton men on that occasion, and what he called the wickedness of hiring 
blind violence.
The quaint appearance and manner of the little Dissenting minister could 
not fail to stimulate the peculiar wit of the bar. He was subjected to a 
troublesome cross-examination, which he bore with wide-eyed shortsighted 
quietude and absorption in the duty of truthful response. On being asked, 
rather sneeringly, if the prisoner was not one of his flock? he answered, 
in that deeper tone which made one of the most effective transitions of his 
varying voice -
"Nay - would to God he were! I should then feel that the great virtues and 
the pure life I have beheld in him were a witness to the efficacy of the 
faith I believe in and the discipline of the church whereunto I belong."
Perhaps it required a larger power of comparison than was possessed by any 
of that audience to appreciate the moral elevation of an Independent 
minister who could utter those words. Nevertheless there was a murmur, 
which was clearly one of sympathy.
The next witness, and the one on whom the interest of the spectators was 
chiefly concentrated, was Harold Transome. There was a decided predominance 
of Tory feeling in the court, and the human disposition to enjoy the 
infliction of a little punishment on an opposite party, was, in this 
instance, of a Tory complexion. Harold was keenly alive to this, and to 
everything else that might prove disagreeable to him in his having to 
appear in the witness-box. But he was not likely to lose his self-
possession, or to fail in adjusting himself gracefully, under conditions 
which most men would find it difficult to carry without awkwardness. He had 
generosity and candour enough to bear Felix Holt's proud rejection of his 
advances without any petty resentment; he had all the susceptibilities of a 
gentleman; and these moral qualities gave the right direction to his 
acumen, in judging of the behaviour that would best secure his dignity. 
Everything requiring self-command was easier to him because of Esther's 
presence; for her admiration was just then the object which this well-
tanned man of the world had it most at heart to secure.
When he entered the witness-box he was much admired by the ladies amongst 
the audience, many of whom sighed a little at the thought of his wrong 
course in politics. He certainly looked like a handsome portrait by Sir 
Thomas Lawrence, in which that remarkable artist had happily omitted the 
usual excess of honeyed blandness mixed with alert intelligence, which is 
hardly compatible with the state of man out of paradise. He stood not far 
off Felix; and the two Radicals certainly made a striking contrast. Felix 
might have come from the hands of a sculptor in the later Roman period, 
when the plastic impulse was stirred by the grandeur of barbaric forms - 
when rolled collars were not yet conceived, and satin stocks were not.
Harold Transome declared that he had had only one interview with the 
prisoner: it was the interview referred to by the previous witness, in 
whose presence and in whose house it was begun. The interview, however, was 
continued beyond the observation of Mr Lyon. The prisoner and himself 
quitted the Dissenting minister's house in Malthouse Yard together, and 
proceeded to the office of Mr Jermyn, who was then conducting 
electioneering business on his behalf. His object was to comply with Holt's 
remonstrance by inquiring into the alleged proceedings at Sproxton, and, if 
possible to put a stop to them. Holt's language, both in Malthouse Yard and 
in the attorney's office, was strong: he was evidently indignant, and his 
indignation turned on the danger of employing ignorant men excited by drink 
on an occasion of popular concourse. He believed that Holt's sole motive 
was the prevention of disorder, and what he considered the demoralisation 
of the workmen by treating. The event had certainly justified his 
remonstrances. He had not had any subsequent opportunities of observing the 
prisoner; but if any reliance was to be placed on a rational conclusion, it 
must, he thought, be plain that the anxiety thus manifested by Holt was a 
guarantee of the statement he had made as to his motives on the day of the 
riot. His entire impression from Holt's manner in that single interview 
was, that he was a moral and political enthusiast, who, if he sought to 
coerce others, would seek to coerce them into a difficult, and perhaps 
impracticable, scrupulosity.
Harold spoke with as noticeable a directness and emphasis, as if what he 
said could have no reaction on himself. He had of course not entered 
unnecessarily into what occurred in Jermyn's office. But now he was 
subjected to a cross-examination on this subject, which gave rise to some 
subdued shrugs, smiles, and winks, among county gentlemen.
The questions were directed so as to bring out, if possible, some 
indication that Felix Holt was moved to his remonstrance by personal 
resentment against the political agents concerned in setting on foot the 
treating at Sproxton, but such questioning is a sort of target-shooting 
that sometimes hits about widely. The cross-examining counsel had close 
connections among the Tories of Loamshire, and enjoyed his business today. 
Under the fire of various questions about Jermyn and the agent employed by 
him at Sproxton, Harold got warm, and in one of his replies said, with his 
rapid sharpness -
"Mr Jermyn was my agent then, not now: I have no longer any but hostile 
relations with him."
The sense that he had shown a slight heat would have vexed Harold more if 
he had not got some satisfaction out of the thought that Jermyn heard those 
words. He recovered his good temper quickly, and when, subsequently, the 
question came -
"You acquiesced in the treating of the Sproxton men, as necessary to the 
efficient working of the reformed constituency?" Harold replied, with quiet 
fluency -
"Yes; on my return to England, before I put up for North Loamshire, I got 
the best advice from practised agents, both Whig and Tory. They all agreed 
as to electioneering measures."
The next witness was Michael Brincey, otherwise Mike Brindle, who gave 
evidence of the sayings and doings of the prisoner amongst the Sproxton 
men. Mike declared that Felix went "uncommon again" drink, and pitch-and-
toss, and quarrelling, and sich," and was "all for schooling and bringing 
up the little chaps"; but on being cross-examined, he admitted that he 
"couldn't give much account"; that Felix did talk again" idle folks, 
whether poor or rich, and that most like he meant the rich, who had "a 
rights to be idle", which was what he, Mike, liked himself sometimes, 
though for the most part he was "a hard-working butty". On being checked 
for this superfluous allegation of his own theory and practice, Mike became 
timidly conscious that answering was a great mystery beyond the reaches of 
a butty's soul, and began to err from defect instead of excess. However, he 
reasserted that what Felix most wanted was, "to get 'em to set up a school 
for the little chaps".
With the two succeeding witnesses, who swore to the fact that Felix had 
tried to lead the mob along Hobb's Lane instead of towards the Manor, and 
to the violently threatening character of Tucker's attack on him, the case 
for the defence was understood to close.
Meanwhile Esther had been looking on and listening with growing misery, in 
the sense that all had not been said which might have been said on behalf 
of Felix. If it was the jury who were to be acted on, she argued to 
herself, there might have been an impression made on their feeling which 
would determine their verdict. Was it not constantly said and seen that 
juries pronounced Guilty or Not Guilty from sympathy for or against the 
accused? She was too inexperienced to check her own argument by thoroughly 
representing to herself the course of things: how the counsel for the 
prosecution would reply, and how the judge would sum up, with the object of 
cooling down sympathy into deliberation. What she had painfully pressing on 
her inward vision was, that the trial was coming to an end, and that the 
voice of right and truth had not been strong enough.
When a woman feels purely and nobly, that ardour of hers which breaks 
through formulas too rigorously urged on men by daily practical needs, 
makes one of her most precious influences: she is the added impulse that 
shatters the stiffening crust of cautious experience. Her inspired 
ignorance gives a sublimity to actions so incongruously simple, that 
otherwise they would make men smile. Some of that ardour which has flashed 
out and illuminated all poetry and history was burning today in the bosom 
of sweet Esther Lyon. In this, at least, her woman's lot was perfect: that 
the man she loved was her hero; that her woman's passion and her reverence 
for rarest goodness rushed together in an undivided current. And today they 
were making one danger, one terror, one irresistible impulse for her heart. 
Her feelings were growing into a necessity for action, rather than a 
resolve to act. She could not support the thought that the trial would come 
to an end, that sentence would be passed on Felix, and that all the while 
something had been omitted which might have been said for him. There had 
been no witness to tell what had been his behaviour and state of mind just 
before the riot. She must do it. It was possible. There was time. But not 
too much time. All other agitation became merged in eagerness not to let 
the moment escape. The last witness was being called. Harold Transome had 
not been able to get back to her on leaving the witness-box, but Mr Lingon 
was close by her. With firm quickness she said to him -
"Pray tell the attorney that I have evidence to give for the prisoner - 
lose no time."
"Do you know what you are going to say, my dear?" said Mr Lingon, looking 
at her in astonishment.
"Yes - I entreat you, for God's sake," said Esther, in that low tone of 
urgent beseeching which is equivalent to a cry; and with a look of appeal 
more penetrating still, "I would rather die than not do it."
The old rector, always leaning to the good-natured view of things, felt 
chiefly that there seemed to be an additional chance for the poor fellow 
who had got himself into trouble. He disputed no farther, but went to the 
attorney.
Before Harold was aware of Esther's intention she was on her way to the 
witness-box. When she appeared there, it was as if a vibration, quick as 
light, had gone through the court and had shaken Felix himself, who had 
hitherto seemed impassive. A sort of gleam seemed to shoot across his face, 
and any one close to him could have seen that his hand, which lay on the 
edge of the dock, trembled.
At the first moment Harold was startled and alarmed; the next, he felt 
delight in Esther's beautiful aspect, and in the admiration of the court. 
There was no blush on her face: she stood, divested of all personal 
considerations whether of vanity or shyness. Her clear voice sounded as it 
might have done if she had been making a confession of faith. She began and 
went on without query or interruption. Every face looked grave and 
respectful.
"I am Esther Lyon, the daughter of Mr Lyon, the Independent minister at 
Treby, who has been one of the witnesses for the prisoner. I know Felix 
Holt well. On the day of the election at Treby, when I had been much 
alarmed by the noises that reached me from the main street, Felix Holt came 
to call upon me. He knew that my father was away, and he thought that I 
should be alarmed by the sounds of disturbance. It was about the middle of 
the day, and he came to tell me that the disturbance was quieted, and that 
the streets were nearly emptied. But he said he feared that the men would 
collect again after drinking, and that something worse might happen later 
in the day. And he was in much sadness at this thought. He stayed a little 
while, and then he left me. He was very melancholy. His mind was full of 
great resolutions that came from his kind feeling towards others. It was 
the last thing he would have done to join in riot or to hurt any man, if he 
could have helped it. His nature is very noble; he is tender-hearted; he 
could never have had any intention that was not brave and good."
There was something so naive and beautiful in this action of Esther's, that 
it conquered every low or petty suggestion even in the commonest minds. The 
three men in that assembly who knew her best - even her father and Felix 
Holt - felt a thrill of surprise mingling with their admiration. This 
bright, delicate, beautiful-shaped thing that seemed most like a toy or 
ornament - some hand had touched the chords, and there came forth music 
that brought tears. Half a year before, Esther's dread of being ridiculous 
spread over the surface of her life; but the depth below was sleeping.
Harold Transome was ready to give her his hand and lead her back to her 
place. When she was there, Felix, for the first time, could not help 
looking towards her, and their eyes met in one solemn glance.
Afterwards Esther found herself unable to listen so as to form any judgment 
on what she heard. The acting out of that strong impulse had exhausted her 
energy. There was a brief pause, filled with a murmur, a buzz, and much 
coughing. The audience generally felt as if dull weather was setting in 
again. And under those auspices the counsel for the prosecution got up to 
make his reply. Esther's deed had its effect beyond the momentary one, but 
the effect was not visible in the rigid necessities of legal procedure. The 
counsel's duty of restoring all unfavourable facts to due prominence in the 
minds of the jurors, had its effect altogether reinforced by the summing-up 
of the judge. Even the bare discernment of facts, much more their 
arrangement with a view to inferences, must carry a bias: human 
impartiality, whether judicial or not, can hardly escape being more or less 
loaded. It was not that the judge had severe intentions; it was only that 
he saw with severity. The conduct of Felix was not such as inclined him to 
indulgent consideration, and, in his directions to the jury, that mental 
attitude necessarily told on the light in which he placed the homicide. 
Even to many in the court who were not constrained by judicial duty, it 
seemed that though this high regard felt for the prisoner by his friends, 
and especially by a generous-hearted woman, was very pretty, such conduct 
as his was not the less dangerous and foolish and assaulting and killing a 
constable was not the less an offence to be regarded without leniency.
Esther seemed now so tremulous, and looked so ill, that Harold begged her 
to leave the court with his mother and Mr Lingon. He would come and tell 
her the issue. But she said, quietly, that she would rather stay; she was 
only a little overcome by the exertion of speaking. She was inwardly 
resolved to see Felix to the last moment before he left the court.
Though she could not follow the address of the counsel or the judge, she 
had a keen ear for what was brief and decisive. She heard the verdict, 
"Guilty of manslaughter." And every word uttered by the judge in 
pronouncing sentence fell upon her like an unforgettable sound that would 
come back in dreaming and in waking. She had her eyes on Felix, and at the 
word, "Imprisonment for four years," she saw his lip tremble. But otherwise 
he stood firm and calm.
Esther gave a start from her seat. Her heart swelled with a horrible 
sensation of pain; but, alarmed lest she should lose her self-command, she 
grasped Mrs Transome's hand, getting some strength from that human contact.
Esther saw that Felix had turned. She could no longer see his face. "Yes," 
she said, drawing down her veil, "let us go."



Chapter 47

The devil tempts us not - 'tis we tempt him.
Beckoning his skill with opportunity.

The more permanent effect of Esther's action in the trial was visible in a 
meeting which took place the next day in the principal room of the White 
Hart at Loamford. To the magistrates and other county gentlemen who were 
drawn together about noon, some of the necessary impulse might have been 
lacking but for that stirring of heart in certain just-spirited men and 
good fathers among them, which had been raised to a high pitch of emotion 
by Esther's maidenly fervour. Among these one of the foremost was Sir 
Maximus Debarry, who had come to the assizes with a mind, as usual, 
slightly rebellious under an influence which he never ultimately resisted - 
the influence of his son. Philip Debarry himself was detained in London, 
but in his correspondence with his father he had urged him, as well as his 
uncle Augustus, to keep eyes and interest awake on the subject of Felix 
Holt, whom, from all the knowledge of the case he had been able to obtain, 
he was inclined to believe peculiarly unfortunate rather than guilty. 
Philip had said he was the more anxious that his family should intervene 
benevolently in this affair, if it were possible, because he understood 
that Mr Lyon took the young man's case particularly to heart, and he should 
always regard himself as obliged to the old preacher. At this superfineness 
of consideration Sir Maximus had vented a few "pshaws!" and, in relation to 
the whole affair, had grumbled that Phil was always setting him to do he 
didn't know what - always seeming to turn nothing into something by dint of 
words which hadn't so much substance as a mote behind them. Nevertheless he 
was coerced; and in reality he was willing to do anything fair or good-
natured which had a handle that his understanding could lay hold of. His 
brother, the rector, desired to be rigorously just; but he had come to 
Loamford with a severe opinion concerning Felix, thinking that some sharp 
punishment might be a wholesome check on the career of a young man disposed 
to rely too much on his own crude devices.
Before the trial commenced, Sir Maximus had naturally been one of those who 
had observed Esther with curiosity, owing to the report of her inheritance, 
and her probable marriage to his once welcome but now exasperating 
neighbour, Harold Transome; and he had made the emphatic comment - "A fine 
girl! something thoroughbred in the look of her. Too good for a Radical; 
that's all I have to say." But during the trial Sir Maximus was wrought 
into a state of sympathetic ardour that needed no fanning. As soon as he 
could take his brother by the buttonhole, he said -
"I tell you what, Gus! we must exert ourselves to get a pardon for this 
young fellow. Confound it! what's the use of mewing him up for four years? 
Example? Nonsense. Will there be a man knocked down the less for it? That 
girl made me cry. Depend upon it, whether she's going to marry Transome or 
not, she's been fond of Holt - in her poverty, you know. She's a modest, 
brave, beautiful woman. I'd ride a steeplechase, old as I am, to gratify 
her feelings. Hang it ! the fellow's a good fellow if she thinks so. And he 
threw out a fine sneer, I thought, at the Radical candidate. Depend upon 
it, he's a good fellow at bottom."
The rector had not exactly the same kind of ardour, nor was he open to 
precisely that process of proof which appeared to have convinced Sir 
Maximus; but he had been so far influenced as to be inclined to unite in an 
effort on the side of mercy, observing, also, that he "knew Phil would be 
on that side". And by the co-operation of similar movements in the minds of 
other men whose names were of weight, a meeting had been determined on to 
consult about getting up a memorial to the Home Secretary on behalf of 
Felix Holt. His case had never had the sort of significance that could 
rouse political partisanship; and such interest as was now felt in him was 
still more unmixed with that inducement. The gentlemen who gathered in the 
room at the White Hart were - not as the large imagination of the North 
Loamshire Herald suggested, "of all shades of political opinion," but - of 
as many shades as were to be found among the gentlemen of that county.
Harold Transome has been energetically active in bringing about this 
meeting. Over and above the stings of conscience and a determination to act 
up to the level of all recognised honourableness, he had the powerful 
motive of desiring to do what would satisfy Esther. His gradually 
heightened perception that she had a strong feeling towards Felix Holt had 
not made him uneasy. Harold had a conviction that might have seemed like 
fatuity if it had not been that he saw the effect he produced on Esther by 
the light of his opinions about women in general. The conviction was, that 
Felix Holt could not be his rival in any formidable sense: Esther's 
admiration for this eccentric young man was, he thought, a moral 
enthusiasm, a romantic fervour, which was one among those many attractions 
quite novel in his own experience; her distress about the trouble of one 
who had been a familiar object in her former home, was no more than 
naturally followed from a tender woman's compassion. The place young Holt 
had held in her regard had necessarily changed its relations now that her 
lot was so widely changed. It is undeniable, that what most conduced to the 
quieting nature of Harold's conclusions was the influence on his 
imagination of the more or less detailed reasons that Felix Holt was a 
watchmaker, that his home and dress were of a certain quality, that his 
person and manners - that, in short (for Harold, like the rest of us, had 
many impressions which saved him the trouble of distinct ideas), Felix Holt 
was not the sort of man a woman would be likely to be in love with when she 
was wooed by Harold Transome.
Thus, he was sufficiently at rest on this point not to be exercising any 
painful self-conquest in acting as the zealous advocate of Felix Holt's 
cause with all persons worth influencing; but it was by no direct 
intercourse between him and Sir Maximus that they found themselves in co-
operation, for the old baronet would not recognise Harold by more than the 
faintest bow, and Harold was not a man to expose himself to a rebuff. 
Whatever he in his inmost soul regarded as nothing more than a narrow 
prejudice, he could defy, not with airs of importance, but with easy 
indifference. He could bear most things good-humouredly where he felt that 
he had the superiority. The object of the meeting was discussed, and the 
memorial agreed upon without any clashing. Mr Lingon was gone home, but it 
was expected that his concurrence and signature would be given, as well as 
those of other gentlemen who were absent. The business gradually reached 
that stage at which the concentration of interest ceases - when the 
attention of all but a few who are more practically concerned drops off and 
disperses itself in private chat, and there is no longer any particular 
reason why everybody stays except that everybody is there. The room was 
rather a long one, and invited to a little movement: one gentleman drew 
another aside to speak in an under-tone about Scotch bullocks, another had 
something to say about the North Loamshire Hunt to a friend who was the 
reverse of good-looking, but who, nevertheless, while listening, showed his 
strength of mind by giving a severe attention also to his full-length 
reflection in the handsome tall mirror that filled the space between two 
windows. And in this way the groups were continually shifting
But in the meantime there were moving towards this room at the White Hart 
the footsteps of a person whose presence had not been invited, and who, 
very far from being drawn thither by the belief that he would be welcome, 
knew well that his entrance would, to one person at least, be bitterly 
disagreeable. They were the footsteps of Mr Jermyn, whose appearance that 
morning was not less comely and less carefully tended than usual, but who 
was suffering the torment of a compressed rage, which, if not impotent to 
inflict pain on another, was impotent to avert evil from himself. After his 
interview with Mrs Transome there had been for some reasons a delay of 
positive procedures against him by Harold, of which delay Jermyn had twice 
availed himself; first, to seek an interview with Harold and then to send 
him a letter. The interview had been refused; and the letter had been 
returned, with the statement that no communication could take place except 
through Harold's lawyers. And yesterday Johnson had brought Jermyn the 
information that he would quickly hear of the proceedings in Chancery being 
resumed: the watch Johnson kept in town had given him secure knowledge on 
this head. A doomed animal, with every issue earthed up except that where 
its enemy stands, must, if it has teeth and fierceness, try its one chance 
without delay. And a man may reach a point in his life in which his 
impulses are not distinguished from those of a hunted brute by any 
capability of scruples. Our selfishness is so robust and many-clutching, 
that, well encouraged, it easily devours all sustenance away from our poor 
little scmples.
Since Harold would not give Jermyn access to him, that vigorous attorney 
was resolved to take it. He knew all about the meeting at the White Hart, 
and he was going thither with the determination of accosting Harold. He 
thought he knew what he should say, and the tone in which he should say it. 
It would be a vague intimation, carrying the effect of a threat, which 
should compel Harold to give him a private interview. To any counter-
consideration that presented itself in his mind - to anything that an 
imagined voice might say - that imagined answer arose, "That's all very 
fine, but I'm not going to be ruined if I can help it - least of all, mined 
in that way." Shall we call it degeneration or gradual development - this 
effect of thirty additional winters on the soft-glancing, versifying young 
Jermyn?
When Jermyn entered the room at the White Hart he did not immediately see 
Harold. The door was at the extremity of the room, and the view was 
obstructed by groups of gentlemen with figures broadened by overcoats. His 
entrance excited no peculiar observation: several persons had come in late. 
Only one or two, who knew Jermyn well, were not too much pre-occupied to 
have a glancing remembrance of what had been chatted about freely the day 
before - Harold's irritated reply about his agent, from the witness-box. 
Receiving and giving a slight nod here and there, Jermyn pushed his way, 
looking round keenly, until he saw Harold standing near the other end of 
the room. The solicitor who had acted for Felix was just then speaking to 
him. but having put a paper into his hand turned away; and Harold, standing 
isolated, though at no great distance from others, bent his eyes on the 
paper. He looked brilliant that moming; his blood was flowing prosperously. 
He had come in after a ride, and was additionally brightened by rapid talk 
and the excitement of seeking to impress himself favourably, or at least 
powerfully, on the minds of neighbours nearer or more remote. He had just 
that amount of flush which indicates that life is more enjoyable than 
usual; and as he stood with his left hand caressing his whisker, and his 
right holding the paper and his riding-whip, his dark eyes running rapidly 
along the written lines, and his lips reposing in a curve of good-humour 
which had more happiness in it than a smile, all beholders might have seen 
that his mind was at ease.
Jermyn walked quickly and quietly close up to him. The two men were of the 
same height, and before Harold looked round Jermyn's voice was saying, 
close to his ear, not in a whisper, but in a hard, incisive, disrespectful 
and yet not loud tone -
"Mr Transome, I must speak to you in private."
The sound jarred through Harold with a sensation all the more insufferable 
because of the revulsion from the satisfied, almost elated, state in which 
it had seized him. He started and looked round into Jermyn's eyes. For an 
instant, which seemed long, there was no sound between them, but only angry 
hatred gathering in the two faces. Harold felt himself going to crush this 
insolence: Jermyn felt that he had words within him that were fangs to 
clutch this obstinate strength, and wring forth the blood and compel 
submission. And Jermyn's impulse was the more urgent. He said, in a tone 
that was rather lower, but yet harder and more biting - "You will repent 
else - for your mother's sake."
At that sound, quick as a leaping flame, Harold had struck Jermyn across 
the face with his whip. The brim of the hat had been a defence. Jermyn, a 
powerful man, had instantly thrust out his hand and clutched Harold hard by 
the clothes just below the throat, pushing him slightly so as to make him 
stagger.
By this time everybody's attention had been called to this end of the room, 
but both Jermyn and Harold were beyond being arrested by any consciousness 
of spectators.
"Let me go, you scoundrel!" said Harold, fiercely, "or I'll be the death of 
you."
"Do," said Jermyn, in a grating voice; "I am your father."
In the thrust by which Harold had been made to stagger backward a little, 
the two men had got very near the long mirror. They were both white - both 
had anger and hatred in their faces; the hands of both were upraised. As 
Harold heard the last terrible words he started at a leaping throb that 
went through him, and in the start turned his eyes away from Jermyn's face. 
He turned them on the same face in the glass with his own beside it, and 
saw the hated fatherhood reasserted.
The young strong man reeled with a sick faintness. But in the same moment 
Jermyn released his hold, and Harold felt himself supported by the arm. It 
was Sir Maximus Debarry who had taken hold of him.
"Leave the room, sir!" the baronet said to Jermyn, in a voice of imperious 
scorn. "This is a meeting of gentlemen."
"Come, Harold," he said, in the old friendly voice, "come away with me."



Chapter 48

"Tis law as stedfast as the throne of Zeus -
Our days are heritors of days gone by."
								Aeschylus: Agamemnon.

A Little after five o'clock that day, Harold arrived at Transome Court. As 
he was winding along the broad road of the park, some parting gleams of the 
March sun pierced the trees here and there, and threw on the grass a long 
shadow of himself and the groom riding, and illuminated a window or two of 
the home he was approaching. But the bittemess in his mind made these sunny 
gleams almost as odious as an artificial smile. He wished he had never come 
back to this pale English sunshine.
In the course of his eighteen miles' drive, he had made up his mind what he 
would do. He understood now, as he had never understood before, the 
neglected solitariness of his mother's life, the allusions and innuendoes 
which had come out during the election. But with a proud insurrection 
against the hardship of an ignominy which was not of his own making, he 
inwardly said, that if the circumstances of his birth were such as to 
warrant any man in regarding his character of gentleman with ready 
suspicion, that character should be the more strongly asserted in his 
conduct. No one should be able to allege with any show of proof that he had 
inherited meanness.
As he stepped from the carriage and entered the hall, there were the voice 
and the trotting feet of little Harry as usual, and the rush to clasp his 
father's leg and make his joyful puppy-like noises. Harold just touched the 
boy's head, and then said to Dominic in a weary voice -
"Take the child away. Ask where my mother is."
Mrs Transome, Dominic said, was upstairs. He had seen her go up after 
coming in from her walk with Miss Lyon, and she had not come down again.
Harold, throwing off his hat and greatcoat, went straight to his mother's 
dressing-room. There was still hope in his mind. He might be suffering 
simply from a lie. There is much misery created in the world by mere 
mistake or slander, and he might have been stunned by a lie suggested by 
such slander. He rapped at his mother's door.
Her voice said immediately, "Come in."
Mrs Transome was resting in her easy-chair, as she often did between an 
afternoon walk and dinner. She had taken off her walking-dress and wrapped 
herself in a soft dressinggown. She was neither more nor less empty of joy 
than usual. But when she saw Harold, a dreadful certainty took possession 
of her. It was as if a long-expected letter, with a black seal, had come at 
last.
Harold's face told her what to fear the more decisively, because she had 
never before seen it express a man's deep agitation. Since the time of its 
pouting childhood and careless youth she had seen only the confident 
strength and good-humoured imperiousness of maturity. The last five hours 
had made a change as great as illness makes. Harold looked as if he had 
been wrestling, and had had some terrible blow. His eyes had that sunken 
look which, because it is unusual, seems to intensify expression.
He looked at his mother as he entered, and her eyes followed him as he 
moved, till he came and stood in front of her, she looking up at him, with 
white lips.
"Mother," he said, speaking with a distant slowness, in strange contrast 
with his habitual manner, "tell me the truth, that I may know how to act."
He paused a moment, and then said, "Who is my father?"
She was mute: her lips only trembled. Harold stood silent for a few 
moments, as if waiting. Then he spoke again.
"He has said - said it before others - that he is my father."
He looked still at his mother. She seemed as if age was striking her with a 
sudden wand - as if her trembling face were getting haggard before him. She 
was mute. But her eyes had not fallen; they looked up in helpless misery at 
her son.









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Chapter 49

Nay, falter not-'tis an assured good
To seek the noblest-'tis your only good
Now you have seen it; for that higher vision
Poisons all meaner choice for evermore.

That day Esther dined with old Mr Transome only. Harold sent word that he 
was engaged and had already dined, and Mrs Transome that she was feeling 
ill. Esther was much disappointed that any tidings Harold might have 
brought relating to Felix were deferred in this way; and, her anxiety 
making her fearful, she was haunted by the thought that if there had been 
anything cheering to tell, he would have found time to tell it without 
delay. Old Mr Transome went as usual to his sofa in the library to sleep 
after dinner, and Esther had to seat herself in the small drawing-room, in 
a well-lit solitude that was unusually dispiriting to her. Pretty as this 
room was, she did not like it. Mrs Transome's full-length portrait, being 
the only picture there, urged itself too strongly on her attention: the 
youthful brilliancy it represented saddened Esther by its inevitable 
association with what she daily saw had come instead of it - a joyless, 
embittered age. The sense that Mrs Transome was unhappy, affected Esther 
more and more deeply as the growing familiarity which relaxed the efforts 
of the hostess revealed more and more the threadbare tissue of this 
majestic lady's life. Even the flowers and the pure sunshine and the sweet 
waters of Paradise would have been spoiled for a young heart, if the 
bowered walks had been haunted by an Eve gone grey with bitter memories of 
an Adam who had complained, "The woman... she gave me of the tree, and I 
did eat." And many of us know how, even in our childhood, some blank 
discontented face on the background of our home has marred our summer 
mornings. Why was it, when the birds were singing, when the fields were a 
garden, and when we were clasping another little hand just larger than our 
own, there was somebody who found it hard to smile? Esther had got far 
beyond that childhood to a time and circumstances when this daily presence 
of elderly dissatisfaction amidst such outward things as she had always 
thought must greatly help to satisfy, awaked, not merely vague questioning 
emotion, but strong determining thought. And now, in these hours since her 
return from Loamford, her mind was in that state of highly-wrought 
activity, that large discourse, in which we seem to stand aloof from our 
own life-weighing impartially our own temptations and the weak desires that 
most habitually solicit us. "I think I am getting that power Felix wished 
me to have: I shall soon see strong visions," she said to herself, with a 
melancholy smile flitting across her face, as she put out the wax lights 
that she might get rid of the oppressive urgency of walls and upholstery 
and that portrait smiling with deluded brightness, unwitting of the future. 
Just then Dominic came to say that Mr Harold sent his compliments, and 
begged that she would grant him an interview in his study. He disliked the 
small drawing-room: if she would oblige him by going to the study at once, 
he would join her very soon. Esther went, in some wonder and anxiety. What 
she most feared or hoped in these moments related to Felix Holt, and it did 
not occur to her that Harold could have anything special to say to her that 
evening on other subjects. 
Certainly the study was pleasanter than the small drawing-room. A quiet 
light shone on nothing but greenness and dark wood, and Dominic had placed 
a delightful chair for her opposite to his master's, which was still empty. 
All the little objects of luxury around indicated Harold's habitual 
occupancy; and as Esther sat opposite all these things along with the empty 
chair which suggested the coming presence, the expectation of his 
beseeching homage brought with it an impatience and repugnance which she 
had never felt before. While these feelings were strongly upon her, the 
door opened and Harold appeared. 
He had recovered his self-possession since his interview with his mother: 
he had dressed, and was perfectly calm. He had been occupied with resolute 
thoughts, determining to do what he knew that perfect honour demanded, let 
it cost him what it would. It is true he had a tacit hope behind, that it 
might not cost him what he prized most highly: it is true he had a glimpse 
even of reward; but it was not less true that he would have acted as he did 
without that hope or glimpse. It was the most serious moment in Harold 
Transome's life: for the first time the iron had entered into his soul, and 
he felt the hard pressure of our common lot, the yoke of that mighty 
resistless destiny laid upon us by the acts of other men as well as our 
own. 
When Esther looked at him she relented, and felt ashamed of her gratuitous 
impatience. She saw that his mind was in some way burdened. But then 
immediately sprang the dread that he had to say something hopeless about 
Felix. 
They shook hands in silence, Esther looking at him with anxious surprise. 
He released her hand, but it did not occur to her to sit down, and they 
both continued standing on the hearth. 
"Don't let me alarm you," said Harold, seeing that her face gathered 
solemnity from his. "I suppose I carry the marks of a past agitation. It 
relates entirely to troubles of my own - of my own family. No one beyond is 
involved in them." 
Esther wondered still more, and felt still more relenting. 
"But," said Harold, after a slight pause, and in a voice that was weighted 
with new feeling, "it involves a difference in my position with regard to 
you; and it is on this point that I wished to speak to you at once. When a 
man sees what ought to be done, he had better do it forthwith. He can't 
answer for himself tomorrow." 
While Esther continued to look at him, with eyes widened by anxious 
expectation, Harold turned a little, leaned on the mantelpiece, and ceased 
to look at her as he spoke. 
"My feelings drag me another way. I need not tell you that your regard has 
become very important to me - that if our mutual position had been 
different - that, in short, you must have seen - if it had not seemed to be 
a matter of worldly interest, I should have told you plainly already that I 
loved you, and that my happiness could be complete only if you would 
consent to marry me." 
Esther felt her heart beginning to beat painfully. Harold's voice and words 
moved her so much that her own task seemed more difficult than she had 
before imagined. It seemed as if the silence, unbroken by anything but the 
clicking of the fire, had been long, before Harold turned round towards her 
again and said - 
"But today I have heard something that affects my own position. I cannot 
tell you what it is. There is no need. It is not any culpability of my own. 
But I have not just the same unsullied name and fame in the eyes of the 
world around us, as I believed that I had when I allowed myself to 
entertain that wish about you. You are very young, entering on a fresh life 
with bright prospects - you are worthy of everything that is best. I may be 
too vain in thinking it was at all necessary; but I take this precaution 
against myself. I shut myself out from the chance of trying, after today, 
to induce you to accept anything which others may regard as specked and 
stained by any obloquy, however slight." 
Esther was keenly touched. With a paradoxical longing, such as often 
happens to us, she wished at that moment that she could have loved this man 
with her whole heart. The tears came into her eyes; she did not speak, but, 
with an angel's tenderness in her face, she laid her hand on his sleeve. 
Harold commanded himself strongly, and said - 
"What is to be done now is, that we should proceed at once to the necessary 
legal measures for putting you in possession of your own, and arranging 
mutual claims. After that I shall probably leave England." 
Esther was oppressed by an overpowering difficulty. Her sympathy with 
Harold at this moment was so strong, that it spread itself like a mist over 
all previous thought and resolve. It was impossible now to wound him 
afresh. With her hand still resting on his arm, she said timidly - 
"Should you be urged - obliged to go - in any case?"
"Not in every case, perhaps," Harold said, with an evident movement of the 
blood towards his face; "at least not for long, not for always." 
Esther was conscious of the gleam in his eyes. With terror at herself, she 
said, in difficult haste, "I can't speak. I can't say anything tonight. A 
great decision has to be made: I must wait - till tomorrow." 
She was moving her hand from his arm, when Harold took it reverentially and 
raised it to his lips. She turned towards her chair, and as he released her 
hand she sank down on the seat with a sense that she needed that support. 
She did not want to go away from Harold yet. All the while there was 
something she needed to know, and yet she could not bring herself to ask 
it. She must resign herself to depend entirely on his recollection of 
anything beyond his own immediate trial. She sat helpless under contending 
sympathies, while Harold stood at some distance from her, feeling more 
harassed by weariness and uncertainty, now that he had fulfilled his 
resolve, and was no longer under the excitement of actually fulfilling it. 
Esther's last words had forbidden his revival of the subject that was 
necessarily supreme with him. But still she sat there, and his mind, busy 
as to the probabilities of her feeling, glanced over all she had done and 
said in the later days of their intercourse. It was this retrospect that 
led him to say at last - " You will be glad to hear that we shall get a 
very powerfully signed memorial to the Home Secretary about young Holt. I 
think your speaking for him helped a great deal. You made all the men wish 
what you wished." 
This was what Esther had been yearning to hear and dared not ask, as well 
from respect for Harold's absorption in his own sorrow, as from the 
shrinking that belongs to our dearest need. The intense relief of hearing 
what she longed to hear, affected her whole frame: her colour, her 
expression, changed as if she had been suddenly freed from some torturing 
constraint. But we interpret signs of emotion as we interpret other signs - 
often quite erroneously, unless we have the right key to what they signify. 
Harold did not gather that this was what Esther had waited for, or that the 
change in her indicated more than he had expected her to feel at this 
allusion to an unusual act which she had done under a strong impulse. 
Besides, the introduction of a new subject after very momentous words have 
passed, and are still dwelling on the mind, is necessarily a sort of 
concussion, shaking us into a new adjustment of ourselves. 
It seemed natural that soon afterward Esther put out her hand and said, 
"Good-night." 
Harold went to his bedroom on the same level with this study, thinking of 
the morning with an uncertainty that dipped on the side of hope. This sweet 
woman, for whom he felt a passion newer than any he had expected to feel, 
might possibly make some hard things more bearable - if she loved him. If 
not - well, he had acted so that he could defy any one to say he was not a 
gentleman. 
Esther went upstairs to her bedroom, thinking that she should not sleep 
that night. She set her light on a high stand, and did not touch her dress. 
What she desired to see with undisturbed clearness were things not present: 
the rest she needed was the rest of a final choice. It was difficult. On 
each side there was renunciation. 
She drew up her blinds, liking to see the grey sky, where there were some 
veiled glimmerings of moonlight, and the lines of the for-ever running 
river, and the bending movement of the black trees. She wanted the 
largeness of the world to help her thought. This young creature, who trod 
lightly backward and forward, and leaned against the window-frame, and 
shook back her brown curls as she looked at something not visible, had 
lived hardly more than six months since she saw Felix Holt for the first 
time. But life is measured by the rapidity of change, the succession of 
influences that modify the being; and Esther had undergone something little 
short of an inward revolution. The revolutionary struggle, however, was not 
quite at an end. 
There was something which she now felt profoundly to be the best thing that 
life could give her. But - if it was to be had at all - it was not to be 
had without paying a heavy price for it, such as we must pay for all that 
is greatly good. A supreme love, a motive that gives a sublime rhythm to a 
woman's life, and exalts habit into partnership with the soul's highest 
needs, is not to be had where and how she wills: to know that high 
initiation, she must often tread where it is hard to tread, and feel the 
chill air, and watch through darkness. It is not true that love makes all 
things easy: it makes us choose what is difficult. Esther's previous life 
had brought her into close acquaintance with many negations, and with many 
positive ills too, not of the acutely painful, but of the distasteful sort. 
What if she chose the hardship, and had to bear it alone, with no strength 
to lean upon - no other better self to make a place for trust and joy? Her 
past experience saved her from illusions. She knew the dim life of the back 
street, the contact with sordid vulgarity, the lack of refinement for the 
senses, the summons to a daily task; and the gain that was to make that 
life of privation something on which she dreaded to turn her back, as if it 
were heaven - the presence and the love of Felix Holt - was only a 
quivering hope, not a certainty. It was not in her woman's nature that the 
hope should not spring within her and make a strong impulse. She knew that 
he loved her: had he not said how a woman might help a man if she were 
worthy? and if she proved herself worthy? But still there was the dread 
that after all she might find herself on the stony road alone, and faint 
and be weary. Even with the fulfilment of her hope, she knew that she 
pledged herself to meet high demands. 
And on the other side there was a lot where everything seemed easy - but 
for the fatal absence of those feelings which, now she had once known them, 
it seemed nothing less than a fall and a degradation to do without. With a 
terrible prescience which a multitude of impressions during her stay at 
Transome Court had contributed to form, she saw herself in a silken bondage 
that arrested all motive, and was nothing better than a well-cushioned 
despair. To be restless amidst ease, to be languid among all appliances for 
pleasure, was a possibility that seemed to haunt the rooms of this house, 
and wander with her under the oaks and elms of the park. And Harold 
Transome's love, no longer a hovering fancy with which she played, but 
become a serious fact, seemed to threaten her with a stifling oppression. 
The homage of a man may be delightful until he asks straight for love, by 
which a woman renders homage. Since she and Felix had kissed each other in 
the prison, she felt as if she had vowed herself away, as if memory lay on 
her lips like a seal of possession. Yet what had happened that very evening 
had strengthened her liking for Harold, and her care for all that regarded 
him: it had increased her repugnance to turning him out of anything he had 
expected to be his, or to snatching anything from him on the ground of an 
arbitrary claim. It had even made her dread, as a coming pain, the task of 
saying anything to him that was not a promise of the utmost comfort under 
this newly-disclosed trouble of his. 
It was already near midnight, but with these thoughts succeeding and 
returning in her mind like scenes through which she was living, Esther had 
a more intense wakefulness than any she had known by day. All had been 
stillness hitherto, except the fitful wind outside. But her ears now caught 
a sound within - slight, but sudden. She moved near her door, and heard the 
sweep of something on the matting outside. It came closer, and paused. Then 
it began again, and seemed to sweep away from her. Then it approached, and 
paused as it had done before. Esther listened, wondering. The same thing 
happened again and again, till she could bear it no longer. She opened her 
door, and in the dim light of the corridor, where the glass above seemed to 
make a glimmering sky, she saw Mrs Transome's tall figure pacing slowly, 
with her cheek upon her hand.




Chapter 50

"The great question in life is the suffering we cause; and the utmost 
ingenuity of metaphysics cannot justify the man who has pierced the heart 
that loved him."-Benjamin Constant. 

When Denner had gone up to her mistress's room to dress her for dinner, she 
had found her seated just as Harold had found her, only with eyelids 
drooping and trembling over slowly rolling tears - nay, with a face in 
which every sensitive feature, every muscle, seemed to be quivering with a 
silent endurance of some agony. 
Denner went and stood by the chair a minute without speaking, only laying 
her hand gently on Mrs Transome's. At last she said, beseechingly, "Pray 
speak, madam. What has happened?"
"The worst, Denner - the worst." 
"You are ill. Let me undress you, and put you to bed." 
"No, I am not ill. I am not going to die! I shall live - I shall live!"
"What may I do?"
"Go and say I shall not dine. Then you may come back, if you will." 
The patient waiting-woman came back and sat by her mistress in motionless 
silence. Mrs Transome would not let her dress be touched, and waved away 
all proffers with a slight movement of her hand. Denner dared not even 
light a candle without being told. At last, when the evening was far gone, 
Mrs Transome said - 
"Go down, Denner, and find out where Harold is, and come back and tell me." 
"Shall I ask him to come to you, madam?"
"No; don't dare to do it, if you love me. Come back." 
Denner brought word that Mr Harold was in his study, and that Miss Lyon was 
with him. He had not dined, but had sent later to ask Miss Lyon to go into 
his study. 
"Light the candles and leave me." 
"Mayn't I come again?"
"No. It may be that my son will come to me."
"Mayn't I sleep on the little bed in your bedroom?"
"No, good Denner; I am not ill. You can't help me." 
"That's the hardest word of all, madam." 
"The time will come - but not now. Kiss me. Now go." 
The small quiet old woman obeyed, as she had always done. She shrank from 
seeming to claim an equal's share in her mistress's sorrow. 
For two hours Mrs Transome's mind hung on what was hardly a hope - hardly 
more than the listening for a bare possibility. She began to create the 
sounds that her anguish craved to hear - began to imagine a footfall, and a 
hand upon the door. Then, checked by continual disappointment, she tried to 
rouse a truer consciousness by rising from her seat and walking to her 
window, where she saw streaks of light moving and disappearing on the 
grass, and the sound of bolts and closing doors. She hurried away and threw 
herself into her seat again, and buried her head in the deafening down of 
the cushions. There was no sound of comfort for her. 
Then her heart cried out within her against the cruelty of this son. When 
he turned from her in the first moment, he had not had time to feel 
anything but the blow that had fallen on himself. But afterwards - was it 
possible that he should not be touched with a son's pity - was it possible 
that he should not have been visited by some thought of the long years 
through which she had suffered? The memory of those years came back to her 
now with a protest against the cruelty that had all fallen on her. She 
started up with a new restlessness from this spirit of resistance. She was 
not penitent. She had borne too hard a punishment. Always the edge of 
calamity had fallen on her. Who had felt for her? She was desolate. God had 
no pity, else her son would not have been so hard. What dreary future was 
there after this dreary past? She, too, looked out into the dim night; but 
the black boundary of trees and the long line of the river seemed only part 
of the loneliness and monotony of her life. 
Suddenly she saw a light on the stone balustrades of the balcony that 
projected in front of Esther's window, and the flash of a moving candle 
falling on a shrub below. Esther was still awake and up. What had Harold 
told her - what had passed between them? Harold was fond of this young 
creature, who had been always sweet and reverential to her. There was mercy 
in her young heart; she might be a daughter who had no impulse to punish 
and to strike her whom fate had stricken, On the dim loneliness before her 
she seemed to see Esther's gentle look; it was possible still that the 
misery of this night might be broken by some comfort. The proud woman 
yearned for the caressing pity that must dwell in that young bosom. She 
opened her door gently, but when she had reached Esther's she hesitated. 
She had never yet in her life asked for compassion - had never thrown 
herself in faith on an unproffered love. And she might have gone on pacing 
the corridor like an uneasy spirit without a goal, if Esther's thought, 
leaping towards her, had not saved her from the need to ask admission. 
Mrs Transome was walking towards the door when it opened. As Esther saw 
that image of restless misery, it blent itself by a rapid flash with all 
that Harold had said in the evening. She divined that the son's new trouble 
must be one with the mother's long sadness. But there was no waiting. In an 
instant Mrs Transome felt Esther's arm round her neck, and a voice saying 
softly - 
"O why didn't you call me before?"
They turned hand in hand into the room, and sat down together on a sofa at 
the foot of the bed. The disordered grey hair - the haggard face - the 
reddened eyelids under which the tears seemed to be coming again with pain, 
pierced Esther to the heart. A passionate desire to soothe this suffering 
woman came over her. She clung round her again, and kissed her poor 
quivering lips and eyelids, and laid her young cheek against the pale and 
haggard one. Words could not be quick or strong enough to utter her 
yearning. As Mrs Transome felt that soft clinging, she said - 
"God has some pity on me." 
"Rest on my bed," said Esther. "You are so tired. I will cover you up 
warmly, and then you will sleep." 
"No - tell me, dear - tell me what Harold said," 
"That he has had some new trouble." 
"He said nothing hard about me?"
"No - nothing. He did not mention you." 
"I have been an unhappy woman, dear." 
"I feared it," said Esther, pressing her gently. 
"Men are selfish. They are selfish and cruel. What they care for is their 
own pleasure and their own pride." 
"Not all," said Esther, on whom these words fell with a painful jar. 
"All I have ever loved," said Mrs Transome. She paused a moment or two, and 
then said, "For more than twenty years I have not had an hour's happiness. 
Harold knows it, and yet he is hard to me." 
"He will not be. Tomorrow he will not be. I am sure he will be good," said 
Esther, pleadingly. "Remember - he said to me his trouble was new - he has 
not had time." 
"It is too hard to bear, dear," Mrs Transome said, a new sob rising as she 
clung fast to Esther in return. "I am old, and expect so little now - a 
very little thing would seem great. Why should I be punished any more?"
Esther found it difficult to speak. The dimly-suggested tragedy of this 
woman's life, the dreary waste of years empty of sweet trust and affection, 
afflicted her even to horror. It seemed to have come as a last vision to 
urge her towards the life where the draughts of joy sprang from the 
unchanging fountains of reverence and devout love. 
But all the more she longed to still the pain of this heart that beat 
against hers. 
"Do let me go to your own room with you, and let me undress you, and let me 
tend upon you," she said, with a woman's gentle instinct. "It will be a 
very great thing to me. I shall seem to have a mother again. Do let me." 
Mrs Transome yielded at last, and let Esther soothe her with a daughter's 
tendance. She was undressed and went to bed; and at last dozed fitfully, 
with frequent starts. But Esther watched by her till the chills of morning 
came, and then she only wrapped more warmth around her, and slept fast in 
the chair till Denner's movement in the room roused her. She started out of 
a dream in which she was telling Felix what had happened to her that night. 
Mrs Transome was now in the sounder morning sleep which sometimes comes 
after a long night of misery. Esther beckoned Denner into the dressing-
room, and said - 
"It is late, Mrs Hickes. Do you think Mr Harold is out of his room?"
"Yes, a long while; he was out earlier than usual." 
"Will you ask him to come up here? Say I begged you." 
When Harold entered, Esther was leaning against the back of the empty chair 
where yesterday he had seen his mother sitting. He was in a state of wonder 
and suspense, and when Esther approached him and gave him her hand, he 
said, in a startled way - 
"Good God! how ill you look! Have you been sitting up with my mother?"
"Yes. She is asleep now," said Esther. They had merely pressed hands by way 
of greeting, and now stood apart looking at each other solemnly. 
"Has she told you anything?" said Harold. 
"No - only that she is wretched. O, I think I would bear a great deal of 
unhappiness to save her from having any more." 
A painful thrill passed through Harold, and showed itself in his face with 
that pale rapid flash which can never be painted. Esther pressed her hands 
together, and said, timidly, though it was from an urgent prompting - 
"There is nothing in all this place - nothing since ever I came here - I 
could care for so much as that you should sit down by her now, and that she 
should see you when she wakes." 
Then with delicate instinct, she added, just laying her hand on his sleeve, 
"I know you would have come. I know you meant it. But she is asleep now. Go 
gently before she wakes." 
Harold just laid his right hand for an instant on the back of Esther's as 
it rested on his sleeve, and then stepped softly to his mother's bedside. 
An hour afterwards, when Harold had laid his mother's pillow afresh, and 
sat down again by her, she said - 
"If that dear thing will marry you, Harold, it will make up to you for a 
great deal." 
But before the day closed Harold knew that this was not to be. That young 
presence, which had flitted like a white new winged dove over all the 
saddening relics and new finery of Transome Court, could not find its home 
there. Harold heard from Esther's lips that she loved some one else, and 
that she resigned all claim to the Transome estates. 
She wished to go back to her father.




Chapter 51

The maiden said, I wis the londe
	Is very fair to see,
But my true-love that is in bonde
	Is fairer still to me.

 One April day, when the sun shone on the lingering rain-drops, Lyddy was 
gone out, and Esther chose to sit in the kitchen, in the wicker chair 
against the white table, between the fire and the window. The kettle was 
singing, and the clock was ticking steadily towards four o'clock. 
She was not reading, but stitching; and as her fingers moved nimbly, 
something played about her parted lips like a ray. Suddenly she laid down 
her work, pressed her hands together on her knees, and bent forward a 
little. The next moment there came a loud rap at the door. She started up 
and opened it, but kept herself hidden behind it. 
"Mr Lyon at home?" said Felix, in his firm tones. 
"No, sir," said Esther from behind her screen; "but Miss Lyon is, if you'll 
please to walk in." 
"Esther!" exclaimed Felix, amazed. 
They held each other by both hands, and looked into each other's faces with 
delight. 
"You are out of prison?"
"Yes, till I do something bad again. But you? - how is it all?"
"Oh, it is," said Esther, smiling brightly as she moved towards the wicker 
chair, and seated herself again, "that everything is as usual: my father is 
gone to see the sick; Lyddy is gone in deep despondency to buy the grocery; 
and I am sitting here, with some vanity in me, needing to be scolded." 
Felix had seated himself on a chair that happened to be near her, at the 
corner of the table. He looked at her still with questioning eyes - he 
grave, she mischievously smiling. 
"Are you come back to live here then?"
"Yes." 
"You are not going to be married to Harold Transome, or to be rich?"
 "No." Something made Esther take up her work again, and begin to stitch. 
The smiles were dying into a tremor. 
"Why?" said Felix, in rather a low tone, leaning his elbow on the table, 
and resting his head on his hand while he looked at her. 
"I did not wish to marry him, or to be rich." 
"You have given it all up?" said Felix, leaning forward a little, and 
speaking in a still lower tone. 
Esther did not speak. They heard the kettle singing and the clock loudly 
ticking. There was no knowing how it was: Esther's work fell, their eyes 
met; and the next instant their arms were round each other's necks, and 
once more they kissed each other. 
When their hands fell again, their eyes were bright with tears Felix laid 
his hand on her shoulder. 
"Could you share the life of a poor man, then, Esther?"
"If I thought well enough of him," she said, the smile coming again, with 
the pretty saucy movement of her head. 
"Have you considered well what it would be? - that it will be a very bare 
and simple life?"
"Yes - without atta of roses." 
Felix suddenly removed his hand from her shoulder, rose from his chair, and 
walked a step or two; then he turned round and said, with deep gravity - 
"And the people I shall live among, Esther? They have not just the same 
follies and vices as the rich, but they have their own forms of folly and 
vice; and they have not what are called the refinements of the rich to make 
their faults more bearable. I don't say more bearable to me - I'm not fond 
of those refinements; but you are." 
Felix paused an instant, and then added - 
"It is very serious, Esther." 
"I know it is serious," said Esther, looking up at him. "Since I have been 
at Transome Court I have seen many things very seriously. If I had not, I 
should not have left what I did leave. I made a deliberate choice." 
Felix stood a moment or two, dwelling on her with a face where the gravity 
gathered tenderness. 
"And these curls?" he said, with a sort of relenting, seating himself 
again, and putting his hand on them. 
"They cost nothing - they are natural." 
"You are such a delicate creature." 
"I am very healthy. Poor women, I think, are healthier than the rich. 
Besides," Esther went on, with a mischievous meaning, "I think of having 
some wealth." 
"How?" said Felix, with an anxious start. "What do you mean?"
"I think even of two pounds a week: one needn't live up to the splendour of 
all that, you know; we might live as simply as you liked: there would be 
money to spare, and you could do wonders, and be obliged to work too, only 
not if sickness came. And then I think of a little income for your mother, 
enough for her to live as she has been used to live; and a little income 
for my father, to save him from being dependent when he is no longer able 
to preach." 
Esther said all this in a playful tone, but she ended, with a grave look of 
appealing submission - 
"I mean - if you approve. I wish to do what you think it will be right to 
do." 
Felix put his hand on her shoulder again and reflected a little while, 
looking on the hearth: then he said, lifting up his eyes, with a smile at 
her - 
"Why, I shall be able to set up a great library, and lend the books to be 
dog's-eared and marked with bread-crumbs." 
Esther said, laughing, "You think you are to do everything. You don't know 
how clever I am. I mean to go on teaching a great many things." 
"Teaching me?"
"Oh yes," she said, with a little toss; "I shall improve your French 
accent." 
"You won't want me to wear a stock?" said Felix, with a defiant shake of 
the head. 
"No; and you will not attribute stupid thoughts to me before I've uttered 
them." 
They laughed merrily, each holding the other's arms, like girl and boy. 
There was the ineffable sense of youth in common. 
Then Felix leaned forward, that their lips might meet again, and after that 
his eyes roved tenderly over her face and curls. 
"I'm a rough, severe fellow, Esther. Shall you never repent? - never be 
inwardly reproaching me that I was not a man who could have shared your 
wealth? Are you quite sure?"
"Quite sure!" said Esther, shaking her head; "for then I should have 
honoured you less. I am weak - my husband must be greater and nobler than I 
am."
"O, I tell you what, though!" said Felix, starting up, thrusting his hands 
into his pockets, and creasing his brow playfully, "if you take me in that 
way I shall be forced to be a much better fellow than I ever thought of 
being." 
"I call that retribution," said Esther, with a laugh as sweet as the 
morning thrush.




 Epilogue

Our finest hope is finest memory; And those who love in age think youth is 
happy, Because it has a life to fill with love. 
The very next May, Felix and Esther were married. Every one in those days 
was married at the parish church; but Mr Lyon was not satisfied without an 
additional private solemnity, "wherein there was no bondage to questionable 
forms, so that he might have a more enlarged utterance of joy and 
supplication." 
It was a very simple wedding; but no wedding, even the gayest, ever raised 
so much interest and debate in Treby Magna. Even very great people, like 
Sir Maximus and his family, went to the church to look at this bride, who 
had renounced wealth and chosen to be the wife of a man who said he would 
always be poor. 
Some few shook their heads; could not quite believe it; and thought there 
was "more behind." But the majority of honest Trebians were affected 
somewhat in the same way as happy looking Mr Wace was, who observed to his 
wife, as they walked from under the churchyard chestnuts, "It's wonderful 
how things go through you - you don't know how. I feel somehow as if I 
believed more in everything that's good." 
Mrs Holt that day, said she felt herself to be receiving "some reward," 
implying that justice certainly had much more in reserve. Little Job Tudge 
had an entirely new suit, of which he fingered every separate brass button 
in a way that threatened an arithmetical mania; and Mrs Holt had out her 
best tea trays and put down her carpet again, with the satisfaction of 
thinking that there would no more be boys coming in all weathers with dirty 
shoes. 
For Felix and Esther did not take up their abode in Treby Magna; and after 
a while Mr Lyon left the town too, and joined them where they dwelt. On his 
resignation the church in Malthouse Yard chose a successor to him whose 
doctrine was rather higher. 
There were other departures from Treby. Mr Jermyn's establishment was 
broken up, and he was understood to have gone to reside at a great 
distance: some said "abroad," that large home of ruined reputations. Mr 
Johnson continued blond and sufficiently prosperous till he got grey and 
rather more prosperous. Some persons, who did not think highly of him, held 
that his prosperity was a fact to be kept in the background, as being 
dangerous to the morals of the young; judging that it was not altogether 
creditable to the Divine Providence that anything but virtue should be 
rewarded by a front and back drawing-room in Bedford Row. 
As for Mr Christian, he had no more profitable secrets at his disposal. But 
he got his thousand pounds from Harold Transome. 
The Transome family were absent for some time from Transome Court. The 
place was kept up and shown to visitors, but not by Denner, who was away 
with her mistress After a while the family came back, and Mrs Transome died 
there. Sir Maximus was at her funeral, and throughout that neighbourhood 
there was silence about the past. 
Uncle Lingon continued to watch over the shooting on the Manor and the 
covers until that event occurred which he had predicted as a part of Church 
reform sure to come. Little Treby had a new rector, but others were sorry 
besides the old pointers. 
As to all that wide parish of Treby Magna, it has since prospered as the 
rest of England has prospered. Doubtless there is more enlightenment now. 
Whether the farmers are all public-spirited, the shopkeepers nobly 
independent, the Sproxton men entirely sober and judicious, the Dissenters 
quite without narrowness or asperity in religion and politics, and the 
publicans all fit, like Gaius, to be the friends of an apostle - these 
things I have not heard, not having correspondence in those parts. Whether 
any presumption may be drawn from the fact that North Loamshire does not 
yet return a Radical candidate, I leave to the all-wise - I mean the 
newspapers. 
As to the town in which Felix Holt now resides, I will keep that a secret, 
lest he should be troubled by any visitor having the insufferable motive of 
curiosity. 
I will only say that Esther has never repented. Felix, however, grumbles a 
little that she has made his life too easy, and that, if it were not for 
much walking, he should be a sleek dog. 
There is a young Felix, who has a great deal more science than his father, 
but not much more money.