Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope (epub e ink reader .TXT) 📕

that by taking her for a middle-aged woman; but, nevertheless, he was hardly satisfied with himself; “I might give her a heartache yet,” said he to himself, “and she might find afterwards that she was left in the lurch with all her money.” And so he retired, solitary, into a far part of the room, and began to think of Mary Thorne. As he did so, and as his eyes fell upon Miss Dunstable’s stiff curls, he almost shuddered.

And then the ladies retired. His aunt, with a good-natured smile on her face, come to him as she was leaving the room, the last of the bevy, and putting her hand on his arm, led him out into a small unoccupied chamber which opened from the grand saloon.

“Upon my word, Master Frank,” said she, “you seem to be losing no time with the heiress. You have quite made an impression already.”

“I don’t know much about that, aunt,” said he, looking rather sheepish.

“Oh, I declare you have; but, Frank, my dear boy, you should not precipitate these sort of things too much. It is well to take a little more time: it is more valued; and perhaps, you know, on the whole⁠—”

Perhaps Frank might know; but it was clear that Lady de Courcy did not: at any rate, she did not know how to express herself. Had she said out her mind plainly, she would probably have spoken thus: “I want you to make love to Miss Dunstable, certainly; or at any rate to make an offer to her; but you need not make a show of yourself and of her, too, by doing it so openly as all that.” The countess, however, did not want to reprimand her obedient nephew, and therefore did not speak out her thoughts.

“Well?” said Frank, looking up into her face.

“Take a leetle more time⁠—that is all, my dear boy; slow and sure, you know;” so the countess again patted his arm and went away to bed.

“Old fool!” muttered Frank to himself, as he returned to the room where the men were still standing. He was right in this: she was an old fool, or she would have seen that there was no chance whatever that her nephew and Miss Dunstable should become man and wife.

“Well Frank,” said the Honourable John; “so you’re after the heiress already.”

“He won’t give any of us a chance,” said the Honourable George. “If he goes on in that way she’ll be Mrs. Gresham before a month is over. But, Frank, what will she say of your manner of looking for Barchester votes?”

“Mr. Gresham is certainly an excellent hand at canvassing,” said Mr. Nearthewinde; “only a little too open in his manner of proceeding.”

“I got that chorister for you at any rate,” said Frank. “And you would never have had him without me.”

“I don’t think half so much of the chorister’s vote as that of Miss Dunstable,” said the Honourable George: “that’s the interest that is really worth looking after.”

“But, surely,” said Mr. Moffat, “Miss Dunstable has no property in Barchester?” Poor man! his heart was so intent on his election that he had not a moment to devote to the claims of love.

XVII The Election

And now the important day of the election had arrived, and some men’s hearts beat quickly enough. To be or not to be a member of the British Parliament is a question of very considerable moment in a man’s mind. Much is often said of the great penalties which the ambitious pay for enjoying this honour; of the tremendous expenses of elections; of the long, tedious hours of unpaid labour: of the weary days passed in the House; but, nevertheless, the prize is one very well worth the price paid for it⁠—well worth any price that can be paid for it short of wading through dirt and dishonour.

No other great European nation has anything like it to offer to the ambition of its citizens; for in no other great country of Europe, not even in those which are free, has the popular constitution obtained, as with us, true sovereignty and power of rule. Here it is so; and when a man lays himself out to be a member of Parliament, he plays the highest game and for the highest stakes which the country affords.

To some men, born silver-spooned, a seat in Parliament comes as a matter of course. From the time of their early manhood they hardly know what it is not to sit there; and the honour is hardly appreciated, being too much a matter of course. As a rule, they never know how great a thing it is to be in Parliament; though, when reverse comes, as reverses occasionally will come, they fully feel how dreadful it is to be left out.

But to men aspiring to be members, or to those who having been once fortunate have again to fight the battle without assurance of success, the coming election must be matter of dread concern. Oh, how delightful to hear that the long-talked-of rival has declined the contest, and that the course is clear! or to find by a short canvass that one’s majority is safe, and the pleasures of crowing over an unlucky, friendless foe quite secured!

No such gratification as this filled the bosom of Mr. Moffat on the morning of the Barchester election. To him had been brought no positive assurance of success by his indefatigable agent, Mr. Nearthewinde. It was admitted on all sides that the contest would be a very close one; and Mr. Nearthewinde would not do more than assert that they ought to win unless things went very wrong with them.

Mr. Nearthewinde had other elections to attend to, and had not been remaining at Courcy Castle ever since the coming of Miss Dunstable: but he had been there, and at Barchester, as often as possible, and Mr. Moffat was made greatly uneasy by reflecting how very high the bill would be.

The two parties had outdone each other in the loudness of their