Luke Rowan had been told that Mrs Butler Cornbury wished to see him when the election should be over; and on the evening of the election the victorious candidate, before he returned home, asked Luke to come to the Grange on the following Monday and stay till the next Wednesday. Now it must be understood that Rowan during this period of the election had become, in a public way, very intimate with Cornbury. They were both young men, the new Member of Parliament not being over thirty, and for the time they were together employed on the same matter. Luke Rowan was one with whom such a man as Mr Cornbury could not zealously co-operate without reaching a considerable extent of personal intimacy. He was pleasant-mannered, free in speech, with a bold eye, assuming though not asserting his equality with the best of those with whom he might be brought in contact. Had Cornbury chosen to consider himself by reason of his social station too high for Rowan’s fellowship, he might of course have avoided him; but he could not have put himself into close contact with the man, without submitting himself to that temporary equality which Rowan assumed, and to that temporary familiarity which sprung from it. Butler Cornbury had thought little about it. He had found Rowan to be a pleasant associate and an able assistant, and had fallen into that mode of fellowship which the other man’s ways and words had made natural to him. When his wife begged him to ask Rowan up to the Grange, he had been startled for a moment, but had at once assented.
“Well,” said he; “he’s an uncommon pleasant fellow. I don’t see why he shouldn’t come.”
“I’ve a particular reason,” said Mrs Butler.
“All right,” said the husband. “Do you explain it to my father.” And so the invitation had been given.
But Rowan was a man more thoughtful than Cornbury, and was specially thoughtful as to his own position. He was a radical at heart if ever there was a radical. But in saying this I must beg my reader to understand that a radical is not necessarily a revolutionist or even a republican. He does not, by reason of his social or political radicalism, desire the ruin of thrones, the degradation of nobles, the spoliation of the rich, or even the downfall of the bench of bishops. Many a young man is frightened away from the just conclusions of his mind and the strong convictions of his heart by dread of being classed with those who are jealous of the favoured ones of fortune. A radical may be as ready as any aristocrat to support the crown with his blood, and the church with his faith. It is in this that he is a radical; that he desires, expects, works for, and believes in, the gradual progress of the people. No doctrine of equality is his. Liberty he must have, and such position, high or low, for himself and others, as each man’s individual merits will achieve for him. The doctrine of outward equality he eschews as a barrier to all ambition, and to all improvement. The idea is as mean as the thing is impracticable. But within — is it in his soul or in his heart? — within his breast there is a manhood that will own no inferiority to the manhood of another. He retires to a corner that an earl with his suite may pass proudly through the doorway, and he grudges the earl nothing of his pride. It is the earl’s right. But he also has his right; and neither queen, nor earl, nor people shall invade it. That is the creed of a radical.
Rowan, as I have said, was a man thoughtful as to his own position. He had understood well the nature of the league between himself and Butler Cornbury. It was his intention to become a brewer in Baslehurst; and a brewer in Baslehurst would by no means be as the mighty brewers of great name, who marry lords’ daughters, and give their daughters in marriage to mighty lords. He would simply be a tradesman in the town. It might well be that he should not find the society of the Tappitts and the Griggses much to his taste, but such as it was he would make the best of it. At any rate he would make no attempt to force his way into other society. If others came to him let that be their look out. Now, when Cornbury asked him thus to come to Cornbury Grange, as though they two were men living in the same class of life — as though they were men who might be bound together socially in their homes as well as politically on the hustings, the red colour came to his face and he hesitated for a moment in his answer.
“You are very kind,” said he.
“Oh! you must come,” said Cornbury. “My wife particularly desires it.”
“She is very kind,” said he. “But if you ask all your supporters over to the Grange you’ll get rather a mixed lot.”
“I suppose I should; but I don’t mean to do that. I shall be very glad, however, to see you — very glad.”
“And I shall be very happy to come,” said Rowan, having again hesitated as he gave his answer.
“I wish I hadn’t promised that I’d go there,” he said to himself afterwards. This was on the Sunday, after evening church — an hour or more after the people had all gone home, and he was sitting on that stile, looking to the west, and thinking, as he looked, of that sunset which he and another had seen as they stood there together. He did wish that he had not undertaken to go to Mr Cornbury’s house. What to him would be the society of such people as he should find there — to him who had laid out for himself a career that would necessarily place his life among other associates? “I’ll send and excuse myself,” he said. “I’ll be called away to Exeter. I have things to do there. I shall only get into a mess by knowing people who will drop me when this ferment of the election is over.” And yet the idea of an intimacy at such a house as Cornbury Grange — with such people as Mrs Butler Cornbury, was very sweet to him; only this, that if he associated with them or such as them it must be on equal terms. He could acknowledge them to be people apart from him, as ice creams and sponge cakes are things apart from the shillingless schoolboy. But as the schoolboy, if brought within the range of cakes and creams, must devour them with unchecked relish, as though his pocket were lined with coin; so must he, Rowan, carry himself with these curled darlings of society if he found himself placed among them. He liked cakes and creams, but had made up his mind that other viands were as wholesome and more comfortably within his reach. Was it worth his while to go to this banquet which would unsettle his taste, and at which perhaps if he sat there at his ease, he might not be wholly welcome? All his thoughts were not noble. He had declared to himself that a certain thing could not be his except at a cost which he would not pay, and yet he hankered for that thing. He had declared to himself that no social position in which he might ever find himself should make a change in him, on his inner self or on his outward manner; and now he feared to go among these people, lest he should find himself an inferior among superiors. It was not all noble; but there was beneath it a basis of nobility. “I will go,” he said at last, fearing that if he did not, there would have been some grain of cowardice in the motives of his action. “If they don’t like me it’s their fault for asking me.”
Of course as he sat there he was thinking of Rachel. Of course he had thought of Rachel daily, almost hourly, since he had been with her at the cottage, when she had bent her head over his shoulder, and submitted to have his arm round her waist. But his thoughts of her were not as hers of him. Nor is it often that a man’s love is like a woman’s — restless, fearful, uncomfortable, sleepless, timid, and all-pervading. Not the less may it be passionate, constant, and faithful. He had been angered by Rachel’s letter to him — greatly angered. Of a truth when Mrs Ray met him in Exeter he had no message to send back to Cawston. He had done his part, and had been rejected — had been rejected too clearly because on the summing up of his merits and demerits at the cottage, his demerits had been found to be the heavier. He did not suspect that the calculation had been made by Rachel herself; and therefore he had never said to himself that all should be over between them. He had never determined that there should be a quarrel between them. But he was angered, and he would stand aloof from her. He would stand aloof from her, and would no longer acknowledge that he was in anyway bound by the words he had spoken. All such bonds she had broken. Nevertheless I think he loved her with a surer love after receiving that letter than he had ever felt before.
He had been here, at this spot, every evening since his return to Baslehurst; and here had thought much of his future life, and something, too, of the days that were past. Looking to the left he could see the trees that stood in front of the old brewery, hiding the building from his eyes. That was the house in which old Bungall had lived, and there Tappitt had lived for the last twenty years. “I suppose”, said he, speaking to himself, “it will be my destiny to live there too, with the vats and beer barrels under my nose. But what farmer ever throve who disliked the muck of his own farmyard?” Then he had thought of Tappitt and of the coming battle, and had laughed as he remembered the scene with the poker. At that moment his eye caught the bright colours of women’s bonnets coming into the field beneath him, and he knew that the Tappitt girls were returning home from their walk. He had retired quickly round the chancel of the church, and had watched, thinking that Rachel would be with them. But Rachel, of course, was not there. He said to himself that they had thrown her off; and said also that the time should come when they should be glad to win from her a kind word and an encouraging smile. His love for Rachel was as true and more strong than ever; but it was of that nature that he was able to tell himself that it had for the present moment been set aside by her act, and that it became him to leave it for a while in abeyance.
“What on earth shall I do with myself all Tuesday?” he said again as he walked away from the churchyard on the Sunday evening. “I don’t know what these people do with themselves when there’s no hunting and shooting. It seems unnatural to me that a man shouldn’t have his bread to earn — or a woman either in some form.” After that he went back to his inn.
On the Monday he went out to Cornbury Grange late in the afternoon. Butler Cornbury drove into Baslehurst with a pair of horses, and took him back in his phaeton.
“Give my fellow your portmanteau. That’s all right. You never were at the Grange, were you? It’s the prettiest five miles of a drive in Devonshire; but the walk along the river is the prettiest walk in England — which is saying a great deal more.”
“I know the walk well,” said Rowan, “though I never was inside the park.”
“It isn’t much of a park. Indeed there isn’t a semblance of a park about it. Grange is just the name for it, as it’s an upper-class sort of homestead for a gentleman farmer. We’ve lived there since long before Adam, but we’ve never made much of a house of it.”
“That’s just the sort of place that I should like to have myself.”
“If you had it you wouldn’t be content. You’d want to pull down the house and build a bigger one. It’s what I shall do some day, I suppose. But if I do it will never be so pretty again. I suppose that fellow will petition; won’t he?”
“I should say he would — though he won’t get anything by it.”
“He knows his purse is longer than ours, and he’ll think to frighten us — and, by George, he will frighten us too! My father is not a rich man by any means.”
“You should stand to your guns now.”
“I mean to do so, if I can. My wife’s father is made of money.”
“What! Mr Comfort?”
“Yes. He’s been blessed with the most surprising number of unmarried uncles and aunts that ever a man had. He’s rather fond of me, and likes the idea of my being in Parliament. I think I shall hint to him that he must pay for the idea. Here we are. Will you come and take a turn round the place before dinner?”
Rowan was then taken into the house and introduced to the old squire, who received him with the stiff urbanity of former days.
“You are welcome to the Grange, Mr Rowan. You’ll find us very quiet here; which is more, I believe, than can have been said of Baslehurst these last two or three days. My daughter-in-law is somewhere with the children. She’ll be here before dinner. Butler, has that tailor fellow gone back to London yet?”
Butler told his father that the tailor had at least gone away from ............