The Commission appointed to examine into the condition of the borough of Percycross cannot exactly be said to have made short work of it, for it sat daily for many consecutive weeks, and examined half the voters in the town; but it made sharp work, and reported to the Speaker of the House such a tale of continual corruption, that all the world knew that the borough would be disfranchised. The glory of Percycross was gone, and in regard to political influence it was to be treated as the cities of the plain, and blotted from off the face of existence. The learned gentlemen who formed the Commission had traced home to Mr. Griffenbottom\'s breeches-pockets large sums of money which had been expended in the borough for purposes of systematised corruption during the whole term of his connection with it;—and yet they were not very hard upon Mr. Griffenbottom personally in their report. He had spent the money no doubt, but had so spent it that at every election it appeared that he had not expected to spend it till the bills were sent to him. He frankly owned that the borough had been ruinous to him; had made a poor man of him,—but assured the Commission at the same time that all this had come from his continued innocence. As every new election came round, he had hoped that that would at least be pure, and had been urgent in his instructions to his agents to that effect. He had at last learned, he said, that he was not a sufficient Hercules to cleanse so foul a stable. All this created no animosity against him in Percycross during the sitting of the Commission. His old friends, the Triggers, and Piles, and Spiveycombs, clung to him as closely as ever. Every man in Percycross knew that the borough was gone, and there really seemed at last to be something of actual gratitude in their farewell behaviour to the man who had treated the place as it liked to be treated. As the end of it all, the borough was undoubtedly to be disfranchised, and Mr. Griffenbottom left it,—a ruined man, indeed, according to his own statement,—but still with his colours flying, and, to a certain extent, triumphantly. So we will leave him, trusting,—or perhaps rather hoping,—that the days of Mr. Griffenbottom are nearly at an end.

His colleague, Sir Thomas, on the occasion of his third visit to Percycross,—a visit which he was constrained to make, sorely against his will, in order that he might give his evidence before the Commission,—remained there but a very short time. But while there he made a clean breast of it. He had gone down to the borough with the most steadfast purpose to avoid corruption; and had done his best in that direction. But he had failed. There had been corruption, for which he had himself paid in part. There had been treating of the grossest kind. Money had been demanded from him since the election, as to the actual destination of which he was profoundly ignorant. He did not, however, doubt but that this money had been spent in the purchase of votes. Sir Thomas was supposed to have betrayed the borough in his evidence, and was hooted out of the town. On this occasion he only remained there one night, and left Percycross for ever, after giving his evidence.

This happened during the second week in May. On his return to London he did not go down to Fulham, but remained at his chambers in a most unhappy frame of mind. This renewed attempt of his to enter the world and to go among men that he might do a man\'s work, had resulted in the loss of a great many hundred pounds, in absolute failure, and, as he wrongly told himself, in personal disgrace. He was almost ashamed to show himself at his club, and did for two days absolutely have his dinner brought to him in his chambers from an eating-house.

"I\'m sure you won\'t like that, Sir Thomas," Stemm had said to him, expostulating, and knowing very well the nature of his master\'s sufferings.

"I don\'t know that I like anything very much," said Sir Thomas.

"I wouldn\'t go and not show my face because of other people\'s roguery," rejoined Stemm, with cruel audacity. Sir Thomas looked at him, but did not answer a word, and Stemm fetched the food.

"Stemm," said Sir Thomas the same evening, "it\'s getting to be fine weather now."

"It\'s fine enough," said Stemm.

"Do you take your nieces down to Southend for an outing. Go down on Thursday and come back on Saturday. I shall be at home. There\'s a five-pound note for the expenses." Stemm slowly took the note, but grunted and grumbled. The girls were nuisances to him, and he didn\'t want to take them an outing. They wouldn\'t care to go before July, and he didn\'t care to go at all. "You can go when you please," said Sir Thomas. Stemm growled and grumbled, and at last left the room with the money.

The morning afterwards Sir Thomas was sitting alone in his room absolutely wretched. He had so managed his life that there seemed to be nothing left to him in it worth the having. He had raised himself to public repute by his intellect and industry, and had then, almost at once, allowed himself to be hustled out of the throng simply because others had been rougher than he,—because other men had pushed and shouldered while he had been quiet and unpretending. Then he had resolved to make up for this disappointment by work of another kind,—by work which would, after all, be more congenial to him. He would go back to the dream of his youth, to the labours of former days, and would in truth write his Life of Bacon. He had then surrounded himself with his papers, had gotten his books together and read up his old notes, had planned chapters and sections, and settled divisions, had drawn up headings, and revelled in those paraphernalia of work which are so dear to would-be working men;—and then nothing had come of it. Of what use was it that he went about ever with a volume in his pocket, and read a page or two as he sat over his wine? When sitting alone in his room he did read; but when reading he knew that he was not working. He went, as it were, round and round the thing, never touching it, till the labour which he longed to commence became so frightful to him that he did not dare to touch it. To do that thing was the settled purpose of his life, and yet, from day to day and from month to month, it became more impossible to him even to make a beginning. There is a misery in this which only they who have endured it can understand. There are idle men who rejoice in idleness. Their name is legion. Idleness, even when it is ruinous, is delightful to them. They revel in it, look forward to it, and almost take a pride in it. When it can be had without pecuniary detriment, it is to such men a thing absolutely good in itself. But such a one was not Sir Thomas Underwood. And there are men who love work, who revel in that, who attack it daily with renewed energy, almost wallowing in it, greedy of work, who go to it almost as the drunkard goes to his bottle, or the gambler to his gaming-table. These are not unhappy men, though they are perhaps apt to make those around them unhappy. But such a one was not Sir Thomas Underwood. And again there are men, fewer in number, who will work though they hate it, from sheer conscience and from conviction that idleness will not suit them or make them happy. Strong men these are;—but such a one certainly was not Sir Thomas Underwood. Then there are they who love the idea of work, but want the fibre needful for the doing it. It may be that such a one will earn his bread as Sir Thomas Underwood had earned his, not flinching from routine task or even from the healthy efforts necessary for subsistence. But there will ever be present to the mind of the ambitious man the idea of something to be done over and above the mere earning of his bread;—and the ambition may be very strong, though the fibre be lacking. Such a one will endure an agony protracted for years, always intending, never performing, self-accusing through every wakeful hour, self-accusing almost through every sleeping hour. The work to be done is close there by the hand, but the tools are loathed, and the paraphernalia of it become hateful. And yet it can never be put aside. It is to be grasped to-morrow, but on every morrow the grasping of it becomes more difficult, more impossible, more revolting. There is no peace, no happiness for such a man;—and such a one was Sir Thomas Underwood.

In this strait he had been tempted to make another effort in political life, and he had made it. There had been no difficulty in this,—only that the work itself had been so disagreeable, and that he had failed in it so egregiously. During his canvass, and in all his intercourse with the Griffenbottomites, he had told himself, falsely, how pleasant to him it would be to return to his books;—how much better for him would be a sedentary life, if he could only bring himself to do, or even attempt to do, the work which he had appointed for himself. Now he had returned to his solitude, had again dragged out his papers, his note-book, his memoranda, his dates, and yet he could not in truth get into his harness, put his neck to the collar, and attempt to drag the burden up the hill.

He was sitting alone in his room in this condition, with a book in his hand of no value to his great purpose, hating himself and wretched, when Stemm opened his door, ushering Patience and Mary Bonner into his room. "Ah, my dears," he said, "what has brought you up to London? I did not think of seeing you here." There was no expression of positive displeasure in his voice, but it was understood by them all, by the daughter, by the cousin, by old Stemm, and by Sir Thomas himself, that such a visit as this was always to be regarded more or less as an intrusion. However, he kissed them both, and handed them chairs, and was more than usually civil to them.

"We do so want to hear about Percycross, papa," said Patience.

"There is nothing to be told about Percycross."

"Are you to stand again, papa?"

"Nobody will ever stand for Percycross again. It will lose its members altogether. The thing is settled."

"And you have had all the trouble for nothing, uncle?" Mary asked.

"All for nothing,—and the expense. But that is a very common thing, and I have no ground of complaint beyond many others."

"It does seem so hard," said Patience.

"So very hard," said Mary. And then they were silent. They had not come without a purpose; but, as is common with young ladies, they kept their purpose for the end of the interview.

"Are you coming home, papa?" Patience asked.

"Well, yes; I won\'t settle any day now, because I am very busy just at present. But I shall be home soon,—very soon."

"I do so hope you\'ll stay some time with us, papa."

"My dear, you know—" And then he stopped, having been pounced upon so suddenly that he had not resolved what excuse he would for the moment put forward. "I\'ve got my papers and things in such confusion here at present,—because of Percycross and the trouble I have had,—that I cannot leave them just now."

"But why not bring the papers with you, papa?"

"My dear, you know I can\'t."

Then there was another pause. "Papa, I think you ought," said Patience. "Indeed I do, for Clary\'s sake,—and ours." But even this was not the subject which had specially brought them on that morning to Southampton Buildings.

"What is there wrong with Clary?" asked Sir Thomas.

"There is nothing wrong," said Patience

"What do you mean then?"

"I think it would be so much more comfortable for her that you should see things as they are going on."

"I declare I don\'t know what she means. Do............