Part 23 (1/2)

”Do you suggest,” Hertcomb asked, ”that the Tory party is above seeking gain and advantage where it can?”

”I would never suggest anything of the sort about anyone involved in politics. I do not propose that there is no corruption among Tories. I am, however, asking about the philosophical foundation of your party, not the immoral practice of all parties, and I ask in earnestness.”

Hertcomb quite clearly had nothing to say. He neither knew nor cared what it meant, in principle, to be a Whig, only in practice. At last he muttered something about the Whig party being the king's party.

”If a.s.sociation is of such importance,” I said, ”I should rather you had observed that the Whig party is Miss Dogmill's party, for that is reason enough for any sane man to follow its banners.”

”Mr. Evans attempts to flatter me, but I believe he has, in a way, answered his own question. I choose to support the Whigs because my family has always done so for as long as parties have mattered. The Whigs serve my family and my family serves the Whigs. I cannot say it is the most upstanding of the parties, but I know that none are above reproach; there is a certain pragmatic approach that must be followed. Nevertheless, if I could wish all of these politics and politicians away, I would do so in an instant.”

”So you mislike the very system you serve?” I asked.

”Oh, immensely. But these parties are like great savage lions, Mr. Evans. They stand over you and salivate and lick their lips, and if you don't offer them a morsel of food now and again, they will eat you. You may stand upon principle and refuse to placate the beasts, but if you do so, all that will happen is that the lion will remain and you will be quite gone.”

When we stepped out of the carriage at Covent Garden, I immediately pulled Hertcomb aside. ”You and I are used to being on friendly terms,” I said. ”Have I done something to change that, sir?”

He stared at me, his face slightly less blank than usual. ”I am not obliged to be every man's friend.”

”I should not think you are. But as you have been mine in the past, I should like to know why you are not now.”

”Is it not obvious?” he said. ”I have a preference for Miss Dogmill, and you think nothing of trying to steal her affections away.”

”I cannot argue when it comes to affairs of the heart, but I believe my fondness for Miss Dogmill was evident last night, and while you may not have liked it, you continued to be civil to me.”

”I thought of it more, and I concluded I don't much like it-nor you either, Evans.”

”If I believed you, I would respect your words. But I think you're hiding something, sir. You may confide in me, you know.”

He bit his lip and looked away. ”It is Dogmill,” he said at last. ”He has instructed me that I must no longer be friendly with you, sir. I am sorry, but the matter is quite out of my hands. I have been told that you and I are not to be on good terms, but that we are to be on bad terms as often as possible, so if you will cooperate in this, you will make my task much easier.”

”Cooperate!” I nearly shouted. ”You wish my a.s.sistance in cultivating you as my enemy? You will not have it, sir. I think it is time you learned that because Mr. Dogmill demands something of you, there is no need for you to provide it.”

Here a redness began to spread across his eyes, like the plague of blood in ancient Egypt. ”He struck me,” Hertcomb whispered.

”What?”

”He struck me in the face. He slapped me as though I were a badly behaved child and told me he would serve me more of the same sauce if I did not recall that we meant to win a seat of the House of Commons, and that end is not generally achieved by being overly friendly with the enemy.”

”You mustn't let him use you thus,” I said, in a harsh whisper.

”What choice have I? I cannot defy him. I cannot strike him back. I can do nothing but endure his abuse until I win this election, and then I shall make every effort to free myself of his grasp.”

I nodded. ”I quite understand. You must let him have his way in this, but you and I need not allow his opinions to rule us. You may tell him you said the harshest things in the world to me, and I to you, and he will know no better. And, if we find ourselves in Mr. Dogmill's company, you may be as unkind to me as you like, and I promise I shan't hold it against you.”

For a moment I thought Hertcomb would hug me. Instead he smiled as broadly and as innocently as a baby and then grabbed my hand, which he shook heartily. ”You are a true friend, Mr. Evans, a true friend. After this election, when I sever my connections with Dogmill, I shall show you what it means to be well liked by Albert Hertcomb.”

I could not but be touched by his affection, even though I was not his true friend. I would not have hesitated to ruin him if it would advance my cause, and, though I did not view the world as Dogmill did, under the proper circ.u.mstances I might strike Hertcomb in the face as well.

The canva.s.s proved a strange and curious ritual. Miss Dogmill had a piece of foolscap on which the names of her voters had been written. There were indications if their political leanings were known to Mr. Dogmill, but most were not. I wondered why it was that so pretty a lady should be sent to so rough a part of the city to spread her message, but I found my answer soon enough. We visited the shop of one Mr. Blacksmith, an apothecary. He was in his fifties, perhaps, and had weathered his years not so well as he might have liked. When we walked into his shop, I thought perhaps he had never seen a creature so exquisite as Miss Dogmill in all his life.

”Sir,” said Mr. Hertcomb at once, ”have you yet voted in the general election?”

”I haven't,” he said. ”No one's been by yet.”

”We have come by now,” the Whig said. ”I am Albert Hertcomb.”

The apothecary sucked on his gums so that his face, in an instant, went from plum to prune. ”Hertcomb is one I ain't heard of. Which one are you now?”

Miss Dogmill smiled sweetly at him and curtsied to show off the colors of her gown. ”Mr. Hertford is the blue-and-orange candidate,” she said.

The apothecary returned her smile sheepishly. ”Blue and orange, is he? Well, those are fine colors, I reckon. What do ye have to offer me for the vote?”

”Why, justice and liberty,” Mr. Hertcomb said. ”Freedom from tyranny.”

”I got as much of them as I'm like to have right now, and that ain't much, so try again.”

”Half a s.h.i.+lling,” proposed Miss Dogmill.

The apothecary scratched at the wispy bits of hair on his pate as he pondered the offer. ”How do I know the other fellows won't offer me a better price?”

”You don't, but they may not offer you anything at all,” Miss Dogmill said sweetly. ”Come then, sir. If you will vote for Mr. Hertcomb, I will stroll over to the polling place with you right this moment. I will wait with you, and I will place the money in your hand myself.” She took a step closer to him and placed her arm in his. ”Do you not wish to accompany me?”

A great scarlet tide rose from the apothecary's neck and spread to his face and skull. ”Gilbert!” he cried mightily. A boy of ten or eleven years appeared from the back of the shop. ”I go to exercise my English liberties,” the old man explained. ”Watch the shop until my return. And know that I am familiar with every item in here. If there is one thing missing I'll beat you b.l.o.o.d.y on my return.” He then looked up at Miss Dogmill. ”I am ready for you to take me now, my dear.”

It was clear enough that there was little to be gained from continuing the canva.s.s without Miss Dogmill, so Mr. Hertcomb and I accompanied the happy couple to the great plaza where the polls had been set up, and together we waited in line with the voters. Miss Dogmill brought the old fellow to the tally master, who controlled the approach to the polling booths and decided in what order men would vote. Although these men were meant to be incorruptible, in less than two minutes she had convinced him to add this voter to an upcoming tally. Meanwhile, she chatted amiably with the apothecary as though there were nothing more natural in the world than for her to converse freely with so odd a man. Hertcomb stood awkwardly, wanting to avoid my gaze all the while yet seeming to desire conversation as well. My efforts to speak of something neutral, however, fell flat.

At last the apothecary stepped up to the booth. Miss Dogmill joined him and waited just outside, and we joined her as well, so we could hear all that transpired within. There was no better way of ensuring that the half s.h.i.+lling would not go to waste.

The man inside the polling place asked for the apothecary's name and place of residence, and then, when he had checked this information against the voter rolls, he asked for which candidate he chose to vote.

The old fellow cast a glance outside the tent to Miss Dogmill's gown. ”I vote for orange and blue,” he said.

The election official nodded impa.s.sively. ”You cast your vote for Mr. Hertcomb?”

”I cast my vote for Mr. c.o.xcomb if he's orange and blue. That pretty lady with those colors there will pay me good coin to do it.”

”Hertcomb, then,” said the official, and waved the apothecary away so that the wheels of English liberty might continue to turn.

The apothecary stepped outside and, as promised, Miss Dogmill placed the coin in his hand.

”Thank you, my dear. Now, would you care to abandon these political-type sparks and join me for a dish of chocolate?”

Miss Dogmill explained that she should delight in doing so, but that her duties compelled her to continue the canva.s.s, and so she left the old man both wealthier and happier than he had been that morning.

Not all of the names on the list proved to be so obliging. The next man we visited, a chandler, informed us that he was Melbury's man and Hertcomb be d.a.m.ned. He punctuated his thoughts by slamming his door behind us. Another fellow made us buy his meal in a chophouse and, upon our paying the reckoning, he wiped his face with a napkin, smiled, and informed us that he had already voted-for whom was none of our concern-and he was grateful for the bit of mutton. Finally, we visited a strapping young butcher, his forearms covered with blood as though he had just moments before been sticking them inside the cavity of a freshly slaughtered beast. He looked to Miss Dogmill and grinned so lecherously that had I not been in disguise I should have struck the fellow down for that offense alone.