Magnus Merriman (21 page)

There was an ill-washed, ill-favoured boy sitting beside a rat-mouthed mother. There was a coarse lumpy woman, dressed in the dark, who showed eight of her badly-assorted yellow teeth when she yawned. There was a brace of loutish hobbledehoys, and an old man with a dribbling nose, an ear-trumpet, a dirty beard, and a noisy habit of breathing. There was a rough sneering red-faced slit-eyed cattle-dealer, all whisky and lechery, and a plump blouse-f of girl hotly aware of him in the seat in front. There was a smug trim smooth little minister, making three hundred a year pimping for a God in whom his heart was too small to believe; an angry impotent schoolmaster who made rather less by petty sadism and failing to educate children whom—in his favour be it said—no power on earth could educate: and a rickle of rural inanity behind.

In face of such an audience the noble sentences, the passionate high thoughts, the lofty hortations that were in
Magnus's mind crumbled like dreams in the grey light of a November morning, and his mouth was filled with dust.

The little fat man concluded his speech by assuring these dismal electors that a man was a man for a' that, and they were a' Jock Tamsoǹ's bairns. He sat down in a mutter of apathetic applause.

Magnus rose to speak, and throwing aside all thought of Atlantic islands and sunbright lochs, recited so dull a string of facts and figures that even the Calvinised Boeotians in front of him were bored. Half an hour later he drove to the neighbouring village of Pitmidden and made an even worse speech, for he forgot his figures, began—after an interruption—to talk about India instead of Scotland, and was led into an angry defence of Imperialist policy that ill-accorded with the peaceful aims of small nationalism.

He returned to Kinlawton in a very bad temper, and found waiting for him another letter from Frieda. She had written to him every day since he left Edinburgh, sometimes twice a day, and often at great length. Her letters were overflowing with endearments, voluble, full of vitality, and fat with solicitude for his welfare. There was so much of them and so many of them that, despite their warmth, they seemed like a snowstorm so heavy that it was impossible to breath without inhaling the fleecy thick flakes. Sometimes, such was their enfolding care, they seemed like a feather-bed. And Magnus, already tried and troubled by his political campaign, found them an added weariness from which he would be glad to escape.

This latest letter held new cause for worry. Frieda reported that her aunt had received a letter from a friend of hers in Orkney, to whom she had apparently written for information, in which it was stated that people called Macafee and Newlands, with whom Magnus had claimed acquaintance during his first brief conversation with Aunt Elizabeth—in response to her assertion of friendship with the best families in Orkney—were by no means people with whom respectable citizens would choose to associate, but well-known tinkers or gipsies. On top of this her Uncle Henry had heard rumours of Magnus's escapade on the night of the Rugby International, and nosing along their trail had presently learnt the full
story of his week-end in prison. This tale had filled a whole evening in Rothesay Crescent with hideous conversation, till at length, partly with the brave idea of openly taking sides with him, partly to shock her aunt and uncle, Frieda had announced that she and Magnus were engaged to be married. The news had had the desired effect of shocking them, but not into acquiescence. It had on the contrary doubled their hostility towards him and stimulated them to fresh commands that she should have nothing to do with him. But that, said Frieda, was an impossible prohibition. No power on earth could make her give him up. And now her chief hope was that Magnus would win the election—from the beginning, for his sake, she had hoped for that, but now for her own sake as well—because success in such dimensions would surely influence the Wisharts. To Members of Parliament much may be forgiven, even occasional drunkenness and a week-end in prison, and as Member for Kinluce Magnus might yet reinstate himself as a desirable suitor in the Wishart household.

This suggestion proved less comforting to Magnus than it had to Frieda. But the fear which had lately been assailing him, that he had small chance of success in the election, now seemed less unkind. He wanted to win, and he still hoped to win: with the vote split between so many candidates a small majority would be sufficient to elect any one of them: but now, should he lose, a kind of consolation prize was offered him in that his shadowy yet close-clinging engagement to Frieda would apparently be broken off. For he was now assured that he did not want to marry her. The voluminous solicitude and the undiminishing liveliness of her letters had been too much for him. Marriage to her, he thought, would be an occupation that permitted no other activities. Had she been content to remain his mistress he would have been delighted, for she was lovely to look at, charming to fondle, and her vitality was indeed engaging so long as it was curtailed by social expediency. But since the idea of marriage had taken root in her mind all other qualities had been obscured by, or had come to subserve, an alarming possessiveness. And no matter how
alluring the bait, Magnus still shrank from being thus possessed.

The meeting at which Lord Sandune was to make his reappearance in politics—and where, it was hoped, he would present the Party with a handsome cheque for their campaign expenses—was to be held in a mining village called Crullan. It was the centre of the coal district, and a large audience might be expected. That morning Magnus was greatly cheered by the arrival of Sergeant Denny and McRuvie, who said they had come to help him. Denny had won eighteen pounds on a horse named
Scotland Yet
that chanced to be running at Kempton Park, and thereupon he had conceived the idea of assisting the Nationalist candidate and had generously paid McRuvie's expenses so that he would have company. They were both flattered by the thought of having been in prison with a potential Member of Parliament, and they offered to do anything from bill-sticking to the man-handling of hecklers. They were immediately sent to Crullan to distribute handbills.

That evening began inauspiciously, for Magnus and his party arrived at Crullan, where they were to meet Lord Sandune, at seven o'clock, and found that the meeting was advertised for eight. Captain Smellie made his usual excuses and blamed Mr Bird, who was not there. Lord Sandune, however, proved unexpectedly amiable, and merely suggested they should find somewhere to wait, for it was raining and the Crullan Public Hall was cold as a barn. There was a public house, that called itself an hotel, in the village, and they went there. The landlord said there was a fire in the coffee-room and led the way upstairs.

It was a shabby stuffy little room with a table laid for high-tea at which a corpulent piggish-looking man with small mean eyes and a large wet mouth sat eating ham and eggs. From his complexion and from the untidy way in which he ate it was clear that he was drunk. Lord Sandune looked at him with some distaste, and the piggish man stared back in a stupid way, snorted, and then, as though to assert his
independence, lavishly poured tomato-sauce over his ham and eggs and the neighbouring parts of the tablecloth.

Lord Sandune was a tall old man, very slow and portentous of speech, who leaned on his aged dignity as though it were a crutch. Magnus had been accompanied from Kinlawton by Captain Smellie, Mr Boden, Mr Macdonell, and Hugh Skene, who had already spoken several times in Kinluce with great vigour but commendable restraint. Now they talked together in quiet tones and behaved deferentially towards Lord Sandune in expectation of his cheque.

Presently the piggish man said, ‘Hey! Who are you? Are you more of these bloody politicians?'

Captain Smellie whispered to Magnus, ‘Never waste a vote! I'll have this fellow's promised before we leave here'; and answered, ‘Yes, we're politicians, and I hope you're going to support our party.'

‘What party's that?'

‘The honest party,' said Captain Smellie.

‘Sh—!' said the piggish man, and sucked half a fried egg into his mouth.

‘Oh, really,' began Captain Smellie, but the piggish man interrupted him.

‘Shut up!' he said, and rose unsteadily from the table. ‘You're only an under-strapper, and I want nothing to do with you. I'm going to talk to the high heid yin.'

He advanced on Lord Sandune, hovered in front of him, blew in his face, and suddenly demanded, ‘Here! Can you sing?'

‘I have no intention of singing now, if that is your meaning,' answered his lordship.

‘I've got the finest bloody voice in Kinluce,' said the piggish man. ‘I should have been a professional. Harry Lauder, Caruso, Madam What's-her-name—none of the bloody lot of them can hold a candle to me. Would you like to hear me?'

He shook himself, coughed, loosened his collar, tilted his porcine face to the fly-blown ceiling, closed his eyes, and suddenly bellowed in a piercing tenor,

Then he stopped to clear his throat again, and finding that
the obstruction still lingered thrust a dirty forefinger into his mouth and presently dug from some interstice in his gullet a large piece of ham.

‘Look at that,' he said. ‘There's no wonder I couldna sing.' And he flicked the offending morsel into the fire.

He began again, shriller than ever, ‘Bonny wee thing, canny wee thing.'

Magnus took him by the shoulders and thrust him into his chair at the table. ‘Sit down and be quiet,' he said.

‘You're a Conservative,' said the piggish man indignantly. ‘You're a bloody Conservative and you don't give a damn for the working man. You'll no get my vote, onyway.'

‘You see,' whispered Captain Smellie. ‘We've practically got his vote already. At least Buchanan won't get it.'

Conversation proceeded in a desultory way. It was interrupted by the piggish man who sang defiantly, ‘I'll sing thee songs of Araby', but no one paid any attention to him. Hugh Skene drank several glasses of whisky and waited moodily for the meeting.

At eight o'clock they went to the hall and found it full of noisy, hearty miners, their eyes made bright by coal-dust, their clothes dark and shabby. Lord Sandune spoke first, and his slow, egotistical speech was listened to with respectful attention. Then Skene spoke, and in an instant had his audience afire. A lamp behind him lit his flaming bush of hair, his thin and lovely hands beat the air. He was more than a little drunk, and he spoke of revolution as though man were made only to break through barricades and run with torches down a ruined street. Whether the revolution he advocated was Communist or Nationalist was not very clear, but it was exciting, and the miners cheered him loudly.

Magnus spoke more soberly. His speech was closely argued. He threw some bitter criticism at his opponents and concluded by saying: ‘They speak to you of political parties: I speak to you of a nation. Their parties must dwindle and die, and be blown out like a candle in the wind: but the nation of Scotland, if such is your will, can live for ever.'

A scraggy young man with a raucous voice and a pimply neck rose at the back of the hall and shouted, ‘Comrade Merriman, are you a Communist?'

‘No,' said Magnus, ‘and I'm not your comrade either, so don't pretend I am.'

‘Do you believe that work is the only thing that entitles a man to respect and his daily bread?'

‘On the whole, yes,' said Magnus.

‘Then what are you doing on the same platform with a bloody Capitalist?' And the young man pointed a scornful finger at Lord Sandune, who sat, very large and dignified, wrapped up in a large fur coat.

Magnus rose to answer, but the young man shouted again, ‘Is Comrade Skene a Communist?'

‘Yes, I am,' said Skene.

Magnus began to say that in the common cause of Nationalism men of many parties were united, but now a great uproar had risen in the hall, for the pimply young man and his friends were singing
The Red Flag
, and on the other side of the room an equally noisy party was struggling over the seats to come to close quarters with them and assault them. This second party was led by Denny and McRuvie. The battle joined, and there was a fine scene of confusion. With the exception of Hugh Skene the platform party kept their seats, but Skene appeared to be meditating a descent into the body of the hall to join in the fray. Magnus dissuaded him, and they argued hotly together, reproducing in miniature on the platform the violent dissent on the floor.

Because, in a little while, the more numerous disputants left the hall to fight on more spacious ground outside, the floor grew quiet before the platform did, and the remaining audience were treated to the spectacle of Magnus and Skene fiercely gesticulating at each other and vainly endeavouring to shout each other down.

Skene was the first to perceive this anomaly. He faced the interested electors and cried, ‘Ladies and gentlemen! The vigour with which my friend Magnus Merriman was arguing is typical of the vigour that animates all Scotland, and it is on that vigour that we rely for the victory of our cause!'

Magnus, gallantly following, said loudly, ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Hugh Skene is Scotland's foremost poet. The National Party is the only party that poets are proud to join.
If you prefer politicians, vote for Conservatives, Cotton-Tories, or Socialists: but if you are wise, join the poets and vote for the independence of Scotland!'

Lord Sandune was heard to mutter ‘Rubbish!' but the audience, already excited, cheered loudly, and the confusion of noise could easily be construed as a vote of confidence.

The platform became busy with little acts of courtesy towards Lord Sandune, but his lordship retired to his waiting motor car without mentioning the cheque that he had been expected to offer. Nor was he seen again in the constituency, and whether he fled in fear of so rowdy and vulgar an election, or in disgust—being a practical business man—at Magnus's references to poets, was never ascertained. But he contributed nothing to Party funds.

Sergeant Denny and McRuvie, however, were perfectly satisfied with the evening's entertainment. Each had knocked down half a dozen opponents, and occasionally been knocked down in return, and both, when rescued, were in a state of bruised and blissful contentment.

Meanwhile, in Kinlawton, a smaller but more important meeting had been held in Lady Mercy's private suite in the Royal Standard Hotel.

Lady Mercy had addressed two meetings on behalf of her candidate Mr Emerson. Her platform manner was peculiar but arresting. She would stand up, and, as though she were a Lewis gun, fire off a hundred short, striking, and often irrelevant statements at her stricken audience. Then she would point to Mr Emerson, and say, ‘Here is the man whom you trust, whom I trust, and who
must
be elected!' Mr Emerson would thereafter speak in a solid, blustering way, and the hecklers would rejoice and pepper him with questions.

Owing to the genius of Nelly Bly, that charming and most able of reporters, all Mr Emerson's meetings, as described in the
Morning Call
, appeared to be triumphal occasions. But Lady Mercy and her regiment of agents, canvassers, and subsidiary speakers, knew better. It had not taken them long to discover that the assistant news-editor's mistake had been a serious one, and that though Mr Hammerson would have been a very good candidate, Mr Emerson was
a very bad one, for he was one of the most unpopular men in Kinluce. He had been far too successful in his career to enjoy the favour of his neighbours, and despite the loud and persistent advocacy of Lady Mercy's regiment, and the constant trumpeting of his virtues in the
Morning Call
, it was feared that only a small minority would vote for him.

‘Well, what are we going to do about it?' said Lady Mercy. ‘I don't intend to be beaten in a trumpery constituency like this, so you'd better think of something quickly.'

Her audience consisted of Quentin Cotton, her son, who acted as her private secretary; Nelly Bly; and the Earl of Faloon, who wrote acid and vivacious society gossip for the
Morning Call
and assisted her in the financial direction of her newspapers.

Quentin Cotton said, ‘Do you know, a most curious thing has happened: Hammerson, who's been a lifelong Conservative, had turned Liberal.'

‘
What?
' said Lady Mercy.

‘It's perfectly true,' said Nelly Bly. ‘He's going all over the country denouncing the Conservative Association and saying that old-fashioned Liberalism is the only honest policy left. I suppose he's jealous of Emerson and wants a bit of publicity for himself.'

‘Perhaps he's like St Paul,' said Lord Faloon, ‘and has been convinced by a vision of Mr Gladstone.'

‘He's got a lot of influence in the county, hasn't he?' said Lady Mercy.

‘He would have made a better candidate than Emerson,' said Quentin.

‘I know that. How many Liberals, regular die-hard Gladstone and Asquith men, are there in Kinluce?'

‘Six to eight thousand,' said Nelly Bly.

Lady Mercy said, ‘Some of them will vote for Buchanan to keep Emerson out; some will vote for Nimmo; and I suppose a dozen or two will vote for that fool Merriman. Now if their votes could be detached from Buchanan and Nimmo—Merriman doesn't count—Emerson would still have a chance. With four candidates, an odd thousand votes subtracted here and there might leave him with a majority.

‘But how are you going to subtract them?' said Quentin.

‘By putting up a Liberal Candidate,' said Lady Mercy.

‘You mean …?'

‘Hammerson.'

Lord Faloon whistled a few bars of
The Wearing of the
Green
and begged permission to light a cigar.

Quentin said, ‘You can't do that. Your name would be mud if it were found out that you were backing two candidates; and in any case Hammerson wouldn't accept your support: he's pig-headedly honest.'

‘I have no intention of supporting him,' said Lady Mercy. ‘But your Aunt Agatha will. She has been fanatically Liberal ever since she spoke to Mr Asquith at a garden-party—I cannot imagine what he replied—and she's as full of plots as a White Russian. Now you'll go and tell her that there's a marvellous opportunity for a Liberal revival in Kinluce, and that Hammerson is the man to lead it. She can afford to put up a thousand pounds quite easily, and as she knows all the young Liberals still in existence she can send up a good deal of support. If you play your cards properly—you can say that I've sacked you if you like, and that will explain your apparent anxiety to put a spoke in Emerson's wheel—she'll jump at the chance, and Hammerson will be led out as a very useful red herring.'

‘That sounds feasible,' said Quentin slowly.

‘Feasible! It's dyed in the wool, copper-bottomed, jewelled in every hole, guaranteed against wear and tear, and will keep its colour in any climate,' said Nelly Bly. ‘It's a marvellous plan, and you must get busy at once. If you hurry you can catch the night train to London, and fix everything up tomorrow.'