Chippinge Borough. Weyman Stanley John
he continued, "that for twenty years he's had thirty pounds a year to vote as I tell him. By gad, I never heard such a thing in my life! Never! You don't mean to tell me that the man thinks the vote's his own to do what he likes with?"
"I am afraid," the agent admitted reluctantly, "that that is what he's saying, sir."
Sir Robert's thin face turned a dull red. "I never heard of such impudence in all my life," he said, "never! A butcher with views! And going to vote for them! Why, damme," he continued, with angry sarcasm, "we'll have the tailors, the bakers, and the candlestickmakers voting their own way next. Good G-d! What does the man think he's had thirty pounds a year for for all these years, if not to do as he is bid?"
"He's behaving very ill, sir," White said, severely, "very ill."
"Ill!" Sir Robert cried; "I should think he was, the scoundrel!" And he foamed over afresh, though we need not follow him. When he had cooled somewhat, "Well," he said, "I can turn him out, and that I'll do, neck and crop! By G-d, I will! I'll ruin him. But there, it's the big rats set the fashion and the little ones follow it. This is Spinning Jenny's work. I wish I had cut off my hand before I voted for him. Well, well, well!" And he stood a moment in bitter contemplation of Sir Robert Peel's depravity. It was nothing that Sir Robert was sound on reform. By adopting the Catholic side on the claims he-he, whose very nickname was Orange Peel-had rent the party. And all these evils were the result!
The agent coughed.
Sir Robert, who was no fool, looked sharply at him. "What!" he said grimly. "Not another renegade?"
"No, sir," White answered timidly. "But Thrush, the pig-killer-he's one of the old lot, the Cripples, that your father put into the corporation-"
"Ay, and I wish I had kept them cripples." Sir Robert growled. "All cripples! My father was right, and I was a fool to think better men would do as well, and do us credit. In his time there were but two of the thirteen could read and write; but they did as they were bid. They did as they were bid. And now-well, man, what of Thrush?"
"He was gaoled yesterday by Mr. Forward, of Steynsham, for assault."
"For how long?"
"For a fortnight, sir."
Sir Robert nearly had a fit. He reared himself to his full height, and glared at White. "The infernal rascal!" he cried. "He did it on purpose!"
"I've no doubt, sir, that it determined them to fight," the agent answered. "With Dyas they are five. And five to seven is not such-such odds that they may not have some hope of winning."
"Five to seven!" Sir Robert repeated; and at an end of words, at an end of oaths, could only stare aghast. "Five to seven!" he muttered. "You're not going to tell me-there's something more."
"No, sir, no; that's the worst," White answered, relieved that his tale was told. "That's the worst, and may be bettered. I've thought it well to postpone the nomination until Wednesday the 4th, to give Sergeant Wathen a better chance of dealing with Dyas."
"Well, well!" Sir Robert muttered. "It has come to that. It has come to dealing with such men as butchers, to treating them as if they had minds to alter and views to change. Well, well!"
And that was all Sir Robert could say. And so it was settled; the Vermuyden dinner for the 2nd, the nomination and polling for the 4th. "You'll let Mr. Vaughan know," Sir Robert concluded. "It's well we can count on somebody."
X
THE QUEEN'S SQUARE ACADEMY FORYOUNG LADIES
Miss Sibson sat in state in her parlour in Queen's Square. Rather more dignified of mien than usual, and more highly powdered of nose, the schoolmistress was dividing her attention between the culprit in the corner, the elms outside-between which fledgeling rooks were making adventurous voyages-and the longcloth which she was preparing for the young ladies' plain-sewing; for in those days plain-sewing was still taught in the most select academies. Nor, while she was thus engaged in providing for the domestic training of her charges, was she without assurance that their minds were under care. The double doors which separated the schoolroom from the parlour were ajar, and through the aperture one shrill voice after another could be heard, raised in monotonous perusal of Mrs. Chapone's "Letters to a Young Lady upon the Improvement of the Mind."
Miss Sibson wore her best dress, of black silk, secured half-way down the bodice by the large cameo brooch. But neither this nor the reading in the next room could divert her attention from her duties.
"The tongue," she enunciated with great clearness, as she raised the longcloth in both hands and carefully inspected it over her glasses, "is an unruly member. Ill-nature," she continued, slowly meting off a portion, and measuring a second portion against it, "is the fruit of a bad heart. Our opinions of others" – this with a stern look at Miss Hilhouse, fourteen years old, and in disgrace-"are the reflections of ourselves."
The young lady, who was paying with the backboard for a too ready wit, put out the unruly member, and, narrowly escaping detection, looked inconceivably sullen.
"The face is the mirror to the mind," Miss Sibson continued thoughtfully, as she threaded a needle against the light. "I hope, Miss Hilhouse, that you are now sorry for your fault."
Miss Hilhouse maintained a stolid silence. Her shoulders ached, but she was proud.
"Very good," said Miss Sibson placidly; "very good! With time comes reflection."
Time, a mere minute, brought more than reflection. A gentleman walked quickly across the fore-court to the door, the knocker fell sharply, and Miss Hilhouse's sullenness dropped from her. She looked first uncomfortable, then alarmed. "Please, may I go now?" she muttered.
Wise Miss Sibson paid no heed. "A gentleman?" she said to the maid who had entered. "Will I see him? Procure his name."
"Oh, Miss Sibson," came from the corner in an agonised whisper, "please may I go?" Fourteen standing on a stool with a backboard could not bear to be seen by the other sex.
Miss Sibson looked grave. "Are you sincerely sorry for your fault?" she asked.
"Yes."
"And will you apologise to Miss Smith for your-your gross rudeness?"
"Ye-es."
"Then go and do so," Miss Sibson replied; "and close the doors after you."
The girl fled. And simultaneously Miss Sibson rose, with a mixture of dignity and blandness, to receive Arthur Vaughan. The schoolmistress of that day who had not manner at command had nothing; for deportment ranked among the essentials. And she was quite at her case. The same could not be said of the gentleman. But that his pride still smarted, but that the outrage of yesterday was fresh, but that he drew a savage satisfaction from the prospect of the apologies he was here to receive, he had not come. Even so, he had told himself more than once that he was a fool to come; a fool to set foot in the house. He was almost sure that he had done more wisely had he burned the letter in which the schoolmistress informed him that she had an explanation to offer-and so had made an end.
But if in place of meeting him with humble apologies, this confounded woman were going to bear herself as if no amends were due, he had indeed made a mistake.
Yet her manner said almost as much as that. "Pray be seated, sir," she said; and she indicated a chair.
He sat down stiffly, and glowered at her. "I received your note," he said.
She smoothed her ample lap, and looked at him more graciously. "Yes," she said, "I was relieved to find that the unfortunate occurrence of yesterday was open to another explanation."
"I have yet," he said curtly, "to hear the explanation." Confound the woman's impudence!
"Exactly," she said slowly. "Exactly. Well, it turns out that the parcel you left behind you when you" – for an instant a smile broke the rubicund placidity of her face-"when you retired so hurriedly contained a pelisse."
"Indeed?" he said drily.
"Yes; and a letter."
"Oh?"
"Yes; a letter from a lady who has for some years taken an interest in Miss Smith. The pelisse