The Result of the Poll.
“Electors of Duranmore and West Connemara—for I am not going to call
you, for a purpose, gentlemen, which you are not, nor friends, because I
see a good many faces below there which belong to my enemies—but
Electors of Duranmore and West Connemara. I want you to listen to what I
have got to tell you about the way elections have been previously
managed in this part of the country, and of how we intend that they
shall be managed in future——”
Cheers from the Reds, hisses from the Blues.
“For shame, Maxwell Drewitt!” cried one.
“Siding against your uncle.”
“Is it to the likes of you we’re going to listen, do you think?”
“Go home, boy! out o’ that”
“Home is it?” shouted another; “has he not been turned out of the only
one he ever knew?” And at the words Archibald Drewitt turned sick.
“Isn’t it himself ought to be at the ould place now instead of them that
owns it?”
“No, it is not,” answered Maxwell Drewitt, whose face was scarlet, but
not with pain. “It is not; Archibald Drewitt came into Kincorth fairly.
Long may he keep it!”
“Ye wish it, don’t ye Max?” cried some one among the crowd. And then
there came shrieks of laughter and cheers and hisses.
“Make it up with him, man; it’s not too late yet.”
“Why didn’t ye quarrel till he married?”
“Why could ye not have let somebody else put in the spake for Pryor?”
“Because I wanted to tell you what nobody else will tell you: because my
family affairs have nothing to do with anybody in Duranmore: because I
see no reason why I should wear my uncle’s political opinions, if they
do not chance to fit me, any more than his clothes. Conservatism is
stationary. Liberalism is progressive. Toryism may suit those who have
had their way made for them, but those who have to make their way for
themselves see that the Whigs have the best of the argument.
“I am now in the same boat with the poorest man amongst you. He wants to
rise, so do I; he wants to make money, so do I; he does not want to be
ground under the carriage wheels of the upper ten thousand, neither do
I. We are all of one mind in this matter; we want butter to our bread,
and ham and eggs to our breakfast, and clothes to our backs, and good
roofs over our heads, and something to lay by against old age. Here is a
man to get what we desire for us. Three cheers for Geoffry Pryor.”
And the people cheered, and the people shouted, while Maxwell Drewitt
took breath; and some cried out that it was all true, and others told
him to go home—that he was a humbug, and that they would have nothing to
do with him.
“Am I a humbug?” he yelled, almost cracking his voice in his efforts to
make himself heard. “Am I a humbug? If I am, then humbugging must be a
devilishly unprofitable trade. And as long as you have chosen to
introduce this subject, I may say that I have given you as good proofs
as any man can, that, let my principles seem bad or the reverse in your
eyes, I at least have adopted them in sincerity of heart—with integrity
of purpose. All of you know that I had not much to give up, but still I
have given up the little I had, and stand before you a man who, having
relinquished everything for what he conscientiously believes to be the
good of his country, has a right to claim from you, at any rate, a calm
and impartial hearing.”
“Go on, Max; we’re listening.”
“We’re as quiet as mice in a meal bag.”
“Go on, man. Go on, go on, go on.”
“I know I am not so popular as my uncle,” began Maxwell.
Cries of “Yes, yes, you are.” “No you are not.” “Finish your speech, the
schoolmaster could not have laid it off better. Who wrote it for ye,
Max?” “Go on, and don’t keep us here all day. Go on, go on.” And the
crowd shouted and yelled and laughed, and Maxwell cursed the crowd in
his heart while he proceeded.
“I am going on, if you will let me. I was saying that I know I am not so
popular as my uncle.”
“We mind that. Ye said it afore.”
“He is a man who deserves all the love and respect you can give him, and
I am sorry we should stand this day on opposite sides.”
“Why don’t ye go over till him then? He’s near enough to ye.”
“Why don’t I go over to him? That brings me to the point I was wanting
to reach. Let me ask you a few questions, and give you honest answers to
them, and then you will see if you can still blame me for deserting the
‘Dirty Blues.’
“Do you want to have a man of family representing you in Parliament?
Yes. Then surely Mr. Sache cannot be your member!
“Do you want a gentleman? Mr. Sache can lay no claim to such a
distinction!
“Do you want a person clever and fluent, able to lay your grievances
before Parliament, and insist on their being redressed? Alas! my
fellow-electors, Mr. Sache is no orator!
“Do you want a man of mind, capable of grasping facts, of comprehending
the necessities and wishes of his fellows? Mr. Sache is not possessed of
a second idea; his only one, and that a very small one indeed, being
himself!
“Do you desire to do credit to yourselves by sending a good man, an
independent man, a man of talent and character, into the British Senate?
If you do, you must never return Mr. Sache!
“Do you want a man—handsome, energetic, fearless? Look at your would-be
member, voters of Duranmore—electors of West Connemara—look at your
landlords’ nominee! Look at the poor, frightened, incapable creature
your tyrants want to compel you to select, and say if I, Maxwell
Drewitt, were not right to choose a more energetic leader—one able and
willing to battle out your cause against the United Kingdom, and to
state your grievances to the world. Look at him, I say, and cheer that
poltroon if you dare!”
It was probably the very audacity of this address which had kept his
audience silent, for whenever Maxwell Drewitt, with hand stretched out
towards Mr. Sache, with finger pointed at him, paused for a moment in
his speech, there burst out upon the air such a tumult of laughing,
cursing, joking, yelling, cheering, hissing, shouting, that the
unfortunate object of the younger Drewitt’s tirade looked wholly
stupefied and bewildered.
Lady Emmeline was so delighted that she clapped her little hands
together with might and main; she waved her eternal scarf over the heads
of the multitude, and flung a bouquet towards Maxwell, which, falling
short of the hustings, was caught by a man, who took off his battered
and brimless hat, and said, “Thank ye kindly, my lady.”
If anything had been wanting to make Colonel Vervensoe boil over, this
would have settled the matter. Absolutely quivering with rage, he shook
his fist in young Drewitt’s face, and threatened him with condign
punishment on the spot.
“Only lay a finger on me,” said Maxwell, “and I pitch you head foremost
into the crowd, who will soon make mincemeat of you. Stand back, sir,
stand back!”
“If you say another word, Maxwell, you shall never darken my doors
again,” foamed Mr. Drewitt.
“Time enough for you to shut your doors when I show my face at them,”
retorted Maxwell. “Be quiet,” he shouted, addressing the electors, “for
I have still to tell you how your members have been returned hitherto.
By bribery and corruption—by threats and intimidation—by turning the
screw on poor men, who had, for the sake of their families, to put pride
and self-respect and independence, ay, and common honesty in their
pockets. You have been treated like slaves instead of like Irishmen. Why
was O’Shane not successful? Because honest men were put out of the way,
while rogues voted in their names; because refractory electors were
kidnapped and carried off to Arran and Achill, and in one or two cases
even to America; because men were made drunk and stripped naked, and
left without a stitch to their backs, till the polling was over; because
dead men were brought to life again; because tenants were threatened
with expulsion; because Government posts were promised to the sons of
the shopkeepers and small gentry; because the landlords formed a league
against the men who enable them to live; because there was not an atom
of honour or honesty amongst the friends and supporters of your
taskmasters’ nominee.”
“Maxwell, I command you to be silent!” exclaimed Mr. Drewitt.
“My uncle commands me to be silent,” persisted the young man, “but my
conscience commands me to speak. As a boy I saw these things done, and
held my peace; as a man I remember what I saw, and choose my side
accordingly.
“How does the Earl of Popingham expect to win this election? By
intimidation, by dead cats, such as this” (and he dexterously caught one
by the tail, and pitched it back in the face of the man who had thrown
it at him), “by the strong arm, by the might of rank, and power of
money, and the majesty and omnipotence of landlordism. The things which
have been done by the Conservatives are almost past my telling.
Popingham’s pets are among you now with orders to keep the reds back
from the polling booths; they are wearing red rosettes; but you will be
able to pick them out for all that when the time comes. As I rode into
town this morning a lad told me Marsden had offered him half-a-crown to
pelt the reds, but that he was willing to pelt Marsden himself for
eighteenpence. Will you have this, fellow-countrymen? It only requires a
vigorous effort on your part to free yourselves from the yoke. A long
pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether, and we will stand a
respectable and independent body of electors, with a better man than any
lordling’s nominee representing us in Parliament.” And amidst a Babel of
cheering, groaning, clapping, and hissing, Maxwell concluded his speech.
“Now, Sache,” whispered Lord Marsden.
“I have not a word to say. I—I couldn’t do it.”
“But you shall do it,” said Mr. Munks. And he and Mr. Drewitt shoved him
up to the front of the hustings.
What he said, however, or whether he ever said anything, nobody had the
slightest idea. His speech appeared in the county paper, but it was
generally supposed that the reporter wrote it himself.
He had the worst of the day’s storm. Imprecations were shouted out
against him. He was pelted, insulted, reviled. “How much does the Earl
give you?” asked one wag.
“Doesn’t the divil take care of his own, Sache?”
“Why don’t you speak up like a man?”
“Couldn’t they have got anybody betther than you?”
“Abbott wouldn’t do their dirty work any longer.”
“And it’s betther to sup with a cutty than want a spoon.”
“Spake up, man, spake up.”
“They’ll niver pay ye for the job if ye don’t work for yer money.”
“Go out o’ that.”
“Betther be a coward than a corp, Sache.”
“Ye dirty blackguard.”
“Who ate up Dan Joyce’s crock o’ butther?”
“Who counts the very chickens as they’re chipping the shell?”
“Let him alone, can’t ye? What’s the use of pouring water on a drownded
rat?”
“Don’t look so scared, Sache; niver howl till ye’re hurt.”
“We won’t hear ye; we’ll bate ye black and blue. Go out o’ that or there
won’t be an egg left in Duranmore.”
“How do ye like it?”
“Do like the women: say no and take it” And at every sentence there
arose a howl, and then came a shower of dirt and filth of all
description.
“I never heard anything to equal this,” said Mr. Pryor to his cousin.
“You’ll have to run the gauntlet in a minute or two,” answered Mr.
Waller.
“It’s good for the tailors, that’s one comfort,” observed Maxwell
Drewitt.
“We want Pryor: go back and send out Pryor. Take him away, Munks, he’s
no credit till ye. I wondher ye’d be seen out with him. We’re run short
o’ eggs, and we’ll have to fall to the pavin’ stones next. Take him out
o’ that. Pryor, Pryor; three cheers for Pryor, and three more for
Butler, and a good one for Waller, and keep your best and longest for
Lady Emmeline.”
“Are you going to give me a hearing, my friends?” asked Geoffry Pryor,
coming forward as Mr. Sache, who by this time presented a pitiable
spectacle, drew back.
“No we’re not. Yes we are. Ye’ll be served worse than he was. Why did ye
put on your best coat? ye might as well take it off and give it to me.
It ’ud look mighty purty turned up wid yellow. See that now!”
“An there’s a flower for your buttonhole.”
“Have ye nearly done?” he demanded.
“No, we havn’t begun. Why don’t ye go on? Ye’re as bad as Sache.”
“Had you not better hear me first, and then speak yourselves
afterwards?”
“No, we hadn’t.”
“Shall I not speak at all?”
“If it’s any pleasure till ye, ye may.” And then the people laughed and
cheered and shouted, and Geoffry Pryor went on to tell them how they
were an oppressed and injured race; how justice had never been done to
them; how the English knew nothing of the way in which the Irish lived;
how everything was wrong in the management of the country; how he
pledged himself to advocate the poor man’s right; how he would miss no
opportunity of letting the English know of their manifold grievances.
“Every labourer is worthy of his hire,” proceeded Mr. Pryor, “and the
man who tills the ground should eat of its produce: you ought to have
your land at such a rent that you can live off it, and not starve on it.
Politically I am a thorough reformer; in religion I am for letting every
man go to heaven his own road; and, in conclusion, I can only say, if
you return me I shall try to serve you faithfully; if you do not return
me I shall try to be content. I would entreat each man among you to vote
according to his conscience: not for Sache or Pryor, not for red or
blue, but for the right and the principle that is in him. And whatever
the result of the contest may be, Mr. Sache,” he added, turning towards
his opponent, “I hope we shall be enemies only in public, never in
private life; and I should like, though I suppose such a proceeding is
not usual on the hustings, to shake hands with you in token that ours is
an amiable warfare.”
And Mr. Pryor stretched out his hand to Mr. Sache, who had been, he
felt, roughly dealt with. Perfectly stupified, however, with brandy and
terror; bespattered from head to foot, with his cheek cut, and one eye
closed up, Lord Popingham’s nominee made no movement to take his
opponent’s offered hand till he was pushed forward by Mr. Drewitt, who,
having lost patience with everybody, was in no very gentle or forbearing
mood.
“The show of hands is in favour of the Reds,” he said to Mr. Munks. “We
must demand a poll.”
And a poll was demanded accordingly; but the result was the same as the
sheriff had declared the show of hands to be, viz., in favour of Geoffry
Pryor.
In the days of which I am writing there was no earthly reason why an
election should not have lasted for ever. Government had not then put
any limit to the period over which the innocent amusement of breaking
heads should extend. On the contrary: as there was but one town in each
county or portion of a county returning a separate member where votes
could be legally polled, government seemed rather to have erred on the
side of humouring the popular taste a little too far, than of
considering it too little. Those were the palmy days of electioneering;
those were the days of delightful uncertainty—of charming fluctuation.
You were getting on to-day—you were far behind to-morrow; from hand to
hand the political ball went tossing; now the Tories had it—now the
Whigs. Now it was all up with the Reds—now the Blues had not a chance.
As for trade! nobody even tried to transact any business while the
election lasted, unless, indeed, the owners of public-houses and the
landlords of hotels.
They took the business of the town and did it. If you had not a pair of
shoes in the world, do you think any cobbler in the parish had leisure
to attend to your wants? Was the rain pouring in through your roof, or
your house falling down; were the spokes in the wheels of your gig
rattling like castanets, or every pane of glass in your windows smashed?
If you were not a glazier, wheelwright, bricklayer, or slater yourself,
why, windows, and wheels, and houses, and roofs must remain as they were
till the members were returned—till the free and independent were sober
and hungry once again.
It was carnival time—a time not of sweetmeats and bouquets, but of
whiskey and fighting, of rotten eggs and blackthorn shillelaghs; a time
when family feuds were established that would last rival houses for
life, and be handed down as heirlooms to their posterity; when even
sober men—sober and discreet—lost their heads and got drunk with
political excitement; when wrongs were done that never could be righted
subsequently; when words were spoken that never could be forgotten; when
insults were uttered that could never be forgiven.
If the elections of those days were relics of the “good old times,” we
may fervently thank our stars that such times have passed away for ever.
Canvassing had seemed to Mrs. Drewitt a sufficiently weary season; but
what was canvassing to making sure of the promised votes, to keeping the
electors up to the mark?
Mr. Drewitt worked himself into a state of frenzy, and he and Colonel
Vervensoe and Mr. Munks and Lord Marsden and the Earl of Popingham, and
a host of other influential Blues, went about the country like so many
madmen, hunting up voters and bringing them to the polling-booth _nolens
volens_.
If anything had been wanting to egg the Blues on to greater exertions,
Maxwell Drewitt’s speech would have proved a whip powerful enough to
lash them to fury.
If Mr. Sache were not returned, every tenant should be ejected—every man
who had a vote sent adrift; the cottages should be unroofed; the land
might remain untilled; children might starve; women might die! From time
immemorial have not the innocent suffered with the guilty? has not the
house of Ahab always suffered for the sin of Ahab, from the time of
Elijah until now.
Most of the landlords were kindly men—not proud, not uncourteous, not
unfeeling; but they were like the rest of us, weak on one point, and
that point was politics. There is a savage in most which only requires
waking to be dangerous. Spite of all our civilization we are forced at
times to admit we must have come originally of a rude stock, that we are
closer to Jael, that we are nearer to Jehu than we would willingly
confess.
The most delicate taste cannot distinguish between port and sherry in
the dark; and in the same manner there is a mental darkness in which the
tenderest conscience fails to discern the difference between right and
wrong.
That was the state to which politics reduced men in the days of which I
am writing; that is the state to which politics would reduce men now but
for the extra vigilance of civilization, but for the coolness and
calmness of the fourth estate, which will have none of it, which insists
on pouring light in on darkness, of calling a spade a spade, let the
implement so named be used by peer or peasant.
With the landlords I have mentioned the case was different—the savage
was roused in them: blinded by passion, they stood, with the noon-day
sun shining on them, in darkness.
It had become a question of might _versus_ right—of lord against serf—of
Protestant against Catholic—of “You shall” against “I shall not;” and
such a question can never be solved except by the result of the battle
of man against man.
I am not advocating one side or another. God knows,—God who knows all
things—that though the profession of each was different, there was not,
long ago, a turn of the scale in favour of either Whig or Tory. Drewitt
of Kincorth would have served his own father with notice to quit had his
father voted against Sache. Waller of Eversbeg would have ejected every
man on his estate had every man not chanced to want to return Pryor.
There was no choice between them. It was war to the knife on both sides:
and when war of any kind is being waged, men are not apt to be too
particular.
Day by day the fight got fiercer, the combatants angrier. In the race
each side strained every nerve for victory: all stratagems were
allowed—all tricks were resorted to. It was a Derby where every man was
trying to bribe his neighbour’s jockey; where he was slyly trying to
loosen his girths, to unbuckle his bridle, to lame the favourite. It was
a boat-race where people strove not only to row their best, but
endeavoured to prevent others rowing at all. If you can fancy a
three-mile heat, with the riders standing in their stirrups and lashing
one another back; if you can imagine a rowing-match where, when hard
run, the crew rose up and battered their opponents with their oars; if
you can picture a battle without any order or regularity; if you can
crowd into your mental canvas everything hopelessly unfair, dishonest,
brutal, mean, you may perhaps form some idea of Duranmore during the
time which elapsed between the nomination and the return.
There was many a purse filled—there was many a spirit broken. Many a man
thought of the children at home, and the tract of wretched land that he
had done his miserable best to till; thought of how the children would
cry for want of their potatoes; thought of the empty pot, of the lonely
hill side, of the deserted cabin; and voted against his conscience. His
opinions might not be right—more than probable they were all wrong—but
they were not more wrong than those held by many of his betters; and his
betters were able to vote as they liked, while he had to vote for the
man he detested.
“If the masther ’ud just let me be, ma’am,” said one poor fellow to Mrs.
Drewitt, “it’s meself ’ud niver go to the poll at all at all. I’d vote
for Mr. Pryor if I could; but as it’s not plazing to Mr. Drewitt, I’d
rayther not vote for aither.”
He had been artful, this uneducated Irishman: he had thought to get at
the soft side of Mr. Drewitt through his wife; and Mrs. Drewitt herself
imagined that so reasonable a request might be granted.
“He will never force Byrne to vote against his conscience,” argued Mrs.
Drewitt.
Wouldn’t he though? Mr. Drewitt soon showed his wife the reverse of the
picture; and the reverse was not pretty.
Byrne should vote or give up his lot.
“Then,” said Byrne, “I will give up my lot; but if I do I’ll vote for
Pryor.”
And he did.
After that Mr. Drewitt desired his wife not to allow any of his tenants
to speak to her on the subject of the election. He knew she did not go
with him in his ideas; that in fact she was getting perfectly bewildered
with the strife of contending opinions; for which reasons he bade her
send all reluctant voters to him.
“I understand them, and you do not,” he said. “I know how to manage
them; and they think they can manage you.” And thus, happily for
herself, Mrs. Drewitt was withdrawn from the political arena, and only
permitted to look on at the fray.
What a fray it was!
“I have not been in bed for a week,” said Maxwell Drewitt to Mr. Waller,
on the morning which was to decide the result.
“Nor have I,” answered the owner of Eversbeg; “but to-day will, I hope,
repay us for all.”
That was what the Blues were saying as well. They were sanguine of
success also; so sanguine, that Mrs. Munks, and Lady Marsden, and a
number of other ladies—Mrs. Drewitt amongst them, by her husband’s
special desire—took possession of the Assembly Room, to hear the
earliest tidings concerning the winner.
Not to be behind on such an occasion, Lady Emmeline and her staff
occupied the opposition benches. She and Colonel Vervensoe had not
spoken to one another for a month previously, and it was currently
reported that if Mr. Pryor got in he would never speak to her again. If,
on the other hand, Mr. Sache were returned, people believed that she
would never speak to her husband.
There can be no doubt that the attitude assumed by this lady added
greatly to the excitement of the election. In the Hickman family brother
was against brother; among the Drewitts uncle and nephew were bitter
opponents; but all this was nothing to husband and wife openly
supporting different sides.
It was the flavouring to the soup; the sauce to the fish; the lemon to
the punch. Without that element the election would have been, to a great
extent, like other elections: as it was, in the memory of the oldest
inhabitant there had never been such fun in Duranmore.
On the last day of the poll the town presented a perfectly indescribable
scene of riot, misery, and contention.
Everything which had made the nomination rather a grand affair, tended
to make the final combat wretched and squalid.
The wreaths were faded, the evergreens had turned brown, the arches were
partly broken down, the flowers were dead, the banners were torn, the
rosettes were crumpled and soiled, the instruments of the respective
bands having been used as weapons of offence and defence had come to
grief, the leading men on both sides looked worn-out and jaded, the
voters had hardly a whole coat among them; they were tired of fighting,
they were weary of being dragged hither and thither, they had passed
through every known stage of drunkenness, and many of them were by this
time in a state of sickly sobriety.
Altogether the ball had lasted too long: the soldiers, the police, the
musicians, the voters, the candidates—all were alike exhausted. No one
seemed so bright as on the first day, excepting the ladies; and even
some of them looked a little drooping.
Not so Lady Emmeline, however: whether she slept well or rouged well it
is not for me to say, but the colour in her face was brilliant as the
dye of her scarf.
“If we do not win I shall die,” were her parting words to Maxwell
Drewitt.
“We shall win,” was his last answer. Every half-hour he despatched a
messenger to tell her the state of the poll: every half-hour Geoffry
Pryor’s chances seemed to brighten, while the anxiety of the Sacheites
increased.
As the day wore on and the excitement became more intense, rioting
began, and the fighting and pushing which had hitherto been confined to
the neighbourhood of the polling-booth, spread through the crowd, till
the row became general.
There could be no mistake about the matter now. The affair was growing
serious, the people were getting earnest and dangerous. The Reds were
cudgelling the Blues, and the Blues were paying back the Reds with
interest. The authorities were beginning to be alarmed. There was a yell
for the military, and every soldier settled himself more firmly in his
saddle, and gathered up his reins, while he waited for the order to
charge. Every spectator was holding his or her breath, waiting for “what
next?” when suddenly a piercing scream rang out over the heads of the
crowd, and a cry of “Save him!” issued from the windows of the Assembly
Room.
For a moment the play of shillelaghs ceased in the centre of the
market-place square, and Geoffry Pryor, in the very heart of that
surging, seething mass of human beings, could just distinguish two men
struggling over a voter.
The fellow’s coat was torn off his back, and Maxwell Drewitt, with his
head bare, with clenched teeth, and with his face flushed and furious,
was dragging him by one arm, while Mr. Drewitt was tugging him away by
the other. The elder and more powerful man seemed to be getting the best
of it, when, quick as thought, a stick whizzed through the air and came
down on Mr. Drewitt’s skull. He dropped on the instant, and as he
dropped there was a rush of the rabble to one side, and right over his
body rode a company of hussars.
Then the light left Geoffry Pryor’s eyes; a deathlike sickness came over
him, and he fainted away.
The whole scene, which it has taken me so long to describe, was acted
out almost in a second; and next moment eager hands were raising the
owner of Kincorth from the ground.
“My God, he’s dead!”
“Och, docther, dear, say that the life’s not out of him!”
“Bleed him, docther darlint.”
“For the sake of the blessed Vargin, lift him aisy.”
“Oh, swate father! what is this at all at all?”
“Keep the craythur back. Shure it’s the young wife he married only the
other day.”
But Agnes Drewitt would not be kept back. Unmindful of the crowd,
heedless of danger or difficulty, she made her way towards the knot
collected round her husband.
“Doctor,” she said, “you must bring him back to me. He is not dead: tell
me he is not dead.”
“Carry him to my house. I can do nothing here,” was all the answer he
made; but he pulled Mrs. Drewitt forcibly from her husband’s side, and
keeping her hand in his, followed close behind.
The doctor’s house was not fifty yards distant, but to Agnes Drewitt it
seemed fifty miles.
The mob closed up again as they passed through, and, as in some terrible
dream, she heard loud shouts and continuous yells and oaths and threats
and curses.
Very vaguely it seemed to her as though she had crossed into a frightful
eternity in which the tumult of earth was still distinctly audible.
Behind her lay the great battle-field of the contested election, where
her husband had fought for what he thought the right so gallantly and so
long. To her it was all gone and past: gone with its excitement, its
sorrow, its shock, its trouble.
She felt stupified, she felt stunned. As she crossed the threshold of
the doctor’s house, she scarcely heard a prolonged howl of anger and
disappointment that rent the summer air.
“What’s that?” cried Lady Emmeline, starting up; but next moment she sat
back in her seat, clenching her hands together and beating her little
foot in impotent rage against the floor.
“It’s lost! it’s all over!” she shrieked out. And she was right. At the
eleventh hour every one of the tenants she had promised Mr. Pryor were
marched up to the polling-booth by her husband, where they recorded
their votes for Mr. Sache.
They turned the fate of the day.
“That settles it!” muttered Ryan, with a fearful oath; and he was right,
for Geoffry Pryor was beaten, and the Earl of Popingham’s nominee had
won!