A FEW STEPS ASIDE.
“Now, a little before them, there was on the left hand of the
road a meadow, and a stile to go over into it, and that meadow
is called By-path meadow.”—_Pilgrim’s Progress._
Oh, the interest and the excitement of an election! How little we
consider, when we glance over a dry list of the members of the House of
Commons, all the efforts and sacrifices that have been made, the anxiety,
heartburnings, sleepless nights, exhausting days, that have been endured
to place a single name on that list!
Not only the castle, but all the neighbourhood, was in a ferment, for
this was to be a hotly contested election. For some years Mr. Hope had
quietly sat as member for the adjacent town of Allborough; but it was now
known that he must have a desperate struggle for his place—a wealthy,
popular man, had come forward to oppose him: Mr. Stacey was the supporter
of a very popular measure, and though the truth was scarcely acknowledged
at Fontonore, the chances in favour of the pink were considered equal to
those in favour of the blue.
Nothing was talked of at the castle, scarcely anything thought of, but
the election. Mr. Hope exerted himself as if his life depended upon
success; his lady was, if possible, more anxious than himself, she was
so proud of being the wife of an M.P., she thought that it added so much
to her dignity in society. Even Clementina employed her delicate fingers
with a little more energy than she usually thought “refined,” to make up
cockades of blue satin ribbon. She wished the colours had been reversed,
“as pink is so much more becoming;” but as her complexion had never been
consulted in the choice, she made up her mind to appear in blue.
The boys naturally caught the infection of the time. Charles was wild
for the Blues, and accompanied his uncle very often on his canvassing
rounds. He felt ready to knock down any one who dared express a doubt
of Mr. Hope’s success. And though Ernest had suffered too much, and had
reflected too much, to be quite so violent in his emotions, besides
wanting even the smattering of politics which his brother had naturally
picked up, he also took his part with interest in the proceedings, and
watched with almost as much pleasure the erection of the polling-booth,
covered with gaudy placards of red and blue, on which “HOPE FOR EVER!”
and “VOTE FOR STACEY!” appeared in large, staring letters, as he did the
conversion of a barn into a little school which he was preparing for the
cottagers around.
Sometimes, indeed, the thought would cross the mind of the boy, as he
looked on excited faces, and listened to animated conversation on the
all-engrossing theme,—“How strange it is that so much more interest is
taken in the things of this life than in what regards another! It is as
though pilgrims to the celestial city should exert all their efforts,
strain every nerve, to gain possession of some hillock by the way!”
The day before the election was one of those mild bright days which
sometimes occur in the midst of winter, like a little green oasis in a
desert, to remind us of the spring which is to come. The air felt almost
balmy and warm, and Mr. Ewart and his two pupils walked out to enjoy the
sweet sunshine in the park. There was a rustic chair beneath one of the
fine old trees, on which the clergyman sat down, while the boys, on the
other and more sheltered side of the huge tree, amused themselves with
gathering and examining some peculiar moss.
Mr. Ewart had scarcely taken his seat when a step was heard on the dry
withered leaves with which the turf was thickly strewn. A rough-looking
man approached and touched his hat; Mr. Ewart recognized the butcher
who supplied the castle, and in his usual courteous manner, wished Mr.
Staines good morning.
The tradesman replied to the salutation, but stood lingering as if
he had something to say, and yet felt difficulty in beginning the
conversation.
[Illustration: MR. STAINES AND THE TUTOR.]
“Did you wish to speak to me?” said Mr. Ewart, observing his hesitation.
“Why, sir, I have been wishing very much to say a word to you about
to-morrow’s election.”
“You must be aware,” replied the clergyman, “that I make it my rule to
take no part in politics.”
“I wished to consult you, sir,—”
“I must decline giving advice on these subjects.”
“But, sir, it is a matter of conscience!”
“If so, then I am ready to hear you.”
“As you of course know, sir,” said the butcher, rubbing his head, “Mr.
Hope expects me to give him my vote. I have the custom of the castle
here, and that’s a great matter for a man like me. But you see, sir,”—he
stopped and scraped the ground with his foot, then, as the clergyman
waited patiently for the rest of his speech, continued with a good deal
of embarrassment,—“you see I think all the other way from Mr. Hope, and I
did promise to vote for Mr. Stacey.”
“Then what brings you now to me? You cannot be ignorant that in my
position as tutor to Lord Fontonore, this is a most delicate affair for
me to interfere in.”
“I know it, I know it, sir,” said the tradesman, lowering his voice; “but
I have never received from any person in the world the advice that I have
received from you. A man needs good counsel, you see, at a pass like
this, when one is afraid of going against a customer on the one hand,
and—and—conscience upon the other.”
“Conscience before interest always,” said Mr. Ewart.
“You don’t mean that I should vote against Mr. Hope?” cried the butcher,
who perhaps secretly wished that the tutor of the candidate’s nephews
might find some means of relieving his scruples, or take on himself the
responsibility of silencing them at once.
“Do ever what is right, and leave the event to a higher hand,” replied
the clergyman, rising to conclude so annoying an interview, and motioning
to the tradesman to leave him.
“My uncle would not thank you for your counsel,” said Charles, coming
forward as soon as the voter had departed.
“I hope that he may never know of it,” subjoined Ernest; “he would be
wounded in his tenderest point.”
“I much regret that I was consulted,” said Mr. Ewart, gravely; “but,
being so, I do not see what other answer I could have given.”
“Oh, you did right, as you always do!” exclaimed Charles; “but I hope
that that vote may not lose us the election—it would be almost enough to
drive one wild.”
* * * * *
There was a sudden change in the weather before the next morning dawned:
the snow was falling fast, mantling the earth with white; the sky was of
one dull gray; the wind shrieked through the leafless branches. It was
a day when it might have been imagined that no one would have willingly
quitted a warm hearth to face the inclemency of the weather; yet no
one in Castle Fontonore seemed to regard either frost, wind, or snow.
There were banners flying, bands playing, crowds gathering, the tramp of
horses, and the noise of shouting. The snow that fell so soft and white
became hardened and brown beneath the hurried tread of many feet. To the
poll, from the poll—on horseback, on foot—eager messengers crossed each
other, to rouse wavering partisans to exertion, or carry tidings to eager
listeners.
The candidates had been proposed, their speeches had been made; all
that now remained was for the voters to hasten to the poll. Great was
the excitement in the castle when, at the end of the first hour, the
statement of numbers was brought in. Mrs. Hope stood flushed and panting
with anxiety, and looked half surprised, half mortified, to hear that her
husband was but thirteen ahead of his opponent.
The next hour his success appeared yet more doubtful—the thirteen had
diminished to seven. Then again Mr. Hope’s majority rose; and his lady,
as if assured of triumph, glanced proudly around and repeated for the
hundredth time her assertion that she had never for a moment doubted of
victory.
Ernest and Charles rode on their ponies amidst the gathered crowds. Every
cheer that rose as the Lord of Fontonore and his bright-haired young
brother appeared, with large blue cockades on their breasts, seemed a
pledge of the success of their uncle.
At length the eventful moment for the close of the poll drew near. Mrs.
Hope could hardly endure to await the result in the castle; but such was
the desire of her husband. Restlessly she paced up and down the hall,
starting at every sound, watching with breathless anxiety for news from
the polling-place. Not that she would admit that she had the slightest
fear of defeat. It was impossible that Mr. Hope could fail of election,
with his connections, his talents, his standing: she only wondered at the
audacity of his opponent, and stopped repeatedly, in her impatient walk
to and fro, to desire Ernest to write down the name of some titled friend
to whom she must write by the very first post, to communicate the news of
her triumph.
“Hark! that’s the sound of a horse’s quick tramp,” exclaimed Ernest,
starting to his feet. “That’s Charles, I am sure. He brings tidings.” The
next moment the hoofs clattered through the archway, and the rider flung
himself off the saddle, even before the panting animal stopped at the
door.
Mrs. Hope and Ernest hurried to meet him; but the eager question died on
the lips of the lady, as she saw the expression on her nephew’s face.
“Lost! all lost!” exclaimed Charles, almost stamping with impatience;
“lost by a minority of _one_!”
“Impossible! It cannot be!” cried Mrs. Hope. “There must be some mistake,
or some treachery.”
But no; there was neither treachery nor mistake. Every new-comer
confirmed the tidings, and Ernest had an opportunity of again witnessing
how heavily disappointment falls on the citizens of Vanity Fair. Would
that the citizens of a more glorious place lived so far above the world
that its trials should never have power to drag them down to the level of
its slaves! Are the trifles which so often ruffle our tempers and depress
our spirits worth such anxious thought from those who profess that their
hearts and their treasures are above?
Mr. Hope’s disappointment, anger, and irritation knew no bounds. He was
ill able to afford the expense of a contested election. He had spared
no trouble, no exertion, no cost; and to lose it after all, and by a
minority of _one_, was more than the worldly man could endure.
Mr. Hope talked over the events of the day with his wife in the evening;
Ernest and Charles sitting at a little distance, with the chess-table
before them, but too much interested in the conversation to attend to
their game. Their uncle spoke in a rapid and excited manner, accusing
this person of bribery and that of perjury, and declaring that he would
demand a scrutiny.
“I say, Ernest,” whispered Charles, in a very low voice, bending towards
his brother, so that no one else should hear him, “I would not for ten
thousand pounds that our uncle should know of Mr. Ewart’s conversation
with the butcher.”
“Nor I,” replied Ernest, in the same tone. “What do you think would
happen if he did?”
“Mr. Ewart would be dismissed at once from the castle. I know that Uncle
Hope would be glad of an opportunity to do this. I am certain that he
dislikes our friend, and so does Aunt Matilda.”
“Oh, I hope and trust that he never may know it!” exclaimed Ernest,
startled at the idea of such a misfortune—one of the greatest, he felt,
which could befall him, for his affection towards his tutor was deep and
sincere.
“I am afraid,” said Charles, still whispering, “that my uncle will hear
something about the affair. He is aware that Staines was the last man to
vote, and that he turned the scale against him: and Jones told us that
the butcher had been seen yesterday in our park; and my uncle, who was
very angry indeed, declared that he would sift the matter to the bottom.”
“You make me very uneasy,” said Ernest. “What should we say if we were
questioned? You know that we overheard all.”
“I wish that we had been anywhere else,” cried Charles; “but I had no
idea that the man had come about anything secret. What should we say if
we were questioned?”
“We could not betray our friend. Oh, Charles, if he were to leave us, how
could we ever stand firm against all the temptations which we should be
certain to meet?”
“Who would help you to carry out your plans of usefulness?”
“Who would be our guide in our pilgrimage?”
“And it might be ruin to Mr. Ewart to be sent away. You know that he
supports his aged mother. His voice is not strong enough for severe
clerical duty; he might never be able to get a church.”
“I would do anything to prevent such a misfortune happening,” cried
Ernest.
“_Anything?_ Would you tell an untruth?”
“In such a case as this, I hardly think that it would be wrong?”
Charles looked very doubtfully at his brother.
“Why, consider, Charles, all the evil that might follow if my uncle knew
the truth—evil to us, to all around us, to our dear friend himself.
Nothing should make us swerve from strict candour where only our own
interests are concerned; but when a good man may be ruined—”
Here the conversation was suddenly broken off by Mr. Hope’s turning
towards them, and exclaiming, in a loud tone,—
“And there’s something which you may help me to clear up, young
gentlemen. I have heard a rumour—a very strange rumour, one that it is
scarcely possible to credit—that that fellow Staines was hanging about
the park yesterday, and had a consultation with Mr. Ewart, who advised
him to vote against me. Were you with your tutor at the time?”
“We were with Mr. Ewart all the afternoon,” replied Ernest, his heart
throbbing very fast.
“We never left him,” added Charles, as his uncle glanced towards him.
“And do you know nothing of this pretended interview, which may have
been—which probably is—nothing but a malicious calumny, a fable? Was
there any such conversation held in your presence?—a thing almost
impossible to conceive.”
“No, sir; there was none,” replied Ernest, in a low tone.
“None,” repeated Charles, looking down and blushing.
Mr. Hope surveyed them both with a piercing eye. How uneasy they felt
under his glance! He questioned them no more, however, but turned round
again towards the fire, and was soon engaged once more in animated
conversation with his wife.
“Have we done right?” whispered Charles to his brother.
“I don’t exactly know. I hope so, for we acted from a good motive. We
could not have spoken out, and ruined our friend. I am sure that God will
not severely judge an act of kindness and gratitude.”
Ah! vain confidence, how many have you led astray! who judge of the
Almighty by their own false ideas, instead of His pure unerring Word!
Where do we find in the Bible that any sin, committed from any motive
whatsoever, finds indulgence from the God of holiness and truth?
“I do not feel quite easy,” murmured Charles.
“Nor I. Yet I hope that we have not really wandered from the way. I
hardly see what else we could have done.”
The servants now brought in tea and coffee. Clementina, looking tired and
out of spirits, came into the drawing-room, and was almost immediately
followed by Mr. Ewart.
“Mr. Ewart,” exclaimed Mr. Hope, stopping suddenly in what he was saying
on perceiving the entrance of the clergyman, and addressing him in a
sharp, stern, decided manner, “allow me to ask you one question.”
The tutor silently bowed.
“Did you, or did you not, converse yesterday in the park with the butcher
Staines?”
“I did do so,” replied Mr. Ewart, without hesitation.
Ernest bit his lip, till he almost brought blood.
“Did you, or did you not, advise him to vote against me?” continued Mr.
Hope, in a tone of suppressed fury.
“I advised him to vote according to his conscience.”
“And you advised these two boys to speak according to their conscience!”
exclaimed Mr. Hope, in a voice that made the room ring. “You, the
instructor of youth—you, the pattern of strict morality—you have taught
your pupils to be hypocrites and liars; you have corrupted their
unsuspicious minds—”
[Illustration: THE DISMISSAL.]
“Sir,” said Mr. Ewart, with dignity; but Mr. Hope was too furious to
listen.
“I say that you have corrupted them—ruined their principles. Your conduct
to me I could pass over; but I cannot leave my nephews one day longer in
the hands of one who would teach them to be hypocrites. You leave the
castle to-morrow, sir,—”
“Oh, uncle!—Mr. Hope!” cried Ernest and Charles, springing forward, “Mr.
Ewart knew nothing of it; it was we—it was I.”
“There is no use speaking,” cried the indignant candidate. “From your
conduct, I must judge of the instructions which you have received. Two
of my family to be guilty of deliberate falsehood!—Sir,” he continued,
turning towards Mr. Ewart, “you have heard my unalterable decision. You
quit the castle to-morrow.”
Mr. Ewart bowed gravely, and retired to his own apartment, followed by
the almost heart-broken boys.