Produced by Andrew Templeton, Juliet Sutherland, Mary
Meehan, and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
To my Brother and friend
"Well, that's over, thank Heaven!"
The young man speaking drew in his head from the carriage-window. Butinstead of sitting down he turned with a joyous, excited gesture andlifted the flap over the little window in the back of the landau,supporting himself, as he stooped to look, by a hand on his companion'sshoulder. Through this peephole he saw, as the horses trotted away, thecrowd in the main street of Market Malford, still huzzaing and waving,the wild glare of half a dozen torches on the faces and the moving forms,the closed shops on either hand, the irregular roofs and chimneyssharp-cut against a wintry sky, and in the far distance the littlelantern belfry and taller mass of the new town-hall.
"I'm much astonished the horses didn't bolt!" said the man addressed."That bay mare would have lost all the temper she's got in anothermoment. It's a good thing we made them shut the carriage—it has turnedabominably cold. Hadn't you better sit down?"
And Lord Fontenoy made a movement as though to withdraw from the hand onhis shoulder.
The owner of the hand flung himself down on the seat, with a word ofapology, took off his hat, and drew a long breath of fatigue. At the samemoment a sudden look of disgust effaced the smile with which he had takenhis last glimpse at the crowd.
"All very well!—but what one wants after this business is a moral tub!The lies I've told during the last three weeks—the bunkum I'vetalked!—it's a feeling of positive dirt! And the worst of it is, howeveryou may scrub your mind afterwards, some of it must stick."
He took out a cigarette, and lit it at his companion's with a ratherunsteady hand. He had a thin, long face and fair hair; and one would haveguessed him some ten years younger than the man beside him.
"Certainly—it will stick," said the other. "Election promises nowadaysare sharply looked after. I heard no bunkum. As far as I know, our partydoesn't talk any. We leave that to the Government!"
Sir George Tressady, the young man addressed, shrugged his shoulders. Hismouth was still twitching under the influence of nervous excitement. Butas they rolled along between the dark hedges, the carriage-lamps shiningon their wet branches, green yet, in spite of November, he began torecover a half-cynical self-control. The poll for the Market MalfordDivision of West Mercia had been declared that afternoon, between two andthree o'clock, after a hotly contested election; he, as the successfulcandidate by a very narrow majority, had since addressed a shouting mobfrom the balcony of the Greyhound Hotel, had suffered the usual takingout of horses and triumphal dragging through the town, and was nowreturning with his supporter and party-leader, Lord Fontenoy, to thegreat Tory mansion which had sent them forth in the morning, and had beenTressady's headquarters during the greater part of the fight.
"Did you ever