Midnight though it was,I sat up until John and his wife came home.
They said scarcely anything,but straightway retired.In the morning,all went on in the house as usual,and no one ever knew of this night's episode,except us three.
In the morning,Guy looked wistfully around him,asking for the "pretty lady;"and being told that she was gone,and that he would not be likely to see her again,seemed disappointed for a minute;but soon he went down to play at the stream,and forgot all.
Once or twice I fancied the mother's clear voice about the house was rarer than its wont;that her quick,active,cheerful presence--penetrating every nook,and visiting every creature,as with the freshness of an April wind--was this day softer and sadder;but she did not say anything to me,nor I to her.
John had ridden off early--to the flour-mill,which he still kept on,together with the house at Norton Bury--he always disliked giving up any old associations.At dinner-time he came home,saying he was going out again immediately.
Ursula looked uneasy.A few minutes after,she followed me under the walnut-tree,where I was sitting with Muriel,and asked me if I would go with John to Kingswell.
"The election takes place to-day,and he thinks it right to be there.
He will meet Mr.Brithwood and Lord Luxmore;and though there is not the slightest need--my husband can do all that he has to do alone--still,for my own satisfaction,I would like his brother to be near him."They invariably called me their brother now;and it seemed as if the name had been mine by right of blood always.
Of course,I went to Kingswell,riding John's brown mare,he himself walking by my side.It was not often that we were thus alone together,and I enjoyed it much.All the old days seemed to come back again as we passed along the quiet roads and green lanes,just as when we were boys together,when I had none I cared for but David,and David cared only for me.The natural growth of things had made a difference in this,but our affection had changed its outward form only,not its essence.I often think that all loves and friendships need a certain three days'burial before we can be quite sure of their truth and immortality.Mine--it happened just after John's marriage,and I may confess it now--had likewise its entombment,bitter as brief.Many cruel hours sat I in darkness,weeping at the door of its sepulchre,thinking that I should never see it again;but,in the dawn of the morning,it rose,and I met it in the desolate garden,different,yet the very same.And after that,it walked with me continually,secure and imperishable evermore.
I rode,and John sauntered beside me along the footpath,now and then plucking a leaf or branch off the hedge,and playing with it,as was his habit when a lad.Often I caught the old smile--not one of his three boys,not even handsome Guy,had their father's smile.
He was telling me about Enderley Mill,and all his plans there,in the which he seemed very happy.At last,his long life of duty was merging into the life he loved.He looked as proud and pleased as a boy,in talking of the new inventions he meant to apply in cloth-weaving;and how he and his wife had agreed together to live for some years to come at little Longfield,strictly within their settled income,that all the remainder of his capital might go to the improvement of Enderley Mills and mill-people.
"I shall be master of nearly a hundred,men and women.Think what good we may do!She has half-a-dozen plans on foot already--bless her dear heart!"It was easy to guess whom he referred to--the one who went hand-in-hand with him in everything.
"Was the dinner in the barn,next Monday,her plan,too?""Partly.I thought we would begin a sort of yearly festival for the old tan-yard people,and those about the flour-mill,and the Kingswell tenants--ah,Phineas,wasn't I right about those Kingswell folk?"These were about a dozen poor families,whom,when our mortgage fell in,he had lured out of Sally Watkins'miserable alley to these old houses,where they had at least fresh country air,and space enough to live wholesomely and decently,instead of herding together like pigs in a sty.
"You ought to be proud of your tenants,Phineas.I assure you,they form quite a contrast to their neighbours,who are Lord Luxmore's.""And his voters likewise,I suppose?--the 'free and independent burgesses'who are to send Mr.Vermilye to Parliament?""If they can,"said John,biting his lip with that resolute half-combative air which I now saw in him at times,roused by things which continually met him in his dealings with the world--things repugnant alike to his feelings and his principles,but which he had still to endure,not having risen high enough to oppose,single-handed,the great mass of social corruption which at this crisis of English history kept gathering and gathering,until out of the very horror and loathsomeness of it an outcry for purification arose.
"Do you know,Phineas,I might last week have sold your houses for double price?They are valuable,this election year,since your five tenants are the only voters in Kingswell who are not likewise tenants of Lord Luxmore.Don't you see how the matter stands?"It was not difficult,for that sort of game was played all over England,connived at,or at least winked at,by those who had political influence to sell or obtain,until the Reform Bill opened up the election system in all its rottenness and enormity.
"Of course I knew you would not sell your houses;and I shall use every possible influence I have to prevent your tenants selling their votes.Whatever may be the consequence,the sort of thing that this Kingswell election bids fair to be,is what any honest Englishman ought to set his face against,and prevent if he can.""Can you?"
