“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.