“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
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 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,
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 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
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 lingering as if he had something to say, and yet felt difficulty in beginning the conversation.
 
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.”
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“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
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 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.
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 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
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 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, an............