the bows of a dozen shopkeepers, and drive
home again—hawbuck servants, who talk
against you as they talk against every one,
but always more maliciously against any
one whom they have known in a different
degree of life—and the title of the squire's
lady! You are calculated to enjoy life
which you will never behold, and to shine
in society to which you will never be
admitted. You wanted money, and now you
have it, and how much good has it done
you? Would it not have been better to
have waited a little, just a little, not to
have been quite so eager to throw away the
worshipping lover, who has done so well,
as it has turned out, and who is in every
way but ill replaced by the old gentleman
sitting there?"

The promptings of the dim presence
worked uncomfortably on both the
occupants of Woolgreaves, but they had the
greatest effect on the old gentleman
sitting there. With the departure of the
girls, and the impossibility which attended
his efforts to soften his wife's coldness and
do away with the vindictive feeling which
she entertained towards his nieces, Mr.
Creswell seemed to enter on a new and
totally different sphere of existence. The
bright earnest man of business became
doddering and vague, his cheery look was
supplanted by a worn, haggard, fixed regard;
his step, which had been remarkably elastic
and vigorous for a man of his years, became
feeble and slow, and he constantly sat with
his hand tightly pressed on his side, as
though to endeavour to ease some gnawing
pain. A certain amount of coldness and
estrangement between him and Marian,
which ensued immediately after his nieces'
departure, had increased so much as entirely
to change the ordinary current of their
lives; the pleasant talk which he used to
originate, and which she would pursue with
such brightness and earnestness as to cause
him the greatest delight, had dwindled
down into a few careless inquiries on her
part, and meaningless replies from him; and
the evenings, which he had looked forward
to with such pleasure, were now passed in
almost unbroken silence.

One day Mr. Gould, the election agent,
arrived from London at Brocksopp, and,
without going into the town, ordered the
fly which he engaged at the station to drive
him straight to Woolgreaves. On his
arrival there he asked for Mrs. Creswell.
The servant, who recognised him, and
knew his business—what servant at houses
which we are in the habit of frequenting
does not know our business and all about
us, and has his opinion, generally unfavourable,
of us and our affairs?—doubted
whether he had heard aright, and replied
that his master had gone to Brocksopp,
and would be found either at the mills or
at his committee-rooms. But Mr. Gould
renewed his inquiry for Mrs. Creswell, and
was conducted by the wondering domestic
to that lady's boudoir. The London agent,
always sparse of compliments, spoke on
this occasion with even more than usual
brevity.

"I came to see you to-day, Mrs. Creswell,
and not your husband," said he; "as
I think you are more likely to comprehend
my views, and to offer me some advice."

"Regarding the election, Mr. Gould?"

"Regarding the election, of course. I
want to put things in a clear light to you,
and, as you're a remarkably clear-headed
woman—oh no, I never flatter, I don't get
time enough—you'll be able to turn 'em in
your mind, and think what's best to be
done. I should have made the communication
to your husband six months ago, but
he's grown nervous and fidgetty lately, and
I'd sooner have the advantage of your clear
brain."

"You are very good—do you think Mr.
Creswell's looking ill?"

"Well—I was going to say you mustn't
be frightened, but that's not likely—you're
too strong minded, Mrs. Creswell. The
fact is, I do see a great difference in the
old—I mean Mr. Creswell—during the last
few weeks, and not only I, but the people
too."

"You mean some of the electors?"

"Yes, some of his own people, good
staunch friends! They say they can't get
anything out of him now, can't pin him
to a question. He used to be clear and
straightforward, and now he wanders away
into something else, and sits mumchance
and doesn't answer any questions at all."

"And you have come to consult me
about this?"

"I've come to say to you that this won't
do at all. He is pledged to go to the poll,
and he must go, cheerily and pleasantly,
though there is no doubt about it that we
shall get an awful thrashing."

"You think so?"

"I'm sure so. We were doing very well
at first, and Mr. Creswell is very much
respected and all that, and he would have
beat that young What's-his-name—Bokenham
—without very much trouble. But
this Joyce is a horse of a different colour.
Directly he started the current seemed to
turn. He's a good-looking fellow, and