Sir George Tressady, vol 1

Sir George Tressady, Vol. I, by
Mrs. Humphry Ward

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Title: Sir George Tressady, Vol. I
Author: Mrs. Humphry Ward
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SIR GEORGE TRESSADY, VOLUME I
IN TWO VOLUMES
BY
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
AUTHOR OF "MARCELLA," "THE HISTORY OF DAVID
GRIEVE," "ROBERT ELSMEKE," ETC.

To my Brother and friend
WILLIAM THOMAS ARNOLD
I INSCRIBE THIS BOOK

VOLUME I.


CHAPTER I
">
PART I
CHAPTER I
"Well, that's over, thank Heaven!"
The young man speaking drew in his head from the carriage-window.
But instead of sitting down he turned with a joyous, excited gesture and
lifted 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's
shoulder. Through this peephole he saw, as the horses trotted away, the
crowd 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
chimneys sharp-cut against a wintry sky, and in the far distance the
little lantern 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 another
moment. It's a good thing we made them shut the carriage--it has turned

abominably cold. Hadn't you better sit down?"
And Lord Fontenoy made a movement as though to withdraw from the
hand on his shoulder.
The owner of the hand flung himself down on the seat, with a word of
apology, took off his hat, and drew a long breath of fatigue. At the
same moment a sudden look of disgust effaced the smile with which he
had taken his 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've
talked!--it's a feeling of positive dirt! And the worst of it is, however
you may scrub your mind afterwards, some of it must stick."
He took out a cigarette, and lit it at his companion's with a rather
unsteady hand. He had a thin, long face and fair hair; and one would
have guessed him some ten years younger than the man beside him.
"Certainly--it will stick," said the other. "Election promises nowadays
are sharply looked after. I heard no bunkum. As far as I know, our party
doesn't talk any. We leave that to the Government!"
Sir George Tressady, the young man addressed, shrugged his shoulders.
His mouth was still twitching under the influence of nervous
excitement. But as they rolled along between the dark hedges, the
carriage-lamps shining on their wet branches, green yet, in spite of
November, he began to recover a half-cynical self-control. The poll for
the Market Malford Division of West Mercia had been declared that
afternoon, between two and three o'clock, after a hotly contested
election; he, as the successful candidate by a very narrow majority, had
since addressed a shouting mob from the balcony of the Greyhound
Hotel, had suffered the usual taking out of horses and triumphal
dragging through the town, and was now returning with his supporter
and party-leader, Lord Fontenoy, to the great Tory mansion