Sir George Tressady, vol 1 | Page 4

tempered learning alive with
traditions on the subject of "Dicky Fontenoy." And such
traditions--good Heavens! Subsequently, at most race-meetings, large
and small, and at various clubs, theatres, and places of public resort, the
younger man had had his opportunities of observing the elder, and had
used them always with relish, and sometimes with admiration. He
himself had no desire to follow in Fontenoy's footsteps. Other elements
ruled in him, which drew him other ways. But there was a
magnificence about the impetuosity, or rather the doggedness with
which Fontenoy had plunged into the business of ruining himself,
which stirred the imagination. On the last occasion, some three and a
half years before this Market Malford election, when Tressady had seen
Fontenoy before starting himself on a long Eastern tour, he had been
conscious of a lively curiosity as to what might have happened to
"Dicky" by the time he came back again. The eldest sons of peers do
not generally come to the workhouse; but there are aristocratic
substitutes which, relatively, are not much less disagreeable; and
George hardly saw how they were to be escaped.
And now--not four years!--and here sat Dicky Fontenoy, haranguing on
the dull clauses of a technical act, throat hoarse with the speaking of the
last three weeks, eyes cavernous with anxiety and overwork, the creator
and leader of a political party which did not exist when Tressady left
England, and now bade fair to hold the balance of power in English
government! The surprises of fate and character! Tressady pondered
them a little in a sleepy way; but the fatigue of many days asserted
itself. Even his companion was soon obliged to give him up as a
listener. Lord Fontenoy ceased to talk; yet every now and then, as some
jolt of the carriage made George open his eyes, he saw the
broad-shouldered figure beside him, sitting in the same attitude, erect
and tireless, the same half-peevish pugnacity giving expression to
mouth and eye.
* * * * *

"Come, wake up, Tressady! Here we are!"
There was a vindictive eagerness in Fontenoy's voice. Ease was no
longer welcome to him, whether in himself or as a spectacle in other
men. George, startled from a momentary profundity of sleep, staggered
to his feet, and clutched at various bags and rugs.
The carriage was standing under the pillared porch of Malford House,
and the great house-doors, thrown back upon an inner flight of marble
steps, gave passage to a blaze of light. George, descending, had just
shaken himself awake, and handed the things he held to a footman,
when there was a sudden uproar from within. A crowd of figures--men
and women, the men cheering, the women clapping and laughing--ran
down the inner steps towards him. He was surrounded, embraced,
slapped on the back, and finally carried triumphantly into the hall.
"Bring him in!" said an exultant voice; "and stand back, please, and let
his mother get at him."
The laughing group fell back, and George, blinking, radiant, and
abashed, found himself in the arms of an exceedingly sprightly and
youthful dame, with pale, frizzled hair, and the figure of seventeen.
"Oh, you dear, great, foolish thing!" said the lady, with the voice and
the fervour, moreover, of seventeen. "So you've got in--you've done it!
Well, I should never have spoken to you again if you hadn't! And I
suppose you'd have minded that a little--from your own mother.
Goodness! how cold he is!"
And she flew at him with little pecking kisses, retreating every now and
again to look at him, and then closing upon him again in ecstasy, till
George, at the end of his patience, held her off with a strong arm.
"Now, mother, that's enough. Have the others been home long?" he
asked, addressing a smiling young man in knickerbockers who, with his
hands in his pockets, was standing beside the hero of the occasion
surveying the scene.

"Oh! about half an hour. They reported you'd have some difficulty in
getting out of the clutches of the crowd. We hardly expected you so
soon."
"How's Miss Sewell's headache? Does she know?"
The expression of the young man's eye, which was bent on Tressady,
changed ever so slightly as he replied:
"Oh yes, she knows. As soon as the others got back Mrs. Watton went
up to tell her. She didn't show at lunch."
"Mrs. Watton came to tell me--naughty man!" said the lady whom
George had addressed as his mother, tapping the speaker on the arm
with her fan. "Mothers first, if you please, especially when they're
cripples like me, and can't go and see their dear darlings' triumphs with
their own eyes. And I told Miss Sewell."
She put her head on one side, and looked archly at her son. Her high