Sir George Tressady, vol 1 | Page 5

greatly at the town-hall in the way of hand-shaking and congratulations, was now most unreasonably prepared to overdo it again. Lady Tressady joined in with little shrieks and sallies, the other guests of the house gathered round, and the hero of the day was once more lost to sight and hearing amid the general hubbub of talk and laughter--for the young man in knickerbockers, at any rate, who stood a little way off from the rest.
"I wonder when she'll condescend to come down," he said to himself, examining his boots with a speculative smile. "Of course it was mere caprice that she didn't go to Malford; she meant it to annoy."
"I say, do let me get warm," said Tressady at last, breaking from his tormentors, and coming up to the open log fire, in front of which the young man stood. "Where's Fontenoy vanished to?"
"Went up to write letters directly he had swallowed a cup of tea," said the young man, whose name was Bayle; "and called Marks to go with him." (Marks was Lord Fontenoy's private secretary.)
George Tressady threw up his hands in disgust.
"It's absurd. He never allows himself an hour's peace. If he expects me to grind as he does, he'll soon regret that he lent a hand to put me into Parliament. Well, I'm stiff all over, and as tired as a rat. I'll go and have a warm bath before dinner."
But still he lingered, warming his hands over the blaze, and every now and then scanning the gallery which ran round the big hall. Bayle chatted to Mm about some of the incidents of the day. George answered at random. He did, indeed, look tired out, and his expression was restless and discontented.
Suddenly there was a cry from the group of young men and maidens who were amusing themselves in the centre of the hall.
"Why, there's Letty! and as fresh as paint."
George turned abruptly. Bayle saw his manner stiffen and his eye kindle.
A young girl was slowly coming down the great staircase which led to the hall. She was in a soft black dress with a blue sash, and a knot of blue at her throat--a childish slip of a dress, which answered to her small rounded form, her curly head, and the hand slipping along the marble rail. She came down silently smiling, taking each step with great deliberation, in spite of the outbreak of half-derisive sympathy with which she was greeted from her friends below. Her bright eyes glanced from face to face--from the mocking inquirers immediately beneath her to George Tressady standing by the fire.
At the moment when she reached the last step Tressady found it necessary to put another log on a fire already piled to repletion.
Meanwhile Miss Sewell went straight towards the new member and held out her hand.
"I am so glad, Sir George; let me congratulate you."
George put down his log, and then looked at his fingers critically.
"I am very sorry, Miss Sewell, but I am not fit to touch. I hope your headache is better."
Miss Sewell dropped her hand meekly, shot him a glance which was not meek, and said demurely:
"Oh! my headaches do what they're told. You see, I was determined to come down and congratulate you."
"I see," he repeated, making her a little bow. "I hope my ailments, when I get them, will be as docile. So my mother told you?"
"I didn't want telling," she said placidly. "I knew it was all safe."
"Then you knew what only the gods knew--for I only got in by seventeen votes."
"Yes, so I heard. I was very sorry for Burrows."
She put one foot on the stone fender, raised her pretty dress with one hand, and leant the other lightly against the mantelpiece. The attitude was full of grace, and the little sighing voice fitted the curves of a mouth which seemed always ready to laugh, yet seldom laughed frankly.
As she made her remark about Burrows Tressady smiled.
"My prophetic soul was right," he said deliberately; "I knew you would be sorry for Burrows."
"Well, it is hard on him, isn't it? You can't deny you're a carpet-bagger, can you?"
"Why should I? I'm proud of it."
Then he looked round him. The rest of the party--not without whispers and smothered laughter--had withdrawn from them. Some of the ladies had already gone up to dress. The men had wandered away into a little library and smoking-room which opened on the hall. Only the squire, safe in a capacious armchair a little way off, was absorbed in a local paper and the last humours of the election.
Satisfied with his glance, Tressady put his hands into his pockets, and leant back against the fireplace, in a way to give himself fuller command of Miss Sewell's countenance.
"Do you never give your friends any better sympathy than you have given