Though the country in general chose to go to the dogs, Reuben had the consolation of seeing a Conservative returned for Rye. He put this down largely to his own exertions, and came home in high good humour from the declaration of the Poll. Mr. Courthope, the successful candidate, had shaken him by the hand, and so had his agent and one or two prominent members of the Club. They had congratulated him on his wonderful energy, and wished him many more years of usefulness to the Conservative cause. He might live to see a wheat-tax yet.
He compared his present feelings with the miserable humiliation he had endured in '65. Queer!—that election seemed almost as real and vivid to him as this one, and—he did not know why—he found himself feeling as if it were more important. His mind recaptured the details with startling clearness—the crowd in the market-place, the fight with Coalbran, the sheep's entrails that were flung about ... and suddenly, sitting there in his arm-chair, he found himself muttering: "that hemmed gëate!"
It must be old age. He pulled himself together, as a farm-hand came into the room. It was Boorman, one of the older lot, who had just come back from Rye.
"Good about the poll, mäaster, wurn't it?" he said—the older men were always more cordial towards Reuben than the youngsters. They had seen how he could work.
"Unaccountable good."
"I mäade sure as how Mus' Courthope ud git in. 'Täun't so long since we sent up another Unionist—seems strange when you and me remembers that a Tory never sat fur Rye till '85."
"When did you come back?"
"I've only just come in, mäaster. Went räound to the London Trader after hearing the poll. By the way, I picked up a piece of news thur—old Jury's darter wot used to be at Cheat Land has just died. Bob Hilder töald me—seems as she lodges wud his sister."
"Um."