In the hall where the party was reinforced by a crowd of their smaller supporters a man plucked White’s sleeve and drew him aside. “She’s out now!” he whispered. “Pybus has left two with him and they won’t leave him for me. But if you went and ordered them out there’s a chance they’d go, and——”
“The doctor’s not there?”
“No, and Pillinger’s well enough to come, if you put it strong. He’s afraid of his wife and they’ve got him body and soul, but——”
White cast a despairing eye on the confusion about him. “How can I come?” he muttered. “I must get these to the poll first.”
“Then you’ll never do it!” the man retorted. “There’ll be no coming and going, to-day, Mr. White, you take it from me. Now’s the time while they’re waiting for you in front. You can slip out at the back and bring him in and take him with you. It’s the only way, so help me! They’re in that temper we’ll be lucky if we’re all alive to-morrow!”
The man was right; and White knew it, yet he hesitated. If he had had an aide fit for the task, the thing might be done. But to go himself—he on whom everything fell! He reflected. Possibly Arthur Vaughan might not vote for the enemy after all. But if he did, Sir Robert would poll only five to six, and be beaten! Unless he polled Pillinger, when the returning officer’s vote, of which he was sure, would give him the election. Pillinger’s vote, therefore, was vital; everything turned upon it. And he determined to go. His absence would only cause a little delay, and he must risk that. He slipped away.
He was missed at once, and the discovery redoubled the confusion. One asked where he was, and another where Sir Robert was; while Cooke in tones louder and more irritable than was prudent found fresh fault, and wished to heaven that he had never seen the place. Long accustomed to one-sided contests of which both parties knew the issue, the Tory managers were helpless; they were aware that the hour had struck, and that they were expected, but without White they were uncertain how to act. Some cried that White had gone on, and that they should follow; some that Sir Robert was to meet them at the hustings, others that they might as well be home as waiting there! While the babel without deafened and distracted them. At last, without order given, they found themselves moving out.
Their reception did not clear their brains. Such a roar of execration as greeted them had never been heard in Chippinge: the hair on Dewell, the barber’s, head stood up, the Alderman’s checks grew pale, Cooke dropped his cane, the stoutest flinched. Changed indeed were the times from those a year or two past when their exit had been greeted by sycophantic cheers, or, at worst, by a little good-humoured jesting! Now the whole multitude in the open, not in one part, but in every part, knew as by instinct of their setting forth, brandished on the instant a thousand arms at them, deafened them with a thousand voices, demanded monotonously “The Bill! The Bill!” Nor had the demonstration stopped there, but for the intervention of a body of a hundred Whig stalwarts who, posting themselves on the flanks of the derided procession, conferred on its slow march an ignoble safety.
No wonder that many a one who found himself thus guarded rubbed his eyes. The times were changed indeed! No more despotism of Squire and Parson, no more monopoly of places, no more nominated members, no more elections that did but mock men who had no share in them, no more “Cripples,” no more snug jobs! The Tories might agree with Mr. Fudge
That this passion for roaring had come in of late
Since the rabble all tried for a voice in the State,