and foretell the ruinous outcome of it. But the thing was, the many-headed, the many-handed had them in its grip. They must go meekly, or not at all; with visions of French fish-fags and guillotines before their eyes, and wondering, most of them—as they tried to show a bold front, tried to wave their banners and give some answering shout to the sea that beat upon them—how they would get home again with whole skins!
Perhaps there was only one of them who never had that thought; though he, alone of them all, was unaware of the precautions taken for his safety. That was Sir Robert Vermuyden, the master of all, the patron, the Borough-monger! Attended by Bob Flixton, who had come with him from Bristol to see the fun—and whose voice it will be remembered Vaughan had overheard at Stapylton the evening before—and by two or three other guests, he had entered the White Lion from the rear; arriving in time to fall in—somewhat surprised at his supporters’ precipitation—at the tail of the procession. The moment he was recognised by the crowd he was greeted with a roar of “Down with the Borough-monger!” that fairly appalled his companions. But he faced it calmly, imperturbably, quietly; a little paler, a little prouder, and a little sterner perhaps than usual, but with a gleam in his eyes that had not been seen in them for years. For answer to all he smiled with a curling lip: and it is probable that as much as any hour in his life he enjoyed this hour, which put him to the test before those over whom he had ruled so long. His caste might be passing, the days of his power might be numbered, the waves of democracy might be rising about the system in which he believed the safety of England to lie; but no man should see him falter. No veteran of the old noblesse in days which Sir Robert could remember had gone to his fate more proudly than the English patrician was prepared to go to his, ay, and though worse than the guillotine awaited him.
His contemptuous attitude, his fearless bearing, impressed the crowd, appreciative at bottom, of courage. And presently, where he turned his cold, smiling eyes they gaped instead of hissing: and one here and there under the magic of his look doffed hat or carried hand to forehead, and henceforth was mute. And so great is the sympathy of all parts of a mob that this silence spread quickly, mysteriously, at last, wholly. So that when he, last of his party, stepped on the hustings, there was for a moment a complete stillness; a stillness of expectation, while he looked round; such a stillness as startled the leaders of the opposition. It could not be—it could not be, that after all, the old lion would prove too much for them!
White-Hat Williams roared aloud in his rage. “Up hats and shout, lads,” he yelled, “or by G—d the d——d Tories will do us after all! Are you afraid of them, you lubbers! Shout, lads, shout!”
XVIII
THE CHIPPINGE ELECTION (Continued)
The beast that was in the crowd answered to the spur. “Ye’ve robbed us long enough, ye old rascal!” a harsh Midland voice shrieked over the heads of the throng. “We’ll have our rights now, you blood-sucker!” And “Boo! Boo!” the lower elements of the mob broke forth. And then in stern cadence, “The Bill! The Bill! The Bill!”
“Out of Egypt, and out of the House of Bondage!” shrieked a Methodist above the hub-bub.
“Ay, ay!”
“Slaves no longer!”
“No! No! No!”