“The line I have taken you have generally supported. That is not what you mean. If I am defeated I shall be defeated by equivocating cowardice, and I shall consider myself honoured.”
The Doctor strode out of the room. He knew now that he was the common property of the town, and that every tongue was wagging about him and a woman, but he was defiant. The next morning he saw painted in white paint on his own wall—
“My dearly beloved, for all you’re so bold,
To-morrow you’ll find you’re left out in the cold;
And, Doctor, the reason you need not to ax,
It’s because of a dressmaker—Mrs. F—fax.”
He was going out just as the gardener was about to obliterate the inscription.
“Leave it, Robert, leave it; let the filthy scoundrels perpetuate their own disgrace.”
The result of the election was curious. Two of the Church candidates were returned at the top of the poll. Jem Casey came next. Dr. Midleton and the other two Radical and Dissenting candidates were defeated. There were between seventy and eighty plumpers for the two successful Churchmen, and about five-and-twenty split votes for them and Casey, who had distinguished himself by his coarse attacks on the Doctor. Mr. Bingham had a bad cold, and did not vote. On the following Sunday the church was fuller than usual. The Doctor preached on behalf of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel. He did not allude directly to any of the events of the preceding week, but at the close of his sermon he said—“It has been frequently objected that we ought not to spend money on missions to the heathen abroad as there is such a field of labour at home. The answer to that objection is that there is more hope of the heathen than of many of our countrymen. This has been a nominally Christian land for centuries, but even now many deadly sins are not considered sinful, and it is an easier task to save the savage than to convince those, for example, whose tongue, to use the words of the apostle, is set on fire of hell, that they are in danger of damnation. I hope, therefore, my brethren, that you will give liberally.”
On Monday Langborough was amazed to find Mrs. Fairfax’s shop closed. She had left the town. She had taken a post-chaise on Saturday and had met the up-mail at Thaxton cross-roads. Her scanty furniture had disappeared. The carrier could but inform Langborough that he had orders to deliver her goods at Great Ormond Street whence he brought them. Mrs. Bingham went to London shortly afterwards and called at Great Ormond Street to inquire for Mrs. Fairfax. Nobody of that name lived there, and the door was somewhat abruptly shut in her face. She came back convinced that Mrs. Fairfax was what Mrs. Cobb called “a bad lot.”
“Do you believe,” said she, “that a woman who gives a false name can be respectable? We want no further proof.”
Nobody wanted further proof. No Langborough lady needed any proof if a reputation was to be blasted.
“It’s an alibi,” said Mrs. Harrop. “That’s what Tom Cranch the poacher did, and he was hung.”