“Promised him?” Hilary repeated. The shaking, the vehemence and anger, of Euphrasia seemed to have had no effect whatever on the main trend of his thoughts.
“Where has he gone?”
“You can find out for yourself,” she retorted bitterly. “I wish on your account it was to China. He came here this afternoon, as gentle as ever, and packed up his things, and said he was goin' away because you was worried. Worried!” she exclaimed scornfully. “His worry and his trouble don't count—but yours. And he made me promise to stay with you. If it wasn't for him,” she cried, picking up the lamp, “I'd leave you this very night.”
She swept past him, and up the narrow stairway to her bedroom.
CHAPTER XVII. BUSY DAYS AT WEDDERBURN
There is no blast so powerful, so withering, as the blast of ridicule. Only the strongest men can withstand it, only reformers who are such in deed, and not alone in name, can snap their fingers at it, and liken it to the crackling of thorns under a pot. Confucius and Martin Luther must have been ridiculed, Mr. Crewe reflected, and although he did not have time to assure himself on these historical points, the thought stayed him. Sixty odd weekly newspapers, filled with arguments from the Book, attacked him all at once; and if by chance he should have missed the best part of this flattering personal attention, the editorials which contained the most spice were copied at the end of the week into the columns of his erstwhile friend, the State Tribune, now the organ of that mysterious personality, the Honourable Adam B. Hunt. 'Et tu, Brute!'
Moreover, Mr. Peter Pardriff had something of his own to say. Some gentlemen of prominence (not among the twenty signers of the new Declaration of Independence) had been interviewed by the Tribune reporter on the subject of Mr. Crewe's candidacy. Here are some of the answers, duly tabulated.
“Negligible.”—Congressman Fairplay.
“One less vote for the Honourable Adam B. Hunt.”—The Honourable Jacob Botcher.