“Not always,” was rejoined significantly. “He goes privately every time the London mail comes in to meet and receive his duns’ letters, _billet-doux_, and what not, into his own hands, rather than his fellow of a servant should bring them to him before his stuck-up madam of a wife. I warrant there are plenty of scores to settle unknown to her. I can see him myself walking up and down, wearing a muffler, which don’t disguise him from me, for as good as half-an-hour sometimes, in front of the inn-yard, before the coach comes in.” “Is the mail extraordinary true to its hour?” investigated one of the conclave, curiously. “Lord! no; how should it be, when it has to run the risk of being stopped by highwaymen at any one of the half-dozen lone bits between this and London?” replied the last speaker, in some surprise. “Suppose it to be stopped on Toosday,” insinuated the satisfied inquirer, with an accent of the utmost cheerfulness, as he lolled against the wainscot, and kept his hands in his pockets, “when there may be more than Master Sundon on the out-look, a score of our fellows, armed with a hazel twig or two, in case their neighbour townsmen be up also, and a little too warm; hey, Mister Torney?” “Excuse me, Sir John,” stammered the man of law and peace, “I cannot be a party to any sort of outrage, however provoked, or pardonable, or mitigated.” “Nobody’s asking you, man,” was the contemptuous dismissal; “hold your tongue and shut your ears, that’s all, or worse may come of it.” There was another pair of ears inquisitive, bewildered, appalled, which, whatever came of it, were not shut, though sometimes they had grown weary within the last few days of the incessant, harsh gabble. Farmer Huggins was down with rheumatism, and must be wrapped in blankets and brought to the booth in a chair, at the peril of his life. Butcher Green was trimming, the low rogue, standing out on a presentation to the grammar school for his clever son. What business had butchers with clever sons? or having them, couldn’t the butchers keep their lads to the slaughter-house and the scales, as a better trade, after all, than the beggarly professions without patrons? Dame Mellish had all the odd voters at her finger ends, in return for her vintner’s custom, bought up in the first place, to be lavished gratis in the second. Lady Bell had little to do with these unattractive details. Her part in the business of the election was well past, till Mr. Trevor was member, if he should be member. She was overlooked by the gentlemen, because they had no time to spend upon her, and because they had found out for themselves that it did not chime in with Squire Trevor’s humour to have his aristocratic young wife noticed, and it was not for them to thwart the Squire at the present moment.