At length the eventful moment for the close of the poll drew near. Mrs. Hope could hardly endure to await the result in the castle; but such was the desire of her husband. Restlessly she paced up and down the hall, starting at every sound, watching with breathless anxiety for news from the polling-place. Not that she would admit that she had the slightest fear of defeat. It was impossible that Mr. Hope could fail of election, with his connections, his talents, his standing: she only wondered at the audacity of his opponent, and stopped repeatedly, in her impatient walk to and fro, to desire Ernest to write down the name of some titled friend to whom she must write by the very first post, to communicate the news of her triumph. “Hark! that’s the sound of a horse’s quick tramp,” exclaimed Ernest, starting to his feet. “That’s Charles, I am sure. He brings tidings.” The next moment the hoofs clattered through the archway, and the rider flung himself off the saddle, even before the panting animal stopped at the door. Mrs. Hope and Ernest hurried to meet him; but the eager question died on the lips of the lady, as she saw the expression on her nephew’s face. “Lost! all lost!” exclaimed Charles, almost stamping with impatience; “lost by a minority of _one_!” “Impossible! It cannot be!” cried Mrs. Hope. “There must be some mistake, or some treachery.” But no; there was neither treachery nor mistake. Every new-comer confirmed the tidings, and Ernest had an opportunity of again witnessing how heavily disappointment falls on the citizens of Vanity Fair. Would that the citizens of a more glorious place lived so far above the world that its trials should never have power to drag them down to the level of its slaves! Are the trifles which so often ruffle our tempers and depress our spirits worth such anxious thought from those who profess that their hearts and their treasures are above? Mr. Hope’s disappointment, anger, and irritation knew no bounds. He was ill able to afford the expense of a contested election. He had spared no trouble, no exertion, no cost; and to lose it after all, and by a minority of _one_, was more than the worldly man could endure. Mr. Hope talked over the events of the day with his wife in the evening; Ernest and Charles sitting at a little distance, with the chess-table before them, but too much interested in the conversation to attend to their game. Their uncle spoke in a rapid and excited manner, accusing this person of bribery and that of perjury, and declaring that he would demand a scrutiny. “I say, Ernest,” whispered Charles, in a very low voice, bending towards his brother, so that no one else should hear him, “I would not for ten thousand pounds that our uncle should know of Mr. Ewart’s conversation with the butcher.” “Nor I,” replied Ernest, in the same tone. “What do you think would happen if he did?”