on the surface, that he was simply aiming at personal distinction, and below, they more than suspected that his ancestral pride was getting its spurs on, and would, in all likelihood, fight on the old side. They could not report with certainty beyond the plain fact, that the young man hardly knew his own mind, and accordingly it was voted that he was not to be relied on. This vote would have put an end to the whole business, but for the additional report that a very powerful body of burgesses in the neighbouring town had, in answer to judicious sounding, expressed a somewhat sinister determination to vote for him if he should stand-choose what might be his principles (and the touters understood all that sort of politics only too well)-further that the jovial squirearchy had contrived to get partial hold of the matrimonial recluse, and in their endeavour to corrupt his morals, they had discovered rare parts—that is, rare in those parts; and, what was of higher consequence, they found or thought his sentiments on the great question wonderfully accordant with their own; that these worthies had so worked on his ambition as to persuade him to stand for the county, and wagered heavily in his favour.

CHAPTER III.

AMBITION BAFFLED.

WHEN this addendum was delivered to the head-quarters of the Liberal camp, much perplexity was felt as to the best way of throwing the young squire overboard once for all; and in the wisdom of a sub-committee it was agreed that the two agents should repair once more to Mylden Place-should fall in with the humour of the hour-urge Charles, by all means, and with unlimited assurances of present help and eventual success, to stand for the county as a thorough-going Tory-in the hope that, as he was certain to be defeated, his means would be too crippled to enable him to contest the town, or to retain the good-will of the numerous freemen who had made ready to stretch their consciences just to the length of his purse, and not a thread beyond.

By this manoeuvring they would contrive a signal influential demonstration on the Liberal side in the county, which might tell on the general election so confidently expected, and immediately afterwards enjoy the inward satisfaction of seeing the sulky unpurchased, and therefore unpurchasable freemen voting for a Reform candidate, for whose return there would be no chance if Barton should come to the field unhurt, with his long heavy purse in the girdle of his armour. It was a sagacious plan in whatever head it was matured, but though most carefully carried out, it was nearly knocked on the head by an occurrence which they could not possibly have taken into their consideration, as it was indeed about the last thing in the world that Charles himself would have expected. Charles had yielded some days previously to the urgent entreaties of the neighbouring gentry, and had made up his mind to stand for the honour of being knight of the shire, when the Reformers unmasked in the borough, and produced as their candidate no other than the identical Malkin whom Charles imagined he was flattering very grossly when he condescended to regard him as a thorn in his side, which he did not care to extract. The "'orror" of Mr. Mottram, when he saw, and the indignation of his bosom when he announced the impudent candidature of a mere "scum" will never be forgotten in the kitchen of Mylden while the old house stands— for through all changes of servants and masters, the grim tradition haunts the place. The master was somewhat differently affected, but he fully shared the indignation of his faithful servant at the unaccountable audacity of a mere college prizeman, with a poor mother and an ill-bred wife, setting up in a town nearly one-third of which was, or had been, the property of the Bartons.

It did not enter into the thoughts of Mr. Charles that possibly even greater changes might have passed since their separation, in the circumstances of his rival than he himself had experienced; but there could be no doubt that, whatever else was changed, the resentful hatred with which Charles had once thought of Malkin was undiminished, nay, greatly aggravated by this seeming insult. He had been beaten by this man on neutral ground, and the conqueror had presumed

to defy him in his own stronghold. Could he endure such open and malicious insult? Ought he not to wipe out by a signal triumph-by the humiliation, and probably by the ruin of Malkin the old rusty stain of defeat? He would drive him forth without mercy, and deliver him, as he himself had been delivered, to the scornful pity of the world. He would have preferred the county to the town, but he preferred the triumph of revenge to both. This alarming state of mind was soon laid bare to his counsellors, Messrs. Fritter and Chaff, and it required no ordinary exertion on their part to conceal their dismay and anxiety. What should they do? There was hardly time to reconsider and alter their whole plan. Should they withdraw Malkin, and put somebody else in his place? But then Malkin had proposed himself, and they had adopted him, just precisely because he was the only person on earth who stood any chance if Charles should come forward. Malkin was the poor son of a poor mother, but he was the grand-nephew of a tremendously rich old uncle, and that worthy old gentleman had left the hard-working law-student almost as many houses in the borough as there were votes to be given. That would never do, then; for if Malkin withdrew —(which in itself was rather unlikely, though he was a trifle more patriotic than some candidates for Parliament)-Charles might walk over the course, and never have his clothes off. One desperate experiment remained, and as they belonged to the prevalent school of morality, in which the end, if in itself important, justified the means-they felt less scruple, and showed less modesty in the adoption of those means than we more virtuous people might have wished. They printed placards announcing the withdrawal of Mr. Malkin, and posted them, not on the walls, but in the letter-box directed to Charles, who immediately experienced a relief, and reverted with all his impetuosity to his more daring adventure.

The excitement of an election is at all times of the intensest order-but at such a juncture as the present it was a lava torrent that raged and glowed, defying all resistance, and destroying old boundaries of decency, and morals, and religion. It ate its way into the very homes of hundreds who had been wont to laugh and sport as at a fair-even the meek

and almost frightened Sarah was drawn within this maelstrom -and that without any rational conception of what it was all about. All the economy of years was scattered like chaff amongst the flames. Money lost all its ordinary value-as the buyer of bread and wine, and ease and luxury. It had acquired a fiendish power. It bought votes, principles, strong inclinations, old friendships-yea, the very lives and souls of men. Who, with a patriot's soaring motives, could pause to count the cost of a country's safety-who, with a prize so glittering to ambitious minds, could weigh against success the paltry expenditure of gold? If Charles was reckless, he was but smitten with an endemic-all were reckless but the practised masters of the game who affected to be mad, but coolly watched the progress of the conflict. Defeat was from the first inevitable-but few knew how sure it was to come. To the last moment all was ́energy and uncertainty-the long wearying combat seemed to gather fury to its very close, and then there came the wild shout of a triumphant people, and the ominous groan of the county's rightful lords. But no groan broke the proud silence of Charles's grief. He was stunned, and but for the quick intrusion of one thought he would almost have died. The intelligence of his defeat reached him in London-but overwhelmed as he was for a time, he soon recovered so far as to order an immediate return to Mylden, that he might claim at least his hereditary borough, but what pen can do justice to that co-mingling shame and grief which closed in upon his soul when the ill-omened Mottram croaked out into his ears- -"Oh, Mr. Charles, SCUM'S got it!"

CHAPTER IV.

COMFORTING LOVE.

THE affectionate wife hurried to London that she might bear her part in what she truly judged would prove the heaviest affliction Charles had ever known, and might, if not soothed and healed betimes, be the beginning of many sorrows. Love's instinct, however, had failed during their brief ac

quaintance, in laying bare all the weakness, and pride, and selfishness of her husband's disordered nature. She remembered and still felt the glow of his burning passion for herself, and she trusted to its undecaying fervour for the full force of all her influence, and the effect of all her effort to save him from despair. But he had already drooped his sword point, and resigned himself to his evil fortune; when she came, she hardly knew him-how could he be so changed, and she as loving and as fair as ever. Ah, Sarah, your love was a pastime, and its bridal a holiday. Peace, and praise, and joy were the attendant ministers of the festival, but the sacred day had gone-the world and self had resumed their sway, and the pride which had rested for a brief space in the embrace of love was awake, had been struggling for very life, was now wounded and rankling in the husband's soul. He refused to be comforted, he could not bear the unasked sympathy of her from whom he had hoped to win the conqueror's welcome. Her presence was a vivid reminder of his shame; her counsels were puerile, founded in utter misconception of his state of mind, and spoken to the winds—the prayers to him were impertinence, and those to God a mockery. He did not violently reproach the loving one, nor drive her with curses from his sight; but the glassy stare, the unheeding absent manner, the curt cold replies, were even more agonizing than the mere brutishness which would on a mind like hers but have blunted all its point before it could have pierced her heart. She knew now some little of that despair which had almost dethroned the reason of her husband-her little all for this world had been ventured in his rich promise of a life-long love, and now that very love seemed bankrupt. She struck in turn each key that had been wont to yield to her lightest touch the music that she loved, but there was no answer now-the strings were loosened if they were not broken. Charles mastered himself sufficiently to speak kindly to his young wife, in the hope that he might spare her much of that sorrow which he knew would be his own sole portion now.

"Sarah, my love-this-this has unmanned me for a time; but all will be well by-and-by. I have been victimized and