The spring thaw set in in earnest the day after the squire’s return to Greenwood, and housed the family for several days. No sooner, however, did the roads become something better than troughs of mud than the would-be Assemblyman set actively to work for his canvass of the county, daily riding forth to make personal calls on the free and enlightened electors, in accordance with the still universal British custom of personal solicitation. What he saw and heard did not tend to improve his temper, for the news that the Parliament was about to vote an extension to the whole country of the punitive measures hitherto directed against Massachusetts had lighted a flame from one end of the land to the other. The last election had been with difficulty carried by the squire, and now the prospect was far more gloomy.

When a realising sense of the conditions had duly dawned on the not over-quick mind of the master of Greenwood, he put pride in his pocket and himself astride of Joggles, and rode of an afternoon to Boxley, as the Hennions’ place was named. Without allusion to their last interview, he announced to the senior of the house that he wished to talk over the election.

“He, he, he!” snickered Hennion. “Kinder gettin’ anxious, heigh? I calkerlated yer ’d find things sorter pukish.”

“Tush!” retorted Meredith, making a good pretence of confidence. “’T is mostly wind one hears, and ’t will be another matter at the poll. I rid over to say that tho’ we may not agree in private matters, ’t is the business of the gentry to make head together against this madness.”

“I see,” snarled Hennion. “My boy ain’t good enuf fer yer gal, but my votes is a different story, heigh?”

“Votes for votes is my rule,” rejoined the squire. “The old arrangement, say I. My tenants vote for ye, and yours for me.”

“Waal, this year theer ’s ter be a differ,” chuckled Hennion. “I’ve agreed ter give my doubles ter Joe, an’ he’s ter give hisn ter me.”

“Joe! What Joe?”

“Joe Bagby.”

“What!” roared the squire. “Art mad, man? That good-for-nothing scamp run for Assembly?”

“Joe ain’t no fool,” asserted Hennion. “An’ tho’ his edication and grammer ain’t up ter yers an’ mine, squire, he thinks so like the way folks ere jest naow a-thinkin’ thet it looks ter me as if he wud be put in.”

“The country is going to the devil!” groaned Mr. Meredith. “And ye’ll throw your doubles for that worthless—”

“I allus throw my doubles fer the man as kin throw the most doubles fer me,” remarked Hennion. “An’ I ain’t by no means sartin haow many doubles yer kin split this year.”

“Pox me, the usual number!”

“Do yer leaseholds all pay theer rents?”

“Some have dropped behind, but as soon as there ’s law in the land again they’ll come to the rightabout.”

“Exactly,” sniggered Hennion. “As soon as theer ’s law. But when ’s thet ’ere goin’ ter be? Mark me, the tenants who dare refuse ter pay theer rent, dare vote agin theer landlord. An’ as Joe Bagby says he’ll do his durndest ter keep the courts closed, I guess the delinquents will think he’s theer candidate. Every man as owes yer money, squire, will vote agin yer, come election day.”

“And ye’ll join hands with these thieves and vote with Bagby in Assembly?”

“Guess I mought do wus. But if thet ’ere ’s displeasin’ ter yer, jest blame yerself for ’t.”

“How reason ye that, man?”

“Cuz I had it arranged thet I wuz ter side in with the king, and Phil wuz ter side in with the hotheads. But yer gal hez mixed Phil all up, so he’s turned right over an’ talks ez ef he wuz Lord North or the Duke of Bedford. Consumaquently, since I don’t see no good of takin’ risks, I bed ter swing about an’ jine the young blood.”

What the squire said in reply, and continued to say until he had made his exit from the Hennion house, is far better omitted. In his wrath he addressed a monologue to his horse, long after he had passed through the gate of Boxley; until, in fact, he met Phil, to whom, as a better object for them than Joggles, the squire at once transferred his vituperations.

Instead of going on in his original direction, Philemon turned his horse and rode along with the squire, taking the rating in absolute silence. Only when Mr. Meredith had expressed and re-expressed all that was in him to say did the young fellow give evidence that his dumbness proceeded from policy.

“Seems ter me, squire,” he finally suggested, “like you ’re layin’ up against me what don’t suit you ’bout dad. I’ve done my bestest ter do what you and Miss Janice set store by, an’ it does seem ter me anythin’ but fairsome ter have a down on me, just because of dad. ’T ain’t my fault I’ve got him for a father; I had n’t nothin’ ter do with it, an’ if you have any one ter pick a quarrel with, it must be with God Almighty, who fixed things as they is. I’ve quit drillin’; I’ve spoke against the Congress; an’ there ain’t nothin’ else I would n’t do ter get Miss Janice.”

“Go to the devil, then,” advised the squire. “No son of—” There the squire paused momentarily, and after a brief silence ejaculated, “Eh!” After another short intermission he laughed aloud, as if pleased at something which had occurred to him. “Why, Phil, my boy,” he cried, slapping his own thigh, “we’ll put a great game up on thy dad. We’ll show him he’s not the only fox hereabout.”

“And what ’ere ’s that?’

“What say ye to being my double in the poll, lad?”

“Run against father?” ejaculated Phil.

“Ay. We’ll teach him to what trimming and time-serving come. And be damned to him!”

“That ’ere ’s all very well for you,” responded Hennion, “but he hain’t got the whip hand of you like he has of me. He would n’t stand my—”

“He ’d have to,” gleefully interrupted the squire. “Join hands with me, lad, and I’ll fix it so ye can snap your fingers at him.”

“But—” began Phil.

“But,” broke in the squire. “Nonsense! No but, lad. Butter—ay, and cream it shall be. Let him turn ye off. There’s a home at Greenwood for ye, if he does—and something better than that too. Sixteen, ye dog! Sweet sixteen, rosy sixteen, bashful sixteen, glowing sixteen, run-away-and-want-to-be-found sixteen!”

“She don’t seem ter want me ter find her,” sighed Phil.

“Fooh!” jeered the father. “There’s only two kinds of maids, as ye’d know if ye’d been out in the world as I have —those that want a husband and those that don’t. But six months married, and ye can’t pick the one from t’ other, try your best. There’s nothing brings a lass to the round-about so quick as having to do what she does n’t want. They are born contrary and skittish, and they can’t help shying at fences and gates, but give ’em the spur and the whip, and over they go, as happy as a lark. And I say so, Janice will marry ye, and mark my word, come a month she’ll be complaining that ye don’t fondle her enough.”

Mr. Meredith’s pictorial powers, far more than his philosophy, were too much for Philemon to resist. He held out his hand, saying, “’T is a bargain, squire, an' I’ll set to on a canvass to-day.”

“Well said,” responded the elder, heartily. “And that ’s not all, Phil, that ye shall get from it. I’ve a tidy lot of money loaned to merchants in New York, and I’ll get it from ’em, and we’ll buy the mortgages on your father’s lands. Who’ll have the whip hand then, eh? Oh! we’ll smoke the old fox before we’ve done with him. His brush shall be well singed.”

The compact thus concluded to their common satisfaction, the twain separated, and the squire rode the remaining six miles in that agreeable state of enjoyment which comes from the sense of triumphing over enemies. His very stride as he stamped through the hall and into the parlour had in it the suggestion that he was planting his heel on some foe, and it was with evident elation that he announced:—

“Well, lass, I’ve a husband for ye, so get your lips and blushes ready for him against to-morrow!

“Oh, dadda, no!” cried the girl, ceasing her spinet practice.

“Oh, yes! And no obstinacy, mind. Phil ’s a good enough lad for any girl. Where ’s your mother that I may tell her?”

“She’s in the attic, getting out some whole cloth,” answered the girl; and as her father left the room, she leaned forward and rested her burning cheek on the veneer of the spinet for an instant as if to cool it. But the colour deepened rather than lessened, and a moment later she rose, with her lips pressed into a straight line, and her eyes shining very brightly. “I’ll not marry the gawk. No! And if they insist I’ll—” Then she paused.

“How did Janice take it?” asked Mrs. Meredith, when the squire had broken his news to her.

“Coltishly,” responded the father, “but no blubbering this time. The filly’s getting used to the idea of a bit, and will go steady from now on.” All of which went to show how little the squire understood the nature of women, for the lack of tears should have been the most alarming fact in his daughter’s conduct.

When Phil duly put in an appearance on the following day, he was first interviewed by what Janice would have called the attorney for the prosecution, who took him to his office and insisted, much to the lover’s disgust, in hearing what he had done politically. Finally, however, this all-engrossing subject to the office-seeker was, along with Philemon’s patience, exhausted, and the squire told his fellow-candidate that the object of his desires could now be seen.

“The lass jumped to her feet as ye rid up, and said she’d some garden matters to tend, so there ’s the spot to seek her.” Then the father continued, “Don’t shilly-shally with her, whate’er ye do, unless ye are minded to have balking and kicking for the rest of your days. I took Matilda—Mrs. Meredith—by surprise once, and before she knew I was there I had her in my arms. And, egad! I never let her go, plead her best, till she gave me one of my kisses back. She began to take notice from that day. ’T is the way of women.”

Thus stimulated, Phil entered the garden, prepared to perform most valiant deeds. Unfortunately for him, however, the bondsman had been summoned by Janice to do the digging, and his presence materially altered the situation and necessitated a merely formal greeting.

Having given some directions to Charles for continuation of the work, Janice walked to another part of the garden, apparently quite heedless of Philemon. Her swain of course followed, and the moment they were well out of hearing of the servant, Janice turned upon him and demanded:—

“Art thou gentleman enough to keep thy word?”

“I hope as how I am, Miss Janice,” stuttered Phil, very much taken aback.

“Wilt give me your promise, if I tell thee something, to repeat it to no one?”

“Certain, Miss Janice, I’ll tell nothin’ you don’t want folks ter know.”

“Even dadda and mommy?”

“Cross my heart.”

“You see that man over there?”

“Yer mean Charles?”

“Yes. He is desperately in love with me,” announced the girl.

“Living jingo! He ’s been a-troublin’ you?”

“No. He loves me too much to persecute me, and, besides, he’s a gentleman.”

“Now, Miss Janice, you know as how I—”

“Am trying to marry me against my will.”

“But the squire says you’ll be gladsome enough a month gone; that—”

“Ugh!”

“Now please don’t—”

“And what I am going to tell you and what you’ve given your word not to repeat is this: If you persist in trying to marry me, if you so much as try to—to—to be familiar, that moment I’ll run off with him—there!”

“You never would!”

“In an instant.”

“You ’d take a bondsman rather than me?”

The girl coloured, but replied, “Yes.”

“I’ll teach him ter have done with his cutty-eyed tricks,” roared Phil, doubling up his fists, and turning, “I’ll—”

“Mr. Hennion!” exclaimed the girl, her cheeks gone very white. “You gave me your word that—”

“I never gave no word ’bout not threshing the lick.”

“Most certainly you did, for you—you would have to tell him before—and if you do that, I’ll—”

“But, Miss Janice, you must n’t disgrace—Damn him! Then Bagby wasn’t lyin’ when he told me how there ’d been talk at the tavern of his bundlin’ with you.”

For a moment Janice stood speechless, everything about her suggesting the shame she was enduring. “He—he never said that!” she panted more than spoke, as if she had ceased to breathe.

“I told Bagby if he said that he was lyin’; but after—”

“Mr. Hennion, do you intend to insult me as well?”

“No, no, Miss Janice. I don’t believe it. ’T was a lie for certain, and I’m ashamed ter have spoke of it.”

With unshed tears of mortification in her eyes Janice turned to go, every other ill forgotten in this last grief.

“Miss Janice,” called Phil, “you can’t go without—”

The girl faced about. “You men are all alike,” she cried, interrupting. “You tease and worry and torture a girl you pretend to care for, till ’t is past endurance. I hate you, and before I’ll—”

“Now, Miss Janice, say you’ll not run off with him. I’ll —I’ll try ter do as you ask, if only you—”

“So long as you—as you don’t—don’t bother me, I won’t,” promised Janice; “but the instant—”

And leaving the sentence thus broken, the girl left Philemon, and fled to her room.