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What could Robert Bludward have done, what manner of man could he be, that people should speak of him with such obvious reprobation? "He was hissed down at Shoalford yesterday," said one of the speakers. Hissed! Had it come to that? There was something dramatically biblical in the idea of Robert Bludward's neighbours and acquaintances hissing him for very scorn.
Alethia pounced on it, in the expectation of finding a cultured literary endorsement of the censure which these rough farming men had expressed in their homely, honest way. She had not far to look; "Mr. Robert Bludward, Swanker," was the title of one of the principal articles in the paper.
Sir John, the Hugo of her imagination, was, if anything, rather more depraved and despicable than Robert Bludward. He was mean, evasive, callously indifferent to his country's interests, a cheat, a man who habitually broke his word, and who was responsible, with his associates, for most of the poverty, misery, crime, and national degradation with which the country was afflicted.
The family, she reflected with relief, was not a large one; the two daughters were married and away, there was only old Mrs. Bludward and her son Robert at home. Mrs. Bludward was something of an invalid, and Robert was a young man who had been at Oxford and was going into Parliament.
There was a certain scornful ring in his question. "Robert Bludward? An out-an'-out rotter, that's what he is. Ought to be ashamed to look any decent man in the face. Send him to Parliament to represent us not much! He'd rob a poor man of his last shilling, he would." "Ah, that he would. Tells a pack of lies to get our votes, that's all that he's after, damn him.
In placid Saxon-blooded England people did not demonstrate their feelings lightly and without some strong compelling cause. What manner of evildoer was Robert Bludward? The train stopped at another small station, and the two men got out. One of them left behind him a copy of the Argus, the local paper to which he had made reference.
Bludward proved to be of the type that Alethia had suspected, thin- lipped, cold-eyed, and obviously devoted to her worthless son. From her no help was to be expected. Alethia locked her door that night, and placed such ramparts of furniture against it that the maid had great difficulty in breaking in with the early tea in the morning.
Bludward," he shouted; "you'll come out on top! We'll break old Chobham's neck for him." "Who was that man?" asked Alethia quickly. "Oh, one of my supporters," laughed Robert; "a bit of a poacher and a bit of a pub-loafer, but he's on the right side." So these were the sort of associates that Robert Bludward consorted with, thought Alethia.
Apparently they had just foregathered, after a day's business, and their conversation consisted of a rapid exchange of short friendly inquiries as to health, family, stock, and so forth, and some grumbling remarks on the weather. Suddenly, however, their talk took a dramatically interesting turn, and Alethia listened with wide-eyed attention. "What do you think of Mister Robert Bludward, eh?"
He stared straight at the occupants of the car, and, after he had passed them, sang in his clear, boyish voice: "We'll hang Bobby Bludward on the sour apple tree." Robert merely laughed. That was how he took the scorn and condemnation of his fellow-men. He had goaded them to desperation with his shameless depravity till they spoke openly of putting him to a violent death, and he laughed. Mrs.
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