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Updated: June 4, 2025
Brithwood, but he was not friendly with her father; she said she had rather ask this 'kindness' of me, because her father had liked me, and thought I resembled their Walter, who died." "Poor Mr. March! perhaps he is with Walter, now. But, John, can you do all that is necessary for her? You are very young." "She does not seem to feel that. She treats me as if I were a man of forty.
Miss March cried, anger still glowing in her eyes. "Not so it is not right. I will speak to him. May I?" John softly unclosed her detaining hand, and went up to Mr. Brithwood. "Sir, there is no need for you to leave this house I am leaving it. You and I shall not meet again if I can help it."
These were the people whom Richard Brithwood, Esquire, magistrate for the county of , had to judge and punish, according to his own sense of equity and his knowledge of his country's law. He sat behind his office-table, thoroughly magisterial, dictating so energetically to his clerk behind him, that we had both entered, and John had crossed the room, before he saw us, or seemed to see. "Mr.
Halifax, my daughter encouraged me to pay this impromptu visit." Here ensued polite inquiries after Lady Caroline Brithwood; we learned that she was just returned from abroad, and was entertaining, at the Mythe House, her father and brother. "Pardon I was forgetting my son Lord Ravenel." The youth thus presented merely bowed.
The one seemed uncomfortable, the other was his natural self a little graver, perhaps, as if he felt what was coming, and prepared to meet it, knowing in whose presence he had to prove himself what Richard Brithwood, with all his broad acres, could never be a gentleman. Few could doubt that fact, who looked at the two young men, as all were looking now.
"Thank you, sir. Good-day." "Good-day." I fancied he was half inclined to shake hands but John did not, or would not, see it. Mr. March walked on, following young Brithwood; but at the stile he turned round once more and glanced at John. Then they disappeared. "I'm glad they're gone: now we can be comfortable."
Miserable creature as she looked, there was a certain grace and ease in her movements, as if she had fallen from some far higher estate. At that moment, the Mythe carriage, with Mr. Brithwood in it, dozing his daily drive away, his gouty foot propped up before him slowly lumbered up the street. The woman made a dart at it, but was held back. "Canaille! I always hated your Norton Bury!
Amidst some confusion, a show of hands was called for; and then a cry rose of "Go to the poll!" "Go to the poll!" shouted Mr. Brithwood. "This is a family borough. There has not been a poll here these fifty years. Sir Ralph, your son's mad." "Sir, insanity is not in the family of the Oldtowers. My position here is simply as sheriff of the county. If a poll be called for "
So folk said; but probably Sir Ralph's high principle was at least as strong as his pride, and that the real cause of his dislike was founded on the too well-known character of the Earl of Luxmore. They ceased talking; the sheriff rose, and briefly stated that Richard Brithwood, Esquire, of the Mythe, would nominate a candidate.
"Less noise there!" growled Mr. Brithwood. "Silence, you fellows at the door! Now, Sir Ralph, let's get the business over, and be back for dinner." Sir Ralph turned his stately grey head to the light, put on his gold spectacles, and began to read the writ of election. As he finished, the small audience set up a feeble cheer.
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