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Updated: June 28, 2025
When Quisanté had won Henstead, little more was heard of the gentleman with a deceased wife's sister, of the butcher in trouble about slaughter-houses, of Japhet Williams' conscience or Tom Sinnett's affair. The result was taken as an augury of triumph for the party all over the country, where these things had never been heard of and the voices of Henstead did not reach.
His body had played him false in the end. Constantine Blair began to look out for a candidate for Henstead and to wonder whether Sir Winterton would again expose himself to the unpleasantness of a contested election; Lady Castlefort must find another Prime Minister, the fighting men another champion, even the Alethea Printing Press Limited a new chairman.
An old thought of her own came to her, back from the dim region of ante-marriage days, the idea to which the Henstead doctor had given a terse, if metaphorical, expression. Quisanté was their race-horse, their money was on him, they wanted a win for the stable.
"His name's Mandeville. Since the party's out, we've got to see if we can make some money." His pity revived; whatever she deserved, it was not this horrible common-place lot of wanting money; that sat so ill on his still stately, no longer faultless, image of her. "To make some money?" he repeated, half-scornful, half-puzzled. "Oh, you're rich you don't know. We spent a lot at Henstead.
The consternation of Constantine Blair, Lady Castlefort's dismay, the sad gossiping and head-shaking that went on in the streets of Henstead and round old Mr. Foster's comfortable board, witnessed to a side of Quisanté in which Mrs. Baxter did not take much interest.
A puzzle to the world and a puzzle to her friends, she waited for the falling of the blow which Quisanté daily challenged. Sir Rufus Beaming met Dr. Claud Manton at the Athenaeum and showed him a newspaper paragraph. "To address a great meeting at Henstead!" said Manton, raising his brows and shaping his lips for a whistle. "'From his own and neighbouring constituencies."
He found his answer. Alexander Quisanté would speak no more in Henstead. He was leaning against Marchmont, breathing heavily and with sore difficulty. May went to him; she was very white and very calm; she took his hand and kissed it. "I I I spoke well?" he muttered. "Didn't I?" "Very very finely, Alexander." "They were were all wrong in saying I couldn't do it," he murmured.
He spoke lower than was his wont, colloquially, almost carelessly, with an amused intonation. "At any rate," he said, "I trust that Henstead may once more be thought worthy of the presence of " He paused, spread out his hands, and sank his voice in mock humility "of other ladies besides my wife." It was well done.
The Dean, resolved to risk Sir Winterton's anger in Sir Winterton's interest, did something; he wrote covertly to Jimmy Benyon at the Bull, begging him to be riding on the Henstead road at ten o'clock the next morning; the Dean would take a walk and the pair would meet, as it was to seem, accidentally; nothing had been said to Sir Winterton, nothing was to be said at present to Mr. Quisanté.
That was the sort of thing Henstead liked; to be told that it was unworthy of Lady Mildmay's presence was not what it liked.
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