A Lost Leader. E. Phillips OppenheimЧитать онлайн книгу.
"There is no other man like Mannering," he said. "He abhors any form of deceit. He would forgive a murderer, but never a liar."
"My dear Leslie," she said, "as a friend—and a relative—"
"Neither counts," he interrupted. "I am a politician."
She sat quite still, looking away from him. The peaceful noises from the village street found their way into the room. A few cows were making their leisurely mid-day journey towards the pasturage, a baker's cart came rattling round the corner. The west wind was rustling in the elms, bending the shrubs upon the lawn almost to the ground. She watched them idly, already a little shrivelled and tarnished with their endless struggle for life.
"I do not wish to be melodramatic," she said, slowly, "but you are forcing me into a corner. You know that I am rich. You know the people with whom I have influence. I want to purchase Lawrence Mannering's immunity from your schemes. Can you name no price which I could pay? You and I know one another fairly well. You are an egoist, pure and simple. Politics are nothing to you save a personal affair. You play the game of life in the first person singular. Let me pay his quittance."
Borrowdean regarded her thoughtfully.
"You are a strange woman," he said. "In a few months' time, when you are back in the thick of it all, you will be as anxious to have him there as we are. You will not be able to understand how you could ever have wished differently. This is rank sentiment, you know, which you have been talking. Mannering here is a wasted power. His life is an unnatural one."
"He is happy," she objected.
"How do you know? Will he be as happy, I wonder, when you have gone, when there is no longer a Mrs. Handsell? I think not! You are one of the first to whom I should have looked for help in this matter. You owe it to us. We have a right to demand it. For myself personally I have no life now outside the life political. I am tired of being in opposition. I want to hold office. One mounts the ladder very slowly. I see my way in a few months to going up two rungs at a time. We want Mannering. We must have him. Don't force me to make that slip of the tongue."
The sound of a gong came through the open window. She rose to her feet.
"We are keeping them waiting for luncheon," she remarked. "I will think over what you have said."
CHAPTER III
WANTED—A POLITICIAN
Sir Leslie carefully closed the iron gate behind him, and looked around.
"But where," he asked, "are the roses?"
Clara laughed outright.
"You may be a great politician, Sir Leslie," she declared, "but you are no gardener. Roses don't bloom out of doors in May—not in these parts at any rate."
"I understand," he assented, humbly. "This is where the roses will be."
She nodded.
"That wall, you see," she explained, "keeps off the north winds, and the chestnut grove the east. There is sun here all the day long. You should come to Blakely in two months' time, Sir Leslie. Everything is so different then."
He sighed.
"You forget, my dear child," he murmured, "that you are speaking to a slave."
"A slave!" she repeated. "How absurd! You are a Cabinet Minister, are you not, Sir Leslie?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I was once," he answered, "until an ungrateful country grew weary of the monotony of perfect government and installed our opponents in our places. Just now we are in opposition."
"In opposition," she repeated, a little vaguely.
"Meaning," he explained, "that we get all the fun, no responsibility, and, alas, no pay."
"How fascinating," she exclaimed. "Do sit down here, and tell me all about it. But I forgot. You are not used to sitting down out of doors. Perhaps you will catch cold."
Sir Leslie smiled.
"I am inclined to run the risk," he said gravely, "if you will share it. Seriously, though, these rustic seats are rather a delusion, aren't they, from the point of view of comfort?"
"There shall be cushions," she declared, "for the next time you come."
He sighed.
"Ah, the next time! I dare not look forward to it. So you are interested in politics, Miss Mannering?"
"Well, I believe I am," she answered, a little doubtfully. "To tell you the truth, Sir Leslie, I am shockingly ignorant. You must live in London to be a politician, mustn't you?"
"It is necessary," he assented, "to spend some part of your time there, if you want to come into touch with the real thing."
"Then I am very interested in politics," she declared. "Please go on."
He shook his head.
"I would rather you talked to me about the roses. You should ask your uncle to tell you all about politics. He knows far more than I do."
"More than you! But you have been a Cabinet Minister!" she exclaimed.
"So was your uncle once," he answered. "So he could be again whenever he chose."
She looked at him incredulously.
"You don't really mean that, Sir Leslie?"
"Indeed I do!" he asserted. "There was never a man within my recollection or knowledge who in so short a time made for himself a position so brilliant as your uncle. There is no man to-day whose written word carries so much weight with the people."
She sighed a little doubtfully.
"Then if that is so," she said, "I cannot imagine why we live down here, hundreds of miles away from everywhere. Why did he give it up? Why is he not in Parliament now?"
"It is to ask him that question, Miss Mannering," Borrowdean said, "that I am here. No wonder it seems surprising to you. It is surprising to all of us."
She looked at him eagerly.
"You mean, then, that you—that his party want him to go back?" she asked.
"Assuredly!"
"You have told him this?"
"Of course! It was my mission!"
"Sir Leslie, you must tell me what he said."
Borrowdean sighed.
"My dear young lady," he said, "it is rather a painful subject with me just now. Yet since you insist, I will tell you. Something has come over your uncle which I do not understand. His party—no, it is his country that needs him. He prefers to stay here, and watch his roses blossom."
"It is wicked of him!" she declared, energetically.
"It is inexplicable," he agreed. "Yet I have used every argument which can well be urged."
"Oh, you must think of others," she begged. "If you knew how weary one gets of this place—a man, too, like my uncle! How can he be content? The monotony here is enough to drive even a dull person like myself mad. To choose such a life, actually to choose it, is insanity!"
Borrowdean raised his head. He had heard the click of the garden gate.
"They are coming," he said. "I wish you would talk to your uncle like this."
"I