“The squire?”
“Or a rich father-in-law.”
In the mean while, as Lord L’Estrange entered Bond Street, his ears were stunned by vociferous cries from the Stentors employed by “Standard,” “Sun,” and “Globe,”
—“Great News! Dissolution of Parliament—Great News!” The gas-lamps were lighted; a brown fog was gathering over the streets, blending itself with the falling shades of night. The forms of men loomed large through the mist. The lights from the shops looked red and lurid. Loungers usually careless as to politics were talking eagerly and anxiously of King, Lords, Commons, “Constitution at stake,” “Triumph of liberal opinions,”—according to their several biases. Hearing, and scorning—unsocial, isolated—walked on Harley L’Estrange. With his direr passions had been roused up all the native powers that made them doubly dangerous. He became proudly conscious of his own great faculties, but exulted in them only so far as they could minister to the purpose which had invoked them.
“I have constituted myself a Fate,” he said inly; “let the gods be but neutral, while I weave the meshes. Then, as Fate itself when it has fulfilled its mission, let me pass away into shadow, with the still and lonely stride that none may follow,—
“‘Oh, for a lodge in some vast wilderness.’
“How weary I am of this world of men!” And again the cry “Great News—National Crisis—Dissolution of Parliament—Great News!” rang through the jostling throng. Three men, arm-in-arm, brushed by Harley, and were stopped at the crossing by a file of carriages. The man in the centre was Audley Egerton. His companions were an ex-minister like himself, and one of those great proprietors who are proud of being above office, and vain of the power to make and unmake Governments.
“You are the only man to lead us, Egerton,” said this last personage. “Do but secure your seat, and as soon as this popular fever has passed away, you must be something more than the leader of Opposition,—you must be the first man in England.”
“Not a doubt of that,” chimed in the fellow ex-minister, a worthy man, perfect red-tapist, but inaudible in the reporters’ gallery. “And your election is quite safe, eh? All depends on that. You must not be thrown out at such a time, even for a month or two. I hear that you will have a contest—some townsmen of the borough, I think. But the Lansmere interest must be all-powerful; and I suppose L’Estrange will come out and canvass for you. You are not the man to have lukewarm friends!”
“Don’t be alarmed about my election. I am as sure of that as of L’Estrange’s friendship.”