A Lost Leader | Page 8

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 only wish," she answered, passionately, "that I could make him feel
as I do."
They entered the garden, Mannering, bareheaded, following his guest.
Borrowdean watched them closely as they approached. The woman's
expression was purely negative. There was nothing to be learned from
the languid smile with which she recognized their presence. Upon
Mannering, however, the cloud seemed already to have fallen. His
eyebrows were set in a frown. He had the appearance of a man in some
manner perplexed. He carried two telegrams, which he handed over to
Borrowdean.
"A boy on a bicycle," he remarked, "is waiting for answers. Two