A Lost Leader | Page 7

what the end of it must be. We need Mannering! Help us!"
"Not I," she answered, coolly. "You must do without him for the
present."
"You are our natural ally," he protested. "We need your help now. You
know very well that with a slip of the tongue I could change the whole
situation."
"Somehow," she said, "I do not think that you are likely to make that
slip."
"Why not?" he protested. "I begin to understand Mannering's firmness
now. You are one of the ropes which hold him to this petty life--to this
philandering amongst the flower-pots. You are one of the ropes I want
to cut. Why not, indeed? I think that I could do it."
"Do you want a bribe?"
"I want Mannering."
"So do I!"
"He can belong to you none the less for belonging to us politically."

"Possibly! But I prefer him here. As a recluse he is adorable. I do not
want him to go through the mill."
"You don't understand his importance to us," Borrowdean declared.
"This is really no light affair. Rochester and Mellors both believe in
him. There is no limit to what he might not ask."
"He has told me a dozen times," she said, "that he never means to sit in
Parliament again."
"There is no reason why he should not change his mind," Borrowdean
answered. "Between us, I think that we could induce him."
"Perhaps," she answered. "Only I do not mean to try."
"I wish I could make you understand," he said impatiently, "that I am in
deadly earnest."
"You threaten?"
"Don't call it that."
"Very well, then," she declared, "I will tell him the truth myself."
"That," he answered, "is all that I should dare to ask. He would come to
us to-morrow."
"You used not to underrate me," she murmured, with a glance towards
the mirror.
"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