The Kings Men | Page 4

officially silent. The noble
Nihilists, who had murdered four Czars to obtain power, were now
constitutionally terrorizing the masses; but the Russian people had
learned from their rulers, and the popular press thundered
encouragement to the English Commons.
America smiled like an elder sister, and held out her hand in loving
friendship.
From the day of the revolution, the three names which forever belong
to the history of British Republicanism were in the front--O'Donovan
Rourke, the first President, and his two famous Ministers, Jonathan
Simms and Richard Lincoln.
But the story of that first great Administration is read now in the
school-books. The sudden death of the President was the first serious
loss of the Republic. Had he lived another decade how different would
have been the later history of England!

Matthew Gower, the Vice-President, entered on the unexpired term of
the Presidency. He was a weak, well-meaning man, and he was jealous
of the extraordinary popularity and personal influence of Richard
Lincoln, the Secretary of State. When his cabinet was announced,
Richard Lincoln, released from his long service in harness, with a deep
feeling of relief, went back to his home in Nottingham.
At this time he was forty-six years of age. He had been a widower for
over twenty years. At twenty-five he had married the beautiful girl he
loved, and within the year his wife died, leaving the lonely man a little
daughter whose eyes renewed his grief and love.
This was the tall girl who flung her arms round the neck of the
dismissed minister when he entered his home at Nottingham.
"No one else, papa!" she cried, as she buried her face against his heart,
sobbing with joy. "Do not speak to any one else till I am done with
you."
The rest, the love, the peace of home were very sweet. Richard Lincoln
renewed, or tried to renew, his interest in the work of his younger days.
His daughter loved to go with him through the town, proud of the
famous man who was hers, heedful of any curious or respectful glance
of the people on the street.
He gave himself up to the new life. He began to wonder at and enjoy
the beauty, accomplishments and unceasing amiability of his daughter.
Mary Lincoln was a rare type of womanhood. She had inherited her
mother's grace and lithe beauty of form, and from her father she took a
strong and self-sustained nature. But there was added a quality that was
hers alone--a strange, silent power of enthusiasm--a fervor that did not
cry out for ideals, but filled all her blood with a deep music of devotion.
A man with such a nature had been a poet or the founder of a creed. But
the ideal of a man is an idea, while the ideal of a woman is a man. Time
alone can bring the touchstone to such a heart.
It was not strange that under such home influences public affairs should

sink into a secondary place in Richard Lincoln's mind. He hardly
looked at the newspapers, and he never expressed political opinions or
predictions. When he did speak of the government, it was with
confidence and respect. If he doubted or distrusted, no one knew.
For two years he had lived this quiet life; but, though he turned his eyes
from many signs, the astute and silent man saw danger growing like a
malarial weed beneath the waters of the social and political life of his
country.
One morning Patterson, his business partner, who was an excitable
politician, threw down his Times, and turned to Lincoln with an
impatient manner.
"We are going to smash, sir, with our eyes open. We are going to the
devil on two roads."
"Who is going to smash?" asked Lincoln.
"The country. See here; there are two rocks ahead, the aristocrats and
the demagogues, and which is worse no one can say. They are getting
ready for something or other, and the good sense and patriotism of
England stand by and do nothing."
"Has anything particular happened?"
"Yes; at West Derby yesterday, the Duke of Bayswater was elected to
Parliament, getting a large majority over Tyler, a sound Republican."
"Pooh! You don't take that as a specimen of all our elections? The
Derby voters are mainly farmers, and the farmers retain their old
respect for the lords of the manor."
"And that means something," rejoined Patterson; "it is not as if those
aristocrats had accepted the Republic, which they don't even pretend to
do. There are now over forty of them in the lower house."
"Well," answered the ex-Minister, "they have been elected by the

people."
"Yes; by the uninstructed people," said Patterson, warmly. "The people
are talked to by these fellows with empty titles on one hand and by