“Come now,” said Mrs. Wade, rousing herself
from meditation, “let us talk about the Irish
question.”
Lilian addressed herself conscientiously to the subject,
but it did not really interest her; she had no personal
knowledge of Irish hardships, and was wearied by the
endless Parliamentary debate. Her thoughts still
busied themselves with the hopeful project for smoothing
Mrs. Wade’s path in life.
When the carriage came for her, she took her leave
with regret, but full of happy imaginings. She
had quite forgotten the all but self-betrayal into
which she was led during that chat about novels.
Two days later Quarrier was again absent from home
on business, and Lilian spent the evening with the
Liversedges. Supper was over, and she had begun
to think of departure, when the drawing-room door was
burst open, and in rushed Denzil, wet from head to
foot with rain, and his face a-stream with perspiration.
“They dissolve at Easter!” he cried, waving
his hat wildly. “Northcote announced it
at five this afternoon. Hammond has a telegram;
I met him at the station.”
“Ho! ho! this is news!” answered Mr. Liversedge,
starting up from his easy-chair.
“News, indeed!” said his wife; “but
that’s no reason, Denzil, why you should make
my carpet all ram and mud. Do go and take your
coat off, and clean your boots, there’s a good
boy!”
“How can I think of coat and boots? Here,
Lily, fling this garment somewhere. Give me a
duster, or something, to stand on, Molly. Toby,
we must have a meeting in a day or two. Can we
get the Public Hall for Thursday or Friday? Shall
we go round and see our committee-men to-night?”
“Time enough to-morrow; most of them are just
going to bed. But how is it no one had an inkling
of this? They have kept the secret uncommonly
well.”
“The blackguards! Ha, ha! Now for
a good fight! It’ll be old Welwyn-Baker,
after all, you’ll see. They won t have the
courage to set up a new man at a moment’s notice.
The old buffer will come maudling once more, and we’ll
bowl him off his pins!”
Lilian sat with her eyes fixed upon him. His
excitement infected her, and when they went home together
she talked of the coming struggle with joyous animation.
The next morning—Tuesday, March 9th—there
was a rush for the London papers. Every copy
that reached the Polterham vendors was snapped up
within a few minutes of it arrival. People who
had no right of membership ran ravening to the Literary
Institute and the Constitutional Literary Society,
and peered over the shoulders of legitimate readers,
on such a day as this unrebuked. Mr. Chown’s
drapery establishment presented a strange spectacle.
For several hours it was thronged with sturdy Radicals
eager to hear their eminent friend hold forth on the
situation. At eleven o’clock Mr. Chown
fairly mounted a chair behind his counter, and delivered
