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There is an old proverb," he added, with a sneer, "'They are not all friends of the bridegroom who seem to be following the bride." Ullweather was still absorbed in his own meditation. "Marshire," said he, "is the man for us. We might do something with Marshire." "Nevertheless," said Penborough, "I have my eye on Orange." "I say," exclaimed Bradwyn, "be careful. Here is Reckage again.
"I would have spoken to Reckage," said Ullweather, with a superior air, "but I have never felt the same toward him since he threw over Orange at the time of his election." "And several other old friends more recently!" observed the injudicious Bradwyn.
Foremost in the little company on this occasion stood Sir Edward Ullweather and Nigel Bradwyn, both private secretaries, and each secretly convinced that his peculiar powers would have found brilliant, volcanic opportunities of demonstration in the other's more promising berth.
Not far from Ullweather and Bradwyn, Randall Hatchett, the youngest member of the Executive, lounged against a pillar.
"Probably," replied Hatchett, after a minute's hesitation. "Probably, Orange ... in time." "Don't you like him?" said Penborough. "Like him!" answered Hatchett, rolling up his eyes. "He's an angel!" "He calls him an angel as though he wished he were one in reality," said Bradwyn. "I know these generous rivals!" Ullweather stood gnawing his upper lip. "Orange," he said, at last.
Will write. No, the real woman for him was Lady Sara de Treverell." Ullweather thrust his tongue into his cheek. "Lady Sara has been called to higher destinies," said he, "than the heavenly 'sweet hand in hand!" "I see you know," said Bradwyn, with a mysterious glance. "Yes," said Ullweather.
"I don't speak of myself," said Ullweather, "but Orange was unusually devoted to the fellow; and all I wish to make clear is this, that when Reckage ever said or did the right thing in times past, the credit was solely due to Orange. He weeded prophecy from his speeches, and rudeness from his jokes. Great services, I assure you!"
On the evening of the day on which Lord Reckage died, Aumerle and Ullweather called at Vigo Street as a preliminary move in their new plan of campaign. But Robert was not there. He sat all that night, a solitary watcher, in the chamber of death. His affection for his old pupil was something stronger than a brother's love.
"True," said Randall Hatchett, "for there is nothing more fatal to a political career than brilliant impromptus and spirited orations. A statesman's words, like butcher's meat, should be well weighed." "You have so many prescriptions for success," said Bradwyn, "that I wonder you ain't President yourself." "Reckage has taken us all in," said Ullweather. "By no means," said Bradwyn.
He walked along toward Almouth House in a mood of many vexations, cursing the impudence of Bradwyn and Ullweather, wondering whether he had done wisely, after all, in engaging himself to the blameless Miss Carillon, sighing a little over a rumour which had reached him about Sara de Treverell and the Duke of Marshire, deploring the obstinacy of Robert Orange where Mrs. Parflete was concerned.
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