ed among
the ministerialists, there was a kind of dread lest the overtaxed powers
of the orator should pay the heavy penalty of such an effort. They
had all heard how he came from a sick chamber; they had all seen him,
trembling, faint, and almost voiceless, as he stole up to his place, and
they began to fear lest they had, in the hot zeal of party, imperilled
the ablest chief in their ranks.

What a relief to these agonies had it been, could they have seen Upton
as he once more gained the solitude of his chamber, where, divested
of all the restraints of an audience, he walked leisurely up and down,
smoking a cigar, and occasionally smiling pleasantly as some "conceit"
crossed his mind.

Had there been any one to mark him there, it is more than likely that
he would have regarded him as a man revelling in the after-thought of a
great success,--one who, having come gloriously through the combat, was
triumphantly recalling to his memory every incident of the fight. How
little had they understood Sir Horace Upton who would have read him in
this wise! That daring and soaring nature rarely dallied in the past;
even the present was scarcely full enough for the craving of a spirit
that cried ever, "Forward!"

What might be made of that night's success; how best it should be turned
to account!--these were the thoughts which beset him, and many were the
devices which his subtlety hit on to this end. There was not a goal
his ambition could point to but which became associated with some
deteriorating ingredient. He was tired of the Continent, he hated
England, he shuddered at the Colonies. "India, perhaps," said he,
hesitatingly,--"India, perhaps, might do." To continue as he
was,--to remain in office, as having reached the topmost round of the
ladder,--would have been insupportable indeed; and yet how, without
longer service at his post, could any man claim a higher reward?

CHAPTER XLIV. THE SUBTLETIES OF STATECRAFT

It was not till Sir Horace had smoked his third cigar that he seated
himself at his writing-table. He then wrote rapidly a brief note, of
which he proceeded to make a careful copy. This he folded and placed in
an envelope, addressing it to his Grace the Duke of Cloudeslie.

A few minutes afterwards he began to prepare for bed. The day was
already breaking, and yet that sick man was unwearied and unwasted; not
a trace of fatigue on features that, under the infliction of a tiresome
dinner-party, would have s