Also he was sure he had injured the chances
of the Government by the defeat of his policy.
As though Creation was in league against him, a heavy storm broke about
two o'clock, and he went to bed cursed by torturing thoughts. "Chickens
come home to roost--" Why did that ancient phrase keep ringing in his
ears when he tried to sleep? Beaten by his illegitimate son at the
polls, the victim of his own wrong-doing--the sacrifice of penalty!
He knew that his son, inheriting his own political gifts, had done what
could have been done by no one else. All the years passed since Carnac
was begotten laid their deathly hands upon him, and he knew he could
never recover from this defeat. How much better it would have been if he
had been struck twenty-seven years ago!
Youth, ambition and resolve would have saved him from the worst then.
Age has its powers, but it has its defects, and he had no hope that his
own defects would be wiped out by luck at the polls. Spirit was gone out
of him, longing for the future had no place in his mind; in the world of
public work he was dead and buried. How little he had got from all his
life! How few friends he had, and how few he was entitled to have! This
is one of the punishments that selfishness and wrong-doing brings; it
gives no insurance for the hours of defeat and loss. Well, wealth and
power, the friends so needed in dark days, had not been made, and Barode
Barouche realized he had naught left.
Pages:
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98