A courier had arrived the night
before, only hours ahead of his daughter's carriage, bearing news that
he was loathe to hear. Earl Emerson Arthur, his sworn enemy of so many
years, had been appointed Secretary of State for Scotland. And full of
his new-found authority, the vindictive old man had decided to abandon
his long siege---waiting for some damning evidence to arise against
his rival---and decided to attack instead, on Purceville's own ground,
while the tide of disfavor was still strong against him. A review was
to be called, if not a formal Inquest, and evidence gathered to
dismiss him. And while losing his seat as Governor was not a literal
matter of life and death, to the aged and slowly despairing Lord
Purceville, the two amounted to one and the same thing.
For no man is so strong that he can hold off forever the grim
whisperings of age. His power and station were all that remained to
him, a last shield of illusion, which so narrowly blocked out the
sureness and finality of Death. Without it, he would have to look its
grim harvest square in the face.
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