Even when the lapse of twenty-four hours brought the swarm of couriers,
messengers, and expresses which Dr. Addington had foretold; when the
High Street of Marlborough--a name henceforth written on the page of
history--became but a slowly moving line of coaches and chariots bearing
the select of the county to wait on the great Minister; when the little
town itself began to throb with unusual life, and to take on airs of
fashion, by reason of the crowd that lay in it; when the Duke of
Grafton himself was reported to be but a stage distant, and there
detained by the Earl's express refusal to see him; when the very KING,
it was rumoured, was coming on the same business; when, in a word, it
became evident that the eyes of half England were turned to the Castle
Inn at Marlborough, where England's great statesman lay helpless, and
gave no sign, though the wheels of state creaked and all but stood
still--even then Mr. Fishwick refused to be satisfied, declined to be
comforted. In place of viewing this stir and bustle, this coming and
going as a perfect confirmation of Dr. Addington's statement, and a
proof of his integrity, he looked askance at it. He saw in it a
demonstration of the powers ranked against him and the principalities he
had to combat; he felt, in face of it, how weak, how poor, how
insignificant he was; and at one time despaired, and at another was in a
frenzy, at one time wearied Julia with prophecies of treachery, at
another poured his forebodings into the more sympathetic bosom of the
elder woman. The reader may laugh; but if he has ever staked his all on
a cast, if he has taken up a hand of twelve trumps, only to hear the
ominous word 'misdeal!' he will find something in Mr. Fishwick's
attitude neither unnatural nor blameworthy.