Montacute cast his dark, intelligent eyes upon the floor, and seemed plunged in thought.
‘Besides,’ added the duke, after a moment’s pause, and inferring, from the silence of his son, that he was making an impression, ‘suppose Hungerford is not in the same humour this time three years which he is in now. Probably he may be; possibly he may not. Men do not like to be baulked when they think they are doing a very kind and generous and magnanimous thing. Hungerford is not a warming-pan; we must remember that; he never was originally, and if he had been, he has been member for the county too long to be so considered now. I should be placed in a most painful position, if, this time three years, I had to withdraw my support from Hungerford, in order to secure your return.’
‘There would be no necessity, under any circumstances, for that, my dear father,’ said Lord Montacute, looking up, and speaking in a voice which, though somewhat low, was of that organ that at once arrests attention; a voice that comes alike from the brain and from the heart, and seems made to convey both profound thought and deep emotion. There is no index of character so sure as the voice. There are tones, tones brilliant and gushing, which impart a quick and pathetic sensibility: there are others that, deep and yet calm, seem the just interpreters of a serene and exalted intellect. But the rarest and the most precious of all voices is that which combines passion and repose; and whose rich and restrained tones exercise, perhaps, on the human frame a stronger spell than even the fascination of the eye, or that bewitching influence of the hand, which is the privilege of the higher races of Asia.
‘There would be no necessity, under any circumstances, for that, my dear father,’ said Lord Montacute, ‘for, to be frank, I believe I should feel as little disposed to enter Parliament three years hence as now.’
The duke looked still more surprised. ‘Mr. Fox was not of age when he took his seat,’ said his Grace. ‘You know how old Mr. Pitt was when he was a minister. Sir Robert, too, was in harness very early. I have always heard the good judges say, Lord Esk-dale, for example, that a man might speak in Parliament too soon, but it was impossible to go in too soon.’
‘If he wished to succeed in that assembly,’ replied Lord Montacute, ‘I can easily believe it. In all things an early initiation must be of advantage. But I have not that wish.’
‘I don’t like to see a man take his seat in the House of Lords who has not been in the House of Commons. He seems to me always, in a manner, unfledged.’
‘It will be a long time, I hope, my dear father, before I take my seat in the House of Lords,’ said Lord Montacute, ‘if, indeed, I ever do.’
‘In the course of nature ’tis a certainty.’
‘Suppose the Duke’s plan for perpetuating an aristocracy do not succeed,’ said Lord Montacute, ‘and our house ceases to exist?’
His father shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is not our business to suppose that. I hope it never will be the business of any one, at least seriously. This is a great country, and it has become great by its aristocracy.’
‘You think, then, our sovereigns did nothing for our greatness—Queen Elizabeth, for example, of whose visit to Montacute you are so proud?’
‘They performed their part.’
‘And have ceased to exist. We may have performed our part, and may meet the same fate.’
‘Why, you are talking liberalism!’
‘Hardly that, my dear father, for I have not expressed an opinion.’
‘I wish I knew what your opinions were, my dear boy, or even your wishes.’
‘Well, then, to do my duty.’
‘Exactly; you are a pillar of the State; support the State.’
‘Ah! if any one would but tell me what the State is,’ said Lord Montacute, sighing. ‘It seems to me your pillars remain, but they support nothing; in that case, though the shafts may be perpendicular, and the capitals very ornate, they are no longer props, they are a ruin.’
‘You would hand us over, then, to the ten-pounders?’
‘They do not even pretend to be a State,’ said Lord Montacute; ‘they do not even profess to support anything; on the contrary, the essence of their philosophy is, that nothing is to be established, and everything is to be left to itself.’
‘The common sense of this country and the fifty pound clause will carry us through,’ said the duke.
‘Through what?’ inquired his son.
‘This—this state of transition,’ replied his father.
‘A passage to what?’
‘Ah! that is a question the wisest cannot answer.’
‘But into which the weakest, among whom I class myself, have surely a right to inquire.’
‘Unquestionably; and I know nothing that will tend more to assist you in your researches than acting with practical men.’
‘And practising all their blunders,’ said Lord Montacute. ‘I can conceive an individual who has once been entrapped into their haphazard courses, continuing in the fatal confusion to which he has contributed his quota; but I am at least free, and I wish to continue so.’
‘And do nothing?’
‘But does it follow that a man is infirm of action because he declines fighting in the dark?’
‘And how would you act, then? What are your plans? Have you any?’
‘I have.’
‘Well, that is satisfactory,’ said the duke, with animation. ‘Whatever they are, you know you may count upon my doing everything that is possible to forward your wishes. I know they cannot be unworthy ones, for I believe, my child, you are incapable of a thought that is not good or great.’
‘I wish I knew what was good and great,’ said Lord Montacute; ‘I would struggle to accomplish it.’
‘But you have formed some views; you have some plans. Speak to me of them, and without reserve; as to a friend, the most affectionate, the most devoted.’
‘My father,’ said Lord Montacute, and moving, he drew a chair to the table, and seated himself by the duke, ‘you possess and have a right to my confidence. I ought not to have said that I doubted about what was good; for I know you.’
‘Sons like you make good fathers.’
‘It is not always so,’ said Lord Montacute; ‘you have been to me more than a father, and I bear to you and to my mother a profound and fervent affection; an affection,’ he added, in a faltering tone, ‘that is rarer, I believe, in this age than it was in old days. I feel it at this moment more deeply,’ he continued, in a firmer tone, ‘because I am about to propose that we should for a time separate.’
The duke turned pale, and leant forward in his chair, but did not speak.
‘You have proposed to me to-day,’ continued Lord Montacute, after a momentary pause, ‘to enter public life. I do not shrink from its duties. On the contrary, from the position in which I am born, still more from the impulse of my nature, I am desirous to fulfil them. I have meditated on them, I may say, even for years. But I cannot find that it is part of my duty to maintain the order of things, for I will not call it system, which at present prevails in our country. It seems to me that it cannot last, as nothing can endure, or ought to endure, that is not founded upon principle; and its principle I have not discovered. In nothing, whether it be religion, or government, or manners, sacred or political or social life, do I find faith; and if there be no faith, how can there be duty? Is there such a thing as religious truth? Is there such a thing as political right? Is there such a thing as social propriety? Are these facts, or are they mere phrases? And if they be facts, where are they likely to be found in England? Is truth in our Church? Why, then, do you