He struggled gallantly to acquit the memory of his wife. He could best do that by leaning with the full weight of his mind on the presumed iniquity of Mrs. Finn. Had he not known from the first that the woman was an adventuress? And had he not declared to himself over and over again that between such a one and himself there should be no intercourse, no common feeling? He had allowed himself to be talked into an intimacy, to be talked almost into an affection. And this was the result!
And how should he treat this matter in his coming interview with his son;—or should he make an allusion to it? At first it seemed as though it would be impossible for him to give his mind to that other subject. How could he enforce the merits of political Liberalism, and the duty of adhering to the old family party, while his mind was entirely preoccupied with his daughter? It had suddenly become almost indifferent to him whether Silverbridge should be a Conservative or a Liberal. But as he dressed he told himself that, as a man, he ought to be able to do a plain duty, marked out for him as this had been by his own judgment, without regard to personal suffering. The hedger and ditcher must make his hedge and clean his ditch even though he be tormented by rheumatism. His duty by his son he must do, even though his heart were torn to pieces.
During breakfast he tried to be gracious, and condescended to ask his son a question about Prime Minister. Racing was an amusement to which English noblemen had been addicted for many ages, and had been held to be serviceable rather than disgraceful, if conducted in a noble fashion. He did not credit Tifto with much nobility. He knew but little about the Major. He would much have preferred that his son should have owned a horse alone, if he must have anything to do with ownership. “Would it not be better to buy the other share?” asked the Duke.
“It would take a deal of money, sir. The Major would ask a couple of thousand, I should think.”
“That is a great deal.”
“And then the Major is a very useful man. He thoroughly understands the turf.”
“I hope he doesn’t live by it?”
“Oh no; he doesn’t live by it. That is, he has a great many irons in the fire.”
“I do not mind a young man owning a horse, if he can afford the expense—as you perhaps can do; but I hope you don’t bet.”
“Nothing to speak of.”
“Nothing to speak of is so apt to grow into that which has to be spoken of.” So much the father said at breakfast, hardly giving his mind to the matter discussed—his mind being on other things. But when their breakfast was eaten, then it was necessary that he should begin. “Silverbridge,” he said, “I hope you have thought better of what we were talking about as to these coming elections.”
“Well, sir;—of course I have thought about it.”
“And you can do as I would have you?”
“You see, sir, a man’s political opinion is a kind of thing he can’t get rid of.”
“You can hardly as yet have any very confirmed political opinion. You are still young, and I do not suppose that you have thought much about politics.”
“Well, sir; I think I have. I’ve got my own ideas. We’ve got to protect our position as well as we can against the Radicals and Communists.”
“I cannot admit that at all, Silverbridge. There is no great political party in this country anxious either for Communism or for revolution. But, putting all that aside for the present, do you think that a man’s political opinions should be held in regard to his own individual interests, or to the much wider interests of others, whom we call the public?”
“To his own interest,” said the young man with decision.
“It is simply self-protection then?”
“His own and his class. The people will look after themselves, and we must look after ourselves. We are so few and they are so many, that we shall have quite enough to do.”
Then the Duke gave his son a somewhat lengthy political lecture, which was intended to teach him that the greatest benefit of the greatest number was the object to which all political studies should tend. The son listened to it with attention, and when it was over, expressed his opinion that there was a great deal in what his father had said. “I trust, if you will consider it,” said the Duke, “that you will not find yourself obliged to desert the school of politics in which your father has not been an inactive supporter, and to which your family has belonged for many generations.”
“I could not call myself a Liberal,” said the young politician.
“Why not?”
“Because I am a Conservative.”
“And you won’t stand for the county on the Liberal interest?”
“I should be obliged to tell them that I should always give a Conservative vote.”
“Then you refuse to do what I ask?”
“I do not know how I can help refusing. If you wanted me to grow a couple of inches taller I couldn’t do it, even though I should be ever so anxious to oblige you.”
“But a very young man, as you are, may have so much deference for his elders as to be induced to believe that he has been in error.”
“Oh yes; of course.”
“You cannot but be aware that the political condition of the country is the one subject to which I have devoted the labour of my life.”
“I know that very well; and, of
