Though the father and the two young men were living together they did not see very much of each other. The Duke breakfasted at nine and the repast was a very simple one. When they failed to appear, he did not scold—but would simply be disappointed. At dinner they never met. It was supposed that Lord Gerald passed his mornings in reading, and some little attempts were made in that direction. It is to be feared they did not come to much. Silverbridge was very kind to Gerald, feeling an increased tenderness for him on account of that Cambridge mishap. Now they were much together, and occasionally, by a strong effort, would grace their father’s breakfast-table with their company.
It was not often that he either reproached them or preached to them. Though he could not live with them on almost equal terms, as some fathers can live with their sons, though he could not laugh at their fun or make them laugh at his wit, he knew that it would have been better both for him and them if he had possessed this capacity. Though the life which they lived was distasteful to him—though racehorses were an abomination to him, and the driving of coaches a folly, and club-life a manifest waste of time, still he recognised these things as being, if not necessary, yet unavoidable evils. To Gerald he would talk about Oxford, avoiding all allusions to past Cambridge misfortunes; but in the presence of Silverbridge, whose Oxford career had been so peculiarly unfortunate, he would make no allusion to either of the universities. To his eldest son he would talk of Parliament, which of all subjects would have been the most congenial had they agreed in politics. As it was he could speak more freely to him on that than any other matter.
One Thursday night as the two brothers went to bed on returning from the Beargarden, at a not very late hour, they agreed that they would “give the governor a turn” the next morning—by which they meant that they would drag themselves out of bed in time to breakfast with him. “The worst of it is that he never will let them get anything to eat,” said Gerald. But Silverbridge explained that he had taken that matter into his own hands, and had specially ordered broiled salmon and stewed kidneys. “He won’t like it, you know,” said Gerald. “I’m sure he thinks it wicked to eat anything but toasted bacon before lunch.”
At a very little after nine Silverbridge was in the breakfast-room, and there found his father. “I suppose Gerald is not up yet,” said the Duke almost crossly.
“Oh yes he is, sir. He’ll be here directly.”
“Have you seen him this morning?”
“No; I haven’t seen him. But I know he’ll be here. He said he would, last night.”
“You speak of it as if it were an undertaking.”
“No, not that, sir. But we are not always quite up to time.”
“No; indeed you are not. Perhaps you sit late at the House.”
“Sometimes I do,” said the young member, with a feeling almost akin to shame as he remembered all the hours spent at the Beargarden. “I have had Gerald there in the Gallery sometimes. It is just as well he should know what is being done.”
“Quite as well.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if he gets a seat some day.”
“I don’t know how that may be.”
“He won’t change as I have done. He’ll stick to your side. Indeed I think he’d do better in the House than I shall. He has more gift of the gab.”
“That is not the first thing requisite.”
“I know all that, sir. I’ve read your letter more than once, and I showed it to him.”
There was something sweet and pleasant in the young man’s manner by which the father could hardly not be captivated. They had now sat down, and the servant had brought in the unusual accessories for a morning feast. “What is all that?” asked the Duke.
“Gerald and I are so awfully hungry of a morning,” said the son, apologising.
“Well;—it’s a very good thing to be hungry;—that is if you can get plenty to eat. Salmon, is it? I don’t think I’ll have any myself. Kidneys! Not for me. I think I’ll take a bit of fried bacon. I also am hungry, but not awfully hungry.”
“You never seem to me to eat anything, sir.”
“Eating is an occupation from which I think a man takes the more pleasure the less he considers it. A rural labourer who sits on the ditch-side with his bread and cheese and an onion has more enjoyment out of it than any Lucullus.”
“But he likes a good deal of it.”
“I do not think he ever overeats himself—which Lucullus does. I have envied a ploughman his power—his dura ilia—but never an epicure the appreciative skill of his palate. If Gerald does not make haste he will have to exercise neither the one nor the other upon that fish.”
“I will leave a bit for him, sir—and here he is. You are twenty minutes late, Gerald. My father says that bread and cheese and onions would be better for you than salmon and stewed kidneys.”
“No, Silverbridge;—I said no such thing; but that if he were a hedger and ditcher the bread and cheese and onions would be as good.”
“I should not mind trying them at all,” said Gerald. “Only one never does have such things for breakfast. Last winter a lot of us skated to Ely, and we ate two or three loaves of bread and a whole cheese at a pothouse! And as for beer, we drank the public dry.”
“It was because for the time you had been a hedger and ditcher.”
“Proby was a ditcher I know, when he went right through into one of the dykes. Just push on that dish, Silverbridge. It’s no good you having the trouble of helping me half-a-dozen times. I don’t think things are a bit the nicer because they cost
