“He has just accepted the escheatorship of—I forget what or where, but he vacates his seat to make room for Courtenay.”
“Sam Courtenay?—Scrub, as we used to call him?”
“Scrub,—exactly so. Well, he comes in for Roscommon, and is to have a place under the new commission of twelve hundred a year. But to go back to what I was saying: Castlereagh has bought these fellows at his price or their own; some were dear enough, some were cheap. Barton, for instance, takes it out in Castle dinners, and has sold his birthright for the Viceroy's venison.”
“May good digestion wait on appetite!” repeated Darcy, laughing.
“Well, let's not waste more time on them, but come to what I mean. Castlereagh wants to know how you mean to vote: some have told him you would be on his side; others, myself among the number, say the reverse. In fact, little as you may think about the matter, heavy bets are laid at this moment on the question, and—But I won't mention names; enough if I say a friend of ours—an old friend, too—has a thousand on it.”
The Knight tapped his snuff-box calmly, and with his blandest smile begged Heffernan to proceed.
“Faith! I 've nearly told all I had to say. Every one well knows that, whatever decision you come to, it will be unbiassed by everything save your own conscientious sense of right; and as arguments are pretty nearly equal on the question,—for, in truth, after having heard and read most of what has been written or spoken on the point,—I 'm regularly nonplussed on which side to see the advantage. The real question seems to be, Can we go on as we are?”
“I think not,” observed the Knight, gravely. “A Parliament which has exhibited its venality so openly can have little pretension to public confidence.”
“The very remark I made myself,” cried Heffernan, triumphantly.
“The men who sell themselves to-day to the Crown will, if need be, sell themselves to-morrow to the mob.”