Now, although I had little special reason to love Mr Osborne, and knew him to be a tyrant, I knew also that my old Charley could not have thus coolly uttered a disrespectful word of him, and I had therefore a painful though at the same time an undefined conviction that some degree of moral degeneracy must have taken place before he could express himself as now. To many, such a remark will appear absurd, but I am confident that disrespect for the preceding generation, and especially for those in it nearest to ourselves, is a sure sign of relaxing dignity, and, in any extended manifestation, an equally sure symptom of national and political decadence. My reader knows, however, that there was much to be said in excuse of Charley.
His friend sauntered away, and we went on talking. My heart longed to rest with his for a moment on the past.
‘I had a dreary time of it after you left, Charley,’ I said.
‘Not so dreary as I had, Wilfrid, I am certain. You had at least the mountains to comfort you. Anywhere is better than at home, with a meal of Bible oil and vinegar twice a day for certain, and a wine-glassful of it now and then in between. Damnation’s better than a spoony heaven. To be away from home is heaven enough for me.’
‘But your mother, Charley!’ I ventured to say.
‘My mother is an angel. I could almost be good for her sake. But I never could, I never can get near her. My father reads every letter she writes before it comes to me—I know that by the style of it; and I’m equally certain he reads every letter of mine before it reaches her.’
‘Is your sister at home?’
‘No. She’s at school at Clapham—being sand-papered into a saint, I suppose.’
His mouth twitched and quivered. He was not pleased with himself for talking as he did.
‘Your father means it for the best,’ I said.