All that Russell had said of public virtue was fresh in our hero’s mind. “I thank you, my dear lord,” said he; “for I am sure this was kindly intended; but I am not one of those persons, who in public affairs think only of their private interest—I am not thinking of my interest. But if a man maintains certain public measures one day, and the next, for valuable consideration, supports diametrically opposite opinions and measures, he will lose, and deserve to lose, all reputation for integrity.”
“Integrity! political integrity!” said Lord Glistonbury; “fine words, which mean nothing. Behind the scenes, as we are now, Vivian, what use can there be in talking in that strain?—Between you and me, you know this is all nonsense. For who, of any party, now thinks, really and truly, of any thing but getting power or keeping it? Power, you know, stands for the measure of talent; and every thing else worth having is included in that word power. I speak plainly. And as honour is merely an affair of opinion, and opinion, again, an affair of numbers, and as there are numbers enough to keep one in countenance in these things; really, my dear Vivian, it is quite childish, quite boyish, smells of the lamp. To declaim about political integrity, and all that, is not the language of a man who knows any thing of business—any thing of the world.—But why do I say all this?” cried Lord Glistonbury, checking himself and assuming an air of more reserved displeasure.—“Mr. Vivian certainly knows all this as well as I do; I know how my nephew Marmaduke, who, with all his faults, is no fool, would interpret your present language: he would say, as I have often heard him say, that political integrity is only a civil put off.”
“Political integrity only a civil put off!” repeated Vivian, with unfeigned astonishment. When he formerly heard similar sentiments from the avowed profligate and hackneyed politician Mr. Wharton, he was shocked; but to hear them repeated, as being coolly laid down by so young a man as Mr. Lidhurst, excited so much disgust and contempt in Vivian’s mind, that he could hardly refrain from saying more than either prudence or politeness could justify.
“Now I am free to confess,” pursued Lord Glistonbury, “that I should think it more candid and manly, and, I will add, more friendly, and more the natural, open conduct of a son-in-law to a father-in-law, instead of talking of political integrity, to have said, at once, I cannot oblige you in this instance.”
“Surely, my lord, you cannot be in earnest?” said Vivian.
“I tell you, sir, I am in earnest,” cried his lordship, turning suddenly in a rage, as he walked up and down the room; “I say, it would have been more candid, more manly, more every thing,—and much more like a son-in-law—much!—much!——I am sure, if I had known as much as I do now, sir, you never should have been my son-in-law—never! never!—seen Lady Sarah in her grave first!—I would!—I would!—yes, sir—I would!——And you are the last person upon earth I should have expected it from. But I have a nephew—I have a nephew, and now I know the difference. No man can distinguish his friends till he tries them.”
Vivian in vain endeavoured to appease Lord Glistonbury by assurances that he would do any thing in his power to oblige him, except what he himself considered as dishonourable: his lordship reiterated, with divers passionate ejaculations, that if Vivian would not oblige him in this point, on which he had set his heart—where the great object of his life was at stake—he could never believe he had any regard for him; and that in short, it must come to an open rupture between them, for that he should never consider him more as his son. Having uttered this denunciation as distinctly as passion would permit, Lord Glistonbury retired to rest.
Vivian went immediately to his mother, to tell her what had passed, and he felt almost secure of her approbation; but though she praised him for his generous spirit of independence, yet it was evident the hopes that the title of marquis might descend to a grandson of her own weighed more with her than any patriotic considerations. She declared, that indeed she would not, for any title, or any thing upon earth, have her son act dishonourably; but what was asked of him, as far as she could understand, was only such a change of party, such compliances, as every public man in his place would make: and though she would not have him, like some she could name, a corrupt tool of government, yet, on the other hand, it was folly to expect that he alone could do any thing against the general tide of corruption—that it would be madness in him to sacrifice himself entirely, without the slightest possibility of doing any good to his country.
Vivian interrupted her, to represent that, if each public man argued in this manner, nothing could ever be accomplished for the public good: that, on the contrary, if every man hoped that something might be done, even by his individual exertion, and if he determined to sacrifice a portion of his private interest in the attempt, perhaps much might be effected.
“Very likely!” Lady Mary said. She confessed she knew little of politics: so from argument she went to persuasion and entreaties. She conjured him not to quarrel with the Glistonburys, and not to provoke Lord Glistonbury’s displeasure. “I see all that artful Marmaduke’s schemes,” said she: “he knows his uncle’s pertinacious temper; and he hopes that your notions of patriotism will prevent you from yielding on a point, on which his uncle has set his heart. Marmaduke will know how to take advantage of all this, believe me!”