Lord Glistonbury hurried down stairs:—reluctantly, and with a heavy heart and repugnant conscience, Vivian followed. At this instant, he wished for Russell, to prevent what he knew would be the consequence of this interview. But Russell was absent—the keeper of his conscience, the supporter of his resolution, was not at hand. Woe to him who is not the keeper of his own conscience—the supporter of his own resolution! The result of this political breakfast was just what every reader, who knows the world but half as well as Lord Glistonbury knew it, has probably long since anticipated. The capitulation of the patriots of the Glistonbury band, with Vivian at their head, was settled. Lord Glistonbury lost no character by this transaction, for he had none to lose—he was quite at his ease, or quite callous. But Vivian bartered, for a paltry accommodation of his pecuniary difficulties, a reputation which stood high in the public opinion—which was invaluable in his own—which was his last stake of happiness. He knew this—he felt it with all the anguish of exquisite but USELESS sensibility.
Lord Glistonbury and his new friend, Secretary ——, who was a man of wit as well as a politician, rallied Vivian upon his gravity and upon his evident depression of spirits.
“Really, my dear Vivian,” cried Lord Glistonbury, “my patience is now exhausted, and I must not let you expose yourself here, before our friend, as a novice—Hey! hey!—Why, will you never open your eyes, and see the world as it is! Why! what!—Did you never read the fable of the dog and his master’s meat?—Well! it is come to that now in England; and he is a foolish dog, indeed, who, when he can’t save the meat, won’t secure his share—hey?”
His lordship and the secretary laughed in concert.
“Look, how Vivian preserves his solemnity!” continued Lord Glistonbury; “and he really looks as if he was surprised at us. My dear Vivian, it requires all my knowledge of your bonne foi to believe that you are in earnest, and not acting the part of a patriot of older times.”
“Oh!” cried the secretary, with a facetious air, “Mr. Vivian assuredly knows, as well as we do, that—
‘A patriot is a fool in ev’ry age, Whom all lord chamberlains allow the stage.’
But off the stage we lay aside heroics, or how should we ever get on?—Did you hear, my lord,” continued the secretary, turning to Lord Glistonbury, “that there is another blue riband fallen in to us by the death of Lord G——?”
“I had a great regard for poor Lord G——. Many applications, I suppose, for the vacant riband?”
From the vacant riband they went on to talk over this man’s pension and the other man’s job; and considered who was to get such and such a place when such and such a person should resign or succeed to something better. Then all the miserable mysteries of ministerial craft were unveiled to Vivian’s eyes. He had read, he had heard, he had believed, that public affairs were conducted in this manner; but he had never, till now, actually seen it: he was really novice enough still to feel surprise at finding that, after all the fine professions made on all sides, the main, the only object of these politicians, was to keep their own, or to get into the places of others. Vivian felt every moment his disgust and his melancholy increase. “And it is with these people I have consented to act! And am I to be hurried along by this stream of corruption to infamy and oblivion! Then Russell—”