“He ought to go about in chain armor,” said Cocky, picking up Truth and reading for the fourth time, with infinite relish, the description of himself as an “Hereditary Legislator in Mincing Lane.” “I am not a hereditary legislator yet,” he said as he read. “As I don’t get the halfpence, why should I get the kicks? That’s what I said to the mob in the park. Break the pater’s windows, don’t break mine. I’m plain John Orme, without a shilling to bless myself with, and the beggars cheered me! They’ll cheer you for any rot if they’re only in the mood for it; and if they aren’t in the mood, you might talk like Moses and Mahomet, they’d bawl you down—oh, get out you little beasts, damn you!”
This objurgation was addressed to the Blenheims, who, suddenly becoming aware of his presence, made for his trousers with that conviction that his immediate destruction would be a public service, which they shared with the editor of Truth.
Hurstmanceaux walked through the streets and felt his ears tingle as he heard the newsboys shouting the names of newspapers.
His sister had said rightly; he was not a man of his time; he was impetuous in action, warm in feeling, sensitive in honor; he had nothing of the cynical morality, the apathetic indifference, the cool opportunism of modern men of his age. He was no philosopher, and he could not bring himself to smile at an unprincipled action. He felt as ashamed as though he were himself at fault, as he entered the duke’s apartments in Otterbourne House.
Hurstmanceaux and the duke had much regard for each other, but their conversation was usually somewhat guarded and reserved, for the one could not say all he thought of Otterbourne’s son, and the other could not say all he thought of Ronald’s sister. There were many subjects on which they mutually preserved silence. But this appointment of Kenilworth seemed so monstrous to both that it broke the reserve between them. They each felt to owe the other an apology.
“My dear Ronald,” said the duke, holding out his hand, “I know why you have come. I thank you.”
“I dare not offer any plea in her defence,” replied Hurstmanceaux huskily; “I can only tell you how grieved I am that your constant kindness and forbearance to my sister should meet with so base a requital.”
The duke sighed.
“I am bound in honor to remember that the basest of men is her husband—and my son!”
They were both silent.