"It sounds very well, if I knew but how to do it," I answered with some kindly marvelling at the importance attached to me. "You make it a sine quâ non of brotherhood, in the humble being before you, 'ut patriæ sit idoneus, utilis agris.'"
"Exactly. You could not have put it better. His country, and the agricultural interest—very nearly dead, and with which dies England; as her bitter enemies have long found out. I have no fear of you, when you once get in; which this Autumn Session will enable you to do. The writ will be issued next week, the vacancy having been declared already. Squelch has not a chance; and you shall take your seat formally, so as to be ready for the great fight in the Spring."
"But Chumps?" I asked; "when is Bill coming down? He will do you a great deal more good than I can. You seem to take it easily, about getting him in for Silverside."
"Because there is no chance of any opposition. Flanker will not resign until February. I have had a little talk with him, and made that square. The oddest part of all is, that I had the hardest work to get out my own warming-pan. The others have behaved like gentlemen. There will be six of us, with the three who still remain. All staunch fellows, and not a fool among them, unless it is your humble servant. Come, and have a game of pyramids, friend Tommy."
Very often, when I thought about Sir Roland Twentifold, I could not help feeling surprised at his devotion to that dryest and dullest of all games, at least in my opinion—politics. He was fond of field-sports, a bold rider, a good shot, a great lover of dogs, and of outdoor life, and a hater of town-existence. Yet all these were only light pleasures to him; while politics, and the strife of parties, seemed to be his passion. Handsome as he was, and a fine young man, with a rent-roll even finer, and therefore at a high demand in the London market, he passed among all the fair snares, uncaught, with a pleasant smile justly distributed.
I ventured to ask Lady Twentifold once, how she, (so free from prejudice, and so full of good-will to the world at large) could have brought up her son, with such set convictions, and principles, perfectly upright, but sometimes almost too unbending. She looked up, with a kind but rather melancholy smile, from the paper, on which she was making a pencil-sketch of a very grand oak-tree, still in its prime, but as rugged as a ruin.
"Who brought up this tree?" she asked.
"Nature does everything now," I replied; "it used to be the Lord; but it is Nature now. In a few years more, it will be Science. When we tire of that, it will be Accident. And after that, Something even nobler."
"But the tree will be the tree;" she answered gently, for her fear about me was that I might grow too scientific, if led into arguments against it; "I prefer to say, that the Almighty made it so, though few ladies now would agree with me. My dear Tommy, I have no more to do with the bent of Roly's mind, than I have with the twists, and turns, of this tree. He inherits it all from his grandfather; upon, I suppose, what the learned people call, the system of alternation. My dear husband, Roland's father, would never go near Westminster; although we had a house in London then, to see our friends in the season. He sat for Twentibury, in his own chair, or in the saddle, according to the season; and everything went on as nicely as could be. But his father had been of an uncomfortable nature, desiring to make speeches, and to meddle generally, his grandfather having been a strong Jacobite; and the whole of it comes out again in my Roly."