# Court Royal/Chapter XXI

CHAPTER XXI.
HOME-THRUSTS.
The Marquess of Saltcombe sat in his pretty room of gold and peacock blue and green, in an easy-chair, holding a book in his hand, without reading it. On the table was a zither. Every now and then he put the book down and struck a few chords on the instrument, but he could not play a melody through. The zither demands much practice, and Lord Saltcombe could not or would not devote time to mastering the instrument.
At his side was a desk, open. He put his hand into one of the drawers, from which issued a scent of rose-leaves, and drew forth a red miniature case. He touched the spring, with a sigh, and exposed a portrait on ivory. The portrait represented a young and beautiful woman, with large lustrous dark eyes, full of dreamy idealism. The ivory lent the face a pearly whiteness, and gave brilliance to the coral of the lips. The painter had succeeded in giving to the countenance an expression of tender yearning, tinged with melancholy; it was one of those exquisitely expressive faces which is sometimes given by nature to angels, but sometimes also, in irony, to beings with little of heaven in their souls. The picture, as a work of art, was a masterpiece; the original, unless greatly idealised, must have been irresistible. The face combined in it the simplicity of the child and the earnest of an eager mind, the charm of perfect beauty and the promise of a gifted soul, liveliness and pathos blent together.
Lord Saltcombe looked long at the lovely picture, and his brow clouded. Then he closed the morocco case, laid it on his knee in his hand, and looked dreamily before him into space. The past rose before him, full of pleasure and of pain. Presently he sighed, put his hand to his brow, made a motion of again opening the case, refrained from doing so, and replaced it in the drawer of his desk, which he closed and locked.
He was removing the key from the lock, when Beavis came in.
Lord Saltcombe was sufficiently man of the world to have control over his features. Every trace of his late sadness departed, and his face cleared to meet Beavis’ eye. No one would ​have supposed that, a moment earlier, he had been a prey to the most mournful recollections.
‘Well, Beavis,’ he exclaimed; ‘what has brought you here?’
‘Have you seen the paper?’
‘No—there can be nothing in it to interest me.’
‘Our member is dead.’
‘What, Woodley! My father will feel this. Does he know it?’
‘I think so. He reads his daily paper. Besides, the telegraph boy was up here last night, and no doubt——'
‘O no, that was with a message for me from Uncle Edward. He wants me immediately at Sleepy Hollow.’
‘Are you going?’
‘I don’t know; I may. I have nothing to detain me here.’
‘Saltcombe, will you not go into Parliament? Now that Woodley is dead, we must have a new election.’
The Marquess made a gesture of impatience.
‘There will be no opposition.’
‘I do not see why I should go into the House. I have no opinions. I have not made up my mind on any question that now agitates the political world, and I do not want the trouble of thinking and studying these questions.’
‘This is unworthy of you.’
‘You shall be our new member.’
‘No, I have no ambition that way. You are the proper person to represent our pocket borough of Kingsbridge. Of course you have principles. You have inherited those of the family. You are Conservative.’
‘I will open my breast to you, dear Beavis. I know that my father’s and uncles’ opinions are all right, but then I have no doubt that the opinions of the other side are all equally right. My father’s views are exaggerated, and the Radicals are exaggerated in their views, and with Aristotle I hold that in equilibrium is safety.’
‘Both cannot be right,’ said young Worthivale.
‘Yes, they can be, and they are. There are two sides to every question, and he who only sees and becomes hot and vehement on one side is a bigot, narrow-minded and purblind. I am sure that in politics, and in religion, and in ethics—in everything, in fact, much is to be said on each side, quite as much on one side as on the other; so I make up my mind to have no fixed opinions on anything, I shrug my shoulders, and let the world go on and muddle its way from one blunder into ​another. There now, Beavis, you have my creed. How can I go into Parliament with such doctrine in my heart?’
‘That is not a creed at all; it is the confession of a mind that is too lazy to think.’
‘You are very rude.’
‘I speak the truth, Saltcombe. You know it.’
Lord Saltcombe laughed. ‘Of course you are right, Beavis. It is not pleasant, however, to hear the truth put so plainly. Nevertheless, I maintain that my position is a right one. No man can be a partisan in any cause unless he is ignorant of what is to be said on the opposite side. To be an enthusiast you must be narrow. The man of culture is an all-round man; he sees good everywhere, is tolerant of every form of faith, religious and political, because he believes that no party holds a monopoly of the right. The man of culture, then, must be indifferent to all parties.’
‘With your abilities, and your position, it is wicked to waste your life over shooting partridges and pheasants, collecting china, and reading ephemeral literature.’
‘Upon my word, Beavis, you are sharp on me.’
‘I am plain-spoken, Saltcombe, because you must be roused. You are throwing away life in that most miserable of all follies—killing time.’
Lord Saltcombe was annoyed. He raised his eyebrows, and lit a cigar.
‘You are striving to deaden the impulses of your nobler nature, which would force you into active life.’
‘Indeed,’ said the Marquess, coldly, ‘I do not contradict you. You feel strongly, speak over-vehemently, because you know only one side.’
‘I know what is right, what your own conscience tells you is right; and I say it at the risk of forfeiting your friendship.’
‘You strain the relation between us, Beavis,’ said Lord Saltcombe.
Young Worthivale was silent a moment. Lord Saltcombe crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair, he did not look at Beavis, whom he allowed to stand. He was annoyed, and wanted the young man to go. Presently, as Beavis did not move, he said: ‘Life is either a blank or a torture chamber. If we act in it, we involve ourselves in annoyances; if we aim at anything, we bring on ourselves disappointment; if we take a part in politics, we are covered with obloquy by our opponents—that is, by the press of the opposite party; if we appear in ​society, we are subjected to the insulting inquisitorial eyes of the Society papers; if we attempt anything in literature, we are cut to pieces by critics who know nothing of the subject to which we have devoted our lives. No, Beavis, a man with self-respect should shut himself up in a walled garden and never leave it, but die there of ennui.’
‘And the enthusiasm of youth is given us only to drive us to disenchantment and disbelief.’
‘That is all.’
‘You look on life, really, from this point of view?’
‘Yes, ever since my disenchantment. Let me alone, Beavis. It may be pleasure to you to anatomise me, but I have no desire to be the subject of your vivisection.’
‘It is no pleasure to me to vivisect you,’ answered Beavis Worthivale. ‘I speak strongly because I feel strongly. Here is Kingsbridge vacant, and you are the right person to represent it. I speak out what everyone thinks. The Duke, I am sure, wishes it.’
‘I have told you, I am no politician.’
‘But, surely, you could master the subjects of debate as well as another. Where there is a will there is a way.’
‘Exactly—but I have not the will.’
Beavis sighed.
‘You are not the only man who has been at me to-day. Look at my uncle Edward’s letter, if you like; it lies on the table.’
Beavis took it up, and read it with growing interest. When he came to the end a slight agitation overcame him.
‘What is it?’ asked the Marquess, who had been watching him. The young man coloured.
‘Oh, Saltcombe,’ he said, ‘the chance has come at last. You must not delay. Why are you now here smoking and reading a book? Have you told Robert to pack your portmanteau? You must catch the next train.’
‘I do not like to be brought up to Glastonbury to have my uncle and aunt show me an heiress, and say, “There, look at her coat, how glossy; her hoofs are sound, so is her wind, and she is worth her weight in money.” She knows she is on show. I know I am there to criticise. The situation is detestable. We both look absurd, and the natural result is, we dislike each other, and fly in opposite directions. Besides, I do not want to marry.’
‘You must accept Lord Edward’s invitation. He would ​not write so pressingly unless he had found the right person for you.’
‘But I should prefer to find the right person myself.’
‘Where? In the walled garden in which, as you say, a man of self-respect immures himself. No woman with self-respect will come over the wall to you; you must go about to see women.’
‘I do not want to see any, much less to have one hang herself round my neck. The more she is weighted with gold the more burdensome she will be to me. Besides, here I have the society of the best and sweetest women that ever bloomed outside Paradise, Grace and Lucy; they have spoiled me for others.’
‘You cannot decline Lord Edward’s invitation. It is too urgent to be neglected, couched in too tender a tone to be denied. You must go.’
‘I shall return as I go. I want rest; to be left alone.’
‘You cannot be left alone. Go out of the world if you want rest. You are building yourself, like a child, a sand castle against the advancing tide; the waves will sweep your walls away and overwhelm you. You desire the impossible. As your uncle says, you have duties to perform, and you will not be the coward to shirk them. You may have to sacrifice much that is dear to you, but every man is made better by self-sacrifice. You are not happy as you are, wasting your days in reading books that do not interest you, following sports that do not amuse you, and collecting cups and saucers that are valueless to you. The books weary you because they are books, and your proper study is life. Your sports fail to distract you because you pursue such poor and wretched game, and the cups and saucers—’ Beavis did not finish his sentence; his brow was red, he was excited, angry—his face expressed contempt.
Lord Saltcombe did not interrupt him. Beavis went on: ‘My father and I devote our lives to your affairs, which are desperate; but we are met at every turn by your inactivity. We cannot save you because you will not put out a finger by which you can be caught. For the sake of your father, your uncles, your sister, throw aside this paralysing indifference and bestir yourself. You must marry, and marry an heiress, such as your uncle has found for you because you would not put your head outside your walled garden to find one for yourself. You—you must save the family. You alone can ​do it. Your father—all—look to you, and you take no step proprio motu, but have to be driven on with sharp, perhaps cruel, reproaches. Your father does not know the desperate state of your affairs. You ought to know, but will not face it, though the books have been shown you. Your uncles know it, but you repel them when they offer you advice. Lady Grace suspects it, but is too gentle to speak what may give pain. There is absolutely no hope of salvation anywhere else, except in your marriage. If I urged you into political life, it was in the expectation of your being thrown in the way of choosing for yourself. If you stood alone, I would say, sacrifice the estate, sell Court Royal, and begin life on straitened means, working hard, and working your way upward. Seek a regeneration of your family by work. Work makes happy. But you are not alone, Saltcombe, and love for your family forces you to make some sacrifice to maintain it in its proper position. You have no choice. Be a man, brace your heart, and face the necessity.’
Lord Saltcombe became deadly pale. He stood up, and looked at Beavis, who spoke with flushed brow and sparkling eye. After a moment’s silence he held out his hand and caught that of Beavis.
‘My dear fellow,’ he said, pressing his hand, and speaking in a choking voice, ‘I honour and love you more than ever. I know what it has cost you to speak to me thus. I feel your reproaches. I will not make a promise to—to—’ he looked down. ‘Beavis, ring the bell for Robert. He shall pack my traps at once, and to-night I shall be at Sleepy Hollow. There, give me Uncle Edward’s letter. I will go see my father at once.’