But parliament had met. Events that belong to history had contributed yet more to weaken the administration. Randal Leslie’s interest became absorbed in politics, for the stake to him was his whole political career. Should Audley lose office, and for good, Audley could aid him no more; but to abandon his patron, as Levy recommended, and pin himself, in the hope of a seat in parliament, to a stranger,—an obscure stranger, like Dick Avenel,—that was a policy not to be adopted at a breath. Meanwhile, almost every night, when the House met, that pale face and spare form, which Levy so identified with shrewdness and energy, might be seen amongst the benches appropriated to those more select strangers who obtain the Speaker’s order of admission. There, Randal heard the great men of that day, and with the half-contemptuous surprise at their fame, which is common enough amongst clever, well-educated young men, who know not what it is to speak in the House of Commons. He heard much slovenly English, much trite reasoning, some eloquent thoughts, and close argument, often delivered in a jerking tone of voice (popularly called the parliamentary twang), and often accompanied by gesticulations that would have shocked the manager of a provincial theatre. He thought how much better than these great dons (with but one or two exceptions), he himself could speak,—with what more refined logic, with what more polished periods, how much more like Cicero and Burke! Very probably he might have so spoken, and for that very reason have made that deadest of all dead failures,—a pretentious imitation of Burke and Cicero. One thing, however, he was obliged to own,—namely, that in a popular representative assembly, it is not precisely knowledge which is power, or if knowledge, it is but the knowledge of that particular assembly, and what will best take with it; passion, invective, sarcasm, bold declamation, shrewd common-sense, the readiness so rarely found in a very profound mind,—he owned that all these were the qualities that told; when a man who exhibited nothing but “knowledge,” in the ordinary sense of the word, stood an imminent chance of being coughed down.

There at his left—last but one in the row of the ministerial chiefs—Randal watched Audley Egerton, his arms folded on his breast, his hat drawn over his brows, his eyes fixed with steady courage on whatever speaker in the Opposition held possession of the floor. And twice Randal heard Egerton speak, and marvelled much at the effect that minister produced. For of those qualities enumerated above, and which Randal had observed to be most sure of success, Audley Egerton only exhibited to a marked degree the common-sense and the readiness. And yet, though but little applauded by noisy cheers, no speaker seemed more to satisfy friends, and command respect from foes. The true secret was this, which Randal might well not divine, since that young person, despite his ancient birth, his Eton rearing, and his refined air, was not one of Nature’s gentlemen,—the true secret was, that Audley Egerton moved, looked, and spoke like a thorough gentleman of England,—a gentleman of more than average talents and of long experience, speaking his sincere opinions, not a rhetorician aiming at effect. Moreover, Egerton was a consummate man of the world. He said, with nervous simplicity, what his party desired to be said, and put what his opponents felt to be the strong points of the case. Calm and decorous, yet spirited and energetic, with little variety of tone, and action subdued and rare, but yet signalized by earnest vigour, Audley Egerton impressed the understanding of the dullest, and pleased the taste of the most fastidious.

But once, when allusions were made to a certain popular question, on which the premier had announced his resolution to refuse all concession, and on the expediency of which it was announced that the Cabinet was nevertheless divided, and when such allusions were coupled with direct appeals to Mr. Egerton, as “the enlightened member of a great commercial constituency,” and with a flattering doubt that “that Right Honourable gentleman, member for that great city, identified with the cause of the Burgher class, could be so far behind the spirit of the age as his official chief,”—Randal observed that Egerton drew his hat still more closely over his brows, and turned to whisper with one of his colleagues. He could not be got up to speak.

That evening Randal walked home with Egerton, and intimated his surprise that the minister had declined what seemed to him a good occasion for one of those brief, weighty replies by which Audley was chiefly distinguished,—an occasion to which he had been loudly invited by the “hears” of the House.

“Leslie,” answered the statesman, briefly, “I owe all my success in parliament to this rule,—I have never spoken against my convictions. I intend to abide by it to the last.”

“But if the question at issue comes before the House, you will vote against it?”

“Certainly, I vote as a member of the Cabinet. But since I am not leader and mouthpiece of the party, I retain as an individual the privilege to speak or keep silence.”

“Ah, my dear Mr. Egerton,” exclaimed Randal, “forgive me. But this question, right or wrong, has got such hold of the public mind. So little, if conceded in time, would give content; and it is so clear (if I may judge by the talk I hear everywhere I go) that by refusing all concession, the Government must fall, that I wish—”

“So do I wish,” interrupted Egerton, with a gloomy, impatient sigh,—“so do I wish! But what avails it? If my advice had been taken but three weeks ago—now it is too late—we could have doubled the rock; we refused, we must split upon it.”

This speech was so unlike the discreet and reserved minister, that Randal gathered courage to proceed with an idea that had occurred to his own sagacity. And before I state it, I must add that Egerton had of late shown much more personal kindness to his protege; whether his spirits were broken, or that at last, close and compact as his nature of bronze was, he felt the imperious want to groan aloud in some loving ear, the stern Audley seemed tamed and softened. So Randal went on,

“May I say what I have heard expressed with regard to you and your position—in the streets, in the clubs?”

“Yes, it is in the streets and the clubs that statesmen should go to school. Say on.”

“Well, then, I have heard it made a matter of wonder why you, and one or two others I will not name, do not at once retire from the ministry, and on the avowed ground that you side with the public feeling on this irresistible question.”

“Eh!”

“It is clear that in so doing you would become the most popular man in the country,—clear that you would be summoned back to power on the shoulders of the people. No new Cabinet could be formed without you, and your station in it would perhaps be higher, for life, than that which you may now retain but for a few weeks longer. Has not this ever occurred to you?”

“Never,” said Audley, with dry composure.

Amazed at such obtuseness, Randal exclaimed, “Is it possible! And yet, forgive me if I say I think you are ambitious, and love power.”

“No man more ambitious; and if by power you mean office, it has grown the habit of my life, and I shall not know what to do without it.”

“And how, then, has what seems to me so obvious never occurred to you?”

“Because you are young, and therefore I forgive you; but not the gossips who could wonder why Audley Egerton refused to betray the friends of his whole career, and to profit by the treason.”

“But one should love one’s country before a party.”

“No doubt of that; and the first interest of a country is the honour of its public men.”

“But men may leave their party without dishonour!”

“Who doubts that? Do you suppose that if I were an ordinary independent member of parliament, loaded with no obligations, charged with no trust, I could hesitate for a moment what course to pursue? Oh, that I were but the member for —————! Oh, that I had the full right to be a free agent! But if a member of a Cabinet, a chief in whom thousands confide, because he is outvoted in a council of his colleagues, suddenly retires, and by so doing breaks up the whole party whose confidence he has enjoyed, whose rewards he has reaped, to whom he owes the very position which he employs to their ruin,—own that though his choice may be honest, it is one which requires all the consolations of conscience.”

“But you will have those consolations. And,” added Randal, energetically, “the gain to your career will be so immense!”

“That is precisely what it cannot be,” answered Egerton, gloomily. “I grant that I may, if I choose, resign office with the present Government, and so at once destroy that Government; for my resignation on such ground would suffice to do it. I grant this; but for that very reason I could not the next day take office with another administration. I could not accept wages for desertion. No gentleman could! and therefore—” Audley stopped short, and buttoned his coat over his broad breast. The action was significant; it said that the man’s mind was made up.

In fact, whether Audley Egerton was right or wrong in his theory depends upon much subtler, and perhaps loftier, views in the casuistry of political duties, than it was in his character to take. And I guard myself from saying anything in praise or disfavour of his notions, or implying that he is a fit or unfit example in a parallel case. I am but describing the man as he was, and as a man like him would inevitably be, under the influences in which he lived, and in that peculiar world of which he was so emphatically a member. “Ce n’est pas moi qui parle, c’est Marc Aurele.”

He speaks, not I.

Randal had no time for further discussion. They now reached Egerton’s house, and the minister, taking the chamber candlestick from his servant’s hand, nodded a silent goodnight to Leslie, and with a jaded look retired to his room.