By three o’clock in the day after the little accident which was told in the last chapter, all the world knew that Mr Kennedy, the new Cabinet Minister, had been garrotted, or half garrotted, and that that child of fortune, Phineas Finn, had dropped upon the scene out of heaven at the exact moment of time, had taken the two garrotters prisoners, and saved the Cabinet Minister’s neck and valuables — if not his life. “Bedad,” said Laurence Fitzgibbon, when he came to hear this, “that fellow’ll marry an heiress, and be Secretary for Oireland yet.” A good deal was said about it to Phineas at the clubs, but a word or two that was said to him by Violet Effingham was worth all the rest. “Why, what a Paladin you are! But you succour men in distress instead of maidens.” “That’s my bad luck, said Phineas. The other will come no doubt in time,” Violet replied; “and then you’ll get your reward.” He knew that such words from a girl mean nothing — especially from such a girl as Violet Effingham; but nevertheless they were very pleasant to him.
“Of course you will come to us at Loughlinter when Parliament is up?” Lady Laura said the same day.
“I don’t know really. You see I must go over to Ireland about my re-election.”
“What has that to do with it? You are only making out excuses. We go down on the first of July, and the English elections won’t begin till the middle of the month. It will be August before the men of Loughshane are ready for you.”
“To tell you the truth, Lady Laura,” said Phineas, I doubt whether the men of Loughshane — or rather the man of Loughshane, will have anything more to say to me.”
“What man do you mean?”
“Lord Tulla. He was in a passion with his brother before, and I got the advantage of it. Since that he has paid his brother’s debts for the fifteenth time, and of course is ready to fight any battle for the forgiven prodigal. Things are not as they were, and my father tells me that he thinks I shall be beaten.”
“That is bad news.”
“It is what I have a right to expect.”
Every word of information that had come to Phineas about Loughshane since Mr Mildmay had decided upon a dissolution, had gone towards making him feel at first that there was a great doubt as to his re-election, and at last that there was almost a certainty against him. And as these tidings reached him they made him very unhappy. Since he had been in Parliament he had very frequently regretted that he had left the shades of the Inns of Court for the glare of Westminster; and he had more than once made up his mind that he would desert the glare and return to the shade. But now, when the moment came in which such desertion seemed to be compulsory on him, when there would be no longer a choice, the seat in Parliament was dearer to him than ever. If he had gone of his own free will — so he told himself — there would have been something of nobility in such going. Mr Low would have respected him, and even Mrs Low might have taken him back to the friendship of her severe bosom. But he would go back now as a cur with his tail between his legs — kicked out, as it were, from Parliament. Returning to Lincoln’s Inn soiled with failure, having accomplished nothing, having broken down on the only occasion on which he had dared to show himself on his legs, not having opened a single useful book during the two years in which he had sat in Parliament, burdened with Laurence Fitzgibbon’s debt, and not quite free from debt of his own, how could he start himself in any way by which he might even hope to win success? He must, he told himself, give up all thought of practising in London and betake himself to Dublin. He could not dare to face his friends in London as a young briefless barrister.
On this evening, the evening subsequent to that on which Mr Kennedy had been attacked, the House was sitting in Committee of Ways and Means, and there came on a discussion as to a certain vote for the army. It had been known that there would be such discussion; and Mr Monk having heard from Phineas a word or two now and again about the potted peas, had recommended him to be ready with a few remarks if he wished to support the Government in the matter of that vote. Phineas did so wish, having learned quite enough in the committee room upstairs to make him believe that a large importation of the potted peas from Holstein would not be for the advantage of the army or navy — or for that of the country at large. Mr Monk had made his suggestion without the slightest allusion to the former failure — just as though Phineas were a practised speaker accustomed to be on his legs three or four times a week. “If I find a chance, I will,” said Phineas, taking the advice just as it was given.
Soon after prayers, a word was said in the House as to the ill-fortune which had befallen the new Cabinet Minister. Mr Daubeny had asked Mr Mildmay whether violent hands had not been laid in the dead of night on the sacred throat — the throat that should have been sacred — of the new Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster; and had expressed regret that the Ministry — which was, he feared, in other respects somewhat infirm — should now have been further weakened by this injury to that new bulwark with which it had endeavoured to support itself. The Prime Minister, answering his old rival in the same strain, said that the calamity might have been very severe, both to the country and to the Cabinet; but that fortunately for the community at large, a gallant young member of that House — and he was proud to say a supporter of the Government — had appeared upon the spot at the nick of time — “As a god out of a machine,” said Mr Daubeny, interrupting him — “By no means as a god out of a machine,” continued Mr Mildmay, “but as a real help in a very real trouble, and succeeded not only in saving my right honourable friend, the Chancellor of the Duchy, but in arresting the two malefactors who attempted to rob him in the street.” Then there was a cry of “name’; and Mr Mildmay of course named the member for Loughshane. It so happened that Phineas was not in the House, but he heard it all when he came down to attend the Committee of Ways and Means.
Then came on the discussion about provisions in the army, the subject being mooted by one of Mr Turnbull’s close allies. The gentleman on the other side of the House who had moved for the Potted Peas Committee was silent on the occasion, having felt that the result of that committee had not been exactly what he had expected. The evidence respecting such of the Holstein potted peas as had been used in this country was not very favourable to them. But, nevertheless, the rebound from that committee — the very fact that such a committee had been made to sit — gave ground for a hostile attack. To attack is so easy, when a complete refutation barely suffices to save the Minister attacked — does not suffice to save him from future dim memories of something having been wrong — and brings down no disgrace whatsoever on the promoter of the false charge. The promoter of the false charge simply expresses his gratification at finding that he had been misled by erroneous information. It is not customary for him to express gratification at the fact, that out of all the mud which he has thrown, some will probably stick! Phineas, when the time came, did get on his legs, and spoke perhaps two or three dozen words. The doing so seemed to come to him quite naturally. He had thought very little about it beforehand — having resolved not to think of it. And indeed the occasion was one of no great importance. The Speaker was not in the chair, and the House was thin, and he intended to make no speech — merely to say something which he had to say. Till he had finished he hardly remembered that he was doing that, in attempting to do which he had before failed so egregiously. It was not till he sat down that he began to ask himself whether the scene was swimming before his eyes as it had done on former occasions; as it had done even when he had so much as thought of making a speech. Now he was astonished at the easiness of the thing, and as he left the House told himself that he had overcome the difficulty just when the victory could be of no avail to him. Had he been more eager, more constant in his purpose, he might at any rate have shown the world that he was fit for the place which he had presumed to take before he was cast out of it.
On the next morning he received a letter from his father. Dr Finn had seen Lord Tulla, having been sent for to relieve his lordship in a fit of the gout, and had been informed by the Earl that he meant to fight the borough to the last man — had he said to the last shilling he would have spoken with perhaps more accuracy. “You see, doctor, your son has had it for two years, as you may say for nothing, and I think he ought to give way. He can’t expect that he’s to go on there as though it were his own.” And then his lordship, upon whom this touch of the gout had come somewhat sharply, expressed himself with considerable animation. The old doctor behaved with much spirit. “I told the Earl,” he said, that I could not undertake to say what you might do; but that as you had come forward at first with my sanction, I could not withdraw it now. He asked me if I should support you with money; I said that I should to a moderate extent. “By G — ” said the Earl, “a moderate extent will go a very little way, I can tell you.” Since that he has had Duggin with him; so, I suppose, I shall not see him any more. You can do as you please now; but, from what I hear, I fear you will have no chance.” Then with much bitterness of spirit Phineas resolved that he would not interfere with Lord Tulla at Loughshane. He would go at once to the Reform Club and explain his reasons to Barrington Erle and others there who would be interested.
But he first went to Grosvenor Place. Here he was shown up into Mr Kennedy’s room. Mr Kennedy was up and seated in an armchair by an open window looking over into the Queen’s garden; but he was in his dressing-gown, and was to be regarded as an invalid. And indeed as he could not turn his neck, or thought that he could not do so, he was not very fit to go out about his work. Let us hope that the affairs of the Duchy of Lancaster did not suffer materially by his absence. We may take it for granted that with a man so sedulous as to all his duties there was no arrear of work when the accident took place. He put out his hand to Phineas, and said some word in a whisper — some word or two among which Phineas caught the sound of “potted peas,” — and then continued to look out of the window. There are men who are utterly prostrated by any bodily ailment, and it seemed that Mr Kennedy was one of them. Phineas, who was full of his own bad news, had intended to tell his sad story at once. But he perceived that the neck of the Chancellor of the Duchy was too stiff to allow of his taking any interest in external matters, and so he refrained. “What does the doctor say about it?” said Phineas, perceiving that just for the present there could be only one possible subject for remark. Mr Kennedy was beginning to describe in a long whisper what the doctor did think about it, when Lady Laura came into the room.
Of course they began at first to talk about Mr Kennedy. It would not have been kind to him not to have done so. And Lady Laura made much of the injury, as it behoves a wife to do in such circumstances for the sake both of the sufferer and of the hero. She declared her conviction that had Phineas been a moment later her husband’s neck would have been irredeemably broken.
“I don’t think they ever do kill the people,” said Phineas. “At any rate they don’t mean to do so.”
“I thought they did,” said Lady Laura.
“I fancy not,” said Phineas, eager in the cause of truth.
“I think this man was very clumsy,” whispered Mr Kennedy.
“Perhaps he was a beginner,” said Phineas, and that may make a difference. If so, I’m afraid we have interfered with his education.”
Then, by degrees, the conversation got away to other things, and Lady Laura asked him after Loughshane. “I’ve made up my mind to give it up,” said he, smiling as he spoke.
“I was afraid there was but a bad chance,” said Lady Laura, smiling also.
“My father has behaved so well!” said Phineas. He has written to say he’ll find the money, if I determine to contest the borough. I mean to write to him by tonight’s post to decline the offer. I have no right to spend the money, and I shouldn’t succeed if I did spend it. Of course it makes me a little down in the mouth.” And then he smiled again.
“I’ve got a plan of my own,” said Lady Laura.
“What plan?”
“Or rather it isn’t mine, but papa’s. Old Mr Standish is going to give up Loughton, and papa wants you to come and try your luck there.”
“Lady Laura!”
“It isn’t quite a certainty, you know, but I suppose it’s as near a certainty as anything left.” And this came from a strong Radical Reformer!
“Lady Laura, I couldn’t accept such a favour from your father.” Then Mr Kennedy nodded his head very slightly and whispered, “Yes, yes.” I couldn’t think of it, said Phineas Finn. “I have no right to such a favour.”
“That is a matter entirely for papa’s consideration,” said Lady Laura, with an affectation of solemnity in her voice. “I think it has always been felt that any politician may accept such an offer as that when it is made to him, but that no politician should ask for it. My father feels that he has to do the best he can with his influence in the borough, and therefore he comes to you.”
“It isn’t that,” said Phineas, somewhat rudely.
“Of course private feelings have their weight,” said Lady Laura. “It is not probable that papa would have gone to a perfect stranger. And perhaps, Mr Finn, I may own that Mr Kennedy and I would both be very sorry that you should not be in the House, and that that feeling on our part has had some weight with my father.”
“Of course you’ll stand?” whispered Mr Kennedy, still looking straight out of the window, as though the slightest attempt to turn his neck would be fraught with danger to himself and the Duchy.
“Papa has desired me to ask you to call upon him,” said Lady Laura. “I don’t suppose there is very much to be said, as each of you know so well the other’s way of thinking. But you had better see him today or tomorrow.”
Of course Phineas was persuaded before he left Mr Kennedy’s room. Indeed, when he came to think of it, there appeared to him to be no valid reason why he should not sit for Loughton. The favour was of a kind that had prevailed from time out of mind in England, between the most respectable of the great land magnates, and young rising liberal politicians. Burke, Fox, and Canning had all been placed in Parliament by similar influence. Of course he, Phineas Finn, desired earnestly — longed in his very heart of hearts — to extinguish all such Parliamentary influence, to root out for ever the last vestige of close borough nominations; but while the thing remained it was better that the thing should contribute to the liberal than to the conservative strength of the House — and if to the liberal, how was this to be achieved but by the acceptance of such influence by some liberal candidate? And if it were right that it should be accepted by any liberal candidate — then, why not by him? The logic of this argument seemed to him to be perfect. He felt something like a sting of reproach as he told himself that in truth this great offer was made to him, not on account of the excellence of his politics, but because he had been instrumental in saving Lord Brentford’s son-in-law from the violence of garrotters. But he crushed these qualms of conscience as being over-scrupulous, and, as he told himself, not practical. You must take the world as you find it, with a struggle to be something more honest than those around you. Phineas, as he preached to himself this sermon, declared to himself that they who attempted more than this flew too high in the clouds to be of service to men and women upon earth.
As he did not see Lord Brentford that day he postponed writing to his father for twenty-four hours. On the following morning he found the Earl at home in Portman Square, having first discussed the matter fully with Lord Chiltern. “Do not scruple about me,” said Lord Chiltern; “you are quite welcome to the borough for me.”
“But if I did not stand, would you do so? There are so many reasons which ought to induce you to accept a seat in Parliament!”
“Whether that be true or not, Phineas, I shall not accept my father’s interest at Loughton, unless it be offered to me in a way in which it never will be offered. You know me well enough to be sure that I shall not change my mind. Nor will he. And, therefore, you may go down to Loughton with a pure conscience as far as I am concerned.”
Phineas had his interview with the Earl, and in ten minutes everything was settled. On his way to Portman Square there had come across his mind the idea of a grand effort of friendship. What if he could persuade the father so to conduct himself towards his son, that the son should consent to be a member for the borough? And he did say a word or two to this effect, setting forth that Lord Chiltern would condescend to become a legislator, if only his father would condescend to acknowledge his son’s fitness for such work without any comments on the son’s past life. But the Earl simply waived the subject away with his hand. He could be as obstinate as his son. Lady Laura had been the Mercury between them on this subject, and Lady Laura had failed. He would not now consent to employ another Mercury. Very little — hardly a word indeed — was said between the Earl and Phineas about politics. Phineas was to be the Saulsby candidate at Loughton for the next election, and was to come to Saulsby with the Kennedys from Loughlinter — either with the Kennedys or somewhat in advance of them. “I do not say that there will be no opposition,” said the Earl, “but I expect none. He was very courteous — nay, he was kind, feeling doubtless that his family owed a great debt of gratitude to the young man with whom he was conversing; but, nevertheless, there was not absent on his part a touch of that high condescension which, perhaps, might be thought to become the Earl, the Cabinet Minister, and the great borough patron. Phineas, who was sensitive, felt this and winced. He had never quite liked Lord Brentford, and could not bring himself to do so now in spite of the kindness which the Earl was showing him.
But he was very happy when he sat down to write to his father from the club. His father had told him that the money should be forthcoming for the election at Loughshane, if he resolved to stand, but that the chance of success would be very slight — indeed that, in his opinion, there would be no chance of success. Nevertheless, his father had evidently believed, when writing, that Phineas would not abandon his seat without a useless and expensive contest. He now thanked his father with many expressions of gratitude — declared his conviction that his father was right about Lord Tulla, and then, in the most modest language that he could use, went on to say that he had found another borough open to him in England. He was going to stand for Loughton, with the assistance of Lord Brentford, and thought that the election would probably not cost him above a couple of hundred pounds at the outside. Then he wrote a very pretty note to Lord Tulla, thanking him for his former kindness, and telling the Irish Earl that it was not his intention to interfere with the borough of Loughshane at the next election.
A few days after this Phineas was very much surprised at a visit that was made to him at his lodgings. Mr Clarkson, after that scene in the lobby of the House, called again in Great Marlborough Street — and was admitted. “You had better let him sit in your armchair for half am hour or so,” Fitzgibbon had said; and Phineas almost believed that it would be better. The man was a terrible nuisance to him, and he was beginning to think that he had better undertake to pay the debt by degrees. It was, he knew, quite on the cards that Mr Clarkson should have him arrested while at Saulsby. Since that scene in the lobby Mr Clarkson had been with him twice, and there had been a preliminary conversation as to real payment. Mr Clarkson wanted a hundred pounds down, and another bill for two hundred and twenty at three months’ date. “Think of my time and trouble in coming here,” Mr Clarkson had urged when Phineas had objected to these terms. “Think of my time and trouble, and do be punctual, Mr Finn.” Phineas had offered him ten pounds a quarter, the payments to be marked on the back of the bill, a tender which Mr Clarkson had not seemed to regard as strong evidence of punctuality. He had not been angry, but had simply expressed his intention of calling again — giving Phineas to understand that business would probably take him to the west of Ireland in the autumn. If only business might not take him down either to Loughlinter or to Saulsby! But the strange visitor who came to Phineas in the midst of these troubles put an end to them all.
The strange visitor was Miss Aspasia Fitzgibbon. “You’ll be very much surprised at my coming to your chambers, no doubt,” she said, as she sat down in the chair which Phineas placed for her. Phineas could only say that he was very proud to be so highly honoured, and that he hoped she was well, “Pretty well, I thank you. I have just come about a little business, Mr Finn, and I hope you’ll excuse me.”
“I’m quite sure that there is no need for excuses,” said Phineas.
“Laurence, when he hears about it, will say that I’ve been an impertinent old fool; but I never care what Laurence says, either this way or that. I’ve been to that Mr Clarkson, Mr Finn, and I’ve paid him the money.”
“No!” said Phineas.
“But I have, Mr Finn. I happened to hear what occurred that night at the door of the House of Commons.”
“Who told you, Miss Fitzgibbon?”
“Never mind who told me. I heard it. I knew before that you had been foolish enough to help Laurence about money, and so I put two and two together. It isn’t the first time I have had to do with Mr Clarkson. So I sent to him, and I’ve bought the bill. There it is.” And Miss Fitzgibbon produced the document which bore the name of Phineas Finn across the front of it.
“And did you pay him two hundred and fifty pounds for it?”
“Not quite. I had a very hard tussle, and got it at last for two hundred and twenty pounds.”
“And did you do it yourself?”
“All myself. If I had employed a lawyer I should have had to pay two hundred and forty pounds and five pounds for costs.
“And now, Mr Finn, I hope you won’t have any more money engagements with my brother Laurence.” Phineas said that he thought he might promise that he would have no more. “Because, if you do, I shan’t interfere. If Laurence began to find that he could get money out of me in that way, there would be no end to it. Mr Clarkson would very soon be spending his spare time in my drawing-room. Goodbye, Mr Finn. If Laurence says anything, just tell him that he’d better come to me.” Then Phineas was left looking at the bill. It was certainly a great relief to him — that he should be thus secured from the domiciliary visits of Mr Clarkson; a great relief to him to be assured that Mr Clarkson would not find him out down at Loughton; but nevertheless, he had to suffer a pang of shame as he felt that Miss Fitzgibbon had become acquainted with his poverty and had found herself obliged to satisfy his pecuniary liabilities.
Phineas went down to Loughlinter early in July, taking Loughton in his way. He stayed there one night at the inn, and was introduced to sundry influential inhabitants of the borough by Mr Grating, the ironmonger, who was known by those who knew Loughton to be a very strong supporter of the Earl’s interest. Mr Grating and about half a dozen others of the tradesmen of the town came to the inn, and met Phineas in the parlour. He told them he was a good sound Liberal and a supporter of Mr Mildmay’s Government, of which their neighbour the Earl was so conspicuous an ornament. This was almost all that was said about the Earl out loud; but each individual man of Loughton then present took an opportunity during the meeting of whispering into Mr Finn’s ear a word or two to show that he also was admitted to the secret councils of the borough — that he too could see the inside of the arrangement. “Of course we must support the Earl,” one said. “Never mind what you hear about a Tory candidate, Mr Finn,” whispered a second; “the Earl can do what he pleases here.” And it seemed to Phineas that it was thought by them all to be rather a fine thing to be thus held in the hand by an English nobleman. Phineas could not but reflect much upon this as he lay in his bed at the Loughton inn. The great political question on which the political world was engrossed up in London was the enfranchisement of Englishmen — of Englishmen down to the rank of artisans and labourers — and yet when he found himself in contact with individual Englishmen, with men even very much above the artisan and the labourer, he found that they rather liked being bound hand and foot, and being kept as tools in the political pocket of a rich man. Every one of those Loughton tradesmen was proud of his own personal subjection to the Earl!
From Loughton he went to Loughlinter, having promised to be back in the borough for the election. Mr Grating would propose him, and he was to be seconded by Mr Shortribs, the butcher and grazier. Mention had been made of a Conservative candidate, and Mr Shortribs had seemed to think that a good stand-up fight upon English principles, with a clear understanding, of course, that victory should prevail on the liberal side, would be a good thing for the borough. But the Earl’s man of business saw Phineas on the morning of his departure, and told him not to regard Mr Shortribs. “They’d all like it,” said the man of business; “and I daresay they’ll have enough of it when this Reform Bill is passed; but at present no one will be fool enough to come and spend his money here. We have them all in hand too well for that, Mr Finn!”
He found the great house at Loughlinter nearly empty, Mr Kennedy’s mother was there, and Lord Brentford was there, and Lord Brentford’s private secretary, and Mr Kennedy’s private secretary. At present that was the entire party. Lady Baldock was expected there, with her daughter and Violet Effingham; but, as well as Phineas could learn, they would not be at Loughlinter until after he had left it. There had come up lately a rumour that there would be an autumn session — that the Houses would sit through October and a part of November, in order that Mr Mildmay might try the feeling of the new Parliament. If this were to be so, Phineas had resolved that, in the event of his election at Loughton, he would not return to Ireland till after this autumn session should be over. He gave an account to the Earl, in the presence of the Earl’s son-in-law, of what had taken place at Loughton, and the Earl expressed himself as satisfied. It was manifestly a great satisfaction to Lord Brentford that he should still have a borough in his pocket, and the more so because there were so very few noblemen left who had such property belonging to them. He was very careful in his speech, never saying in so many words that the privilege of returning a member was his own; but his meaning was not the less clear.
Those were dreary days at Loughlinter. There was fishing — if Phineas chose to fish; and he was told that he could shoot a deer if he was minded to go out alone. But it seemed as though it were the intention of the host that his guests should spend their time profitably. Mr Kennedy himself was shut up with books and papers all the morning, and always took up a book after dinner. The Earl also would read a little — and then would sleep a good deal. Old Mrs Kennedy slept also, and Lady Laura looked as though she would like to sleep if it were not that her husband’s eye was upon her. As it was, she administered tea, Mr Kennedy not liking the practice of having it handed round by a servant when none were there but members of the family circle, and she read novels. Phineas got hold of a stiff bit of reading for himself, and tried to utilise his time. He took Alison in hand, and worked his way gallantly through a couple of volumes. But even he, more than once or twice, found himself on the very verge of slumber. Then he would wake up and try to think about things. Why was he, Phineas Finn, an Irishman from Killaloe, living in that great house of Loughlinter as though he were one of the family, striving to kill the hours, and feeling that he was in some way subject to the dominion of his host? Would it not be better for him to get up and go away? In his heart of hearts he did not like Mr Kennedy, though he believed him to be a good man. And of what service to him was it to like Lady Laura, now that Lady Laura was a possession in the hands of Mr Kennedy? Then he would tell himself that he owed his position in the world entirely to Lady Laura, and that he was ungrateful to feel himself ever dull in her society. And, moreover, there was something to be done in the world beyond making love and being merry. Mr Kennedy could occupy himself with a blue book for hours together without wincing. So Phineas went to work again with his Alison, and read away till he nodded.
In those days he often wandered up and down the Linter and across the moor to the Linn, and so down to the lake. He would take a book with him, and would seat himself down on spots which he loved, and would pretend to read — but I do not think that he got much advantage from his book. He was thinking of his life, and trying to calculate whether the wonderful success which he had achieved would ever be of permanent value to him. Would he be nearer to earning his bread when he should be member for Loughton than he had been when he was member for Loughshane? Or was there before him any slightest probability that he would ever earn his bread? And then he thought of Violet Effingham, and was angry with himself for remembering at that moment that Violet Effingham was the mistress of a large fortune.
Once before when he was sitting beside the Linter he had made up his mind to declare his passion to Lady Laura — and he had done so on the very spot. Now, within a twelvemonth of that time, he made up his mind on the same spot to declare his passion to Miss Effingham, and he thought his best mode of carrying his suit would be to secure the assistance of Lady Laura. Lady Laura, no doubt, had been very anxious that her brother should marry Violet; but Lord Chiltern, as Phineas knew, had asked for Violet’s hand twice in vain; and, moreover, Chiltern himself had declared to Phineas that he would never ask for it again. Lady Laura, who was always reasonable, would surely perceive that there was no hope of success for her brother. That Chiltern would quarrel with him — would quarrel with him to the knife — he did not doubt; but he felt that no fear of such a quarrel as that should deter him. He loved Violet Effingham, and he must indeed be pusillanimous if, loving her as he did, he was deterred from expressing his love from any fear of a suitor whom she did not favour. He would not willingly be untrue to his friendship for Lady Laura’s brother. Had there been a chance for Lord Chiltern he would have abstained from putting himself forward. But what was the use of his abstaining, when by doing so he could in no wise benefit his friend — when the result of his doing so would be that some interloper would come in and carry off the prize? He would explain all this to Lady Laura, and, if the prize would be kind to him, he would disregard the anger of Lord Chiltern, even though it might be anger to the knife.
As he was thinking of all this Lady Laura stood before him where he was sitting at the top of the falls. At this moment he remembered well all the circumstances of the scene when he had been there with her at his last visit to Loughlinter. How things had changed since then! Then he had loved Lady Laura with all his heart, and he had now already brought himself to regard her as a discreet matron whom to love would be almost as unreasonable as though he were to entertain a passion for the Lord Chancellor. The reader will understand how thorough had been the cure effected by Lady Laura’s marriage and the interval of a few months, when the swain was already prepared to make this lady the depositary of his confidence in another matter of love. “You are often here, I suppose?” said Lady Laura, looking down upon him as he sat upon the rock.
“Well — yes; not very often; I come here sometimes because the view down upon the lake is so fine.”
“It is the prettiest spot about the place. I hardly ever get here now. Indeed this is only the second time that I have been up since we have been at home, and then I came to bring papa here.” There was a little wooden seat near to the rock upon which Phineas had been lying, and upon this Lady Laura sat down. Phineas, with his eyes turned upon the lake, was considering how he might introduce the subject of his love for Violet Effingham; but he did not find the matter very easy. He had just resolved to begin by saying that Violet would certainly never accept Lord Chiltern, when Lady Laura spoke a word or two which stopped him altogether. “How well I remember,” she said, “the day when you and I were here last autumn!”
“So do I. You told me then that you were going to marry Mr Kennedy. How much has happened since then!”
“Much indeed! Enough for a whole lifetime. And yet how slow the time has gone!”
“I do not think it has been slow with me,” said Phineas.
“No; You have been active. You have had your hands full of work. I am beginning to think that it is a great curse to have been born a woman.”
“And yet I have heard you say that a woman may do as much as a man.”
“That was before I had learned my lesson properly. I know better than that now. Oh dear! I have no doubt it is all for the best as it is, but I have a kind of wish that I might be allowed to go out and milk the cows.”
“And may you not milk the cows if you wish it, Lady Laura?”
“By no means — not only not milk them, but hardly look at them. At any rate, I must not talk about them.” Phineas of course understood that she was complaining of her husband, and hardly knew how to reply to her. He had been sharp enough to perceive already that Mr Kennedy was an autocrat in his own house, and he knew Lady Laura well enough to be sure that such masterdom would be very irksome to her. But he had not imagined that she would complain to him. “It was so different at Saulsby,” Lady Laura continued. “Everything there seemed to be my own.”
“And everything here is your own.”
“Yes — according to the prayer book. And everything in truth is my own — as all the dainties at the banquet belonged to Sancho the Governor.”
“You mean,” said he — and then he hesitated; you mean that Mr Kennedy stands over you, guarding you for your own welfare, as the doctor stood over Sancho and guarded him?”
There was a pause before she answered — a long pause, during which he was looking away over the lake, and thinking how he might introduce the subject of his love. But long as was the pause, he had not begun when Lady Laura was again speaking. “The truth is, my friend,” she said, “that I have made a mistake.
“A mistake?”
“Yes, Phineas, a mistake. I have blundered as fools blunder, thinking that I was clever enough to pick my footsteps aright without asking counsel from any one. I have blundered and stumbled and fallen, and now I am so bruised that I am not able to stand upon my feet.” The word that struck him most in all this was his own Christian name. She had never called him Phineas before. He was aware that the circle of his acquaintance had fallen into a way of miscalling him by his Christian name, as one observes to be done now and again in reference to some special young man. Most of the men whom he called his friends called him Phineas. Even the Earl had done so more than once on occasions in which the greatness of his position had dropped for a moment out of his mind. Mrs Low had called him Phineas when she regarded him as her husband’s most cherished pupil; and Mrs Bunce had called him Mr Phineas. He had always been Phineas to everybody at Killaloe. But still he was quite sure that Lady Laura had never so called him before. Nor would she have done so now in her husband’s presence. He was sure of that also.
“You mean that you are unhappy?” he said, still looking away from her towards the lake.
“Yes, I do mean that. Though I do not know why I should come and tell you so — except that I am still blundering and stumbling, and have fallen into a way of hurting myself at every step.”
“You can tell no one who is more anxious for your happiness,” said Phineas.
“That is a very pretty speech, but what would you do for my happiness? Indeed, what is it possible that you should do? I mean it as no rebuke when I say that my happiness or unhappiness is a matter as to which you will soon become perfectly indifferent.”
“Why should you say so, Lady Laura?”
“Because it is natural that it should be so. You and Mr Kennedy might have been friends. Not that you will be, because you are unlike each other in all your ways. But it might have been so.”
“And are not you and I to be friends?” he asked.
“No. In a very few months you will not think of telling me what are your desires or what your sorrows — and as for me, it will be out of the question that I should tell mine to you. How can you be my friend?”
“If you were not quite sure of my friendship, Lady Laura, you would not speak to me as you are speaking now.” Still he did not look at her, but lay with his face supported on his hands, and his eyes turned away upon the lake. But she, where she was sitting, could see him, and was aided by her sight in making comparisons in her mind between the two men who had been her lovers — between him whom she had taken and him whom she had left. There was something in the hard, dry, unsympathising, unchanging virtues of her husband which almost revolted her. He had not a fault, but she had tried him at every point and had been able to strike no spark of fire from him. Even by disobeying she could produce no heat — only an access of firmness. How would it have been with her had she thrown all ideas of fortune to the winds, and linked her lot to that of the young Phoebus who was lying at her feet? If she had ever loved any one she had loved him. And she had not thrown away her love for money. So she swore to herself over and over again, trying to console herself in her cold unhappiness. She had married a rich man in order that she might be able to do something in the world — and now that she was this rich man’s wife she found that she could do nothing. The rich man thought it to be quite enough for her to sit at home and look after his welfare. In the meantime young Phoebus — her Phoebus as he had been once — was thinking altogether of someone else.
“Phineas,” she said, slowly, I have in you such perfect confidence that I will tell you the truth — as one man may tell it to another. I wish you would go from here.”
“What, at once?”
“Not today, or tomorrow. Stay here now till the election; but do not return. He will ask you to come, and press you hard, and will be hurt — for, strange to say, with all his coldness, he really likes you. He has a pleasure in seeing you here. But he must not have that pleasure at the expense of trouble to me.”
“And why is it a trouble to you?” he asked. Men are such fools — so awkward, so unready, with their wits ever behind the occasion by a dozen seconds or so! As soon as the words were uttered, he knew that they should not have been spoken.
“Because I am a fool,” she said. Why else? Is not that enough for you?”
“Laura — “ he said.
“No — no; I will have none of that. I am a fool, but not such a fool as to suppose that any cure is to be found there.”
“Only say what I can do for you, though it be with my entire life, and I will do it.”
“You can do nothing — except to keep away from me.”
“Are you earnest in telling me that?” Now at last he had turned himself round and was looking at her, and as he looked he saw the hat of a man appearing up the path, and immediately afterwards the face. It was the hat and face of the laird of Loughlinter. “Here is Mr Kennedy,” said Phineas, in a tone of voice not devoid of dismay and trouble.
“So I perceive,” said Lady Laura. But there was no dismay or trouble in the tone of her voice.
In the countenance of Mr Kennedy, as he approached closer, there was not much to be read — only, perhaps, some slight addition of gloom, or rather, perhaps, of that frigid propriety of moral demeanour for which he had always been conspicuous, which had grown upon him at his marriage, and which had been greatly increased by the double action of being made a Cabinet Minister and being garrotted. “I am glad that your headache is better,” he said to his wife, who had risen from her seat to meet him. Phineas also had risen, and was now looking somewhat sheepish where he stood.
“I came out because it was worse,” she said. It irritated me so that I could not stand the house any longer.”
“I will send to Callender for Dr Macnuthrie.”
“Pray do nothing of the kind, Robert. I do not want Dr Macnuthrie at all.”
“Where there is illness, medical advice is always expedient.”
“I am not ill. A headache is not illness.”
“I had thought it was,” said Mr Kennedy, very drily.
“At any rate, I would rather not have Dr Macnuthrie.”
“I am sure it cannot do you any good to climb up here in the heat of the sun. Had you been here long, Finn?”
“All the morning — here, or hereabouts. I clambered up from the lake and had a book in my pocket.”
“And you happened to come across him by accident?” Mr Kennedy asked. There was something so simple in the question that its very simplicity proved that there was no suspicion.
“Yes — by chance,” said Lady Laura. But every one at Loughlinter always comes up here. If any one ever were missing whom I wanted to find, this is where I should look.”
“I am going on towards Linter forest to meet Blane,” said Mr Kennedy. Blane was the gamekeeper. “If you don’t mind the trouble, Finn, I wish you’d take Lady Laura down to the house. Do not let her stay out in the heat. I will take care that somebody goes over to Callender for Dr Macnuthrie.” Then Mr Kennedy went on, and Phineas was left with the charge of taking Lady Laura back to the house. When Mr Kennedy’s hat had first appeared coming up the walk, Phineas had been ready to proclaim himself prepared for any devotion in the service of Lady Laura. Indeed, he had begun to reply with criminal tenderness to the indiscreet avowal which Lady Laura had made to him. But he felt now, after what had just occurred in the husband”s presence, that any show of tenderness — of criminal tenderness — was impossible. The absence of all suspicion on the part of Mr Kennedy had made Phineas feel that he was bound by all social laws to refrain from such tenderness. Lady Laura began to descend the path before him without a word — and went on, and on, as though she would have reached the house without speaking, had he not addressed her. “Does your head still pain you?” he asked.
“Of course it does.”
“I suppose he is right in saying that you should not be out in the heat.”
“I do not know. It is not worth while to think about that. He sends me in, and so of course I must go. And he tells you to take me, and so of course you must take me.”
“Would you wish that I should let you go alone?”
“Yes, I would. Only he will be sure to find it out; and you must not tell him that you left me at my request.”
“Do you think that I am afraid of him?” said Phineas.
“Yes — I think you are. I know that I am, and that papa is; and that his mother hardly dares to call her soul her own. I do not know why you should escape.”
“Mr Kennedy is nothing to me.”
“He is something to me, and so I suppose I had better go on. And now I shall have that horrid man from the little town pawing me and covering everything with snuff, and bidding me take Scotch physic — which seems to increase in quantity and nastiness as doses in England decrease. And he will stand over me to see that I take it.”
“What — the doctor from Callender?”
“No — but Mr Kennedy will. If he advised me to have a hole in my glove mended, he would ask me before he went to bed whether it was done. He never forgot anything in his life, and was never unmindful of anything. That I think will do, Mr Finn. You have brought me out from the trees, and that may be taken as bringing me home. We shall hardly get scolded if we part here. Remember what I told you up above. And remember also that it is in your power to do nothing else for me. Goodbye.” So he turned away towards the lake, and let Lady Laura go across the wide lawn to the house by herself.
He had failed altogether in his intention of telling his friend of his love for Violet, and had come to perceive that he could not for the present carry out that intention. After what had passed it would be impossible for him to go to Lady Laura with a passionate tale of his longing for Violet Effingham. If he were even to speak to her of love at all, it must be quite of another love than that. But he never would speak to her of love; nor — as he felt quite sure — would she allow him to do so. But what astounded him most as he thought of the interview which had just passed, was the fact that the Lady Laura whom he had known — whom he had thought he had known — should have become so subject to such a man as Mr Kennedy, a man whom he had despised as being weak, irresolute, and without a purpose! For the day or two that he remained at Loughlinter, he watched the family closely, and became aware that Lady Laura had been right when she declared that her father was afraid of Mr Kennedy.
“I shall follow you almost immediately,” said the Earl confidentially to Phineas, when the candidate for the borough took his departure from Loughlinter. “I don’t like to be there just when the election is going on, but I’ll be at Saulsby to receive you the day afterwards.”
Phineas took his leave from Mr Kennedy, with a warm expression of friendship on the part of his host, and from Lady Laura with a mere touch of the hand. He tried to say a word; but she was sullen, or, if not, she put on some mood like to sullenness, and said never a word to him.
On the day after the departure of Phineas Finn for Loughton Lady Laura Kennedy still had a headache. She had complained of a headache ever since she had been at Loughlinter, and Dr Macnuthrie had been over more than once. “I wonder what it is that ails you,” said her husband, standing over her in her own sitting-room upstairs. It was a pretty room, looking away to the mountains, with just a glimpse of the lake to be caught from the window, and it had been prepared for her with all the skill and taste of an accomplished upholsterer. She had selected the room for herself soon after her engagement, and had thanked her future husband with her sweetest smile for giving her the choice. She had thanked him and told him that she always meant to be happy — so happy in that room! He was a man not much given to romance, but he thought of this promise as he stood over her and asked after her health. As far as he could see she had never been even comfortable since she had been at Loughlinter. A shadow of the truth came across his mind. Perhaps his wife was bored. If so, what was to be the future of his life and of hers? He went up to London every year, and to Parliament, as a duty; and then, during some period of the recess, would have his house full of guests — as another duty. But his happiness was to consist in such hours as these which seemed to inflict upon his wife the penalty of a continual headache. A shadow of the truth came upon him. What if his wife did not like living quietly at home as the mistress of her husband’s house? What if a headache was always to be the result of a simple performance of domestic duties?
More than a shadow of truth had come upon Lady Laura herself. The dark cloud created by the entire truth was upon her, making everything black and wretched around her. She had asked herself a question or two, and had discovered that she had no love for her husband, that the kind of life which he intended to exact from her was insupportable to her, and that she had blundered and fallen in her entrance upon life. She perceived that her father had already become weary of Mr Kennedy, and that, lonely and sad as he would be at Saulsby by himself, it was his intention to repudiate the idea of making a home at Loughlinter. Yes — she would be deserted by everyone, except of course by her husband; and then — Then she would throw herself on some early morning into the lake, for life would be insupportable.
“I wonder what it is that ails you,” said Mr Kennedy.
“Nothing serious. One can’t always help having a headache, you know.”
“I don’t think you take enough exercise, Laura. I would propose that you should walk four miles every day after breakfast. I will always be ready to accompany you. I have spoken to Dr Macnuthrie — ”
“I hate Dr Macnuthrie.”
“Why should you hate Dr Macnuthrie, Laura?”
“How can I tell why? I do. That is quite reason enough why you should not send for him to me.”
“You are unreasonable, Laura. One chooses a doctor on account of his reputation in his profession, and that of Dr Macnuthrie stands high.”
“I do not want any doctor.”
“But if you are ill, my dear — ”
“I am not ill.”
“But you said you had a headache. You have said so for the last ten days.”
“Having a headache is not being ill. I only wish you would not talk of it, and then perhaps I should get rid of it.”
“I cannot believe that. Headache in nine cases out of ten comes from the stomach.” Though he said this — saying it because it was the commonplace common-sense sort of thing to say, still at the very moment there was the shadow of the truth before his eyes. What if this headache meant simple dislike to him, and to his modes of life?
“It is nothing of that sort,” said Lady Laura, impatient at having her ailment inquired into with so much accuracy.
“Then what is it? You cannot think that I can be happy to hear you complaining of headache every day — making it an excuse for absolute idleness.”
“What is it that you want me to do?” she said, jumping up from her seat. “Set me a task, and if I don’t go mad over it, I’ll get through it. There are the account books. Give them to me. I don’t suppose I can see the figures, but I’ll try to see them.”
“Laura, this is unkind of you — and ungrateful.”
“Of course — it is everything that is bad. What a pity that you did not find it out last year! Oh dear, oh dear! what am I to do?” Then she threw herself down upon the sofa, and put both her hands up to her temples.
“I will send for Dr Macnuthrie at once,” said Mr Kennedy, walking towards the door very slowly, and speaking is slowly as he walked.
“No — do no such thing,” she said, springing to her feet again and intercepting him before he reached the door. “If he comes I will not see him. I give you my word that I will not speak to him if he comes. You do not understand,” she said; “you do not understand at all.”
“What is it that I ought to understand?” he asked.
“That a woman does not like to be bothered.”
He made no reply at once, but stood there twisting the handle of the door, and collecting his thoughts. “Yes,” said he at last; “I am beginning to find that out — and to find out also what it is that bothers a woman, as you call it. I can see now what it is that makes your head ache. It is not the stomach. You are quite right there. It is the prospect of a quiet decent life, to which would be attached the performance of certain homely duties. Dr Macnuthrie is a learned man, but I doubt whether he can do anything for such a malady.”
“You are quite right, Robert; he can do nothing.”
“It is a malady you must cure for yourself, Laura — and which is to be cured by perseverance. If you can bring yourself to try — ”
“But I cannot bring myself to try at all,” she said.
“Do you mean to tell me, Laura, that you will make no effort to do your duty as my wife?”
“I mean to tell you that I will not try to cure a headache by doing sums. That is all that I mean to say at this moment. If you will leave me for a while, so that I may lie down, perhaps I shall be able to come to dinner.” He still hesitated, standing with the door in his hand. “But if you go on scolding me,” she continued, “what I shall do is to go to bed directly you go away.” He hesitated for a moment longer, and then left the room without another word.
Our hero was elected member for Loughton without any trouble to him or, as far as he could see, to anyone else. He made one speech from a small raised booth that was called a platform, and that was all that he was called upon to do. Mr Grating made a speech in proposing him, and Mr Shortribs another in seconding him; and these were all the speeches that were required. The thing seemed to be so very easy that he was afterwards almost offended when he was told that the bill for so insignificant a piece of work came to ￡247 13s. 9d. He had seen no occasion for spending even the odd forty-seven pounds. But then he was member for Loughton; and as he passed the evening alone at the inn, having dined in company with Messrs. Grating, Shortribs, and sundry other influential electors, he began to reflect that, after all, it was not so very great a thing to be a member of Parliament. It almost seemed that that which had come to him so easily could not be of much value.
On the following day he went to the castle, and was there when the Earl arrived. They two were alone together, and the Earl was very kind to him. “So you had no opponent after all,” said the great man of Loughton, with a slight smile.
“Not the ghost of another candidate.”
“I did not think there would be. They have tried it once or twice and have always failed. There are only one or two in the place who like to go one way just because their neighbours go the other. But, in truth, there is no conservative feeling in the place!”
Phineas, although he was at the present moment the member for Loughton himself, could not but enjoy the joke of this. Could there be any liberal feeling in such a place, or, indeed, any political feeling whatsoever? Would not Messrs. Grating and Shortribs have done just the same had it happened that Lord Brentford had been a Tory peer? “They all seemed to be very obliging,” said Phineas, in answer to the Earl.
“Yes, they are, There isn’t a house in the town, you know, let for longer than seven years, and most of them merely from year to year. And, do you know, I haven’t a farmer on the property with a lease — not one; and they don’t want leases. They know they’re safe. But I do like the people round me to be of the same way of thinking as myself about politics.”
On the second day after dinner — the last evening of Finn’s visit to Saulsby — the Earl fell suddenly into a confidential conversation about his daughter and his son, and about Violet Effingham. So sudden, indeed, and so confidential was the conversation, that Phineas was almost silenced for a while. A word or two had been said about Loughlinter, of the beauty of the place and of the vastness of the property. “I am almost afraid,” said Lord Brentford, “that Laura is not happy there.”
“I hope she is,” said Phineas.
“He is so hard and dry, and what I call exacting. That is just the word for it. Now Laura has never been used to that. With me she always had her own way in everything, and I always found her fit to have it. I do not understand why her husband should treat her differently.”
“Perhaps it is the temper of the man.”
“Temper, yes; but what a bad prospect is that for her! And she, too, has a temper, and so he will find if he tries her too far. I cannot stand Loughlinter. I told Laura so fairly. It is one of those houses in which a man cannot call his hours his own. I told Laura that I could not undertake to remain there for above a day or two.”
“It is very sad,” said Phineas.
“Yes, indeed; it is sad for her, poor girl; and very sad for me too. I have no one else but Laura — literally no one; and now I am divided from her! It seems that she has been taken as much away from me as though her husband lived in China. I have lost them both now!”
“I hope not, my lord.”
“I say I have. As to Chiltern, I can perceive that he becomes more and more indifferent to me every day. He thinks of me only as a man in his way who must die some day and may die soon.”
“You wrong him, Lord Brentford.”
“I do not wrong him at all. Why has he answered every offer I have made him with so much insolence as to make it impossible for me to put myself into further communion with him?”
“He thinks that you have wronged him.”
“Yes — because I have been unable to shut my eyes to his mode of living. I was to go on paying his debts, and taking no other notice whatsoever of his conduct!”
“I do not think he is in debt now.”
“Because his sister the other day spent every shilling of her fortune in paying them. She gave him ￡4,000! Do you think she would have married Kennedy but for that? I don’t. I could not prevent her. I had said that I would not cripple my remaining years of life by raising the money, and I could not go back from my word.”
“You and Chiltern might raise the money between you.”
“It would do no good now. She has married Mr Kennedy, and the money is nothing to her or to him. Chiltern might have put things right by marrying Miss Effingham if he pleased.”
“I think he did his best there.”
“No — he did his worst. He asked her to be his wife as a man asks for a railway ticket or a pair of gloves, which he buys with a price; and because she would not jump into his mouth he gave it up. I don’t believe he even really wanted to marry her. I suppose he has some disreputable connection to prevent it.”
“Nothing of the kind. He would marry her tomorrow if he could. My belief is that Miss Effingham is sincere in refusing him.”
“I don’t doubt her sincerity.”
“And that she will never change.”
“Ah, well; I don’t agree with you, and I daresay I know them both better than you do. But everything goes against me. I had set my heart upon it, and therefore of course I shall be disappointed. What is he going to do this autumn?”
“He is yachting now.”
“And who are with him?”
“I think the boat belongs to Captain Colepepper.”
“The greatest blackguard in all England! A man who shoots pigeons and rides steeplechases! And the worst of Chiltern is this, that even if he didn’t like the man, and if he were tired of this sort of life, he would go on just the same because he thinks it a fine thing not to give way.” This was so true that Phineas did not dare to contradict the statement, and therefore said nothing. “I had some faint hope,” continued the Earl, “while Laura could always watch him; because, in his way, he was fond of his sister. But that is all over now. She will have enough to do to watch herself!”
Phineas had felt that the Earl had put him down rather sharply when he had said that Violet would never accept Lord Chiltern, and he was therefore not a little surprised when Lord Brentford spoke again of Miss Effingham the following morning, holding in his hand a letter which he had just received from her. “They are to be at Loughlinter on the tenth,” he said, “and she purposes to come here for a couple of nights on her way.”
“Lady Baldock and all?”
“Well, yes; Lady Baldock and all. I am not very fond of Lady Baldock, but I will put up with her for a couple of days for the sake of having Violet. She is more like a child of my own now than anybody else. I shall not see her all the autumn afterwards. I cannot stand Loughlinter.”
“It will be better when the house is full.”
“You will be there, I suppose?”
“Well, no; I think not,” said Phineas.
“You have had enough of it, have you?” Phineas made no reply to this, but smiled slightly. “By Jove, I don’t wonder at it,” said the Earl. Phineas, who would have given all he had in the world to be staying in the same country house with Violet Effingham, could not explain how it had come to pass that he was obliged to absent himself. “I suppose you were asked?” said the Earl.
“Oh, yes, I was asked. Nothing can be kinder than they are.”
“Kennedy told me that you were coming as a matter of course.”
“I explained to him after that,” said Phineas, that I should not return. I shall go over to Ireland. I have a deal of hard reading to do, and I call get through it there without interruption.”
He went up from Saulsby to London on that day, and found himself quite alone in Mrs Bunce’s lodgings. I mean not only that he was alone at his lodgings, but he was alone at his club, and alone in the streets. July was not quite over, and yet all the birds of passage had migrated. Mr Mildmay, by his short session, had half ruined the London tradesmen, and had changed the summer mode of life of all those who account themselves to be anybody. Phineas, as he sat alone in his room, felt himself to be nobody. He had told the Earl that he was going to Ireland, and to Ireland he must go — because he had nothing else to do. He had been asked indeed to join one or two parties in their autumn plans. Mr Monk had wanted him to go to the Pyrenees, and Lord Chiltern had suggested that he should join the yacht — but neither plan suited him. It would have suited him to be it Loughlinter with Violet Effingham, but Loughlinter was a barred house to him. His old friend, Lady Laura, had told him not to come thither, explaining, with sufficient clearness, her reasons for excluding him from the number of her husband’s guests. As he thought of it the past scenes of his life became very marvellous to him. Twelve months since he would have given all the world for a word of love from Lady Laura, and had barely dared to hope that such a word, at some future day, might possibly be spoken. Now such a word had in truth been spoken, and it had come to be simply a trouble to him. She had owned to him — for, in truth, such had been the meaning of her warning to him — that, though she had married another man, she had loved and did love him. But in thinking of this he took no pride in it. It was not till he had thought of it long that he began to ask himself whether he might not be justified in gathering from what happened some hope that Violet also might learn to love him. He had thought so little of himself as to have been afraid at first to press his suit with Lady Laura. Might he not venture to think more of himself, having learned how far he had succeeded?
But how was he to get at Violet Effingham? From the moment at which he had left Saulsby he had been angry with himself for not having asked Lord Brentford to allow him to remain there till after the Baldock party should have gone on to Loughlinter. The Earl, who was very lonely in his house, would have consented at once. Phineas, indeed, was driven to confess to himself that success with Violet would at once have put an end to all his friendship with Lord Brentford — as also to all his friendship with Lord Chiltern. He would, in such case, be bound in honour to vacate his seat and give back Loughton to his offended patron. But he would have given up much more than his seat for Violet Effingham! At present, however, he had no means of getting at her to ask her the question. He could hardly go to Loughlinter in opposition to the wishes of Lady Laura.
A little adventure happened to him in London which somewhat relieved the dullness of the days of the first week in August. He remained in London till the middle of August, half resolving to rush down to Saulsby when Violet Effingham should be there — endeavouring to find some excuse for such a proceeding, but racking his brains in vain — and then there came about his little adventure. The adventure was commenced by the receipt of the following letter:
Banner of the People Office, 3rd August, 186 —
MY DEAR FINN,
I must say I think you have treated me badly, and without that sort of brotherly fairness which we on the public press expect from one another. However, perhaps we can come to an understanding, and if so, things may yet go smoothly. Give me a turn and I am not at all adverse to give you one. Will you come to me here, or shall I call upon you?
Yours always,
Q.S.
Phineas was not only surprised, but disgusted also, at the receipt of this letter. He could not imagine what was the deed by which he had offended Mr Slide. He thought over all the circumstances of his short connection with the People’s Banner, but could remember nothing which might have created offence. But his disgust was greater than his surprise. He thought that he had done nothing and said nothing to justify Quintus Slide in calling him “dear Finn.” He, who had Lady Laura’s secret in his keeping; he who hoped to be the possessor of Violet Effingham’s affections — he to be called “dear Finn” by such a one as Quintus Slide! He soon made up his mind that he would not answer the note, but would go at once to the People’s Banner office at the hour at which Quintus Slide was always there. He certainly would not write to “dear Slide;” and, until he had heard something more of this cause of offence, he would not make an enemy for ever by calling the man “dear Sir.” He went to the office of the People’s Banner, and found Mr Slide ensconced in a little glass cupboard, writing an article for the next day’s copy.
“I suppose you’re very busy,” said Phineas, inserting himself with some difficulty on to a little stool in the corner of the cupboard.
“Not so particular but what I’m glad to see you. You shoot, don’t you?”
“Shoot!” said Phineas. It could not be possible that Mr Slide was intending, after this abrupt fashion, to propose a duel with pistols.
“Grouse and pheasants, and them sort of things?” asked Mr Slide.
“Oh, ah; I understand. Yes, I shoot sometimes.”
“Is it the 12th or 20th for grouse in Scotland?”
“The 12th,” said Phineas. What makes you ask that just now?”
“I’m doing a letter about it — advising men not to shoot too many of the young birds, and showing that they’ll have none next year if they do. I had a fellow here just now who knew all about it, and he put down a lot; but I forgot to make him tell me the day of beginning. What’s a good place to date from?”
Phineas suggested Callender or Stirling.
“Stirling’s too much of a town, isn’t it? Callender sounds better for game, I think.”
So the letter which was to save the young grouse was dated from Callender; and Mr Quintus Slide having written the word, threw down his pen, came off his stool, and rushed at once at his subject.
“Well, now, Finn,” he said, don’t you know that you’ve treated me badly about Loughton?”
“Treated you badly about Loughton!” Phineas, as he repeated the words, was quite in the dark as to Mr Slide’s meaning. Did Mr Slide intend to convey a reproach because Phineas had not personally sent some tidings of the election to the People’s Banner?
“Very badly,” said Mr Slide, with his arms akimbo — “very badly indeed! Men on the press together do expect that they’re to be stuck by, and not thrown over. Damn it, I say; what’s the good of a brotherhood if it ain’t to be brotherhood?”
“Upon my word, I don’t know what you mean,” said Phineas.
“Didn’t I tell you that I had Loughton in my heye?” said Quintus.
“Oh — h!”
“It’s very well to say ho, and look guilty, but didn’t I tell you?”
“I never heard such nonsense in my life.”
“Nonsense?”
“How on earth could you have stood for Loughton? What interest would you have there? You could not even have found an elector to propose you.”
“Now, I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Finn. I think you have thrown me over most shabby, but I won’t stand about that. You shall have Loughton this session if you’ll promise to make way for me after the next election. If you’ll agree to that, we’ll have a special leader to say how well Lord What’s-his-name has done with the borough; and we’ll be your horgan through the whole session.”
“I never heard such nonsense in my life. In the first place, Loughton is safe to be in the schedule of reduced boroughs. It will be thrown into the county, or joined with a group.”
“I’ll stand the chance of that. Will you agree?”
“Agree! No! It’s the most absurd proposal that was ever made. You might as well ask me whether I would agree that you should go to heaven. Go to heaven if you can, I should say. I have not the slightest objection. But it’s nothing to me.”
“Very well,” said Quintus Slide. Very well! Now we understand each other, and that’s all that I desire. I think that I can show you what it is to come among gentlemen of the press, and then to throw them over. Good morning.”
Phineas, quite satisfied at the result of the interview as regarded himself, and by no means sorry that there should have arisen a cause of separation between Mr Quintus Slide and his “dear Finn,” shook off a little dust from his foot as he left the office of the People’s Banner. and resolved that in future he would attempt to make no connection in that direction. As he returned home he told himself that a member of Parliament should be altogether independent of the press. On the second morning after his meeting with his late friend, he saw the result of his independence. There was a startling article, a tremendous article, showing the pressing necessity of immediate reform, and proving the necessity by an illustration of the borough-mongering rottenness of the present system. When such a patron as Lord Brentford — himself a Cabinet Minister with a sinecure — could by his mere word put into the House such a stick as Phineas Finn — a man who had struggled to stand on his legs before the Speaker, but had wanted both the courage and the capacity, nothing further could surely be wanted to prove that the Reform Bill of 1832 required to be supplemented by some more energetic measure.
Phineas laughed as he read the article, and declared to himself that the joke was a good joke. But, nevertheless, he suffered. Mr Quintus Slide, when he was really anxious to use his thong earnestly, could generally raise a wale.
On the 10th of August, Phineas Finn did return to Loughton. He went down by the mail train on the night of the 10th, having telegraphed to the inn for a bed, and was up eating his breakfast in that hospitable house at nine o’clock. The landlord and landlady with all their staff were at a loss to imagine what had brought down their member again so quickly to his borough; but the reader, who will remember that Lady Baldock with her daughter and Violet Effingham were to pass the 11th of the month at Saulsby, may perhaps be able to make a guess on the subject.
Phineas had been thinking of making this sudden visit to Loughton ever since he had been up in town, but he could suggest to himself no reason to be given to Lord Brentford for his sudden reappearance. The Earl had been very kind to him, but he had said nothing which could justify his young friend in running in and out of Saulsby Castle at pleasure, without invitation and without notice. Phineas was so well aware of this himself that often as he had half resolved during the last ten days to return to Saulsby, so often had he determined that he could not do so. He could think of no excuse. Then the heavens favoured him, and he received a letter from Lord Chiltern, in which there was a message for Lord Brentford. “If you see my father, tell him that I am ready at any moment to do what is necessary for raising the money for Laura.” Taking this as his excuse he returned to Loughton.
As chance arranged it, he met the Earl standing on the great steps before his own castle doors. “What, Finn; is this you? I thought you were in Ireland.”
“Not yet, my lord, as you see.” Then he opened his budget at once, and blushed at his own hypocrisy as he went on with his story. He had, he said, felt the message from Chiltern to be so all-important that he could not bring himself to go over to Ireland without delivering it. He urged upon the Earl that he might learn from this how anxious Lord Chiltern was to effect a reconciliation. When it occurred to him, he said, that there might be a hope of doing anything towards such an object, he could not go to Ireland leaving the good work behind him. In love and war all things are fair. So he declared to himself; but as he did so he felt that his story was so weak that it would hardly gain for him an admittance into the Castle. In this he was completely wrong. The Earl, swallowing the bait, put his arm through that of the intruder, and, walking with him through the paths of the shrubbery, at length confessed that he would be glad to be reconciled to his son if it were possible. “Let him come here, and she shall be here also,” said the Earl, speaking of Violet. To this Phineas could say nothing out loud, but he told himself that all should be fair between them. He would take no dishonest advantage of Lord Chiltern. He would give Lord Chiltern the whole message as it was given to him by Lord Brentford. But should it so turn out that he himself got an opportunity of saying to Violet all that he had come to say, and should it also turn out — an event which he acknowledged to himself to be most unlikely — that Violet did not reject him, then how could he write his letter to Lord Chiltern? So he resolved that the letter should be written before he saw Violet. But how could he write such a letter and instantly afterwards do that which would be false to the spirit of a letter so written? Could he bid Lord Chiltern come home to woo Violet Effingham, and instantly go forth to woo her for himself? He found that he could not do so — unless he told the whole truth to Lord Chiltern. In no other way could he carry out his project and satisfy his own idea of what was honest.
The Earl bade him send to the hotel for his things. “The Baldock people are all here, you know, but they go very early tomorrow.” Then Phineas declared that he also must return to London very early on the morrow — but in the meantime he would go to the inn and fetch his things. The Earl thanked him again and again for his generous kindness; and Phineas, blushing as he received the thanks, went back and wrote his letter to Lord Chiltern. It was an elaborate letter, written, as regards the first and larger portion of it, with words intended to bring the prodigal son back to the father’s home. And everything was said about Miss Effingham that could or should have been said. Then, on the last page, he told his own story. “Now,” he said, I must speak of myself:— and he went on to explain to his friend, in the plainest language that he could use, his own position. “I have loved her,” he said, “for six months, and I am here with the express intention of asking her to take me. The chances are ten to one that she refuses me. I do not deprecate your anger — if you choose to be angry. But I am endeavouring to treat you well, and I ask you to do the same by me. I must convey to you your father’s message, and after doing so I cannot address myself to Miss Effingham without telling you. I should feel myself to be false were I to do so. In the event — the probable, nay, almost certain event of my being refused — I shall trust you to keep my secret. Do not quarrel with me if you can help it — but if you must I will be ready.” Then he posted the letter and went up to the Castle.
He had only the one day for his action, and he knew that Violet was watched by Lady Baldock as by a dragon. He was told that the Earl was out with the young ladies, and was shown to his room. On going to the drawing-room he found Lady Baldock, with whom he had been, to a certain degree, a favourite, and was soon deeply engaged in a conversation as to the practicability of shutting up all the breweries and distilleries by Act of Parliament. But lunch relieved him, and brought the young ladies in at two. Miss Effingham seemed to be really glad to see him, and even Miss Boreham, Lady Baldock’s daughter, was very gracious to him. For the Earl had been speaking well of his young member, and Phineas had in a way grown into the good graces of sober and discreet people. After lunch they were to ride — the Earl, that is, and Violet. Lady Baldock and her daughter were to have the carriage. “I can mount you, Finn, if you would like it,” said the Earl. “Of course he’ll like it,” said Violet; do you suppose Mr Finn will object to ride with me in Saulsby Woods? It won’t be the first time, will it?” “Violet, said Lady Baldock, “you have the most singular way of talking.” I suppose I have,” said Violet; “but I don’t think I can change it now. Mr Finn knows me too well to mind it much.”
It was past five before they were on horseback, and up to that time Phineas had not found himself alone with Violet Effingham for a moment. They had sat together after lunch in the dining-room for nearly an hour, and had sauntered into the hall and knocked about the billiard balls, and then stood together at the open doors of a conservatory. But Lady Baldock or Miss Boreham had always been there. Nothing could be more pleasant than Miss Effingham’s words, or more familiar than her manner to Phineas. She had expressed strong delight at his success in getting a seat in Parliament, and had talked to him about the Kennedys as though they had created some special bond of union between her and Phineas which ought to make them intimate. But, for all that, she could not be got to separate herself from Lady Baldock — and when she was told that if she meant to ride she must go and dress herself, she went at once.
But he thought that he might have a chance on horseback; and after they had been out about half an hour, chance did favour him. For awhile he rode behind with the carriage, calculating that by his so doing the Earl would be put off his guard, and would be disposed after awhile to change places with him. And so it fell out. At a certain fall of ground in the park, where the road turned round and crossed a bridge over the little river, the carriage came up with the first two horses, and Lady Baldock spoke a word to the Earl. Then Violet pulled up, allowing the vehicle to pass the bridge first, and in this way she and Phineas were brought together — and in this way they rode on. But he was aware that he must greatly increase the distance between them and the others of their party before he could dare to plead his suit, and even were that done he felt that he would not know how to plead it on horseback.
They had gone on some half mile in this way when they reached a spot on which a green ride led away from the main road through the trees to the left. “You remember this place, do you not?” said Violet. Phineas declared that he remembered it well. “I must go round by the woodman’s cottage. You won’t mind coming?” Phineas said that he would not mind, and trotted on to tell them in the carriage.
“Where is she going?” asked Lady Baldock; and then, when Phineas explained, she begged the Earl to go back to Violet. The Earl, feeling the absurdity of this, declared that Violet knew her way very well herself, and thus Phineas got his opportunity.
They rode on almost without speaking for nearly a mile, cantering through the trees, and then they took another turn to the right, and came upon the cottage. They rode to the door, and spoke a word or two to the woman there, and then passed on. “I always come here when I am at Saulsby,” said Violet, “that I may teach myself to think kindly of Lord Chiltern,”
“I understand it all,” said Phineas.
“He used to be so nice — and is so still, I believe, only that he has taught himself to be so rough. Will he ever change, do you think?”
Phineas knew that in this emergency it was his especial duty to be honest. “I think he would be changed altogether if we could bring him here — so that he should live among his friends.”
“Do you think he would? We must put our heads together, and do it. Don’t you think that it is to be done?”
Phineas replied that he thought it was to be done. “I’ll tell you the truth at once, Miss Effingham,” he said. “You can do it by a single word.”
“Yes — yes;” she said; but I do not mean that — without that. It is absurd, you know, that a father should make such a condition as that.” Phineas said that he thought it was absurd; and then they rode on again, cantering through the wood. He had been bold to speak to her about Lord Chiltern as he had done, and she had answered just as he would have wished to be answered. But how could he press his suit for himself while she was cantering by his side?
Presently they came to rough ground over which they were forced to walk, and he was close by her side. “Mr Finn,” she said, “I wonder whether I may ask a question?”
“Any question,” he replied.
“Is there any quarrel between you and Lady Laura?”
“None.”
“Or between you and him?”
“No — none. We are greater allies than ever.”
“Then why are you not going to be at Loughlinter? She has written to me expressly saying you would not be there.”
He paused a moment before he replied. “It did not suit,” he said at last.
“It is a secret then?”
“Yes — it is a secret. You are not angry with me?”
“Angry; no.”
“It is not a secret of my own, or I should not keep it from you.”
“Perhaps I can guess it,” she said. But I will not try. I will not even think of it.”
“The cause, whatever it be, has been full of sorrow to me. I would have given my left hand to have been at Loughlinter this autumn.”
“Are you so fond of it?”
“I should have been staying there with you,” he said. He paused, and for a moment there was no word spoken by either of them; but he could perceive that the hand in which she held her whip was playing with her horse’s mane with a nervous movement. “When I found how it must be, and that I must miss you, I rushed down here that I might see you for a moment. And now I am here I do not dare to speak to you of myself.” They were now beyond the rocks, and Violet, without speaking a word, again put her horse into a trot. He was by her side in a moment, but he could not see her face. “Have you not a word to say to me?” he asked.
“No — no — no;” she replied, not a word when you speak to me like that. There is the carriage. Come — we will join them.” Then she cantered on, and he followed her till they reached the Earl and Lady Baldock and Miss Boreham. “I have done my devotions now,” said Miss Effingham, “and am ready to return to ordinary life.”
Phineas could not find another moment in which to speak to her. Though he spent the evening with her, and stood over her as she sang at the Earl’s request, and pressed her hand as she went to bed, and was up to see her start in the morning, he could not draw from her either a word or a look.
Phineas Finn went to Ireland immediately after his return from Saulsby, having said nothing further to Violet Effingham, and having heard nothing further from her than what is recorded in the last chapter. He felt very keenly that his position was unsatisfactory, and brooded over it all the autumn and early winter; but he could form no plan for improving it. A dozen times he thought of writing to Miss Effingham, and asking for an explicit answer. He could not, however, bring himself to write the letter, thinking that written expressions of love are always weak and vapid — and deterred also by a conviction that Violet, if driven to reply in writing, would undoubtedly reply by a refusal. Fifty times he rode again in his imagination his ride in Saulsby Wood, and he told himself as often that the siren’s answer to him — her no, no, no — had been, of all possible answers, the most indefinite and provoking. The tone of her voice as she galloped away from him, the bearing of her countenance when he rejoined her, her manner to him when he saw her start from the Castle in the morning, all forbade him to believe that his words to her had been taken as an offence. She had replied to him with a direct negative, simply with the word “no;” but she had so said it that there had hardly been any sting in the no; and he had known at the moment that whatever might be the result of his suit, he need not regard Violet Effingham as his enemy.
But the doubt made his sojourn in Ireland very wearisome to him. And there were other matters which tended also to his discomfort, though he was not left even at this period of his life without a continuation of success which seemed to be very wonderful. And, first, I will say a word of his discomfort. He heard not a line from Lord Chiltern in answer to the letter which he had written to his lordship. From Lady Laura he did hear frequently. Lady Laura wrote to him exactly as though she had never warned him away from Loughlinter, and as though there had been no occasion for such warning. She sent him letters filled chiefly with politics, saying something also of the guests at Loughlinter, something of the game, and just a word or two here and there of her husband. The letters were very good letters, and he preserved them carefully. It was manifest to him that they were intended to be good letters, and, as such, to be preserved. In one of these, which he received about the end of November, she told him that her brother was again in his old haunt, at the Willingford Bull, and that he had sent to Portman Square for all property of his own that had been left there. But there was no word in that letter of Violet Effingham; and though Lady Laura did speak more than once of Violet, she always did so as though Violet were simply a joint acquaintance of herself and her correspondent. There was no allusion to the existence of any special regard on his part for Miss Effingham. He had thought that Violet might probably tell her friend what had occurred at Saulsby — but if she did so, Lady Laura was happy in her powers of reticence. Our hero was disturbed also when he reached home by finding that Mrs Flood Jones and Miss Flood Jones had retired from Killaloe for the winter. I do not know whether he might not have been more disturbed by the presence of the young lady, for he would have found himself constrained to exhibit towards her some tenderness of manner; and any such tenderness of manner would, in his existing circumstances, have been dangerous. But he was made to understand that Mary Flood Jones had been taken away from Killaloe because it was thought that he had ill-treated the lady, and the accusation made him unhappy. In the middle of the heat of the last session he had received a letter from his sister, in which some pushing question had been asked as to his then existing feeling about poor Mary. This he had answered petulantly. Nothing more had been written to him about Miss Jones, and nothing was said to him when he reached home. He could not, however, but ask after Mary, and when he did ask, the accusation was made again in that quietly severe manner with which, perhaps, most of us have been made acquainted at some period of our lives. “I think, Phineas,” said his sister, “we had better say nothing about dear Mary. She is not here at present, and probably you may not see her while you remain with us.” “What’s all that about?” Phineas had demanded — understanding the whole matter thoroughly. Then his sister had demurely refused to say a word further on the subject, and not a word further was said about Miss Mary Flood Jones. They were at Floodborough, living, he did not doubt, in a very desolate way — and quite willing, he did not doubt also, to abandon their desolation if he would go over there in the manner that would become him after what had passed on one or two occasions between him and the young lady. But how was he to do this with such work on his hands as he had undertaken? Now that he was in Ireland, he thought that he did love dear Mary very dearly. He felt that he had two identities — that he was, as it were, two separate persons — and that he could, without any real faithlessness, be very much in love with Violet Effingham in his position of man of fashion and member of Parliament in England, and also warmly attached to dear little Mary Flood Jones as an Irishman of Killaloe. He was aware, however, that there was a prejudice against such fullness of heart, and, therefore, resolved sternly that it was his duty to be constant to Miss Effingham. How was it possible that he should marry dear Mary — he, with such extensive jobs of work on his hands! It was not possible. He must abandon all thought of making dear Mary his own. No doubt they had been right to remove her. But, still, as he took his solitary walks along the Shannon, and up on the hills that overhung the lake above the town, he felt somewhat ashamed of himself, and dreamed of giving up Parliament, of leaving Violet to some noble suitor — to Lord Chiltern, if she would take him — and of going to Floodborough with an honest proposal that he should be allowed to press Mary to his heart. Miss Effingham would probably reject him at last; whereas Mary, dear Mary, would come to his heart without a scruple of doubt. Dear Mary! In these days of dreaming, he told himself that, after all, dear Mary was his real love. But, of course, such days were days of dreaming only. He had letters in his pocket from Lady Laura Kennedy which made it impossible for him to think in earnest of giving up Parliament.
And then there came a wonderful piece of luck in his way. There lived, or had lived, in the town of Galway a very eccentric old lady, one Miss Marian Persse, who was the aunt of Mrs Finn, the mother of our hero. With this lady Dr Finn had quarrelled persistently ever since his marriage, because the lady had expressed her wish to interfere in the management of his family — offering to purchase such right by favourable arrangements in reference to her will. This the doctor had resented, and there had been quarrels. Miss Persse was not a very rich old lady, but she thought a good deal of her own money. And now she died, leaving ￡3,000 to her nephew Phineas Finn. Another sum of about equal amount she bequeathed to a Roman Catholic seminary; and thus was her worldly wealth divided. “She couldn’t have done better with it,” said the old doctor; “and as far as we are concerned, the windfall is the more pleasant as being wholly unexpected. In these days the doctor was undoubtedly gratified by his son’s success in life, and never said much about the law. Phineas in truth did do some work during the autumn, reading blue books, reading law books, reading perhaps a novel or two at the same time — but shutting himself up very carefully as he studied, so that his sisters were made to understand that for a certain four hours in the day not a sound was to be allowed to disturb him.
On the receipt of his legacy he at once offered to repay his father all money that had been advanced him over and above his original allowance; but this the doctor refused to take. “It comes to the same thing, Phineas,” he said. “What you have of your share now you can’t have hereafter. As regards my present income, it has only made me work a little longer than I had intended; and I believe that the later in life a man works, the more likely he is to live.” Phineas, therefore, when he returned to London, had his ￡3,000 in his pocket. He owed some ￡500; and the remainder he would, of course, invest.
There had been some talk of an autumnal session, but Mr Mildmay’s decision had at last been against it. Who cannot understand that such would be the decision of any Minister to whom was left the slightest fraction of free will in the matter? Why should any Minister court the danger of unnecessary attack, submit himself to unnecessary work, and incur the odium of summoning all his friends from their rest? In the midst of the doubts as to the new and old Ministry, when the political needle was vacillating so tremulously on its pivot, pointing now to one set of men as the coming Government and then to another, vague suggestions as to an autumn session might be useful. And they were thrown out in all good faith. Mr Mildmay, when he spoke on the subject to the Duke, was earnest in thinking that the question of Reform should not be postponed even for six months. “Don’t pledge yourself,” said the Duke — and Mr Mildmay did not pledge himself. Afterwards, when Mr Mildmay found that he was once more assuredly Prime Minister, he changed his mind, and felt himself to be under a fresh obligation to the Duke. Lord de Terrier had altogether failed, and the country might very well wait till February. The country did wait till February, somewhat to the disappointment of Phineas Finn, who had become tired of blue books at Killaloe. The difference between his English life and his life at home was so great, that it was hardly possible that he should not become weary of the latter. He did become weary of it, but strove gallantly to hide his weariness from his father and mother.
At this time the world was talking much about Reform, though Mr Mildmay had become placidly patient. The feeling was growing, and Mr Turnbull, with his friends, was doing all he could to make it grow fast. There was a certain amount of excitement on the subject; but the excitement had grown downwards, from the leaders to the people — from the self-instituted leaders of popular politics down, by means of the press, to the ranks of working men, instead of growing upwards, from the dissatisfaction of the masses, till it expressed itself by this mouthpiece and that, chosen by the people themselves. There was no strong throb through the country, making men feel that safety was to be had by Reform, and could not be had without Reform. But there was an understanding that the press and the orators were too strong to be ignored, and that some new measure of Reform must be conceded to them. The sooner the concession was made, the less it might be necessary to concede. And all men of all parties were agreed on this point. That Reform was in itself odious to many of those who spoke of it freely, who offered themselves willingly to be its promoters, was acknowledged. It was not only odious to Lord de Terrier and to most of those who worked with him, but was equally so to many of Mr Mildmay’s most constant supporters. The Duke had no wish for Reform. Indeed it is hard to suppose that such a Duke can wish for any change in a state of things that must seem to him to be so salutary. Workmen were getting full wages. Farmers were paying their rent. Capitalists by the dozen were creating capitalists by the hundreds. Nothing was wrong in the country, but the over-dominant spirit of speculative commerce — and there was nothing in Reform to check that. Why should the Duke want Reform? As for such men as Lord Brentford, Sir Harry Coldfoot, Lord Plinlimmon, and Mr Legge Wilson, it was known to all men that they advocated Reform as we all of us advocate doctors. Some amount of doctoring is necessary for us. We may hardly hope to avoid it. But let us have as little of the doctor as possible. Mr Turnbull, and the cheap press, and the rising spirit of the loudest among the people, made it manifest that something must be conceded. Let us be generous in our concession. That was now the doctrine of many — perhaps of most of the leading politicians of the day. Let us be generous. Let us at any rate seem to be generous. Let us give with an open hand — but still with a hand which, though open, shall not bestow too much. The coach must be allowed to run down the hill. Indeed, unless the coach goes on running no journey will be made. But let us have the drag on both the hind wheels. And we must remember that coaches running down hill without drags are apt to come to serious misfortune.
But there were men, even in the Cabinet, who had other ideas of public service than that of dragging the wheels of the coach. Mr Gresham was in earnest. Plantagenet Palliser was in earnest. That exceedingly intelligent young nobleman Lord Cantrip was in earnest. Mr Mildmay threw, perhaps, as much of earnestness into the matter as was compatible with his age and his full appreciation of the manner in which the present cry for Reform had been aroused. He was thoroughly honest, thoroughly patriotic, and thoroughly ambitious that he should be written of hereafter as one who to the end of a long life had worked sedulously for the welfare of the people — but he disbelieved in Mr Turnbull, and in the bottom of his heart indulged an aristocratic contempt for the penny press. And there was no man in England more in earnest, more truly desirous of Reform, than Mr Monk. It was his great political idea that political advantages should be extended to the people, whether the people clamoured for them or did not clamour for them — even whether they desired them or did not desire them. “You do not ask a child whether he would like to learn his lesson,” he would say. “At any rate, you do not wait till he cries for his book.” When, therefore, men said to him that there was no earnestness in the cry for Reform, that the cry was a false cry, got up for factious purposes by interested persons, he would reply that the thing to be done should not be done in obedience to any cry, but because it was demanded by justice, and was a debt due to the people.
Our hero in the autumn had written to Mr Monk on the politics of the moment, and the following had been Mr Monk’s reply:
“ Longroyston, October 12, 186 —
“ MY DEAR FINN,
“I am staying here with the Duke and Duchess of St Bungay. The house is very full, and Mr Mildmay was here last week; but as I don’t shoot, and can’t play billiards, and have no taste for charades, I am becoming tired of the gaieties, and shall leave them tomorrow. Of course you know that we are not to have the autumn session. I think that Mr Mildmay is right. Could we have been sure of passing our measure, it would have been very well; but we could not have been sure, and failure with our bill in a session convened for the express purpose of passing it would have injured the cause greatly. We could hardly have gone on with it again in the spring. Indeed, we must have resigned. And though I may truly say that I would as lief have a good measure from Lord de Terrier as from Mr Mildmay, and that I am indifferent to my own present personal position, still I think that we should endeavour to keep our seats as long as we honestly believe ourselves to be more capable of passing a good measure than are our opponents.
“I am astonished by the difference of opinion which exists about Reform — not only as to the difference in the extent and exact tendency of the measure that is needed — but that there should be such a divergence of ideas as to the grand thing to be done and the grand reason for doing it. We are all agreed that we want Reform in order that the House of Commons may be returned by a larger proportion of the people than is at present employed upon that work, and that each member when returned should represent a somewhat more equal section of the whole constituencies of the country than our members generally do at present. All men confess that a ￡50 county franchise must be too high, and that a borough with less than two hundred registered voters must be wrong. But it seems to me that but few among us perceive, or at any rate acknowledge, the real reasons for changing these things and reforming what is wrong without delay. One great authority told us the other day that the sole object of legislation on this subject should be to get together the best possible 658 members of Parliament. That to me would be a most repulsive idea if it were not that by its very vagueness it becomes inoperative. Who shall say what is best; or what characteristic constitutes excellence in a member of Parliament? If the gentleman means excellence in general wisdom, or in statecraft, or in skill in talking, or in private character, or even excellence in patriotism, then I say that he is utterly wrong, and has never touched with his intellect the true theory of representation. One only excellence may be acknowledged, and that is the excellence of likeness. As a portrait should be like the person portrayed, so should a representative House be like the people whom it represents. Nor in arranging a franchise does it seem to me that we have a right to regard any other view. If a country be unfit for representative government — and it may be that there are still peoples unable to use properly that greatest of all blessings — the question as to what state policy may be best for them is a different question. But if we do have representation, let the representative assembly be like the people, whatever else may be its virtues — and whatever else its vices.
“Another great authority has told us that our House of Commons should be the mirror of the people. I say, not its mirror, but its miniature. And let the artist be careful to put in every line of the expression of that ever-moving face. To do this is a great work, and the artist must know his trade well. In America the work has been done with so coarse a hand that nothing is shown in the picture but the broad, plain, unspeaking outline of the face. As you look from the represented to the representation you cannot but acknowledge the likeness — but there is in that portrait more of the body than of the mind. The true portrait should represent more than the body. With us, hitherto, there have been snatches of the countenance of the nation which have been inimitable — a turn of the eye here and a curl of the lip there, which have seemed to denote a power almost divine. There have been marvels on the canvas so beautiful that one approaches the work of remodelling it with awe. But not only is the picture imperfect — a thing of snatches — but with years it becomes less and still less like its original.
“The necessity for remodelling it is imperative, and we shall be cowards if we decline the work. But let us be specially careful to retain as much as possible of those lines which we all acknowledge to be so faithfully representative of our nation. To give to a bare numerical majority of the people that power which the numerical majority has in the United States, would not be to achieve representation. The nation as it now exists would not be known by such a portrait — but neither can it now be known by that which exists. It seems to me that they who are adverse to change, looking back with an unmeasured respect on what our old Parliaments have done for us, ignore the majestic growth of the English people, and forget the present in their worship of the past. They think that we must be what we were — at any rate, what we were thirty years since. They have not, perhaps, gone into the houses of artisans, or, if there, they have not looked into the breasts of the men. With population vice has increased, and these politicians, with ears but no eyes, hear of drunkenness and sin and ignorance. And then they declare to themselves that this wicked, half-barbarous, idle people should be controlled and not represented. A wicked, half-barbarous, idle-people may be controlled — but not a people thoughtful, educated, and industrious. We must look to it that we do not endeavour to carry our control beyond the wickedness and the barbarity, and that we be ready to submit to control from thoughtfulness and industry.
“I hope we shall find you helping at the good work early in the spring.
“Yours, always faithfully,
“ JOSHUA MONK
Phineas was up in London before the end of January, but did not find there many of those whom he wished to see. Mr Low was there, and to him he showed Mr Monk’s letter, thinking that it must be convincing even to Mr Low. This he did in Mrs Low’s drawing-room, knowing that Mrs Low would also condescend to discuss politics on an occasion. He had dined with them, and they had been glad to see him, and Mrs Low had been less severe than hitherto against the great sin of her husband’s late pupil. She had condescended to congratulate him on becoming member for an English borough instead of an Irish one, and had asked him questions about Saulsby Castle. But, nevertheless, Mr Monk’s letter was not received with that respectful admiration which Phineas thought that it deserved. Phineas, foolishly, had read it out loud, so that the attack came upon him simultaneously from the husband and from the wife.
“It is just the usual claptrap,” said Mr Low, only put into language somewhat more grandiloquent than usual.”
“Claptrap!” said Phineas.
“It’s what I call downright Radical nonsense,” said Mrs Low, nodding her head energetically. “Portrait indeed! Why should we want to have a portrait of ignorance and ugliness? What we all want is to have things quiet and orderly.”
“Then you’d better have a paternal government at once,” said Phineas.
“Just so,” said Mr Low — only that what you call a paternal government is not always quiet and orderly. National order I take to be submission to the law. I should not think it quiet and orderly if I were sent to Cayenne without being brought before a jury.”
“But such a man as you would not be sent to Cayenne,” said Phineas.
“My next-door neighbour might be — which would be almost as bad. Let him be sent to Cayenne if he deserves it, but let a jury say that he has deserved it. My idea of government is this — that we want to be governed by law and not by caprice, and that we must have a legislature to make our laws. If I thought that Parliament as at present established made the laws badly, I would desire a change; but I doubt whether we shall have them better from any change in Parliament which Reform will give us.”
“Of course not,” said Mrs Low. But we shall have a lot of beggars put on horseback, and we all know where they ride to.”
Then Phineas became aware that it is not easy to convince any man or any woman on a point of politics — not even though he who argues may have an eloquent letter from a philosophical Cabinet Minister in his pocket to assist him.
February was far advanced and the new Reform Bill had already been brought forward, before Lady Laura Kennedy came up to town. Phineas had of course seen Mr Kennedy and had heard from him tidings of his wife. She was at Saulsby with Lady Baldock and Miss Boreham and Violet Effingham, but was to be in London soon. Mr Kennedy, as it appeared, did not quite know when he was to expect his wife; and Phineas thought that he could perceive from the tone of the husband’s voice that something was amiss. He could not however ask any questions excepting such as referred to the expected arrival. Was Miss Effingham to come to London with Lady Laura? Mr Kennedy believed that Miss Effingham would be up before Easter, but he did not know whether she would come with his wife. “Women”, he said, are so fond of mystery that one can never quite know what they intend to do.” He corrected himself at once however, perceiving that he had seemed to say something against his wife, and explained that his general accusation against the sex was not intended to apply to Lady Laura. This, however, he did so awkwardly as to strengthen the feeling with Phineas that something assuredly was wrong. “Miss Effingham”, said Mr Kennedy, “never seems to know her own mind.” “I suppose she is like other beautiful girls who are petted on all sides,” said Phineas. “As for her beauty, I don’t think much of it,” said Mr Kennedy; “and as for petting, I do not understand it in reference to grown persons. Children may be petted, and dogs — though that too is bad; but what you call petting for grown persons is I think frivolous and almost indecent.” Phineas could not help thinking of Lord Chiltern’s opinion that it would have been wise to have left Mr Kennedy in the hands of the garrotters.
The debate on the second reading of the bill was to be commenced on the 1st of March, and two days before that Lady Laura arrived in Grosvenor Place. Phineas got a note from her in three words to say that she was at home and would see him if he called on Sunday afternoon. The Sunday to which she alluded was the last day of February. Phineas was now more certain than ever that something was wrong. Had there been nothing wrong between Lady Laura and her husband, she would not have rebelled against him by asking visitors to the house on a Sunday. He had nothing to do with that, however, and of course he did as he was desired. He called on the Sunday, and found Mrs Bonteen sitting with Lady Laura. “I am just in time for the debate,” said Lady Laura, when the first greeting was over.
“You don’t mean to say that you intend to sit it out,” said Mrs Bonteen.
“Every word of it — unless I lose my seat. What else is there to be done at present?”
“But the place they give us is so unpleasant,“said Mrs Bonteen.
“There are worse places even than the Ladies’ Gallery,” said Lady Laura. “And perhaps it is as well to make oneself used to inconveniences of all kinds. You will speak, Mr Finn?”
“I intend to do so.”
“Of course you will. The great speeches will be Mr Gresham’s, Mr Daubeny’s, and Mr Monk’s.”
“Mr Palliser intends to be very strong,” said Mrs Bonteen.
“A man cannot be strong or not as he likes it,” said Lady Laura. “Mr Palliser I believe to be a most useful man, but he never can become an orator. He is of the same class as Mr Kennedy — only of course higher in the class.”
“We all look for a great speech from Mr Kennedy,” said Mrs Bonteen.
“I have not the slightest idea whether he will open his lips,” said Lady Laura. Immediately after that Mrs Bonteen took her leave. “I hate that woman like poison,” continued Lady Laura. “She is always playing a game, and it is such a small game that she plays! And she contributes so little to society. She is not witty nor well-informed — not even sufficiently ignorant or ridiculous to be a laughing-stock. One gets nothing from her, and yet she has made her footing good in the world.”
“I thought she was a friend of yours.”
“You did not think so! You could not have thought so! How can you bring such an accusation against me, knowing me as you do? But never mind Mrs Bonteen now. On what day shall you speak?”
“On Tuesday if I can.”
“I suppose you can arrange it?”
“I shall endeavour to do so, as far as any arrangement can go.”
“We shall carry the second reading,” said Lady Laura.
“Yes,” said Phineas; I think we shall; but by the votes of men who are determined so to pull the bill to pieces in committee, that its own parents will not know it. I doubt whether Mr Mildmay will have the temper to stand it.”
“They tell me that Mr Mildmay will abandon the custody of the bill to Mr Gresham after his first speech.”
“I don’t know that Mr Gresham’s temper is more enduring than Mr Mildmay’s,” said Phineas.
“Well — we shall see. My own impression is that nothing would save the country so effectually at the present moment as the removal of Mr Turnbull to a higher and a better sphere.”
“Let us say the House of Lords,” said Phineas.
“God forbid!” said Lady Laura.
Phineas sat there for half an hour and then got up to go, having spoken no word on any other subject than that of politics. He longed to ask after Violet. He longed to make some inquiry respecting Lord Chiltern. And, to tell the truth, he felt painfully curious to hear Lady Laura say something about her own self. He could not but remember what had been said between them up over the waterfall, and how he had been warned not to return to Loughlinter. And then again, did Lady Laura know anything of what had passed between him and Violet? “Where is your brother?” he said, as he rose from his chair.
“Oswald is in London. He was here not an hour before you came in.”
“Where is he staying?”
“At Moroni’s. He goes down on Tuesday, I think. He is to see his father tomorrow morning.”
“By agreement?”
“Yes — by agreement. There is a new trouble — about money that they think to be due to me. But I cannot tell you all now. There have been some words between Mr Kennedy and papa. But I won’t talk about it. You would find Oswald at Moroni’s at any hour before eleven tomorrow.”
“Did he say anything about me?” asked Phineas.
“We mentioned your name certainly.”
“I do not ask from vanity, but I want to know whether he is angry with me.”
“Angry with you! Not in the least. I’ll tell you just what he said. He said he should not wish to live even with you, but that he would sooner try it with you than with any man he ever knew.”
“He had got a letter from me?”
“He did not say so — but he did not say he had not.”
“I will see him tomorrow if I can.” And then Phineas prepared to go.
“One word, Mr Finn,” said Lady Laura, hardly looking him in the face and yet making an effort to do so. “I wish you to forget what I said to you at Loughlinter.”
“It shall be as though it were forgotten,” said Phineas.
“Let it be absolutely forgotten. In such a case a man is bound to do all that a woman asks him, and no man has a truer spirit of chivalry than yourself. That is all. Look in when you can. I will not ask you to dine here as yet, because we are so frightfully dull. Do your best on Tuesday, and then let us see you on Wednesday. Goodbye.”
Phineas as he walked across the park towards his club made up his mind that he would forget the scene by the waterfall. He had never quite known what it had meant, and he would wipe it away from his mind altogether. He acknowledged to himself that chivalry did demand of him that he should never allow himself to think of Lady Laura’s rash words to him. That she was not happy with her husband was very clear to him — but that was altogether another affair. She might be unhappy with her husband without indulging any guilty love. He had never thought it possible that she could be happy living with such a husband as Mr Kennedy. All that, however, was now past remedy, and she must simply endure the mode of life which she had prepared for herself. There were other men and women in London tied together for better and worse, in reference to whose union their friends knew that there would be no better — that it must be all worse. Lady Laura must bear it, as it was borne by many another married woman.
On the Monday morning Phineas called at Moroni’s Hotel at ten o’clock, but in spite of Lady Laura’s assurance to the contrary, he found that Lord Chiltern was out. He had felt some palpitation at the heart as he made his inquiry, knowing well the fiery nature of the man he expected to see. It might be that there would be some actual personal conflict between him and this half-mad lord before he got back again into the street. What Lady Laura had said about her brother did not in the estimation of Phineas make this at all the less probable. The half-mad lord was so singular in his ways that it might well be that he should speak handsomely of a rival behind his back and yet take him by the throat as soon as they were together, face to face. And yet, as Phineas thought, it was necessary that he should see the half-mad lord. He had written a letter to which he had received no reply, and he considered it to be incumbent on him to ask whether it had been received and whether any answer to it was intended to be given. He went therefore to Lord Chiltern at once — as I have said, with some feeling at his heart that there might be violence, at any rate of words, before he should find himself again in the street. But Lord Chiltern was not there. All that the porter knew was that Lord Chiltern intended to leave the house on the following morning. Then Phineas wrote a note and left it with the porter.
“ DEAR CHILTERN,
“I particularly want to see you with reference to a letter I wrote to you last summer. I must be in the House today from four till the debate is over. I will be at the Reform Club from two till half past three, and will come if you will send for me, or I will meet you anywhere at any hour tomorrow morning.
“Yours, always,
P.F.”
No message came to him at the Reform Club, and he was in his seat in the House by four o’clock. During the debate a note was brought to him, which ran as follows:
“I have got your letter this moment. Of course we must meet. I hunt on Tuesday, and go down by the early train; but I will come to town on Wednesday. We shall require to be private, and I will therefore be at your rooms at one o’clock on that day. — C.”
Phineas at once perceived that the note was a hostile note, written in an angry spirit — written to one whom the writer did not at the moment acknowledge to be his friend. This was certainly the case, whatever Lord Chiltern may have said to his sister as to his friendship for Phineas. Phineas crushed the note into his pocket, and of course determined that he would be in his rooms at the hour named.
The debate was opened by a speech from Mr Mildmay, in which that gentleman at great length and with much perspicuity explained his notion of that measure of Parliamentary Reform which he thought to be necessary. He was listened to with the greatest attention to the close — and perhaps, at the end of his speech, with more attention than usual, as there had gone abroad a rumour that the Prime Minister intended to declare that this would be the last effort of his life in that course. But, if he ever intended to utter such a pledge, his heart misgave him when the time came for uttering it. He merely said that as the management of the bill in committee would be an affair of much labour, and probably spread over many nights, he would be assisted in his work by his colleagues, and especially by his right honourable friend the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. It was then understood that Mr Gresham would take the lead should the bill go into committee — but it was understood also that no resignation of leadership had been made by Mr Mildmay.
The measure now proposed to the House was very much the same as that which had been brought forward in the last session. The existing theory of British representation was not to be changed, but the actual practice was to be brought nearer to the ideal theory. The ideas of manhood suffrage, and of electoral districts, were to be as far as ever removed from the bulwarks of the British Constitution. There were to be counties with agricultural constituencies, purposely arranged to be purely agricultural, whenever the nature of the counties would admit of its being so. No artificer at Reform, let him be Conservative or Liberal, can make Middlesex or Lancashire agricultural; but Wiltshire and Suffolk were to be preserved inviolable to the plough — and the apples of Devonshire were still to have their sway. Every town in the three kingdoms with a certain population was to have two members. But here there was much room for cavil — as all men knew would be the case. Who shall say what is a town, or where shall be its limits? Bits of counties might be borrowed, so as to lessen the Conservatism of the county without endangering the Liberalism of the borough. And then there were the boroughs with one member — and then the groups of little boroughs. In the discussion of any such arrangement how easy is the picking of holes; how impossible the fabrication of a garment that shall be impervious to such picking! Then again there was that great question of the ballot. On that there was to be no mistake. Mr Mildmay again pledged himself to disappear from the Treasury bench should any motion, clause, or resolution be carried by that House in favour of the ballot. He spoke for three hours, and then left the carcass of his bill to be fought for by the opposing armies.
No reader of these pages will desire that the speeches in the debate should be even indicated. It soon became known that the Conservatives would not divide the House against the second reading of the bill. They declared, however, very plainly their intention of so altering the clauses of the bill in committee — or at least of attempting so to do — as to make the bill their bill, rather than the bill of their opponents. To this Mr Palliser replied that as long as nothing vital was touched, the Government would only be too happy to oblige their friends opposite. If anything vital were touched, the Government could only fall back upon their friends on that side. And in this way men were very civil to each other. But Mr Turnbull, who opened the debate on the Tuesday, thundered out an assurance to gods and men that he would divide the House on the second reading of the bill itself. He did not doubt but that there were many good men and true to go with him into the lobby, but into the lobby he would go if he had no more than a single friend to support him. And he warned the Sovereign, and he warned the House, and he warned the people of England, that the measure of Reform now proposed by a so-called liberal Minister was a measure prepared in concert with the ancient enemies of the people. He was very loud, very angry, and quite successful in hallooing down sundry attempts which were made to interrupt him. “I find”, he said, that there are many members here who do not know me yet — young members, probably, who are green from the waste lands and roadsides of private life. They will know me soon, and then, may be, there will be less of this foolish noise, less of this elongation of unnecessary necks. Our Rome must be aroused to a sense of its danger by other voices than these.” He was called to order, but it was ruled that he had not been out of order — and he was very triumphant. Mr Monk answered him, and it was declared afterwards that Mr Monk’s speech was one of the finest pieces of oratory that had ever been uttered in that House. He made one remark personal to Mr Turnbull. “I quite agreed with the right honourable gentleman in the chair,” he said, “when he declared that the honourable member was not out of order just now. We all of us agree with him always on such points. The rules of our House have been laid down with the utmost latitude, so that the course of our debates may not be frivolously or too easily interrupted. But a member may be so in order as to incur the displeasure of the House, and to merit the reproaches of his countrymen.” This little duel gave great life to the debate; but it was said that those two great Reformers, Mr Turnbull and Mr Monk, could never again meet as friends.
In the course of the debate on Tuesday, Phineas got upon his legs. The reader, I trust, will remember that hitherto he had failed altogether as a speaker. On one occasion he had lacked even the spirit to use and deliver an oration which he had prepared. On a second occasion he had broken down — woefully, and past all redemption, as said those who were not his friends — unfortunately, but not past redemption, as said those who were his true friends. After that once again he had arisen and said a few words which had called for no remark, and had been spoken as though he were in the habit of addressing the House daily. It may be doubted whether there were half a dozen men now present who recognised the fact that this man, who was so well known to so many of them, was now about to make another attempt at a first speech. Phineas himself diligently attempted to forget that such was the case. He had prepared for himself a few headings of what he intended to say, and on one or two points had arranged his words. His hope was that even though he should forget the words, he might still be able to cling to the thread of his discourse. When he found himself again upon his legs amidst those crowded seats, for a few moments there came upon him that old sensation of awe. Again things grew dim before his eyes, and again he hardly knew at which end of that long chamber the Speaker was sitting. But there arose within him a sudden courage, as soon as the sound of his own voice in that room had made itself intimate to his ear; and after the first few sentences, all fear, all awe, was gone from him. When he read his speech in the report afterwards, he found that he had strayed very wide of his intended course, but he had strayed without tumbling into ditches, or falling into sunken pits. He had spoken much from Mr Monk’s letter, but had had the grace to acknowledge whence had come his inspiration. He hardly knew, however, whether he had failed again or not, till Barrington Erle came up to him as they were leaving the House, with his old easy pressing manner. “So you have got into form at last,” he said. “I always thought that it would come. I never for a moment believed but that it would come sooner or later.” Phineas Finn answered not a word; but he went home and lay awake all night triumphant. The verdict of Barrington Erle sufficed to assure him that he had succeeded.
Phineas, when he woke, had two matters to occupy his mind — his success of the previous night, and his coming interview with Lord Chiltern. He stayed at home the whole morning, knowing that nothing could be done before the hour Lord Chiltern had named for his visit. He read every word of the debate, studiously postponing the perusal of his own speech till he should come to it in due order. And then he wrote to his father, commencing his letter as though his writing had no reference to the affairs of the previous night. But he soon found himself compelled to break into some mention of it. “I send you a Times”, he said, “in order that you may see that I have had my finger in the pie. I have hitherto abstained from putting myself forward in the House, partly through a base fear for which I despise myself, and partly through a feeling of prudence that a man of my age should not be in a hurry to gather laurels. This is literally true. There has been the fear, and there has been the prudence. My wonder is, that I have not incurred more contempt from others because I have been a coward. People have been so kind to me that I must suppose them to have judged me more leniently than I have judged myself.” Then, as he was putting up the paper, he looked again at his own speech, and of course read every word of it once more. As he did so it occurred to him that the reporters had been more than courteous to him. The man who had followed him had been, he thought, at any rate as long-winded as himself; but to this orator less than half a column had been granted. To him had been granted ten lines in big type, and after that a whole column and a half. Let Lord Chiltern come and do his worst!
When it wanted but twenty minutes to one, and he was beginning to think in what way he had better answer the half-mad lord, should the lord in his wrath be very mad, there came to him a note by the hand of some messenger. He knew at once that it was from Lady Laura, and opened it in hot haste. It was as follows:
DEAR MR FINN,
We are all talking about your speech. My father was in the gallery and heard it — and said that he had to thank me for sending you to Loughton. That made me very happy. Mr Kennedy declares that you were eloquent, but too short. That coming from him is praise indeed, I have seen Barrington, who takes pride to himself that you are his political child. Violet says that it is the only speech she ever read. I was there, and was delighted. I was sure that it was in you to do it.
Yours,
L.K.
“I suppose we shall see you after the House is up, but I write this as I shall barely have an opportunity of speaking to you then. I shall be in Portman Square, not at home, from six till seven.”
The moment in which Phineas refolded this note and put it into his breast coat-pocket was, I think, the happiest of his life. Then, before he had withdrawn his hand from his breast, he remembered that what was now about to take place between him and Lord Chiltern would probably be the means of separating him altogether from Lady Laura and her family. Nay, might it not render it necessary that he should abandon the seat in Parliament which had been conferred upon him by the personal kindness of Lord Brentford? Let that be as it might. One thing was clear to him. He would not abandon Violet Effingham till he should be desired to do so in the plainest language by Violet Effingham herself. Looking at his watch he saw that it was one o’clock, and at that moment Lord Chiltern was announced.
Phineas went forward immediately with his hand out to meet his visitor. “Chiltern,” he said, I am very glad to see you.” But Lord Chiltern did not take his hand. Passing on to the table, with his hat still on his head, and with a dark scowl upon his brow, the young lord stood for a few moments perfectly silent. Then he chucked a letter across the table to the spot at which Phineas was standing. Phineas, taking up the letter, perceived that it was that which he, in his great attempt to be honest, had written from the inn at Loughton. “It is my own letter to you,” he said.
“Yes; it is your letter to me. I received it oddly enough together with your own note at Moroni’s — on Monday morning. It has been round the world, I suppose, and reached me only then. You must withdraw it.”
“Withdraw it?”
“Yes, sir, withdraw it. As far as I can learn, without asking any question which would have committed myself for the young lady, you have not acted upon it. You have not yet done what you there threaten to do. In that you have been very wise, and there can be no difficulty in your withdrawing the letter.”
“I certainly shall not withdraw it, Lord Chiltern.”
“Do you remember — what — I once — told you — about myself and Miss Effingham?” This question he asked very slowly, pausing between the words, and looking full into the face of his rival, towards whom he had gradually come nearer. And his countenance, as he did so, was by no means pleasant. The redness of his complexion had become more ruddy than usual; he still wore his hat as though with studied insolence; his right hand was clenched; and there was that look of angry purpose in his eye which no man likes to see in the eye of an antagonist. Phineas was afraid of no violence, personal to himself; but he was afraid of — of what I may, perhaps, best call “a row”. To be tumbling over the chairs and tables with his late friend and present enemy in Mrs Bunce’s room would be most unpleasant to him. If there were to be blows he, too, must strike — and he was very averse to strike Lady Laura’s brother, Lord Brentford’s son, Violet Effingham’s friend. If need be, however, he would strike.
“I suppose I remember what you mean,” said Phineas. I think you declared that you would quarrel with any man who might presume to address Miss Effingham. Is it that to which you allude?”
“It is that,” said Lord Chiltern.
“I remember what you said very well. If nothing else was to deter me from asking Miss Effingham to be my wife, you will hardly think that that ought to have any weight. The threat had no weight.”
“It was not spoken as a threat, sir, and that you know as well as I do. It was said from a friend to a friend — as I thought then. But it is not the less true. I wonder what you can think of faith and truth and honesty of purpose when you took advantage of my absence — you, whom I had told a thousand times that I loved her better than my own soul! You stand before the world as a rising man, and I stand before the world as a man — damned. You have been chosen by my father to sit for our family borough, while I am an outcast from his house. You have Cabinet Ministers for your friends, while I have hardly a decent associate left to me in the world. But I can say of myself that I have never done anything unworthy of a gentleman, while this thing that you are doing is unworthy of the lowest man.”
“I have done nothing unworthy,” said Phineas. I wrote to you instantly when I had resolved — though it was painful to me to have to tell such a secret to anyone.”
“You wrote! Yes; when I was miles distant; weeks, months away. But I did not come here to ballyrag like an old woman. I got your letter only on Monday, and know nothing of what has occurred. Is Miss Effingham to be — your wife?” Lord Chiltern had now come quite close to Phineas, and Phineas felt that that clenched fist might be in his face in half a moment. Miss Effingham of course was not engaged to him, but it seemed to him that if he were now so to declare, such declaration would appear to have been drawn from him by fear. “I ask you,” said Lord Chiltern, “in what position you now stand towards Miss Effingham. If you are not a coward you will tell me.”
“Whether I tell you or not, you know that I am not a coward,” said Phineas.
“I shall have to try,” said Lord Chiltern. But if you please I will ask you for an answer to my question.”
Phineas paused for a moment, thinking what honesty of purpose and a high spirit would, when combined together, demand of him, and together with these requirements he felt that he was bound to join some feeling of duty towards Miss Effingham. Lord Chiltern was standing there, fiery red, with his hand still clenched, and his hat still on, waiting for his answer. “Let me have your question again”, said Phineas, “and I will answer it if I find that I can do so without loss of self-respect.”
“I ask you in what position you stand towards Miss Effingham. Mind, I do not doubt at all, but I choose to have a reply from yourself.”
“You will remember, of course, that I can only answer to the best of my belief.”
“Answer to the best of your belief.”
“I think she regards me as an intimate friend.”
“Had you said as an indifferent acquaintance, you would, I think, have been nearer the mark. But we will let that be. I presume I may understand that you have given up any idea of changing that position?”
“You may understand nothing of the kind, Lord Chiltern.”
“Why — what hope have you?”
“That is another thing. I shall not speak of that — at any rate not to you.”
“Then, sir — “ and now Lord Chiltern advanced another step and raised his hand as though he were about to put it with some form of violence on the person of his rival.
“Stop, Chiltern,” said Phineas, stepping back, so that there was some article of furniture between him and his adversary. “I do not choose that there should be a riot here.”
“What do you call a riot, sir? I believe that after all you are a poltroon. What I require of you is that you shall meet me. Will you do that?”
“You mean — to fight?”
“Yes — to fight; to fight; to fight. For what other purpose do you suppose that I can wish to meet you?” Phineas felt at the moment that the fighting of a duel would be destructive to all his political hopes. Few Englishmen fight duels in these days. They who do so are always reckoned to be fools. And a duel between him and Lord Brentford’s son must, as he thought, separate him from Violet, from Lady Laura, from Lord Brentford, and from his borough. But yet how could he refuse? “What have you to think of, sir, when such an offer as that is made to you?” said the fiery-red lord.
“I have to think whether I have courage enough to refuse to make myself an ass.”
“You say that you do not wish to have a riot. That is your way to escape what you call — a riot.”
“You want to bully me, Chiltern.”
“No, sir — I simply want this, that you should leave me where you found me, and not interfere with that which you have long known I claim as my own.”
“But it is not your own.”
“Then you can only fight me.”
“You had better send some friend to me, and I will name someone, whom he shall meet.”
“Of course I will do that if I have your promise to meet me. We can be in Belgium in an hour or two, and back again in a few more hours — that is, any one of us who may chance to be alive.”
“I will select a friend, and will tell him everything, and will then do as he bids me.”
“Yes — some old steady-going buffer. Mr Kennedy, perhaps.”
“It will certainly not be Mr Kennedy. I shall probably ask Laurence Fitzgibbon to manage for me in such an affair.”
“Perhaps you will see him at once, then, so that Colepepper may arrange with him this afternoon. And let me assure you, Mr Finn, that there will be a meeting between us after some fashion, let the ideas of your friend Mr Fitzgibbon be what they may.” Then Lord Chiltern purposed to go, but turned again as he was going. “And remember this,” he said, “my complaint is that you have been false to me — damnably false; not that you have fallen in love with this young lady or with that.” Then the fiery-red lord opened the door for himself and took his departure.
Phineas, as soon as he was alone, walked down to the House, at which there was an early sitting. As he went there was one great question which he had to settle with himself — Was there any justice in the charge made against him that he had been false to his friend? When he had thought over the matter at Saulsby, after rushing down there that he might throw himself at Violet’s feet, he had assured himself that such a letter as that which he resolved to write to Lord Chiltern, would be even chivalrous in its absolute honesty. He would tell his purpose to Lord Chiltern the moment that his purpose was formed — and would afterwards speak of Lord Chiltern behind his back as one dear friend should speak of another. Had Miss Effingham shown the slightest intention of accepting Lord Chiltern’s offer, he would have acknowledged to himself that the circumstances of his position made it impossible that he should, with honour, become his friend’s rival. But was he to be debarred for ever from getting that which he wanted because Lord Chiltern wanted it also — knowing, as he did so well, that Lord Chiltern could not get the thing which he wanted? All this had been quite sufficient for him at Saulsby. But now the charge against him that he had been false to his friend rang in his ears and made him unhappy. It certainly was true that Lord Chiltern had not given up his hopes, and that he had spoken probably more openly to Phineas respecting them than he had done to any other human being. If it was true that he had been false, then he must comply with any requisition which Lord Chiltern might make — short of voluntarily giving up the lady. He must fight if he were asked to do so, even though fighting were his ruin.
When again in the House yesterday’s scene came back upon him, and more than one man came to him congratulating him. Mr Monk took his hand and spoke a word to him. The old Premier nodded to him. Mr Gresham greeted him; and Plantagenet Palliser openly told him that he had made a good speech. How sweet would all this have been had there not been ever at this heart the remembrance of this terrible difficulty — the consciousness that he was about to be forced into an absurdity which would put an end to all this sweetness! Why was the world in England so severe against duelling? After all, as he regarded the matter now, a duel might be the best way, nay, the only way out of a difficulty. If he might only be allowed to go out with Lord Chiltern the whole thing might be arranged. If he were not shot he might carry on his suit with Miss Effingham unfettered by any impediment on that side. And if he were shot, what matter was that to any one but himself? Why should the world be so thin-skinned — so foolishly chary of human life?
Laurence Fitzgibbon did not come to the House, and Phineas looked for him at both the clubs which he frequented — leaving a note at each as he did not find him. He also left a note for him at his lodgings in Duke Street. “I must see you this evening. I shall dine at the Reform Club — pray come there.” After that, Phineas went up to Portman Square, in accordance with the instructions received from Lady Laura.
There he saw Violet Effingham, meeting her for the first time since he had parted from her on the great steps at Saulsby. Of course he spoke to her, and of course she was gracious to him. But her graciousness was only a smile and his speech was only a word. There were many in the room, but not enough to make privacy possible — as it becomes possible at a crowded evening meeting. Lord Brentford was there, and the Bonteens, and Barrington Erle, and Lady Glencora Palliser, and Lord Cantrip with his young wife. It was manifestly a meeting of Liberals, semi-social and semi-political — so arranged that ladies might feel that some interest in politics was allowed to them, and perhaps some influence also. Afterwards Mr Palliser himself came in. Phineas, however, was most struck by finding that Laurence Fitzgibbon was there, and that Mr kennedy was not. In regard to Mr Kennedy, he was quite sure that had such a meeting taken place before Lady Laura’s marriage, Mr Kennedy would have been present. “I must speak to you as we go away,” said Phineas, whispering a word into Fitzgibbon’s ear. “I have been leaving notes for you all about the town.” “Not a duel, I hope,” said Fitzgibbon.
How pleasant it was — that meeting; or would have been had there not been that nightmare on his breast! They all talked as though there were perfect accord between them and perfect confidence. There were there great men — Cabinet Ministers, and beautiful women — the wives and daughters of some of England’s highest nobles. And Phineas Finn, throwing back, now and again, a thought to Killaloe, found himself among them as one of themselves. How could any Mr Low say that he was wrong?
On a sofa near to him, so that he could almost touch her foot with his, was sitting Violet Effingham, and as he leaned over from his chair discussing some point in Mr Mildmay’s bill with that most inveterate politician, Lady Glencora, Violet looked into his face and smiled. Oh heavens! If Lord Chiltern and he might only toss up as to which of them should go to Patagonia and remain there for the next ten years, and which should have Violet Effingham for a wife in London!
“Come along, Phineas, if you mean to come,” said Laurence Fitzgibbon. Phineas was of course bound to go, though Lady Glencora was still talking Radicalism, and Violet Effingham was still smiling ineffably.
“I knew it was a duel — bedad I did,” said Laurence Fitzgibbon, standing at the corner of Orchard Street and Oxford Street, when Phineas had half told his story. “I was sure of it from the tone of your voice, my boy. We mustn’t let it come off that’s all — not if we can help it.” Then Phineas was allowed to proceed and finish his story. “I don’t see any way out of it; I don’t, indeed,” said Laurence. By this time Phineas had come to think that the duel was in very truth the best way out of the difficulty. It was a bad way out, but then it was a way — and he could not see any other. “As for ill-treating him, that’s nonsense,” said Laurence. “What are the girls to do, if one fellow mayn’t come on as soon as another fellow is down? But then, you see, a fellow never knows when he’s down himself, and therefore he thinks that he’s ill-used. I’ll tell you what now. I shouldn’t wonder if we couldn’t do it on the sly — unless one of you is stupid enough to hit the other in an awkward place. If you are certain of your hand now, the right shoulder is the best spot.” Phineas felt very certain that he would not hit Lord Chiltern in an awkward place, although he was by no means sure of his hand. Let come what might, he would not aim at his adversary. But of this he had thought it proper to say nothing to Laurence Fitzgibbon.
And the duel did come off on the sly. The meeting in the drawing-room in Portman Square, of which mention was made in the last chapter, took place on a Wednesday afternoon. On the Thursday, Friday, Monday, and Tuesday following, the great debate on Mr Mildmay’s bill was continued, and at three on the Tuesday night the House divided. There was a majority in favour of the Ministers, not large enough to permit them to claim a triumph for their party, or even an ovation for themselves; but still sufficient to enable them to send their bill into committee. Mr Daubeny and Mr Turnbull had again joined their forces together in opposition to the ministerial measure. On the Thursday Phineas had shown himself in the House, but during the remainder of this interesting period he was absent from his place, nor was he seen at the clubs, nor did any man know of his whereabouts. I think that Lady Laura Kennedy was the first to miss him with any real sense of his absence. She would now go to Portman Square on the afternoon of every Sunday — at which time her husband was attending the second service of his church — and there she would receive those whom she called her father’s guests. But as her father was never there on the Sundays, and as these gatherings had been created by herself, the reader will probably think that she was obeying her husband’s behests in regard to the Sabbath after a very indifferent fashion. The reader may be quite sure, however, that Mr Kennedy knew well what was being done in Portman Square. Whatever might be Lady Laura’s faults, she did not commit the fault of disobeying her husband in secret. There were, probably, a few words on the subject; but we need not go very closely into that matter at the present moment.
On the Sunday which afforded some rest in the middle of the great Reform debate Lady Laura asked for Mr Finn, and no one could answer her question. And then it was remembered that Laurence Fitzgibbon was also absent. Barrington Erle knew nothing of Phineas — had heard nothing; but was able to say that Fitzgibbon had been with Mr Ratler, the patronage secretary and liberal whip, early on Thursday, expressing his intention of absenting himself for two days. Mr Ratler had been wroth, bidding him remain at his duty, and pointing out to him the great importance of the moment. Then Barrington Erle quoted Laurence Fitzgibbon’s reply. “My boy,” said Laurence to poor Ratler, “the path of duty leads but to the grave. All the same; I’ll be in at the death, Ratler, my boy, as sure as the sun’s in heaven.” Not ten minutes after the telling of this little story, Fitzgibbon entered the room in Portman Square, and Lady Laura at once asked him after Phineas. “Bedad, Lady Laura, I have been out of town myself for two days, and I know nothing.”
“Mr Finn has not been with you, then?”
“With me! No — not with me. I had a job of business of my own which took me over to Paris. And has Phinny fled too? Poor Ratler! I shouldn’t wonder if it isn’t an asylum he’s in before the session is over.”
Laurence Fitzgibbon certainly possessed the rare accomplishment of telling a lie with a good grace. Had any man called him a liar he would have considered himself to be not only insulted, but injured also. He believed himself to be a man of truth. There were, however, in his estimation certain subjects on which a man might depart as wide as the poles are asunder from truth without subjecting himself to any ignominy for falsehood. In dealing with a tradesman as to his debts, or with a rival as to a lady, or with any man or woman in defence of a lady’s character, or in any such matter as that of a duel, Laurence believed that a gentleman was bound to lie, and that he would be no gentleman if he hesitated to do so. Not the slightest prick of conscience disturbed him when he told Lady Laura that he had been in Paris, and that he knew nothing of Phineas Finn. But, in truth, during the last day or two he had been in Flanders, and not in Paris, and had stood as second with his friend Phineas on the sands at Blankenberg, a little fishing town some twelve miles distant from Bruges, and had left his friend since that at an hotel at Ostend — with a wound just under the shoulder, from which a bullet had been extracted.
The manner of the meeting had been in this wise. Captain Colepepper and Laurence Fitzgibbon had held their meeting, and at this meeting Laurence had taken certain standing-ground on behalf of his friend, and in obedience to his friend’s positive instruction — which was this, that his friend could not abandon his right of addressing the young lady, should he hereafter ever think fit to do so. Let that be granted, and Laurence would do anything. But then that could not be granted, and Laurence could only shrug his shoulders. Nor would Laurence admit that his friend had been false. “The question lies in a nutshell,” said Laurence, with that sweet Connaught brogue which always came to him when he desired to be effective — “here it is. One gentleman tells another that he’s sweet upon a young lady, but that the young lady has refused him, and always will refuse him, for ever and ever. That’s the truth anyhow. Is the second gentleman bound by that not to address the young lady? I say he is not bound. It’d be a d — d hard tratement, Captain Colepepper, if a man’s mouth and all the ardent affections of his heart were to be stopped in that manner! By Jases, I don’t know who’d like to be the friend of any man if that’s to be the way of it.”
Captain Colepepper was not very good at an argument. “I think they’d better see each other,” said Colepepper, pulling his thick grey moustache.
“If you choose to have it so, so be it. But I think it the hardest thing in the world — I do indeed.” Then they put their heads together in the most friendly way, and declared that the affair should, if possible, be kept private.
On the Thursday night Lord Chiltern and Captain Colepepper went over by Calais and Lille to Bruges. Laurence Fitzgibbon, with his friend Dr O’Shaughnessy, crossed by the direct boat from Dover to Ostend. Phineas went to Ostend by Dover and Calais, but he took the day route on Friday. It had all been arranged among them, so that there might be no suspicion as to the job in hand. Even O’Shaughnessy and Laurence Fitzgibbon had left London by separate trains. They met on the sands at Blankenberg about nine o’clock on the Saturday morning, having reached that village in different vehicles from Ostend and Bruges, and had met quite unobserved amidst the sand-heaps. But one shot had been exchanged, and Phineas had been wounded in the right shoulder. He had proposed to exchange another shot with his left hand, declaring his capability of shooting quite as well with the left as with the right; but to this both Colepepper and Fitzgibbon had objected. Lord Chiltern had offered to shake hands with his late friend in a true spirit of friendship, if only his late friend would say that he did not intend to prosecute his suit with the young lady. In all these disputes the young lady’s name was never mentioned. Phineas indeed had not once named Violet to Fitzgibbon, speaking of her always as the lady in question; and though Laurence correctly surmised the identity of the young lady, he never hinted that he had even guessed her name. I doubt whether Lord Chiltern had been so wary when alone with Captain Colepepper; but then Lord Chiltern was, when he spoke at all, a very plain-spoken man. Of course his lordship’s late friend Phineas would give no such pledge, and therefore Lord Chiltern moved off the ground and back to Blankenberg and Bruges, and into Brussels, in still living enmity with our hero. Laurence and the doctor took Phineas back to Ostend, and though the bullet was then in his shoulder, Phineas made his way through Blankenberg after such a fashion that no one there knew what had occurred. Not a living soul, except the five concerned, was at that time aware that a duel had been fought among the sand-hills.
Laurence Fitzgibbon made his way to Dover by the Saturday night’s boat, and was able to show himself in Portman Square on the Sunday. “Know anything about Phinny Finn?” he said afterwards to Barrington Erle, in answer to an inquiry from that anxious gentleman. “Not a word! I think you’d better send the towncrier round after him.” Barrington, however, did not feel quite so well assured of Fitzgibbon’s truth as Lady Laura had done.
Dr O’Shaughnessy remained during the Sunday and Monday at Ostend with his patient, and the people at the inn only knew that Mr Finn had sprained his shoulder badly; and on the Tuesday they came back to London again, via Calais and Dover. No bone had been broken, and Phineas, though his shoulder was very painful, bore the journey well. O’Shaughnessy had received a telegram on the Monday, telling him that the division would certainly take place on the Tuesday — and on the Tuesday, at about ten in the evening, Phineas went down to the House. “By — you’re here,” said Ratler, taking hold of him with an affection that was too warm. “Yes; I’m here,” said Phineas, wincing in agony; “but be a little careful, there’s a good fellow. I’ve been down in Kent and put my arm out.”
“Put your arm out, have you?” said Ratler, observing the sling for the first time. “I’m sorry for that. But you’ll stop and vote?”
“Yes — I’ll stop and vote. I’ve come up for the purpose, But I hope it won’t be very late.”
“There are both Daubeny and Gresham to speak yet, and at least three others. I don’t suppose it will be much before three. But you’re all right now. You can go down and smoke if you like!” In this way Phineas Finn spoke in the debate, and heard the end of it, voting for his party, and fought his duel with Lord Chiltern in the middle of it.
He did go and sit on a well-cushioned bench in the smoking-room, and then was interrogated by many of his friends as to his mysterious absence. He had, he said, been down in Kent, and had had an accident with his arm, by which he had been confined. When this questioner and that perceived that there was some little mystery in the matter, the questioners did not push their questions, but simply entertained their own surmises. One indiscreet questioner, however, did trouble Phineas sorely, declaring that there must have been some affair in which a woman had had a part, and asking after the young lady of Kent. This indiscreet questioner was Laurence Fitzgibbon, who, as Phineas thought, carried his spirit of intrigue a little too far. Phineas stayed and voted, and then he went painfully home to his lodgings.
How singular would it be if this affair of the duel should pass away, and no one be a bit the wiser but those four men who had been with him on the sands at Blankenberg! Again he wondered at his own luck. He had told himself that a duel with Lord Chiltern must create a quarrel between him and Lord Chiltern’s relations, and also between him and Violet Effingham; that it must banish him from his comfortable seat for Loughton, and ruin him in regard to his political prospects. And now he had fought his duel, and was back in town — and the thing seemed to have been a thing of nothing. He had not as yet seen Lady Laura or Violet, but he had no doubt but they both were as much in the dark as other people. The day might arrive, he thought, on which it would be pleasant for him to tell Violet Effingham what had occurred, but that day had not come as yet. Whither Lord Chiltern had gone, or what Lord Chiltern intended to do, he had not any idea; but he imagined that he should soon hear something of her brother from Lady Laura. That Lord Chiltern should say a word to Lady Laura of what had occurred — or to any other person in the world — he did not in the least suspect. There could be no man more likely to be reticent in such matters than Lord Chiltern — or more sure to be guided by an almost exaggerated sense of what honour required of him. Nor did he doubt the discretion of his friend Fitzgibbon — if only his friend might not damage the secret by being too discreet. Of the silence of the doctor and the captain he was by no means equally sure; but even though they should gossip, the gossiping would take so long a time in oozing out and becoming recognised information, as to have lost much of its power for injuring him. Were Lady Laura to hear at this moment that he had been over to Belgium, and had fought a duel with Lord Chiltern respecting Violet, she would probably feel herself obliged to quarrel with him; but no such obligation would rest on her, if in the course of six or nine months she should gradually have become aware that such an encounter had taken place.
Lord Chiltern, during their interview at the rooms in Great Marlborough Street, had said a word to him about the seat in Parliament — had expressed some opinion that as he, Phineas Finn, was interfering with the views of the Standish family in regard to Miss Effingham, he ought not to keep the Standish seat, which had been conferred upon him in ignorance of any such intended interference. Phineas, as he thought of this, could not remember Lord Chiltern’s words, but there was present to him an idea that such had been their purport. Was he bound, in circumstances as they now existed, to give up Loughton? He made up his mind that he was not so bound unless Lord Chiltern should demand from him that he should do so; but, nevertheless, he was uneasy in his position. It was quite true that the seat now was his for this session by all parliamentary law, even though the electors themselves might wish to be rid of him, and that Lord Brentford could not even open his mouth upon the matter in a tone more loud than that of a whisper. But Phineas, feeling that he had consented to accept the favour of a corrupt seat from Lord Brentford, felt also that he was bound to give up the spoil if it were demanded from him. If it were demanded from him, either by the father or the son, it should be given up at once.
On the following morning he found a leading article in the People’s Banner devoted solely to himself. “During the late debate,” — so ran a passage in the leading article — “Mr Finn, Lord Brentford’s Irish nominee for his pocket-borough at Loughton, did at last manage to stand on his legs and open his mouth. If we are not mistaken, this is Mr Finn’s third session in Parliament, and hitherto he has been unable to articulate three sentences, though he has on more than one occasion made the attempt. For what special merit this young man has been selected for aristocratic patronage we do not know — but that there must be some merit recognisable by aristocratic eyes, we surmise. Three years ago he was a raw young Irishman, living in London as Irishmen only know how to live, earning nothing, and apparently without means; and then suddenly he bursts out as a member of Parliament and as the friend of Cabinet Ministers. The possession of one good gift must be acceded to the honourable member for Loughton — he is a handsome young man, and looks to be as strong as a coal-porter. Can it be that his promotion has sprung from this? Be this as it may, we should like to know where he has been during his late mysterious absence from Parliament, and in what way he came by the wound in his arm. Even handsome young members of Parliament, fêted by titled ladies and their rich lords, are amenable to the laws — to the laws of this country, and to the laws of any other which it may suit them to visit for a while!”
“Infamous scoundrel!” said Phineas to himself, as he read this. “Vile, low, disreputable blackguard!” It was clear enough, however, that Quintus Slide had found out something of his secret. If so, his only hope would rest on the fact that his friends were not likely to see the columns of the People’s Banner.
By the time that Mr Mildmay’s great bill was going into committee Phineas was able to move about London in comfort — with his arm, however, still in a sling. There had been nothing more about him and his wound in the People’s Banner, and he was beginning to hope that that nuisance would also be allowed to die away. He had seen Lady Laura — having dined in Grosvenor Place, where he had been petted to his heart’s content. His dinner had been cut up for him, and his wound had been treated with the tenderest sympathy. And, singular to say, no questions were asked. He had been to Kent and had come by an accident. No more than that was told, and his dear sympathising friends were content to receive so much information, and to ask for no more. But he had not as yet seen Violet Effingham, and he was beginning to think that this romance about Violet might as well be brought to a close. He had not, however, as yet been able to go into crowded rooms, and unless he went out to large parties he could not be sure that he would meet Miss Effingham.
At last he resolved that he would tell Lady Laura the whole truth — not the truth about the duel, but the truth about Violet Effingham, and ask for her assistance. When making this resolution, I think that he must have forgotten much that he had learned of his friend’s character; and by making it, I think that he showed also that he had not learned as much as his opportunities might have taught him. He knew Lady Laura’s obstinacy of purpose, he knew her devotion to her brother, and he knew also how desirous she had been that her brother should win Violet Effingham for himself. This knowledge should, I think, have sufficed to show him how improbable it was that Lady Laura should assist him in his enterprise. But beyond all this was the fact — a fact as to the consequences of which Phineas himself was entirely blind, beautifully ignorant — that Lady Laura had once condescended to love himself. Nay — she had gone farther than this, and had ventured to tell him, even after her marriage, that the remembrance of some feeling that had once dwelt in her heart in regard to him was still a danger to her. She had warned him from Loughlinter, and then had received him in London — and now he selected her as his confidante in this love affair! Had he not been beautifully ignorant and most modestly blind, he would surely have placed his confidence elsewhere.
It was not that Lady Laura Kennedy ever confessed to herself the existence of a vicious passion. She had, indeed, learned to tell herself that she could not love her husband; and once, in the excitement of such silent announcements to herself, she had asked herself whether her heart was quite a blank, and had answered herself by desiring Phineas Finn to absent himself from Loughlinter. During all the subsequent winter she had scourged herself inwardly for her own imprudence, her quite unnecessary folly in so doing. What! could not she, Laura Standish, who from her earliest years of girlish womanhood had resolved that she would use the world as men use it, and not as women do — could not she have felt the slight shock of a passing tenderness for a handsome youth without allowing the feeling to be a rock before her big enough and sharp enough for the destruction of her entire barque? Could not she command, if not her heart, at any rate her mind, so that she might safely assure herself that, whether this man or any man was here or there, her course would be unaltered? What though Phineas Finn had been in the same house with her throughout all the winter, could not she have so lived with him on terms of friendship, that every deed and word and look of her friendship might have been open to her husband — or open to all the world? She could have done so. She told herself that that was not — need not have been her great calamity. Whether she could endure the dull, monotonous control of her slow but imperious lord — or whether she must not rather tell him that it was not to be endured — that was her trouble. So she told herself, and again admitted Phineas to her intimacy in London. But, nevertheless, Phineas, had he not been beautifully ignorant and most blind to his own achievements, would not have expected from Lady Laura Kennedy assistance with Miss Violet Effingham.
Phineas knew when to find Lady Laura alone, and he came upon her one day at the favourable hour. The two first clauses of the bill had been passed after twenty fights and endless divisions. Two points had been settled, as to which, however, Mr Gresham had been driven to give way so far and to yield so much, that men declared that such a bill as the Government could consent to call its own could never be passed by that Parliament in that session. Immediately on his entrance into her room Lady Laura began about the third clause. Would the House let Mr Gresham have his way about the —? Phineas stopped her at once. “My dear friend,” he said, I have come to you in a private trouble, and I want you to drop politics for half an hour. I have come to you for help.”
“A private trouble, Mr Finn! Is it serious?”
“It is very serious — but it is no trouble of the kind of which you are thinking. But it is serious enough to take up every thought.”
“Can I help you?”
“Indeed you can. Whether you will or no is a different thing.”
“I would help you in anything in my power, Mr Finn. Do you not know it?”
“You have been very kind to me!”
“And so would Mr Kennedy.”
“Mr Kennedy cannot help me here.”
“What is it, Mr Finn?”
“I suppose I may as well tell you at once — in plain language, I do not know how to put my story into words that shall fit it. I love Violet Effingham. Will you help me to win her to be my wife?”
“You love Violet Effingham!” said Lady Laura. And as she spoke the look of her countenance towards him was so changed that he became at once aware that from her no assistance might be expected. His eyes were not opened in any degree to the second reason above given for Lady Laura’s opposition to his wishes, but he instantly perceived that she would still cling to that destination of Violet’s hand which had for years past been the favourite scheme of her life. “Have you not always known, Mr Finn, what have been our hopes for Violet?”
Phineas, though he had perceived his mistake, felt that he must go on with his cause. Lady Laura must know his wishes sooner or later, and it was as well that she should learn them in this way as in any other. “Yes — but I have known also, from your brother’s own lips — and indeed from yours also, Lady Laura — that Chiltern has been three times refused by Miss Effingham.”
“What does that matter? Do men never ask more than three times?”
“And must I be debarred for ever while he prosecutes a hopeless suit?”
“Yes — you of all men.”
“Why so, Lady Laura?”
“Because in this matter you have been his chosen friend — and mine. We have told you everything, trusting to you. We have believed in your honour. We have thought that with you, at any rate, we were safe.” These words were very bitter to Phineas, and yet when he had written his letter at Loughton, he had intended to be so perfectly honest, chivalrously honest! Now Lady Laura spoke to him and looked at him as though he had been most basely false — most untrue to that noble friendship which had been lavished upon him by all her family. He felt that he would become the prey of her most injurious thoughts unless he could fully explain his ideas, and he felt, also, that the circumstances did not admit of his explaining them. He could not take up the argument on Violet’s side, and show how unfair it would be to her that she should be debarred from the homage due to her by any man who really loved her, because Lord Chiltern chose to think that he still had a claim — or at any rate a chance. And Phineas knew well of himself — or thought that he knew well — that he would not have interfered had there been any chance for Lord Chiltern. Lord Chiltern had himself told him more than once that there was no such chance. How was he to explain all this to Lady Laura? “Mr Finn,” said Lady Laura, I can hardly believe this of you, even when you tell it me yourself.”
“Listen to me, Lady Laura, for a moment.”
“Certainly, I will listen. But that you should come to me for assistance! I cannot understand it. Men sometimes become harder than stones.”
“I do not think that I am hard.” Poor blind fool! He was still thinking only of Violet, and of the accusation made against him that he was untrue to his friendship for Lord Chiltern. Of that other accusation which could not be expressed in open words he understood nothing — nothing at all as yet.
“Hard and false — capable of receiving no impression beyond the outside husk of the heart.”
“Oh, Lady Laura, do not say that. If you could only know how true I am in my affection for you all.”
“And how do you show it? — by coming in between Oswald and the only means that are open to us of reconciling him to his father — means that have been explained to you exactly as though you had been one of ourselves. Oswald has treated you as a brother in the matter, telling you everything, and this is the way you would repay him for his confidence!”
“Can I help it, that I have learnt to love this girl?”
“Yes, sir — you can help it. What if she had been Oswald’s wife — would you have loved her then? Do you speak of loving a woman as if it were an affair of fate, over which you have no control? I doubt whether your passions are so strong as that. You had better put aside your love for Miss Effingham. I feel assured that it will never hurt you.” Then some remembrance of what had passed between him and Lady Laura Standish near the falls of the Linter, when he first visited Scotland, came across his mind. “Believe me,” she said with a smile, “this little wound in your heart will soon be cured.”
He stood silent before her, looking away from her, thinking over it all. He certainly had believed himself to be violently in love with Lady Laura, and yet when he had just now entered her drawing-room, he had almost forgotten that there had been such a passage in his life. And he had believed that she had forgotten it — even though she had counselled him not to come to Loughlinter within the last nine months! He had been a boy then, and had not known himself — but now he was a man, and was proud of the intensity of his love. There came upon him some passing throb of pain from his shoulder, reminding him of the duel, and he was proud also of that. He had been willing to risk everything — life, prospects, and position — sooner than abandon the slight hope which was his of possessing Violet Effingham. And now he was told that this wound in his heart would soon be cured, and was told so by a woman to whom he had once sung a song of another passion. It is very hard to answer a woman in such circumstances, because her womanhood gives her so strong a ground of vantage! Lady Laura might venture to throw in his teeth the fickleness of his heart, but he could not in reply tell her that to change a love was better than to marry without love — that to be capable of such a change showed no such inferiority of nature as did the capacity for such a marriage. She could hit him with her argument; but he could only remember his, and think how violent might be the blow he could inflict — if it were not that she were a woman, and therefore guarded. “You will not help me then?” he said, when they had both been silent for a while.
“Help you? How should I help you?”
“I wanted no other help than this — that I might have had an opportunity of meeting Violet here, and of getting from her some answer.”
“Has the question then never been asked already?” said Lady Laura. To this Phineas made no immediate reply. There was no reason why he should show his whole hand to an adversary.
“Why do you not go to Lady Baldock’s house?” continued Lady Laura. “You are admitted there. You know Lady Baldock. Go and ask her to stand your friend with her niece. See what she will say to you. As far as I understand these matters, that is the fair, honourable, open way in which gentlemen are wont to make their overtures.”
“I would make mine to none but to herself,” said Phineas.
“Then why have you made it to me, sir?” demanded Lady Laura.
“I have come to you as I would to my sister.”
“Your sister? Psha! I am not your sister, Mr Finn. Nor, were I so, should I fail to remember that I have a dearer brother to whom my faith is pledged. Look here. Within the last three weeks Oswald has sacrificed everything to his father, because he was determined that Mr Kennedy should have the money which he thought was due to my husband. He has enabled my father to do what he will with Saulsby. Papa will never hurt him — I know that. Hard as papa is with him, he will never hurt Oswald’s future position. Papa is too proud to do that. Violet has heard what Oswald has done; and now that he has nothing of his own to offer her for the future but his bare title, now that he has given papa power to do what he will with the property, I believe that she would accept him instantly. That is her disposition.”
Phineas again paused a moment before he replied. “Let him try,” he said.
“He is away — in Brussels.”
“Send to him, and bid him return. I will be patient, Lady Laura. Let him come and try, and I will bide my time. I confess that I have no right to interfere with him if there be a chance for him. If there is no chance, my right is as good as that of any other.”
There was something in this which made Lady Laura feel that she could not maintain her hostility against this man on behalf of her brother — and yet she could not force herself to be other than hostile to him. Her heart was sore, and it was he that had made it sore. She had lectured herself, schooling herself with mental sackcloth and ashes, rebuking herself with heaviest censures from day to day, because she had found herself to be in danger of regarding this man with a perilous love; and she had been constant in this work of penance till she had been able to assure herself that the sackcloth and ashes had done their work, and that the danger was past. “I like him still and love him well,” she had said to herself with something almost of triumph, “but I have ceased to think of him as one who might have been my lover.” And yet she was now sick and sore, almost beside herself with the agony of the wound, because this man whom she had been able to throw aside from her heart had also been able so to throw her aside. And she felt herself constrained to rebuke him with what bitterest words she might use. She had felt it easy to do this at first, on her brother’s score. She had accused him of treachery to his friendship — both as to Oswald and as to herself. On that she could say cutting words without subjecting herself to suspicion even from herself. But now this power was taken away from her, and still she wished to wound him. She desired to taunt him with his old fickleness, and yet to subject herself to no imputation. “Your right!” she said. What gives you any right in the matter?”
“Simply the right of a fair field, and no favour.”
“And yet you come to me for favour — to me, because I am her friend. You cannot win her yourself, and think I may help you! I do not believe in your love for her. There! If there were no other reason, and I could help you, I would not, because I think your heart is a sham heart. She is pretty, and has money — ”
“Lady Laura!”
“She is pretty, and has money, and is the fashion. I do not wonder that you should wish to have her. But, Mr Finn, I believe that Oswald really loves her — and that you do not. His nature is deeper than yours.”
He understood it all now as he listened to the tone of her voice, and looked into the lines of her face. There was written there plainly enough that spretae injuria formae of which she herself was conscious, but only conscious. Even his eyes, blind as he had been, were opened — and he knew that he had been a fool.
“I am sorry that I came to you,” he said.
“It would have been better that you should not have done so,” she replied.
“And yet perhaps it is well that there should be no misunderstanding between us.”
“Of course I must tell my brother.”
He paused but for a moment, and then he answered her with a sharp voice, “He has been told.”
“And who told him?”
“I did. I wrote to him the moment that I knew my own mind. I owed it to him to do so. But my letter missed him, and he only learned it the other day.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“Yes — I have seen him.”
“And what did he say? How did he take it? Did he bear it from you quietly?”
“No, indeed — and Phineas smiled as he spoke.
“Tell me, Mr Finn; what happened? What is to be done?”
“Nothing is to be done. Everything has been done. I may as well tell you all. I am sure that for the sake of me, as well as of your brother, you will keep our secret. He required that I should either give up my suit, or that I should — fight him. As I could not comply with the one request, I found myself bound to comply with the other.”
“And there has been a duel?”
“Yes — there has been a duel. We went over to Belgium, and it was soon settled. He wounded me here in the arm.”
“Suppose you had killed him, Mr Finn?”
“That, Lady Laura, would have been a misfortune so terrible that I was bound to prevent it.” Then he paused again, regretting what he had said. “You have surprised me, Lady Laura, into an answer that I should not have made. I may be sure — may I not — that my words will not go beyond yourself?”
“Yes — you may be sure of that.” This she said plaintively, with a tone of voice and demeanour of body altogether different from that which she lately bore. Neither of them knew what was taking place between them; but she was, in truth, gradually submitting herself again to this man’s influence. Though she rebuked him at every turn for what he said, for what he had done, for what he proposed to do, still she could not teach herself to despise him, or even to cease to love him for any part of it. She knew it all now — except that word or two which had passed between Violet and Phineas in the rides of Saulsby Park. But she suspected something even of that, feeling sure that the only matter on which Phineas would say nothing would be that of his own success — if success there had been.
“And so you and Oswald have quarrelled, and there has been a duel. That is why you were away?”
“That is why I was away.”
“How wrong of you — how very wrong — Had he been — killed, how could you have looked us in the face again?”
“I could not have looked you in the face again.”
“But that is over now. And were you friends afterwards?”
“No — we did not part as friends. Having gone there to fight with him — most unwillingly — I could not afterwards promise him that I would give up Miss Effingham. You say she will accept him now. Let him come and try.” She had nothing further to say — no other argument to use. There was the soreness at her heat still present to her, making her wretched, instigating her to hurt him if she knew how to do so, in spite of her regard for him. But she felt that she was weak and powerless. She had shot her arrows at him — all but one — and if she used that, its poisoned point would wound herself far more surely than it would touch him. “The duel was very silly,” he said. “You will not speak of it.
“No; certainly not.”
“I am glad at least that I have told you everything.”
“I do not know why you should be glad. I cannot help you.”
“And you will say nothing to Violet?”
“Everything that I can say in Oswald’s favour. I will say nothing of the duel; but beyond that you have no right to demand my secrecy with her. Yes; you had better go, Mr Finn, for I am hardly well. And remember this — If you can forget this little episode about Miss Effingham, so will I forget it also; and so will Oswald. I can promise for him.” Then she smiled and gave him her hand, and he went.
She rose from her chair as he left the room, and waited till she heard the sound of the great door closing behind him before she again sat down. Then, when he was gone — when she was sure that he was no longer there with her in the same house — she laid her head down upon the arm of the sofa, and burst into a flood of tears. She was no longer angry with Phineas. There was no further longing in her heart for revenge. She did not now desire to injure him, though she had done so as long as he was with her. Nay — she resolved instantly, almost instinctively, that Lord Brentford must know nothing of all this, lest the political prospects of the young member for Loughton should be injured. To have rebuked him, to rebuke him again and again, would be only fair — would at least be womanly; but she would protect him from all material injury as far as her power of protection might avail. And why was she weeping now so bitterly? Of course she asked herself, as she rubbed away the tears with her hands — Why should she weep? She was not weak enough to tell herself that she was weeping for any injury that had been done to Oswald. She got up suddenly from the sofa, and pushed away her hair from her face, and pushed away the tears from her cheeks, and then clenched her fists as she held them out at full length from her body, and stood, looking up with her eyes fixed upon the wall. “Ass!” she exclaimed. Fool! Idiot! That I should not be able to crush it into nothing and have done with it! Why should he not have her? After all, he is better than Oswald. Oh — is that you?” The door of the room had been opened while she was standing thus, and her husband had entered.
“Yes — it is I. Is anything wrong?”
“Very much is wrong.”
“What is it, Laura?”
“You cannot help me.”
“If you are in trouble you should tell me what it is, and leave it to me to try to help you.”
“Nonsense!” she said, shaking her head.
“Laura, that is uncourteous — not to say undutiful also.”
“I suppose it was — both. I beg your pardon, but I could not help it.”
“Laura, you should help such words to me.”
“There are moments, Robert, when even a married woman must be herself rather than her husband’s wife. It is so, though you cannot understand it.”
“I certainly do not understand it.”
“You cannot make a woman subject to you as a dog is so. You may have all the outside and as much of the inside as you can master. With a dog you may be sure of both.”
“I suppose this means that you have secrets in which I am not to share.”
“I have troubles about my father and my brother which you cannot share. My brother is a ruined man.”
“Who ruined him?”
“I will not talk about it any more. I will not speak to you of him or of papa. I only want you to understand that there is a subject which must be secret to myself, and on which I may be allowed to shed tears — if I am so weak. I will not trouble you on a matter in which I have not your sympathy.” Then she left him, standing in the middle of the room, depressed by what had occurred — but not thinking of it as of a trouble which would do more than make him uncomfortable for that day.
Day after day, and clause after clause, the bill was fought in committee, and few men fought with more constancy on the side of the Ministers than did the member for Loughton. Troubled though he was by his quarrel with Lord Chiltern, by his love for Violet Effingham, by the silence of his friend Lady Laura — for since he had told her of the duel she had become silent to him, never writing to him, and hardly speaking to him when she met him in society — nevertheless Phineas was not so troubled but what he could work at his vocation. Now, when he would find himself upon his legs in the House, he would wonder at the hesitation which had lately troubled him so sorely. He would sit sometimes and speculate upon that dimness of eye, upon that tendency of things to go round, upon that obtrusive palpitation of heart, which had afflicted him so seriously for so long a time. The House now was no more to him than any other chamber, and the members no more than other men. He guarded himself from orations, speaking always very shortly — because he believed that policy and good judgment required that he should be short. But words were very easy to him, and he would feel as though he could talk for ever. And there quickly came to him a reputation for practical usefulness. He was a man with strong opinions, who could yet be submissive. And no man seemed to know how his reputation had come. He had made one good speech after two or three failures. All who knew him, his whole party, had been aware of his failure; and his one good speech had been regarded by many as no very wonderful effort. But he was a man who was pleasant to other men — not combative, not self-asserting beyond the point at which self-assertion ceases to be a necessity of manliness. Nature had been very good to him, making him comely inside and out — and with this comeliness he had crept into popularity.
The secret of the duel was, I think, at this time, known to a great many men and women. So Phineas perceived; but it was not, he thought, known either to Lord Brentford or to Violet Effingham. And in this he was right. No rumour of it had yet reached the ears of either of these persons — and rumour, though she flies so fast and so far, is often slow in reaching those ears which would be most interested in her tidings. Some dim report of the duel reached even Mr Kennedy, and he asked his wife. “Who told you?” said she, sharply.
“Bonteen told me that it was certainly so.”
“Mr Bonteen always knows more than anybody else about everything except his own business.”
“Then it is not true?”
Lady Laura paused — and then she lied. “Of course it is not true. I should be very sorry to ask either of them, but to me it seems to be the most improbable thing in life.” Then Mr Kennedy believed that there had been no duel. In his wife’s word he put absolute faith, and he thought that she would certainly know anything that her brother had done. As he was a man given to but little discourse, he asked no further questions about the duel either in the House or at the Clubs.
At first, Phineas had been greatly dismayed when men had asked him questions tending to elicit from him some explanation of the mystery — but by degrees he became used to it, and as the tidings which had got abroad did not seem to injure him, and as the questionings were not pushed very closely, he became indifferent. There came out another article in the People’s Banner in which Lord C— n and Mr P— s F— n were spoken of as glaring examples of that aristocratic snobility — that was the expressive word coined, evidently with great delight, for the occasion — which the rotten state of London society in high quarters now produced. Here was a young lord, infamously notorious, quarrelling with one of his boon companions, whom he had appointed to a private seat in the House of Commons, fighting duels, breaking the laws, scandalising the public — and all this was done without punishment to the guilty! There were old stories afloat — so said the article — of what in a former century had been done by Lord Mohuns and Mr Bests; but now, in 186 — &c. &c. &c. And so the article went on. Any reader may fill in without difficulty the concluding indignation and virtuous appeal for reform in social morals as well as Parliament. But Phineas had so far progressed that he had almost come to like this kind of thing.
Certainly I think that the duel did him no harm in society. Otherwise he would hardly have been asked to a semi-political dinner at Lady Glencora Palliser’s, even though he might have been invited to make one of the five hundred guests who were crowded into her saloons and staircases after the dinner was over. To have been one of the five hundred was nothing; but to be one of the sixteen was a great deal — was indeed so much that Phineas, not understanding as yet the advantage of his own comeliness, was at a loss to conceive why so pleasant an honour was conferred upon him. There was no man among the eight men at the dinner-party not in Parliament — and the only other except Phineas not attached to the Government was Mr Palliser’s great friend, John Grey, the member for Silverbridge. There were four Cabinet Ministers in the room — the Duke, Lord Cantrip, Mr Gresham, and the owner of the mansion. There was also Barrington Erle and young Lord Fawn, an Under-Secretary of State. But the wit and grace of the ladies present lent more of character to the party than even the position of the men. Lady Glencora Palliser herself was a host. There was no woman then in London better able to talk to a dozen people on a dozen subjects; and then, moreover, she was still in the flush of her beauty and the bloom of her youth. Lady Laura was there — by what means divided from her husband Phineas could not imagine; but Lady Glencora was good at such divisions. Lady Cantrip had been allowed to come with her lord — but, as was well understood, Lord Cantrip was not so manifestly a husband as was Mr Kennedy. There are men who cannot guard themselves from the assertion of marital rights at most inappropriate moments. Now Lord Cantrip lived with his wife most happily; yet you should pass hours with him and her together, and hardly know that they knew each other. One of the Duke’s daughters was there — but not the Duchess, who was known to be heavy — and there was the beauteous Marchioness of Hartletop. Violet Effingham was in the room also — giving Phineas a blow at the heart as he saw her smile. Might it be that he could speak a word to her on this occasion? Mr Grey had also brought his wife — and then there was Madame Max Goesler. Phineas found that it was his fortune to take down to dinner — not Violet Effingham, but Madame Max Goesler. And, when he was placed at dinner, on the other side of him there sat Lady Hartletop, who addressed the few words which she spoke exclusively to Mr Palliser. There had been in former days matters difficult of arrangement between those two; but I think that those old passages had now been forgotten by them both. Phineas was, therefore, driven to depend exclusively on Madame Max Goesler for conversation, and he found that he was not called upon to cast his seed into barren ground.
Up to that moment he had never heard of Madame Max Goesler. Lady Glencora, in introducing them, had pronounced the lady’s name so clearly that he had caught it with accuracy, but he could not surmise whence she had come, or why she was there. She was a woman probably something over thirty years of age. She had thick black hair, which she wore in curls — unlike anybody else in the world — in curls which hung down low beneath her face, covering, and perhaps intended to cover, a certain thinness in her cheeks which would otherwise have taken something from the charm of her countenance. Her eyes were large, of a dark blue colour, and very bright — and she used them in a manner which is as yet hardly common with Englishwomen. She seemed to intend that you should know that she employed them to conquer you, looking as a knight may have looked in olden days who entered a chamber with his sword drawn from the scabbard and in his hand. Her forehead was broad and somewhat low. Her nose was not classically beautiful, being broader at the nostrils than beauty required, and, moreover, not perfectly straight in its line. Her lips were thin. Her teeth, which she endeavoured to show as little as possible, were perfect in form and colour. They who criticised her severely said, however, that they were too large. Her chin was well formed, and divided by a dimple which gave to her face a softness of grace which would otherwise have been much missed. But perhaps her great beauty was in the brilliant clearness of her dark complexion. You might almost fancy that you could see into it so as to read the different lines beneath the skin. She was somewhat tall, though by no means tall to a fault, and was so thin as to be almost meagre in her proportions. She always wore her dress close up to her neck, and never showed the bareness of her arms. Though she was the only woman so clad now present in the room, this singularity did not specially strike one, because in other respects her apparel was so rich and quaint as to make inattention to it impossible. The observer who did not observe very closely would perceive that Madame Max Goesler’s dress was unlike the dress of other women, but seeing that it was unlike in make, unlike in colour, and unlike in material, the ordinary observer would not see also that it was unlike in form for any other purpose than that of maintaining its general peculiarity of character. In colour she was abundant, and yet the fabric of her garment was always black. My pen may not dare to describe the traceries of yellow and ruby silk which went in and out through the black lace, across her bosom, and round her neck, and over her shoulders, and along her arms, and down to the very ground at her feet, robbing the black stuff of all its sombre solemnity, and producing a brightness in which there was nothing gaudy. She wore no vestige of crinoline, and hardly anything that could be called a train. And the lace sleeves of her dress, with their bright traceries of silk, were fitted close to her arms; and round her neck she wore the smallest possible collar of lace, above which there was a short chain of Roman gold with a ruby pendant. And she had rubies in her ears, and a ruby brooch, and rubies in the bracelets on her arms. Such, as regarded the outward woman, was Madame Max Goesler; and Phineas, as he took his place by her side, thought that fortune for the nonce had done well with him — only that he should have liked it so much better could he have been seated next to Violet Effingham!
I have said that in the matter of conversation his morsel of seed was not thrown into barren ground I do not know that he can truly be said to have produced even a morsel. The subjects were all mooted by the lady, and so great was her fertility in discoursing that all conversational grasses seemed to grow with her spontaneously. “Mr Finn,” she said, “what would I not give to be a member of the British Parliament at such a moment as this!”
“Why at such a moment as this particularly?”
“Because there is something to be done, which, let me tell you, senator though you are, is not always the case with you.”
“My experience is short, but it sometimes seems to me that there is too much to be done.”
“Too much of nothingness, Mr Firm. Is not that the case? But now there is a real fight in the lists. The one great drawback to the life of women is that they cannot act in politics.”
“And which side would you take?”
“What, here in England?” said Madame Max Goesler — from which expression, and from one or two others of a similar nature, Phineas was led into a doubt whether the lady were a countrywoman of his or not. “Indeed, it is hard to say. Politically I should want to out-Turnbull Mr Turnbull, to vote for everything that could be voted for — ballot, manhood suffrage, womanhood suffrage, unlimited right of striking, tenant right, education of everybody, annual parliaments, and the abolition of at least the bench of bishops.”
“That is a strong programme,” said Phineas.
“It is strong, Mr Finn, but that’s what I should like. I think, however, that I should be tempted to feel a dastard security in the conviction that I might advocate my views without any danger of seeing them carried out. For, to tell you the truth, I don’t at all want to put down ladies and gentlemen.”
“You think that they would go with the bench of bishops?”
“I don’t want anything to go — that is, as far as real life is concerned. There’s that dear good Bishop of Abingdon is the best friend I have in the world — and as for the Bishop of Dorchester, I’d walk from here to there to hear him preach. And I’d sooner hem aprons for them all myself than that they should want those pretty decorations. But then, Mr Finn, there is such a difference between life and theory — is there not?”
“And it is so comfortable to have theories that one is not bound to carry out,” said Phineas.
“Isn’t it? Mr Palliser, do you live up to your political theories?” At this moment Mr Palliser was sitting perfectly silent between Lady Hartletop and the Duke’s daughter, and he gave a little spring in his chair as this sudden address was made to him. “Your House of Commons theories, I mean, Mr Palliser. Mr Finn is saying that it is very well to have far-advanced ideas — it does not matter how far advanced — because one is never called upon to act upon them practically.”
“That is a dangerous doctrine, I think,” said Mr Palliser.
“But pleasant — so at least Mr Finn says.”
“It is at least very common,” said Phineas, not caring to protect himself by a contradiction.
“For myself,” said Mr Palliser gravely, I think I may say that I always am really anxious to carry into practice all those doctrines of policy which I advocate in theory.”
During this conversation Lady Hartletop sat as though no word of it reached her ears. She did not understand Madame Max Goesler, and by no means loved her. Mr Palliser, when he had made his little speech, turned to the Duke’s daughter and asked some question about the conservatories at Longroyston.
“I have called forth a word of wisdom,” said Madame Max Goesler, almost in a whisper.
“Yes,” said Phineas, and taught a Cabinet Minister to believe that I am a most unsound politician. You may have ruined my prospects for life, Madame Max Goesler.”
“Let me hope not. As far as I can understand the way of things in your Government, the aspirants to office succeed chiefly by making themselves uncommonly unpleasant to those who are in power. If a man can hit hard enough he is sure to be taken into the elysium of the Treasury bench — not that he may hit others, but that he may cease to hit those who are there, I don’t think men are chosen because they are useful.”
“You are very severe upon us all.”
“Indeed, as far as I can see, one man is as useful as another. But to put aside joking — they tell me that you are sure to become a minister.”
Phineas felt that he blushed. Could it be that people said of him behind his back that he was a man likely to rise high in political position? “Your informants are very kind,” he replied awkwardly, “but I do not know who they are. I shall never get up in the way you describe — that is, by abusing the men I support.”
After that Madame Max Goesler turned round to Mr Grey, who was sitting on the other side of her, and Phineas was left for a moment in silence. He tried to say a word to Lady Hartletop, but Lady Hartletop only bowed her head gracefully in recognition of the truth of the statement he made. So he applied himself for a while to his dinner.
“What do you think of Miss Effingham?” said Madame Max Goesler, again addressing him suddenly.
“What do I think about her?”
“You know her, I suppose.”
“Oh yes, I know her. She is closely connected with the Kennedys, who are friends of mine.”
“So I have heard. They tell me that scores of men are raving about her. Are you one of them?”
“Oh yes — I don’t mind being one of sundry scores. There is nothing particular in owning to that.”
“But you admire her?”
“Of course I do,” said Phineas.
“Ah, I see you are joking. I do amazingly. They say women never do admire women, but I most sincerely do admire Miss Effingham.”
“Is she a friend of yours?”
“Oh no — I must not dare to say so much as that. I was with her last winter for a week at Matching, and of course I meet her about at people’s houses. She seems to me to be the most independent girl I ever knew in my life. I do believe that nothing would make her marry a man unless she loved him and honoured him, and I think it is so very seldom that you can say that of a girl.”
“I believe so also,” said Phineas. Then he paused a moment before he continued to speak. “I cannot say that I know Miss Effingham very intimately, but from what I have seen of her, I should think it very probable that she may not marry at all.”
“Very probably,” said Madame Max Goesler, who then again turned away to Mr Grey.
Ten minutes after this, when the moment was just at hand in which the ladies were to retreat, Madame Max Goesler again addressed Phineas, looking very full into his face as she did so. “I wonder whether the time will ever come, Mr Finn, in which you will give me an account of that day’s journey to Blankenberg?”
“To Blankenberg!”
“Yes — to Blankenberg. I am not asking for it now. But I shall look for it some day.” Then Lady Glencora rose from her seat, and Madame Max Goesler went out with the others.