What had Madame Max Goesler to do with his journey to Blankenberg? thought Phineas, as he sat for a while in silence between Mr Palliser and Mr Grey; and why should she, who was a perfect stranger to him, have dared to ask him such a question? But as the conversation round the table, after the ladies had gone, soon drifted into politics and became general, Phineas, for a while, forgot Madame Max Goesler and the Blankenberg journey, and listened to the eager words of Cabinet Ministers, now and again uttering a word of his own, and showing that he, too, was as eager as others. But the session in Mr Palliser’s dining-room was not long, and Phineas soon found himself making his way amidst a throng of coming guests into the rooms above. His object was to meet Violet Effingham, but, failing that, he would not be unwilling to say a few more words to Madame Max Goesler.
He first encountered Lady Laura, to whom he had not spoken as yet, and, finding himself standing close to her for a while, he asked her after his late neighbour. “Do tell me one thing, Lady Laura — who is Madame Max Goesler, and why have I never met her before?”
“That will be two things, Mr Finn; but I will answer both questions as well as I can. You have not met her before, because she was in Germany last spring and summer, and in the year before that you were not about so much as you have been since. Still you must have seen her, I think. She is the widow of an Austrian banker, and has lived the greater part of her life at Vienna. She is very rich, and has a small house in Park Lane, where she receives people so exclusively that it has come to be thought an honour to be invited by Madame Max Goesler. Her enemies say that her father was a German Jew, living in England, in the employment of the Viennese bankers, and they say also that she has been married a second time to an Austrian Count, to whom she allows ever so much a year to stay away from her. But of all this, nobody, I fancy, knows anything. What they do know is that Madame Max Goesler spends seven or eight thousand a year, and that she will give no man an opportunity of even asking her to marry him. People used to be shy of her, but she goes almost everywhere now.”
“She has not been at Portman Square?”
“Oh no; but then Lady Glencora is so much more advanced than we are! After all, we are but humdrum people, as the world goes now.”
Then Phineas began to roam about the rooms, striving to find an opportunity of engrossing five minutes of Miss Effingham’s attention. During the time that Lady Laura was giving him the history of Madame Max Goesler his eyes had wandered round, and he had perceived that Violet was standing in the further corner of a large lobby on to which the stairs opened — so situated, indeed, that she could hardly escape, because of the increasing crowd, but on that very account almost impossible to be reached. He could see, also, that she was talking to Lord Fawn, an unmarried peer of something over thirty years of age, with an unrivalled pair of whiskers, a small estate, and a rising political reputation. Lord Fawn had been talking to Violet through the whole dinner, and Phineas was beginning to think that he should like to make another journey to Blankenberg, with the object of meeting his lordship on the sands.
When Lady Laura had done speaking, his eyes were turned through a large open doorway towards the spot on which his idol was standing. “It is of no use, my friend,” she said, touching his arm. “I wish I could make you know that it is of no use, because then I think you would be happier.” To this Phineas made no answer, but went and roamed about the rooms. Why should it be of no use? Would Violet Effingham marry any man merely because he was a lord?
Some half-hour after this he had succeeded in making his way up to the place in which Violet was still standing, with Lord Fawn beside her. “I have been making such a struggle to get to you,” he said.
“And now you are here, you will have to stay, for it is impossible to get out,” she answered. “Lord Fawn has made the attempt half a dozen times, but has failed grievously.”
“I have been quite contented,” said Lord Fawn — “more than contented.”
Phineas felt that he ought to give some special reason to Miss Effingham to account for his efforts to reach her, but yet he had nothing special to say. Had Lord Fawn not been there, he would immediately have told her that he was waiting for an answer to the question he had asked her in Saulsby Park, but he could hardly do this in presence of the noble Under-Secretary of State. She received him with her pleasant genial smile, looking exactly as she had looked when he had parted from her on the morning after their ride. She did not show any sign of anger, or even of indifference, at his approach. But still it was almost necessary that he should account for his search of her. “I have so longed to hear from you how you got on at Loughlinter,” he said.
“Yes — yes; and I will tell you something of it some day, perhaps. Why do you not come to Lady Baldock’s?”
“I did not even know that Lady Baldock was in town.”
“You ought to have known. Of course she is in town. Where did you suppose I was living? Lord Fawn was there yesterday, and can tell you that my aunt is quite blooming.”
“Lady Baldock is blooming,” said Lord Fawn; certainly blooming — that is, if evergreens may be said to bloom.
“Evergreens do bloom, as well as spring plants, Lord Fawn. You come and see her, Mr Finn — only you must bring a little money with you for the Female Protestant Unmarried Women’s Emigration Society. That is my aunt’s present hobby, as Lord Fawn knows to his cost.”
“I wish I may never spend half-a-sovereign worse.”.
“But it is a perilous affair for me, as my aunt wants me to go out as a sort of leading Protestant unmarried female emigrant pioneer myself.”
“You don’t mean that,” said Lord Fawn, with much anxiety.
“Of course you’ll go,” said Phineas. I should, if I were you.”
“I am in doubt,” said Violet.
“It is such a grand prospect,” said he. Such an opening in life. So much excitement, you know; and such a useful career.”
“As if there were not plenty of opening here for Miss Effingham,” said Lord Fawn, “and plenty of excitement.
“Do you think there is?” said Violet. You are much more civil than Mr Finn, I must say.” Then Phineas began to hope that he need not be afraid of Lord Fawn. “What a happy man you were at dinner!” continued Violet, addressing herself to Phineas.
“I thought Lord Fawn was the happy man.”
“You had Madame Max Goesler all to yourself for nearly two hours, and I suppose there was not a creature in the room who did not envy you. I don’t doubt that ever so much interest was made with Lady Glencora as to taking Madame Max down to dinner. Lord Fawn, I know, intrigued.”
“Miss Effingham, really I must — contradict you.”
“And Barrington Erle begged for it as a particular favour. The Duke, with a sigh, owned that it was impossible, because of his cumbrous rank; and Mr Gresham, when it was offered to him, declared that he was fatigued with the business of the House, and not up to the occasion. How much did she say to you; and what did she talk about?”
“The ballot chiefly — that, and manhood suffrage.”
“Ah! she said something more than that, I am sure. Madame Max Goesler never lets any man go without entrancing him. If you have anything near your heart, Mr Finn, Madame Max Goesler touched it, I am sure.” Now Phineas had two things near his heart — political promotion and Violet Effingham — and Madame Max Goesler had managed to touch them both. She had asked him respecting his journey to Blankenberg, and had touched him very nearly in reference to Miss Effingham. “You know Madame Max Goesler, of course?” said Violet to Lord Fawn.
“Oh yes, I know the lady — that is, as well as other people do. No one, I take it, knows much of her; and it seems to me that the world is becoming tired of her. A mystery is good for nothing if it remains always a mystery.”
“And it is good for nothing at all when it is found out,” said Violet.
“And therefore it is that Madame Max Goesler is a bore,” said Lord Fawn.
“You did not find her a bore?” said Violet. Then Phineas, choosing to oppose Lord Fawn as well as he could on that matter, as on every other, declared that he had found Madame Max Goesler most delightful. “And beautiful — is she not?” said Violet.
“Beautiful!” exclaimed Lord Fawn.
“I think her very beautiful,” said Phineas.
“So do I,” said Violet. And she is a dear ally of mine. We were a week together last winter, and swore an undying friendship. She told me ever so much about Mr Goesler.”
“But she told you nothing of her second husband?” said Lord Fawn.
“Now that you have run into scandal, I shall have done,” said Violet.
Half an hour after this, when Phineas was preparing to fight his way out of the house, he was again close to Madame Max Goesler. He had not found a single moment in which to ask Violet for an answer to his old question, and was retiring from the field discomfited, but not dispirited. Lord Fawn, he thought, was not a serious obstacle in his way. Lady Laura had told him that there was no hope for him; but then Lady Laura’s mind on that subject was, he thought, prejudiced. Violet Effingham certainly knew what were his wishes, and knowing them, smiled on him and was gracious to him. Would she do so if his pretensions were thoroughly objectionable to her?
“I saw that you were successful this evening,” said Madame Max Goesler to him.
“I was not aware of any success.”
“I call it great success to be able to make your way where you will through such a crowd as there is here. You seem to me to be so stout a cavalier that I shall ask you to find my servant, and bid him get my carriage. Will you mind?” Phineas, of course, declared that he would be delighted. “He is a German, and not in livery. But if somebody will call out, he will hear. He is very sharp, and much more attentive than your English footmen. An Englishman hardly ever makes a good servant.”
“Is that a compliment to us Britons?”
“No, certainly not. If a man is a servant, he should be clever enough to be a good one.” Phineas had now given the order for the carriage, and, having returned, was standing with Madame Max Goesler in the cloakroom. “After all, we are surely the most awkward people in the world,” she said. “You know Lord Fawn, who was talking to Miss Effingham just now. You should have heard him trying to pay me a compliment before dinner. It was like a donkey walking a minuet, and yet they say he is a clever man and can make speeches.” Could it be possible that Madame Max Goesler’s ears were so sharp that she had heard the things which Lord Fawn had said of her?
“He is a well-informed man,” said Phineas.
“For a lord, you mean,” said Madame Max Goesler. But he is an oaf, is he not? And yet they say he is to marry that girl.”
“I do not think he will,” said Phineas, stoutly.
“I hope not, with all my heart; and I hope that somebody else may — unless somebody else should change his mind. Thank you; I am so much obliged to you. Mind you come and call on me — 193, Park Lane. I dare say you know the little cottage.” Then he put Madame Max Goesler into her carriage, and walked away to his club.
Lady Baldock’s house in Berkeley Square was very stately — a large house with five front windows in a row, and a big door, and a huge square hall, and a fat porter in a round-topped chair — but it was dingy and dull, and could not have been painted for the last ten years, or furnished for the last twenty. Nevertheless, Lady Baldock had “evenings,” and people went to them — though not such a crowd of people as would go to the evenings of Lady Glencora. Now Mr Phineas Finn had not been asked to the evenings of Lady Baldock for the present season, and the reason was after this wise.
“Yes, Mr Finn,” Lady Baldock had said to her daughter, who, early in the spring, was preparing the cards. “You may send one to Mr Finn, certainly.”
“I don’t know that he is very nice,” said Augusta Boreham, whose eyes at Saulsby had been sharper perhaps than her mother’s, and who had her suspicions.
But Lady Baldock did not like interference from her daughter. “Mr Finn, certainly,” she continued. They tell me that he is a very rising young man, and he sits for Lord Brentford’s borough. Of course he is a Radical, but we cannot help that. All the rising young men are Radicals now. I thought him very civil at Saulsby.”
“But, mamma — ”
“Well!”
“Don’t you think that he is a little free with Violet?”
“What on earth do you mean, Augusta?”
“Have you not fancied that he is — fond of her?”
“Good gracious, no!”
“I think he is. And I have sometimes fancied that she is fond of him, too.”
“I don’t believe a word of it, Augusta — not a word. I should have seen it if it was so. I am very sharp in seeing such things. They never escape me. Even Violet would not be such a fool as that. Send him a card, and if he comes I shall soon see.” Miss Boreham quite understood her mother, though she could never master her — and the card was prepared. Miss Boreham could never master her mother by her own efforts; but it was, I think, by a little intrigue on her part that Lady Baldock was mastered, and, indeed, altogether cowed, in reference to our hero, and that this victory was gained on that very afternoon in time to prevent the sending of the card.
When the mother and daughter were at tea, before dinner, Lord Baldock came into the room, and, after having been patted and petted and praised by his mother, he took up all the cards out of a china bowl and ran his eyes over them. “Lord Fawn!” he said, “the greatest ass in all London! Lady Hartletop! you know she won’t come.”
“I don’t see why she shouldn’t come,” said Lady Baldock — “a mere country clergyman’s daughter!”
“Julius Caesar Conway — a great friend of mine, and therefore he always blackballs my other friends at the club. Lord Chiltern; I thought you were at daggers drawn with Chiltern.”
“They say he is going to be reconciled to his father, Gustavus, and I do it for Lord Brentford’s sake. And he won’t come, so it does not signify. And I do believe that Violet has really refused him.”
“You are quite right about his not coming,” said Lord Baldock, continuing to read the cards; “Chiltern certainly won’t come. Count Sparrowsky — I wonder what you know about Sparrowsky that you should ask him here.”
“He is asked about, Gustavus; he is indeed,” pleaded Lady Baldock.
“I believe that Sparrowsky is a penniless adventurer. Mr Monk; well, he is a Cabinet Minister. Sir Gregory Greeswing; you mix your people nicely at any rate. Sir Gregory Greeswing is the most old-fashioned Tory in England.”
“Of course we are not political, Gustavus.”
“Phineas Finn. They come alternately — one and one.”
“Mr Finn is asked everywhere, Gustavus.”
“I don’t doubt it. They say he is a very good sort of fellow. They say also that Violet has found that out as well as other people.”
“What do you mean, Gustavus?”
“I mean that everybody is saying that this Phineas Finn is going to set himself up in the world by marrying your niece. He is quite right to try it on, if he has a chance.”
“I don’t think he would be right at all,” said Lady Baldock, with much energy. “I think he would be wrong — shamefully wrong. They say he is the son of an Irish doctor, and that he hasn’t a shilling in the world.”
“That is just why he would be right. What is such a man to do, but to marry money? He’s a deuced good-looking fellow, too, and will be sure to do it.”
“He should work for his money in the city, then, or somewhere there. But I don’t believe it, Gustavus; I don’t, indeed.”
“Very well. I only tell you what I hear. The fact is that he and Chiltern have already quarrelled about her. If I were to tell you that they have been over to Holland together and fought a duel about her, you wouldn’t believe that.”
“Fought a duel about Violet! People don’t fight duels now, and I should not believe it.”
“Very well. Then send your card to Mr Finn.” And, so saying, Lord Baldock left the room.
Lady Baldock sat in silence for some time toasting her toes at the fire, and Augusta Boreham sat by, waiting for orders. She felt pretty nearly sure that new orders would be given if she did not herself interfere. “You had better put by that card for the present, my dear,” said Lady Baldock at last. “I will make inquiries. I don’t believe a word of what Gustavus has said. I don’t think that even Violet is such a fool as that. But if rash and ill-natured people have spoken of it, it may be as well to be careful.”
“It is always well to be careful — is it not, mamma?”
“Not but what I think it very improper that these things should be said about a young woman; and as for the story of the duel, I don’t believe a word of it. It is absurd. I dare say that Gustavus invented it at the moment, just to amuse himself.”
The card of course was not sent, and Lady Baldock at any rate put so much faith in her son’s story as to make her feel it to be her duty to interrogate her niece on the subject. Lady Baldock at this period of her life was certainly not free from fear of Violet Effingham. In the numerous encounters which took place between them, the aunt seldom gained that amount of victory which would have completely satisfied her spirit. She longed to be dominant over her niece as she was dominant over her daughter; and when she found that she missed such supremacy, she longed to tell Violet to depart from out her borders, and be no longer niece of hers. But had she ever done so, Violet would have gone at the instant, and then terrible things would have followed. There is a satisfaction in turning out of doors a nephew or niece who is pecuniarily dependent, but when the youthful relative is richly endowed, the satisfaction is much diminished. It is the duty of a guardian, no doubt, to look after the ward; but if this cannot be done, the ward’s money should at least be held with as close a fist as possible. But Lady Baldock, though she knew that she would be sorely wounded, poked about on her old body with the sharp lances of disobedience, and struck with the cruel swords of satire, if she took upon herself to scold or even to question Violet, nevertheless would not abandon the pleasure of lecturing and teaching. “It is my duty,” she would say to herself, “and though it be taken in a bad spirit, I will always perform my duty.” So she performed her duty, and asked Violet Effingham some few questions respecting Phineas Finn. “My dear,” she said, do you remember meeting a Mr Finn at Saulsby?”
“A Mr Finn, aunt! Why, he is a particular friend of mine. Of course I do, and he was at Saulsby. I have met him there more than once. Don’t you remember that we were riding about together?”
“I remember that he was there, certainly; but I did not know that he was a special — friend.”
“Most especial, aunt. A 1, I may say — among young men, I mean.”
Lady Baldock was certainly the most indiscreet of old women in such a matter as this, and Violet the most provoking of young ladies. Lady Baldock, believing that there was something to fear — as, indeed, there was, much to fear — should have been content to destroy the card, and to keep the young lady away from the young gentleman, if such keeping away was possible to her. But Miss Effingham was certainly very wrong to speak of any young man as being A 1. Fond as I am of Miss Effingham, I cannot justify her, and must acknowledge that she used the most offensive phrase she could find, on purpose to annoy her aunt.
“Violet,” said Lady Baldock, bridling up, I never heard such a word before from the lips of a young lady.”
“Not as A 1? I thought it simply meant very good.”
“A 1 is a nobleman,” said Lady Baldock.
“No, aunt — A 1 is a ship — a ship that is very good,” said Violet.
“And do you mean to say that Mr Finn is — is — is — very good?”
“Yes, indeed. You ask Lord Brentford, and Mr Kennedy. You know he saved poor Mr Kennedy from being throttled in the streets.”
“That has nothing to do with it. A policeman might have done that.”
“Then he would have been A 1 of policemen — though A 1 does not mean a policeman.”
“He would have done his duty, and so perhaps did Mr Finn.”
“Of course he did, aunt. It couldn’t have been his duty to stand by and see Mr Kennedy throttled. And he nearly killed one of the men, and took the other prisoner with his own hands. And he made a beautiful speech the other day. I read every word of it. I am so glad he’s a Liberal. I do like young men to be Liberals.” Now Lord Baldock was a Tory, as had been all the Lord Baldocks — since the first who had been bought over from the Whigs in the time of George III at the cost of a barony.
“You have nothing to do with politics, Violet.”
“Why shouldn’t I have something to do with politics, aunt?”
“And I must tell you that your name is being very unpleasantly mentioned in connection with that of this young man because of your indiscretion.”
“What indiscretion?” Violet, as she made her demand for a more direct accusation, stood quite upright before her aunt, looking the old woman full in the face — almost with her arms akimbo.
“Calling him A 1, Violet.”
“People have been talking about me and Mr Finn, because I just now, at this very moment, called him A 1 to you! If you want to scold me about anything, aunt, do find out something less ridiculous than that.”
“It was most improper language — and if you used it to me, I am sure you would to others.”
“To what others?”
“To Mr Finn — and those sort of people.”
“Call Mr Finn A 1 to his face! Well — upon my honour I don’t know why I should not. Lord Chiltern says he rides beautifully, and if we were talking about riding I might do so.”
“You have no business to talk to Lord Chiltern about Mr Finn at all.”
“Have I not? I thought that perhaps the one sin might palliate the other. You know, aunt, no young lady, let her be ever so ill-disposed, can marry two objectionable young men — at the same time.”
“I said nothing about your marrying Mr Finn.”
“Then, aunt, what did you mean?”
“I meant that you should not allow yourself to be talked of with an adventurer, a young man without a shilling, a person who has come from nobody knows where in the bogs of Ireland.”
“But you used to ask him here.”
“Yes — as long as he knew his place. But I shall not do so again. And I must beg you to be circumspect.”
“My dear aunt, we may as well understand each other. I will not be circumspect as you call it. And if Mr Finn asked me to marry him tomorrow, and if I liked him well enough, I would take him — even though he had been dug right out of a bog. Not only because I liked him — mind! If I were unfortunate enough to like a man who was nothing, I would refuse him in spite of my liking — because he was nothing. But this young man is not nothing. Mr Finn is a fine fellow, and if there were no other reason to prevent my marrying him than his being the son of a doctor, and coming out of the bogs, that would not do so. Now I have made a clean breast to you as regards Mr Finn; and if you do not like what I’ve said, aunt, you must acknowledge that you have brought it on yourself.”
Lady Baldock was left for a time speechless. But no card was sent to Phineas Finn.
Phineas got no card from Lady Baldock, but one morning he received a note from Lord Brentford which was of more importance to him than any card could have been. At this time, bit by bit, the Reform Bill of the day had nearly made its way through the committee, but had been so mutilated as to be almost impossible of recognition by its progenitors. And there was still a clause or two as to the rearrangement of seats, respecting which it was known that there would be a combat — probably combats — carried on after the internecine fashion. There was a certain clipping of counties to be done, as to which it was said that Mr Daubeny had declared that he would not yield till he was made to do so by the brute force of majorities — and there was another clause for the drafting of certain superfluous members from little boroughs, and bestowing them on populous towns at which they were much wanted, respecting which Mr Turnbull had proclaimed that the clause as it now stood was a fainéant clause, capable of doing, and intended to do, no good in the proper direction; a clause put into the bill to gull ignorant folk who had not eyes enough to recognise the fact that it was fainéant; a make-believe clause — so said Mr Turnbull — to be detested on that account by every true reformer worse than the old Philistine bonds and Tory figments of representation, as to which there was at least no hypocritical pretence of popular fitness, Mr Turnbull had been very loud and very angry — had talked much of demonstrations among the people, and had almost threatened the House. The House in its present mood did not fear any demonstrations — but it did fear that Mr Turnbull might help Mr Daubeny, and that Mr Daubeny might help Mr Turnbull. It was now May — the middle of May — and ministers, who had been at work on their Reform Bill ever since the beginning of the session, were becoming weary of it. And then, should these odious clauses escape the threatened Turnbull — Daubeny alliance — then there was the House of Lords! “ What a pity we can’t pass our bills at the Treasury, and have done with them!” said Laurence Fitzgibbon. “Yes, indeed,” replied Mr Ratler. “For myself, I was never so tired of a session in my life. I wouldn’t go through it again to be made — no, not to be made Chancellor of the Exchequer.”
Lord Brentford’s note to Phineas Finn was as follows:
“ House of Lords, 16th May, 186 —
“ MY DEAR MR FINN,”
“You are no doubt aware that Lord Bosanquet’s death has taken Mr Mottram into the Upper House, and that as he was Under-Secretary for the Colonies, and as the Under-Secretary must be in the Lower House, the vacancy must be filled up.” [The heart of Phineas Finn at this moment was almost in his mouth. Not only to be selected for political employment, but to be selected at once for an office so singularly desirable! Under Secretaries, he fancied, were paid two thousand a year. What would Mr Low say now? But his great triumph soon received a check.] “Mr Mildmay has spoken to me on the subject,” continued the letter, “and informs me that he has offered the place at the colonies to his old supporter, Mr Laurence Fitzgibbon.” Laurence Fitzgibbon! “I am inclined to think that he could not have done better, as Mr Fitzgibbon has shown great zeal for his party. This will vacate the Irish seat at the Treasury Board, and I am commissioned by Mr Mildmay to offer it to you. Perhaps you will do me the pleasure of calling on me tomorrow between the hours of eleven and twelve.
“Yours very sincerely,
“ BRENTFORD ”
Phineas was himself surprised to find that his first feeling on reading this letter was one of dissatisfaction. Here were his golden hopes about to be realised — hopes as to the realisation of which he had been quite despondent twelve months ago — and yet he was uncomfortable because he was to be postponed to Laurence Fitzgibbon. Had the new Under-Secretary been a man whom he had not known, whom he had not learned to look down upon as inferior to himself, he would not have minded it — would have been full of joy at the promotion proposed for himself. But Laurence Fitzgibbon was such a poor creature, that the idea of filling a place from which Laurence had risen was distasteful to him. “It seems to be all a matter of favour and convenience,” he said to himself, “without any reference to the service.” His triumph would have been so complete had Mr Mildmay allowed him to go into the higher place at one leap. Other men who had made themselves useful had done so. In the first hour after receiving Lord Brentford’s letter, the idea of becoming a Lord of the Treasury was almost displeasing to him. He had an idea that junior lordships of the Treasury were generally bestowed on young members whom it was convenient to secure, but who were not good at doing anything. There was a moment in which he thought that he would refuse to be made a junior lord.
But during the night cooler reflections told him that he had been very wrong. He had taken up politics with the express desire of getting his foot upon a rung of the ladder of promotion, and now, in his third session, he was about to be successful. Even as a junior lord he would have a thousand a year; and how long might he have sat in chambers, and have wandered about Lincoln’s Inn, and have loitered in the courts striving to look as though he had business, before he would have earned a thousand a year! Even as a junior lord he could make himself useful, and when once he should be known to be a good working man, promotion would come to him. No ladder can be mounted without labour; but this ladder was now open above his head, and he already had his foot upon it.
At half past eleven he was with Lord Brentford, who received him with the blandest smile and a pressure of the hand which was quite cordial. “My dear Finn,” he said, this gives me the most sincere pleasure — the greatest pleasure in the world. Our connection together at Loughton of course makes it doubly agreeable to me.”
“I cannot be too grateful to you, Lord Brentford.”
“No, no; no, no. It is all your own doing. When Mr Mildmay asked me whether I did not think you the most promising of the young members on our side in your House, I certainly did say that I quite concurred. But I should be taking too much on myself, I should be acting dishonestly, if I were to allow you to imagine that it was my proposition. Had he asked me to recommend, I should have named you; that I say frankly. But he did not. He did not. Mr Mildmay named you himself. “Do you think,” he said, “;that your friend Finn would join us at the Treasury?” I told him that I did think so. “And do you not think,” said he, “that it would be a useful appointment?” Then I ventured to say that I had no doubt whatever on that point — that I knew you well enough to feel confident that you would lend a strength to the Liberal Government. Then there were a few words said about your seat, and I was commissioned to write to you. That was all.”
Phineas was grateful, but not too grateful, and bore himself very well in the interview. He explained to Lord Brentford that of course it was his object to serve the country — and to be paid for his services — and that he considered himself to be very fortunate to be selected so early in his career for parliamentary place. He would endeavour to do his duty, and could safely say of himself that he did not wish to eat the bread of idleness. As he made this assertion, he thought of Laurence Fitzgibbon. Laurence Fitzgibbon had eaten the bread of idleness, and yet he was promoted. But Phineas said nothing to Lord Brentford about his idle friend. When he had made his little speech he asked a question about the borough.
“I have already ventured to write a letter to my agent at Loughton, telling him that you have accepted office, and that you will be shortly there again. He will see Shortribs and arrange it. But if I were you I should write to Shortribs and to Grating — after I had seen Mr Mildmay. Of course you will not mention my name.” And the Earl looked very grave as he uttered this caution.
“Of course I will not,” said Phineas.
“I do not think you’ll find any difficulty about the seat,” said the peer. “There never has been any difficulty at Loughton yet. I must say that for them. And if we can scrape through with Clause 72 we shall be all right — shall we not?” This was the clause as to which so violent an opposition was expected from Mr Turnbull — a clause as to which Phineas himself had felt that he would hardly know how to support the Government, in the event of the committee being pressed to a division upon it. Could he, an ardent reformer, a reformer at heart — could he say that such a borough as Loughton should be spared — that the arrangement by which Shortribs and Grating had sent him to Parliament, in obedience to Lord Brentford’s orders, was in due accord with the theory of a representative legislature? In what respect had Gatton and Old Sarum been worse than Loughton? Was he not himself false to his principle in sitting for such a borough as Loughton? He had spoken to Mr Monk, and Mr Monk had told him that Rome was not built in a day — and had told him also that good things were most valued and were more valuable when they came by instalments. But then Mr Monk himself enjoyed the satisfaction of sitting for a popular constituency. He was not personally pricked in the conscience by his own parliamentary position. Now, however — now that Phineas had consented to join the Government, any such considerations as these must be laid aside. He could no longer be a free agent, or even a free thinker. He had been quite aware of this, and had taught himself to understand that members of Parliament in the direct service of the Government were absolved from the necessity of free-thinking. Individual free-thinking was incompatible with the position of a member of the Government, and unless such abnegation were practised, no government would be possible. It was of course a man’s duty to bind himself together with no other men but those with whom, on matters of general policy, he could agree heartily — but having found that he could so agree, he knew that it would be his duty as a subaltern to vote as he was directed. It would trouble his conscience less to sit for Loughton and vote for an objectionable clause as a member of the Government, than it would have done to give such a vote as an independent member. In so resolving, he thought that he was simply acting in accordance with the acknowledged rules of parliamentary government. And therefore, when Lord Brentford spoke of Clause 72, he could answer pleasantly, “I think we shall carry it; and, you see, in getting it through committee, if we can carry it by one, that is as good as a hundred. That’s the comfort of close fighting in committee. In the open House we are almost as much beaten by a narrow majority as by a vote against us.”
“Just so; just so,” said Lord Brentford, delighted to see that his young pupil — as he regarded him — understood so well the system of parliamentary management. “By the bye, Finn, have you seen Chiltern lately?”
“Not quite lately,” said Phineas, blushing up to his eyes.
“Or heard from him?”
“No — nor heard from him. When last I heard of him he was in Brussels.”
“Ah — yes; he is somewhere on the Rhine now. I thought that as you were so intimate, perhaps you corresponded with him. Have you heard that we have arranged about Lady Laura’s money?”
“I have heard. Lady Laura has told me.”
“I wish he would return,” said Lord Brentford sadly — almost solemnly, “As that great difficulty is over, I would receive him willingly, and make my house pleasant to him, if I can do so. I am most anxious that he should settle, and marry. Could you not write to him?” Phineas, not daring to tell Lord Brentford that he had quarrelled with Lord Chiltern — feeling that if he did so everything would go wrong — said that he would write to Lord Chiltern.
As he went away he felt that he was bound to get an answer from Violet Effingham. If it should be necessary, he was willing to break with Lord Brentford on that matter — even though such breaking should lose him his borough and his place — but not on any other matter.
Our hero’s friends were, I think, almost more elated by our hero’s promotion than was our hero himself. He never told himself that it was a great thing to be a junior lord of the Treasury, though he acknowledged to himself that to have made a successful beginning was a very great thing. But his friends were loud in their congratulations — or condolements as the case might be.
He had his interview with Mr Mildmay, and, after that, one of his first steps was to inform Mrs Bunce that he must change his lodgings. “The truth is, Mrs Bunce, not that I want anything better; but that a better position will be advantageous to me, and that I can afford to pay for it.” Mrs Bunce acknowledged the truth of the argument, with her apron up to her eyes. “I’ve got to be so fond of looking after you, Mr Finn! I have indeed,” said Mrs Bunce. “It is not just what you pays like, because another party will pay as much. But we’ve got so used to you, Mr Finn — haven’t we?” Mrs Bunce was probably not aware herself that the comeliness of her lodger had pleased her feminine eye, and touched her feminine heart, Had anybody said that Mrs Bunce was in love with Phineas, the scandal would have been monstrous. And yet it was so — after a fashion. And Bunce knew it — after his fashion. “Don’t be such an old fool,” he said, “crying after him because he’s six foot high.” “I ain’t crying after him because he’s six foot high,” whined the poor woman — “but one does like old faces better than new, and a gentleman about one’s place is pleasant.” “Gentleman be d — d, said Bunce. But his anger was excited, not by his wife’s love for Phineas, but by the use of an objectionable word.
Bunce himself had been on very friendly terms with Phineas, and they two had had many discussions on matters of politics, Bunce taking up the cudgels always for Mr Turnbull, and generally slipping away gradually into some account of his own martyrdom. For he had been a martyr, having failed in obtaining any redress against the policeman who had imprisoned him so wrongfully. The People’s Banner had fought for him manfully, and therefore there was a little disagreement between him and Phineas on the subject of that great organ of public opinion. And as Mr Bunce thought that his lodger was very wrong to sit for Lord Brentford’s borough, subjects were sometimes touched which were a little galling to Phineas.
Touching this promotion, Bunce had nothing but condolement to offer to the new junior lord. “Oh yes,” said he, in answer to an argument from Phineas, “I suppose there must be lords, as you call ’em; though for the matter of that I can’t see as they is of any mortal use.”
“Wouldn’t you have the Government carried on?”
“Government! Well; I suppose there must be government. But the less of it the better. I’m not against government — nor yet against laws, Mr Finn; though the less of them, too, the better. But what does these lords do in the Government? Lords indeed! I’ll tell you what they do, Mr Finn. They wotes; that’s what they do! They wotes hard; black or white, white or black. Ain’t that true? When you’re a “lord,” will you be able to wote against Mr Mildmay to save your very soul?”
“If it comes to be a question of soul-saving, Mr Bunce, I shan’t save my place at the expense of my conscience.”
“Not if you knows it, you mean. But the worst of it is that a man gets so thick into the mud that he don’t know whether he’s dirty or clean. You’ll have to wote as you’re told, and of course you’ll think it’s right enough. Ain’t you been among Parliament gents long enough to know that that’s the way it goes?”
“You think no honest man can be a member of the Government?”
“I don’t say that, but I think honesty’s a deal easier away from ’em. The fact is, Mr Finn, it’s all wrong with us yet, and will be till we get it nigher to the great American model. If a poor man gets into Parliament — you’ll excuse me, Mr Finn, but I calls you a poor man.”
“Certainly — as a member of Parliament I am a very poor man.”
“Just so — and therefore what do you do? You goes and lays yourself out for government! I’m not saying as how you’re anyways wrong. A man has to live. You has winning ways, and a good physognomy of your own, and are as big as a life-guardsman.” Phineas as he heard this doubtful praise laughed and blushed. “Very well; you makes your way with the big wigs, lords and earls and them like, and you gets returned for a rotten borough — you’ll excuse me, but that’s about it, ain’t it? — and then you goes in for government! A man may have a mission to govern, such as Washington and Cromwell and the like o’ them. But when I hears of Mr Fitzgibbon a-governing, why then I says — d — n it all.”
“There must be good and bad you know.”
“We’ve got to change a deal yet, Mr Finn, and we’ll do it. When a young man as has liberal feelings gets into Parliament, he shouldn’t be snapped up and brought into the governing business just because he’s poor and wants a salary. They don’t do it that way in the States; and they won’t do it that way here long. It’s the system as I hates, and not you, Mr Finn. Well, goodbye, sir. I hope you’ll like the governing business, and find it suits your health.”
These condolements from Mr Bunce were not pleasant, but they set him thinking. He felt assured that Bunce and Quintus Slide and Mr Turnbull were wrong. Bunce was ignorant. Quintus Slide was dishonest. Turnbull was greedy of popularity. For himself, he thought that as a young man he was fairly well informed. He knew that he meant to be true in his vocation. And he was quite sure that the object nearest to his heart in politics was not self-aggrandisement, but the welfare of the people in general. And yet he could not but agree with Bunce that there was something wrong. When such men as Laurence Fitzgibbon were called upon to act as governors, was it not to be expected that the ignorant but still intelligent Bunces of the population should — “d — n it all’?
On the evening of that day he went up to Mrs Low’s, very sure that he should receive some encouragement from her and from her husband. She had been angry with him because he had put himself into a position in which money must be spent and none could be made. The Lows, especially Mrs Low, had refused to believe that any success was within his reach. Now that he had succeeded, now that he was in receipt of a salary on which he could live and save money, he would be sure of sympathy from his old friends the Lows!
But Mrs Low was as severe upon him as Mr Bunce had been, and even from Mr Low he could extract no real comfort. “Of course I congratulate you,” said Mr Low coldly.
“And you, Mrs Low?”
“Well, you know, Mr Finn, I think you have begun at the wrong end. I thought so before, and I think so still. I suppose I ought not to say so to a Lord of the Treasury, but if you ask me, what can I do?”
“Speak the truth out, of course.”
“Exactly. That’s what I must do. Well, the truth is, Mr Finn, that I do not think it is a very good opening for a young man to be made what they call a Lord of the Treasury — unless he has got a private fortune, you know, to support that kind of life.”
“You see, Phineas, a ministry is such an uncertain thing,” said Mr Low.
“Of course it’s uncertain — but as I did go into the House, it’s something to have succeeded.”
“If you call that success,” said Mrs Low.
“You did intend to go on with your profession,” said Mr Low. He could not tell them that he had changed his mind, and that he meant to marry Violet Effingham, who would much prefer a parliamentary life for her husband to that of a working barrister. “I suppose that is all given up now,” continued Mr Low.
“Just for the present,” said Phineas.
“Yes — and for ever I fear,” said Mrs Low. You’ll never go back to real work after frittering away your time as a Lord of the Treasury. What sort of work must it be when just anybody can do it that it suits them to lay hold of? But of course a thousand a year is something, though a man may have it for only six months.”
It came out in the course of the evening that Mr Low was going to stand for the borough vacated by Mr Mottram, at which it was considered that the Conservatives might possibly prevail. “You see, after all, Phineas,” said Mr Low, “that I am following your steps.”
“Ah; you are going into the House in the course of your profession.”
“Just so,” said Mrs Low.
“And are taking the first step towards being a Tory Attorney-General.”
“That’s as may be,” said Mr Low. But it’s the kind of thing a man does after twenty years of hard work. For myself, I really don’t care much whether I succeed or fail. I should like to live to be a Vice-Chancellor. I don’t mind saying as much as that to you. But I’m not at all sure that Parliament is the best way to the Equity Bench.”
“But it is a grand thing to get into Parliament when you do it by means of your profession,” said Mrs Low.
Soon after that Phineas took his departure from the house, feeling sore and unhappy. But on the next morning he was received in Grosvenor Place with an amount of triumph which went far to compensate him. Lady Laura had written to him to call there, and on his arrival he found both Violet Effingham and Madame Max Goesler with his friend. When Phineas entered the room his first feeling was one of intense joy at seeing that Violet Effingham was present there. Then there was one of surprise that Madame Max Goesler should make one of the little party. Lady Laura had told him at Mr Palliser’s dinner-party that they, in Portman Square, had not as yet advanced far enough to receive Madame Max Goesler — and yet here was the lady in Mr Kennedy’s drawing-room. Now Phineas would have thought it more likely that he should find her in Portman Square than in Grosvenor Place. The truth was that Madame Goesler had been brought by Miss Effingham — with the consent, indeed, of Lady Laura, but with a consent given with much of hesitation. “What are you afraid of?” Violet had asked. “I am afraid of nothing,” Lady Laura had answered; but one has to choose one’s acquaintance in accordance with rules which one doesn’t lay down very strictly.” “She is a clever woman,” said Violet, “and everybody likes her; but if you think Mr Kennedy would object, of course you are right.” Then Lady Laura had consented, telling herself that it was not necessary that she should ask her husband’s approval as to every new acquaintance she might form. At the same time Violet had been told that Phineas would be there, and so the party had been made up.
““See the conquering hero comes,”” said Violet in her cheeriest voice.
“I am so glad that Mr Finn has been made a lord of something,” said Madame Max Goesler. “I had the pleasure of a long political discussion with him the other night, and I quite approve of him.”
“We are so much gratified, Mr Finn,” said Lady Laura. “Mr. Kennedy says that it is the best appointment they could have made, and papa is quite proud about it.”
“You are Lord Brentford’s member; are you not?” asked Madame Max Goesler. This was a question which Phineas did not quite like, and which he was obliged to excuse by remembering that the questioner had lived so long out of England as to be probably ignorant of the myths, and theories, and system, and working of the British Constitution. Violet Effingham, little as she knew of politics, would never have asked a question so imprudent.
But the question was turned off, and Phineas, with an easy grace, submitted himself to be petted, and congratulated, and purred over, and almost caressed by the three ladies. Their good-natured enthusiasm was at any rate better than the satire of Bunce, or the wisdom of Mrs Low. Lady Laura had no misgivings as to Phineas being fit for governing, and Violet Effingham said nothing as to the short-lived tenure of ministers. Madame Max Goesler, though she had asked an indiscreet question, thoroughly appreciated the advantage of Government pay, and the prestige of Government power. “You are a lord now,” she said, speaking, as was customary with her, with the slightest possible foreign accent, “and you will be a president soon, and then perhaps a secretary. The order of promotion seems odd, but I am told it is very pleasant.”
“It is pleasant to succeed, of course,” said Phineas, “let the success be ever so little.”
“We knew you would succeed,” said Lady Laura. We were quite sure of it. Were we not, Violet?”
“You always said so, my dear. For myself I do not venture to have an opinion on such matters. Will you always have to go to that big building in the corner, Mr Finn, and stay there from ten till four? Won’t that be a bore?”
“We have a half-holiday on Saturday, you know,” said Phineas.
“And do the Lords of the Treasury have to take care of the money?” asked Madame Max Goesler.
“Only their own; and they generally fail in doing that,” said Phineas.
He sat there for a considerable time, wondering whether Mr Kennedy would come in, and wondering also as to what Mr Kennedy would say to Madame Max Goesler when he did come in. He knew that it was useless for him to expect any opportunity, then or there, of being alone for a moment with Violet Effingham. His only chance in that direction would be in some crowded room, at some ball at which he might ask her to dance with him; but it seemed that fate was very unkind to him, and that no such chance came in his way. Mr Kennedy did not appear, and Madame Max Goesler with Violet went away, leaving Phineas still sitting with Lady Laura. Each of them said a kind word to him as they went. “I don’t know whether I may dare to expect that a Lord of the Treasury will come and see me?” said Madame Max Goesler. Then Phineas made a second promise that he would call in Park Lane. Violet blushed as she remembered that she could not ask him to call at Lady Baldock’s. “Goodbye, Mr Finn,” she said, giving him her hand. “I’m so very glad that they have chosen you; and I do hope that, as Madame Max says, they’ll make you a secretary and a president, and everything else very quickly — till it will come to your turn to be making other people.” “He is very nice, said Madame Goesler to Violet as she took her place in the carriage. “He bears being petted and spoilt without being either awkward or conceited.” “On the whole, he is rather nice, said Violet; “only he has not got a shilling in the world, and has to make himself before he will be anybody.” “He must marry money, of course,” said Madame Max Goesler.
“I hope you are contented?” said Lady Laura, rising from her chair and coming opposite to him as soon as they were alone.
“Of course I am contented.”
“I was not — when I first heard of it. Why did they promote that empty-headed countryman of yours to a place for which he was quite unfit? I was not contented. But then I am more ambitious for you than you are for yourself.” He sat without answering her for awhile, and she stood waiting for his reply. “Have you nothing to say to me?” she asked.
“I do not know what to say. When I think of it all, I am lost in amazement. You tell me that you are not contented — that you are ambitious for me. Why is it that you should feel any interest in the matter?”
“Is it not reasonable that we should be interested for our friends?”
“But when you and I last parted here in this room you were hardly my friend.”
“Was I not? You wrong me there — very deeply.”
“I told you what was my ambition, and you resented it,” said Phineas.
“I think I said that I could not help you, and I think I said also that I thought you would fail. I do not know that I showed much resentment. You see, I told her that you were here, that she might come and meet you. You know that I wished my brother should succeed. I wished it before I ever knew you. You cannot expect that I should change my wishes.”
“But if he cannot succeed,” pleaded Phineas.
“Who is to say that? Has a woman never been won by devotion and perseverance? Besides, how can I wish to see you go on with a suit which must sever you from my father, and injure your political prospects — perhaps fatally injure them? It seems to me now that my father is almost the only man in London who has not heard of this duel.”
“Of course he will hear of it. I have half made up my mind to tell him myself.”
“Do not do that, Mr Finn. There can be no reason for it. But I did not ask you to come here today to talk to you about Oswald or Violet. I have given you my advice about that, and I can do no more.”
“Lady Laura, I cannot take it. It is out of my power to take it.”
“Very well. The matter shall be what you members of Parliament call an open question between us. When papa asked you to accept this place at the Treasury, did it ever occur to you to refuse it?”
“It did — for half an hour or so.”
“I hoped you would — and yet I knew that I was wrong. I thought that you should count yourself to be worth more than that, and that you should, as it were, assert yourself. But then it is so difficult to draw the line between proper self-assertion and proper self-denial — to know how high to go up the table, and how low to go down. I do not doubt that you have been right — only make them understand that you are not as other junior lords — that you have been willing to be a junior lord, or anything else for a purpose; but that the purpose is something higher than that of fetching and carrying in Parliament for Mr Mildmay and Mr Palliser.”
“I hope in time to get beyond fetching and carrying,” said Phineas.
“Of course you will; and knowing that, I am glad that you are in office. I suppose there will be no difficulty about Loughton.”
Then Phineas laughed. “I hear,” said he, that Mr Quintus Slide, of the People’s Banner, has already gone down to canvass the electors.”
“Mr Quintus Slide! To canvass the electors of Loughton!” and Lady Laura drew herself up and spoke of this unseemly intrusion on her father’s borough, as though the vulgar man who had been named had forced his way into the very drawing-room in Portman Square. At that moment Mr Kennedy came in. “Do you hear what Mr Finn tells me?” she said. “He has heard that Mr Quintus Slide has gone down to Loughton to stand against him.”
“And why not?” said Mr Kennedy.
“My dear!” ejaculated Lady Laura.
“Mr Quintus Slide will no doubt lose his time and his money — but he will gain the prestige of having stood for a borough, which will be something for him on the staff of the People’s Banner,” said Mr Kennedy.
“He will get that horrid man Vellum to propose him,” said Lady Laura.
“Very likely,” said Mr Kennedy. And the less any of us say about it the better. Finn, my dear fellow, I congratulate you heartily. Nothing for a long time has given me greater pleasure than hearing of your appointment. It is equally honourable to yourself and to Mr Mildmay. It is a great step to have gained so early.”
Phineas, as he thanked his friend, could not help asking himself what his friend had done to be made a Cabinet Minister. Little as he, Phineas, himself had done in the House in his two sessions and a half, Mr Kennedy had hardly done more in his fifteen or twenty. But then Mr Kennedy was possessed of almost miraculous wealth, and owned half a county, whereas he, Phineas, owned almost nothing at all. Of course no Prime Minister would offer a junior lordship at the Treasury to a man with ￡30,000 a year. Soon after this Phineas took his leave. “I think he will do well,” said Mr Kennedy to his wife.
“I am sure he will do well,” replied Lady Laura, almost scornfully.
“He is not quite such a black swan with me as he is with you; but still I think he will succeed, if he takes care of himself. It is astonishing how that absurd story of his duel with Chiltern has got about.”
“It is impossible to prevent people talking,” said Lady Laura.
“I suppose there was some quarrel, though neither of them will tell you. They say it was about Miss Effingham. I should hardly think that Finn could have any hopes in that direction.”
“Why should he not have hopes?”
“Because he has neither position, nor money, nor birth,” said Mr Kennedy.
“He is a gentleman,” said Lady Laura; and I think he has position. I do not see why he should not ask any girl to marry him.”
“There is no understanding you, Laura,” said Mr Kennedy, angrily. “I thought you had quite other hopes about Miss Effingham.”
“So I have; but that has nothing to do with it. You spoke of Mr Finn as though he would be guilty of some crime were he to ask Violet Effingham to be his wife. In that I disagree with you. Mr Finn is — ”
“You will make me sick of the name of Mr Finn.”
“I am sorry that I offend you by my gratitude to a man who saved your life.” Mr Kennedy shook his head. He knew that the argument used against him was false, but he did not know how to show that he knew that it was false. “Perhaps I had better not mention his name any more,” continued Lady Laura.
“Nonsense!”
“I quite agree with you that it is nonsense, Robert.”
“All I mean to say is, that if you go on as you do, you will turn his head and spoil him. Do you think I do not know what is going on among you?”
“And what is going on among us — as you call it?”
“You are taking this young man up and putting him on a pedestal and worshipping him, just because he is well-looking, and rather clever and decently behaved. It’s always the way with women who have nothing to do, and who cannot be made to understand that they should have duties. They cannot live without some kind of idolatry.”
“Have I neglected my duty to you, Robert?”
“Yes — you know you have — in going to those receptions at your father’s house on Sundays.”
“What has that to do with Mr Finn?”
“Psha!”
“I begin to think I had better tell Mr Finn not to come here any more, since his presence is disagreeable to you. All the world knows how great is the service he did you, and it will seem to be very ridiculous. People will say all manner of things; but anything will be better than that you should go on as you have done — accusing your wife of idolatry towards — a young man, because — he is — well-looking.”
“I never said anything of the kind.”
“You did, Robert.”
“I did not. I did not speak more of you than of a lot of others.”
“You accused me personally, saying that because of my idolatry I had neglected my duty; but really you made such a jumble of it all, with papa’s visitors, and Sunday afternoons, that I cannot follow what was in your mind.”
Then Mr Kennedy stood for awhile, collecting his thoughts, so that he might unravel the jumble, if that were possible to him; but finding that it was not possible, he left the room, and closed the door behind him.
Then Lady Laura was left alone to consider the nature of the accusation which her husband had brought against her; or the nature rather of the accusation which she had chosen to assert that her husband had implied. For in her heart she knew that he had made no such accusation, and had intended to make none such. The idolatry of which he had spoken was the idolatry which a woman might show to her cat, her dog, her picture, her china, her furniture, her carriage and horses, or her pet maidservant. Such was the idolatry of which Mr Kennedy had spoken — but was there no other worship in her heart, worse, more pernicious than that, in reference to this young man?
She had schooled herself about him very severely, and had come to various resolutions. She had found out and confessed to herself that she did not, and could not, love her husband. She had found out and confessed to herself that she did love, and could not help loving, Phineas Finn. Then she had resolved to banish him from her presence, and had gone the length of telling him so. After that she had perceived that she had been wrong, and had determined to meet him as she met other men — and to conquer her love. Then, when this could not be done, when something almost like idolatry grew upon her, she determined that it should be the idolatry of friendship, that she would not sin even in thought, that there should be nothing in her heart of which she need be ashamed — but that the one great object and purport of her life should be the promotion of this friend’s welfare. She had just begun to love after this fashion, had taught herself to believe that she might combine something of the pleasure of idolatry towards her friend with a full complement of duty towards her husband, when Phineas came to her with his tale of love for Violet Effingham. The lesson which she got then was a very rough one — so hard that at first she could not bear it. Her anger at his love for her brother’s wished-for bride was lost in her dismay that Phineas should love anyone after having once loved her. But by sheer force of mind she had conquered that dismay, that feeling of desolation at her heart, and had almost taught herself to hope that Phineas might succeed with Violet. He wished it — and why should he not have what he wished — he, whom she so fondly idolised? It was not his fault that he and she were not man and wife. She had chosen to arrange it otherwise, and was she not bound to assist him now in the present object of his reasonable wishes? She had got over in her heart that difficulty about her brother, but she could not quite conquer the other difficulty. She could not bring herself to plead his cause with Violet. She had not brought herself as yet to do it.
And now she was accused of idolatry for Phineas by her husband — she with “a lot of others,” in which lot Violet was of course included. Would it not be better that they two should be brought together? Would not her friend’s husband still be her friend? Would she not then forget to love him? Would she not then be safer than she was now?
As she sat alone struggling with her difficulties, she had not as yet forgotten to love him — nor was she as yet safe.
One morning early in June Lady Laura called at Lady Baldock’s house and asked for Miss Effingham. The servant was showing her into the large drawing-room, when she again asked specially for Miss Effingham. “I think Miss Effingham is there,” said the man, opening the door. Miss Effingham was not there. Lady Baldock was sitting all alone, and Lady Laura perceived that she had been caught in the net which she specially wished to avoid. Now Lady Baldock had not actually or openly quarrelled with Lady Laura Kennedy or with Lord Brentford, but she had conceived a strong idea that her niece Violet was countenanced in all improprieties by the Standish family generally, and that therefore the Standish family was to be regarded as a family of enemies. There was doubtless in her mind considerable confusion on the subject, for she did not know whether Lord Chiltern or Mr Finn was the suitor whom she most feared — and she was aware, after a sort of muddled fashion, that the claims of these two wicked young men were antagonistic to each other. But they were both regarded by her as emanations from the same source of iniquity, and, therefore, without going deeply into the machinations of Lady Laura — without resolving whether Lady Laura was injuring her by pressing her brother as a suitor upon Miss Effingham, or by pressing a rival of her brother — still she became aware that it was her duty to turn a cold shoulder on those two houses in Portman Square and Grosvenor Place. But her difficulties in doing this were very great, and it may be said that Lady Baldock was placed in an unjust and cruel position. Before the end of May she had proposed to leave London, and to take her daughter and Violet down to Baddingham — or to Brighton, if they preferred it, or to Switzerland. “Brighton in June!” Violet had exclaimed. “Would not a month among the glaciers be delightful!” Miss Boreham had said. “Don’t let me keep you in town, aunt,” Violet replied; “but I do not think I shall go till other people go. I can have a room at Laura Kennedy’s house.” Then Lady Baldock, whose position was hard and cruel, resolved that she would stay in town. Here she had in her hands a ward over whom she had no positive power, and yet in respect to whom her duty was imperative! Her duty was imperative, and Lady Baldock was not the woman to neglect her duty — and yet she knew that the doing of her duty would all be in vain. Violet would marry a shoeblack out of the streets if she were so minded. It was of no use that the poor lady had provided herself with two strings, two most excellent strings, to her bow — two strings either one of which should have contented Miss Effingham. There was Lord Fawn, a young peer, not very rich indeed — but still with means sufficient for a wife, a rising man, and in every way respectable, although a Whig. And there was Mr Appledom, one of the richest commoners in England, a fine Conservative too, with a seat in the House, and everything appropriate. He was fifty, but looked hardly more than thirty-five, and was — so at least Lady Baldock frequently asserted — violently in love with Violet Effingham. Why had not the law, or the executors, or the Lord Chancellor, or some power levied for the protection of the proprieties, made Violet absolutely subject to her guardian till she should be made subject to a husband?
“Yes, I think she is at home,” said Lady Baldock, in answer to Lady Laura’s inquiry for Violet. “At least, I hardly know. She seldom tells me what she means to do — and sometimes she will walk out quite alone!” A most imprudent old woman was Lady Baldock, always opening her hand to her adversaries, unable to control herself in the scolding of people, either before their faces or behind their backs, even at moments in which such scolding was most injurious to her own cause. “However, we will see,” she continued. Then the bell was rung, and in a few minutes Violet was in the room. In a few minutes more they were upstairs together in Violet’s own room, in spite of the openly-displayed wrath of Lady Baldock. “I almost wish she had never been born,” said Lady Baldock to her daughter. “Oh, mamma, don’t say that.” I certainly do wish that I had never seen her.” “Indeed she has been a grievous trouble to you, mamma,” said Miss Boreham, sympathetically.
“Brighton! What nonsense!” said Lady Laura.
“Of course it’s nonsense. Fancy going to Brighton! And then they have proposed Switzerland. If you could only hear Augusta talking in rapture of a month among the glaciers! And I feel so ungrateful. I believe they would spend three months with me at any horrible place that I could suggest — at Hong Kong if I were to ask it — so intent are they on taking me away from metropolitan danger.”
“But you will not go?”
“No! — I won’t go. I know I am very naughty; but I can’t help feeling that I cannot be good without being a fool at the same time. I must either fight my aunt, or give way to her. If I were to yield, what a life I should have — and I should despise myself after all.”
“And what is the special danger to be feared now?”
“I don’t know — you, I fancy. I told her that if she went, I should go to you. I knew that would make her stay.”
“I wish you would come to me,” said Lady Laura.
“I shouldn’t think of it really — not for any length of time.”
“Why not?”
“Because I should be in Mr Kennedy’s way.”
“You wouldn’t be in his way in the least. If you would only be down punctually for morning prayers, and go to church with him on Sunday afternoon, he would be delighted to have you.”
“What did he say about Madame Max coming?”
“Not a word. I don’t think he quite knew who she was then. I fancy he has inquired since, by something he said yesterday.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing that matters — only a word. I haven’t come here to talk about Madame Max Goesler — nor yet about Mr Kennedy.”
“Whom have you come to talk about?” asked Violet, laughing a little, with something of increased colour in her cheeks, though she could not be said to blush.
“A lover of course,” said Lady Laura.
“I wish you would leave me alone with my lovers. You are as bad or worse than my aunt. She, at any rate, varies her prescription. She has become sick of poor Lord Fawn because he’s a Whig.”
“And who is her favourite now?”
“Old Mr Appledom — who is really a most unexceptionable old party, and whom I like of all things. I really think I could consent to be Mrs Appledom, to get rid of my troubles — if he did not dye his whiskers and have his coats padded.”
“He’d give up those little things if you asked him.”
“I shouldn’t have the heart to do it. Besides, this isn’t his time of the year for making proposals. His love fever, which is of a very low kind, and intermits annually, never comes on till the autumn. It is a rural malady, against which he is proof while among his clubs!”
“Well, Violet — I am like your aunt.”
“Like Lady Baldock?”
“In one respect. I, too, will vary my prescription.”
“What do you mean, Laura?”
“Just this — that if you like to marry Phineas Finn, I will say that you are right.”
“Heaven and earth! And why am I to marry Phineas Finn?”
“Only for two reasons; because he loves you, and because — ”
“No — I deny it. I do not.”
“I had come to fancy that you did.”
“Keep your fancy more under control then. But upon my word I can’t understand this. He was your great friend.”
“What has that to do with it?” demanded Lady Laura.
“And you have thrown over your brother, Laura?”
“You have thrown him over. Is he to go on for ever asking and being refused?”
“I do not know why he should not,” said Violet, seeing how very little trouble it gives him. Half an hour once in six months does it all for him, allowing him time for coming and going in a cab.”
“Violet, I do not understand you. Have you refused Oswald so often because he does not pass hours on his knees before you?”
“No, indeed! His nature would be altered very much for the worse before he could do that.”
“Why do you throw it in his teeth then that he does not give you more of his time?”
“Why have you come to tell me to marry Mr Phineas Finn? That is what I want to know. Mr Phineas Finn, as far as I am aware, has not a shilling in the world — except a month’s salary now due to him from the Government. Mr Phineas Finn I believe to be the son of a country doctor in Ireland — with about seven sisters. Mr Phineas Finn is a Roman Catholic. Mr Phineas Finn is — or was a short time ago — in love with another lady; and Mr Phineas Finn is not so much in love at this moment but what he is able to entrust his cause to an ambassador. None short of a royal suitor should ever do that with success.”
“Has he never pleaded his cause to you himself?”
“My dear, I never tell gentlemen’s secrets. It seems that if he has, his success was so trifling that he has thought he had better trust someone else for the future.”
“He has not trusted me. He has not given me any commission.”
“Then why have you come?”
“Because — I hardly know how to tell his story. There have been things about Oswald which made it almost necessary that Mr Finn should explain himself to me.”
“I know it all — about their fighting. Foolish young men! I am not a bit obliged to either of them — not a bit. Only fancy, if my aunt knew it, what a life she would lead me! Gustavus knows all about it, and I feel that I am living at his mercy. Why were they so wrong-headed?”
“I cannot answer that — though I know them well enough to be sure that Chiltern was the one in fault.”
“It is so odd that you should have thrown your brother over.”
“I have not thrown my brother over. Will you accept Oswald if he asks you again?”
“No,” almost shouted Violet.
“Then I hope that Mr Finn may succeed. I want him to succeed in everything. There — you may know it all. He is my Phoebus Apollo.”
“That is flattering to me — looking at the position in which you desire to place your Phoebus at the present moment.”
“Come, Violet, I am true to you, and let me have a little truth from you. This man loves you, and I think is worthy of you. He does not love me, but he is my friend. As his friend, and believing in his worth, I wish for his success beyond almost anything else in the world. Listen to me, Violet. I don’t believe in those reasons which you gave me just now for not becoming this man’s wife.”
“Nor do I.”
“I know you do not. Look at me. I, who have less of real heart than you, I who thought that I could trust myself to satisfy my mind and my ambition without caring for my heart, I have married for what you call position. My husband is very rich, and a Cabinet Minister, and will probably be a peer. And he was willing to marry me at a time when I had not a shilling of my own.”
“He was very generous.”
“He has asked for it since,” said Lady Laura. But never mind. I have not come to talk about myself — otherwise than to bid you not do what I have done. All that you have said about this man’s want of money and of family is nothing.”
“Nothing at all,” said Violet. Mere words — fit only for such people as my aunt.”
“Well then?”
“Well?”
“If you love him —!”
“Ah! but if I do not? You are very close in inquiring into my secrets. Tell me, Laura — was not this young Crichton once a lover of your own?”
“Psha! And do you think I cannot keep a gentleman’s secret as well as you?”
“What is the good of any secret, Laura, when we have been already so open? He tried his ‘prentice hand on you; and then he came to me. Let us watch him, and see who’ll be the third. I too like him well enough to hope that he’ll land himself safely at last.”
Phineas had certainly no desire to make love by an ambassador — at second hand. He had given no commission to Lady Laura, and was, as the reader is aware, quite ignorant of what was being done and said on his behalf. He had asked no more from Lady Laura than an opportunity of speaking for himself, and that he had asked almost with a conviction that by so asking he would turn his friend into an enemy. He had read but little of the workings of Lady Laura’s heart towards himself, and had no idea of the assistance she was anxious to give him. She had never told him that she was willing to sacrifice her brother on his behalf, and, of course, had not told him that she was willing also to sacrifice herself. Nor, when she wrote to him one June morning and told him that Violet would be found in Portman Square, alone, that afternoon — naming an hour, and explaining that Miss Effingham would be there to meet herself and her father, but that at such an hour she would be certainly alone — did he even then know how much she was prepared to do for him. The short note was signed “L.,” and then there came a long postscript. “Ask for me,” she said in a postscript. “I shall be there later, and I have told them to bid you wait. I can give you no hope of success, but if you choose to try — you can do so. If you do not come, I shall know that you have changed your mind. I shall not think the worse of you, and your secret will be safe with me. I do that which you have asked me to do — simply because you have asked it. Burn this at once — because I ask it.” Phineas destroyed the note, tearing it into atoms, the moment that he had read it and re-read it. Of course he would go to Portman Square at the hour named. Of course he would take his chance. He was not buoyed up by much of hope — but even though there were no hope, he would take his chance.
When Lord Brentford had first told Phineas of his promotion, he had also asked the new Lord of the Treasury to make a certain communication on his behalf to his son. This Phineas had found himself obliged to promise to do — and he had done it. The letter had been difficult enough to write — but he had written it. After having made the promise, he had found himself bound to keep it.
“Dear Lord Chiltern,” he had commenced, I will not think that there was anything in our late encounter to prevent my so addressing you. I now write at the instance of your father, who has heard nothing of our little affair.” Then he explained at length Lord Brentford’s wishes as he understood them. “Pray come home,” he said, finishing his letter. “Touching V. E., I feel that I am bound to tell you that I still mean to try my fortune, but that I have no ground for hoping that my fortune will be good. Since the day on the sands, I have never met her but in society. I know you will be glad to hear that my wound was nothing; and I think you will be glad to hear that I have got my foot on to the ladder of promotion. — Yours always,
“ PHINEAS FINN ”
Now he had to try his fortune — that fortune of which he had told Lord Chiltern that he had no reason for hoping that it would be good. He went direct from his office at the Treasury to Portman Square, resolving that he would take no trouble as to his dress, simply washing his hands and brushing his hair as though he were going down to the House, and he knocked at the Earl’s door exactly at the hour named by Lady Laura.
“Miss Effingham,” he said, I am so glad to find you alone.”
“Yes,” she said, laughing. I am alone — a poor unprotected female. But I fear nothing. I have strong reason for believing that Lord Brentford is somewhere about. And Pomfret the butler, who has known me since I was a baby, is a host in himself.”
“With such allies you can have nothing to fear,” he replied, attempting to carry on her little jest.
“Nor even without them, Mr Finn. We unprotected females in these days are so self-reliant that our natural protectors fall off from us, finding themselves to be no longer wanted. Now with you — what can I fear?”
“Nothing — as I hope.”
“There used to be a time, and that not so long ago either, when young gentlemen and ladies were thought to be very dangerous to each other if they were left alone. But propriety is less rampant now, and upon the whole virtue and morals, with discretion and all that kind of thing, have been the gainers. Don’t you think so?”
“I am sure of it.”
“All the same, but I don’t like to be caught in a trap, Mr Finn.”
“In a trap?”
“Yes — in a trap. Is there no trap here? If you will say so, I will acknowledge myself to be a dolt, and will beg your pardon.”
“I hardly know what you call a trap.”
“You were told that I was here?”
He paused a moment before he replied. “Yes, I was told.”
“I call that a trap.”
“Am I to blame?”
“I don’t say that you set it — but you use it.”
“Miss Effingham, of course I have used it. You must know — I think you must know that I have that to say to you which has made me long for such an opportunity as this.”
“And therefore you have called in the assistance of your friend.”
“It is true.”
“In such matters you should never talk to anyone, Mr Finn. If you cannot fight your own battle, no one can fight it for you.”
“Miss Effingham, do you remember our ride at Saulsby?”
“Very well — as if it were yesterday.”
“And do you remember that I asked you a question which you have never answered?”
“I did answer it — as well as I knew how, so that I might tell you a truth without hurting you.”
“It was necessary — is necessary that I should be hurt sorely, or made perfectly happy, Violet Effingham, I have come to you to ask you to be my wife — to tell you that I love you, and to ask for your love in return. Whatever may be my fate, the question must be asked, and an answer must be given. I have not hoped that you should tell me that you loved me — ”
“For what then have you hoped?”
“For not much, indeed — but if for anything, then for some chance that you might tell me so hereafter.”
“If I loved you, I would tell you so now — instantly. I give you my word of that.”
“Can you never love me?”
“What is a woman to answer to such a question? No — I believe never. I do not think I shall ever wish you to be my husband. You ask me to be plain, and I must be plain.”
“Is it because —?” He paused, hardly knowing what the question was which he proposed to himself to ask.
“It is for no because — for no cause except that simple one which should make any girl refuse any man whom she did not love. Mr Finn, I could say pleasant things to you on any other subject than this — because I like you.”
“I know that I have nothing to justify my suit.”
“You have everything to justify it — at least I am bound to presume that you have. If you love me — you are justified.”
“You know that I love you.”
“I am sorry that it should ever have been so — very sorry. I can only hope that I have not been in fault.”
“Will you try to love me?”
“No — why should I try? If any trying were necessary, I would try rather not to love you. Why should I try to do that which would displease everybody belonging to me? For yourself, I admit your right to address me — and tell you frankly that such a marriage would not please those whom I am bound to try to please.”
He paused a moment before he spoke further. “I shall wait,” he said, “and come again.”
“What am I to say to that? Do not tease me, so that I be driven to treat you with lack of courtesy. Lady Laura is so much attached to you, and Mr Kennedy, and Lord Brentford — and indeed I may say, I myself also, that I trust there may be nothing to mar our good fellowship. Come Mr Finn — say that you will take an answer, and I will give you my hand.”
“Give it me,” said he. She gave him her hand, and he put it up to his lips and pressed it. “I will wait and come again,” he said. “I will assuredly come again.” Then he turned from her and went out of the house. At the corner of the square he saw Lady Laura’s carriage, but did not stop to speak to her. And she also saw him.
“So you have had a visitor here,” said Lady Laura to Violet.
“Yes — I have been caught in the trap.”
“Poor mouse! And has the cat made a meal of you?”
“I fancy he has, after his fashion. There be cats that eat their mice without playing — and cats that play with their mice, and then eat them; and cats again which only play with their mice, and don’t care to eat them. Mr Finn is a cat of the latter kind, and has had his afternoon’s diversion.”
“You wrong him there.”
“I think not, Laura. I do not mean to say that he would not have liked me to accept him. But, if I can see inside his bosom, such a little job as that he has now done will be looked back upon as one of the past pleasures of his life — not as a pain.”
It will be necessary that we should go back in our story for a very short period in order that the reader may be told that Phineas Finn was duly re-elected at Loughton after his appointment at the Treasury Board. There was some little trouble at Loughton, and something more of expense than he had before encountered. Mr Quintus Slide absolutely came down, and was proposed by Mr Vellum for the borough. Mr Vellum being a gentleman learned in the law, and hostile to the interests of the noble owner of Saulsby, was able to raise a little trouble against our hero. Mr Slide was proposed by Mr Vellum, and seconded by Mr Vellum’s clerk — though, as it afterwards appeared, Mr Vellum’s clerk was not in truth an elector — and went to the poll like a man. He received three votes, and at twelve o’clock withdrew. This in itself could hardly have afforded compensation for the expense which Mr Slide or his backers must have encountered — but he had an opportunity of making a speech, every word of which was reported in the People’s Banner; and if the speech was made in the language given in the report, Mr Slide was really possessed of some oratorical power. Most of those who read the speech in the columns of the People’s Banner were probably not aware how favourable an opportunity of retouching his sentences in type had been given to Mr Slide by the fact of his connection with the newspaper. The speech had been very severe upon our hero; and though the speaker had been so hooted and pelted at Loughton as to have been altogether inaudible — so maltreated that in point of fact he had not been able to speak above a tenth part of his speech at all — nevertheless the speech did give Phineas a certain amount of pain. Why Phineas should have read it who can tell? But who is there that abstains from reading that which is printed in abuse of himself?
In the speech as it was printed Mr Slide declared that he had no thought of being returned for the borough. He knew too well how the borough was managed, what slaves the electors were — how they groaned under a tyranny from which hitherto they had been unable to release themselves. Of course the Earl’s nominee, his lackey, as the honourable gentleman might be called, would be returned. The Earl could order them to return whichever of his lackueys he pleased. — There is something peculiarly pleasing to the democratic ear in the word lackuey! Anyone serving a big man, whatever the service may be, is the big man’s lackuey in the People’s Banner. — The speech throughout was very bitter. Mr Phineas Finn, who had previously served in Parliament as the lackuey of an Irish earl, and had been turned off by him, had now fallen into the service of the English earl, and was the lackuey chosen for the present occasion. But he, Quintus Slide, who boasted himself to be a man of the people — he could tell them that the days of their thraldom were coming to an end, and that their enfranchisement was near at hand. That friend of the people, Mr Turnbull, had a clause in his breeches pocket which he would either force down the unwilling throat of Mr Mildmay, or else drive the imbecile Premier from office by carrying it in his teeth. Loughton, as Loughton, must be destroyed, but it should be born again in a better birth as a part of a real electoral district, sending a real member, chosen by a real constituency, to a real Parliament. In those days — and they would come soon — Mr Quintus Slide rather thought that Mr Phineas Finn would be found “nowhere,” and he rather thought also that when he showed himself again, as he certainly should do, in the midst of that democratic electoral district as the popular candidate for the honour of representing it in Parliament, that democratic electoral district would accord to him a reception very different from that which he was now receiving from the Earl’s lackueys in the parliamentary village of Loughton. A prettier bit of fiction than these sentences as composing a part of any speech delivered, or proposed to be delivered, at Loughton, Phineas thought he had never seen. And when he read at the close of the speech that though the Earl’s hired bullies did their worst, the remarks of Mr Slide were received by the people with reiterated cheering, he threw himself back in his chair at the Treasury and roared. The poor fellow had been three minutes on his legs, had received three rotten eggs, and one dead dog, and had retired. But not the half of the speech as printed in the People’s Banner has been quoted. The sins of Phineas, who in spite of his inability to open his mouth in public had been made a Treasury hack by the aristocratic influence — “by aristocratic influence not confined to the male sex,” — were described at great length, and in such language that Phineas for a while was fool enough to think that it would be his duty to belabour Mr Slide with a horsewhip. This notion, however, did not endure long with him, and when Mr Monk told him that things of that kind came as a matter of course, he was comforted.
But he found it much more difficult to obtain comfort when he weighed the arguments brought forward against the abominations of such a borough as that for which he sat, and reflected that if Mr Turnbull brought forward his clause, he, Phineas Finn, would be bound to vote against the clause, knowing the clause to be right, because he was a servant of the Government. The arguments, even though they appeared in the People’s Banner, were true arguments; and he had on one occasion admitted their truth to his friend Lady Laura — in the presence of that great Cabinet Minister, her husband. “What business has such a man as that down there? Is there a single creature who wants him?” Lady Laura had said. “I don’t suppose anybody does want Mr Quintus Slide,” Phineas had replied; “but I am disposed to think the electors should choose the man they do want, and that at present they have no choice left to them.” “They are quite satisfied,” said Lady Laura, angrily. “Then, Lady Laura, continued Phineas, “that alone should be sufficient to prove that their privilege of returning a member to Parliament is too much for them. We can’t defend it.” “It is defended by tradition, said Mr Kennedy. “And by its great utility,” said Lady Laura, bowing to the young member who was present, and forgetting that very useless old gentleman, her cousin, who had sat for the borough for many years. “In this country it doesn’t do to go too fast,” said Mr Kennedy. “And then the mixture of vulgarity, falsehood, and pretence!” said Lady Laura, shuddering as her mind recurred to the fact that Mr Quintus Slide had contaminated Loughton by his presence. “I am told that they hardly let him leave the place alive.”
Whatever Mr Kennedy and Lady Laura might think about Loughton and the general question of small boroughs, it was found by the Government, to their great cost, that Mr Turnbull’s clause was a reality. After two months of hard work, all questions of franchise had been settled, rating and renting, new and newfangled, fancy franchises and those which no one fancied, franchises for boroughs and franchises for counties, franchises single, dual, three-cornered, and four-sided — by various clauses to which the Committee of the whole House had agreed after some score of divisions — the matter of the franchise had been settled. No doubt there was the House of Lords, and there might yet be shipwreck. But it was generally believed that the Lords would hardly look at the bill — that they would not even venture on an amendment. The Lords would only be too happy to let the matter be settled by the Commons themselves. But then, after the franchise, came redistribution. How sick of the subject were all members of the Government, no-one could tell who did not see their weary faces. The whole House was sick, having been whipped into various lobbies, night after night, during the heat of the summer, for weeks past. Redistribution! Why should there be any redistribution? They had got, or would get, a beautiful franchise. Could they not see what that would do for them? Why redistribute anything? But, alas, it was too late to go back to so blessed an idea as that! Redistribution they must have. But there should be as little redistribution as possible. Men were sick of it all, and would not be exigeant. Something should be done for overgrown counties — something for new towns which had prospered in brick and mortar. It would be easy to crush up a peccant borough or two — a borough that had been discovered in its sin. And a few boroughs now blessed with two members might consent to be blessed only with one. Fifteen small clauses might settle the redistribution — in spite of Mr Turnbull — if only Mr Daubeny would be good-natured.
Neither the weather, which was very hot, nor the tedium of the session, which had been very great, nor the anxiety of Ministers, which was very pressing, had any effect in impairing the energy of Mr Turnbull. He was as instant, as oratorical, as hostile, as indignant about redistribution as he had been about the franchise. He had been sure then, and he was sure now, that Ministers desired to burke the question, to deceive the people, to produce a bill that should be no bill. He brought out his clause — and made Loughton his instance. “Would the honourable gentleman who sat lowest on the Treasury bench — who at this moment was in sweet confidential intercourse with the right honourable gentleman now President of the Board of Trade, who had once been a friend of the people — would the young Lord of the Treasury get up in his place and tell them that no peer of Parliament had at present a voice in sending a member to their House of Commons — that no peer would have a voice if this bill, as proposed by the Government, were passed in its present useless, ineffectual, conservative, and most dishonest form?”
Phineas, who replied to this, and who told Mr Turnbull that he himself could not answer for any peers — but that he thought it probable that most peers would, by their opinions, somewhat influence the opinions of some electors — was thought to have got out of his difficulty very well. But there was the clause of Mr Turnbull to be dealt with — a clause directly disfranchising seven single-winged boroughs, of which Loughton was of course one — a clause to which the Government must either submit or object. Submission would be certain defeat in one way, and objection would be as certain defeat in another — if the gentlemen on the other side were not disposed to assist the ministers. It was said that the Cabinet was divided. Mr Gresham and Mr Monk were for letting the seven boroughs go. Mr Mildmay could not bring himself to obey Mr Turnbull, and Mr Palliser supported him. When Mr Mildmay was told that Mr Daubeny would certainly go into the same lobby with Mr Turnbull respecting the seven boroughs, he was reported to have said that in that case Mr Daubeny must be prepared with a Government. Mr Daubeny made a beautiful speech about the seven boroughs — the seven sins, and seven stars, and seven churches, and seven lamps. He would make no party question of this. Gentlemen who usually acted with him would vote as their own sense of right or wrong directed them — from which expression of a special sanction it was considered that these gentlemen were not accustomed to exercise the privilege now accorded to them. But in regarding the question as one of right and wrong, and in looking at what he believed to be both the wish of the country and its interests, he, Mr Daubeny — he, himself, being simply a humble member of that House — must support the clause of the honourable gentleman. Almost all those to whom had been surrendered the privilege of using their own judgment for that occasion only, used it discreetly — as their chief had used it himself — and Mr Turnbull carried his clause by a majority of fifteen. It was then 3 a.m., and Mr Gresham, rising after the division, said that his right honourable friend the First Lord of the Treasury was too tired to return to the House, and had requested him to state that the Government would declare their purpose at 6 p.m. on the following evening.
Phineas, though he had made his little speech in answer to Mr Turnbull with good humoured flippancy, had recorded his vote in favour of the seven boroughs with a sore heart. Much as he disliked Mr Turnbull, he knew that Mr Turnbull was right in this. He had spoken to Mr Monk on the subject, as it were asking Mr Monk’s permission to throw up his office, and vote against Mr Mildmay. But Mr Monk was angry with him, telling him that his conscience was of that restless, uneasy sort which is neither useful nor manly. “We all know,” said Mr Monk, “and none better than Mr Mildmay, that we cannot justify such a borough as Loughton by the theory of our parliamentary representation — any more than we can justify the fact that Huntingdonshire should return as many members as the East Riding. There must be compromises, and you should trust to others who have studied the matter more thoroughly than you, to say how far the compromise should go at the present moment.”
“It is the influence of the peer, not the paucity of the electors,” said Phineas.
“And has no peer any influence in a county? Would you disfranchise Westmoreland? Believe me, Finn, if you want to be useful, you must submit yourself in such matters to those with whom you act.”
Phineas had no answer to make, but he was not happy in his mind. And he was the less happy, perhaps, because he was very sure that Mr Mildmay would be beaten. Mr Low in these days harassed him sorely. Mr Low was very keen against such boroughs as Loughton, declaring that Mr Daubeny was quite right to join his standard to that of Mr Turnbull on such an issue. Mr Low was the reformer now, and Phineas found himself obliged to fight a losing battle on behalf of an acknowledged abuse. He never went near Bunce; but, unfortunately for him, Bunce caught him once in the street and showed him no mercy. “Slide was a little ‘eavy on you in the Banner the other day — eh, Mr Finn? — too ‘eavy, as I told him.”
“Mr Slide can be just as heavy as he pleases, Bunce.”
“That’s in course. The press is free, thank God — as yet. But it wasn’t any good rattling away at the Earl’s little borough when it’s sure to go. Of course it’ll go, Mr Finn.”
“I think it will.”
“The whole seven on ’em. The ’ouse couldn’t but do it. They tell me it’s all Mr Mildmay’s own work, sticking out for keeping on ’em. He’s very old, and so we’ll forgive him. But he must go, Mr Finn.”
“We shall know all about that soon, Bunce.”
“If you don’t get another seat, Mr Finn, I suppose we shall see you back at the Inn. I hope we may. It’s better than being member for Loughton, Mr Finn — you may be sure of that.” And then Mr Bunce passed on.
Mr Turnbull carried his clause, and Loughton was doomed. Loughton and the other six deadly sins were anathematised, exorcised, and finally got rid of out of the world by the voices of the gentlemen who had been proclaiming the beauty of such pleasant vices all their lives, and who in their hearts hated all changes that tended towards popular representation. But not the less was Mr Mildmay beaten; and, in accordance with the promise made by his first lieutenant immediately after the vote was taken, the Prime Minister came forward on the next evening and made his statement. He had already put his resignation into the hands of Her Majesty, and Her Majesty had graciously accepted it. He was very old, and felt that the time had come in which it behoved him to retire into that leisure which he thought he had, perhaps, earned. He had hoped to carry this bill as the last act of his political life; but he was too old, too stiff, as he said, in his prejudices, to bend further than he had bent already, and he must leave the completion of the matter in other hands. Her Majesty had sent for Mr Gresham, and Mr Gresham had already seen Her Majesty. Mr Gresham and his other colleagues, though they dissented from the clause which had been carried by the united efforts of gentlemen opposite to him, and of gentlemen below him on his own side of the House, were younger men than he, and would, for the country’s sake — and for the sake of Her Majesty — endeavour to carry the bill through. There would then, of course, be a dissolution, and the future Government would, no doubt, depend on the choice of the country, From all which it was understood that Mr Gresham was to go on with the bill to a conclusion, whatever might be the divisions carried against him, and that a new Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs must be chosen. Phineas understood, also, that he had lost his seat at Loughton. For the borough of Loughton there would never again be an election. “If I had been Mr Mildmay, I would have thrown the bill up altogether,” Lord Brentford said afterwards; “but of course it was not for me to interfere.”
The session was protracted for two months after that — beyond the time at which grouse should have been shot — and by the 23rd of August became the law of the land. “I shall never get over it,” said Mr Ratler to Mr Finn, seated one terribly hot evening on a bench behind the Cabinet Ministers — “never. I don’t suppose such a session for work was ever known before. Think what it is to have to keep men together in August, with the thermometer at 81 degrees, and the river stinking like — like the very mischief.” Mr Ratler, however, did not die.
On the last day of the session Laurence Fitzgibbon resigned. Rumours reached the ears of Phineas as to the cause of this, but no certain cause was told him. It was said that Lord Cantrip had insisted upon it, Laurence having by mischance been called upon for some official statement during an unfortunate period of absence. There was, however, a mystery about it — but the mystery was not half so wonderful as the triumph to Phineas, when Mr Gresham offered him the place.
“But I shall have no seat,” said Phineas.
“We shall none of us have seats tomorrow,” said Mr Gresham.
“But I shall be at a loss to find a place to stand for.”
“The election will not come on till November, and you must look about you. Both Mr Monk and Lord Brentford seem to think you will be in the House.”
And so the bill was carried, and the session was ended.
By the middle of September there was assembled a large party at Matching Priory, a country mansion belonging to Mr Plantagenet Palliser. The men had certainly been chosen in reference to their political feelings and position — for there was not a guest in the house who had voted for Mr Turnbull’s clause, or the wife or daughter, or sister of anyone who had so voted. Indeed, in these days politics ran so high that among politicians all social gatherings were brought together with some reference to the state of parties. Phineas was invited, and when he arrived at Matching he found that half the Cabinet was there. Mr Kennedy was not there, nor was Lady Laura. Mr Monk was there, and the Duke — with the Duchess, and Mr Gresham, and Lord Thrift; Mrs Max Goesler was there also, and Mrs Bonteen — Mr Bonteen being detained somewhere out of the way; and Violet Effingham was expected in two days, and Lord Chiltern at the end of the week. Lady Glencora took an opportunity of imparting this latter information to Phineas very soon after his arrival; and Phineas, as he watched her eye and her mouth while she spoke, was quite sure that Lady Glencora knew the story of the duel. “I shall be delighted to see him again,” said Phineas. “That is all right,” said Lady Glencora. There were also there Mr and Mrs Grey, who were great friends of the Pallisers — and on the very day on which Phineas reached Matching, at half an hour before the time for dressing, the Duke of Omnium arrived. Now, Mr Palliser was the Duke’s nephew and heir — and the Duke of Omnium was a very great person indeed. I hardly know why it should have been so, but the Duke of Omnium was certainly a greater man in public estimation than the other duke then present — the Duke of St Bungay. The Duke of St Bungay was a useful man, and had been so all his life, sitting in Cabinets and serving his country, constant as any peer in the House of Lords, always ready to take on his own shoulders any troublesome work required of him, than whom Mr Mildmay, and Mr Mildmay’s predecessor at the head of the liberal party, had had no more devoted adherent. But the Duke of Omnium had never yet done a day’s work on behalf of his country. They both wore the Garter, the Duke of St Bungay having earned it by service, the Duke of Omnium having been decorated with the blue ribbon — because he was Duke of Omnium. The one was a moral, good man, a good husband, a good father, and a good friend. The other — did not bear quite so high a reputation. But men and women thought but little of the Duke of St Bungay, while the other duke was regarded with an almost reverential awe. I think the secret lay in the simple fact that the Duke of Omnium had not been common in the eyes of the people. He had contrived to envelope himself in something of the ancient mystery of wealth and rank. Within three minutes of the Duke’s arrival Mrs Bonteen, with an air of great importance, whispered a word to Phineas. “He has come. He arrived exactly at seven!”
“Who has come?” Phineas asked.
“The Duke of Omnium!” she said, almost reprimanding him by her tone of voice for his indifference. “There has been a great doubt whether or no he would show himself at last. Lady Glencora told me that he never will pledge himself. I am so glad he has come.”
“I don’t think I ever saw him,” said Phineas.
“Oh, I have seen him — a magnificent-looking man! I think it is so very nice of Lady Glencora getting him to meet us. It is very rarely that he will join in a great party, but they say Lady Glencora can do anything with him since the heir was born. I suppose you have heard all about that.”
“No,” said Phineas; I have heard nothing of the heir, but I know that there are three or four babies.”
“There was no heir, you know, for a year and a half, and they were all au désespoir; and the Duke was very nearly quarrelling with his nephew; and Mr Palliser — you know it had very nearly come to a separation.”
“I don’t know anything at all about it,” said Phineas, who was not very fond of the lady who was giving him the information.
“It is so, I can assure you; but since the boy was born Lady Glencora can do anything with the Duke. She made him go to Ascot last spring, and he presented her with the favourite for one of the races on the very morning the horse ran. They say he gave three thousand pounds for him.”
“And did Lady Glencora win?”
“No — the horse lost; and Mr Palliser has never known what to do with him since. But it was very pretty of the Duke — was it not?”
Phineas, though he had intended to show to Mrs Bonteen how little he thought about the Duke of Omnium — how small was his respect for a great peer who took no part in politics — could not protect himself from a certain feeling of anxiety as to the aspect and gait and words of the man of whom people thought so much, of whom he had heard so often, and of whom he had seen so little. He told himself that the Duke of Omnium should be no more to him than any other man, but yet the Duke of Omnium was more to him than other men. When he came down into the drawing-room he was angry with himself, and stood apart — and was then angry with himself again because he stood apart. Why should he make a difference in his own bearing because there was such a man in the company? And yet he could not avoid it. When he entered the room the Duke was standing in a large bow-window, and two or three ladies and two or three men were standing round him. Phineas would not go near the group, telling himself that he would not approach a man so grand as was the Duke of Omnium. He saw Madame Max Goesler among the party, and after a while he saw her retreat. As she retreated, Phineas knew that some words from Madame Max Goesler had not been received with the graciousness which she had expected. There was the prettiest smile in the world on the lady’s face, and she took a corner on a sofa with an air of perfect satisfaction. But yet Phineas knew that she had received a wound.
“I called twice on you in London,” said Phineas, coming up close to her, “but was not fortunate enough to find you!”
“Yes — but you came so late in the season as to make it impossible that there should be any arrangements for our meeting. What can any woman do when a gentleman calls on her in August?”
“I came in July.”
“Yes, you did; on the 31st. I keep the most accurate record of all such things, Mr Finn. But let us hope that we may have better luck next year. In the meantime, we can only enjoy the good things that are going.”
“Socially, or politically, Madame Goesler?”
“Oh, socially. How can I mean anything else when the Duke of Omnium is here? I feel so much taller at being in the same house with him. Do not you? But you are a spoilt child of fortune, and perhaps you have met him before.”
“I think I once saw the back of a hat in the park, and somebody told me that the Duke’s head was inside it.”
“And you have never seen him but that once?”
“Never but that once — till now.”
“And do not you feel elated?”
“Of course I do. For what do you take me, Madame Goesler?”
“I do — immensely. I believe him to be a fool, and I never heard of his doing a kind act to anybody in my life.”
“Not when he gave the racehorse to Lady Glencora?”
“I wonder whether that was true. Did you ever hear of such an absurdity? As I was saying, I don’t think he ever did anything for anybody — but then, you know, to be Duke of Omnium! It isn’t necessary — is it — that a Duke of Omnium should do anything except be Duke of Omnium?”
At this moment Lady Glencora came up to Phineas, and took him across to the Duke. The Duke had expressed a desire to be introduced to him. Phineas, half-pleased and half-disgusted, had no alternative, and followed Lady Glencora. The Duke shook hands with him, and made a little bow, and said something about the garrotters, which Phineas, in his confusion, did not quite understand. He tried to reply as he would have replied to anybody else, but the weight of the Duke’s majesty was too much for him, and he bungled. The Duke made another little bow, and in a moment was speaking a word of condescension to some other favoured individual. Phineas retreated altogether disgusted — hating the Duke, but hating himself worse; but he would not retreat in the direction of Madame Max Goesler. It might suit that lady to take an instant little revenge for her discomfiture, but it did not suit him to do so. The question with him would be, whether in some future part of his career it might not be his duty to assist in putting down Dukes of Omnium.
At dinner Phineas sat between Mrs Bonteen and the Duchess of St Bungay, and did not find himself very happy. At the other end of the table the Duke — the great Duke, was seated at Lady Glencora’s right hand, and on his other side Fortune had placed Madame Max Goesler. The greatest interest which Phineas had during the dinner was in watching the operations — the triumphantly successful operations of that lady. Before dinner she had been wounded by the Duke. The Duke had not condescended to accord the honour of his little bow of graciousness to some little flattering morsel of wit which the lady had uttered on his behoof. She had said a sharp word or two in her momentary anger to Phineas; but when Fortune was so good to her in that matter of her place at dinner, she was not fool enough to throw away her chance. Throughout the soup and fish she was very quiet. She said a word or two after her first glass of champagne. The Duke refused two dishes, one after another, and then she glided into conversation. By the time that he had his roast mutton before him she was in full play, and as she eat her peach, the Duke was bending over her with his most gracious smile.
“Didn’t you think the session was very long, Mr Finn?” said the Duchess to Phineas.
“Very long indeed, Duchess,” said Phineas, with his attention still fixed on Madame Max Goesler.
“The Duke found it very troublesome.”
“I daresay he did,” said Phineas. That duke and that duchess were no more than any other man and any other man’s wife. The session had not been longer to the Duke of St Bungay than to all the public servants. Phineas had the greatest possible respect for the Duke of St Bungay, but he could not take much interest in the wailings of the Duchess on her husband’s behalf.
“And things do seem to be so very uncomfortable now,” said the Duchess — thinking partly of the resignation of Mr Mildmay, and partly of the fact that her own old peculiar maid who had lived with her for thirty years had retired into private life.
“Not so very bad, Duchess, I hope,” said Phineas, observing that at this moment Madame Max Goesler’s eyes were brilliant with triumph. Then there came upon him a sudden ambition — that he would like to “cut out” the Duke of Omnium in the estimation of Madame Max Goesler. The brightness of Madame Max Goesler’s eyes had not been thrown away upon our hero.
Violet Effingham came at the appointed time, and, to the surprise of Phineas, was brought to Matching by Lord Brentford. Phineas at first thought that it was intended that the Earl and his son should meet and make up their quarrel at Mr Palliser’s house. But Lord Brentford stayed only one night, and Phineas on the next morning heard the whole history of his coming and going from Violet. “I have almost been on my knees to him to stay,” she said. “Indeed, I did go on my knees — actually on my knees.”
“And what did he say?”
“He put his arm round me and kissed me, and — and — I cannot tell you all that he said. But it ended in this — that if Chiltern can be made to go to Saulsby, fatted calves without stint will be killed. I shall do all I can to make him go; and so must you, Mr Finn. Of course that silly affair in foreign parts is not to make any difference between you two.”
Phineas smiled, and said he would do his best, and looked up into her face, and was just able to talk to her as though things were going comfortably with him. But his heart was very cold. As Violet had spoken to him about Lord Chiltern there had come upon him, for the first time — for the first time since he had known that Lord Chiltern had been refused — an idea, a doubt, whether even yet Violet might not become Lord Chiltern’s wife. His heart was very sad, but he struggled on — declaring that it was incumbent on them both to bring together the father and son.
“I am so glad to hear you say so, Mr Finn,” said Violet. “I really do believe that you can do more towards it than anyone else. Lord Chiltern would think nothing of my advice — would hardly speak to me on such a subject. But he respects you as well as likes you, and not the less because of what has occurred.”
How was it that Violet should know aught of the respect or liking felt by this rejected suitor for that other suitor — who had also been rejected? And how was it that she was thus able to talk of one of them to the other, as though neither of them had ever come forward with such a suit? Phineas felt his position to be so strange as to be almost burdensome. He had told Violet, when she had refused him, very plainly, that he should come again to her, and ask once more for the great gift which he coveted. But he could not ask again now. In the first place, there was that in her manner which made him sure that were he to do so, he would ask in vain; and then he felt that she was placing a special confidence in him, against which he would commit a sin were he to use her present intimacy with him for the purposes of making love. They two were to put their shoulders together to help Lord Chiltern, and while doing so he could not continue a suit which would be felt by both of them to be hostile to Lord Chiltern. There might be opportunity for a chance word, and if so the chance word should be spoken; but he could not make a deliberate attack, such as he had made in Portman Square. Violet also probably understood that she had not now been caught in a mousetrap.
The Duke was to spend four days at Matching, and on the third day — the day before Lord Chiltern was expected — he was to be seen riding with Madame Max Goesler by his side. Madame Max Goesler was known as a perfect horsewoman — one indeed who was rather fond of going a little fast on horseback, and who rode well to hounds. But the Duke seldom moved out of a walk, and on this occasion Madame Max was as steady in her seat and almost as slow as the mounted ghost in Don Juan. But it was said by some there, especially by Mrs Bonteen, that the conversation between them was not slow. And on the next morning the Duke and Madame Max Goesler were together again before luncheon, standing on a terrace at the back of the house, looking down on a party who were playing croquet on the lawn.
“Do you never play?” said the Duke.
“Oh yes — one does everything a little.”
“I am sure you would play well. Why do you not play now?”
“No — I shall not play now.”
“I should like to see you with your mallet.”
“I am sorry Your Grace cannot be gratified. I have played croquet till I am tired of it, and have come to think it is only fit for boys and girls. The great thing is to give them opportunities for flirting, and it does that.”
“And do you never flirt, Madame Goesler?”
“Never at croquet, Duke.”
“And what with you is the choicest time?”
“That depends on so many things — and so much on the chosen person. What do you recommend?”
“Ah — I am so ignorant. I can recommend nothing.”
“What do you say to a mountain-top at dawn on a summer day?” asked Madame Max Goesler.
“You make me shiver,” said the Duke.
“Or a boat on a lake on a summer evening, or a good lead after hounds with nobody else within three fields, or the bottom of a salt-mine, or the deck of an ocean steamer, or a military hospital in time of war, or a railway journey from Paris to Marseilles?”
“Madame Max Goesler, you have the most uncomfortable ideas.”
“I have no doubt your Grace has tried each of them — successfully. But perhaps, after all, a comfortable chair over a good fire, in a pretty room, beats everything.”
“I think it does — certainly,” said the Duke. Then he whispered something at which Madame Max Goesler blushed and smiled, and immediately after that she followed those who had already gone in to lunch.
Mrs Bonteen had been hovering round the spot on the terrace on which the Duke and Madame Max Goesler had been standing, looking on with envious eyes, meditating some attack, some interruption, some excuse for an interpolation, but her courage had failed her and she had not dared to approach. The Duke had known nothing of the hovering propinquity of Mrs Bonteen, but Madame Goesler had seen and had understood it all.
“Dear Mrs Bonteen,” she said afterwards, why did you not come and join us? The Duke was so pleasant.”
“Two is company, and three is none,” said Mrs Bonteen, who in her anger was hardly able to choose her words quite as well as she might have done had she been more cool.
“Our friend Madame Max has made quite a new conquest,” said Mrs Bonteen to Lady Glencora.
“I am so pleased,” said Lady Glencora, with apparently unaffected delight. “It is such a great thing to get anybody to amuse my uncle. You see everybody cannot talk to him, and he will not talk to everybody.”
“He talked enough to her in all conscience,” said Mrs Bonteen, who was now more angry than ever.
Lord Chiltern arrived, and Phineas was a little nervous as to their meeting. He came back from shooting on the day in question, and was told by the servant that Lord Chiltern was in the house. Phineas went into the billiard-room in his knickerbockers, thinking probably that he might be there, and then into the drawing-room, and at last into the library — but Lord Chiltern was not to be found. At last he came across Violet.
“Have you seen him?” he asked.
“Yes — he was with me half an hour since, walking round the gardens.”
“And how is he? Come — tell me something about him.”
“I never knew him to be more pleasant. He would give no promise about Saulsby, but he did not say that he would not go.”
“Does he know that I am here?”
“Yes — I told him so. I told him how much pleasure I should have in seeing you two together — as friends.”
“And what did he say?”
“He laughed, and said you were the best fellow in the world. You see I am obliged to be explicit.”
“But why did he laugh?” Phineas asked.
“He did not tell me, but I suppose it was because he was thinking of a little trip he once took to Belgium, and he perceived that I knew all about it.”
“I wonder who told you. But never mind. I do not mean to ask any questions. As I do not like that our first meeting should be before all the people in the drawing-room, I will go to him in his own room.”
“Do, do — that will be so nice of you.”
Phineas sent his card up by a servant, and in a few minutes was standing with his hand on the lock of Lord Chiltern’s door. The last time he had seen this man, they had met with pistols in their hands to shoot at each other, and Lord Chiltern had in truth done his very best to shoot his opponent. The cause of quarrel was the same between them as ever. Phineas had not given up Violet, and had no intention of giving her up. And he had received no intimation whatever from his rival that there was to be a truce between them. Phineas had indeed written in friendship to Lord Chiltern, but he had received no answer — and nothing of certainty was to be gathered from the report which Violet had just made. It might well be that Lord Chiltern would turn upon him now in his wrath, and that there would be some scene which in a strange house would be obviously objectionable. Nevertheless he had resolved that even that would be better than a chance encounter among strangers in a drawing-room. So the door was opened and the two men met.
“Well, old fellow,” said Lord Chiltern, laughing. Then all doubt was over, and in a moment Phineas was shaking his former — and present friend, warmly by the hand. “So we’ve come to be an Under-Secretary have we? — and all that kind of thing.”
“I had to get into harness — when the harness offered itself,” said Phineas.
“I suppose so. It’s a deuce of a bore, isn’t it?”
“I always liked work, you know.”
“I thought you liked hunting better. You used to ride as if you did. There’s Bonebreaker back again in the stable for you. That poor fool who bought him could do nothing with him, and I let him have his money back.”
“I don’t see why you should have done that.”
“Because I was the biggest fool of the two. Do you remember when that brute got me down under the bank in the river? That was about the nearest touch I ever had. Lord bless me — how he did squeeze me! So here you are — staying with the Pallisers — one of a Government party I suppose. But what are you going to do for a seat, my friend?”
“Don’t talk about that yet, Chiltern.”
“A sore subject — isn’t it? I think they have been quite right, you know, to put Loughton into the melting-pot — though I’m sorry enough for your sake.”
“Quite right,” said Phineas.
“And yet you voted against it, old chap? But, come; I’m not going to be down upon you. So my father has been here?”
“Yes — he was here for a day or two.”
“Violet has just been telling me. You and he are as good friends as ever?”
“I trust we are.”
“He never heard of that little affair?” And Lord Chiltern nodded his head, intending to indicate the direction of Blankenberg.
“I do not think he has yet.”
“So Violet tells me. Of course you know that she has heard all about it.”
“I have reason to suppose as much.”
“And so does Laura.”
“I told her myself,” said Phineas.
“The deuce you did! But I daresay it was for the best. It’s a pity you had not proclaimed it at Charing Cross, and then nobody would have believed a word about it. Of course my father will hear it some day.”
“You are going to Saulsby, I hope, Chiltern?”
“That question is easier asked than answered. It is quite true that the great difficulty has been got over. Laura has had her money. And if my father will only acknowledge that he has wronged me throughout, from beginning to end, I will go to Saulsby tomorrow — and would cut you out at Loughton the next day, only that Loughton is not Loughton any longer.”
“You cannot expect your father to do that.”
“No — and therefore there is a difficulty. So you’ve had that awfully ponderous Duke here. How did you get on with him?”
“Admirably. He condescended to do something which he called shaking hands with me.”
“He is the greatest old dust out,” said Lord Chiltern, disrespectfully. “Did he take any notice of Violet?”
“Not that I observed.”
“He ought not to be allowed into the same room with her.” After that there was a short pause, and Phineas felt some hesitation in speaking of Miss Effingham to Lord Chiltern. “And how do you get on with her?” asked Lord Chiltern. Here was a question for a man to answer. The question was so hard to be answered, that Phineas did not at first make any attempt to answer it. “You know exactly the ground that I stand on,” continued Lord Chiltern. “She has refused me three times. Have you been more fortunate?”
Lord Chiltern, as he asked his question, looked full into Finn’s face in a manner that was irresistible. His look was not one of anger nor even of pride. It was not, indeed, without a strong dash of fun. But such as it was it showed Phineas that Lord Chiltern intended to have an answer. “No,” said he at last, I have not been more fortunate.”
“Perhaps you have changed your mind,” said his host.
“No — I have not changed my mind,” said Phineas, quickly.
“How stands it then? Come — let us be honest to each other. I told you down at Willingford that I would quarrel with any man who attempted to cut me out with Violet Effingham. You made up your mind that you would do so, and therefore I quarrelled with you. But we can’t always be fighting duels.”
“I hope we may not have to fight another.”
“No — it would be absurd,” said Lord Chiltern. I rather think that what we did was absurd. But upon my life I did not see any other way out of it. However, that is over. How is it to be now?”
“What am I to say in answer to that?” asked Phineas.
“Just the truth. You have asked her, I suppose?”
“Yes — I have asked her.”
“And she has refused you?”
“Yes — she has refused me.”
“And you mean to ask her again?”
“I shall — if I ever think that there is a chance. Indeed, Chiltern, I believe I shall whether I think that I have any chance or not.”
“Then we start fairly, Finn. I certainly shall do so. I believe I once told you that I never would — but that was long before I suspected that you would enter for the same plate. What a man says on such a matter when he is down in the mouth goes for nothing. Now we understand each other, and you had better go and dress. The bell rang nearly half an hour ago, and my fellow is hanging about outside the door.”
The interview had in one respect been very pleasant to Phineas, and in another it had been very bitter. It was pleasant to him to know that he and Lord Chiltern were again friends. It was a delight to him to feel that this half-savage but high-spirited young nobleman, who had been so anxious to fight with him and to shoot him, was nevertheless ready to own that he had behaved well. Lord Chiltern had in fact acknowledged that though he had been anxious to blow out our hero’s brains, he was aware all the time that our hero was a good sort of fellow. Phineas understood this, and felt that it was pleasant. But with this understanding, and accompanying this pleasure, there was a conviction in his heart that the distance between Lord Chiltern and Violet would daily grow to be less and still less — and that Lord Chiltern could afford to be generous. If Miss Effingham could teach herself to be fond of Lord Chiltern, what had he, Phineas Finn, to offer in opposition to the claims of such a suitor?
That evening Lord Chiltern took Miss Effingham out to dinner. Phineas told himself that this was of course so arranged by Lady Glencora, with the express view of serving the Saulsby interest. It was almost nothing to him at the moment that Madame Max Goesler was entrusted to him. He had his ambition respecting Madame Max Goesler; but that for the time was in abeyance. He could hardly keep his eyes off Miss Effingham. And yet, as he well knew, his observation of her must be quite useless. He knew beforehand, with absolute accuracy, the manner in which she would treat her lover. She would be kind, genial, friendly, confidential, nay, affectionate; and yet her manner would mean nothing — would give no clue to her future decision either for or against Lord Chiltern. It was, as Phineas thought, a peculiarity with Violet Effingham that she could treat her rejected lovers as dear familiar friends immediately after her rejection of them.
“Mr Finn,” said Madame Max Goesler, your eyes and ears are tell-tales of your passion.”
“I hope not,” said Phineas, as I certainly do not wish that anyone should guess how strong is my regard for you.”
“That is prettily turned — very prettily turned; and shows more readiness of wit than I gave you credit for under your present suffering. But of course we all know where your heart is. Men do not undertake perilous journeys to Belgium for nothing.”
“That unfortunate journey to Belgium! But, dear Madame Max, really nobody knows why I went.”
“You met Lord Chiltern there?”
“Oh yes — I met Lord Chiltern there.”
“And there was a duel?”
“Madame Max — you must not ask me to criminate myself!”
“Of course there was, and of course it was about Miss Effingham, and of course the lady thinks herself bound to refuse both the gentlemen who were so very wicked, and of course — ”
“Well — what follows?”
“Ah! — if you have not wit enough to see, I do not think it can be my duty to tell you. But I wished to caution you as a friend that your eyes and ears should be more under your command.”
“You will go to Saulsby?” Violet said to Lord Chiltern.
“I cannot possibly tell as yet,” said he, frowning.
“Then I can tell you that you ought to go. I do not care a bit for your frowns. What does the fifth commandment say?”
“If you have no better arguments than the commandments, Violet — ”
“There can be none better. Do you mean to say that the commandments are nothing to you?”
“I mean to say that I shan’t go to Saulsby because I am told in the twentieth chapter of Exodus to honour my father and mother — and that I shouldn’t believe anybody who told me that he did anything because of the commandments.”
“Oh, Lord Chiltern!”
“Peopled are so prejudiced and so used to humbug that for the most part they do not in the least know their own motives for what they do. I will go to Saulsby tomorrow — for a reward.”
“For what reward?” said Violet, blushing.
“For the only one in the world that could tempt me to do anything.”
“You should go for the sake of duty. I should not even care to see you go, much as I long for it, if that feeling did not take you there.”
It was arranged that Phineas and Lord Chiltern were to leave Matching together. Phineas was to remain at his office all October, and in November the general election was to take place. What he had hitherto heard about a future seat was most vague, but he was to meet Ratler and Barrington Erle in London, and it had been understood that Barrington Erle, who was now at Saulsby, was to make some inquiry as to that group of boroughs of which Loughton at this moment formed one. But as Loughton was the smallest of four boroughs, and as one of the four had for many years had a representative of its own, Phineas feared that no success would be found there. In his present agony he began to think that there might be a strong plea made for a few private seats in the House of Commons, and that the propriety of throwing Loughton into the melting-pot was, after all, open to question. He and Lord Chiltern were to return to London together, and Lord Chiltern, according to his present scheme, was to proceed at once to Willingford to look after the cub-hunting. Nothing that either Violet or Phineas could say to him would induce him to promise to go to Saulsby. When Phineas pressed it, he was told by Lord Chiltern that he was a fool for his pains — by which Phineas understood perfectly well that when Lord Chiltern did go to Saulsby, he, Phineas, was to take that as strong evidence that everything was over for him as regarded Violet Effingham. When Violet expressed her eagerness that the visit should be made, she was stopped with an assurance that she could have it done at once if she pleased. Let him only be enabled to carry with him the tidings of his betrothal, and he would start for his father’s house without an hour’s delay. But this authority Violet would not give him. When he answered her after this fashion she could only tell him that he was ungenerous. “At any rate I am not false,” he replied on one occasion. “What I say is the truth.”
There was a very tender parting between Phineas and Madame Max Goesler. She had learned from him pretty nearly all his history, and certainly knew more of the reality of his affairs than any of those in London who had been his most staunch friends. “Of course you’ll get a seat,” she said as he took his leave of her. “If I understand it at all, they never throw over an ally so useful as you are.”
“But the intention is that in this matter nobody shall any longer have the power of throwing over, or of not throwing over, anybody.”
“That is all very well, my friend; but cakes will still be hot in the mouth, even though Mr Daubeny turn purist, with Mr Turnbull to help him. If you want any assistance in finding a seat you will not go to the People’s Banner — even yet.”
“Certainly not to the People’s Banner.”
“I don’t quite understand what the franchise is,” continued Madame Max Goesler.
“Household in boroughs,” said Phineas with some energy.
“Very well — household in boroughs. I daresay that is very fine and very liberal, though I don’t comprehend it in the least. And you want a borough. Very well. You won’t go to the households. I don’t think you will — not at first, that is.”
“Where shall I go then?”
“Oh — to some great patron of a borough — or to a club — or perhaps to some great firm. The households will know nothing about it till they are told. Is not that it?”
“The truth is, Madame Max, I do not know where I shall go. I am like a child lost in a wood. And you may understand this — if you do not see me in Park Lane before the end of January, I shall have perished in the wood.”
“Then I will come and find you — with a troop of householders: You will come. You will be there. I do not believe in death coming without signs. You are full of life.” As she spoke, she had hold of his hand, and there was nobody near them. They were in a little book-room inside the library at Matching, and the door, though not latched, was nearly closed. Phineas had flattered himself that Madame Goesler had retreated there in order that this farewell might be spoken without interruption. “And, Mr Finn — I wonder whether I may say one thing,” she continued.
“You may say anything to me,” he replied.
“No — not in this country, in this England. There are things one may not say here — that are tabooed by a sort of consent — and that without any reason.” She paused again, and Phineas was at a loss to think what was the subject on which she was about to speak. Could she mean —? No; she could not mean to give him any outward plain-spoken sign that she was attached to him. It was the peculiar merit of this man that he was not vain, though much was done to him to fill him with vanity; and as the idea crossed his brain, he hated himself because it had been there.
“To me you may say anything, Madame Goesler,” he said — “here in England, as plainly as though we were in Vienna.”
“But I cannot say it in English,” she said. Then in French, blushing and laughing as she spoke — almost stammering in spite of her usual self-confidence — she told him that accident had made her rich, full of money. Money was a drug with her. Money she knew was wanted, even for householders. Would he not understand her, and come to her, and learn from her how faithful a woman could be?
He still was holding her by the hand, and he now raised it to his lips and kissed it. “The offer from you,” he said, is as high-minded, as generous, and as honourable as its acceptance by me would be mean-spirited, vile, and ignoble. But whether I fail or whether I succeed, you shall see me before the winter is over.”
Phineas also said a word of farewell to Violet before he left Matching, but there was nothing peculiar in her little speech to him, or in his to her. “Of course we shall see each other in London. Don’t talk of not being in the House. Of course you will be in the House.” Then Phineas had shaken his head and smiled. Where was he to find a requisite number of householders prepared to return him? But as he went up to London he told himself that the air of the House of Commons was now the very breath of his nostrils. Life to him without it would be no life. To have come within the reach of the good things of political life, to have made his mark so as to have almost ensured future success, to have been the petted young official aspirant of the day — and then to sink down into the miserable platitudes of private life, to undergo daily attendance in law-courts without a brief, to listen to men who had come to be much below him in estimation and social intercourse, to sit in a wretched chamber up three pairs of stairs at Lincoln’s Inn, whereas he was now at this moment provided with a gorgeous apartment looking out into the Park from the Colonial Office in Downing Street, to be attended by a mongrel between a clerk and an errand boy at 17s. 6d. a week instead of by a private secretary who was the son of an earl’s sister, and was petted by countesses’ daughters innumerable — all this would surely break his heart. He could have done it, so he told himself, and could have taken glory in doing it, had not these other things come in his way. But the other things had come. He had run the risk, and had thrown the dice. And how when the game was so nearly won, must it be that everything should be lost at last?
He knew that nothing was to be gained by melancholy looks at his club, or by show of wretchedness at his office. London was very empty; but the approaching elections still kept some there who otherwise would have been looking after the first flush of pheasants. Barrington Erle was there, and was not long in asking Phineas what were his views.
“Ah — that is so hard to say. Ratler told me that he would be looking about.”
“Ratler is very well in the House,” said Barrington, “but he is of no use for anything beyond it. I suppose you were not brought up at the London University?”
“Oh no,” said Phineas, remembering the glories of Trinity.
“Because there would have been an opening. What do you say to Stratford — the new Essex borough?”
“Broadbury the brewer is there already!”
“Yes — and ready to spend any money you like to name. Let me see. Loughton is grouped with Smotherem, and Walker is a deal too strong at Smotherem to hear of any other claim. I don’t think we could dare to propose it. There are the Chelsea hamlets, but it will take a wack of money.”
“I have not got a wack of money,” said Phineas, laughing.
“That’s the devil of it. I think, if I were you, I should hark back upon some place in Ireland. Couldn’t you get Laurence to give you up his seat?”
“What! Fitzgibbon?”
“Yes. He has not a ghost of a chance of getting into office again. Nothing on earth would induce him to look at a paper during all those weeks he was at the Colonial Office; and when Cantrip spoke to him, all he said was, “Ah, bother!” Cantrip did not like it, I can tell you.”
“But that wouldn’t make him give up his seat.”
“Of course you’d have to arrange it.” By which Phineas understood Barrington Erle to mean that he, Phineas, was in some way to give to Laurence Fitzgibbon some adequate compensation for the surrender of his position as a county member.
“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” said Phineas. “If he were to go, I should not get it.”
“Would you have a chance at Loughshane?”
“I was thinking of trying it,” said Phineas.
“Of course you know that Morris is very ill.” This Mr Morris was the brother of Lord Tulla, and was the sitting member of Loughshane. “Upon my word I think I should try that. I don’t see where we’re to put our hands on a seat in England. I don’t indeed.” Phineas, as he listened to this, could not help thinking that Barrington Erle, though he had certainly expressed a great deal of solicitude, was not as true a friend as he used to be. Perhaps he, Phineas, had risen too fast, and Barrington Erle was beginning to think that he might as well be out of the way.
He wrote to his father, asking after the borough, and asking after the health of Mr Morris. And in his letter he told his own story very plainly — almost pathetically. He perhaps had been wrong to make the attempt which he had made. He began to believe that he had been wrong. But at any rate he had made it so far successfully, and failure now would be doubly bitter. He thought that the party to which he belonged must now remain in office. It would hardly be possible that a new election would produce a House of Commons favourable to a conservative ministry. And with a liberal ministry he, Phineas, would be sure of his place, and sure of an official income — if only he could find a seat. It was all very true, and was almost pathetic. The old doctor, who was inclined to be proud of his son, was not unwilling to make a sacrifice. Mrs Finn declared before her daughters that if there was a seat in all Ireland, Phineas ought to have it. And Mary Flood Jones stood by listening, and wondering what Phineas would do if he lost his seat. Would he come back and live in County Clare, and be like any other girl’s lover? Poor Mary had come to lose her ambition, and to think that girls whose lovers stayed at home were the happiest. Nevertheless, she would have walked all the way to Lord Tulla’s house and back again, might that have availed to get the seat for Phineas. Then there came an express over from Castlemorris. The doctor was wanted at once to see Mr Morris. Mr Morris was very bad with gout in his stomach. According to the messenger it was supposed that Mr Morris was dying. Before Dr Finn had had an opportunity of answering his son’s letter, Mr Morris, the late member for Loughshane, had been gathered to his fathers.
Dr Finn understood enough of elections for Parliament, and of the nature of boroughs, to be aware that a candidate’s chance of success is very much improved by being early in the field; and he was aware, also, that the death of Mr Morris would probably create various aspirants for the honour of representing Loughshane. But he could hardly address the Earl on the subject while the dead body of the late member was lying in the house at Castlemorris. The bill which had passed in the late session for reforming the constitution of the House of Commons had not touched Ireland, a future measure having been promised to the Irish for their comfort; and Loughshane therefore was, as to Lord Tulla’s influence, the same as it had ever been. He had not there the plenary power which the other lord had held in his hands in regard to Loughton — but still the Castlemorris interest would go a long way. It might be possible to stand against it, but it would be much more desirable that the candidate should have it at his back. Dr Finn was fully alive to this as he sat opposite to the old lord, saying now a word about the old lord’s gout in his legs and arms, and then about the gout in the stomach, which had carried away to another world the lamented late member for the borough.
“Poor Jack!” said Lord Tulla, piteously. If I’d known it, I needn’t have paid over two thousand pounds for him last year — need I, doctor?”
“No, indeed,” said Dr Finn, feeling that his patient might perhaps approach the subject of the borough himself.
“He never would live by any rule, you know,” said the desolate brother.
“Very hard to guide — was he not, my lord?”
“The very devil. Now, you see, I do do what I’m told pretty well — don’t I, doctor?”
“Sometimes.”
“By George, I do nearly always. I don’t know what you mean by sometimes. I’ve been drinking brandy and water till I’m sick of it, to oblige you, and you tell me about — sometimes. You doctors expect a man to be a slave. Haven’t I kept it out of my stomach?”
“Thank God, yes.”
“It’s all very well thanking God, but I should have gone as poor Jack has gone, if I hadn’t been the most careful man in the world. He was drinking champagne ten days ago — would do it, you know.” Lord Tulla could talk about himself and his own ailments by the hour together, and Dr Finn, who had thought that his noble patient was approaching the subject of the borough, was beginning again to feel that the double interest of the gout that was present, and the gout that had passed away, would be too absorbing. He, however, could say but little to direct the conversation.
“Mr Morris, you see, lived more in London than you do, and was subject to temptation.”
“I don’t know what you call temptation. Haven’t I the temptation of a bottle of wine under my nose every day of my life?”
“No doubt you have.”
“And I don’t drink it. I hardly ever take above a glass or two of brown sherry. By George! when I think of it, I wonder at my own courage. I do, indeed.”
“But a man in London, my lord — ”
“Why the deuce would he go to London? By the bye, what am I to do about the borough now?”
“Let my son stand for it, if you will, my lord.”
“They’ve clean swept away Brentford’s seat at Loughton, haven’t they? Ha, ha, ha! What a nice game for him — to have been forced to help to do it himself! There’s nobody on earth I pity so much as a radical peer who is obliged to work like a nigger with a spade to shovel away the ground from under his own feet. As for me, I don’t care who sits for Loughshane. I did care for poor Jack while he was alive. I don’t think I shall interfere any longer. I am glad it lasted Jack’s time.” Lord Tulla had probably already forgotten that he himself had thrown Jack over for the last session but one.
“Phineas, my lord,” began the father, is now Under-Secretary of State.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt he’s a very fine fellow — but you see, he’s an out-and-out Radical.”
“No, my lord.”
“Then how can he serve with such men as Mr Gresham and Mr Monk? They’ve turned out poor old Mildmay among them, because he’s not fast enough for them. Don’t tell me.”
“My anxiety, of course, is for my boy’s prospects. He seems to have done so well in Parliament.”
“Why don’t he stand for Marylebone or Finsbury?”
“The money, you know, my lord!”
“I shan’t interfere here, doctor. If he comes, and the people then choose to return him, I shall say nothing. They may do just as they please. They tell me Lambert St George, of Mockrath, is going to stand. If he does, it’s the d — piece of impudence I ever heard of. He’s a tenant of my own, though he has a lease for ever; and his father never owned an acre of land in the county till his uncle died.” Then the doctor knew that, with a little management, the lord’s interest might be secured for his son.
Phineas came over and stood for the borough against Mr Lambert St George, and the contest was sharp enough. The gentry of the neighbourhood could not understand why such a man as Lord Tulla should admit a liberal candidate to succeed his brother. No one canvassed for the young Under-Secretary with more persistent zeal than did his father, who, when Phineas first spoke of going into Parliament, had produced so many good arguments against that perilous step. Lord Tulla’s agent stood aloof — desolate with grief at the death of the late member. At such a moment of family affliction, Lord Tulla, he declared, could not think of such a matter as the borough. But it was known that Lord Tulla was dreadfully jealous of Mr Lambert St George, whose property in that part of the county was now nearly equal to his own, and who saw much more company at Mockrath than was ever entertained at Castlemorris. A word from Lord Tulla — so said the Conservatives of the county — would have put Mr St George into the seat; but that word was not spoken, and the Conservatives of the neighbourhood swore that Lord Tulla was a renegade. The contest was very sharp, but our hero was returned by a majority of seventeen votes.
Again successful! As he thought of it he remembered stories of great generals who were said to have chained Fortune to the wheels of their chariots, but it seemed to him that the goddess had never served any general with such staunch obedience as she had displayed in his cause. Had not everything gone well with him — so well, as almost to justify him in expecting that even yet Violet Effingham would become his wife? Dear, dearest Violet! If he could only achieve that, no general, who ever led an army across the Alps, would be his equal either in success or in the reward of success. Then he questioned himself as to what he would say to Miss Flood Jones on that very night. He was to meet dear little Mary Flood Jones that evening at a neighbour’s house. His sister Barbara had so told him in a tone of voice which he quite understood to imply a caution. “I shall be so glad to see her,” Phineas had replied.
“If there ever was an angel on earth, it is Mary,” said Barbara Finn.
“I know that she is as good as gold,” said Phineas.
“Gold!” replied Barbara — gold indeed! She is more precious than refined gold. But, Phineas, perhaps you had better not single her out for any special attention. She has thought it wisest to meet you.”
“Of course,” said Phineas. Why not?
“That is all, Phineas. I have nothing more to say. Men of course are different from girls.”
“That’s true, Barbara, at any rate.”
“Don’t laugh at me, Phineas, when I am thinking of nothing but of you and your interests, and when I am making all manner of excuses for you because I know what must be the distractions of the world in which you live.” Barbara made more than one attempt to renew the conversation before the evening came, but Phineas thought that he had had enough of it. He did not like being told that excuses were made for him. After all, what had he done? He had once kissed Mary Flood Jones behind the door.
“I am so glad to see you, Mary,” he said, coming and taking a chair by her side. He had been specially warned not to single Mary out for his attention, and yet there was the chair left vacant as though it were expected that he would fall into it.
“Thank you. We did not happen to meet last year, did we — Mr Finn?”
“Do not call me Mr Finn, Mary.”
“You are such a great man now!”
“Not at all a great man. If you only knew what little men we under-strappers are in London you would hardly speak to me.
“But you are something — of State now — are you not?”
“Well — yes. That’s the name they give me. It simply means that if any member wants to badger someone in the House about the Colonies, I am the man to be badgered. But if there is any credit to be had, I am not the man who is to have it.”
“But it is a great thing to be in Parliament and in the Government too.”
“It is a great thing for me, Mary, to have a salary, though it may only be for a year or two. However, I will not deny that it is pleasant to have been successful.”
“It has been very pleasant to us, Phineas. Mamma has been so much rejoiced.”
“I am so sorry not to see her. She is at Floodborough, I suppose.”
“Oh, yes — she is at home. She does not like coming out at night in winter. I have been staying here you know for two days, but I go home tomorrow.”
“I will ride over and call on your mother.” Then there was a pause in the conversation for a moment. “Does it not seem odd, Mary, that we should see so little of each other?”
“You are so much away, of course.”
“Yes — that is the reason. But still it seems almost unnatural. I often wonder when the time will come that I shall be quietly at home again. I have to be back in my office in London this day week, and yet I have not had a single hour to myself since I have been at Killaloe. But I will certainly ride over and see your mother. You will be at home on Wednesday I suppose.”
“Yes — I shall be at home.”
Upon that he got up and went away, but again in the evening he found himself near her. Perhaps there is no position more perilous to a man’s honesty than that in which Phineas now found himself — that, namely, of knowing himself to be quite loved by a girl whom he almost loves himself. Of course he loved Violet Effingham; and they who talk best of love protest that no man or woman can be in love with two persons at once. Phineas was not in love with Mary Flood Jones; but he would have liked to take her in his arms and kiss her — he would have liked to gratify her by swearing that she was dearer to him than all the world; he would have liked to have an episode — and did, at the moment, think that it might be possible to have one life in London and another life altogether different at Killaloe. “Dear Mary,” he said as he pressed her hand that night, “things will get themselves settled at last, I suppose.” He was behaving very ill to her, but he did not mean to behave ill.
He rode over to Floodborough, and saw Mrs Flood Jones. Mrs Flood Jones, however, received him very coldly; and Mary did not appear. Mary had communicated to her mother her resolutions as to her future life. “The fact is, mamma, I love him. I cannot help it. If he ever chooses to come for me, here I am. If he does not, I will bear it as well as I can. It may be very mean of me, but it’s true.”