There was a dull house at Loughlinter during the greater part of this autumn. A few men went down for the grouse shooting late in the season; but they stayed but a short time, and when they went Lady Laura was left alone with her husband. Mr Kennedy had explained to his wife, more than once, that though he understood the duties of hospitality and enjoyed the performance of them, he had not married with the intention of living in a whirlwind. He was disposed to think that the whirlwind had hitherto been too predominant, and had said so very plainly with a good deal of marital authority. This autumn and winter were to be devoted to the cultivation of proper relations between him and his wife. “Does that mean Darby and Joan?” his wife had asked him, when the proposition was made to her. “It means mutual regard and esteem,” replied Mr Kennedy in his most solemn tone, “and I trust that such mutual regard and esteem between us may yet be possible.” When Lady Laura showed him a letter from her brother, received some weeks after this conversation, in which Lord Chiltern expressed his intention of coming to Loughlinter for Christmas, he returned the note to his wife without a word. He suspected that she had made the arrangement without asking him, and was angry; but he would not tell her that her brother would not be welcome at his house. “It is not my doing,” she said, when she saw the frown on his brow.
“I said nothing about anybody’s doing,” he replied.
“I will write to Oswald and bid him not come, if you wish it. Of course you can understand why he is coming.”
“Not to see me, I am sure,” said Mr Kennedy.
“Nor me,” replied Lady Laura. He is coming because my friend Violet Effingham will be here.”
“Miss Effingham! Why was I not told of this? I knew nothing of Miss Effingham’s coming.”
“Robert, it was settled in your own presence last July.”
“I deny it.”
Then Lady Laura rose up, very haughty in her gait and with something of fire in her eye, and silently left the room. Mr Kennedy, when he found himself alone, was very unhappy. Looking back in his mind to the summer weeks in London, he remembered that his wife had told Violet that she was to spend her Christmas at Loughlinter, that he himself had given a muttered assent; and that Violet — as far as he could remember — had made no reply. It had been one of those things which are so often mentioned, but not settled. He felt that he had been strictly right in denying that it had been “settled” in his presence — but yet he felt that he had been wrong in contradicting his wife so peremptorily. He was a just man, and he would apologise for his fault; but he was an austere man, and would take back the value of his apology in additional austerity. He did not see his wife for some hours after the conversation which has been narrated, but when he did meet her his mind was still full of the subject. “Laura”, he said, I am sorry that I contradicted you.”
“I am quite used to it, Robert.”
“No — you are not used to it.” She smiled and bowed her head. “You wrong me by saying that you are used to it.” Then he paused a moment, but she said not a word — only smiled and bowed her head again. “I remember,” he continued, that something was said in my presence to Miss Effingham about her coming here at Christmas. It was so slight, however, that it had passed out of my memory till recalled by an effort. I beg your pardon.”
“That is unnecessary, Robert.”
“It is, dear.”
“And do you wish that I should put her off — or put Oswald off — or both? My brother never yet has seen me in your house.”
“And whose fault has that been?”
“I have said nothing about anybody’s fault, Robert. I merely mentioned a fact. Will you let me know whether I shall bid him stay away?” “He is welcome to come — only I do not like assignations for love-making.”
“Assignations!”
“Clandestine meetings. Lady Baldock would not wish it.”
“Lady Baldock! Do you think that Violet would exercise any secrecy in the matter — or that she will not tell Lady Baldock that Oswald will be here — as soon as she knows it herself?”
“That has nothing to do with it.”
“Surely, Robert, it must have much to do with it. And why should not these two young people meet? The acknowledged wish of all the family is that they should marry each other. And in this matter, at any rate, my brother has behaved extremely well.” Mr Kennedy said nothing further at the time, and it became an understanding that Violet Effingham was to be a month at Loughlinter, staying from the 20th of December to the 20th of January, and that Lord Chiltern was to come there for Christmas — which with him would probably mean three days.
Before Christmas came, however, there were various other sources of uneasiness at Loughlinter. There had been, as a matter of course, great anxiety as to the elections. With Lady Laura this anxiety had been very strong, and even Mr Kennedy had been warmed with some amount of fire as the announcements reached him of the successes and of the failures. The English returns came first — and then the Scotch, which were quite as interesting to Mr Kennedy as the English. His own seat was quite safe — was not contested; but some neighbouring seats were sources of great solicitude. Then, when this was over, there were the tidings from Ireland to be received; and respecting one special borough in Ireland, Lady Laura evinced more solicitude than her husband approved. There was much danger for the domestic bliss of the house of Loughlinter, when things came to such a pass, and such words were spoken, as the election at Loughshane produced.
“He is in,” said Lady Laura, opening a telegram.
“Who is in?” said Mr Kennedy, with that frown on his brow to which his wife was now well accustomed. Though he asked the question, he knew very well who was the hero to whom the telegram referred.
“Our friend Phineas Finn,” said Lady Laura, speaking still with an excited voice — with a voice that was intended to display excitement. If there was to be a battle on this matter, there should be a battle. She would display all her anxiety for her young friend, and fling it in her husband’s face if he chose to take it as an injury. What — should she endure reproach from her husband because she regarded the interests of the man who had saved his life, of the man respecting whom she had suffered so many heart-struggles, and as to whom she had at last come to the conclusion that he should ever be regarded as a second brother, loved equally with the elder brother? She had done her duty by her husband — so at least she had assured herself — and should he dare to reproach her on this subject, she would be ready for the battle. And now the battle came. “I am glad of this,” she said, with all the eagerness she could throw into her voice. “I am, indeed — and so ought you to be.” The husband’s brow grew blacker and blacker, but still he said nothing. He had long been too proud to be jealous, and was now too proud to express his jealousy — if only he could keep the expression back. But his wife would not leave the subject. “I am so thankful for this,” she said, pressing the telegram between her hands. “I was so afraid he would fail!”
“You overdo your anxiety on such a subject,” at last he said, speaking very slowly.
“What do you mean, Robert? How can I be over-anxious? If it concerned any other dear friend that I have in the world, it would not be an affair of life and death. To him it is almost so, I would have walked from here to London to get him his election.” And as she spoke she held up the clenched fist of her left hand, and shook it, while she still held the telegram in her right hand.
“Laura, I must tell you that it is improper that you should speak of any man in those terms — of any man that is a stranger to your blood.”
“A stranger to my blood! What has that to do with it? This man is my friend, is your friend — saved your life, has been my brother’s best friend, is loved by my father — and is loved by me, very dearly. Tell me what you mean by improper!”
“I will not have you love any man — very dearly.”
“Robert!”
“I tell you that I will have no such expressions from you. They are unseemly, and are used only to provoke me.”
“Am I to understand that I am insulted by an accusation? If so, let me beg at once that I may be allowed to go to Saulsby. I would rather accept your apology and retractation there than here.”
“You will not go to Saulsby, and there has been no accusation, and there will be no apology. If you please there will be no more mention of Mr Finn’s name between us, for the present. If you will take my advice you will cease to think of him extravagantly — and I must desire you to hold no further direct communication with him.”
“I have held no communication with him,” said Lady Laura, advancing a step towards him. But Mr Kennedy simply pointed to the telegram in her hand, and left the room. Now in respect to this telegram there had been an unfortunate mistake. I am not prepared to say that there was any reason why Phineas himself should not have sent the news of his success to Lady Laura; but he had not done so. The piece of paper which she still held crushed in her hand was in itself very innocent. “Hurrah for the Loughshanes. Finny has done the trick.” Such were the words written on the slip, and they had been sent to Lady Laura by her young cousin, the clerk in the office who acted as private secretary to the Under-Secretary of State. Lady Laura resolved that her husband should never see those innocent but rather undignified words. The occasion had become one of importance, and such words were unworthy of it. Besides, she would not condescend to defend herself by bringing forward a telegram as evidence in her favour. So she burned the morsel of paper.
Lady Laura and Mr Kennedy did not meet again till late that evening. She was ill, she said, and would not come down to dinner. After dinner she wrote him a note. “Dear Robert, I think you must regret what you said to me. If so, pray let me have a line from you to that effect. Yours affectionately, L.” When the servant handed it to him, and he had read it, he smiled and thanked the girl who had brought it, and said he would see her mistress just now. Anything would be better than that the servants should know that there was a quarrel. But every servant in the house had known all about it for the last three hours. When the door was closed and he was alone, he sat fingering the note, thinking deeply how he should answer it, or whether he would answer it at all. No; he would not answer it — not in writing. He would give his wife no written record of his humiliation. He had not acted wrongly. He had said nothing more than now, upon mature consideration, he thought that the circumstances demanded. But yet he felt that he must in some sort withdraw the accusation which he had made. If he did not withdraw it, there was no knowing what his wife might do. About ten in the evening he went up to her and made his little speech. “My dear, I have come to answer your note.”
“I thought you would have written to me a line.”
“I have come instead, Laura. Now, if you will listen to me for one moment, I think everything will be made smooth.”
“Of course I will listen,” said Lady Laura, knowing very well that her husband’s moment would be rather tedious, and resolving that she also would have her moment afterwards.
“I think you will acknowledge that if there be a difference of opinion between you and me as to any question of social intercourse, it will be better that you should consent to adopt my opinion.”
“You have the law on your side.”
“I am not speaking of the law.”
“Well — go on, Robert. I will not interrupt you if I can help it.”
“I am not speaking of the law, I am speaking simply of convenience, and of that which you must feel to be right. If I wish that your intercourse with any person should be of such or such a nature it must be best that you should comply with my wishes.” He paused for her assent, but she neither assented nor dissented. “As far as I can understand the position of a man and wife in this country, there is no other way in which life can be made harmonious.”
“Life will not run in harmonies.”
“I expect that ours shall be made to do so, Laura. I need hardly say to you that I intend to accuse you of no impropriety of feeling in reference to this young man.”
“No, Robert; you need hardly say that. Indeed, to speak my own mind, I think that you need hardly have alluded to it. I might go further, and say that such an allusion is in itself an insult — an insult now repeated after hours of deliberation — an insult which I will not endure to have repeated again. If you say another word in any way suggesting the possibility of improper relations between me and Mr Finn, either as to deeds or thoughts, as God is above me, I will write to both my father and my brother, and desire them to take me from your house. If you wish me to remain here, you had better be careful!” As she was making this speech, her temper seemed to rise, and to become hot, and then hotter, till it glowed with a red heat. She had been cool till the word insult, used by herself, had conveyed back to her a strong impression of her own wrong — or perhaps I should rather say a strong feeling of the necessity of becoming indignant. She was standing as she spoke, and the fire flashed from her eyes, and he quailed before her. The threat which she had held out to him was very dreadful to him. He was a man terribly in fear of the world’s good opinion, who lacked the courage to go through a great and harassing trial in order that something better might come afterwards. His married life had been unhappy. His wife had not submitted either to his will or to his ways. He had that great desire to enjoy his full rights, so strong in the minds of weak, ambitious men, and he had told himself that a wife’s obedience was one of those rights which he could not abandon without injury to his self-esteem. He had thought about the matter, slowly, as was his wont, and had resolved that he would assert himself. He had asserted himself, and his wife told him to his face that she would go away and leave him. He could detain her legally, but he could not do even that without the fact of such forcible detention being known to all the world. How was he to answer her now at this moment, so that she might not write to her father, and so that his self-assertion might still be maintained?
“Passion, Laura, can never be right.”
“Would you have a woman submit to insult without passion? I at any rate am not such a woman.” Then there was a pause for a moment. “If you have nothing else to say to me, you had better leave me. I am far from well, and my head is throbbing.”
He came up and took her hand, but she snatched it away from him. “Laura,” he said, do not let us quarrel.
“I certainly shall quarrel if such insinuations are repeated.”
“I made no insinuation.”
“Do not repeat them. That is all.”
He was cowed and left her, having first attempted to get out of the difficulty of his position by making much of her alleged illness, and by offering to send for Dr Macnuthrie. She positively refused to see Dr Macnuthrie, and at last succeeded in inducing him to quit the room.
This had occurred about the end of November, and on the 20th of December Violet Effingham reached Loughlinter. Life in Mr Kennedy’s house had gone quietly during the intervening three weeks, but not very pleasantly. The name of Phineas Finn had not been mentioned. Lady Laura had triumphed; but she had no desire to acerbate her husband by any unpalatable allusion to her victory. And he was quite willing to let the subject die away, if only it would die. On some other matters he continued to assert himself, taking his wife to church twice every Sunday, using longer family prayers than she approved, reading an additional sermon himself every Sunday evening, calling upon her for weekly attention to elaborate household accounts, asking for her personal assistance in much local visiting, initiating her into his favourite methods of family life in the country, till sometimes she almost longed to talk again about Phineas Finn, so that there might be a rupture, and she might escape. But her husband asserted himself within bounds, and she submitted, longing for the coming of Violet Effingham. She could not write to her father and beg to be taken away, because her husband would read a sermon to her on Sunday evening.
To Violet, very shortly after her arrival, she told her whole story. “This is terrible,” said Violet. This makes me feel that I never will be married.”
“And yet what can a woman become if she remain single? The curse is to be a woman at all.”
“I have always felt so proud of the privileges of my sex,” said Violet.
“I never have found them,” said the other; never. I have tried to make the best of its weaknesses, and this is what I have come to! I suppose I ought to have loved some man.”
“And did you never love any man?”
“No — I think I never did — not as people mean when they speak of love. I have felt that I would consent to be cut in little pieces for my brother — because of my regard for him.”
“Ah, that is nothing.”
“And I have felt something of the same thing for another — a longing for his welfare, a delight to hear him praised, a charm in his presence — so strong a feeling for his interest, that were he to go to wrack and ruin, I too, should, after a fashion, be wracked and ruined. But it has not been love either.”
“Do I know whom you mean? May I name him? It is Phineas Finn.”
“Of course it is Phineas Finn.”
“Did he ever ask you — to love him?”
“I feared he would do so, and therefore accepted Mr Kennedy’s offer almost at the first word.”
“I do not quite understand your reasoning, Laura.”
“I understand it. I could have refused him nothing in my power to give him, but I did not wish to be his wife.”
“And he never asked you?”
Lady Laura paused a moment, thinking what reply she should make — and then she told a fib. “No; he never asked me.” But Violet did not believe the fib. Violet was quite sure that Phineas had asked Lady Laura Standish to be his wife, “As far as I can see,” said Violet, “Madame Max Goesler is his present passion.”
“I do not believe it in the least,” said Lady Laura, firing up.
“It does not much matter,” said Violet.
“It would matter very much. You know, you — you; you know whom he loves. And I do believe that sooner or later you will be his wife.”
“Never.”
“Yes, you will. Had you not loved him you would never have condescended to accuse him about that woman.”
“I have not accused him. Why should he not marry Madame Max Goesler? It would be just the thing for him. She is very rich.”
“Never. You will be his wife.”
“Laura, you are the most capricious of women. You have two dear friends, and you insist that I shall marry them both. Which shall I take first?”
“Oswald will be here in a day or two, and you can take him if you like it. No doubt he will ask you. But I do not think you will.”
“No; I do not think I shall. I shall knock under to Mr Mill; and go in for women’s rights, and look forward to stand for some female borough. Matrimony never seemed to me to be very charming, and upon my word it does not become more alluring by what I find at Loughlinter.”
It was thus that Violet and Lady Laura discussed these matters together, but Violet had never showed to her friend the cards in her hand, as Lady Laura had shown those which she held. Lady Laura had in fact told almost everything that there was to tell — had spoken either plainly with true words, or equally plainly with words that were not true. Violet Effingham had almost come to love Phineas Finn — but she never told her friend that it was so. At one time she had almost made up her mind to give herself and all her wealth to this adventurer. He was a better man, she thought, than Lord Chiltern; and she had come to persuade herself that it was almost imperative on her to take the one or the other. Though she could talk about remaining unmarried, she knew that that was practically impossible. All those around her — those of the Baldock as well as those of the Brentford faction — would make such a life impossible to her. Besides, in such a case what could she do? It was all very well to talk of disregarding the world and of setting up a house for herself — but she was quite aware that that project could not be used further than for the purpose of scaring her amiable aunt. And if not that — then could she content herself to look forward to a joint life with Lady Baldock and Augusta Boreham? She might, of course, oblige her aunt by taking Lord Fawn, or oblige her aunt equally by taking Mr Appledom; but she was strongly of opinion that either Lord Chiltern or Phineas would be preferable to these. Thinking over it always she had come to feel that it must be either Lord Chiltern or Phineas; but she had never whispered her thought to man or woman. On her journey to Loughlinter, where she then knew that she was to meet Lord Chiltern, she endeavoured to persuade herself that it should be Phineas. But Lady Laura had marred it all by that ill-told fib. There had been a moment before in which Violet had felt that Phineas had sacrificed something of that truth of love for which she gave him credit to the glances of Madame Goesler’s eyes; but she had rebuked herself for the idea, accusing herself not only of a little jealousy, but of foolish vanity. Was he, whom she had rejected, not to speak to another woman? Then came the blow from Lady Laura, and Violet knew that it was a blow. This gallant lover, this young Crichton, this unassuming but ardent lover, had simply taken up with her as soon as he had failed with her friend. Lady Laura had been most enthusiastic in her expressions of friendship. Such platonic regards might be all very well. It was for Mr Kennedy to look to that. But; for herself, she felt that such expressions were hardly compatible with her ideas of having her lover all to herself. And then she again remembered Madame Goesler’s bright blue eyes.
Lord Chiltern came on Christmas Eve, and was received with open arms by his sister, and with that painful, irritating affection which such a girl as Violet can show to such a man as Lord Chiltern, when she will not give him that other affection for which his heart is panting. The two men were civil to each other — but very cold. They called each other Kennedy and Chiltern, but even that was not done without an effort. On the Christmas morning Mr Kennedy asked his brother-in-law to go to church. “It’s a kind of thing I never do,” said Lord Chiltern. Mr Kennedy gave a little start, and looked a look of horror. Lady Laura showed that she was unhappy. Violet Effingham turned away her face, and smiled.
As they walked across the park Violet took Lord Chiltern’s part. “He only means that he does not go to church on Christmas Day.”
“I don’t know what he means,” said Mr Kennedy.
“We need not speak of it,” said Lady Laura.
“Certainly not,” said Mr Kennedy.
“I have been to church with him on Sundays myself,” said Violet, perhaps not reflecting that the practices of early years had little to do with the young man’s life at present.
Christmas Day and the next day passed without any sign from Lord Chiltern, and on the day after that he was to go away. But he was not to leave till one or two in the afternoon. Not a word had been said between the two women, since he had been in the house, on the subject of which both of them were thinking. Very much had been said of the expediency of his going to Saulsby, but on this matter he had declined to make any promise. Sitting in Lady Laura’s room, in the presence of both of them, he had refused to do so. “I am bad to drive,” he said, turning to Violet, “and you had better not try to drive me.”
“Why should not you be driven as well as another?” she answered, laughing.
Lord Chiltern, though he had passed two entire days in the house with Violet without renewing his suit, had come to Loughlinter for the express purpose of doing so, and had his plans perfectly fixed in his own mind. After breakfast on that last morning he was upstairs with his sister in her own room, and immediately made his request to her. “Laura,” he said, go down like a good girl, and make Violet come up here.” She stood a moment looking at him and smiled. “And, mind,” he continued, you are not to come back yourself. I must have Violet alone.”
“But suppose Violet will not come? Young ladies do not generally wait upon young men on such occasions.”
“No — but I rank her so high among young women, that I think she will have common sense enough to teach her that, after what has passed between us, I have a right to ask for an interview, and that it may be more conveniently had here than in the wilderness of the house below.”
Whatever may have been the arguments used by her friend, Violet did come. She reached the door all alone, and opened it bravely. She had promised herself, as she came along the passages, that she would not pause with her hand on the lock for a moment. She had first gone to her own room, and as she left it she had looked into the glass with a hurried glance, and had then rested for a moment — thinking that something should be done, that her hair might be smoothed, or a ribbon set straight, or the chain arranged under her brooch. A girl would wish to look well before her lover, even when she means to refuse him. But her pause was but for an instant, and then she went on, having touched nothing. She shook her head and pressed her hands together, and went on quick and opened the door — almost with a little start. “Violet, this is very good of you,” said Lord Chiltern, standing with his back to the fire, and not moving from the spot.
“Laura has told me that you thought I would do as much as this for you, and therefore I have done it.”
“Thanks, dearest. It is the old story, Violet, and I am so bad at words!”
“I must have been bad at words too, as I have not been able to make you understand.”
“I think I have understood. You are always clear-spoken, and I, though I cannot talk, am not muddle-pated. I have understood. But while you are single there must be yet hope — unless, indeed, you will tell me that you have already given yourself to another man.”
“I have not done that.”
“Then how can I not hope? Violet, I would if I could tell you all my feelings plainly. Once, twice, thrice, I have said to myself that I would think of you no more. I have tried to persuade myself that I am better single than married.”
“But I am not the only woman.”
“To me you are — absolutely, as though there were none other on the face of God’s earth. I live much alone; but you are always with me. Should you marry any other man, it will be the same with me still. If you refuse me now I shall go away — and live wildly.”
“Oswald, what do you mean?”
“I mean that I will go to some distant part of the world, where I may be killed or live a life of adventure. But I shall do so simply in despair. It will not be that I do not know how much better and greater should be the life at home of a man in my position.”
“Then do not talk of going.”
“I cannot stay. You will acknowledge, Violet, that I have never lied to you. I am thinking of you day and night. The more indifferent you show yourself to me, the more I love you, Violet, try to love me.” He came up to her, and took her by both her hands, and tears were in his eyes. “Say you will try to love me.”
“It is not that,” said Violet, looking away, but still leaving her hands with him.
“It is not what, dear?”
“What you call — trying.”
“It is that you do not wish to try?”
“Oswald, you are so violent, so headstrong. I am afraid of you — as is everybody. Why have you not written to your father, as we have asked you?”
“I will write to him instantly, now, before I leave the room, and you shall dictate the letter to him. By heavens, you shall!” He had dropped her hands when she called him violent; but now he took them again, and still she permitted it. “I have postponed it only till I had spoken to you once again.”
“No, Lord Chiltern, I will not dictate to you.”
“But will you love me?” She paused and looked down, having even now not withdrawn her hands from him. But I do not think he knew how much he had gained. “You used to love me — a little,” he said.
“Indeed — indeed, I did.”
“And now? Is it all changed now?”
“No,” she said, retreating from him.
“How is it, then? Violet, speak to me honestly. Will you be my wife?” She did not answer him, and he stood for a moment looking at her. Then he rushed at her, and, seizing her in his arms, kissed her all over — her forehead, her lips, her cheeks, then both her hands, and then her lips again. “By G — she is my own!” he said. Then he went back to the rug before the fire, and stood there with his back turned to her. Violet, when she found herself thus deserted, retreated to a sofa, and sat herself down. She had no negative to produce now in answer to the violent assertion which he had pronounced as to his own success. It was true. She had doubted, and doubted — and still doubted. But now she must doubt no longer. Of one thing she was quite sure. She could love him. As things had now gone, she would make him quite happy with assurances on that subject. As to that other question — that fearful question, whether or not she could trust him — on that matter she had better at present say nothing, and think as little, perhaps, as might be. She had taken the jump, and therefore why should she not be gracious to him? But how was she to be gracious to a lover who stood there with his back turned to her?
After the interval of a minute or two he remembered himself, and turned round. Seeing her seated, he approached her, and went down on both knees close at her feet. Then he took her hands again, for the third time, and looked up into her eyes.
“Oswald, you on your knees!” she said.
“I would not bend to a princess”, he said, to ask for half her throne; but I will kneel here all day, if you will let me, in thanks for the gift of your love. I never kneeled to beg for it.”
“This is the man who cannot make speeches.”
“I think I could talk now by the hour, with you for a listener.”
“Oh, but I must talk too.”
“What will you say to me?”
“Nothing while you are kneeling. It is not natural that you should kneel. You are like Samson with his locks shorn, or Hercules with a distaff.”
“Is that better?” he said, as he got up and put his arm round her waist.
“You are in earnest?” she asked.
“In earnest. I hardly thought that that would be doubted. Do you not believe me?”
“I do believe you. And you will be good?”
“Ah — I do not know that.”
“Try, and I will love you so dearly. Nay, I do love you dearly. I do. I do.”
“Say it again.”
“I will say it fifty times — till your ears are weary with it’ — and she did say it to him, after her own fashion, fifty times.
“This is a great change,” he said, getting up after a while and walking about the room.
“But a change for the better — is it not, Oswald?”
“So much for the better that I hardly know myself in my new joy. But, Violet, we’ll have no delay — will we? No shilly-shallying. What is the use of waiting now that it’s settled?”
“None in the least, Lord Chiltern. Let us say — this day twelvemonth.”
“You are laughing at me, Violet.”
“Remember, sir, that the first thing you have to do is to write to your father.”
He instantly went to the writing-table and took up paper and pen. “Come along,” he said. You are to dictate it. But this she refused to do, telling him that he must write his letter to his father out of his own head, and out of his own heart. “I cannot write it,” he said, throwing down the pen. “My blood is in such a tumult that I cannot steady my hand.”
“You must not be so tumultuous, Oswald, or I shall have to live in a whirlwind.”
“Oh, I shall shake down. I shall become as steady as an old stager. I’ll go as quiet in harness by and by as though I had been broken to it a four-year-old. I wonder whether Laura could not write this letter.”
“I think you should write it yourself, Oswald.”
“If you bid me I will.”
“Bid you indeed! As if it was for me to bid you. Do you not know that in these new troubles you are undertaking you will have to bid me in everything, and that I shall be bound to do your bidding? Does it not seem to be dreadful? My wonder is that any girl can ever accept any man.”
“But you have accepted me now.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“And you repent?”
“No, indeed, and I will try to do your biddings — but you must not be rough to me, and outrageous, and fierce — will you, Oswald?”
“I will not at any rate be like Kennedy is with poor Laura.”
“No — that is not your nature.”
“I will do my best, dearest. And you may at any rate be sure of this, that I will love you always. So much good of myself, if it be good, I can say.”
“It is very good,” she answered; the best of all good words. And now I must go. And as you are leaving Loughlinter I will say goodbye. When am I to have the honour and felicity of beholding your lordship again?”
“Say a nice word to me before I am off, Violet.”
“I— love — you — better — than all the world beside; and I mean — to be your wife — some day. Are not those twenty nice words?”
He would not prolong his stay at Loughlinter, though he was asked to do so both by Violet and his sister, and though, as he confessed himself, he had no special business elsewhere. “It is no use mincing the matter. I don’t like Kennedy, and I don’t like being in his house,” he said to Violet. And then he promised that there should be a party got up at Saulsby before the winter was over. His plan was to stop that night at Carlisle, and write to his father from thence. “Your blood, perhaps, won’t be so tumultuous at Carlisle,” said Violet. He shook his head and went on with his plans. He would then go on to London and down to Willingford, and there wait for his father’s answer. “There is no reason why I should lose more of the hunting than necessary.” “Pray don’t lose a day for me,” said Violet. As soon as he heard from his father, he would do his father’s bidding. “You will go to Saulsby,” said Violet; “you can hunt at Saulsby, you know.”
“I will go to Jericho if he asks me, only you will have to go with me.” “I thought we were to go to — Belgium, said Violet.
“And so that is settled at last,” said Violet to Laura that night.
“I hope you do not regret it.”
“On the contrary, I am as happy as the moments are long.”
“My fine girl!”
“I am happy because I love him. I have always loved him. You have known that.”
“Indeed, no.”
“But I have, after my fashion. I am not tumultuous, as he calls himself. Since he began to make eyes at me when he was nineteen — ”
“Fancy Oswald making eyes!”
“Oh, he did, and mouths too. But from the beginning, when I was a child, I have known that he was dangerous, and I have thought that he would pass on and forget me after a while. And I could have lived without him. Nay, there have been moments when I thought I could learn to love someone else.”
“Poor Phineas, for instance.”
“We will mention no names. Mr Appledom, perhaps, more likely. He has been my most constant lover, and then he would be so safe! Your brother, Laura, is dangerous. He is like the bad ice in the parks where they stick up the poles. He has had a pole stuck upon him ever since he was a boy.”
“Yes — give a dog a bad name and hang him.”
“Remember that I do not love him a bit the less on that account — perhaps the better. A sense of danger does not make me unhappy, though the threatened evil may be fatal. I have entered myself for my forlorn hope, and I mean to stick to it. Now I must go and write to his worship. Only think — I never wrote a love-letter yet!”
Nothing more shall be said about Miss Effingham’s first love-letter, which was, no doubt, creditable to her head and heart; but there were two other letters sent by the same post from Loughlinter which shall be submitted to the reader, as they will assist the telling of the story. One was from Lady Laura Kennedy to her friend Phineas Finn, and the other from Violet to her aunt, Lady Baldock. No letter was written to Lord Brentford, as it was thought desirable that he should receive the first intimation of what had been done from his son.
Respecting the letter to Phineas, which shall be first given, Lady Laura thought it right to say a word to her husband. He had been of course told of the engagement, and had replied that he could have wished that the arrangement could have been made elsewhere than at his house, knowing as he did that Lady Baldock would not approve of it. To this Lady Laura had made no reply, and Mr Kennedy had condescended to congratulate the bride-elect. When Lady Laura’s letter to Phineas was completed she took care to put it into the letter-box in the presence of her husband. “I have written to Mr Finn,” she said, to tell him of this marriage.”
“Why was it necessary that he should be told?”
“I think it was due to him — from certain circumstances.”
“I wonder whether there was any truth in what everybody was saying about their fighting a duel?” asked Mr Kennedy. His wife made no answer, and then he continued — “You told me of your own knowledge that it was untrue.”
“Not of my own knowledge, Robert.”
“Yes — of your own knowledge.” Then Mr Kennedy walked away, and was certain that his wife had deceived him about the duel. There had been a duel, and she had known it; and yet she had told him that the report was a ridiculous fabrication. He never forgot anything. He remembered at this moment the words of the falsehood, and the look of her face as she told it. He had believed her implicitly, but he would never believe her again. He was one of those men who, in spite of their experience of the world, of their experience of their own lives, imagine that lips that have once lied can never tell the truth.
Lady Laura’s letter to Phineas was as follows:
“ Loughlinter, December 28th, 186 —
“ MY DEAR FRIEND,
“Violet Effingham is here, and Oswald has just left us. It is possible that you may see him as he passes through London. But, at any rate, I think it best to let you know immediately that she has accepted him — at last. If there be any pang in this to you, be sure that I will grieve for you. You will not wish me to say that I regret that which was the dearest wish of my heart before I knew you. Lately, indeed, I have been torn in two ways. You will understand what I mean, and I believe I need say nothing more — except this, that it shall be among my prayers that you may obtain all things that may tend to make you happy, honourable, and of high esteem.
“Your most sincere friend
odq; LAURA KENNEDY ”
Even though her husband should read the letter, there was nothing in that of which she need be ashamed. But he did not read the letter. He simply speculated as to its contents, and inquired within himself whether it would not be for the welfare of the world in general, and for the welfare of himself in particular, that husbands should demand to read their wives’ letters.
And this was Violet’s letter to her aunt:
“ MY DEAR AUNT,
“The thing has come at last, and all your troubles will be soon over — for I do believe that all your troubles have come from your unfortunate niece. At last I am going to be married, and thus take myself off your hands. Lord Chiltern has just been here, and I have accepted him. I am afraid you hardly think so well of Lord Chiltern as I do; but then, perhaps, you have not known him so long. You do know, however, that there has been some difference between him and his father. I think I may take upon myself to say that now, upon his engagement, this will be settled. I have the inexpressible pleasure of feeling sure that Lord Brentford will welcome me as his daughter-in-law. Tell the news to Augusta with my best love. I will write to her in a day or two. I hope my cousin Gustavus will condescend to give me away. Of course there is nothing fixed about time — but I should say, perhaps, in nine years.
“Your affectionate niece,
“ VIOLET EFFINGHAM
“Loughlinter, Friday.”
“What does she mean about nine years?” said Lady Baldock in her wrath.
“She is joking,” said the mild Augusta.
“I believe she would — joke, if I were going to be buried,” said Lady Baldock.
When Phineas received Lady Laura Kennedy’s letter, he was sitting in his gorgeous apartment in the Colonial Office. It was gorgeous in comparison with the very dingy room at Mr Low’s to which he had been accustomed in his early days — and somewhat gorgeous also as compared with the lodgings he had so long inhabited in Mr Bunce’s house. The room was large and square, and looked out from three windows on to St James’s Park. There were in it two very comfortable armchairs and a comfortable sofa. And the office table at which he sat was of old mahogany, shining brightly, and seemed to be fitted up with every possible appliance for official comfort. This stood near one of the windows, so that he could sit and look down upon the park. And there was a large round table covered with books and newspapers. And the walls of the room were bright with maps of all the colonies. And there was one very interesting map — but not very bright — showing the American colonies, as they used to be. And there was a little inner closet in which he could brush his hair and wash his hands; and in the room adjoining there sat — or ought to have sat, for he was often absent, vexing the mind of Phineas — the Earl’s nephew, his private secretary. And it was all very gorgeous. Often as he looked round upon it, thinking of his old bedroom at Killaloe, of his little garrets at Trinity, of the dingy chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, he would tell himself that it was very gorgeous. He would wonder that anything so grand had fallen to his lot.
The letter from Scotland was brought to him in the afternoon, having reached London by some day-mail from Glasgow, He was sitting at his desk with a heap of papers before him referring to a contemplated railway from Halifax, in Nova Scotia, to the foot of the Rocky Mountains. It had become his business to get up the subject, and then discuss with his principal, Lord Cantrip, the expediency of advising the Government to lend a company five million of money, in order that this railway might be made. It was a big subject, and the contemplation of it gratified him. It required that he should look forward to great events, and exercise the wisdom of a statesman. What was the chance of these colonies being swallowed up by those other regions — once colonies — of which the map that hung in the corner told so eloquent a tale? And if so, would the five million ever be repaid? And if not swallowed up, were the colonies worth so great an adventure of national money? Could they repay it? Would they do so? Should they be made to do so? Mr Low, who was now a Q.C. and in Parliament, would not have greater subjects than this before him, even if he should come to be Solicitor General. Lord Cantrip had specially asked him to get up this matter — and he was getting it up sedulously. Once in nine years the harbour of Halifax was blocked up by ice. He had just jotted down the fact, which was material, when Lady Laura’s letter was brought to him. He read it, and putting it down by his side very gently, went back to his maps as though the thing would not so trouble his mind as to disturb his work. He absolutely wrote, automatically, certain words of a note about the harbour, after he had received the information. A horse will gallop for some scores of yards, after his back has been broken, before he knows of his great ruin — and so it was with Phineas Finn. His back was broken, but, nevertheless, he galloped, for a yard or two. “Closed in 1860 — 61 for thirteen days.” Then he began to be aware that his back was broken, and that the writing of any more notes about the ice in Halifax harbour was for the present out of the question. “I think it best to let you know immediately that she has accepted him.” These were the words which he read the oftenest. Then it was all over! The game was played out, and all his victories were as nothing to him. He sat for an hour in his gorgeous room thinking of it, and various were the answers which he gave during the time to various messages — but he would see nobody. As for the colonies, he did not care if they revolted tomorrow. He would have parted with every colony belonging to Great Britain to have gotten the hand of Violet Effingham for himself, Now — now at this moment, he told himself with oaths that he had never loved anyone but Violet Effingham.
There had been so much to make such a marriage desirable! I should wrong my hero deeply were I to say that the weight of his sorrow was occasioned by the fact that he had lost an heiress. He would never have thought of looking for Violet Effingham had he not first learned to love her. But as the idea opened itself out to him, everything had seemed to be so suitable. Had Miss Effingham become his wife, the mouths of the Lows and of the Bunces would have been stopped altogether. Mr Monk would have come to his house as his familiar guest, and he would have been connected with half a score of peers. A seat in Parliament would be simply his proper place, and even Under-Secretaryships of State might soon come to be below him. He was playing a great game, but hitherto he had played it with so much success — with such wonderful luck! that it had seemed to him that all things were within his reach. Nothing more had been wanting to him than Violet’s hand for his own comfort, and Violet’s fortune to support his position; and these, too, had almost seemed to be within his grasp. His goddess had indeed refused him — but not with disdain. Even Lady Laura had talked of his marriage as not improbable. All the world, almost, had heard of the duel; and all the world had smiled, and seemed to think that in the real fight Phineas Finn would be the victor — that the lucky pistol was in his hands. It had never occurred to anyone to suppose — as far as he could see — that he was presuming at all, or pushing himself out of his own sphere, in asking Violet Effingham to be his wife. No — he would trust his luck, would persevere, and would succeed. Such had been his resolution on that very morning — and now there had come this letter to dash him to the ground.
There were moments in which he declared to himself that he would not believe the letter — not that there was any moment in which there was in his mind the slightest spark of real hope. But he would tell himself that he would still persevere. Violet might have been driven to accept that violent man by violent influence — or it might be that she had not in truth accepted him, that Chiltern had simply so asserted. Or, even if it were so, did women never change their minds? The manly thing would be to persevere to the end. Had he not before been successful, when success seemed to be as far from him? But he could buoy himself up with no real hope. Even when these ideas were present to his mind, he knew — he knew well — at those very moments, that his back was broken.
Someone had come in and lighted the candles and drawn down the blinds while he was sitting there, and now, as he looked at his watch, he found that it was past five o’clock. He was engaged to dine with Madame Max Goesler at eight, and in his agony he half-resolved that he would send an excuse. Madame Max would be full of wrath, as she was very particular about her little dinner-parties — but, what did he care now about the wrath of Madame Max Goesler? And yet only this morning he had been congratulating himself, among his other successes, upon her favour, and had laughed inwardly at his own falseness — his falseness to Violet Effingham — as he did so. He had said something to himself jocosely about lovers’ perjuries, the remembrance of which was now very bitter to him. He took up a sheet of notepaper and scrawled an excuse to Madame Goesler. News from the country, he said, made it impossible that he should go out tonight. But he did not send the note. At about half past five he opened the door of his private secretary’s room and found the young man fast asleep, with a cigar in his mouth. “Halloa, Charles,” he said.
“All right!” Charles Standish was a first cousin of Lady Laura’s, and, having been in the office before Phineas had joined it, and being a great favourite with his cousin, had of course become the Under-Secretary’s private secretary. “I’m all here,” said Charles Standish, getting up and shaking himself.
“I am going. Just tie up those papers — exactly as they are. I shall be here early tomorrow, but I shan’t want you before twelve. Good night, Charles.”
“Ta, ta,” said his private secretary, who was very fond of his master, but not very respectful — unless upon express occasions.
Then Phineas went out and walked across the park; but as he went he became quite aware that his back was broken. It was not the less broken because he sang to himself little songs to prove to himself that it was whole and sound. It was broken, and it seemed to him now that he never could become an Atlas again, to bear the weight of the world upon his shoulders. What did anything signify? All that he had done had been part of a game which he had been playing throughout, and now he had been beaten in his game. He absolutely ignored his old passion for Lady Laura as though it had never been, and regarded himself as a model of constancy — as a man who had loved, not wisely perhaps, but much too well — and who must now therefore suffer a living death. He hated Parliament. He hated the Colonial Office. He hated his friend Mr Monk; and he especially hated Madame Max Goesler. As to Lord Chiltern — he believed that Lord Chiltern had obtained his object by violence. He would see to that! Yes — let the consequences be what they might, he would see to that!
He went up by the Duke of York’s column, and as he passed the Athenaeum he saw his chief, Lord Cantrip, standing under the portico talking to a bishop. He would have gone on unnoticed, had it been possible; but Lord Cantrip came down to him at once. “I have put your name down here,” said his lordship.
“What’s the use?” said Phineas, who was profoundly indifferent at this moment to all the clubs in London.
“It can’t do any harm, you know. You’ll come up in time. And if you should get into the ministry, they’ll let you in at once.”
“Ministry!” ejaculated Phineas. But Lord Cantrip took the tone of voice as simply suggestive of humility, and suspected nothing of that profound indifference to all ministers and ministerial honours which Phineas had intended to express. “By the bye,” said Lord Cantrip, putting his arm through that of the Under-Secretary, “I wanted to speak to you about the guarantees. We shall be in the devil’s own mess, you know — “And so the Secretary of State went on about the Rocky Mountain Railroad, and Phineas strove hard to bear his burden with his broken back. He was obliged to say something about the guarantees, and the railway, and the frozen harbour — and something especially about the difficulties which would be found, not in the measures themselves, but in the natural pugnacity of the Opposition. In the fabrication of garments for the national wear, the great thing is to produce garments that shall, as far as possible, defy hole-picking. It may be, and sometimes is, the case, that garments so fabricated will be good also for wear. Lord Cantrip, at the present moment, was very anxious and very ingenious in the stopping of holes; and he thought that perhaps his Under-Secretary was too much prone to the indulgence of large philanthropical views without sufficient thought of the hole-pickers. But on this occasion, by the time that he reached Brooks’s, he had been enabled to convince his Under-Secretary, and though he had always thought well of his Under-Secretary, he thought better of him now than ever he had done. Phineas during the whole time had been meditating what he could do to Lord Chiltern when they two should meet. Could he take him by the throat and smite him? “I happen to know that Broderick is working as hard at the matter as we are,” said Lord Cantrip, stopping opposite to the club. “He moved for papers, you know, at the end of last session.” Now Mr Broderick was a gentleman in the House looking for promotion in a Conservative Government, and of course would oppose any measure that could be brought forward by the Cantrip-Finn Colonial Administration. Then Lord Cantrip slipped into the club, and Phineas went on alone.
A spark of his old ambition with reference to Brooks’s was the first thing to make him forget his misery for a moment. He had asked Lord Brentford to put his name down, and was not sure whether it had been done. The threat of Mr Broderick’s opposition had been of no use towards the strengthening of his broken back, but the sight of Lord Cantrip hurrying in at the coveted door did do something. “A man can’t cut his throat or blow his brains out,” he said to himself; “after all, he must go on and do his work. For hearts will break, yet brokenly live on.” Thereupon he went home, and after sitting for an hour over his own fire, and looking wistfully at a little treasure which he had — a treasure obtained by some slight fraud at Saulsby, and which he now chucked into the fire, and then instantly again pulled out of it, soiled but unscorched — he dressed himself for dinner, and went out to Madame Max Goesler’s. Upon the whole, he was glad that he had not sent the note of excuse. A man must live, even though his heart be broken, and living he must dine.
Madame Max Goesler was fond of giving little dinners at this period of the year, before London was crowded, and when her guests might probably not be called away by subsequent social arrangements. Her number seldom exceeded six or eight, and she always spoke of these entertainments as being of the humblest kind. She sent out no big cards. She preferred to catch her people as though by chance, when that was possible. “Dear Mr Jones. Mr Smith is coming to tell me about some sherry on Tuesday. Will you come and tell me too? I daresay you know as much about it.” And then there was a studious absence of parade. The dishes were not very numerous. The bill of fare was simply written out once, for the mistress, and so circulated round the table. Not a word about the things to be eaten or the things to be drunk was ever spoken at the table — or at least no such word was ever spoken by Madame Goesler. But, nevertheless, they who knew anything about dinners were aware that Madame Goesler gave very good dinners indeed, Phineas Finn was beginning to flatter himself that he knew something about dinners, and had been heard to assert that the soups at the cottage in Park Lane were not to be beaten in London. But he cared for no soup today, as he slowly made his way up Madame Goesler’s staircase.
There had been one difficulty in the way of Madame Goesler’s dinner-parties which had required some patience and great ingenuity in its management. She must either have ladies, or she must not have them. There was a great allurement in the latter alternative; but she knew well that if she gave way to it, all prospect of general society would for her be closed — and for ever. This had been in the early days of her widowhood in Park Lane. She cared but little for women’s society; but she knew well that the society of gentlemen without women would not be that which she desired. She knew also that she might as effectually crush herself and all her aspirations by bringing to her house indifferent women — women lacking something either in character, or in position, or in talent — as by having none it all. Thus there had been a great difficulty, and sometimes she had thought that the thing could not be done at all. “These English are so stiff, so hard, so heavy!” And yet she would not have cared to succeed elsewhere than among the English. By degrees, however, the thing was done. Her prudence equalled her wit, and even suspicious people had come to acknowledge that they could not put their fingers on anything wrong. When Lady Glencora Palliser had once dined at the cottage in Park Lane, Madame Max Goesler had told herself that henceforth she did not care what the suspicious people said. Since that the Duke of Omnium had almost promised that he would come. If she could only entertain the Duke of Omnium she would have done everything.
But there was no Duke of Omnium there tonight. At this time the Duke of Omnium was, of course, not in London. But Lord Fawn was there; and our old friend Laurence Fitzgibbon, who had — resigned his place at the Colonial Office; and there were Mr and Mrs Bonteen. They, with our hero, made up the party. No one doubted for a moment to what source Mr Bonteen owed his dinner. Mrs Bonteen was good-looking, could talk, was sufficiently proper, and all that kind of thing — and did as well as any other woman at this time of year to keep Madame Max Goesler in countenance. There was never any sitting after dinner at the cottage; or, I should rather say, there was never any sitting after Madame Goesler went; so that the two ladies could not weary each other by being alone together. Mrs Bonteen understood quite well that she was not required there to talk to her hostess, and was as willing as any woman to make herself agreeable to the gentlemen she might meet at Madame Goesler’s table. And thus Mr and Mrs Bonteen not unfrequently dined in Park Lane.
“Now we have only to wait for that horrible man, Mr Fitzgibbon,” said Madame Max Goesler, as she welcomed Phineas. “He is always late.”
“What a blow for me!” said Phineas.
“No — you are always in good time. But there is a limit beyond which good time ends, and being shamefully late at once begins. But here he is.” And then, as Laurence Fitzgibbon entered the room, Madame Goesler rang the bell for dinner.
Phineas found himself placed between his hostess and Mr Bonteen, and Lord Fawn was on the other side of Madame Goesler. They were hardly seated at the table before some one stated it as a fact that Lord Brentford and his son were reconciled. Now Phineas knew, or thought that he knew, that this could not as yet be the case; and indeed such was not the case, though the father had already received the son’s letter. But Phineas did not choose to say anything at present about Lord Chiltern.
“How odd it is,” said Madame Goesler; how often you English fathers quarrel with your sons!”
“How often we English sons quarrel with our fathers rather,” said Lord Fawn, who was known for the respect he had always paid to the fifth commandment.
“It all comes from entail and primogeniture, and old-fashioned English prejudices of that kind,” said Madame Goesler. “Lord Chiltern is a friend of yours, Mr Finn, I think.”
“They are both friends of mine,” said Phineas.
“Ah, yes; but you — you — you and Lord Chiltern once did something odd together. There was a little mystery, was there not?”
“It is very little of a mystery now,” said Fitzgibbon.
“It was about a lady — was it not?” said Mrs Bonteen, affecting to whisper to her neighbour.
“I am not at liberty to say anything on the subject,” said Fitzgibbon; “but I have no doubt Phineas will tell you.”
“I don’t believe this about Lord Brentford,” said Mr Bonteen. “I happen to know that Chiltern was down at Loughlinter three days ago, and that he passed through London yesterday on his way to the place where he hunts. The Earl is at Saulsby, He would have gone to Saulsby if it were true.”
“It all depends upon whether Miss Effingham will accept him,” said Mrs Bonteen, looking over at Phineas as she spoke.
As there were two of Violet Effingham’s suitors at table, the subject was becoming disagreeably personal; and the more so, as every one of the party knew or surmised something of the facts of the case. The cause of the duel at Blankenberg had become almost as public as the duel, and Lord Fawn’s courtship had not been altogether hidden from the public eye. He on the present occasion might probably be able to carry himself better than Phineas, even presuming him to be equally eager in his love — for he knew nothing of the fatal truth. But he was unable to hear Mrs Bonteen’s statement with indifference, and showed his concern in the matter by his reply. “Any lady will be much to be pitied,” he said, “who does that. Chiltern is the last man in the world to whom I would wish to trust the happiness of a woman for whom I cared.”
“Chiltern is a very good fellow,” said Laurence Fitzgibbon.
“Just a little wild,” said Mrs Bonteen.
“And never had a shilling in his pocket in his life,” said her husband.
“I regard him as simply a madman,” said Lord Fawn.
“I do so wish I knew him,” said Madame Max Goesler. I am fond of madmen, and men who haven’t shillings, and who are a little wild. Could you not bring him here, Mr Finn?”
Phineas did not know what to say, or how to open his mouth without showing his deep concern. “I shall be happy to ask him if you wish it,” he replied, as though the question had been put to him in earnest; “but I do not see so much of Lord Chiltern as I used to do.”
“You do not believe that Violet Effingham will accept him?” asked Mrs Bonteen.
He paused a moment before he spoke, and then made his answer in a deep solemn voice — with a seriousness which he was unable to repress. “She has accepted him,” he said.
“Do you mean that you know it?” said Madame Goesler.
“Yes — I mean that I know it.”
Had anybody told him beforehand that he would openly make this declaration at Madame Goesler’s table, he would have said that of all things it was the most impossible. He would have declared that nothing would have induced him to speak of Violet Effingham in his existing frame of mind, and that he would have had his tongue cut out before he spoke of her as the promised bride of his rival. And now he had declared the whole truth of his own wretchedness and discomfiture. He was well aware that all of them there knew why he had fought the duel at Blankenberg — all, that is, except perhaps Lord Fawn. And he felt as he made the statement as to Lord Chiltern that he blushed up to his forehead, and that his voice was strange, and that he was telling the tale of his own disgrace. But when the direct question had been asked him he had been unable to refrain from answering it directly. He had thought of turning it off with some jest or affectation of drollery, but had failed. At the moment he had been unable not to speak the truth.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Lord Fawn — who also forgot himself.
“I do believe it, if Mr Finn says so,” said Mrs Bonteen, who rather liked the confusion she had caused.
“But who could have told you, Finn?” asked Mr Bonteen.
“His sister, Lady Laura, told me so,” said Phineas.
“Then it must be true,” said Madame Goesler.
“It is quite impossible,” said Lord Fawn. I think I may say that I know that it is impossible. If it were so, it would be a most shameful arrangement. Every shilling she has in the world would be swallowed up.” Now, Lord Fawn in making his proposals had been magnanimous in his offers as to settlements and pecuniary provisions generally.
For some minutes after that Phineas did not speak another word, and the conversation generally was not so brisk and bright as it was expected to be at Madame Goesler’s. Madame Max Goesler herself thoroughly understood our hero’s position, and felt for him. She would have encouraged no questionings about Violet Effingham had she thought that they would have led to such a result, and now she exerted herself to turn the minds of her guests to other subjects. At last she succeeded; and after a while, too, Phineas himself was able to talk. He drank two or three glasses of wine, and dashed away into politics, taking the earliest opportunity in his power of contradicting Lord Fawn very plainly on one or two matters. Laurence Fitzgibbon was of course of opinion that the ministry could not stay in long. Since he had left the Government the ministers had made wonderful mistakes, and he spoke of them quite as an enemy might speak, “And yet, Fitz,” said Mr Bonteen, “you used to be so staunch a supporter.”
“I have seen the error of my way, I can assure you,” said Laurence.
“I always observe,” said Madame Max Goesler, that when any of you gentlemen resign — which you usually do on some very trivial matter — the resigning gentleman becomes of all foes the bitterest. Somebody goes on very well with his friends, agreeing most cordially about everything, till he finds that his public virtue cannot swallow some little detail, and then he resigns. Or someone, perhaps, on the other side has attacked him, and in the mêlée he is hurt, and so he resigns. But when he has resigned, and made his parting speech full of love and gratitude, I know well after that where to look for the bitterest hostility to his late friends. Yes, I am beginning to understand the way in which politics are done in England.”
All this was rather severe upon Laurence Fitzgibbon; but he was a man of the world, and bore it better than Phineas had borne his defeat.
The dinner, taken altogether, was not a success, and so Madame Goesler understood. Lord Fawn, after he had been contradicted by Phineas, hardly opened his mouth. Phineas himself talked rather too much and rather too loudly; and Mrs Bonteen, who was well enough inclined to flatter Lord Fawn, contradicted him. “I made a mistake,” said Madame Goesler afterwards, “in having four members of Parliament who all of them were or had been in office. I never will have two men in office together again.” This she said to Mrs Bonteen. “My dear Madame Max,” said Mrs Bonteen, “your resolution ought to be that you will never again have two claimants for the same young lady.”
In the drawing-room upstairs Madame Goesler managed to be alone for three minutes with Phineas Finn. “And it is as you say, my friend?” she asked. Her voice was plaintive and soft, and there was a look of real sympathy in her eyes. Phineas almost felt that if they two had been quite alone he could have told her everything, and have wept at her feet.
“Yes,” he said, it is so.
“I never doubted it when you had declared it. May I venture to say that I wish it had been otherwise?”
“It is too late now, Madame Goesler. A man of course is a fool to show that he has any feelings in such a matter. The fact is, I heard it just before I came here, and had made up my mind to send you an excuse. I wish I had now.”
“Do not say that, Mr Finn.”
“I have made such an ass of myself.”
“In my estimation you have done yourself honour. But if I may venture to give you counsel, do not speak of this affair again as though you had been personally concerned in it. In the world nowadays the only thing disgraceful is to admit a failure.”
“And I have failed.”
“But you need not admit it, Mr Finn. I know I ought not to say as much to you.”
“I, rather, am deeply indebted to you. I will go now, Madame Goesler, as I do not wish to leave the house with Lord Fawn.”
“But you will come and see me soon.” Then Phineas promised that he would come soon; and felt as he made the promise that he would have an opportunity of talking over his love with his new friend at any rate without fresh shame as to his failure.
Laurence Fitzgibbon went away with Phineas, and Mr Bonteen, having sent his wife away by herself, walked off towards the clubs with Lord Fawn. He was very anxious to have a few words with Lord Fawn. Lord Fawn had evidently been annoyed by Phineas, and Mr Bonteen did not at all love the young Under-Secretary. “That fellow has become the most consummate puppy I ever met,” said he, as he linked himself on to the lord. “Monk, and one or two others among them, have contrived to spoil him altogether.”
“I don’t believe a word of what he said about Lord Chiltern,” said Lord Fawn.
“About his marriage with Miss Effingham?”
“It would be such an abominable shame to sacrifice the girl,” said Lord Fawn. “Only think of it. Everything is gone. The man is a drunkard, and I don’t believe he is any more reconciled to his father than you are. Lady Laura Kennedy must have had some object in saying so.”
“Perhaps an invention of Finn’s altogether,” said Mr Bonteen. “Those Irish fellows are just the men for that kind of thing.”
“A man, you know, so violent that nobody can hold him,” said Lord Fawn, thinking of Chiltern.
“And so absurdly conceited,” said Mr Bonteen, thinking of Phineas.
“A man who has never done anything, with all his advantages in the world — and never will.”
“He won’t hold his place long,” said Mr Bonteen.
“Whom do you mean?”
“Phineas Finn.”
“Oh, Mr Finn. I was talking of Lord Chiltern. I believe Finn to be a very good sort of a fellow, and he is undoubtedly clever. They say Cantrip likes him amazingly. He’ll do very well. But I don’t believe a word of this about Lord Chiltern.” Then Mr Bonteen felt himself to be snubbed, and soon afterwards left Lord Fawn alone.
On the day following Madame Goesler’s dinner-party, Phineas, though he was early at his office, was not able to do much work, still feeling that as regarded the realities of the world, his back was broken. He might no doubt go on learning, and, after a time, might be able to exert himself in a perhaps useful, but altogether uninteresting kind of way, doing his work simply because it was there to be done — as the carter or the tailor does his — and from the same cause, knowing that a man must have bread to live. But as for ambition, and the idea of doing good, and the love of work for work’s sake — as for the elastic springs of delicious and beneficent labour — all that was over for him. He would have worked from day till night, and from night till day, and from month till month throughout the year to have secured for Violet Effingham the assurance that her husband’s position was worthy of her own. But now he had no motive for such work as this. As long as he took the public pay, he would earn it; and that was all.
On the next day things were a little better with him. He received a note in the morning from Lord Cantrip saying that they two were to see the Prime Minister that evening, in order that the whole question of the railway to the Rocky Mountains might be understood, and Phineas was driven to his work. Before the time of the meeting came he had once more lost his own identity in great ideas of colonial welfare, and had planned and peopled a mighty region on the Red River, which should have no sympathy with American democracy. When he waited upon Mr Gresham in the afternoon he said nothing about the mighty region; indeed, he left it to Lord Cantrip to explain most of the proposed arrangements — speaking only a word or two here and there as occasion required. But he was aware that he had so far recovered as to be able to save himself from losing ground during the interview.
“He’s about the first Irishman we’ve had that has been worth his salt,” said Mr Gresham to his colleague afterwards.
“That other Irishman was a terrible fellow,” said Lord Cantrip, shaking his head.
On the fourth day after his sorrow had befallen him, Phineas went again to the cottage in Park Lane. And in order that he might not be balked in his search for sympathy he wrote a line to Madame Goesler to ask if she would be at home. “I will be at home from five to six — and alone — M. M. G.” That was the answer from Marie Max Goesler, and Phineas was of course at the cottage a few minutes after five. It is not, I think, surprising that a man when he wants sympathy in such a calamity as that which had now befallen Phineas Finn, should seek it from a woman. Women sympathise most effectually with men, as men do with women. But it is, perhaps, a little odd that a man when he wants consolation because his heart has been broken, always likes to receive it from a pretty woman. One would be disposed to think that at such a moment he would be profoundly indifferent to such a matter, that no delight could come to him from female beauty, and that all he would want would be the softness of a simply sympathetic soul. But he generally wants a soft hand as well, and an eye that can be bright behind the mutual tear, and lips that shall be young and fresh as they express their concern for his sorrow. All these things were added to Phineas when he went to Madame Goesler in his grief.
“I am so glad to see you,” said Madame Max.
“You are very good-natured to let me come.”
“No — but it is so good of you to trust me. But I was sure you would come after what took place the other night. I saw that you were pained, and I was so sorry for it.”
“I made such a fool of myself.”
“Not at all. And I thought that you were right to tell them when the question had been asked. If the thing was not to be kept a secret, it was better to speak it out. You will get over it quicker in that way than in any other. I have never seen the young lord, myself.”
“Oh, there is nothing amiss about him. As to what Lord Fawn said, the half of it is simply exaggeration, and the other half is misunderstood.”
“In this country it is so much to be a lord,” said Madame Goesler.
Phineas thought a moment of that matter before he replied. All the Standish family had been very good to him, and Violet Effingham had been very good. It was not the fault of any of them that he was now wretched and back-broken. He had meditated much on this, and had resolved that he would not even think evil of them. “I do not in my heart believe that that has had anything to do with it,” he said.
“But it has, my friend — always. I do not know your Violet Effingham.”
“She is not mine.”
“Well — I do not know this Violet that is not yours. I have met her, and did not specially admire her. But then the tastes of men and women about beauty are never the same. But I know she is one that always lives with lords and countesses. A girl who always lived with countesses feels it to be hard to settle down as a plain Mistress.”
“She has had plenty of choice among all sorts of men. It was not the title. She would not have accepted Chiltern unless she had — . But what is the use of talking of it?”
“They had known each other long?”
“Oh, yes — as children. And the Earl desired it of all things.”
“Ah — then he arranged it.”
“Not exactly. Nobody could arrange anything for Chiltern — nor, as far as that goes, for Miss Effingham. They arranged it themselves, I fancy.”
“You had asked her?”
“Yes — twice. And she had refused him more than twice. I have nothing for which to blame her; but yet I had thought — I had thought — ”
“She is a jilt then?”
“No — I will not let you say that of her. She is no jilt. But I think she has been strangely ignorant of her own mind. What is the use of talking of it, Madame Goesler?”
“None — only sometimes it is better to speak a word, than to keep one’s sorrow to oneself.”
“So it is — and there is not one in the world to whom I can speak such a word, except yourself. Is not that odd? I have sisters, but they have never heard of Miss Effingham, and would be quite indifferent.”
“Perhaps they have some other favourites.”
“Ah — well. That does not matter. And my best friend here in London is Lord Chiltern’s own sister.”
“She knew of your attachment?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And she told you of Miss Effingham’s engagement. Was she glad of it?”
“She has always desired the marriage. And yet I think she would have been satisfied had it been otherwise. But of course her heart must be with her brother. I need not have troubled myself to go to Blankenberg after all.”
“It was for the best, perhaps. Everybody says you behaved so well.”
“I could not but go, as things were then.”
“What if you had — shot him?”
“There would have been an end of everything. She would never have seen me after that. Indeed I should have shot myself next, feeling that there was nothing else left for me to do.”
“Ah — you English are so peculiar. But I suppose it is best not to shoot a man. And, Mr Finn, there are other ladies in the world prettier than Miss Violet Effingham. No — of course you will not admit that now. Just at this moment, and for a month or two, she is peerless, and you will feel yourself to be of all men the most unfortunate. But you have the ball at your feet. I know no one so young who has got the ball at his feet so well. I call it nothing to have the ball at your feet if you are born with it there. It is so easy to be a lord if your father is one before you — and so easy to marry a pretty girl if you can make her a countess. But to make yourself a lord, or to be as good as a lord, when nothing has been born to you — that I call very much. And there are women, and pretty women too, Mr Finn, who have spirit enough to understand this, and to think that the man, after all, is more important than the lord.” Then she sang the old well-worn verse of the Scotch song with wonderful spirit, and with a clearness of voice and knowledge of music for which he had hitherto never given her credit.
A prince can mak’ a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a’ that; But an honest man’s aboon his might, Guid faith he mauna fa’ that.”
“I did not know that you sang, Madame Goesler.”
“Only now and then when something specially requires it. And I am very fond of Scotch songs. I will sing to you now if you like it.” Then she sang the whole song — “A man’s a man for a’ that,” she said as she finished. “Even though he cannot get the special bit of painted Eve’s flesh for which his heart has had a craving.” Then she sang again:
“There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, Who would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”
“But young Lochinvar got his bride,” said Phineas.
“Take the spirit of the lines, Mr Finn, which is true; and not the tale as it is told, which is probably false. I often think that Jock of Hazledean, and young Lochinvar too, probably lived to repent their bargains. We will hope that Lord Chiltern may not do so.”
“I am sure he never will.”
“That is all right. And as for you, do you for a while think of your politics, and your speeches, and your colonies, rather than of your love. You are at home there, and no Lord Chiltern can rob you of your success. And if you are down in the mouth, come to me, and I will sing you a Scotch song. And, look you, the next time I ask you to dinner I will promise you that Mrs Bonteen shall not be here. Goodbye.” She gave him her hand, which was very soft, and left it for a moment in his, and he was consoled.
Madame Goesler, when she was alone, threw herself on to her chair and began to think of things. In these days she would often ask herself what in truth was the object of her ambition, and the aim of her life. Now at this moment she had in her hand a note from the Duke of Omnium. The Duke had allowed himself to say something about a photograph, which had justified her in writing to him — or which she had taken for such justification. And the Duke had replied. “He would not,” he said, lose the opportunity of waiting upon her in person which the presentation of the little gift might afford him.” It would be a great success to have the Duke of Omnium at her house — but to what would the success reach? What was her definite object — or had she any? In what way could she make herself happy? She could not say that she was happy yet. The hours with her were too long and the days too many.
The Duke of Omnium should come — if he would. And she was quite resolved as to this — that if the Duke did come she would not be afraid of him. Heavens and earth! What would be the feelings of such a woman as her, were the world to greet her some fine morning as Duchess of Omnium! Then she made up her mind very resolutely on one subject. Should the Duke give her any opportunity she would take a very short time in letting him know what was the extent of her ambition.
Lord Chiltern did exactly as he said he would do. He wrote to his father as he passed through Carlisle, and at once went on to his hunting at Willingford. But his letter was very stiff and ungainly, and it may be doubted whether Miss Effingham was not wrong in refusing the offer which he had made to her as to the dictation of it. He began his letter, “My Lord,” and did not much improve the style as he went on with it. The reader may as well see the whole letter —
“ Railway Hotel, Carlisle, December 27, 186 —
“ MY LORD,
“I am now on my way from Loughlinter to London, and write this letter to you in compliance with a promise made by me to my sister and to Miss Effingham. I have asked Violet to be my wife, and she has accepted me, and they think that you will be pleased to hear that this has been done. I shall be, of course, obliged, if you will instruct Mr Edwards to let me know what you would propose to do in regard to settlements. Laura thinks that you will wish to see both Violet and myself at Saulsby. For myself, I can only say that, should you desire me to come, I will do so on receiving your assurance that I shall be treated neither with fatted calves nor with reproaches. I am not aware that I have deserved either.
“I am, my lord, yours affect.,
“ CHILTERN
“P.S. — My address will be “The Bull, Willingford.””
That last word, in which he half-declared himself to be joined in affectionate relations to his father, caused him a world of trouble. But he could find no term for expressing, without a circumlocution which was disagreeable to him, exactly that position of feeling towards his father which really belonged to him. He would have written “yours with affection,” or yours with deadly enmity, or “yours with respect,” or yours with most profound indifference,” exactly in accordance with the state of his father’s mind, if he had only known what was that state. He was afraid of going beyond his father in any offer of reconciliation, and was firmly fixed in his resolution that he would never be either repentant or submissive in regard to the past. If his father had wishes for the future, he would comply with them if he could do so without unreasonable inconvenience, but he would not give way a single point as to things done and gone. If his father should choose to make any reference to them, his father must prepare for battle.
The Earl was of course disgusted by the pertinacious obstinacy of his son’s letter, and for an hour or two swore to himself that he would not answer it. But it is natural that the father should yearn for the son, while the son’s feeling for the father is of a very much weaker nature. Here, at any rate, was that engagement made which he had ever desired. And his son had made a step, though it was so very unsatisfactory a step, towards reconciliation. When the old man read the letter a second time, he skipped that reference to fatted calves which had been so peculiarly distasteful to him, and before the evening had passed he had answered his son as follows:
“ Saulsby, December 29, 186 —
“ MY DEAR CHILTERN,
“I have received your letter, and am truly delighted to hear that dear Violet has accepted you as her husband. Her fortune will be very material to you, but she herself is better than any fortune. You have long known my opinion of her. I shall be proud to welcome her as a daughter to my house.
“I shall of course write to her immediately, and will endeavour to settle some early day for her coming here. When I have done so, I will write to you again, and can only say that I will endeavour to make Saulsby comfortable to you.
“Your affectionate father,
“ BRENTFORD
“Richards, the groom, is still here. You had perhaps better write to him direct about your horses.”
By the middle of February arrangements had all been made, and Violet met her lover at his father’s house. She in the meantime had been with her aunt, and had undergone a good deal of mild unceasing persecution. “My dear Violet,” said her aunt to her on her arrival at Baddingham, speaking with a solemnity that ought to have been terrible to the young lady, “I do not know what to say to you.”
“Say “how d’you do?” aunt,” said Violet.
“I mean about this engagement,” said Lady Baldock, with an increase of awe-inspiring severity in her voice.
“Say nothing about it at all, if you don’t like it,” said Violet.
“How can I say nothing about it? How can I be silent? Or how am I to congratulate you?”
“The least said, perhaps, the soonest mended,” and Violet smiled as she spoke.
“That is very well, and if I had no duty to perform, I would be silent. But, Violet, you have been left in my charge. If I see you shipwrecked in life, I shall ever tell myself that the fault has been partly mine.”
“Nay, aunt, that will be quite unnecessary. I will always admit that you did everything in your power to — to — to — make me run straight, as the sporting men say.”
“Sporting men! Oh, Violet.”
“And you know, aunt, I still hope that I shall be found to have kept on the right side of the posts. You will find that poor Lord Chiltern is not so black as he is painted.”
“But why take anybody that is black at all?”
“I like a little shade in the picture, aunt.”
“Look at Lord Fawn.”
“I have looked at him.”
“A young nobleman beginning a career of useful official life, that will end in — there is no knowing what it may end in.”
“I daresay not — but it never could have begun or ended in my being Lady Fawn.”
“And Mr Appledom!”
“Poor Mr Appledom. I do like Mr Appledom. But, you see, aunt, I like Lord Chiltern so much better. A young woman will go by her feelings.”
“And yet you refused him a dozen times.”
“I never counted the times, aunt; but not quite so many as that.”
The same thing was repeated over and over again during the month that Miss Effingham remained at Baddingham, but Lady Baldock had no power of interfering, and Violet bore her persecution bravely. Her future husband was generally spoken of as “that violent young man,” and hints were thrown out as to the personal injuries to which his wife might be possibly subjected. But the threatened bride only laughed, and spoke of these coming dangers as part of the general lot of married women. “I daresay, if the truth were known, my uncle Baldock did not always keep his temper,” she once said. Now, the truth was, as Violet well knew, that “my uncle Baldock” had been dumb as a sheep before the shearers in the hands of his wife, and had never been known to do anything improper by those who had been most intimate with him even in his earlier days. “Your uncle Baldock, miss,” said the outraged aunt, “was a nobleman as different in his manner of life from Lord Chiltern as chalk from cheese.” “But then comes the question, which is the cheese?” said Violet. Lady Baldock would not argue the question any further, but stalked out of the room.
Lady Laura Kennedy met them at Saulsby, having had something of a battle with her husband before she left her home to do so. When she told him of her desire to assist at this reconciliation between her father and brother, he replied by pointing out that her first duty was at Loughlinter, and before the interview was ended had come to express an opinion that that duty was very much neglected. She in the meantime had declared that she would go to Saulsby, or that she would explain to her father that she was forbidden by her husband to do so. “And I also forbid any such communication,” said Mr Kennedy. In answer to which, Lady Laura told him that there were some marital commands which she should not consider it to be her duty to obey. When matters had come to this pass, it may be conceived that both Mr Kennedy and his wife were very unhappy. She had almost resolved that she would take steps to enable her to live apart from her husband; and he had begun to consider what course he would pursue if such steps were taken. The wife was subject to her husband by the laws both of God and man; and Mr Kennedy was one who thought much of such laws. In the meantime, Lady Laura carried her point and went to Saulsby, leaving her husband to go up to London and begin the session by himself.
Lady Laura and Violet were both at Saulsby before Lord Chiltern arrived, and many were the consultations which were held between them as to the best mode in which things might be arranged. Violet was of opinion that there had better be no arrangement, that Lord Chiltern should be allowed to come in and take his father’s hand, and sit down to dinner — and that so things should fall into their places. Lady Laura was rather in favour of some scene. But the interview had taken place before either of them were able to say a word. Lord Chiltern, on his arrival, had gone immediately to his father, taking the Earl very much by surprise, and had come off best in the encounter.
“My lord,” said he, walking up to his father with his hand out, “I am very glad to come back to Saulsby.” He had written to his sister to say that he would be at Saulsby on that day, but had named no hour. He now appeared between ten and eleven in the morning, and his father had as yet made no preparation for him — had arranged no appropriate words. He had walked in at the front door, and had asked for the Earl. The Earl was in his own morning-room — a gloomy room, full of dark books and darker furniture, and thither Lord Chiltern had at once gone. The two women still were sitting together over the fire in the breakfast-room, and knew nothing of his arrival.
“Oswald!” said his father, I hardly expected you so early.”
“I have come early. I came across country, and slept at Birmingham. I suppose Violet is here.”
“Yes, she is here — and Laura. They will be very glad to see you. So am I.” And the father took the son’s hand for the second time.
“Thank you, sir,” said Lord Chiltern, looking his father full in the face.
“I have been very much pleased by this engagement,” continued the Earl.
“What do you think I must be, then?” said the son, laughing. “I have been at it, you know, off and on, ever so many years; and have sometimes thought I was quite a fool not to get it out of my head. But I couldn’t get it out of my head. And now she talks as though it were she who had been in love with me all the time!”
“Perhaps she was,” said the father.
“I don’t believe it in the least. She may be a little so now.”
“I hope you mean that she always shall be so.”
“I shan’t be the worst husband in the world, I hope; and I am quite sure I shan’t be the best. I will go and see her now. I suppose I shall find her somewhere in the house. I thought it best to see you first.”
“Stop half a moment, Oswald,” said the Earl. And then Lord Brentford did make something of a shambling speech, in which he expressed a hope that they two might for the future live together on friendly terms, forgetting the past. He ought to have been prepared for the occasion, and the speech was poor and shambling. But I think that it was more useful than it might have been, had it been uttered roundly and with that paternal and almost majestic effect which he would have achieved had he been thoroughly prepared. But the roundness and the majesty would have gone against the grain with his son, and there would have been a danger of some outbreak. As it was, Lord Chiltern smiled, and muttered some word about things being “all right,” and then made his way out of the room. “That’s a great deal better than I had hoped,” he said to himself; “and it has all come from my going in without being announced.” But there was still a fear upon him that his father even yet might prepare a speech, and speak it, to the great peril of their mutual comfort.
His meeting with Violet was of course pleasant enough. Now that she had succumbed, and had told herself and had told him that she loved him, she did not scruple to be as generous as a maiden should be who has acknowledged herself to be conquered, and has rendered herself to the conqueror. She would walk with him and ride with him, and take a lively interest in the performances of all his horses, and listen to hunting stories as long as he chose to tell them. In all this, she was so good and so loving that Lady Laura was more than once tempted to throw in her teeth her old, often-repeated assertions, that she was not prone to be in love — that it was not her nature to feel any ardent affection for a man, and that, therefore, she would probably remain unmarried. “You begrudge me my little bits of pleasure,” Violet said, in answer to one such attack. “No — but it is so odd to see you, of all women, become so lovelorn.” “I am not lovelorn, said Violet, but I like the freedom of telling him everything and of hearing everything from him, and of having him for my own best friend. He might go away for twelve months, and I should not be unhappy, believing, as I do, that he would be true to me.” All of which set Lady Laura thinking whether her friend had not been wiser than she had been. She had never known anything of that sort of friendship with her husband which already seemed to be quite established between these two.
In her misery one day Lady Laura told the whole story of her own unhappiness to her brother, saying nothing of Phineas Finn — thinking nothing of him as she told her story, but speaking more strongly perhaps than she should have done, of the terrible dreariness of her life at Loughlinter, and of her inability to induce her husband to alter it for her sake.
“Do you mean that he — ill-treats you?” said the brother, with a scowl on his face which seemed to indicate that he would like no task better than that of resenting such ill-treatment.
“He does not beat me, if you mean that.”
“Is he cruel to you? Does he use harsh language?”
“He never said a word in his life either to me or, as I believe, to any other human being, that he would think himself bound to regret.”
“What is it then?”
“He simply chooses to have his own way, and his way cannot be my way. He is hard, and dry, and just, and dispassionate, and he wishes me to be the same. That is all.”
“I tell you fairly, Laura, as far as I am concerned, I never could speak to him. He is antipathetic to me. But then I am not his wife.”
“I am — and I suppose I must bear it.”
“Have you spoken to my father?”
“No.”
“Or to Violet?”
“Yes.”
“And what does she say?”
“What can she say? She has nothing to say. Nor have you. Nor, if I am driven to leave him, can I make the world understand why I do so. To be simply miserable, as I am, is nothing to the world.”
“I could never understand why you married him.”
“Do not be cruel to me, Oswald.”
“Cruel! I will stick by you in any way that you wish. If you think well of it, I will go off to Loughlinter tomorrow, and tell him that you will never return to him. And if you are not safe from him here at Saulsby, you shall go abroad with us. I am sure Violet would not object. I will not be cruel to you.”
But in truth neither of Lady Laura’s councillors was able to give her advice that could serve her. She felt that she could not leave her husband without other cause than now existed, although she felt, also, that to go back to him was to go back to utter wretchedness. And when she saw Violet and her brother together there came to her dreams of what might have been her own happiness had she kept herself free from those terrible bonds in which she was now held a prisoner. She could not get out of her heart the remembrance of that young man who would have been her lover, if she would have let him — of whose love for herself she had been aware before she had handed herself over as a bale of goods to her unloved, unloving husband. She had married Mr Kennedy because she was afraid that otherwise she might find herself forced to own that she loved that other man who was then a nobody — almost nobody. It was not Mr Kennedy’s money that had bought her. This woman in regard to money had shown herself to be as generous as the sun. But in marrying Mr Kennedy she had maintained herself in her high position, among the first of her own people — among the first socially and among the first politically. But had she married Phineas — had she become Lady Laura Finn — there would have been a great descent. She could not have entertained the leading men of her party. She would not have been on a level with the wives and daughters of Cabinet Ministers. She might, indeed, have remained unmarried! But she knew that had she done so — had she so resolved — that which she called her fancy would have been too strong for her. She would not have remained unmarried. At that time it was her fate to be either Lady Laura Kennedy or Lady Laura Finn. And she had chosen to be Lady Laura Kennedy. To neither Violet Effingham nor to her brother could she tell one half of the sorrow which afflicted her.
“I shall go back to Loughlinter,” she said to her brother.
“Do not, unless you wish it,” he answered.
“I do not wish it. But I shall do it. Mr Kennedy is in London now, and has been there since Parliament met, but he will be in Scotland again in March, and I will go and meet him there. I told him that I would do so when I left.”
“But you will go up to London?”
“I suppose so. I must do as he tells me, of course. What I mean is, I will try it for another year.”
“If it does not succeed, come to us.”
“I cannot say what I will do. I would die if I knew how. Never be a tyrant, Oswald; or at any rate, not a cold tyrant. And remember this, there is no tyranny to a woman like telling her of her duty. Talk of beating a woman! Beating might often be a mercy.”
Lord Chiltern remained ten days at Saulsby, and at last did not get away without a few unpleasant words with his father — or without a few words that were almost unpleasant with his mistress. On his first arrival he had told his sister that he should go on a certain day, and some intimation to this effect had probably been conveyed to the Earl. But when his son told him one evening that the post-chaise had been ordered for seven o’clock the next morning, he felt that his son was ungracious and abrupt. There were many things still to be said, and indeed there had been no speech of any account made at all as yet.
“That is very sudden,” said the Earl.
“I thought Laura had told you.”
“She has not told me a word lately. She may have said something before you came here. What is there to hurry you?”
“I thought ten days would be as long as you would care to have me here, and as I said that I would be back by the first, I would rather not change my plans.”
“You are going to hunt?”
“Yes — I shall hunt till the end of March.”
“You might have hunted here, Oswald.” But the son made no sign of changing his plans; and the father, seeing that he would not change them, became solemn and severe. There were a few words which he must say to his son — something of a speech that he must make — so he led the way into the room with the dark books and the dark furniture, and pointed to a great deep armchair for his son’s accommodation. But as he did not sit down himself, neither did Lord Chiltern. Lord Chiltern understood very well how great is the advantage of a standing orator over a sitting recipient of his oratory, and that advantage he would not give to his father. “I had hoped to have an opportunity of saying a few words to you about the future,” said the Earl.
“I think we shall be married in July,” said Lord Chiltern.
“So I have heard — but after that. Now I do not want to interfere, Oswald, and of course the less so, because Violet’s money will to a great degree restore the inroads which have been made upon the property.”
“It will more than restore them altogether.”
“Not if her estate be settled on a second son, Oswald, and I hear from Lady Baldock that that is the wish of her relations.”
“She shall have her own way — as she ought. What that way is I do not know. I have not even asked about it. She asked me, and I told her to speak to you.”
“Of course I should wish it to go with the family property. Of course that would be best.”
“She shall have her own way — as far as I am concerned.”
“But it is not about that, Oswald, that I would speak. What are your plans of life when you are married?”
“Plans of life?”
“Yes — plans of life. I suppose you have some plans. I suppose you mean to apply yourself to some useful occupation?”
“I don’t know really, sir, that I am of much use for any purpose.” Lord Chiltern laughed as he said this, but did not laugh pleasantly.
“You would not be a drone in the hive always?”
“As far as I can see, sir, we who call ourselves lords generally are drones.”
“I deny it,” said the Earl, becoming quite energetic as he defended his order. “I deny it utterly. I know no class of men who do work more useful or more honest. Am I a drone? Have I been so from my youth upwards? I have always worked, either in the one House or in the other, and those of my fellows with whom I have been most intimate have worked also. The same career is open to you.”
“You mean politics?”
“Of course I mean politics.”
“I don’t care for politics. I see no difference in parties.”
“But you should care for politics, and you should see a difference in parties. It is your duty to do so. My wish is that you should go into Parliament.”
“I can’t do that, sir.”
“And why not?”
“In the first place, sir, you have not got a seat to offer me. You have managed matters among you in such a way that poor little Loughton has been swallowed up. If I were to canvass the electors of Smotherem, I don’t think that many would look very sweet on me.”
“There is the county, Oswald.”
“And whom am I to turn out? I should spend four or five thousand pounds, and have nothing but vexation in return for it. I had rather not begin that game, and indeed I am too old for Parliament. I did not take it up early enough to believe in it.”
All this made the Earl very angry, and from these things they went on to worse things. When questioned again as to the future, Lord Chiltern scowled, and at last declared that it was his idea to live abroad in the summer for his wife’s recreation, and somewhere down in the shires during the winter for his own. He would admit of no purpose higher than recreation, and when his father again talked to him of a nobleman’s duty, he said that he knew of no other special duty than that of not exceeding his income. Then his father made a longer speech than before, and at the end of it Lord Chiltern simply wished him goodnight. “It’s getting late, and I’ve promised to see Violet before I go to bed. Goodbye.” Then he was off, and Lord Brentford was left there, standing with his back to the fire.
After that Lord Chiltern had a discussion with Violet, which lasted nearly half the night; and during the discussion she told him more than once that he was wrong. “Such as I am you must take me, or leave me,” he said, in anger. “Nay; there is no choice now,” she answered. “I have taken you, and I will stick by you — whether you are right or wrong. But when I think you wrong, I shall say so.” He swore to her as he pressed her to his heart that she was the finest, grandest, sweetest woman that ever the world had produced. But still there was present on his palate, when he left her, the bitter taste of her reprimand.
Phineas Finn, when the session began, was still hard at work upon his Canada bill, and in his work found some relief for his broken back. He went into the matter with all his energy, and before the debate came on, knew much more about the seven thousand inhabitants of some hundreds of thousands of square miles at the back of Canada, than he did of the people of London or of County Clare. And he found some consolation also in the good nature of Madame Goesler, whose drawing-room was always open to him. He could talk freely now to Madame Goesler about Violet, and had even ventured to tell her that once, in old days, he had thought of loving Lady Laura Standish. He spoke of those days as being very old; and then he perhaps said some word to her about dear little Mary Flood Jones. I think that there was not much in his career of which he did not say something to Madame Goesler, and that he received from her a good deal of excellent advice and encouragement in the direction of his political ambition. “A man should work,” she said — “and you do work. A woman can only look on, and admire and long. What is there that I can do? I can learn to care for these Canadians, just because you care for them. If it was the beavers that you told me of, I should have to care for the beavers.” Then Phineas of course told her that such sympathy from her was all and all to him. But the reader must not on this account suppose that he was untrue in his love to Violet Effingham. His back was altogether broken by his fall, and he was quite aware that such was the fact. Not as yet, at least, had come to him any remotest idea that a cure was possible.
Early in March he heard that Lady Laura was up in town, and of course he was bound to go to her. The information was given to him by Mr Kennedy himself, who told him that he had been to Scotland to fetch her. In these days there was an acknowledged friendship between these two, but there was no intimacy. Indeed, Mr Kennedy was a man who was hardly intimate with any other man. With Phineas he now and then exchanged a few words in the lobby of the House, and when they chanced to meet each other, they met as friends. Mr Kennedy had no strong wish to see again in his house the man respecting whom he had ventured to caution his wife; but he was thoughtful; and thinking over it all, he found it better to ask him there. No one must know that there was any reason why Phineas should not come to his house; especially as all the world knew that Phineas had protected him from the garrotters. “Lady Laura is in town now,” he said; you must go and see her before long.” Phineas of course promised that he would go.
In these days Phineas was beginning to be aware that he had enemies — though he could not understand why anybody should be his enemy now that Violet Effingham had decided against him. There was poor Laurence Fitzgibbon, indeed, whom he had superseded at the Colonial Office, but Laurence Fitzgibbon, to give merit where merit was due, felt no animosity against him at all. “You’re welcome, me boy; you’re welcome — as far as yourself goes. But as for the party, bedad, it’s rotten to the core, and won’t stand another session. Mind, it’s I who tell you so.” And the poor idle Irishman, in so speaking, spoke the truth as well as he knew it. But the Ratlers and the Bonteens were Finn’s bitter foes, and did not scruple to let him know that such was the case. Barrington Erle had scruples on the subject, and in a certain mildly apologetic way still spoke well of the young man, whom he had himself first introduced into political life only four years since — but there was no earnestness or cordiality in Barrington Erle’s manner, and Phineas knew that his first staunch friend could no longer be regarded as a pillar of support. But there was a set of men, quite as influential — so Phineas thought — as the busy politicians of the club, who were very friendly to him. These were men, generally of high position, of steady character — hard workers — who thought quite as much of what a man did in his office as what he said in the House. Lords Cantrip, Thrift, and Fawn were of this class — and they were all very courteous to Phineas. Envious men began to say of him that he cared little now for anyone of the party who had not a handle to his name, and that he preferred to live with lords and lordlings. This was hard upon him, as the great political ambition of his life was to call Mr Monk his friend; and he would sooner have acted with Mr Monk than with any other man in the Cabinet. But though Mr Monk had not deserted him, there had come to be little of late in common between the two. His life was becoming that of a parliamentary official rather than that of a politician — whereas, though Mr Monk was in office, his public life was purely political. Mr Monk had great ideas of his own which he intended to hold, whether by holding them he might remain in office or be forced out of office; and he was indifferent as to the direction which things in this respect might take with him. But Phineas, who had achieved his declared object in getting into place, felt that he was almost constrained to adopt the views of others, let them be what they might. Men spoke to him, as though his parliamentary career were wholly at the disposal of the Government — as though he were like a proxy in Mr Gresham’s pocket — with this difference, that when directed to get up and speak on a subject he was bound to do so. This annoyed him, and he complained to Mr Monk; but Mr Monk only shrugged his shoulders and told him that he must make his choice. He soon discovered Mr Monk’s meaning. “If you choose to make Parliament a profession — as you have chosen — you can have no right even to think of independence. If the country finds you out when you are in Parliament, and then invites you to office, of course the thing is different. But the latter is a slow career, and probably would not have suited you.” That was the meaning of what Mr Monk said to him. After all, these official and parliamentary honours were greater when seen at a distance than he found them to be now that he possessed them. Mr Low worked ten hours a day, and could rarely call a day his own; but, after all, with all this work, Mr Low was less of a slave, and more independent, than was he, Phineas Finn, Under-Secretary of State, the friend of Cabinet Ministers, and Member of Parliament since his twenty-fifth year! He began to dislike the House, and to think it a bore to sit on the Treasury bench — he, who a few years since had regarded Parliament as the British heaven on earth, and who, since he had been in Parliament, had looked at that bench with longing envious eyes. Laurence Fitzgibbon, who seemed to have as much to eat and drink as ever, and a bed also to lie on, could come and go in the House as he pleased, since his — resignation.
And there was a new trouble coming. The Reform Bill for England had passed; but now there was to be another Reform Bill for Ireland. Let them pass what bill they might, this would not render necessary a new Irish election till the entire House should be dissolved. But he feared that he would be called upon to vote for the abolition of his own borough — and for other points almost equally distasteful to him. He knew that he would not be consulted — but would be called upon to vote, and perhaps to speak; and was certain that if he did so, there would be war between him and his constituents. Lord Tulla had already communicated to him his ideas that, for certain excellent reasons, Loughshane ought to be spared. But this evil was, he hoped, a distant one. It was generally thought that, as the English Reform Bill had been passed last year, and as the Irish bill, if carried, could not be immediately operative, the doing of the thing might probably be postponed to the next session.
When he first saw Lady Laura he was struck by the great change in her look and manner. She seemed to him to be old and worn, and he judged her to be wretched — as she was. She had written to him to say that she would be at her father’s house on such and such a morning, and he had gone to her there. “It is of no use your coming to Grosvenor Place,” she said. “I see nobody there, and the house is like a prison.” Later in the interview she told him not to come and dine there, even though Mr Kennedy should ask him.
“And why not?” he demanded.
“Because everything would be stiff, and cold, and uncomfortable. I suppose you do not wish to make your way into a lady’s house if she asks you not.” There was a sort of smile on her face as she said this, but he could perceive that it was a very bitter smile. “You can easily excuse yourself.”
“Yes, I can excuse myself.”
“Then do so. If you are particularly anxious to dine with Mr Kennedy, you can easily do so at your club.” In the tone of her voice, and the words she used, she hardly attempted to conceal her dislike of her husband.
“And now tell me about Miss Effingham,” he said.
“There is nothing for me to tell.”
“Yes there is — much to tell. You need not spare me. I do not pretend to deny to you that I have been hit hard — so hard, that I have been nearly knocked down; but it will not hurt me now to hear of it all. Did she always love him?”
“I cannot say. I think she did after her own fashion.”
“I sometimes think women would be less cruel,” he said, “if they knew how great is the anguish they can cause.”
“Has she been cruel to you?”
“I have nothing to complain of. But if she loved Chiltern, why did she not tell him so at once? And why — ”
“This is complaining, Mr Finn.”
“I will not complain. I would not even think of it, if I could help it. Are they to be married soon?”
“In July — so they now say.”
“And where will they live?”
“Ah! no one can tell, I do not think that they agree as yet as to that. But if she has a strong wish Oswald will yield to it. He was always generous.”
“I would not even have had a wish — except to have her with me.”
There was a pause for a moment, and then Lady Laura answered him with a touch of scorn in her voice — and with some scorn, too, in her eye: “That is all very well, Mr Finn; but the season will not be over before there is someone else.”
“There you wrong me.”
“They tell me that you are already at Madame Goesler’s feet.”
“Madame Goesler!”
“What matters who it is as long as she is young and pretty, and has the interest attached to her of something more than ordinary position? When men tell me of the cruelty of women, I think that no woman can be really cruel because no man is capable of suffering. A woman, if she is thrown aside, does suffer.”
“Do you mean to tell me, then, that I am indifferent to Miss Effingham?” When he thus spoke, I wonder whether he had forgotten that he had ever declared to this very woman to whom he was speaking, a passion for herself.
“Psha!”
“It suits you, Lady Laura, to be harsh to me, but you are not speaking your thoughts.”
Then she lost all control of herself, and poured out to him the real truth that was in her, “And whose thoughts did you speak when you and I were on the braes of Loughlinter? Am I wrong in saying that change is easy to you, or have I grown to be so old that you can talk to me as though those far-away follies ought to be forgotten? Was it so long ago? Talk of love! I tell you, sir, that your heart is one in which love can have no durable hold. Violet Effingham! There may be a dozen Violets after her, and you will be none the worse.” Then she walked away from him to the window, and he stood still, dumb, on the spot that he had occupied. “You had better go now,” she said, “and forget what has passed between us. I know that you are a gentleman, and that you will forget it.” The strong idea of his mind when he heard all this was the injustice of her attack — of the attack as coming from her, who had all but openly acknowledged that she had married a man whom she had not loved because it suited her to escape from a man whom she did love. She was reproaching him now for his fickleness in having ventured to set his heart upon another woman, when she herself had been so much worse than fickle — so profoundly false! And yet he could not defend himself by accusing her. What would she have had of him? What would she have proposed to him, had he questioned her as to his future, when they were together on the braes of Loughlinter? Would she not have bid him to find someone else whom he could love? Would she then have suggested to him the propriety of nursing his love for herself — for her who was about to become another man’s wife — for her after she should have become another man’s wife? And yet because he had not done so, and because she had made herself wretched by marrying a man whom she did not love, she reproached him!
He could not tell her of all this, so he fell back for his defence on words which had passed between them since the day when they had met on the braes. “Lady Laura,” he said, it is only a month or two since you spoke to me as though you wished that Violet Effingham might be my wife.”
“I never wished it. I never said that I wished it. There are moments in which we try to give a child any brick on the chimney top for which it may whimper.” Then there was another silence which she was the first to break. “You had better go,” she said. “I know that I have committed myself, and of course I would rather be alone.”
“And what would you wish that I should do?”
“Do?” she said. What you do can be nothing to me.
“Must we be strangers, you and I, because there was a time in which we were almost more than friends?”
“I have spoken nothing about myself, sir — only as I have been drawn to do so by your pretence of being lovesick. You can do nothing for me — nothing — nothing. What is it possible that you should do for me? You are not my father, or my brother.” It is not to be supposed that she wanted him to fall at her feet. It is to be supposed that had he done so her reproaches would have been hot and heavy on him; but yet it almost seemed to him as though he had no other alternative. No! — He was not her father or her brother — nor could he be her husband. And at this very moment, as she knew, his heart was sore with love for another woman. And yet he hardly knew how not to throw himself at her feet, and swear, that he would return now and for ever to his old passion, hopeless, sinful, degraded as it would be.
“I wish it were possible for me to do something,” he said, drawing near to her.
“There is nothing to be done,” she said, clasping her hands together. “For me nothing. I have before me no escape, no hope, no prospect of relief, no place of consolation. You have everything before you. You complain of a wound! You have at least shown that such wounds with you are capable of cure. You cannot but feel that when I hear your wailings, I must be impatient. You had better leave me now, if you please.”
“And are we to be no longer friends?” he asked.
“As far as friendship can go without intercourse, I shall always be your friend.”
Then he went, and as he walked down to his office, so intent was he on that which had just passed that he hardly saw the people as he met them, or was aware of the streets through which his way led him. There had been something in the later words which Lady Laura had spoken that had made him feel almost unconsciously that the injustice of her reproaches was not so great as he had at first felt it to be, and that she had some cause for her scorn. If her case was such as she had so plainly described it, what was his plight as compared with hers? He had lost his Violet, and was in pain. There must be much of suffering before him. But though Violet were lost, the world was not all blank before his eyes. He had not told himself, even in his dreariest moments, that there was before him “no escape, no hope, no prospect of relief, no place of consolation.” And then he began to think whether this must in truth be the case with Lady Laura. What if Mr Kennedy were to die? What in such case as that would he do? In ten or perhaps in five years time might it not be possible for him to go through the ceremony of falling upon his knees, with stiffened joints indeed, but still with something left of the ardour of his old love, of his oldest love of all?
As he was thinking of this he was brought up short in his walk as he was entering the Green Park beneath the Duke’s figure, by Laurence Fitzgibbon. “How dare you not be in your office at such an hour as this, Finn, me boy — or, at least, not in the House — or serving your masters after some fashion?” said the late Under-Secretary.
“So I am. I’ve been on a message to Marylebone, to find what the people there think about the Canadas.”
“And what do they think about the Canadas in Marylebone?”
“Not one man in a thousand cares whether the Canadians prosper or fail to prosper. They care that Canada should not go to the States, because — though they don’t love the Canadians, they do hate the Americans. That’s about the feeling in Marylebone — and it’s astonishing how like the Maryleboners are to the rest of the world.”
“Dear me, what a fellow you are for an Under-Secretary! You’ve heard the news about little Violet.”
“What news?”
“She has quarrelled with Chiltern, you know.”
“Who says so?”
“Never mind who says so, but they tell me it’s true. Take an old friend’s advice, and strike while the iron’s hot.”
Phineas did not believe what he had heard, but though he did not believe it, still the tidings set his heart beating. He would have believed it less perhaps had he known that Laurence had just received the news from Mrs Bonteen.
Madame Max Goesler was a lady who knew that in fighting the battles which fell to her lot, in arranging the social difficulties which she found in her way, in doing the work of the world which came to her share, very much more care was necessary — and care too about things apparently trifling — than was demanded by the affairs of people in general. And this was not the case so much on account of any special disadvantage under which she laboured, as because she was ambitious of doing the very uttermost with those advantages which she possessed. Her own birth had not been high, and that of her husband, we may perhaps say, had been very low. He had been old when she had married him, and she had had little power of making any progress till he had left her a widow. Then she found herself possessed of money, certainly; of wit — as she believed; and of a something in her personal appearance which, as she plainly told herself, she might perhaps palm off upon the world as beauty. She was a woman who did not flatter herself, who did not strongly believe in herself, who could even bring herself to wonder that men and women in high position should condescend to notice such a one as her. With all her ambition, there was a something of genuine humility about her; and with all the hardness she had learned there was a touch of womanly softness which would sometimes obtrude itself upon her heart. When she found a woman really kind to her, she would be very kind in return. And though she prized wealth, and knew that her money was her only rock of strength, she could be lavish with it, as though it were dirt.
But she was highly ambitious, and she played her game with great skill and great caution. Her doors were not open to all callers — were shut even to some who find but few doors closed against them — were shut occasionally to those whom she most specially wished to see within them. She knew how to allure by denying, and to make the gift rich by delaying it. We are told by the Latin proverb that he who gives quickly gives twice; but I say that she who gives quickly seldom gives more than half. When in the early spring the Duke of Omnium first knocked at Madame Max Goesler’s door, he was informed that she was not at home. The Duke felt very cross as he handed his card out from his dark green brougham — on the panel of which there was no blazon to tell the owner’s rank. He was very cross. She had told him that she was always at home between four and six on a Thursday. He had condescended to remember the information, and had acted upon it — and now she was not at home! She was not at home, though he had come on a Thursday at the very hour she had named to him. Any duke would have been cross, but the Duke of Omnium was particularly cross. No — he certainly would give himself no further trouble by going to the cottage in Park Lane. And yet Madame Max Goesler had been in her own drawing-room, while the Duke was handing out his card from the brougham below.
On the next morning there came to him a note from the cottage — such a pretty note! — so penitent, so full of remorse — and, which was better still, so laden with disappointment, that he forgave her.
“ MY DEAR DUKE,
“I hardly know how to apologise to you, after having told you that I am always at home on Thursdays; and I was at home yesterday when you called. But I was unwell, and I had told the servant to deny me, not thinking how much I might be losing. Indeed, indeed, I would not have given way to a silly headache, had I thought that your Grace would have been here. I suppose that now I must not even hope for the photograph.
“Yours penitently,
“ MARIE M. G .”
The note paper was very pretty note paper, hardly scented, and yet conveying a sense of something sweet, and the monogram was small and new, and fantastic without being grotesque, and the writing was of that sort which the Duke, having much experience, had learned to like — and there was something in the signature which pleased him. So he wrote a reply —
DEAR MADAME MAX GOESLER,
“I will call again next Thursday, or, if prevented, will let you know.
“Yours faithfully,
“O”
When the green brougham drew up at the door of the cottage on the next Thursday, Madame Goesler was at home, and had no headache.
She was not at all penitent now. She had probably studied the subject, and had resolved that penitence was more alluring in a letter than when acted in person. She received her guest with perfect ease, and apologised for the injury done to him in the preceding week, with much self-complacency. “I was so sorry when I got your card,” she said; “and yet I am so glad now that you were refused.”
“If you were ill,” said the Duke, it was better.
“I was horribly ill, to tell the truth — as pale as a death’s head, and without a word to say for myself. I was fit to see no one.”
“Then of course you were right.”
“But it flashed upon me immediately that I had named a day, and that you had been kind enough to remember it. But I did not think you came to London till the March winds were over.”
“The March winds blow everywhere in this wretched island, Madame Goesler, and there is no escaping them. Youth may prevail against them; but on me they are so potent that I think they will succeed in driving me out of my country. I doubt whether an old man should ever live in England if he can help it.”
The Duke certainly was an old man, if a man turned of seventy be old — and he was a man too who did not bear his years with hearty strength. He moved slowly, and turned his limbs, when he did turn them, as though the joints were stiff in their sockets. But there was nevertheless about him a dignity of demeanour, a majesty of person, and an upright carriage which did not leave an idea of old age as the first impress on the minds of those who encountered the Duke of Omnium. He was tall and moved without a stoop; and though he moved slowly, he had learned to seem so to do because it was the proper kind of movement for one so high up in the world as himself. And perhaps his tailor did something for him. He had not been long under Madame Max Goesler’s eyes before she perceived that his tailor had done a good deal for him. When he alluded to his own age and to her youth, she said some pleasant little word as to the difference between oak-trees and currant-bushes; and by that time she was seated comfortably on her sofa, and the Duke was on a chair before her — just as might have been any man who was not a Duke.
After a little time the photograph was brought forth from his Grace’s pocket. That bringing out and giving of photographs, with the demand for counter photographs, is the most absurd practice of the day. “I don’t think I look very nice, do I?” Oh yes — very nice; but a little too old; and certainly you haven’t got those spots all over your forehead.” These are the remarks which on such occasions are the most common. It may be said that to give a photograph or to take a photograph without the utterance of some words which would be felt by a bystander to be absurd, is almost an impossibility. At this moment there was no bystander, and therefore the Duke and the lady had no need for caution. Words were spoken that were very absurd. Madame Goesler protested that the Duke’s photograph was more to her than the photographs of all the world beside; and the Duke declared that he would carry the lady’s picture next to his heart — I am afraid he said for ever and ever. Then he took her hand and pressed it, and was conscious that for a man over seventy years of age he did that kind of thing very well.
“You will come and dine with me, Duke?” she said, when he began to talk of going.
“I never dine out.”
“That is just the reason you should dine with me. You shall meet nobody you do not wish to meet.”
“I would so much rather see you in this way — I would indeed. I do dine out occasionally, but it is at big formal parties, which I cannot escape without giving offence.”
“And you cannot escape my little not formal party — without giving offence.” She looked into his face as she spoke, and he knew that she meant it. And he looked into hers, and thought that her eyes were brighter than any he was in the habit of seeing in these latter days. “Name your own day, Duke. Will a Sunday suit you?”
“If I must come — ”
“You must come.” As she spoke her eyes sparkled more and more, and her colour went and came, and she shook her curls till they emitted through the air the same soft feeling of a perfume that her note had produced. Then her foot peeped out from beneath the black and yellow drapery of her dress, and the Duke saw that it was perfect. And she put out her finger and touched his arm as she spoke. Her hand was very fair, and her fingers were bright with rich gems. To men such as the Duke, a hand, to be quite fair, should be bright with rich gems. “You must come,” she said — not imploring him now but commanding him.
“Then I will come,” he answered, and a certain Sunday was fixed.
The arranging of the guests was a little difficulty, till Madame Goesler begged the Duke to bring with him Lady Glencora Palliser, his nephew’s wife. This at last he agreed to do. As the wife of his nephew and heir, Lady Glencora was to the Duke all that a woman could be. She was everything that was proper as to her own conduct, and not obtrusive as to his. She did not bore him, and yet she was attentive. Although in her husband’s house she was a fierce politician, in his house she was simply an attractive woman. “Ah; she is very clever,” the Duke once said, “she adapts herself. If she were to go from any one place to any other, she would be at home in both.” And the movement of his Grace’s hand as he spoke seemed to indicate the widest possible sphere for travelling and the widest possible scope for adaptation. The dinner was arranged, and went off very pleasantly. Madame Goesler’s eyes were not quite so bright as they were during that morning visit, nor did she touch her guest’s arm in a manner so alluring. She was very quiet, allowing her guests to do most of the talking. But the dinner and the flowers and the wine were excellent, and the whole thing was so quiet that the Duke liked it. “And now you must come and dine with me,” the Duke said as he took his leave. “A command to that effect will be one which I certainly shall not disobey,” whispered Madame Goesler.
“I am afraid he is going to get fond of that woman.” These words were spoken early on the following morning by Lady Glencora to her husband, Mr Palliser.
“He is always getting fond of some woman, and he will to the end,” said Mr Palliser.
“But this Madame Max Goesler is very clever.”
“So they tell me. I have generally thought that my uncle likes talking to a fool the best.”
“Every man likes a clever woman the best,” said Lady Glencora, “if the clever woman only knows how to use her cleverness.”
“I’m sure I hope he’ll be amused,” said Mr Palliser innocently. “A little amusement is all that he cares for now.”
“Suppose you were told some day that he was going — to be married?” said Lady Glencora.
“My uncle married!”
“Why not he as well as another?”
“And to Madame Goesler?”
“If he be ever married it will be to some such woman.”
“There is not a man in all England who thinks more of his own position than my uncle,” said Mr Palliser somewhat proudly — almost with a touch of anger.
“That is all very well, Plantagenet, and true enough in a kind of way. But a child will sacrifice all that it has for the top brick of the chimney, and old men sometimes become children. You would not like to be told some morning that there was a little Lord Silverbridge in the world.” Now the eldest son of the Duke of Omnium, when the Duke of Omnium had a son, was called the Earl of Silverbridge; and Mr Palliser, when this question was asked him, became very pale. Mr Palliser knew well how thoroughly the cunning of the serpent was joined to the purity of the dove in the person of his wife, and he was sure that there was cause for fear when she hinted at danger.
“Perhaps you had better keep your eye upon him,” he said to his wife.
“And upon her,” said Lady Glencora.
When Madame Goesler dined at the Duke’s house in St James’s Square there was a large party, and Lady Glencora knew that there was no need for apprehension then. Indeed Madame Goesler was no more than any other guest, and the Duke hardly spoke to her. There was a Duchess there — the Duchess of St Bungay, and old Lady Hartletop, who was a dowager marchioness — an old lady who pestered the Duke very sorely — and Madame Max Goesler received her reward, and knew that she was receiving it, in being asked to meet these people. Would not all these names, including her own, be blazoned to the world in the columns of the next day’s “Morning Post’? There was no absolute danger here, as Lady Glencora knew; and Lady Glencora, who was tolerant and begrudged nothing to Madame Max except the one thing, was quite willing to meet the lady at such a grand affair as this. But the Duke, even should he become ever so childish a child in his old age, still would have that plain green brougham at his command, and could go anywhere in that at any hour in the day. And then Madame Goesler was so manifestly a clever woman. A Duchess of Omnium might be said to fill — in the estimation, at any rate, of English people — the highest position in the world short of royalty. And the reader will remember that Lady Glencora intended to be a Duchess of Omnium herself — unless some very unexpected event should intrude itself. She intended also that her little boy, her fair-haired, curly-pated, bold-faced little boy, should be Earl of Silverbridge when the sand of the old man should have run itself out. Heavens, what a blow would it be, should some little wizen-cheeked half-monkey baby, with black brows, and yellow skin, be brought forward and shown to her some day as the heir! What a blow to herself — and what a blow to all England! “We can’t prevent it if he chooses to do it,” said her husband, who had his budget to bring forward that very night, and who in truth cared more for his budget than he did for his heirship at that moment. “But we must prevent it,” said Lady Glencora. “If I stick to him by the tail of his coat, I’ll prevent it.” At the time when she thus spoke, the dark green brougham had been twice again brought up at the door in Park Lane.
And the brougham was standing there a third time. It was May now, the latter end of May, and the park opposite was beautiful with green things, and the air was soft and balmy, as it will be sometimes even in May, and the flowers in the balcony were full of perfume, and the charm of London — what London can be to the rich — was at its height. The Duke was sitting in Madame Goesler’s drawing-room, at some distance from her, for she had retreated. The Duke had a habit of taking her hand, which she never would permit for above a few seconds. At such times she would show no anger, but would retreat.
“Marie,” said the Duke, you will go abroad when the summer is over.” As an old man he had taken the privilege of calling her Marie, and she had not forbidden it.
“Yes, probably; to Vienna. I have property in Vienna, you know, which must be looked after.”
“Do not mind Vienna this year. Come to Italy.”
“What; in summer, Duke?”
“The lakes are charming in August. I have a villa on Como which is empty now, and I think I shall go there. If you do not know the Italian lakes, I shall be so happy to show them to you.”
“I know them well, my lord. When I was young I was on the Maggiore almost alone. Some day I will tell you a history of what I was in those days.”
“You shall tell it me there.”
“No, my lord, I fear not. I have no villa there.”
“Will you not accept the loan of mine? It shall be all your own while you use it.”
“My own — to deny the right of entrance to its owner?”
“If it so pleases you.”
“It would not please me. It would so far from please me that I will never put myself in a position that might make it possible for me to require to do so. No, Duke; it behoves me to live in houses of my own. Women of whom more is known can afford to be your guests.”
“Marie, I would have no other guest than you.”
“It cannot be so, Duke.”
“And why not?”
“Why not? Am I to be put to the blush by being made to answer such a question as that? Because the world would say that the Duke of Omnium had a new mistress, and that Madame Goesler was the woman. Do you think that I would be any man’s mistress — even yours? Or do you believe that for the sake of the softness of a summer evening on an Italian lake, I would give cause to the tongues of the women here to say that I was such a thing? You would have me lose all that I have gained by steady years of sober work for the sake of a week or two of dalliance such as that! No, Duke; not for your dukedom!”
How his Grace might have got through his difficulty had they been left alone, cannot be told. For at this moment the door was opened, and Lady Glencora Palliser was announced.
“Come and see the country and judge for yourself,” said Phineas.
“I should like nothing better,” said Mr Monk.
“It has often seemed to me that men in Parliament know less about Ireland than they do of the interior of Africa,” said Phineas.
“It is seldom that we know anything accurately on any subject that we have not made matter of careful study,” said Mr Monk, “and very often do not do so even then. We are very apt to think that we men and women understand one another; but most probably you know nothing even of the modes of thought of the man who lives next door to you.”
“I suppose not.”
“There are general laws current in the world as to morality. “Thou shalt not steal,” for instance. That has necessarily been current as a law through all nations. But the first man you meet in the street will have ideas about theft so different from yours, that, if you knew them as you know your own, you would say that this law and yours were not even founded on the same principle. It is compatible with this man’s honesty to cheat you in a matter of horseflesh, with that man’s in a traffic of railway shares, with that other man’s as to a woman’s fortune; with a fourth’s anything may be done for a seat in Parliament, while the fifth man, who stands high among us, and who implores his God every Sunday to write that law on his heart, spends every hour of his daily toil in a system of fraud, and is regarded as a pattern of the national commerce!”
Mr Monk and Phineas were dining together at Mr Monk’s house, and the elder politician of the two in this little speech had recurred to certain matters which had already been discussed between them. Mr Monk was becoming somewhat sick of his place in the Cabinet, though he had not as yet whispered a word of his sickness to any living ears; and he had begun to pine for the lost freedom of a seat below the gangway. He had been discussing political honesty with Phineas, and hence had come the sermon of which I have ventured to reproduce the concluding denunciations.
Phineas was fond of such discussions and fond of holding them with Mr Monk — in this matter fluttering like a moth round a candle. He would not perceive that as he had made up his mind to be a servant of the public in Parliament, he must abandon all idea of independent action; and unless he did so he could he neither successful as regarded himself, or useful to the public whom he served. Could a man be honest in Parliament, and yet abandon all idea of independence? When he put such questions to Mr Monk he did not get a direct answer. And indeed the question was never put directly. But the teaching which he received was ever of a nature to make him uneasy. It was always to this effect: “You have taken up the trade now, and seem to be fit for success in it. You had better give up thinking about its special honesty.” And yet Mr Monk would on an occasion preach to him such a sermon as that which he had just uttered! Perhaps there is no question more difficult to a man’s mind than that of the expediency or inexpediency of scruples in political life. Whether would a candidate for office be more liable to rejection from a leader because he was known to be scrupulous, or because he was known to be the reverse?
“But putting aside the fourth commandment and all the theories, you will come to Ireland?” said Phineas.
“I shall be delighted.”
“I don’t live in a castle, you know.”
“I thought everybody did live in a castle in Ireland,” said Mr Monk. “They seemed to do when I was there twenty years ago. But for myself, I prefer a cottage.”
This trip to Ireland had been proposed in consequence of certain ideas respecting tenant-right which Mr Monk was beginning to adopt, and as to which the minds of politicians were becoming moved. It had been all very well to put down Fenianism, and Ribandmen, and Repeal — and everything that had been put down in Ireland in the way of rebellion for the last seventy-five years. England and Ireland had been apparently joined together by laws of nature so fixed, that even politicians liberal as was Mr Monk — liberal as was Mr Turnbull — could not trust themselves to think that disunion could be for the good of the Irish. They had taught themselves that it certainly could not be good for the English. But if it was incumbent on England to force upon Ireland the maintenance of the union for her own sake, and for England’s sake, because England could not afford independence established so close against her own ribs — it was at any rate necessary to England’s character that the bride thus bound in a compulsory wedlock should be endowed with all the best privileges that a wife can enjoy. Let her at least not be a kept mistress. Let it be bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh, if we are to live together in the married state. Between husband and wife a warm word now and then matters but little, if there be a thoroughly good understanding at bottom. But let there be that good understanding at bottom. What about this Protestant Church; and what about this tenant-right? Mr Monk had been asking himself these questions for some time past. In regard to the Church, he had long made up his mind that the Establishment in Ireland was a crying sin. A man had married a woman whom he knew to be of a religion different from his own, and then insisted that his wife should say that she believed those things which he knew very well that she did not believe. But, as Mr Monk well knew, the subject of the Protestant Endowments in Ireland was so difficult that it would require almost more than human wisdom to adjust it. It was one of those matters which almost seemed to require the interposition of some higher power — the coming of some apparently chance event — to clear away the evil; as a fire comes, and pestilential alleys are removed; as a famine comes, and men are driven from want and ignorance and dirt to seek new homes and new thoughts across the broad waters; as a war comes, and slavery is banished from the face of the earth. But in regard to tenant-right, to some arrangement by which a tenant in Ireland might be at least encouraged to lay out what little capital he might have in labour or money without being at once called upon to pay rent for that outlay which was his own, as well as for the land which was not his own — Mr Monk thought that it was possible that if a man would look hard enough he might perhaps be able to see his way as to that. He had spoken to two of his colleagues on the subject, the two men in the Cabinet whom he believed to be the most thoroughly honest in their ideas as public servants, the Duke and Mr Gresham. There was so much to be done — and then so little was known upon the subject! “I will endeavour to study it,” said Mr Monk. “If you can see your way, do;” said Mr Gresham — “but of course we cannot bind ourselves.” “I should be glad to see it named in the Queen’s speech at the beginning of the next session,” said Mr Monk. “That is a long way off as yet,” said Mr Gresham, laughing. “Who will be in then, and who will be out?” So the matter was disposed of at the time, but Mr Monk did not abandon his idea. He rather felt himself the more bound to cling to it because he received so little encouragement. What was a seat in the Cabinet to him that he should on that account omit a duty? He had not taken up politics as a trade. He had sat far behind the Treasury bench or below the gangway for many a year, without owing any man a shilling — and could afford to do so again.
But it was different with Phineas Finn, as Mr Monk himself understood — and, understanding this, he felt himself bound to caution his young friend. But it may be a question whether his cautions did not do more harm than good. “I shall be delighted,” he said, “to go over with you in August, but I do not think that if I were you, I would take up this matter.”
“And why not? You don’t want to fight the battle single-handed?”
“No; I desire no such glory, and would wish to have no better lieutenant than you. But you have a subject of which you are really fond, which you are beginning to understand, and in regard to which you can make yourself useful.”
“You mean this Canada business?”
“Yes — and that will grow to other matters as regards the colonies. There is nothing so important to a public man as that he should have his own subject — the thing which he understands, and in respect of which he can make himself really useful.”
“Then there comes a change.”
“Yes — and the man who has half learned how to have a ship built without waste is sent into opposition, and is then brought back to look after regiments, or perhaps has to take up that beautiful subject, a study of the career of India. But, nevertheless, if you have a subject, stick to it at any rate as long as it will stick to you.”
“But,” said Phineas, if a man takes up his own subject, independent of the Government, no man can drive him from it.”
“And how often does he do anything? Look at the annual motions which come forward in the hands of private men, Maynooth and the ballot for instance. It is becoming more and more apparent every day that all legislation must be carried by the Government, and must be carried in obedience to the expressed wish of the people. The truest democracy that ever had a chance of living is that which we are now establishing in Great Britain.”
“Then leave tenant-right to the people and the Cabinet. Why should you take it up?”
Mr Monk paused a moment or two before he replied. “If I choose to run amok, there is no reason why you should follow me. I am old and you are young. I want nothing from politics as a profession, and you do. Moreover, you have a congenial subject where you are, and need not disturb yourself. For myself, I tell you, in confidence, that I cannot speak so comfortably of my own position.”
“We will go and see, at any rate,” said Phineas.
“Yes,” said Mr Monk, we will go and see. And thus, in the month of May, it was settled between them that, as soon as the session should be over, and the incidental work of his office should allow Phineas to pack up and be off, they two should start together for Ireland. Phineas felt rather proud as he wrote to his father and asked permission to bring home with him a Cabinet Minister as a visitor. At this time the reputation of Phineas at Killaloe, as well in the minds of the Killaloeians generally as in those of the inhabitants of the paternal house, stood very high indeed. How could a father think that a son had done badly when before he was thirty years of age he was earning ￡2,000 a year? And how could a father not think well of a son who had absolutely paid back certain moneys into the paternal coffers? The moneys so repaid had not been much; but the repayment of any such money at Killaloe had been regarded as little short of miraculous. The news of Mr Monk’s coming flew about the town, about the county, about the diocese, and all people began to say all good things about the old doctor’s only son. Mrs Finn had long since been quite sure that a real black swan had been sent forth out of her nest. And the sisters Finn, for some time past, had felt in all social gatherings they stood quite on a different footing than formerly because of their brother. They were asked about in the county, and two of them had been staying only last Easter with the Molonys — the Molonys of Poldoodie! How should a father and a mother and sisters not be grateful to such a son, to such a brother, to such a veritable black swan out of the nest! And as for dear little Mary Flood Jones, her eyes became suffused with tears as in her solitude she thought how much out of her reach this swan was flying. And yet she took joy in his swanhood, and swore that she would love him still — that she would love him always. Might he bring home with him to Killaloe, Mr Monk, the Cabinet Minister! Of course he might. When Mrs Finn first heard of this august arrival, she felt as though she would like to expend herself in entertaining, though but an hour, the whole cabinet.
Phineas, during the spring, had, of course, met Mr Kennedy frequently in and about the House, and had become aware that Lady Laura’s husband, from time to time, made little overtures of civility to him — taking him now and again by the buttonhole, walking home with him as far as their joint paths allowed, and asking him once or twice to come and dine in Grosvenor Place. These little advances towards a repetition of the old friendship Phineas would have avoided altogether, had it been possible. The invitation to Mr Kennedy’s house he did refuse, feeling himself positively bound to do so by Lady Laura’s command, let the consequences be what they might. When he did refuse, Mr Kennedy would assume a look of displeasure and leave him, and Phineas would hope that the work was done. Then there would come another encounter, and the invitation would be repeated. At last, about the middle of May, there came another note. “Dear Finn, will you dine with us on Wednesday, the 28th? I give you a long notice, because you seem to have so many appointments. Yours always, Robert Kennedy.” He had no alternative. He must refuse, even though double the notice had been given. He could only think that Mr Kennedy was a very obtuse man and one who would not take a hint, and hope that he might succeed at last. So he wrote an answer, not intended to be conciliatory. “My dear Kennedy, I am sorry to say that I am engaged on the 28th. Yours always, Phineas Finn.” At this period he did his best to keep out of Mr Kennedy’s way, and would be very cunning in his manoeuvres that they should not be alone together. It was difficult, as they sat on the same bench in the House, and consequently saw each other almost every day of their lives. Nevertheless, he thought that with a little cunning he might prevail, especially as he was not unwilling to give so much of offence as might assist his own object. But when Mr Kennedy called upon him at his office the day after he had written the above note, he had no means of escape.
“I am sorry you cannot come to us on the 28th,” Mr Kennedy said, as soon as he was seated.
Phineas was taken so much by surprise that all his cunning failed him. “Well, yes,” said he; I was very sorry — very sorry indeed.”
“It seems to me, Finn, that you have had some reason for avoiding me of late. I do not know that I have done anything to offend you.”
“Nothing on earth,” said Phineas.
“I am wrong, then, in supposing that anything beyond mere chance has prevented you from coming to my house?” Phineas felt that he was in a terrible difficulty, and he felt also that he was being rather ill-used in being thus cross-examined as to his reasons for not going to a gentleman’s dinner. He thought that a man ought to be allowed to choose where he would go and where he would not go, and that questions such as these were very uncommon. Mr Kennedy was sitting opposite to him, looking more grave and more sour than usual — and now his own countenance also became a little solemn. It was impossible that he should use Lady Laura’s name, and yet he must, in some way, let his persecuting friend know that no further invitation would be of any use — that there was something beyond mere chance in his not going to Grosvenor Place. But how was he to do this? The difficulty was so great that he could not see his way out of it. So he sat silent with a solemn face. Mr Kennedy then asked him another question, which made the difficulty ten times greater. “Has my wife asked you not to come to our house?”
It was necessary now that he should make a rush and get out of his trouble in some way. “To tell you the truth, Kennedy, I don’t think she wants to see me there.”
“That does not answer my question. Has she asked you not to come?”
“She said that which left on my mind an impression that she would sooner that I did not come.”
“What did she say?”
“How can I answer such a question as that, Kennedy? Is it fair to ask it?”
“Quite fair — I think.”
“I think it quite unfair, and I must decline to answer it. I cannot imagine what you expect to gain by cross-questioning me in this way. Of course no man likes to go to a house if he does not believe that everybody there will make him welcome.”
“You and Lady Laura used to be great friends.”
“I hope we are not enemies now. But things will occur that cause friendships to grow cool.”
“Have you quarrelled with her father?”
“With Lord Brentford? — no.”
“Or with her brother — since the duel I mean?”
“Upon my word and honour I cannot stand this, and I will not. I have not as yet quarrelled with anybody; but I must quarrel with you, if you go on in this way. It is quite unusual that a man should be put through his facings after such a fashion, and I must beg that there may be an end of it.”
“Then I must ask Lady Laura.”
“You can say what you like to your own wife of course. I cannot hinder you.”
Upon that Mr Kennedy formally shook hands with him, in token that there was no positive breach between them — as two nations may still maintain their alliance, though they have made up their minds to hate each other, and thwart each other at every turn — and took his leave. Phineas, as he sat at his window, looking out into the park, and thinking of what had passed, could not but reflect that, disagreeable as Mr Kennedy had been to him, he would probably make himself much more disagreeable to his wife. And, for himself, he thought that he had got out of the scrape very well by the exhibition of a little mock anger.
The reader may remember that a rumour had been conveyed to Phineas — a rumour indeed which reached him from a source which he regarded as very untrustworthy — that Violet Effingham had quarrelled with her lover. He would probably have paid no attention to the rumour, beyond that which necessarily attached itself to any tidings as to a matter so full of interest to him, had it not been repeated to him in another quarter. “A bird has told me that your Violet Effingham has broken with her lover,” Madame Goesler said to him one day. “What bird?” he asked. Ah, that I cannot tell you. But this I will confess to you, that these birds which tell us news are seldom very credible — and are often not very creditable. You must take a bird’s word for what it may be worth. It is said that they have quarrelled. I daresay, if the truth were known, they are billing and cooing in each other’s arms at this moment.”
Phineas did not like to be told of their billing and cooing — did not like to be told even of their quarrelling. Though they were to quarrel, it would do him no good. He would rather that nobody should mention their names to him — so that his back, which had been so utterly broken, might in process of time get itself cured. From what he knew of Violet he thought it very improbable that, even were she to quarrel with one lover, she would at once throw herself into the arms of another. And he did feel, too, that there would be some meanness in taking her, were she willing to be so taken. But, nevertheless, these rumours, coming to him in this way from different sources, almost made it incumbent on him to find out the truth. He began to think that his broken back was not cured — that perhaps, after all, it was not in the way of being cured. And was it not possible that there might be explanations? Then he went to work and built castles in the air, so constructed as to admit of the possibility of Violet Effingham becoming his wife.
This had been in April, and at that time all that he knew of Violet was, that she was not yet in London. And he thought that he knew the same as to Lord Chiltern. The Earl had told him that Chiltern was not in town, nor expected in town as yet; and in saying so had seemed to express displeasure against his son. Phineas had met Lady Baldock at some house which he frequented, and had been quite surprised to find himself graciously received by the old woman. She had said not a word of Violet, but had spoken of Lord Chiltern — mentioning his name in bitter wrath. “But he is a friend of mine,” said Phineas, smiling. “A friend indeed! Mr Finn. I know what sort of a friend. I don’t believe that you are his friend. I am afraid he is not worthy of having any friend.” Phineas did not quite understand from this that Lady Baldock was signifying to him that, badly as she had thought of him as a suitor for her niece, she would have preferred him — especially now when people were beginning to speak well of him — to that terrible young man, who, from his youth upwards, had been to her a cause of fear and trembling. Of course it was desirable that Violet should marry an elder son, and a peer’s heir. All that kind of thing, in Lady Baldock’s eyes, was most desirable. But, nevertheless, anything was better than Lord Chiltern. If Violet would not take Mr Appledom or Lord Fawn, in heaven’s name let her take this young man, who was kind, worthy, and steady, who was civilised in his manners, and would no doubt be amenable in regard to settlements. Lady Baldock had so far fallen in the world that she would have consented to make a bargain with her niece — almost any bargain, so long as Lord Chiltern was excluded. Phineas did not quite understand all this; but when Lady Baldock asked him to come to Berkeley Square, he perceived that help was being proffered to him where he certainly had not looked for help.
He was frequently with Lord Brentford, who talked to him constantly on matters connected with his parliamentary life. After having been the intimate friend of the daughter and of the son, it now seemed to be his lot to be the intimate friend of the father. The Earl had constantly discussed with him his arrangements with his son, and had lately expressed himself as only half satisfied with such reconciliation as had taken place. And Phineas could perceive that from day to day the Earl was less and less satisfied. He would complain bitterly of his son — complain of his silence, complain of his not coming to London, complain of his conduct to Violet, complain of his idle indifference to anything like proper occupation; but he had never as yet said a word to show that there had been any quarrel between Violet and her lover, and Phineas had felt that he could not ask the question. “Mr Finn,” said the Earl to him one morning, as soon as he entered the room, “I have just heard a story which has almost seemed to me to be incredible.” The nobleman’s manner was very stern, and the fact that he called his young friend “Mr Finn”, showed at once that something was wrong.
“What is it you have heard, my lord?” said Phineas.
“That you and Chiltern went over — last year to — Belgium, and fought — a duel there!”
Now it must have been the case that, in the set among which they all lived — Lord Brentford and his son and daughter and Phineas Finn — the old lord was the only man who had not heard of the duel before this. It had even penetrated to the dull ears of Mr Kennedy, reminding him, as it did so, that his wife had — told him a lie! But it was the fact that no rumour of the duel had reached the Earl till this morning.
“It is true,” said Phineas.
“I have never been so much shocked in my life — never. I had no idea that you had any thought of aspiring to the hand of Miss Effingham.” The lord’s voice as he said this was very stern.
“As I aspired in vain, and as Chiltern has been successful, that need not now be made a reproach against me.”
“I do not know what to think of it, Mr Finn. I am so much surprised that I hardly know what to say. I must declare my opinion at once, that you behaved — very badly.”
“I do not know how much you know, my lord, and how much you do not know; and the circumstances of the little affair do not permit me to be explicit about them; but, as you have expressed your opinion so openly you must allow me to express mine, and to say that, as far as I can judge of my own actions, I did not behave badly at all.”
“Do you intend to defend duelling, sir?”
“No. If you mean to tell me that a duel is of itself sinful, I have nothing to say. I suppose it is. My defence of myself merely goes to the manner in which this duel was fought, and the fact that I fought it with your son.”
“I cannot conceive how you can have come to my house as my guest, and stood upon my interest for my borough, when you at the time were doing your very best to interpose yourself between Chiltern and the lady whom you so well knew I wished to become his wife.” Phineas was aware that the Earl must have been very much moved indeed when he thus permitted himself to speak of “his” borough. He said nothing now, however, though the Earl paused — and then the angry lord went on. “I must say that there was something — something almost approaching to duplicity in such conduct.”
“If I were to defend myself by evidence, Lord Brentford, I should have to go back to exact dates — and dates not of facts which I could verify, but dates as to my feelings which could not be verified — and that would be useless. I can only say that I believe I know what the honour and truth of a gentleman demand — even to the verge of self-sacrifice, and that I have done nothing that ought to place my character as a gentleman in jeopardy. If you will ask your son, I think he will tell you the same.”
“I have asked him. It was he who told me of the duel.”
“When did he tell you, my lord?”
“Just now; this morning.” Thus Phineas learned that Lord Chiltern was at this moment in the house — or at least in London.
“And did he complain of my conduct?”
“I complain of it, sir. I complain of it very bitterly. I placed the greatest confidence in you, especially in regard to my son’s affairs, and you deceived me.” The Earl was very angry, and was more angry from the fact that this young man who had offended him, to whom he had given such vital assistance when assistance was needed, had used that assistance to its utmost before his sin was found out. Had Phineas still been sitting for Loughton, so that the Earl could have said to him, “You are now bound to retreat from this borough because you have offended me, your patron,” I think that he would have forgiven the offender and allowed him to remain in his seat. There would have been a scene, and the Earl would have been pacified. But now the offender was beyond his reach altogether, having used the borough as a most convenient stepping-stone over his difficulties, and having so used it just at the time when he was committing this sin. There was a good fortune about Phineas which added greatly to the lord’s wrath. And then, to tell the truth, he had not that rich consolation for which Phineas gave him credit. Lord Chiltern had told him that morning that the engagement between him and Violet was at an end. “You have so preached to her, my lord, about my duties,” the son had said to his father, “that she finds herself obliged to give me your sermons at second hand, till I can bear them no longer.” But of this Phineas knew nothing as yet. The Earl, however, was so imprudent in his anger that before this interview was over he had told the whole story. “ Yes — you deceived me,” he continued; “and I can never trust you again.”
“Was it for me, my lord, to tell you of that which would have increased your anger against your own son? When he wanted me to fight was I to come, like a sneak at school, and tell you the story? I know what you would have thought of me had I done so. And when it was over was I to come and tell you then? Think what you yourself would have done when you were young, and you may be quite sure that I did the same. What have I gained? He has got all that he wanted; and you have also got all that you wanted — and I have helped you both. Lord Brentford, I can put my hand on my heart and say that I have been honest to you.”
“I have got nothing that I wanted,” said the Earl in his despair.
“Lord Chiltern and Miss Effingham will be man and wife.”
“No — they will not. He has quarrelled with her. He is so obstinate that she will not bear with him.”
Then it was all true, even though the rumours had reached him through Laurence Fitzgibbon and Madame Max Goesler. “At any rate, my lord, that has not been my fault,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. The Earl was walking up and down the room, angry with himself at his own mistake in having told the story, and not knowing what further to say to his visitor. He had been in the habit of talking so freely to Phineas about his son that he could hardly resist the temptation of doing so still; and yet it was impossible that he could swallow his anger and continue in the same strain. “My lord,” said Phineas, after a while, “I can assure you that I grieve that you should be grieved. I have received so much undeserved favour from your family, that I owe you a debt which I can never pay. I am sorry that you should be angry with me now; but I hope that a time may come when you will think less severely of my conduct.”
He was about to leave the room when the Earl stopped him. “Will you give me your word,” said the Earl, that you will think no more of Miss Effingham?” Phineas stood silent, considering how he might answer this proposal, resolving that nothing should bring him to such a pledge as that suggested while there was yet a ledge for hope to stand on. “Say that, Mr Finn, and I will forgive everything.”
“I cannot acknowledge that I have done anything to be forgiven.”
“Say that,” repeated the Earl, and everything shall be forgotten.”
“There need be no cause for alarm, my lord,” said Phineas. “You may be sure that Miss Effingham will not think of me.”
“Will you give me your word?”
“No, my lord — certainly not. You have no right to ask it, and the pursuit is open to me as to any other man who may choose to follow it. I have hardly a vestige of a hope of success. It is barely possible that I should succeed. But if it be true that Miss Effingham be disengaged, I shall endeavour to find an opportunity of urging my suit. I would give up everything that I have, my seat in Parliament, all the ambition of my life, for the barest chance of success. When she had accepted your son, I desisted — of course. I have now heard, from more sources than one, that she or he or both of them have changed their minds. If this be so, I am free to try again.” The Earl stood opposite to him, scowling at him, but said nothing. “Good morning, my lord.”
“Good morning, sir.”
“I am afraid it must be goodbye, for some long days to come.”
“Good morning, sir.” And the Earl as he spoke rang the bell. Then Phineas took up his hat and departed.
As he walked away his mind filled itself gradually with various ideas, all springing from the words which Lord Brentford had spoken. What account had Lord Chiltern given to his father of the duel? Our hero was a man very sensitive as to the good opinion of others, and in spite of his bold assertion of his own knowledge of what became a gentleman, was beyond measure solicitous that others should acknowledge his claim at any rate to that title. He thought that he had been generous to Lord Chiltern; and as he went back in his memory over almost every word that had been spoken in the interview that had just passed, he fancied that he was able to collect evidence that his antagonist at Blankenberg had not spoken ill of him. As to the charge of deceit which the Earl had made against him, he told himself that the Earl had made it in anger. He would not even think hardly of the Earl who had been so good a friend to him, but he believed in his heart that the Earl had made the accusation out of his wrath and not out of his judgment. “He cannot think that I have been false to him,” Phineas said to himself. But it was very sad to him that he should have to quarrel with all the family of the Standishes, as he could not but feel that it was they who had put him on his feet. It seemed as though he were never to see Lady Laura again except when they chanced to meet in company — on which occasions he simply bowed to her. Now the Earl had almost turned him out of his house. And though there had been to a certain extent a reconciliation between him and Lord Chiltern, he in these days never saw the friend who had once put him upon Bonebreaker; and now — now that Violet Effingham was again free — how was it possible to avoid some renewal of enmity between them? He would, however, endeavour to see Lord Chiltern at once.
And then he thought of Violet — of Violet again free, of Violet as again a possible wife for himself, of Violet to whom he might address himself at any rate without any scruple as to his own unworthiness. Everybody concerned, and many who were not concerned at all, were aware that he had been among her lovers, and he thought that he could perceive that those who interested themselves on the subject, had regarded him as the only horse in the race likely to run with success against Lord Chiltern. She herself had received his offers without scorn, and had always treated him as though he were a favoured friend, though not favoured as a lover. And now even Lady Baldock was smiling upon him, and asking him to her house as though the red-faced porter in the hall in Berkeley Square had never been ordered to refuse him a moment’s admission inside the doors. He had been very humble in speaking of his own hopes to the Earl, but surely there might be a chance. What if after all the little strain which he had had in his back was to be cured after such a fashion as this! When he got to his lodgings, he found a card from Lady Baldock, informing him that Lady Baldock would be at home on a certain night, and that there would be music. He could not go to Lady Baldock’s on the night named, as it would be necessary that he should be in the House — nor did he much care to go there, as Violet Effingham was not in town. But he would call and explain, and endeavour to curry favour in that way.
He at once wrote a note to Lord Chiltern, which he addressed to Portman Square. “As you are in town, can we not meet? Come and dine with me at the — Club on Saturday.” That was the note. After a few days he received the following answer, dated from the Bull at Willingford. Why on earth should Chiltern be staying at the Bull at Willingford in May?
“ The old Shop at W — Friday
“ DEAR PHINEAS,
“I can’t dine with you, because I am down here, looking after the cripples, and writing a sporting novel. They tell me I ought to do something, so I am going to do that. I hope you don’t think I turned informer against you in telling the Earl of our pleasant little meeting on the sands. It had become necessary, and you are too much of a man to care much for any truth being told. He was terribly angry both with me and with you; but the fact is, he is so blindly unreasonable that one cannot regard his anger. I endeavoured to tell the story truly, and, so told, it certainly should not have injured you in his estimation. But it did. Very sorry, old fellow, and I hope you’ll get over it. It is a good deal more important to me than to you.
“Yours”
“C”
There was not a word about Violet. But then it was hardly to be expected that there should be words about Violet. It was not likely that a man should write to his rival of his own failure. But yet there was a flavour of Violet in the letter which would not have been there, so Phineas thought, if the writer had been despondent. The pleasant little meeting on the sands had been convened altogether in respect of Violet. And the telling of the story to the Earl must have arisen from discussions about Violet. Lord Chiltern must have told his father that Phineas was his rival. Could the rejected suitor have written on such a subject in such a strain to such a correspondent if he had believed his own rejection to be certain? But then Lord Chiltern was not like anybody else in the world, and it was impossible to judge of him by one’s experience of the motives of others.
Shortly afterwards Phineas did call in Berkeley Square, and was shown up at once into Lady Baldock’s drawing-room. The whole aspect of the porter’s countenance was changed towards him, and from this, too, he gathered good auguries. This had surprised him; but his surprise was far greater, when, on entering the room, he found Violet Effingham there alone. A little fresh colour came to her face as she greeted him, though it cannot be said that she blushed. She behaved herself admirably, not endeavouring to conceal some little emotion at thus meeting him, but betraying none that was injurious to her composure. “I am so glad to see you, Mr Finn,” she said. My aunt has just left me, and will be back directly.”
He was by no means her equal in his management of himself on the occasion; but perhaps it may be acknowledged that his position was the more difficult of the two. He had not seen her since her engagement had been proclaimed to the world, and now he had heard from a source which was not to be doubted, that it had been broken off. Of course there was nothing to be said on that matter. He could not have congratulated her in the one case, nor could he either congratulate her or condole with her on the other. And yet he did not know how to speak to her as though no such events had occurred. “I did not know that you were in town,” he said.
“I only came yesterday. I have been, you know, at Rome with the Effinghams; and since that I have been — but, indeed, I have been such a vagrant that I cannot tell you of all my comings and goings. And you — you are hard at work!”
“Oh yes — always.”
“That is right. I wish I could be something, if it were only a stick in waiting, or a door-keeper. It is so good to be something.” Was it some such teaching as this that had jarred against Lord Chiltern’s susceptibilities, and had seemed to him to be a repetition of his father’s sermons?
“A man should try to be something,” said Phineas.
“And a woman must be content to be nothing — unless Mr Mill can pull us through! And now, tell me — have you seen Lady Laura?”
“Not lately.”
“Nor Mr Kennedy?”
“I sometimes see him in the House.” The visit to the Colonial Office of which the reader has been made aware had not at that time as yet been made.
“I am sorry for all that,” she said. Upon which Phineas smiled and shook his head. “I am very sorry that there should be a quarrel between you two.”
“There is no quarrel.”
“I used to think that you and he might do so much for each other — that is, of course, if you could make a friend of him.”
“He is a man of whom it is very hard to make a friend,” said Phineas, feeling that he was dishonest to Mr Kennedy in saying so, but thinking that such dishonesty was justified by what he owed to Lady Laura.
“Yes — he is hard, and what I call ungenial. We won’t say anything about him — will we? Have you seen much of the Earl?” This she asked as though such a question had no reference whatever to Lord Chiltern.
“Oh dear — alas, alas!”
“You have not quarrelled with him too?”
“He has quarrelled with me. He has heard, Miss Effingham, of what happened last year, and he thinks that I was wrong.”
“Of course you were wrong, Mr Finn.”
“Very likely. To him I chose to defend myself, but I certainly shall not do so to you. At any rate, you did not think it necessary to quarrel with me.”
“I ought to have done so. I wonder why my aunt does not come.” Then she rang the bell.
“Now I have told you all about myself,” said he; you should tell me something of yourself.”
“About me? I am like the knife-grinder, who had no story to tell — none at least to be told. We have all, no doubt, got our little stories, interesting enough to ourselves.”
“But your story, Miss Effingham,” he said, is of such intense interest to me.” At that moment, luckily, Lady Baldock came into the room, and Phineas was saved from the necessity of making a declaration at a moment which would have been most inopportune.
Lady Baldock was exceedingly gracious to him, bidding Violet use her influence to persuade him to come to the gathering. “Persuade him to desert his work to come and hear some fiddlers!” said Miss Effingham. “Indeed I shall not, aunt. Who can tell but what the colonies might suffer from it through centuries, and that such a lapse of duty might drive a province or two into the arms of our mortal enemies?”
“Herr Moll is coming,” said Lady Baldock, and so is Signor Scrubi, and Pjinskt who, they say, is the greatest man living on the flageolet. Have you ever heard Pjinskt, Mr Finn?” Phineas never had heard Pjinskt. “And as for Herr Moll, there is nothing equal to him, this year, at least.” Lady Baldock had taken up music this season, but all her enthusiasm was unable to shake the conscientious zeal of the young Under-Secretary of State. At such a gathering he would have been unable to say a word in private to Violet Effingham.
It may be remembered that when Lady Glencora Palliser was shown into Madame Goesler’s room, Madame Goesler had just explained somewhat forcibly to the Duke of Omnium her reasons for refusing the loan of his Grace’s villa at Como. She had told the Duke in so many words that she did not mean to give the world an opportunity of maligning her, and it would then have been left to the Duke to decide whether any other arrangements might have been made for taking Madame Goesler to Como, had he not been interrupted. That he was very anxious to take her was certain. The green brougham had already been often enough at the door in Park Lane to make his Grace feel that Madame Goesler’s company was very desirable — was, perhaps, of all things left for his enjoyment, the one thing the most desirable. Lady Glencora had spoken to her husband of children crying for the top brick of the chimney. Now it had come to this, that in the eyes of the Duke of Omnium Marie Max Goesler was the top brick of the chimney. She had more wit for him than other women — more of that sort of wit which he was capable of enjoying. She had a beauty which he had learned to think more alluring than other beauty. He was sick of fair faces, and fat arms, and free necks. Madame Goesler’s eyes sparkled as other eyes did not sparkle, and there was something of the vagueness of mystery in the very blackness and gloss and abundance of her hair — as though her beauty was the beauty of some world which he had not yet known. And there was a quickness and yet a grace of motion about her which was quite new to him. The ladies upon whom the Duke had of late most often smiled had been somewhat slow — perhaps almost heavy — though, no doubt, graceful withal. In his early youth he remembered to have seen, somewhere in Greece, such a houri as was this Madame Goesler. The houri in that case had run off with the captain of a Russian vessel engaged in the tallow trade; but not the less was there left on His Grace’s mind some dreamy memory of charms which had impressed him very strongly when he was simply a young Mr Palliser, and had had at his command not so convenient a mode of sudden abduction as the Russian captain’s tallow ship. Pressed hard by such circumstances as these, there is no knowing how the Duke might have got out of his difficulties had not Lady Glencora appeared upon the scene.
Since the future little Lord Silverbridge had been born, the Duke had been very constant in his worship of Lady Glencora, and as, from year to year, a little brother was added, thus making the family very strong and stable, his acts of worship had increased; but with his worship there had come of late something almost of dread — something almost of obedience, which had made those who were immediately about the Duke declare that His Grace was a good deal changed. For, hitherto, whatever may have been the Duke’s weaknesses, he certainly had known no master. His heir, Plantagenet Palliser, had been always subject to him. His other relations had been kept at such a distance as hardly to be more than recognised; and though His Grace no doubt had had his intimacies, they who had been intimate with him had either never tried to obtain ascendancy, or had failed. Lady Glencora, whether with or without a struggle, had succeeded, and people about the Duke said that the Duke was much changed. Mr Fothergill — who was His Grace’s man of business, and who was not a favourite with Lady Glencora — said that he was very much changed indeed. Finding His Grace so much changed, Mr Fothergill had made a little attempt at dictation himself, but had receded with fingers very much scorched in the attempt. It was indeed possible that the Duke was becoming in the slightest degree weary of Lady Glencora’s thraldom, and that he thought that Madame Max Goesler might be more tender with him. Madame Max Goesler, however, intended to be tender only on one condition.
When Lady Glencora entered the room, Madame Goesler received her beautifully. “How lucky that you should have come just when His Grace is here!” she said.
“I saw my uncle’s carriage, and of course I knew it,” said Lady Glencora.
“Then the favour is to him,” said Madame Goesler, smiling.
“No, indeed; I was coming. If my word is to be doubted in that point, I must insist on having the servant up; I must, certainly. I told him to drive to this door, as far back as Grosvenor Street. Did I not, Planty?” Planty was the little Lord Silverbridge as was to be, if nothing unfortunate intervened, who was now sitting on his grand-uncle’s knee.
“Dou said to the little house in Park Lane,” said the boy.
“Yes — because I forgot the number.”
“And it is the smallest house in Park Lane, so the evidence is complete,” said Madame Goesler. Lady Glencora had not cared much for evidence to convince Madame Goesler, but she had not wished her uncle to think that he was watched and hunted down. It might be necessary that he should know that he was watched, but things had not come to that as yet.
“How is Plantagenet?asked the Duke.
“Answer for papa,” said Lady Glencora to her child.
“Papa is very well, but he almost never comes home.”
“He is working for his country,” said the Duke. Your papa is a busy, useful man, and can’t afford time to play with a little boy as I can.”
“But papa is not a duke.”
“He will be some day, and that probably before long, my boy. He will be a duke quite as soon as he wants to be a duke. He likes the House of Commons better than the strawberry leaves, I fancy. There is not a man in England less in a hurry than he is.”
“No, indeed,” said Lady Glencora.
“How nice that is,” said Madame Goesler.
“And I ain’t in a hurry either — am I, mamma?” said the little future Lord Silverbridge.
“You are a wicked little monkey,” said his grand-uncle, kissing him. At this moment Lady Glencora was, no doubt, thinking how necessary it was that she should be careful to see that things did turn out in the manner proposed — so that people who had waited should not be disappointed; and the Duke was perhaps thinking that he was not absolutely bound to his nephew by any law of God or man; and Madame Max Goesler — I wonder whether her thoughts were injurious to the prospects of that handsome bold-faced little boy.
Lady Glencora rose to take her leave first. It was not for her to show any anxiety to force the Duke out of the lady’s presence. If the Duke were resolved to make a fool of himself, nothing that she could do would prevent it. But she thought that this little inspection might possibly be of service, and that her uncle’s ardour would be cooled by the interruption to which he had been subjected. So she went, and immediately afterwards the Duke followed her. The interruption had, at any rate, saved him on that occasion from making the highest bid for the pleasure of Madame Goesler’s company at Como. The Duke went down with the little boy in his hand, so that there was not an opportunity for a single word of interest between the gentleman and the lady.
Madame Goesler, when she was alone, seated herself on her sofa, tucking her feet up under her as though she were seated somewhere in the East, pushed her ringlets back roughly from her face, and then placed her two hands to her sides so that her thumbs rested lightly on her girdle. When alone with something weighty on her mind she would sit in this form for the hour together, resolving, or trying to resolve, what should be her conduct. She did few things without much thinking, and though she walked very boldly, she walked warily. She often told herself that such success as she had achieved could not have been achieved without much caution. And yet she was ever discontented with herself, telling herself that all that she had done was nothing, or worse than nothing. What was it all, to have a duke and to have lords dining with her, to dine with lords or with a duke itself, if life were dull with her, and the hours hung heavy! Life with her was dull, and the hours did hang heavy. And what if she caught this old man, and became herself a duchess — caught him by means of his weakness, to the inexpressible dismay of all those who were bound to him by ties of blood — would that make her life happier, or her hours less tedious? That prospect of a life on the Italian lakes with an old man tied to her side was not so charming in her eyes as it was in those of the Duke. Were she to succeed, and to be blazoned forth to the world as Duchess of Omnium, what would she have gained?
She perfectly understood the motive of Lady Glencora’s visit, and thought that she would at any rate gain something in the very triumph of baffling the manoeuvres of so clever a woman. Let Lady Glencora throw her aegis before the Duke, and it would be something to carry off his Grace from beneath the protection of so thick a shield. The very flavour of the contest was pleasing to Madame Goesler. But, the victory gained, what then would remain to her? Money she had already; position, too, she had of her own. She was free as air, and should it suit her at any time to go off to some lake of Como in society that would personally be more agreeable to her than that of the Duke of Omnium, there was nothing to hinder her for a moment. And then came a smile over her face — but the saddest smile — as she thought of one with whom it might be pleasant to look at the colour of Italian skies and feel the softness of Italian breezes. In feigning to like to do this with an old man, in acting the raptures of love on behalf of a worn-out duke who at the best would scarce believe in her acting, there would not be much delight for her. She had never yet known what it was to have anything of the pleasure of love. She had grown, as she often told herself, to be a hard, cautious, selfish, successful woman, without any interference or assistance from such pleasure. Might there not be yet time left for her to try it without selfishness — with an absolute devotion of self — if only she could find the right companion? There was one who might be such a companion, but the Duke of Omnium certainly could not be such a one.
But to be Duchess of Omnium! After all, success in this world is everything — is at any rate the only thing the pleasure of which will endure. There was the name of many a woman written in a black list within Madame Goesler’s breast — written there because of scorn, because of rejected overtures, because of deep social injury; and Madame Goesler told herself often that it would be a pleasure to her to use the list, and to be revenged on those who had ill-used and scornfully treated her. She did not readily forgive those who had injured her. As Duchess of Omnium she thought that probably she might use that list with efficacy. Lady Glencora had treated her well, and she had no such feeling against Lady Glencora. As Duchess of Omnium she would accept Lady Glencora as her dearest friend, if Lady Glencora would admit it. But if it should be necessary that there should be a little duel between them, as to which of them should take the Duke in hand, the duel must of course be fought. In a matter so important, one woman would of course expect no false sentiment from another. She and Lady Glencora would understand each other — and no doubt, respect each other.
I have said that she would sit there resolving, or trying to resolve. There is nothing in the world so difficult as that task of making up one’s mind. Who is there that has not longed that the power and privilege of selection among alternatives should be taken away from him in some important crisis of his life, and that his conduct should be arranged for him, either this way or that, by some divine power if it were possible — by some patriarchal power in the absence of divinity — or by chance even, if nothing better than chance could be found to do it? But no one dares to cast the die, and to go honestly by the hazard. There must be the actual necessity of obeying the die, before even the die can be of any use. As it was, when Madame Goesler had sat there for an hour, till her legs were tired beneath her, she had not resolved. It must be as her impulse should direct her when the important moment came. There was not a soul on earth to whom she could go for counsel, and when she asked herself for counsel, the counsel would not come.
Two days afterwards the Duke called again. He would come generally on a Thursday — early, so that he might be there before other visitors; and he had already quite learned that when he was there other visitors would probably be refused admittance. How Lady Glencora had made her way in, telling the servant that her uncle was there, he had not understood. That visit had been made on the Thursday, but now he came on the Saturday — having, I regret to say, sent down some early fruit from his own hot-houses — or from Covent Garden — with a little note on the previous day. The grapes might have been pretty well, but the note was injudicious. There were three lines about the grapes, as to which there was some special history, the vine having been brought from the garden of some villa in which some ill-used queen had lived and died; and then there was a postscript in one line to say that the Duke would call on the following morning. I do not think that he had meant to add this when he began his note; but then children who want the top brick want it so badly, and cry for it so perversely!
Of course Madame Goesler was at home. But even then she had not made up her mind. She had made up her mind only to this — that he should be made to speak plainly, and that she would take time for her reply. Not even with such a gem as the Duke’s coronet before her eyes, would she jump at it. Where there was so much doubt, there need at least be no impatience.
“You ran away the other day, Duke, because you could not resist the charm of that little boy,” she said, laughing.
“He is a dear little boy — but it was not that,” he answered.
“Then what was it? Your niece carried you off in a whirlwind. She was come and gone, taking you with her, in half a minute.”
“She had disturbed me when I was thinking of something,” said the Duke.
“Things shouldn’t be thought of — not so deeply as that.” Madame Goesler was playing with a bunch of his grapes now, eating one or two from a small china plate which had stood upon the table, and he thought that he had never seen a woman so graceful and yet so natural. “Will you not eat your own grapes with me? They are delicious — flavoured with the poor queen’s sorrows.” He shook his head, knowing that it did not suit his gastric juices to have to deal with fruit eaten at odd times. “Never think, Duke. I am convinced that it does no good. It simply means doubting, and doubt always leads to error. The safest way in the world is to do nothing.”
“I believe so,” said the Duke.
“Much the safest. But if you have not sufficient command over yourself to enable you to sit in repose, always quiet, never committing yourself to the chance of any danger — then take a leap in the dark; or rather many leaps. A stumbling horse regains his footing by persevering in his onward course. As for moving cautiously, that I detest.”
“And yet one must think — for instance, whether one will succeed or not.”
“Take that for granted always. Remember, I do not recommend motion at all. Repose is my idea of life — repose and grapes.”
The Duke sat for a while silent, taking his repose as far as the outer man was concerned, looking at his top brick of the chimney, as from time to time she ate one of his grapes. Probably she did not eat above half a dozen of them altogether, but he thought that the grapes must have been made for the woman, she was so pretty in the eating of them. But it was necessary that he should speak at last. “Have you been thinking of coming to Como?” he said.
“I told you that I never think.”
“But I want an answer to my proposition.”
“I thought I had answered Your Grace on that question.” Then she put down the grapes, and moved herself on her chair, so that she sat with her face turned away from him.
“But a request to a lady may be made twice.”
“Oh, yes. And I am grateful, knowing how far it is from your intention to do me any harm. And I am somewhat ashamed of my warmth on the other day. But still there can be but one answer. There are delights which a woman must deny herself, let them be ever so delightful.”
“I had thought — “ the Duke began, and then he stopped himself.
“Your Grace was saying that you thought — ”
“Marie, a man at my age does not like to be denied.”
“What man likes to be denied anything by a woman at any age? A woman who denies anything is called cruel at once — even though it be her very soul.” She had turned round upon him now, and was leaning forward towards him from her chair, so that he could touch her if he put out his hand.
He put out his hand and touched her. “Marie,” he said, “will you deny me if I ask?”
“Nay, my lord; how shall I say? There is many a trifle I would deny you. There is many a great gift I would give you willingly.”
“But the greatest gift of all?”
“My lord, if you have anything to say, you must say it plainly. There never was a woman worse than I am at the reading of riddles.”
“Could you endure to live in the quietude of an Italian lake with an old man?” Now he touched her again, and had taken her hand.
“No, my lord — nor with a young one — for all my days. But I do not know that age would guide me.”
Then the Duke rose and made his proposition in form. “Marie, you know that I love you. Why it is that I at my age should feel so sore a love, I cannot say.”
“So sore a love!”
“So sore, if it be not gratified. Marie, I ask you to be my wife.”
“Duke of Omnium, this from you!”
“Yes, from me. My coronet is at your feet. If you will allow me to raise it, I will place it on your brow.”
Then she went away from him, and seated herself at a distance. After a moment or two he followed her, and stood with his arm upon her shoulder. “You will give me an answer, Marie?”
“You cannot have thought of this, my lord.”
“Nay; I have thought of it much.”
“And your friends?”
“My dear, I may venture to please myself in this — as in everything. Will you not answer me?”
“Certainly not on the spur of the moment, my lord. Think how high is the position you offer me, and how immense is the change you propose to me. Allow me two days, and I will answer you by letter. I am so fluttered now that I must leave you.” Then he came to her, took her hand, kissed her brow, and opened the door for her.