At the end of March the Duchess of Omnium, never more to be called Lady Glencora by the world at large, came up to London. The Duke, though he was now banished from the House of Commons, was nevertheless wanted in London; and what funereal ceremonies were left might be accomplished as well in town as at Matching Priory. No old Ministry could be turned out and no new Ministry formed without the assistance of the young Duchess. It was a question whether she should not be asked to be Mistress of the Robes, though those who asked it knew very well that she was the last woman in England to hamper herself by dependence on the Court. Up to London they came; and, though of course they went into no society, the house in Carlton Gardens was continually thronged with people who had some special reason for breaking the ordinary rules of etiquette in their desire to see how Lady Glencora carried herself as Duchess of Omnium. “Do you think she’s altered much?” said Aspasia Fitzgibbon, an elderly spinster, the daughter of Lord Claddagh, and sister of Laurence Fitzgibbon, member for one of the western Irish counties. “I don’t think she was quite so loud as she used to be.”
Mrs Bonteen was of opinion that there was a change. “She was always uncertain, you know, and would scratch like a cat if you offended her.”
“And won’t she scratch now?” asked Miss Fitzgibbon.
“I’m afraid she’ll scratch oftener. It was always a trick of hers to pretend to think nothing of rank — but she values her place as highly as any woman in England.”
This was Mrs Bonteen’s opinion; but Lady Baldock, who was present, differed. This Lady Baldock was not the mother, but the sister-in-law of that Augusta Boreham who had lately become Sister Veronica John. “I don’t believe it,” said Lady Baldock. “She always seems to me to be like a great school girl who has been allowed too much of her own way. I think people give way to her too much, you know.” As Lady Baldock was herself the wife of a peer, she naturally did not stand so much in awe of a duchess as did Mrs Bonteen, or Miss Fitzgibbon.
“Have you seen the young Duke?” asked Mr Ratler of Barrington Erle.
“Yes; I have been with him this morning.”
“How does he like it?”
“He’s bothered out of his life — as a hen would be if you were to throw her into water. He’s so shy, he hardly knows how to speak to you; and he broke down altogether when I said something about the Lords.
“He’ll not do much more.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Erle. “He’ll get used to it, and go into harness again. He’s a great deal too good to be lost.”
“He didn’t give himself airs?”
“What! — Planty Pall! If I know anything of a man he’s not the man to do that because he’s a duke. He can hold his own against all comers, and always could. Quiet as he always seemed, he knew who he was, and who other people were. I don’t think you’ll find much difference in him when he has got over the annoyance.” Mr Ratler, however, was of a different opinion. Mr Ratler had known many docile members of the House of Commons who had become peers by the death of uncles and fathers, and who had lost all respect for him as soon as they were released from the crack of the whip. Mr Ratler rather depised peers who had been members of the House of Commons, and who passed by inheritance from a scene of unparalleled use and influence to one of idle and luxurious dignity.
Soon after their arrival in London the Duchess wrote the following very characteristic letter:
“ DEAR LORD CHILTERN, Mr Palliser — [Then having begun with a mistake, she scratched the word through with her pen.] The Duke has asked me to write about Trumpeton Wood, as he knows nothing about it, and I know just as little. But if you say what you want, it shall be done. Shall we get foxes and put them there? Or ought there to be a special fox-keeper? You mustn’t be angry because the poor old Duke was too feeble to take notice of the matter. Only speak, and it shall be done.
“Yours faithfully, “ GLENCORA O.
“Madame Goesler spoke to me about it; but at that time we were in trouble.”
The answer was as characteristic:
“ DEAR DUCHESS OF OMNIUM,
“Thanks. What is wanted, is that keepers should know that there are to be foxes. When keepers know that foxes are really expected, there always are foxes. The men latterly have known just the contrary. It is all a question of shooting. I don’t mean to say a word against the late Duke. When he got old the thing became bad. No doubt it will be right now.
“Faithfully yours, “ CHILTERN
“Our hounds have been poisoned in Trumpeton Wood. This would never have been done had not the keepers been against the hunting.”
Upon receipt of this she sent the letter to Mr Fothergill, with a request that there might be no more shooting in Trumpeton Wood. “I’ll be shot if we’ll stand that, you know,” said Mr Fothergill to one of his underlings. “There are two hundred and fifty acres in Trumpeton Wood, and we’re never to kill another pheasant because Lord Chiltern is Master of the Brake Hounds. Property won’t be worth having at that rate.”
The Duke by no means intended to abandon the world of politics, or even the narrower sphere of ministerial work, because he had been ousted from the House of Commons, and from the possibility of filling the office which he had best liked. This was proved to the world by the choice of his house for a meeting of the party on the 3Oth of March. As it happened, this was the very day on which he and the Duchess returned to London; but nevertheless the meeting was held there, and he was present at it. Mr Gresham then repeated his reasons for opposing Mr Daubeny’s bill; and declared that even while doing so he would, with the approbation of his party, pledge himself to bring in a bill somewhat to the same effect, should he ever again find himself in power. And he declared that he would do this solely with the view of showing how strong was his opinion that such a measure should not be left in the hands of the Conservative party. It was doubted whether such a political proposition had ever before been made in England. It was a simple avowal that on this occasion men were to be regarded, and not measures. No doubt such is the case, and ever has been the case, with the majority of active politicians. The double pleasure of pulling down an opponent, and of raising oneself, is the charm of a politician’s life. And by practice this becomes extended to so many branches, that the delights — and also the disappointments — are very widespread. Great satisfaction is felt by us because by some lucky conjunction of affairs our man, whom we never saw, is made Lord-Lieutenant of a county, instead of another man, of whom we know as little. It is a great thing to us that Sir Samuel Bobwig, an excellent Liberal, is seated high on the bench of justice, instead of that time-serving Conservative, Sir Alexander McSilk. Men and not measures are, no doubt, the very life of politics. But then it is not the fashion to say so in public places. Mr Gresham was determined to introduce that fashion on the present occasion. He did not think very much of Mr Daubeny’s Bill. So he told his friends at the Duke’s house. The Bill was full of faults — went too far in one direction, and not far enough in another. It was not difficult to pick holes in the Bill. But the sin of sins consisted in this — that it was to be passed, if passed at all, by the aid of men who would sin against their consciences by each vote they gave in its favour. What but treachery could be expected from an army in which every officer, and every private, was called upon to fight against his convictions? The meeting passed off with dissension, and it was agreed that the House of Commons should be called upon to reject the Church Bill simply because it was proposed from that side of the House on which the minority was sitting. As there were more than two hundred members present on the occasion, by none of whom were any objections raised, it seemed probable that Mr Gresham might be successful. There was still, however, doubt in the minds of some men. “It’s all very well,” said Mr Ratler, “but Turnbull wasn’t there, you know.”
But from what took place the next day but one in Park Lane it would almost seem that the Duchess had been there. She came at once to see Madame Goesler, having very firmly determined that the Duke’s death should not have the appearance of interrupting her intimacy with her friend. “Was it not very disagreeable,” — asked Madame Goesler — “just the day you came to town?”
“We didn’t think of that at all. One is not allowed to think of anything now. It was very improper, of course, because of the Duke’s death — but that had to be put on one side. And then it was quite contrary to etiquette that Peers and Commoners should be brought together. I think there was some idea of making sure of Plantagenet, and so they all came and wore out our carpets. There wasn’t above a dozen peers; but they were enough to show that all the old landmarks have been upset. I don’t think anyone would have objected if I had opened the meeting myself, and called upon Mrs Bonteen to second me.”
“Why Mrs Bonteen?”
“Because next to myself she’s the most talkative and political woman we have. She was at our house yesterday, and I’m not quite sure that she doesn’t intend to cut me out.”
“We must put her down, Lady Glen.”
“Perhaps she’ll put me down now that we’re half shelved. The men did make such a racket, and yet no one seemed to speak for two minutes except Mr Gresham, who stood upon my pet footstool, and kicked it almost to pieces.”
“Was Mr Finn there?”
“Everybody was there, I suppose. What makes you ask particularly about Mr Finn?”
“Because he’s a friend.”
“That’s come up again, has it? He’s the handsome Irishman, isn’t he, that came to Matching, the same day that brought you there?”
“He is an Irishman, and he was at Matching, that day.”
“He’s certainly handsome. What a day that was, Marie! When one thinks of it all — of all the perils and all the salvations, how strange it is! I wonder whether you would have liked it now if you were the Dowager Duchess.”
“I should have had some enjoyment, I suppose.”
“I don’t know that it would have done us any harm, and yet how keen I was about it. We can’t give you the rank now, and you won’t take the money.”
“Not the money, certainly.”
“Plantagenet says you’ll have to take it — but it seems to me he’s always wrong. There are so many things that one must do that one doesn’t do. He never perceives that everything gets changed every five years. So Mr Finn is the favourite again?”
“He is a friend whom I like. I may be allowed to have a friend, I suppose.”
“A dozen, my dear — and all of them good-looking. Goodbye, dear. Pray come to us. Don’t stand off and make yourself disagreeable. We shan’t be giving dinner parties, but you can come whenever you please. Tell me at once — do you mean to be disagreeable?”
Then Madame Goesler was obliged to promise that she would not be more disagreeable than her nature had made her.
A great deal was said by very many persons in London as to the murderous attack which had been made by Mr Kennedy on Phineas Finn in Judd Street, but the advice given by Mr Slide in the People’s Banner to the police was not taken. No public or official inquiry was made into the circumstance. Mr Kennedy, under the care of his cousin, retreated to Scotland; and, as it seemed, there was to be an end of it. Throughout the month of March various smaller bolts were thrust both at Phineas and at the police by the editor of the above-named newspaper, but they seemed to fall without much effect. No one was put in prison; nor was anyone ever examined. But, nevertheless, these missiles had their effect. Everybody knew that there had been a “row” between Mr Kennedy and Phineas Finn, and that the “row” had been made about Mr Kennedy’s wife. Everybody knew that a pistol had been fired at Finn’s head; and a great many people thought that there had been some cause for the assault. It was alleged at one club that the present member for Tankerville had spent the greater part of the last two years at Dresden, and at another that he had called on Mr Kennedy twice, once down in Scotland, and once at the hotel in Judd Street, with a view of inducing that gentleman to concede to a divorce. There was also a very romantic story afloat as to an engagement which had existed between Lady Laura and Phineas Finn before the lady had been induced by her father to marry the richer suitor. Various details were given in corroboration of these stories. Was it not known that the Earl had purchased the submission of Phineas Finn by a seat for his borough of Loughton? Was it not known that Lord Chiltern, the brother of Lady Laura, had fought a duel with Phineas Finn? Was it not known that Mr Kennedy himself had been as it were coerced into quiescence by the singular fact that he had been saved from garotters in the street by the opportune interference of Phineas Finn? It was even suggested that the scene with the garotters had been cunningly planned by Phineas Finn, that he might in this way be able to restrain the anger of the husband of the lady whom he loved. All these stories were very pretty; but as the reader, it is hoped, knows, they were all untrue. Phineas had made but one short visit to Dresden in his life. Lady Laura had been engaged to Mr Kennedy before Phineas had ever spoken to her of his love. The duel with Lord Chiltern had been about another lady, and the seat at Loughton had been conferred upon Phineas chiefly on account of his prowess in extricating Mr Kennedy from the garotters — respecting which circumstance it may be said that as the meeting in the street was fortuitous, the reward was greater than the occasion seemed to require.
While all these things were being said Phineas became something of a hero. A man who is supposed to have caused a disturbance between two married people, in a certain rank of life, does generally receive a certain need of admiration. A man who was asked out to dinner twice a week before such rumours were afloat, would probably receive double that number of invitations afterwards. And then to have been shot at by a madman in a room, and to be the subject of the venom of a People’s Banner, tends also to Fame. Other ladies besides Madame Goesler were anxious to have the story from the very lips of the hero, and in this way Phineas Finn became a conspicuous man. But Fame begets envy, and there were some who said that the member for Tankerville had injured his prospects with his party. It may be very well to give a dinner to a man who has caused the wife of a late Cabinet Minister to quarrel with her husband; but it can hardly be expected that he should be placed in office by the head of the party to which that late Cabinet Minister belonged. “I never saw such a fellow as you are,” said Barrington Erle to him. “You are always getting into a mess.”
“Nobody ought to know better than you how false all these calumnies are.” This he said because Erle and Lady Laura were cousins.
“Of course they are calumnies; but you had heard them before, and what made you go poking your head into the lion’s mouth?”
Mr Bonteen was very much harder upon him than was Barrington Erle. “I never liked him from the first, and always knew he would not run straight. No Irishman ever does.” This was said to Viscount Fawn, a distinguished member of the Liberal party, who had but lately been married, and was known to have very strict notions as to the bonds of matrimony. He had been heard to say that any man who had interfered with the happiness of a married couple should be held to have committed a capital offence.
“I don’t know whether the story about Lady Laura is true.”
“Of course it’s true. All the world knows it to be true. He was always there; at Loughlinter, and at Saulsby, and in Portman Square after she had left her husband. The mischief he has done is incalculable. There’s a Conservative sitting in poor Kennedy’s seat for Dunross-shire.”
“That might have been the case anyway.”
“Nothing could have turned Kennedy out. Don’t you remember how he behaved about the Irish Land Question? I hate such fellows.”
“If I thought it true about Lady Laura — ”
Lord Fawn was again about to express his opinion in regard to matrimony, but Mr Bonteen was too impetuous to listen to him. “It’s out of the question that he should come in again. At any rate if he does, I won’t. I shall tell Gresham so very plainly. The women will do all that they can for him. They always do for a fellow of that kind.”
Phineas heard of it — not exactly by any repetition of the words that were spoken, but by chance phrases, and from the looks of men. Lord Cantrip, who was his best friend among those who were certain to hold high office in a Liberal Government, did not talk to him cheerily — did not speak as though he, Phineas, would as a matter of course have some place assigned to him. And he thought that Mr Gresham was hardly as cordial to him as he might be when they met in the closer intercourse of the House. There was always a word or two spoken, and sometimes a shaking of hands. He had no right to complain. But yet he knew that something was wanting. We can generally read a man’s purpose towards us in his manner, if his purposes are of much moment to us.
Phineas had written to Lady Laura, giving her an account of the occurrence in Judd Street on the 1st of March, and had received from her a short answer by return of post. It contained hardly more than a thanksgiving that his life had not been sacrificed, and in a day or two she had written again, letting him know that she had determined to consult her father. Then on the last day of the month he received the following letter:
“ Dresden, 27th March, 18 — MY DEAR FRIEND,
At last we have resolved that we will go back to England — almost at once. Things have gone so rapidly that I hardly know how to explain them all, but that is Papa’s resolution. His lawyer, Mr Forster, tells him that it will be best, and goes so far as to say that it is imperative on my behalf that some steps should be taken to put an end to the present state of things. I will not scruple to tell you that he is actuated chiefly by considerations as to money. It is astonishing to me that a man who has all his life been so liberal should now in his old age think so much about it. It is, however, in no degree for himself. It is all for me. He cannot bear to think that my fortune should be withheld from me by Mr Kennedy while I have done nothing wrong. I was obliged to show him your letter, and what you said about the control of money took hold of his mind at once. He thinks that if my unfortunate husband be insane, there can be no difficulty in my obtaining a separation on terms which would oblige him or his friends to restore this horrid money.
“Of course I could stay if I chose. Papa would not refuse to find a home for me here. But I do agree with Mr Forster that something should be done to stop the tongues of ill-conditioned people. The idea of having my name dragged through the newspapers is dreadful to me; but if this must be done one way or the other, it will be better that it should be done with truth. There is nothing that I need fear — as you know so well.
“I cannot look forward to happiness anywhere. If the question of separation were once settled, I do not know whether I would not prefer returning here to remaining in London. Papa has got tired of the place, and wants, he says, to see Saulsby once again before he dies. What can I say in answer to this, but that I will go? We have sent to have the house in Portman Square got ready for us, and I suppose we shall be there about the 15th of next month. Papa has instructed Mr Forster to tell Mr Kennedy’s lawyer that we are coming, and he is to find out, if he can, whether any interference in the management of the property has been as yet made by the family. Perhaps I ought to tell you that Mr Forster has expressed surprise that you did not call on the police when the shot was fired. Of course I can understand it all. God bless you.
“Your affectionate friend, “L. K.”
Phineas was obliged to console himself by reflecting that if she understood him of course that was everything. His first and great duty in the matter had been to her. If in performing that duty he had sacrificed himself, he must bear his undeserved punishment like a man. That he was to be punished he began to perceive too clearly. The conviction that Mr Daubeny must recede from the Treasury Bench after the coming debate became every day stronger, and within the little inner circles of the Liberal party the usual discussions were made as to the Ministry which Mr Gresham would, as a matter of course, be called upon to form. But in these discussions Phineas Finn did not find himself taking an assured and comfortable part. Laurence Fitzgibbon, his countryman — who in the way of work had never been worth his salt — was eager, happy, and without a doubt. Others of the old stagers, men who had been going in and out ever since they had been able to get seats in Parliament, stood about in clubs, and in lobbies, and chambers of the House, with all that busy, magpie air which is worn only by those who have high hopes of good things to come speedily. Lord Mount Thistle was more sublime and ponderous than ever, though they who best understood the party declared that he would never again be invited to undergo the cares of office. His lordship was one of those terrible political burdens, engendered originally by private friendship or family considerations, which one Minister leaves to another. Sir Gregory Grogram, the great Whig lawyer, showed plainly by his manner that he thought himself at last secure of reaching the reward for which he had been struggling all his life; for it was understood by all men who knew anything that Lord Weazeling was not to be asked again to sit on the Woolsack. No better advocate or effective politician ever lived; but it was supposed that he lacked dignity for the office of first judge in the land. That most of the old lot would come back was a matter of course.
There would be the Duke — the Duke of St Bungay, who had for years past been “the Duke” when Liberal administrations were discussed, and the same Duke, whom we know so well; and Sir Harry Coldfoot, and Legge Wilson, Lord Cantrip, Lord Thrift, and the rest of them. There would of course be Lord Fawn, Mr Ratler, and Mr Erle. The thing was so thoroughly settled that one was almost tempted to think that the Prime Minister himself would have no voice in the selections to be made. As to one office it was acknowledged on all sides that a doubt existed which would at last be found to be very injurious — as some thought altogether crushing — to the party. To whom would Mr Gresham entrust the financial affairs of the country? Who would be the new Chancellor of the Exchequer? There were not a few who inferred that Mr Bonteen would be promoted to that high office. During the last two years he had devoted himself to decimal coinage with a zeal only second to that displayed by Plantagenet Palliser, and was accustomed to say of himself that he had almost perished under his exertions. It was supposed that he would have the support of the present Duke of Omnium — and that Mr Gresham, who disliked the man, would be coerced by the fact that there was no other competitor. That Mr Bonteen should go into the Cabinet would be gall and wormwood to many brother Liberals; but gall and wormwood such as this have to be swallowed. The rising in life of our familiar friends is, perhaps, the bitterest morsel of the bitter bread which we are called upon to eat in life. But we do eat it; and after a while it becomes food to us — when we find ourselves able to use, on behalf, perhaps, of our children, the influence of those whom we had once hoped to leave behind in the race of life. When a man suddenly shoots up into power few suffer from it very acutely. The rise of a Pitt can have caused no heart-burning. But Mr Bonteen had been a hack among the hacks, had filled the usual half-dozen places, had been a junior Lord, a Vice-President, a Deputy Controller, a Chief Commissioner, and a Joint Secretary. His hopes had been raised or abased among the places of oe1,000, oe1,200, or oe1,500 a year. He had hitherto culminated at oe2,000, and had been supposed with diligence to have worked himself up to the top of the ladder, as far as the ladder was accessible to him. And now he was spoken of in connection with one of the highest offices of the State! Of course this created much uneasiness, and gave rise to many prophecies of failure. But in the midst of it all no office was assigned to Phineas Finn; and there was a general feeling, not expressed, but understood, that his affair with Mr Kennedy stood in his way.
Quintus Slide had undertaken to crush him! Could it be possible that so mean a man should be able to make good so monstrous a threat? The man was very mean, and the threat had been absurd as well as monstrous; and yet it seemed that it might be realised. Phineas was too proud to ask questions, even of Barrington Erle, but he felt that he was being “left out in the cold”, because the editor of the People’s Banner had said that no government could employ him; and at this moment, on the very morning of the day which was to usher in the great debate, which was to be so fatal to Mr Daubeny and his Church Reform, another thunderbolt was hurled. The “we” of the People’s Banner had learned that the very painful matter, to which they had been compelled by a sense of duty to call the public attention in reference to the late member for Dunross-shire and the present member for Tankerville, would be brought before one of the tribunals of the country, in reference to the matrimonial differences between Mr Kennedy and his wife. It would be in the remembrance of their readers that the unfortunate gentleman had been provoked to fire a pistol at the head of the member for Tankerville — a circumstance which, though publicly known, had never been brought under the notice of the police. There was reason to hope that the mystery might now be cleared up, and that the ends of justice would demand that a certain document should be produced, which they — the “we’ — had been vexatiously restrained from giving to their readers, although it had been most carefully prepared for publication in the columns of the People’s Banner . Then the thunderbolt went on to say that there was evidently a great move among the members of the so-called Liberal party, who seemed to think that it was only necessary that they should open their mouths wide enough in order that the sweets of office should fall into them. The “we” were quite of a different opinion. The “we” believed that no Minister for many a long day had been so firmly fixed on the Treasury Bench as was Mr Daubeny at the present moment. But this at any rate might be inferred — that should Mr Gresham by any unhappy combination of circumstances be called upon to form a Ministry, it would be quite impossible for him to include within it the name of the member for Tankerville. This was the second great thunderbolt that fell — and so did the work of crushing our poor friend proceed.
There was a great injustice in all this; at least so Phineas thought — injustice, not only from the hands of Mr Slide, who was unjust as a matter of course, but also from those who ought to have been his staunch friends. He had been enticed over to England almost with a promise of office, and he was sure that he had done nothing which deserved punishment, or even censure. He could not condescend to complain — nor indeed as yet could he say that there was ground for complaint. Nothing had been done to him. Not a word had been spoken — except those lying words in the newspapers which he was too proud to notice. On one matter, however, he was determined to be firm. When Barrington Erle had absolutely insisted that he should vote upon the Church Bill in opposition to all that he had said upon the subject at Tankerville, he had stipulated that he should have an opportunity in the great debate which would certainly take place of explaining his conduct — or, in other words, that the privilege of making a speech should be accorded to him at a time in which very many members would no doubt attempt to speak and would attempt in vain. It may be imagined — probably still is imagined by a great many — that no such pledge as this could be given, that the right to speak depends simply on the Speaker’s eye, and that energy at the moment in attracting attention would alone be of account to an eager orator. But Phineas knew the House too well to trust to such a theory. That some preliminary assistance would be given to the travelling of the Speaker’s eye, in so important a debate, he knew very well; and he knew also that a promise from Barrington Erle or from Mr Ratler would be his best security. “That will be all right, of course,” said Barrington Erle to him on the evening the day before the debate: “We have quite counted on your speaking.” There had been a certain sullenness in the tone with which Phineas had asked his question as though he had been labouring under a grievance, and he felt himself rebuked by the cordiality of the reply. “I suppose we had better fix it for Monday or Tuesday,” said the other. “We hope to get it over by Tuesday, but there is no knowing. At any rate you shan’t be thrown over.” It was almost on his tongue — the entire story of his grievance, the expression of his feeling that he was not being treated as one of the chosen; but he restrained himself. He liked Barrington Erle well enough, but not so well as to justify him in asking for sympathy.
Nor had it been his wont in any of the troubles of his life to ask for sympathy from a man. He had always gone to some woman — in old days to Lady Laura, or to Violet Effingham, or to Madame Goesler. By them he could endure to be petted, praised, or upon occasion even pitied. But pity or praise from any man had been distasteful to him. On the morning of the 1st of April he again went to Park Lane, not with any formed plan of telling the lady of his wrongs, but driven by a feeling that he wanted comfort, which might perhaps be found there. The lady received him very kindly, and at once inquired as to the great political tournament which was about to be commenced. “Yes; we begin today,” said Phineas. “Mr Daubeny will speak, I should say, from half-past four till seven. I wonder you don’t go and hear him.”
“What a pleasure! To hear a man speak for two hours and a half about the Church of England. One must be very hard driven for amusement! Will you tell me that you like it?”
“I like to hear a good speech.”
“But you have the excitement before you of making a good speech in answer. You are in the fight. A poor woman, shut up in a cage, feels there more acutely than anywhere else how insignificant a position she fills in the world.”
“You don’t advocate the rights of women, Madame Goesler?”
“Oh, no. Knowing our inferiority I submit without a grumble; but I am not sure that I care to go and listen to the squabbles of my masters. You may arrange it all among you, and I will accept what you do, whether it be good or bad — as I must; but I cannot take so much interest in the proceeding as to spend my time in listening where I cannot speak, and in looking when I cannot be seen. You will speak?”
“Yes; I think so.”
“I shall read your speech, which is more than I shall do for most of the others. And when it is all over, will your turn come?”
“Not mine individually, Madame Goesler.”
“But it will be yours individually — will it not?” she asked with energy. Then gradually, with half-pronounced sentences, he explained to her that even in the event of the formation of a Liberal Government, he did not expect that any place would be offered to him. “And why not? We have been all speaking of it as a certainty.”
He longed to inquire who were the all of whom she spoke, but he could not do it without an egotism which would be distasteful to him. “I can hardly tell — but I don’t think I shall be asked to join them.”
“You would wish it?”
“Yes — talking to you I do not see why I should hesitate to say so.”
“Talking to me, why should you hesitate to say anything about yourself that is true? I can hold my tongue. I do not gossip about my friends. Whose doing is it?”
“I do not know that it is any man’s doing.”
“But it must be. Everybody said that you were to be one of them if you could get the other people out. Is it Mr Bonteen?”
“Likely enough. Not that I know anything of the kind; but as I hate him from the bottom of my heart, it is natural to suppose that he has the same feeling in regard to me.”
“I agree with you there.”
“But I don’t know that it comes from any feeling of that kind.”
“What does it come from?”
“You have heard all the calumny about Lady Laura Kennedy.”
“You do not mean to say that a story such as that has affected your position.”
“I fancy it has. But you must not suppose, Madame Goesler, that I mean to complain. A man must take these things as they come. No one has received more kindness from friends than I have, and few perhaps more favours from fortune. All this about Mr Kennedy has been unlucky — but it cannot be helped.”
“Do you mean to say that the morals of your party will be offended?” said Madame Goesler, almost laughing.
“Lord Fawn, you know, is very particular. In sober earnest one cannot tell how these things operate; but they do operate gradually. One’s friends are sometimes very glad of an excuse for not befriending one.”
“Lady Laura is coming home?”
“Yes.”
“That will put an end to it.”
“There is nothing to put an end to except the foul-mouthed malice of a lying newspaper. Nobody believes anything against Lady Laura.”
“I’m not so sure of that. I believe nothing against her.”
“I’m sure you do not, Madame Goesler. Nor do I think that anybody does. It is too absurd for belief from beginning to end. Goodbye. Perhaps I shall see you when the debate is over.”
“Of course you will. Goodbye, and success to your oratory.” Then Madame Goesler resolved that she would say a few judicious words to her friend, the Duchess, respecting Phineas Finn.
The great debate was commenced with all the solemnities which are customary on such occasions, and which make men think for the day that no moment of greater excitement has ever blessed or cursed the country. Upon the present occasion London was full of clergymen. The specially clerical clubs — the Oxford and Cambridge, the Old University, and the Athenaeum — were black with them. The bishops and deans, as usual, were pleasant in their manner and happy-looking, in spite of adverse circumstances. When one sees a bishop in the hours of the distress of the Church, one always thinks of the just and firm man who will stand fearless while the ruins of the world are falling about his ears. But the parsons from the country were a sorry sight to see. They were in earnest with all their hearts, and did believe — not that the crack of doom was coming, which they could have borne with equanimity if convinced that their influence would last to the end — but that the Evil One was to be made welcome upon the earth by Act of Parliament. It is out of nature that any man should think it good that his own order should be repressed, curtailed, and deprived of its power. If we go among cab-drivers or letter-carriers, among butlers or gamekeepers, among tailors or butchers, among farmers or graziers, among doctors or attorneys, we shall find in each set of men a conviction that the welfare of the community depends upon the firmness with which they — especially they — hold their own. This is so manifestly true with the Bar that no barrister in practice scruples to avow that barristers in practice are the salt of the earth. The personal confidence of a judge in his own position is beautiful, being salutary to the country, though not unfrequently damaging to the character of the man. But if this be so with men who are conscious of no higher influence than that exercised over the bodies and minds of their fellow creatures, how much stronger must be the feeling when the influence affects the soul! To the outsider, or layman, who simply uses a cab, or receives a letter, or goes to law, or has to be tried, these pretensions are ridiculous or annoying, according to the ascendancy of the pretender at the moment. But as the clerical pretensions are more exacting than all others, being put forward with an assertion that no answer is possible without breach of duty and sin, so are they more galling. The fight has been going on since the idea of a mitre first entered the heart of a priest — since dominion in this world has found itself capable of sustentation by the exercise of fear as to the world to come. We do believe — the majority among us does so — that if we live and die in sin we shall after some fashion come to great punishment, and we believe also that by having pastors among us who shall be men of God, we may best aid ourselves and our children in avoiding this bitter end. But then the pastors and men of God can only be human — cannot be altogether men of God; and so they have oppressed us, and burned us, and tortured us, and hence come to love palaces, and fine linen, and purple, and, alas, sometimes, mere luxury and idleness. The torturing and the burning, as also to speak truth the luxury and the idleness, have, among us, been already conquered, but the idea of ascendancy remains. What is a thoughtful man to do who acknowledges the danger of his soul, but cannot swallow his parson whole simply because he has been sent to him from some source in which he has no special confidence, perhaps by some distant lord, perhaps by a Lord Chancellor whose political friend has had a son with a tutor? What is he to do when, in spite of some fine linen and purple left among us, the provision for the man of God in his parish or district is so poor that no man of God fitted to teach him will come and take it? In no spirit of animosity to religion he begins to tell himself that Church and State together was a monkish combination, fit perhaps for monkish days, but no longer having fitness, and not much longer capable of existence in this country. But to the parson himself — to the honest, hardworking, conscientious priest who does in his heart of hearts believe that no diminution in the general influence of his order can be made without ruin to the souls of men — this opinion, when it becomes dominant, is as though the world were in truth breaking to pieces over his head. The world has been broken to pieces in the same way often — but extreme Chaos does not come. The cabman and the letter-carrier always expect that Chaos will very nearly come when they are disturbed. The barristers are sure of Chaos when the sanctity of Benchers is in question. What utter Chaos would be promised to us could anyone with impunity contemn the majesty of the House of Commons! But of all these Chaoses there can be no Chaos equal to that which in the mind of a zealous Oxford-bred constitutional country parson must attend that annihilation of his special condition which will be produced by the disestablishment of the Church. Of all good fellows he is the best good fellow. He is genial, hospitable, well-educated, and always has either a pretty wife or pretty daughters. But he has so extreme a belief in himself that he cannot endure to be told that absolute Chaos will not come at once if he be disturbed. And now disturbances — ay, and utter dislocation and ruin were to come from the hands of a friend! Was it wonderful that parsons should be seen about Westminster in flocks with “ Et Tu, Brute “ written on their faces as plainly as the law on the brows of a Pharisee?
The Speaker had been harassed for orders. The powers and prowess of every individual member had been put to the test. The galleries were crowded. Ladies’ places had been ballotted for with desperate enthusiasm, in spite of the sarcasm against the House which Madame Goesler had expressed. Two royal princes and a royal duke were accommodated within the House in an irregular manner. Peers swarmed in the passages, and were too happy to find standing room. Bishops jostled against lay barons with no other preference than that afforded to them by their broader shoulders. Men, and especially clergymen, came to the galleries loaded with sandwiches and flasks, prepared to hear all there was to be heard should the debate last from 4 P . M . to the same hour on the following morning. At two in the afternoon the entrances to the House were barred, and men of all ranks — deans, prebends, peers’ sons, and baronets — stood there patiently waiting till some powerful nobleman should let them through. The very ventilating chambers under the House were filled with courteous listeners, who had all pledged themselves that under no possible provocation would they even cough during the debate.
A few minutes after four, in a House from which hardly more than a dozen members were absent, Mr Daubeny took his seat with that air of affected indifference to things around him which is peculiar to him. He entered slowly, amidst cheers from his side of the House, which no doubt were loud in proportion to the dismay of the cheerers as to the matter in hand. Gentlemen lacking substantial sympathy with their leader found it to be comfortable to deceive themselves, and raise their hearts at the same time by the easy enthusiasm of noise. Mr Daubeny having sat down and covered his head just raised his hat from his brows, and then tried to look as though he were no more than any other gentleman present. But the peculiar consciousness of the man displayed itself even in his constrained absence of motion. You could see that he felt himself to be the beheld of all beholders, and that he enjoyed the position — with some slight inward trepidation lest the effort to be made should not equal the greatness of the occasion. Immediately after him Mr Gresham bustled up the centre of the House amidst a roar of good-humoured welcome. We have had many Ministers who have been personally dearer to their individual adherents in the House than the present leader of the Opposition and late Premier, but none, perhaps, who has been more generally respected by his party for earnestness and sincerity. On the present occasion there was a fierceness, almost a ferocity, in his very countenance, to the fire of which friends and enemies were equally anxious to add fuel — the friends in order that so might these recreant Tories be more thoroughly annihilated, and the enemies, that their enemy’s indiscretion might act back upon himself to his confusion. For, indeed, it never could be denied that as a Prime Minister Mr Gresham could be very indiscreet.
A certain small amount of ordinary business was done, to the disgust of expectant strangers, which was as trivial as possible in its nature — so arranged, apparently, that the importance of what was to follow might be enhanced by the force of contrast. And, to make the dismay of the novice stranger more thorough, questions were asked and answers were given in so low a voice, and Mr Speaker uttered a word or two in so quick and shambling a fashion, that he, the novice stranger, began to fear that no word of the debate would reach him up there in his crowded back seat. All this, however, occupied but a few minutes, and at twenty minutes past four Mr Daubeny was on his legs. Then the novice stranger found that, though he could not see Mr Daubeny without the aid of an opera glass, he could hear every word that fell from his lips.
Mr Daubeny began by regretting the hardness of his position, in that he must, with what thoroughness he might be able to achieve, apply himself to two great subjects, whereas the right honourable gentleman opposite had already declared, with all the formality which could be made to attach itself to a combined meeting of peers and commoners, that he would confine himself strictly to one. The subject selected by the right honourable gentleman opposite on the present occasion was not the question of Church Reform. The right honourable gentleman had pledged himself with an almost sacred enthusiasm to ignore that subject altogether. No doubt it was the question before the House, and he, himself — the present speaker — must unfortunately discuss it at some length. The right honourable gentleman opposite would not, on this great occasion, trouble himself with anything of so little moment. And it might be presumed that the political followers of the right honourable gentleman would be equally reticent, as they were understood to have accepted his tactics without a dissentient voice. He, Mr Daubeny, was the last man in England to deny the importance of the question which the right honourable gentleman would select for discussions in preference to that of the condition of the Church. That question was a very simple one, and might be put to the House in a very few words. Coming from the mouth of the right honourable gentleman, the proposition would probably be made in this form: “That this House does think that I ought to be Prime Minister now, and as long as I may possess a seat in this House.” It was impossible to deny the importance of that question; but perhaps he, Mr Daubeny, might be justified in demurring to the preference given to it over every other matter, let that matter be of what importance it might be to the material welfare of the country.
He made his point well; but he made it too often. And an attack of that kind, personal and savage in its nature, loses its effect when it is evident that the words have been prepared. A good deal may be done in dispute by calling a man an ass or a knave — but the resolve to use the words should have been made only at the moment, and they should come hot from the heart. There was much neatness and some acuteness in Mr Daubeny’s satire, but there was no heat, and it was prolix. It had, however, the effect of irritating Mr Gresham — as was evident from the manner in which he moved his hat and shuffled his feet.
A man destined to sit conspicuously on our Treasury Bench, or on the seat opposite to it, should ask the gods for a thick skin as a first gift. The need of this in our national assembly is greater than elsewhere, because the differences between the men opposed to each other are smaller. When two foes meet together in the same Chamber, one of whom advocates the personal government of an individual ruler, and the other that form of State, which has come to be called a Red Republic, they deal, no doubt, weighty blows of oratory at each other, but blows which never hurt at the moment. They may cut each other’s throats if they can find an opportunity; but they do not bite each other like dogs over a bone. But when opponents are almost in accord, as is always the case with our parliamentary gladiators, they are ever striving to give maddening little wounds through the joints of the harness. What is there with us to create the divergence necessary for debate but the pride of personal skill in the encounter? Who desires among us to put down the Queen, or to repudiate the National Debt, or to destroy religious worship, or even to disturb the ranks of society? When some small measure of reform has thoroughly recommended itself to the country — so thoroughly that all men know that the country will have it — then the question arises whether its details shall be arranged by the political party which calls itself Liberal — or by that which is termed Conservative. The men are so near to each other in all their convictions and theories of life that nothing is left to them but personal competition for the doing of the thing that is to be done. It is the same in religion. The apostle of Christianity and the infidel can meet without a chance of a quarrel; but it is never safe to bring together two men who differ about a saint or a surplice.
Mr Daubeny, having thus attacked and wounded his enemy, rushed boldly into the question of Church Reform, taking no little pride to himself and to his party that so great a blessing should be bestowed upon the country from so unexpected a source. “See what we Conservatives can do. In fact we will conserve nothing when we find that you do not desire to have it conserved any longer. “” Quod minime reris Graia+ac pandetur ab urbe .’’” It was exactly the reverse of the complaint which Mr Gresham was about to make. On the subject of the Church itself he was rather misty but very profound. He went into the question of very early Churches indeed, and spoke of the misappropriation of endowments in the time of Eli. The establishment of the Levites had been no doubt complete; but changes had been effected as circumstances required. He was presumed to have alluded to the order of Melchisedek, but he abstained from any mention of the name. He roamed very wide, and gave many of his hearers an idea that his erudition had carried him into regions in which it was impossible to follow him. The gist of his argument was to show that audacity in Reform was the very backbone of Conservatism. By a clearly pronounced disunion of Church and State the theocracy of Thomas à Becket would be restored, and the people of England would soon again become the faithful flocks of faithful shepherds. By taking away the endowments from the parishes, and giving them back in some complicated way to the country, the parishes would be better able than ever to support their clergymen. Bishops would be bishops indeed, when they were no longer the creatures of a Minister’s breath. As to the deans, not seeing a clear way to satisfy aspirants for future vacancies in the deaneries, he became more than usually vague, but seemed to imply that the Bill which was now with the leave of the House to be read a second time, contained no clause forbidding the appointment of deans, though the special stipend of the office must be matter of consideration with the new Church Synod.
The details of this part of his speech were felt to be dull by the strangers. As long as he would abuse Mr Gresham, men could listen with pleasure; and could keep their attention fixed while he referred to the general Conservatism of the party which he had the honour of leading. There was a raciness in the promise of so much Church destruction from the chosen leader of the Church party, which was assisted by a conviction in the minds of most men that it was impossible for unfortunate Conservatives to refuse to follow this leader, let him lead where he might. There was a gratification in feeling that the country party was bound to follow, even should he take them into the very bowels of a mountain, as the pied piper did the children of Hamelin — and this made listening pleasant. But when Mr Daubeny stated the effect of his different clauses, explaining what was to be taken and what left — with a fervent assurance that what was to be left would, under the altered circumstances, go much further than the whole had gone before — then the audience became weary, and began to think that it was time that some other gentleman should be upon his legs. But at the end of the Minister’s speech there was another touch of invective which went far to redeem him. He returned to that personal question to which his adversary had undertaken to confine himself, and expressed a holy horror at the political doctrine which was implied. He, during a prolonged Parliamentary experience, had encountered much factious opposition. He would even acknowledge that he had seen it exercised on both sides of the House, though he had always striven to keep himself free from its baneful influence. But never till now had he known a statesman proclaim his intention of depending upon faction, and upon faction alone, for the result which he desired to achieve. Let the right honourable gentleman raise a contest on either the principles or the details of the measure, and he would be quite content to abide the decision of the House; but he should regard such a raid as that threatened against him and his friends by the right honourable gentleman as unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. He felt sure that an opposition so based, and so maintained, even if it be enabled by the heated feelings of the moment to obtain an unfortunate success in the House, would not be encouraged by the sympathy and support of the country at large. By these last words he was understood to signify that should he be beaten on the second reading, not in reference to the merits of the Bill, but simply on the issue as proposed by Mr Gresham, he would again dissolve the House before he would resign. Now it was very well understood that there were Liberal members in the House who would prefer even the success of Mr Daubeny to a speedy reappearance before their constituents.
Mr Daubeny spoke till nearly eight, and it was surmised at the time that he had craftily arranged his oratory so as to embarrass his opponent. The House had met at four, and was to sit continuously till it was adjourned for the night. When this is the case, gentlemen who speak about eight o’clock are too frequently obliged to address themselves to empty benches. On the present occasion it was Mr Gresham’s intention to follow his opponent at once, instead of waiting, as is usual with a leader of his party, to the close of the debate. It was understood that Mr Gresham would follow Mr Daubeny, with the object of making a distinct charge against Ministers, so that the vote on this second reading of the Church Bill might in truth be a vote of want of confidence. But to commence his speech at eight o’clock when the House was hungry and uneasy, would be a trial. Had Mr Daubeny closed an hour sooner there would, with a little stretching of the favoured hours, have been time enough. Members would not have objected to postpone their dinner till half-past eight, or perhaps nine, when their favourite orator was on his legs. But with Mr Gresham beginning a great speech at eight, dinner would altogether become doubtful, and the disaster might be serious. It was not probable that Mr Daubeny had even among his friends proclaimed any such strategy; but it was thought by the political speculators of the day that such an idea had been present to his mind.
But Mr Gresham was not to be turned from his purpose. He waited for a few moments, and then rose and addressed the Speaker. A few members left the House — gentlemen, doubtless, whose constitutions, weakened by previous service, could not endure prolonged fasting. Some who had nearly reached the door returned to their seats, mindful of Messrs Roby and Ratler. But for the bulk of those assembled the interest of the moment was greater even than the love of dinner. Some of the peers departed, and it was observed that a bishop or two left the House; but among the strangers in the gallery, hardly a foot of space was gained. He who gave up his seat then, gave it up for the night.
Mr Gresham began with a calmness of tone which seemed almost to be affected, but which arose from a struggle on his own part to repress that superabundant energy of which he was only too conscious. But the calmness soon gave place to warmth, which heated itself into violence before he had been a quarter of an hour upon his legs. He soon became even ferocious in his invective, and said things so bitter that he had himself no conception of their bitterness. There was this difference between the two men — that whereas Mr Daubeny hit always as hard as he knew how to hit, having premeditated each blow, and weighed its results beforehand, having calculated his power even to the effect of a blow repeated on a wound already given, Mr Gresham struck right and left and straightforward with a readiness engendered by practice, and in his fury might have murdered his antagonist before he was aware that he had drawn blood. He began by refusing absolutely to discuss the merits of the bill. The right honourable gentleman had prided himself on his generosity as a Greek. He would remind the right honourable gentleman that presents from Greeks had ever been considered dangerous. “It is their gifts, and only their gifts, that we fear,” he said. The political gifts of the right honourable gentleman, extracted by him from his unwilling colleagues and followers, had always been more bitter to the taste than Dead Sea apples. That such gifts should not be bestowed on the country by unwilling hands, that reform should not come from those who themselves felt the necessity of no reform, he believed to be the wish not only of that House, but of the country at large. Would any gentleman on that bench, excepting the right honourable gentleman himself — and he pointed to the crowded phalanx of the Government — get up and declare that this measure of Church Reform, this severance of Church and State, was brought forward in consonance with his own long-cherished political conviction? He accused that party of being so bound to the chariot wheels of the right honourable gentleman, as to be unable to abide by their own convictions. And as to the right honourable gentleman himself, he would appeal to his followers opposite to say whether the right honourable gentleman was possessed of any one strong political conviction.
He had been accused of being unconstitutional, revolutionary, and tyrannical. If the House would allow him he would very shortly explain his idea of constitutional government as carried on in this country. It was based and built on majorities in that House, and supported solely by that power. There could be no constitutional government in this country that was not so maintained. Any other government must be both revolutionary and tyrannical. Any other government was a usurpation; and he would make bold to tell the right honourable gentleman that a Minister in this country who should recommend Her Majesty to trust herself to advisers not supported by a majority of the House of Commons, would plainly be guilty of usurping the powers of the State. He threw from him with disdain the charge which had been brought against himself of hankering after the sweets of office. He indulged and gloried in indulging the highest ambition of an English subject. But he gloried much more in the privileges and power of that House, within the walls of which was centred all that was salutary, all that was efficacious, all that was stable in the political constitution of his country. It had been his pride to have acted during nearly all his political life with that party which had commanded a majority, but he would defy his most bitter adversary, he would defy the right honourable gentleman himself, to point to any period of his career in which he had been unwilling to succumb to a majority when he himself had belonged to the minority.
He himself would regard the vote on this occasion as a vote of want of confidence. He took the line he was now taking because he desired to bring the House to a decision on that question. He himself had not that confidence in the right honourable gentleman which would justify him in accepting a measure on so important a subject as the union or severance of Church and State from his hands. Should the majority of the House differ from him and support the second reading of the Bill, he would at once so far succumb as to give his best attention to the clauses of the bill, and endeavour with the assistance of those gentlemen who acted with him to make it suitable to the wants of the country by omissions and additions as the clauses should pass through Committee. But before doing that he would ask the House to decide with all its solemnity and all its weight whether it was willing to accept from the hands of the right honourable gentleman any measure of reform on a matter so important as this now before them. It was nearly ten when he sat down; and then the stomach of the House could stand it no longer, and an adjournment at once took place.
On the next morning it was generally considered that Mr Daubeny had been too long and Mr Gresham too passionate. There were some who declared that Mr Gresham had never been finer than when he described the privileges of the House of Commons; and others who thought that Mr Daubeny’s lucidity had been marvellous; but in this case, as in most others, the speeches of the day were generally thought to have been very inferior to the great efforts of the past.
Before the House met again, the quidnuncs about the clubs, on both sides of the question, had determined that Mr Gresham’s speech, whether good or not as an effort of oratory, would serve its intended purpose. He would be backed by a majority of votes, and it might have been very doubtful whether such would have been the case had he attempted to throw out the Bill on its merits. Mr Ratler, by the time that prayers had been read, had become almost certain of success. There were very few Liberals in the House who were not anxious to declare by their votes that they had no confidence in Mr Daubeny. Mr Turnbull, the great Radical, and, perhaps, some two dozen with him, would support the second reading, declaring that they could not reconcile it with their consciences to record a vote in favour of a union of Church and State. On all such occasions as the present Mr Turnbull was sure to make himself disagreeable to those who sat near to him in the House. He was a man who thought that so much was demanded of him in order that his independence might be doubted by none. It was nothing to him he was wont to say who called himself Prime Minister, or Secretary here or President there. But then there would be quite as much of this independence on the Conservative as on the Liberal side of the House. Surely there would be more than two dozen gentlemen who would be true enough to the cherished principles of their whole lives to vote against such a Bill as this! It was the fact that there were so very few so true which added such a length to the faces of the country parsons. Six months ago not a country gentleman in England would have listened to such a proposition without loud protests as to its revolutionary wickedness. And now, under the sole pressure of one man’s authority, the subject had become so common that men were assured that the thing would be done even though of all things that could be done it were the worst. “It is no good any longer having any opinion upon anything,” one parson said to another, as they sat together at their club with their newspapers in their hands. “Nothing frightens anyone — no infidelity, no wickedness, no revolution. All reverence is at an end, and the Holy of Holies is no more even to the worshipper than the threshold of the Temple.” Though it became known that the Bill would be lost, what comfort was there in that, when the battle was to be won, not by the chosen Israelites to whom the Church with all its appurtenances ought to be dear, but by a crew of Philistines who would certainly follow the lead of their opponents in destroying the holy structure?
On the Friday the debate was continued with much life on the Ministerial side of the House. It was very easy for them to cry Faction! Faction! and hardly necessary for them to do more. A few parrot words had been learned as to the expediency of fitting the great and increasing Church of England to the growing necessity of the age. That the CHURCH OF ENGLAND would still be the CHURCH OF ENGLAND was repeated till weary listeners were sick of the unmeaning words. But the zeal of the combatants was displayed on that other question. Faction was now the avowed weapon of the leaders of the so-called Liberal side of the House, and it was very easy to denounce the new doctrine. Every word that Mr Gresham had spoken was picked in pieces, and the enormity of his theory was exhibited. He had boldly declared to them that they were to regard men and not measures, and they were to show by their votes whether they were prepared to accept such teaching. The speeches were, of course, made by alternate orators, but the firing from the Conservative benches was on this evening much the louder.
It would have seemed that with such an issue between them they might almost have consented to divide after the completion of the two great speeches. The course on which they were to run had been explained to them, and it was not probable that any member’s intention as to his running would now be altered by anything that he might hear. Mr Turnbull’s two dozen defaulters were all known, and the two dozen and four true Conservatives were known also. But, nevertheless, a great many members were anxious to speak. It would be the great debate of the Session, and the subject to be handled — that, namely, of the general merits and demerits of the two political parties — was wide and very easy. On that night it was past one o’clock when Mr Turnbull adjourned the House.
“I’m afraid we must put you off till Tuesday,” Mr Ratler said on the Sunday afternoon to Phineas Finn.
“I have no objection at all, so long as I get a fair place on that day.”
“There shan’t be a doubt about that. Gresham particularly wants you to speak, because you are pledged to a measure of disestablishment. You can insist on his own views — that even should such a measure be essentially necessary — ”
“Which I think it is,” said Phineas.
“Still it should not be accepted from the old Church-and-State party.”
There was something pleasant in this to Phineas Finn — something that made him feel for the moment that he had perhaps mistaken the bearing of his friend towards him. “We are sure of a majority, I suppose,” he said.
“Absolutely sure,” said Ratler. “I begin to think it will amount to half a hundred — perhaps more.”
“What will Daubeny do?”
“Go out. He can’t do anything else. His pluck is certainly wonderful, but even with his pluck he can’t dissolve again. His Church Bill has given him a six months’ run, and six months is something.”
“Is it true that Grogram is to be Chancellor?” Phineas asked the question, not from any particular solicitude as to the prospects of Sir Gregory Grogram, but because he was anxious to hear whether Mr Ratler would speak to him with anything of the cordiality of fellowship respecting the new Government. But Mr Ratler became at once discreet and close, and said that he did not think that anything as yet was known as to the Woolsack. Then Phineas retreated again within his shell, with a certainty that nothing would be done for him.
And yet to whom could this question of place be of such vital importance as it was to him? He had come back to his old haunts from Ireland, abandoning altogether the pleasant safety of an assured income, buoyed by the hope of office. He had, after a fashion, made his calculations. In the present disposition of the country it was, he thought, certain that the Liberal party must, for the next twenty years, have longer periods of power than their opponents; and he had thought also that were he in the House, some place would eventually be given to him. He had been in office before, and had been especially successful. He knew that it had been said of him that of the young debutants of latter years he had been the best. He had left his party by opposing them; but he had done so without creating any ill-will among the leaders of his party — in a manner that had been regarded as highly honourable to him, and on departing had received expressions of deep regret from Mr Gresham himself. When Barrington Erle had wanted him to return to his old work, his own chief doubt had been about the seat. But he had been bold and had adventured all, and had succeeded. There had been some little trouble about those pledges given at Tankerville, but he would be able to turn them even to the use of his party. It was quite true that nothing had been promised him; but Erle, when he had written, bidding him to come over from Ireland, must have intended him to understand that he would be again enrolled in the favoured regiment, should he be able to show himself as the possessor of a seat in the House. And yet — yet he felt convinced that when the day should come it would be to him a day of disappointment, and that when the list should appear his name would not be on it. Madame Goesler had suggested to him that Mr Bonteen might be his enemy, and he had replied by stating that he himself hated Mr Bonteen. He now remembered that Mr Bonteen had hardly spoken to him since his return to London, though there had not in fact been any quarrel between them. In this condition of mind he longed to speak openly to Barrington Erle, but he was restrained by a feeling of pride, and a still existing idea that no candidate for office, let his claim be what it might, should ask for a place. On that Sunday evening he saw Bonteen at the club. Men were going in and out with that feverish excitement which always prevails on the eve of a great parliamentary change. A large majority against the Government was considered to be certain; but there was an idea abroad that Mr Daubeny had some scheme in his head by which to confute the immediate purport of his enemies. There was nothing to which the audacity of the man was not equal. Some said that he would dissolve the House — which had hardly as yet been six months sitting. Others were of opinion that he would simply resolve not to vacate his place — thus defying the majority of the House and all the ministerial traditions of the country. Words had fallen from him which made some men certain that such was his intention. That it should succeed ultimately was impossible. The whole country would rise against him. Supplies would be refused. In every detail of Government he would be impeded. But then — such was the temper of the man — it was thought that all these horrors would not deter him. There would be a blaze and a confusion, in which timid men would doubt whether the constitution would be burned to tinder or only illuminated; but that blaze and that confusion would be dear to Mr Daubeny if he could stand as the centre figure — the great pyrotechnist who did it all, red from head to foot with the glare of the squibs with which his own hands were filling all the spaces. The anticipation that some such display might take place made men busy and eager; so that on that Sunday evening they roamed about from one place of meeting to another, instead of sitting at home with their wives and daughters. There was at this time existing a small club — so called though unlike other clubs — which had entitled itself the Universe. The name was supposed to be a joke, as it was limited to ninety-nine members. It was domiciled in one simple and somewhat mean apartment. It was kept open only one hour before and one hour after midnight, and that only on two nights of the week, and that only when Parliament was sitting. Its attractions were not numerous, consisting chiefly of tobacco and tea. The conversation was generally listless and often desultory; and occasionally there would arise the great and terrible evil of a punster whom everyone hated but no one had life enough to put down. But the thing had been a success, and men liked to be members of the Universe. Mr Bonteen was a member, and so was Phineas Finn. On this Sunday evening the club was open, and Phineas, as he entered the room, perceived that his enemy was seated alone on a corner of a sofa. Mr Bonteen was not a man who loved to be alone in public places, and was apt rather to make one of congregations, affecting popularity, and always at work increasing his influence. But on this occasion his own greatness had probably isolated him. If it were true that he was to be the new Chancellor of the Exchequer — to ascend from demi-godhead to the perfect divinity of the Cabinet — and to do so by a leap which would make him high even among first-class gods, it might be well for himself to look to himself and choose new congregations. Or, at least, it would be becoming that he should be chosen now instead of being a chooser. He was one who could weigh to the last ounce the importance of his position, and make most accurate calculations as to the effect of his intimacies. On that very morning Mr Gresham had suggested to him that in the event of a Liberal Government being formed, he should hold the high office in question. This, perhaps, had not been done in the most flattering manner, as Mr Gresham had deeply bewailed the loss of Mr Palliser, and had almost demanded a pledge from Mr Bonteen that he would walk exactly in Mr Palliser’s footsteps — but the offer had been made, and could not be retracted; and Mr Bonteen already felt the warmth of the halo of perfect divinity.
There are some men who seem to have been born to be Cabinet Ministers — dukes mostly, or earls, or the younger sons of such — who have been trained to it from their very cradles, and of whom we may imagine that they are subject to no special awe when they first enter into that august assembly, and feel but little personal elevation. But to the political aspirant not born in the purple of public life, this entrance upon the counsels of the higher deities must be accompanied by a feeling of supreme triumph, dashed by considerable misgivings. Perhaps Mr Bonteen was revelling in his triumph — perhaps he was anticipating his misgivings. Phineas, though disinclined to make any inquiries of a friend which might seem to refer to his own condition, felt no such reluctance in regard to one who certainly could not suspect him of asking a favour. He was presumed to be on terms of intimacy with the man, and he took his seat beside him, asking some question as to the debate. Now Mr Bonteen had more than once expressed an opinion among his friends that Phineas Finn would throw his party over, and vote with the Government. The Ratlers and Erles and Fitzgibbons all knew that Phineas was safe, but Mr Bonteen was still in doubt. It suited him to affect something more than doubt on the present occasion. “I wonder that you should ask me,” said Mr Bonteen.
“What do you mean by that?”
“I presume that you, as usual, will vote against us.”
“I never voted against my party but once,” said Phineas, “and then I did it with the approbation of every man in it for whose good opinion I cared a straw.” There was insult in his tone as he said this, and something near akin to insult in his words.
“You must do it again now, or break every promise that you made at Tankerville.”
“Do you know what promise I made at Tankerville? I shall break no promise.”
“You must allow me to say, Mr Finn, that the kind of independence which is practised by you and Mr Monk, grand as it may be on the part of men who avowedly abstain from office, is a little dangerous when it is now and again adopted by men who have taken place. I like to be sure that the men who are in the same boat with me won’t take it into their heads that their duty requires them to scuttle the ship.” Having so spoken, Mr Bonteen, with nearly all the grace of a full-fledged Cabinet Minister, rose from his seat on the corner of the sofa and joined a small congregation.
Phineas felt that his ears were tingling and that his face was red. He looked round to ascertain from the countenances of others whether they had heard what had been said. Nobody had been close to them, and he thought that the conversation had been unnoticed. He knew now that he had been imprudent in addressing himself to Mr Bonteen, though the question that he had first asked had been quite commonplace. As it was, the man, he thought, had been determined to affront him, and had made a charge against him which he could not allow to pass unnoticed. And then there was all the additional bitterness in it which arose from the conviction that Bonteen had spoken the opinion of other men as well as his own, and that he had plainly indicated that the gates of the official paradise were to be closed against the presumed offender, Phineas had before believed that it was to be so, but that belief had now become assurance. He got up in his misery to leave the room, but as he did so he met Laurence Fitzgibbon. “You have heard the news about Bonteen?” said Laurence.
“What news?”
“He’s to be pitchforked up to the Exchequer. They say it’s quite settled. The higher a monkey climbs — you know the proverb.” So saying Laurence Fitzgibbon passed into the room, and Phineas Finn took his departure in solitude.
And so the man with whom he had managed to quarrel utterly was to be one in the Cabinet, a man whose voice would probably be potential in the selection of minor members of the Government. It seemed to him to be almost incredible that such a one as Mr Bonteen should be chosen for such an office. He had despised almost as soon as he had known Mr Bonteen, and had rarely heard the future manager of the finance of the country spoken of with either respect or regard. He had regarded Mr Bonteen as a useful, dull, unscrupulous politician, well accustomed to Parliament, acquainted with the bye-paths and back doors of official life — and therefore certain of employment when the Liberals were in power; but there was no one in the party he had thought less likely to be selected for high place. And yet this man was to be made Chancellor of the Exchequer, while he, Phineas Finn, very probably at this man’s instance, was to be left out in the cold.
He knew himself to be superior to the man he hated, to have higher ideas of political life, and to be capable of greater political sacrifices. He himself had sat shoulder to shoulder with many men on the Treasury Bench whose political principles he had not greatly valued; but of none of them had he thought so little as he had done of Mr Bonteen. And yet this Mr Bonteen was to be the new Chancellor of the Exchequer! He walked home to his lodgings in Marlborough Street wretched because of his own failure — doubly wretched because of the other man’s success.
He laid awake half the night thinking of the words that had been spoken to him, and after breakfast on the following morning he wrote the following note to his enemy:
“House of Commons, 5th April, 18 — “ DEAR MR BONTEEN,
“It is matter of extreme regret to me that last night at the Universe I should have asked you some chance question about the coming division. Had I guessed to what it might have led, I should not have addressed you. But as it is I can hardly abstain from noticing what appeared to me to be a personal charge made against myself with a great want of the courtesy which is supposed to prevail among men who have acted together. Had we never done so my original question to you might perhaps have been deemed an impertinence.
“As it was, you accused me of having been dishonest to my party, and of having ““scuttled the ship.’” On the occasion to which you alluded I acted with much consideration, greatly to the detriment of my own prospects — and as I believed with the approbation of all who knew anything of the subject. If you will make inquiry of Mr Gresham, or Lord Cantrip who was then my chief, I think that either will tell you that my conduct on that occasion was not such as to lay me open to reproach. If you will do this, I think that you cannot fail afterwards to express regret for what you said to me last night.
“Yours sincerely, “ PHINEAS FINN . “Thos. Bonteen, Esq., M.P.”
He did not like the letter when he had written it, but he did not know how to improve it, and he sent it.
On the Monday Mr Turnbull opened the ball by declaring his reasons for going into the same lobby with Mr Daubeny. This he did at great length. To him all the mighty pomp and all the little squabbles of office were, he said, as nothing. He would never allow himself to regard the person of the Prime Minister. The measure before the House ever had been and ever should be all in all to him. If the public weal were more regarded in that House, and the quarrels of men less considered, he thought that the service of the country would be better done. He was answered by Mr Monk, who was sitting near him, and who intended to support Mr Gresham. Mr Monk was rather happy in pulling his old friend, Mr Turnbull, to pieces, expressing his opinion that a difference in men meant a difference in measures. The characters of men whose principles were known were guarantees for the measures they would advocate. To him — Mr Monk — it was matter of very great moment who was Prime Minister of England. He was always selfish enough to wish for a Minister with whom he himself could agree on the main questions of the day. As he certainly could not say that he had political confidence in the present Ministry, he should certainly vote against them on this occasion.
In the course of the evening Phineas found a letter addressed to himself from Mr Bonteen. It was as follows:
“ House of Commons, 5th April, 18 — “ DEAR MR FINN,
“I never accused you of dishonesty. You must have misheard or misunderstood me if you thought so. I did say that you had scuttled the ship — and as you most undoubtedly did scuttle it — you and Mr Monk between you — I cannot retract my words.
“I do not want to go to anyone for testimony as to your merits on the occasion. I accused you of having done nothing dishonourable or disgraceful. I think I said that there was danger in the practice of scuttling. I think so still, though I know that many fancy that those who scuttle do a fine thing. I don’t deny that it’s fine, and therefore you can have no cause of complaint against me.
“Yours truly, J . BONTEEN .”
He had brought a copy of his own letter in his pocket to the House, and he showed the correspondence to Mr Monk. “I would not have noticed it, had I been you,” said he.
“You can have no idea of the offensive nature of the remark when it was made.”
“It’s as offensive to me as to you, but I should not think of moving in such a matter. When a man annoys you, keep out of his way. It is generally the best thing you can do.”
“If a man were to call you a liar?”
“But men don’t call each other liars. Bonteen understands the world much too well to commit himself by using any word which common opinion would force him to retract. He says we scuttled the ship. Well — we did. Of all the political acts of my life it is the one of which I am most proud. The manner in which you helped me has entitled you to my affectionate esteem. But we did scuttle the ship. Before you can quarrel with Bonteen you must be able to show that a metaphorical scuttling of a ship must necessarily be a disgraceful act. You see how he at once retreats behind the fact that it need not be so.”
“You wouldn’t answer his letter.”
“I think not. You can do yourself no good by a correspondence in which you cannot get a hold of him. And if you did get a hold of him you would injure yourself much more than him. Just drop it.” This added much to our friend’s misery, and made him feel that the weight of it was almost more than he could bear. His enemy had got the better of him at every turn. He had now rushed into a correspondence as to which he would have to own by his silence that he had been confuted. And yet he was sure that Mr Bonteen had at the club insulted him most unjustifiably, and that if the actual truth were known, no man, certainly not Mr Monk, would hesitate to say that reparation was due to him. And yet what could he do? He thought that he would consult Lord Cantrip, and endeavour to get from his late Chief some advice more palatable than that which had been tendered to him by Mr Monk.
In the meantime animosities in the House were waxing very furious; and, as it happened, the debate took a turn that was peculiarly injurious to Phineas Finn in his present state of mind. The rumour as to the future promotion of Mr Bonteen, which had been conveyed by Laurence Fitzgibbon to Phineas at the Universe, had, as was natural, spread far and wide, and had reached the ears of those who still sat on the Ministerial benches. Now it is quite understood among politicians in this country that no man should presume that he will have imposed upon him the task of forming a Ministry until he has been called upon by the Crown to undertake that great duty. Let the Gresham or the Daubeny of the day be ever so sure that the reins of the State chariot must come into his hands, he should not visibly prepare himself for the seat on the box till he has actually been summoned to place himself there. At this moment it was alleged that Mr Gresham had departed from the reticence and modesty usual in such a position as his, by taking steps towards the formation of a Cabinet, while it was as yet quite possible that he might never be called upon to form any Cabinet. Late on this Monday night, when the House was quite full, one of Mr Daubeny’s leading lieutenants, a Secretary of State, Sir Orlando Drought by name — a gentleman who if he had any heart in the matter must have hated this Church Bill from the very bottom of his heart, and who on that account was the more bitter against opponents who had not ceased to throw in his teeth his own political tergiversation — fell foul of Mr Gresham as to this rumoured appointment to the Chancellorship of the Exchequer. The reader will easily imagine the things that were said. Sir Orlando had heard, and had been much surprised at hearing, that a certain honourable member of that House, who had long been known to them as a tenant of the Ministerial bench, had already been appointed to a high office. He, Sir Orlando, had not been aware that the office had been vacant, or that if vacant it would have been at the disposal of the right honourable gentleman; but he believed that there was no doubt that the place in question, with a seat in the Cabinet, had been tendered to, and accepted by, the honourable member to whom he alluded. Such was the rabid haste with which the right honourable gentleman opposite, and his colleagues, were attempting, he would not say to climb, but to rush into office, by opposing a great measure of Reform, the wisdom of which, as was notorious to all the world, they themselves did not dare to deny. Much more of the same kind was said, during which Mr Gresham pulled about his hat, shuffled his feet, showed his annoyance to all the House, and at last jumped upon his legs.
“If,” said Sir Orlando Drought — “if the right honourable gentleman wishes to deny the accuracy of any statements that I have made, I will give way to him for the moment, that he may do so.”
“I deny utterly, not only the accuracy, but every detail of the statement made by the right honourable gentleman opposite,” said Mr Gresham, still standing and holding his hat in his hand as he completed his denial.
“Does the right honourable gentleman mean to assure me that he has not selected his future Chancellor of the Exchequer?”
“The right honourable gentleman is too acute not to be aware that we on this side of the House may have made such selection, and that yet every detail of the statement which he has been rash enough to make to the House may be — unfounded. The word, sir, is weak; but I would fain avoid the use of any words which, justifiable though they might be, would offend the feelings of the House. I will explain to the House exactly what has been done.”
Then there was a great hubbub — cries of “Order”, “Gresham”, “Spoke”, Hear, hear, and the like — during which Sir Orlando Drought and Mr Gresham both stood on their legs. So powerful was Mr Gresham’s voice that, through it all, every word that he said was audible to the reporters. His opponent hardly attempted to speak, but stood relying upon his right. Mr Gresham said he understood that it was the desire of the House that he should explain the circumstances in reference to the charge that had been made against him, and it would certainly be for the convenience of the House that this should be done at the moment. The Speaker of course ruled that Sir Orlando was in possession of the floor, but suggested that it might be convenient that he should yield to the right honourable gentleman on the other side for a few minutes. Mr Gresham, as a matter of course, succeeded. Rights and rules, which are bonds of iron to a little man, are packthread to a giant. No one in all that assembly knew the House better than did Mr Gresham, was better able to take it by storm, or more obdurate in perseverance. He did make his speech, though clearly he had no right to do so. The House, he said, was aware, that by the most unfortunate demise of the late Duke of Omnium, a gentleman had been removed from this House to another place, whose absence from their counsels would long be felt as a very grievous loss. Then he pronounced a eulogy on Plantagenet Palliser, so graceful and well arranged, that even the bitterness of the existing opposition was unable to demur to it. The House was well aware of the nature of the labours which now for some years past had occupied the mind of the noble Duke; and the paramount importance which the country attached to their conclusion. The noble Duke no doubt was not absolutely debarred from a continuance of his work by the change which had fallen upon him; but it was essential that some gentleman, belonging to the same party with the noble Duke, versed in office; and having a seat in that House, should endeavour to devote himself to the great measure which had occupied so much of the attention of the late Chancellor of the Exchequer. No doubt it must be fitting that the gentleman so selected should be at the Exchequer, in the event of their party coming into office. The honourable gentleman to whom allusion had been made had acted throughout with the present noble Duke in arranging the details of the measure in question; and the probability of his being able to fill the shoes left vacant by the accession to the peerage of the noble Duke had, indeed, been discussed — but the discussion had been made in reference to the measure, and only incidentally in regard to the office. He, Mr Gresham, held that he had done nothing that was indiscreet — nothing that his duty did not demand. If right honourable gentlemen opposite were of a different opinion, he thought that that difference came from the fact that they were less intimately acquainted than he unfortunately had been with the burdens and responsibilities of legislation.
There was very little in the dispute which seemed to be worthy of the place in which it occurred, or of the vigour with which it was conducted; but it served to show the temper of the parties, and to express the bitterness of the political feelings of the day. It was said at the time, that never within the memory of living politicians had so violent an animosity displayed itself in the House as had been witnessed on this night. While Mr Gresham was giving his explanation, Mr Daubeny had arisen, and with a mock solemnity that was peculiar to him on occasions such as these, had appealed to the Speaker whether the right honourable gentleman opposite should not be called upon to resume his seat. Mr Gresham had put him down with a wave of his hand. An affected stateliness cannot support itself but for a moment; and Mr Daubeny had been forced to sit down when the Speaker did not at once support his appeal. But he did not forget that wave of the hand, nor did he forgive it. He was a man who in public life rarely forgot, and never forgave. They used to say of him that “at home” he was kindly and forbearing, simple and unostentatious. It may be so. Who does not remember that horrible Turk, Jacob Asdrubal, the Old Bailey barrister, the terror of witnesses, the bane of judges — who was gall and wormwood to all opponents. It was said of him that “at home” his docile amiability was the marvel of his friends, and delight of his wife and daughters. “At home”, perhaps, Mr Daubeny might have been waved at, and have forgiven it; but men who saw the scene in the House of Commons knew that he would never forgive Mr Gresham. As for Mr Gresham himself, he triumphed at the moment, and exulted in his triumph.
Phineas Finn heard it all, and was disgusted to find that his enemy thus became the hero of the hour. It was, indeed, the opinion generally of the Liberal party that Mr Gresham had not said much to flatter his new Chancellor of the Exchequer. In praise of Plantagenet Palliser he had been very loud, and he had no doubt said that which implied the capability of Mr Bonteen, who, as it happened, was sitting next to him at the time; but he had implied also that the mantle which was to be transferred from Mr Palliser to Mr Bonteen would be carried by its new wearer with grace very inferior to that which had marked all the steps of his predecessor. Ratler, and Erle, and Fitzgibbon, and others had laughed in their sleeves at the expression, understood by them, of Mr Gresham’s doubt as to the qualifications of his new assistant, and Sir Orlando Drought, in continuing his speech, remarked that the warmth of the right honourable gentleman had been so completely expended in abusing his enemies that he had had none left for the defence of his friend. But to Phineas it seemed that this Bonteen, who had so grievously injured him, and whom he so thoroughly despised, was carrying off all the glories of the fight. A certain amount of consolation was, however, afforded to him. Between one and two o’clock he was told by Mr Ratler that he might enjoy the privilege of adjourning the debate — by which would accrue to him the right of commencing on the morrow — and this he did at a few minutes before three.
On the next morning Phineas, with his speech before him, was obliged for a while to forget, or at least to postpone, Mr Bonteen and his injuries. He could not now go to Lord Cantrip, as the hours were too precious to him and, as he felt, too short. Though he had been thinking what he would say ever since the debate had become imminent, and knew accurately the line which he would take, he had not as yet prepared a word of his speech. But he had resolved that he would not prepare a word otherwise than he might do by arranging certain phrases in his memory. There should be nothing written; he had tried that before in old days, and had broken down with the effort. He would load himself with no burden of words in itself so heavy that the carrying of it would incapacitate him for any other effort.
After a late breakfast he walked out far away, into the Regent’s Park, and there, wandering among the uninteresting paths, he devised triumphs of oratory for himself. Let him resolve as he would to forget Mr Bonteen, and that charge of having been untrue to his companions, he could not restrain himself from efforts to fit the matter after some fashion into his speech. Dim ideas of a definition of political honesty crossed his brain, bringing with him, however, a conviction that his thought must be much more clearly worked out than it could be on that day before he might venture to give it birth in the House of Commons. He knew that he had been honest two years ago in separating himself from his colleagues. He knew that he would be honest now in voting with them, apparently in opposition to the pledges he had given at Tankerville. But he knew also that it would behove him to abstain from speaking of himself unless he could do so in close reference to some point specially in dispute between the two parties, When he returned to eat a mutton chop at Great Marlborough Street at three o’clock he was painfully conscious that all his morning had been wasted. He had allowed his mind to run revel, instead of tying it down to the formation of sentences and construction of arguments.
He entered the House with the Speaker at four o’clock, and took his seat without uttering a word to any man. He seemed to be more than ever disjoined from his party. Hitherto, since he had been seated by the Judge’s order, the former companions of his Parliamentary life — the old men whom he had used to know — had to a certain degree admitted him among them. Many of them sat on the front Opposition bench, whereas he, as a matter of course, had seated himself behind. But he had very frequently found himself next to some man who had held office and was living in the hope of holding it again, and had felt himself to be in some sort recognised as an aspirant. Now it seemed to him that it was otherwise. He did not doubt but that Bonteen had shown the correspondence to his friends, and that the Ratlers and Erles had conceded that he, Phineas, was put out of court by it. He sat doggedly still, at the end of a bench behind Mr Gresham, and close to the gangway. When Mr Gresham entered the House he was received with much cheering; but Phineas did not join in the cheer. He was studious to avoid any personal recognition or the future giver-away of places, though they two were close together; and he then fancied that Mr Gresham had specially and most ungraciously abstained from any recognition of him. Mr Monk, who sat near him, spoke a kind word to him. “I shan’t be very long,” said Phineas; “not above twenty minutes, I should think.” He was able to assume an air of indifference, and yet at the moment he heartily wished himself back in Dublin. It was not now that he feared the task immediately before him, but that he was overcome by the feeling of general failure which had come upon him. Of what use was it to him or to anyone else that he should be there in that assembly, with the privilege of making a speech that would influence no human being, unless his being there could be made a step to something beyond? While the usual preliminary work was being done, he looked round the House, and saw Lord Cantrip in the Peers’ gallery. Alas! of what avail was that? He had always been able to bind to him individuals with whom he had been brought into close contact; but more than that was wanted in this most precarious of professions, in which now, for a second time, he was attempting to earn his bread.
At half past four he was on his legs in the midst of a crowded House. The chance — perhaps the hope — of some such encounter as that of the former day, brought members into their seats, and filled the gallery with strangers. We may say, perhaps, that the highest duty imposed upon us as a nation is the management of India; and we may also say that in a great national assembly personal squabbling among its members is the least dignified work in which it can employ itself. But the prospect of an explanation — or otherwise of a fight — between two leading politicians will fill the House; and any allusion to our Eastern Empire will certainly empty it. An aptitude for such encounters is almost a necessary qualification for a popular leader in Parliament, as is a capacity for speaking for three hours to the reporters, and to the reporters only — a necessary qualification for an Under-Secretary of State for India.
Phineas had the advantage of the temper of the moment in a House thoroughly crowded, and he enjoyed it. Let a man doubt ever so much his own capacity for some public exhibition which he has undertaken; yet he will always prefer to fail — if fail he must — before a large audience. But on this occasion there was no failure. That sense of awe from the surrounding circumstances of the moment, which had once been heavy on him, and which he still well remembered, had been overcome, and had never returned to him. He felt now that he should not lack words to pour out his own individual grievances were it not that he was prevented by a sense of the indiscretion of doing so. As it was, he did succeed in alluding to his own condition in a manner that brought upon him no reproach. He began by saying that he should not have added to the difficulty of the debate — which was one simply of length — were it not that he had been accused in advance of voting against a measure as to which he had pledged himself at the hustings to do all that he could to further it. No man was more anxious than he, an Irish Roman Catholic, to abolish that which he thought to be the anomaly of a State Church, and he did not in the least doubt that he should now be doing the best in his power with that object in voting against the second reading of the present bill. That such a measure should be carried by the gentlemen opposite, in their own teeth, at the bidding of the right honourable gentleman who led them, he thought to be impossible. Upon this he was hooted at from the other side with many gestures of indignant denial, and was, of course, equally cheered by those around him. Such interruptions are new breath to the nostrils of all orators, and Phineas enjoyed the noise. He repeated his assertion that it would be an evil thing for the country that the measure should be carried by men who in their hearts condemned it, and was vehemently called to order for this assertion about the hearts of gentlemen. But a speaker who can certainly be made amenable to authority for vilipending in debate the heart of any specified opponent, may with safety attribute all manner of ill to the agglomerated hearts of a party. To have told any individual Conservative — Sir Orlando Drought for instance — that he was abandoning all the convictions of his life, because he was a creature at the command of Mr Daubeny, would have been an insult that would have moved even the Speaker from his serenity; but you can hardly be personal to a whole bench of Conservatives — to bench above bench of Conservatives. The charge had been made and repeated over and over again, till all the Orlando Droughts were ready to cut some man’s throat — whether their own, or Mr Daubeny’s, or Mr Gresham’s, they hardly knew. It might probably have been Mr Daubeny’s for choice, had any real cutting of a throat been possible. It was now made again by Phineas Finn — with the ostensible object of defending himself — and he for the moment became the target for Conservative wrath. Someone asked him in fury by what right he took upon himself to judge of the motives of gentlemen on that side of the House of whom personally he knew nothing. Phineas replied that he did not at all doubt the motives of the honourable gentleman who asked the question, which he was sure were noble and patriotic. But unfortunately the whole country was convinced that the Conservative party as a body was supporting this measure, unwillingly, and at the bidding of one man — and, for himself, he was bound to say that he agreed with the country. And so the row was renewed and prolonged, and the gentlemen assembled, members and strangers together, passed a pleasant evening.
Before he sat down, Phineas made one allusion to that former scuttling of the ship — an accusation as to which had been made against him so injuriously by Mr Bonteen. He himself, he said, had been called impractical, and perhaps he might allude to a vote which he had given in that House when last he had the honour of sitting there, and on giving which he resigned the office which he had then held. He had the gratification of knowing that he had been so far practical as to have then foreseen the necessity of a measure which had since been passed. And he did not doubt that he would hereafter be found to have been equally practical in the view that he had expressed on the hustings at Tankerville, for he was convinced that before long the anomaly of which he had spoken would cease to exist under the influence of a Government that would really believe in the work it was doing.
There was no doubt as to the success of his speech. The vehemence with which his insolence was abused by one after another of those who spoke later from the other side was ample evidence of its success. But nothing occurred then or at the conclusion of the debate to make him think that he had won his way back to Elysium. During the whole evening he exchanged not a syllable with Mr Gresham — who indeed was not much given to converse with those around him in the House. Erle said a few good-natured words to him, and Mr Monk praised him highly. But in reading the general barometer of the party as regarded himself, he did not find that the mercury went up. He was wretchedly anxious, and angry with himself for his own anxiety. He scorned to say a word that should sound like an entreaty; and yet he had placed his whole heart on a thing which seemed to be slipping from him for the want of asking. In a day or two it would be known whether the present Ministry would or would not go out. That they must be out of office before a month was over seemed to him the opinion of everybody. His fate — and what a fate it was! — would then be absolutely in the hands of Mr Gresham. Yet he could not speak a word of his hopes and fears even to Mr Gresham. He had given up everything in the world with the view of getting into office; and now that the opportunity had come — an opportunity which if allowed to slip could hardly return again in time to be of service to him — the prize was to elude his grasp!
But yet he did not say a word to anyone on the subject that was so near his heart, although in the course of the night he spoke to Lord Cantrip in the gallery of the House. He told his friend that a correspondence had taken place between himself and Mr Bonteen, in which he thought that he had been ill-used, and as to which he was quite anxious to ask His Lordship’s advice. “I heard that you and he had been tilting at each other,” said Lord Cantrip, smiling.
“Have you seen the letters?”
“No — but I was told of them by Lord Fawn, who has seen them.”
“I knew he would show them to every newsmonger about the clubs,” said Phineas angrily.
“You can’t quarrel with Bonteen for showing them to Fawn, if you intend to show them to me.”
“He may publish them at Charing Cross if he likes.”
“Exactly. I am sure that there will have been nothing in them prejudicial to you. What I mean is that if you think it necessary, with a view to your own character, to show them to me or to another friend, you cannot complain that he should do the same.”
An appointment was made at Lord Cantrip’s house for the next morning, and Phineas could but acknowledge to himself that the man’s manner to himself had been kind and constant. Nevertheless, the whole affair was going against him. Lord Cantrip had not said a word prejudicial to that wretch Bonteen; much less had he hinted at any future arrangements which would be comfortable to poor Phineas. They two, Lord Cantrip and Phineas, had at one period been on most intimate terms together — had worked in the same office, and had thoroughly trusted each other. The elder of the two — for Lord Cantrip was about ten years senior to Phineas — had frequently expressed the most lively interest in the prospects of the other; and Phineas had felt that in any emergency he could tell his friend all his hopes and fears. But now he did not say a word of his position, nor did Lord Cantrip allude to it. They were to meet on the morrow in order that Lord Cantrip might read the correspondence — but Phineas was sure that no word would be said about the Government.
At five o’clock in the morning the division took place, and the Government was beaten by a majority of 72. This was much higher than any man had expected. When the parties were marshalled in the opposite lobbies it was found that in the last moment the number of those Conservatives who dared to rebel against their Conservative leaders was swelled by the course which the debate had taken. There were certain men who could not endure to be twitted with having deserted the principles of their lives, when it was clear that nothing was to be gained by the party by such desertion.
On the morning following the great division Phineas was with his friend, Lord Cantrip, by eleven o’clock; and Lord Cantrip, when he had read the two letters in which were comprised the whole correspondence, made to our unhappy hero the following little speech. “I do not think that you can do anything. Indeed, I am sure that Mr Monk is quite right. I don’t quite see what it is that you wish to do. Privately — between our two selves — I do not hesitate to say that Mr Bonteen has intended to be ill-natured. I fancy that he is an ill-natured — or at any rate a jealous — man; and that he would be willing to run down a competitor in the race who had made his running after a fashion different from his own. Bonteen has been a useful man — a very useful man; and the more so perhaps because he has not entertained any high political theory of his own. You have chosen to do so — and undoubtedly when you and Monk left us, to our very great regret, you did scuttle the ship.”
“We had no intention of that kind.”
“Do not suppose that I blame you. That which was odious to the eyes of Mr Bonteen was to my thinking high and honourable conduct. I have known the same thing done by members of a Government perhaps half-a-dozen times, and the men by whom it has been done have been the best and noblest of our modern statesmen. There has generally been a hard contest in the man’s breast between loyalty to his party and strong personal convictions, the result of which has been an inability on the part of the struggler to give even a silent support to a measure which he has disapproved. That inability is no doubt troublesome at the time to the colleagues of the seceder, and constitutes an offence hardly to be pardoned by such gentlemen as Mr Bonteen.”
“For Mr Bonteen personally I care nothing.”
“But of course you must endure the ill-effects of his influence — be they what they may. When you seceded from our Government you looked for certain adverse consequences. If you did not, where was your self-sacrifice? That such men as Mr Bonteen should feel that you had scuttled the ship, and be unable to forgive you for doing so — that is exactly the evil which you knew you must face. You have to face it now, and surely you can do so without showing your teeth. Hereafter, when men more thoughtful than Mr Bonteen shall have come to acknowledge the high principle by which your conduct has been governed, you will receive your reward. I suppose Mr Daubeny must resign now.”
“Everybody says so.”
“I am by no means sure that he will. Any other Minister since Lord North’s time would have done so, with such a majority against him on a vital measure; but he is a man who delights in striking out some wonderful course for himself.”
“A prime minister so beaten surely can’t go on.”
“Not for long, one would think. And yet how are you to turn him out? It depends very much on a man’s power of endurance.”
“His colleagues will resign, I should think.”
“Probably — and then he must go. I should say that that will be the way in which the matter will settle itself. Good morning, Finn — and take my word for it, you had better not answer Mr Bonteen’s letter.”
Not a word had fallen from Lord Cantrip’s friendly lips as to the probability of Phineas being invited to join the future Government. An attempt had been made to console him with the hazy promise of some future reward — which however was to consist rather of the good opinion of good men than of anything tangible and useful. But even this would never come to him. What would good men know of him and of his self-sacrifice when he should have been driven out of the world by poverty, and forced probably to go to some New Zealand or back Canadian settlement to look for his bread? How easy, thought Phineas, must be the sacrifices of rich men, who can stay their time, and wait in perfect security for their rewards! But for such a one as he, truth to a principle was political annihilation. Two or three years ago he had done what he knew to be a noble thing — and now, because he had done that noble thing, he was to be regarded as unfit for that very employment for which he was peculiarly fitted. But Bonteen and Co. had not been his only enemies. His luck had been against him throughout. Mr Quintus Slide, with his People’s Banner, and the story of that wretched affair in Judd Street, had been as strong against him probably as Mr Bonteen’s ill-word. Then he thought of Lady Laura, and her love for him. His gratitude to Lady Laura was boundless. There was nothing he would not do for Lady Laura — were it in his power to do anything. But no circumstance in his career had been so unfortunate for him as this affection. A wretched charge had been made against him which, though wholly untrue, was as it were so strangely connected with the truth, that slanderers might not improbably be able almost to substantiate their calumnies. She would be in London soon, and he must devote himself to her service. But every act of friendship that he might do for her would be used as proof of the accusation that had been made against him. As he thought of all this he was walking towards Park Lane in order that he might call upon Madame Goesler according to his promise. As he went up to the drawing-room he met old Mr Maule coming down, and the two bowed to each other on the stairs. In the drawing-room, sitting with Madame Goesler, he found Mrs Bonteen. Now Mrs Bonteen was almost as odious to him as was her husband.
“Did you ever know anything more shameful, Mr Finn,” said Mrs Bonteen, “than the attack made upon Mr Bonteen the night before last?” Phineas could see a smile on Madame Goesler’s face as the question was asked — for she knew, and he knew that she knew, how great was the antipathy between him and the Bonteens.
“The attack was upon Mr Gresham, I thought,” said Phineas.
“Oh, yes; nominally. But of course everybody knows what was meant. Upon my word there is twice more jealousy among men than among women. Is there not, Madame Goesler?”
“I don’t think any man could be more jealous than I am myself,” said Madame Goesler.
“Then you’re fit to be a member of a Government, that’s all. I don’t suppose that there is a man in England has worked harder for his party than Mr Bonteen.”
“I don’t think there is,” said Phineas.
“Or made himself more useful in Parliament. As for work, only that his constitution is so strong, he would have killed himself.”
“He should take Thorley’s mixture — twice a day,” said Madame Goesler.
“Take! — he never has time to take anything. He breakfasts in his dressing-room, carries his lunch in his pocket, and dines with the division bell ringing him up between his fish and his mutton chop. Now he has got their decimal coinage in hand, and has not a moment to himself, even on Sundays!”
“He’ll be sure to go to Heaven for it — that’s one comfort.”
“And because they are absolutely obliged to make him Chancellor of the Exchequer — just as if he had not earned it — everybody is so jealous that they are ready to tear him to pieces!”
“Who is everybody?” asked Phineas.
“Oh! I know. It wasn’t only Sir Orlando Drought. Who told Sir Orlando? Never mind, Mr Finn.”
“I don’t in the least, Mrs Bonteen.”
“I should have thought you would have been so triumphant,” said Madame Goesler.
“Not in the least, Madame Goesler. Why should I be triumphant? Of course the position is very high — very high indeed. But it’s no more than what I have always expected. If a man give up his life to a pursuit he ought to succeed. As for ambition, I have less of it than any woman. Only I do hate jealousy, Mr Finn.” Then Mrs Bonteen took her leave, kissing her dear friend, Madame Goesler, and simply bowing to Phineas.
“What a detestable woman!” said Phineas.
“I know of old that you don’t love her.”
“I don’t believe that you love her a bit better than I do, and yet you kiss her.”
“Hardly that, Mr Finn. There has come up a fashion for ladies to pretend to be very loving, and so they put their faces together. Two hundred years ago ladies and gentlemen did the same thing with just as little regard for each other. Fashions change, you know.”
“That was a change for the worse, certainly, Madame Goesler.”
“It wasn’t of my doing. So you’ve had a great victory.”
“Yes — greater than we expected.”
“According to Mrs Bonteen, the chief result to the country will be that the taxes will be so very safe in her husband’s hands! I am sure she believes that all Parliament has been at work in order that he might be made a Cabinet Minister. I rather like her for it.”
“I don’t like her, or her husband.”
“I do like a woman that can thoroughly enjoy her husband’s success. When she is talking if this carrying about his food in his pocket she is completely happy. I don’t think Lady Glencora ever cared in the least about her husband being Chancellor of the Exchequer.”
“Because it added nothing to her own standing.”
“That’s very ill-natured, Mr Finn; and I find that you are becoming generally ill-natured. You used to be the best-humoured of men.”
“I hadn’t so much to try my temper as I have now, and then you must remember, Madame Goesler, that I regard these people as being especially my enemies.”
“Lady Glencora was never your enemy.”
“Nor my friend — especially.”
“Then you wrong her. If I tell you something you must be discreet.”
“Am I not always discreet?”
“She does not love Mr Bonteen. She has had too much of him at Matching. And as for his wife, she is quite as unwilling to be kissed by her as you can be. Her Grace is determined to fight your battle for you.”
“I want her to do nothing of the kind, Madame Goesler.”
“You will know nothing about it. We have put our heads to work, and Mr Palliser — that is, the new Duke — is to be made to tell Mr Gresham that you are to have a place. It is no good you being angry, for the thing is done. If you have enemies behind your back, you must have friends behind your back also. Lady Cantrip is to do the same thing.”
“For Heaven’s sake, not.”
“It’s all arranged. You’ll be called the ladies’ pet, but you mustn’t mind that. Lady Laura will be here before it’s arranged, and she will get hold of Mr Erle.”
“You are laughing at me, I know.”
“Let them laugh that win. We thought of besieging Lord Fawn through Lady Chiltern, but we are not sure that anybody cares for Lord Fawn. The man we specially want now is the other Duke. We’re afraid of attacking him through the Duchess because we think that he is inhumanly indifferent to anything that his wife says to him.”
“If that kind of thing is done I shall not accept place even if it is offered me.”
“Why not? Are you going to let a man like Mr Bonteen bowl you over? Did you ever know Lady Glen fail in anything that she attempted? She is preparing a secret with the express object of making Mr Ratler her confidant. Lord Mount Thistle is her slave, but then I fear Lord Mount Thistle is not of much use. She’ll do anything and everything — except flatter Mr Bonteen.”
“Heaven forbid that anybody should do that for my sake.”
“The truth is that he made himself so disagreeable at Matching that Lady Glen is broken-hearted at finding that he is to seem to owe his promotion to her husband’s favour. Now you know all about it.”
“You have been very wrong to tell me.”
“Perhaps I have, Mr Finn. But I thought it better that you should know that you have friends at work for you. We believe — or rather, the Duchess believes — that falsehoods have been used which are as disparaging to Lady Laura Kennedy as they are injurious to you, and she is determined to put it right. Someone has told Mr Gresham that you have been the means of breaking the hearts both of Lord Brentford and Mr Kennedy — two members of the late Cabinet — and he must be made to understand that this is untrue. If only for Lady Laura’s sake you must submit.”
“Lord Brentford and I are the best friends in the world.”
“And Mr Kennedy is a madman — absolutely in custody of his friends, as everybody knows; and yet the story has been made to work.”
“And you do not feel that all this is derogatory to me?”
Madame Goesler was silent for a moment, and then she answered boldly, “Not a whit. Why should it be derogatory? It is not done with the object of obtaining an improper appointment on behalf of an unimportant man. When falsehoods of that kind are told you can’t meet them in a straight-forward way. I suppose I know with fair accuracy the sort of connection there has been between you and Lady Laura.” Phineas very much doubted whether she had any such knowledge; but he said nothing, though the lady paused a few moments for reply. “You can’t go and tell Mr Gresham all that; nor can any friend do so on your behalf. It would be absurd.”
“Most absurd.”
“And yet it is essential to your interests that he should know it. When your enemies are undermining you, you must countermine or you’ll be blown up.”
“I’d rather fight above ground.”
“That’s all very well, but your enemies won’t stay above ground. Is that newspaper man above ground? And for a little job of clever mining, believe me, there is not a better engineer going than Lady Glen — not but what I’ve known her to be very nearly ““hoist with her own petard’”,” — added Madame Goesler, as she remembered a certain circumstance in their joint lives.
All that Madame Goesler said was true. A conspiracy had been formed, in the first place at the instance of Madame Goesler, but altogether by the influence of the young Duchess, for forcing upon the future Premier the necessity of admitting Phineas Finn into his Government. On the Wednesday following the conclusion of the debate — the day on the morning of which the division was to take place — there was no House. On the Thursday, the last day on which the House was to sit before the Easter holidays, Mr Daubeny announced his intention of postponing the declaration of his intentions till after the adjournment. The House would meet, he said, on that day week, and then he would make his official statement. This communication he made very curtly, and in a manner that was thought by some to be almost insolent to the House. It was known that he had been grievously disappointed by the result of the debate — not probably having expected a majority since his adversary’s strategy had been declared, but always hoping that the deserters from his own standard would be very few. The deserters had been very many, and Mr Daubeny was majestic in his wrath.
Nothing, however, could be done till after Easter. The Ratlers of the Liberal party were very angry at the delay, declaring that it would have been much to the advantage of the country at large that the vacation week should have been used for constructing a Liberal Cabinet. This work of construction always takes time, and delays the business of the country. No one can have known better than did Mr Daubeny how great was the injury of delay, and how advantageously the short holiday might have been used. With a majority of seventy-two against him, there could be no reason why he should not have at once resigned, and advised the Queen to send for Mr Gresham. Nothing could be worse than his conduct. So said the Liberals, thirsting for office. Mr Gresham himself did not open his mouth when the announcement was made — nor did any man, marked for future office, rise to denounce the beaten statesman. But one or two independent Members expressed their great regret at the unnecessary delay which was to take place before they were informed who was to be the Minister of the Crown. But Mr Daubeny, as soon as he had made his statement, stalked out of the House, and no reply whatever was made to the independent Members. Some few sublime and hot-headed gentlemen muttered the word “impeachment.” Others, who were more practical and less dignified, suggested that the Prime Minister “ought to have his head punched.”
It thus happened that all the world went out of town that week — so that the Duchess of Omnium was down at Matching when Phineas called at the Duke’s house in Carlton Terrace on Friday. With what object he had called he hardly knew himself; but he thought that he intended to assure the Duchess that he was not a candidate for office, and that he must deprecate her interference. Luckily — or unluckily — he did not see her, and he felt that it would be impossible to convey his wishes in a letter. The whole subject was one which would have defied him to find words sufficiently discreet for his object.
The Duke and Duchess Of St Bungay were at Matching for the Easter — as also was Barrington Erle, and also that dreadful Mr Bonteen, from whose presence the poor Duchess of Omnium could in these days never altogether deliver herself. “Duke,” she said, “you know Mr Finn?”
“Certainly. It was not very long ago that I was talking to him.”
“He used to be in office, you remember.”
“Oh yes — and a very good beginner he was. Is he a friend of Your Grace’s?”
“A great friend. I’ll tell you what I want you to do. You must have some place found for him.”
“My dear Duchess, I never interfere.”
“Why, Duke, you’ve made more Cabinets than any man living.”
“I fear, indeed, that I have been at the construction of more Governments than most men. It’s forty years ago since Lord Melbourne first did me the honour of consulting me. When asked for advice, my dear, I have very often given it. It has occasionally been my duty to say that I could not myself give my slender assistance to a Ministry unless I were supported by the presence of this or that political friend. But never in my life have I asked for an appointment as a personal favour; and I am sure you won’t be angry with me if I say that I cannot begin to do so now.”
“But Mr Finn ought to be there. He did so well before.”
“If so, let us presume that he will be there. I can only say, from what little I know of him, that I shall be happy to see him in any office to which the future Prime Minister may consider it to be his duty to appoint him.” “To think,” said the Duchess of Omnium afterwards to her friend Madame Goesler — “to think that I should have had that stupid old woman a week in the house, and all for nothing!”
“Upon my word, Duchess,” said Barrington Erle, “I don’t know why it is, but Gresham seems to have taken a dislike to him.”
“It’s Bonteen’s doing.”
“Very probably.”
“Surely you can get the better of that?”
“I look upon Phineas Finn, Duchess, almost as a child of my own. He has come back to Parliament altogether at my instigation.”
“Then you ought to help him.”
“And so I would if I could. Remember I am not the man I used to be when dear old Mr Mildmay reigned. The truth is, I never interfere now unless I’m asked.”
“I believe that everyone of you is afraid of Mr Gresham.”
“Perhaps we are.”
“I’ll tell you what. If he’s passed over I’ll make such a row that some of you shall hear it.”
“How fond all you women are of Phineas Finn.”
“I don’t care that for him,” said the Duchess, snapping her fingers — “more than I do, that is, for any other mere acquaintance. The man is very well, as most men are.”
“Not all.”
“No, not all. Some are as little and jealous as a girl in her tenth season. He is a decently good fellow, and he is to be thrown over, because — ”
“Because of what?”
“I don’t choose to name anyone. You ought to know all about it, and I do not doubt but you do. Lady Laura Kennedy is your own cousin.”
“There is not a spark of truth in all that.”
“Of course there is not; and yet he is to be punished. I know very well, Mr Erle, that if you choose to put your shoulder to the wheel you can manage it; and I shall expect to have it managed.”
“Plantagenet,” she said the next day to her husband, “I want you to do something for me.”
“To do something! What am I to do? It’s very seldom you want anything in my line.”
“This isn’t in your line at all, and yet I want you to do it.”
“Ten to one it’s beyond my means.”
“No, it isn’t. I know you can if you like. I suppose you are all sure to be in office within ten days or a fortnight?”
“I can’t say, my dear. I have promised Mr Gresham to be of use to him if I can.”
“Everybody knows all that. You’re going to be Privy Seal, and to work just the same as ever at those horrible two farthings.”
“And what is it you want, Glencora?”
“I want you to say that you won’t take any office unless you are allowed to bring in one or two friends with you.”
“Why should I do that? I shall not doubt any Cabinet chosen by Mr Gresham.”
“I’m not speaking of the Cabinet; I allude to men in lower offices, lords, and Under-Secretaries, and Vice-people. You know what I mean.”
“I never interfere.”
“But you must. Other men do continually. It’s quite a common thing for a man to insist that one or two others should come in with him.”
“Yes. If a man feels that he cannot sustain his own position without support, he declines to join the Government without it. But that isn’t my case. The friends who are necessary to me in the Cabinet are the very men who will certainly be there. I would join no Government without the Duke; but — ”
“Oh, the Duke — the Duke! I hate dukes — and duchesses too. I’m not talking about a duke. I want you to oblige me by making a point with Mr Gresham that Mr Finn shall have an office.”
“Mr Finn!”
“Yes, Mr Finn. I’ll explain it all if you wish it.”
“My dear Glencora, I never interfere.”
“Who does interfere? Everybody says the same. Somebody interferes, I suppose. Mr Gresham can’t know everybody so well as to be able to fit all the pegs into all the holes without saying a word to anybody.”
“He would probably speak to Mr Bonteen.”
“Then he would speak to a very disagreeable man, and one I’m as sick of as I ever was of any man I ever knew. If you can’t manage this for me, Plantagenet, I shall take it very ill. It’s a little thing, and I’m sure you could have it done. I don’t very often trouble you by asking for anything.”
The Duke in his quiet way was an affectionate man, and an indulgent husband. On the following morning he was closeted with Mr Bonteen, two private secretaries, and a leading clerk from the Treasury for four hours, during which they were endeavouring to ascertain whether the commercial world of Great Britain would be ruined or enriched if twelve pennies were declared to contain fifty farthings. The discussion had been grievously burdensome to the minds of the Duke’s assistants in it, but he himself had remembered his wife through it all. “By the way,” he said, whispering into Mr Bonteen’s private ear as he led that gentleman away to lunch, “if we do come in — ”
“Oh, we must come in.”
“If we do, I suppose something will be done for that Mr Finn. He spoke well the other night.”
Mr Bonteen’s face became very long. “He helped to upset the coach when he was with us before.”
“I don’t think that that is much against him.”
“Is he — a personal friend of Your Grace’s?”
“No — not particularly. I never care about such things for myself; but Lady Glencora — ”
“I think the Duchess can hardly know what has been his conduct to poor Kennedy. There was a most disreputable row at a public-house in London, and I am told that he behaved very badly.”
“I never heard a word about it,” said the Duke.
“I’ll tell you just the truth,” said Mr Bonteen. “I’ve been asked about him, and I’ve been obliged to say that he would weaken any Government that would give him office.”
“Oh, indeed!”
That evening the Duke told the Duchess nearly all that he had heard, and the Duchess swore that she wasn’t going to be beaten by Mr Bonteen.
On the Wednesday in Easter week Lord Brentford and Lady Laura Kennedy reached Portman Square from Dresden, and Phineas, who had remained in town, was summoned thither by a note written at Dover. “We arrived here today, and shall be in town tomorrow afternoon, between four and five. Papa wants to see you especially. Can you manage to be with us in the Square at about eight? I know it will be inconvenient, but you will put up with inconvenience. I don’t like to keep Papa up late; and if he is tired he won’t speak to you as he would if you came early. — L. K.” Phineas was engaged to dine with Lord Cantrip; but he wrote to excuse himself — telling the simple truth. He had been asked to see Lord Brentford on business, and must obey the summons.
He was shown into a sitting-room on the ground floor, which he had always known as the Earl’s own room, and there he found Lord Brentford alone. The last time he had been there he had come to plead with the Earl on behalf of Lord Chiltern, and the Earl had then been a stern self-willed man, vigorous from a sense of power, and very able to maintain and to express his own feelings. Now he was a broken-down old man — whose mind had been, as it were, unbooted and put into moral slippers for the remainder of its term of existence upon earth. He half shuffled up out of his chair as Phineas came up to him, and spoke as though every calamity in the world were oppressing him. “Such a passage! Oh, very bad, indeed! I thought it would have been the death of me. Laura thought it better to come on.” The fact, however, had been that the Earl had so many objections to staying at Calais, that his daughter had felt herself obliged to yield to him.
“You must be glad at any rate to have got home,” said Phineas.
“Home! I don’t know what you call home. I don’t suppose I shall ever feel any place to be home again.”
“You’ll go to Saulsby — will you not?”
“How can I tell? If Chiltern would have kept the house up, of course I should have gone there. But he never would do anything like anybody else. Violet wants me to go to that place they’ve got there, but I shan’t do that.”
“It’s a comfortable house.”
“I hate horses and dogs, and I won’t go.”
There was nothing more to be said on that point. “I hope Lady Laura is well.”
“No, she’s not. How should she be well? She’s anything but well. She’ll be in directly, but she thought I ought to see you first. I suppose this wretched man is really mad.”
“I am told so.”
“He never was anything else since I knew him. What are we to do now? Forster says it won’t look well to ask for a separation only because he’s insane. He tried to shoot you?”
“And very nearly succeeded.”
“Forster says that if we do anything, all that must come out.”
“There need not be the slightest hesitation as far as I am concerned, Lord Brentford.”
“You know he keeps all her money.”
“At present I suppose he couldn’t give it up.”
“Why not? Why shouldn’t he give it up? God bless my soul! Forty thousand pounds and all for nothing. When he married he declared that he didn’t care about it! Money was nothing to him! So she lent it to Chiltern.”
“I remember.”
“But they hadn’t been together a year before he asked for it. Now there it is — and if she were to die tomorrow it would be lost to the family. Something must be done, you know. I can’t let her money go in that way.”
“You’ll do what Mr Forster suggests, no doubt.”
“But he won’t suggest anything. They never do. He doesn’t care what becomes of the money. It never ought to have been given up as it was.”
“It was settled, I suppose.”
“Yes — if there were children. And it will come back to her if he dies first. But mad people never do die. That’s a well-known fact. They’ve nothing to trouble them, and they live for ever. It’ll all go to some cousin of his that nobody ever saw.”
“Not as long as Lady Laura lives.”
“But she does not get a penny of the income — not a penny. There never was anything so cruel. He has published all manner of accusations against her.”
“Nobody believes a word of that, my lord.”
“And then when she is dragged forward by the necessity of vindicating her character, he goes mad and keeps all her money! There never was anything so cruel since the world began.”
This continued for half an hour, and then Lady Laura came in. Nothing had come, or could have come, from the consultation with the Earl. Had it gone on for another hour, he would simply have continued to grumble, and have persevered in insisting upon the hardships he endured. Lady Laura was in black, and looked sad, and old, and careworn; but she did not seem to be ill. Phineas could not but think at the moment how entirely her youth had passed away from her. She came and sat close by him, and began at once to speak of the late debate. “Of course they’ll go out,” she said.
“I presume they will.”
“And our party will come in.”
“Oh, yes — Mr Gresham, and the two dukes, and Lord Cantrip — with Legge Wilson, Sir Harry Coldfoot, and the rest of them.”
“And you?”
Phineas smiled, and tried to smile pleasantly, as he answered, “I don’t know that they’ll put themselves out by doing very much for me.”
“They’ll do something.”
“I fancy not. Indeed, Lady Laura, to tell the truth at once, I know that they don’t mean to offer me anything.”
“After making you give up your place in Ireland?”
“They didn’t make me give it up. I should never dream of using such an argument to anyone. Of course I had to judge for myself. There is nothing to be said about it — only it is so.” As he told her this he strove to look light-hearted, and so to speak that she should not see the depth of his disappointment — but he failed altogether. She knew him too well not to read his whole heart in the matter.
“Who has said it?” she asked.
“Nobody says things of that kind, and yet one knows.”
“And why is it?”
“How can I say? There are various reasons — and, perhaps, very good reasons. What I did before makes men think that they can’t depend on me. At any rate it is so.”
“Shall you not speak to Mr Gresham?”
“Certainly not.”
“What do you say, Papa?”
“How can I understand it, my dear? There used to be a kind of honour in these things, but that’s all old-fashioned now. Ministers used to think of their political friends; but in these days they only regard their political enemies. If you can make a Minister afraid of you, then it becomes worth his while to buy you up. Most of the young men rise now by making themselves thoroughly disagreeable. Abuse a Minister every night for half a session, and you may be sure to be in office the other half — if you care about it.”
“May I speak to Barrington Erle?” asked Lady Laura.
“I had rather you did not. Of course I must take it as it comes.”
“But, my dear Mr Finn, people do make efforts in such cases. I don’t doubt but that at this moment there are a dozen men moving heaven and earth to secure something. No one has more friends than you have.”
Had not her father been present he would have told her what his friends were doing for him, and how unhappy such interferences made him; but he could not explain all this before the Earl. “I would so much rather hear about yourself,” he said, again smiling.
“There is but little to say about us. I suppose Papa has told you?”
But the Earl had told him nothing, and indeed, there was nothing to tell. The lawyer had advised that Mr Kennedy’s friends should be informed that Lady Laura now intended to live in England, and that they should be invited to make to her some statement as to Mr Kennedy’s condition. If necessary he, on her behalf, would justify her departure from her husband’s roof by a reference to the outrageous conduct of which Mr Kennedy had since been guilty. In regard to Lady Laura’s fortune, Mr Forster said that she could no doubt apply for alimony, and that if the application were pressed at law she would probably obtain it — but he could not recommend such a step at the present moment. As to the accusation which had been made against her character, and which had become public through the malice of the editor of the People’s Banner, Mr Forster thought that the best refutation would be found in her return to England. At any rate he would advise no further step at the present moment. Should any further libel appear in the columns of the newspaper, then the question might be again considered. Mr Forster had already been in Portman Square, and this had been the result of the conference.
“There is not much comfort in it all — is there?” said Lady Laura.
“There is no comfort in anything,” said the Earl.
When Phineas took his leave Lady Laura followed him out into the hall, and they went together into the large, gloomy dining-room — gloomy and silent now, but which in former days he had known to be brilliant with many lights, and cheerful with eager voices. “I must have one word with you,” she said, standing close to him against the table, and putting her hand upon his arm. “Amidst all my sorrow, I have been so thankful that he did not — kill you.”
“I almost wish he had.”
“Oh, Phineas! — how can you say words so wicked! Would you have had him a murderer?”
“A madman is responsible for nothing.”
“Where should I have been? What should I have done? But of course you do not mean it. You have everything in life before you. Say some word to me more comfortable than that. You cannot think how I have looked forward to meeting you again. It has robbed the last month of half its sadness.” He put his arm round her waist and pressed her to his side, but he said nothing. “It was so good of you to go to him as you did. How was he looking?”
“Twenty years older than when you saw him last.”
“But how in health?”
“He was thin and haggard.”
“Was he pale?”
“No; flushed and red. He had not shaved himself for days; nor, as I believe, had he been out of his room since he came up to London. I fancy that he will not live long.”
“Poor fellow — unhappy man! I was very wrong to marry him, Phineas.”
“I have never said so — nor, indeed, thought so.”
“But I have thought so; and I say it also — to you. I owe him any reparation that I can make him; but I could not have lived with him. I had no idea, before, that the nature of two human beings could be so unlike. I so often remember what you told me of him — here, in this house, when I first brought you together. Alas, how sad it has been!”
“Sad, indeed.”
“But can this be true that you tell me of yourself?”
“It is quite true. I could not say so before your father, but it is Mr Bonteen’s doing. There is no remedy. I am sure of that. I am only afraid that people are interfering for me in a manner that will be as disagreeable to me as it will be useless.”
“What friends?” she asked.
He was still standing with his arm round her waist, and he did not like to mention the name of Madame Goesler.
“The Duchess of Omnium — whom you remember as Lady Glencora Palliser.”
“Is she a friend of yours?”
“No — not particularly. But she is an indiscreet woman, and hates Bonteen, and has taken it into her stupid head to interest herself in my concerns. It is no doing of mine, and yet I cannot help it.”
“She will succeed.”
“I don’t want assistance from such a quarter; and I feel sure that she will not succeed.”
“What will you do, Phineas?”
“What shall I do? Carry on the battle as long as I can without getting into debt, and then — vanish.”
“You vanished once before — did you not — with a wife?”
“And now I shall vanish alone. My poor little wife! It seems all like a dream. She was so good, so pure, so pretty, so loving!”
“Loving! A man’s love is so easily transferred — as easily as a woman’s hand — is it not, Phineas? Say the word, for it is what you are thinking.”
“I was thinking of no such thing.”
“You must think it — You need not be afraid to reproach me. I could bear it from you. What could I not bear from you? Oh, Phineas — if I had only known myself then, as I do now!”
“It is too late for regrets,” he said. There was something in the words which grated on her feelings, and induced her at length to withdraw herself from his arm. Too late for regrets! She had never told herself that it was not too late. She was the wife of another man, and therefore, surely it was too late. But still the word coming from his mouth was painful to her. It seemed to signify that for him at least the game was all over.
“Yes, indeed,” she said — “if our regrets and remorse were at our own disposal! You might as well say that it is too late for unhappiness, too late for weariness, too late for all the misery that comes from a life’s disappointment.”
“I should have said that indulgence in regrets is vain.”
“That is a scrap of philosophy which I have heard so often before! But we will not quarrel, will we, on the first day of my return?”
“I hope not.”
“And I may speak to Barrington?”
“No; certainly not.”
“But I shall. How can I help it? He will be here tomorrow, and will be full of the coming changes. How should I not mention your name? He knows — not all that has passed, but too much not to be aware of my anxiety. Of course your name will come up?”
“What I request — what I demand is, that you ask no favour for me. Your father will miss you — will he not? I had better go now.”
“Good night, Phineas.”
“Good night, dear friend.”
“Dearest, dearest friend,” she said. Then he left her, and without assistance, let himself out into the square. In her intercourse with him there was a passion the expression of which caused him sorrow and almost dismay. He did not say so even to himself, but he felt that a time might come in which she would resent the coldness of demeanour which it would be imperative upon him to adopt in his intercourse with her. He knew how imprudent he had been to stand there with his arm round her waist.
It had been settled that Parliament should meet on the Thursday in Easter week, and it was known to the world at large that Cabinet Councils were held on the Friday previous, on the Monday, and on the Tuesday; but nobody knew what took place at those meetings. Cabinet Councils are, of course, very secret. What kind of oath the members take not to divulge any tittle of the proceedings at these awful conferences, the general public does not know; but it is presumed that oaths are taken very solemn, and it is known that they are very binding. Nevertheless, it is not an uncommon thing to hear openly at the clubs an account of what has been settled; and, as we all know, not a council is held as to which the editor of the People’s Banner does not inform its readers next day exactly what took place. But as to these three Cabinet Councils there was an increased mystery abroad. Statements, indeed, were made, very definite and circumstantial, but then they were various — and directly opposed one to another. According to the People’s Banner, Mr Daubeny had resolved, with that enduring courage which was his peculiar characteristic, that he would not be overcome by faction, but would continue to exercise all the functions of Prime Minister until he had had an opportunity of learning whether his great measure had been opposed by the sense of the country, or only by the tactics of an angry and greedy party. Other journals declared that the Ministry as a whole had decided on resigning. But the clubs were in a state of agonising doubt. At the great stronghold of conservative policy in Pall Mall men were silent, embarrassed, and unhappy. The party was at heart divorced from its leaders — and a party without leaders is powerless. To these gentlemen there could be no triumph, whether Mr Daubeny went out or remained in office. They had been betrayed — but as a body were unable even to accuse the traitor. As regarded most of them they had accepted the treachery and bowed their heads beneath it, by means of their votes. And as to the few who had been staunch — they also were cowed by a feeling that they had been instrumental in destroying their own power by endeavouring to protect a doomed institution. Many a thriving county member in those days expressed a wish among his friends that he had never meddled with the affairs of public life, and hinted at the Chiltern Hundreds. On the other side, there was undoubtedly something of a rabid desire for immediate triumph, which almost deserved that epithet of greedy which was then commonly used by Conservatives in speaking of their opponents. With the Liberal leaders — such men as Mr Gresham and the two Dukes — the anxiety displayed was, no doubt, on behalf of the country. It is right, according to our constitution, that the Government should be entrusted to the hands of those whom the constituencies of the country have most trusted. And, on behalf of the country, it behoves the men in whom the country has placed its trust to do battle in season and out of season — to carry on war internecine — till the demands of the country are obeyed. A sound political instinct had induced Mr Gresham on this occasion to attack his opponent simply on the ground of his being the leader only of a minority in the House of Commons. But from among Mr Gresham’s friends there had arisen a noise which sounded very like a clamour for place, and this noise of course became aggravated in the ears of those who were to be displaced. Now, during Easter week, the clamour became very loud. Could it be possible that the archfiend of a Minister would dare to remain in office till the end of a hurried Session, and then again dissolve Parliament? Men talked of rows in London — even of revolution, and there were meetings in open places both by day and night. Petitions were to be prepared, and the country was to be made to express itself.
When, however, Thursday afternoon came, Mr Daubeny “threw up the sponge’. Up to the last moment the course which he intended to pursue was not known to the country at large. He entered the House very slowly — almost with a languid air, as though indifferent to its performances, and took his seat at about half-past four. Every man there felt that there was insolence in his demeanour — and yet there was nothing on which it was possible to fasten in the way of expressed complaint. There was a faint attempt at a cheer — for good soldiers acknowledge the importance of supporting even an unpopular general. But Mr Daubeny’s soldiers on this occasion were not very good. When he had been seated about five minutes he rose, still very languidly, and began his statement. He and his colleagues, he said, in their attempt to legislate for the good of their country, had been beaten in regard to a very great measure by a large majority, and in compliance with what he acknowledged to be the expressed opinion of the House, he had considered it to be his duty — as his colleagues had considered it to be theirs — to place their joint resignations in the hands of Her Majesty. This statement was received with considerable surprise, as it was not generally known that Mr Daubeny had as yet even seen the Queen. But the feeling most predominant in the House was one almost of dismay at the man’s quiescence. He and his colleagues had resigned, and he had recommended Her Majesty to send for Mr Gresham. He spoke in so low a voice as to be hardly audible to the House at large, and then paused — ceasing to speak, as though his work were done. He even made some gesture, as though stepping back to his seat — deceived by which Mr Gresham, at the other side of the table, rose to his legs. “Perhaps,” said Mr Daubeny — “Perhaps the right honourable gentleman would pardon him, and the House would pardon him, if still, for a moment, he interposed between the House and the right honourable gentleman. He could well understand the impatience of the right honourable gentleman — who no doubt was anxious to reassume that authority among them, the temporary loss of which he had not perhaps borne with all the equanimity which might have been expected from him. He would promise the House and the right honourable gentleman that he would not detain them long.” Mr Gresham threw himself back into his seat, evidently not without annoyance, and his enemy stood for a moment looking at him. Unless they were angels these two men must at that moment have hated each other — and it is supposed that they were no more than human. It was afterwards said that the little ruse of pretending to resume his seat had been deliberately planned by Mr Daubeny with the view of seducing Mr Gresham into an act of seeming impatience, and that these words about his opponent’s failing equanimity had been carefully prepared.
Mr Daubeny stood for a minute silent, and then began to pour forth that which was really his speech on the occasion. Those flaccid half-pronounced syllables in which he had declared that he had resigned — had been studiously careless, purposely flaccid. It was his duty to let the House know the fact, and he did his duty. But now he had a word to say in which he himself could take some little interest. Mr Daubeny could be fiery or flaccid as it suited himself — and now it suited him to be fiery. He had a prophecy to make, and prophets have ever been energetic men. Mr Daubeny conceived it to be his duty to inform the House, and through the House the country, that now, at last, had the day of ruin come upon the British Empire, because it had bowed itself to the dominion of an unscrupulous and greedy faction. It cannot be said that the language which he used was unmeasured, because no word that he uttered would have warranted the Speaker in calling him to order; but, within the very wide bounds of parliamentary etiquette, there was no limit to the reproach and reprobation which he heaped on the House of Commons for its late vote. And his audacity equalled his insolence. In announcing his resignation, he had condescended to speak of himself and his colleagues; but now he dropped his colleagues as though they were unworthy of his notice, and spoke only of his own doings — of his own efforts to save the country, which was indeed willing to be saved, but unable to select fitting instruments of salvation. “He had been twitted”, he said, “with inconsistency to his principles by men who were simply unable to understand the meaning of the word Conservatism. These gentlemen seemed to think that any man who did not set himself up as an apostle of constant change must therefore be bound always to stand still and see his country perish from stagnation. It might be that there were gentlemen in that House whose timid natures could not face the dangers of any movement; but for himself he would say that no word had ever fallen from his lips which justified either his friends or his adversaries in classing him among the number. If a man be anxious to keep his fire alight, does he refuse to touch the sacred coals as in the course of nature they are consumed? Or does he move them with the salutary poker and add fresh fuel from the basket? They all knew that enemy to the comfort of the domestic hearth, who could not keep his hands for a moment from the fire-irons. Perhaps he might be justified if he said that they had been very much troubled of late in that House by gentlemen who could not keep their fingers from poker and tongs. But there had now fallen upon them a trouble of a nature much more serious in its effects than any that had come or could come from would-be reformers. A spirit of personal ambition, a wretched thirst for office, a hankering after the power and privileges of ruling, had not only actuated men — as, alas, had been the case since first the need for men to govern others had arisen in the world — but had been openly avowed and put forward as an adequate and sufficient reason for opposing a measure in disapprobation of which no single argument had been used! The right honourable gentleman’s proposition to the House had been simply this — ““I shall oppose this measure, be it good or bad, because I desire, myself, to be Prime Minister, and I call upon those whom I lead in politics to assist me in doing so, in order that they may share the good things on which we may thus be enabled to lay our hands!’’”
Then there arose a great row in the House, and there seemed to be a doubt whether the still existing Minister of the day would be allowed to continue his statement. Mr Gresham rose to his feet, but sat down again instantly, without having spoken a word that was audible. Two or three voices were heard calling upon the Speaker for protection. It was, however, asserted afterwards that nothing had been said which demanded the Speaker’s interference. But all moderate voices were soon lost in the enraged clamour of members on each side. The insolence showered upon those who generally supported Mr Daubeny had equalled that with which he had exasperated those opposed to him; and as the words had fallen from his lips, there had been no purpose of cheering him from the conservative benches. But noise creates noise, and shouting is a ready and easy mode of contest. For a while it seemed as though the right side of the Speaker’s chair was only beaten by the majority of lungs on the left side — and in the midst of it all Mr Daubeny still stood, firm on his feet, till gentlemen had shouted themselves silent — and then he resumed his speech.
The remainder of what he said was profound, prophetic, and unintelligible. The gist of it, so far as it could be understood when the bran was bolted from it, consisted in an assurance that the country had now reached that period of its life in which rapid decay was inevitable, and that, as the mortal disease had already shown itself in its worst form, national decrepitude was imminent, and natural death could not long be postponed. They who attempted to read the prophecy with accuracy were of opinion that the prophet had intimated that had the nation, even in this its crisis, consented to take him, the prophet, as its sole physician and to obey his prescription with childlike docility, health might not only have been reestablished, but a new juvenescence absolutely created. The nature of the medicine that should have been taken was even supposed to have been indicated in some very vague terms. Had he been allowed to operate he would have cut the tar roots of the national cancer, have introduced fresh blood into the national veins, and resuscitated the national digestion, and he seemed to think that the nation, as a nation, was willing enough to undergo the operation, and be treated as he should choose to treat it — but that the incubus of Mr Gresham, backed by an unworthy House of Commons, had prevented, and was preventing, the nation from having its own way. Wherefore the nation must be destroyed. Mr Daubeny as soon as he had completed his speech took up his hat and stalked out of the House.
It was supposed at the time that the retiring Prime Minister had intended, when he rose to his legs, not only to denounce his opponents, but also to separate himself from his own unworthy associates. Men said that he had become disgusted with politics, disappointed, and altogether demoralized by defeat, and great curiosity existed as to the steps which might be taken at the time by the party of which he had hitherto been the leader. On that evening, at any rate, nothing was done. When Mr Daubeny was gone, Mr Gresham rose and said that in the present temper of the House he thought it best to postpone any statement from himself. He had received Her Majesty’s commands only as he had entered that House, and in obedience to those commands, he should wait upon Her Majesty early tomorrow. He hoped to be able to inform the House at the afternoon sitting, what was the nature of the commands with which Her Majesty might honour him.
“What do you think of that?” Phineas asked Mr Monk as they left the House together.
“I think that our Chatham of today is but a very poor copy of him who misbehaved a century ago.”
“Does not the whole thing distress you?”
“Not particularly. I have always felt that there has been a mistake about Mr Daubeny. By many he has been accounted as a statesman, whereas to me he has always been a political Cagliostro. Now a conjuror is I think a very pleasant fellow to have among us, if we know that he is a conjuror — but a conjuror who is believed to do his tricks without sleight of hand is a dangerous man. It is essential that such a one should be found out and known to be a conjuror — and I hope that such knowledge may have been communicated to some men this afternoon.”
“He was very great,” said Ratler to Bonteen. “Did you not think so?”
“Yes, I did — very powerful indeed. But the party is broken up to atoms.”
“Atoms soon come together again in politics,” said Ratler. “They can’t do without him. They haven’t got anybody else. I wonder what he did when he got home.”
“Had some gruel and went to bed,” said Bonteen. “They say these scenes in the House never disturb him at home.” From which conversations it may be inferred that Mr Monk and Messrs Ratler and Bonteen did not agree in their ideas respecting political conjurors.
It can never be a very easy thing to form a Ministry. The one chosen chief is readily selected. Circumstances, indeed, have probably left no choice in the matter. Every man in the country who has at all turned his thoughts that way knows very well who will be the next Prime Minister when it comes to pass that a change is imminent. In these days the occupant of the throne can have no difficulty. Mr Gresham recommends Her Majesty to send for Mr Daubeny, or Mr Daubeny for Mr Gresham — as some ten or a dozen years since Mr Mildmay told her to send for Lord de Terrier, or Lord de Terrier for Mr Mildmay. The Prime Minister is elected by the nation, but the nation, except in rare cases, cannot go below that in arranging details, and the man for whom the Queen sends is burdened with the necessity of selecting his colleagues. It may be — probably must always be the case — that this, that, and the other colleagues are clearly indicated to his mind, but then each of these colleagues may want his own inferior coadjutors, and so the difficulty begins, increases, and at length culminates. On the present occasion it was known at the end of a week that Mr Gresham had not filled all his offices, and that there were difficulties. It was announced that the Duke of St Bungay could not quite agree on certain points with Mr Gresham, and that the Duke of Omnium would do nothing without the other Duke. The Duke of St Bungay was very powerful, as there were three or four of the old adherents of Mr Mildmay who would join no Government unless he was with them. Sir Harry Coldfoot and Lord Plinlimmon would not accept office without the Duke. The Duke was essential, and now, though the Duke’s character was essentially that of a practical man who never raised unnecessary trouble, men said that the Duke was at the bottom of it all. The Duke did not approve of Mr Bonteen. Mr Gresham, so it was said, insisted on Mr Bonteen — appealing to the other Duke. But that other Duke, our own special Duke, Planty Pall that was, instead of standing up for Mr Bonteen, was cold and unsympathetic. He could not join the Ministry without his friend, the Duke of St Bungay, and as to Mr Bonteen, he thought that perhaps a better selection might be made.
Such were the club rumours which took place as to the difficulties of the day, and, as is generally the case, they were not far from the truth. Neither of the dukes had absolutely put a veto on poor Mr Bonteen’s elevation, but they had expressed themselves dissatisfied with the appointment, and the younger Duke had found himself called upon to explain that although he had been thrown much into communication with Mr Bonteen he had never himself suggested that that gentleman should follow him at the Exchequer. This was one of the many difficulties which beset the Prime Minister elect in the performance of his arduous duty.
Lady Glencora, as people would still persist in calling her, was at the bottom of it all. She had sworn an oath inimical to Mr Bonteen, and did not leave a stone unturned in her endeavours to accomplish it. If Phineas Finn might find acceptance, then Mr Bonteen might be allowed to enter Elysium. A second Juno, she would allow the Romulus she hated to sit in the seats of the blessed, to be fed with nectar, and to have his name printed in the lists of unruffled Cabinet meetings — but only on conditions. Phineas Finn must be allowed a seat also, and a little nectar — though it were at the second table of the gods. For this she struggled, speaking her mind boldly to this and that member of her husband’s party, but she struggled in vain. She could obtain no assurance on behalf of Phineas Finn. The Duke of St Bungay would do nothing for her. Barrington Erle had declared himself powerless. Her husband had condescended to speak to Mr Bonteen himself, and Mr Bonteen’s insolent answer had been reported to her. Then she went sedulously to work, and before a couple of days were over she did make her husband believe that Mr Bonteen was not fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer. This took place before Mr Daubeny’s statement, while the Duke and Duchess of St Bungay were still at Matching — while Mr Bonteen, unconscious of what was being done, was still in the House. Before the two days were over, the Duke of St Bungay had a very low opinion of Mr Bonteen, but was quite ignorant of any connection between that low opinion and the fortunes of Phineas Finn.
“Plantagenet, of all your men that are coming up, your Mr Bonteen is the worst. I often think that you are going down hill, both in character and intellect, but if you go as low as that I shall prefer to cross the water, and live in America.” This she said in the presence of the two dukes.
“What has Mr Bonteen done?” asked the elder, laughing.
“He was boasting this morning openly of whom he intended to bring with him into the Cabinet.” Truth demands that the chronicler should say that this was a positive fib. Mr Bonteen, no doubt, had talked largely and with indiscretion, but had made no such boast as that of which the Duchess accused him. “Mr Gresham will get astray if he doesn’t allow someone to tell him the truth.”
She did not press the matter any further then, but what she had said was not thrown away. “Your wife is almost right about that man,” the elder Duke said to the younger.
“It’s Mr Gresham’s doing — not mine,” said the younger.
“She is right about Gresham, too,” said the elder. “With all his immense intellect and capacity for business no man wants more looking after.”
That evening Mr Bonteen was singled out by the Duchess for her special attention, and in the presence of all who were there assembled he made himself an ass. He could not save himself from talking about himself when he was encouraged. On this occasion he offended all those feelings of official discretion and personal reticence which had been endeared to the old duke by the lessons which he had learned from former statesmen and by the experience of his own life. To be quiet, unassuming, almost affectedly modest in any mention of himself, low-voiced, reflecting always more than he resolved, and resolving always more than he said, had been his aim. Conscious of his high rank, and thinking, no doubt, much of the advantages in public life which his birth and position had given him, still he would never have ventured to speak of his own services as necessary to any Government. That he had really been indispensable to many he must have known, but not to his closest friend would he have said so in plain language. To such a man the arrogance of Mr Bonteen was intolerable.
There is probably more of the flavour of political aristocracy to be found still remaining among our liberal leading statesmen than among their opponents. A Conservative Cabinet is, doubtless, never deficient in dukes and lords, and the sons of such; but conservative dukes and lords are recruited here and there, and as recruits, are new to the business, whereas among the old Whigs a halo of statecraft has, for ages past, so strongly pervaded and enveloped certain great families, that the power in the world of politics thus produced still remains, and is even yet efficacious in creating a feeling of exclusiveness. They say that “misfortune makes men acquainted with strange bedfellows’. The old hereditary Whig Cabinet ministers must, no doubt, by this time have learned to feel themselves at home with strange neighbours at their elbows. But still with them something of the feeling of high blood, of rank, and of living in a park with deer about it, remains. They still entertain a pride in their Cabinets, and have, at any rate, not as yet submitted themselves to a conjuror. The Charles James Fox element of liberality still holds its own, and the fragrance of Cavendish is essential. With no man was this feeling stronger than with the Duke of St Bungay, though he well knew how to keep it in abeyance — even to the extent of self-sacrifice. Bonteens must creep into the holy places. The faces which he loved to see — born chiefly of other faces he had loved when young — could not cluster around the sacred table without others which were much less welcome to him. He was wise enough to know that exclusiveness did not suit the nation, though human enough to feel that it must have been pleasant to himself. There must be Bonteens — but when any Bonteen came up, who loomed before his eyes as specially disagreeable, it seemed to him to be a duty to close the door against such a one, if it could be closed without violence. A constant, gentle pressure against the door would tend to keep down the number of the Bonteens.
“I am not sure that you are not going a little too quick in regard to Mr Bonteen,” said the elder duke to Mr Gresham before he had finally assented to a proposition originated by himself — that he should sit in the Cabinet without a portfolio.
“Palliser wishes it,” said Mr Gresham, shortly.
“He and I think that there has been some mistake about that. You suggested the appointment to him, and he felt unwilling to raise an objection without giving the matter very mature consideration. You can understand that.”
“Upon my word I thought that the selection would be peculiarly agreeable to him.” Then the duke made a suggestion. “Could not some special office at the Treasury be constructed for Mr Bonteen’s acceptance, having special reference to the question of decimal coinage?”
“But how about the salary?” asked Mr Gresham. “I couldn’t propose a new office with a salary above oe2,000.”
“Couldn’t we make it permanent,” suggested the duke — “with permission to hold a seat if he can get one?”
“I fear not,” said Mr Gresham.
“He got into a very unpleasant scrape when he was Financial Secretary,” said the Duke.
But whither would’st thou, Muse? Unmeet For jocund lyre are themes like these . Shalt thou the talk of Gods repeat, Debasing by thy strains effete Such lofty mysteries?
The absolute words of a conversation so lofty shall no longer be attempted, but it may be said that Mr Gresham was too wise to treat as of no account the objections of such a one as the Duke of St Bungay. He saw Mr Bonteen, and he saw the other Duke, and difficulties arose. Mr Bonteen made himself very disagreeable indeed. As Mr Bonteen had never absolutely been as yet more than a demigod, our Muse, light as she is, may venture to report that he told Mr Ratler that “he’d be d — if he’d stand it. If he were to be thrown over now, he’d make such a row, and would take such care that the fat should be in the fire, that his enemies, whoever they were, should wish that they had kept their fingers off him. He knew who was doing it.” If he did not know, his guess was right. In his heart he accused the young duchess, though he mentioned her name to no one. And it was the young duchess. Then there was made an insidious proposition to Mr Gresham — which reached him at last through Barrington Erle — that matters would go quieter if Phineas Finn were placed in his old office at the Colonies instead of Lord Fawn, whose name had been suggested, and for whom — as Barrington Erle declared — no one cared a brass farthing. Mr Gresham, when he heard this, thought that he began to smell a rat, and was determined to be on his guard. Why should the appointment of Mr Phineas Finn make things go easier in regard to Mr Bonteen? There must be some woman’s fingers in the pie. Now Mr Gresham was firmly resolved that no woman’s fingers should have anything to do with his pie.
How the thing went from bad to worse, it would be bootless here to tell. Neither of the two dukes absolutely refused to join the Ministry; but they were persistent in their objection to Mr Bonteen, and were joined in it by Lord Plinlimmon and Sir Harry Coldfoot. It was in vain that Mr Gresham urged that he had no other man ready and fit to be Chancellor of the Exchequer. That excuse could not be accepted. There was Legge Wilson, who twelve years since had been at the Treasury, and would do very well. Now Mr Gresham had always personally hated Legge Wilson — and had, therefore, offered him the Board of Trade. Legge Wilson had disgusted him by accepting it, and the name had already been published in connection with the office. But in the lists which had appeared towards the end of the week, no name was connected with the office of Chancellor of the Exchequer, and no office was connected with the name of Mr Bonteen. The editor of the People’s Banner, however, expressed the gratification of that journal that even Mr Gresham had not dared to propose Mr Phineas Finn for any place under the Crown.
At last Mr Bonteen was absolutely told that he could not be Chancellor of the Exchequer. If he would consent to give his very valuable services to the country with the view of carrying through Parliament the great measure of decimal coinage he should be President of the Board of Trade — but without a seat in the Cabinet. He would thus become the Right Honourable Bonteen, which, no doubt, would be a great thing for him — and, not busy in the Cabinet, must be able to devote his time exclusively to the great measure above-named. What was to become of “Trade” generally, was not specially explained; but, as we all know, there would be a Vice-President to attend to details.
The proposition very nearly broke the man’s heart. With a voice stopped by agitation, with anger flashing from his eyes, almost in a convulsion of mixed feelings, he reminded his chief of what had been said about his appointment in the House. Mr Gresham had already absolutely defended it. After that did Mr Gresham mean to withdraw a promise that had so formally been made? But Mr Gresham was not to be caught in that way. He had made no promise — had not even stated to the House that such appointment was to be made. A very improper question had been asked as to a rumour — in answering which he had been forced to justify himself by explaining that discussions respecting the office had been necessary. “Mr Bonteen,” said Mr Gresham, “no one knows better than you the difficulties of a Minister. If you can act with us I shall be very grateful to you. If you cannot, I shall regret the loss of your services.” Mr Bonteen took twenty-four hours to consider, and was then appointed President of the Board of Trade without a seat in the Cabinet. Mr Legge Wilson became Chancellor of the Exchequer. When the lists were completed, no office whatever was assigned to Phineas Finn. “I haven’t done with Mr Bonteen yet,” said the young duchess to her friend Madame Goesler.
The secrets of the world are very marvellous, but they are not themselves half so wonderful as the way in which they become known to the world. There could be no doubt that Mr Bonteen’s high ambition had foundered, and that he had been degraded through the secret enmity of the Duchess of Omnium. It was equally certain that his secret enmity to Phineas Finn had brought this punishment on his head. But before the Ministry had been a week in office almost everybody knew that it was so. The rumours were full of falsehood, but yet they contained the truth. The duchess had done it. The duchess was the bosom friend of Lady Laura Kennedy, who was in love with Phineas Finn. She had gone on her knees to Mr Gresham to get a place for her friend’s favourite, and Mr Gresham had refused. Consequently, at her bidding, half a dozen embryo Ministers — her husband among the number — had refused to be amenable to Mr Gresham. Mr Gresham had at last consented to sacrifice Mr Bonteen, who had originally instigated him to reject the claims of Phineas Finn. That the degradation of the one man had been caused by the exclusion of the other all the world knew.
“It shuts the door to me for ever and ever,” said Phineas to Madame Goesler.
“I don’t see that.”
“Of course it does. Such an affair places a mark against a man’s name which will never be forgotten.”
“Is your heart set upon holding some trifling appointment under a Minister?”
“To tell you the truth, it is — or rather it was. The prospect of office to me was more than perhaps to any other expectant. Even this man, Bonteen, has some fortune of his own, and can live if he be excluded. I have given up everything for the chance of something in this line.”
“Other lines are open.”
“Not to me, Madame Goesler. I do not mean to defend myself. I have been very foolish, very sanguine, and am now very unhappy.”
“What shall I say to you?”
“The truth.”
“In truth, then, I do not sympathise with you. The thing lost is too small, too mean to justify unhappiness.”
“But, Madame Goesler, you are a rich woman.”
“Well?”
“If you were to lose it all, would you not be unhappy? It has been my ambition to live here in London as one of a special set which dominates all other sets in our English world. To do so a man should have means of his own. I have none; and yet I have tried it — thinking that I could earn my bread at it as men do at other professions. I acknowledge that I should not have thought so. No man should attempt what I have attempted without means, at any rate to live on if he fail; but I am not the less unhappy because I have been silly.”
“What will you do?”
“Ah — what? Another friend asked me that the other day, and I told her that I should vanish.”
“Who was that friend?”
“Lady Laura.”
“She is in London again now?”
“Yes; she and her father are in Portman Square.”
“She has been an injurious friend to you.”
“No, by heaven,” exclaimed Phineas. “But for her I should never have been here at all, never have had a seat in Parliament, never have been in office, never have known you.”
“And might have been the better without any of these things.”
“No man ever had a better friend than Lady Laura has been to me. Malice, wicked and false as the devil, has lately joined our names together to the incredible injury of both of us; but it has not been her fault.”
“You are energetic in defending her.”
“And so would she be in defending me. Circumstances threw us together and made us friends. Her father and her brother were my friends. I happened to be of service to her husband. We belonged to the same party. And therefore — because she has been unfortunate in her marriage — people tell lies of her.”
“It is a pity he should — not die, and leave her,” said Madame Goesler slowly.
“Why so?”
“Because then you might justify yourself in defending her by making her your wife.” She paused, but he made no answer to this. “You are in love with her,” she said.
“It is untrue.”
“Mr Finn!”
“Well, what would you have? I am not in love with her. To me she is no more than my sister. Were she as free as air I should not ask her to be my wife. Can a man and woman feel no friendship without being in love with each other?”
“I hope they may,” said Madame Goesler. Had he been lynx-eyed he might have seen that she blushed; but it required quick eyes to discover a blush on Madame Goesler’s face. “You and I are friends.”
“Indeed we are,” he said, grasping her hand as he took his leave.