Gerard Maule, as the reader has been informed, wrote three lines to his dearest Adelaide to inform her that his father would not assent to the suggestion respecting Maule Abbey which had been made by Lady Chiltern, and then took no further steps in the matter. In the fortnight next after the receipt of his letter nothing was heard of him at Harrington Hall, and Adelaide, though she made no complaint, was unhappy. Then came the letter from Mr Spooner — with all its rich offers, and Adelaide’s mind was for a while occupied with wrath against her second suitor. But as the egregious folly of Mr Spooner — for to her thinking the aspirations of Mr Spooner were egregiously foolish — died out of her mind, her thoughts reverted to her engagement. Why did not the man come to her, or why did he not write?
She had received from Lady Chiltern an invitation to remain with them — the Chilterns — till her marriage. “But, dear Lady Chiltern, who knows when it will be?” Adelaide had said. Lady Chiltern had good-naturedly replied that the longer it was put off the better for herself. “But you’ll be going to London or abroad before that day comes.” Lady Chiltern declared that she looked forward to no festivities which could under any circumstances remove her four-and-twenty hours travelling distance from the kennels. Probably she might go up to London for a couple of months as soon as the hunting was over, and the hounds had been drafted, and the horses had been coddled, and every covert had been visited. From the month of May till the middle of July she might, perhaps, be allowed to be in town, as communications by telegram could now be made day and night. After that, preparations for cub-hunting would be imminent, and, as a matter of course, it would be necessary that she should be at Harrington Hall at so important a period of the year. During those couple of months she would be very happy to have the companionship of her friend, and she hinted that Gerard Maule would certainly be in town. “I begin to think it would have been better that I should never have seen Gerard Maule,” said Adelaide Palliser.
This happened about the middle of March, while hunting was still in force. Gerard’s horses were standing in the neighbourhood, but Gerard himself was not there. Mr Spooner, since that short, disheartening note had been sent to him by Lord Chiltern, had not been seen at Harrington. There was a Harrington Lawn Meet on one occasion, but he had not appeared till the hounds were at the neighbouring covert side. Nevertheless he had declared that he did not intend to give up the pursuit, and had even muttered something of the sort to Lord Chiltern. “I am one of those fellows who stick to a thing, you know,” he said.
“I am afraid you had better give up sticking to her, because she’s going to marry somebody else.”
“I’ve heard all about that, my lord. He’s a very nice sort of young man, but I’m told he hasn’t got his house ready yet for a family.” All which Lord Chiltern repeated to his wife. Neither of them spoke to Adelaide again about Mr Spooner; but this did cause a feeling in Lady Chiltern’s mind that perhaps this engagement with young Maule was a foolish thing, and that, if so, she was in a great measure responsible for the folly.
“Don’t you think you’d better write to him?” she said, one morning.
“Why does he not write to me?”
“But he did — when he wrote you that his father would not consent to give up the house. You did not answer him then.”
“It was two lines — without a date. I don’t even know where he lives.”
“You know his club?”
“Yes — I know his club. I do feel, Lady Chiltern, that I have become engaged to marry a man as to whom I am altogether in the dark. I don’t like writing to him at his club.”
“You have seen more of him here and in Italy than most girls see of their future husbands.”
“So I have — but I have seen no one belonging to him. Don’t you understand what I mean? I feel all at sea about him. I am sure he does not mean any harm.”
“Certainly he does not.”
“But then he hardly means any good.”
“I never saw a man more earnestly in love,” said Lady Chiltern.
“Oh yes — he’s quite enough in love. But — ”
“But what?”
“He’ll just remain up in London thinking about it, and never tell himself that there’s anything to be done. And then, down here, what is my best hope? Not that he’ll come to see me, but that he’ll come to see his horse, and that so, perhaps, I may get a word with him.” Then Lady Chiltern suggested, with a laugh, that perhaps it might have been better that she should have accepted Mr Spooner. There would have been no doubt as to Mr Spooner’s energy and purpose. “Only that if there was not another man in the world I wouldn’t marry him, and that I never saw any other man except Gerard Maule whom I even fancied I could marry.”
About a fortnight after this, when the hunting was all over, in the beginning of April, she did write to him as follows, and did direct her letter to his club. In the meantime Lord Chiltern had intimated to his wife that if Gerard Maule behaved badly he should consider himself to be standing in the place of Adelaide’s father or brother. His wife pointed out to him that were he her father or her brother he could do nothing — that in these days let a man behave ever so badly, no means of punishing was within reach of the lady’s friends. But Lord Chiltern would not assent to this. He muttered something about a horsewhip, and seemed to suggest that one man could, if he were so minded, always have it out with another, if not in this way, then in that. Lady Chiltern protested, and declared that horsewhips could not under any circumstances be efficacious. “He had better mind what he is about,” said Lord Chiltern. It was after this that Adelaide wrote her letter:
Harrington Hall, 5th April DEAR GERARD—
I have been thinking that I should hear from you, and have been surprised — I may say unhappy — because I have not done so. Perhaps you thought I ought to have answered the three words which you wrote to me about your father; if so, I will apologise; only they did not seem to give me anything to say. I was very sorry that your father should have ““cut up rough’”, as you call it, but you must remember that we both expected that he would refuse, and that we are only therefore where we thought we should be. I suppose we shall have to wait till providence does something for us — only, if so, it would be pleasanter to me to hear your own opinion about it.
The Chilterns are surprised that you shouldn’t have come back, and seen the end of the season. There were some very good runs just at last — particularly one on last Monday. But on Wednesday Trumpeton Wood was again blank, and there was some row about wires. I can’t explain it all; but you must come, and Lord Chiltern will tell you. I have gone down to see the horses ever so often — but I don’t care to go now as you never write to me. They are all three quite well, and Fan looks as silken and as soft as any lady need do.
Lady Chiltern has been kinder than I can tell you. I go up to town with her in May, and shall remain with her while she is there. So far I have decided. After that my future home must, sir, depend on the resolution and determination, or perhaps on the vagaries and caprices, of him who is to be my future master. Joking apart, I must know to what I am to look forward before I can make up my mind whether I will or will not go back to Italy towards the end of the summer. If I do, I fear I must do so just in the hottest time of the year; but I shall not like to come down here again after leaving London. — unless something by that time has been settled.
I shall send this to your club, and I hope that it will reach you. I suppose that you are in London.
Goodbye, dearest Gerard.
Yours most affectionately ADELAIDE
“If there is anything that troubles you, pray tell me. I ask you because I think it would be better for you that I should know. I sometimes think that you would have written if there had not been some misfortune. God bless you.”
Gerard was in London, and sent the following note by return of post:
— Club, Tuesday DEAREST ADELAIDE
All right. If Chiltern can take me for a couple of nights, I’ll come down next week, and settle about the horses, and will arrange everything.
Ever your own, with all my heart G . M .
“He will settle about his horses, and arrange everything,” said Adelaide, as she showed the letter to Lady Chiltern. “The horses first, and everything afterwards. The everything, of course, includes all my future happiness, the day of my marriage, whether tomorrow or in ten years’ time, and the place where we shall live.”
“At any rate, he’s coming.”
“Yes — but when? He says next week, but he does not name any day. Did you ever hear or see anything so unsatisfactory.”
“I thought you would be glad to see him.”
“So I should be — if there was any sense in him. I shall be glad, and shall kiss him.”
“I dare say you will.”
“And let him put his arm round my waist and be happy. He will be happy because he will think of nothing beyond. But what is to be the end of it?”
“He says that he will settle everything.”
“But he will have thought of nothing. What must I settle? That is the question. When he was told to go to his father, he went to his father. When he failed there the work was done, and the trouble was off his mind. I know him so well.”
“If you think so ill of him why did you consent to get into his boat?” said Lady Chiltern, seriously.
“I don’t think ill of him. Why do you say that I think ill of him? I think better of him than of anybody else in the world — but I know his fault, and, as it happens, it is a fault so very prejudicial to my happiness. You ask me why I got into his boat. Why does any girl get into a man’s boat? Why did you get into Lord Chiltern’s?”
“I promised to marry him when I was seven years old — so he says.”
“But you wouldn’t have done it, if you hadn’t had a sort of feeling that you were born to be his wife. I haven’t got into this man’s boat yet; but I never can be happy unless I do, simply because — ”
“You love him.”
“Yes — just that. I have a feeling that I should like to be in his boat, and I shouldn’t like to be anywhere else. After you have come to feel like that about a man I don’t suppose it makes any difference whether you think him perfect or imperfect. He’s just my own — at least I hope so — the one thing that I’ve got. If I wear a stuff frock, I’m not going to despise it because it’s not silk.”
“Mr Spooner would be the stuff frock.”
“No — Mr Spooner is shoddy, and very bad shoddy, too.
On the Saturday in the following week Gerard Maule did arrive at Harrington Hall — and was welcomed as only accepted lovers are welcomed. Not a word of reproach was uttered as to his delinquencies. No doubt he got the kiss with which Adelaide had herself suggested that his coming would be rewarded. He was allowed to stand on the rug before the fire with his arm round her waist. Lady Chiltern smiled on him. His horses had been specially visited that morning, and a lively report as to their condition was made to him. Not a word was said on that occasion which could distress him. Even Lord Chiltern when he came in was gracious to him. “Well, old fellow,” he said, “you’ve missed your hunting.”
“Yes; indeed. Things kept me in town.”
“We had some uncommonly good runs.”
“Have the horses stood pretty well?” asked Gerard.
“I felt uncommonly tempted to borrow yours; and should have done so once or twice if I hadn’t known that I should have been betrayed.”
“I wish you had, with all my heart,” said Gerard. And then they went to dress for dinner.
In the evening, when the ladies had gone to bed, Lord Chiltern took his friend off to the smoking-room. At Harrington Hall it was not unusual for the ladies and gentlemen to descend together into the very comfortable Pandemonium which was so called, when — as was the case at present — the terms of intimacy between them were sufficient to warrant such a proceeding. But on this occasion Lady Chiltern went very discreetly upstairs, and Adelaide, with equal discretion, followed her. It had been arranged beforehand that Lord Chiltern should say a salutary word or two to the young man. Maule began about the hunting, asking questions about this and that, but his host stopped him at once. Lord Chiltern, when he had a task on hand, was always inclined to get through it at once — perhaps with an energy that was too sudden in its effects. “Maule,” he said, “you ought to make up your mind what you mean to do about that girl.”
“Do about her! How?”
“You and she are engaged, I suppose?”
“Of course we are. There isn’t any doubt about it.”
“Just so. But when things come to be like that, all delays are good fun to the man, but they’re the very devil to the girl.”
“I thought it was always the other way up, and that girls wanted delay?”
“That’s only a theoretical delicacy which never means much. When a girl is engaged she likes to have the day fixed. When there’s a long interval the man can do pretty much as he pleases, while the girl can do nothing except think about him. Then it sometimes turns out that when he’s wanted, he’s not there.”
“I hope I’m not distrusted,” said Gerard, with an air that showed that he was almost disposed to be offended.
“Not in the least. The women here think you the finest paladin in the world, and Miss Palliser would fly at my throat if she thought that I said a word against you. But she’s in my house, you see; and I’m bound to do exactly as I should if she were my sister.”
“And if she were your sister?”
“I should tell you that I couldn’t approve of the engagement unless you were prepared to fix the time of your marriage. And I should ask you where you intended to live.”
“Wherever she pleases. I can’t go to Maule Abbey while my father lives, without his sanction.”
“And he may live for the next twenty years.”
“Or thirty.”
“Then you are bound to decide upon something else. It’s no use saying that you leave it to her. You can’t leave it to her. What I mean is this, that now you are here, I think you are bound to settle something with her. Goodnight, old fellow.”
Gerard Maule, as he sat upstairs half undressed in his bedroom that night didn’t like it. He hardly knew what it was that he did not like — but he felt that there was something wrong. He thought that Lord Chiltern had not been warranted in speaking to him with a tone of authority, and in talking of a brother’s position — and the rest of it. He had lacked the presence of mind for saying anything at the moment; but he must say something sooner or later. He wasn’t going to be driven by Lord Chiltern. When he looked back at his own conduct he thought that it had been more than noble — almost romantic. He had fallen in love with Miss Palliser, and spoken his love out freely, without any reference to money. He didn’t know what more any fellow could have done. As to his marrying out of hand, the day after his engagement, as a man of fortune can do, everybody must have known that that was out of the question. Adelaide of course had known it. It had been suggested to him that he should consult his father as to living at Maule Abbey. Now if there was one thing he hated more than another, it was consulting his father; and yet he had done it. He had asked for a loan of the old house in perfect faith, and it was not his fault that it had been refused. He could not make a house to live in, nor could he coin a fortune. He had oe800 a-year of his own, but of course he owed a little money. Men with such incomes always do owe a little money. It was almost impossible that he should marry quite at once. It was not his fault that Adelaide had no fortune of her own. When he fell in love with her he had been a great deal too generous to think of fortune, and that ought to he remembered now to his credit. Such was the sum of his thoughts, and his anger spread itself from Lord Chiltern even on to Adelaide herself. Chiltern would hardly have spoken in that way unless she had complained. She, no doubt, had been speaking to Lady Chiltern, and Lady Chiltern had passed it on to her husband. He would have it out with Adelaide on the next morning — quite decidedly. And he would make Lord Chiltern understand that he would not endure interference. He was quite ready to leave Harrington Hall at a moment’s notice if he were ill-treated. This was the humour in which Gerard Maule put himself to bed that night.
On the following morning he was very late at breakfast — so late that Lord Chiltern had gone over to the kennels. As he was dressing he had resolved that it would be fitting that he should speak again to his host before he said anything to Adelaide that might appear to impute blame to her. He would ask Chiltern whether anything was meant by what had been said over-night. But, as it happened, Adelaide had been left alone to pour out his tea for him, and — as the reader will understand to have been certain on such an occasion — they were left together for an hour in the breakfast parlour. It was impossible that such an hour should be passed without some reference to the grievance which was lying heavy on his heart. “Late; I should think you are,” said Adelaide laughing. “It is nearly eleven. Lord Chiltern has been out an hour. I suppose you never get up early except for hunting.”
“People always think it is so wonderfully virtuous to get up. What’s the use of it?”
“Your breakfast is so cold.”
“I don’t care about that. I suppose they can boil me an egg. I was very seedy when I went to bed.”
“You smoked too many cigars, sir.”
“No, I didn’t; but Chiltern was saying things that I didn’t like.” Adelaide’s face at once became very serious. “Yes, a good deal of sugar, please. I don’t care about toast, and anything does for me. He has gone to the kennels, has he?”
“He said he should. What was he saying last night?”
“Nothing particular. He has a way of blowing up, you know; and he looks at one just as if he expected that everybody was to do just what he chooses.”
“You didn’t quarrel.”
“Not at all; I went off to bed without saying a word. I hate jaws. I shall just put it right this morning; that’s all.”
“Was it about me, Gerard?”
“It doesn’t signify the least.”
“But it does signify. If you and he were to quarrel would it not signify to me very much? How could I stay here with them, or go up to London with them, if you and he had really quarrelled? You must tell me. I know that it was about me.” Then she came and sat close to him. “Gerard,” she continued, “I don’t think you understand how much everything is to me that concerns you.”
When he began to reflect, he could not quite recollect what it was that Lord Chiltern had said to him. He did remember that something had been suggested about a brother and sister which had implied that Adelaide might want protection, but there was nothing unnatural or other than kind in the position which Lord Chiltern had declared that he would assume. “He seemed to think that I wasn’t treating you well,” said he, turning round from the breakfast-table to the fire, “and that is a sort of thing I can’t stand.”
“I have never said so, Gerard.”
“I don’t know what it is that he expects, or why he should interfere at all. I can’t bear to be interfered with. What does he know about it? He has had somebody to pay everything for him half a dozen times, but I have to look out for myself.”
“What does all this mean?”
“You would ask me, you know. I am bothered out of my life by ever so many things, and now he comes and adds his botheration.”
“What bothers you, Gerard? If anything bothers you, surely you will tell me. If there has been anything to trouble you since you saw your father why have you not written and told me? Is your trouble about me?”
“Well, of course it is, in a sort of way.”
“I will not be a trouble to you.”
“Now you are going to misunderstand me! Of course, you are not a trouble to me. You know that I love you better than anything in the world.”
“I hope so.”
“Of course I do.” Then he put his arm round her waist and pressed her to his bosom. “But what can a man do? When Lady Chiltern recommended that I should go to my father and tell him, I did it, I knew that no good could come of it. He wouldn’t lift his hand to do anything for me.”
“How horrid that is!”
“He thinks it a shame that I should have my uncle’s money, though he never had any more right to it than that man out there. He is always saying that I am better off than he is.”
“I suppose you are.”
“I am very badly off, I know that. People seem to think that oe800 is ever so much, but I find it to be very little.”
“And it will be much less if you are married,” said Adelaide gravely.
“Of course, everything must be changed, I must sell my horses, and we must cut and run, and go and live at Boulogne, I suppose. But a man can’t do that kind of thing all in a moment. Then Chiltern comes and talks as though he were Virtue personified. What business is it of his?”
Then Adelaide became still more grave. She had now removed herself from his embrace, and was standing a little apart from him on the rug. She did not answer him at first; and when she did so, she spoke very slowly. “We have been rash, I fear; and have done what we have done without sufficient thought.”
“I don’t say that at all.”
“But I do. It does seem now that we have been imprudent.” Then she smiled as she completed her speech. “There had better be no engagement between us.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it is quite clear that it has been a trouble to you rather than a happiness.”
“I wouldn’t give it up for all the world.”
“But it will be better. I had not thought about it as I should have done. I did not understand that the prospect of marrying would make you — so very poor. I see it now. You had better tell Lord Chiltern that it is — done with, and I will tell her the same. It will be better; and I will go back to Italy at once.”
“Certainly not. It is not done with, and it shall not be done with.”
“Do you think I will marry the man I love when he tells me that by — marrying — me he will be — banished to — Bou — logne? You had better see Lord Chiltern; indeed you had.” And then she walked out of the room.
Then came upon him at once a feeling that he had behaved badly; and yet he had been so generous, so full of intentions to be devoted and true! He had never for a moment thought of breaking off the match, and would not think of it now. He loved her better than ever, and would live only with the intention of making her his wife. But he certainly should not have talked to her of his poverty, nor should he have mentioned Boulogne. And yet what should he have done? She would cross-question him about Lord Chiltern, and it was so essentially necessary that he should make her understand his real condition. It had all come from that man’s unjustifiable interference — as he would at once go and tell him. Of course he would marry Adelaide, but the marriage must be delayed. Everybody waits twelve months before they are married; and why should she not wait? He was miserable because he knew that he had made her unhappy — but the fault had been with Lord Chiltern. He would speak his mind frankly to Chiltern, and then would explain with loving tenderness to his Adelaide that they would still be all in all to each other, but that a short year must elapse before he could put his house in order for her. After that he would sell his horses. That resolve was in itself so great that he did not think it necessary at the present moment to invent any more plans for the future. So he went out into the hall, took his hat, and marched off to the kernels.
At the kennels he found Lord Chiltern surrounded by the denizens of the hunt. His huntsman, with the kennelman and feeder, and two whips, and old Doggett were all there, and the Master of the Hounds was in the middle of his business. The dogs were divided by ages, as well as by sex, and were being brought out and examined. Old Doggett was giving advice, differing almost always from Cox, the huntsman, as to the propriety of keeping this hound or of cashiering that. Nose, pace, strength, and docility were all questioned with an eagerness hardly known in any other business; and on each question Lord Chiltern listened to everybody, and then decided with a single word. When he had once resolved, nothing further urged by any man then could avail anything. Jove never was so autocratic, and certainly never so much in earnest. From the look of Lord Chiltern’s brow it almost seemed as though this weight of empire must be too much for any mere man. Very little notice was taken of Gerard Maule when he joined the conclave, though it was felt in reference to him that he was sufficiently staunch a friend to the hunt to be trusted with the secrets of the kennel. Lord Chiltern merely muttered some words of greeting, and Cox lifted the old hunting-cap which he wore. For another hour the conference was held. Those who have attended such meetings know well that a morning on the flags is apt to be a long affair. Old Doggett, who had privileges, smoked a pipe, and Gerard Maule lit one cigar after another. But Lord Chiltern had become too thorough a man of business to smoke when so employed. At last the last order was given — Doggett snarled his last snarl — and Cox uttered his last “My lord’. Then Gerard Maule and the Master left the hounds and walked home together.
The affair had been so long that Gerard had almost forgotten his grievance. But now as they got out together upon the park, he remembered the tone of Adelaide’s voice as she left him, and remembered also that, as matters stood at present, it was essentially necessary that something should be said. “I suppose I shall have to go and see that woman,” said Lord Chiltern.
“Do you mean Adelaide?” asked Maule, in a tone of infinite surprise.
“I mean this new Duchess, who I’m told is to manage everything herself. That man Fothergill is going on with just the old game at Trumpeton.”
“Is he, indeed? I was thinking of something else just at that moment. You remember what you were saying about Miss Palliser last night.”
“Yes’.
“Well — I don’t think, you know, you had a right to speak as you did.”
Lord Chiltern almost flew at his companion, as he replied, “I said nothing. I do say that when a man becomes engaged to a girl, he should let her hear from him, so that they may know what each other is about.”
“You hinted something about being her brother.”
“Of course I did. If you mean well by her, as I hope you do, it can’t fret you to think that she has got somebody to look after her till you come in and take possession. It is the commonest thing in the world when a girl is left all alone as she is.”
“You seemed to make out that I wasn’t treating her well.”
“I said nothing of the kind, Maule; but if you ask me — ”
“I don’t ask you anything.”
“Yes, you do. You come and find fault with me for speaking last night in the most good-natured way in the world. And, therefore, I tell you now that you will be behaving very badly indeed, unless you make some arrangement at once as to what you mean to do.”
“That’s your opinion,” said Gerard Maule.
“Yes, it is; and you’ll find it to be the opinion of any man or woman that you may ask who knows anything about such things. And I’ll tell you what, Master Maule, if you think you’re going to face me down you’ll find yourself mistaken. Stop a moment, and just listen to me. You haven’t a much better friend than I am, and I’m sure she hasn’t a better friend than my wife. All this has taken place under our roof, and I mean to speak my mind plainly. What do you propose to do about your marriage?”
“I don’t propose to tell you what I mean to do.”
“Will you tell Miss Palliser — or my wife?”
“That is just as I may think fit.”
“Then I must tell you that you cannot meet her at my house.”
“I’ll leave it today.”
“You needn’t do that either. You sleep on it, and then make up your mind. You can’t suppose that I have any curiosity about it. The girl is fond of you, and I suppose that you are fond of her. Don’t quarrel for nothing. If I have offended you, speak to Lady Chiltern about it.”
“Very well — I will speak to Lady Chiltern.”
When they reached the house it was clear that something was wrong. Miss Palliser was not seen again before dinner, and Lady Chiltern’s frown, was grave and very cold in her manner to Gerard Maule. He was left alone all the afternoon, which he passed with his horses and groom, smoking more cigars — but thinking all the time of Adelaide Palliser’s last words, of Lord Chiltern was grave and of Lady Chiltern’s manner to him. When he came into the drawing-room before dinner, Lady Chiltern and Adelaide were both there, and Adelaide immediately began to ask questions about the kennel and the huntsmen. But she studiously kept at a distance from him, and he himself felt that it would be impossible to resume at present the footing on which he stood with them both on the previous evening. Presently Lord Chiltern came in, and another man and his wife who had come to stay at Harrington. Nothing could be more dull than the whole evening. At least so Gerard found it. He did take Adelaide in to dinner, but he did not sit next to her at table, for which, however, there was an excuse, as, had he done so, the new-comer must have been placed by his wife. He was cross, and would not make an attempt to speak to his neighbour, and, though he tried once or twice to talk to Lady Chiltern — than whom, as a rule, no woman was ever more easy in conversation — he failed altogether. Now and again he strove to catch Adelaide’s eye, but even in that he could not succeed. When the ladies left the room Chiltern and the new-comer — who was not a sporting man, and therefore did not understand the question — became lost in the mazes of Trumpeton Wood. But Gerard Maule did not put in a word; nor was a word addressed to him by Lord Chiltern. As he sat there sipping his wine, he made up his mind that he would leave Harrington Hall the next morning. When he was again in the drawing-room, things were conducted in just the same way. He spoke to Adelaide, and she answered him; but there was no word of encouragement — not a tone of comfort in her voice. He found himself driven to attempt conversation with the strange lady, and at last was made to play whist with Lady Chiltern and the two new-comers. Later on in the evening, when Adelaide had gone to her own chamber, he was invited by Lady Chiltern into her own sitting-room upstairs, and there the whole thing was explained to him. Miss Palliser had declared that the match should be broken off.
“Do you mean altogether, Lady Chiltern?”
“Certainly I do. Such a resolve cannot be a half-and-half “arrangement.”
“But why?”
“I think you must know why, Mr Maule.”
“I don’t in the least. I won’t have it broken off. I have as much right to have a voice in the matter as she has, and I don’t in the least believe it’s her doing.”
“Mr Maule!”
“I do not care; I must speak out. Why does she not tell me so herself?”
“She did tell you so.”
“No, she didn’t. She said something, but not that. I don’t suppose a man was ever so used before; and it’s all Lord Chiltern — just because I told him that he had no right to interfere with me. And he has no right.”
“You and Oswald were away together when she told me that she had made up her mind. Oswald has hardly spoken to her since you have been in the house. He certainly has not spoken to her about you since you came to us.”
“What is the meaning of it, then?”
“You told her that your engagement had overwhelmed you with troubles.”
“Of course; there must be troubles.”
“And that — you would have to be banished to Boulogne when you were married.”
“I didn’t mean her to take that literally.”
“It wasn’t a nice way, Mr Maule, to speak of your future life to the girl to whom you were engaged. Of course it was her hope to make your life happier, not less happy. And when you made her understand — as you did very plainly — that your married prospects filled you with dismay, of course she had no other alternative but to retreat from her engagement.”
“I wasn’t dismayed.”
“It is not my doing, Mr Maule.”
“I suppose she’ll see me?”
“If you insist upon it she will; but she would rather not.”
Gerard, however, did insist, and Adelaide was brought to him there into that room before he went to bed. She was very gentle with him, and spoke to him in a tone very different from that which Lady Chiltern had used; but he found himself utterly powerless to change her. That unfortunate allusion to a miserable exile at Boulogne had completed the work which the former plaints had commenced, and had driven her to a resolution to separate herself from him altogether.
“Mr Maule,” she said, “when I perceived that our proposed marriage was looked upon by you as a misfortune, I could do nothing but put an end to our engagement.”
“But I didn’t think it a misfortune.”
“You made me think that it would be unfortunate for you, and that is quite as strong a reason. I hope we shall part as friends.”
“I won’t part at all,” he said, standing his ground with his back to the fire. “I don’t understand it, by heaven I don’t. Because I said some stupid thing about Boulogne, all in joke — ”
“It was not in joke when you said that troubles had come heavy on you since you were engaged.”
“A man may be allowed to know himself, whether he was in joke or not. I suppose the truth is you don’t care about me?”
“I hope, Mr Maule, that in time it may come — not quite to that.”
“I think that you are — using me very badly. I think that you are — behaving — falsely to me. I think that I am — very — shamefully treated — among you. Of course I shall go. Of course I shall not stay in this house. A man can’t make a girl keep her promise. No — I won’t shake hands. I won’t even say goodbye to you. Of course I shall go.” So saying he slammed the door behind him.
“If he cares for you he’ll come back to you,” Lady Chiltern said to Adelaide that night, who at the moment was lying on her bed in a sad condition, frantic with headache.
“I don’t want him to come back; I will never make him go to Boulogne.”
“Don’t think of it, dear.”
“Not think of it! how can I help thinking of it? I shall always think of it. But I never want to see him again — never! How can I want to marry a man who tells me that I shall be a trouble to him? He shall never — never have to go to Boulogne for me.”
The quarrel between Phineas Finn and Mr Bonteen had now become the talk of the town, and had taken many various phases. The political phase, though it was perhaps the best understood, was not the most engrossing. There was the personal phase — which had reference to the direct altercation that had taken place between the two gentlemen, and to the correspondence between them which had followed, as to which phase it may be said that though there were many rumours abroad, very little was known. It was reported in some circles that the two aspirants for office had been within an ace of striking each other; in some, again, that a blow had passed — and in others; further removed probably from the House of Commons and the Universe Club, that the Irishman had struck the Englishman, and that the Englishman had given the Irishman a thrashing. This was a phase that was very disagreeable to Phineas Finn. And there was a third — which may perhaps be called the general social phase, and which unfortunately dealt with the name of Lady Laura Kennedy. They all, of course, worked into each other, and were enlivened and made interesting with the names of a great many big persons. Mr Gresham, the Prime Minister, was supposed to be very much concerned in this matter. He, it was said, had found himself compelled to exclude Phineas Finn from the Government, because of the unfortunate alliance between him and the wife of one of his late colleagues, and had also thought it expedient to dismiss Mr Bonteen from his Cabinet — for it had amounted almost to dismissal — because Mr Bonteen had made indiscreet official allusion to that alliance. In consequence of this working in of the first and third phase, Mr Gresham encountered hard usage from some friends and from many enemies. Then, of course, the scene at Macpherson’s Hotel was commented on very generally. An idea prevailed that Mr Kennedy, driven to madness by his wife’s infidelity, which had become known to him through the quarrel between Phineas and Mr Bonteen — had endeavoured to murder his wife’s lover, who had with the utmost effrontery invaded the injured husband’s presence with a view of deterring him by threats from a publication of his wrongs. This murder had been nearly accomplished in the centre of the metropolis — by daylight, as if that made it worse — on a Sunday, which added infinitely to the delightful horror of the catastrophe; and yet no public notice had been taken of it! The would-be murderer had been a Cabinet Minister, and the lover who was so nearly murdered had been an Under-Secretary of State, and was even now a member of Parliament. And then it was positively known that the lady’s father, who had always been held in the highest respect as a nobleman, favoured his daughter’s lover, and not his daughter’s husband. All which things together filled the public with dismay, and caused a delightful excitement, giving quite a feature of its own to the season.
No doubt general opinion was adverse to poor Phineas Finn, but he was not without his party in the matter. To oblige a friend by inflicting an injury on his enemy is often more easy than to confer a benefit on the friend himself. We have already seen how the young Duchess failed in her attempt to obtain an appointment for Phineas, and also how she succeeded in destroying the high hopes of Mr Bonteen. Having done so much, of course she clung heartily to the side which she had adopted — and, equally of course, Madame Goesler did the same. Between these two ladies there was a slight difference of opinion as to the nature of the alliance between Lady Laura and their hero. The Duchess was of opinion that young men are upon the whole averse to innocent alliances, and that, as Lady Laura and her husband certainly had long been separated, there was probably — something in it. “Lord bless you, my dear,” the Duchess said, “they were known to be lovers when they were at Loughlinter together before she married Mr Kennedy. It has been the most romantic affair! She made her father give him a seat for his borough.”
“He saved Mr Kennedy’s life,” said Madame Goesler.
“That was one of the most singular things that ever happened. Laurence Fitzgibbon says that it was all planned — that the garotters were hired, but unfortunately two policemen turned up at the moment, so the men were taken. I believe there is no doubt they were pardoned by Sir Henry Coldfoot, who was at the Home Office, and was Lord Brentford’s great friend. I don’t quite believe it all — it would be too delicious; but a great many do.” Madame Goesler, however, was strong in her opinion that the report in reference to Lady Laura was scandalous. She did not believe a word of it, and was almost angry with the Duchess for her credulity.
It is probable that very many ladies shared the opinion of the Duchess; but not the less on that account did they take part with Phineas Finn. They could not understand why he should be shut out of office because a lady had been in love with him, and by no means seemed to approve the stern virtue of the Prime Minister. It was an interference with things which did not belong to him. And many asserted that Mr Gresham was much given to such interference. Lady Cantrip, though her husband was Mr Gresham’s most intimate friend, was altogether of this party, as was also the Duchess of St Bungay, who understood nothing at all about it, but who had once fancied herself to be rudely treated by Mrs Bonteen. The young Duchess was a woman very strong in getting up a party; and the old Duchess, with many other matrons of high rank, was made to believe that it was incumbent on her to be a Phineas Finnite. One result of this was, that though Phineas was excluded from the Liberal Government, all Liberal drawing-rooms were open to him, and that he was a lion.
Additional zest was given to all this by the very indiscreet conduct of Mr Bonteen. He did accept the inferior office of President of the Board of Trade, an office inferior at least to that for which he had been designated, and agreed to fill it without a seat in the Cabinet. But having done so he could not bring himself to bear his disappointment quietly. He could not work and wait and make himself agreeable to those around him, holding his vexation within his own bosom. He was dark and sullen to his chief, and almost insolent to the Duke of Omnium. Our old friend Plantagenet Palliser was a man who hardly knew insolence when he met it. There was such an absence about him of all self-consciousness, he was so little given to think of his own personal demeanour and outward trappings — that he never brought himself to question the manners of others to him. Contradiction he would take for simple argument. Strong difference of opinion even on the part of subordinates recommended itself to him. He could put up with apparent rudeness without seeing it, and always gave men credit for good intentions. And with it all he had an assurance in his own position — a knowledge of the strength derived from his intellect, his industry, his rank, and his wealth — which made him altogether fearless of others. When the little dog snarls, the big dog does not connect the snarl with himself, simply fancying that the little dog must be uncomfortable. Mr Bonteen snarled a good deal, and the new Lord Privy Seal thought that the new president of the Board of Trade was not comfortable within himself. But at last the little dog took the big dog by the ear, and then the big dog put out his paw and knocked the little dog over. Mr Bonteen was told that he had — forgotten himself; and there arose new rumours. It was soon reported that the Lord Privy Seal had refused to work out decimal coinage under the management, in the House of Commons, of the President of the Board of Trade.
Mr Bonteen, in his troubled spirit, certainly did misbehave himself. Among his closer friends he declared very loudly that he didn’t mean to stand it. He had not chosen to throw Mr Gresham over at once, or to make difficulties at the moment — but he would not continue to hold his present position or to support the Government without a seat in the Cabinet. Palliser had become quite useless — so Mr Bonteen said — since his accession to the dukedom, and was quite unfit to deal with decimal coinage. It was a burden to kill any man, and he was not going to kill himself — at any rate without the reward for which he had been working all his life, and to which he was fully entitled, namely, a seat in the Cabinet. Now there were Bonteenites in those days as well as Phineas Finnites. The latter tribe was for the most part feminine; but, the former consisted of some half-dozen members of Parliament, who thought they saw their way in encouraging the forlorn hope of the unhappy financier.
A leader of a party is nothing without an organ, and an organ came forward to support Mr Bonteen — not very creditable to him as a Liberal, being a Conservative organ — but not the less gratifying to his spirit, inasmuch as the organ not only supported him, but exerted its very loudest pipes in abusing the man whom of all men he hated the most. The People’s Banner was the organ, and Mr Quintus Slide was, of course, the organist. The following was one of the tunes he played, and was supposed by himself to be a second thunderbolt, and probably a conclusively crushing missile. This thunderbolt fell on Monday, the 3rd of May:
“Early in last March we found it to be our duty to bring under public notice the conduct of the member for Tankerville in reference to a transaction which took place at a small hotel in Judd Street, and as to which we then ventured to call for the interference of the police. An attempt to murder the member for Tankerville had been made by a gentleman once well known in the political world, who — as it is supposed — had been driven to madness by wrongs inflicted on him in his dearest and nearest family relations. That the unfortunate gentleman is now insane we believe we may state as a fact. It had become our special duty to refer to this most discreditable transaction, from the fact that a paper, still in our hands, had been confided to us for publication by the wretched husband before his senses had become impaired — which, however, we were debarred from giving to the public by an injunction served upon us in sudden haste by the Vice-Chancellor. We are far from imputing evil motives, or even indiscretion, to that functionary; but we are of opinion that the moral feeling of the country would have been served by the publication, and we are sure that undue steps were taken by the member for Tankerville to procure that injunction.
“No inquiries whatever were made by the police in reference to that attempt at murder, and we do expect that some member will ask a question on the subject in the House. Would such culpable quiescence have been allowed had not the unfortunate lady whose name we are unwilling to mention been the daughter of one of the colleagues of our present Prime Minister, the gentleman who fired the pistol another of them, and the presumed lover, who was fired at, also another? We think that we need hardly answer that question.
“One piece of advice which we ventured to give Mr Gresham in our former article he has been wise enough to follow. We took upon ourselves to tell him that if, after what has occurred, he ventured to place the member for Tankerville again in office, the country would not stand it — and he has abstained. The jaunty footsteps of Mr Phineas Finn are not heard ascending the stairs of any office at about two in the afternoon, as used to be the case in one of those blessed Downing Street abodes about three years since. That scandal is, we think, over — and for ever. The good-looking Irish member of Parliament who had been put in possession of a handsome salary by feminine influences, will not, we think, after what we have already said, again become a burden on the public purse. But we cannot say that we are as yet satisfied in this matter, or that we believe that the public has got to the bottom of it — as it has a right to do in reference to all matters affecting the public service. We have never yet learned why it is that Mr Bonteen, after having been nominated Chancellor of the Exchequer — for the appointment to that office was declared in the House of Commons by the head of his party — was afterwards excluded from the Cabinet, and placed in an office made peculiarly subordinate by the fact of that exclusion. We have never yet been told why this was done — but we believe that we are justified in saying that it was managed through the influence of the member for Tankerville; and we are quite sure that the public service of the country has thereby been subjected to grievous injury.
“It is hardly our duty to praise any of that very awkward team of horses which Mr Gresham drives with an audacity which may atone for his incapacity if no fearful accident should be the consequence; but if there be one among them whom we could must for steady work up hill, it is Mr Bonteen. We were astounded at Mr Gresham’s indiscretion in announcing the appointment of his new Chancellor of the Exchequer some weeks before he had succeeded in driving Mr Daubeny from office — but we were not the less glad to find that the finances of the country were to be entrusted to the hands of the most competent gentleman whom Mr Gresham has induced to follow his fortunes. But Mr Phineas Finn, with his female forces, has again interfered, and Mr Bonteen has been relegated to the Board of Trade, without a seat in the Cabinet. We should not be at all surprised if, as the result of this disgraceful manoeuvring, Mr Bonteen found himself at the head of the Liberal party before the Session be over. If so, evil would have worked to good. But, be that as it may, we cannot but feel that it is a disgrace to the Government, a disgrace to parliament, and a disgrace to the country that such results should come from the private scandals of two or three people among us by no means of the best class.”
There was another matter of public interest going on at this time which created a great excitement. And this, too, added to the importance of Phineas Finn, though Phineas was not the hero of the piece. Mr Browborough, the late member for Tankerville, was tried for bribery. It will be remembered that when Phineas contested the borough in the autumn, this gentleman was returned. He was afterwards unseated, as the result of a petition before the judge, and Phineas was declared to be the true member. The judge who had so decided had reported to the Speaker that further inquiry before a commission into the practices of the late and former elections at Tankerville would be expedient, and such commission had sat in the months of January and February. Half the voters in Tankerville had been examined, and many who were not voters. The commissioners swept very clean, being new brooms, and in their report recommended that Mr Browborough, whom they had themselves declined to examine, should be prosecuted. That report was made about the end of March, when Mr Daubeny’s great bill was impending. Then there arose a double feeling about Mr Browborough, who had been regarded by many as a model member of Parliament, a man who never spoke, constant in his attendance, who wanted nothing, who had plenty of money, who gave dinners, to whom a seat in Parliament was the be-all and the end-all of life. It could not be the wish of any gentleman, who had been accustomed to his slow step in the lobbies, and his burly form always quiescent on one of the upper seats just below the gangway on the Conservative side of the House, that such a man should really be punished. When the new laws regarding bribery came to take that shape the hearts of members revolted from the cruelty — the hearts even of members on the other side of the House. As long as a seat was in question the battle should of course be fought to the nail. Every kind of accusation might then be lavished without restraint, and every evil practice imputed. It had been known to all the world — known as a thing that was a matter of course — that at every election Mr Browborough had bought his seat. How should a Browborough get a seat without buying it — a man who could not say ten words, of no family, with no natural following in any constituency, distinguished by no zeal in politics, entertaining no special convictions of his own? How should such a one recommend himself to any borough unless he went there with money in his hand? Of course, he had gone to Tankerville with money in his hand, with plenty of money, and had spent it — like a gentleman. Collectively the House of Commons had determined to put down bribery with a very strong hand. Nobody had spoken against bribery with more fervour than Sir Gregory Grogram, who had himself, as Attorney-General, forged the chains for fettering future bribers. He was now again Attorney-General, much to his disgust, as Mr Gresham had at the last moment found it wise to restore Lord Weazeling to the woolsack; and to his hands was to be entrusted the prosecution of Mr Browborough. But it was observed by many that the job was not much to his taste. The House had been very hot against bribery — and certain members of the existing Government, when the late Bill had been passed, had expressed themselves with almost burning indignation against the crime. But, through it all, there had been a slight undercurrent of ridicule attaching itself to the question of which only they who were behind the scenes were conscious. The House was bound to let the outside world know that all corrupt practices at elections were held to be abominable by the House; but Members of the House, as individuals, knew very well what had taken place at their own elections, and were aware of the cheques which they had drawn. Public-houses had been kept open as a matter of course, and nowhere perhaps had more beer been drunk than at Clovelly, the borough for which Sir Gregory Grogram sat. When it came to be a matter of individual prosecution against one whom they had all known and who, as a member, had been inconspicuous and therefore inoffensive, against a heavy, rich, useful man who had been in nobody’s way, many thought that it would amount to persecution. The idea of putting old Browborough into prison for conduct which habit had made second nature to a large proportion of the House was distressing to Members of Parliament generally. The recommendation for this prosecution was made to the House when Mr Daubeny was in the first agonies of his great Bill, and he at once resolved to ignore the matter altogether, at any rate for the present. If he was to be driven out of power there could be no reason why his Attorney-General should prosecute his own ally and follower — a poor, faithful creature, who had never in his life voted against his party, and who had always been willing to accept as his natural leader anyone whom his party might select. But there were many who had felt that as Mr Browborough must certainly now be prosecuted sooner or later — for there could be no final neglecting of the Commissioners’ report — it would be better that he should be dealt with by natural friends than by natural enemies. The newspapers, therefore, had endeavoured to hurry the matter on, and it had been decided that the trial should take place at the Durham Spring Assizes, in the first week of May. Sir Gregory Grogram became Attorney-General in the middle of April, and he undertook the task upon compulsion. Mr Browborough’s own friends, and Mr Browborough himself, declared very loudly that there would be the greatest possible cruelty in postponing the trial. His lawyers thought that his best chance lay in bustling the thing on, and were therefore able to show that the cruelty of delay would be extreme — nay, that any postponement in such a matter would be unconstitutional, if not illegal. It would, of course, have been just as easy to show that hurry on the part of the prosecutor was cruel, and illegal, and unconstitutional, had it been considered that the best chance of acquittal lay in postponement.
And so the trial was forced forward, and Sir Gregory himself was to appear on behalf of the prosecuting House of Commons. There could be no doubt that the sympathies of the public generally were with Mr Browborough, though there was as little doubt that he was guilty. When the evidence taken by the Commissioners had just appeared in the newspapers — when first the fasts of this and other elections at Tankerville were made public, and the world was shown how common it had been for Mr Browborough to buy votes — how clearly the knowledge of the corruption had been brought home to himself — there had for a short week or so been a feeling against him. Two or three London papers had printed leading articles, giving in detail the salient points of the old sinner’s criminality, and expressing a conviction that now, at least, would the real criminal be punished. But this had died away, and the anger against Mr Browborough, even on the part of the most virtuous of the public press, had become no more than lukewarm. Some papers boldly defended him, ridiculed the Commissioners, and declared that the trial was altogether an absurdity. The People’s Banner, setting at defiance with an admirable audacity all the facts as given in the Commissioners’ report, declared that there was not one tittle of evidence against Mr Browborough, and hinted that the trial had been got up by the malign influence of that doer of all evil, Phineas Finn. But men who knew better what was going on in the world than did Mr Quintus Slide, were well aware that such assertions as these were both unavailing and unnecessary. Mr Browborough was believed to be quite safe; but his safety lay in the indifference of his prosecutors — certainly not in his innocence. Anyone prominent in affairs can always see when a man may steal a horse and when a man may not look over a hedge. Mr Browborough had stolen his horse, and had repeated the theft over and over again. The evidence of it all was forthcoming — had, indeed, been already sifted. But Sir Gregory Grogram, who was prominent in affairs, knew that the theft might be condoned.
Nevertheless, the case came on at the Durham Assizes. Within the last two months Browborough had become quite a hero at Tankerville. The Church party had forgotten his broken pledges, and the Radicals remembered only his generosity. Could he have stood for the seat again on the day on which the judges entered Durham, he might have been returned without bribery. Throughout the whole county the prosecution was unpopular. During no portion of his parliamentary career had Mr Browborough’s name been treated with so much respect in the grandly ecclesiastical city as now. He dined with the Dean on the day before the trial, and on the Sunday was shown by the head verger into the stall next to the Chancellor of the Diocese, with a reverence which seemed to imply that he was almost as graceful as a martyr. When he took his seat in the Court next to his attorney, everybody shook hands with him. When Sir Gregory got up to open his case, not one of the listeners then supposed that Mr Browborough was about to suffer any punishment. He was arraigned before Mr Baron Boultby, who had himself sat for a borough in his younger days, and who knew well how things were done. We are all aware how impassionately grand are the minds of judges, when men accused of crimes are brought before them for trial; but judges after. All are men, and Mr Baron Boultby, as he looked at Mr Browborough, could not but have thought of the old days.
It was nevertheless necessary that the prosecution should be conducted in a properly formal manner, and that all the evidence should be given. There was a cloud of witnesses over from Tankerville — miners, colliers, and the like — having a very good turn of it at the expense of the poor borough. All these men must be examined, and their evidence would no doubt be the same now as when it was given with so damnable an effect before those clean-sweeping Commissioners. Sir Gregory’s opening speech was quite worthy of Sir Gregory. It was essentially necessary, he said, that the atmosphere of our boroughs should be cleansed and purified from the taint of corruption. The voice of the country had spoken very plainly on the subject, and a verdict had gone forth that there should be no more bribery at elections. At the last election at Tankerville, and, as he feared, at some former elections, there had been manifest bribery. It would be for the jury to decide whether Mr Browborough himself had been so connected with the acts of his agents as to be himself within the reach of the law. If it were found that he had brought himself within the reach of the law, the jury would no doubt say so, and in such case would do great service to the cause of purity; but if Mr Browborough had not been personally cognisant of what his agents had done, then the jury would be bound to acquit him. A man was not necessarily guilty of bribery in the eye of the law because bribery had been committed, even though the bribery so committed had been sufficiently proved to deprive him of the seat which he would otherwise have enjoyed. Nothing could be clearer than the manner in which Sir Gregory explained it all to the jury; nothing more eloquent than his denunciations against bribery in general; nothing more mild than his allegations against Mr Browborough individually.
In regard to the evidence Sir Gregory, with his two assistants, went through his work manfully. The evidence was given — not to the same length as at Tankerville before the Commissioners — but really to the same effect. But yet the record of the evidence as given in the newspapers seemed to be altogether different. At Tankerville there had been an indignant and sometimes an indiscreet zeal which had communicated itself to the whole proceedings. The general flavour of the trial at Durham was one of good-humoured raillery. Mr Browborough’s counsel in cross-examining the witnesses for the prosecution displayed none of that righteous wrath — wrath righteous on behalf of injured innocence — which is so common with gentlemen employed in the defence of criminals; but bowed and simpered, and nodded at Sir Gregory in a manner that was quite pleasant to behold. Nobody scolded anybody. There was no roaring of barristers, no clenching of fists and kicking up of dust, no threats, no allusions to witnesses’ oaths. A considerable amount of gentle fun was poked at the witnesses by the defending counsel, but not in a manner to give any pain. Gentlemen who acknowledged to have received seventeen shillings and sixpence for their votes at the last election were asked how they had invested their money. Allusions were made to their wives, and a large amount of good-humoured sparring was allowed, in which the witnesses thought that they had the best of it. The men of Tankerville long remembered this trial, and hoped anxiously that there might soon be another. The only man treated with severity was poor Phineas Finn, and luckily for himself he was not present. His qualifications as member of Parliament for Tankerville were somewhat roughly treated. Each witness there, when he was asked what candidate would probably be returned for Tankerville at the next election, readily answered that Mr Browborough would certainly carry the seat. Mr Browborough sat in the Court throughout it all, and was the hero of the day.
The judge’s summing up was very short, and seemed to have been given almost with indolence. The one point on which he insisted was the difference between such evidence of bribery as would deprive a man of his seat, and that which would make him subject to the criminal law. By the criminal law a man could not be punished for the acts of another. Punishment must follow a man’s own act. If a man were to instigate another to murder he would be punished, not for the murder, but for the instigation. They were now administering the criminal law, and they were bound to give their verdict for an acquittal unless they were convinced that the man on his trial had himself — wilfully and wittingly — been guilty of the crime imputed. He went through the evidence, which was in itself clear against the old sinner, and which had been in no instance validly contradicted, and then left the matter to the jury. The men in the box put their heads together, and returned a verdict of acquittal without one moment’s delay. Sir Gregory Grogram and his assistants collected their papers together. The judge addressed three or four words almost of compliment to Mr Browborough, and the affair was over, to the manifest contentment of everyone there present. Sir Gregory Grogram was by no means disappointed, and everybody, on his own side in Parliament and on the other, though that he had done his duty very well. The clean-sweeping Commissioners, who had been animated with wonderful zeal by the nature and novelty of their work, probably felt that they had been betrayed, but it may be doubted whether anyone else was disconcerted by the result of the trial, unless it might be some poor innocents here and there about the country who had been induced to believe that bribery and corruption were in truth to be banished from the purlieus of Westminster.
Mr Roby and Mr Ratler, who filled the same office each for his own party, in and out, were both acquainted with each other, and apt to discuss parliamentary questions in the library and smoking-room of the House, where such discussions could be held on most matters. “I was very glad that the case went as it did at Durham,” said Mr Ratler.
“And so am I,” said Mr Roby. “Browborough was always a good fellow.”
“Not a doubt about it; and no good could have come from a conviction. I suppose there has been a little money spent at Tankerville.”
“And at other places one could mention,” said Mr Roby.
“Of course there has — and money will be spent again. Nobody dislikes bribery more than I do. The House, of course, dislikes it. But if a man loses his seat, surely that is punishment enough.”
“It’s better to have to draw a cheque sometimes than to be out in the cold.”
“Nevertheless, members would prefer that their seats should not cost them so much,” continued Mr Ratler. “But the thing can’t be done all at once. That idea of pouncing upon one man and making a victim of him is very disagreeable to me. I should have been sorry to have seen a verdict against Browborough. You must acknowledge that there was no bitterness in the way in which Grogram did it.”
“We all feel that,” said Mr Roby — who was, perhaps, by nature a little more candid than his rival — “and when the time comes no doubt we shall return the compliment.”
The matter was discussed in quite a different spirit between two other politicians. “So Sir Gregory has failed at Durham,” said Lord Cantrip to his friend, Mr Gresham.
“I was sure he would.”
“And why?”
“Ah — why? How am I to answer such a question? Did you think that Mr Browborough would be convicted of bribery by a jury?”
“No, indeed,” answered Lord Cantrip.
“And can you tell me why?”
“Because there was no earnestness in the matter — either with the Attorney-General or with anyone else.”
“And yet,” said Mr Gresham, “Grogram is a very earnest man when he believes in his case. No member of Parliament will ever be punished for bribery as for a crime till members of Parliament generally look upon bribery as a crime. We are very far from that as yet. I should have thought a conviction to be a great misfortune.”
“Why so?”
“Because it would have created ill blood, and our own hands in this matter are not a bit cleaner than those of our adversaries. We can’t afford to pull their houses to pieces before we have put our own in order. The thing will be done; but it must, I fear, be done slowly — as is the case with all reforms from within.”
Phineas Finn, who was very sore and unhappy at this time, and who consequently was much in love with purity and anxious for severity, felt himself personally aggrieved by the acquittal. It was almost tantamount to a verdict against himself. And then he knew so well that bribery had been committed, and was so confident that such a one as Mr Browborough could have been returned to Parliament by none other than corrupt means! In his present mood he would have been almost glad to see Mr Browborough at the treadmill, and would have thought six months’ solitary confinement quite inadequate to the offence. “I never read anything in my life that disgusted me so much,” he said to his friend, Mr Monk.
“I can’t go along with you there.”
“If any man ever was guilty of bribery, he was guilty!”
“I don’t doubt it for a moment.”
“And yet Grogram did not try to get a verdict.”
“Had he tried ever so much he would have failed. In a matter such as that — political and not social in its nature — a jury is sure to be guided by what it has, perhaps unconsciously, learned to be the feeling of the country. No disgrace is attached to their verdict, and yet everybody knows that Mr Browborough had bribed, and all those who have looked into it know, too, that the evidence was conclusive.”
“Then are the jury all perjured,” said Phineas.
“I have nothing to say to that. No stain of perjury clings to them. They are better received in Durham today than they would have been had they found Mr Browborough guilty. In business, as in private life, they will be held to be as trustworthy as before — and they will be, for aught that we know, quite trustworthy. There are still circumstances in which a man, though on his oath, may be untrue with no more stain of falsehood than falls upon him when he denies himself at his front door though he happen to be at home.”
“What must we think of such a condition of things, Mr Monk?”
“That it’s capable of improvement. I do not know that we can think anything else. As for Sir Gregory Grogram and Baron Boultby and the jury, it would be waste of power to execrate them. In political matters it is very hard for a man in office to be purer than his neighbours — and, when he is so, he becomes troublesome. I have found that out before today.”
With Lady Laura Kennedy Phineas did find some sympathy — but then she would have sympathised with him on any subject under the sun. If he would only come to her and sit with her she would fool him to the top of his bent. He had resolved that he would go to Portman Square as little as possible, and had been confirmed in that resolution by the scandal which had now spread everywhere about the town in reference to himself and herself. But still he went. He never left her till some promise of returning at some stated time had been extracted from him. He had even told her of his own scruples and of her danger — and they had discussed together that last thunderbolt which had fallen from the Jove of the People’s Banner . But she had laughed his caution to scorn. Did she not know herself and her own innocence? Was she not living in her father’s house, and with her father? Should she quail beneath the stings and venom of such a reptile as Quintus Slide? “Oh, Phineas,” she said, “let us be braver than that.” He would much prefer to have stayed away — but still he went to her. He was conscious of her dangerous love for him. He knew well that it was not returned. He was aware that it would be best for both that he should be apart. But yet he could not bring himself to wound her by his absence, “I do not see why you should feel it so much,” she said, speaking of the trial at Durham.
“We were both on our trial — he and I.”
“Everybody knows that he bribed and that you did not.”
“Yes — and everybody despises me and pats him on the back. I am sick of the whole thing. There is no honesty in the life we lead.”
“You got your seat at any rate.”
“I wish with all my heart that I had never seen the dirty wretched place,” said he.
“Oh, Phineas, do not say that.”
“But I do say it. Of what use is the seat to me? If I could only feel that anyone knew — ”
“Knew what, Phineas?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I understand. I know that you have meant to be honest, while this man has always meant to be dishonest. I know that you have intended to serve your country, and have wished to work for it. But you cannot expect that it should all be roses.
“Roses! The nosegays which are worn down at Westminster are made of garlick and dandelions!”
The writer of this chronicle is not allowed to imagine that any of his readers have read the wonderful and vexatious adventures of Lady Eustace, a lady of good birth, of high rank, and of large fortune, who, but a year or two since, became almost a martyr to a diamond necklace which was stolen from her. With her history the present reader has but small concern, but it may be necessary that he should know that the lady in question, who had been a widow with many suitors, at last gave her hand and her fortune to a clergyman whose name was Joseph Emilius. Mr Emilius, though not an Englishman by birth — and, as was supposed, a Bohemian jew in the earlier days of his career — had obtained some reputation as a preacher in London, and had moved — if not in fashionable circles — at any rate in circles so near to fashion as to be brought within the reach of Lady Eustace’s charms. They were married, and for some few months Mr Emilius enjoyed a halcyon existence, the delights of which were, perhaps, not materially marred by the necessity which he felt of subjecting his young wife to marital authority. “My dear,” he would say, “you will know me better soon, and then things will be smooth.” In the meantime he drew more largely upon her money than was pleasing to her and to her friends, and appeared to have requirements for cash which were both secret and unlimited. At the end of twelve months Lady Eustace had run away from him, and Mr Emilius had made overtures, by accepting which his wife would be enabled to purchase his absence at the cost of half her income. The arrangement was not regarded as being in every respect satisfactory, but Lady Eustace declared passionately that any possible sacrifice would be preferable to the company of Mr Emilius. There had, however, been a rumour before her marriage that there was still living in his old country a Mrs Emilius when he married Lady Eustace; and, though it had been supposed by those who were most nearly concerned with Lady Eustace that this report had been unfounded and malicious, nevertheless, when the man’s claims became so exorbitant, reference was again made to the charge of bigamy. If it could be proved that Mr Emilius had a wife living in Bohemia, a cheaper mode of escape would be found for the persecuted lady than that which he himself had suggested.
It had happened that, since her marriage with Mr Emilius, Lady Eustace had become intimate with our Mr Bonteen and his wife. She had been at one time engaged to marry Lord Fawn, one of Mr Bonteen’s colleagues, and during the various circumstances which had led to the disruption of that engagement, this friendship had been formed. It must be understood that Lady Eustace had a most desirable residence of her own in the country — Portray Castle in Scotland — and that it was thought expedient by many to cultivate her acquaintance. She was rich, beautiful, and clever; and, though her marriage with Mr Emilius had never been looked upon as a success, still, in the estimation of some people, it added an interest to her career. The Bonteens had taken her up, and now both Mr and Mrs Bonteen were hot in pursuit of evidence which might prove Mr Emilius to be a bigamist.
When the disruption of conjugal relations was commenced, Lady Eustace succeeded in obtaining refuge at Portray Castle without the presence of her husband. She fled from London during a visit he made to Brighton with the object of preaching to a congregation by which his eloquence was held in great esteem. He left London in one direction by the 5 P . M . express train on Saturday, and she in the other by the limited mail at 8.45. A telegram, informing him of what had taken place, reached him the next morning at Brighton while he was at breakfast. He preached his sermon, charming the congregation by the graces of his extempore eloquence — moving every woman there to tears — and then was after his wife before the ladies had taken their first glass of sherry at luncheon. But her ladyship had twenty-four hours’ start of him — although he did his best; and when he reached Portray Castle the door was shut in his face. He endeavoured — to obtain the aid of blacksmiths to open, as he said, his own hall door — to obtain the aid of constables to compel the blacksmiths, of magistrates to compel the constables — and even of a judge to compel the magistrates; but he was met on every side by a statement that the lady of the castle declared that she was not his wife, and that therefore he had no right whatever to demand that the door should be opened. Some other woman — so he was informed that the lady said — out in a strange country was really his wife. It was her intention to prove him to be a bigamist, and to have him locked up. In the meantime she chose to lock herself up in her own mansion. Such was the nature of the message that was delivered to him through the bars of the lady’s castle.
How poor Lady Eustace was protected, and, at the same time, made miserable by the energy and unrestrained language of one of her own servants, Andrew Gowran by name, it hardly concerns us now to inquire. Mr Emilius did not succeed in effecting an entrance; but he remained for some time in the neighbourhood, and had notices served on the tenants in regard to the rents, which puzzled the poor folk round Portray Castle very much. After a while Lady Eustace, finding that her peace and comfort imperatively demanded that she should prove the allegations which she had made, fled again from Portray Castle to London, and threw herself into the hands of the Bonteens. This took place just as Mr Boteen’s hopes in regard to the Chancellorship of the Exchequer were beginning to soar high, and when his hands were very full of business. But with that energy for which he was so conspicuous, Mr Bonteen had made a visit to Bohemia during his short Christmas holidays, and had there set people to work. When at Prague he had, he thought, very nearly uravelled the secret himself. He had found the woman whom he believed to be Mrs Emilius, and who was now living somewhat merrily in Prague under another name. She acknowledged that in old days, when they were both young, she had been acquainted with a certain Yosef Mealyus, at a time in which he had been in the employment of a Jewish money-lender it the city; but — as she declared — she had never been married to him. Mr Bonteen learned also that the gentleman now known as Mr Joseph Emilius of the London Chapel had been known in his own country as Yosef Mealyus, the name which had been borne by the very respectable Jew who was his father. Then Mr Bonteen had returned home, and, as we all know, had become engaged in matters of deeper import than even the deliverance of Lady Eustace from her thraldom.
Mr Emilius made no attempt to obtain the person of his wife while she was under Mr Bonteen’s custody, but he did renew his offer to compromise. If the estate could not afford to give him the two thousand a year which he had first demanded, he would take fifteen hundred. He explained all this personally to Mr Bonteen, who condescended to see him. He was very eager to make Mr Bonteen understand how bad even then would be his condition. Mr Bonteen was, of course, aware that he would have to pay very heavily for insuring his wife’s life. He was piteous, argumentative, and at first gentle; but when Mr Bonteen somewhat rashly told him that the evidence of a former marriage and of the present existence of the former wife would certainly be forthcoming, he defied Mr Bonteen and his evidence — and swore that if his claims were not satisfied, he would make use of the power which the English law gave him for the recovery of his wife’s person. And as to her property — it was his, not hers. From this time forward if she wanted to separate herself from him she must ask him for an allowance. Now, it certainly was the case that Lady Eustace had married the man without any sufficient precaution as to keeping her money in her own hands, and Mr Emilius had insisted that the rents of the property which was hers for her life should be paid to him, and on his receipt only. The poor tenants had been noticed this way and noticed that till they had begun to doubt whether their safest course would not be to keep their rents in their own hands. But lately the lawyers of the Eustace family — who were not, indeed, very fond of Lady Eustace personally — came forward for the sake of the property, and guaranteed the tenants against all proceedings until the question of the legality of the marriage should be settled. So Mr Emilius — or the Reverend Mealyus, as everybody now called him — went to law; and Lady Eustace went to law; and the Eustace family went to law — but still, as yet, no evidence was forthcoming sufficient to enable Mr Bonteen, as the lady’s friend, to put the gentleman into prison.
It was said for a while that Mealyus had absconded. After his interview with Mr Bonteen he certainly did leave England and made a journey to Prague. It was thought that he would not return, and that Lady Eustace would be obliged to carry on the trial, which was to liberate her and her property, in his absence. She was told that the very fact of his absence would go far with a jury, and she was glad to be freed from his presence in England. But he did return, declaring aloud that he would have his rights. His wife should be made to put herself into his hands, and he would obtain possession of the income which was his own. People then began to doubt. It was known that a very clever lawyer’s clerk had been sent to Prague to complete the work there which Mr Bonteen had commenced. But the clerk did not come back as soon as was expected, and news arrived that he had been taken ill. There was a rumour that he had been poisoned at his hotel; but, as the man was not said to be dead, people hardly believed the rumour. It became necessary, however, to send another lawyer’s clerk, and the matter was gradually progressing to a very interesting complication.
Mr Bonteen, to tell the truth, was becoming sick of it. When Emilius, or Mealyus, was supposed to have absconded, Lady Eustace left Mr Bonteen’s house, and located herself at one of the large London hotels; but when the man came back, bolder than ever, she again betook herself to the shelter of Mr Bonteen’s roof. She expressed the most lavish affection for Mrs Bonteen, and professed to regard Mr Bonteen as almost a political god, declaring her conviction that he, and he alone, as Prime Minister, could save the country, and became very loud in her wrath when he was robbed of his seat in the Cabinet. Lizzie Eustace, as her ladyship had always been called, was a clever, pretty, coaxing little woman, who knew how to make the most of her advantages. She had not been very wise in her life, having lost the friends who would have been truest to her, and confided in persons who had greatly injured her. She was neither true of heart or tongue, nor affectionate, nor even honest. But she was engaging; she could flatter; and could assume a reverential admiration which was very foreign to her real character. In these days she almost worshipped Mr Bonteen, and could never be happy except in the presence of her dearest darling friend Mrs Bonteen. Mr Bonteen was tired of her, and Mrs Bonteen was — becoming almost sick of the constant kisses with which she was greeted; but Lizzie Eustace had got hold of them, and they could not turn her off.
“You saw the People’s Banner, Mrs Bonteen, on Monday?” Lady Eustace had been reading the paper in her friend’s drawing-room. “They seem to think that Mr Bonteen must be Prime Minister before long.”
“I don’t think he expects that, my dear.”
“Why not? Everybody says the People’s Banner is the cleverest paper we have now. I always hated the very name of that Phineas Finn.”
“Did you know him?”
“Not exactly. He was gone before my time; but poor Lord Fawn used to talk of him. He was one of those conceited Irish upstarts that are never good for anything.”
“Very handsome, you know,” said Mrs Bonteen.
“Was he? I have heard it said that a good many ladies admired him.”
“It was quite absurd; with Lady Laura Kennedy it was worse than absurd. And there was Lady Glencora, and Violet Effingham, who married Lady Laura’s brother, and that Madame Goesler, whom I hate — and ever so many others.”
“And is it true that it was he who got Mr Bonteen so shamefully used?”
“It was his faction.”
“I do so hate that kind of thing,” said Lady Eustace, with righteous indignation; “I used to hear a great deal about Government and all that when the affair was on between me and poor Lord Fawn, and that kind of dishonesty always disgusted me. I don’t know that I think so much of Mr Gresham after all.”
“He is a very weak man.”
“His conduct to Mr Bonteen has been outrageous; and if he has done it just because that Duchess of Omnium has told him, I really do think that he is not fit to rule the nation. As for Mr Phineas Finn, it is dreadful to think that a creature like that should be able to interfere with such a man as Mr Bonteen.”
This was on Wednesday afternoon — the day on which members of Parliament dine out — and at that moment Mr Bonteen entered the drawing-room, having left the House for his half-holiday at six o’clock. Lady Eustace got up, and gave him her hand, and smiled upon him as though he were indeed her god. “You look so tired and so worried, Mr Bonteen.”
“Worried — I should think so.”
“Is there anything fresh?” asked his wife.
“That fellow Finn is spreading all manner of lies about me.”
“What lies, Mr Bonteen?” asked Lady Eustace. “Not new lies, I hope.”
“It all comes from Carlton Terrace.” The reader may perhaps remember that the young Duchess of Omnium lived in Carlton Terrace. “I can trace it all there. I won’t stand it if it goes on like this. A clique of stupid women to take up the cudgels for a coal-heaving sort of fellow like that, and sting one like a lot of hornets! Would you believe it? — the Duke almost refused to speak to me just now — a man for whom I have been working like a slave for the last twelve months!”
“I would not stand it,” said Lady Eustace.
“By the bye, Lady Eustace, we have had news from Prague.”
“What news?” said she, clasping her hands.
“That fellow Pratt we sent out is dead.”
“No!”
“Not a doubt but what he was poisoned; but they seem to think that nothing can be proved. Coulson is on his way out, and I shouldn’t wonder if they served him the same.”
“And it might have been you!” said Lady Eustace, taking hold of her friend’s arm with almost frantic affection.
Yes, indeed. It might have been the lot of Mr Bonteen to have died at Prague — to have been poisoned by the machinations of the former Mrs Mealyus, if such really had been the fortune of the unfortunate Mr Pratt. For he had been quite as busy at Prague as his successor in the work. He had found out much, though not everything. It certainly had been believed that Yosef Mealyus was a married man, but he had brought the woman with him to Prague, and had certainly not married her in the city. She was believed to have come from Cracow, and Mr Bonteen’s zeal on behalf of his friend had not been sufficient to carry him so far East. But he had learned from various sources that the man and woman had been supposed to be married — that she had borne the man’s name, and that he had taken upon himself authority as her husband. There had been written communications with Cracow, and information was received that a man of the name of Yosef Mealyus had been married to a Jewess in that town. But this had been twenty years ago, and Mr Emilius professed himself to be only thirty-five years old, and had in his possession a document from his synagogue professing to give a record of his birth, proving such to be his age. It was also ascertained that Mealyus was a name common at Cracow, and that there were very many of the family in Galicia. Altogether the case was full of difficulty, but it was thought that Mr Bonteen’s evidence would be sufficient to save the property from the hands of the cormorant, at any rate till such time as better evidence of the first marriage could be obtained. It had been hoped that when the man went away he would not return; but he had returned, and it was now resolved that no terms should be kept with him and no payment offered to him. The house at Portray was kept barred, and the servants were ordered not to admit him. No money was to be paid to him, and he was to be left to take any proceedings at law which he might please — while his adversaries were proceeding against him with all the weapons at their disposal. In the meantime his chapel was of course deserted, and the unfortunate man was left penniless in the world.
Various opinions prevailed as to Mr Bonteen’s conduct in the matter. Some people remembered that during the last autumn he and his wife had stayed three months at Portray Castle, and declared that the friendship between them and Lady Eustace had been very useful. Of these malicious people it seemed to be, moreover, the opinion that the connection might become even more useful if Mr Emilius could be discharged. It was true that Mrs Bonteen had borrowed a little money from Lady Eustace, but of this her husband knew nothing till the Jew in his wrath made the thing public. After all it had only been a poor oe25, and the money had been repaid before Mr Bonteen took his journey to Prague. Mr Bonteen was, however, unable to deny that the cost of that journey was defrayed by Lady Eustace, and it was thought mean in a man aspiring to be Chancellor of the Exchequer to have his travelling expenses paid for him by a lady. Many, however, were of opinion that Mr Bonteen had been almost romantic in his friendship, and that the bright eyes of Lady Eustace had produced upon this dragon of business the wonderful effect that was noticed. Be that as it may, now, in the terrible distress of his mind at the political aspect of the times, he had become almost sick of Lady Eustace, and would gladly have sent her away from his house had he known how to do so without incurring censure.
On that Wednesday evening Phineas Finn was at The Universe. He dined at the house of Madame Goesler, and went from thence to the club in better spirits than he had known for some weeks past. The Duke and Duchess had, been at Madame Goesler’s, and Lord and Lady Chiltern, who were now up in town, with Barrington Erle, and — as it had happened — old Mr Maule. The dinner had been very pleasant, and two or three words had been spoken which had tended to raise the heart of our hero. In the first place Barrington Erle had expressed a regret that Phineas was not at his old post at the Colonies, and the young Duke had re-echoed it. Phineas thought that the manner of his old friend Erle was more cordial to him than it had been lately, and even that comforted him. Then it was a delight to him to meet the Chilterns, who were always gracious to him. But perhaps his greatest pleasure came from the reception which was accorded by his hostess to Mr Maule, which was of a nature not easy to describe. It had become evident to Phineas that Mr Maule was constant in his attentions to Madame Goesler; and, though he had no purpose of his own in reference to the lady — though he was aware that former circumstances, circumstances of that previous life to which he was accustomed to look back as to another existence, made it impossible that he should have any such purpose — still he viewed Mr Maule with dislike. He had once ventured to ask her whether she really liked “that old padded dandy.” She had answered that she did like the old dandy. Old dandies, she thought, were preferable to old men who did not care how they looked — and as for the padding, that was his affair, not hers. She did not know why a man should not have a pad in his coat, as well as a woman one at the back of her head. But Phineas had known that this was her gentle raillery, and now he was delighted to find that she continued it, after a still more gentle fashion, before the man’s face. Mr Maule’s manner was certainly peculiar. He was more than ordinarily polite — and was afterwards declared by the Duchess to have made love like an old gander. But Madame Goesler, who knew exactly how to receive such attentions, turned a glance now and then upon Phineas Finn, which he could now read with absolute precision. “You see how I can dispose of a padded old dandy directly he goes an inch too far.” No words could have said that to him more plainly than did these one or two glances — and, as he had learned to dislike Mr Maule, he was gratified.
Of course they all talked about Lady Eustace and Mr Emilius. “Do you remember how intensely interested the dear old Duke used to be when we none of us knew what had become of the diamonds?” said the Duchess.
“And how you took her part,” said Madame Goesler.
“So did you — just as much as I; and why not? She was a most interesting young woman, and I sincerely hope we have not got to the end of her yet. The worst of it is that she has got into such — very bad hands. The Bonteens have taken her up altogether. Do you know her, Mr Finn?”
“No, Duchess — and am hardly likely to make her acquaintance while she remains where she is now.” The Duchess laughed and nodded her head. All the world knew by this time that she had declared herself to be the sworn enemy of the Bonteens.
And there had been some conversation on that terribly difficult question respecting the foxes in Trumpeton Wood. “The fact is, Lord Chiltern,” said the Duke, “I’m as ignorant as a child. I would do right if I knew how. What ought I to do? Shall I import some foxes?”
“I don’t suppose, Duke, that in all England there is a spot in which foxes are more prone to breed.”
“Indeed. I’m very glad of that. But something goes wrong afterwards, I fear.”
“The nurseries are not well managed, perhaps,” said the Duchess.
“Gipsy kidnappers are allowed about the place,” said Madame Goesler.
“Gipsies!” exclaimed the Duke.
“Poachers!” said Lord Chiltern. “But it isn’t that we mind. We could deal with that ourselves if the woods were properly managed. A head of game and foxes can be reared together very well, if — .”
“I don’t care a straw for a head of game, Lord Chiltern. As far as my own tastes go, I would wish that there was neither a pheasant nor a partridge nor a hare on any property that I own. I think that sheep and barn-door fowls do better for everybody in the long run, and that men who cannot live without shooting should go beyond thickly-populated regions to find it. And, indeed, for myself, I must say the same about foxes. They do not interest me, and I fancy that they will gradually be exterminated.”
“God forbid!” exclaimed Lord Chiltern.
“But I do not find myself called upon to exterminate them myself,” continued the Duke. “The number of men who amuse themselves by riding after one fox is too great for me to wish to interfere with them. And I know that my neighbours in the country conceive it to be my duty to have foxes for them. I will oblige them, Lord Chiltern, as far as I can without detriment to other duties.”
“You leave it to me,” said the Duchess to her neighbour, Lord Chiltern. “I’ll speak to Mr Fothergill myself, and have it put right.” It unfortunately happened, however, that Lord Chiltern got a letter the very next morning from old Doggett telling him that a litter of young cubs had been destroyed that week in Trumpeton Wood.
Barrington Erle and Phineas went off to The Universe together, and as they went the old terms of intimacy seemed to be re-established between them. “Nobody can be so sorry as I am,” said Barrington, “at the manner in which things have gone. When I wrote to you, of course, I thought it certain that, if we came in, you would come with us.”
“Do not let that fret you.”
“But it does fret me — very much. There are so many slips that of course no one can answer for anything.”
“Of course not. I know who has been my friend.”
“The joke of it is, that he himself is at present so utterly friendless. The Duke will hardly speak to him. I know that as a fact. And Gresham has begun to find something is wrong. We all hoped that he would refuse to come in without a seat in the Cabinet — but that was too good to be true. They say he talks of resigning. I shall believe it when I see it. He’d better not play any tricks, for if he did resign, it would be accepted at once.” Phineas, when he heard this, could not help thinking how glorious it would be if Mr Bonteen were to resign, and if the place so vacated, or some vacancy so occasioned, were to be filled by him!
They reached the club together, and as they went up the stairs, they heard the hum of many voices in the room. “All the world and his wife are here tonight,” said Phineas. They overtook a couple of men at the door, so that there was something of the bustle of a crowd as they entered. There was a difficulty in finding places in which to put their coats and hats — for the accommodation of The Universe is not great. There was a knot of men talking not far from them, and among the voices Phineas could clearly hear that of Mr Bonteen. Ratler’s he had heard before, and also Fitzgibbon’s, though he had not distinguished any words from them. But those spoken by Mr Bonteen he did distinguish very plainly. “Mr Phineas Finn, or some such fellow as that, would be after her at once,” said Mr Bonteen. Then Phineas walked immediately among the knot of men and showed himself. As soon as he heard his name mentioned, he doubted for a moment what he would do. Mr Bonteen when speaking had not known of his presence, and it might be his duty not to seem to have listened. But the speech had been made aloud, in the open room — so that those who chose might listen — and Phineas could not but have heard it. In that moment he resolved that he was bound to take notice of what he had heard. “What is it, Mr Bonteen, that Phineas Finn will do?” he asked.
Mr Bonteen had been — dining. He was not a man by any means habitually intemperate, and now anyone saying that he was tipsy would have maligned him. But he was flushed with much wine, and he was a man whose arrogance in that condition was apt to become extreme. “In vino veritas!’ The sober devil can hide his cloven hoof; but when the devil drinks he loses his cunning and grows honest. Mr Bonteen looked Phineas full in the face a second or two before he answered, and then said — quite aloud — “You have crept upon us unawares, sir.”
“What do you mean by that, sir?” said Phineas. “I have come in as any other man comes.”
“Listeners at any rate never hear any good of themselves.”
Then there were present among those assembled clear indications of disapproval of Bonteen’s conduct. In these days — when no palpable and immediate punishment is at hand for personal insolence from man to man — personal insolence to one man in a company seems almost to constitute an insult to everyone present. When men could fight readily, an arrogant word or two between two known to be hostile to each other was only an invitation to a duel, and the angry man was doing that for which it was known that he could be made to pay. There was, or it was often thought that there was, a real spirit in the angry man’s conduct, and they who were his friends before became perhaps more his friends when he had thus shown that he had an enemy. But a different feeling prevails at present — a feeling so different, that we may almost say that a man in general society cannot speak even roughly to any but his intimate comrades without giving offence to all around him. Men have learned to hate the nuisance of a row, and to feel that their comfort is endangered if a man prone to rows gets among them. Of all candidates at a club a known quarreller is more sure of blackballs now than even in the times when such a one provoked duels. Of all bores he is the worst; and there is always an unexpressed feeling that such a one exacts more from his company than his share of attention. This is so strong, that too often the man quarrelled with, though he be as innocent as was Phineas on the present occasion, is made subject to the general aversion which is felt for men who misbehave themselves.
“I wish to hear no good of myself from you,” said Phineas, following him to his seat. “Who is it that you said — I should be after?” The room was full, and everyone there, even they who had come in with Phineas, knew that Lady Eustace was the woman. Everybody at present was talking about Lady Eustace.
“Never mind,” said Barrington Erle, taking him by the arm. “What’s the use of a row?”
“No use at all — but if you heard your name mentioned in such a manner you would find it impossible to pass it over. There is Mr Monk — ask him.”
Mr Monk was sitting very quietly in a corner of the room with another gentleman of his own age by him — one devoted to literary pursuits and a constant attendant at the Universe. As he said afterwards, he had never known any unpleasantness of that sort in the club before. There were many men of note in the room. There was a foreign minister, a member of the Cabinet, two ex-members of the Cabinet, a great poet, an exceedingly able editor, two earls, two members of the Royal Academy, the president of a learned society, a celebrated professor — and it was expected that Royalty might come in at any minute, speak a few benign words, and blow a few clouds of smoke. It was abominable that the harmony of such a meeting should be interrupted by the vinous insolence of Mr Bonteen, and the useless wrath of Phineas Finn. “Really, Mr Finn, if I were you I would let it drop,” said the gentleman devoted to literary pursuits.
Phineas did not much affect the literary gentleman, but in such a matter would prefer the advice of Mr Monk to that of any man living. He again appealed to his friend. “You heard what was said?”
“I heard Mr Bonteen remark that you or somebody like you would in certain circumstances be after a certain lady. I thought it to be an ill judged speech, and as your particular friend I heard it with great regret.”
“What a row about nothing!” said Mr Bonteen, rising from his seat. “We were speaking of a very pretty woman, and I was saying that some young fellow generally supposed to be fond of pretty women would soon be after her. If that offends your morals you must have become very strict of late.”
There was something in the explanation which, though very bad and vulgar, it was almost impossible not to accept. Such at least was the feeling of those who stood around Phineas Finn. He himself knew that Mr Bonteen had intended to assert that he would be after the woman’s money and not her beauty; but he had taste enough to perceive that he could not descend to any such detail as that. “There are reasons, Mr Bonteen,” he said, “why I think you should abstain from mentioning my name in public. Your playful references should be made to your friends, and not to those who, to say the least of it, are not your friends.”
When the matter was discussed afterwards it was thought that Phineas Finn should have abstained from making the last speech. It was certainly evidence of great anger on his part. And he was very angry. He knew that he had been insulted — and insulted by the man whom of all men he would feel most disposed to punish for any offence. He could not allow Mr Bonteen to have the last word, especially as a certain amount of success had seemed to attend them. Fate at the moment was so far propitious to Phineas that outward circumstances saved him from any immediate reply, and thus left him in some degree triumphant. Expected Royalty arrived, and cast its salutary oil upon the troubled waters. The Prince, with some well-known popular attendant, entered the room, and for a moment every gentleman rose from his chair. It was but for a moment, and then the Prince became as any other gentleman, talking to his friends. One or two there present, who had perhaps peculiarly royal instincts, had crept up towards him so as to make him the centre of a little knot, but, otherwise, conversation went on much as it had done before the unfortunate arrival of Phineas. That quarrel, however, had been very distinctly trodden under foot by the Prince, for Mr Bonteen had found himself quite incapacitated from throwing back any missile in reply to the last that had been hurled at him.
Phineas took a vacant seat next to Mr Monk — who was deficient perhaps in royal instincts — and asked him in a whisper his opinion of what had taken place. “Do not think any more of it,” said Mr Monk.
“That is so much more easily said than done. How am I not to think of it?”
“Of course I mean that you are to act as though you had forgotten it.”
“Did you ever know a more gratuitous insult? Of course he was talking of that Lady Eustace.”
“I had not been listening to him before, but no doubt he was. I need not tell you now what I think of Mr Bonteen. He is not more gracious in my eyes than he is in yours. Tonight I fancy he has been drinking, which has not improved him. You may be sure of this, Phineas — that the less of resentful anger you show in such a wretched affair as took place just now, the more will be the blame attached to him and the less to you.”
“Why should any blame be attached to me?”
“I don’t say that any will unless you allow yourself to become loud and resentful. The thing is not worth your anger.”
“I am angry.”
“Then go to bed at once, and sleep it off. Come with me, and we’ll walk home together.”
“It isn’t the proper thing, I fancy, to leave the room while the Prince is here.”
“Then I must do the improper thing,” said Mr Monk. “I haven’t a key, and I musn’t keep my servant up any longer. A quiet man like me can creep out without notice. Good night, Phineas, and take my advice about this. If you can’t forget it, act and speak and look as though you had forgotten it.” Then Mr Monk, without much creeping, left the room.
The club was very full, and there was a clatter of voices, and the clatter round the Prince was the noisiest and merriest. Mr Bonteen was there, of course, and Phineas as he sat alone could hear him as he edged his words in upon the royal ears. Every now and again there was a royal joke, and then Mr Bonteen’s laughter was conspicuous. As far as Phineas could distinguish the sounds no special amount of the royal attention was devoted to Mr Bonteen. That very able editor, and one of the Academicians, and the poet, seemed to be the most honoured, and when the Prince went — which he did when his cigar was finished — Phineas observed with inward satisfaction that the royal hand, which was given to the poet, to the editor, and to the painter, was not extended to the President of the Board of Trade. And then, having taken delight in this, he accused himself of meanness in having even observed a matter so trivial. Soon after this a ruck of men left the club, and then Phineas rose to go. As he went down the stairs Barrington Erle followed him with Laurence Fitzgibbon, and the three stood for a moment at the door in the street talking to each other. Finn’s way lay eastward from the club, whereas both Erle and Fitzgibbon would go westwards towards their homes. “How well the Prince behaves at these sort of places!” said Erle.
“Princes ought to behave well,” said Phineas.
“Somebody else didn’t behave very well — eh, Finn, my boy?” said Laurence.
“Somebody else, as you call him,” replied Phineas, “is very unlike a Prince, and never does behave well. Tonight, however, he surpassed himself.”
“Don’t bother your mind about it, old fellow,” said Barrington.
“I tell you what it is, Erle,” said Phineas. “I don’t think that I’m a vindictive man by nature, but with that man I mean to make it even some of these days. You know as well as I do what it is he has done to me, and you know also whether I have deserved it. Wretched reptile that he is! He has pretty nearly been able to ruin me — and all from some petty feeling of jealousy.”
“Finn, me boy, don’t talk like that,” said Laurence.
“You shouldn’t show your hand,” said Barrington.
“I know what you mean, and it’s all very well. After your different fashions you two have been true to me, and I don’t care how much you see of my hand. That man’s insolence angers me to such an extent that I cannot refrain from speaking out. He hasn’t spirit enough to go out with me, or I would shoot him.”
“Blankenberg, eh!” said Laurence, alluding to the now notorious duel which had once been fought in that place between Phineas and Lord Chiltern.
“I would,” continued the angry man. “There are times in which one is driven to regret that there has come an end to duelling, and there is left to one no immediate means of resenting an injury.”
As they were speaking Mr Bonteen came out from the front door alone, and seeing the three men standing, passed on towards the left, eastwards. “Good night, Erle,” he said. “Good night, Fitzgibbon.” The two men answered him, and Phineas stood back in the gloom. It was about one o’clock and the night was very dark. “By George, I do dislike that man,” said Phineas. Then, with a laugh, he took a life-preserver out of his pocket, and made an action with it as though he were striking some enemy over the head. In those days there had been much garotting in the streets, and writers in the Press had advised those who walked about at night to go armed with sticks. Phineas Finn had himself been once engaged with garotters — as has been told in a former chronicle — and had since armed himself, thinking more probably of the thing which he had happened to see than men do who had only heard of it. As soon as he had spoken, he followed Mr Bonteen down the street, at the distance of perhaps a couple of hundred yards.
“They won’t have a row — will they?” said Erle.
“Oh, dear, no; Finn won’t think of speaking to him; and you may be sure that Bonteen won’t say a word to Finn. Between you and me, Barrington, I wish Master Phineas would give him a thorough good hiding.”
On the next morning at seven o’clock a superintendent of police called at the house of Mr Gresham and informed the Prime Minister that Mr Bonteen, the President of the Board of Trade, had been murdered during the night. There was no doubt of the fact. The body had been recognised, and information had been taken to the unfortunate widow at the house Mr Bonteen had occupied in St James’s Place. The superintendent had already found out that Mr Bonteen had been attacked as he was returning from his club late at night — or rather, early in the morning, and expressed no doubt that he had been murdered close to the spot on which his body was found. There is a dark, uncanny-looking passage running from the end of Bolton Row, in May Fair, between the gardens of two great noblemen, coming out among the mews in Berkeley Street, at the corner of Berkeley Square, just opposite to the bottom of Hay Hill. It was on the steps leading up from the passage to the level of the ground above that the body was found. The passage was almost as near a way as any from the club to Mr Bonteen’s house in St James’s Place; but the superintendent declared that gentlemen but seldom used the passage after dark, and he was disposed to think that the unfortunate man must have been forced down the steps by the ruffian who had attacked him from the level above. The murderer, so thought the superintendent, must have been cognizant of the way usually taken by Mr Bonteen, and must have lain in wait for him in the darkness of the mouth of the passage. The superintendent had been at work on his inquiries since four in the morning, and had heard from Lady Eustace — and from Mrs Bonteen, as far as that poor distracted woman had been able to tell her story — some account of the cause of quarrel between the respective husbands of those two ladies. The officer, who had not as yet heard a word of the late disturbance between Mr Bonteen and Phineas Finn, was strongly of opinion that the Reverend Mr Emilius had been the murderer. Mr Gresham, of course, coincided in that opinion. What steps had been taken as to the arrest of Mr Emilius? The superintendent was of opinion that Mr Emilius was already in custody. He was known to be lodging close to the Marylebone Workhouse, in Northumberland Street, having removed to that somewhat obscure neighbourhood as soon as his house in Lowndes Square had been broken up by the running away of his wife and his consequent want of means. Such was the story as told to the Prime Minister at seven o’clock in the morning.
At eleven o’clock, at his private room at the Treasury Chambers, Mr Gresham heard much more. At that time there were present with him two officers of the police force, his colleagues in the Cabinet, Lord Cantrip and the Duke of Omnium, three of his junior colleagues in the Government, Lord Fawn, Barrington Erle, and Laurence Fitzgibbon — and Major Mackintosh, the chief of the London police. It was not exactly part of the duty of Mr Gresham to investigate the circumstances of this murder; but there was so much in it that brought it closely home to him and his Government, that it became impossible for him not to concern himself in the business. There had been so much talk about Mr Bonteen lately, his name had been so common in the newspapers, the ill-usage which he had been supposed by some to have suffered had been so freely discussed, and his quarrel, not only with Phineas Finn, but subsequently with the Duke of Omnium, had been so widely known — that his sudden death created more momentary excitement than might probably have followed that of a greater man. And now, too, the facts of the past night, as they became known, seemed to make the crime more wonderful, more exciting, more momentous than it would have been had it been brought clearly home to such a wretch as the Bohemian Jew, Yosef Mealyus, who had contrived to cheat that wretched Lizzie Eustace into marrying him.
As regarded Yosef Mealyus the story now told respecting him was this. He was already in custody. He had been found in bed at his lodgings between seven and eight, and had, of course, given himself up without difficulty. He had seemed to be horror-struck when he heard of the man’s death — but had openly expressed his joy. “He has endeavoured to ruin me, and has done me a world of harm. Why should I sorrow for him?’ — he said to the policeman when rebuked for his inhumanity. But nothing had been found tending to implicate him in the crime. The servant declared that he had gone to bed before eleven o’clock, to her knowledge — for she had seen him there — and that he had not left the house afterwards. Was he in possession of a latch-key? It appeared that he did usually carry a latch-key, but that it was often borrowed from him by members of the family when it was known that he would not want it himself — and that it had been so lent on this night. It was considered certain by those in the house that he had not gone out after he went to bed. Nobody in fact had left the house after ten; but in accordance with his usual custom Mr Emilius had sent down the key as soon as he had found that he would not want it, and it had been all night in the custody of the mistress of the establishment. Nevertheless his clothes were examined minutely, but without affording any evidence against him. That Mr Bonteen had been killed with some blunt weapon, such as a life-preserver, was assumed by the police, but no such weapon was in the possession of Mr Emilius, nor had any such weapon yet been found. He was, however, in custody, with no evidence against him except that which was afforded by his known and acknowledged enmity to Mr Bonteen.
So far, Major Mackintosh and the two officers had told their story. Then came the united story of the other gentlemen assembled — from hearing which, however, the two police officers were debarred. The Duke and Barrington Erle had both dined in company with Phineas Finn at Madame Goesler’s, and the Duke was undoubtedly aware that ill blood had existed between Finn and Mr Bonteen. Both Erle and Fitzgibbon described the quarrel at the club, and described also the anger which Finn had expressed against the wretched man as he stood talking at the club door. His gesture of vengeance was remembered and repeated, though both the men who heard it expressed their strongest conviction that the murder had not been committed by him. As Erle remarked, the very expression of such a threat was almost proof that he had not at that moment any intention on his mind of doing such a deed as had been done. But they told also of the life-preserver which Finn had shown them, as he took it from the pocket of his outside coat, and they marvelled at the coincidences of the night. Then Lord Fawn gave further evidence, which seemed to tell very hardly upon Phineas Finn. He also had been at the club, and had left it just before Finn and the two other men had clustered at the door. He had walked very slowly, having turned down to Curzon Street and Bolton Row, from whence he made his way into Piccadilly by Clarges Street. He had seen nothing of Mr Bonteen; but as he crossed over to Clarges Street he was passed at a very rapid pace by a man muffled in a top-coat, who made his way straight along Bolton Row towards the passage which has been described. At the moment he had not connected the person of the man who passed him with any acquaintance of his own; but he now felt sure — after what he had heard — that the man was Mr Finn. As he passed out of the club Finn was putting on his overcoat, and Lord Fawn had observed the peculiarity of the grey colour. It was exactly a similar coat, only with its collar raised, that had passed him in the street. The man, too, was of Mr Finn’s height and build. He had known Mr Finn well, and the man stepped with Mr Finn’s step. Major Mackintosh thought that Lord Fawn’s evidence was — “very unfortunate as regarded Mr Finn.”
“I’m d — if that idiot won’t hang poor Phinny,” said Fitzgibbon afterwards to Erle. “And yet I don’t believe a word of it.”
“Fawn wouldn’t lie for the sake of hanging Phineas Finn,” said Erle.
“No — I don’t suppose he’s given to lying at all. He believes it all. But he’s such a muddle-headed fellow that he can get himself to believe anything. He’s one of those men who always unconsciously exaggerate what they have to say for the sake of the importance it gives them.” It might be possible that a jury would look at Lord Fawn’s evidence in this light; otherwise it would bear very heavily, indeed, against Phineas Finn.
Then a question arose as to the road which Mr Bonteen usually took from the club. All the members who were there present had walked home with him at various times — and by various routes, but never by the way through the passage. It was supposed that on this occasion he must have gone by Berkeley Square, because he had certainly not turned down by the first street to the right, which he would have taken had he intended to avoid the square. He had been seen by Barrington Erle and Fitzgibbon to pass that turning. Otherwise they would have made no remark as to the possibility of a renewed quarrel between him and Phineas, should Phineas chance to overtake him — for Phineas would certainly go by the square unless taken out of his way by some special purpose. The most direct way of all for Mr Bonteen would have been that followed by Lord Fawn; but as he had not turned down this street, and had not been seen by Lord Fawn, who was known to walk very slowly, and had often been seen to go by Berkeley Square — it was presumed that he had now taken that road. In this case he would certainly pass the end of the passage towards which Lord Fawn declared that he had seen the man hurrying whom he now supposed to have been Phineas Finn. Finn’s direct road home would, as has been already said, have been through the square, cutting off the corner of the square, towards Bruton Street, and thence across Bond Street by Conduit Street to Regent Street, and so to Great Marlborough Street, where he lived. But it had been, no doubt, possible for him to have been on the spot on which Lord Fawn had seen the man; for, although in his natural course thither from the club he would have at once gone down the street to the right — a course which both Erle and Fitzgibbon were able to say that he did not take, as they had seen him go beyond the turning — nevertheless there had been ample time for him to have retraced his steps to it in time to have caught Lord Fawn, and thus to have deceived Fitzgibbon and Erle as to the route he had taken.
When they had got thus far Lord Cantrip was standing close to the window of the room at Mr Gresham’s elbow. “Don’t allow yourself to be hurried into believing it,” said Lord Cantrip.
“I do not know that we need believe it, or the reverse. It is a case for the police.”
“Of course it is — but your belief and mine will have a weight. Nothing that I have heard makes me for a moment think it possible. I know the man.”
“He was very angry.”
“Had he struck him in the club I should not have been much surprised; but he never attacked his enemy with a bludgeon in a dark alley. I know him well.”
“What do you think of Fawn’s story?”
“He was mistaken in his man. Remember — it was a dark night.”
“I do not see that you and I can do anything,” said Mr Gresham. “I shall have to say something in the House as to the poor fellow’s death, but I certainly shall not express a suspicion. Why should I?”
Up to this moment nothing had been done as to Phineas Finn. It was known that he would in his natural course of business be in his place in Parliament at four, and Major Mackintosh was of opinion that he certainly should be taken before a magistrate in time to prevent the necessity of arresting him in the House. It was decided that Lord Fawn, with Fitzgibbon and Erle, should accompany the police officer to Bow Street, and that a magistrate should be applied to for a warrant if he thought the evidence was sufficient. Major Mackintosh was of opinion that, although by no possibility could the two men suspected have been jointly guilty of the murder, still the circumstances were such as to justify the immediate arrest of both. Were Yosef Mealyus really guilty and to be allowed to slip from their hands, no doubt it might be very difficult to catch him. Facts did not at present seem to prevail against him; but, as the Major observed, facts are apt to alter considerably when they are minutely sifted. His character was half sufficient to condemn him — and then with him there was an adequate motive, and what Lord Cantrip regarded as “a possibility.” It was not to be conceived that from mere rage Phineas Finn would lay a plot for murdering a man in the street. “It is on the cards, my lord,” said the Major, “that he may have chosen to attack Mr Bonteen without intending to murder him. The murder may afterwards have been an accident.”
It was impossible after this for even a Prime Minister and two Cabinet Ministers to go about their work calmly. The men concerned had been too well known to them to allow their minds to become clear of the subject. When Major Mackintosh went off to Bow Street with Erle and Laurence, it was certainly the opinion of the majority of those who had been present that the blow had been struck by the hand of Phineas Finn. And perhaps the worst aspect of it all was that there had been not simply a blow — but blows. The constables had declared that the murdered man had been struck thrice about the head, and that the fatal stroke had been given on the side of his head after the man’s hat had been knocked off. That Finn should have followed his enemy through the street, after such words as he had spoken, with the view of having the quarrel out in some shape, did not seem to be very improbable to any of them except Lord Cantrip — and then had there been a scuffle, out in the open path, at the spot at which the angry man might have overtaken his adversary, it was not incredible to them that he should have drawn even such a weapon as a life-preserver from his pocket. But, in the case as it had occurred, a spot peculiarly traitorous had been selected, and the attack had too probably been made from behind. As yet there was no evidence that the murderer had himself encountered any ill-usage. And Finn, if he was the murderer, must, from the time he was standing at the club door, have contemplated a traitorous, dastardly attack. He must have counted his moments — have returned slyly in the dark to the corner of the street which he had once passed — have muffled his face in his coat — and have then laid wait in a spot to which an honest man at night would hardly trust himself with honest purposes. “I look upon it as quite out of the question,” said Lord Cantrip, when the three Ministers were left alone. Now Lord Cantrip had served for many months in the same office as Phineas Finn.
“You are simply putting your own opinion of the man against the facts,” said Mr Gresham. “But facts always convince, and another man’s opinion rarely convinces.”
“I’m not sure that we know the facts yet,” said the Duke.
“Of course we are speaking of them as far as they have been told to us. As far as they go — unless they can be upset and shown not to be facts — I fear they would be conclusive to me on a jury.”
“Do you mean that you have heard enough to condemn him?” asked Lord Cantrip.
“Remember what we have heard. The murdered man had two enemies.”
“He may have had a third.”
“Or ten; but we have heard of but two.”
“He may have been attacked for his money,” said the Duke.
“But neither his money nor his watch were touched,” continued Mr Gresham. “Anger, or the desire of putting the man out of the way, has caused the murder. Of the two enemies one — according to the facts as we now have them — could not have been there. Nor is it probable that he could have known that his enemy would be on that spot. The other not only could have been there, but was certainly near the place at the moment — so near that did he not do the deed himself, it is almost wonderful that it should not have been interrupted in its doing by his nearness. He certainly knew that the victim would be there. He was burning with anger against him at the moment. He had just threatened him. He had with him such an instrument as was afterwards used. A man believed to be him is seen hurrying to the spot by a witness whose credibility is beyond doubt. These are the facts such as we have them at present. Unless they can be upset, I fear they would convince a jury — as they have already convinced those officers of the police.”
“Officers of the police always believe men to be guilty,” said Lord Cantrip.
“They don’t believe the Jew clergyman to be guilty,” said Mr Gresham.
“I fear that there will be enough to send Mr Finn to a trial,” said the Duke.
“Not a doubt of it,” said Mr Gresham.
“And yet I feel as convinced of his innocence as I do of my own,” said Lord Cantrip.
About three o’clock in the day the first tidings of what had taken place reached Madame Goesler in the following perturbed note from her friend the Duchess:
Have you heard what took place last night? Good God! Mr Bonteen was murdered as he came home from his club, and they say that it was done by Phineas Finn. Plantagenet has just come in from Downing Street, where everybody is talking about it. I can’t get from him what he believes. One never can get anything from him. But I never will believe it — nor will you, I’m sure. I vote we stick to him to the last. He is to be put in prison and tried. I can hardly believe that Mr Bonteen has been murdered, though I don’t know why he shouldn’t as well as anybody else. Plantagenet talks about the great loss; I know which would be the greatest loss, and so do you. I’m going out now to try and find out something. Barrington Erle was there, and if I can find him he will tell me. I shall be home by half-past five. Do come, there’s a dear woman; there is no one else I can talk to about it. If I’m not back, go in all the same, and tell them to bring you tea.
Only think of Lady Laura — with one mad and the other in Newgate!
G . P .
This letter gave Madame Goesler such a blow that for a few minutes it altogether knocked her down. After reading it once she hardly knew what it contained beyond a statement that Phineas Finn was in Newgate. She sat for a while with it in her hands, almost swooning; and then with an effort she recovered herself, and read the letter again. Mr Bonteen murdered, and Phineas Finn — who had dined with her only yesterday evening, with whom she had been talking of all the sins of the murdered man, who was her special friend, of whom she thought more than of any other human being, of whom she could not bring herself to cease to think — accused of the murder! Believe it! The Duchess had declared with that sort of enthusiasm which was common to her, that she never would believe it. No, indeed! What judge of character would anyone be who could believe that Phineas Finn could be guilty of a midnight murder? “I vote we stick to him.” “Stick to him!” Madame Goesler said, repeating the words to herself. “What is the use of sticking to a man who does not want you?” How can a woman cling to a man who, having said that he did not want her, yet comes again within her influence, but does not unsay what he had said before? Nevertheless, if it should be that the man was in real distress — in absolutely dire sorrow — she would cling to him with a constancy which, as she thought, her friend the Duchess would hardly understand. Though they should hang him, she would bathe his body with her tears, and live as a woman should live who had loved a murderer to the last.
But she swore to herself that she would not believe it. Nay, she did not believe it. Believe it, indeed! It was simply impossible. That he might have killed the wretch in some struggle brought on by the man’s own fault was possible. Had the man attacked Phineas Finn it was only too probable that there might have been such result. But murder, secret midnight murder, could not have been committed by the man she had chosen as her friend. And yet, through it all, there was a resolve that even though he should have committed murder she would be true to him. If it should come to the very worst, then would she declare the intensity of the affection with which she regarded the murderer. As to Mr Bonteen, what the Duchess said was true enough; why should not he be killed as well as another? In her present frame of mind she felt very little pity for Mr Bonteen. After a fashion a verdict of “served him right” crossed her mind, as it had doubtless crossed that of the Duchess when she was writing her letter. The man had made himself so obnoxious that it was well that he should be out of the way. But not on that account would she believe that Phineas Finn had murdered him.
Could it be true that the man after all was dead? Marvellous reports, and reports marvellously false, do spread themselves about the world every day. But this report had come from the Duke, and he was not a man given to absurd rumours. He had heard the story in Downing Street, and if so it must be true. Of course she would go down to the Duchess at the hour fixed. It was now a little after three, and she ordered the carriage to be ready for her at a quarter past five. Then she told the servant, at first to admit no one who might call, and then to come up and let her know, if anyone should come, without sending the visitor away. It might be that someone would come to her expressly from Phineas, or at least with tidings about this affair.
Then she read the letter again, and those few last words in it stuck to her thoughts like a burr. “Think of Lady Laura, with one mad and the other in Newgate.” Was this man — the only man whom she had ever loved — more to Lady Laura Kennedy than to her; or rather, was Lady Laura more to him than was she herself? If so, why should she fret herself for his sake? She was ready enough to own that she could sacrifice everything for him, even though he should be standing as a murderer in the dock, if such sacrifice would be valued by him. He had himself told her that his feelings towards Lady Laura were simply those of an affectionate friend; but how could she believe that statement when all the world were saying the reverse? Lady Laura was a married woman — a woman whose husband was still living — and of course he was bound to make such an assertion when he and she were named together. And then it was certain — Madame Goesler believed it to be certain — that there had been a time in which Phineas had asked for the love of Lady Laura Standish. But he had never asked for her love. It had been tendered to him, and he had rejected it! And now the Duchess — who, with all her inaccuracies, had that sharpness of vision which enables some men and women to see into facts — spoke as though Lady Laura were to be pitied more than all others, because of the evil that had befallen Phineas Finn! Had not Lady Laura chosen her own husband; and was not the man, let him be ever so mad, still her husband? Madame Goesler was sore of heart, as well as broken down with sorrow, till at last, hiding her face on the pillow of the sofa, still holding the Duchess’s letter in her hand, she burst into a fit of hysteric sobs.
Few of those who knew Madame Max Goesler well, as she lived in town and in country, would have believed that such could have been the effect upon her of the news which she had heard. Credit was given to her everywhere for good nature, discretion, affability, and a certain grace of demeanour which always made her charming. She was known to be generous, wise, and of high spirit. Something of her conduct to the old Duke had crept into general notice, and had been told, here and there, to her honour. She had conquered the good opinion of many, and was a popular woman. But there was not one among her friends who supposed her capable of becoming a victim to a strong passion, or would have suspected her of reckless weeping for any sorrow. The Duchess, who thought that she knew Madame Goesler well, would not have believed it to be true, even if she had seen it. “You like people, but I don’t think you ever love anyone,” the Duchess had once said to her. Madame Goesler had smiled, and had seemed to assent. To enjoy the world — and to know that the best enjoyment must come from witnessing the satisfaction of others, had apparently been her philosophy. But now she was prostrate because this man was in trouble, and because she had been told that his trouble was more than another woman could bear!
She was still sobbing and crushing the letter in her hand when the servant came up to tell her that Mr Maule had called. He was below, waiting to know whether she would see him. She remembered at once that Mr Maule had met Phineas at her table on the previous evening, and, thinking that he must have come with tidings respecting this great event, desired that he might be shown up to her. But, as it happened, Mr Maule had not yet heard of the death of Mr Bonteen. He had remained at home till nearly four, having a great object in view, which made him deem it expedient that he should go direct from his own rooms to Madame Goesler’s house, and had not even looked in at his club. The reader will, perhaps, divine the great object. On this day he proposed to ask Madame Goesler to make him the happiest of men — as he certainly would have thought himself for a time, had she consented to put him in possession of her large income. He had therefore padded himself with more than ordinary care — reduced but not obliterated the greyness of his locks — looked carefully to the fitting of his trousers, and spared himself those ordinary labours of the morning which might have robbed him of any remaining spark of his juvenility.
Madame Goesler met him more than half across the room as he entered it. “What have you heard?” said she Mr Maule wore his sweetest smile, but he had heard nothing. He could only press her hand, and look blank — understanding that there was something which he ought to have heard. She thought nothing of the pressure of her hand. Apt as she was to be conscious at an instant of all that was going on around her, she thought of nothing now but that man’s peril, and of the truth or falsehood of the story that had been sent to her. “You have heard nothing of Mr Finn?”
“Not a word,” said Mr Maule, withdrawing his hand. “What has happened to Mr Finn?” Had Mr Finn broken his neck it would have been nothing to Mr Maule. But the lady’s solicitude was something to him.
“Mr Bonteen has been — murdered!”
“Mr Bonteen!”
“So I hear. I thought you had come to tell me of it.”
“Mr Bonteen murdered! No — I have heard nothing. I do not know the gentleman. I thought you said — Mr Finn.
“It is not known about London, then?”
“I cannot say, Madame Goesler. I have just come from home, and have not been out all the morning. Who has — murdered him?”
“Ah! I do not know. That is what I wanted you to tell me.”
“But what of Mr Finn?”
“I also have not been out, Mr Maule, and can give you no information. I thought you had called because you knew that Mr Finn had dined here.”
“Has Mr Finn been murdered?”
“Mr Bonteen! I said that the report was that Mr Bonteen had been murdered.” Madame Goesler was now waxing angry — most unreasonably. “But I know nothing about it, and am just going out to make inquiry. The carriage is ordered.” Then she stood, expecting him to go; and he knew that he was expected to go. It was at any rate clear to him that he could not carry out his great design on the present occasion. “This has so upset me that I can think of nothing else at present, and you must, if you please, excuse me. I would not have let you take the trouble of coming up, had not I thought that you were the bearer of some news.” Then she bowed, and Mr Maule bowed; and as he left the room she forgot to ring the bell.
“What the deuce can she have meant about that fellow Finn?” he said to himself. “They cannot both have been murdered.” He went to his club, and there he soon learned the truth. The information was given to him with clear and undoubting words. Phineas Finn and Mr Bonteen had quarrelled at the Universe. Mr Bonteen, as far as words went, had got the best of his adversary. This had taken place in the presence of the Prince, who had expressed himself as greatly annoyed by Mr Finn’s conduct. And afterwards Phineas Finn had waylaid Mr Bonteen in the passage between Bolton Row and Berkeley Street, and had there — murdered him. As it happened, no one who had been at the Universe was at that moment present; but the whole affair was now quite well known, and was spoken of without a doubt.
“I hope he’ll be hung, with all my heart,” said Mr Maule, who thought that he could read the riddle which had been so unintelligible in Park Lane.
When Madame Goesler reached Carlton Terrace, which she did before the time named by the Duchess, her friend had not yet returned. But she went upstairs, as she had been desired, and they brought her tea. But the teapot remained untouched till past six o’clock, and then the Duchess returned. “Oh, my dear, I am so sorry for being late. Why haven’t you had tea?”
“What is the truth of it all?” said Madame Goesler, standing up with her fists clenched as they hung by her side.
“I don’t seem to know nearly as much as I did when I wrote to you.”
“Has the man been — murdered?”
“Oh dear, yes. There’s no doubt about that. I was quite sure of that when I sent the letter. I have had such a hunt. But at last I went up to the door of the House of Commons, and got Barrington Erle to come out to me.”
“Well?”
“Two men have been arrested.”
“Not Phineas Finn?”
“Yes; Mr Finn is one of them. Is it not awful? So much more dreadful to me than the other poor man’s death! One oughtn’t to say so, of course.”
“And who is the other man? Of course he did it.”
“That horrid Jew preaching man that married Lizzie Eustace. Mr Bonteen had been persecuting him, and making out that he had another wife at home in Hungary, or Bohemia, or somewhere.”
“Of course he did it.”
“That’s what I say. Of course the Jew did it. But then all the evidence goes to show that he didn’t do it. He was in bed at the time; and the door of the house was locked up so that he couldn’t get out; and the man who did the murder hadn’t got on his coat, but had got on Phineas Finn’s coat.”
“Was there — blood?” asked Madame Goesler, shaking from head to foot.
“Not that I know. I don’t suppose they’ve looked yet. But Lord Fawn saw the man, and swears to the coat.”
“Lord Fawn! How I have always hated that man! I wouldn’t believe a word he would say.”
“Barrington doesn’t think so much of the coat. But Phineas had a club in his pocket, and the man was killed by a club. There hasn’t been any other club found, but Phineas Finn took his home with him.”
“A murderer would not have done that.”
“Barrington says that the head policeman says that it is just what a very clever murderer would do.”
“Do you believe it, Duchess?”
“Certainly not — not though Lord Fawn swore that he had seen it. I never will believe what I don’t like to believe, and nothing shall ever make me.”
“He couldn’t have done it.”
“Well — for the matter of that, I suppose he could.”
“No, Duchess, he could not have done it.”
“He is strong enough — and brave enough.”
“But not enough of a coward. There is nothing cowardly about him. If Phineas Finn could have struck an enemy with a club, in a dark passage, behind his back, I will never care to speak to any man again. Nothing shall make me believe it. If I did, I could never again believe in anyone. If they told you that your husband had murdered a man, what would you say?”
“But he isn’t your husband, Madame Max.”
“No — certainly not. I cannot fly at them, when they say so, as you would do. But I can be just as sure. If twenty Lord Fawns swore that they had seen it, I would not believe them. Oh, God, what will they do with him!”
The Duchess behaved very well to her friend, saying not a single word to twit her with the love which she betrayed. She seemed to take it as a matter of course that Madame Goesler’s interest in Phineas Finn should be as it was. The Duke, she said, could not come home to dinner, and Madame Goesler should stay with her. Both Houses were in such a ferment about the murder, that nobody liked to be away. Everybody had been struck with amazement, not simply — not chiefly — by the fact of the murder, but by the double destruction of the two men whose ill-will to each other had been of late so often the subject of conversation. So Madame Goesler remained at Carlton Terrace till late in the evening, and during the whole visit there was nothing mentioned but the murder of Mr Bonteen and the peril of Phineas Finn. “Someone will go and see him, I suppose,” said Madame Goesler.
“Lord Cantrip has been already — and Mr Monk.”
“Could not I go?”
“Well, it would be rather strong.”
“If we both went together?” suggested Madame Goesler. And before she left Carlton Terrace she had almost extracted a promise from the Duchess that they would together proceed to the prison and endeavour to see Phineas Finn.
“We have left Adelaide Palliser down at the Hall. We are up here only for a couple of days to see Laura, and try to find out what had better be done about Kennedy.” This was said to Phineas Finn in his own room in Great Marlborough Street by Lord Chiltern, on the morning after the murder, between ten and eleven o’clock. Phineas had not as yet heard of the death of the man with whom he had quarrelled. Lord Chiltern had now come to him with some proposition which he as yet did not understand, and which Lord Chiltern certainly did not know how to explain. Looked at simply, the proposition was one for providing Phineas Finn with an income out of the wealth belonging, or that would belong, to the Standish family. Lady Laura’s fortune would, it was thought, soon be at her own disposal. They who acted for her husband had assured the Earl that the yearly interest of the money should be at her ladyship’s command as soon as the law would allow them so to plan it. Of Robert Kennedy’s inability to act for himself there was no longer any doubt whatever, and there was, they said, no desire to embarrass the estate with so small a disputed matter as the income derived from oe40,000. There was great pride of purse in the manner in which the information was conveyed — but not the less on that account was it satisfactory to the Earl. Lady Laura’s first thought about it referred to the imminent wants of Phineas Finn. How might it be possible for her to place a portion of her income at the command of the man she loved so that he should not feel disgraced by receiving it from her hand? She conceived some plan as to a loan to be made nominally by her brother — a plan as to which it may at once be said that it could not be made to hold water for a minute. But she did succeed in inducing her brother to undertake the embassy, with the view of explaining to Phineas that there would be money for him when he wanted it. “If I make it over to Papa, Papa can leave it him in his will; and if he wants it at once there can be no harm in your advancing to him what he must have at Papa’s death.” Her brother had frowned angrily and had shaken his head. “Think how he has been thrown over by all the party,” said Lady Laura. Lord Chiltern had disliked the whole affair — had felt with dismay that his sister’s name would become subject to reproach if it should be known that this young man was supported by her bounty. She, however, had persisted, and he had consented to see the young man, feeling sure that Phineas would refuse to bear the burden of the obligation.
But he had not touched the disagreeable subject when they were interrupted. A knocking of the door had been heard, and now Mrs Bunce came upstairs, bringing Mr Low with her. Mrs Bunce had not heard of the tragedy, but she had at once perceived from the barrister’s manner that there was some serious matter forward — some matter that was probably not only serious, but also calamitous. The expression of her countenance announced as much to the two men, and the countenance of Mr Low when he followed her into the room told the same story still more plainly. “Is anything the matter?” said Phineas, jumping up.
“Indeed, yes,” said Mr Low, who then looked at Lord Chiltern and was silent.
“Shall I go?” said Lord Chiltern. Mr Low did not know him, and of course was still silent.
“This is my friend, Mr Low. This is my friend, Lord Chiltern,” said Phineas, aware that each was well acquainted with the other’s name. “I do not know of any reason why you should go. What is it, Low?”
Lord Chiltern had come there about money, and it occurred to him that the impecunious young barrister might already be in some scrape on that head. In nineteen cases out of twenty, when a man is in a scrape, he simply wants money. “Perhaps I can be of help,” he said.
“Have you heard, my Lord, what happened last night?” said Mr Low, with his eyes fixed on Phineas Finn.
“I have heard nothing,” said Lord Chiltern.
“What has happened?” asked Phineas, looking aghast. He knew Mr Low well enough to be sure that the thing referred to was of great and distressing moment.
“You, too, have heard nothing?”
“Not a word — that I know of.”
“You were at the Universe last night?”
“Certainly I was.”
“Did anything occur?”
“The Prince was there.”
“Nothing has happened to the Prince?” said Chiltern.
“His name has not been mentioned to me,” said Mr Low. “Was there not a quarrel?”
“Yes;’ — said Phineas. “I quarrelled with Mr Bonteen.”
“What then?”
“He behaved like a brute — as he always does. Thrashing a brute hardly answers nowadays, but if ever a man deserved a thrashing he does.”
“He has been murdered,” said Mr Low.
The reader need hardly be told that, as regards this great offence, Phineas Finn was as white as snow. The maintenance of any doubt on that matter — were it even desirable to maintain a doubt — would be altogether beyond the power of the present writer. The reader has probably perceived, from the first moment of the discovery of the body on the steps at the end of the passage, that Mr Bonteen had been killed by that ingenious gentleman, the Rev. Mr Emilius, who found it to be worth his while to take the step with the view of suppressing his enemy’s evidence as to his former marriage. But Mr Low, when he entered the room, had been inclined to think that his friend had done the deed. Laurence Fitzgibbon, who had been one of the first to hear the story, and who had summoned Erle to go with him and Major Mackintosh to Downing Street, had, in the first place, gone to the house in Carey Street, in which Bunce was wont to work, and had sent him to Mr Low. He, Fitzgibbon, had not thought it safe that he himself should warn his countryman, but he could not bear to think that the hare should be knocked over on its form, or that his friend should be taken by policemen without notice. So he had sent Bunce to Mr Low, and Mr Low had now come with his tidings.
“Murdered!” exclaimed Phineas.
“Who has murdered him?” said Lord Chiltern, looking first at Mr Low and then at Phineas.
“That is what the police are now endeavouring to find out.” Then there was a pause, and Phineas stood up with his hand on his forehead, looking savagely from one to the other. A glimmer of an idea of the truth was beginning to cross his brain. Mr Low was there with the object of asking him whether he had murdered the man! “Mr Fitzgibbon was with you last night,” continued Mr Low.
“Of course he was.”
“It was he who has sent me to you.”
“What does it all mean?” asked Lord Chiltern. “I suppose they do not intend to say that — our friend, here — murdered the man.”
“I begin to suppose that is what they intend to say,” rejoined Phineas, scornfully.
Mr Low had entered the room, doubting indeed, but still inclined to believe — as Bunce had very clearly believed — that the hands of Phineas Finn were red with the blood of this man who had been killed. And, had he been questioned on such a matter, when no special case was before his mind, he would have declared of himself that a few tones from the voice, or a few glances from the eye, of a suspected man would certainly not suffice to eradicate suspicion. But now he was quite sure — almost quite sure — that Phineas was as innocent as himself. To Lord Chiltern, who had heard none of the details, the suspicion was so monstrous as to fill him with wrath. “You don’t mean to tell us, Mr Low, that anyone says that Finn killed the man?”
“I have come as his friend,” said Low, “to put him on his guard. The accusation will be made against him.”
To Phineas, not clearly looking at it, not knowing very accurately what had happened, not being in truth quite sure that Mr Bonteen was actually dead, this seemed to be a continuation of the persecution which he believed himself to have suffered from that man’s hand. “I can believe anything from that quarter,” he said.
“From what quarter?” asked Lord Chiltern. “We had better let Mr Low tell us what really has happened.”
Then Mr Low told the story, as well as he knew it, describing the spot on which the body had been found. “Often as I go to the club,” said Phineas, “I never was through that passage in my life.” Mr Low went on with his tale, telling how the man had been killed with some short bludgeon. “I had that in my pocket,” said Finn, producing the life-preserver. “I have almost always had something of the kind when I have been in London, since that affair of Kennedy’s.” Mr Low cast one glance at it — to see whether it had been washed or scraped, or in anyway cleansed. Phineas saw the glance, and was angry. “There it is, as it is. You can make the most of it. I shall not touch it again till the policeman comes. Don’t put your hand on it, Chiltern. Leave it there.” And the instrument was left lying on the table, untouched. Mr Low went on with his story. He had heard nothing of Yosef Mealyus as connected with the murder, but some indistinct reference to Lord Fawn and the top-coat had been made to him. “There is the coat, too,” said Phineas, taking it from the sofa on which he had flung it when he came home the previous night. It was a very light coat — fitted for May use — lined with silk, and by no means suited for enveloping the face or person. But it had a collar which might be made to stand up. “That at any rate was the coat I wore,” said Finn, in answer to some observation from the barrister. “The man that Lord Fawn saw,” said Mr Low, “was, as I understand, enveloped in a heavy great coat.” “So Fawn has got his finger in the pie!” said Lord Chiltern.
Mr Low had been there an hour, Lord Chiltern remaining also in the room, when there came three men belonging to the police — a superintendent and with him two constables. When the men were shown up into the room neither the bludgeon or the coat had been moved from the small table as Phineas had himself placed them there. Both Phineas and Chiltern had lit cigars, and they were all there sitting in silence. Phineas had entertained the idea that Mr Low believed the charge, and that the barrister was therefore an enemy. Mr Low had perceived this, but had not felt it to be his duty to declare his opinion of his friend’s innocence. What he could do for his friend he would do; but, as he thought, he could serve him better now by silent observation than by protestation. Lord Chiltern, who had been implored by Phineas not to leave him, continued to pour forth unabating execrations on the monstrous malignity of the accusers. “I do not know that there are any accusers,” said Mr Low, “except the circumstances which the police must, of course, investigate.” Then the men came, and the nature of their duty was soon explained. They must request Mr Finn to go with them to Bow Street. They took possession of many articles besides the two which had been prepared for them — the dress coat and shirt which Phineas had worn, and the boots. He had gone out to dinner with a Gibus hat, and they took that. They took his umbrella and his latch-key. They asked, even, as to his purse and money — but abstained from taking the purse when Mr Low suggested that they could have no concern with that. As it happened, Phineas was at the moment wearing the shirt in which he had dined out on the previous day, and the men asked him whether he had any objection to change it in their presence — as it might be necessary, after the examination, that it should be detained as evidence. He did so, in the presence of all the men assembled; but the humiliation of doing it almost broke his heart. Then they searched among his linen, clean and dirty, and asked questions of Mrs Bunce in audible whispers behind the door. Whatever Mrs Bunce could do to injure the cause of her favourite lodger by severity of manner, snubbing the policeman, and determination to give no information, she did do. “Had a shirt washed? How do you suppose a gentleman’s shirts are washed? You were brought up near enough to a washtub yourself to know more than I can tell you!” But the very respectable constable did not seem to be in the least annoyed by the landlady’s amenities.
He was taken to Bow Street, going thither in a cab with the two policemen, and the superintendent followed them with Lord Chiltern and Mr Low. “You don’t mean to say that you believe it?” said Lord Chiltern to the officer. “We never believe and we never disbelieve anything, my Lord,” replied the man. Nevertheless, the superintendent did most firmly believe that Phineas Finn had murdered Mr Bonteen.
At the police office Phineas was met by Lord Cantrip and Barrington Erle, and soon became aware that both Lord Fawn and Fitzgibbon were present. It seemed that everything else was made to give way to this inquiry, as he was at once confronted by the magistrate. Everybody was personally very civil to him, and he was asked whether he would not wish to have professional advice while the charge was being made against him. But this he declined. He would tell the magistrate, he said, all he knew, but, at any rate for the present, he would have no need of advice. He was, at last, allowed to tell his own story — after repeated cautions. There had been some words between him and Mr Bonteen in the club; after which, standing at the door of the club with his friends, Mr Erle and Mr Fitzgibbon, who were now in court, he had seen Mr Bonteen walk away towards Berkeley Square. He had soon followed, but had never overtaken Mr Bonteen. When reaching the Square he had crossed over to the fountain standing there on the south side, and from thence had taken the shortest way up Bruton Street. He had seen Mr Bonteen for the last time dimly, by the gaslight, at the corner of the Square. As far as he could remember, he himself had at the moment passed the fountain. He had not heard the sound of any struggle, or of words, round the corner towards Piccadilly. By the time that Mr Bonteen would have reached the head of the steps leading into the passage, he would have been near Bruton Street, with his back completely turned to the scene of the murder. He had walked faster than Mr Bonteen, having gradually drawn near to him; but he had determined in his own mind that he would not pass the man, or get so near him as to attract attention. Nor had he done so. He had certainly worn the grey coat which was now produced. The collar of it had not been turned up. The coat was nearly new, and to the best of his belief the collar had never been turned up. He had carried the life-preserver now produced with him because it had once before been necessary for him to attack garotters in the street. The life-preserver had never been used, and, as it happened, was quite new. It had been bought about a month since — in consequence of some commotion about garotters which had just then taken place. But before the purchase of the life-preserver he had been accustomed to carry some stick or bludgeon at night. Undoubtedly he had quarelled with Mr Bonteen before this occasion, and had bought this instrument since the commencement of the quarrel. He had not seen anyone on his way from the Square to his own house with sufficient observation to enable him to describe such person. He could not remember that he had passed a policeman on his way home.
This took place after the hearing of such evidence as was then given. The statements made both by Erle and Fitzgibbon as to what had taken place in the club, and afterwards at the door, tallied exactly with that afterwards given by Phineas. An accurate measurement of the streets and ways concerned was already furnished. Taking the duration of time as surmised by Erle and Fitzgibbon to have passed after they had turned their back upon Phineas, a constable proved that the prisoner would have had time to hurry back to the corner of the street he had passed, and to be in the place where Lord Fawn saw the man — supposing that Lord Fawn had walked at the rate of three miles an hour, and that Phineas had walked or run at twice that pace. Lord Fawn stated that he was “walking very slow — less he thought than three miles an hour, and that the man was hurrying very fast — not absolutely running, but going as he thought at quite double his own pace. The two coats were shown to his lordship. Finn knew nothing of the other coat — which had, in truth, been taken from the Rev. Mr Emilius — a rough, thick, brown coat, which had belonged to the preacher for the last two years. Finn’s coat was grey in colour. Lord Fawn looked at the coats very attentively, and then said that the man he had seen had certainly not worn the brown coat. The night had been dark, but still he was sure that the coat had been grey. The collar had certainly been turned up. Then a tailor was produced who gave it as his opinion that Finn’s coat had been lately worn with the collar raised.
It was considered that the evidence given was sufficient to make a remand imperative, and Phineas Finn was committed to Newgate. He was assured that every attention should be paid to his comfort, and was treated with great consideration. Lord Cantrip, who still believed in him, discussed the subject both with the magistrate and with Major Mackintosh. Of course the strictest search would be made for a second life-preserver, or any such weapon as might have been used. Search had already been made, and no such weapon had been as yet found. Emilius had never been seen with any such weapon. No one about Curzon Street or Mayfair could be found who had seen the man with the quick step and raised collar, who doubtless had been the murderer, except Lord Fawn — so that no evidence was forthcoming tending to show that Phineas Finn could not have been that man. The evidence adduced to prove that Mr Emilius — or Mealyus, as he was henceforth called — could not have been on the spot was so very strong, that the magistrate told the constables that that man must be released on the next examination unless something could be adduced against him.
The magistrate, with the profoundest regret was unable to agree with Lord Cantrip in his opinion that the evidence adduced was not sufficient to demand the temporary committal of Mr Finn.
When the House met on that Thursday at four o’clock everybody was talking about the murder, and certainly four-fifths of the members had made up their minds that Phineas Finn was the murderer. To have known a murdered man is something, but to have been intimate with a murderer is certainly much more. There were many there who were really sorry for poor Bonteen — of whom without a doubt the end had come in a very horrible manner; and there were more there who were personally fond of Phineas Finn — to whom the future of the young member was very sad, and the fact that he should have become a murderer very awful. But, nevertheless, the occasion was not without its consolations. The business of the House is not always exciting, or even interesting. On this afternoon there was not a member who did not feel that something had occurred which added an interest to Parliamentary life.
Very soon after prayers Mr Gresham entered the House, and men who had hitherto been behaving themselves after a most unparliamentary fashion, standing about in knots, talking by no means in whispers, moving in and out of the House rapidly, all crowded into their places. Whatever pretence of business had been going on was stopped in a moment, and Mr Gresham rose to make his statement. “It was with the deepest regret — nay, with the most profound sorrow — that he was called upon to inform the House that his right honourable friend and colleague, Mr Bonteen, had been basely and cruelly murdered during the past night.” It was odd then to see how the name of the man, who, while he was alive and a member of that House, could not have been pronounced in that assembly without disorder, struck the members almost with dismay. “Yes, his friend Mr Bonteen, who had so lately filled the office of President of the Board of Trade, and whose loss the country and that House could so ill bear, had been beaten to death in one of the streets of the metropolis by the arm of a dastardly ruffian during the silent watches of the night.” Then Mr Gresham paused, and everyone expected that some further statement would be made. “He did not know that he had any further communication to make on the subject. Some little time must elapse before he could fill the office. As for adequately supplying the loss, that would be impossible. Mr Bonteen’s services to the country, especially in reference to decimal coinage, were too well known to the House to allow of his holding out any such hope.” Then he sat down without having as yet made an allusion to Phineas Finn.
But the allusion was soon made. Mr Daubeny rose, and with much graceful and mysterious circumlocution asked the Prime Minister whether it was true that a member of the House had been arrested, and was now in confinement on the charge of having been concerned in the murder of the late much-lamented President of the Board of Trade. He — Mr Daubeny — had been given to understand that such a charge had been made against an honourable member of that House, who had once been a colleague of Mr Bonteen’s, and who had always supported the right honourable gentleman opposite. Then Mr Gresham rose again. “He regretted to say that the honourable member for Tankerville was in custody on that charge. The House would of course understand that he only made that statement as a fact, and that he was offering no opinion as to who was the perpetrator of the murder. The case seemed to be shrouded in great mystery. The two gentlemen had unfortunately differed, but he did not at all think that the House would on that account be disposed to attribute guilt so black and damning to a gentleman they had all known so well as the honourable member for Tankerville.” So much and no more was spoken publicly, to the reporters; but members continued to talk about the affair the whole evening.
There was nothing, perhaps, more astonishing than the absence of rancour or abhorrence with which the name of Phineas was mentioned, even by those who felt most certain of his guilt. All those who had been present at the club acknowledged that Bonteen had been the sinner in reference to the transaction there; and it was acknowledged to have been almost a public misfortune that such a man as Bonteen should have been able to prevail against such a one as Phineas Finn in regard to the presence of the latter in the Government. Stories which were exaggerated, accounts worse even than the truth, were bandied about as to the perseverance with which the murdered man had destroyed the prospects of the supposed murderer, and robbed the country of the services of a good workman. Mr Gresham, in the official statement which he had made, had, as a matter of course, said many fine things about Mr Bonteen. A man can always have fine things said about him for a few hours after his death. But in the small private conferences which were held the fine things said all referred to Phineas Finn. Mr Gresham had spoken of a “dastardly ruffian in the silent watches”, but one would have almost thought from over-hearing what was said by various gentlemen in different parts of the House that upon the whole Phineas Finn was thought to have done rather a good thing in putting poor Mr Bonteen out of the way.
And another pleasant feature of excitement was added by the prevalent idea that the Prince had seen and heard the row. Those who had been at the club at the time of course knew that this was not the case; but the presence of the Prince at the Universe between the row and the murder had really been a fact, and therefore it was only natural that men should allow themselves the delight of mixing the Prince with the whole concern. In remote circles the Prince was undoubtedly supposed to have had a great deal to do with the matter, though whether as abettor of the murdered or of the murderer was never plainly declared. A great deal was said about the Prince that evening in the House, so that many members were able to enjoy themselves thoroughly.
“What a godsend for Gresham,” said one gentleman to Mr Ratler very shortly after the strong eulogium which had been uttered on poor Mr Bonteen by the Prime Minister.
“Well — yes; I was afraid that the poor fellow would never have got on with us.”
“Got on! He’d have been a thorn in Gresham’s side as long as he held office. If Finn should be acquitted, you ought to do something handsome for him.” Whereupon Mr Ratler laughed heartily.
“It will pretty nearly break them up,” said Sir Orlando Drought, one of Mr Daubeny’s late Secretaries of State to Mr Roby, Mr Daubeny’s late patronage secretary.
“I don’t quite see that. They’ll be able to drop their decimal coinage with a good excuse, and that will be a great comfort. They are talking of getting Monk to go back to the Board of Trade.”
“Will that strengthen them?”
“Bonteen would have weakened them. The man had got beyond himself, and lost his head. They are better without him.”
“I suppose Finn did it?” asked Sir Orlando.
“Not a doubt about it, I’m told. The queer thing is that he should have declared his purpose beforehand to Erle. Gresham says that all that must have been part of his plan — so as to make men think afterwards that he couldn’t have done it. Grogram’s idea is that he had planned the murder before he went to the club.”
“Will the Prince have to give evidence?”
“No, no,” said Mr Roby. “That’s all wrong. The Prince had left the club before the row commenced. Confucius Putt says that the Prince didn’t hear a word of it. He was talking to the Prince all the time.” Confucius Putt was the distinguished artist with whom the Prince had shaken hands on leaving the club.
Lord Drummond was in the Peers’ Gallery, and Mr Boffin was talking to him over the railings. It may be remembered that those two gentlemen had conscientiously left Mr Daubeny’s Cabinet because they had been unable to support him in his views about the Church. After such sacrifice on their parts their minds were of course intent on Church matters. “There doesn’t seem to be a doubt about it,” said Mr Boffin.
“Cantrip won’t believe it,” said the peer.
“He was at the Colonies with Cantrip, and Cantrip found him very agreeable. Everybody says that he was one of the pleasantest fellows going. This makes it out of the question that they should bring in any Church bill this Session.”
“Do you think so?”
“Oh yes — certainly. There will be nothing else thought of now till the trial.”
“So much the better,” said his Lordship. “It’s an ill wind that blows no one any good. Will they have evidence for a conviction?”
“Oh dear yes; not a doubt about it. Fawn can swear to him,” said Mr Boffin.
Barrington Erle was telling his story for the tenth time when he was summoned out of the Library to the Duchess of Omnium, who had made her way up into the lobby. “Oh, Mr Erle, do tell me what you really think,” said the Duchess.
“That is just what I can’t do.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what to think.”
“He can’t have done it, Mr Erle.”
“That’s just what I say to myself, Duchess.”
“But they do say that the evidence is so very strong against him.”
“Very strong.”
“I wish we could get that Lord Fawn out of the way.”
“Ah — but we can’t.”
“And will they — hang him?”
“If they convict him, they will.”
“A man we all knew so well! And just when we had made up our minds to do everything for him. Do you know I’m not a bit surprised. I’ve felt before now as though I should like to have done it myself.”
“He could be very nasty, Duchess!”
“I did so hate that man. But I’d give — oh, I don’t know what I’d give to bring him to life again this minute. What will Lady Laura do?” In answer to this, Barrington Erle only shrugged his shoulders. Lady Laura was his cousin. “We mustn’t give him up, you know, Mr Erle.”
“What can we do?”
“Surely we can do something. Can’t we get it in the papers that he must be innocent — so that everybody should be made to think so? And if we could get hold of the lawyers, and make them not want to — to destroy him! There’s nothing I wouldn’t do. There’s no getting hold of a judge, I know.”
“No, Duchess. The judges are stone.”
“Not that they are a bit better than anybody else — only they like to be safe.”
“They do like to be safe.”
“I’m sure we could do it if we put our shoulders to the wheel. I don’t believe, you know, for a moment that he murdered him. It was done by Lizzie Eustace’s Jew.”
“It will be sifted, of course.”
“But what’s the use of sifting if Mr Finn is to be hung while it’s being done? I don’t think anything of the police. Do you remember how they bungled about that woman’s necklace? I don’t mean to give him up, Mr Erle; and I expect you to help me.” Then the Duchess returned home, and, as we know, found Madame Goesler at her house.
Nothing whatever was done that night, either in the Lords or Commons. A “statement” about Mr Bonteen was made in the Upper as well as in the Lower House, and after that statement any real worth was out of the question. Had Mr Bonteen absolutely been Chancellor of the Exchequer, and in the Cabinet when he was murdered, and had Phineas Finn been once more an Under-Secretary of State, the commotion and excitement could hardly have been greater. Even the Duke of St Bungay had visited the spot — well known to him, as there the urban domains meet of two great Whig peers, with whom and whose predecessors he had long been familiar. He also had known Phineas Finn, and not long since had said civil words to him and of him. He, too, had, of late days, especially disliked Mr Bonteen, and had almost insisted that the man now murdered should not be admitted into the Cabinet. He had heard what was the nature of the evidence — had heard of the quarrel, the life-preserver, and the grey coat. “I suppose he must have done it,” said the Duke of St Bungay to himself as he walked away up Hay Hill.