The manner in which Phineas Finn was returned a second time for the borough of Tankerville was memorable among the annals of English elections. When the news reached the town that their member was to be tried for murder no doubt every elector believed that he was guilty. It is the natural assumption when the police and magistrates and lawyers, who have been at work upon the matter carefully, have come to that conclusion, and nothing but private knowledge or personal affection will stand against such evidence. At Tankerville there was nothing of either, and our hero’s guilt was taken as a certainty. There was an interest felt in the whole matter which was full of excitement and not altogether without delight to the Tankervillians. Of course the borough, as a borough, would never again hold up its head. There had never been known such an occurrence in the whole history of this country as the hanging of a member of the House of Commons. And this Member of Parliament was to be hung for murdering another member, which, no doubt, added much to the importance of the transaction. A large party in the borough declared that it was a judgment. Tankerville had degraded itself among boroughs by sending a Roman Catholic to Parliament, and had done so at the very moment in which the Church of England was being brought into danger. This was what had come upon the borough by not sticking to honest Mr Browborough! There was a moment, just before the trial was begun — in which a large proportion of the electors was desirous of proceeding to work at once, and of sending Mr Browborough back to his own place. It was thought that Phineas Finn should be made to resign. And very wise men in Tankerville were much surprised when they were told that a member of Parliament cannot resign his seat — that when once returned he is supposed to be, as long as that Parliament shall endure, the absolute slave of his constituency and his country, and that he can escape from his servitude only by accepting some office under the Crown. Now it was held to be impossible that a man charged with murder should be appointed even to the stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds. The House, no doubt, could expel a member, and would, as a matter of course, expel the member for Tankerville — but the House could hardly proceed to expulsion before the member’s guilt could have been absolutely established. So it came to pass that there was no escape for the borough from any part of the disgrace to which it had subjected itself by its unworthy choice, and some Tankervillians of sensitive minds were of opinion that no Tankervillian ever again ought to take part in politics.
Then, quite suddenly, there came into the borough the tidings that Phineas Finn was an innocent man. This happened on the morning on which the three telegrams from Prague reached London. The news conveyed by the telegrams was at Tankerville almost as soon as in the Court at the Old Bailey, and was believed as readily. The name of the lady who had travelled all the way to Bohemia on behalf of their handsome young member was on the tongue of every woman in Tankerville, and a most delightful romance was composed. Some few Protestant spirits regretted the now assured escape of their Roman Catholic enemy, and would not even yet allow themselves to doubt that the whole murder had been arranged by Divine Providence to bring down the scarlet woman. It seemed to them to be so fitting a thing that Providence should interfere directly to punish a town in which the sins of the scarlet woman were not held to be abominable! But the multitude were soon convinced that their member was innocent; and as it was certain that he had been in great peril — as it was known that he was still in durance, and as it was necessary that the trial should proceed, and that he should still stand at least for another day in the dock — he became more than ever a hero. Then came the further delay, and at last the triumphant conclusion of the trial. When acquitted, Phineas Finn was still member for Tankerville and might have walked into the House on that very night. Instead of doing so he had at once asked for the accustomed means of escape from his servitude, and the seat for Tankerville was vacant. The most loving friends of Mr Browborough perceived at once that there was not a chance for him. The borough was all but unanimous in resolving that it would return no one as its member but the man who had been unjustly accused of murder.
Mr Ruddles was at once despatched to London with two other political spirits — so that there might be a real deputation — and waited upon Phineas two days after his release from prison. Ruddles was very anxious to carry his member back with him, assuring Phineas of an entry into the borough so triumphant that nothing like to it had ever been known at Tankerville. But to all this Phineas was quite deaf. At first he declined even to be put in nomination. “You can’t escape from it, Mr Finn, you can’t indeed,” said Ruddles. “You don’t at all understand the enthusiasm of the borough; does he, Mr Gadmire?”
“I never knew anything like it in my life before,” said Gadmire.
“I believe Mr Finn would poll two-thirds of the Church party tomorrow,” said Mr Troddles, a leading dissenter in Tankerville, who on this occasion was the third member of the deputation.
“I needn’t sit for the borough unless I please, I suppose,” pleaded Phineas.
“Well, no — at least I don’t know,” said Ruddles. “It would be throwing us over a good deal, and I’m sure you are not the gentleman to do that. And then, Mr Finn, don’t you see that though you have been knocked about a little lately — ”
“By George, he has — most cruel,” said Troddles.
“You’ll miss the House if you give it up; you will, after a bit, Mr Finn. You’ve got to come round again, Mr Finn — if I may be so bold as to say so, and you shouldn’t put yourself out of the way of coming round comfortably.”
Phineas knew that there was wisdom in the words of Mr Ruddles, and consented. Though at this moment he was low in heart, disgusted with the world, and sick of humanity — though every joint in his body was still sore from the rack on which he had been stretched, yet he knew that it would not be so with him always. As others recovered so would he, and it might be that he would live to “miss the House”, should he now refuse the offer made to him. He accepted the offer, but he did so with a positive assurance that no consideration should at present take him to Tankerville.
“We ain’t going to charge you, not one penny,” said Mr Gadmire, with enthusiasm.
“I feel all that I owe to the borough”, said Phineas, “and to the warm friends there who have espoused my cause; but I am not in a condition at present, either of mind or body, to put myself forward anywhere in public. I have suffered a great deal.”
“Most cruel!” said Troddles.
“And am quite willing to confess that I am therefore unfit in my present position to serve the borough.”
“We can’t admit that,” said Gadmire, raising his left hand. “We mean to have you,” said Troddles.
“There isn’t a doubt about your re-election, Mr Finn,” said Ruddles.
“I am very grateful, but I cannot be there. I must trust to one of you gentlemen to explain to the electors that in my present condition I am unable to visit the borough.”
Messrs Ruddles, Gadmire, and Troddles returned to Tankerville — disappointed no doubt at not bringing with them him whose company would have made their feet glorious on the pavement of their native town — but still with a comparative sense of their own importance in having seen the great sufferer whose woes forbade that he should be beheld by common eyes. They never even expressed an idea that he ought to have come, alluding even to their past convictions as to the futility of hoping for such a blessing; but spoke of him as a personage made almost sacred by the sufferings which he had been made to endure. As to the election, that would be a matter of course. He was proposed by Mr Ruddles himself, and was absolutely seconded by the rector of Tankerville — the staunchest Tory in the place, who on this occasion made a speech in which he declared that as an Englishman, loving justice, he could not allow any political or even any religious consideration to bias his conduct on this occasion. Mr Finn had thrown up his seat under the pressure of a false accusation, and it was, the rector thought, for the honour of the borough that the seat should be restored to him. So Phineas Finn was re-elected for Tankerville without opposition and without expense; and for six weeks after the ceremony parcels were showered upon him by the ladies of the borough who sent him worked slippers, scarlet hunting waistcoats, pocket handkerchiefs, with “P.F.” beautifully embroidered, and chains made of their own hair.
In this conjunction of affairs the editor of the People’s Banner found it somewhat difficult to trim his sails. It was a rule of life with Mr Quintus Slide to persecute an enemy. An enemy might at any time become a friend, but while an enemy was an enemy he should be trodden on and persecuted. Mr Slide had striven more than once to make a friend of Phineas Finn; but Phineas Finn had been conceited and stiff-necked. Phineas had been to Mr Slide an enemy of enemies, and by all his ideas of manliness, by all the rules of his life, by every principle which guided him, he was bound to persecute Phineas to the last. During the trial and the few weeks before the trial he had written various short articles with the view of declaring how improper it would be should a newspaper express any opinion of the guilt or innocence of a suspected person while under trial; and he gave two or three severe blows to contemporaries for having sinned in the matter; but in all these articles he had contrived to insinuate that the member for Tankerville, would, as a matter of course, be dealt with by the hands of justice. He had been very careful to recapitulate all circumstances which had induced Finn to hate the murdered man, and had more than once related the story of the firing of the pistol at Macpherson’s Hotel. Then came the telegram from Prague, and for a day or two Mr Slide was stricken dumb. The acquittal followed, and Quintus Slide had found himself compelled to join in the general satisfaction evinced at the escape of an innocent man. Then came the re-election for Tankerville, and Mr Slide felt that there was opportunity for another reaction. More than enough had been done for Phineas Finn in allowing him to elude the gallows. There could certainly be no need for crowning him with a political chaplet because he had not murdered Mr Bonteen. Among a few other remarks which Mr Slide threw together, the following appeared in the columns of the People’s Banner:
“We must confess that we hardly understand the principle on which Mr Finn has been re-elected for Tankerville with so much enthusiasm — free of expense — and without that usual compliment to the constituency which is implied by the personal appearance of the candidate. We have more than once expressed our belief that he was wrongly accused in the matter of Mr Bonteen’s murder. Indeed our readers will do us the justice to remember that, during the trial and before the trial, we were always anxious to allay the very strong feeling against Mr Finn with which the public mind was then imbued, not only by the facts of the murder, but also by the previous conduct of that gentleman. But we cannot understand why the late member should be thought by the electors of Tankerville to be especially worthy of their confidence because he did not murder Mr Bonteen. He himself, instigated, we hope, by a proper feeling, retired from parliament as soon as he was acquitted. His career during the last twelve months has not enhanced his credit, and cannot, we should think, have increased his comfort. We ventured to suggest after that affair in Judd Street, as to which the police were so benignly inefficient, that it would not be for the welfare of the nation that a gentleman should be employed in the public service whose public life had been marked by the misfortune which had attended Mr Finn. Great efforts were made by various ladies of the old Whig party to obtain official employment for him, but they were made in vain. Mr Gresham was too wise, and our advice — we will not say was followed — but was found to agree with the decision of the Prime Minister. Mr Finn was left out in the cold in spite of his great friends — and then came the murder of Mr Bonteen.
“Can it be that Mr Finn’s fitness for Parliamentary duties has been increased by Mr Bonteen’s unfortunate death, or by the fact that Mr Bonteen was murdered by other hands than his own? We think not. The wretched husband, who, in the madness of jealousy, fired a pistol at this young man’s head, has since died in his madness. Does that incident in the drama give Mr Finn any special claim to consideration? We think not — and we think also that the electors of Tankerville would have done better had they allowed Mr Finn to return to that obscurity which he seems to have desired. The electors of Tankerville, however, are responsible only to their borough, and may do as they please with the seat in parliament which is at their disposal. We may, however, protest against the employment of an unfit person in the service of his country — simply because he has not committed a murder. We say so much now because rumours of an arrangement have reached our ears, which, should it come to pass — would force upon us the extremely disagreeable duty of referring very forcibly to past circumstances, which may otherwise, perhaps, be allowed to be forgotten.”
The interest in the murder by no means came to an end when Phineas Finn was acquitted. The new facts which served so thoroughly to prove him innocent tended with almost equal weight to prove another man guilty. And the other man was already in custody on a charge which had subjected him to the peculiar ill-will of the British public. He a foreigner and a Jew, by name Yosef Mealyus — as everyone was now very careful to call him — had come to England, had got himself to be ordained as a clergyman, had called himself Emilius, and had married a rich wife with a title, although he had a former wife still living in his own country. Had he called himself Jones it would have been better for him, but there was something in the name of Emilius which added a peculiar sting to his iniquities. It was now known that the bigamy could be certainly proved, and that his last victim, our old friend, poor little Lizzie Eustace — would be rescued from his clutches. She would once more be a free woman, and as she had been strong enough to defend her future income from his grasp, she was perhaps as fortunate as she deserved to be. She was still young and pretty, and there might come another lover more desirable than Yosef Mealyus. That the man would have to undergo the punishment of bigamy in its severest form, there was no doubt — but would law, and justice, and the prevailing desire for revenge, be able to get at him in such a way that he might be hung? There certainly did exist a strong desire to prove Mr Emilius to have been a murderer, so that there might come a fitting termination to his career in Great Britain.
The police seemed to think that they could make but little either of the coat or of the key, unless other evidence, that would be almost sufficient in itself, should be found. Lord Fawn was informed that his testimony would probably be required at another trial — which intimation affected him so grievously that his friends for a week or two thought that he would altogether sink under his miseries. But he would say nothing which would seem to criminate Mealyus. A man hurrying along with a grey coat was all that he could swear to now — professing himself to be altogether ignorant whether the man, as seen by him, had been tall or short. And then the manufacture of the key — though it was that which made everyone feel sure that Mealyus was the murderer — did not, in truth, afford the slightest evidence against him. Even had it been proved that he had certainly used the false key and left Mrs Meager’s house on the night in question, that would not have sufficed at all to prove that therefore he had committed a murder in Berkeley Street. No doubt Mr Bonteen had been his enemy — and Mr Bonteen had been murdered by an enemy. But so great had been the man’s luck that no real evidence seemed to touch him. Nobody doubted — but then but few had doubted before as to the guilt of Phineas Finn.
There was one other fact by which the truth might, it was hoped, still be reached. Mr Bonteen had, of course, been killed by the weapon which had been found in the garden. As to that a general certainty prevailed. Mrs Meager and Miss Meager, and the maid-of-all-work belonging to the Meagers, and even Lady Eustace, were examined as to this bludgeon. Had anything of the kind ever been seen in the possession of the clergyman? The clergyman had been so sly that nothing of the kind had been seen. Of the drawers and cupboards which he used, Mrs Meager had always possessed duplicate keys, and Miss Meager frankly acknowledged that she had a general and fairly accurate acquaintance with the contents of these receptacles; but there had always been a big trunk with an impenetrable lock — a lock which required that even if you had the key you should be acquainted with a certain combination of letters before you could open it — and of that trunk no one had seen the inside. As a matter of course, the weapon, when brought to London, had been kept altogether hidden in the trunk. Nothing could be easier. But a man cannot be hung because he has had a secret hiding place in which a murderous weapon may have been stowed away.
But might it not be possible to trace the weapon? Mealyus, on his return from Prague, had certainly come through Paris. So much was learned — and it was also learned as a certainty that the article was of French — and probably of Parisian manufacture. If it could be proved that the man had bought this weapon, or even such a weapon, in Paris then — so said all the police authorities — it might be worth while to make an attempt to hang him. Men very skilful in unravelling such mysteries were sent to Paris, and the police of that capital entered upon the search with most praiseworthy zeal. But the number of life-preservers which had been sold altogether baffled them. It seemed that nothing was so common as that gentlemen should walk about with bludgeons in their pockets covered with leathern thongs. A young woman and an old man who thought that they could recollect something of a special sale were brought over — and saw the splendour of London under very favourable circumstances — but when confronted with Mr Emilius, neither could venture to identify him. A large sum of money was expended — no doubt justified by the high position which poor Mr Bonteen had filled in the counsels of the nation; but it was expended in vain. Mr Bonteen had been murdered in the streets at the West End of London. The murderer was known to everybody. He had been seen a minute or two before the murder. The motive which had induced the crime was apparent. The weapon with which it had been perpetrated had been found. The murderer’s disguise had been discovered. The cunning with which he had endeavoured to prove that he was in bed at home had been unravelled, and the criminal purpose of his cunning made altogether manifest. Every man’s eye could see the whole thing from the moment in which the murderer crept out of Mrs Meager’s house with Mr Meager’s coat upon his shoulders and the life-preserver in his pocket, till he was seen by Lord Fawn hurrying out of the mews to his prey. The blows from the bludgeon could be counted. The very moment in which they had been struck had been ascertained. His very act in hurling the weapon over the wall was all but seen. And yet nothing could be done. “It is a very dangerous thing hanging a man on circumstantial evidence,” said Sir Gregory Grogram, who, a couple of months since, had felt almost sure that his honourable friend Phineas Finn would have to be hung on circumstantial evidence. The police and magistrates and lawyers all agreed that it would be useless, and indeed wrong, to send the case before a jury. But there had been quite sufficient evidence against Phineas Finn!
In the meantime the trial for bigamy proceeded in order that poor little Lizzie Eustace might be freed from the incubus which afflicted her. Before the end of July she was made once more a free woman, and the Rev. Joseph Emilius — under which name it was thought proper that he should be tried — was convicted and sentenced to penal servitude for five years. A very touching appeal was made for him to the jury by a learned serjeant, who declared that his client was to lose his wife and to be punished with extreme severity as a bigamist, because it was found to be impossible to bring home against him a charge of murder. There was, perhaps, some truth in what the learned serjeant said, but the truth had no effect upon the jury. Mr Emilius was found guilty as quickly as Phineas Finn had been acquitted, and was, perhaps, treated with a severity which the single crime would hardly have elicited. But all this happened in the middle of the efforts which were being made to trace the purchase of the bludgeon, and when men hoped two or five or twenty-five years of threatened incarceration might be all the same to Mr Emilius. Could they have succeeded in discovering where he had bought the weapon, his years of penal servitude would have afflicted him but little. They did not succeed; and though it cannot be said that any mystery was attached to the Bonteen murder, it has remained one of those crimes which are unavenged by the flagging law. And so the Rev. Mr Emilius will pass away from our story.
There must be one or two words further respecting poor little Lizzie Eustace. She still had her income almost untouched, having been herself unable to squander it during her late married life, and having succeeded in saving it from the clutches of her pseudo husband. And she had her title, of which no one could rob her, and her castle down in Ayrshire — which, however, as a place of residence she had learned to hate most thoroughly. Nor had she done anything which of itself must necessarily have put her out of the pale of society. As a married woman she had had no lovers; and, when a widow, very little fault in that line had been brought home against her. But the world at large seemed to be sick of her. Mrs Bonteen had been her best friend, and, while it was still thought that Phineas Finn had committed the murder, with Mrs Bonteen she had remained. But it was impossible that the arrangement should be continued when it became known — for it was known — that Mr Bonteen had been murdered by the man who was still Lizzie’s reputed husband. Not that Lizzie perceived this — though she was averse to the idea of her husband having been a murderer. But Mrs Bonteen perceived it, and told her friend that she must — go. It was most unwillingly that the wretched widow changed her faith as to the murderer; but at last she found herself bound to believe as the world believed; and then she hinted to the wife of Mr Emilius that she had better find another home.
“I don’t believe it a bit,” said Lizzie.
“It is not a subject I can discuss,” said the widow.
“And I don’t see that it makes any difference. He isn’t my husband. You have said that yourself very often, Mrs Bonteen.”
“It is better that we shouldn’t be together, Lady Eustace.”
“Oh, I can go, of course, Mrs Bonteen. There needn’t be the slightest trouble about that. I had thought perhaps it might be convenient; but of course you know best.”
She went forth into lodgings in Half Moon Street, close to the scene of the murder, and was once more alone in the world. She had a child indeed, the son of her first husband, as to whom it behoved many to be anxious, who stood high in rank and high in repute; but such had been Lizzie’s manner of life that neither her own relations nor those of her husband could put up with her, or endure her contact. And yet she was conscious of no special sins, and regarded herself as one who with a tender heart of her own, and a too-confiding spirit, had been much injured by the cruelty of those with whom she had been thrown. Now she was alone, weeping in solitude, pitying herself with deepest compassion; but it never occurred to her that there was anything in her conduct that she need alter. She would still continue to play her game as before, would still scheme, would still lie; and might still, at last, land herself in that Elysium of life of which she had been always dreaming. Poor Lizzie Eustace! Was it nature or education which had made it impossible to her to tell the truth, when a lie came to her hand? Lizzie, the liar! Poor Lizzie!
The election at Tankerville took place during the last week in July; and as Parliament was doomed to sit that year as late as the 10th of August, there was ample time for Phineas to present himself and take the oaths before the Session was finished. He had calculated that this could hardly be so when the matter of re-election was first proposed to him, and had hoped that his reappearance might be deferred till the following year. But there he was, once more member for Tankerville, while yet there was nearly a fortnight’s work to be done, pressed by his friends, and told by one or two of those whom he most trusted, that he would neglect his duty and show himself to be a coward, if he abstained from taking his place. “Coward is a hard word,” he said to Mr Low, who had used it.
“So men think when this or that other man is accused of running away in battle or the like. Nobody will charge you with cowardice of that kind. But there is moral cowardice as well as physical.”
“As when a man lies. I am telling no lie.”
“But you are afraid to meet the eyes of your fellow-creatures.”
“Yes, I am. You may call me a coward if you like. What matters the name, if the charge be true? I have been so treated that I am afraid to meet the eyes of my fellow-creatures. I am like a man who has had his knees broken, or his arms cut off. Of course I cannot be the same afterwards as I was before.” Mr Low said a great deal more to him on the subject, and all that Mr Low said was true; but he was somewhat rough, and did not succeed. Barrington Erle and Lord Cantrip also tried their eloquence upon him; but it was Mr Monk who at last drew from him a promise that he would go down to the House and be sworn in early on a certain Tuesday afternoon. “I am quite sure of this,” Mr Monk had said, “that the sooner you do it the less will be the annoyance. Indeed there will be no trouble in the doing of it. The trouble is all in the anticipation, and is therefore only increased and prolonged by delay.” “Of course it is your duty to go at once,” Mr Monk had said again, when his friend argued that he had never undertaken to sit before the expiration of Parliament. “You did consent to be put in nomination, and you owe your immediate services just as does any other member.”
“If a man’s grandmother dies he is held to be exempted.”
“But your grandmother has not died, and your sorrow is not of the kind that requires or is supposed to require retirement.” He gave way at last, and on the Tuesday afternoon Mr Monk called for him at Mrs Bunce’s house, and went down with him to Westminster. They reached their destination somewhat too soon, and walked the length of Westminster Hall two or three times while Phineas tried to justify himself. “I don’t think”, said he, “that Low quite understands my position when he calls me a coward.”
“I am sure, Phineas, he did not mean to do that.”
“Do not suppose that I am angry with him. I owe him a great deal too much for that. He is one of the few friends I have who are entitled to say to me just what they please. But I think he mistakes the matter. When a man becomes crooked from age it is no good telling him to be straight. He’d be straight if he could. A man can’t eat his dinner with a diseased liver as he could when he was well.”
“But he may follow advice as to getting his liver in order again.”
“And so am I following advice. But Low seems to think the disease shouldn’t be there. The disease is there, and I can’t banish it by simply saying that it is not there. If they had hung me outright it would be almost as reasonable to come and tell me afterwards to shake myself and be again alive. I don’t think that Low realises what it is to stand in the dock for a week together, with the eyes of all men fixed on you, and a conviction at your heart that everyone there believes you to have been guilty of an abominable crime of which you know yourself to have been innocent. For weeks I lived under the belief that I was to be made away by the hangman, and to leave behind me a name that would make everyone who has known me shudder.”
“God in His mercy has delivered you from that.”
“He has — and I am thankful. But my back is not strong enough to bear the weight without bending under it. Did you see Ratler going in? There is a man I dread. He is intimate enough with me to congratulate me, but not friend enough to abstain, and he will be sure to say something about his murdered colleague. Very well — I’ll follow you. Go up rather quick, and I’ll come close after you.” Whereupon Mr Monk entered between the two lamp-posts in the hall, and, hurrying along the passages, soon found himself at the door of the House. Phineas, with an effort at composure, and a smile that was almost ghastly at the door-keeper, who greeted him with some muttered word of recognition, held on his way close behind his friend, and walked up the House hardly conscious that the benches on each side were empty. There were not a dozen members present, and the Speaker had not as yet taken the chair. Mr Monk stood by him while he took the oath, and in two minutes he was on a back seat below the gangway, with his friend by him, while the members, in slowly increasing numbers, took their seats. Then there were prayers, and as yet not a single man had spoken to him. As soon as the doors were again open gentlemen streamed in, and some few whom Phineas knew well came and sat near him. One or two shook hands with him, but no one said a word to him of the trial. No one at least did so in this early stage of the day’s proceedings; and after half an hour he almost ceased to be afraid.
Then came up an irregular debate on the great Church question of the day, as to which there had been no cessation of the badgering with which Mr Gresham had been attacked since he came into office. He had thrown out Mr Daubeny by opposing that gentleman’s stupendous measure for disestablishing the Church of England altogether, although — as was almost daily asserted by Mr Daubeny and his friends — he was himself in favour of such total disestablishment. Over and over again Mr Gresham had acknowledged that he was in favour of disestablishment, protesting that he had opposed Mr Daubeny’s Bill without any reference to its merits — solely on the ground that such a measure should not be accepted from such a quarter. He had been stout enough, and, as his enemies had said, insolent enough, in making these assurances. But still he was accused of keeping his own hand dark, and of omitting to say what bill he would himself propose to bring in respecting the Church in the next Session. It was essentially necessary — so said Mr Daubeny and his friends — that the country should know and discuss the proposed measure during the vacation. There was, of course, a good deal of retaliation. Mr Daubeny had not given the country, or even his own party, much time to discuss his Church Bill. Mr Gresham assured Mr Daubeny that he would not feel himself equal to producing a measure that should change the religious position of every individual in the country, and annihilate the traditions and systems of centuries, altogether complete out of his own unaided brain; and he went on to say that were he to do so, he did not think that he should find himself supported in such an effort by the friends with whom he usually worked. On this occasion he declared that the magnitude of the subject and the immense importance of the interests concerned forbade him to anticipate the passing of any measure of general Church reform in the next Session. He was undoubtedly in favour of Church reform, but was by no means sure that the question was one which required immediate settlement. Of this he was sure — that nothing in the way of legislative indiscretion could be so injurious to the country, as any attempt at a hasty and ill-considered measure on this most momentous of all questions.
The debate was irregular, as it originated with a question asked by one of Mr Daubeny’s supporters — but it was allowed to proceed for a while. In answer to Mr Gresham, Mr Daubeny himself spoke, accusing Mr Gresham of almost every known Parliamentary vice in having talked of a measure coming, like Minerva, from his, Mr Daubeny’s, own brain. The plain and simple words by which such an accusation might naturally be refuted would be unparliamentary; but it would not be unparliamentary to say that it was reckless, unfounded, absurd, monstrous, and incredible. Then there were various very spirited references to Church matters, which concern us chiefly because Mr Daubeny congratulated the House upon seeing a Roman Catholic gentleman with whom they were all well acquainted, and whose presence in the House was desired by each side alike, again take his seat for an English borough. And he hoped that he might at the same time take the liberty of congratulating that gentleman on the courage and manly dignity with which he had endured the unexampled hardships of the cruel position in which he had been placed by an untoward combination of circumstances. It was thought that Mr Daubeny did the thing very well, and that he was right in doing it — but during the doing of it poor Phineas winced in agony. Of course every member was looking at him, and every stranger in the galleries. He did not know at the moment whether it behoved him to rise and make some gesture to the House, or to say a word, or to keep his seat and make no sign. There was a general hum of approval, and the Prime Minister turned round and bowed graciously to the newly-sworn member. As he said afterwards, it was just this which he had feared. But there must surely have been something of consolation in the general respect with which he was treated. At the moment he behaved with natural instinctive dignity, though himself doubting the propriety of his own conduct. He said not a word, and made no sign, but sat with his eyes fixed upon the member from whom the compliment had come. Mr Daubeny went on with his tirade, and was called violently to order. The Speaker declared that the whole debate had been irregular, but had been allowed by him in deference to what seemed to be the general will of the House. Then the two leaders of the two parties composed themselves, throwing off their indignation while they covered themselves well up with their hats — and, in accordance with the order of the day, an honourable member rose to propose a pet measure of his own for preventing the adulteration of beer by the publicans. He had made a calculation that the annual average mortality of England would be reduced one and a half per cent, or in other words that every English subject born would live seven months longer if the action of the Legislature could provide that the publicans should sell the beer as it came from the brewers. Immediately there was such a rush of members to the door that not a word said by the philanthropic would-be purifier of the national beverage could be heard. The quarrels of rival Ministers were dear to the House, and as long as they could be continued the benches were crowded by gentlemen enthralled by the interest of the occasion. But to sink from that to private legislation about beer was to fall into a bathos which gentlemen could not endure; and so the House was emptied, and at about half-past seven there was a count-out. That gentleman whose statistics had been procured with so much care, and who had been at work for the last twelve months on his effort to prolong the lives of his fellow-countrymen, was almost broken-hearted. But he knew the world too well to complain. He would try again next year, if by dint of energetic perseverance he could procure a day.
Mr Monk and Phineas Finn, behaving no better than the others, slipped out in the crowd. It had indeed been arranged that they should leave the House early, so that they might dine together at Mr Monk’s house. Though Phineas had been released from his prison now for nearly a month, he had not as yet once dined out of his own rooms. He had not been inside a club, and hardly ventured during the day into the streets about Pall Mall and Piccadilly. He had been frequently to Portman Square, but had not even seen Madame Goesler. Now he was to dine out for the first time; but there was to be no guest but himself.
“It wasn’t so bad after all,” said Mr Monk, when they were seated together.
“At any rate it has been done.”
“Yes — and there will be no doing of it over again. I don’t like Mr Daubeny, as you know; but he is happy at that kind of thing.”
“I hate men who are what you call happy, but who are never in earnest,” said Phineas.
“He was earnest enough, I thought.”
“I don’t mean about myself, Mr Monk. I suppose he thought that it was suitable to the occasion that he should say something, and he said it neatly. But I hate men who can make capital out of occasions, who can be neat and appropriate at the spur of the moment having, however, probably had the benefit of some forethought — but whose words never savour of truth. If I had happened to have been hung at this time — as was so probable — Mr Daubeny would have devoted one of his half hours to the composition of a dozen tragic words which also would have been neat and appropriate. I can hear him say them now, warning young members around him to abstain from embittered words against each other, and I feel sure that the funereal grace of such an occasion would have become him even better than the generosity of his congratulations.”
“It is rather grim matter for joking, Phineas.”
“Grim enough; but the grimness and the jokes are always running through my mind together. I used to spend hours in thinking what my dear friends would say about it when they found that I had been hung in mistake — how Sir Gregory Grogram would like it, and whether men would think about it as they went home from the Universe at night. I had various questions to ask and answer for myself — whether they would pull up my poor body, for instance, from what unhallowed ground is used for gallows corpses, and give it decent burial, placing ““M.P. for Tankerville’” after my name on some more or less explicit tablet.”
“Mr Daubeny’s speech was, perhaps, preferable on the whole.”
“Perhaps it was — though I used to feel assured that the explicit tablet would be as clear to my eyes in purgatory as Mr Daubeny’s words have been to my ears this afternoon. I never for a moment doubted that the truth would be known before long — but did doubt so very much whether it would be known in time. I’ll go home now, Mr Monk, and endeavour to get the matter off my mind. I will resolve, at any rate, that nothing shall make me talk about it any more.”
For about a week in the August heat of a hot summer, Phineas attended Parliament with fair average punctuality, and then prepared for his journey down to Matching Priory. During that week he spoke no word to anyone as to his past tribulation, and answered all allusions to it simply by a smile. He had determined to live exactly as though there had been no such episode in his life as that trial at the Old Bailey, and in most respects he did so. During this week he dined at the club, and called at Madame Goesler’s house in Park Lane — not, however, finding the lady at home. Once, and once only, did he break down. On the Wednesday evening he met Barrington Erle, and was asked by him to go to the Universe. At the moment he became very pale, but he at once said that he would go. Had Erle carried him off in a cab the adventure might have been successful; but as they walked, and as they went together through Clarges Street and Bolton Row and Curzon Street, and as the scenes which had been so frequently and so graphically described in Court appeared before him one after another, his heart gave way, and he couldn’t do it. “I know I’m a fool, Barrington; but if you don’t mind I’ll go home. Don’t mind me, but just go on.” Then he turned and walked home, passing through the passage in which the murder had been committed.
“I brought him as far as the next street,” Barrington Erle said to one of their friends at the club, “but I couldn’t get him in. I doubt if he’ll ever be here again.”
It was past six o’clock in the evening when he reached Matching Priory. The Duchess had especially assured him that a brougham should be waiting for him at the nearest station, and on arriving there he found that he had the brougham to himself. He had thought a great deal about it, and had endeavoured to make his calculations. He knew that Madame Goesler would be at Matching, and it would be necessary that he should say something of his thankfulness at their first meeting. But how should he meet her — and in what way should he greet her when they met? Would any arrangement be made, or would all be left to chance? Should he go at once to his own chamber — so as to show himself first when dressed for dinner, or should he allow himself to be taken into any of the morning rooms in which the other guests would be congregated? He had certainly not sufficiently considered the character of the Duchess when he imagined that she would allow these things to arrange themselves. She was one of those women whose minds were always engaged on such matters, and who are able to see how things will go. It must not be asserted of her that her delicacy was untainted, or her taste perfect; but she was clever — discreet in the midst of indiscretions — thoughtful, and good-natured. She had considered it all, arranged it all, and given her orders with accuracy. When Phineas entered the hall — the brougham with the luggage having been taken round to some back door — he was at once ushered by a silent man in black into the little sitting-room on the ground floor in which the old Duke used to take delight. Here he found two ladies — but only two ladies — waiting to receive him. The Duchess came forward to welcome him, while Madame Goesler remained in the background, with composed face — as though she by no means expected his arrival and he had chanced to come upon them as she was standing by the window. He was thinking of her much more than of her companion, though he knew also how much he owed to the kindness of the Duchess. But what she had done for him had come from caprice, whereas the other had been instigated and guided by affection. He understood all that, and must have shown his feeling on his countenance. “Yes, there she is,” said the Duchess, laughing. She had already told him that he was welcome to Matching, and had spoken some short word of congratulation at his safe deliverance from his troubles. “If ever one friend was grateful to another, you should be grateful to her, Mr Finn.” He did not speak, but walking across the room to the window by which Marie Goesler stood, took her right hand in his, and passing his left arm round her waist, kissed her first on one cheek and then on the other. The blood flew to her face and suffused her forehead, but she did not speak, or resist him or make any effort to escape from his embrace. As for him, he had no thought of it at all. He had made no plan. No idea of kissing her when they should meet had occurred to him till the moment came. “Excellently well done,” said the Duchess, still laughing with silent pleasant laughter. “And now tell us how you are, after all your troubles.”
He remained with them for half an hour, till the ladies went to dress, when he was handed over to some groom of the chambers to show him his room. “The Duke ought to be here to welcome you, of course,” said the Duchess; “but you know official matters too well to expect a President of the Board of Trade to do his domestic duties. We dine at eight; five minutes before that time he will begin adding up his last row of figures for the day. You never added up rows of figures, I think. You only managed colonies.” So they parted till dinner, and Phineas remembered how very little had been spoken by Madame Goesler, and how few of the words which he had spoken had been addressed to her. She had sat silent, smiling, radiant, very beautiful as he had thought, but contented to listen to her friend the Duchess. She, the Duchess, had asked questions of all sorts, and made many statements; and he had found that with those two women he could speak without discomfort, almost with pleasure, on subjects which he could not bear to have touched by men. “Of course you knew all along who killed the poor man,” the Duchess had said. “We did — did we not, Marie? — just as well as if we had seen it. She was quite sure that he had got out of the house and back into it, and that he must have had a key. So she started off to Prague to find the key; and she found it. And we were quite sure too about the coat — weren’t we. That poor blundering Lord Fawn couldn’t explain himself, but we knew that the coat he saw was quite different from any coat you would wear in such weather. We discussed it all over so often — every point of it. Poor Lord Fawn! They say it has made quite a old man of him. And as for those policemen who didn’t find the life-preserver; I only think that something ought to be done to them.”
“I hope that nothing will ever be done to anybody, Duchess.”
“Not to the Reverend Mr Emilius — poor dear Lady Eustace’s Mr Emilius? I do think that you ought to desire that an end should be put to his enterprising career! I’m sure I do.” This was said while the attempt was still being made to trace the purchase of the bludgeon in Paris. “We’ve got Sir Gregory Grogram here on purpose to meet you, and you must fraternise with him immediately, to show that you bear no grudge.”
“He only did his duty.”
“Exactly — though I think he was an addle-pated old ass not to see the thing more clearly. As you’ll be coming into the Government before long, we thought that things had better be made straight between you and Sir Gregory. I wonder how it was that nobody but women did see it clearly? Look at that delightful woman, Mrs Bunce. You must bring Mrs Bunce to me some day — or take me to her.”
“Lord Chiltern saw it clearly enough,” said Phineas.
“My dear Mr Finn, Lord Chiltern is the best fellow in the world, but he has only one idea. He was quite sure of your innocence because you ride to hounds. If it had been found possible to accuse poor Mr Fothergill, he would have been as certain that Mr Fothergill committed the murder, because Mr Fothergill thinks more of his shooting. However, Lord Chiltern is to be here in a day or two, and I mean to go absolutely down on my knees to him — and all for your sake. If foxes can be had, he shall have foxes. We must go and dress now, Mr Finn, and I’ll ring for somebody to show you your room.”
Phineas, as soon as he was alone, thought, not of what the Duchess had said, but of the manner in which he had greeted his friend, Madame Goesler. As he remembered what he had done, he also blushed. Had she been angry with him, and intended to show her anger by her silence? And why had he done it? What had he meant? He was quite sure that he would not have given those kisses had he and Madame Goesler been alone in the room together. The Duchess had applauded him — but yet he thought that he regretted it. There had been matters between him and Marie Goesler of which he was quite sure that the Duchess knew nothing.
When he went downstairs he found a crowd in the drawing-room, from among whom the Duke came forward to welcome him. “I am particularly happy to see you at Matching,” said the Duke. “I wish we had shooting to offer you, but we are too far south for the grouse. That was a bitter passage of arms the other day, wasn’t it? I am fond of bitterness in debate myself, but I do regret the roughness of the House of Commons. I must confess that I do.” The Duke did not say a word about the trial, and the Duke’s guests followed their host’s example.
The house was full of people, most of whom had before been known to Phineas, and many of whom had been asked specially to meet him. Lord and Lady Cantrip were there, and Mr Monk, and Sir Gregory his accuser, and the Home Secretary, Sir Harry Coldfoot, with his wife. Sir Harry had at one time been very keen about hanging our hero, and was now of course hot with reactionary zeal. To all those who had been in anyway concerned in the prosecution, the accidents by which Phineas had been enabled to escape had been almost as fortunate as to Phineas himself. Sir Gregory himself quite felt that had he prosecuted an innocent and very popular young Member of Parliament to the death, he could never afterwards have hoped to wear his ermine in comfort. Barrington Erle was there, of course, intending, however, to return to the duties of his office on the following day — and our old friend Laurence Fitzgibbon with a newly-married wife, a lady possessing a reputed fifty thousand pounds, by which it was hoped that the member for Mayo might be placed steadily upon his legs for ever. And Adelaide Palliser was there also — the Duke’s first cousin — on whose behalf the Duchess was anxious to be more than ordinarily good-natured. Mr Maule, Adelaide’s rejected lover, had dined on one occasion with the Duke and Duchess in London. There had been nothing remarkable at the dinner, and he had not at all understood why he had been asked. But when he took his leave the Duchess had told him that she would hope to see him at Matching. “We expect a friend of yours to be with us,” the Duchess had said. He had afterwards received a written invitation and had accepted it; but he was not to reach Matching till the day after that on which Phineas arrived. Adelaide had been told of his coming only on this morning, and had been much flurried by the news.
“But we have quarrelled,” she said. “Then the best thing you can do is to make it up again, my dear,” said the Duchess. Miss Palliser was undoubtedly of that opinion herself, but she hardly believed that so terrible an evil as a quarrel with her lover could be composed by so rough a remedy as this. The Duchess, who had become used to all the disturbing excitements of life, and who didn’t pay so much respect as some do to the niceties of a young lady’s feelings, thought that it would be only necessary to bring the young people together again. If she could do that, and provide them with an income, of course they would marry. On the present occasion Phineas was told off to take Miss Palliser down to dinner. “You saw the Chilterns before they left town, I know,” she said.
“Oh, yes. I am constantly in Portman Square.”
“Of course. Lady Laura has gone down to Scotland — has she not — and all alone?”
“She is alone now, I believe.”
“How dreadful! I do not know anyone that I pity so much as I do her. I was in the house with her sometime, and she gave me the idea of being the most unhappy woman I had ever met with. Don’t you think that she is very unhappy?”
“She has had very much to make her so,” said Phineas. “She was obliged to leave her husband because of the gloom of his insanity — and now she is a widow.”
“I don’t suppose she ever really — cared for him; did she?” The question was no sooner asked than the poor girl remembered the whole story which she had heard some time back — the rumour of the husband’s jealousy and of the wife’s love, and she became as red as fire, and unable to help herself. She could think of no word to say, and confessed her confusion by her sudden silence.
Phineas saw it all, and did his best for her. “I am sure she cared for him,” he said, “though I do not think it was a well assorted marriage. They had different ideas about religion, I fancy. So you saw the hunting in the Brake country to the end? How is our old friend, Mr Spooner?”
“Don’t talk of him, Mr Finn.”
“I rather like Mr Spooner — and as for hunting the country, I don’t think Chiltern could get on without him. What a capital fellow your cousin the Duke is.”
“I hardly know him.”
“He is such a gentleman — and, at the same time, the most abstract and the most concrete man that I know.”
“Abstract and concrete!”
“You are bound to use adjectives of that sort now, Miss Palliser, if you mean to be anybody in conversation.”
“But how is my cousin concrete? He is always abstracted when I speak to him, I know.”
“No Englishman whom I have met is so broadly and intuitively and unceremoniously imbued with the simplicity of the character of a gentleman. He could no more lie than he could eat grass.”
“Is that abstract or concrete?”
“That’s abstract. And I know no one who is so capable of throwing himself into one matter for the sake of accomplishing that one thing at a time. That’s concrete.” And so the red colour faded away from poor Adelaide’s face, and the unpleasantness was removed.
“What do you think of Laurence’s wife?” Erle said to him late in the evening.
“I have only just seen her. The money is there, I suppose.”
“The money is there, I believe; but then it will have to remain there. He can’t touch it. There’s about 2,000 a-year, which will have to go back to her family unless they have children.”
“I suppose she’s — forty?”
“Well; yes, or perhaps forty-five. You were locked up at the time, poor fellow — and had other things to think of; but all the interest we had for anything beyond you through May and June was devoted to Laurence and his prospects. It was off and on, and on and off, and he was in a most wretched condition. At last she wouldn’t consent unless she was to be asked here.”
“And who managed it?”
“Laurence came and told it all to the Duchess, and she gave him the invitation at once.”
“Who told you?”
“Not the Duchess — nor yet Laurence. So it may be untrue, you know — but I believe it. He did ask me whether he’d have to stand another election at his marriage. He has been going in and out of office so often, and always going back to the Co. Mayo at the expense of half a year’s salary, that his mind had got confused, and he didn’t quite know what did and what did not vacate his seat. We must all come to it sooner or later, I suppose, but the question is whether we could do better than an annuity of oe2,000 a year on the life of the lady. Office isn’t very permanent, but one has not to attend the House above six months a year, while you can’t get away from a wife much above a week at a time. It has crippled him in appearance very much, I think.”
“A man always looks changed when he’s married.”
“I hope, Mr Finn, that you owe me no grudge,” said Sir Gregory, the Attorney-General.
“Not in the least; why should I?”
“It was a very painful duty that I had to perform — the most painful that ever befel me. I had no alternative but to do it, of course, and to do it in the hope of reaching the truth. But a counsel for the prosecution must always appear to the accused and his friends like a hound running down his game, and anxious for blood. The habitual and almost necessary acrimony of the defence creates acrimony in the attack. If you were accustomed as I am to criminal courts you would observe this constantly. A gentleman gets up and declares in perfect faith that he is simply anxious to lay before the jury such evidence as has been placed in his hands. And he opens his case in that spirit. Then his witnesses are cross-examined with the affected incredulity and assumed indignation which the defending counsel is almost bound to use on behalf of his client, and he finds himself gradually imbued with pugnacity. He becomes strenuous, energetic, and perhaps eager for what must after all be regarded as success, and at last he fights for a verdict rather than for the truth.”
“The judge, I suppose, ought to put all that right?”
“So he does — and it comes right. Our criminal practice does not sin on the side of severity. But a barrister employed on the prosecution should keep himself free from that personal desire for a verdict which must animate those engaged on the defence.”
“Then I suppose you wanted to — hang me, Sir Gregory.”
“Certainly not. I wanted the truth. But you in your position must have regarded me as a bloodhound.”
“I did not. As far as I can analyse my own feelings, I entertained anger only against those who, though they knew me well, thought that I was guilty.”
“You will allow me, at any rate, to shake hands with you”, said Sir Gregory, “and to assure you that I should have lived a broken-hearted man if the truth had been known too late. As it is I tremble and shake in my shoes as I walk about and think of what might have been done.” Then Phineas gave his hand to Sir Gregory, and from that time forth was inclined to think well of Sir Gregory.
Throughout the whole evening he was unable to speak to Madame Goesler, but to the other people around him he found himself talking quite at his ease, as though nothing peculiar had happened to him. Almost everybody, except the Duke, made some slight allusion to his adventure, and he, in spite of his resolution to the contrary, found himself driven to talk of it. It had seemed quite natural that Sir Gregory — who had in truth been eager for his condemnation, thinking him to have been guilty — should come to him and make peace with him by telling him of the nature of the work that had been imposed upon him — and when Sir Harry Coldfoot assured him that never in his life had his mind been relieved of so heavy a weight as when he received the information about the key — that also was natural. A few days ago he had thought that these allusions would kill him. The prospect of them had kept him a prisoner in his lodgings; but now he smiled and chatted, and was quiet and at ease.
“Goodnight, Mr Finn,” the Duchess said to him, “I know the people have been boring you.”
“Not in the least.”
“I saw Sir Gregory at it, and I can guess what Sir Gregory was talking about.”
“I like Sir Gregory, Duchess.”
“That shows a very Christian disposition on your part. And then there was Sir Harry. I understood it all, but I could not hinder it. But it had to be done, hadn’t it? — And now there will be an end of it.”
“Everybody has treated me very well,” said Phineas, almost in tears. “Some people have been so kind to me that I cannot understand why it should have been so.”
“Because some people are your very excellent good friends. We — that is, Marie and I, you know — thought it would be the best thing for you to come down and get through it all here. We could see that you weren’t driven too hard. By the bye, you have hardly seen her — have you?”
“Hardly, since I was upstairs with Your Grace.”
“My Grace will manage better for you tomorrow. I didn’t like to tell you to take her out to dinner, because it would have looked a little particular after her very remarkable journey to Prague. If you ain’t grateful you must be a wretch.”
“But I am grateful.”
“Well; we shall see. Goodnight. You’ll find a lot of men going to smoke somewhere, I don’t doubt.”
In these fine early autumn days spent at Matching, the great Trumpeton Wood question was at last settled. During the summer considerable acerbity had been added to the matter by certain articles which had appeared in certain sporting papers, in which the new Duke of Omnium was accused of neglecting his duty to the county in which a portion of his property lay. The question was argued at considerable length. Is a landed proprietor bound, or is he not, to keep foxes for the amusement of his neighbours? To ordinary thinkers, to unprejudiced outsiders — to Americans, let us say, or Frenchmen — there does not seem to be room even for an argument. By what law of God or man can a man be bound to maintain a parcel of injurious vermin on his property, in the pursuit of which he finds no sport himself, and which are highly detrimental to another sport in which he takes, perhaps, the keenest interest? Trumpeton Wood was the Duke’s own — to do just as he pleased with it. Why should foxes be demanded from him then any more than a bear to be baited, or a badger to be drawn, in, let us say, his London dining-room? But a good deal had been said which, though not perhaps capable of convincing the unprejudiced American or French man, had been regarded as cogent arguments to country-bred Englishmen. The Brake Hunt had been established for a great many years, and was the central attraction of a district well known for its hunting propensities. The preservation of foxes might be an open question in such counties as Norfolk and Suffolk, but could not be so in the Brake country. Many things are, no doubt, permissible under the law, which, if done, would show the doer of them to be the enemy of his species — and this destruction of foxes in a hunting country may be named as one of them. The Duke might have his foxes destroyed if he pleased, but he could hardly do so and remain a popular magnate in England. If he chose to put himself in opposition to the desires and very instincts of the people among whom his property was situated, he must live as a “man forbid’. That was the general argument, and then there was the argument special to this particular case. As it happened, Trumpeton Wood was, and always had been, the great nursery of foxes for that side of the Brake country. Gorse coverts make, no doubt, the charm of hunting, but gorse coverts will not hold foxes unless the woodlands be preserved. The fox is a travelling animal. Knowing well that “home-staying youths have ever homely wits”, the goes out and sees the world. He is either born in the woodlands, or wanders thither in his early youth. If all foxes so wandering be doomed to death, if poison, and wires, and traps, and hostile keepers await them there instead of the tender welcome of the loving fox-preserver, the gorse coverts will soon be empty, and the whole country will be afflicted with a wild dismay. All which Lord Chiltern understood well when he became so loud in his complaint against the Duke.
But our dear old friend, only the other day a duke, Planty Pall as he was lately called, devoted to work and to Parliament, an unselfish, friendly, wise man, who by no means wanted other men to cut their coats according to his pattern, was the last man in England to put himself forward as the enemy of an established delight. He did not hunt himself — but neither did he shoot, or fish, or play cards. He recreated himself with Blue Books, and speculations on Adam Smith had been his distraction — but he knew that he was himself peculiar, and he respected the habits of others. It had fallen out in this wise. As the old Duke had become very old, the old Duke’s agent had gradually acquired more than an agent’s proper influence in the property; and as the Duke’s heir would not shoot himself, or pay attention to the shooting, and as the Duke would not let the shooting of his wood, Mr Fothergill, the steward, had gradually become omnipotent. Now Mr Fothergill was not a hunting man — but the mischief did not at all lie there. Lord Chiltern would not communicate with Mr Fothergill. Lord Chiltern would write to the Duke, and Mr Fothergill became an established enemy. Hinc illae irae . From this source sprung all those powerfully argued articles in The Field, Bell’s Life, and Land and Water — for on this matter all the sporting papers were of one mind.
There is something doubtless absurd in the intensity of the worship paid to the fox by hunting communities. The animal becomes sacred, and his preservation is a religion. His irregular destruction is a profanity, and words spoken to his injury are blasphemous. Not long since a gentleman shot a fox running across a woodland ride in a hunting country. He had mistaken it for a hare, and had done the deed in the presence of keepers, owner, and friends. His feelings were so acute and his remorse so great that, in their pity, they had resolved to spare him; and then, on the spot, entered into a solemn compact that no one should be told. Encouraged by the forbearing tenderness, the unfortunate one ventured to return to the house of his friend, the owner of the wood, hoping that, in spite of the sacrilege committed, he might be able to face a world that would be ignorant of his crime. As the vulpicide, on the afternoon of the day of the deed, went along the corridor to his room, one maid-servant whispered to another, and the poor victim of an imperfect sight heard the words — “That’s he as shot the fox!” The gentleman did not appear at dinner, nor was he ever again seen in those parts.
Mr Fothergill had become angry. Lord Chiltern, as we know, had been very angry. And even the Duke was angry. The Duke was angry because Lord Chiltern had been violent — and Lord Chiltern had been violent because Mr Fothergill’s conduct had been, to his thinking, not only sacrilegious, but one continued course of wilful sacrilege. It may be said of Lord Chiltern that in his eagerness as a master of hounds he had almost abandoned his love of riding. To kill a certain number of foxes in the year, after the legitimate fashion, had become to him the one great study of life — and he did it with an energy equal to that which the Duke devoted to decimal coinage. His huntsman was always well mounted, with two horses; but Lord Chiltern would give up his own to the man and take charge of a weary animal as a common groom when he found that he might thus further the object of the day’s sport. He worked as men work only at pleasure. He never missed a day, even when cub-hunting required that he should leave his bed at 3 A . M . He was constant at his kennel. He was always thinking about it. He devoted his life to the Brake Hounds. And it was too much for him that such a one as Mr Fothergill should be allowed to wire foxes in Trumpeton Wood! The Duke’s property, indeed! Surely all that was understood in England by this time. Now he had consented to come to Matching, bringing his wife with him, in order that the matter might be settled. There had been a threat that he would give up the country, in which case it was declared that it would be impossible to carry on the Brake Hunt in a manner satisfactory to masters, subscribers, owners of coverts, or farmers, unless a different order of things should be made to prevail in regard to Trumpeton Wood.
The Duke, however, had declined to interfere personally. He had told his wife that he should be delighted to welcome Lord and Lady Chiltern — as he would any other friends of hers. The guests, indeed, at the Duke’s house were never his guests, but always hers. But he could not allow himself to be brought into an argument with Lord Chiltern as to the management of his own property. The Duchess was made to understand that she must prevent any such awkwardness. And she did prevent it. “And now, Lord Chiltern,” she said, “how about the foxes?” She had taken care there should be a council of war around her. Lady Chiltern and Madame Goesler were present, and also Phineas Finn.
“Well — how about them?” said the lord, showing by the fiery eagerness of his eye, and the increased redness of his face, that though the matter had been introduced somewhat jocosely, there could not really be any joke about it.
“Why couldn’t you keep it all out of the newspapers?”
“I don’t write the newspapers, Duchess. I can’t help the newspapers. When two hundred men ride through Trumpeton Wood, and see one fox found, and that fox with only three pads, of course the newspapers will say that the foxes are trapped.”
“We may have traps if we like it, Lord Chiltern.”
“Certainly — only say so, and we shall know where we are.” He looked very angry, and poor Lady Chiltern was covered with dismay. “The Duke can destroy the hunt if he pleases, no doubt,” said the lord.
“But we don’t like traps, Lord Chiltern — nor yet poison, nor anything that is wicked. I’d go and nurse the foxes myself if I knew how, wouldn’t I, Marie?”
“They have robbed the Duchess of her sleep for the last six months,” said Madame Goesler.
“And if they go on being not properly brought up and educated, they’ll make an old woman of me. As for the Duke, he can’t be comfortable in his arithmetic for thinking of them. But what can one do?”
“Change your keepers,” said Lord Chiltern energetically.
“It is easy to say — change your keepers. How am I to set about it? To whom can I apply to appoint others? Don’t you know what vested interests mean, Lord Chiltern?”
“Then nobody can manage his own property as he pleases?”
“Nobody can — unless he does the work himself. If I were to go and live in Trumpeton Wood I could do it; but you see I have to live here. I vote that we have an officer of State, to go in and out with the Government — with a seat in the Cabinet or not according as things go, and that we call him Foxmaster-General. It would be just the thing for Mr Finn.”
“There would be a salary, of course,” said Phineas.
“Then I suppose that nothing can be done,” said Lord Chiltern.
“My dear Lord Chiltern, everything has been done. Vested interests have been attended to. Keepers shall prefer foxes to pheasants, wires shall be unheard of, and Trumpeton Wood shall once again be the glory of the Brake Hunt. It won’t cost the Duke above a thousand or two a year.”
“I should be very sorry indeed to put the Duke to any unnecessary expense,” said Lord Chiltern solemnly — still fearing that the Duchess was only playing with him. It made him angry that he could not imbue other people with his idea of the seriousness of the amusement of a whole county.
“Do not think of it. We have pensioned poor Mr Fothergill, and he retires from the administration.”
“Then it’ll be all right,” said Lord Chiltern.
“I am so glad,” said his wife.
“And so the great Mr Fothergill falls from power, and goes down into obscurity,” said Madame Goesler.
“He was an impudent old man, and that’s the truth,” said the Duchess — “and he has always been my thorough detestation. But if you only knew what I have gone through to get rid of him — and all on account of Trumpeton Wood — you’d send me every brush taken in the Brake country during the next season.”
“Your Grace shall at any rate have one of them,” said Lord Chiltern. On the next day Lord and Lady Chiltern went back to Harrington Hall. When the end of August comes, a Master of Hounds — who is really a master — is wanted at home. Nothing short of an embassy on behalf of the great coverts of his country would have kept this master away at present; and now, his diplomacy having succeeded, he hurried back to make the most of its results. Lady Chiltern, before she went, made a little speech to Phineas Finn.
“You’ll come to us in the winter, Mr Finn?”
“I should like.”
“You must. No one was truer to you than we were, you know. Indeed, regarding you as we do, how should we not have been true? It was impossible to me that my old friend should have been — ”
“Oh, Lady Chiltern!”
“Of course you’ll come. You owe it to us to come. And may I say this? If there be anybody to come with you, that will make it only so much the better. If it should be so, of course there will be letters written?” To this question, however, Phineas Finn made no answer.
One morning very shortly after her return to Harrington, Lady Chiltern was told that Mr Spooner of Spoon Hall had called, and desired to see her. She suggested that the gentleman had probably asked for her husband — who, at that moment was enjoying his recovered supremacy in the centre of Trumpeton Wood; but she was assured that on this occasion Mr Spooner’s mission was to herself. She had no quarrel with Mr Spooner, and she went to him at once. After the first greeting he rushed in to the subject of the great triumph. “So we’ve got rid of Mr Fothergill, Lady Chiltern.”
“Yes; Mr Fothergill will not, I believe, trouble us any more. He is an old man, it seems, and has retired from the Duke’s service.”
“I can’t tell you how glad I am, Lady Chiltern. We were afraid that Chiltern would have thrown it up, and then I don’t know where we should have been. England would not have been England any longer, to my thinking, if we hadn’t won the day. It’d have been just like a French revolution. Nobody would have known what was coming or where he was going.”
That Mr Spooner should be enthusiastic on any hunting question was a matter of course; but still it seemed to be odd that he should have driven himself over from Spoon Hall to pour his feelings into Lady Chiltern’s ear. “We shall go on very nicely now, I don’t doubt,” said she; “and I’m sure that Lord Chiltern will be glad to find that you are pleased.”
“I am very much pleased, I can tell you.” Then he paused, and the tone of his voice was changed altogether when he spoke again. “But I didn’t come over only about that, Lady Chiltern. Miss Palliser has not come back with you, Lady Chiltern?”
“We left Miss Palliser at Matching. You know she is the Duke’s cousin.”
“I wish she wasn’t, with all my heart.”
“Why should you want to rob her of her relations, Mr Spooner?”
“Because — because — . I don’t want to say a word against her, Lady Chiltern. To me she is perfect as a star — beautiful as a rose.” Mr Spooner as he said this pointed first to the heavens and then to the earth. “But perhaps she wouldn’t have been so proud of her grandfather hadn’t he been a Duke.”
“I don’t think she is proud of that.”
“People do think of it, Lady Chiltern; and I don’t say that they ought not. Of course it makes a difference, and when a man lives altogether in the country, as I do, it seems to signify so much more. But if you go back to old county families, Lady Chiltern, the Spooners have been here pretty nearly as long as the Pallisers — if not longer. The Desponders, from whom we come, came over with William the Conqueror.”
“I have always heard that there isn’t a more respectable family in the county.”
“That there isn’t. There was a grant of land, which took their name, and became the Manor of Despond; there’s where Spoon Hall is now. Sir Thomas Desponder was one of those who demanded the Charter, though his name wasn’t always given because he wasn’t a baron. Perhaps Miss Palliser does not know all that.”
“I doubt whether she cares about those things.”
“Women do care about them — very much. Perhaps she has heard of the two spoons crossed, and doesn’t know that that was a stupid vulgar practical joke. Our crest is a knight’s head bowed, with the motto, “” Desperandum ‘’. Soon after the Conquest one of the Desponders fell in love with the Queen, and never would give it up, though it wasn’t any good. Her name was Matilda, and so he went as a Crusader and got killed. But wherever he went he had the knight’s head bowed, and the motto on the shield.”
“What a romantic story, Mr Spooner!”
“Isn’t it? And it’s quite true. That’s the way we became Spooners. I never told her of it, but, somehow I wish I had now. It always seemed that she didn’t think that I was anybody.”
“The truth is, Mr Spooner, that she was always thinking that somebody else was everything. When a gentleman is told that a lady’s affections have been pre-engaged, however much he may regret the circumstances, he cannot, I think, feel any hurt to his pride. If I understand the matter, Miss Palliser explained to you that she was engaged when first you spoke to her.”
“You are speaking of young Gerard Maule.”
“Of course I am speaking of Mr Maule.”
“But she has quarrelled with him, Lady Chiltern.”
“Don’t you know what such quarrels come to?”
“Well, no. That is to say, everybody tells me that it is really broken off and that he has gone nobody knows where. At any rate he never shows himself. He doesn’t mean it, Lady Chiltern.”
“I don’t know what he means.”
“And he can’t afford it, Lady Chiltern. I mean it, and I can afford it. Surely that might go for something.”
“I cannot say what Mr Maule may mean to do, Mr Spooner, but I think it only fair to tell you that he is at present staying at Matching, under the same roof with Miss Palliser.”
“Maule staying at the Duke’s!” When Mr Spooner heard this there came a sudden change over his face. His jaw fell, and his mouth was opened, and the redness of his cheeks flew up to his forehead.
“He was expected there yesterday, and I need hardly suggest to you what will be the end of the quarrel.”
“Going to the Duke’s won’t give him an income.”
“I know nothing about that, Mr Spooner. But it really seems to me that you misinterpret the nature of the affections of such a girl as Miss Palliser. Do you think it likely that she should cease to love a man because he is not so rich as another?”
“People, when they are married, want a house to live in, Lady Chiltern. Now at Spoon Hall — ”
“Believe me, that is in vain, Mr Spooner.”
“You are quite sure of it?”
“Quite sure.”
“I’d have done anything for her — anything! She might have had what settlements she pleased. I told Ned that he must go, if she made a point of it. I’d have gone abroad, or lived just anywhere. I’d come to that, that I didn’t mind the hunting a bit.”
“I’m sorry for you — I am indeed.”
“It cuts a fellow all to pieces so! And yet what is it all about? A slip of a girl that isn’t anything so very much out of the way after all. Lady Chiltern, I shouldn’t care if the horse kicked the trap all to pieces going back to Spoon Hall, and me with it.
“You’ll get over it, Mr Spooner.”
“Get over it! I suppose I shall; but I shall never be as I was. I’ve been always thinking of the day when there must be a lady at Spoon Hall, and putting it off, you know. There’ll never be a lady there now — never. You don’t think there’s any chance at all?”
“I’m sure there is none.”
“I’d give half I’ve got in all the world”, said the wretched man, “just to get it out of my head. I know what it will come to.” Though he paused, Lady Chiltern could ask no question respecting Mr Spooner’s future prospects. “It’ll be two bottles of champagne at dinner, and two bottles of claret afterwards, every day. I only hope she’ll know that she did it. Goodbye, Lady Chiltern. I thought that perhaps you’d have helped me.”
“I cannot help you.”
“Goodbye.” So he went down to his trap, and drove himself violently home — without, however, achieving the ruin which he desired. Let us hope that as time cures his wound that threat as to increased consumption of wine may fall to the ground unfulfilled.
In the meantime Gerard Maule had arrived at Matching Priory.
“We have quarrelled,” Adelaide had said when the Duchess told her that her lover was to come. “Then you had better make it up again,” the Duchess had answered — and there had been an end of it. Nothing more was done; no arrangement was made, and Adelaide was left to meet the man as best she might. The quarrel to her had been as the disruption of the heavens. She had declared to herself that she would bear it; but the misfortune to be borne was a broken world falling about her own ears. She had thought of a nunnery, of Ophelia among the water-lilies, and of an early death-bed. Then she had pictured to herself the somewhat ascetic and very laborious life of an old maiden lady whose only recreation fifty years hence should consist in looking at the portrait of him who had once been her lover. And now she was told that he was coming to Matching as though nothing had been the matter! She tried to think whether it was not her duty to have her things at once packed, and ask for a carriage to take her to the railway station. But she was in the house of her nearest relative — of him and also of her who were bound to see that things were right; and then there might be a more pleasureable existence than that which would have to depend on a photograph for its keenest delight. But how should she meet him? In what way should she address him? Should she ignore the quarrel, or recognize it, or take some milder course? She was half afraid of the Duchess, and could not ask for assistance. And the Duchess, though good-natured, seemed to her to be rough. There was nobody at Matching to whom she could say a word — so she lived on, and trembled, and doubted from hour to hour whether the world would not come to an end.
The Duchess was rough, but she was very good-natured. She had contrived that the two lovers should be brought into the same house, and did not doubt at all but what they would be able to adjust their own little differences when they met. Her experiences of the world had certainly made her more alive to the material prospects than to the delicate aroma of a love adventure. She had been greatly knocked about herself, and the material prospects had come uppermost. But all that had happened to her had tended to open her hand to other people, and had enabled her to be good-natured with delight, even when she knew that her friends imposed upon her. She didn’t care much for Laurence Fitzgibbon; but when she was told that the lady with money would not consent to marry the aristocratic pauper except on condition that she should be received at Matching, the Duchess at once gave the invitation. And now, though she couldn’t go into the “fal-lallery’ — as she called it, to Madame Goesler — of settling a meeting between two young people who had fallen out, she worked hard till she accomplished something perhaps more important to their future happiness. “Plantagenet,” she said, “there can be no objection to your cousin having that money.”
“My dear!”
“Oh come; you must remember about Adelaide, and that young man who is coming here today.”
“You told me that Adelaide is to be married. I don’t know anything about the young man.”
“His name is Maule, and he is a gentleman, and all that. Some day when his father dies he’ll have a small property somewhere.”
“I hope he has a profession.”
“No, he has not. I told you all that before.”
“If he has nothing at all, Glencora, why did he ask a young lady to marry him?”
“Oh, dear; what’s the good of going into all that? He has got something. They’ll do immensely well, if you’ll only listen. She is your first cousin.”
“Of course she is,” said Plantagenet, lifting up his hand to his hair.
“And you are bound to do something for her.”
“No; I am not bound. But I’m very willing, if you wish it. Put the thing on a right footing.”
“I hate footings — that is, right footings. We can manage this without taking money out of your pocket.”
“My dear Glencora, if I am to give my cousin money I shall do so by putting my hand into my own pocket in preference to that of any other person.”
“Madame Goesler says that she’ll sign all the papers about the Duke’s legacy — the money, I mean — if she may be allowed to make it over to the Duke’s niece.”
“Of course Madame Goesler may do what she likes with her own. I cannot hinder her. But I would rather that you should not interfere. Twenty-five thousand pounds is a very serious sum of money.”
“You won’t take it.”
“Certainly not.”
“Nor will Madame Goesler; and therefore there can be no reason why these young people should not have it. Of course Adelaide being the Duke’s niece does make a difference. Why else should I care about it? She is nothing to me — and as for him, I shouldn’t know him again if I were to meet him in the street.”
And so the thing was settled. The Duke was powerless against the energy of his wife, and the lawyer was instructed that Madame Goesler would take the proper steps for putting herself into possession of the Duke’s legacy — as far as the money was concerned — with the view of transferring it to the Duke’s niece, Miss Adelaide Palliser. As for the diamonds, the difficulty could not be solved. Madame Goesler still refused to take them, and desired her lawyer to instruct her as to the form by which she could most thoroughly and conclusively renounce that legacy.
Gerard Maule had his ideas about the meeting which would of course take place at Matching. He would not, he thought, have been asked there had it not been intended that he should marry Adelaide. He did not care much for the grandeur of the Duke and Duchess, but he was conscious of certain profitable advantages which might accrue from such an acknowledgement of his position from the great relatives of his intended bride. It would be something to be married from the house of the Duchess, and to receive his wife from the Duke’s hand. His father would probably be driven to acquiesce, and people who were almost omnipotent in the world would at any rate give him a start. He expected no money; nor did he possess that character, whether it be good or bad, which is given to such expectation. But there would be encouragement, and the thing would probably be done. As for the meeting — he would take her in his arms if he found her alone, and beg her pardon for that cross word about Boulogne. He would assure her that Boulogne itself would be a heaven to him if she were with him — and he thought that she would believe him. When he reached the house he was asked into a room in which a lot of people were playing billiards or crowded round a billiard-table. The Chilterns were gone, and he was at first ill at ease, finding no friend. Madame Goesler, who had met him at Harrington, came up to him, and told him that the Duchess would be there directly, and then Phineas, who had been playing at the moment of his entrance, shook hands with him, and said a word or two about the Chilterns. “I was so delighted to hear of your acquittal,” said Maule.
“We never talk about that now,” said Phineas, going back to his stroke. Adelaide Palliser was not present, and the difficulty of the meeting had not yet been encountered. They all remained in the billiard-room till it was time for the ladies to dress, and Adelaide had not yet ventured to show herself. Somebody offered to take him to his room, and he was conducted upstairs, and told that they dined at eight — but nothing had been arranged. Nobody had as yet mentioned her name to him. Surely it could not be that she had gone away when she heard that he was coming, and that she was really determined to make the quarrel perpetual? He had three quarters of an hour in which to get ready for dinner, and he felt himself to be uncomfortable and out of his element. He had been sent to his chamber prematurely, because nobody had known what to do with him; and he wished himself back in London. The Duchess, no doubt, had intended to be good-natured, but she had made a mistake. So he sat by his open window, and looked out on the ruins of the old Priory, which were close to the house, and wondered why he mightn’t have been allowed to wander about the garden instead of being shut up there in a bedroom. But he felt that it would be unwise to attempt any escape now. He would meet the Duke or the Duchess or perhaps Adelaide herself, in some of the passages — and there would be an embarrassment. So he dawdled away the time, looking out of the window as he dressed, and descended to the drawing room at eight o’clock. He shook hands with the Duke, and was welcomed by the Duchess, and then glanced round the room. There she was, seated on a sofa between two other ladies — of whom one was his friend, Madame Goesler. It was essentially necessary that he should notice her in some way, and he walked up to her, and offered her his hand. It was impossible that he should allude to what was past, and he merely muttered something as he stood over her. She had blushed up to her eyes, and was absolutely dumb. “Mr Maule, perhaps you’ll take our cousin Adelaide out to dinner,” said the Duchess, a moment afterwards, whispering in his ear.
“Have you forgiven me?” he said to her, as they passed from one room to the other.
“I will — if you care to be forgiven.” The Duchess had been quite right, and the quarrel was all over without any arrangement.
On the following morning he was allowed to walk about the grounds without any impediment, and to visit the ruins which had looked so charming to him from the window. Nor was he alone. Miss Palliser was now by no means anxious as she had been yesterday to keep out of the way, and was willingly persuaded to show him all the beauties of the place.
“I shouldn’t have said what I did, I know,” pleaded Maule.
“Never mind it now, Gerard.”
“I mean about going to Boulogne.”
“It did sound so melancholy.”
“But I only meant that we should have to be very careful how we lived. I don’t know quite whether I am so good at being careful about money as a fellow ought to be.”
“You must take a lesson from me, sir.”
“I have sent the horses to Tattersall’s,” he said in a tone that was almost funereal.
“What! — already?”
“I gave the order yesterday. They are to be sold — I don’t know when. They won’t fetch anything. They never do. One always buys bad horses there for a lot of money, and sells good ones for nothing. Where the difference goes to I never could make out.”
“I suppose the man gets it who sells them.”
“No; he don’t. The fellows get it who have their eyes open. My eyes never were open — except as far as seeing you went.
“Perhaps if you had opened them wider you wouldn’t have to go to — ”
“Don’t, Adelaide. But, as I was saying about the horses, when they’re sold of course the bills won’t go on. And I suppose things will come right. I don’t owe so very much.”
“I’ve got something to tell you,” she said.
“What about?”
“You’re to see my cousin today at two o’clock.”
“The Duke?”
“Yes — the Duke; and he has got a proposition. I don’t know that you need sell your horses, as it seems to make you so very unhappy. You remember Madame Goesler?”
“Of course I do. She was at Harrington.”
“There’s something about a legacy which I can’t understand at all. It is ever so much money, and it did belong to the old Duke. They say it is to be mine — or yours rather, if we should ever be married. And then you know, Gerard, perhaps, after all, you needn’t go to Boulogne.” So she took her revenge, and he had his as he pressed his arm round her waist and kissed her among the ruins of the old Priory.
Precisely at two to the moment he had his interview with the Duke, and very disagreeable it was to both of them. The Duke was bound to explain that the magnificent present which was being made to his cousin was a gift, not from him, but from Madame Goesler; and, though he was intent on making this as plain as possible, he did not like the task. “The truth is, Mr Maule, that Madame Goesler is unwilling, for reason with which I need not trouble you, to take the legacy which was left to her by my uncle. I think her reasons to be insufficient, but it is a matter in which she must, of course, judge for herself. She has decided — very much, I fear, at my wife’s instigation, which I must own I regret — to give the money to one of our family, and has been pleased to say that my cousin Adelaide shall be the recipient of her bounty. I have nothing to do with it. I cannot stop her generosity if I would, nor can I say that my cousin ought to refuse it. Adelaide will have the entire sum as her fortune, short of the legacy duty, which, as you are probably aware, will be ten per cent, as Madame Goesler was not related to my uncle. The money will, of course, be settled on my cousin and on her children. I believe that will be all I shall have to say, except that Lady Glencora — the Duchess, I mean — wishes that Adelaide should be married from our house. If this be so I shall, of course, hope to have the honour of giving my cousin away.” The Duke was by no means a pompous man, and probably there was no man in England of so high rank who thought so little of his rank. But he was stiff and somewhat ungainly and the task which he was called upon to execute had been very disagreeable to him. He bowed when he had finished his speech, and Gerard Maule felt himself bound to go, almost without expressing his thanks.
“My dear Mr Maule,” said Madame Goesler, “you literally must not say a word to me about it. The money was not mine, and under no circumstances would or could be mine. I have given nothing, and could not have presumed to make such a present. The money, I take it, does undoubtedly belong to the present Duke, and, as he does not want it, it is very natural that it should go to his cousin. I trust that you may both live to enjoy it long, but I cannot allow any thanks to be given to me by either of you.”
After that he tried the Duchess, who was somewhat more gracious. “The truth is, Mr Maule, you are a very lucky man to find twenty thousand pounds and more going begging about the country in that way.”
“Indeed I am, Duchess.”
“And Adelaide is lucky, too, for I doubt whether either of you are given to any very penetrating economies. I am told that you like hunting.”
“I have sent my horses to Tattersall’s.”
“There is enough now for a little hunting, I suppose, unless you have a dozen children. And now you and Adelaide must settle when it’s to be. I hate things to be delayed. People go on quarrelling and fancying this and that, and thinking that the world is full of romance and poetry. When they get married they know better.”
“I hope the romance and poetry do not all vanish.”
“Romance and poetry are for the most part lies, Mr Maule and are very apt to bring people into difficulty. I have seen something of them in my time, and I much prefer downright honest figures. Two and two make four; idleness is the root of all evil; love your neighbour like yourself, and the rest of it. Pray remember that Adelaide is to be married from here, and that we shall be very happy that you should make every use you like of our house until then.”
We may so far anticipate in our story as to say that Adelaide Palliser and Gerard Maule were married from Matching Priory at Matching Church early in that October, and that as far as the coming winter was concerned, there certainly was no hunting for the gentleman. They went to Naples instead of Boulogne, and there remained till the warm weather came in the following spring. Nor was that peremptory sale at Tattersall’s countermanded as regarded any of the horses. What prices were realised the present writer has never been able to ascertain.
When Phineas Finn had been about a week at Matching, he received a letter, or rather a very short note, from the Prime Minister, asking him to go up to London; and on the same day the Duke of Omnium spoke to him on the subject of the letter. “You are going up to see Mr Gresham. Mr Gresham has written to me, and I hope that we shall be able to congratulate ourselves in having your assistance next Session.” Phineas declared that he had no idea whatever of Mr Greham’s object in summoning him up to London. “I have his permission to inform you that he wishes you to accept office.” Phineas felt that he was becoming very red in the face, but he did not attempt to make any reply on the spur of the moment. “Mr Gresham thinks it well that so much should be said to you before you see him, in order that you may turn the matter over in your own mind. He would have written to you probably, making the offer at once, had it not been that there must be various changes, and that one man’s place must depend on another. You will go, I suppose.”
“Yes; I shall go, certainly. I shall be in London this evening.”
“I will take care that a carriage is ready for you. I do not presume to advise, Mr Finn, but I hope that there need be no doubt as to your joining us.” Phineas was somewhat confounded, and did not know the Duke well enough to give expression to his thoughts at the moment. “Of course you will return to us, Mr Finn.” Phineas said that he would return and trespass on the Duke’s hospitality for yet a few days. He was quite resolved that something must be said to Madame Goesler before he left the roof under which she was living. In the course of the autumn she purposed, as she had told him, to go to Vienna, and to remain there almost up to Christmas. Whatever there might be to be said should be said at any rate before that.
He did speak a few words to her before his journey to London, but in those words there was no allusion made to the great subject which must be discussed between them. “I am going up to London,” he said.
“So the Duchess tells me.”
“Mr Gresham has sent for me — meaning, I suppose, to offer me the place which he would not give me while that poor man was alive.”
“And you will accept it of course, Mr Finn?”
“I am not at all so sure of that.”
“But you will. You must. You will hardly be so foolish as to let the peevish animosity of an ill-conditioned man prejudice your prospects even after his death.”
“It will not be any remembrance of Mr Bonteen that will induce me to refuse.”
“It will be the same thing — rancour against Mr Gresham because he had allowed the other man’s counsel to prevail with him. The action of no individual man should be to you of sufficient consequence to guide your conduct. If you accept office, you should not take it as a favour conferred by the Prime Minister; nor if you refuse it, should you do so from personal feelings in regard to him. If he selects you, he is presumed to do so because he finds that your services will be valuable to the country.”
“He does so because he thinks that I should be safe to vote for him.”
“That may be so, or not. You can’t read his bosom quite distinctly — but you may read your own. If you go into office you become the servant of the country — not his servant, and should assume his motive in selecting you to be the same as your own in submitting to the selection. Your foot must be on the ladder before you can get to the top of it.”
“The ladder is so crooked.”
“Is it more crooked now than it was three years ago — worse than it was six months ago, when you and all your friends looked upon it as certain that you would be employed? There is nothing, Mr Finn, that a man should fear so much as some twist in his convictions arising from a personal accident to himself. When we heard that the Devil in his sickness wanted to be a monk, we never thought that he would become a saint in glory. When a man who has been rejected by a lady expresses a generally ill opinion of the sex, we are apt to ascribe his opinions to disappointment rather than to judgment. A man falls and breaks his leg at a fence, and cannot be induced to ride again — not because he thinks the amusement to be dangerous, but because he cannot keep his mind from dwelling on the hardship that has befallen himself. In all such cases self-consciousness gets the better of the judgment.”
“You think it will be so with me?”
“I shall think so if you now refuse — because of the misfortune which befell you — that which I know you were most desirous of possessing before that accident. To tell you the truth, Mr Finn, I wish Mr Gresham had delayed his offer till the winter.”
“And why?”
“Because by that time you will have recovered your health. Your mind now is morbid, and out of tune.”
“There was something to make it so, Madame Goesler.”
“God knows there was; and the necessity which lay up on you of bearing a bold front during those long and terrible weeks of course consumed your strength. The wonder is that the fibres of your mind should have retained any of their elasticity after such an ordeal. But as you are so strong, it would be a pity that you should not be strong altogether. This thing that is now to be offered to you is what you have always desired.”
“A man may have always desired that which is worthless.”
“You tried it once, and did not find it worthless. You found yourself able to do good work when you were in office. If I remember right, you did not give it up then because it was irksome to you, or contemptible, or, as you say, worthless; but from difference of opinion on some political question. You can always do that again.”
“A man is not fit for office who is prone to do so.”
“Then do not you be prone. It means success or failure in the profession which you have chosen, and I shall greatly regret to see you damage your chance of success by yielding to scruples which have come upon you when you are hardly as yet yourself.”
She had spoken to him very plainly, and he had found it to be impossible to answer her, and yet she had hardly touched the motives by which he believed himself to be actuated. As he made his journey up to London he thought very much of her words. There had been nothing said between them about money. No allusion had been made to the salary of the office which would be offered to him, or to the terrible shortness of his own means of living. He knew well enough himself that he must take some final step in life, or very shortly return into absolute obscurity. This woman who had been so strongly advising him to take a certain course as to his future life, was very rich — and he had fully decided that he would sooner or later ask her to be his wife. He knew well that all her friends regarded their marriage as certain. The Duchess had almost told him so in as many words. Lady Chiltern, who was much more to him than the Duchess, had assured him that if he should have a wife to bring with him to Harrington, the wife would be welcome. Of what other wife could Lady Chiltern have thought? Laurence Fitzgibbon, when congratulated on his own marriage, had returned counter congratulations. Mr Low had said that it would of course come to pass. Even Mrs Bunce had hinted at it, suggesting that she would lose her lodger and be a wretched woman. All the world had heard of the journey to Prague, and all the world expected the marriage. And he had come to love the woman with excessive affection, day by day, ever since the renewal of their intimacy at Broughton Spinnies. His mind was quite made up — but he was by no means sure of her mind as the rest of the world might be. He knew of her, what nobody else in all the world knew — except himself. In that former period of his life, on which he now sometimes looked back as though it had been passed in another world, this woman had offered her hand and fortune to him. She had done so in the enthusiasm of her love, knowing his ambition and knowing his poverty, and believing that her wealth was necessary to the success of his career in life. He had refused the offer — and they had parted without a word. Now they had come together again, and she was certainly among the dearest of his friends. Had she not taken that wondrous journey to Prague in his behalf, and been the first among those who had striven — and had striven at last successfully — to save his neck from the halter? Dear to her! He knew well as he sat with his eyes closed in the railway carriage that he must be dear to her! But might it not well be that she had resolved that friendship should take the place of love? And was it not compatible with her nature — with all human nature — that in spite of her regard for him she should choose to be revenged for the evil which had befallen her, when she offered her hand in vain? She must know by this time that he intended to throw himself at her feet; and would hardly have advised him as she had done as to the necessity of following up that success which had hitherto been so essential to him, had she intended to give him all that she had once offered him before. It might well be that Lady Chiltern, and even the Duchess, should be mistaken. Marie Goesler was not a woman, he thought, to reveal the deeper purposes of her life to any such friend as the Duchess of Omnium.
Of his own feelings in regard to the offer which was about to be made to him he had hardly succeeded in making her understand anything. That a change had come upon himself was certain, but he did not at all believe that it had sprung from any weakness caused by his sufferings in regard to the murder. He rather believed that he had become stronger than weaker from all that he had endured. He had learned when he was younger — some years back — to regard the political service of his country as a profession in which a man possessed of certain gifts might earn his bread with more gratification to himself than in any other. The work would be hard, and the emolument only intermittent; but the service would in itself be pleasant; and the rewards of that service — should he be so successful as to obtain reward — would be dearer to him than anything which could accrue to him from other labours. To sit in the Cabinet for one Session would, he then thought, be more to him than to preside over the Court of Queen’s Bench as long as did Lord Mansfield. But during the last few months a change had crept across his dream — which he recognized but could hardly analyse. He had seen a man whom he despised promoted, and the place to which the man had been exalted had at once become contemptible in his eyes. And there had been quarrels and jangling, and the speaking of evil words between men who should have been quiet and dignified. No doubt Madame Goesler was right in attributing the revulsion in his hopes to Mr Bonteen and Mr Bonteen’s enmity; but Phineas Finn himself did not know that it was so.
He arrived in town in the evening, and his appointment with Mr Gresham was for the following morning. He breakfasted at his club, and there he received the following letter from Lady Laura Kennedy:
Saulsby, 28th August 18 — MY DEAR PHINEAS
I have just received a letter from Barrington in which he tells me that Mr Gresham is going to offer you your old place at the Colonies. He says that Lord Fawn has been so upset by this affair of Lady Eustace’s husband, that he is obliged to resign and go abroad. [This was the first intimation that Phineas had heard of the nature of the office to be offered to him.] But Barrington goes on to say that he thinks you won’t accept Mr Gresham’s offer, and he asks me to write to you. Can this possibly be true? Barrington writes most kindly — with true friendship — and is most anxious for you to join. But he thinks that you are angry with Mr Gresham because he passed you over before, and that you will not forgive him for having yielded to Mr Bonteen. I can hardly believe this possible. Surely you will not allow the shade of that unfortunate man to blight your prospects? And, after all, of what matter to you is the friendship or enmity of Mr Gresham? You have to assert yourself, to make your own way, to use your own opportunities, and to fight your own battle without reference to the feelings of individuals. Men act together in office constantly, and with constancy, who are known to hate each other. When there are so many to get what is going, and so little to be given, of course there will be struggling and trampling. I have no doubt that Lord Cantrip has made a point of this with Mr Gresham — has in point of fact insisted upon it. If so, you are lucky to have such an ally as Lord Cantrip. He and Mr Gresham are, as you know, sworn friends, and if you get on well with the one you certainly may with the other also. Pray do not refuse without asking for time to think about it — and if so, pray come here, that you may consult my father.
I spent two weary weeks at Loughlinter, and then could stand it no longer. I have come here, and here I shall remain for the autumn and winter. If I can sell my interest in the Loughlinter property I shall do so, as I am sure that neither the place nor the occupation is fit for me. Indeed I know not what place or what occupation will suit me! The dreariness of the life before me is hardly preferable to the disappointments I have already endured. There seems to be nothing left for me but to watch my father to the end. The world would say that such a duty in life is fit for a widowed childless daughter; but to you I cannot pretend to say that my bereavements or misfortunes reconcile me to such a fate. I cannot cease to remember my age, my ambition, and I will say, my love. I suppose that everything is over for me — as though I were an old woman, going down into the grave, but at my time of life I find it hard to believe that it must be so. And then the time of waiting may be so long! I suppose I could start a house in London, and get people around me by feeding and flattering them, and by little intrigues — like that woman of whom you are so fond. It is money that is chiefly needed for that work, and of money I have enough now. And people would know at any rate who I am. But I could not flatter them, and I should wish the food to choke them if they did not please me. And you would not come, and if you did — I may as well say it boldly — others would not. An ill-natured sprite has been busy with me, which seems to deny me everything which is so freely granted to others.
As for you, the world is at your feet. I dread two things for you — that you should marry unworthily, and that you should injure your prospects in public life by an uncompromising stiffness. On the former subject I can say nothing to you. As to the latter, let me implore you to come down here before you decided upon anything. Of course you can at once accept Mr Gresham’s offer; and that is what you should do unless the office proposed to you be unworthy of you. No friend of yours will think that your old place at the Colonies should be rejected. But if your mind is still turned towards refusing, ask Mr Gresham to give you three or four days for decision, and then come here. He cannot refuse you — nor after all that is passed can you refuse me.
Yours affectionately L . K .
When he had read this letter he at once acknowledged to himself that he could not refuse her request. He must go to Saulsby, and he must do so at once. He was about to see Mr Gresham immediately — within half an hour; and as he could not expect at the most above twenty-four hours to be allowed to him for consideration, he must go down to Saulsby on the same evening. As he walked to the Prime Minister’s house he called at a telegraph office and sent down his message. “I will be at Saulsby by the train arriving at 7 P . M . Send to meet me.” Then he went on, and in a few minutes found himself in the presence of the great man.
The great man received him with an excellent courtesy. It is the special business of Prime Ministers to be civil in detail, though roughness, and perhaps almost rudeness in the gross, becomes not unfrequently a necessity of their position, To a proposed incoming subordinate a Prime Minister is, of course, very civil, and to a retreating subordinate he is generally more so — unless the retreat be made under unfavourable circumstances. And to give good things is always pleasant, unless there be a suspicion that the good thing will be thought to be not good enough. No such suspicion as that now crossed the mind of Mr Gresham. He had been pressed very much by various colleagues to admit this young man into the paradise of his government, and had been pressed very much also to exclude him; and this had been continued till he had come to dislike the name of the young man. He did believe that the young man had behaved badly to Mr Robert Kennedy, and he knew that the young man on one occasion had taken to kicking in harness, and running a course of his own. He had decided against the young man — very much no doubt at the instance of Mr Bonteen — and he believed that in so doing he closed the Gates of Paradise against a Peri most anxious to enter it. He now stood with the key in his hand and the gate open — and the seat to be allotted to the re-accepted one was that which he believed the Peri would most gratefully fill. He began by making a little speech about Mr Bonteen. That was almost unavoidable. And he praised in glowing words the attitude which Phineas had maintained during the trial. He had been delighted with the re-election at Tankerville, and thought that the borough had done itself much honour. Then came forth his proposition. Lord Fawn had retired, absolutely broken down by repeated examinations respecting the man in the grey coat, and the office which Phineas had before held with so much advantage to the public, and comfort to his immediate chief, Lord Cantrip, was there for his acceptance Mr Gresham went on to express an ardent hope that he might have the benefit of Mr Finn’s services. It was quite manifest from his manner that he did not in the least doubt the nature of the reply which he would receive.
Phineas had come primed with his answer — so ready with it that it did not even seem to be the result of any hesitation at the moment. “I hope, Mr Gresham, that you will be able to give me a few hours to think of this.” Mr Gresham’s face fell, for, in truth, he wanted an immediate answer; and though he knew from experience that Secretaries of State, and First Lords, and Chancellors, do demand time, and will often drive very hard bargains before they will consent to get into harness, he considered that Under-Secretaries, junior Lords, and the like, should skip about as they were bidden, and take the crumbs offered them without delay. If every underling wanted a few hours to think about it, how could any Government ever be got together? “I am sorry to put you to inconvenience,” continued Phineas, seeing that the great man was but ill-satisfied, “but I am so placed that I cannot avail myself of your flattering kindness without some little time for consideration.”
“I had hoped that the office was one which you would like.”
“So it is, Mr Gresham.”
“And I was told that you are now free from any scruples, political scruples, I mean — which might make it difficult for you to support the Government.”
“Since the Government came to our way of thinking — a year or two ago — about Tenant-right, I mean — I do not know that there is any subject on which I am likely to oppose it. Perhaps I had better tell you the truth, Mr Gresham.”
“Oh, certainly,” said the Prime Minister, who knew very well that on such occasions nothing could be worse than the telling of disagreeable truths.
“When you came into office, after beating Mr Daubeny on the Church question, no man in Parliament was more desirous of place than I was — and I am sure that none of the disappointed ones felt their disappointment so keenly. It was aggravated by various circumstances — by calumnies in newspapers, and by personal bickerings. I need not go into that wretched story of Mr Bonteen, and the absurd accusation which grew out of those calumnies. These things have changed me very much. I have a feeling that I have been ill-used — not by you, Mr Gresham, specially, but by the party; and I look upon the whole question of office with altered eyes.”
“In filling up the places at his disposal, a Prime Minister, Mr Finn, has a most unenviable task.”
“I can well believe it.”
“When circumstances, rather than any selection of his own, indicate the future occupant of any office, this abrogation of his patronage is the greatest blessing in the world to him.”
“I can believe that also.”
“I wish it were so with every office under the Crown. A Minister is rarely thanked, and would as much look for the peace of heaven in his office as for gratitude.”
“I am sorry that I should have made no exception to such thanklessness.”
“We shall neither of us get on by complaining — shall we, Mr Finn? You can let me have an answer perhaps by this time tomorrow.”
“If an answer by telegraph will be sufficient.”
“Quite sufficient. Yes or No. Nothing more will be wanted. You understand your own reasons, no doubt, fully; but if they were stated at length they would perhaps hardly enlighten me. Good-morning.” Then as Phineas was turning his back, the Prime Minister remembered that it behoved him as Prime Minister to repress his temper. “I shall still hope, Mr Finn, for a favourable answer.” Had it not been for that last word Phineas would have turned again, and at once rejected the proposition.
From Mr Gresham’s house he went by appointment to Mr Monk’s, and told him of the interview. Mr Monk’s advice to him had been exactly the same as that given by Madame Goesler and Lady Laura. Phineas, indeed, understood perfectly that no friend could or would give him any other advice. “He has his troubles, too,” said Mr Monk, speaking of the Prime Minister.
“A man can hardly expect to hold such an office without trouble.”
“Labour of course there must be — though I doubt whether it is so great as that of some other persons — and responsibility. The amount of trouble depends on the spirit and nature of the man. Do you remember old Lord Brock? He was never troubled. He had a triple shield — a thick skin, an equable temper, and perfect self-confidence. Mr Mildmay was of a softer temper, and would have suffered had he not been protected by the idolatry of a large class of his followers. Mr Gresham has no such protection. With a finer intellect than either, and a sense of patriotism quite as keen, he has a self-consciousness which makes him sore at every point. He knows the frailty of his temper, and yet cannot control it. And he does not understand men as did these others. Every word from an enemy is a wound to him. Every slight from a friend is a dagger in his side. But I can fancy that self-accusations make the cross on which he is really crucified. He is a man to whom I would extend all my mercy, were it in my power to be merciful.”
“You will hardy tell me that I should accept office under him by way of obliging him.”
“Were I you I should do so — not to oblige him, but because I know him to be an honest man.”
“I care but little for honesty”, said Phineas, “which is at the disposal of those who are dishonest. What am I to think of a Minister who could allow himself to be led by Mr Bonteen?”
Phineas, as he journeyed down to Saulsby, knew that he had in truth made up his mind. He was going thither nominally that he might listen to the advice of almost his oldest political friend before he resolved on a matter of vital importance to himself; but in truth be was making the visit because he felt that he could not excuse himself from it without unkindness and ingratitude. She had implored him to come, and he was bound to go, and there were tidings to be told which he must tell. It was not only that he might give her his reasons for not becoming an Under-Secretary of State that he went to Saulsby. He felt himself bound to inform her that he intended to ask Marie Goesler to be his wife. He might omit to do so till he had asked the question — and then say nothing of what he had done should his petition be refused; but it seemed to him that there would be cowardice in this. He was bound to treat Lady Laura as his friend in a special degree, as something more than his sister — and he was bound above all things to make her understand in some plainest manner that she could be nothing more to him than such a friend. In his dealings with her he had endeavoured always to be honest — gentle as well as honest; but now it was specially his duty to be honest to her. When he was young he had loved her, and had told her so — and she had refused him. As a friend he had been true to her ever since, but that offer could never be repeated. And the other offer — to the woman whom she was now accustomed to abuse — must be made. Should Lady Laura choose to quarrel with him it must be so; but the quarrel should not be of his seeking.
He was quite sure that he would refuse Mr Gresham’s offer, although by doing so he would himself throw away the very thing which he had devoted his life to acquire. In a foolish, soft moment — as he now confessed to himself — he had endeavoured to obtain for his own position the sympathy of the Minister. He had spoken of the calumnies which had hurt him, and of his sufferings when he found himself excluded from place in consequence of the evil stories which had been told of him. Mr Gresham had, in fact, declined to listen to him — had said Yes or No was all that he required, and had gone on to explain that he would be unable to understand the reasons proposed to be given even were he to hear them. Phineas had felt himself to be repulsed, and would at once have shown his anger, had not the Prime Minister silenced him for the moment by a civilly-worded repetition of the offer made.
But the offer should certainly be declined. As he told himself that it must be so, he endeavoured to analyse the causes of this decision, but was hardly successful. He had thought that he could explain the reasons to the Minister, but found himself incapable of explaining them to himself. In regard to means of subsistence he was no better off now than when he began the world. He was, indeed, without incumbrance, but was also without any means of procuring an income. For the last twelve months he had been living on his little capital, and two years more of such life would bring him to the end of all that he had. There was, no doubt, one view of his prospects which was bright enough. If Marie Goesler accepted him, he need not, at any rate, look about for the means of earning a living. But he assured himself with perfect confidence that no hope in that direction would have any influence upon the answer he would give to Mr Gresham. Had not Marie Goesler herself been most urgent with him in begging him to accept the offer; and was he not therefore justified in concluding that she at least had thought it necessary that he should earn his bread? Would her heart be softened towards him — would any further softening be necessary — by his obstinate refusal to comply with her advice? The two things had no reference to each other — and should be regarded by him as perfectly distinct. He would refuse Mr Gresham’s offer — not because he hoped that he might live in idleness on the wealth of the woman he loved — but because the chicaneries and intrigues of office had become distasteful to him. “I don’t now which are the falser,” he said to himself, “the mock courtesies or the mock indignations of statesmen.”
He found the Earl’s carriage waiting for him at the station and thought of many former days, as he was carried through the little town for which he had sat in Parliament, up to the house which he had once visited in the hope of wooing Violet Effingham. The women whom he had loved had all, at any rate, become his friends, and his thorough friendships were almost all with women. He and Lord Chiltern regarded each other with warm affection; but there was hardly ground for real sympathy between them. It was the same with Mr Low and Barrington Erle. Were he to die there would be no gap in their lives — were they to die there would be none in his. But with Violet Effingham — as he still loved to call her to himself — he thought it would be different. When the carriage stopped at the hall door he was thinking of her rather than of Lady Laura Kennedy.
He was shown at once to his bedroom — the very room in which he had written the letter to Lord Chiltern which had brought about the duel at Blankenberg. He was told that he would find Lady Laura in the drawing-room waiting for dinner for him. The Earl had already dined.
“I am so glad you are come,” said Lady Laura, welcoming him. “Papa is not very well and dined early, but I have waited for you, of course. Of course I have. You did not suppose I would let you sit down alone? I would not see you before you dressed because I knew that you must be tired and hungry and that the sooner you got down the better. Has it not been hot?”
“And so dusty! I only left Matching yesterday, and seem to have been on the railway ever since.”
“Government officials have to take frequent journeys, Mr Finn. How long will it be before you have to go down to Scotland twice in one week, and back as often to form a Ministry? Your next journey must be into the dining-room — in making which will you give me your arm?”
She was, he thought, lighter in heart and pleasanter in manner than she had been since her return from Dresden. When she had made her little joke about his future ministerial duties the servant had been in the room, and he had not, therefore, stopped her by a serious answer. And now she was solicitous about his dinner — anxious that he should enjoy the good things set before him, as is the manner of loving women, pressing him to take wine, and playing the good hostess in a things. He smiled, and ate, and drank, and was gracious under petting; but he had a weight on his bosom, knowing, as he did, that he must say that before long which would turn all playfulness either to anger or to grief. “And who had you at Matching?” she asked.
“Just the usual set.”
“Minus the poor old Duke?”
“Yes; minus the old Duke certainly. The greatest change is in the name. Lady Glencora was so specially Lady Glencora that she ought to have been Lady Glencora to the end. Everybody calls her Duchess, but it does not sound half so nice.”
“And is he altered?”
“Not in the least. You can trace the lines of lingering regret upon his countenance when people be-Grace him; but that is all. There was always about him a simple dignity which made it impossible that anyone should slap him on the back; and that of course remains. He is the same Planty Pall; but I doubt whether any man ever ventured to call him Planty Pall to his face since he left Eton.”
“The house was full, I suppose?”
“There were a great many there; among others Sir Gregory Grogram, who apologised to me for having tried to — put an end to my career.”
“Oh, Phineas!”
“And Sir Harry Coldfoot, who seemed to take some credit to himself for having allowed the jury to acquit me. And Chiltern and his wife were there for a day or two.”
“What could take Oswald there?”
“An embassy of State about the foxes. The Duke’s property runs into his country. She is one of the best women that ever lived.”
“Violet?”
“And one of the best wives.”
“She ought to be, for she is one of the happiest. What can she wish for that she has not got? Was your great friend there?”
He knew well what great friend she meant. “Madame Max Goesler was there.”
“I suppose so. I can never quite forgive Lady Glencora for her intimacy with that woman.”
“Do not abuse her, Lady Laura.”
“I do not intend — not to you at any rate. But I can better understand that she should receive the admiration of a gentleman than the affectionate friendship of a lady. That the old Duke should have been infatuated was intelligible.”
“She was very good to the old Duke.”
“But it was a kind of goodness which was hardly likely to recommend itself to his nephew’s wife. Never mind; we won’t talk about her now. Barrington was there?”
“For a day or two.”
“He seems to be wasting his life.”
“Subordinates in office generally do, I think.”
“Do not say that, Phineas.”
“Some few push through, and one can almost always foretell who the few will be. There are men who are destined always to occupy second-rate places, and who seem also to know their fate. I never heard Erle speak even of an ambition to sit in the Cabinet.”
“He likes to be useful.”
“All that part of the business which distresses me is pleasant to him. He is fond of arrangements, and delights in little party successes. Either to effect or to avoid a count-out is a job of work to his taste, and he loves to get the better of the Opposition by keeping it in the dark. A successful plot is as dear to him as to a writer of plays. And yet he is never bitter as is Ratler, or unscrupulous as was poor Mr Bonteen, or full of wrath as is Lord Fawn. Nor is he idle like Fitzgibbon. Erle always earns his salary.”
“When I said he was wasting his life, I meant that he did not marry. But perhaps a man in his position had better remain unmarried.” Phineas tried to laugh, but hardly succeeded well. “That, however, is a delicate subject, and we will not touch it now. If you won’t drink any wine we might as well go into the other room.”
Nothing had as yet been said on either of the subjects which had brought him to Saulsby, but there had been words which made the introduction of them peculiarly unpleasant. His tidings, however, must be told. “I shall not see Lord Brentford tonight?” he asked, when they were together in the drawing-room.
“If you wish it you can go up to him. He will not come down.”
“Oh, no. It is only because I must return tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, Phineas!”
“I must do so. I have pledged myself to see Mr Monk — and others also.”
“It is a short visit to make to us on my first return home! I hardly expected you at Loughlinter, but I thought that you might have remained a few nights under my father’s roof.” He could only reassert his assurance that he was bound to be back in London, and explain as best he might that he had come to Saulsby for a single night, only because he would not refuse her request to him. “I will not trouble you, Phineas, by complaints,” she said.
“I would give you no cause for complaint if I could avoid it.”
“And now tell me what has passed between you and Mr Gresham,” she said as soon as the servant had given them coffee. They were sitting by a window which opened down to the ground, and led on to the terrace and to the lawns below. The night was soft, and the air was heavy with the scent of many flowers. It was now past nine, and the sun had set; but there was a bright harvest moon, and the light, though pale, was clear as that of day. “Will you come and take a turn round the garden? We shall be better there than sitting here. I will get my hat; can I find yours for you?” So they both strolled out, down the terrace steps, and went forth, beyond the gardens, into the park, as though they had both intended from the first that it should be so. “I know you have not accepted Mr Gresham’s offer, or you would have told me so.”
“I have not accepted.”
“Nor have you refused?”
“No; it is still open. I must send my answer by telegram tomorrow — Yes or No — Mr Gresham’s time is too precious to admit of more.”
“Phineas, for Heaven’s sake do not allow little feelings to injure you at such a time as this. It is of your own career, not of Mr Gresham’s manners, that you should think.”
“I have nothing to object to in Mr Gresham. Yes or No will be quite sufficient.”
“It must be Yes.”
“It cannot be Yes, Lady Laura. That which I desired so ardently six months ago has now become so distasteful to me that I cannot accept it. There is an amount of hustling on the Treasury Bench which makes a seat there almost ignominious.”
“Do they hustle more than they did three years ago?”
“I think they do, or if not it is more conspicuous to my eyes. I do not say that it need be ignominious. To such a one as was Mr Palliser it certainly is not so. But it becomes so when a man goes there to get his bread, and has to fight his way as though for bare life. When office first comes, unasked for, almost unexpected, full of the charms which distance lends, it is pleasant enough. The new-comer begins to feel that he too is entitled to rub his shoulders among those who rule the world of Great Britain. But when it has been expected, longed for as I longed for it, asked for by my friends and refused, when all the world comes to know that you are a suitor for that which should come without any suit — then the pleasantness vanishes.”
“I thought it was to be your career.”
“And I hoped so.”
“What will you do, Phineas? You cannot live without any income.”
“I must try,” he said, laughing.
“You will not share with your friend, as a friend should.”
“No, Lady Laura. That cannot be done.”
“I do not see why it cannot. Then you might be independent.”
“Then I should indeed be dependent.”
“You are too proud to owe me anything.”
He wanted to tell her that he was too proud to owe such obligation as she had suggested to any man or any woman; but he hardly knew how to do so, intending as he did to inform her before they returned to the house of his intention to ask Madame Goesler to be his wife. He could discern the difference between enjoying his wife’s fortune and taking gifts of money from one who was bound to him by no tie — but to her in her present mood he could explain no such distinction. On a sudden he rushed at the matter in his mind. It had to be done, and must be done before he brought her back to the house. He was conscious that he had in no degree ill-used her. He had in nothing deceived her. He had kept back from her nothing which the truest friendship had called upon him to reveal to her. And yet he knew that her indignation would rise hot within her at his first word. “Laura,” he said, forgetting in his confusion to remember her rank, “I had better tell you at once that I have determined to ask Madame Goesler to be my wife.”
“Oh, then — of course your income is certain.”
“If you choose to regard my conduct in that light I cannot help it. I do not think that I deserve such reproach.”
“Why not tell it all? You are engaged to her?”
“Not so. I have not asked her yet.”
“And why do you come to me with the story of your intentions — to me of all persons in the world? I sometimes think that of all the hearts that ever dwelt within a man’s bosom yours is the hardest.”
“For God’s sake do not say that of me.”
“Do you remember when you came to me about Violet — to me — to me? I could bear it then because she was good and earnest, and a woman that I could love even though she robbed me. And I strove for you even against my own heart — against my own brother. I did; I did. But how am I to bear it now? What shall I do now? She is a woman I loathe.”
“Because you do not know her.”
“Not know her! And are your eyes so clear at seeing that you must know her better than others? She was the Duke’s mistress.”
“That is untrue, Lady Laura.”
“But what difference does it make to me? I shall be sure that you will have bread to eat, and horses to ride, and a seat in Parliament without being forced to earn it by your labour. We shall meet no more, of course.”
“I do not think that you can mean that.”
“I will never receive that woman, nor will I cross the sill of her door. Why should I?”
“Should she become my wife — that I would have thought might have been the reason why.”
“Surely, Phineas, no man ever understood a woman so ill as you do.”
“Because I would fain hope that I need not quarrel with my oldest friend?”
“Yes, sir; because you think you can do this without quarrelling. How should I speak to her of you; how listen to what she would tell me? Phineas, you have killed me at last.” Why could he not tell her that it was she who had done the wrong when she gave her hand to Robert Kennedy? But he could not tell her, and he was dumb. “And so it’s settled!”
“No; not settled.”
“Psha! I hate your mock modesty! It is settled. You have become far too cautious to risk fortune in such an adventure. Practice has taught you to be perfect. It was to tell me this that you came down here.”
“Partly so.”
“It would have been more generous of you, sir, to have remained away.”
“I did not mean to be ungenerous.”
Then she suddenly turned upon him, throwing her arms round his neck, and burying her face upon his bosom. They were at the moment in the centre of the park, on the grass beneath the trees, and the moon was bright over their heads. He held her to his breast while she sobbed, and then relaxed his hold as she raised herself to look into his face. After a moment she took his hat from his head with one hand, and with the other swept the hair back from his brow. “Oh, Phineas,” she said, “oh, my darling! My idol that I have worshipped when I should have worshipped my God!”
After that they roamed for nearly an hour backwards and forwards beneath the trees, till at last she became calm and almost reasonable. She acknowledged that she had long expected such a marriage, looking forward to it as a great sorrow. She repeated over and over again her assertion that she could not “know” Madame Goesler as the wife of Phineas, but abstained from further evil words respecting the lady. “It is better that we should be apart,” she said at last. “I feel that it is better. When we are both old, if I should live, we may meet again. I knew that it was coming, and we had better part.” And yet they remained out there, wandering about the park for a long portion of the summer night. She did not reproach him again, nor did she speak much of the future; but she alluded to all the incidents of their past life, showing him that nothing which he had done no words which he had spoken, had been forgotten by her, “Of course it has been my fault,” she said, as at last she parted with him in the drawing-room. “When I was younger I did not understand how strong the heart can be. I should have known it, and I pay for my ignorance with the penalty of my whole life.” Then he left her, kissing her on both cheeks and on her brow, and went to his bedroom with the understanding that he would start for London on the following morning before she was up.
As he took his ticket Phineas sent his message to the Prime Minister, taking that personage literally at his word. The message was, No. When writing it in the office it seemed to him to be uncourteous, but he found it difficult to add any other words that should make it less so. He supplemented it with a letter on his arrival in London, in which he expressed his regret that certain circumstances of his life which had occurred during the last month or two made him unfit to undertake the duties of the very pleasant office to which Mr Gresham had kindly offered to appoint him. That done, he remained in town but one night, and then set his face again towards Matching. When he reached that place it was already known that he had refused to accept Mr Gresham’s offer, and he was met at once with regrets and condolements. “I am sorry that it must be so,” said the Duke — who was sorry, for he liked the man, but who said not a word more upon the subject. “You are still young, and will have further opportunities,” said Lord Cantrip, “but I wish that you could have consented to come back to your old chair.” “I hope that at any rate we shall not have you against us,” said Sir Harry Coldfoot. Among themselves they declared one to another that he had been so completely upset by his imprisonment and subsequent trial as to be unable to undertake the work proposed to him. “It is not a very nice thing, you know, to be accused of murder,” said Sir Gregory, “and to pass a month or two under the full conviction that you are going to be hung. He’ll come right again some day. I only hope it may not be too late.”
“So you have decided for freedom?” said Madame Goesler to him that evening — the evening of the day on which he had returned.
“Yes, indeed.”
“I have nothing to say against your decision now. No doubt your feelings have prompted you right.”
“Now that it is done, of course I am full of regrets,” said Phineas.
“That is simple human nature, I suppose.”
“Simple enough; and the worst of it is that I cannot quite explain even to myself why I have done it. Every friend I had in the world told me that I was wrong, and yet I could not help myself. The thing was offered to me, not because I was thought to be fit for it, but because I had become wonderful by being brought near to a violent death! I remember once, when I was a child, having a rocking-horse given to me because I had fallen from the top of the house to the bottom without breaking my neck. The rocking-horse was very well then, but I don’t care now to have one bestowed upon me for any such reason.”
“Still, if the rocking-horse is in itself a good rocking-horse — ”
“But it isn’t.”
“I don’t mean to say a word against your decision.”
“It isn’t good. It is one of those toys which look to be so very desirable in the shop-windows, but which give no satisfaction when they are brought home. I’ll tell you what occurred the other day. The circumstances happen to be known to me, though I cannot tell you my authority. My dear old friend Laurence Fitzgibbon, in the performance of his official duties had to give an opinion on a matter affecting an expenditure of some thirty or forty thousand pounds of public money. I don’t think that Laurence has generally a very strong bias this way or that on such questions, but in the case in question he took upon himself to be very decided. He wrote or got someone to write, a report proving that the service of the country imperatively demanded that the money should be spent, and in doing so was strictly within his duty.”
“I am glad to hear that he can be so energetic.”
“The Chancellor of the Exchequer got hold of the matter, and told Fitzgibbon that the thing couldn’t be done.”
“That was all right and constitutional, I suppose.”
“Quite right and constitutional. But something had to be said about it in the House, and Laurence, with all his usual fluency and beautiful Irish brogue, got up and explained that the money would be absolutely thrown away if expended on a purpose so futile as that proposed. I am assured that the great capacity which he has thus shown for official work and official life will cover a multitude of sins.
“You would hardly have taken Mr Fitzgibbon as your model statesman.”
“Certainly not — and if the story affected him only it would hardly be worth telling. But the point of it lies in this — that he disgusted no one by what he did. The Chancellor of the Exchequer thinks him a very convenient man to have about him, and Mr Gresham feels the comfort of possessing tools so pliable.”
“Do you think that public life then is altogether a mistake, Mr Finn?”
“For a poor man I think that it is, in this country. A man of fortune may be independent; and because he has the power of independence those who are higher than he will not expect him to be subservient. A man who takes to parliamentary office for a living may live by it, but he will have but a dog’s life of it.”
“If I were you, Mr Finn, I certainly would not choose a dog’s life.”
He said not a word to her on that occasion about herself, having made up his mind that a certain period of the following day should be chosen for the purpose, and he had hardly yet arranged in his mind what words he would use on that occasion. It seemed to him that there would be so much to be said that he must settle beforehand some order of saying it. It was not as though he had merely to tell her of his love. There had been talk of love between them before, on which occasion he had been compelled to tell her that he could not accept that which she offered to him. It would be impossible, he knew, not to refer to that former conversation. And then he had to tell her that he, now coming to her as a suitor and knowing her to be a very rich woman, was himself all but penniless. He was sure, or almost sure, that she was as well aware of this fact as he was himself; but, nevertheless, it was necessary that he should tell her of it — and if possible so tell her as to force her to believe him when he assured her that he asked her to be his wife, not because she was rich, but because he loved her. It was impossible that all this should be said as they sat side by side in the drawing-room with a crowd of people almost within hearing, and Madame Goesler had just been called upon to play, which she always did directly she was asked. He was invited to make up a rubber, but he could not bring himself to care for cards at the present moment. So he sat apart and listened to the music.
If all things went right with him tomorrow that music — or the musician who made it — would be his own for the rest of is life. Was he justified in expecting that she would give him so much? Of her great regard for him as a friend he had no doubt. She had shown it in various ways, and after a fashion that had made it known to all the world. But so had Lady Laura regarded him when he first told her of his love at Loughlinter. She had been his dearest friend, but she had declined to become his wife; and it had been partly so with Violet Effingham, whose friendship to him had been so sweet as to make him for a while almost think that there was more than friendship. Marie Goesler had certainly once loved him — but so had he once loved Laura Standish. He had be wretched for a while because Lady Laura had refused him. His feelings now were altogether changed, and why should not the feelings of Madame Goesler have undergone a similar change? There was no doubt of her friendship; but then neither was there any doubt of his for Lady Laura. And in spite of her friendship would not revenge be dear to her — revenge of that nature which a slighted woman must always desire? He had rejected her, and would it not be fair also that he should be rejected? “I suppose you’ll be in your own room before lunch tomorrow,” he said to her as they separated for the night. It had come to pass from the constancy of her visits to Matching in the old Duke’s time, that a certain small morning-room had been devoted to her, and this was still supposed to be her property — so that she was not driven to herd with the public or to remain in her bedroom during all the hours of the morning. “Yes,” she said; “I shall go out immediately after breakfast, but I shall soon be driven in by the heat, and then I shall be there till lunch. The Duchess always comes about half past twelve, to complain generally of the guests.” She answered him quite at her ease, making arrangement for privacy if he should desire it, but doing so as though she thought that he wanted to talk to her about his trial, or about politics, or the place he had just refused. Surely she would hardly have answered him after such a fashion had she suspected that he intended to ask her to be his wife.
At a little before noon the next morning he knocked at her door, and was told to enter. “I didn’t go out after all,” she said. “I hadn’t courage to face the sun.”
“I saw that you were not in the garden.”
“If I could have found you I would have told you that I should be here all the morning. I might have sent you a message, only — only I didn’t.”
“I have come — ”
“I know why you have come.”
“I doubt that. I have come to tell you that I love you.”
“Oh Phineas — at last, at last!” And in a moment she was in his arms.
It seemed to him that from that moment all the explanations, and all the statements, and most of the assurances were made by her and not by him. After this first embrace he found himself seated beside her, holding her hand. “I do not know that I am right,” said he.
“Why not right?”
“Because you are rich and I have nothing.”
“If you ever remind me of that again I will strike you,” she said, raising up her little fist and bringing it down with gentle pressure on his shoulder. “Between you and me there must be nothing more about that. It must be an even partnership. There must be ever so much about money, and you’ll have to go into dreadful details, and make journeys to Vienna to see that the houses don’t tumble down — but there must be no question between you and me of whence it came.”
“You will not think that I have to come to you for that?”
“Have you ever known me to have a low opinion of myself? Is it probable that I shall account myself to be personally so mean and of so little values as to imagine that you cannot love me? I know you love me. But Phineas, I have not been sure till very lately that you would ever tell me so. As for me —! Oh, heavens! when I think of it.”
“Tell me that you love me now.”
“I think I have said so plainly enough. I have never ceased to love you since I first knew you well enough for love. And I’ll tell you more — though perhaps I shall say what you will think condemns me — you are the only man I ever loved. My husband was very good to me — and I was, I think, good to him. But he was many years my senior, and I cannot say I loved him — as I do you.” Then she turned to him, and put her head on his shoulder. “And I loved the old Duke, too, after a fashion. But it was a different thing from this. I will tell you something about him some day that I have never yet told to a human being.”
“Tell me now.”
“No; not till I am your wife. You must trust me. But I will tell you,” she said, “lest you should be miserable. He asked me to be his wife.”
“The old Duke?”
“Yes, indeed, and I refused to be a — duchess. Lady Glecora knew it all, and, just at the time I was breaking my heart — like a fool, for you! Yes, for you! But I got over it, and am not broken-hearted a bit. Oh, Phineas, I am so happy now.”
Exactly at the time she had mentioned on the previous evening, at half past twelve, the door was opened, and the Duchess entered the room. “Oh dear,” she exclaimed, “perhaps I am in the way; perhaps I am interrupting secrets.”
“No Duchess.”
“Shall I retire? I will at once if there be anything confidential going on.
“It has gone on already, and been completed,” said Madame Goesler rising from her seat. “It is only a trifle. Mr Finn has asked me to be his wife.”
“Well?”
“I couldn’t refuse Mr Finn a little thing like that.”
“I should think not, after going all the way to Prague to find a latch-key! I congratulate you, Mr Finn, with all my heart.”
“Thanks, Duchess.”
“And when is it to be?”
“We have not thought about that yet, Mr Finn — have we? — said Madame Goesler.
“Adelaide Palliser is going to be married from here some time in the autumn”, said the Duchess, “and you two had better take advantage of the occasion.” This plan however was considered as being too rapid and rash. Marriage is a very serious affair, and many things would require arrangement. A lady with the wealth which belonged to Madame Goesler cannot bestow herself off-hand as may a curate’s daughter, let her be ever so willing to give her money as well as herself. It was impossible that a day should be fixed quite at once; but the Duchess was allowed to understand that the affair might be mentioned. Before dinner on that day everyone of the guests at Matching Priory knew that the man who had refused to be made Under-Secretary of State had been accepted by that possessor of fabulous wealth who was well known to the world as Madame Goesler of Park Lane. “I am very glad that you did not take office under Mr Gresham,” she said to him when they first met each other again in London. “Of course when I was advising you I could not be sure that this would happen. Now you can bide your time, and if the opportunity offers you can go to work under better auspices.”
There remains to us the very easy task of collecting together the ends of the thread of our narrative, and tying them into a simple knot, so that there may be no unravelling. Of Mr Emilius it has been already said that his good fortune clung to him so far that it was found impossible to connect him with the tragedy of Bolton Row. But he was as made to vanish for a certain number of years from the world, and dear little Lizzie Eustace was left a free woman. When last we heard of her she was at Naples and there was then a rumour that she was about to join her fate to that of Lord George de Bruce Carruthers, with whom pecuniary matters had lately not been going comfortably. Let us hope that the match, should it be a match, may lead to the happiness and respectability of both of them.
As all the world knows, Lord and Lady Chiltern still live at Harrington Hall, and he has been considered to do very well with the Brake country. He still grumbles about Trumpeton Wood, and says that it will take a lifetime to repair injuries done by Mr Fothergill — but then who ever knew a Master of Hounds who wasn’t ill-treated by the owners of coverts?
Of Mr Tom Spooner it can only be said that he is still a bachelor, living with his cousin Ned, and that none of the neighbours expect to see a lady at Spoon Hall. In one winter, after the period of his misfortune, he become slack about his hunting, and there were rumours that he was carrying out that terrible threat of his as to the crusade which he would go to find a cure for his love. But his cousin took him in hand somewhat sharply, made him travel abroad during the summer, and brought him out the next season, “as fresh as paint”, the members of the Brake Hunt declared. It was known to every sportsman in the country that poor Mr Spooner had been in love; but the affair was allowed to be a mystery, and no one ever spoke to Spooner himself upon the subject. It is probable that he now reaps no slight amount of gratification from his memory of the romance.
The marriage between Gerard Maule and Adelaide Palliser was celebrated with great glory at Matching, and was mentioned in all the leading papers as an alliance in high life. When it became known to Mr Maule, Senior, that this would be so, and that the lady would have a very considerable fortune from the old Duke, he reconciled himself to the marriage altogether, and at once gave way in that matter of Maule Abbey. Nothing he thought would be more suitable than that the young people should live at the old family place. So Maule Abbey was fitted up, and Mr and Mrs Maule have taken up their residence there. Under the influence of his wife he has promised to attend to his farming, and proposes to do no more than go out and see the hounds when they come into his neighbourhood. Let us hope that he may prosper. Should the farming come to a good end more will probably have been due to his wife’s enterprise than to his own. The energetic father is, as all the world knows, now in pursuit of a widow with three thousand a year who has lately come out in Cavendish Square.
Of poor Lord Fawn no good account can be given. To his thinking, official life had none of those drawbacks with which the fantastic feelings of Phineas Finn had invested it. He could have been happy for ever at the India Board or at the Colonial Office — but his life was made a burden to him by the affair of the Bonteen murder. He was charged with having nearly led to the fatal catastrophe of Phineas Finn’s condemnation by his erroneous evidence, and he could not bear the accusation. Then came the further affair of Mr Emilius, his mind gave way — and he disappeared. Let us hope that he may return some day with renewed health, and again be of service to his country. Poetical justice reached Mr Quintus Slide of the People’s Banner . The acquittal and following glories of Phineas Finn were gall and wormwood to him; and he continued his attack upon the member for Tankerville even after it was known that he had refused office, and was about to be married to Madame Goesler. In these attacks he made allusions to Lady Laura which brought Lord Chiltern down upon him, and there was an action for libel. The paper had to pay damages and cost, and the proprietors resolved that Mr Quintus Slide was too energetic for their purposes. He is now earning his bread in some humble capacity on the staff of the Ballot Box — which is supposed to be the most democratic daily newspaper published in London. Slide has, however, expressed his intention of seeking his fortune in New York.
Laurence Fitzgibbon certainly did himself a good turn by his obliging deference to the opinion of the Chancellor of the Exchequer. He has been in office ever since. It must be acknowledged of all our leading statesmen that gratitude for such services is their characteristic. It is said that he spends much of his eloquence in endeavouring to make his wife believe that the air of County Mayo is the sweetest in the world. Hitherto, since his marriage, this eloquence has been thrown away, for she has always been his companion through the session in London.
It is rumoured that Barrington Erle is to be made Secretary for Ireland, but his friends doubt whether the office will suit him.
The marriage between Madame Goesler and our hero did not take place till October, and then they went abroad for the greater part of the winter, Phineas having received leave of absence officially from the Speaker and unofficially from his constituents. After all that he had gone through it was acknowledged that so much ease should be permitted to him. They went first to Vienna, and then back into Italy, and were unheard of by their English friends for nearly six months. In April they reappeared in London, and the house in Park Lane was opened with great êclat . Of Phineas everyone says that of all living men he has been the most fortunate. The present writer will not think so unless he shall soon turn his hand to some useful task. Those who know him best say that he will of course go into office before long.
Of poor Lady Laura hardly a word need be said. She lives at Saulsby the life of a recluse, and the old Earl her father is still alive.
The Duke, as all the world knows, is on the very eve of success with the decimal coinage. But his hair is becoming grey, and his back is becoming bent; and men say that he will never live as long as his uncle. But then he will have done a great thing — and his uncle did only little things. Of the Duchess no word need be said. Nothing will ever change the Duchess.
The End