XXXV. Mr. Monk upon Reform…

XXXV. Mr. Monk upon Reform

Phineas Finn went to Ireland immediately after his return from Saulsby, having said nothing further to Violet Effingham, and having heard nothing further from her than what is recorded in the last chapter. He felt very keenly that his position was unsatisfactory, and brooded over it all the autumn and early winter; but he could form no plan for improving it. A dozen times he thought of writing to Miss Effingham, and asking for an explicit answer. He could not, however, bring himself to write the letter, thinking that written expressions of love are always weak and vapid,--and deterred also by a conviction that Violet, if driven to reply in writing, would undoubtedly reply by a refusal. Fifty times he rode again in his imagination his ride in Saulsby Wood, and he told himself as often that the syren’s answer to him,--her no, no, no,--had been, of all possible answers, the most indefinite and provoking. The tone of her voice as she galloped away from him, the bearing of her countenance when he rejoined her, her manner to him when he saw her start from the Castle in the morning, all forbade him to believe that his words to her had been taken as an offence. She had replied to him with a direct negative, simply with the word “no;” but she had so said it that there had hardly been any sting in the no; and he had known at the moment that whatever might be the result of his suit, he need not regard Violet Effingham as his enemy.

But the doubt made his sojourn in Ireland very wearisome to him. And there were other matters which tended also to his discomfort, though he was not left even at this period of his life without a continuation of success which seemed to be very wonderful. And, first, I will say a word of his discomfort. He heard not a line from Lord Chiltern in answer to the letter which he had written to his lordship. From Lady Laura he did hear frequently. Lady Laura wrote to him exactly as though she had never warned him away from Loughlinter, and as though there had been no occasion for such warning. She sent him letters filled chiefly with politics, saying something also of the guests at Loughlinter, something of the game, and just a word or two here and there of her husband. The letters were very good letters, and he preserved them carefully. It was manifest to him that they were intended to be good letters, and, as such, to be preserved. In one of these, which he received about the end of November, she told him that her brother was again in his old haunt, at the Willingford Bull, and that he had sent to Portman Square for all property of his own that had been left there. But there was no word in that letter of Violet Effingham; and though Lady Laura did speak more than once of Violet, she always did so as though Violet were simply a joint acquaintance of herself and her correspondent. There was no allusion to the existence of any special regard on his part for Miss Effingham. He had thought that Violet might probably tell her friend what had occurred at Saulsby;--but if she did so, Lady Laura was happy in her powers of reticence. Our hero was disturbed also when he reached home by finding that Mrs. Flood Jones and Miss Flood Jones had retired from Killaloe for the winter. I do not know whether he might not have been more disturbed by the presence of the young lady, for he would have found himself constrained to exhibit towards her some tenderness of manner; and any such tenderness of manner would, in his existing circumstances, have been dangerous. But he was made to understand that Mary Flood Jones had been taken away from Killaloe because it was thought that he had ill-treated the lady, and the accusation made him unhappy. In the middle of the heat of the last session he had received a letter from his sister, in which some pushing question had been asked as to his then existing feeling about poor Mary. This he had answered petulantly. Nothing more had been written to him about Miss Jones, and nothing was said to him when he reached home. He could not, however, but ask after Mary, and when he did ask, the accusation was made again in that quietly severe manner with which, perhaps, most of us have been made acquainted at some period of our lives. “I think, Phineas,” said his sister, “we had better say nothing about dear Mary. She is not here at present, and probably you may not see her while you remain with us.” “What’s all that about?” Phineas had demanded,--understanding the whole matter thoroughly. Then his sister had demurely refused to say a word further on the subject, and not a word further was said about Miss Mary Flood Jones. They were at Floodborough, living, he did not doubt, in a very desolate way,--and quite willing, he did not doubt also, to abandon their desolation if he would go over there in the manner that would become him after what had passed on one or two occasions between him and the young lady. But how was he to do this with such work on his hands as he had undertaken? Now that he was in Ireland, he thought that he did love dear Mary very dearly. He felt that he had two identities,--that he was, as it were, two separate persons,--and that he could, without any real faithlessness, be very much in love with Violet Effingham in his position of man of fashion and member of Parliament in England, and also warmly attached to dear little Mary Flood Jones as an Irishman of Killaloe. He was aware, however, that there was a prejudice against such fulness of heart, and, therefore, resolved sternly that it was his duty to be constant to Miss Effingham. How was it possible that he should marry dear Mary,--he, with such extensive jobs of work on his hands! It was not possible. He must abandon all thought of making dear Mary his own. No doubt they had been right to remove her. But, still, as he took his solitary walks along the Shannon, and up on the hills that overhung the lake above the town, he felt somewhat ashamed of himself, and dreamed of giving up Parliament, of leaving Violet to some noble suitor,--to Lord Chiltern, if she would take him,--and of going to Floodborough with an honest proposal that he should be allowed to press Mary to his heart. Miss Effingham would probably reject him at last; whereas Mary, dear Mary, would come to his heart without a scruple of doubt. Dear Mary! In these days of dreaming, he told himself that, after all, dear Mary was his real love. But, of course, such days were days of dreaming only. He had letters in his pocket from Lady Laura Kennedy which made it impossible for him to think in earnest of giving up Parliament.

And then there came a wonderful piece of luck in his way. There lived, or had lived, in the town of Galway a very eccentric old lady, one Miss Marian Persse, who was the aunt of Mrs. Finn, the mother of our hero. With this lady Dr. Finn had quarrelled persistently ever since his marriage, because the lady had expressed her wish to interfere in the management of his family,--offering to purchase such right by favourable arrangements in reference to her will. This the doctor had resented, and there had been quarrels. Miss Persse was not a very rich old lady, but she thought a good deal of her own money. And now she died, leaving £3,000 to her nephew Phineas Finn. Another sum of about equal amount she bequeathed to a Roman Catholic seminary; and thus was her worldly wealth divided. “She couldn’t have done better with it,” said the old doctor; “and as far as we are concerned, the windfall is the more pleasant as being wholly unexpected.” In these days the doctor was undoubtedly gratified by his son’s success in life, and never said much about the law. Phineas in truth did do some work during the autumn, reading blue-books, reading law books, reading perhaps a novel or two at the same time,--but shutting himself up very carefully as he studied, so that his sisters were made to understand that for a certain four hours in the day not a sound was to be allowed to disturb him.

On the receipt of his legacy he at once offered to repay his father all money that had been advanced him over and above his original allowance; but this the doctor refused to take. “It comes to the same thing, Phineas,” he said. “What you have of your share now you can’t have hereafter. As regards my present income, it has only made me work a little longer than I had intended; and I believe that the later in life a man works, the more likely he is to live.” Phineas, therefore, when he returned to London, had his £3,000 in his pocket. He owed some £500; and the remainder he would, of course, invest.

There had been some talk of an autumnal session, but Mr. Mildmay’s decision had at last been against it. Who cannot understand that such would be the decision of any Minister to whom was left the slightest fraction of free will in the matter? Why should any Minister court the danger of unnecessary attack, submit himself to unnecessary work, and incur the odium of summoning all his friends from their rest? In the midst of the doubts as to the new and old Ministry, when the political needle was vacillating so tremulously on its pivot, pointing now to one set of men as the coming Government and then to another, vague suggestions as to an autumn session might be useful. And they were thrown out in all good faith. Mr. Mildmay, when he spoke on the subject to the Duke, was earnest in thinking that the question of Reform should not be postponed even for six months. “Don’t pledge yourself,” said the Duke;--and Mr. Mildmay did not pledge himself. Afterwards, when Mr. Mildmay found that he was once more assuredly Prime Minister, he changed his mind, and felt himself to be under a fresh obligation to the Duke. Lord de Terrier had altogether failed, and the country might very well wait till February. The country did wait till February, somewhat to the disappointment of Phineas Finn, who had become tired of blue-books at Killaloe. The difference between his English life and his life at home was so great, that it was hardly possible that he should not become weary of the latter. He did become weary of it, but strove gallantly to hide his weariness from his father and mother.

At this time the world was talking much about Reform, though Mr. Mildmay had become placidly patient. The feeling was growing, and Mr. Turnbull, with his friends, was doing all he could to make it grow fast. There was a certain amount of excitement on the subject; but the excitement had grown downwards, from the leaders to the people,--from the self-instituted leaders of popular politics down, by means of the press, to the ranks of working men, instead of growing upwards, from the dissatisfaction of the masses, till it expressed itself by this mouthpiece and that, chosen by the people themselves. There was no strong throb through the country, making men feel that safety was to be had by Reform, and could not be had without Reform. But there was an understanding that the press and the orators were too strong to be ignored, and that some new measure of Reform must be conceded to them. The sooner the concession was made, the less it might be necessary to concede. And all men of all parties were agreed on this point. That Reform was in itself odious to many of those who spoke of it freely, who offered themselves willingly to be its promoters, was acknowledged. It was not only odious to Lord de Terrier and to most of those who worked with him, but was equally so to many of Mr. Mildmay’s most constant supporters. The Duke had no wish for Reform. Indeed it is hard to suppose that such a Duke can wish for any change in a state of things that must seem to him to be so salutary. Workmen were getting full wages. Farmers were paying their rent. Capitalists by the dozen were creating capitalists by the hundreds. Nothing was wrong in the country, but the over-dominant spirit of speculative commerce;--and there was nothing in Reform to check that. Why should the Duke want Reform? As for such men as Lord Brentford, Sir Harry Coldfoot, Lord Plinlimmon, and Mr. Legge Wilson, it was known to all men that they advocated Reform as we all of us advocate doctors. Some amount of doctoring is necessary for us. We may hardly hope to avoid it. But let us have as little of the doctor as possible. Mr. Turnbull, and the cheap press, and the rising spirit of the loudest among the people, made it manifest that something must be conceded. Let us be generous in our concession. That was now the doctrine of many,--perhaps of most of the leading politicians of the day. Let us be generous. Let us at any rate seem to be generous. Let us give with an open hand,--but still with a hand which, though open, shall not bestow too much. The coach must be allowed to run down the hill. Indeed, unless the coach goes on running no journey will be made. But let us have the drag on both the hind wheels. And we must remember that coaches running down hill without drags are apt to come to serious misfortune.

But there were men, even in the Cabinet, who had other ideas of public service than that of dragging the wheels of the coach. Mr. Gresham was in earnest. Plantagenet Palliser was in earnest. That exceedingly intelligent young nobleman Lord Cantrip was in earnest. Mr. Mildmay threw, perhaps, as much of earnestness into the matter as was compatible with his age and his full appreciation of the manner in which the present cry for Reform had been aroused. He was thoroughly honest, thoroughly patriotic, and thoroughly ambitious that he should be written of hereafter as one who to the end of a long life had worked sedulously for the welfare of the people;--but he disbelieved in Mr. Turnbull, and in the bottom of his heart indulged an aristocratic contempt for the penny press. And there was no man in England more in earnest, more truly desirous of Reform, than Mr. Monk. It was his great political idea that political advantages should be extended to the people, whether the people clamoured for them or did not clamour for them,--even whether they desired them or did not desire them. “You do not ask a child whether he would like to learn his lesson,” he would say. “At any rate, you do not wait till he cries for his book.” When, therefore, men said to him that there was no earnestness in the cry for Reform, that the cry was a false cry, got up for factious purposes by interested persons, he would reply that the thing to be done should not be done in obedience to any cry, but because it was demanded by justice, and was a debt due to the people.

Our hero in the autumn had written to Mr. Monk on the politics of the moment, and the following had been Mr. Monk’s reply:--

Longroyston, October 12, 186--.

MY DEAR FINN,

I am staying here with the Duke and Duchess of St. Bungay. The house is very full, and Mr. Mildmay was here last week; but as I don’t shoot, and can’t play billiards, and have no taste for charades, I am becoming tired of the gaieties, and shall leave them to-morrow. Of course you know that we are not to have the autumn session. I think that Mr. Mildmay is right. Could we have been sure of passing our measure, it would have been very well; but we could not have been sure, and failure with our bill in a session convened for the express purpose of passing it would have injured the cause greatly. We could hardly have gone on with it again in the spring. Indeed, we must have resigned. And though I may truly say that I would as lief have a good measure from Lord de Terrier as from Mr. Mildmay, and that I am indifferent to my own present personal position, still I think that we should endeavour to keep our seats as long as we honestly believe ourselves to be more capable of passing a good measure than are our opponents.

I am astonished by the difference of opinion which exists about Reform,--not only as to the difference in the extent and exact tendency of the measure that is needed,--but that there should be such a divergence of ideas as to the grand thing to be done and the grand reason for doing it. We are all agreed that we want Reform in order that the House of Commons may be returned by a larger proportion of the people than is at present employed upon that work, and that each member when returned should represent a somewhat more equal section of the whole constituencies of the country than our members generally do at present. All men confess that a £50 county franchise must be too high, and that a borough with less than two hundred registered voters must be wrong. But it seems to me that but few among us perceive, or at any rate acknowledge, the real reasons for changing these things and reforming what is wrong without delay. One great authority told us the other day that the sole object of legislation on this subject should be to get together the best possible 658 members of Parliament. That to me would be a most repulsive idea if it were not that by its very vagueness it becomes inoperative. Who shall say what is best; or what characteristic constitutes excellence in a member of Parliament? If the gentleman means excellence in general wisdom, or in statecraft, or in skill in talking, or in private character, or even excellence in patriotism, then I say that he is utterly wrong, and has never touched with his intellect the true theory of representation. One only excellence may be acknowledged, and that is the excellence of likeness. As a portrait should be like the person portrayed, so should a representative House be like the people whom it represents. Nor in arranging a franchise does it seem to me that we have a right to regard any other view. If a country be unfit for representative government,--and it may be that there are still peoples unable to use properly that greatest of all blessings,--the question as to what state policy may be best for them is a different question. But if we do have representation, let the representative assembly be like the people, whatever else may be its virtues,--and whatever else its vices.

Another great authority has told us that our House of Commons should be the mirror of the people. I say, not its mirror, but its miniature. And let the artist be careful to put in every line of the expression of that ever-moving face. To do this is a great work, and the artist must know his trade well. In America the work has been done with so coarse a hand that nothing is shown in the picture but the broad, plain, unspeaking outline of the face. As you look from the represented to the representation you cannot but acknowledge the likeness; --but there is in that portrait more of the body than of the mind. The true portrait should represent more than the body. With us, hitherto, there have been snatches of the countenance of the nation which have been inimitable,--a turn of the eye here and a curl of the lip there, which have seemed to denote a power almost divine. There have been marvels on the canvas so beautiful that one approaches the work of remodelling it with awe. But not only is the picture imperfect,--a thing of snatches,--but with years it becomes less and still less like its original.

The necessity for remodelling it is imperative, and we shall be cowards if we decline the work. But let us be specially careful to retain as much as possible of those lines which we all acknowledge to be so faithfully representative of our nation. To give to a bare numerical majority of the people that power which the numerical majority has in the United States, would not be to achieve representation. The nation as it now exists would not be known by such a portrait;--but neither can it now be known by that which exists. It seems to me that they who are adverse to change, looking back with an unmeasured respect on what our old Parliaments have done for us, ignore the majestic growth of the English people, and forget the present in their worship of the past. They think that we must be what we were,--at any rate, what we were thirty years since. They have not, perhaps, gone into the houses of artisans, or, if there, they have not looked into the breasts of the men. With population vice has increased, and these politicians, with ears but no eyes, hear of drunkenness and sin and ignorance. And then they declare to themselves that this wicked, half-barbarous, idle people should be controlled and not represented. A wicked, half-barbarous, idle people may be controlled;--but not a people thoughtful, educated, and industrious. We must look to it that we do not endeavour to carry our control beyond the wickedness and the barbarity, and that we be ready to submit to control from thoughtfulness and industry.

I hope we shall find you helping at the good work early in the spring.

Yours, always faithfully,

JOSHUA MONK.

Phineas was up in London before the end of January, but did not find there many of those whom he wished to see. Mr. Low was there, and to him he showed Mr. Monk’s letter, thinking that it must be convincing even to Mr. Low. This he did in Mrs. Low’s drawing-room, knowing that Mrs. Low would also condescend to discuss politics on an occasion. He had dined with them, and they had been glad to see him, and Mrs. Low had been less severe than hitherto against the great sin of her husband’s late pupil. She had condescended to congratulate him on becoming member for an English borough instead of an Irish one, and had asked him questions about Saulsby Castle. But, nevertheless, Mr. Monk’s letter was not received with that respectful admiration which Phineas thought that it deserved. Phineas, foolishly, had read it out loud, so that the attack came upon him simultaneously from the husband and from the wife.

“It is just the usual claptrap,” said Mr. Low, “only put into language somewhat more grandiloquent than usual.”

“Claptrap!” said Phineas.

“It’s what I call downright Radical nonsense,” said Mrs. Low, nodding her head energetically. “Portrait indeed! Why should we want to have a portrait of ignorance and ugliness? What we all want is to have things quiet and orderly.”

“Then you’d better have a paternal government at once,” said Phineas.

“Just so,” said Mr. Low,--“only that what you call a paternal government is not always quiet and orderly. National order I take to be submission to the law. I should not think it quiet and orderly if I were sent to Cayenne without being brought before a jury.”

“But such a man as you would not be sent to Cayenne,” said Phineas.

“My next-door neighbour might be,--which would be almost as bad. Let him be sent to Cayenne if he deserves it, but let a jury say that he has deserved it. My idea of government is this,--that we want to be governed by law and not by caprice, and that we must have a legislature to make our laws. If I thought that Parliament as at present established made the laws badly, I would desire a change; but I doubt whether we shall have them better from any change in Parliament which Reform will give us.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Low. “But we shall have a lot of beggars put on horseback, and we all know where they ride to.”

Then Phineas became aware that it is not easy to convince any man or any woman on a point of politics,--not even though he who argues may have an eloquent letter from a philosophical Cabinet Minister in his pocket to assist him.

XXXVI. Phineas Finn Makes Progress

February was far advanced and the new Reform Bill had already been brought forward, before Lady Laura Kennedy came up to town. Phineas had of course seen Mr. Kennedy and had heard from him tidings of his wife. She was at Saulsby with Lady Baldock and Miss Boreham and Violet Effingham, but was to be in London soon. Mr. Kennedy, as it appeared, did not quite know when he was to expect his wife; and Phineas thought that he could perceive from the tone of the husband’s voice that something was amiss. He could not however ask any questions excepting such as referred to the expected arrival. Was Miss Effingham to come to London with Lady Laura? Mr. Kennedy believed that Miss Effingham would be up before Easter, but he did not know whether she would come with his wife. “Women,” he said, “are so fond of mystery that one can never quite know what they intend to do.” He corrected himself at once however, perceiving that he had seemed to say something against his wife, and explained that his general accusation against the sex was not intended to apply to Lady Laura. This, however, he did so awkwardly as to strengthen the feeling with Phineas that something assuredly was wrong. “Miss Effingham,” said Mr. Kennedy, “never seems to know her own mind.” “I suppose she is like other beautiful girls who are petted on all sides,” said Phineas. “As for her beauty, I don’t think much of it,” said Mr. Kennedy; “and as for petting, I do not understand it in reference to grown persons. Children may be petted, and dogs,--though that too is bad; but what you call petting for grown persons is I think frivolous and almost indecent.” Phineas could not help thinking of Lord Chiltern’s opinion that it would have been wise to have left Mr. Kennedy in the hands of the garrotters.

The debate on the second reading of the bill was to be commenced on the 1st of March, and two days before that Lady Laura arrived in Grosvenor Place. Phineas got a note from her in three words to say that she was at home and would see him if he called on Sunday afternoon. The Sunday to which she alluded was the last day of February. Phineas was now more certain than ever that something was wrong. Had there been nothing wrong between Lady Laura and her husband, she would not have rebelled against him by asking visitors to the house on a Sunday. He had nothing to do with that, however, and of course he did as he was desired. He called on the Sunday, and found Mrs. Bonteen sitting with Lady Laura. “I am just in time for the debate,” said Lady Laura, when the first greeting was over.

“You don’t mean to say that you intend to sit it out,” said Mrs. Bonteen.

“Every word of it,--unless I lose my seat. What else is there to be done at present?”

“But the place they give us is so unpleasant,” said Mrs. Bonteen.

“There are worse places even than the Ladies’ Gallery,” said Lady Laura. “And perhaps it is as well to make oneself used to inconveniences of all kinds. You will speak, Mr. Finn?”

“I intend to do so.”

“Of course you will. The great speeches will be Mr. Gresham’s, Mr. Daubeny’s, and Mr. Monk’s.”

“Mr. Palliser intends to be very strong,” said Mrs. Bonteen.

“A man cannot be strong or not as he likes it,” said Lady Laura. “Mr. Palliser I believe to be a most useful man, but he never can become an orator. He is of the same class as Mr. Kennedy,--only of course higher in the class.”

“We all look for a great speech from Mr. Kennedy,” said Mrs. Bonteen.

“I have not the slightest idea whether he will open his lips,” said Lady Laura. Immediately after that Mrs. Bonteen took her leave. “I hate that woman like poison,” continued Lady Laura. “She is always playing a game, and it is such a small game that she plays! And she contributes so little to society. She is not witty nor well-informed,--not even sufficiently ignorant or ridiculous to be a laughing-stock. One gets nothing from her, and yet she has made her footing good in the world.”

“I thought she was a friend of yours.”

“You did not think so! You could not have thought so! How can you bring such an accusation against me, knowing me as you do? But never mind Mrs. Bonteen now. On what day shall you speak?”

“On Tuesday if I can.”

“I suppose you can arrange it?”

“I shall endeavour to do so, as far as any arrangement can go.”

“We shall carry the second reading,” said Lady Laura.

“Yes,” said Phineas; “I think we shall; but by the votes of men who are determined so to pull the bill to pieces in committee, that its own parents will not know it. I doubt whether Mr. Mildmay will have the temper to stand it.”

“They tell me that Mr. Mildmay will abandon the custody of the bill to Mr. Gresham after his first speech.”

“I don’t know that Mr. Gresham’s temper is more enduring than Mr. Mildmay’s,” said Phineas.

“Well;--we shall see. My own impression is that nothing would save the country so effectually at the present moment as the removal of Mr. Turnbull to a higher and a better sphere.”

“Let us say the House of Lords,” said Phineas.

“God forbid!” said Lady Laura.

Phineas sat there for half an hour and then got up to go, having spoken no word on any other subject than that of politics. He longed to ask after Violet. He longed to make some inquiry respecting Lord Chiltern. And, to tell the truth, he felt painfully curious to hear Lady Laura say something about her own self. He could not but remember what had been said between them up over the waterfall, and how he had been warned not to return to Loughlinter. And then again, did Lady Laura know anything of what had passed between him and Violet? “Where is your brother?” he said, as he rose from his chair.

“Oswald is in London. He was here not an hour before you came in.”

“Where is he staying?”

“At Moroni’s. He goes down on Tuesday, I think. He is to see his father to-morrow morning.”

“By agreement?”

“Yes;--by agreement. There is a new trouble,--about money that they think to be due to me. But I cannot tell you all now. There have been some words between Mr. Kennedy and papa. But I won’t talk about it. You would find Oswald at Moroni’s at any hour before eleven to-morrow.”

“Did he say anything about me?” asked Phineas.

“We mentioned your name certainly.”

“I do not ask from vanity, but I want to know whether he is angry with me.”

“Angry with you! Not in the least. I’ll tell you just what he said. He said he should not wish to live even with you, but that he would sooner try it with you than with any man he ever knew.”

“He had got a letter from me?”

“He did not say so;--but he did not say he had not.”

“I will see him to-morrow if I can.” And then Phineas prepared to go.

“One word, Mr. Finn,” said Lady Laura, hardly looking him in the face and yet making an effort to do so. “I wish you to forget what I said to you at Loughlinter.”

“It shall be as though it were forgotten,” said Phineas.

“Let it be absolutely forgotten. In such a case a man is bound to do all that a woman asks him, and no man has a truer spirit of chivalry than yourself. That is all. Look in when you can. I will not ask you to dine here as yet, because we are so frightfully dull. Do your best on Tuesday, and then let us see you on Wednesday. Good-bye.”

Phineas as he walked across the park towards his club made up his mind that he would forget the scene by the waterfall. He had never quite known what it had meant, and he would wipe it away from his mind altogether. He acknowledged to himself that chivalry did demand of him that he should never allow himself to think of Lady Laura’s rash words to him. That she was not happy with her husband was very clear to him;--but that was altogether another affair. She might be unhappy with her husband without indulging any guilty love. He had never thought it possible that she could be happy living with such a husband as Mr. Kennedy. All that, however, was now past remedy, and she must simply endure the mode of life which she had prepared for herself. There were other men and women in London tied together for better and worse, in reference to whose union their friends knew that there would be no better;--that it must be all worse. Lady Laura must bear it, as it was borne by many another married woman.

On the Monday morning Phineas called at Moroni’s Hotel at ten o’clock, but in spite of Lady Laura’s assurance to the contrary, he found that Lord Chiltern was out. He had felt some palpitation at the heart as he made his inquiry, knowing well the fiery nature of the man he expected to see. It might be that there would be some actual personal conflict between him and this half-mad lord before he got back again into the street. What Lady Laura had said about her brother did not in the estimation of Phineas make this at all the less probable. The half-mad lord was so singular in his ways that it might well be that he should speak handsomely of a rival behind his back and yet take him by the throat as soon as they were together, face to face. And yet, as Phineas thought, it was necessary that he should see the half-mad lord. He had written a letter to which he had received no reply, and he considered it to be incumbent on him to ask whether it had been received and whether any answer to it was intended to be given. He went therefore to Lord Chiltern at once,--as I have said, with some feeling at his heart that there might be violence, at any rate of words, before he should find himself again in the street. But Lord Chiltern was not there. All that the porter knew was that Lord Chiltern intended to leave the house on the following morning. Then Phineas wrote a note and left it with the porter.

DEAR CHILTERN,

I particularly want to see you with reference to a letter I wrote to you last summer. I must be in the House to-day from four till the debate is over. I will be at the Reform Club from two till half-past three, and will come if you will send for me, or I will meet you anywhere at any hour to-morrow morning.

Yours, always, P. F.

No message came to him at the Reform Club, and he was in his seat in the House by four o’clock. During the debate a note was brought to him, which ran as follows:--

I have got your letter this moment. Of course we must meet. I hunt on Tuesday, and go down by the early train; but I will come to town on Wednesday. We shall require to be private, and I will therefore be at your rooms at one o’clock on that day.--C.

Phineas at once perceived that the note was a hostile note, written in an angry spirit,--written to one whom the writer did not at the moment acknowledge to be his friend. This was certainly the case, whatever Lord Chiltern may have said to his sister as to his friendship for Phineas. Phineas crushed the note into his pocket, and of course determined that he would be in his rooms at the hour named.

The debate was opened by a speech from Mr. Mildmay, in which that gentleman at great length and with much perspicuity explained his notion of that measure of Parliamentary Reform which he thought to be necessary. He was listened to with the greatest attention to the close,--and perhaps, at the end of his speech, with more attention than usual, as there had gone abroad a rumour that the Prime Minister intended to declare that this would be the last effort of his life in that course. But, if he ever intended to utter such a pledge, his heart misgave him when the time came for uttering it. He merely said that as the management of the bill in committee would be an affair of much labour, and probably spread over many nights, he would be assisted in his work by his colleagues, and especially by his right honourable friend the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. It was then understood that Mr. Gresham would take the lead should the bill go into committee;--but it was understood also that no resignation of leadership had been made by Mr. Mildmay.

The measure now proposed to the House was very much the same as that which had been brought forward in the last session. The existing theory of British representation was not to be changed, but the actual practice was to be brought nearer to the ideal theory. The ideas of manhood suffrage, and of electoral districts, were to be as for ever removed from the bulwarks of the British Constitution. There were to be counties with agricultural constituencies, purposely arranged to be purely agricultural, whenever the nature of the counties would admit of its being so. No artificer at Reform, let him be Conservative or Liberal, can make Middlesex or Lancashire agricultural; but Wiltshire and Suffolk were to be preserved inviolable to the plough,--and the apples of Devonshire were still to have their sway. Every town in the three kingdoms with a certain population was to have two members. But here there was much room for cavil,--as all men knew would be the case. Who shall say what is a town, or where shall be its limits? Bits of counties might be borrowed, so as to lessen the Conservatism of the county without endangering the Liberalism of the borough. And then there were the boroughs with one member,--and then the groups of little boroughs. In the discussion of any such arrangement how easy is the picking of holes; how impossible the fabrication of a garment that shall be impervious to such picking! Then again there was that great question of the ballot. On that there was to be no mistake. Mr. Mildmay again pledged himself to disappear from the Treasury bench should any motion, clause, or resolution be carried by that House in favour of the ballot. He spoke for three hours, and then left the carcass of his bill to be fought for by the opposing armies.

No reader of these pages will desire that the speeches in the debate should be even indicated. It soon became known that the Conservatives would not divide the House against the second reading of the bill. They declared, however, very plainly their intention of so altering the clauses of the bill in committee,--or at least of attempting so to do,--as to make the bill their bill, rather than the bill of their opponents. To this Mr. Palliser replied that as long as nothing vital was touched, the Government would only be too happy to oblige their friends opposite. If anything vital were touched, the Government could only fall back upon their friends on that side. And in this way men were very civil to each other. But Mr. Turnbull, who opened the debate on the Tuesday, thundered out an assurance to gods and men that he would divide the House on the second reading of the bill itself. He did not doubt but that there were many good men and true to go with him into the lobby, but into the lobby he would go if he had no more than a single friend to support him. And he warned the Sovereign, and he warned the House, and he warned the people of England, that the measure of Reform now proposed by a so-called liberal Minister was a measure prepared in concert with the ancient enemies of the people. He was very loud, very angry, and quite successful in hallooing down sundry attempts which were made to interrupt him. “I find,” he said, “that there are many members here who do not know me yet,--young members, probably, who are green from the waste lands and road-sides of private life. They will know me soon, and then, may be, there will be less of this foolish noise, less of this elongation of unnecessary necks. Our Rome must be aroused to a sense of its danger by other voices than these.” He was called to order, but it was ruled that he had not been out of order,--and he was very triumphant. Mr. Monk answered him, and it was declared afterwards that Mr. Monk’s speech was one of the finest pieces of oratory that had ever been uttered in that House. He made one remark personal to Mr. Turnbull. “I quite agreed with the right honourable gentleman in the chair,” he said, “when he declared that the honourable member was not out of order just now. We all of us agree with him always on such points. The rules of our House have been laid down with the utmost latitude, so that the course of our debates may not be frivolously or too easily interrupted. But a member may be so in order as to incur the displeasure of the House, and to merit the reproaches of his countrymen.” This little duel gave great life to the debate; but it was said that those two great Reformers, Mr. Turnbull and Mr. Monk, could never again meet as friends.

In the course of the debate on Tuesday, Phineas got upon his legs. The reader, I trust, will remember that hitherto he had failed altogether as a speaker. On one occasion he had lacked even the spirit to use and deliver an oration which he had prepared. On a second occasion he had broken down,--woefully, and past all redemption, as said those who were not his friends,--unfortunately, but not past redemption, as said those who were his true friends. After that once again he had arisen and said a few words which had called for no remark, and had been spoken as though he were in the habit of addressing the House daily. It may be doubted whether there were half-a-dozen men now present who recognised the fact that this man, who was so well known to so many of them, was now about to make another attempt at a first speech. Phineas himself diligently attempted to forget that such was the case. He had prepared for himself a few headings of what he intended to say, and on one or two points had arranged his words. His hope was that even though he should forget the words, he might still be able to cling to the thread of his discourse. When he found himself again upon his legs amidst those crowded seats, for a few moments there came upon him that old sensation of awe. Again things grew dim before his eyes, and again he hardly knew at which end of that long chamber the Speaker was sitting. But there arose within him a sudden courage, as soon as the sound of his own voice in that room had made itself intimate to his ear; and after the first few sentences, all fear, all awe, was gone from him. When he read his speech in the report afterwards, he found that he had strayed very wide of his intended course, but he had strayed without tumbling into ditches, or falling into sunken pits. He had spoken much from Mr. Monk’s letter, but had had the grace to acknowledge whence had come his inspiration. He hardly knew, however, whether he had failed again or not, till Barrington Erle came up to him as they were leaving the House, with his old easy pressing manner. “So you have got into form at last,” he said. “I always thought that it would come. I never for a moment believed but that it would come sooner or later.” Phineas Finn answered not a word; but he went home and lay awake all night triumphant. The verdict of Barrington Erle sufficed to assure him that he had succeeded.

XXXVII. A Rough Encounter

Phineas, when he woke, had two matters to occupy his mind,--his success of the previous night, and his coming interview with Lord Chiltern. He stayed at home the whole morning, knowing that nothing could be done before the hour Lord Chiltern had named for his visit. He read every word of the debate, studiously postponing the perusal of his own speech till he should come to it in due order. And then he wrote to his father, commencing his letter as though his writing had no reference to the affairs of the previous night. But he soon found himself compelled to break into some mention of it. “I send you a Times,” he said, “in order that you may see that I have had my finger in the pie. I have hitherto abstained from putting myself forward in the House, partly through a base fear for which I despise myself, and partly through a feeling of prudence that a man of my age should not be in a hurry to gather laurels. This is literally true. There has been the fear, and there has been the prudence. My wonder is, that I have not incurred more contempt from others because I have been a coward. People have been so kind to me that I must suppose them to have judged me more leniently than I have judged myself.” Then, as he was putting up the paper, he looked again at his own speech, and of course read every word of it once more. As he did so it occurred to him that the reporters had been more than courteous to him. The man who had followed him had been, he thought, at any rate as long-winded as himself; but to this orator less than half a column had been granted. To him had been granted ten lines in big type, and after that a whole column and a half. Let Lord Chiltern come and do his worst!

When it wanted but twenty minutes to one, and he was beginning to think in what way he had better answer the half-mad lord, should the lord in his wrath be very mad, there came to him a note by the hand of some messenger. He knew at once that it was from Lady Laura, and opened it in hot haste. It was as follows:--

DEAR MR. FINN,

We are all talking about your speech. My father was in the gallery and heard it,--and said that he had to thank me for sending you to Loughton. That made me very happy. Mr. Kennedy declares that you were eloquent, but too short. That coming from him is praise indeed. I have seen Barrington, who takes pride to himself that you are his political child. Violet says that it is the only speech she ever read. I was there, and was delighted. I was sure that it was in you to do it.

Yours, L. K.

I suppose we shall see you after the House is up, but I write this as I shall barely have an opportunity of speaking to you then. I shall be in Portman Square, not at home, from six till seven.

The moment in which Phineas refolded this note and put it into his breast coat-pocket was, I think, the happiest of his life. Then, before he had withdrawn his hand from his breast, he remembered that what was now about to take place between him and Lord Chiltern would probably be the means of separating him altogether from Lady Laura and her family. Nay, might it not render it necessary that he should abandon the seat in Parliament which had been conferred upon him by the personal kindness of Lord Brentford? Let that be as it might. One thing was clear to him. He would not abandon Violet Effingham till he should be desired to do so in the plainest language by Violet Effingham herself. Looking at his watch he saw that it was one o’clock, and at that moment Lord Chiltern was announced.

Phineas went forward immediately with his hand out to meet his visitor. “Chiltern,” he said, “I am very glad to see you.” But Lord Chiltern did not take his hand. Passing on to the table, with his hat still on his head, and with a dark scowl upon his brow, the young lord stood for a few moments perfectly silent. Then he chucked a letter across the table to the spot at which Phineas was standing. Phineas, taking up the letter, perceived that it was that which he, in his great attempt to be honest, had written from the inn at Loughton. “It is my own letter to you,” he said.

“Yes; it is your letter to me. I received it oddly enough together with your own note at Moroni’s,--on Monday morning. It has been round the world, I suppose, and reached me only then. You must withdraw it.”

“Withdraw it?”

“Yes, sir, withdraw it. As far as I can learn, without asking any question which would have committed myself or the young lady, you have not acted upon it. You have not yet done what you there threaten to do. In that you have been very wise, and there can be no difficulty in your withdrawing the letter.”

“I certainly shall not withdraw it, Lord Chiltern.”

“Do you remember--what--I once--told you,--about myself and Miss Effingham?” This question he asked very slowly, pausing between the words, and looking full into the face of his rival, towards whom he had gradually come nearer. And his countenance, as he did so, was by no means pleasant. The redness of his complexion had become more ruddy than usual; he still wore his hat as though with studied insolence; his right hand was clenched; and there was that look of angry purpose in his eye which no man likes to see in the eye of an antagonist. Phineas was afraid of no violence, personal to himself; but he was afraid of,--of what I may, perhaps, best call “a row.” To be tumbling over the chairs and tables with his late friend and present enemy in Mrs. Bunce’s room would be most unpleasant to him. If there were to be blows he, too, must strike;--and he was very averse to strike Lady Laura’s brother, Lord Brentford’s son, Violet Effingham’s friend. If need be, however, he would strike.

“I suppose I remember what you mean,” said Phineas. “I think you declared that you would quarrel with any man who might presume to address Miss Effingham. Is it that to which you allude?”

“It is that,” said Lord Chiltern.

“I remember what you said very well. If nothing else was to deter me from asking Miss Effingham to be my wife, you will hardly think that that ought to have any weight. The threat had no weight.”

“It was not spoken as a threat, sir, and that you know as well as I do. It was said from a friend to a friend,--as I thought then. But it is not the less true. I wonder what you can think of faith and truth and honesty of purpose when you took advantage of my absence,--you, whom I had told a thousand times that I loved her better than my own soul! You stand before the world as a rising man, and I stand before the world as a man--damned. You have been chosen by my father to sit for our family borough, while I am an outcast from his house. You have Cabinet Ministers for your friends, while I have hardly a decent associate left to me in the world. But I can say of myself that I have never done anything unworthy of a gentleman, while this thing that you are doing is unworthy of the lowest man.”

“I have done nothing unworthy,” said Phineas. “I wrote to you instantly when I had resolved,--though it was painful to me to have to tell such a secret to any one.”

“You wrote! Yes; when I was miles distant; weeks, months away. But I did not come here to bullyrag like an old woman. I got your letter only on Monday, and know nothing of what has occurred. Is Miss Effingham to be--your wife?” Lord Chiltern had now come quite close to Phineas, and Phineas felt that that clenched fist might be in his face in half a moment. Miss Effingham of course was not engaged to him, but it seemed to him that if he were now so to declare, such declaration would appear to have been drawn from him by fear. “I ask you,” said Lord Chiltern, “in what position you now stand towards Miss Effingham. If you are not a coward you will tell me.”

“Whether I tell you or not, you know that I am not a coward,” said Phineas.

“I shall have to try,” said Lord Chiltern. “But if you please I will ask you for an answer to my question.”

Phineas paused for a moment, thinking what honesty of purpose and a high spirit would, when combined together, demand of him, and together with these requirements he felt that he was bound to join some feeling of duty towards Miss Effingham. Lord Chiltern was standing there, fiery red, with his hand still clenched, and his hat still on, waiting for his answer. “Let me have your question again,” said Phineas, “and I will answer it if I find that I can do so without loss of self-respect.”

“I ask you in what position you stand towards Miss Effingham. Mind, I do not doubt at all, but I choose to have a reply from yourself.”

“You will remember, of course, that I can only answer to the best of my belief.”

“Answer to the best of your belief.”

“I think she regards me as an intimate friend.”

“Had you said as an indifferent acquaintance, you would, I think, have been nearer the mark. But we will let that be. I presume I may understand that you have given up any idea of changing that position?”

“You may understand nothing of the kind, Lord Chiltern.”

“Why;--what hope have you?”

“That is another thing. I shall not speak of that;--at any rate not to you.”

“Then, sir,--” and now Lord Chiltern advanced another step and raised his hand as though he were about to put it with some form of violence on the person of his rival.

“Stop, Chiltern,” said Phineas, stepping back, so that there was some article of furniture between him and his adversary. “I do not choose that there should be a riot here.”

“What do you call a riot, sir? I believe that after all you are a poltroon. What I require of you is that you shall meet me. Will you do that?”

“You mean,--to fight?”

“Yes,--to fight; to fight; to fight. For what other purpose do you suppose that I can wish to meet you?” Phineas felt at the moment that the fighting of a duel would be destructive to all his political hopes. Few Englishmen fight duels in these days. They who do so are always reckoned to be fools. And a duel between him and Lord Brentford’s son must, as he thought, separate him from Violet, from Lady Laura, from Lord Brentford, and from his borough. But yet how could he refuse? “What have you to think of, sir, when such an offer as that is made to you?” said the fiery-red lord.

“I have to think whether I have courage enough to refuse to make myself an ass.”

“You say that you do not wish to have a riot. That is your way to escape what you call--a riot.”

“You want to bully me, Chiltern.”

“No, sir;--I simply want this, that you should leave me where you found me, and not interfere with that which you have long known I claim as my own.”

“But it is not your own.”

“Then you can only fight me.”

“You had better send some friend to me, and I will name some one, whom he shall meet.”

“Of course I will do that if I have your promise to meet me. We can be in Belgium in an hour or two, and back again in a few more hours;--that is, any one of us who may chance to be alive.

“I will select a friend, and will tell him everything, and will then do as he bids me.”

“Yes;--some old steady-going buffer. Mr. Kennedy, perhaps.”

“It will certainly not be Mr. Kennedy. I shall probably ask Laurence Fitzgibbon to manage for me in such an affair.”

“Perhaps you will see him at once, then, so that Colepepper may arrange with him this afternoon. And let me assure you, Mr. Finn, that there will be a meeting between us after some fashion, let the ideas of your friend Mr. Fitzgibbon be what they may.” Then Lord Chiltern purposed to go, but turned again as he was going. “And remember this,” he said, “my complaint is that you have been false to me,--damnably false; not that you have fallen in love with this young lady or with that.” Then the fiery-red lord opened the door for himself and took his departure.

Phineas, as soon as he was alone, walked down to the House, at which there was an early sitting. As he went there was one great question which he had to settle with himself,--Was there any justice in the charge made against him that he had been false to his friend? When he had thought over the matter at Saulsby, after rushing down there that he might throw himself at Violet’s feet, he had assured himself that such a letter as that which he resolved to write to Lord Chiltern, would be even chivalrous in its absolute honesty. He would tell his purpose to Lord Chiltern the moment that his purpose was formed;--and would afterwards speak of Lord Chiltern behind his back as one dear friend should speak of another. Had Miss Effingham shown the slightest intention of accepting Lord Chiltern’s offer, he would have acknowledged to himself that the circumstances of his position made it impossible that he should, with honour, become his friend’s rival. But was he to be debarred for ever from getting that which he wanted because Lord Chiltern wanted it also,--knowing, as he did so well, that Lord Chiltern could not get the thing which he wanted? All this had been quite sufficient for him at Saulsby. But now the charge against him that he had been false to his friend rang in his ears and made him unhappy. It certainly was true that Lord Chiltern had not given up his hopes, and that he had spoken probably more openly to Phineas respecting them than he had done to any other human being. If it was true that he had been false, then he must comply with any requisition which Lord Chiltern might make,--short of voluntarily giving up the lady. He must fight if he were asked to do so, even though fighting were his ruin.

When again in the House yesterday’s scene came back upon him, and more than one man came to him congratulating him. Mr. Monk took his hand and spoke a word to him. The old Premier nodded to him. Mr. Gresham greeted him; and Plantagenet Palliser openly told him that he had made a good speech. How sweet would all this have been had there not been ever at his heart the remembrance of his terrible difficulty,--the consciousness that he was about to be forced into an absurdity which would put an end to all this sweetness! Why was the world in England so severe against duelling? After all, as he regarded the matter now, a duel might be the best way, nay, the only way out of a difficulty. If he might only be allowed to go out with Lord Chiltern the whole thing might be arranged. If he were not shot he might carry on his suit with Miss Effingham unfettered by any impediment on that side. And if he were shot, what matter was that to any one but himself? Why should the world be so thin-skinned,--so foolishly chary of human life?

Laurence Fitzgibbon did not come to the House, and Phineas looked for him at both the clubs which he frequented,--leaving a note at each as he did not find him. He also left a note for him at his lodgings in Duke Street. “I must see you this evening. I shall dine at the Reform Club,--pray come there.” After that, Phineas went up to Portman Square, in accordance with the instructions received from Lady Laura.

There he saw Violet Effingham, meeting her for the first time since he had parted from her on the great steps at Saulsby. Of course he spoke to her, and of course she was gracious to him. But her graciousness was only a smile and his speech was only a word. There were many in the room, but not enough to make privacy possible,--as it becomes possible at a crowded evening meeting. Lord Brentford was there, and the Bonteens, and Barrington Erle, and Lady Glencora Palliser, and Lord Cantrip with his young wife. It was manifestly a meeting of Liberals, semi-social and semi-political;--so arranged that ladies might feel that some interest in politics was allowed to them, and perhaps some influence also. Afterwards Mr. Palliser himself came in. Phineas, however, was most struck by finding that Laurence Fitzgibbon was there, and that Mr. Kennedy was not. In regard to Mr. Kennedy, he was quite sure that had such a meeting taken place before Lady Laura’s marriage, Mr. Kennedy would have been present. “I must speak to you as we go away,” said Phineas, whispering a word into Fitzgibbon’s ear. “I have been leaving notes for you all about the town.” “Not a duel, I hope,” said Fitzgibbon.

How pleasant it was,--that meeting; or would have been had there not been that nightmare on his breast! They all talked as though there were perfect accord between them and perfect confidence. There were there great men,--Cabinet Ministers, and beautiful women,--the wives and daughters of some of England’s highest nobles. And Phineas Finn, throwing back, now and again, a thought to Killaloe, found himself among them as one of themselves. How could any Mr. Low say that he was wrong?

On a sofa near to him, so that he could almost touch her foot with his, was sitting Violet Effingham, and as he leaned over from his chair discussing some point in Mr. Mildmay’s bill with that most inveterate politician, Lady Glencora, Violet looked into his face and smiled. Oh heavens! If Lord Chiltern and he might only toss up as to which of them should go to Patagonia and remain there for the next ten years, and which should have Violet Effingham for a wife in London!

“Come along, Phineas, if you mean to come,” said Laurence Fitzgibbon. Phineas was of course bound to go, though Lady Glencora was still talking Radicalism, and Violet Effingham was still smiling ineffably.

VOLUME II

XXXVIII. The Duel

“I knew it was a duel;--bedad I did,” said Laurence Fitzgibbon, standing at the corner of Orchard Street and Oxford Street, when Phineas had half told his story. “I was sure of it from the tone of your voice, my boy. We mustn’t let it come off, that’s all;--not if we can help it.” Then Phineas was allowed to proceed and finish his story. “I don’t see any way out of it; I don’t, indeed,” said Laurence. By this time Phineas had come to think that the duel was in very truth the best way out of the difficulty. It was a bad way out, but then it was a way;--and he could not see any other. “As for ill treating him, that’s nonsense,” said Laurence. “What are the girls to do, if one fellow mayn’t come on as soon as another fellow is down? But then, you see, a fellow never knows when he’s down himself, and therefore he thinks that he’s ill used. I’ll tell you what now. I shouldn’t wonder if we couldn’t do it on the sly,--unless one of you is stupid enough to hit the other in an awkward place. If you are certain of your hand now, the right shoulder is the best spot.” Phineas felt very certain that he would not hit Lord Chiltern in an awkward place, although he was by no means sure of his hand. Let come what might, he would not aim at his adversary. But of this he had thought it proper to say nothing to Laurence Fitzgibbon.

And the duel did come off on the sly. The meeting in the drawing-room in Portman Square, of which mention was made in the last chapter, took place on a Wednesday afternoon. On the Thursday, Friday, Monday, and Tuesday following, the great debate on Mr. Mildmay’s bill was continued, and at three on the Tuesday night the House divided. There was a majority in favour of the Ministers, not large enough to permit them to claim a triumph for their party, or even an ovation for themselves; but still sufficient to enable them to send their bill into committee. Mr. Daubeny and Mr. Turnbull had again joined their forces together in opposition to the ministerial measure. On the Thursday Phineas had shown himself in the House, but during the remainder of this interesting period he was absent from his place, nor was he seen at the clubs, nor did any man know of his whereabouts. I think that Lady Laura Kennedy was the first to miss him with any real sense of his absence. She would now go to Portman Square on the afternoon of every Sunday,--at which time her husband was attending the second service of his church,--and there she would receive those whom she called her father’s guests. But as her father was never there on the Sundays, and as these gatherings had been created by herself, the reader will probably think that she was obeying her husband’s behests in regard to the Sabbath after a very indifferent fashion. The reader may be quite sure, however, that Mr. Kennedy knew well what was being done in Portman Square. Whatever might be Lady Laura’s faults, she did not commit the fault of disobeying her husband in secret. There were, probably, a few words on the subject; but we need not go very closely into that matter at the present moment.

On the Sunday which afforded some rest in the middle of the great Reform debate Lady Laura asked for Mr. Finn, and no one could answer her question. And then it was remembered that Laurence Fitzgibbon was also absent. Barrington Erle knew nothing of Phineas,--had heard nothing; but was able to say that Fitzgibbon had been with Mr. Ratler, the patronage secretary and liberal whip, early on Thursday, expressing his intention of absenting himself for two days. Mr. Ratler had been wroth, bidding him remain at his duty, and pointing out to him the great importance of the moment. Then Barrington Erle quoted Laurence Fitzgibbon’s reply. “My boy,” said Laurence to poor Ratler, “the path of duty leads but to the grave. All the same; I’ll be in at the death, Ratler, my boy, as sure as the sun’s in heaven.” Not ten minutes after the telling of this little story, Fitzgibbon entered the room in Portman Square, and Lady Laura at once asked him after Phineas. “Bedad, Lady Laura, I have been out of town myself for two days, and I know nothing.”

“Mr. Finn has not been with you, then?”

“With me! No,--not with me. I had a job of business of my own which took me over to Paris. And has Phinny fled too? Poor Ratler! I shouldn’t wonder if it isn’t an asylum he’s in before the session is over.”

Laurence Fitzgibbon certainly possessed the rare accomplishment of telling a lie with a good grace. Had any man called him a liar he would have considered himself to be not only insulted, but injured also. He believed himself to be a man of truth. There were, however, in his estimation certain subjects on which a man might depart as wide as the poles are asunder from truth without subjecting himself to any ignominy for falsehood. In dealing with a tradesman as to his debts, or with a rival as to a lady, or with any man or woman in defence of a lady’s character, or in any such matter as that of a duel, Laurence believed that a gentleman was bound to lie, and that he would be no gentleman if he hesitated to do so. Not the slightest prick of conscience disturbed him when he told Lady Laura that he had been in Paris, and that he knew nothing of Phineas Finn. But, in truth, during the last day or two he had been in Flanders, and not in Paris, and had stood as second with his friend Phineas on the sands at Blankenberg, a little fishing-town some twelve miles distant from Bruges, and had left his friend since that at an hotel at Ostend,--with a wound just under the shoulder, from which a bullet had been extracted.

The manner of the meeting had been in this wise. Captain Colepepper and Laurence Fitzgibbon had held their meeting, and at this meeting Laurence had taken certain standing-ground on behalf of his friend, and in obedience to his friend’s positive instruction;--which was this, that his friend could not abandon his right of addressing the young lady, should he hereafter ever think fit to do so. Let that be granted, and Laurence would do anything. But then that could not be granted, and Laurence could only shrug his shoulders. Nor would Laurence admit that his friend had been false. “The question lies in a nutshell,” said Laurence, with that sweet Connaught brogue which always came to him when he desired to be effective;--“here it is. One gentleman tells another that he’s sweet upon a young lady, but that the young lady has refused him, and always will refuse him, for ever and ever. That’s the truth anyhow. Is the second gentleman bound by that not to address the young lady? I say he is not bound. It’d be a d----d hard tratement, Captain Colepepper, if a man’s mouth and all the ardent affections of his heart were to be stopped in that manner! By Jases, I don’t know who’d like to be the friend of any man if that’s to be the way of it.”

Captain Colepepper was not very good at an argument. “I think they’d better see each other,” said Colepepper, pulling his thick grey moustache.

“If you choose to have it so, so be it. But I think it the hardest thing in the world;--I do indeed.” Then they put their heads together in the most friendly way, and declared that the affair should, if possible, be kept private.

On the Thursday night Lord Chiltern and Captain Colepepper went over by Calais and Lille to Bruges. Laurence Fitzgibbon, with his friend Dr. O’Shaughnessy, crossed by the direct boat from Dover to Ostend. Phineas went to Ostend by Dover and Calais, but he took the day route on Friday. It had all been arranged among them, so that there might be no suspicion as to the job in hand. Even O’Shaughnessy and Laurence Fitzgibbon had left London by separate trains. They met on the sands at Blankenberg about nine o’clock on the Saturday morning, having reached that village in different vehicles from Ostend and Bruges, and had met quite unobserved amidst the sand-heaps. But one shot had been exchanged, and Phineas had been wounded in the right shoulder. He had proposed to exchange another shot with his left hand, declaring his capability of shooting quite as well with the left as with the right; but to this both Colepepper and Fitzgibbon had objected. Lord Chiltern had offered to shake hands with his late friend in a true spirit of friendship, if only his late friend would say that he did not intend to prosecute his suit with the young lady. In all these disputes the young lady’s name was never mentioned. Phineas indeed had not once named Violet to Fitzgibbon, speaking of her always as the lady in question; and though Laurence correctly surmised the identity of the young lady, he never hinted that he had even guessed her name. I doubt whether Lord Chiltern had been so wary when alone with Captain Colepepper; but then Lord Chiltern was, when he spoke at all, a very plain-spoken man. Of course his lordship’s late friend Phineas would give no such pledge, and therefore Lord Chiltern moved off the ground and back to Blankenberg and Bruges, and into Brussels, in still living enmity with our hero. Laurence and the doctor took Phineas back to Ostend, and though the bullet was then in his shoulder, Phineas made his way through Blankenberg after such a fashion that no one there knew what had occurred. Not a living soul, except the five concerned, was at that time aware that a duel had been fought among the sand-hills.

Laurence Fitzgibbon made his way to Dover by the Saturday night’s boat, and was able to show himself in Portman Square on the Sunday. “Know anything about Phinny Finn?” he said afterwards to Barrington Erle, in answer to an inquiry from that anxious gentleman. “Not a word! I think you’d better send the town-crier round after him.” Barrington, however, did not feel quite so well assured of Fitzgibbon’s truth as Lady Laura had done.

Dr. O’Shaughnessy remained during the Sunday and Monday at Ostend with his patient, and the people at the inn only knew that Mr. Finn had sprained his shoulder badly; and on the Tuesday they came back to London again, via Calais and Dover. No bone had been broken, and Phineas, though his shoulder was very painful, bore the journey well. O’Shaughnessy had received a telegram on the Monday, telling him that the division would certainly take place on the Tuesday,--and on the Tuesday, at about ten in the evening, Phineas went down to the House. “By ----, you’re here,” said Ratler, taking hold of him with an affection that was too warm. “Yes; I’m here,” said Phineas, wincing in agony; “but be a little careful, there’s a good fellow. I’ve been down in Kent and put my arm out.”

“Put your arm out, have you?” said Ratler, observing the sling for the first time. “I’m sorry for that. But you’ll stop and vote?”

“Yes;--I’ll stop and vote. I’ve come up for the purpose. But I hope it won’t be very late.”

“There are both Daubeny and Gresham to speak yet, and at least three others. I don’t suppose it will be much before three. But you’re all right now. You can go down and smoke if you like!” In this way Phineas Finn spoke in the debate, and heard the end of it, voting for his party, and fought his duel with Lord Chiltern in the middle of it.

He did go and sit on a well-cushioned bench in the smoking-room, and then was interrogated by many of his friends as to his mysterious absence. He had, he said, been down in Kent, and had had an accident with his arm, by which he had been confined. When this questioner and that perceived that there was some little mystery in the matter, the questioners did not push their questions, but simply entertained their own surmises. One indiscreet questioner, however, did trouble Phineas sorely, declaring that there must have been some affair in which a woman had had a part, and asking after the young lady of Kent. This indiscreet questioner was Laurence Fitzgibbon, who, as Phineas thought, carried his spirit of intrigue a little too far. Phineas stayed and voted, and then he went painfully home to his lodgings.

How singular would it be if this affair of the duel should pass away, and no one be a bit the wiser but those four men who had been with him on the sands at Blankenberg! Again he wondered at his own luck. He had told himself that a duel with Lord Chiltern must create a quarrel between him and Lord Chiltern’s relations, and also between him and Violet Effingham; that it must banish him from his comfortable seat for Loughton, and ruin him in regard to his political prospects. And now he had fought his duel, and was back in town,--and the thing seemed to have been a thing of nothing. He had not as yet seen Lady Laura or Violet, but he had no doubt but they both were as much in the dark as other people. The day might arrive, he thought, on which it would be pleasant for him to tell Violet Effingham what had occurred, but that day had not come as yet. Whither Lord Chiltern had gone, or what Lord Chiltern intended to do, he had not any idea; but he imagined that he should soon hear something of her brother from Lady Laura. That Lord Chiltern should say a word to Lady Laura of what had occurred,--or to any other person in the world,--he did not in the least suspect. There could be no man more likely to be reticent in such matters than Lord Chiltern,--or more sure to be guided by an almost exaggerated sense of what honour required of him. Nor did he doubt the discretion of his friend Fitzgibbon;--if only his friend might not damage the secret by being too discreet. Of the silence of the doctor and the captain he was by no means equally sure; but even though they should gossip, the gossiping would take so long a time in oozing out and becoming recognised information, as to have lost much of its power for injuring him. Were Lady Laura to hear at this moment that he had been over to Belgium, and had fought a duel with Lord Chiltern respecting Violet, she would probably feel herself obliged to quarrel with him; but no such obligation would rest on her, if in the course of six or nine months she should gradually have become aware that such an encounter had taken place.

Lord Chiltern, during their interview at the rooms in Great Marlborough Street, had said a word to him about the seat in Parliament;--had expressed some opinion that as he, Phineas Finn, was interfering with the views of the Standish family in regard to Miss Effingham, he ought not to keep the Standish seat, which had been conferred upon him in ignorance of any such intended interference. Phineas, as he thought of this, could not remember Lord Chiltern’s words, but there was present to him an idea that such had been their purport. Was he bound, in circumstances as they now existed, to give up Loughton? He made up his mind that he was not so bound unless Lord Chiltern should demand from him that he should do so; but, nevertheless, he was uneasy in his position. It was quite true that the seat now was his for this session by all parliamentary law, even though the electors themselves might wish to be rid of him, and that Lord Brentford could not even open his mouth upon the matter in a tone more loud than that of a whisper. But Phineas, feeling that he had consented to accept the favour of a corrupt seat from Lord Brentford, felt also that he was bound to give up the spoil if it were demanded from him. If it were demanded from him, either by the father or the son, it should be given up at once.

On the following morning he found a leading article in the People’s Banner devoted solely to himself. “During the late debate,”--so ran a passage in the leading article,--“Mr. Finn, Lord Brentford’s Irish nominee for his pocket-borough at Loughton, did at last manage to stand on his legs and open his mouth. If we are not mistaken, this is Mr. Finn’s third session in Parliament, and hitherto he has been unable to articulate three sentences, though he has on more than one occasion made the attempt. For what special merit this young man has been selected for aristocratic patronage we do not know,--but that there must be some merit recognisable by aristocratic eyes, we surmise. Three years ago he was a raw young Irishman, living in London as Irishmen only know how to live, earning nothing, and apparently without means; and then suddenly he bursts out as a member of Parliament and as the friend of Cabinet Ministers. The possession of one good gift must be acceded to the honourable member for Loughton,--he is a handsome young man, and looks to be as strong as a coal-porter. Can it be that his promotion has sprung from this? Be this as it may, we should like to know where he has been during his late mysterious absence from Parliament, and in what way he came by the wound in his arm. Even handsome young members of Parliament, fêted by titled ladies and their rich lords, are amenable to the laws,--to the laws of this country, and to the laws of any other which it may suit them to visit for a while!”

“Infamous scoundrel!” said Phineas to himself, as he read this. “Vile, low, disreputable blackguard!” It was clear enough, however, that Quintus Slide had found out something of his secret. If so, his only hope would rest on the fact that his friends were not likely to see the columns of the People’s Banner.

XXXIX. Lady Laura Is Told

By the time that Mr. Mildmay’s great bill was going into committee Phineas was able to move about London in comfort,--with his arm, however, still in a sling. There had been nothing more about him and his wound in the People’s Banner, and he was beginning to hope that that nuisance would also be allowed to die away. He had seen Lady Laura,--having dined in Grosvenor Place, where he had been petted to his heart’s content. His dinner had been cut up for him, and his wound had been treated with the tenderest sympathy. And, singular to say, no questions were asked. He had been to Kent and had come by an accident. No more than that was told, and his dear sympathising friends were content to receive so much information, and to ask for no more. But he had not as yet seen Violet Effingham, and he was beginning to think that this romance about Violet might as well be brought to a close. He had not, however, as yet been able to go into crowded rooms, and unless he went out to large parties he could not be sure that he would meet Miss Effingham.

At last he resolved that he would tell Lady Laura the whole truth,--not the truth about the duel, but the truth about Violet Effingham, and ask for her assistance. When making this resolution, I think that he must have forgotten much that he had learned of his friend’s character; and by making it, I think that he showed also that he had not learned as much as his opportunities might have taught him. He knew Lady Laura’s obstinacy of purpose, he knew her devotion to her brother, and he knew also how desirous she had been that her brother should win Violet Effingham for himself. This knowledge should, I think, have sufficed to show him how improbable it was that Lady Laura should assist him in his enterprise. But beyond all this was the fact,--a fact as to the consequences of which Phineas himself was entirely blind, beautifully ignorant,--that Lady Laura had once condescended to love himself. Nay;--she had gone farther than this, and had ventured to tell him, even after her marriage, that the remembrance of some feeling that had once dwelt in her heart in regard to him was still a danger to her. She had warned him from Loughlinter, and then had received him in London;--and now he selected her as his confidante in this love affair! Had he not been beautifully ignorant and most modestly blind, he would surely have placed his confidence elsewhere.

It was not that Lady Laura Kennedy ever confessed to herself the existence of a vicious passion. She had, indeed, learned to tell herself that she could not love her husband; and once, in the excitement of such silent announcements to herself, she had asked herself whether her heart was quite a blank, and had answered herself by desiring Phineas Finn to absent himself from Loughlinter. During all the subsequent winter she had scourged herself inwardly for her own imprudence, her quite unnecessary folly in so doing. What! could not she, Laura Standish, who from her earliest years of girlish womanhood had resolved that she would use the world as men use it, and not as women do,--could not she have felt the slight shock of a passing tenderness for a handsome youth without allowing the feeling to be a rock before her big enough and sharp enough for the destruction of her entire barque? Could not she command, if not her heart, at any rate her mind, so that she might safely assure herself that, whether this man or any man was here or there, her course would be unaltered? What though Phineas Finn had been in the same house with her throughout all the winter, could not she have so lived with him on terms of friendship, that every deed and word and look of her friendship might have been open to her husband,--or open to all the world? She could have done so. She told herself that that was not,--need not have been her great calamity. Whether she could endure the dull, monotonous control of her slow but imperious lord,--or whether she must not rather tell him that it was not to be endured,--that was her trouble. So she told herself, and again admitted Phineas to her intimacy in London. But, nevertheless, Phineas, had he not been beautifully ignorant and most blind to his own achievements, would not have expected from Lady Laura Kennedy assistance with Miss Violet Effingham.

Phineas knew when to find Lady Laura alone, and he came upon her one day at the favourable hour. The two first clauses of the bill had been passed after twenty fights and endless divisions. Two points had been settled, as to which, however, Mr. Gresham had been driven to give way so far and to yield so much, that men declared that such a bill as the Government could consent to call its own could never be passed by that Parliament in that session. Immediately on his entrance into her room Lady Laura began about the third clause. Would the House let Mr. Gresham have his way about the--? Phineas stopped her at once. “My dear friend,” he said, “I have come to you in a private trouble, and I want you to drop politics for half an hour. I have come to you for help.”

“A private trouble, Mr. Finn! Is it serious?”

“It is very serious,--but it is no trouble of the kind of which you are thinking. But it is serious enough to take up every thought.”

“Can I help you?”

“Indeed you can. Whether you will or no is a different thing.”

“I would help you in anything in my power, Mr. Finn. Do you not know it?”

“You have been very kind to me!”

“And so would Mr. Kennedy.”

“Mr. Kennedy cannot help me here.”

“What is it, Mr. Finn?”

“I suppose I may as well tell you at once,--in plain language, I do not know how to put my story into words that shall fit it. I love Violet Effingham. Will you help me to win her to be my wife?”

“You love Violet Effingham!” said Lady Laura. And as she spoke the look of her countenance towards him was so changed that he became at once aware that from her no assistance might be expected. His eyes were not opened in any degree to the second reason above given for Lady Laura’s opposition to his wishes, but he instantly perceived that she would still cling to that destination of Violet’s hand which had for years past been the favourite scheme of her life. “Have you not always known, Mr. Finn, what have been our hopes for Violet?”

Phineas, though he had perceived his mistake, felt that he must go on with his cause. Lady Laura must know his wishes sooner or later, and it was as well that she should learn them in this way as in any other. “Yes;--but I have known also, from your brother’s own lips,--and indeed from yours also, Lady Laura,--that Chiltern has been three times refused by Miss Effingham.”

“What does that matter? Do men never ask more than three times?”

“And must I be debarred for ever while he prosecutes a hopeless suit?”

“Yes;--you of all men.”

“Why so, Lady Laura?”

“Because in this matter you have been his chosen friend,--and mine. We have told you everything, trusting to you. We have believed in your honour. We have thought that with you, at any rate, we were safe.” These words were very bitter to Phineas, and yet when he had written his letter at Loughton, he had intended to be so perfectly honest, chivalrously honest! Now Lady Laura spoke to him and looked at him as though he had been most basely false--most untrue to that noble friendship which had been lavished upon him by all her family. He felt that he would become the prey of her most injurious thoughts unless he could fully explain his ideas, and he felt, also, that the circumstances did not admit of his explaining them. He could not take up the argument on Violet’s side, and show how unfair it would be to her that she should be debarred from the homage due to her by any man who really loved her, because Lord Chiltern chose to think that he still had a claim,--or at any rate a chance. And Phineas knew well of himself,--or thought that he knew well,--that he would not have interfered had there been any chance for Lord Chiltern. Lord Chiltern had himself told him more than once that there was no such chance. How was he to explain all this to Lady Laura? “Mr. Finn,” said Lady Laura, “I can hardly believe this of you, even when you tell it me yourself.”

“Listen to me, Lady Laura, for a moment.”

“Certainly, I will listen. But that you should come to me for assistance! I cannot understand it. Men sometimes become harder than stones.”

“I do not think that I am hard.” Poor blind fool! He was still thinking only of Violet, and of the accusation made against him that he was untrue to his friendship for Lord Chiltern. Of that other accusation which could not be expressed in open words he understood nothing,--nothing at all as yet.

“Hard and false,--capable of receiving no impression beyond the outside husk of the heart.”

“Oh, Lady Laura, do not say that. If you could only know how true I am in my affection for you all.”

“And how do you show it?--by coming in between Oswald and the only means that are open to us of reconciling him to his father;--means that have been explained to you exactly as though you had been one of ourselves. Oswald has treated you as a brother in the matter, telling you everything, and this is the way you would repay him for his confidence!”

“Can I help it, that I have learnt to love this girl?”

“Yes, sir,--you can help it. What if she had been Oswald’s wife;--would you have loved her then? Do you speak of loving a woman as if it were an affair of fate, over which you have no control? I doubt whether your passions are so strong as that. You had better put aside your love for Miss Effingham. I feel assured that it will never hurt you.” Then some remembrance of what had passed between him and Lady Laura Standish near the falls of the Linter, when he first visited Scotland, came across his mind. “Believe me,” she said with a smile, “this little wound in your heart will soon be cured.”

He stood silent before her, looking away from her, thinking over it all. He certainly had believed himself to be violently in love with Lady Laura, and yet when he had just now entered her drawing-room, he had almost forgotten that there had been such a passage in his life. And he had believed that she had forgotten it,--even though she had counselled him not to come to Loughlinter within the last nine months! He had been a boy then, and had not known himself;--but now he was a man, and was proud of the intensity of his love. There came upon him some passing throb of pain from his shoulder, reminding him of the duel, and he was proud also of that. He had been willing to risk everything,--life, prospects, and position,--sooner than abandon the slight hope which was his of possessing Violet Effingham. And now he was told that this wound in his heart would soon be cured, and was told so by a woman to whom he had once sung a song of another passion. It is very hard to answer a woman in such circumstances, because her womanhood gives her so strong a ground of vantage! Lady Laura might venture to throw in his teeth the fickleness of his heart, but he could not in reply tell her that to change a love was better than to marry without love,--that to be capable of such a change showed no such inferiority of nature as did the capacity for such a marriage. She could hit him with her argument; but he could only remember his, and think how violent might be the blow he could inflict,--if it were not that she were a woman, and therefore guarded. “You will not help me then?” he said, when they had both been silent for a while.

“Help you? How should I help you?”

“I wanted no other help than this,--that I might have had an opportunity of meeting Violet here, and of getting from her some answer.”

“Has the question then never been asked already?” said Lady Laura. To this Phineas made no immediate reply. There was no reason why he should show his whole hand to an adversary. “Why do you not go to Lady Baldock’s house?” continued Lady Laura. “You are admitted there. You know Lady Baldock. Go and ask her to stand your friend with her niece. See what she will say to you. As far as I understand these matters, that is the fair, honourable, open way in which gentlemen are wont to make their overtures.”

“I would make mine to none but to herself,” said Phineas.

“Then why have you made it to me, sir?” demanded Lady Laura.

“I have come to you as I would to my sister.”

“Your sister? Psha! I am not your sister, Mr. Finn. Nor, were I so, should I fail to remember that I have a dearer brother to whom my faith is pledged. Look here. Within the last three weeks Oswald has sacrificed everything to his father, because he was determined that Mr. Kennedy should have the money which he thought was due to my husband. He has enabled my father to do what he will with Saulsby. Papa will never hurt him;--I know that. Hard as papa is with him, he will never hurt Oswald’s future position. Papa is too proud to do that. Violet has heard what Oswald has done; and now that he has nothing of his own to offer her for the future but his bare title, now that he has given papa power to do what he will with the property, I believe that she would accept him instantly. That is her disposition.”

Phineas again paused a moment before he replied. “Let him try,” he said.

“He is away,--in Brussels.”

“Send to him, and bid him return. I will be patient, Lady Laura. Let him come and try, and I will bide my time. I confess that I have no right to interfere with him if there be a chance for him. If there is no chance, my right is as good as that of any other.”

There was something in this which made Lady Laura feel that she could not maintain her hostility against this man on behalf of her brother;--and yet she could not force herself to be other than hostile to him. Her heart was sore, and it was he that had made it sore. She had lectured herself, schooling herself with mental sackcloth and ashes, rebuking herself with heaviest censures from day to day, because she had found herself to be in danger of regarding this man with a perilous love; and she had been constant in this work of penance till she had been able to assure herself that the sackcloth and ashes had done their work, and that the danger was past. “I like him still and love him well,” she had said to herself with something almost of triumph, “but I have ceased to think of him as one who might have been my lover.” And yet she was now sick and sore, almost beside herself with the agony of the wound, because this man whom she had been able to throw aside from her heart had also been able so to throw her aside. And she felt herself constrained to rebuke him with what bitterest words she might use. She had felt it easy to do this at first, on her brother’s score. She had accused him of treachery to his friendship,--both as to Oswald and as to herself. On that she could say cutting words without subjecting herself to suspicion even from herself. But now this power was taken away from her, and still she wished to wound him. She desired to taunt him with his old fickleness, and yet to subject herself to no imputation. “Your right!” she said. “What gives you any right in the matter?”

“Simply the right of a fair field, and no favour.”

“And yet you come to me for favour,--to me, because I am her friend. You cannot win her yourself, and think I may help you! I do not believe in your love for her. There! If there were no other reason, and I could help you, I would not, because I think your heart is a sham heart. She is pretty, and has money--”

“Lady Laura!”

“She is pretty, and has money, and is the fashion. I do not wonder that you should wish to have her. But, Mr. Finn, I believe that Oswald really loves her;--and that you do not. His nature is deeper than yours.”

He understood it all now as he listened to the tone of her voice, and looked into the lines of her face. There was written there plainly enough that spretæ injuria formæ of which she herself was conscious, but only conscious. Even his eyes, blind as he had been, were opened,--and he knew that he had been a fool.

“I am sorry that I came to you,” he said.

“It would have been better that you should not have done so,” she replied.

“And yet perhaps it is well that there should be no misunderstanding between us.”

“Of course I must tell my brother.”

He paused but for a moment, and then he answered her with a sharp voice, “He has been told.”

“And who told him?”

“I did. I wrote to him the moment that I knew my own mind. I owed it to him to do so. But my letter missed him, and he only learned it the other day.”

“Have you seen him since?”

“Yes;--I have seen him.”

“And what did he say? How did he take it? Did he bear it from you quietly?”

“No, indeed;” and Phineas smiled as he spoke.

“Tell me, Mr. Finn; what happened? What is to be done?”

“Nothing is to be done. Everything has been done. I may as well tell you all. I am sure that for the sake of me, as well as of your brother, you will keep our secret. He required that I should either give up my suit, or that I should,--fight him. As I could not comply with the one request, I found myself bound to comply with the other.”

“And there has been a duel?”

“Yes;--there has been a duel. We went over to Belgium, and it was soon settled. He wounded me here in the arm.”

“Suppose you had killed him, Mr. Finn?”

“That, Lady Laura, would have been a misfortune so terrible that I was bound to prevent it.” Then he paused again, regretting what he had said. “You have surprised me, Lady Laura, into an answer that I should not have made. I may be sure,--may I not,--that my words will not go beyond yourself?”

“Yes;--you may be sure of that.” This she said plaintively, with a tone of voice and demeanour of body altogether different from that which she lately bore. Neither of them knew what was taking place between them; but she was, in truth, gradually submitting herself again to this man’s influence. Though she rebuked him at every turn for what he said, for what he had done, for what he proposed to do, still she could not teach herself to despise him, or even to cease to love him for any part of it. She knew it all now,--except that word or two which had passed between Violet and Phineas in the rides of Saulsby Park. But she suspected something even of that, feeling sure that the only matter on which Phineas would say nothing would be that of his own success,--if success there had been. “And so you and Oswald have quarrelled, and there has been a duel. That is why you were away?”

“That is why I was away.”

“How wrong of you,--how very wrong! Had he been,--killed, how could you have looked us in the face again?”

“I could not have looked you in the face again.”

“But that is over now. And were you friends afterwards?”

“No;--we did not part as friends. Having gone there to fight with him,--most unwillingly,--I could not afterwards promise him that I would give up Miss Effingham. You say she will accept him now. Let him come and try.” She had nothing further to say,--no other argument to use. There was the soreness at her heart still present to her, making her wretched, instigating her to hurt him if she knew how to do so, in spite of her regard for him. But she felt that she was weak and powerless. She had shot her arrows at him,--all but one,--and if she used that, its poisoned point would wound herself far more surely than it would touch him. “The duel was very silly,” he said. “You will not speak of it.”

“No; certainly not.”

“I am glad at least that I have told you everything.”

“I do not know why you should be glad. I cannot help you.”

“And you will say nothing to Violet?”

“Everything that I can say in Oswald’s favour. I will say nothing of the duel; but beyond that you have no right to demand my secrecy with her. Yes; you had better go, Mr. Finn, for I am hardly well. And remember this,--If you can forget this little episode about Miss Effingham, so will I forget it also; and so will Oswald. I can promise for him.” Then she smiled and gave him her hand, and he went.

She rose from her chair as he left the room, and waited till she heard the sound of the great door closing behind him before she again sat down. Then, when he was gone,--when she was sure that he was no longer there with her in the same house,--she laid her head down upon the arm of the sofa, and burst into a flood of tears. She was no longer angry with Phineas. There was no further longing in her heart for revenge. She did not now desire to injure him, though she had done so as long as he was with her. Nay,--she resolved instantly, almost instinctively, that Lord Brentford must know nothing of all this, lest the political prospects of the young member for Loughton should be injured. To have rebuked him, to rebuke him again and again, would be only fair,--would at least be womanly; but she would protect him from all material injury as far as her power of protection might avail. And why was she weeping now so bitterly? Of course she asked herself, as she rubbed away the tears with her hands,--Why should she weep? She was not weak enough to tell herself that she was weeping for any injury that had been done to Oswald. She got up suddenly from the sofa, and pushed away her hair from her face, and pushed away the tears from her cheeks, and then clenched her fists as she held them out at full length from her body, and stood, looking up with her eyes fixed upon the wall. “Ass!” she exclaimed. “Fool! Idiot! That I should not be able to crush it into nothing and have done with it! Why should he not have her? After all, he is better than Oswald. Oh,--is that you?” The door of the room had been opened while she was standing thus, and her husband had entered.

“Yes,--it is I. Is anything wrong?”

“Very much is wrong.”

“What is it, Laura?”

“You cannot help me.”

“If you are in trouble you should tell me what it is, and leave it to me to try to help you.”

“Nonsense!” she said, shaking her head.

“Laura, that is uncourteous,--not to say undutiful also.”

“I suppose it was,--both. I beg your pardon, but I could not help it.”

“Laura, you should help such words to me.”

“There are moments, Robert, when even a married woman must be herself rather than her husband’s wife. It is so, though you cannot understand it.”

“I certainly do not understand it.”

“You cannot make a woman subject to you as a dog is so. You may have all the outside and as much of the inside as you can master. With a dog you may be sure of both.”

“I suppose this means that you have secrets in which I am not to share.”

“I have troubles about my father and my brother which you cannot share. My brother is a ruined man.”

“Who ruined him?”

“I will not talk about it any more. I will not speak to you of him or of papa. I only want you to understand that there is a subject which must be secret to myself, and on which I may be allowed to shed tears,--if I am so weak. I will not trouble you on a matter in which I have not your sympathy.” Then she left him, standing in the middle of the room, depressed by what had occurred,--but not thinking of it as of a trouble which would do more than make him uncomfortable for that day.

XL. Madame Max Goesler

Day after day, and clause after clause, the bill was fought in committee, and few men fought with more constancy on the side of the Ministers than did the member for Loughton. Troubled though he was by his quarrel with Lord Chiltern, by his love for Violet Effingham, by the silence of his friend Lady Laura,--for since he had told her of the duel she had become silent to him, never writing to him, and hardly speaking to him when she met him in society,--nevertheless Phineas was not so troubled but what he could work at his vocation. Now, when he would find himself upon his legs in the House, he would wonder at the hesitation which had lately troubled him so sorely. He would sit sometimes and speculate upon that dimness of eye, upon that tendency of things to go round, upon that obtrusive palpitation of heart, which had afflicted him so seriously for so long a time. The House now was no more to him than any other chamber, and the members no more than other men. He guarded himself from orations, speaking always very shortly,--because he believed that policy and good judgment required that he should be short. But words were very easy to him, and he would feel as though he could talk for ever. And there quickly came to him a reputation for practical usefulness. He was a man with strong opinions, who could yet be submissive. And no man seemed to know how his reputation had come. He had made one good speech after two or three failures. All who knew him, his whole party, had been aware of his failure; and his one good speech had been regarded by many as no very wonderful effort. But he was a man who was pleasant to other men,--not combative, not self-asserting beyond the point at which self-assertion ceases to be a necessity of manliness. Nature had been very good to him, making him comely inside and out,--and with this comeliness he had crept into popularity.

The secret of the duel was, I think, at this time, known to a great many men and women. So Phineas perceived; but it was not, he thought, known either to Lord Brentford or to Violet Effingham. And in this he was right. No rumour of it had yet reached the ears of either of these persons;--and rumour, though she flies so fast and so far, is often slow in reaching those ears which would be most interested in her tidings. Some dim report of the duel reached even Mr. Kennedy, and he asked his wife. “Who told you?” said she, sharply.

“Bonteen told me that it was certainly so.”

“Mr. Bonteen always knows more than anybody else about everything except his own business.”

“Then it is not true?”

Lady Laura paused,--and then she lied. “Of course it is not true. I should be very sorry to ask either of them, but to me it seems to be the most improbable thing in life.” Then Mr. Kennedy believed that there had been no duel. In his wife’s word he put absolute faith, and he thought that she would certainly know anything that her brother had done. As he was a man given to but little discourse, he asked no further questions about the duel either in the House or at the Clubs.

At first, Phineas had been greatly dismayed when men had asked him questions tending to elicit from him some explanation of the mystery;--but by degrees he became used to it, and as the tidings which had got abroad did not seem to injure him, and as the questionings were not pushed very closely, he became indifferent. There came out another article in the People’s Banner in which Lord C----n and Mr. P----s F----n were spoken of as glaring examples of that aristocratic snobility,--that was the expressive word coined, evidently with great delight, for the occasion,--which the rotten state of London society in high quarters now produced. Here was a young lord, infamously notorious, quarrelling with one of his boon-companions, whom he had appointed to a private seat in the House of Commons, fighting duels, breaking the laws, scandalising the public,--and all this was done without punishment to the guilty! There were old stories afloat,--so said the article--of what in a former century had been done by Lord Mohuns and Mr. Bests; but now, in 186--, &c. &c. &c. And so the article went on. Any reader may fill in without difficulty the concluding indignation and virtuous appeal for reform in social morals as well as Parliament. But Phineas had so far progressed that he had almost come to like this kind of thing.

Certainly I think that the duel did him no harm in society. Otherwise he would hardly have been asked to a semi-political dinner at Lady Glencora Palliser’s, even though he might have been invited to make one of the five hundred guests who were crowded into her saloons and staircases after the dinner was over. To have been one of the five hundred was nothing; but to be one of the sixteen was a great deal,--was indeed so much that Phineas, not understanding as yet the advantage of his own comeliness, was at a loss to conceive why so pleasant an honour was conferred upon him. There was no man among the eight men at the dinner-party not in Parliament,--and the only other except Phineas not attached to the Government was Mr. Palliser’s great friend, John Grey, the member for Silverbridge. There were four Cabinet Ministers in the room,--the Duke, Lord Cantrip, Mr. Gresham, and the owner of the mansion. There was also Barrington Erle and young Lord Fawn, an Under-Secretary of State. But the wit and grace of the ladies present lent more of character to the party than even the position of the men. Lady Glencora Palliser herself was a host. There was no woman then in London better able to talk to a dozen people on a dozen subjects; and then, moreover, she was still in the flush of her beauty and the bloom of her youth. Lady Laura was there;--by what means divided from her husband Phineas could not imagine; but Lady Glencora was good at such divisions. Lady Cantrip had been allowed to come with her lord;--but, as was well understood, Lord Cantrip was not so manifestly a husband as was Mr. Kennedy. There are men who cannot guard themselves from the assertion of marital rights at most inappropriate moments. Now Lord Cantrip lived with his wife most happily; yet you should pass hours with him and her together, and hardly know that they knew each other. One of the Duke’s daughters was there,--but not the Duchess, who was known to be heavy;--and there was the beauteous Marchioness of Hartletop. Violet Effingham was in the room also,--giving Phineas a blow at the heart as he saw her smile. Might it be that he could speak a word to her on this occasion? Mr. Grey had also brought his wife;--and then there was Madame Max Goesler. Phineas found that it was his fortune to take down to dinner,--not Violet Effingham, but Madame Max Goesler. And, when he was placed at dinner, on the other side of him there sat Lady Hartletop, who addressed the few words which she spoke exclusively to Mr. Palliser. There had been in former days matters difficult of arrangement between those two; but I think that those old passages had now been forgotten by them both. Phineas was, therefore, driven to depend exclusively on Madame Max Goesler for conversation, and he found that he was not called upon to cast his seed into barren ground.

Up to that moment he had never heard of Madame Max Goesler. Lady Glencora, in introducing them, had pronounced the lady’s name so clearly that he had caught it with accuracy, but he could not surmise whence she had come, or why she was there. She was a woman probably something over thirty years of age. She had thick black hair, which she wore in curls,--unlike anybody else in the world,--in curls which hung down low beneath her face, covering, and perhaps intended to cover, a certain thinness in her cheeks which would otherwise have taken something from the charm of her countenance. Her eyes were large, of a dark blue colour, and very bright,--and she used them in a manner which is as yet hardly common with Englishwomen. She seemed to intend that you should know that she employed them to conquer you, looking as a knight may have looked in olden days who entered a chamber with his sword drawn from the scabbard and in his hand. Her forehead was broad and somewhat low. Her nose was not classically beautiful, being broader at the nostrils than beauty required, and, moreover, not perfectly straight in its line. Her lips were thin. Her teeth, which she endeavoured to show as little as possible, were perfect in form and colour. They who criticised her severely said, however, that they were too large. Her chin was well formed, and divided by a dimple which gave to her face a softness of grace which would otherwise have been much missed. But perhaps her great beauty was in the brilliant clearness of her dark complexion. You might almost fancy that you could see into it so as to read the different lines beneath the skin. She was somewhat tall, though by no means tall to a fault, and was so thin as to be almost meagre in her proportions. She always wore her dress close up to her neck, and never showed the bareness of her arms. Though she was the only woman so clad now present in the room, this singularity did not specially strike one, because in other respects her apparel was so rich and quaint as to make inattention to it impossible. The observer who did not observe very closely would perceive that Madame Max Goesler’s dress was unlike the dress of other women, but seeing that it was unlike in make, unlike in colour, and unlike in material, the ordinary observer would not see also that it was unlike in form for any other purpose than that of maintaining its general peculiarity of character. In colour she was abundant, and yet the fabric of her garment was always black. My pen may not dare to describe the traceries of yellow and ruby silk which went in and out through the black lace, across her bosom, and round her neck, and over her shoulders, and along her arms, and down to the very ground at her feet, robbing the black stuff of all its sombre solemnity, and producing a brightness in which there was nothing gaudy. She wore no vestige of crinoline, and hardly anything that could be called a train. And the lace sleeves of her dress, with their bright traceries of silk, were fitted close to her arms; and round her neck she wore the smallest possible collar of lace, above which there was a short chain of Roman gold with a ruby pendant. And she had rubies in her ears, and a ruby brooch, and rubies in the bracelets on her arms. Such, as regarded the outward woman, was Madame Max Goesler; and Phineas, as he took his place by her side, thought that fortune for the nonce had done well with him,--only that he should have liked it so much better could he have been seated next to Violet Effingham!

I have said that in the matter of conversation his morsel of seed was not thrown into barren ground. I do not know that he can truly be said to have produced even a morsel. The subjects were all mooted by the lady, and so great was her fertility in discoursing that all conversational grasses seemed to grow with her spontaneously. “Mr. Finn,” she said, “what would I not give to be a member of the British Parliament at such a moment as this!”

“Why at such a moment as this particularly?”

“Because there is something to be done, which, let me tell you, senator though you are, is not always the case with you.”

“My experience is short, but it sometimes seems to me that there is too much to be done.”

“Too much of nothingness, Mr. Finn. Is not that the case? But now there is a real fight in the lists. The one great drawback to the life of women is that they cannot act in politics.”

“And which side would you take?”

“What, here in England?” said Madame Max Goesler,--from which expression, and from one or two others of a similar nature, Phineas was led into a doubt whether the lady were a countrywoman of his or not. “Indeed, it is hard to say. Politically I should want to out-Turnbull Mr. Turnbull, to vote for everything that could be voted for,--ballot, manhood suffrage, womanhood suffrage, unlimited right of striking, tenant right, education of everybody, annual parliaments, and the abolition of at least the bench of bishops.”

“That is a strong programme,” said Phineas.

“It is strong, Mr. Finn, but that’s what I should like. I think, however, that I should be tempted to feel a dastard security in the conviction that I might advocate my views without any danger of seeing them carried out. For, to tell you the truth, I don’t at all want to put down ladies and gentlemen.”

“You think that they would go with the bench of bishops?”

“I don’t want anything to go,--that is, as far as real life is concerned. There’s that dear good Bishop of Abingdon is the best friend I have in the world,--and as for the Bishop of Dorchester, I’d walk from here to there to hear him preach. And I’d sooner hem aprons for them all myself than that they should want those pretty decorations. But then, Mr. Finn, there is such a difference between life and theory;--is there not?”

“And it is so comfortable to have theories that one is not bound to carry out,” said Phineas.

“Isn’t it? Mr. Palliser, do you live up to your political theories?” At this moment Mr. Palliser was sitting perfectly silent between Lady Hartletop and the Duke’s daughter, and he gave a little spring in his chair as this sudden address was made to him. “Your House of Commons theories, I mean, Mr. Palliser. Mr. Finn is saying that it is very well to have far advanced ideas,--it does not matter how far advanced,--because one is never called upon to act upon them practically.”

“That is a dangerous doctrine, I think,” said Mr. Palliser.

“But pleasant,--so at least Mr. Finn says.”

“It is at least very common,” said Phineas, not caring to protect himself by a contradiction.

“For myself,” said Mr. Palliser gravely, “I think I may say that I always am really anxious to carry into practice all those doctrines of policy which I advocate in theory.”

During this conversation Lady Hartletop sat as though no word of it reached her ears. She did not understand Madame Max Goesler, and by no means loved her. Mr. Palliser, when he had made his little speech, turned to the Duke’s daughter and asked some question about the conservatories at Longroyston.

“I have called forth a word of wisdom,” said Madame Max Goesler, almost in a whisper.

“Yes,” said Phineas, “and taught a Cabinet Minister to believe that I am a most unsound politician. You may have ruined my prospects for life, Madame Max Goesler.”

“Let me hope not. As far as I can understand the way of things in your Government, the aspirants to office succeed chiefly by making themselves uncommonly unpleasant to those who are in power. If a man can hit hard enough he is sure to be taken into the elysium of the Treasury bench,--not that he may hit others, but that he may cease to hit those who are there. I don’t think men are chosen because they are useful.”

“You are very severe upon us all.”

“Indeed, as far as I can see, one man is as useful as another. But to put aside joking,--they tell me that you are sure to become a minister.”

Phineas felt that he blushed. Could it be that people said of him behind his back that he was a man likely to rise high in political position? “Your informants are very kind,” he replied awkwardly, “but I do not know who they are. I shall never get up in the way you describe,--that is, by abusing the men I support.”

After that Madame Max Goesler turned round to Mr. Grey, who was sitting on the other side of her, and Phineas was left for a moment in silence. He tried to say a word to Lady Hartletop, but Lady Hartletop only bowed her head gracefully in recognition of the truth of the statement he made. So he applied himself for a while to his dinner.

“What do you think of Miss Effingham?” said Madame Max Goesler, again addressing him suddenly.

“What do I think about her?”

“You know her, I suppose.”

“Oh yes, I know her. She is closely connected with the Kennedys, who are friends of mine.”

“So I have heard. They tell me that scores of men are raving about her. Are you one of them?”

“Oh yes;--I don’t mind being one of sundry scores. There is nothing particular in owning to that.”

“But you admire her?”

“Of course I do,” said Phineas.

“Ah, I see you are joking. I do amazingly. They say women never do admire women, but I most sincerely do admire Miss Effingham.”

“Is she a friend of yours?”

“Oh no;--I must not dare to say so much as that. I was with her last winter for a week at Matching, and of course I meet her about at people’s houses. She seems to me to be the most independent girl I ever knew in my life. I do believe that nothing would make her marry a man unless she loved him and honoured him, and I think it is so very seldom that you can say that of a girl.”

“I believe so also,” said Phineas. Then he paused a moment before he continued to speak. “I cannot say that I know Miss Effingham very intimately, but from what I have seen of her, I should think it very probable that she may not marry at all.”

“Very probably,” said Madame Max Goesler, who then again turned away to Mr. Grey.

Ten minutes after this, when the moment was just at hand in which the ladies were to retreat, Madame Max Goesler again addressed Phineas, looking very full into his face as she did so. “I wonder whether the time will ever come, Mr. Finn, in which you will give me an account of that day’s journey to Blankenberg?”

“To Blankenberg!”

“Yes;--to Blankenberg. I am not asking for it now. But I shall look for it some day.” Then Lady Glencora rose from her seat, and Madame Max Goesler went out with the others.

XLI. Lord Fawn

What had Madame Max Goesler to do with his journey to Blankenberg? thought Phineas, as he sat for a while in silence between Mr. Palliser and Mr. Grey; and why should she, who was a perfect stranger to him, have dared to ask him such a question? But as the conversation round the table, after the ladies had gone, soon drifted into politics and became general, Phineas, for a while, forgot Madame Max Goesler and the Blankenberg journey, and listened to the eager words of Cabinet Ministers, now and again uttering a word of his own, and showing that he, too, was as eager as others. But the session in Mr. Palliser’s dining-room was not long, and Phineas soon found himself making his way amidst a throng of coming guests into the rooms above. His object was to meet Violet Effingham, but, failing that, he would not be unwilling to say a few more words to Madame Max Goesler.

He first encountered Lady Laura, to whom he had not spoken as yet, and, finding himself standing close to her for a while, he asked her after his late neighbour. “Do tell me one thing, Lady Laura;--who is Madame Max Goesler, and why have I never met her before?”

“That will be two things, Mr. Finn; but I will answer both questions as well as I can. You have not met her before, because she was in Germany last spring and summer, and in the year before that you were not about so much as you have been since. Still you must have seen her, I think. She is the widow of an Austrian banker, and has lived the greater part of her life at Vienna. She is very rich, and has a small house in Park Lane, where she receives people so exclusively that it has come to be thought an honour to be invited by Madame Max Goesler. Her enemies say that her father was a German Jew, living in England, in the employment of the Viennese bankers, and they say also that she has been married a second time to an Austrian Count, to whom she allows ever so much a year to stay away from her. But of all this, nobody, I fancy, knows anything. What they do know is that Madame Max Goesler spends seven or eight thousand a year, and that she will give no man an opportunity of even asking her to marry him. People used to be shy of her, but she goes almost everywhere now.”

“She has not been at Portman Square?”

“Oh no; but then Lady Glencora is so much more advanced than we are! After all, we are but humdrum people, as the world goes now.”

Then Phineas began to roam about the rooms, striving to find an opportunity of engrossing five minutes of Miss Effingham’s attention. During the time that Lady Laura was giving him the history of Madame Max Goesler his eyes had wandered round, and he had perceived that Violet was standing in the further corner of a large lobby on to which the stairs opened,--so situated, indeed, that she could hardly escape, because of the increasing crowd, but on that very account almost impossible to be reached. He could see, also, that she was talking to Lord Fawn, an unmarried peer of something over thirty years of age, with an unrivalled pair of whiskers, a small estate, and a rising political reputation. Lord Fawn had been talking to Violet through the whole dinner, and Phineas was beginning to think that he should like to make another journey to Blankenberg, with the object of meeting his lordship on the sands. When Lady Laura had done speaking, his eyes were turned through a large open doorway towards the spot on which his idol was standing. “It is of no use, my friend,” she said, touching his arm. “I wish I could make you know that it is of no use, because then I think you would be happier.” To this Phineas made no answer, but went and roamed about the rooms. Why should it be of no use? Would Violet Effingham marry any man merely because he was a lord?

Some half-hour after this he had succeeded in making his way up to the place in which Violet was still standing, with Lord Fawn beside her. “I have been making such a struggle to get to you,” he said.

“And now you are here, you will have to stay, for it is impossible to get out,” she answered. “Lord Fawn has made the attempt half-a-dozen times, but has failed grievously.”

“I have been quite contented,” said Lord Fawn;--“more than contented.”

Phineas felt that he ought to give some special reason to Miss Effingham to account for his efforts to reach her, but yet he had nothing special to say. Had Lord Fawn not been there, he would immediately have told her that he was waiting for an answer to the question he had asked her in Saulsby Park, but he could hardly do this in presence of the noble Under-Secretary of State. She received him with her pleasant genial smile, looking exactly as she had looked when he had parted from her on the morning after their ride. She did not show any sign of anger, or even of indifference at his approach. But still it was almost necessary that he should account for his search of her. “I have so longed to hear from you how you got on at Loughlinter,” he said.

“Yes,--yes; and I will tell you something of it some day, perhaps. Why do you not come to Lady Baldock’s?”

“I did not even know that Lady Baldock was in town.”

“You ought to have known. Of course she is in town. Where did you suppose I was living? Lord Fawn was there yesterday, and can tell you that my aunt is quite blooming.”

“Lady Baldock is blooming,” said Lord Fawn; “certainly blooming;--that is, if evergreens may be said to bloom.”

“Evergreens do bloom, as well as spring plants, Lord Fawn. You come and see her, Mr. Finn;--only you must bring a little money with you for the Female Protestant Unmarried Women’s Emigration Society. That is my aunt’s present hobby, as Lord Fawn knows to his cost.”

“I wish I may never spend half-a-sovereign worse.”

“But it is a perilous affair for me, as my aunt wants me to go out as a sort of leading Protestant unmarried female emigrant pioneer myself.”

“You don’t mean that,” said Lord Fawn, with much anxiety.

“Of course you’ll go,” said Phineas. “I should, if I were you.”

“I am in doubt,” said Violet.

“It is such a grand prospect,” said he. “Such an opening in life. So much excitement, you know; and such a useful career.”

“As if there were not plenty of opening here for Miss Effingham,” said Lord Fawn, “and plenty of excitement.”

“Do you think there is?” said Violet. “You are much more civil than Mr. Finn, I must say.” Then Phineas began to hope that he need not be afraid of Lord Fawn. “What a happy man you were at dinner!” continued Violet, addressing herself to Phineas.

“I thought Lord Fawn was the happy man.”

“You had Madame Max Goesler all to yourself for nearly two hours, and I suppose there was not a creature in the room who did not envy you. I don’t doubt that ever so much interest was made with Lady Glencora as to taking Madame Max down to dinner. Lord Fawn, I know, intrigued.”

“Miss Effingham, really I must--contradict you.”

“And Barrington Erle begged for it as a particular favour. The Duke, with a sigh, owned that it was impossible, because of his cumbrous rank; and Mr. Gresham, when it was offered to him, declared that he was fatigued with the business of the House, and not up to the occasion. How much did she say to you; and what did she talk about?”

“The ballot chiefly,--that, and manhood suffrage.”

“Ah! she said something more than that, I am sure. Madame Max Goesler never lets any man go without entrancing him. If you have anything near your heart, Mr. Finn, Madame Max Goesler touched it, I am sure.” Now Phineas had two things near his heart,--political promotion and Violet Effingham,--and Madame Max Goesler had managed to touch them both. She had asked him respecting his journey to Blankenberg, and had touched him very nearly in reference to Miss Effingham. “You know Madame Max Goesler, of course?” said Violet to Lord Fawn.

“Oh yes, I know the lady;--that is, as well as other people do. No one, I take it, knows much of her; and it seems to me that the world is becoming tired of her. A mystery is good for nothing if it remains always a mystery.”

“And it is good for nothing at all when it is found out,” said Violet.

“And therefore it is that Madame Max Goesler is a bore,” said Lord Fawn.

“You did not find her a bore?” said Violet. Then Phineas, choosing to oppose Lord Fawn as well as he could on that matter, as on every other, declared that he had found Madame Max Goesler most delightful. “And beautiful,--is she not?” said Violet.

“Beautiful!” exclaimed Lord Fawn.

“I think her very beautiful,” said Phineas.

“So do I,” said Violet. “And she is a dear ally of mine. We were a week together last winter, and swore an undying friendship. She told me ever so much about Mr. Goesler.”

“But she told you nothing of her second husband?” said Lord Fawn.

“Now that you have run into scandal, I shall have done,” said Violet.

Half an hour after this, when Phineas was preparing to fight his way out of the house, he was again close to Madame Max Goesler. He had not found a single moment in which to ask Violet for an answer to his old question, and was retiring from the field discomfited, but not dispirited. Lord Fawn, he thought, was not a serious obstacle in his way. Lady Laura had told him that there was no hope for him; but then Lady Laura’s mind on that subject was, he thought, prejudiced. Violet Effingham certainly knew what were his wishes, and knowing them, smiled on him and was gracious to him. Would she do so if his pretensions were thoroughly objectionable to her?

“I saw that you were successful this evening,” said Madame Max Goesler to him.

“I was not aware of any success.”

“I call it great success to be able to make your way where you will through such a crowd as there is here. You seem to me to be so stout a cavalier that I shall ask you to find my servant, and bid him get my carriage. Will you mind?” Phineas, of course, declared that he would be delighted. “He is a German, and not in livery. But if somebody will call out, he will hear. He is very sharp, and much more attentive than your English footmen. An Englishman hardly ever makes a good servant.”

“Is that a compliment to us Britons?”

“No, certainly not. If a man is a servant, he should be clever enough to be a good one.” Phineas had now given the order for the carriage, and, having returned, was standing with Madame Max Goesler in the cloak-room. “After all, we are surely the most awkward people in the world,” she said. “You know Lord Fawn, who was talking to Miss Effingham just now. You should have heard him trying to pay me a compliment before dinner. It was like a donkey walking a minuet, and yet they say he is a clever man and can make speeches.” Could it be possible that Madame Max Goesler’s ears were so sharp that she had heard the things which Lord Fawn had said of her?

“He is a well-informed man,” said Phineas.

“For a lord, you mean,” said Madame Max Goesler. “But he is an oaf, is he not? And yet they say he is to marry that girl.”

“I do not think he will,” said Phineas, stoutly.

“I hope not, with all my heart; and I hope that somebody else may,--unless somebody else should change his mind. Thank you; I am so much obliged to you. Mind you come and call on me,--193, Park Lane. I dare say you know the little cottage.” Then he put Madame Max Goesler into her carriage, and walked away to his club.

XLII. Lady Baldock Does Not Send a Card to Phineas Finn

Lady Baldock’s house in Berkeley Square was very stately,--a large house with five front windows in a row, and a big door, and a huge square hall, and a fat porter in a round-topped chair;--but it was dingy and dull, and could not have been painted for the last ten years, or furnished for the last twenty. Nevertheless, Lady Baldock had “evenings,” and people went to them,--though not such a crowd of people as would go to the evenings of Lady Glencora. Now Mr. Phineas Finn had not been asked to the evenings of Lady Baldock for the present season, and the reason was after this wise.

“Yes, Mr. Finn,” Lady Baldock had said to her daughter, who, early in the spring, was preparing the cards. “You may send one to Mr. Finn, certainly.”

“I don’t know that he is very nice,” said Augusta Boreham, whose eyes at Saulsby had been sharper perhaps than her mother’s, and who had her suspicions.

But Lady Baldock did not like interference from her daughter. “Mr. Finn, certainly,” she continued. “They tell me that he is a very rising young man, and he sits for Lord Brentford’s borough. Of course he is a Radical, but we cannot help that. All the rising young men are Radicals now. I thought him very civil at Saulsby.”

“But, mamma--”

“Well!”

“Don’t you think that he is a little free with Violet?”

“What on earth do you mean, Augusta?”

“Have you not fancied that he is--fond of her?”

“Good gracious, no!”

“I think he is. And I have sometimes fancied that she is fond of him, too.”

“I don’t believe a word of it, Augusta,--not a word. I should have seen it if it was so. I am very sharp in seeing such things. They never escape me. Even Violet would not be such a fool as that. Send him a card, and if he comes I shall soon see.” Miss Boreham quite understood her mother, though she could never master her,--and the card was prepared. Miss Boreham could never master her mother by her own efforts; but it was, I think, by a little intrigue on her part that Lady Baldock was mastered, and, indeed, altogether cowed, in reference to our hero, and that this victory was gained on that very afternoon in time to prevent the sending of the card.

When the mother and daughter were at tea, before dinner, Lord Baldock came into the room, and, after having been patted and petted and praised by his mother, he took up all the cards out of a china bowl and ran his eyes over them. “Lord Fawn!” he said, “the greatest ass in all London! Lady Hartletop! you know she won’t come.” “I don’t see why she shouldn’t come,” said Lady Baldock;--“a mere country clergyman’s daughter!” “Julius Cæsar Conway;--a great friend of mine, and therefore he always blackballs my other friends at the club. Lord Chiltern; I thought you were at daggers drawn with Chiltern.” “They say he is going to be reconciled to his father, Gustavus, and I do it for Lord Brentford’s sake. And he won’t come, so it does not signify. And I do believe that Violet has really refused him.” “You are quite right about his not coming,” said Lord Baldock, continuing to read the cards; “Chiltern certainly won’t come. Count Sparrowsky;--I wonder what you know about Sparrowsky that you should ask him here.” “He is asked about, Gustavus; he is indeed,” pleaded Lady Baldock. “I believe that Sparrowsky is a penniless adventurer. Mr. Monk; well, he is a Cabinet Minister. Sir Gregory Greeswing; you mix your people nicely at any rate. Sir Gregory Greeswing is the most old-fashioned Tory in England.” “Of course we are not political, Gustavus.” “Phineas Finn. They come alternately,--one and one.”

“Mr. Finn is asked everywhere, Gustavus.”

“I don’t doubt it. They say he is a very good sort of fellow. They say also that Violet has found that out as well as other people.”

“What do you mean, Gustavus?”

“I mean that everybody is saying that this Phineas Finn is going to set himself up in the world by marrying your niece. He is quite right to try it on, if he has a chance.”

“I don’t think he would be right at all,” said Lady Baldock, with much energy. “I think he would be wrong,--shamefully wrong. They say he is the son of an Irish doctor, and that he hasn’t a shilling in the world.”

“That is just why he would be right. What is such a man to do, but to marry money? He’s a deuced good-looking fellow, too, and will be sure to do it.”

“He should work for his money in the city, then, or somewhere there. But I don’t believe it, Gustavus; I don’t, indeed.”

“Very well. I only tell you what I hear. The fact is that he and Chiltern have already quarrelled about her. If I were to tell you that they have been over to Holland together and fought a duel about her, you wouldn’t believe that.”

“Fought a duel about Violet! People don’t fight duels now, and I should not believe it.”

“Very well. Then send your card to Mr. Finn.” And, so saying, Lord Baldock left the room.

Lady Baldock sat in silence for some time toasting her toes at the fire, and Augusta Boreham sat by, waiting for orders. She felt pretty nearly sure that new orders would be given if she did not herself interfere. “You had better put by that card for the present, my dear,” said Lady Baldock at last. “I will make inquiries. I don’t believe a word of what Gustavus has said. I don’t think that even Violet is such a fool as that. But if rash and ill-natured people have spoken of it, it may be as well to be careful.”

“It is always well to be careful;--is it not, mamma?”

“Not but what I think it very improper that these things should be said about a young woman; and as for the story of the duel, I don’t believe a word of it. It is absurd. I dare say that Gustavus invented it at the moment, just to amuse himself.”

The card of course was not sent, and Lady Baldock at any rate put so much faith in her son’s story as to make her feel it to be her duty to interrogate her niece on the subject. Lady Baldock at this period of her life was certainly not free from fear of Violet Effingham. In the numerous encounters which took place between them, the aunt seldom gained that amount of victory which would have completely satisfied her spirit. She longed to be dominant over her niece as she was dominant over her daughter; and when she found that she missed such supremacy, she longed to tell Violet to depart from out her borders, and be no longer niece of hers. But had she ever done so, Violet would have gone at the instant, and then terrible things would have followed. There is a satisfaction in turning out of doors a nephew or niece who is pecuniarily dependent, but when the youthful relative is richly endowed, the satisfaction is much diminished. It is the duty of a guardian, no doubt, to look after the ward; but if this cannot be done, the ward’s money should at least be held with as close a fist as possible. But Lady Baldock, though she knew that she would be sorely wounded, poked about on her old body with the sharp lances of disobedience, and struck with the cruel swords of satire, if she took upon herself to scold or even to question Violet, nevertheless would not abandon the pleasure of lecturing and teaching. “It is my duty,” she would say to herself, “and though it be taken in a bad spirit, I will always perform my duty.” So she performed her duty, and asked Violet Effingham some few questions respecting Phineas Finn. “My dear,” she said, “do you remember meeting a Mr. Finn at Saulsby?”

“A Mr. Finn, aunt! Why, he is a particular friend of mine. Of course I do, and he was at Saulsby. I have met him there more than once. Don’t you remember that we were riding about together?”

“I remember that he was there, certainly; but I did not know that he was a special--friend.”

“Most especial, aunt. A 1, I may say;--among young men, I mean.”

Lady Baldock was certainly the most indiscreet of old women in such a matter as this, and Violet the most provoking of young ladies. Lady Baldock, believing that there was something to fear,--as, indeed, there was, much to fear,--should have been content to destroy the card, and to keep the young lady away from the young gentleman, if such keeping away was possible to her. But Miss Effingham was certainly very wrong to speak of any young man as being A 1. Fond as I am of Miss Effingham, I cannot justify her, and must acknowledge that she used the most offensive phrase she could find, on purpose to annoy her aunt.

“Violet,” said Lady Baldock, bridling up, “I never heard such a word before from the lips of a young lady.”

“Not as A 1? I thought it simply meant very good.”

“A 1 is a nobleman,” said Lady Baldock.

“No, aunt;--A 1 is a ship,--a ship that is very good,” said Violet.

“And do you mean to say that Mr. Finn is,--is,--is,--very good?”

“Yes, indeed. You ask Lord Brentford, and Mr. Kennedy. You know he saved poor Mr. Kennedy from being throttled in the streets.”

“That has nothing to do with it. A policeman might have done that.”

“Then he would have been A 1 of policemen,--though A 1 does not mean a policeman.”

“He would have done his duty, and so perhaps did Mr. Finn.”

“Of course he did, aunt. It couldn’t have been his duty to stand by and see Mr. Kennedy throttled. And he nearly killed one of the men, and took the other prisoner with his own hands. And he made a beautiful speech the other day. I read every word of it. I am so glad he’s a Liberal. I do like young men to be Liberals.” Now Lord Baldock was a Tory, as had been all the Lord Baldocks,--since the first who had been bought over from the Whigs in the time of George III at the cost of a barony.

“You have nothing to do with politics, Violet.”

“Why shouldn’t I have something to do with politics, aunt?”

“And I must tell you that your name is being very unpleasantly mentioned in connection with that of this young man because of your indiscretion.”

“What indiscretion?” Violet, as she made her demand for a more direct accusation, stood quite upright before her aunt, looking the old woman full in the face,--almost with her arms akimbo.

“Calling him A 1, Violet.”

“People have been talking about me and Mr. Finn, because I just now, at this very moment, called him A 1 to you! If you want to scold me about anything, aunt, do find out something less ridiculous than that.”

“It was most improper language,--and if you used it to me, I am sure you would to others.”

“To what others?”

“To Mr. Finn,--and those sort of people.”

“Call Mr. Finn A 1 to his face! Well,--upon my honour I don’t know why I should not. Lord Chiltern says he rides beautifully, and if we were talking about riding I might do so.”

“You have no business to talk to Lord Chiltern about Mr. Finn at all.”

“Have I not? I thought that perhaps the one sin might palliate the other. You know, aunt, no young lady, let her be ever so ill-disposed, can marry two objectionable young men,--at the same time.”

“I said nothing about your marrying Mr. Finn.”

“Then, aunt, what did you mean?”

“I meant that you should not allow yourself to be talked of with an adventurer, a young man without a shilling, a person who has come from nobody knows where in the bogs of Ireland.”

“But you used to ask him here.”

“Yes,--as long as he knew his place. But I shall not do so again. And I must beg you to be circumspect.”

“My dear aunt, we may as well understand each other. I will not be circumspect, as you call it. And if Mr. Finn asked me to marry him to-morrow, and if I liked him well enough, I would take him,--even though he had been dug right out of a bog. Not only because I liked him,--mind! If I were unfortunate enough to like a man who was nothing, I would refuse him in spite of my liking,--because he was nothing. But this young man is not nothing. Mr. Finn is a fine fellow, and if there were no other reason to prevent my marrying him than his being the son of a doctor, and coming out of the bogs, that would not do so. Now I have made a clean breast to you as regards Mr. Finn; and if you do not like what I’ve said, aunt, you must acknowledge that you have brought it on yourself.”

Lady Baldock was left for a time speechless. But no card was sent to Phineas Finn.

XLIII. Promotion

Phineas got no card from Lady Baldock, but one morning he received a note from Lord Brentford which was of more importance to him than any card could have been. At this time, bit by bit, the Reform Bill of the day had nearly made its way through the committee, but had been so mutilated as to be almost impossible of recognition by its progenitors. And there was still a clause or two as to the rearrangement of seats, respecting which it was known that there would be a combat,--probably combats,--carried on after the internecine fashion. There was a certain clipping of counties to be done, as to which it was said that Mr. Daubeny had declared that he would not yield till he was made to do so by the brute force of majorities;--and there was another clause for the drafting of certain superfluous members from little boroughs, and bestowing them on populous towns at which they were much wanted, respecting which Mr. Turnbull had proclaimed that the clause as it now stood was a fainéant clause, capable of doing, and intended to do, no good in the proper direction; a clause put into the bill to gull ignorant folk who had not eyes enough to recognise the fact that it was fainéant; a make-believe clause,--so said Mr. Turnbull,--to be detested on that account by every true reformer worse than the old Philistine bonds and Tory figments of representation, as to which there was at least no hypocritical pretence of popular fitness. Mr. Turnbull had been very loud and very angry,--had talked much of demonstrations among the people, and had almost threatened the House. The House in its present mood did not fear any demonstrations,--but it did fear that Mr. Turnbull might help Mr. Daubeny, and that Mr. Daubeny might help Mr. Turnbull. It was now May,--the middle of May,--and ministers, who had been at work on their Reform Bill ever since the beginning of the session, were becoming weary of it. And then, should these odious clauses escape the threatened Turnbull-Daubeny alliance,--then there was the House of Lords! “What a pity we can’t pass our bills at the Treasury, and have done with them!” said Laurence Fitzgibbon. “Yes, indeed,” replied Mr. Ratler. “For myself, I was never so tired of a session in my life. I wouldn’t go through it again to be made,--no, not to be made Chancellor of the Exchequer.”

Lord Brentford’s note to Phineas Finn was as follows:--

House of Lords, 16th May, 186--.

MY DEAR MR. FINN,

You are no doubt aware that Lord Bosanquet’s death has taken Mr. Mottram into the Upper House, and that as he was Under-Secretary for the Colonies, and as the Under-Secretary must be in the Lower House, the vacancy must be filled up.

The heart of Phineas Finn at this moment was almost in his mouth. Not only to be selected for political employment, but to be selected at once for an office so singularly desirable! Under-Secretaries, he fancied, were paid two thousand a year. What would Mr. Low say now? But his great triumph soon received a check. “Mr. Mildmay has spoken to me on the subject,” continued the letter, “and informs me that he has offered the place at the colonies to his old supporter, Mr. Laurence Fitzgibbon.” Laurence Fitzgibbon!

I am inclined to think that he could not have done better, as Mr. Fitzgibbon has shown great zeal for his party. This will vacate the Irish seat at the Treasury Board, and I am commissioned by Mr. Mildmay to offer it to you. Perhaps you will do me the pleasure of calling on me to-morrow between the hours of eleven and twelve.

Yours very sincerely,

BRENTFORD.

Phineas was himself surprised to find that his first feeling on reading this letter was one of dissatisfaction. Here were his golden hopes about to be realised,--hopes as to the realisation of which he had been quite despondent twelve months ago,--and yet he was uncomfortable because he was to be postponed to Laurence Fitzgibbon. Had the new Under-Secretary been a man whom he had not known, whom he had not learned to look down upon as inferior to himself, he would not have minded it,--would have been full of joy at the promotion proposed for himself. But Laurence Fitzgibbon was such a poor creature, that the idea of filling a place from which Laurence had risen was distasteful to him. “It seems to be all a matter of favour and convenience,” he said to himself, “without any reference to the service.” His triumph would have been so complete had Mr. Mildmay allowed him to go into the higher place at one leap. Other men who had made themselves useful had done so. In the first hour after receiving Lord Brentford’s letter, the idea of becoming a Lord of the Treasury was almost displeasing to him. He had an idea that junior lordships of the Treasury were generally bestowed on young members whom it was convenient to secure, but who were not good at doing anything. There was a moment in which he thought that he would refuse to be made a junior lord.

But during the night cooler reflections told him that he had been very wrong. He had taken up politics with the express desire of getting his foot upon a rung of the ladder of promotion, and now, in his third session, he was about to be successful. Even as a junior lord he would have a thousand a year; and how long might he have sat in chambers, and have wandered about Lincoln’s Inn, and have loitered in the courts striving to look as though he had business, before he would have earned a thousand a year! Even as a junior lord he could make himself useful, and when once he should be known to be a good working man, promotion would come to him. No ladder can be mounted without labour; but this ladder was now open above his head, and he already had his foot upon it.

At half-past eleven he was with Lord Brentford, who received him with the blandest smile and a pressure of the hand which was quite cordial. “My dear Finn,” he said, “this gives me the most sincere pleasure,--the greatest pleasure in the world. Our connection together at Loughton of course makes it doubly agreeable to me.”

“I cannot be too grateful to you, Lord Brentford.”

“No, no; no, no. It is all your own doing. When Mr. Mildmay asked me whether I did not think you the most promising of the young members on our side in your House, I certainly did say that I quite concurred. But I should be taking too much on myself, I should be acting dishonestly, if I were to allow you to imagine that it was my proposition. Had he asked me to recommend, I should have named you; that I say frankly. But he did not. He did not. Mr. Mildmay named you himself. ‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘that your friend Finn would join us at the Treasury?’ I told him that I did think so. ‘And do you not think,’ said he, ‘that it would be a useful appointment?’ Then I ventured to say that I had no doubt whatever on that point;--that I knew you well enough to feel confident that you would lend a strength to the Liberal Government. Then there were a few words said about your seat, and I was commissioned to write to you. That was all.”

Phineas was grateful, but not too grateful, and bore himself very well in the interview. He explained to Lord Brentford that of course it was his object to serve the country,--and to be paid for his services,--and that he considered himself to be very fortunate to be selected so early in his career for parliamentary place. He would endeavour to do his duty, and could safely say of himself that he did not wish to eat the bread of idleness. As he made this assertion, he thought of Laurence Fitzgibbon. Laurence Fitzgibbon had eaten the bread of idleness, and yet he was promoted. But Phineas said nothing to Lord Brentford about his idle friend. When he had made his little speech he asked a question about the borough.

“I have already ventured to write a letter to my agent at Loughton, telling him that you have accepted office, and that you will be shortly there again. He will see Shortribs and arrange it. But if I were you I should write to Shortribs and to Grating,--after I had seen Mr. Mildmay. Of course you will not mention my name,” And the Earl looked very grave as he uttered this caution.

“Of course I will not,” said Phineas.

“I do not think you’ll find any difficulty about the seat,” said the peer. “There never has been any difficulty at Loughton yet. I must say that for them. And if we can scrape through with Clause 72 we shall be all right;--shall we not?” This was the clause as to which so violent an opposition was expected from Mr. Turnbull,--a clause as to which Phineas himself had felt that he would hardly know how to support the Government, in the event of the committee being pressed to a division upon it. Could he, an ardent reformer, a reformer at heart,--could he say that such a borough as Loughton should be spared;--that the arrangement by which Shortribs and Grating had sent him to Parliament, in obedience to Lord Brentford’s orders, was in due accord with the theory of a representative legislature? In what respect had Gatton and Old Sarum been worse than Loughton? Was he not himself false to his principle in sitting for such a borough as Loughton? He had spoken to Mr. Monk, and Mr. Monk had told him that Rome was not built in a day,--and had told him also that good things were most valued and were more valuable when they came by instalments. But then Mr. Monk himself enjoyed the satisfaction of sitting for a popular Constituency. He was not personally pricked in the conscience by his own parliamentary position. Now, however, --now that Phineas had consented to join the Government, any such considerations as these must be laid aside. He could no longer be a free agent, or even a free thinker. He had been quite aware of this, and had taught himself to understand that members of Parliament in the direct service of the Government were absolved from the necessity of free-thinking. Individual free-thinking was incompatible with the position of a member of the Government, and unless such abnegation were practised, no government would be possible. It was of course a man’s duty to bind himself together with no other men but those with whom, on matters of general policy, he could agree heartily;--but having found that he could so agree, he knew that it would be his duty as a subaltern to vote as he was directed. It would trouble his conscience less to sit for Loughton and vote for an objectionable clause as a member of the Government, than it would have done to give such a vote as an independent member. In so resolving, he thought that he was simply acting in accordance with the acknowledged rules of parliamentary government. And therefore, when Lord Brentford spoke of Clause 72, he could answer pleasantly, “I think we shall carry it; and, you see, in getting it through committee, if we can carry it by one, that is as good as a hundred. That’s the comfort of close-fighting in committee. In the open House we are almost as much beaten by a narrow majority as by a vote against us.”

“Just so; just so,” said Lord Brentford, delighted to see that his young pupil,--as he regarded him,--understood so well the system of parliamentary management. “By-the-bye, Finn, have you seen Chiltern lately?”

“Not quite lately,” said Phineas, blushing up to his eyes.

“Or heard from him?”

“No;--nor heard from him. When last I heard of him he was in Brussels.”

“Ah,--yes; he is somewhere on the Rhine now. I thought that as you were so intimate, perhaps you corresponded with him. Have you heard that we have arranged about Lady Laura’s money?”

“I have heard. Lady Laura has told me.”

“I wish he would return,” said Lord Brentford sadly,--almost solemnly. “As that great difficulty is over, I would receive him willingly, and make my house pleasant to him, if I can do so. I am most anxious that he should settle, and marry. Could you not write to him?” Phineas, not daring to tell Lord Brentford that he had quarrelled with Lord Chiltern,--feeling that if he did so everything would go wrong,--said that he would write to Lord Chiltern.

As he went away he felt that he was bound to get an answer from Violet Effingham. If it should be necessary, he was willing to break with Lord Brentford on that matter,--even though such breaking should lose him his borough and his place;--but not on any other matter.

XLIV. Phineas and His Friends

Our hero’s friends were, I think, almost more elated by our hero’s promotion than was our hero himself. He never told himself that it was a great thing to be a junior lord of the Treasury, though he acknowledged to himself that to have made a successful beginning was a very great thing. But his friends were loud in their congratulations,--or condolements as the case might be.

He had his interview with Mr. Mildmay, and, after that, one of his first steps was to inform Mrs. Bunce that he must change his lodgings. “The truth is, Mrs. Bunce, not that I want anything better; but that a better position will be advantageous to me, and that I can afford to pay for it.” Mrs. Bunce acknowledged the truth of the argument, with her apron up to her eyes. “I’ve got to be so fond of looking after you, Mr. Finn! I have indeed,” said Mrs. Bunce. “It is not just what you pays like, because another party will pay as much. But we’ve got so used to you, Mr. Finn,--haven’t we?” Mrs. Bunce was probably not aware herself that the comeliness of her lodger had pleased her feminine eye, and touched her feminine heart. Had anybody said that Mrs. Bunce was in love with Phineas, the scandal would have been monstrous. And yet it was so,--after a fashion. And Bunce knew it,--after his fashion. “Don’t be such an old fool,” he said, “crying after him because he’s six foot high.” “I ain’t crying after him because he’s six foot high,” whined the poor woman;--“but one does like old faces better than new, and a gentleman about one’s place is pleasant.” “Gentleman be d----d,” said Bunce. But his anger was excited, not by his wife’s love for Phineas, but by the use of an objectionable word.

Bunce himself had been on very friendly terms with Phineas, and they two had had many discussions on matters of politics, Bunce taking up the cudgels always for Mr. Turnbull, and generally slipping away gradually into some account of his own martyrdom. For he had been a martyr, having failed in obtaining any redress against the policeman who had imprisoned him so wrongfully. The People’s Banner had fought for him manfully, and therefore there was a little disagreement between him and Phineas on the subject of that great organ of public opinion. And as Mr. Bunce thought that his lodger was very wrong to sit for Lord Brentford’s borough, subjects were sometimes touched which were a little galling to Phineas.

Touching this promotion, Bunce had nothing but condolement to offer to the new junior lord. “Oh yes,” said he, in answer to an argument from Phineas, “I suppose there must be lords, as you call ’em; though for the matter of that I can’t see as they is of any mortal use.”

“Wouldn’t you have the Government carried on?”

“Government! Well; I suppose there must be government. But the less of it the better. I’m not against government;--nor yet against laws, Mr. Finn; though the less of them, too, the better. But what does these lords do in the Government? Lords indeed! I’ll tell you what they do, Mr. Finn. They wotes; that’s what they do! They wotes hard; black or white, white or black. Ain’t that true? When you’re a ‘lord,’ will you be able to wote against Mr. Mildmay to save your very soul?”

“If it comes to be a question of soul-saving, Mr. Bunce, I shan’t save my place at the expense of my conscience.”

“Not if you knows it, you mean. But the worst of it is that a man gets so thick into the mud that he don’t know whether he’s dirty or clean. You’ll have to wote as you’re told, and of course you’ll think it’s right enough. Ain’t you been among Parliament gents long enough to know that that’s the way it goes?”

“You think no honest man can be a member of the Government?”

“I don’t say that, but I think honesty’s a deal easier away from ’em. The fact is, Mr. Finn, it’s all wrong with us yet, and will be till we get it nigher to the great American model. If a poor man gets into Parliament,--you’ll excuse me, Mr. Finn, but I calls you a poor man.”

“Certainly,--as a member of Parliament I am a very poor man.”

“Just so,--and therefore what do you do? You goes and lays yourself out for government! I’m not saying as how you’re anyways wrong. A man has to live. You has winning ways, and a good physiognomy of your own, and are as big as a life-guardsman.” Phineas as he heard this doubtful praise laughed and blushed. “Very well; you makes your way with the big wigs, lords and earls and them like, and you gets returned for a rotten borough;--you’ll excuse me, but that’s about it, ain’t it?--and then you goes in for government! A man may have a mission to govern, such as Washington and Cromwell and the like o’ them. But when I hears of Mr. Fitzgibbon a-governing, why then I says,--d----n it all.”

“There must be good and bad you know.”

“We’ve got to change a deal yet, Mr. Finn, and we’ll do it. When a young man as has liberal feelings gets into Parliament, he shouldn’t be snapped up and brought into the governing business just because he’s poor and wants a salary. They don’t do it that way in the States; and they won’t do it that way here long. It’s the system as I hates, and not you, Mr. Finn. Well, good-bye, sir. I hope you’ll like the governing business, and find it suits your health.”

These condolements from Mr. Bunce were not pleasant, but they set him thinking. He felt assured that Bunce and Quintus Slide and Mr. Turnbull were wrong. Bunce was ignorant. Quintus Slide was dishonest. Turnbull was greedy of popularity. For himself, he thought that as a young man he was fairly well informed. He knew that he meant to be true in his vocation. And he was quite sure that the object nearest to his heart in politics was not self-aggrandisement, but the welfare of the people in general. And yet he could not but agree with Bunce that there was something wrong. When such men as Laurence Fitzgibbon were called upon to act as governors, was it not to be expected that the ignorant but still intelligent Bunces of the population should--“d----n it all”?

On the evening of that day he went up to Mrs. Low’s, very sure that he should receive some encouragement from her and from her husband. She had been angry with him because he had put himself into a position in which money must be spent and none could be made. The Lows, especially Mrs. Low, had refused to believe that any success was within his reach. Now that he had succeeded, now that he was in receipt of a salary on which he could live and save money, he would be sure of sympathy from his old friends the Lows!

But Mrs. Low was as severe upon him as Mr. Bunce had been, and even from Mr. Low he could extract no real comfort. “Of course I congratulate you,” said Mr. Low coldly.

“And you, Mrs. Low?”

“Well, you know, Mr. Finn, I think you have begun at the wrong end. I thought so before, and I think so still. I suppose I ought not to say so to a Lord of the Treasury, but if you ask me, what can I do?”

“Speak the truth out, of course.”

“Exactly. That’s what I must do. Well, the truth is, Mr. Finn, that I do not think it is a very good opening for a young man to be made what they call a Lord of the Treasury,--unless he has got a private fortune, you know, to support that kind of life.”

“You see, Phineas, a ministry is such an uncertain thing,” said Mr. Low.

“Of course it’s uncertain;--but as I did go into the House, it’s something to have succeeded.”

“If you call that success,” said Mrs. Low.

“You did intend to go on with your profession,” said Mr. Low. He could not tell them that he had changed his mind, and that he meant to marry Violet Effingham, who would much prefer a parliamentary life for her husband to that of a working barrister. “I suppose that is all given up now,” continued Mr. Low.

“Just for the present,” said Phineas.

“Yes;--and for ever I fear,” said Mrs. Low, “You’ll never go back to real work after frittering away your time as a Lord of the Treasury. What sort of work must it be when just anybody can do it that it suits them to lay hold of? But of course a thousand a year is something, though a man may have it for only six months.”

It came out in the course of the evening that Mr. Low was going to stand for the borough vacated by Mr. Mottram, at which it was considered that the Conservatives might possibly prevail. “You see, after all, Phineas,” said Mr. Low, “that I am following your steps.”

“Ah; you are going into the House in the course of your profession.”

“Just so,” said Mrs. Low.

“And are taking the first step towards being a Tory Attorney-General.”

“That’s as may be,” said Mr. Low. “But it’s the kind of thing a man does after twenty years of hard work. For myself, I really don’t care much whether I succeed or fail. I should like to live to be a Vice-Chancellor. I don’t mind saying as much as that to you. But I’m not at all sure that Parliament is the best way to the Equity Bench.”

“But it is a grand thing to get into Parliament when you do it by means of your profession,” said Mrs. Low.

Soon after that Phineas took his departure from the house, feeling sore and unhappy. But on the next morning he was received in Grosvenor Place with an amount of triumph which went far to compensate him. Lady Laura had written to him to call there, and on his arrival he found both Violet Effingham and Madame Max Goesler with his friend. When Phineas entered the room his first feeling was one of intense joy at seeing that Violet Effingham was present there. Then there was one of surprise that Madame Max Goesler should make one of the little party. Lady Laura had told him at Mr. Palliser’s dinner-party that they, in Portman Square, had not as yet advanced far enough to receive Madame Max Goesler,--and yet here was the lady in Mr. Kennedy’s drawing-room. Now Phineas would have thought it more likely that he should find her in Portman Square than in Grosvenor Place. The truth was that Madame Goesler had been brought by Miss Effingham,--with the consent, indeed, of Lady Laura, but with a consent given with much of hesitation. “What are you afraid of?” Violet had asked. “I am afraid of nothing,” Lady Laura had answered; “but one has to choose one’s acquaintance in accordance with rules which one doesn’t lay down very strictly.” “She is a clever woman,” said Violet, “and everybody likes her; but if you think Mr. Kennedy would object, of course you are right.” Then Lady Laura had consented, telling herself that it was not necessary that she should ask her husband’s approval as to every new acquaintance she might form. At the same time Violet had been told that Phineas would be there, and so the party had been made up.

“‘See the conquering hero comes,’” said Violet in her cheeriest voice.

“I am so glad that Mr. Finn has been made a lord of something,” said Madame Max Goesler. “I had the pleasure of a long political discussion with him the other night, and I quite approve of him.”

“We are so much gratified, Mr. Finn,” said Lady Laura. “Mr. Kennedy says that it is the best appointment they could have made, and papa is quite proud about it.”

“You are Lord Brentford’s member; are you not?” asked Madame Max Goesler. This was a question which Phineas did not quite like, and which he was obliged to excuse by remembering that the questioner had lived so long out of England as to be probably ignorant of the myths, and theories, and system, and working of the British Constitution. Violet Effingham, little as she knew of politics, would never have asked a question so imprudent.

But the question was turned off, and Phineas, with an easy grace, submitted himself to be petted, and congratulated, and purred over, and almost caressed by the three ladies, Their good-natured enthusiasm was at any rate better than the satire of Bunce, or the wisdom of Mrs. Low. Lady Laura had no misgivings as to Phineas being fit for governing, and Violet Effingham said nothing as to the short-lived tenure of ministers. Madame Max Goesler, though she had asked an indiscreet question, thoroughly appreciated the advantage of Government pay, and the prestige of Government power. “You are a lord now,” she said, speaking, as was customary with her, with the slightest possible foreign accent, “and you will be a president soon, and then perhaps a secretary. The order of promotion seems odd, but I am told it is very pleasant.”

“It is pleasant to succeed, of course,” said Phineas, “let the success be ever so little.”

“We knew you would succeed,” said Lady Laura. “We were quite sure of it. Were we not, Violet?”

“You always said so, my dear. For myself I do not venture to have an opinion on such matters. Will you always have to go to that big building in the corner, Mr. Finn, and stay there from ten till four? Won’t that be a bore?”

“We have a half-holiday on Saturday, you know,” said Phineas.

“And do the Lords of the Treasury have to take care of the money?” asked Madame Max Goesler.

“Only their own; and they generally fail in doing that,” said Phineas.

He sat there for a considerable time, wondering whether Mr. Kennedy would come in, and wondering also as to what Mr. Kennedy would say to Madame Max Goesler when he did come in. He knew that it was useless for him to expect any opportunity, then or there, of being alone for a moment with Violet Effingham. His only chance in that direction would be in some crowded room, at some ball at which he might ask her to dance with him; but it seemed that fate was very unkind to him, and that no such chance came in his way. Mr. Kennedy did not appear, and Madame Max Goesler with Violet went away, leaving Phineas still sitting with Lady Laura. Each of them said a kind word to him as they went. “I don’t know whether I may dare to expect that a Lord of the Treasury will come and see me?” said Madame Max Goesler. Then Phineas made a second promise that he would call in Park Lane. Violet blushed as she remembered that she could not ask him to call at Lady Baldock’s. “Good-bye, Mr. Finn,” she said, giving him her hand. “I’m so very glad that they have chosen you; and I do hope that, as Madame Max says, they’ll make you a secretary and a president, and everything else very quickly,--till it will come to your turn to be making other people.” “He is very nice,” said Madame Goesler to Violet as she took her place in the carriage. “He bears being petted and spoilt without being either awkward or conceited.” “On the whole, he is rather nice,” said Violet; “only he has not got a shilling in the world, and has to make himself before he will be anybody.” “He must marry money, of course,” said Madame Max Goesler.

“I hope you are contented?” said Lady Laura, rising from her chair and coming opposite to him as soon as they were alone.

“Of course I am contented.”

“I was not,--when I first heard of it. Why did they promote that empty-headed countryman of yours to a place for which he was quite unfit? I was not contented. But then I am more ambitious for you than you are for yourself.” He sat without answering her for awhile, and she stood waiting for his reply. “Have you nothing to say to me?” she asked.

“I do not know what to say. When I think of it all, I am lost in amazement. You tell me that you are not contented;--that you are ambitious for me. Why is it that you should feel any interest in the matter?”

“Is it not reasonable that we should be interested for our friends?”

“But when you and I last parted here in this room you were hardly my friend.”

“Was I not? You wrong me there;--very deeply.”

“I told you what was my ambition, and you resented it,” said Phineas.

“I think I said that I could not help you, and I think I said also that I thought you would fail. I do not know that I showed much resentment. You see, I told her that you were here, that she might come and meet you. You know that I wished my brother should succeed. I wished it before I ever knew you. You cannot expect that I should change my wishes.”

“But if he cannot succeed,” pleaded Phineas.

“Who is to say that? Has a woman never been won by devotion and perseverance? Besides, how can I wish to see you go on with a suit which must sever you from my father, and injure your political prospects;--perhaps fatally injure them? It seems to me now that my father is almost the only man in London who has not heard of this duel.”

“Of course he will hear of it. I have half made up my mind to tell him myself.”

“Do not do that, Mr. Finn. There can be no reason for it. But I did not ask you to come here to-day to talk to you about Oswald or Violet. I have given you my advice about that, and I can do no more.”

“Lady Laura, I cannot take it. It is out of my power to take it.”

“Very well. The matter shall be what you members of Parliament call an open question between us. When papa asked you to accept this place at the Treasury, did it ever occur to you to refuse it?”

“It did;--for half an hour or so.”

“I hoped you would,--and yet I knew that I was wrong. I thought that you should count yourself to be worth more than that, and that you should, as it were, assert yourself. But then it is so difficult to draw the line between proper self-assertion and proper self-denial;--to know how high to go up the table, and how low to go down. I do not doubt that you have been right,--only make them understand that you are not as other junior lords;--that you have been willing to be a junior lord, or anything else for a purpose; but that the purpose is something higher than that of fetching and carrying in Parliament for Mr. Mildmay and Mr. Palliser.”

“I hope in time to get beyond fetching and carrying,” said Phineas.

“Of course you will; and knowing that, I am glad that you are in office. I suppose there will be no difficulty about Loughton.”

Then Phineas laughed. “I hear,” said he, “that Mr. Quintus Slide, of the People’s Banner, has already gone down to canvass the electors.”

“Mr. Quintus Slide! To canvass the electors of Loughton!” and Lady Laura drew herself up and spoke of this unseemly intrusion on her father’s borough, as though the vulgar man who had been named had forced his way into the very drawing-room in Portman Square. At that moment Mr. Kennedy came in. “Do you hear what Mr. Finn tells me?” she said. “He has heard that Mr. Quintus Slide has gone down to Loughton to stand against him.”

“And why not?” said Mr. Kennedy.

“My dear!” ejaculated Lady Laura.

“Mr. Quintus Slide will no doubt lose his time and his money;--but he will gain the prestige of having stood for a borough, which will be something for him on the staff of the People’s Banner,” said Mr. Kennedy.

“He will get that horrid man Vellum to propose him,” said Lady Laura.

“Very likely,” said Mr. Kennedy. “And the less any of us say about it the better. Finn, my dear fellow, I congratulate you heartily. Nothing for a long time has given me greater pleasure than hearing of your appointment. It is equally honourable to yourself and to Mr. Mildmay. It is a great step to have gained so early.”

Phineas, as he thanked his friend, could not help asking himself what his friend had done to be made a Cabinet Minister. Little as he, Phineas, himself had done in the House in his two sessions and a half, Mr. Kennedy had hardly done more in his fifteen or twenty. But then Mr. Kennedy was possessed of almost miraculous wealth, and owned half a county, whereas he, Phineas, owned almost nothing at all. Of course no Prime Minister would offer a junior lordship at the Treasury to a man with £30,000 a year. Soon after this Phineas took his leave. “I think he will do well,” said Mr. Kennedy to his wife.

“I am sure he will do well,” replied Lady Laura, almost scornfully.

“He is not quite such a black swan with me as he is with you; but still I think he will succeed, if he takes care of himself. It is astonishing how that absurd story of his duel with Chiltern has got about.”

“It is impossible to prevent people talking,” said Lady Laura.

“I suppose there was some quarrel, though neither of them will tell you. They say it was about Miss Effingham. I should hardly think that Finn could have any hopes in that direction.”

“Why should he not have hopes?”

“Because he has neither position, nor money, nor birth,” said Mr. Kennedy.

“He is a gentleman,” said Lady Laura; “and I think he has position. I do not see why he should not ask any girl to marry him.”

“There is no understanding you, Laura,” said Mr. Kennedy, angrily. “I thought you had quite other hopes about Miss Effingham.”

“So I have; but that has nothing to do with it. You spoke of Mr. Finn as though he would be guilty of some crime were he to ask Violet Effingham to be his wife. In that I disagree with you. Mr. Finn is--”

“You will make me sick of the name of Mr. Finn.”

“I am sorry that I offend you by my gratitude to a man who saved your life.” Mr. Kennedy shook his head. He knew that the argument used against him was false, but he did not know how to show that he knew that it was false. “Perhaps I had better not mention his name any more,” continued Lady Laura.

“Nonsense!”

“I quite agree with you that it is nonsense, Robert.”

“All I mean to say is, that if you go on as you do, you will turn his head and spoil him. Do you think I do not know what is going on among you?”

“And what is going on among us,--as you call it?”

“You are taking this young man up and putting him on a pedestal and worshipping him, just because he is well-looking, and rather clever and decently behaved. It’s always the way with women who have nothing to do, and who cannot be made to understand that they should have duties. They cannot live without some kind of idolatry.”

“Have I neglected my duty to you, Robert?”

“Yes,--you know you have;--in going to those receptions at your father’s house on Sundays.”

“What has that to do with Mr. Finn?”

“Psha!”

“I begin to think I had better tell Mr. Finn not to come here any more, since his presence is disagreeable to you. All the world knows how great is the service he did you, and it will seem to be very ridiculous. People will say all manner of things; but anything will be better than that you should go on as you have done,--accusing your wife of idolatry towards--a young man, because--he is--well-looking.”

“I never said anything of the kind.”

“You did, Robert.”

“I did not. I did not speak more of you than of a lot of others.”

“You accused me personally, saying that because of my idolatry I had neglected my duty; but really you made such a jumble of it all, with papa’s visitors, and Sunday afternoons, that I cannot follow what was in your mind.”

Then Mr. Kennedy stood for awhile, collecting his thoughts, so that he might unravel the jumble, if that were possible to him; but finding that it was not possible, he left the room, and closed the door behind him.

Then Lady Laura was left alone to consider the nature of the accusation which her husband had brought against her; or the nature rather of the accusation which she had chosen to assert that her husband had implied. For in her heart she knew that he had made no such accusation, and had intended to make none such. The idolatry of which he had spoken was the idolatry which a woman might show to her cat, her dog, her picture, her china, her furniture, her carriage and horses, or her pet maid-servant. Such was the idolatry of which Mr. Kennedy had spoken;--but was there no other worship in her heart, worse, more pernicious than that, in reference to this young man?

She had schooled herself about him very severely, and had come to various resolutions. She had found out and confessed to herself that she did not, and could not, love her husband. She had found out and confessed to herself that she did love, and could not help loving, Phineas Finn. Then she had resolved to banish him from her presence, and had gone the length of telling him so. After that she had perceived that she had been wrong, and had determined to meet him as she met other men,--and to conquer her love. Then, when this could not be done, when something almost like idolatry grew upon her, she determined that it should be the idolatry of friendship, that she would not sin even in thought, that there should be nothing in her heart of which she need be ashamed;--but that the one great object and purport of her life should be the promotion of this friend’s welfare. She had just begun to love after this fashion, had taught herself to believe that she might combine something of the pleasure of idolatry towards her friend with a full complement of duty towards her husband, when Phineas came to her with his tale of love for Violet Effingham. The lesson which she got then was a very rough one,--so hard that at first she could not bear it. Her anger at his love for her brother’s wished-for bride was lost in her dismay that Phineas should love any one after having once loved her. But by sheer force of mind she had conquered that dismay, that feeling of desolation at her heart, and had almost taught herself to hope that Phineas might succeed with Violet. He wished it,--and why should he not have what he wished,--he, whom she so fondly idolised? It was not his fault that he and she were not man and wife. She had chosen to arrange it otherwise, and was she not bound to assist him now in the present object of his reasonable wishes? She had got over in her heart that difficulty about her brother, but she could not quite conquer the other difficulty. She could not bring herself to plead his cause with Violet. She had not brought herself as yet to do it.

And now she was accused of idolatry for Phineas by her husband,--she with “a lot of others,” in which lot Violet was of course included. Would it not be better that they two should be brought together? Would not her friend’s husband still be her friend? Would she not then forget to love him? Would she not then be safer than she was now?

As she sat alone struggling with her difficulties, she had not as yet forgotten to love him,--nor was she as yet safe.

XLV. Miss Effingham’s Four Lovers

One morning early in June Lady Laura called at Lady Baldock’s house and asked for Miss Effingham. The servant was showing her into the large drawing-room, when she again asked specially for Miss Effingham. “I think Miss Effingham is there,” said the man, opening the door. Miss Effingham was not there. Lady Baldock was sitting all alone, and Lady Laura perceived that she had been caught in the net which she specially wished to avoid. Now Lady Baldock had not actually or openly quarrelled with Lady Laura Kennedy or with Lord Brentford, but she had conceived a strong idea that her niece Violet was countenanced in all improprieties by the Standish family generally, and that therefore the Standish family was to be regarded as a family of enemies. There was doubtless in her mind considerable confusion on the subject, for she did not know whether Lord Chiltern or Mr. Finn was the suitor whom she most feared,--and she was aware, after a sort of muddled fashion, that the claims of these two wicked young men were antagonistic to each other. But they were both regarded by her as emanations from the same source of iniquity, and, therefore, without going deeply into the machinations of Lady Laura,--without resolving whether Lady Laura was injuring her by pressing her brother as a suitor upon Miss Effingham, or by pressing a rival of her brother,--still she became aware that it was her duty to turn a cold shoulder on those two houses in Portman Square and Grosvenor Place. But her difficulties in doing this were very great, and it may be said that Lady Baldock was placed in an unjust and cruel position. Before the end of May she had proposed to leave London, and to take her daughter and Violet down to Baddingham,--or to Brighton, if they preferred it, or to Switzerland. “Brighton in June!” Violet had exclaimed. “Would not a month among the glaciers be delightful!” Miss Boreham had said. “Don’t let me keep you in town, aunt,” Violet replied; “but I do not think I shall go till other people go. I can have a room at Laura Kennedy’s house.” Then Lady Baldock, whose position was hard and cruel, resolved that she would stay in town. Here she had in her hands a ward over whom she had no positive power, and yet in respect to whom her duty was imperative! Her duty was imperative, and Lady Baldock was not the woman to neglect her duty;--and yet she knew that the doing of her duty would all be in vain. Violet would marry a shoe-black out of the streets if she were so minded. It was of no use that the poor lady had provided herself with two strings, two most excellent strings, to her bow,--two strings either one of which should have contented Miss Effingham. There was Lord Fawn, a young peer, not very rich indeed,--but still with means sufficient for a wife, a rising man, and in every way respectable, although a Whig. And there was Mr. Appledom, one of the richest commoners in England, a fine Conservative too, with a seat in the House, and everything appropriate. He was fifty, but looked hardly more than thirty-five, and was,--so at least Lady Baldock frequently asserted,--violently in love with Violet Effingham. Why had not the law, or the executors, or the Lord Chancellor, or some power levied for the protection of the proprieties, made Violet absolutely subject to her guardian till she should be made subject to a husband?

“Yes, I think she is at home,” said Lady Baldock, in answer to Lady Laura’s inquiry for Violet. “At least, I hardly know. She seldom tells me what she means to do,--and sometimes she will walk out quite alone!” A most imprudent old woman was Lady Baldock, always opening her hand to her adversaries, unable to control herself in the scolding of people, either before their faces or behind their backs, even at moments in which such scolding was most injurious to her own cause. “However, we will see,” she continued. Then the bell was rung, and in a few minutes Violet was in the room. In a few minutes more they were up-stairs together in Violet’s own room, in spite of the openly-displayed wrath of Lady Baldock. “I almost wish she had never been born,” said Lady Baldock to her daughter. “Oh, mamma, don’t say that.” “I certainly do wish that I had never seen her.” “Indeed she has been a grievous trouble to you, mamma,” said Miss Boreham, sympathetically.

“Brighton! What nonsense!” said Lady Laura.

“Of course it’s nonsense. Fancy going to Brighton! And then they have proposed Switzerland. If you could only hear Augusta talking in rapture of a month among the glaciers! And I feel so ungrateful. I believe they would spend three months with me at any horrible place that I could suggest,--at Hong Kong if I were to ask it,--so intent are they on taking me away from metropolitan danger.”

“But you will not go?”

“No!--I won’t go. I know I am very naughty; but I can’t help feeling that I cannot be good without being a fool at the same time. I must either fight my aunt, or give way to her. If I were to yield, what a life I should have;--and I should despise myself after all.”

“And what is the special danger to be feared now?”

“I don’t know;--you, I fancy. I told her that if she went, I should go to you. I knew that would make her stay.”

“I wish you would come to me,” said Lady Laura.

“I shouldn’t think of it really,--not for any length of time.”

“Why not?”

“Because I should be in Mr. Kennedy’s way.”

“You wouldn’t be in his way in the least. If you would only be down punctually for morning prayers, and go to church with him on Sunday afternoon, he would be delighted to have you.”

“What did he say about Madame Max coming?”

“Not a word. I don’t think he quite knew who she was then. I fancy he has inquired since, by something he said yesterday.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing that matters;--only a word. I haven’t come here to talk about Madame Max Goesler,--nor yet about Mr. Kennedy.”

“Whom have you come to talk about?” asked Violet, laughing a little, with something of increased colour in her cheeks, though she could not be said to blush.

“A lover of course,” said Lady Laura.

“I wish you would leave me alone with my lovers. You are as bad or worse than my aunt. She, at any rate, varies her prescription. She has become sick of poor Lord Fawn because he’s a Whig.”

“And who is her favourite now?”

“Old Mr. Appledom,--who is really a most unexceptionable old party, and whom I like of all things. I really think I could consent to be Mrs. Appledom, to get rid of my troubles,--if he did not dye his whiskers and have his coats padded.”

“He’d give up those little things if you asked him.”

“I shouldn’t have the heart to do it. Besides, this isn’t his time of the year for making proposals. His love fever, which is of a very low kind, and intermits annually, never comes on till the autumn. It is a rural malady, against which he is proof while among his clubs!”

“Well, Violet,--I am like your aunt.”

“Like Lady Baldock?”

“In one respect. I, too, will vary my prescription.”

“What do you mean, Laura?”

“Just this,--that if you like to marry Phineas Finn, I will say that you are right.”

“Heaven and earth! And why am I to marry Phineas Finn?”

“Only for two reasons; because he loves you, and because--”

“No,--I deny it. I do not.”

“I had come to fancy that you did.”

“Keep your fancy more under control then. But upon my word I can’t understand this. He was your great friend.”

“What has that to do with it?” demanded Lady Laura.

“And you have thrown over your brother, Laura?”

“You have thrown him over. Is he to go on for ever asking and being refused?”

“I do not know why he should not,” said Violet, “seeing how very little trouble it gives him. Half an hour once in six months does it all for him, allowing him time for coming and going in a cab.”

“Violet, I do not understand you. Have you refused Oswald so often because he does not pass hours on his knees before you?”

“No, indeed! His nature would be altered very much for the worse before he could do that.”

“Why do you throw it in his teeth then that he does not give you more of his time?”

“Why have you come to tell me to marry Mr. Phineas Finn? That is what I want to know. Mr. Phineas Finn, as far as I am aware, has not a shilling in the world,--except a month’s salary now due to him from the Government. Mr. Phineas Finn I believe to be the son of a country doctor in Ireland,--with about seven sisters. Mr. Phineas Finn is a Roman Catholic. Mr. Phineas Finn is,--or was a short time ago,--in love with another lady; and Mr. Phineas Finn is not so much in love at this moment but what he is able to intrust his cause to an ambassador. None short of a royal suitor should ever do that with success.”

“Has he never pleaded his cause to you himself?”

“My dear, I never tell gentlemen’s secrets. It seems that if he has, his success was so trifling that he has thought he had better trust some one else for the future.”

“He has not trusted me. He has not given me any commission.”

“Then why have you come?”

“Because,--I hardly know how to tell his story. There have been things about Oswald which made it almost necessary that Mr. Finn should explain himself to me.”

“I know it all;--about their fighting. Foolish young men! I am not a bit obliged to either of them,--not a bit. Only fancy, if my aunt knew it, what a life she would lead me! Gustavus knows all about it, and I feel that I am living at his mercy. Why were they so wrong-headed?”

“I cannot answer that,--though I know them well enough to be sure that Chiltern was the one in fault.”

“It is so odd that you should have thrown your brother over.”

“I have not thrown my brother over. Will you accept Oswald if he asks you again?”

“No,” almost shouted Violet.

“Then I hope that Mr. Finn may succeed. I want him to succeed in everything. There;--you may know it all. He is my Phoebus Apollo.”

“That is flattering to me,--looking at the position in which you desire to place your Phoebus at the present moment.”

“Come, Violet, I am true to you, and let me have a little truth from you. This man loves you, and I think is worthy of you. He does not love me, but he is my friend. As his friend, and believing in his worth, I wish for his success beyond almost anything else in the world. Listen to me, Violet. I don’t believe in those reasons which you gave me just now for not becoming this man’s wife.”

“Nor do I.”

“I know you do not. Look at me. I, who have less of real heart than you, I who thought that I could trust myself to satisfy my mind and my ambition without caring for my heart, I have married for what you call position. My husband is very rich, and a Cabinet Minister, and will probably be a peer. And he was willing to marry me at a time when I had not a shilling of my own.”

“He was very generous.”

“He has asked for it since,” said Lady Laura. “But never mind. I have not come to talk about myself;--otherwise than to bid you not do what I have done. All that you have said about this man’s want of money and of family is nothing.”

“Nothing at all,” said Violet. “Mere words,--fit only for such people as my aunt.”

“Well then?”

“Well?”

“If you love him--!”

“Ah! but if I do not? You are very close in inquiring into my secrets. Tell me, Laura;--was not this young Crichton once a lover of your own?”

“Psha! And do you think I cannot keep a gentleman’s secret as well as you?”

“What is the good of any secret, Laura, when we have been already so open? He tried his ’prentice hand on you; and then he came to me. Let us watch him, and see who’ll be the third. I too like him well enough to hope that he’ll land himself safely at last.”

XLVI. The Mousetrap

Phineas had certainly no desire to make love by an ambassador,--at second-hand. He had given no commission to Lady Laura, and was, as the reader is aware, quite ignorant of what was being done and said on his behalf. He had asked no more from Lady Laura than an opportunity of speaking for himself, and that he had asked almost with a conviction that by so asking he would turn his friend into an enemy. He had read but little of the workings of Lady Laura’s heart towards himself, and had no idea of the assistance she was anxious to give him. She had never told him that she was willing to sacrifice her brother on his behalf, and, of course, had not told him that she was willing also to sacrifice herself. Nor, when she wrote to him one June morning and told him that Violet would be found in Portman Square, alone, that afternoon,--naming an hour, and explaining that Miss Effingham would be there to meet herself and her father, but that at such an hour she would be certainly alone,--did he even then know how much she was prepared to do for him. The short note was signed “L.,” and then there came a long postscript. “Ask for me,” she said in a postscript. “I shall be there later, and I have told them to bid you wait. I can give you no hope of success, but if you choose to try,--you can do so. If you do not come, I shall know that you have changed your mind. I shall not think the worse of you, and your secret will be safe with me. I do that which you have asked me to do,--simply because you have asked it. Burn this at once,--because I ask it.” Phineas destroyed the note, tearing it into atoms, the moment that he had read it and re-read it. Of course he would go to Portman Square at the hour named. Of course he would take his chance. He was not buoyed up by much of hope;--but even though there were no hope, he would take his chance.

When Lord Brentford had first told Phineas of his promotion, he had also asked the new Lord of the Treasury to make a certain communication on his behalf to his son. This Phineas had found himself obliged to promise to do;--and he had done it. The letter had been difficult enough to write,--but he had written it. After having made the promise, he had found himself bound to keep it.

“Dear Lord Chiltern,” he had commenced, “I will not think that there was anything in our late encounter to prevent my so addressing you. I now write at the instance of your father, who has heard nothing of our little affair.” Then he explained at length Lord Brentford’s wishes as he understood them. “Pray come home,” he said, finishing his letter. “Touching V. E., I feel that I am bound to tell you that I still mean to try my fortune, but that I have no ground for hoping that my fortune will be good. Since the day on the sands, I have never met her but in society. I know you will be glad to hear that my wound was nothing; and I think you will be glad to hear that I have got my foot on to the ladder of promotion.--Yours always,

“PHINEAS FINN.”

Now he had to try his fortune,--that fortune of which he had told Lord Chiltern that he had no reason for hoping that it would be good. He went direct from his office at the Treasury to Portman Square, resolving that he would take no trouble as to his dress, simply washing his hands and brushing his hair as though he were going down to the House, and he knocked at the Earl’s door exactly at the hour named by Lady Laura.

“Miss Effingham,” he said, “I am so glad to find you alone.”

“Yes,” she said, laughing. “I am alone,--a poor unprotected female. But I fear nothing. I have strong reason for believing that Lord Brentford is somewhere about. And Pomfret the butler, who has known me since I was a baby, is a host in himself.”

“With such allies you can have nothing to fear,” he replied, attempting to carry on her little jest.

“Nor even without them, Mr. Finn. We unprotected females in these days are so self-reliant that our natural protectors fall off from us, finding themselves to be no longer wanted. Now with you,--what can I fear?”

“Nothing,--as I hope.”

“There used to be a time, and that not so long ago either, when young gentlemen and ladies were thought to be very dangerous to each other if they were left alone. But propriety is less rampant now, and upon the whole virtue and morals, with discretion and all that kind of thing, have been the gainers. Don’t you think so?”

“I am sure of it.”

“All the same, but I don’t like to be caught in a trap, Mr. Finn.”

“In a trap?”

“Yes;--in a trap. Is there no trap here? If you will say so, I will acknowledge myself to be a dolt, and will beg your pardon.”

“I hardly know what you call a trap.”

“You were told that I was here?”

He paused a moment before he replied. “Yes, I was told.”

“I call that a trap.”

“Am I to blame?”

“I don’t say that you set it,--but you use it.”

“Miss Effingham, of course I have used it. You must know,--I think you must know that I have that to say to you which has made me long for such an opportunity as this.”

“And therefore you have called in the assistance of your friend.”

“It is true.”

“In such matters you should never talk to any one, Mr. Finn. If you cannot fight your own battle, no one can fight it for you.”

“Miss Effingham, do you remember our ride at Saulsby?”

“Very well;--as if it were yesterday.”

“And do you remember that I asked you a question which you have never answered?”

“I did answer it,--as well as I knew how, so that I might tell you a truth without hurting you.”

“It was necessary,--is necessary that I should be hurt sorely, or made perfectly happy. Violet Effingham, I have come to you to ask you to be my wife;--to tell you that I love you, and to ask for your love in return. Whatever may be my fate, the question must be asked, and an answer must be given. I have not hoped that you should tell me that you loved me--”

“For what then have you hoped?”

“For not much, indeed;--but if for anything, then for some chance that you might tell me so hereafter.”

“If I loved you, I would tell you so now,--instantly. I give you my word of that.”

“Can you never love me?”

“What is a woman to answer to such a question? No;--I believe never. I do not think I shall ever wish you to be my husband. You ask me to be plain, and I must be plain.”

“Is it because--?” He paused, hardly knowing what the question was which he proposed to himself to ask.

“It is for no because,--for no cause except that simple one which should make any girl refuse any man whom she did not love. Mr. Finn, I could say pleasant things to you on any other subject than this,--because I like you.”

“I know that I have nothing to justify my suit.”

“You have everything to justify it;--at least I am bound to presume that you have. If you love me,--you are justified.”

“You know that I love you.”

“I am sorry that it should ever have been so,--very sorry. I can only hope that I have not been in fault.”

“Will you try to love me?”

“No;--why should I try? If any trying were necessary, I would try rather not to love you. Why should I try to do that which would displease everybody belonging to me? For yourself, I admit your right to address me,--and tell you frankly that it would not be in vain, if I loved you. But I tell you as frankly that such a marriage would not please those whom I am bound to try to please.”

He paused a moment before he spoke further. “I shall wait,” he said, “and come again.”

“What am I to say to that? Do not tease me, so that I be driven to treat you with lack of courtesy. Lady Laura is so much attached to you, and Mr. Kennedy, and Lord Brentford,--and indeed I may say, I myself also, that I trust there may be nothing to mar our good fellowship. Come, Mr. Finn,--say that you will take an answer, and I will give you my hand.”

“Give it me,” said he. She gave him her hand, and he put it up to his lips and pressed it. “I will wait and come again,” he said. “I will assuredly come again.” Then he turned from her and went out of the house. At the corner of the square he saw Lady Laura’s carriage, but did not stop to speak to her. And she also saw him.

“So you have had a visitor here,” said Lady Laura to Violet.

“Yes;--I have been caught in the trap.”

“Poor mouse! And has the cat made a meal of you?”

“I fancy he has, after his fashion. There be cats that eat their mice without playing,--and cats that play with their mice, and then eat them; and cats again which only play with their mice, and don’t care to eat them. Mr. Finn is a cat of the latter kind, and has had his afternoon’s diversion.”

“You wrong him there.”

“I think not, Laura. I do not mean to say that he would not have liked me to accept him. But, if I can see inside his bosom, such a little job as that he has now done will be looked back upon as one of the past pleasures of his life;--not as a pain.”

XLVII. Mr. Mildmay’s Bill

It will be necessary that we should go back in our story for a very short period in order that the reader may be told that Phineas Finn was duly re-elected at Loughton after his appointment at the Treasury Board. There was some little trouble at Loughton, and something more of expense than he had before encountered. Mr. Quintus Slide absolutely came down, and was proposed by Mr. Vellum for the borough. Mr. Vellum being a gentleman learned in the law, and hostile to the interests of the noble owner of Saulsby, was able to raise a little trouble against our hero. Mr. Slide was proposed by Mr. Vellum, and seconded by Mr. Vellum’s clerk,--though, as it afterwards appeared, Mr. Vellum’s clerk was not in truth an elector,--and went to the poll like a man. He received three votes, and at twelve o’clock withdrew. This in itself could hardly have afforded compensation for the expense which Mr. Slide or his backers must have encountered;--but he had an opportunity of making a speech, every word of which was reported in the People’s Banner; and if the speech was made in the language given in the report, Mr. Slide was really possessed of some oratorical power. Most of those who read the speech in the columns of the People’s Banner were probably not aware how favourable an opportunity of retouching his sentences in type had been given to Mr. Slide by the fact of his connection with the newspaper. The speech had been very severe upon our hero; and though the speaker had been so hooted and pelted at Loughton as to have been altogether inaudible,--so maltreated that in point of fact he had not been able to speak above a tenth part of his speech at all,--nevertheless the speech did give Phineas a certain amount of pain. Why Phineas should have read it who can tell? But who is there that abstains from reading that which is printed in abuse of himself?

In the speech as it was printed Mr. Slide declared that he had no thought of being returned for the borough. He knew too well how the borough was managed, what slaves the electors were;--how they groaned under a tyranny from which hitherto they had been unable to release themselves. Of course the Earl’s nominee, his lacquey, as the honourable gentleman might be called, would be returned. The Earl could order them to return whichever of his lacqueys he pleased.--There is something peculiarly pleasing to the democratic ear in the word lacquey! Any one serving a big man, whatever the service may be, is the big man’s lacquey in the People’s Banner.--The speech throughout was very bitter. Mr. Phineas Finn, who had previously served in Parliament as the lacquey of an Irish earl, and had been turned off by him, had now fallen into the service of the English earl, and was the lacquey chosen for the present occasion. But he, Quintus Slide, who boasted himself to be a man of the people,--he could tell them that the days of their thraldom were coming to an end, and that their enfranchisement was near at hand. That friend of the people, Mr. Turnbull, had a clause in his breeches-pocket which he would either force down the unwilling throat of Mr. Mildmay, or else drive the imbecile Premier from office by carrying it in his teeth. Loughton, as Loughton, must be destroyed, but it should be born again in a better birth as a part of a real electoral district, sending a real member, chosen by a real constituency, to a real Parliament. In those days,--and they would come soon,--Mr. Quintus Slide rather thought that Mr. Phineas Finn would be found “nowhere,” and he rather thought also that when he showed himself again, as he certainly should do, in the midst of that democratic electoral district as the popular candidate for the honour of representing it in Parliament, that democratic electoral district would accord to him a reception very different from that which he was now receiving from the Earl’s lacqueys in the parliamentary village of Loughton. A prettier bit of fiction than these sentences as composing a part of any speech delivered, or proposed to be delivered, at Loughton, Phineas thought he had never seen. And when he read at the close of the speech that though the Earl’s hired bullies did their worst, the remarks of Mr. Slide were received by the people with reiterated cheering, he threw himself back in his chair at the Treasury and roared. The poor fellow had been three minutes on his legs, had received three rotten eggs, and one dead dog, and had retired. But not the half of the speech as printed in the People’s Banner has been quoted. The sins of Phineas, who in spite of his inability to open his mouth in public had been made a Treasury hack by the aristocratic influence,--“by aristocratic influence not confined to the male sex,”--were described at great length, and in such language that Phineas for a while was fool enough to think that it would be his duty to belabour Mr. Slide with a horsewhip. This notion, however, did not endure long with him, and when Mr. Monk told him that things of that kind came as a matter of course, he was comforted.

But he found it much more difficult to obtain comfort when he weighed the arguments brought forward against the abominations of such a borough as that for which he sat, and reflected that if Mr. Turnbull brought forward his clause, he, Phineas Finn, would be bound to vote against the clause, knowing the clause to be right, because he was a servant of the Government. The arguments, even though they appeared in the People’s Banner, were true arguments; and he had on one occasion admitted their truth to his friend Lady Laura,--in the presence of that great Cabinet Minister, her husband. “What business has such a man as that down there? Is there a single creature who wants him?” Lady Laura had said. “I don’t suppose anybody does want Mr. Quintus Slide,” Phineas had replied; “but I am disposed to think the electors should choose the man they do want, and that at present they have no choice left to them.” “They are quite satisfied,” said Lady Laura, angrily. “Then, Lady Laura,” continued Phineas, “that alone should be sufficient to prove that their privilege of returning a member to Parliament is too much for them. We can’t defend it.” “It is defended by tradition,” said Mr. Kennedy. “And by its great utility,” said Lady Laura, bowing to the young member who was present, and forgetting that very useless old gentleman, her cousin, who had sat for the borough for many years. “In this country it doesn’t do to go too fast,” said Mr. Kennedy. “And then the mixture of vulgarity, falsehood, and pretence!” said Lady Laura, shuddering as her mind recurred to the fact that Mr. Quintus Slide had contaminated Loughton by his presence. “I am told that they hardly let him leave the place alive.”

Whatever Mr. Kennedy and Lady Laura might think about Loughton and the general question of small boroughs, it was found by the Government, to their great cost, that Mr. Turnbull’s clause was a reality. After two months of hard work, all questions of franchise had been settled, rating and renting, new and newfangled, fancy franchises and those which no one fancied, franchises for boroughs and franchises for counties, franchises single, dual, three-cornered, and four-sided,--by various clauses to which the Committee of the whole House had agreed after some score of divisions,--the matter of the franchise had been settled. No doubt there was the House of Lords, and there might yet be shipwreck. But it was generally believed that the Lords would hardly look at the bill,--that they would not even venture on an amendment. The Lords would only be too happy to let the matter be settled by the Commons themselves. But then, after the franchise, came redistribution. How sick of the subject were all members of the Government, no one could tell who did not see their weary faces. The whole House was sick, having been whipped into various lobbies, night after night, during the heat of the summer, for weeks past. Redistribution! Why should there be any redistribution? They had got, or would get, a beautiful franchise. Could they not see what that would do for them? Why redistribute anything? But, alas, it was too late to go back to so blessed an idea as that! Redistribution they must have. But there should be as little redistribution as possible. Men were sick of it all, and would not be exigeant. Something should be done for overgrown counties;--something for new towns which had prospered in brick and mortar. It would be easy to crush up a peccant borough or two,--a borough that had been discovered in its sin. And a few boroughs now blessed with two members might consent to be blessed only with one. Fifteen small clauses might settle the redistribution, in spite of Mr. Turnbull,--if only Mr. Daubeny would be good-natured.

Neither the weather, which was very hot, nor the tedium of the session, which had been very great, nor the anxiety of Ministers, which was very pressing, had any effect in impairing the energy of Mr. Turnbull. He was as instant, as oratorical, as hostile, as indignant about redistribution as he had been about the franchise. He had been sure then, and he was sure now, that Ministers desired to burke the question, to deceive the people, to produce a bill that should be no bill. He brought out his clause,--and made Loughton his instance. “Would the honourable gentleman who sat lowest on the Treasury bench,--who at this moment was in sweet confidential intercourse with the right honourable gentleman now President of the Board of Trade, who had once been a friend of the people,--would the young Lord of the Treasury get up in his place and tell them that no peer of Parliament had at present a voice in sending a member to their House of Commons,--that no peer would have a voice if this bill, as proposed by the Government, were passed in its present useless, ineffectual, conservative, and most dishonest form?”

Phineas, who replied to this, and who told Mr. Turnbull that he himself could not answer for any peers,--but that he thought it probable that most peers would, by their opinions, somewhat influence the opinions of some electors,--was thought to have got out of his difficulty very well. But there was the clause of Mr. Turnbull to be dealt with,--a clause directly disfranchising seven single-winged boroughs, of which Loughton was of course one,--a clause to which the Government must either submit or object. Submission would be certain defeat in one way, and objection would be as certain defeat in another,--if the gentlemen on the other side were not disposed to assist the ministers. It was said that the Cabinet was divided. Mr. Gresham and Mr. Monk were for letting the seven boroughs go. Mr. Mildmay could not bring himself to obey Mr. Turnbull, and Mr. Palliser supported him. When Mr. Mildmay was told that Mr. Daubeny would certainly go into the same lobby with Mr. Turnbull respecting the seven boroughs, he was reported to have said that in that case Mr. Daubeny must be prepared with a Government. Mr. Daubeny made a beautiful speech about the seven boroughs;--the seven sins, and seven stars, and seven churches, and seven lamps. He would make no party question of this. Gentlemen who usually acted with him would vote as their own sense of right or wrong directed them;--from which expression of a special sanction it was considered that these gentlemen were not accustomed to exercise the privilege now accorded to them. But in regarding the question as one of right and wrong, and in looking at what he believed to be both the wish of the country and its interests, he, Mr. Daubeny,--he, himself, being simply a humble member of that House,--must support the clause of the honourable gentleman. Almost all those to whom had been surrendered the privilege of using their own judgment for that occasion only, used it discreetly,--as their chief had used it himself,--and Mr. Turnbull carried his clause by a majority of fifteen. It was then 3 a.m., and Mr. Gresham, rising after the division, said that his right honourable friend the First Lord of the Treasury was too tired to return to the House, and had requested him to state that the Government would declare their purpose at 6 p.m. on the following evening.

Phineas, though he had made his little speech in answer to Mr. Turnbull with good-humoured flippancy, had recorded his vote in favour of the seven boroughs with a sore heart. Much as he disliked Mr. Turnbull, he knew that Mr. Turnbull was right in this. He had spoken to Mr. Monk on the subject, as it were asking Mr. Monk’s permission to throw up his office, and vote against Mr. Mildmay. But Mr. Monk was angry with him, telling him that his conscience was of that restless, uneasy sort which is neither useful nor manly. “We all know,” said Mr. Monk, “and none better than Mr. Mildmay, that we cannot justify such a borough as Loughton by the theory of our parliamentary representation,--any more than we can justify the fact that Huntingdonshire should return as many members as the East Riding. There must be compromises, and you should trust to others who have studied the matter more thoroughly than you, to say how far the compromise should go at the present moment.”

“It is the influence of the peer, not the paucity of the electors,” said Phineas.

“And has no peer any influence in a county? Would you disfranchise Westmoreland? Believe me, Finn, if you want to be useful, you must submit yourself in such matters to those with whom you act.”

Phineas had no answer to make, but he was not happy in his mind. And he was the less happy, perhaps, because he was very sure that Mr. Mildmay would be beaten. Mr. Low in these days harassed him sorely. Mr. Low was very keen against such boroughs as Loughton, declaring that Mr. Daubeny was quite right to join his standard to that of Mr. Turnbull on such an issue. Mr. Low was the reformer now, and Phineas found himself obliged to fight a losing battle on behalf of an acknowledged abuse. He never went near Bunce; but, unfortunately for him, Bunce caught him once in the street and showed him no mercy. “Slide was a little ’eavy on you in the Banner the other day,--eh, Mr. Finn?--too ’eavy, as I told him.”

“Mr. Slide can be just as heavy as he pleases, Bunce.”

“That’s in course. The press is free, thank God,--as yet. But it wasn’t any good rattling away at the Earl’s little borough when it’s sure to go. Of course it’ll go, Mr. Finn.”

“I think it will.”

“The whole seven on ’em. The ’ouse couldn’t but do it. They tell me it’s all Mr. Mildmay’s own work, sticking out for keeping on ’em. He’s very old, and so we’ll forgive him. But he must go, Mr. Finn.”

“We shall know all about that soon, Bunce.”

“If you don’t get another seat, Mr. Finn, I suppose we shall see you back at the Inn. I hope we may. It’s better than being member for Loughton, Mr. Finn;--you may be sure of that.” And then Mr. Bunce passed on.

Mr. Turnbull carried his clause, and Loughton was doomed. Loughton and the other six deadly sins were anathematized, exorcised, and finally got rid of out of the world by the voices of the gentlemen who had been proclaiming the beauty of such pleasant vices all their lives, and who in their hearts hated all changes that tended towards popular representation. But not the less was Mr. Mildmay beaten; and, in accordance with the promise made by his first lieutenant immediately after the vote was taken, the Prime Minister came forward on the next evening and made his statement. He had already put his resignation into the hands of Her Majesty, and Her Majesty had graciously accepted it. He was very old, and felt that the time had come in which it behoved him to retire into that leisure which he thought he had, perhaps, earned. He had hoped to carry this bill as the last act of his political life; but he was too old, too stiff, as he said, in his prejudices, to bend further than he had bent already, and he must leave the completion of the matter in other hands. Her Majesty had sent for Mr. Gresham, and Mr. Gresham had already seen Her Majesty. Mr. Gresham and his other colleagues, though they dissented from the clause which had been carried by the united efforts of gentlemen opposite to him, and of gentlemen below him on his own side of the House, were younger men than he, and would, for the country’s sake,--and for the sake of Her Majesty,--endeavour to carry the bill through. There would then, of course, be a dissolution, and the future Government would, no doubt, depend on the choice of the country. From all which it was understood that Mr. Gresham was to go on with the bill to a conclusion, whatever might be the divisions carried against him, and that a new Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs must be chosen. Phineas understood, also, that he had lost his seat at Loughton. For the borough of Loughton there would never again be an election. “If I had been Mr. Mildmay, I would have thrown the bill up altogether,” Lord Brentford said afterwards; “but of course it was not for me to interfere.”

The session was protracted for two months after that,--beyond the time at which grouse should have been shot,--and by the 23rd of August became the law of the land. “I shall never get over it,” said Mr. Ratler to Mr. Finn, seated one terribly hot evening on a bench behind the Cabinet Ministers,--“never. I don’t suppose such a session for work was ever known before. Think what it is to have to keep men together in August, with the thermometer at 81°, and the river stinking like,--like the very mischief.” Mr. Ratler, however, did not die.

On the last day of the session Laurence Fitzgibbon resigned. Rumours reached the ears of Phineas as to the cause of this, but no certain cause was told him. It was said that Lord Cantrip had insisted upon it, Laurence having by mischance been called upon for some official statement during an unfortunate period of absence. There was, however, a mystery about it;--but the mystery was not half so wonderful as the triumph to Phineas, when Mr. Gresham offered him the place.

“But I shall have no seat,” said Phineas.

“We shall none of us have seats to-morrow,” said Mr. Gresham.

“But I shall be at a loss to find a place to stand for.”

“The election will not come on till November, and you must look about you. Both Mr. Monk and Lord Brentford seem to think you will be in the House.”

And so the bill was carried, and the session was ended.