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Title: Phineas Finn
       The Irish Member


Author: Anthony Trollope



Release Date: April 7, 2006  [eBook #18000]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)


***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHINEAS FINN***


E-text prepared by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.



PHINEAS FINN

The Irish Member

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

First published in serial form in _St. Paul's Magazine_ beginning in
1867 and in book form in 1869







CONTENTS

   VOLUME I

            I. Phineas Finn Proposes to Stand for Loughshane
           II. Phineas Finn Is Elected for Loughshane
          III. Phineas Finn Takes His Seat
           IV. Lady Laura Standish
            V. Mr. and Mrs. Low
           VI. Lord Brentford's Dinner
          VII. Mr. and Mrs. Bunce
         VIII. The News about Mr. Mildmay and Sir Everard
           IX. The New Government
            X. Violet Effingham
           XI. Lord Chiltern
          XII. Autumnal Prospects
         XIII. Saulsby Wood
          XIV. Loughlinter
           XV. Donald Bean's Pony
          XVI. Phineas Finn Returns to Killaloe
         XVII. Phineas Finn Returns to London
        XVIII. Mr. Turnbull
          XIX. Lord Chiltern Rides His Horse Bonebreaker
           XX. The Debate on the Ballot
          XXI. "Do be punctual"
         XXII. Lady Baldock at Home
        XXIII. Sunday in Grosvenor Place
         XXIV. The Willingford Bull
          XXV. Mr. Turnbull's Carriage Stops the Way
         XXVI. "The First Speech"
        XXVII. Phineas Discussed
       XXVIII. The Second Reading Is Carried
         XXIX. A Cabinet Meeting
          XXX. Mr. Kennedy's Luck
         XXXI. Finn for Loughton
        XXXII. Lady Laura Kennedy's Headache
       XXXIII. Mr. Slide's Grievance
        XXXIV. Was He Honest?
         XXXV. Mr. Monk upon Reform
        XXXVI. Phineas Finn Makes Progress
       XXXVII. A Rough Encounter


   VOLUME II

      XXXVIII. The Duel
        XXXIX. Lady Laura Is Told
           XL. Madame Max Goesler
          XLI. Lord Fawn
         XLII. Lady Baldock Does Not Send a Card to Phineas Finn
        XLIII. Promotion
         XLIV. Phineas and His Friends
          XLV. Miss Effingham's Four Lovers
         XLVI. The Mousetrap
        XLVII. Mr. Mildmay's Bill
       XLVIII. "The Duke"
         XLIX. The Duellists Meet
            L. Again Successful
           LI. Troubles at Loughlinter
          LII. The First Blow
         LIII. Showing How Phineas Bore the Blow
          LIV. Consolation
           LV. Lord Chiltern at Saulsby
          LVI. What the People in Marylebone Thought
         LVII. The Top Brick of the Chimney
        LVIII. Rara Avis in Terris
          LIX. The Earl's Wrath
           LX. Madame Goesler's Politics
          LXI. Another Duel
         LXII. The Letter That Was Sent to Brighton
        LXIII. Showing How the Duke Stood His Ground
         LXIV. The Horns
          LXV. The Cabinet Minister at Killaloe
         LXVI. Victrix
        LXVII. Job's Comforters
       LXVIII. The Joint Attack
         LXIX. The Temptress
          LXX. The Prime Minister's House
         LXXI. Comparing Notes
        LXXII. Madame Goesler's Generosity
       LXXIII. Amantium Irae
        LXXIV. The Beginning of the End
         LXXV. P. P. C.
        LXXVI. Conclusion





VOLUME I

CHAPTER I

Phineas Finn Proposes to Stand for Loughshane


Dr. Finn, of Killaloe, in county Clare, was as well known in those
parts,--the confines, that is, of the counties Clare, Limerick,
Tipperary, and Galway,--as was the bishop himself who lived in the
same town, and was as much respected. Many said that the doctor was
the richer man of the two, and the practice of his profession was
extended over almost as wide a district. Indeed the bishop whom he
was privileged to attend, although a Roman Catholic, always spoke of
their dioceses being conterminate. It will therefore be understood
that Dr. Finn,--Malachi Finn was his full name,--had obtained a wide
reputation as a country practitioner in the west of Ireland. And he
was a man sufficiently well to do, though that boast made by his
friends, that he was as warm a man as the bishop, had but little
truth to support it. Bishops in Ireland, if they live at home, even
in these days, are very warm men; and Dr. Finn had not a penny in the
world for which he had not worked hard. He had, moreover, a costly
family, five daughters and one son, and, at the time of which we
are speaking, no provision in the way of marriage or profession had
been made for any of them. Of the one son, Phineas, the hero of the
following pages, the mother and five sisters were very proud. The
doctor was accustomed to say that his goose was as good as any other
man's goose, as far as he could see as yet; but that he should like
some very strong evidence before he allowed himself to express an
opinion that the young bird partook, in any degree, of the qualities
of a swan. From which it may be gathered that Dr. Finn was a man of
common-sense.

Phineas had come to be a swan in the estimation of his mother and
sisters by reason of certain early successes at college. His father,
whose religion was not of that bitter kind in which we in England
are apt to suppose that all the Irish Roman Catholics indulge, had
sent his son to Trinity; and there were some in the neighbourhood of
Killaloe,--patients, probably, of Dr. Duggin, of Castle Connell, a
learned physician who had spent a fruitless life in endeavouring to
make head against Dr. Finn,--who declared that old Finn would not be
sorry if his son were to turn Protestant and go in for a fellowship.
Mrs. Finn was a Protestant, and the five Miss Finns were Protestants,
and the doctor himself was very much given to dining out among his
Protestant friends on a Friday. Our Phineas, however, did not turn
Protestant up in Dublin, whatever his father's secret wishes on that
subject may have been. He did join a debating society, to success
in which his religion was no bar; and he there achieved a sort of
distinction which was both easy and pleasant, and which, making
its way down to Killaloe, assisted in engendering those ideas as
to swanhood of which maternal and sisterly minds are so sweetly
susceptible. "I know half a dozen old windbags at the present
moment," said the doctor, "who were great fellows at debating clubs
when they were boys." "Phineas is not a boy any longer," said Mrs.
Finn. "And windbags don't get college scholarships," said Matilda
Finn, the second daughter. "But papa always snubs Phinny," said
Barbara, the youngest. "I'll snub you, if you don't take care," said
the doctor, taking Barbara tenderly by the ear;--for his youngest
daughter was the doctor's pet.

The doctor certainly did not snub his son, for he allowed him to go
over to London when he was twenty-two years of age, in order that he
might read with an English barrister. It was the doctor's wish that
his son might be called to the Irish Bar, and the young man's desire
that he might go to the English Bar. The doctor so far gave way,
under the influence of Phineas himself, and of all the young women of
the family, as to pay the usual fee to a very competent and learned
gentleman in the Middle Temple, and to allow his son one hundred and
fifty pounds per annum for three years. Dr. Finn, however, was still
firm in his intention that his son should settle in Dublin, and take
the Munster Circuit,--believing that Phineas might come to want home
influences and home connections, in spite of the swanhood which was
attributed to him.

Phineas sat his terms for three years, and was duly called to
the Bar; but no evidence came home as to the acquirement of any
considerable amount of law lore, or even as to much law study, on
the part of the young aspirant. The learned pundit at whose feet he
had been sitting was not especially loud in praise of his pupil's
industry, though he did say a pleasant word or two as to his pupil's
intelligence. Phineas himself did not boast much of his own hard
work when at home during the long vacation. No rumours of expected
successes,--of expected professional successes,--reached the ears of
any of the Finn family at Killaloe. But, nevertheless, there came
tidings which maintained those high ideas in the maternal bosom of
which mention has been made, and which were of sufficient strength to
induce the doctor, in opposition to his own judgment, to consent to
the continued residence of his son in London. Phineas belonged to an
excellent club,--the Reform Club,--and went into very good society.
He was hand in glove with the Hon. Laurence Fitzgibbon, the youngest
son of Lord Claddagh. He was intimate with Barrington Erle, who had
been private secretary,--one of the private secretaries,--to the
great Whig Prime Minister who was lately in but was now out. He had
dined three or four times with that great Whig nobleman, the Earl of
Brentford. And he had been assured that if he stuck to the English
Bar he would certainly do well. Though he might fail to succeed in
court or in chambers, he would doubtless have given to him some
one of those numerous appointments for which none but clever young
barristers are supposed to be fitting candidates. The old doctor
yielded for another year, although at the end of the second year he
was called upon to pay a sum of three hundred pounds, which was then
due by Phineas to creditors in London. When the doctor's male friends
in and about Killaloe heard that he had done so, they said that he
was doting. Not one of the Miss Finns was as yet married; and, after
all that had been said about the doctor's wealth, it was supposed
that there would not be above five hundred pounds a year among them
all, were he to give up his profession. But the doctor, when he paid
that three hundred pounds for his son, buckled to his work again,
though he had for twelve months talked of giving up the midwifery.
He buckled to again, to the great disgust of Dr. Duggin, who at this
time said very ill-natured things about young Phineas.

At the end of the three years Phineas was called to the Bar, and
immediately received a letter from his father asking minutely as to
his professional intentions. His father recommended him to settle
in Dublin, and promised the one hundred and fifty pounds for three
more years, on condition that this advice was followed. He did not
absolutely say that the allowance would be stopped if the advice were
not followed, but that was plainly to be implied. That letter came
at the moment of a dissolution of Parliament. Lord de Terrier, the
Conservative Prime Minister, who had now been in office for the
almost unprecedentedly long period of fifteen months, had found that
he could not face continued majorities against him in the House of
Commons, and had dissolved the House. Rumour declared that he would
have much preferred to resign, and betake himself once again to the
easy glories of opposition; but his party had naturally been obdurate
with him, and he had resolved to appeal to the country. When Phineas
received his father's letter, it had just been suggested to him at
the Reform Club that he should stand for the Irish borough of
Loughshane.

This proposition had taken Phineas Finn so much by surprise that when
first made to him by Barrington Erle it took his breath away. What!
he stand for Parliament, twenty-four years old, with no vestige
of property belonging to him, without a penny in his purse, as
completely dependent on his father as he was when he first went to
school at eleven years of age! And for Loughshane, a little borough
in the county Galway, for which a brother of that fine old Irish
peer, the Earl of Tulla, had been sitting for the last twenty
years,--a fine, high-minded representative of the thorough-going
Orange Protestant feeling of Ireland! And the Earl of Tulla, to
whom almost all Loughshane belonged,--or at any rate the land about
Loughshane,--was one of his father's staunchest friends! Loughshane
is in county Galway, but the Earl of Tulla usually lived at his seat
in county Clare, not more than ten miles from Killaloe, and always
confided his gouty feet, and the weak nerves of the old countess, and
the stomachs of all his domestics, to the care of Dr. Finn. How was
it possible that Phineas should stand for Loughshane? From whence
was the money to come for such a contest? It was a beautiful dream,
a grand idea, lifting Phineas almost off the earth by its glory.
When the proposition was first made to him in the smoking-room at
the Reform Club by his friend Erle, he was aware that he blushed
like a girl, and that he was unable at the moment to express
himself plainly,--so great was his astonishment and so great his
gratification. But before ten minutes had passed by, while Barrington
Erle was still sitting over his shoulder on the club sofa, and before
the blushes had altogether vanished, he had seen the improbability of
the scheme, and had explained to his friend that the thing could not
be done. But to his increased astonishment, his friend made nothing
of the difficulties. Loughshane, according to Barrington Erle, was
so small a place, that the expense would be very little. There were
altogether no more than 307 registered electors. The inhabitants were
so far removed from the world, and were so ignorant of the world's
good things, that they knew nothing about bribery. The Hon. George
Morris, who had sat for the last twenty years, was very unpopular. He
had not been near the borough since the last election, he had hardly
done more than show himself in Parliament, and had neither given a
shilling in the town nor got a place under Government for a single
son of Loughshane. "And he has quarrelled with his brother," said
Barrington Erle. "The devil he has!" said Phineas. "I thought they
always swore by each other." "It's at each other they swear now,"
said Barrington; "George has asked the Earl for more money, and the
Earl has cut up rusty." Then the negotiator went on to explain that
the expenses of the election would be defrayed out of a certain fund
collected for such purposes, that Loughshane had been chosen as a
cheap place, and that Phineas Finn had been chosen as a safe and
promising young man. As for qualification, if any question were
raised, that should be made all right. An Irish candidate was wanted,
and a Roman Catholic. So much the Loughshaners would require on
their own account when instigated to dismiss from their service
that thorough-going Protestant, the Hon. George Morris. Then "the
party,"--by which Barrington Erle probably meant the great man in
whose service he himself had become a politician,--required that
the candidate should be a safe man, one who would support "the
party,"--not a cantankerous, red-hot semi-Fenian, running about to
meetings at the Rotunda, and such-like, with views of his own about
tenant-right and the Irish Church. "But I have views of my own," said
Phineas, blushing again. "Of course you have, my dear boy," said
Barrington, clapping him on the back. "I shouldn't come to you unless
you had views. But your views and ours are the same, and you're
just the lad for Galway. You mightn't have such an opening again
in your life, and of course you'll stand for Loughshane." Then the
conversation was over, the private secretary went away to arrange
some other little matter of the kind, and Phineas Finn was left alone
to consider the proposition that had been made to him.

To become a member of the British Parliament! In all those hot
contests at the two debating clubs to which he had belonged, this
had been the ambition which had moved him. For, after all, to what
purpose of their own had those empty debates ever tended? He and
three or four others who had called themselves Liberals had been
pitted against four or five who had called themselves Conservatives,
and night after night they had discussed some ponderous subject
without any idea that one would ever persuade another, or that their
talking would ever conduce to any action or to any result. But each
of these combatants had felt,--without daring to announce a hope on
the subject among themselves,--that the present arena was only a
trial-ground for some possible greater amphitheatre, for some future
debating club in which debates would lead to action, and in which
eloquence would have power, even though persuasion might be out of
the question.

Phineas certainly had never dared to speak, even to himself, of such
a hope. The labours of the Bar had to be encountered before the dawn
of such a hope could come to him. And he had gradually learned to
feel that his prospects at the Bar were not as yet very promising. As
regarded professional work he had been idle, and how then could he
have a hope?

And now this thing, which he regarded as being of all things in the
world the most honourable, had come to him all at once, and was
possibly within his reach! If he could believe Barrington Erle, he
had only to lift up his hand, and he might be in Parliament within
two months. And who was to be believed on such a subject if not
Barrington Erle? This was Erle's special business, and such a man
would not have come to him on such a subject had he not been in
earnest, and had he not himself believed in success. There was an
opening ready, an opening to this great glory,--if only it might be
possible for him to fill it!

What would his father say? His father would of course oppose the
plan. And if he opposed his father, his father would of course stop
his income. And such an income as it was! Could it be that a man
should sit in Parliament and live upon a hundred and fifty pounds
a year? Since that payment of his debts he had become again
embarrassed,--to a slight amount. He owed a tailor a trifle, and a
bootmaker a trifle,--and something to the man who sold gloves and
shirts; and yet he had done his best to keep out of debt with more
than Irish pertinacity, living very closely, breakfasting upon tea
and a roll, and dining frequently for a shilling at a luncheon-house
up a court near Lincoln's Inn. Where should he dine if the
Loughshaners elected him to Parliament? And then he painted to
himself a not untrue picture of the probable miseries of a man who
begins life too high up on the ladder,--who succeeds in mounting
before he has learned how to hold on when he is aloft. For our
Phineas Finn was a young man not without sense,--not entirely a
windbag. If he did this thing the probability was that he might
become utterly a castaway, and go entirely to the dogs before he was
thirty. He had heard of penniless men who had got into Parliament,
and to whom had come such a fate. He was able to name to himself a
man or two whose barks, carrying more sail than they could bear, had
gone to pieces among early breakers in this way. But then, would
it not be better to go to pieces early than never to carry any
sail at all? And there was, at any rate, the chance of success. He
was already a barrister, and there were so many things open to a
barrister with a seat in Parliament! And as he knew of men who had
been utterly ruined by such early mounting, so also did he know of
others whose fortunes had been made by happy audacity when they were
young. He almost thought that he could die happy if he had once taken
his seat in Parliament,--if he had received one letter with those
grand initials written after his name on the address. Young men in
battle are called upon to lead forlorn hopes. Three fall, perhaps,
to one who gets through; but the one who gets through will have
the Victoria Cross to carry for the rest of his life. This was his
forlorn hope; and as he had been invited to undertake the work, he
would not turn from the danger. On the following morning he again saw
Barrington Erle by appointment, and then wrote the following letter
to his father:--


   Reform Club, Feb., 186--.

   MY DEAR FATHER,

   I am afraid that the purport of this letter will startle
   you, but I hope that when you have finished it you will
   think that I am right in my decision as to what I am going
   to do. You are no doubt aware that the dissolution of
   Parliament will take place at once, and that we shall be
   in all the turmoil of a general election by the middle of
   March. I have been invited to stand for Loughshane, and
   have consented. The proposition has been made to me by my
   friend Barrington Erle, Mr. Mildmay's private secretary,
   and has been made on behalf of the Political Committee of
   the Reform Club. I need hardly say that I should not have
   thought of such a thing with a less thorough promise of
   support than this gives me, nor should I think of it now
   had I not been assured that none of the expense of the
   election would fall upon me. Of course I could not have
   asked you to pay for it.

   But to such a proposition, so made, I have felt that it
   would be cowardly to give a refusal. I cannot but regard
   such a selection as a great honour. I own that I am fond
   of politics, and have taken great delight in their study
   --("Stupid young fool!" his father said to himself as he
   read this)--and it has been my dream for years past to
   have a seat in Parliament at some future time. ("Dream!
   yes; I wonder whether he has ever dreamed what he is to
   live upon.") The chance has now come to me much earlier
   than I have looked for it, but I do not think that it
   should on that account be thrown away. Looking to my
   profession, I find that many things are open to a
   barrister with a seat in Parliament, and that the House
   need not interfere much with a man's practice. ("Not if
   he has got to the top of his tree," said the doctor.)

   My chief doubt arose from the fact of your old friendship
   with Lord Tulla, whose brother has filled the seat for I
   don't know how many years. But it seems that George Morris
   must go; or, at least, that he must be opposed by a
   Liberal candidate. If I do not stand, some one else will,
   and I should think that Lord Tulla will be too much of a
   man to make any personal quarrel on such a subject. If he
   is to lose the borough, why should not I have it as well
   as another?

   I can fancy, my dear father, all that you will say as to
   my imprudence, and I quite confess that I have not a word
   to answer. I have told myself more than once, since last
   night, that I shall probably ruin myself. ("I wonder
   whether he has ever told himself that he will probably
   ruin me also," said the doctor.) But I am prepared to ruin
   myself in such a cause. I have no one dependent on me;
   and, as long as I do nothing to disgrace my name, I may
   dispose of myself as I please. If you decide on stopping
   my allowance, I shall have no feeling of anger against
   you. ("How very considerate!" said the doctor.) And in
   that case I shall endeavour to support myself by my pen.
   I have already done a little for the magazines.

   Give my best love to my mother and sisters. If you will
   receive me during the time of the election, I shall see
   them soon. Perhaps it will be best for me to say that I
   have positively decided on making the attempt; that is to
   say, if the Club Committee is as good as its promise. I
   have weighed the matter all round, and I regard the prize
   as being so great, that I am prepared to run any risk to
   obtain it. Indeed, to me, with my views about politics,
   the running of such a risk is no more than a duty. I
   cannot keep my hand from the work now that the work has
   come in the way of my hand. I shall be most anxious to get
   a line from you in answer to this.

   Your most affectionate son,

   PHINEAS FINN.


I question whether Dr. Finn, when he read this letter, did not feel
more of pride than of anger,--whether he was not rather gratified
than displeased, in spite of all that his common-sense told him on
the subject. His wife and daughters, when they heard the news, were
clearly on the side of the young man. Mrs. Finn immediately expressed
an opinion that Parliament would be the making of her son, and that
everybody would be sure to employ so distinguished a barrister. The
girls declared that Phineas ought, at any rate, to have his chance,
and almost asserted that it would be brutal in their father to stand
in their brother's way. It was in vain that the doctor tried to
explain that going into Parliament could not help a young barrister,
whatever it might do for one thoroughly established in his
profession; that Phineas, if successful at Loughshane, would at once
abandon all idea of earning any income,--that the proposition, coming
from so poor a man, was a monstrosity,--that such an opposition
to the Morris family, coming from a son of his, would be gross
ingratitude to Lord Tulla. Mrs. Finn and the girls talked him down,
and the doctor himself was almost carried away by something like
vanity in regard to his son's future position.

Nevertheless he wrote a letter strongly advising Phineas to abandon
the project. But he himself was aware that the letter which he wrote
was not one from which any success could be expected. He advised
his son, but did not command him. He made no threats as to stopping
his income. He did not tell Phineas, in so many words, that he was
proposing to make an ass of himself. He argued very prudently against
the plan, and Phineas, when he received his father's letter, of
course felt that it was tantamount to a paternal permission to
proceed with the matter. On the next day he got a letter from his
mother full of affection, full of pride,--not exactly telling him to
stand for Loughshane by all means, for Mrs. Finn was not the woman to
run openly counter to her husband in any advice given by her to their
son,--but giving him every encouragement which motherly affection and
motherly pride could bestow. "Of course you will come to us," she
said, "if you do make up your mind to be member for Loughshane. We
shall all of us be so delighted to have you!" Phineas, who had fallen
into a sea of doubt after writing to his father, and who had demanded
a week from Barrington Erle to consider the matter, was elated to
positive certainty by the joint effect of the two letters from home.
He understood it all. His mother and sisters were altogether in
favour of his audacity, and even his father was not disposed to
quarrel with him on the subject.

"I shall take you at your word," he said to Barrington Erle at the
club that evening.

"What word?" said Erle, who had too many irons in the fire to be
thinking always of Loughshane and Phineas Finn,--or who at any rate
did not choose to let his anxiety on the subject be seen.

"About Loughshane."

"All right, old fellow; we shall be sure to carry you through. The
Irish writs will be out on the third of March, and the sooner you're
there the better."




CHAPTER II

Phineas Finn Is Elected for Loughshane


One great difficulty about the borough vanished in a very wonderful
way at the first touch. Dr. Finn, who was a man stout at heart,
and by no means afraid of his great friends, drove himself over to
Castlemorris to tell his news to the Earl, as soon as he got a second
letter from his son declaring his intention of proceeding with the
business, let the results be what they might. Lord Tulla was a
passionate old man, and the doctor expected that there would be a
quarrel;--but he was prepared to face that. He was under no special
debt of gratitude to the lord, having given as much as he had taken
in the long intercourse which had existed between them;--and he
agreed with his son in thinking that if there was to be a Liberal
candidate at Loughshane, no consideration of old pill-boxes and
gallipots should deter his son Phineas from standing. Other
considerations might very probably deter him, but not that. The Earl
probably would be of a different opinion, and the doctor felt it to
be incumbent on him to break the news to Lord Tulla.

"The devil he is!" said the Earl, when the doctor had told his story.
"Then I'll tell you what, Finn, I'll support him."

"You support him, Lord Tulla!"

"Yes;--why shouldn't I support him? I suppose it's not so bad with me
in the country that my support will rob him of his chance! I'll tell
you one thing for certain, I won't support George Morris."

"But, my lord--"

"Well; go on."

"I've never taken much part in politics myself, as you know; but my
boy Phineas is on the other side."

"I don't care a ---- for sides. What has my party done for me?
Look at my cousin, Dick Morris. There's not a clergyman in Ireland
stauncher to them than he has been, and now they've given the deanery
of Kilfenora to a man that never had a father, though I condescended
to ask for it for my cousin. Let them wait till I ask for anything
again." Dr. Finn, who knew all about Dick Morris's debts, and who had
heard of his modes of preaching, was not surprised at the decision
of the Conservative bestower of Irish Church patronage; but on this
subject he said nothing. "And as for George," continued the Earl, "I
will never lift my hand again for him. His standing for Loughshane
would be quite out of the question. My own tenants wouldn't vote for
him if I were to ask them myself. Peter Blake"--Mr. Peter Blake was
the lord's agent--"told me only a week ago that it would be useless.
The whole thing is gone, and for my part I wish they'd disenfranchise
the borough. I wish they'd disenfranchise the whole country, and send
us a military governor. What's the use of such members as we send?
There isn't one gentleman among ten of them. Your son is welcome for
me. What support I can give him he shall have, but it isn't much. I
suppose he had better come and see me."

The doctor promised that his son should ride over to Castlemorris,
and then took his leave,--not specially flattered, as he felt that
were his son to be returned, the Earl would not regard him as the
one gentleman among ten whom the county might send to leaven the
remainder of its members,--but aware that the greatest impediment
in his son's way was already removed. He certainly had not gone to
Castlemorris with any idea of canvassing for his son, and yet he had
canvassed for him most satisfactorily. When he got home he did not
know how to speak of the matter otherwise than triumphantly to his
wife and daughters. Though he desired to curse, his mouth would speak
blessings. Before that evening was over the prospects of Phineas at
Loughshane were spoken of with open enthusiasm before the doctor,
and by the next day's post a letter was written to him by Matilda,
informing him that the Earl was prepared to receive him with open
arms. "Papa has been over there and managed it all," said Matilda.

"I'm told George Morris isn't going to stand," said Barrington Erle
to Phineas the night before his departure.

"His brother won't support him. His brother means to support me,"
said Phineas.

"That can hardly be so."

"But I tell you it is. My father has known the Earl these twenty
years, and has managed it."

"I say, Finn, you're not going to play us a trick, are you?" said Mr.
Erle, with something like dismay in his voice.

"What sort of trick?"

"You're not coming out on the other side?"

"Not if I know it," said Phineas, proudly. "Let me assure you I
wouldn't change my views in politics either for you or for the Earl,
though each of you carried seats in your breeches pockets. If I go
into Parliament, I shall go there as a sound Liberal,--not to support
a party, but to do the best I can for the country. I tell you so, and
I shall tell the Earl the same."

Barrington Erle turned away in disgust. Such language was to him
simply disgusting. It fell upon his ears as false maudlin sentiment
falls on the ears of the ordinary honest man of the world. Barrington
Erle was a man ordinarily honest. He would not have been untrue to
his mother's brother, William Mildmay, the great Whig Minister of the
day, for any earthly consideration. He was ready to work with wages
or without wages. He was really zealous in the cause, not asking
very much for himself. He had some undefined belief that it was much
better for the country that Mr. Mildmay should be in power than
that Lord de Terrier should be there. He was convinced that Liberal
politics were good for Englishmen, and that Liberal politics and the
Mildmay party were one and the same thing. It would be unfair to
Barrington Erle to deny to him some praise for patriotism. But he
hated the very name of independence in Parliament, and when he was
told of any man, that that man intended to look to measures and not
to men, he regarded that man as being both unstable as water and
dishonest as the wind. No good could possibly come from such a one,
and much evil might and probably would come. Such a politician was a
Greek to Barrington Erle, from whose hands he feared to accept even
the gift of a vote. Parliamentary hermits were distasteful to him,
and dwellers in political caves were regarded by him with aversion
as being either knavish or impractical. With a good Conservative
opponent he could shake hands almost as readily as with a good Whig
ally; but the man who was neither flesh nor fowl was odious to him.
According to his theory of parliamentary government, the House of
Commons should be divided by a marked line, and every member should
be required to stand on one side of it or on the other. "If not
with me, at any rate be against me," he would have said to every
representative of the people in the name of the great leader whom he
followed. He thought that debates were good, because of the people
outside,--because they served to create that public opinion which was
hereafter to be used in creating some future House of Commons; but he
did not think it possible that any vote should be given on a great
question, either this way or that, as the result of a debate; and he
was certainly assured in his own opinion that any such changing of
votes would be dangerous, revolutionary, and almost unparliamentary.
A member's vote,--except on some small crotchety open question thrown
out for the amusement of crotchety members,--was due to the leader of
that member's party. Such was Mr. Erle's idea of the English system
of Parliament, and, lending semi-official assistance as he did
frequently to the introduction of candidates into the House, he was
naturally anxious that his candidates should be candidates after his
own heart. When, therefore, Phineas Finn talked of measures and not
men, Barrington Erle turned away in open disgust. But he remembered
the youth and extreme rawness of the lad, and he remembered also the
careers of other men.

Barrington Erle was forty, and experience had taught him something.
After a few seconds, he brought himself to think mildly of the young
man's vanity,--as of the vanity of a plunging colt who resents the
liberty even of a touch. "By the end of the first session the thong
will be cracked over his head, as he patiently assists in pulling the
coach up hill, without producing from him even a flick of his tail,"
said Barrington Erle to an old parliamentary friend.

"If he were to come out after all on the wrong side," said the
parliamentary friend.

Erle admitted that such a trick as that would be unpleasant, but
he thought that old Lord Tulia was hardly equal to so clever a
stratagem.

Phineas went to Ireland, and walked over the course at Loughshane.
He called upon Lord Tulla, and heard that venerable nobleman talk a
great deal of nonsense. To tell the truth of Phineas, I must confess
that he wished to talk the nonsense himself; but the Earl would not
hear him, and put him down very quickly. "We won't discuss politics,
if you please, Mr. Finn; because, as I have already said, I am
throwing aside all political considerations." Phineas, therefore, was
not allowed to express his views on the government of the country in
the Earl's sitting-room at Castlemorris. There was, however, a good
time coming; and so, for the present, he allowed the Earl to ramble
on about the sins of his brother George, and the want of all proper
pedigree on the part of the new Dean of Kilfenora. The conference
ended with an assurance on the part of Lord Tulla that if the
Loughshaners chose to elect Mr. Phineas Finn he would not be in the
least offended. The electors did elect Mr. Phineas Finn,--perhaps
for the reason given by one of the Dublin Conservative papers, which
declared that it was all the fault of the Carlton Club in not sending
a proper candidate. There was a great deal said about the matter,
both in London and Dublin, and the blame was supposed to fall on
the joint shoulders of George Morris and his elder brother. In the
meantime, our hero, Phineas Finn, had been duly elected member of
Parliament for the borough of Loughshane.

The Finn family could not restrain their triumphings at Killaloe, and
I do not know that it would have been natural had they done so. A
gosling from such a flock does become something of a real swan by
getting into Parliament. The doctor had his misgivings,--had great
misgivings, fearful forebodings; but there was the young man elected,
and he could not help it. He could not refuse his right hand to his
son or withdraw his paternal assistance because that son had been
specially honoured among the young men of his country. So he pulled
out of his hoard what sufficed to pay off outstanding debts,--they
were not heavy,--and undertook to allow Phineas two hundred and fifty
pounds a year as long as the session should last.

There was a widow lady living at Killaloe who was named Mrs. Flood
Jones, and she had a daughter. She had a son also, born to inherit
the property of the late Floscabel Flood Jones of Floodborough, as
soon as that property should have disembarrassed itself; but with
him, now serving with his regiment in India, we shall have no
concern. Mrs. Flood Jones was living modestly at Killaloe on her
widow's jointure,--Floodborough having, to tell the truth, pretty
nearly fallen into absolute ruin,--and with her one daughter, Mary.
Now on the evening before the return of Phineas Finn, Esq., M.P., to
London, Mrs. and Miss Flood Jones drank tea at the doctor's house.

"It won't make a bit of change in him," Barbara Finn said to her
friend Mary, up in some bedroom privacy before the tea-drinking
ceremonies had altogether commenced.

"Oh, it must," said Mary.

"I tell you it won't, my dear; he is so good and so true."

"I know he is good, Barbara; and as for truth, there is no question
about it, because he has never said a word to me that he might not
say to any girl."

"That's nonsense, Mary."

"He never has, then, as sure as the blessed Virgin watches over
us;--only you don't believe she does."

"Never mind about the Virgin now, Mary."

"But he never has. Your brother is nothing to me, Barbara."

"Then I hope he will be before the evening is over. He was walking
with you all yesterday and the day before."

"Why shouldn't he,--and we that have known each other all our lives?
But, Barbara, pray, pray never say a word of this to any one!"

"Is it I? Wouldn't I cut out my tongue first?"

"I don't know why I let you talk to me in this way. There has never
been anything between me and Phineas,--your brother I mean."

"I know whom you mean very well."

"And I feel quite sure that there never will be. Why should there?
He'll go out among great people and be a great man; and I've already
found out that there's a certain Lady Laura Standish whom he admires
very much."

"Lady Laura Fiddlestick!"

"A man in Parliament, you know, may look up to anybody," said Miss
Mary Flood Jones.

"I want Phin to look up to you, my dear."

"That wouldn't be looking up. Placed as he is now, that would be
looking down; and he is so proud that he'll never do that. But come
down, dear, else they'll wonder where we are."

Mary Flood Jones was a little girl about twenty years of age, with
the softest hair in the world, of a colour varying between brown and
auburn,--for sometimes you would swear it was the one and sometimes
the other; and she was as pretty as ever she could be. She was one
of those girls, so common in Ireland, whom men, with tastes that way
given, feel inclined to take up and devour on the spur of the moment;
and when she liked her lion, she had a look about her which seemed to
ask to be devoured. There are girls so cold-looking,--pretty girls,
too, ladylike, discreet, and armed with all accomplishments,--whom to
attack seems to require the same sort of courage, and the same sort
of preparation, as a journey in quest of the north-west passage. One
thinks of a pedestal near the Athenaeum as the most appropriate and
most honourable reward of such courage. But, again, there are other
girls to abstain from attacking whom is, to a man of any warmth
of temperament, quite impossible. They are like water when one is
athirst, like plovers' eggs in March, like cigars when one is out
in the autumn. No one ever dreams of denying himself when such
temptation comes in the way. It often happens, however, that in spite
of appearances, the water will not come from the well, nor the egg
from its shell, nor will the cigar allow itself to be lit. A girl of
such appearance, so charming, was Mary Flood Jones of Killaloe, and
our hero Phineas was not allowed to thirst in vain for a drop from
the cool spring.

When the girls went down into the drawing-room Mary was careful to
go to a part of the room quite remote from Phineas, so as to seat
herself between Mrs. Finn and Dr. Finn's young partner, Mr. Elias
Bodkin, from Ballinasloe. But Mrs. Finn and the Miss Finns and all
Killaloe knew that Mary had no love for Mr. Bodkin, and when Mr.
Bodkin handed her the hot cake she hardly so much as smiled at him.
But in two minutes Phineas was behind her chair, and then she smiled;
and in five minutes more she had got herself so twisted round that
she was sitting in a corner with Phineas and his sister Barbara; and
in two more minutes Barbara had returned to Mr. Elias Bodkin, so that
Phineas and Mary were uninterrupted. They manage these things very
quickly and very cleverly in Killaloe.

"I shall be off to-morrow morning by the early train," said Phineas.

"So soon;--and when will you have to begin,--in Parliament, I mean?"

"I shall have to take my seat on Friday. I'm going back just in
time."

"But when shall we hear of your saying something?"

"Never, probably. Not one in ten who go into Parliament ever do say
anything."

"But you will; won't you? I hope you will. I do so hope you will
distinguish yourself;--because of your sister, and for the sake of
the town, you know."

"And is that all, Mary?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"You don't care a bit about myself, then?"

"You know that I do. Haven't we been friends ever since we were
children? Of course it will be a great pride to me that a person whom
I have known so intimately should come to be talked about as a great
man."

"I shall never be talked about as a great man."

"You're a great man to me already, being in Parliament. Only
think;--I never saw a member of Parliament in my life before."

"You've seen the bishop scores of times."

"Is he in Parliament? Ah, but not like you. He couldn't come to be
a Cabinet Minister, and one never reads anything about him in the
newspapers. I shall expect to see your name, very often, and I shall
always look for it. 'Mr. Phineas Finn paired off with Mr. Mildmay.'
What is the meaning of pairing off?"

"I'll explain it all to you when I come back, after learning my
lesson."

"Mind you do come back. But I don't suppose you ever will. You will
be going somewhere to see Lady Laura Standish when you are not wanted
in Parliament."

"Lady Laura Standish!"

"And why shouldn't you? Of course, with your prospects, you should
go as much as possible among people of that sort. Is Lady Laura very
pretty?"

"She's about six feet high."

"Nonsense. I don't believe that."

"She would look as though she were, standing by you."

"Because I am so insignificant and small."

"Because your figure is perfect, and because she is straggling. She
is as unlike you as possible in everything. She has thick lumpy red
hair, while yours is all silk and softness. She has large hands and
feet, and--"

"Why, Phineas, you are making her out to be an ogress, and yet I know
that you admire her."

"So I do, because she possesses such an appearance of power. And
after all, in spite of the lumpy hair, and in spite of large hands
and straggling figure, she is handsome. One can't tell what it is.
One can see that she is quite contented with herself, and intends to
make others contented with her. And so she does."

"I see you are in love with her, Phineas."

"No; not in love,--not with her at least. Of all men in the world, I
suppose that I am the last that has a right to be in love. I daresay
I shall marry some day."

"I'm sure I hope you will."

"But not till I'm forty or perhaps fifty years old. If I was not fool
enough to have what men call a high ambition I might venture to be in
love now."

"I'm sure I'm very glad that you've got a high ambition. It is what
every man ought to have; and I've no doubt that we shall hear of your
marriage soon,--very soon. And then,--if she can help you in your
ambition, we--shall--all--be so--glad."

Phineas did not say a word further then. Perhaps some commotion among
the party broke up the little private conversation in the corner. And
he was not alone with Mary again till there came a moment for him
to put her cloak over her shoulders in the back parlour, while Mrs.
Flood Jones was finishing some important narrative to his mother. It
was Barbara, I think, who stood in some doorway, and prevented people
from passing, and so gave him the opportunity which he abused.

"Mary," said he, taking her in his arms, without a single word of
love-making beyond what the reader has heard,--"one kiss before we
part."

"No, Phineas, no!" But the kiss had been taken and given before she
had even answered him. "Oh, Phineas, you shouldn't!"

"I should. Why shouldn't I? And, Mary, I will have one morsel of your
hair."

"You shall not; indeed you shall not!" But the scissors were at hand,
and the ringlet was cut and in his pocket before she was ready with
her resistance. There was nothing further;--not a word more, and Mary
went away with her veil down, under her mother's wing, weeping sweet
silent tears which no one saw.

"You do love her; don't you, Phineas?" asked Barbara.

"Bother! Do you go to bed, and don't trouble yourself about such
trifles. But mind you're up, old girl, to see me off in the morning."

Everybody was up to see him off in the morning, to give him coffee
and good advice, and kisses, and to throw all manner of old shoes
after him as he started on his great expedition to Parliament. His
father gave him an extra twenty-pound note, and begged him for God's
sake to be careful about his money. His mother told him always to
have an orange in his pocket when he intended to speak longer than
usual. And Barbara in a last whisper begged him never to forget dear
Mary Flood Jones.




CHAPTER III

Phineas Finn Takes His Seat


Phineas had many serious, almost solemn thoughts on his journey
towards London. I am sorry I must assure my female readers that very
few of them had reference to Mary Flood Jones. He had, however, very
carefully packed up the tress, and could bring that out for proper
acts of erotic worship at seasons in which his mind might be less
engaged with affairs of state than it was at present. Would he make a
failure of this great matter which he had taken in hand? He could not
but tell himself that the chances were twenty to one against him. Now
that he looked nearer at it all, the difficulties loomed larger than
ever, and the rewards seemed to be less, more difficult of approach,
and more evanescent. How many members were there who could never get
a hearing! How many who only spoke to fail! How many, who spoke well,
who could speak to no effect as far as their own worldly prospects
were concerned! He had already known many members of Parliament to
whom no outward respect or sign of honour was ever given by any one;
and it seemed to him, as he thought over it, that Irish members of
Parliament were generally treated with more indifference than any
others. There were O'B---- and O'C---- and O'D----, for whom no one
cared a straw, who could hardly get men to dine with them at the
club, and yet they were genuine members of Parliament. Why should he
ever be better than O'B----, or O'C----, or O'D----? And in what way
should he begin to be better? He had an idea of the fashion after
which it would be his duty to strive that he might excel those
gentlemen. He did not give any of them credit for much earnestness
in their country's behalf, and he was minded to be very earnest. He
would go to his work honestly and conscientiously, determined to do
his duty as best he might, let the results to himself be what they
would. This was a noble resolution, and might have been pleasant to
him,--had he not remembered that smile of derision which had come
over his friend Erle's face when he declared his intention of doing
his duty to his country as a Liberal, and not of supporting a party.
O'B---- and O'C---- and O'D---- were keen enough to support their
party, only they were sometimes a little astray at knowing which
was their party for the nonce. He knew that Erle and such men would
despise him if he did not fall into the regular groove,--and if the
Barrington Erles despised him, what would then be left for him?

His moody thoughts were somewhat dissipated when he found one
Laurence Fitzgibbon,--the Honourable Laurence Fitzgibbon,--a special
friend of his own, and a very clever fellow, on board the boat as it
steamed out of Kingston harbour. Laurence Fitzgibbon had also just
been over about his election, and had been returned as a matter of
course for his father's county. Laurence Fitzgibbon had sat in the
House for the last fifteen years, and was yet well-nigh as young a
man as any in it. And he was a man altogether different from the
O'B----s, O'C----s, and O'D----s. Laurence Fitzgibbon could always
get the ear of the House if he chose to speak, and his friends
declared that he might have been high up in office long since if he
would have taken the trouble to work. He was a welcome guest at the
houses of the very best people, and was a friend of whom any one
might be proud. It had for two years been a feather in the cap of
Phineas that he knew Laurence Fitzgibbon. And yet people said that
Laurence Fitzgibbon had nothing of his own, and men wondered how he
lived. He was the youngest son of Lord Claddagh, an Irish peer with a
large family, who could do nothing for Laurence, his favourite child,
beyond finding him a seat in Parliament.

"Well, Finn, my boy," said Laurence, shaking hands with the young
member on board the steamer, "so you've made it all right at
Loughshane." Then Phineas was beginning to tell all the story,
the wonderful story, of George Morris and the Earl of Tulla,--how
the men of Loughshane had elected him without opposition; how he
had been supported by Conservatives as well as Liberals;--how
unanimous Loughshane had been in electing him, Phineas Finn, as its
representative. But Mr. Fitzgibbon seemed to care very little about
all this, and went so far as to declare that those things were
accidents which fell out sometimes one way and sometimes another,
and were altogether independent of any merit or demerit on the part
of the candidate himself. And it was marvellous and almost painful
to Phineas that his friend Fitzgibbon should accept the fact of his
membership with so little of congratulation,--with absolutely no
blowing of trumpets whatever. Had he been elected a member of the
municipal corporation of Loughshane, instead of its representative in
the British Parliament, Laurence Fitzgibbon could not have made less
fuss about it. Phineas was disappointed, but he took the cue from his
friend too quickly to show his disappointment. And when, half an hour
after their meeting, Fitzgibbon had to be reminded that his companion
was not in the House during the last session, Phineas was able to
make the remark as though he thought as little about the House as did
the old-accustomed member himself.

"As far as I can see as yet," said Fitzgibbon, "we are sure to have
seventeen."

"Seventeen?" said Phineas, not quite understanding the meaning of the
number quoted.

"A majority of seventeen. There are four Irish counties and three
Scotch which haven't returned as yet; but we know pretty well what
they'll do. There's a doubt about Tipperary, of course, but whichever
gets in of the seven who are standing, it will be a vote on our side.
Now the Government can't live against that. The uphill strain is too
much for them."

"According to my idea, nothing can justify them in trying to live
against a majority."

"That's gammon. When the thing is so equal, anything is fair. But you
see they don't like it. Of course there are some among them as hungry
as we are; and Dubby would give his toes and fingers to remain in."
Dubby was the ordinary name by which, among friends and foes, Mr.
Daubeny was known: Mr. Daubeny, who at that time was the leader of
the Conservative party in the House of Commons. "But most of them,"
continued Mr. Fitzgibbon, "prefer the other game, and if you don't
care about money, upon my word it's the pleasanter game of the two."

"But the country gets nothing done by a Tory Government."

"As to that, it's six of one and half a dozen of the other. I never
knew a government yet that wanted to do anything. Give a government
a real strong majority, as the Tories used to have half a century
since, and as a matter of course it will do nothing. Why should
it? Doing things, as you call it, is only bidding for power,--for
patronage and pay."

"And is the country to have no service done?"

"The country gets quite as much service as it pays for,--and perhaps
a little more. The clerks in the offices work for the country. And
the Ministers work too, if they've got anything to manage. There is
plenty of work done;--but of work in Parliament, the less the better,
according to my ideas. It's very little that ever is done, and that
little is generally too much."

"But the people--"

"Come down and have a glass of brandy-and-water, and leave the people
alone for the present. The people can take care of themselves a great
deal better than we can take care of them." Mr. Fitzgibbon's doctrine
as to the commonwealth was very different from that of Barrington
Erle, and was still less to the taste of the new member. Barrington
Erle considered that his leader, Mr. Mildmay, should be intrusted to
make all necessary changes in the laws, and that an obedient House of
Commons should implicitly obey that leader in authorising all changes
proposed by him;--but according to Barrington Erle, such changes
should be numerous and of great importance, and would, if duly passed
into law at his lord's behest, gradually produce such a Whig Utopia
in England as has never yet been seen on the face of the earth.
Now, according to Mr. Fitzgibbon, the present Utopia would be good
enough,--if only he himself might be once more put into possession
of a certain semi-political place about the Court, from which he had
heretofore drawn L1,000 per annum, without any work, much to his
comfort. He made no secret of his ambition, and was chagrined simply
at the prospect of having to return to his electors before he could
enjoy those good things which he expected to receive from the
undoubted majority of seventeen, which had been, or would be,
achieved.

"I hate all change as a rule," said Fitzgibbon; "but, upon my word,
we ought to alter that. When a fellow has got a crumb of comfort,
after waiting for it years and years, and perhaps spending thousands
in elections, he has to go back and try his hand again at the last
moment, merely in obedience to some antiquated prejudice. Look at
poor Jack Bond,--the best friend I ever had in the world. He was
wrecked upon that rock for ever. He spent every shilling he had in
contesting Romford three times running,--and three times running
he got in. Then they made him Vice-Comptroller of the Granaries,
and I'm shot if he didn't get spilt at Romford on standing for his
re-election!"

"And what became of him?"

"God knows. I think I heard that he married an old woman and settled
down somewhere. I know he never came up again. Now, I call that a
confounded shame. I suppose I'm safe down in Mayo, but there's no
knowing what may happen in these days."

As they parted at Euston Square, Phineas asked his friend some little
nervous question as to the best mode of making a first entrance into
the House. Would Laurence Fitzgibbon see him through the difficulties
of the oath-taking? But Laurence Fitzgibbon made very little of the
difficulty. "Oh;--you just come down, and there'll be a rush of
fellows, and you'll know everybody. You'll have to hang about for an
hour or so, and then you'll get pushed through. There isn't time for
much ceremony after a general election."

Phineas reached London early in the morning, and went home to bed
for an hour or so. The House was to meet on that very day, and he
intended to begin his parliamentary duties at once if he should find
it possible to get some one to accompany him; He felt that he should
lack courage to go down to Westminster Hall alone, and explain to
the policeman and door-keepers that he was the man who had just been
elected member for Loughshane. So about noon he went into the Reform
Club, and there he found a great crowd of men, among whom there was a
plentiful sprinkling of members. Erle saw him in a moment, and came
to him with congratulations.

"So you're all right, Finn," said he.

"Yes; I'm all right,--I didn't have much doubt about it when I went
over."

"I never heard of a fellow with such a run of luck," said Erle. "It's
just one of those flukes that occur once in a dozen elections. Any
one on earth might have got in without spending a shilling."

Phineas didn't at all like this. "I don't think any one could have
got in," said he, "without knowing Lord Tulla."

"Lord Tulla was nowhere, my dear boy, and could have nothing to say
to it. But never mind that. You meet me in the lobby at two. There'll
be a lot of us there, and we'll go in together. Have you seen
Fitzgibbon?" Then Barrington Erle went off to other business, and
Finn was congratulated by other men. But it seemed to him that the
congratulations of his friends were not hearty. He spoke to some men,
of whom he thought that he knew they would have given their eyes
to be in Parliament;--and yet they spoke of his success as being a
very ordinary thing. "Well, my boy, I hope you like it," said one
middle-aged gentleman whom he had known ever since he came up to
London. "The difference is between working for nothing and working
for money. You'll have to work for nothing now."

"That's about it, I suppose," said Phineas.

"They say the House is a comfortable club," said the middle-aged
friend, "but I confess that I shouldn't like being rung away from my
dinner myself."

At two punctually Phineas was in the lobby at Westminster, and then
he found himself taken into the House with a crowd of other men. The
old and young, and they who were neither old nor young, were mingled
together, and there seemed to be very little respect of persons. On
three or four occasions there was some cheering when a popular man or
a great leader came in; but the work of the day left but little clear
impression on the mind of the young member. He was confused, half
elated, half disappointed, and had not his wits about him. He found
himself constantly regretting that he was there; and as constantly
telling himself that he, hardly yet twenty-five, without a shilling
of his own, had achieved an entrance into that assembly which by the
consent of all men is the greatest in the world, and which many of
the rich magnates of the country had in vain spent heaps of treasure
in their endeavours to open to their own footsteps. He tried hard to
realise what he had gained, but the dust and the noise and the crowds
and the want of something august to the eye were almost too strong
for him. He managed, however, to take the oath early among those who
took it, and heard the Queen s speech read and the Address moved and
seconded. He was seated very uncomfortably, high up on a back seat,
between two men whom he did not know; and he found the speeches to be
very long. He had been in the habit of seeing such speeches reported
in about a column, and he thought that these speeches must take at
least four columns each. He sat out the debate on the Address till
the House was adjourned, and then he went away to dine at his club.
He did go into the dining-room of the House, but there was a crowd
there, and he found himself alone,--and to tell the truth, he was
afraid to order his dinner.

The nearest approach to a triumph which he had in London came to him
from the glory which his election reflected upon his landlady. She
was a kindly good motherly soul, whose husband was a journeyman
law-stationer, and who kept a very decent house in Great Marlborough
Street. Here Phineas had lodged since he had been in London, and was
a great favourite. "God bless my soul, Mr. Phineas," said she, "only
think of your being a member of Parliament!"

"Yes, I'm a member of Parliament, Mrs. Bunce."

"And you'll go on with the rooms the same as ever? Well, I never
thought to have a member of Parliament in 'em."

Mrs. Bunce really had realised the magnitude of the step which her
lodger had taken, and Phineas was grateful to her.




CHAPTER IV

Lady Laura Standish


Phineas, in describing Lady Laura Standish to Mary Flood Jones at
Killaloe, had not painted her in very glowing colours. Nevertheless
he admired Lady Laura very much, and she was worthy of admiration. It
was probably the greatest pride of our hero's life that Lady Laura
Standish was his friend, and that she had instigated him to undertake
the risk of parliamentary life. Lady Laura was intimate also with
Barrington Erle, who was, in some distant degree, her cousin;
and Phineas was not without a suspicion that his selection for
Loughshane, from out of all the young liberal candidates, may have
been in some degree owing to Lady Laura's influence with Barrington
Erle. He was not unwilling that it should be so; for though,
as he had repeatedly told himself, he was by no means in love
with Lady Laura,--who was, as he imagined, somewhat older than
himself,--nevertheless, he would feel gratified at accepting anything
from her hands, and he felt a keen desire for some increase to those
ties of friendship which bound them together. No;--he was not in love
with Lady Laura Standish. He had not the remotest idea of asking her
to be his wife. So he told himself, both before he went over for his
election, and after his return. When he had found himself in a corner
with poor little Mary Flood Jones, he had kissed her as a matter of
course; but he did not think that he could, in any circumstances, be
tempted to kiss Lady Laura. He supposed that he was in love with his
darling little Mary,--after a fashion. Of course, it could never come
to anything, because of the circumstances of his life, which were
so imperious to him. He was not in love with Lady Laura, and yet he
hoped that his intimacy with her might come to much. He had more than
once asked himself how he would feel when somebody else came to be
really in love with Lady Laura,--for she was by no means a woman to
lack lovers,--when some one else should be in love with her, and be
received by her as a lover; but this question he had never been able
to answer. There were many questions about himself which he usually
answered by telling himself that it was his fate to walk over
volcanoes. "Of course, I shall be blown into atoms some fine day," he
would say; "but after all, that is better than being slowly boiled
down into pulp."

The House had met on a Friday, again on the Saturday morning, and
the debate on the Address had been adjourned till the Monday. On
the Sunday, Phineas determined that he would see Lady Laura. She
professed to be always at home on Sunday, and from three to four in
the afternoon her drawing-room would probably be half full of people.
There would, at any rate, be comers and goers, who would prevent
anything like real conversation between himself and her. But for a
few minutes before that he might probably find her alone, and he was
most anxious to see whether her reception of him, as a member of
Parliament, would be in any degree warmer than that of his other
friends. Hitherto he had found no such warmth since he came to
London, excepting that which had glowed in the bosom of Mrs. Bunce.

Lady Laura Standish was the daughter of the Earl of Brentford, and
was the only remaining lady of the Earl's family. The Countess had
been long dead; and Lady Emily, the younger daughter, who had been
the great beauty of her day, was now the wife of a Russian nobleman
whom she had persisted in preferring to any of her English suitors,
and lived at St. Petersburg. There was an aunt, old Lady Laura, who
came up to town about the middle of May; but she was always in the
country except for some six weeks in the season. There was a certain
Lord Chiltern, the Earl's son and heir, who did indeed live at the
family town house in Portman Square; but Lord Chiltern was a man of
whom Lady Laura's set did not often speak, and Phineas, frequently
as he had been at the house, had never seen Lord Chiltern there. He
was a young nobleman of whom various accounts were given by various
people; but I fear that the account most readily accepted in London
attributed to him a great intimacy with the affairs at Newmarket,
and a partiality for convivial pleasures. Respecting Lord Chiltern
Phineas had never as yet exchanged a word with Lady Laura. With her
father he was acquainted, as he had dined perhaps half a dozen times
at the house. The point in Lord Brentford's character which had more
than any other struck our hero, was the unlimited confidence which he
seemed to place in his daughter. Lady Laura seemed to have perfect
power of doing what she pleased. She was much more mistress of
herself than if she had been the wife instead of the daughter of the
Earl of Brentford,--and she seemed to be quite as much mistress of
the house.

Phineas had declared at Killaloe that Lady Laura was six feet high,
that she had red hair, that her figure was straggling, and that her
hands and feet were large. She was in fact about five feet seven
in height, and she carried her height well. There was something of
nobility in her gait, and she seemed thus to be taller than her
inches. Her hair was in truth red,--of a deep thorough redness. Her
brother's hair was the same; and so had been that of her father,
before it had become sandy with age. Her sister's had been of a soft
auburn hue, and hers had been said to be the prettiest head of hair
in Europe at the time of her marriage. But in these days we have got
to like red hair, and Lady Laura's was not supposed to stand in the
way of her being considered a beauty. Her face was very fair, though
it lacked that softness which we all love in women. Her eyes, which
were large and bright, and very clear, never seemed to quail, never
rose and sunk or showed themselves to be afraid of their own power.
Indeed, Lady Laura Standish had nothing of fear about her. Her
nose was perfectly cut, but was rather large, having the slightest
possible tendency to be aquiline. Her mouth also was large, but was
full of expression, and her teeth were perfect. Her complexion was
very bright, but in spite of its brightness she never blushed. The
shades of her complexion were set and steady. Those who knew her said
that her heart was so fully under command that nothing could stir her
blood to any sudden motion. As to that accusation of straggling which
had been made against her, it had sprung from ill-natured observation
of her modes of sitting. She never straggled when she stood or
walked; but she would lean forward when sitting, as a man does, and
would use her arms in talking, and would put her hand over her face,
and pass her fingers through her hair,--after the fashion of men
rather than of women;--and she seemed to despise that soft quiescence
of her sex in which are generally found so many charms. Her hands
and feet were large,--as was her whole frame. Such was Lady Laura
Standish; and Phineas Finn had been untrue to himself and to his own
appreciation of the lady when he had described her in disparaging
terms to Mary Flood Jones. But, though he had spoken of Lady Laura
in disparaging terms, he had so spoken of her as to make Miss Flood
Jones quite understand that he thought a great deal about Lady Laura.

And now, early on the Sunday, he made his way to Portman Square in
order that he might learn whether there might be any sympathy for him
there. Hitherto he had found none. Everything had been terribly dry
and hard, and he had gathered as yet none of the fruit which he had
expected that his good fortune would bear for him. It is true that he
had not as yet gone among any friends, except those of his club, and
men who were in the House along with him;--and at the club it might
be that there were some who envied him his good fortune, and others
who thought nothing of it because it had been theirs for years. Now
he would try a friend who, he hoped, could sympathise; and therefore
he called in Portman Square at about half-past two on the Sunday
morning. Yes,--Lady Laura was in the drawing-room. The hall-porter
admitted as much, but evidently seemed to think that he had been
disturbed from his dinner before his time. Phineas did not care a
straw for the hall-porter. If Lady Laura were not kind to him, he
would never trouble that hall-porter again. He was especially sore at
this moment because a valued friend, the barrister with whom he had
been reading for the last three years, had spent the best part of
an hour that Sunday morning in proving to him that he had as good
as ruined himself. "When I first heard it, of course I thought you
had inherited a fortune," said Mr. Low. "I have inherited nothing,"
Phineas replied;--"not a penny; and I never shall." Then Mr. Low had
opened his eyes very wide, and shaken his head very sadly, and had
whistled.

"I am so glad you have come, Mr. Finn," said Lady Laura, meeting
Phineas half-way across the large room.

"Thanks," said he, as he took her hand.

"I thought that perhaps you would manage to see me before any one
else was here."

"Well;--to tell the truth, I have wished it; though I can hardly tell
why."

"I can tell you why, Mr. Finn. But never mind;--come and sit down.
I am so very glad that you have been successful;--so very glad. You
know I told you that I should never think much of you if you did not
at least try it."

"And therefore I did try."

"And have succeeded. Faint heart, you know, never did any good. I
think it is a man's duty to make his way into the House;--that is, if
he ever means to be anybody. Of course it is not every man who can
get there by the time that he is five-and-twenty."

"Every friend that I have in the world says that I have ruined
myself."

"No;--I don't say so," said Lady Laura.

"And you are worth all the others put together. It is such a comfort
to have some one to say a cheery word to one."

"You shall hear nothing but cheery words here. Papa shall say cheery
words to you that shall be better than mine, because they shall be
weighted with the wisdom of age. I have heard him say twenty times
that the earlier a man goes into the House the better. There is much
to learn."

"But your father was thinking of men of fortune."

"Not at all;--of younger brothers, and barristers, and of men who
have their way to make, as you have. Let me see,--can you dine here
on Wednesday? There will be no party, of course, but papa will want
to shake hands with you; and you legislators of the Lower House are
more easily reached on Wednesdays than on any other day."

"I shall be delighted," said Phineas, feeling, however, that he did
not expect much sympathy from Lord Brentford.

"Mr. Kennedy dines here;--you know Mr. Kennedy, of Loughlinter; and
we will ask your friend Mr. Fitzgibbon. There will be nobody else. As
for catching Barrington Erle, that is out of the question at such a
time as this."

"But going back to my being ruined--" said Phineas, after a pause.

"Don't think of anything so disagreeable."

"You must not suppose that I am afraid of it. I was going to say that
there are worse things than ruin,--or, at any rate, than the chance
of ruin. Supposing that I have to emigrate and skin sheep, what
does it matter? I myself, being unencumbered, have myself as my own
property to do what I like with. With Nelson it was Westminster Abbey
or a peerage. With me it is parliamentary success or sheep-skinning."

"There shall be no sheep-skinning, Mr. Finn. I will guarantee you."

"Then I shall be safe."

At that moment the door of the room was opened, and a man entered
with quick steps, came a few yards in, and then retreated, slamming
the door after him. He was a man with thick short red hair, and an
abundance of very red beard. And his face was red,--and, as it seemed
to Phineas, his very eyes. There was something in the countenance of
the man which struck him almost with dread,--something approaching to
ferocity.

There was a pause a moment after the door was closed, and then Lady
Laura spoke. "It was my brother Chiltern. I do not think that you
have ever met him."




CHAPTER V

Mr. and Mrs. Low


That terrible apparition of the red Lord Chiltern had disturbed
Phineas in the moment of his happiness as he sat listening to the
kind flatteries of Lady Laura; and though Lord Chiltern had vanished
as quickly as he had appeared, there had come no return of his joy.
Lady Laura had said some word about her brother, and Phineas had
replied that he had never chanced to see Lord Chiltern. Then there
had been an awkward silence, and almost immediately other persons had
come in. After greeting one or two old acquaintances, among whom an
elder sister of Laurence Fitzgibbon was one, he took his leave and
escaped out into the square. "Miss Fitzgibbon is going to dine with
us on Wednesday," said Lady Laura. "She says she won't answer for her
brother, but she will bring him if she can."

"And you're a member of Parliament now too, they tell me," said Miss
Fitzgibbon, holding up her hands. "I think everybody will be in
Parliament before long. I wish I knew some man who wasn't, that I
might think of changing my condition."

But Phineas cared very little what Miss Fitzgibbon said to him.
Everybody knew Aspasia Fitzgibbon, and all who knew her were
accustomed to put up with the violence of her jokes and the
bitterness of her remarks. She was an old maid, over forty, very
plain, who, having reconciled herself to the fact that she was an old
maid, chose to take advantage of such poor privileges as the position
gave her. Within the last few years a considerable fortune had fallen
into her hands, some twenty-five thousand pounds, which had come to
her unexpectedly,--a wonderful windfall. And now she was the only one
of her family who had money at command. She lived in a small house by
herself, in one of the smallest streets of May Fair, and walked about
sturdily by herself, and spoke her mind about everything. She was
greatly devoted to her brother Laurence,--so devoted that there was
nothing she would not do for him, short of lending him money.

But Phineas when he found himself out in the square thought nothing
of Aspasia Fitzgibbon. He had gone to Lady Laura Standish for
sympathy, and she had given it to him in full measure. She understood
him and his aspirations if no one else did so on the face of the
earth. She rejoiced in his triumph, and was not too hard to tell him
that she looked forward to his success. And in what delightful
language she had done so! "Faint heart never won fair lady." It was
thus, or almost thus, that she had encouraged him. He knew well that
she had in truth meant nothing more than her words had seemed to
signify. He did not for a moment attribute to her aught else. But
might not he get another lesson from them? He had often told himself
that he was not in love with Laura Standish;--but why should he not
how tell himself that he was in love with her? Of course there would
be difficulty. But was it not the business of his life to overcome
difficulties? Had he not already overcome one difficulty almost as
great; and why should he be afraid of this other? Faint heart never
won fair lady! And this fair lady,--for at this moment he was ready
to swear that she was very fair,--was already half won. She could not
have taken him by the hand so warmly, and looked into his face so
keenly, had she not felt for him something stronger than common
friendship.

He had turned down Baker Street from the square, and was now walking
towards the Regent's Park. He would go and see the beasts in the
Zoological Gardens, and make up his mind as to his future mode of
life in that delightful Sunday solitude. There was very much as to
which it was necessary that he should make up his mind. If he
resolved that he would ask Lady Laura Standish to be his wife, when
should he ask her, and in what manner might he propose to her that
they should live? It would hardly suit him to postpone his courtship
indefinitely, knowing, as he did know, that he would be one among
many suitors. He could not expect her to wait for him if he did not
declare himself. And yet he could hardly ask her to come and share
with him the allowance made to him by his father! Whether she had
much fortune of her own, or little, or none at all, he did not in the
least know. He did know that the Earl had been distressed by his
son's extravagance, and that there had been some money difficulties
arising from this source.

But his great desire would be to support his own wife by his own
labour. At present he was hardly in a fair way to do that, unless he
could get paid for his parliamentary work. Those fortunate gentlemen
who form "The Government" are so paid. Yes;--there was the Treasury
Bench open to him, and he must resolve that he would seat himself
there. He would make Lady Laura understand this, and then he would
ask his question. It was true that at present his political opponents
had possession of the Treasury Bench;--but all governments are
mortal, and Conservative governments in this country are especially
prone to die. It was true that he could not hold even a Treasury
lordship with a poor thousand a year for his salary without having to
face the electors of Loughshane again before he entered upon the
enjoyment of his place;--but if he could only do something to give a
grace to his name, to show that he was a rising man, the electors of
Loughshane, who had once been so easy with him, would surely not be
cruel to him when he showed himself a second time among them. Lord
Tulla was his friend, and he had those points of law in his favour
which possession bestows. And then he remembered that Lady Laura was
related to almost everybody who was anybody among the high Whigs. She
was, he knew, second cousin to Mr. Mildmay, who for years had been
the leader of the Whigs, and was third cousin to Barrington Erle. The
late President of the Council, the Duke of St. Bungay, and Lord
Brentford had married sisters, and the St. Bungay people, and the
Mildmay people, and the Brentford people had all some sort of
connection with the Palliser people, of whom the heir and coming
chief, Plantagenet Palliser, would certainly be Chancellor of the
Exchequer in the next Government. Simply as an introduction into
official life nothing could be more conducive to chances of success
than a matrimonial alliance with Lady Laura. Not that he would have
thought of such a thing on that account! No;--he thought of it
because he loved her; honestly because he loved her. He swore to that
half a dozen times, for his own satisfaction. But, loving her as he
did, and resolving that in spite of all difficulties she should
become his wife, there could be no reason why he should not,--on her
account as well as on his own,--take advantage of any circumstances
that there might be in his favour.

As he wandered among the unsavoury beasts, elbowed on every side by
the Sunday visitors to the garden, he made up his mind that he would
first let Lady Laura understand what were his intentions with regard
to his future career, and then he would ask her to join her lot to
his. At every turn the chances would of course be very much against
him;--ten to one against him, perhaps, on every point; but it was his
lot in life to have to face such odds. Twelve months since it had
been much more than ten to one against his getting into Parliament;
and yet he was there. He expected to be blown into fragments,--to
sheep-skinning in Australia, or packing preserved meats on the plains
of Paraguay; but when the blowing into atoms should come, he was
resolved that courage to bear the ruin should not be wanting. Then he
quoted a line or two of a Latin poet, and felt himself to be
comfortable.

"So, here you are again, Mr. Finn," said a voice in his ear.

"Yes, Miss Fitzgibbon; here I am again."

"I fancied you members of Parliament had something else to do besides
looking at wild beasts. I thought you always spent Sunday in
arranging how you might most effectually badger each other on
Monday."

"We got through all that early this morning, Miss Fitzgibbon, while
you were saying your prayers."

"Here is Mr. Kennedy too;--you know him I daresay. He also is a
member; but then he can afford to be idle." But it so happened that
Phineas did not know Mr. Kennedy, and consequently there was some
slight form of introduction.

"I believe I am to meet you at dinner on Wednesday,"--said
Phineas,--"at Lord Brentford's."

"And me too," said Miss Fitzgibbon.

"Which will be the greatest possible addition to our pleasure," said
Phineas.

Mr. Kennedy, who seemed to be afflicted with some difficulty in
speaking, and whose bow to our hero had hardly done more than produce
the slightest possible motion to the top of his hat, hereupon
muttered something which was taken to mean an assent to the
proposition as to Wednesday's dinner. Then he stood perfectly still,
with his two hands fixed on the top of his umbrella, and gazed at the
great monkeys' cage. But it was clear that he was not looking at any
special monkey, for his eyes never wandered.

"Did you ever see such a contrast in your life?" said Miss Fitzgibbon
to Phineas,--hardly in a whisper.

"Between what?" said Phineas.

"Between Mr. Kennedy and a monkey. The monkey has so much to say for
himself, and is so delightfully wicked! I don't suppose that Mr.
Kennedy ever did anything wrong in his life."

Mr. Kennedy was a man who had very little temptation to do anything
wrong. He was possessed of over a million and a half of money, which
he was mistaken enough to suppose he had made himself; whereas it may
be doubted whether he had ever earned a penny. His father and his
uncle had created a business in Glasgow, and that business now
belonged to him. But his father and his uncle, who had toiled through
their long lives, had left behind them servants who understood the
work, and the business now went on prospering almost by its own
momentum. The Mr. Kennedy of the present day, the sole owner of the
business, though he did occasionally go to Glasgow, certainly did
nothing towards maintaining it. He had a magnificent place in
Perthshire, called Loughlinter, and he sat for a Scotch group of
boroughs, and he had a house in London, and a stud of horses in
Leicestershire, which he rarely visited, and was unmarried. He never
spoke much to any one, although he was constantly in society. He
rarely did anything, although he had the means of doing everything.
He had very seldom been on his legs in the House of Commons, though
he had sat there for ten years. He was seen about everywhere,
sometimes with one acquaintance and sometimes with another;--but it
may be doubted whether he had any friend. It may be doubted whether
he had ever talked enough to any man to make that man his friend.
Laurence Fitzgibbon tried him for one season, and after a month or
two asked for a loan of a few hundred pounds. "I never lend money to
any one under any circumstances," said Mr. Kennedy, and it was the
longest speech which had ever fallen from his mouth in the hearing of
Laurence Fitzgibbon. But though he would not lend money, he gave a
great deal,--and he would give it for almost every object. "Mr.
Robert Kennedy, M.P., Loughlinter, L105," appeared on almost every
charitable list that was advertised. No one ever spoke to him as to
this expenditure, nor did he ever speak to any one. Circulars came to
him and the cheques were returned. The duty was a very easy one to
him, and he performed it willingly. Had any amount of inquiry been
necessary, it is possible that the labour would have been too much
for him. Such was Mr. Robert Kennedy, as to whom Phineas had heard
that he had during the last winter entertained Lord Brentford and
Lady Laura, with very many other people of note, at his place in
Perthshire.

"I very much prefer the monkey," said Phineas to Miss Fitzgibbon.

"I thought you would," said she. "Like to like, you know. You have
both of you the same aptitude for climbing. But the monkeys never
fall, they tell me."

Phineas, knowing that he could gain nothing by sparring with Miss
Fitzgibbon, raised his hat and took his leave. Going out of a narrow
gate he found himself again brought into contact with Mr. Kennedy.
"What a crowd there is here," he said, finding himself bound to say
something. Mr. Kennedy, who was behind him, answered him not a word.
Then Phineas made up his mind that Mr. Kennedy was insolent with the
insolence of riches, and that he would hate Mr. Kennedy.

He was engaged to dine on this Sunday with Mr. Low, the barrister,
with whom he had been reading for the last three years. Mr. Low had
taken a strong liking to Phineas, as had also Mrs. Low, and the tutor
had more than once told his pupil that success in his profession was
certainly open to him if he would only stick to his work. Mr. Low was
himself an ambitious man, looking forward to entering Parliament at
some future time, when the exigencies of his life of labour might
enable him to do so; but he was prudent, given to close calculation,
and resolved to make the ground sure beneath his feet in every step
that he took forward. When he first heard that Finn intended to stand
for Loughshane he was stricken with dismay, and strongly dissuaded
him. "The electors may probably reject him. That's his only chance
now," Mr. Low had said to his wife, when he found that Phineas was,
as he thought, foolhardy. But the electors of Loughshane had not
rejected Mr. Low's pupil, and Mr. Low was now called upon to advise
what Phineas should do in his present circumstances. There is nothing
to prevent the work of a Chancery barrister being done by a member of
Parliament. Indeed, the most successful barristers are members of
Parliament. But Phineas Finn was beginning at the wrong end, and Mr.
Low knew that no good would come of it.

"Only think of your being in Parliament, Mr. Finn," said Mrs. Low.

"It is wonderful, isn't it?" said Phineas.

"It took us so much by surprise!" said Mrs. Low. "As a rule one never
hears of a barrister going into Parliament till after he's forty."

"And I'm only twenty-five. I do feel that I've disgraced myself. I
do, indeed, Mrs. Low."

"No;--you've not disgraced yourself, Mr. Finn. The only question is,
whether it's prudent. I hope it will all turn out for the best, most
heartily." Mrs. Low was a very matter-of-fact lady, four or five
years older than her husband, who had had a little money of her own,
and was possessed of every virtue under the sun. Nevertheless she did
not quite like the idea of her husband's pupil having got into
Parliament. If her husband and Phineas Finn were dining anywhere
together, Phineas, who had come to them quite a boy, would walk out
of the room before her husband. This could hardly be right!
Nevertheless she helped Phineas to the nicest bit of fish she could
find, and had he been ill, would have nursed him with the greatest
care.

After dinner, when Mrs. Low had gone up-stairs, there came the great
discussion between the tutor and the pupil, for the sake of which
this little dinner had been given. When Phineas had last been with
Mr. Low,--on the occasion of his showing himself at his tutor's
chambers after his return from Ireland,--he had not made up his mind
so thoroughly on certain points as he had done since he had seen Lady
Laura. The discussion could hardly be of any avail now,--but it could
not be avoided.

"Well, Phineas, and what do you mean to do?" said Mr. Low. Everybody
who knew our hero, or nearly everybody, called him by his Christian
name. There are men who seem to be so treated by general consent in
all societies. Even Mrs. Low, who was very prosaic, and unlikely to
be familiar in her mode of address, had fallen into the way of doing
it before the election. But she had dropped it, when the Phineas whom
she used to know became a member of Parliament.

"That's the question;--isn't it?" said Phineas.

"Of course you'll stick to your work?"

"What;--to the Bar?"

"Yes;--to the Bar."

"I am not thinking of giving it up permanently."

"Giving it up," said Mr. Low, raising his hands in surprise. "If you
give it up, how do you intend to live? Men are not paid for being
members of Parliament."

"Not exactly. But, as I said before, I am not thinking of giving it
up,--permanently."

"You mustn't give it up at all,--not for a day; that is, if you ever
mean to do any good."

"There I think that perhaps you may be wrong, Low!"

"How can I be wrong? Did a period of idleness ever help a man in any
profession? And is it not acknowledged by all who know anything about
it, that continuous labour is more necessary in our profession than
in any other?"

"I do not mean to be idle."

"What is it you do mean, Phineas?"

"Why simply this. Here I am in Parliament. We must take that as a
fact."

"I don't doubt the fact."

"And if it be a misfortune, we must make the best of it. Even you
wouldn't advise me to apply for the Chiltern Hundreds at once."

"I would;--to-morrow. My dear fellow, though I do not like to give
you pain, if you come to me I can only tell you what I think. My
advice to you is to give it up to-morrow. Men would laugh at you for
a few weeks, but that is better than being ruined for life."

"I can't do that," said Phineas, sadly.

"Very well;--then let us go on," said Mr. Low. "If you won't give up
your seat, the next best thing will be to take care that it shall
interfere as little as possible with your work. I suppose you must
sit upon some Committees."

"My idea is this,--that I will give up one year to learning the
practices of the House."

"And do nothing?"

"Nothing but that. Why, the thing is a study in itself. As for
learning it in a year, that is out of the question. But I am
convinced that if a man intends to be a useful member of Parliament,
he should make a study of it."

"And how do you mean to live in the meantime?" Mr. Low, who was an
energetic man, had assumed almost an angry tone of voice. Phineas for
awhile sat silent;--not that he felt himself to be without words for
a reply, but that he was thinking in what fewest words he might best
convey his ideas. "You have a very modest allowance from your father,
on which you have never been able to keep yourself free from debt,"
continued Mr. Low.

"He has increased it."

"And will it satisfy you to live here, in what will turn out to be
parliamentary club idleness, on the savings of his industrious life?
I think you will find yourself unhappy if you do that. Phineas, my
dear fellow, as far as I have as yet been able to see the world, men
don't begin either very good or very bad. They have generally good
aspirations with infirm purposes;--or, as we may say, strong bodies
with weak legs to carry them. Then, because their legs are weak, they
drift into idleness and ruin. During all this drifting they are
wretched, and when they have thoroughly drifted they are still
wretched. The agony of their old disappointment still clings to them.
In nine cases out of ten it is some one small unfortunate event that
puts a man astray at first. He sees some woman and loses himself with
her;--or he is taken to a racecourse and unluckily wins money;--or
some devil in the shape of a friend lures him to tobacco and brandy.
Your temptation has come in the shape of this accursed seat in
Parliament." Mr. Low had never said a soft word in his life to any
woman but the wife of his bosom, had never seen a racehorse, always
confined himself to two glasses of port after dinner, and looked upon
smoking as the darkest of all the vices.

"You have made up your mind, then, that I mean to be idle?"

"I have made up my mind that your time will be wholly
unprofitable,--if you do as you say you intend to do."

"But you do not know my plan;--just listen to me." Then Mr. Low did
listen, and Phineas explained his plan,--saying, of course, nothing
of his love for Lady Laura, but giving Mr. Low to understand that he
intended to assist in turning out the existing Government and to
mount up to some seat,--a humble seat at first,--on the Treasury
bench, by the help of his exalted friends and by the use of his own
gifts of eloquence. Mr. Low heard him without a word. "Of course,"
said Phineas, "after the first year my time will not be fully
employed, unless I succeed. And if I fail totally,--for, of course, I
may fail altogether--"

"It is possible," said Mr. Low.

"If you are resolved to turn yourself against me, I must not say
another word," said Phineas, with anger.

"Turn myself against you! I would turn myself any way so that I might
save you from the sort of life which you are preparing for yourself.
I see nothing in it that can satisfy any manly heart. Even if you are
successful, what are you to become? You will be the creature of some
minister, not his colleague. You are to make your way up the ladder
by pretending to agree whenever agreement is demanded from you, and
by voting whether you agree or do not. And what is to be your reward?
Some few precarious hundreds a year, lasting just so long as a party
may remain in power and you can retain a seat in Parliament! It is at
the best slavery and degradation,--even if you are lucky enough to
achieve the slavery."

"You yourself hope to go into Parliament and join a ministry some
day," said Phineas.

Mr. Low was not quick to answer, but he did answer at last. "That is
true, though I have never told you so. Indeed, it is hardly true to
say that I hope it. I have my dreams, and sometimes dare to tell
myself that they may possibly become waking facts. But if ever I sit
on a Treasury bench I shall sit there by special invitation, having
been summoned to take a high place because of my professional
success. It is but a dream after all, and I would not have you repeat
what I have said to any one. I had no intention to talk about
myself."

"I am sure that you will succeed," said Phineas.

"Yes;--I shall succeed. I am succeeding. I live upon what I earn,
like a gentleman, and can already afford to be indifferent to work
that I dislike. After all, the other part of it,--that of which I
dream,--is but an unnecessary adjunct; the gilding on the
gingerbread. I am inclined to think that the cake is more wholesome
without it."

Phineas did not go up-stairs into Mrs. Low's drawing-room on that
evening, nor did he stay very late with Mr. Low. He had heard enough
of counsel to make him very unhappy,--to shake from him much of the
audacity which he had acquired for himself during his morning's
walk,--and to make him almost doubt whether, after all, the Chiltern
Hundreds would not be for him the safest escape from his
difficulties. But in that case he must never venture to see Lady
Laura Standish again.




CHAPTER VI

Lord Brentford's Dinner


No;--in such case as that,--should he resolve upon taking the advice
of his old friend Mr. Low, Phineas Finn must make up his mind never
to see Lady Laura Standish again! And he was in love with Lady Laura
Standish;--and, for aught he knew, Lady Laura Standish might be in
love with him. As he walked home from Mr. Low's house in Bedford
Square, he was by no means a triumphant man. There had been much more
said between him and Mr. Low than could be laid before the reader
in the last chapter. Mr. Low had urged him again and again, and had
prevailed so far that Phineas, before he left the house, had promised
to consider that suicidal expedient of the Chiltern Hundreds. What a
by-word he would become if he were to give up Parliament, having sat
there for about a week! But such immediate giving up was one of the
necessities of Mr. Low's programme. According to Mr. Low's teaching,
a single year passed amidst the miasma of the House of Commons would
be altogether fatal to any chance of professional success. And Mr.
Low had at any rate succeeded in making Phineas believe that he
was right in this lesson. There was his profession, as to which Mr.
Low assured him that success was within his reach; and there was
Parliament on the other side, as to which he knew that the chances
were all against him, in spite of his advantage of a seat. That he
could not combine the two, beginning with Parliament, he did believe.
Which should it be? That was the question which he tried to decide
as he walked home from Bedford Square to Great Marlborough Street.
He could not answer the question satisfactorily, and went to bed an
unhappy man.

He must at any rate go to Lord Brentford's dinner on Wednesday, and,
to enable him to join in the conversation there, must attend the
debates on Monday and Tuesday. The reader may perhaps be best made to
understand how terrible was our hero's state of doubt by being told
that for awhile he thought of absenting himself from these debates,
as being likely to weaken his purpose of withdrawing altogether from
the House. It is not very often that so strong a fury rages between
party and party at the commencement of the session that a division
is taken upon the Address. It is customary for the leader of the
opposition on such occasions to express his opinion in the most
courteous language, that his right honourable friend, sitting
opposite to him on the Treasury bench, has been, is, and will be
wrong in everything that he thinks, says, or does in public life; but
that, as anything like factious opposition is never adopted on that
side of the House, the Address to the Queen, in answer to that most
fatuous speech which has been put into her Majesty's gracious mouth,
shall be allowed to pass unquestioned. Then the leader of the House
thanks his adversary for his consideration, explains to all men how
happy the country ought to be that the Government has not fallen into
the disgracefully incapable hands of his right honourable friend
opposite; and after that the Address is carried amidst universal
serenity. But such was not the order of the day on the present
occasion. Mr. Mildmay, the veteran leader of the liberal side of the
House, had moved an amendment to the Address, and had urged upon the
House, in very strong language, the expediency of showing, at the
very commencement of the session, that the country had returned
to Parliament a strong majority determined not to put up with
Conservative inactivity. "I conceive it to be my duty," Mr. Mildmay
had said, "at once to assume that the country is unwilling that the
right honourable gentlemen opposite should keep their seats on the
bench upon which they sit, and in the performance of that duty I am
called upon to divide the House upon the Address to her Majesty." And
if Mr. Mildmay used strong language, the reader may be sure that Mr.
Mildmay's followers used language much stronger. And Mr. Daubeny, who
was the present leader of the House, and representative there of the
Ministry,--Lord de Terrier, the Premier, sitting in the House of
Lords,--was not the man to allow these amenities to pass by without
adequate replies. He and his friends were very strong in sarcasm,
if they failed in argument, and lacked nothing for words, though
it might perhaps be proved that they were short in numbers. It was
considered that the speech in which Mr. Daubeny reviewed the long
political life of Mr. Mildmay, and showed that Mr. Mildmay had been
at one time a bugbear, and then a nightmare, and latterly simply a
fungus, was one of the severest attacks, if not the most severe, that
had been heard in that House since the Reform Bill. Mr. Mildmay, the
while, was sitting with his hat low down over his eyes, and many men
said that he did not like it. But this speech was not made till after
that dinner at Lord Brentford's, of which a short account must be
given.

Had it not been for the overwhelming interest of the doings in
Parliament at the commencement of the session, Phineas might have
perhaps abstained from attending, in spite of the charm of novelty.
For, in truth, Mr. Low's words had moved him much. But if it was to
be his fate to be a member of Parliament only for ten days, surely it
would be well that he should take advantage of the time to hear such
a debate as this. It would be a thing to talk of to his children in
twenty years' time, or to his grandchildren in fifty;--and it would
be essentially necessary that he should be able to talk of it to Lady
Laura Standish. He did, therefore, sit in the House till one on the
Monday night, and till two on the Tuesday night, and heard the debate
adjourned till the Thursday. On the Thursday Mr. Daubeny was to make
his great speech, and then the division would come.

When Phineas entered Lady Laura's drawing-room on the Wednesday
before dinner, he found the other guests all assembled. Why men
should have been earlier in keeping their dinner engagements on that
day than on any other he did not understand; but it was the fact,
probably, that the great anxiety of the time made those who were at
all concerned in the matter very keen to hear and to be heard. During
these days everybody was in a hurry,--everybody was eager; and there
was a common feeling that not a minute was to be lost. There were
three ladies in the room,--Lady Laura, Miss Fitzgibbon, and Mrs.
Bonteen. The latter was the wife of a gentleman who had been a junior
Lord of the Admiralty in the late Government, and who lived in the
expectation of filling, perhaps, some higher office in the Government
which, as he hoped, was soon to be called into existence. There
were five gentlemen besides Phineas Finn himself,--Mr. Bonteen, Mr.
Kennedy, Mr. Fitzgibbon, Barrington Erle, who had been caught in
spite of all that Lady Laura had said as to the difficulty of such
an operation, and Lord Brentford. Phineas was quick to observe that
every male guest was in Parliament, and to tell himself that he would
not have been there unless he also had had a seat.

"We are all here now," said the Earl, ringing the bell.

"I hope I've not kept you waiting," said Phineas.

"Not at all," said Lady Laura. "I do not know why we are in such a
hurry. And how many do you say it will be, Mr. Finn?"

"Seventeen, I suppose," said Phineas.

"More likely twenty-two," said Mr. Bonteen. "There is Colcleugh so
ill they can't possibly bring him up, and young Rochester is at
Vienna, and Gunning is sulking about something, and Moody has lost
his eldest son. By George! they pressed him to come up, although
Frank Moody won't be buried till Friday."

"I don't believe it," said Lord Brentford.

"You ask some of the Carlton fellows, and they'll own it."

"If I'd lost every relation I had in the world," said Fitzgibbon,
"I'd vote on such a question as this. Staying away won't bring poor
Frank Moody back to life."

"But there's a decency in these matters, is there not, Mr.
Fitzgibbon?" said Lady Laura.

"I thought they had thrown all that kind of thing overboard long
ago," said Miss Fitzgibbon. "It would be better that they should have
no veil, than squabble about the thickness of it."

Then dinner was announced. The Earl walked off with Miss Fitzgibbon,
Barrington Erle took Mrs. Bonteen, and Mr. Fitzgibbon took Lady
Laura.

"I'll bet four pounds to two it's over nineteen," said Mr. Bonteen,
as he passed through the drawing-room door. The remark seemed to have
been addressed to Mr. Kennedy, and Phineas therefore made no reply.

"I daresay it will," said Kennedy, "but I never bet."

"But you vote--sometimes, I hope," said Bonteen.

"Sometimes," said Mr. Kennedy.

"I think he is the most odious man that ever I set my eyes on," said
Phineas to himself as he followed Mr. Kennedy into the dining-room.
He had observed that Mr. Kennedy had been standing very near to Lady
Laura in the drawing-room, and that Lady Laura had said a few words
to him. He was more determined than ever that he would hate Mr.
Kennedy, and would probably have been moody and unhappy throughout
the whole dinner had not Lady Laura called him to a chair at her left
hand. It was very generous of her; and the more so, as Mr. Kennedy
had, in a half-hesitating manner, prepared to seat himself in that
very place. As it was, Phineas and Mr. Kennedy were neighbours, but
Phineas had the place of honour.

"I suppose you will not speak during the debate?" said Lady Laura.

"Who? I? Certainly not. In the first place, I could not get a
hearing, and, in the next place, I should not think of commencing on
such an occasion. I do not know that I shall ever speak at all."

"Indeed you will. You are just the sort of man who will succeed with
the House. What I doubt is, whether you will do as well in office."

"I wish I might have the chance."

"Of course you can have the chance if you try for it. Beginning so
early, and being on the right side,--and, if you will allow me to say
so, among the right set,--there can be no doubt that you may take
office if you will. But I am not sure that you will be tractable. You
cannot begin, you know, by being Prime Minister."

"I have seen enough to realise that already," said Phineas.

"If you will only keep that little fact steadily before your eyes,
there is nothing you may not reach in official life. But Pitt was
Prime Minister at four-and-twenty, and that precedent has ruined half
our young politicians."

"It has not affected me, Lady Laura."

"As far as I can see, there is no great difficulty in government. A
man must learn to have words at command when he is on his legs in
the House of Commons, in the same way as he would if he were talking
to his own servants. He must keep his temper; and he must be very
patient. As far as I have seen Cabinet Ministers, they are not more
clever than other people."

"I think there are generally one or two men of ability in the
Cabinet."

"Yes, of fair ability. Mr. Mildmay is a good specimen. There is not,
and never was, anything brilliant in him. He is not eloquent, nor,
as far as I am aware, did he ever create anything. But he has always
been a steady, honest, persevering man, and circumstances have made
politics come easy to him."

"Think of the momentous questions which he has been called upon to
decide," said Phineas.

"Every question so handled by him has been decided rightly according
to his own party, and wrongly according to the party opposite. A
political leader is so sure of support and so sure of attack, that
it is hardly necessary for him to be even anxious to be right. For
the country's sake, he should have officials under him who know the
routine of business."

"You think very badly then of politics as a profession."

"No; I think of them very highly. It must be better to deal with
the repeal of laws than the defending of criminals. But all this is
papa's wisdom, not mine. Papa has never been in the Cabinet yet, and
therefore of course he is a little caustic."

"I think he was quite right," said Barrington Erle stoutly. He spoke
so stoutly that everybody at the table listened to him.

"I don't exactly see the necessity for such internecine war just at
present," said Lord Brentford.

"I must say I do," said the other. "Lord de Terrier took office
knowing that he was in a minority. We had a fair majority of nearly
thirty when he came in."

"Then how very soft you must have been to go out," said Miss
Fitzgibbon.

"Not in the least soft," continued Barrington Erle. "We could not
command our men, and were bound to go out. For aught we knew, some
score of them might have chosen to support Lord de Terrier, and then
we should have owned ourselves beaten for the time."

"You were beaten,--hollow," said Miss Fitzgibbon.

"Then why did Lord de Terrier dissolve?"

"A Prime Minister is quite right to dissolve in such a position,"
said Lord Brentford. "He must do so for the Queen's sake. It is his
only chance."

"Just so. It is, as you say, his only chance, and it is his right.
His very possession of power will give him near a score of votes, and
if he thinks that he has a chance, let him try it. We maintain that
he had no chance, and that he must have known that he had none;--that
if he could not get on with the late House, he certainly could not
get on with a new House. We let him have his own way as far as we
could in February. We had failed last summer, and if he could get
along he was welcome. But he could not get along."

"I must say I think he was right to dissolve," said Lady Laura.

"And we are right to force the consequences upon him as quickly as
we can. He practically lost nine seats by his dissolution. Look at
Loughshane."

"Yes; look at Loughshane," said Miss Fitzgibbon. "The country at any
rate has gained something there."

"It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good, Mr. Finn," said the
Earl.

"What on earth is to become of poor George?" said Mr. Fitzgibbon. "I
wonder whether any one knows where he is. George wasn't a bad sort of
fellow."

"Roby used to think that he was a very bad fellow," said Mr. Bonteen.
"Roby used to swear that it was hopeless trying to catch him." It may
be as well to explain that Mr. Roby was a Conservative gentleman of
great fame who had for years acted as Whip under Mr. Daubeny, and who
now filled the high office of Patronage Secretary to the Treasury. "I
believe in my heart," continued Mr. Bonteen, "that Roby is rejoiced
that poor George Morris should be out in the cold."

"If seats were halveable, he should share mine, for the sake of auld
lang syne," said Laurence Fitzgibbon.

"But not to-morrow night," said Barrington Erle; "the division
to-morrow will be a thing not to be joked with. Upon my word I think
they're right about old Moody. All private considerations should give
way. And as for Gunning, I'd have him up or I'd know the reason why."

"And shall we have no defaulters, Barrington?" asked Lady Laura.

"I'm not going to boast, but I don't know of one for whom we need
blush. Sir Everard Powell is so bad with gout that he can't even bear
any one to look at him, but Ratler says that he'll bring him up." Mr.
Ratler was in those days the Whip on the liberal side of the House.

"Unfortunate wretch!" said Miss Fitzgibbon.

"The worst of it is that he screams in his paroxysms," said Mr.
Bonteen.

"And you mean to say that you'll take him into the lobby," said Lady
Laura.

"Undoubtedly," said Barrington Erle. "Why not? He has no business
with a seat if he can't vote. But Sir Everard is a good man, and
he'll be there if laudanum and bath-chair make it possible."

The same kind of conversation went on during the whole of dinner, and
became, if anything, more animated when the three ladies had left the
room. Mr. Kennedy made but one remark, and then he observed that as
far as he could see a majority of nineteen would be as serviceable
as a majority of twenty. This he said in a very mild voice, and in
a tone that was intended to be expressive of doubt; but in spite of
his humility Barrington Erle flew at him almost savagely,--as though
a liberal member of the House of Commons was disgraced by so mean a
spirit; and Phineas found himself despising the man for his want of
zeal.

"If we are to beat them, let us beat them well," said Phineas.

"Let there be no doubt about it," said Barrington Erle.

"I should like to see every man with a seat polled," said Bonteen.

"Poor Sir Everard!" said Lord Brentford. "It will kill him, no doubt,
but I suppose the seat is safe."

"Oh, yes; Llanwrwsth is quite safe," said Barrington, in his
eagerness omitting to catch Lord Brentford's grim joke.

Phineas went up into the drawing-room for a few minutes after dinner,
and was eagerly desirous of saying a few more words,--he knew not
what words,--to Lady Laura. Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Bonteen had left
the dining-room first, and Phineas again found Mr. Kennedy standing
close to Lady Laura's shoulder. Could it be possible that there was
anything in it? Mr. Kennedy was an unmarried man, with an immense
fortune, a magnificent place, a seat in Parliament, and was not
perhaps above forty years of age. There could be no reason why he
should not ask Lady Laura to be his wife,--except, indeed, that he
did not seem to have sufficient words at command to ask anybody for
anything. But could it be that such a woman as Lady Laura could
accept such a man as Mr. Kennedy because of his wealth, and because
of his fine place,--a man who had not a word to throw to a dog, who
did not seem to be possessed of an idea, who hardly looked like a
gentleman;--so Phineas told himself. But in truth Mr. Kennedy, though
he was a plain, unattractive man, with nothing in his personal
appearance to call for remark, was not unlike a gentleman in his
usual demeanour. Phineas himself, it may be here said, was six feet
high, and very handsome, with bright blue eyes, and brown wavy hair,
and light silken beard. Mrs. Low had told her husband more than once
that he was much too handsome to do any good. Mr. Low, however, had
replied that young Finn had never shown himself to be conscious of
his own personal advantages. "He'll learn it soon enough," said Mrs.
Low. "Some woman will tell him, and then he'll be spoilt." I do not
think that Phineas depended much as yet on his own good looks, but
he felt that Mr. Kennedy ought to be despised by such a one as Lady
Laura Standish, because his looks were not good. And she must despise
him! It could not be that a woman so full of life should be willing
to put up with a man who absolutely seemed to have no life within
him. And yet why was he there, and why was he allowed to hang about
just over her shoulders? Phineas Finn began to feel himself to be an
injured man.

But Lady Laura had the power of dispelling instantly this sense of
injury. She had done it effectually in the dining-room by calling him
to the seat by her side, to the express exclusion of the millionaire,
and she did it again now by walking away from Mr. Kennedy to the spot
on which Phineas had placed himself somewhat sulkily.

"Of course you'll be at the club on Friday morning after the
division," she said.

"No doubt."

"When you leave it, come and tell me what are your impressions, and
what you think of Mr. Daubeny's speech. There'll be nothing done in
the House before four, and you'll be able to run up to me."

"Certainly I will."

"I have asked Mr. Kennedy to come, and Mr. Fitzgibbon. I am so
anxious about it, that I want to hear what different people say.
You know, perhaps, that papa is to be in the Cabinet if there's a
change."

"Is he indeed?"

"Oh yes;--and you'll come up?"

"Of course I will. Do you expect to hear much of an opinion from Mr.
Kennedy?"

"Yes, I do. You don't quite know Mr. Kennedy yet. And you must
remember that he will say more to me than he will to you. He's
not quick, you know, as you are, and he has no enthusiasm on any
subject;--but he has opinions, and sound opinions too." Phineas
felt that Lady Laura was in a slight degree scolding him for the
disrespectful manner in which he had spoken of Mr. Kennedy; and he
felt also that he had committed himself,--that he had shown himself
to be sore, and that she had seen and understood his soreness.

"The truth is I do not know him," said he, trying to correct his
blunder.

"No;--not as yet. But I hope that you may some day, as he is one of
those men who are both useful and estimable."

"I do not know that I can use him," said Phineas; "but if you wish
it, I will endeavour to esteem him."

"I wish you to do both;--but that will all come in due time. I think
it probable that in the early autumn there will be a great gathering
of the real Whig Liberals at Loughlinter;--of those, I mean, who have
their heart in it, and are at the same time gentlemen. If it is so,
I should be sorry that you should not be there. You need not mention
it, but Mr. Kennedy has just said a word about it to papa, and a
word from him always means so much! Well;--good-night; and mind you
come up on Friday. You are going to the club, now, of course. I envy
you men your clubs more than I do the House;--though I feel that
a woman's life is only half a life, as she cannot have a seat in
Parliament."

Then Phineas went away, and walked down to Pall Mall with Laurence
Fitzgibbon. He would have preferred to take his walk alone, but he
could not get rid of his affectionate countryman. He wanted to think
over what had taken place during the evening; and, indeed, he did so
in spite of his friend's conversation. Lady Laura, when she first saw
him after his return to London, had told him how anxious her father
was to congratulate him on his seat, but the Earl had not spoken a
word to him on the subject. The Earl had been courteous, as hosts
customarily are, but had been in no way specially kind to him. And
then Mr. Kennedy! As to going to Loughlinter, he would not do such a
thing,--not though the success of the liberal party were to depend on
it. He declared to himself that there were some things which a man
could not do. But although he was not altogether satisfied with what
had occurred in Portman Square, he felt as he walked down arm-in-arm
with Fitzgibbon that Mr. Low and Mr. Low's counsels must be scattered
to the winds. He had thrown the die in consenting to stand for
Loughshane, and must stand the hazard of the cast.

"Bedad, Phin, my boy, I don't think you're listening to me at all,"
said Laurence Fitzgibbon.

"I'm listening to every word you say," said Phineas.

"And if I have to go down to the ould country again this session,
you'll go with me?"

"If I can I will."

"That's my boy! And it's I that hope you'll have the chance. What's
the good of turning these fellows out if one isn't to get something
for one's trouble?"




CHAPTER VII

Mr. and Mrs. Bunce


It was three o'clock on the Thursday night before Mr. Daubeny's
speech was finished. I do not think that there was any truth in the
allegation made at the time, that he continued on his legs an hour
longer than the necessities of his speech required, in order that
five or six very ancient Whigs might be wearied out and shrink to
their beds. Let a Whig have been ever so ancient and ever so weary,
he would not have been allowed to depart from Westminster Hall that
night. Sir Everard Powell was there in his bath-chair at twelve,
with a doctor on one side of him and a friend on the other, in some
purlieu of the House, and did his duty like a fine old Briton as he
was. That speech of Mr. Daubeny's will never be forgotten by any one
who heard it. Its studied bitterness had perhaps never been equalled,
and yet not a word was uttered for the saying of which he could be
accused of going beyond the limits of parliamentary antagonism. It is
true that personalities could not have been closer, that accusations
of political dishonesty and of almost worse than political cowardice
and falsehood could not have been clearer, that no words in the
language could have attributed meaner motives or more unscrupulous
conduct. But, nevertheless, Mr. Daubeny in all that he said was
parliamentary, and showed himself to be a gladiator thoroughly well
trained for the arena in which he had descended to the combat. His
arrows were poisoned, and his lance was barbed, and his shot was
heated red,--because such things are allowed. He did not poison
his enemies' wells or use Greek fire, because those things are not
allowed. He knew exactly the rules of the combat. Mr. Mildmay sat and
heard him without once raising his hat from his brow, or speaking
a word to his neighbour. Men on both sides of the House said that
Mr. Mildmay suffered terribly; but as Mr. Mildmay uttered no word of
complaint to any one, and was quite ready to take Mr. Daubeny by the
hand the next time they met in company, I do not know that any one
was able to form a true idea of Mr. Mildmay's feelings. Mr. Mildmay
was an impassive man who rarely spoke of his own feelings, and no
doubt sat with his hat low down over his eyes in order that no
man might judge of them on that occasion by the impression on his
features. "If he could have left off half an hour earlier it would
have been perfect as an attack," said Barrington Erle in criticising
Mr. Daubeny's speech, "but he allowed himself to sink into
comparative weakness, and the glory of it was over before the
end."--Then came the division. The Liberals had 333 votes to 314 for
the Conservatives, and therefore counted a majority of 19. It was
said that so large a number of members had never before voted at any
division.

"I own I'm disappointed," said Barrington Erle to Mr. Ratler.

"I thought there would be twenty," said Mr. Ratler. "I never went
beyond that. I knew they would have old Moody up, but I thought
Gunning would have been too hard for them."

"They say they've promised them both peerages."

"Yes;--if they remain in. But they know they're going out."

"They must go, with such a majority against them," said Barrington
Erle.

"Of course they must," said Mr. Ratler. "Lord de Terrier wants
nothing better, but it is rather hard upon poor Daubeny. I never saw
such an unfortunate old Tantalus."

"He gets a good drop of real water now and again, and I don't pity
him in the least. He's clever of course, and has made his own way,
but I've always a feeling that he has no business where he is.
I suppose we shall know all about it at Brooks's by one o'clock
to-morrow."

Phineas, though it had been past five before he went to bed,--for
there had been much triumphant talking to be done among liberal
members after the division,--was up at his breakfast at Mrs. Bunce's
lodgings by nine. There was a matter which he was called upon to
settle immediately in which Mrs. Bunce herself was much interested,
and respecting which he had promised to give an answer on this very
morning. A set of very dingy chambers up two pairs of stairs at No.
9, Old Square, Lincoln's Inn, to which Mr. Low had recommended him to
transfer himself and all his belongings, were waiting his occupation,
should he resolve upon occupying them. If he intended to commence
operations as a barrister, it would be necessary that he should have
chambers and a clerk; and before he had left Mr. Low's house on
Sunday evening he had almost given that gentleman authority to secure
for him these rooms at No. 9. "Whether you remain in Parliament or
no, you must make a beginning," Mr. Low had said; "and how are you
even to pretend to begin if you don't have chambers?" Mr. Low hoped
that he might be able to wean Phineas away from his Parliament
bauble;--that he might induce the young barrister to give up his
madness, if not this session or the next, at any rate before a third
year had commenced. Mr. Low was a persistent man, liking very much
when he did like, and loving very strongly when he did love. He would
have many a tug for Phineas Finn before he would allow that false
Westminster Satan to carry off the prey as altogether his own. If he
could only get Phineas into the dingy chambers he might do much!

But Phineas had now become so imbued with the atmosphere of politics,
had been so breathed upon by Lady Laura and Barrington Erle, that
he could no longer endure the thought of any other life than that
of a life spent among the lobbies. A desire to help to beat the
Conservatives had fastened on his very soul, and almost made Mr. Low
odious in his eyes. He was afraid of Mr. Low, and for the nonce would
not go to him any more;--but he must see the porter at Lincoln's Inn,
he must write a line to Mr. Low, and he must tell Mrs. Bunce that for
the present he would still keep on her rooms. His letter to Mr. Low
was as follows:--


   Great Marlborough Street, May, 186--.

   MY DEAR LOW,

   I have made up my mind against taking the chambers, and am
   now off to the Inn to say that I shall not want them. Of
   course, I know what you will think of me, and it is very
   grievous to me to have to bear the hard judgment of a man
   whose opinion I value so highly; but, in the teeth of your
   terribly strong arguments, I think that there is something
   to be said on my side of the question. This seat in
   Parliament has come in my way by chance, and I think it
   would be pusillanimous in me to reject it, feeling, as I
   do, that a seat in Parliament confers very great honour. I
   am, too, very fond of politics, and regard legislation as
   the finest profession going. Had I any one dependent on
   me, I probably might not be justified in following the
   bent of my inclination. But I am all alone in the world,
   and therefore have a right to make the attempt. If, after
   a trial of one or two sessions, I should fail in that
   which I am attempting, it will not even then be too late
   to go back to the better way. I can assure you that at any
   rate it is not my intention to be idle.

   I know very well how you will fret and fume over what I
   say, and how utterly I shall fail in bringing you round to
   my way of thinking; but as I must write to tell you of my
   decision, I cannot refrain from defending myself to the
   best of my ability.

   Yours always faithfully,

   PHINEAS FINN.


Mr. Low received this letter at his chambers, and when he had read
it, he simply pressed his lips closely together, placed the sheet
of paper back in its envelope, and put it into a drawer at his left
hand. Having done this, he went on with what work he had before him,
as though his friend's decision were a matter of no consequence to
him. As far as he was concerned the thing was done, and there should
be an end of it. So he told himself; but nevertheless his mind was
full of it all day; and, though he wrote not a word of answer to
Phineas, he made a reply within his own mind to every one of the
arguments used in the letter. "Great honour! How can there be honour
in what comes, as he says, by chance? He hasn't sense enough to
understand that the honour comes from the mode of winning it, and
from the mode of wearing it; and that the very fact of his being
member for Loughshane at this instant simply proves that Loughshane
should have had no privilege to return a member! No one dependent on
him! Are not his father and his mother and his sisters dependent on
him as long as he must eat their bread till he can earn bread of his
own? He will never earn bread of his own. He will always be eating
bread that others have earned." In this way, before the day was
over, Mr. Low became very angry, and swore to himself that he would
have nothing more to say to Phineas Finn. But yet he found himself
creating plans for encountering and conquering the parliamentary
fiend who was at present so cruelly potent with his pupil. It was not
till the third evening that he told his wife that Finn had made up
his mind not to take chambers. "Then I would have nothing more to say
to him," said Mrs. Low, savagely. "For the present I can have nothing
more to say to him." "But neither now nor ever," said Mrs. Low, with
great emphasis; "he has been false to you." "No," said Mr. Low, who
was a man thoroughly and thoughtfully just at all points; "he has not
been false to me. He has always meant what he has said, when he was
saying it. But he is weak and blind, and flies like a moth to the
candle; one pities the poor moth, and would save him a stump of his
wing if it be possible."

Phineas, when he had written his letter to Mr. Low, started off for
Lincoln's Inn, making his way through the well-known dreary streets
of Soho, and through St. Giles's, to Long Acre. He knew every corner
well, for he had walked the same road almost daily for the last three
years. He had conceived a liking for the route, which he might easily
have changed without much addition to the distance, by passing
through Oxford Street and Holborn; but there was an air of business
on which he prided himself in going by the most direct passage, and
he declared to himself very often that things dreary and dingy to the
eye might be good in themselves. Lincoln's Inn itself is dingy, and
the Law Courts therein are perhaps the meanest in which Equity ever
disclosed herself. Mr. Low's three rooms in the Old Square, each of
them brown with the binding of law books and with the dust collected
on law papers, and with furniture that had been brown always, and had
become browner with years, were perhaps as unattractive to the eye of
a young pupil as any rooms which were ever entered. And the study of
the Chancery law itself is not an alluring pursuit till the mind has
come to have some insight into the beauty of its ultimate object.
Phineas, during his three years' course of reasoning on these things,
had taught himself to believe that things ugly on the outside might
be very beautiful within; and had therefore come to prefer crossing
Poland Street and Soho Square, and so continuing his travels by the
Seven Dials and Long Acre. His morning walk was of a piece with his
morning studies, and he took pleasure in the gloom of both. But now
the taste of his palate had been already changed by the glare of
the lamps in and about palatial Westminster, and he found that St.
Giles's was disagreeable. The ways about Pall Mall and across the
Park to Parliament Street, or to the Treasury, were much pleasanter,
and the new offices in Downing Street, already half built, absorbed
all that interest which he had hitherto been able to take in
the suggested but uncommenced erection of new Law Courts in the
neighbourhood of Lincoln's Inn. As he made his way to the porter's
lodge under the great gateway of Lincoln's Inn, he told himself that
he was glad that he had escaped, at any rate for a while, from a life
so dull and dreary. If he could only sit in chambers at the Treasury
instead of chambers in that old court, how much pleasanter it would
be! After all, as regarded that question of income, it might well be
that the Treasury chambers should be the more remunerative, and the
more quickly remunerative, of the two. And, as he thought, Lady Laura
might be compatible with the Treasury chambers and Parliament, but
could not possibly be made compatible with Old Square, Lincoln's Inn.

But nevertheless there came upon him a feeling of sorrow when the
old man at the lodge seemed to be rather glad than otherwise that
he did not want the chambers. "Then Mr. Green can have them," said
the porter; "that'll be good news for Mr. Green. I don't know what
the gen'lemen 'll do for chambers if things goes on as they're
going." Mr. Green was welcome to the chambers as far as Phineas was
concerned; but Phineas felt nevertheless a certain amount of regret
that he should have been compelled to abandon a thing which was
regarded both by the porter and by Mr. Green as being so desirable.
He had however written his letter to Mr. Low, and made his promise to
Barrington Erle, and was bound to Lady Laura Standish; and he walked
out through the old gateway into Chancery Lane, resolving that he
would not even visit Lincoln's Inn again for a year. There were
certain books,--law books,--which he would read at such intervals of
leisure as politics might give him; but within the precincts of the
Inns of Court he would not again put his foot for twelve months, let
learned pundits of the law,--such for instance as Mr. and Mrs.
Low,--say what they might.

He had told Mrs. Bunce, before he left his home after breakfast, that
he should for the present remain under her roof. She had been much
gratified, not simply because lodgings in Great Marlborough Street
are less readily let than chambers in Lincoln's Inn, but also because
it was a great honour to her to have a member of Parliament in her
house. Members of Parliament are not so common about Oxford Street as
they are in the neighbourhood of Pall Mall and St. James's Square.
But Mr. Bunce, when he came home to his dinner, did not join as
heartily as he should have done in his wife's rejoicing. Mr. Bunce
was in the employment of certain copying law-stationers in Carey
Street, and had a strong belief in the law as a profession;--but he
had none whatever in the House of Commons. "And he's given up going
into chambers?" said Mr. Bunce to his wife.

"Given it up altogether for the present," said Mrs. Bunce.

"And he don't mean to have no clerk?" said Mr. Bunce.

"Not unless it is for his Parliament work."

"There ain't no clerks wanted for that, and what's worse, there ain't
no fees to pay 'em. I'll tell you what it is, Jane;--if you don't
look sharp there won't be nothing to pay you before long."

"And he in Parliament, Jacob!"

"There ain't no salary for being in Parliament. There are scores of
them Parliament gents ain't got so much as'll pay their dinners for
'em. And then if anybody does trust 'em, there's no getting at 'em
to make 'em pay as there is at other folk."

"I don't know that our Mr. Phineas will ever be like that, Jacob."

"That's gammon, Jane. That's the way as women gets themselves took in
always. Our Mr. Phineas! Why should our Mr. Phineas be better than
anybody else?"

"He's always acted handsome, Jacob."

"There was one time he could not pay his lodgings for wellnigh nine
months, till his governor come down with the money. I don't know
whether that was handsome. It knocked me about terrible, I know."

"He always meant honest, Jacob."

"I don't know that I care much for a man's meaning when he runs
short of money. How is he going to see his way, with his seat in
Parliament, and this giving up of his profession? He owes us near a
quarter now."

"He paid me two months this morning, Jacob; so he don't owe a
farthing."

"Very well;--so much the better for us. I shall just have a few words
with Mr. Low, and see what he says to it. For myself I don't think
half so much of Parliament folk as some do. They're for promising
everything before they's elected; but not one in twenty of 'em is as
good as his word when he gets there."

Mr. Bunce was a copying journeyman, who spent ten hours a day in
Carey Street with a pen between his fingers; and after that he would
often spend two or three hours of the night with a pen between his
fingers in Marlborough Street. He was a thoroughly hard-working man,
doing pretty well in the world, for he had a good house over his
head, and always could find raiment and bread for his wife and
eight children; but, nevertheless, he was an unhappy man because he
suffered from political grievances, or, I should more correctly say,
that his grievances were semi-political and semi-social. He had no
vote, not being himself the tenant of the house in Great Marlborough
Street. The tenant was a tailor who occupied the shop, whereas Bunce
occupied the whole of the remainder of the premises. He was a lodger,
and lodgers were not as yet trusted with the franchise. And he had
ideas, which he himself admitted to be very raw, as to the injustice
of the manner in which he was paid for his work. So much a folio,
without reference to the way in which his work was done, without
regard to the success of his work, with no questions asked of
himself, was, as he thought, no proper way of remunerating a man for
his labours. He had long since joined a Trade Union, and for two
years past had paid a subscription of a shilling a week towards its
funds. He longed to be doing some battle against his superiors, and
to be putting himself in opposition to his employers;--not that he
objected personally to Messrs. Foolscap, Margin, and Vellum, who
always made much of him as a useful man;--but because some such
antagonism would be manly, and the fighting of some battle would
be the right thing to do. "If Labour don't mean to go to the wall
himself," Bunce would say to his wife, "Labour must look alive, and
put somebody else there."

Mrs. Bunce was a comfortable motherly woman, who loved her husband
but hated politics. As he had an aversion to his superiors in the
world because they were superiors, so had she a liking for them for
the same reason. She despised people poorer than herself, and thought
it a fair subject for boasting that her children always had meat for
dinner. If it was ever so small a morsel, she took care that they had
it, in order that the boast might be maintained. The world had once
or twice been almost too much for her,--when, for instance, her
husband had been ill; and again, to tell the truth, for the last
three months of that long period in which Phineas had omitted to pay
his bills; but she had kept a fine brave heart during those troubles,
and could honestly swear that the children always had a bit of
meat, though she herself had been occasionally without it for days
together. At such times she would be more than ordinarily meek to
Mr. Margin, and especially courteous to the old lady who lodged in
her first-floor drawing-room,--for Phineas lived up two pairs of
stairs,--and she would excuse such servility by declaring that there
was no knowing how soon she might want assistance. But her husband,
in such emergencies, would become furious and quarrelsome, and would
declare that Labour was going to the wall, and that something very
strong must be done at once. That shilling which Bunce paid weekly to
the Union she regarded as being absolutely thrown away,--as much so
as though he cast it weekly into the Thames. And she had told him so,
over and over again, making heart-piercing allusions to the eight
children and to the bit of meat. He would always endeavour to explain
to her that there was no other way under the sun for keeping Labour
from being sent to the wall;--but he would do so hopelessly and
altogether ineffectually, and she had come to regard him as a lunatic
to the extent of that one weekly shilling.

She had a woman's instinctive partiality for comeliness in a man, and
was very fond of Phineas Finn because he was handsome. And now she
was very proud of him because he was a member of Parliament. She
had heard,--from her husband, who had told her the fact with much
disgust,--that the sons of Dukes and Earls go into Parliament, and
she liked to think that the fine young man to whom she talked more
or less every day should sit with the sons of Dukes and Earls. When
Phineas had really brought distress upon her by owing her some thirty
or forty pounds, she could never bring herself to be angry with
him,--because he was handsome and because he dined out with Lords.
And she had triumphed greatly over her husband, who had desired to be
severe upon his aristocratic debtor, when the money had all been paid
in a lump.

"I don't know that he's any great catch," Bunce had said, when the
prospect of their lodger's departure had been debated between them.

"Jacob," said his wife, "I don't think you feel it when you've got
people respectable about you."

"The only respectable man I know," said Jacob, "is the man as earns
his bread; and Mr. Finn, as I take it, is a long way from that yet."

Phineas returned to his lodgings before he went down to his club, and
again told Mrs. Bunce that he had altogether made up his mind about
the chambers. "If you'll keep me I shall stay here for the first
session I daresay."

"Of course we shall be only too proud, Mr. Finn; and though it mayn't
perhaps be quite the place for a member of Parliament--"

"But I think it is quite the place."

"It's very good of you to say so, Mr. Finn, and we'll do our very
best to make you comfortable. Respectable we are, I may say; and
though Bunce is a bit rough sometimes--"

"Never to me, Mrs. Bunce."

"But he is rough,--and silly, too, with his radical nonsense, paying
a shilling a week to a nasty Union just for nothing. Still he means
well, and there ain't a man who works harder for his wife and
children;--that I will say of him. And if he do talk politics--"

"But I like a man to talk politics, Mrs. Bunce."

"For a gentleman in Parliament of course it's proper; but I never
could see what good it could do to a law-stationer; and when he talks
of Labour going to the wall, I always ask him whether he didn't get
his wages regular last Saturday. But, Lord love you, Mr. Finn, when a
man as is a journeyman has took up politics and joined a Trade Union,
he ain't no better than a milestone for his wife to take and talk to
him."

After that Phineas went down to the Reform Club, and made one of
those who were buzzing there in little crowds and uttering their
prophecies as to future events. Lord de Terrier was to go out. That
was certain. Whether Mr. Mildmay was to come in was uncertain. That
he would go to Windsor to-morrow morning was not to be doubted; but
it was thought very probable that he might plead his age, and decline
to undertake the responsibility of forming a Ministry.

"And what then?" said Phineas to his friend Fitzgibbon.

"Why, then there will be a choice out of three. There is the Duke,
who is the most incompetent man in England; there is Monk, who is the
most unfit; and there is Gresham, who is the most unpopular. I can't
conceive it possible to find a worse Prime Minister than either of
the three;--but the country affords no other."

"And which would Mildmay name?"

"All of them,--one after the other, so as to make the embarrassment
the greater." That was Mr. Fitzgibbon's description of the crisis;
but then it was understood that Mr. Fitzgibbon was given to
romancing.




CHAPTER VIII

The News about Mr. Mildmay and Sir Everard


Fitzgibbon and Phineas started together from Pall Mall for Portman
Square,--as both of them had promised to call on Lady Laura,--but
Fitzgibbon turned in at Brooks's as they walked up St. James's
Square, and Phineas went on by himself in a cab. "You should belong
here," said Fitzgibbon as his friend entered the cab, and Phineas
immediately began to feel that he would have done nothing till he
could get into Brooks's. It might be very well to begin by talking
politics at the Reform Club. Such talking had procured for him his
seat at Loughshane. But that was done now, and something more than
talking was wanted for any further progress. Nothing, as he told
himself, of political import was managed at the Reform Club. No
influence from thence was ever brought to bear upon the adjustment of
places under the Government, or upon the arrangement of cabinets. It
might be very well to count votes at the Reform Club; but after the
votes had been counted,--had been counted successfully,--Brooks's was
the place, as Phineas believed, to learn at the earliest moment what
would be the exact result of the success. He must get into Brooks's,
if it might be possible for him. Fitzgibbon was not exactly the man
to propose him. Perhaps the Earl of Brentford would do it.

Lady Laura was at home, and with her was sitting--Mr. Kennedy.
Phineas had intended to be triumphant as he entered Lady Laura's
room. He was there with the express purpose of triumphing in the
success of their great party, and of singing a pleasant paean in
conjunction with Lady Laura. But his trumpet was put out of tune at
once when he saw Mr. Kennedy. He said hardly a word as he gave his
hand to Lady Laura,--and then afterwards to Mr. Kennedy, who chose
to greet him with this show of cordiality.

"I hope you are satisfied, Mr. Finn," said Lady Laura, laughing.

"Oh yes."

"And is that all? I thought to have found your joy quite
irrepressible."

"A bottle of soda-water, though it is a very lively thing when
opened, won't maintain its vivacity beyond a certain period, Lady
Laura."

"And you have had your gas let off already?"

"Well,--yes; at any rate, the sputtering part of it. Nineteen is very
well, but the question is whether we might not have had twenty-one."

"Mr. Kennedy has just been saying that not a single available vote
has been missed on our side. He has just come from Brooks's, and that
seems to be what they say there."

So Mr. Kennedy also was a member of Brooks's! At the Reform Club
there certainly had been an idea that the number might have been
swelled to twenty-one; but then, as Phineas began to understand,
nothing was correctly known at the Reform Club. For an accurate
appreciation of the political balance of the day, you must go to
Brooks's.

"Mr. Kennedy must of course be right," said Phineas. "I don't
belong to Brooks's myself. But I was only joking, Lady Laura. There
is, I suppose, no doubt that Lord de Terrier is out, and that is
everything."

"He has probably tendered his resignation," said Mr. Kennedy.

"That is the same thing," said Phineas, roughly.

"Not exactly," said Lady Laura. "Should there be any difficulty about
Mr. Mildmay, he might, at the Queen's request, make another attempt."

"With a majority of nineteen against him!" said Phineas. "Surely Mr.
Mildmay is not the only man in the country. There is the Duke, and
there is Mr. Gresham,--and there is Mr. Monk." Phineas had at his
tongue's end all the lesson that he had been able to learn at the
Reform Club.

"I should hardly think the Duke would venture," said Mr. Kennedy.

"Nothing venture, nothing have," said Phineas. "It is all very well
to say that the Duke is incompetent, but I do not know that anything
very wonderful is required in the way of genius. The Duke has held
his own in both Houses successfully, and he is both honest and
popular. I quite agree that a Prime Minister at the present day
should be commonly honest, and more than commonly popular."

"So you are all for the Duke, are you?" said Lady Laura, again
smiling as she spoke to him.

"Certainly;--if we are deserted by Mr. Mildmay. Don't you think so?"

"I don't find it quite so easy to make up my mind as you do. I am
inclined to think that Mr. Mildmay will form a government; and as
long as there is that prospect, I need hardly commit myself to an
opinion as to his probable successor." Then the objectionable Mr.
Kennedy took his leave, and Phineas was left alone with Lady Laura.

"It is glorious;--is it not?" he began, as soon as he found the field
to be open for himself and his own manoeuvring. But he was very
young, and had not as yet learned the manner in which he might best
advance his cause with such a woman as Lady Laura Standish. He was
telling her too clearly that he could have no gratification in
talking with her unless he could be allowed to have her all to
himself. That might be very well if Lady Laura were in love with him,
but would hardly be the way to reduce her to that condition.

"Mr. Finn," said she, smiling as she spoke, "I am sure that you did
not mean it, but you were uncourteous to my friend Mr. Kennedy."

"Who? I? Was I? Upon my word, I didn't intend to be uncourteous."

"If I had thought you had intended it, of course I could not tell you
of it. And now I take the liberty;--for it is a liberty--"

"Oh no."

"Because I feel so anxious that you should do nothing to mar your
chances as a rising man."

"You are only too kind to me,--always."

"I know how clever you are, and how excellent are all your instincts;
but I see that you are a little impetuous. I wonder whether you will
be angry if I take upon myself the task of mentor."

"Nothing you could say would make me angry,--though you might make me
very unhappy."

"I will not do that if I can help it. A mentor ought to be very old,
you know, and I am infinitely older than you are."

"I should have thought it was the reverse;--indeed, I may say that I
know that it is," said Phineas.

"I am not talking of years. Years have very little to do with the
comparative ages of men and women. A woman at forty is quite old,
whereas a man at forty is young." Phineas, remembering that he had
put down Mr. Kennedy's age as forty in his own mind, frowned when
he heard this, and walked about the room in displeasure. "And
therefore," continued Lady Laura, "I talk to you as though I were a
kind of grandmother."

"You shall be my great-grandmother if you will only be kind enough to
me to say what you really think."

"You must not then be so impetuous, and you must be a little
more careful to be civil to persons to whom you may not take any
particular fancy. Now Mr. Kennedy is a man who may be very useful to
you."

"I do not want Mr. Kennedy to be of use to me."

"That is what I call being impetuous,--being young,--being a boy. Why
should not Mr. Kennedy be of use to you as well as any one else? You
do not mean to conquer the world all by yourself."

"No;--but there is something mean to me in the expressed idea that
I should make use of any man,--and more especially of a man whom I
don't like."

"And why do you not like him, Mr. Finn?"

"Because he is one of my Dr. Fells."

"You don't like him simply because he does not talk much. That
may be a good reason why you should not make of him an intimate
companion,--because you like talkative people; but it should be no
ground for dislike."

Phineas paused for a moment before he answered her, thinking whether
or not it would be well to ask her some question which might produce
from her a truth which he would not like to hear. Then he did ask it.
"And do you like him?" he said.

She too paused, but only for a second. "Yes,--I think I may say that
I do like him."

"No more than that?"

"Certainly no more than that;--but that I think is a great deal."

"I wonder what you would say if any one asked you whether you liked
me," said Phineas, looking away from her through the window.

"Just the same;--but without the doubt, if the person who questioned
me had any right to ask the question. There are not above one or two
who could have such a right."

"And I was wrong, of course, to ask it about Mr. Kennedy," said
Phineas, looking out into the Square.

"I did not say so."

"But I see you think it."

"You see nothing of the kind. I was quite willing to be asked the
question by you, and quite willing to answer it. Mr. Kennedy is a man
of great wealth."

"What can that have to do with it?"

"Wait a moment, you impetuous Irish boy, and hear me out." Phineas
liked being called an impetuous Irish boy, and came close to her,
sitting where he could look up into her face; and there came a smile
upon his own, and he was very handsome. "I say that he is a man of
great wealth," continued Lady Laura; "and as wealth gives influence,
he is of great use,--politically,--to the party to which he belongs."

"Oh, politically!"

"Am I to suppose you care nothing for politics? To such men, to men
who think as you think, who are to sit on the same benches with
yourself, and go into the same lobby and be seen at the same club,
it is your duty to be civil both for your own sake and for that of
the cause. It is for the hermits of society to indulge in personal
dislikings,--for men who have never been active and never mean to be
active. I had been telling Mr. Kennedy how much I thought of you,--as
a good Liberal."

"And I came in and spoilt it all."

"Yes, you did. You knocked down my little house, and I must build it
all up again."

"Don't trouble yourself, Lady Laura."

"I shall. It will be a great deal of trouble,--a great deal, indeed;
but I shall take it. I mean you to be very intimate with Mr. Kennedy,
and to shoot his grouse, and to stalk his deer, and to help to
keep him in progress as a liberal member of Parliament. I am quite
prepared to admit, as a friend, that he would go back without some
such help."

"Oh;--I understand."

"I do not believe that you do understand at all, but I must endeavour
to make you do so by degrees. If you are to be my political pupil,
you must at any rate be obedient. The next time you meet Mr. Kennedy,
ask him his opinion instead of telling him your own. He has been in
Parliament twelve years, and he was a good deal older than you when
he began." At this moment a side door was opened, and the red-haired,
red-bearded man whom Phineas had seen before entered the room. He
hesitated a moment, as though he were going to retreat again, and
then began to pull about the books and toys which lay on one of the
distant tables, as though he were in quest of some article. And he
would have retreated had not Lady Laura called to him.

"Oswald," she said, "let me introduce you to Mr. Finn. Mr. Finn, I do
not think you have ever met my brother, Lord Chiltern." Then the two
young men bowed, and each of them muttered something. "Do not be in a
hurry, Oswald. You have nothing special to take you away. Here is Mr.
Finn come to tell us who are all the possible new Prime Ministers. He
is uncivil enough not to have named papa."

"My father is out of the question," said Lord Chiltern.

"Of course he is," said Lady Laura, "but I may be allowed my little
joke."

"I suppose he will at any rate be in the Cabinet," said Phineas.

"I know nothing whatever about politics," said Lord Chiltern.

"I wish you did," said his sister,--"with all my heart."

"I never did,--and I never shall, for all your wishing. It's the
meanest trade going I think, and I'm sure it's the most dishonest.
They talk of legs on the turf, and of course there are legs; but what
are they to the legs in the House? I don't know whether you are in
Parliament, Mr. Finn."

"Yes, I am; but do not mind me."

"I beg your pardon. Of course there are honest men there, and no
doubt you are one of them."

"He is indifferent honest,--as yet," said Lady Laura.

"I was speaking of men who go into Parliament to look after
Government places," said Lord Chiltern.

"That is just what I'm doing," said Phineas. "Why should not a man
serve the Crown? He has to work very hard for what he earns."

"I don't believe that the most of them work at all. However, I beg
your pardon. I didn't mean you in particular."

"Mr. Finn is such a thorough politician that he will never forgive
you," said Lady Laura.

"Yes, I will," said Phineas, "and I'll convert him some day. If he
does come into the House, Lady Laura, I suppose he'll come on the
right side?"

"I'll never go into the House, as you call it," said Lord Chiltern.
"But, I'll tell you what; I shall be very happy if you'll dine with
me to-morrow at Moroni's. They give you a capital little dinner at
Moroni's, and they've the best Chateau Yquem in London."

"Do," said Lady Laura, in a whisper. "Oblige me."

Phineas was engaged to dine with one of the Vice-Chancellors on the
day named. He had never before dined at the house of this great law
luminary, whose acquaintance he had made through Mr. Low, and he had
thought a great deal of the occasion. Mrs. Freemantle had sent him
the invitation nearly a fortnight ago, and he understood there was to
be an elaborate dinner party. He did not know it for a fact, but he
was in hopes of meeting the expiring Lord Chancellor. He considered
it to be his duty never to throw away such a chance. He would in
all respects have preferred Mr. Freemantle's dinner in Eaton Place,
dull and heavy though it might probably be, to the chance of Lord
Chiltern's companions at Moroni's. Whatever might be the faults of
our hero, he was not given to what is generally called dissipation
by the world at large,--by which the world means self-indulgence. He
cared not a brass farthing for Moroni's Chateau Yquem, nor for the
wondrously studied repast which he would doubtless find prepared for
him at that celebrated establishment in St. James's Street;--not a
farthing as compared with the chance of meeting so great a man as
Lord Moles. And Lord Chiltern's friends might probably be just the
men whom he would not desire to know. But Lady Laura's request
overrode everything with him. She had asked him to oblige her, and of
course he would do so. Had he been going to dine with the incoming
Prime Minister, he would have put off his engagement at her request.
He was not quick enough to make an answer without hesitation; but
after a moment's pause he said he should be most happy to dine with
Lord Chiltern at Moroni's.

"That's right; 7.30 sharp,--only I can tell you you won't meet any
other members." Then the servant announced more visitors, and Lord
Chiltern escaped out of the room before he was seen by the new
comers. These were Mrs. Bonteen and Laurence Fitzgibbon, and then Mr.
Bonteen,--and after them Mr. Ratler, the Whip, who was in a violent
hurry, and did not stay there a moment, and then Barrington Erle and
young Lord James Fitz-Howard, the youngest son of the Duke of St.
Bungay. In twenty or thirty minutes there was a gathering of liberal
political notabilities in Lady Laura's drawing-room. There were two
great pieces of news by which they were all enthralled. Mr. Mildmay
would not be Prime Minister, and Sir Everard Powell was--dead. Of
course nothing quite positive could be known about Mr. Mildmay. He
was to be with the Queen at Windsor on the morrow at eleven o'clock,
and it was improbable that he would tell his mind to any one before
he told it to her Majesty. But there was no doubt that he had engaged
"the Duke,"--so he was called by Lord James,--to go down to Windsor
with him, that he might be in readiness if wanted. "I have learned
that at home," said Lord James, who had just heard the news from his
sister, who had heard it from the Duchess. Lord James was delighted
with the importance given to him by his father's coming journey.
From this, and from other equally well-known circumstances, it was
surmised that Mr. Mildmay would decline the task proposed to him.
This, nevertheless, was only a surmise,--whereas the fact with
reference to Sir Everard was fully substantiated. The gout had flown
to his stomach, and he was dead. "By ---- yes; as dead as a herring,"
said Mr. Ratler, who at that moment, however, was not within hearing
of either of the ladies present. And then he rubbed his hands, and
looked as though he were delighted. And he was delighted,--not
because his old friend Sir Everard was dead, but by the excitement
of the tragedy. "Having done so good a deed in his last moments,"
said Laurence Fitzgibbon, "we may take it for granted that he will
go straight to heaven." "I hope there will be no crowner's quest,
Ratler," said Mr. Bonteen; "if there is I don't know how you'll
get out of it." "I don't see anything in it so horrible," said
Mr. Ratler. "If a fellow dies leading his regiment we don't think
anything of it. Sir Everard's vote was of more service to his country
than anything that a colonel or a captain can do." But nevertheless
I think that Mr. Ratler was somewhat in dread of future newspaper
paragraphs, should it be found necessary to summon a coroner's
inquisition to sit upon poor Sir Everard.

While this was going on Lady Laura took Phineas apart for a moment.
"I am so much obliged to you; I am indeed," she said.

"What nonsense!"

"Never mind whether it's nonsense or not;--but I am. I can't explain
it all now, but I do so want you to know my brother. You may be of
the greatest service to him,--of the very greatest. He is not half so
bad as people say he is. In many ways he is very good,--very good.
And he is very clever."

"At any rate I will think and believe no ill of him."

"Just so;--do not believe evil of him,--not more evil than you see. I
am so anxious,--so very anxious to try to put him on his legs, and I
find it so difficult to get any connecting link with him. Papa will
not speak with him,--because of money."

"But he is friends with you."

"Yes; I think he loves me. I saw how distasteful it was to you to go
to him;--and probably you were engaged?"

"One can always get off those sort of things if there is an object."

"Yes;--just so. And the object was to oblige me;--was it not?"

"Of course it was. But I must go now. We are to hear Daubeny's
statement at four, and I would not miss it for worlds."

"I wonder whether you would go abroad with my brother in the autumn?
But I have no right to think of such a thing;--have I? At any rate
I will not think of it yet. Good-bye,--I shall see you perhaps on
Sunday if you are in town."

Phineas walked down to Westminster with his mind very full of Lady
Laura and Lord Chiltern. What did she mean by her affectionate
manner to himself, and what did she mean by the continual praises
which she lavished upon Mr. Kennedy? Of whom was she thinking most,
of Mr. Kennedy, or of him? She had called herself his mentor. Was
the description of her feelings towards himself, as conveyed in that
name, of a kind to be gratifying to him? No;--he thought not. But
then might it not be within his power to change the nature of those
feelings? She was not in love with him at present. He could not make
any boast to himself on that head. But it might be within his power
to compel her to love him. The female mentor might be softened. That
she could not love Mr. Kennedy, he thought that he was quite sure.
There was nothing like love in her manner to Mr. Kennedy. As to Lord
Chiltern, Phineas would do whatever might be in his power. All that
he really knew of Lord Chiltern was that he had gambled and that he
had drunk.




CHAPTER IX

The New Government


In the House of Lords that night, and in the House of Commons, the
outgoing Ministers made their explanations. As our business at the
present moment is with the Commons, we will confine ourselves to
their chamber, and will do so the more willingly because the upshot
of what was said in the two places was the same. The outgoing
ministers were very grave, very self-laudatory, and very courteous.
In regard to courtesy it may be declared that no stranger to the
ways of the place could have understood how such soft words could be
spoken by Mr. Daubeny, beaten, so quickly after the very sharp words
which he had uttered when he only expected to be beaten. He announced
to his fellow-commoners that his right honourable friend and
colleague Lord de Terrier had thought it right to retire from the
Treasury. Lord de Terrier, in constitutional obedience to the vote
of the Lower House, had resigned, and the Queen had been graciously
pleased to accept Lord de Terrier's resignation. Mr. Daubeny could
only inform the House that her Majesty had signified her pleasure
that Mr. Mildmay should wait upon her to-morrow at eleven o'clock.
Mr. Mildmay,--so Mr. Daubeny understood,--would be with her Majesty
to-morrow at that hour. Lord de Terrier had found it to be his duty
to recommend her Majesty to send for Mr. Mildmay. Such was the real
import of Mr. Daubeny's speech. That further portion of it in which
he explained with blandest, most beneficent, honey-flowing words that
his party would have done everything that the country could require
of any party, had the House allowed it to remain on the Treasury
benches for a month or two,--and explained also that his party would
never recriminate, would never return evil for evil, would in no wise
copy the factious opposition of their adversaries; that his party
would now, as it ever had done, carry itself with the meekness of
the dove, and the wisdom of the serpent,--all this, I say, was so
generally felt by gentlemen on both sides of the House to be "leather
and prunella" that very little attention was paid to it. The great
point was that Lord de Terrier had resigned, and that Mr. Mildmay had
been summoned to Windsor.

The Queen had sent for Mr. Mildmay in compliance with advice given
to her by Lord de Terrier. And yet Lord de Terrier and his first
lieutenant had used all the most practised efforts of their eloquence
for the last three days in endeavouring to make their countrymen
believe that no more unfitting Minister than Mr. Mildmay ever
attempted to hold the reins of office! Nothing had been too bad
for them to say of Mr. Mildmay,--and yet, in the very first moment
in which they found themselves unable to carry on the Government
themselves, they advised the Queen to send for that most incompetent
and baneful statesman! We who are conversant with our own methods of
politics, see nothing odd in this, because we are used to it; but
surely in the eyes of strangers our practice must be very singular.
There is nothing like it in any other country,--nothing as yet.
Nowhere else is there the same good-humoured, affectionate,
prize-fighting ferocity in politics. The leaders of our two great
parties are to each other exactly as are the two champions of the
ring who knock each other about for the belt and for five hundred
pounds a side once in every two years. How they fly at each other,
striking as though each blow should carry death if it were but
possible! And yet there is no one whom the Birmingham Bantam
respects so highly as he does Bill Burns the Brighton Bully, or with
whom he has so much delight in discussing the merits of a pot of
half-and-half. And so it was with Mr. Daubeny and Mr. Mildmay. In
private life Mr. Daubeny almost adulated his elder rival,--and Mr.
Mildmay never omitted an opportunity of taking Mr. Daubeny warmly by
the hand. It is not so in the United States. There the same political
enmity exists, but the political enmity produces private hatred. The
leaders of parties there really mean what they say when they abuse
each other, and are in earnest when they talk as though they were
about to tear each other limb from limb. I doubt whether Mr. Daubeny
would have injured a hair of Mr. Mildmay's venerable head, even for
an assurance of six continued months in office.

When Mr. Daubeny had completed his statement, Mr. Mildmay simply told
the House that he had received and would obey her Majesty's commands.
The House would of course understand that he by no means meant to
aver that the Queen would even commission him to form a Ministry. But
if he took no such command from her Majesty it would become his duty
to recommend her Majesty to impose the task upon some other person.
Then everything was said that had to be said, and members returned to
their clubs. A certain damp was thrown over the joy of some excitable
Liberals by tidings which reached the House during Mr. Daubeny's
speech. Sir Everard Powell was no more dead than was Mr. Daubeny
himself. Now it is very unpleasant to find that your news is untrue,
when you have been at great pains to disseminate it. "Oh, but he is
dead," said Mr. Ratler. "Lady Powell assured me half an hour ago,"
said Mr. Ratler's opponent, "that he was at that moment a great deal
better than he had been for the last three months. The journey down
to the House did him a world of good." "Then we'll have him down for
every division," said Mr. Ratler.

The political portion of London was in a ferment for the next five
days. On the Sunday morning it was known that Mr. Mildmay had
declined to put himself at the head of a liberal Government. He and
the Duke of St. Bungay, and Mr. Plantagenet Palliser, had been in
conference so often, and so long, that it may almost be said they
lived together in conference. Then Mr. Gresham had been with Mr.
Mildmay,--and Mr. Monk also. At the clubs it was said by many that
Mr. Monk had been with Mr. Mildmay; but it was also said very
vehemently by others that no such interview had taken place. Mr. Monk
was a Radical, much admired by the people, sitting in Parliament for
that most Radical of all constituencies, the Pottery Hamlets, who
had never as yet been in power. It was the great question of the day
whether Mr. Mildmay would or would not ask Mr. Monk to join him; and
it was said by those who habitually think at every period of change
that the time has now come in which the difficulties to forming a
government will at last be found to be insuperable, that Mr. Mildmay
could not succeed either with Mr. Monk or without him. There were at
the present moment two sections of these gentlemen,--the section
which declared that Mr. Mildmay had sent for Mr. Monk, and the
section which declared that he had not. But there were others, who
perhaps knew better what they were saying, by whom it was asserted
that the whole difficulty lay with Mr. Gresham. Mr. Gresham was
willing to serve with Mr. Mildmay,--with certain stipulations as
to the special seat in the Cabinet which he himself was to occupy,
and as to the introduction of certain friends of his own; but,--so
said these gentlemen who were supposed really to understand the
matter,--Mr. Gresham was not willing to serve with the Duke and with
Mr. Palliser. Now, everybody who knew anything knew that the Duke
and Mr. Palliser were indispensable to Mr. Mildmay. And a liberal
Government, with Mr. Gresham in the opposition, could not live half
through a session! All Sunday and Monday these things were discussed;
and on the Monday Lord de Terrier absolutely stated to the Upper
House that he had received her Majesty's commands to form another
government. Mr. Daubeny, in half a dozen most modest words,--in words
hardly audible, and most unlike himself,--made his statement in the
Lower House to the same effect. Then Mr. Ratler, and Mr. Bonteen, and
Mr. Barrington Erle, and Mr. Laurence Fitzgibbon aroused themselves
and swore that such things could not be. Should the prey which they
had won for themselves, the spoil of their bows and arrows, be
snatched from out of their very mouths by treachery? Lord de Terrier
and Mr. Daubeny could not venture even to make another attempt unless
they did so in combination with Mr. Gresham. Such a combination, said
Mr. Barrington Erle, would be disgraceful to both parties, but would
prove Mr. Gresham to be as false as Satan himself. Early on the
Tuesday morning, when it was known that Mr. Gresham had been at Lord
de Terrier's house, Barrington Erle was free to confess that he had
always been afraid of Mr. Gresham. "I have felt for years," said he,
"that if anybody could break up the party it would be Mr. Gresham."

On that Tuesday morning Mr. Gresham certainly was with Lord de
Terrier, but nothing came of it. Mr. Gresham was either not enough
like Satan for the occasion, or else he was too closely like him.
Lord de Terrier did not bid high enough, or else Mr. Gresham did not
like biddings from that quarter. Nothing then came from this attempt,
and on the Tuesday afternoon the Queen again sent for Mr. Mildmay. On
the Wednesday morning the gentlemen who thought that the insuperable
difficulties had at length arrived, began to wear their longest
faces, and to be triumphant with melancholy forebodings. Now at
last there was a dead lock. Nobody could form a government. It
was asserted that Mr. Mildmay had fallen at her Majesty's feet
dissolved in tears, and had implored to be relieved from further
responsibility. It was well known to many at the clubs that the Queen
had on that morning telegraphed to Germany for advice. There were men
so gloomy as to declare that the Queen must throw herself into the
arms of Mr. Monk, unless Mr. Mildmay would consent to rise from his
knees and once more buckle on his ancient armour. "Even that would
be better than Gresham," said Barrington Erle, in his anger. "I'll
tell you what it is," said Ratler, "we shall have Gresham and Monk
together, and you and I shall have to do their biddings." Mr.
Barrington Erle's reply to that suggestion I may not dare to insert
in these pages.

On the Wednesday night, however, it was known that everything had
been arranged, and before the Houses met on the Thursday every place
had been bestowed, either in reality or in imagination. The _Times_,
in its second edition on the Thursday, gave a list of the Cabinet, in
which four places out of fourteen were rightly filled. On the Friday
it named ten places aright, and indicated the law officers, with only
one mistake in reference to Ireland; and on the Saturday it gave
a list of the Under Secretaries of State, and Secretaries and
Vice-Presidents generally, with wonderful correctness as to the
individuals, though the offices were a little jumbled. The Government
was at last formed in a manner which everybody had seen to be the
only possible way in which a government could be formed. Nobody was
surprised, and the week's work was regarded as though the regular
routine of government making had simply been followed. Mr. Mildmay
was Prime Minister; Mr. Gresham was at the Foreign Office; Mr. Monk
was at the Board of Trade; the Duke was President of the Council; the
Earl of Brentford was Privy Seal; and Mr. Palliser was Chancellor of
the Exchequer. Barrington Erle made a step up in the world, and went
to the Admiralty as Secretary; Mr. Bonteen was sent again to the
Admiralty; and Laurence Fitzgibbon became a junior Lord of the
Treasury. Mr. Ratler was, of course, installed as Patronage Secretary
to the same Board. Mr. Ratler was perhaps the only man in the party
as to whose destination there could not possibly be a doubt. Mr.
Ratler had really qualified himself for a position in such a way as
to make all men feel that he would, as a matter of course, be called
upon to fill it. I do not know whether as much could be said on
behalf of any other man in the new Government.

During all this excitement, and through all these movements, Phineas
Finn felt himself to be left more and more out in the cold. He had
not been such a fool as to suppose that any office would be offered
to him. He had never hinted at such a thing to his one dearly
intimate friend, Lady Laura. He had not hitherto opened his mouth in
Parliament. Indeed, when the new Government was formed he had not
been sitting for above a fortnight. Of course nothing could be done
for him as yet. But, nevertheless, he felt himself to be out in the
cold. The very men who had discussed with him the question of the
division,--who had discussed it with him because his vote was then as
good as that of any other member,--did not care to talk to him about
the distribution of places. He, at any rate, could not be one of
them. He, at any rate, could not be a rival. He could neither mar
nor assist. He could not be either a successful or a disappointed
sympathiser,--because he could not himself be a candidate. The affair
which perhaps disgusted him more than anything else was the offer of
an office,--not in the Cabinet, indeed, but one supposed to confer
high dignity,--to Mr. Kennedy. Mr. Kennedy refused the offer, and
this somewhat lessened Finn's disgust, but the offer itself made him
unhappy.

"I suppose it was made simply because of his money," he said to
Fitzgibbon.

"I don't believe that," said Fitzgibbon. "People seem to think that
he has got a head on his shoulders, though he has got no tongue in
it. I wonder at his refusing it because of the Right Honourable."

"I am so glad that Mr. Kennedy refused," said Lady Laura to him.

"And why? He would have been the Right Hon. Robert Kennedy for ever
and ever." Phineas when he said this did not as yet know exactly
how it would have come to pass that such honour,--the honour of the
enduring prefix to his name,--would have come in the way of Mr.
Kennedy had Mr. Kennedy accepted the office in question; but he was
very quick to learn all these things, and, in the meantime, he rarely
made any mistake about them.

"What would that have been to him,--with his wealth?" said Lady
Laura. "He has a position of his own and need not care for such
things. There are men who should not attempt what is called
independence in Parliament. By doing so they simply decline to make
themselves useful. But there are a few whose special walk in life it
is to be independent, and, as it were, unmoved by parties."

"Great Akinetoses! You know Orion," said Phineas.

"Mr. Kennedy is not an Akinetos," said Lady Laura.

"He holds a very proud position," said Phineas, ironically.

"A very proud position indeed," said Lady Laura, in sober earnest.

The dinner at Moroni's had been eaten, and Phineas had given an
account of the entertainment to Lord Chiltern's sister. There had
been only two other guests, and both of them had been men on the
turf. "I was the first there," said Phineas, "and he surprised me
ever so much by telling me that you had spoken to him of me before."

"Yes; I did so. I wish him to know you. I want him to know some men
who think of something besides horses. He is very well educated, you
know, and would certainly have taken honours if he had not quarrelled
with the people at Christ Church."

"Did he take a degree?"

"No;--they sent him down. It is best always to have the truth among
friends. Of course you will hear it some day. They expelled him
because he was drunk." Then Lady Laura burst out into tears, and
Phineas sat near her, and consoled her, and swore that if in any way
he could befriend her brother he would do so.

Mr. Fitzgibbon at this time claimed a promise which he said that
Phineas had made to him,--that Phineas would go over with him to Mayo
to assist at his re-election. And Phineas did go. The whole affair
occupied but a week, and was chiefly memorable as being the means of
cementing the friendship which existed between the two Irish members.

"A thousand a year!" said Laurence Fitzgibbon, speaking of the salary
of his office. "It isn't much; is it? And every fellow to whom I owe
a shilling will be down upon me. If I had studied my own comfort, I
should have done the same as Kennedy."




CHAPTER X

Violet Effingham


It was now the middle of May, and a month had elapsed since the
terrible difficulty about the Queen's Government had been solved. A
month had elapsed, and things had shaken themselves into their places
with more of ease and apparent fitness than men had given them credit
for possessing. Mr. Mildmay, Mr. Gresham, and Mr. Monk were the best
friends in the world, swearing by each other in their own house, and
supported in the other by as gallant a phalanx of Whig peers as ever
were got together to fight against the instincts of their own order
in compliance with the instincts of those below them. Lady Laura's
father was in the Cabinet, to Lady Laura's infinite delight. It
was her ambition to be brought as near to political action as was
possible for a woman without surrendering any of the privileges of
feminine inaction. That women should even wish to have votes at
parliamentary elections was to her abominable, and the cause of the
Rights of Women generally was odious to her; but, nevertheless, for
herself, she delighted in hoping that she too might be useful,--in
thinking that she too was perhaps, in some degree, politically
powerful; and she had received considerable increase to such hopes
when her father accepted the Privy Seal. The Earl himself was not an
ambitious man, and, but for his daughter, would have severed himself
altogether from political life before this time. He was an unhappy
man;--being an obstinate man, and having in his obstinacy quarrelled
with his only son. In his unhappiness he would have kept himself
alone, living in the country, brooding over his wretchedness, were
it not for his daughter. On her behalf, and in obedience to her
requirements, he came yearly up to London, and, perhaps in compliance
with her persuasion, had taken some part in the debates of the House
of Lords. It is easy for a peer to be a statesman, if the trouble of
the life be not too much for him. Lord Brentford was now a statesman,
if a seat in the Cabinet be proof of statesmanship.

At this time, in May, there was staying with Lady Laura in Portman
Square a very dear friend of hers, by name Violet Effingham. Violet
Effingham was an orphan, an heiress, and a beauty; with a terrible
aunt, one Lady Baldock, who was supposed to be the dragon who had
Violet, as a captive maiden, in charge. But as Miss Effingham was of
age, and was mistress of her own fortune, Lady Baldock was, in truth,
not omnipotent as a dragon should be. The dragon, at any rate, was
not now staying in Portman Square, and the captivity of the maiden
was therefore not severe at the present moment. Violet Effingham was
very pretty, but could hardly be said to be beautiful. She was small,
with light crispy hair, which seemed to be ever on the flutter round
her brows, and which yet was never a hair astray. She had sweet, soft
grey eyes, which never looked at you long, hardly for a moment,--but
which yet, in that half moment, nearly killed you by the power of
their sweetness. Her cheek was the softest thing in nature, and the
colour of it, when its colour was fixed enough to be told, was a
shade of pink so faint and creamy that you would hardly dare to call
it by its name. Her mouth was perfect, not small enough to give that
expression of silliness which is so common, but almost divine, with
the temptation of its full, rich, ruby lips. Her teeth, which she but
seldom showed, were very even and very white, and there rested on her
chin the dearest dimple that ever acted as a loadstar to mens's eyes.
The fault of her face, if it had a fault, was in her nose,--which
was a little too sharp, and perhaps too small. A woman who wanted to
depreciate Violet Effingham had once called her a pug-nosed puppet;
but I, as her chronicler, deny that she was pug-nosed,--and all the
world who knew her soon came to understand that she was no puppet. In
figure she was small, but not so small as she looked to be. Her feet
and hands were delicately fine, and there was a softness about her
whole person, an apparent compressibility, which seemed to indicate
that she might go into very small compass. Into what compass and
how compressed, there were very many men who held very different
opinions. Violet Effingham was certainly no puppet. She was great
at dancing,--as perhaps might be a puppet,--but she was great also
at archery, great at skating,--and great, too, at hunting. With
reference to that last accomplishment, she and Lady Baldock had had
more than one terrible tussle, not always with advantage to the
dragon. "My dear aunt," she had said once during the last winter,
"I am going to the meet with George,"--George was her cousin, Lord
Baldock, and was the dragon's son,--"and there, let there be an end
of it." "And you will promise me that you will not go further," said
the dragon. "I will promise nothing to-day to any man or to any
woman," said Violet. What was to be said to a young lady who spoke in
this way, and who had become of age only a fortnight since? She rode
that day the famous run from Bagnall's Gorse to Foulsham Common, and
was in at the death.

Violet Effingham was now sitting in conference with her friend Lady
Laura, and they were discussing matters of high import,--of very high
import, indeed,--to the interests of both of them. "I do not ask you
to accept him," said Lady Laura.

"That is lucky," said the other, "as he has never asked me."

"He has done much the same. You know that he loves you."

"I know,--or fancy that I know,--that so many men love me! But, after
all, what sort of love is it? It is just as when you and I, when we
see something nice in a shop, call it a dear duck of a thing, and
tell somebody to go and buy it, let the price be ever so extravagant.
I know my own position, Laura. I'm a dear duck of a thing."

"You are a very dear thing to Oswald."

"But you, Laura, will some day inspire a grand passion,--or I daresay
have already, for you are a great deal too close to tell;--and then
there will be cutting of throats, and a mighty hubbub, and a real
tragedy. I shall never go beyond genteel comedy,--unless I run away
with somebody beneath me, or do something awfully improper."

"Don't do that, dear."

"I should like to, because of my aunt. I should indeed. If it were
possible, without compromising myself, I should like her to be told
some morning that I had gone off with the curate."

"How can you be so wicked, Violet!"

"It would serve her right, and her countenance would be so awfully
comic. Mind, if it is ever to come off, I must be there to see it. I
know what she would say as well as possible. She would turn to poor
Gussy. 'Augusta,' she would say, 'I always expected it. I always
did.' Then I should come out and curtsey to her, and say so prettily,
'Dear aunt, it was only our little joke.' That's my line. But for
you,--you, if you planned it, would go off to-morrow with Lucifer
himself if you liked him."

"But failing Lucifer, I shall probably be very humdrum."

"You don't mean that there is anything settled, Laura?"

"There is nothing settled,--or any beginning of anything that ever
can be settled, But I am not talking about myself. He has told me
that if you will accept him, he will do anything that you and I may
ask him."

"Yes;--he will promise."

"Did you ever know him to break his word?"

"I know nothing about him, my dear. How should I?"

"Do not pretend to be ignorant and meek, Violet. You do know
him,--much better than most girls know the men they marry. You have
known him, more or less intimately, all your life."

"But am I bound to marry him because of that accident?"

"No; you are not bound to marry him,--unless you love him."

"I do not love him," said Violet, with slow, emphatic words, and a
little forward motion of her face, as though she were specially eager
to convince her friend that she was quite in earnest in what she
said.

"I fancy, Violet, that you are nearer to loving him than any other
man."

"I am not at all near to loving any man. I doubt whether I ever shall
be. It does not seem to me to be possible to myself to be what girls
call in love. I can like a man. I do like, perhaps, half a dozen. I
like them so much that if I go to a house or to a party it is quite
a matter of importance to me whether this man or that will or will
not be there. And then I suppose I flirt with them. At least Augusta
tells me that my aunt says that I do. But as for caring about any one
of them in the way of loving him,--wanting to marry him, and have him
all to myself, and that sort of thing,--I don't know what it means."

"But you intend to be married some day," said Lady Laura.

"Certainly I do. And I don't intend to wait very much longer. I am
heartily tired of Lady Baldock, and though I can generally escape
among my friends, that is not sufficient. I am beginning to think
that it would be pleasant to have a house of my own. A girl becomes
such a Bohemian when she is always going about, and doesn't quite
know where any of her things are."

Then there was a silence between them for a few minutes. Violet
Effingham was doubled up in a corner of a sofa, with her feet tucked
under her, and her face reclining upon one of her shoulders. And as
she talked she was playing with a little toy which was constructed
to take various shapes as it was flung this way or that. A bystander
looking at her would have thought that the toy was much more to her
than the conversation. Lady Laura was sitting upright, in a common
chair, at a table not far from her companion, and was manifestly
devoting herself altogether to the subject that was being discussed
between them. She had taken no lounging, easy attitude, she had found
no employment for her fingers, and she looked steadily at Violet as
she talked,--whereas Violet was looking only at the little manikin
which she tossed. And now Laura got up and came to the sofa, and sat
close to her friend. Violet, though she somewhat moved one foot, so
as to seem to make room for the other, still went on with her play.

"If you do marry, Violet, you must choose some one man out of the
lot."

"That's quite true, my dear, I certainly can't marry them all."

"And how do you mean to make the choice?"

"I don't know. I suppose I shall toss up."

"I wish you would be in earnest with me."

"Well;--I will be in earnest. I shall take the first that comes after
I have quite made up my mind. You'll think it very horrible, but that
is really what I shall do. After all, a husband is very much like a
house or a horse. You don't take your house because it's the best
house in the world, but because just then you want a house. You go
and see a house, and if it's very nasty you don't take it. But if
you think it will suit pretty well, and if you are tired of looking
about for houses, you do take it. That's the way one buys one's
horses,--and one's husbands."

"And you have not made up your mind yet?"

"Not quite. Lady Baldock was a little more decent than usual just
before I left Baddingham. When I told her that I meant to have a pair
of ponies, she merely threw up her hands and grunted. She didn't
gnash her teeth, and curse and swear, and declare to me that I was a
child of perdition."

"What do you mean by cursing and swearing?"

"She told me once that if I bought a certain little dog, it would
lead to my being everlastingly--you know what. She isn't so squeamish
as I am, and said it out."

"What did you do?"

"I bought the little dog, and it bit my aunt's heel. I was very sorry
then, and gave the creature to Mary Rivers. He was such a beauty! I
hope the perdition has gone with him, for I don't like Mary Rivers
at all. I had to give the poor beasty to somebody, and Mary Rivers
happened to be there. I told her that Puck was connected with
Apollyon, but she didn't mind that. Puck was worth twenty guineas,
and I daresay she has sold him."

"Oswald may have an equal chance then among the other favourites?"
said Lady Laura, after another pause.

"There are no favourites, and I will not say that any man may have a
chance. Why do you press me about your brother in this way?"

"Because I am so anxious. Because it would save him. Because you are
the only woman for whom he has ever cared, and because he loves you
with all his heart; and because his father would be reconciled to him
to-morrow if he heard that you and he were engaged."

"Laura, my dear--"

"Well."

"You won't be angry if I speak out?"

"Certainly not. After what I have said, you have a right to speak
out."

"It seems to me that all your reasons are reasons why he should marry
me;--not reasons why I should marry him."

"Is not his love for you a reason?"

"No," said Violet, pausing,--and speaking the word in the lowest
possible whisper. "If he did not love me, that, if known to me,
should be a reason why I should not marry him. Ten men may love
me,--I don't say that any man does--"

"He does."

"But I can't marry all the ten. And as for that business of saving
him--"

"You know what I mean!"

"I don't know that I have any special mission for saving young men. I
sometimes think that I shall have quite enough to do to save myself.
It is strange what a propensity I feel for the wrong side of the
post."

"I feel the strongest assurance that you will always keep on the
right side."

"Thank you, my dear. I mean to try, but I'm quite sure that the
jockey who takes me in hand ought to be very steady himself. Now,
Lord Chiltern--"

"Well,--out with it. What have you to say?"

"He does not bear the best reputation in this world as a steady man.
Is he altogether the sort of man that mammas of the best kind are
seeking for their daughters? I like a roue myself;--and a prig who
sits all night in the House, and talks about nothing but church-rates
and suffrage, is to me intolerable. I prefer men who are improper,
and all that sort of thing. If I were a man myself I should go in for
everything I ought to leave alone. I know I should. But you see,--I'm
not a man, and I must take care of myself. The wrong side of a post
for a woman is so very much the wrong side. I like a fast man, but I
know that I must not dare to marry the sort of man that I like."

"To be one of us, then,--the very first among us;--would that be the
wrong side?"

"You mean that to be Lady Chiltern in the present tense, and Lady
Brentford in the future, would be promotion for Violet Effingham in
the past?"

"How hard you are, Violet!"

"Fancy,--that it should come to this,--that you should call me hard,
Laura. I should like to be your sister. I should like well enough to
be your father's daughter. I should like well enough to be Chiltern's
friend. I am his friend. Nothing that any one has ever said of him
has estranged me from him. I have fought for him till I have been
black in the face. Yes, I have,--with my aunt. But I am afraid to be
his wife. The risk would be so great. Suppose that I did not save
him, but that he brought me to shipwreck instead?"

"That could not be!"

"Could it not? I think it might be so very well. When I was a child
they used to be always telling me to mind myself. It seems to me that
a child and a man need not mind themselves. Let them do what they
may, they can be set right again. Let them fall as they will, you can
put them on their feet. But a woman has to mind herself;--and very
hard work it is when she has a dragon of her own driving her ever the
wrong way."

"I want to take you from the dragon."

"Yes;--and to hand me over to a griffin."

"The truth is, Violet, that you do not know Oswald. He is not a
griffin."

"I did not mean to be uncomplimentary. Take any of the dangerous
wild beasts you please. I merely intend to point out that he is a
dangerous wild beast. I daresay he is noble-minded, and I will call
him a lion if you like it better. But even with a lion there is
risk."

"Of course there will be risk. There is risk with every man,--unless
you will be contented with the prig you described. Of course there
would be risk with my brother. He has been a gambler."

"They say he is one still."

"He has given it up in part, and would entirely at your instance."

"And they say other things of him, Laura."

"It is true. He has had paroxysms of evil life which have well-nigh
ruined him."

"And these paroxysms are so dangerous! Is he not in debt?"

"He is,--but not deeply. Every shilling that he owes would be
paid;--every shilling. Mind, I know all his circumstances, and I
give you my word that every shilling should be paid. He has never
lied,--and he has told me everything. His father could not leave an
acre away from him if he would, and would not if he could."

"I did not ask as fearing that. I spoke only of a dangerous habit. A
paroxysm of spending money is apt to make one so uncomfortable. And
then--"

"Well."

"I don't know why I should make a catalogue of your brother's
weaknesses."

"You mean to say that he drinks too much?"

"I do not say so. People say so. The dragon says so. And as I always
find her sayings to be untrue, I suppose this is like the rest of
them."

"It is untrue if it be said of him as a habit."

"It is another paroxysm,--just now and then."

"Do not laugh at me, Violet, when I am taking his part, or I shall be
offended."

"But you see, if I am to be his wife, it is--rather important."

"Still you need not ridicule me."

"Dear Laura, you know I do not ridicule you. You know I love you for
what you are doing. Would not I do the same, and fight for him down
to my nails if I had a brother?"

"And therefore I want you to be Oswald's wife;--because I know that
you would fight for him. It is not true that he is a--drunkard. Look
at his hand, which is as steady as yours. Look at his eye. Is there a
sign of it? He has been drunk, once or twice, perhaps,--and has done
fearful things."

"It might be that he would do fearful things to me."

"You never knew a man with a softer heart or with a finer spirit. I
believe as I sit here that if he were married to-morrow, his vices
would fall from him like old clothes."

"You will admit, Laura, that there will be some risk for the wife."

"Of course there will be a risk. Is there not always a risk?"

"The men in the city would call this double-dangerous, I think," said
Violet. Then the door was opened, and the man of whom they were
speaking entered the room.




CHAPTER XI

Lord Chiltern


The reader has been told that Lord Chiltern was a red man, and that
peculiarity of his personal appearance was certainly the first to
strike a stranger. It imparted a certain look of ferocity to him,
which was apt to make men afraid of him at first sight. Women are not
actuated in the same way, and are accustomed to look deeper into men
at the first sight than other men will trouble themselves to do. His
beard was red, and was clipped, so as to have none of the softness of
waving hair. The hair on his head also was kept short, and was very
red,--and the colour of his face was red. Nevertheless he was a
handsome man, with well-cut features, not tall, but very strongly
built, and with a certain curl in the corner of his eyelids which
gave to him a look of resolution,--which perhaps he did not possess.
He was known to be a clever man, and when very young had had
the reputation of being a scholar. When he was three-and-twenty
grey-haired votaries of the turf declared that he would make his
fortune on the race-course,--so clear-headed was he as to odds, so
excellent a judge of a horse's performances, and so gifted with a
memory of events. When he was five-and-twenty he had lost every
shilling of a fortune of his own, had squeezed from his father more
than his father ever chose to name in speaking of his affairs to
any one, and was known to be in debt. But he had sacrificed himself
on one or two memorable occasions in conformity with turf laws of
honour, and men said of him, either that he was very honest or very
chivalric,--in accordance with the special views on the subject of
the man who was speaking. It was reported now that he no longer owned
horses on the turf;--but this was doubted by some who could name
the animals which they said that he owned, and which he ran in the
name of Mr. Macnab,--said some; of Mr. Pardoe,--said others; of Mr.
Chickerwick,--said a third set of informants. The fact was that Lord
Chiltern at this moment had no interest of his own in any horse upon
the turf.

But all the world knew that he drank. He had taken by the throat
a proctor's bull-dog when he had been drunk at Oxford, had nearly
strangled the man, and had been expelled. He had fallen through his
violence into some terrible misfortune at Paris, had been brought
before a public judge, and his name and his infamy had been made
notorious in every newspaper in the two capitals. After that he had
fought a ruffian at Newmarket, and had really killed him with his
fists. In reference to this latter affray it had been proved that the
attack had been made on him, that he had not been to blame, and that
he had not been drunk. After a prolonged investigation he had come
forth from that affair without disgrace. He would have done so, at
least, if he had not been heretofore disgraced. But we all know how
the man well spoken of may steal a horse, while he who is of evil
repute may not look over a hedge. It was asserted widely by many who
were supposed to know all about everything that Lord Chiltern was in
a fit of delirium tremens when he killed the ruffian at Newmarket.
The worst of that latter affair was that it produced the total
estrangement which now existed between Lord Brentford and his son.
Lord Brentford would not believe that his son was in that matter
more sinned against than sinning. "Such things do not happen to
other men's sons," he said, when Lady Laura pleaded for her brother.
Lady Laura could not induce her father to see his son, but so far
prevailed that no sentence of banishment was pronounced against
Lord Chiltern. There was nothing to prevent the son sitting at
his father's table if he so pleased. He never did so please,--but
nevertheless he continued to live in the house in Portman Square;
and when he met the Earl, in the hall, perhaps, or on the staircase,
would simply bow to him. Then the Earl would bow again, and shuffle
on,--and look very wretched, as no doubt he was. A grown-up son must
be the greatest comfort a man can have,--if he be his father's best
friend; but otherwise he can hardly be a comfort. As it was in this
house, the son was a constant thorn in his father's side.

"What does he do when we leave London?" Lord Brentford once said to
his daughter.

"He stays here, papa."

"But he hunts still?"

"Yes, he hunts,--and he has a room somewhere at an inn,--down in
Northamptonshire. But he is mostly in London. They have trains on
purpose."

"What a life for my son!" said the Earl. "What a life! Of course no
decent person will let him into his house." Lady Laura did not know
what to say to this, for in truth Lord Chiltern was not fond of
staying at the houses of persons whom the Earl would have called
decent.

General Effingham, the father of Violet, and Lord Brentford had been
the closest and dearest of friends. They had been young men in the
same regiment, and through life each had confided in the other. When
the General's only son, then a youth of seventeen, was killed in
one of our grand New Zealand wars, the bereaved father and the Earl
had been together for a month in their sorrow. At that time Lord
Chiltern's career had still been open to hope,--and the one man had
contrasted his lot with the other. General Effingham lived long
enough to hear the Earl declare that his lot was the happier of the
two. Now the General was dead, and Violet, the daughter of a second
wife, was all that was left of the Effinghams. This second wife had
been a Miss Plummer, a lady from the city with much money, whose
sister had married Lord Baldock. Violet in this way had fallen to the
care of the Baldock people, and not into the hands of her father's
friends. But, as the reader will have surmised, she had ideas of her
own of emancipating herself from Baldock thraldom.

Twice before that last terrible affair at Newmarket, before the
quarrel between the father and the son had been complete, Lord
Brentford had said a word to his daughter,--merely a word,--of his
son in connection with Miss Effingham.

"If he thinks of it I shall be glad to see him on the subject. You
may tell him so." That had been the first word. He had just then
resolved that the affair in Paris should be regarded as condoned,--as
among the things to be forgotten. "She is too good for him; but if he
asks her let him tell her everything." That had been the second word,
and had been spoken immediately subsequent to a payment of twelve
thousand pounds made by the Earl towards the settlement of certain
Doncaster accounts. Lady Laura in negotiating for the money had
been very eloquent in describing some honest,--or shall we say
chivalric,--sacrifice which had brought her brother into this special
difficulty. Since that the Earl had declined to interest himself in
his son's matrimonial affairs; and when Lady Laura had once again
mentioned the matter, declaring her belief that it would be the means
of saving her brother Oswald, the Earl had desired her to be silent.
"Would you wish to destroy the poor child?" he had said. Nevertheless
Lady Laura felt sure that if she were to go to her father with a
positive statement that Oswald and Violet were engaged, he would
relent and would accept Violet as his daughter. As for the payment of
Lord Chiltern's present debts;--she had a little scheme of her own
about that.

Miss Effingham, who had been already two days in Portman Square, had
not as yet seen Lord Chiltern. She knew that he lived in the house,
that is, that he slept there, and probably eat his breakfast in some
apartment of his own;--but she knew also that the habits of the house
would not by any means make it necessary that they should meet. Laura
and her brother probably saw each other daily,--but they never went
into society together, and did not know the same sets of people.
When she had announced to Lady Baldock her intention of spending the
first fortnight of her London season with her friend Lady Laura,
Lady Baldock had as a matter of course--"jumped upon her," as Miss
Effingham would herself call it.

"You are going to the house of the worst reprobate in all England,"
said Lady Baldock.

"What;--dear old Lord Brentford, whom papa loved so well!"

"I mean Lord Chiltern, who, only last year,--murdered a man!"

"That is not true, aunt."

"There is worse than that,--much worse. He is always--tipsy, and
always gambling, and always-- But it is quite unfit that I should
speak a word more to you about such a man as Lord Chiltern. His name
ought never to be mentioned."

"Then why did you mention it, aunt?"

Lady Baldock's process of jumping upon her niece,--in which I think
the aunt had generally the worst of the exercise,--went on for some
time, but Violet of course carried her point.

"If she marries him there will be an end of everything," said Lady
Baldock to her daughter Augusta.

"She has more sense than that, mamma," said Augusta.

"I don't think she has any sense at all," said Lady Baldock;--"not in
the least. I do wish my poor sister had lived;--I do indeed."

Lord Chiltern was now in the room with Violet,--immediately upon that
conversation between Violet and his sister as to the expediency of
Violet becoming his wife. Indeed his entrance had interrupted the
conversation before it was over. "I am so glad to see you, Miss
Effingham," he said. "I came in thinking that I might find you."

"Here I am, as large as life," she said, getting up from her
corner on the sofa and giving him her hand. "Laura and I have been
discussing the affairs of the nation for the last two days, and have
nearly brought our discussion to an end." She could not help looking,
first at his eye and then at his hand, not as wanting evidence to
the truth of the statement which his sister had made, but because
the idea of a drunkard's eye and a drunkard's hand had been brought
before her mind. Lord Chiltern's hand was like the hand of any other
man, but there was something in his eye that almost frightened her.
It looked as though he would not hesitate to wring his wife's neck
round, if ever he should be brought to threaten to do so. And then
his eye, like the rest of him, was red. No;--she did not think that
she could ever bring herself to marry him. Why take a venture that
was double-dangerous, when there were so many ventures open to her,
apparently with very little of danger attached to them? "If it should
ever be said that I loved him, I would do it all the same," she said
to herself.

"If I did not come and see you here, I suppose that I should never
see you," said he, seating himself. "I do not often go to parties,
and when I do you are not likely to be there."

"We might make our little arrangements for meeting," said she,
laughing. "My aunt, Lady Baldock, is going to have an evening next
week."

"The servants would be ordered to put me out of the house."

"Oh no. You can tell her that I invited you."

"I don't think that Oswald and Lady Baldock are great friends," said
Lady Laura.

"Or he might come and take you and me to the Zoo on Sunday. That's
the proper sort of thing for a brother and a friend to do."

"I hate that place in the Regent's Park," said Lord Chiltern.

"When were you there last?" demanded Miss Effingham.

"When I came home once from Eton. But I won't go again till I can
come home from Eton again." Then he altered his tone as he continued
to speak. "People would look at me as if I were the wildest beast in
the whole collection."

"Then," said Violet, "if you won't go to Lady Baldock's or to the
Zoo, we must confine ourselves to Laura's drawing-room;--unless,
indeed, you like to take me to the top of the Monument."

"I'll take you to the top of the Monument with pleasure."

"What do you say, Laura?"

"I say that you are a foolish girl," said Lady Laura, "and that I
will have nothing to do with such a scheme."

"Then there is nothing for it but that you should come here; and as
you live in the house, and as I am sure to be here every morning,
and as you have no possible occupation for your time, and as we have
nothing particular to do with ours,--I daresay I shan't see you again
before I go to my aunt's in Berkeley Square."

"Very likely not," he said.

"And why not, Oswald?" asked his sister.

He passed his hand over his face before he answered her. "Because she
and I run in different grooves now, and are not such meet playfellows
as we used to be once. Do you remember my taking you away right
through Saulsby Wood once on the old pony, and not bringing you back
till tea-time, and Miss Blink going and telling my father?"

"Do I remember it? I think it was the happiest day in my life. His
pockets were crammed full of gingerbread and Everton toffy, and we
had three bottles of lemonade slung on to the pony's saddlebows. I
thought it was a pity that we should ever come back."

"It was a pity," said Lord Chiltern.

"But, nevertheless, substantially necessary," said Lady Laura.

"Failing our power of reproducing the toffy, I suppose it was," said
Violet.

"You were not Miss Effingham then," said Lord Chiltern.

"No,--not as yet. These disagreeable realities of life grow upon
one; do they not? You took off my shoes and dried them for me at a
woodman's cottage. I am obliged to put up with my maid's doing those
things now. And Miss Blink the mild is changed for Lady Baldock the
martinet. And if I rode about with you in a wood all day I should
be sent to Coventry instead of to bed. And so you see everything is
changed as well as my name."

"Everything is not changed," said Lord Chiltern, getting up from
his seat. "I am not changed,--at least not in this, that as I loved
you better than any being in the world,--better even than Laura
there,--so do I love you now infinitely the best of all. Do not look
so surprised at me. You knew it before as well as you do now;--and
Laura knows it. There is no secret to be kept in the matter among us
three."

"But, Lord Chiltern,--" said Miss Effingham, rising also to her feet,
and then pausing, not knowing how to answer him. There had been a
suddenness in his mode of addressing her which had, so to say, almost
taken away her breath; and then to be told by a man of his love
before his sister was in itself, to her, a matter so surprising, that
none of those words came at her command which will come, as though by
instinct, to young ladies on such occasions.

"You have known it always," said he, as though he were angry with
her.

"Lord Chiltern," she replied, "you must excuse me if I say that you
are, at the least, very abrupt. I did not think when I was going back
so joyfully to our childish days that you would turn the tables on me
in this way."

"He has said nothing that ought to make you angry," said Lady Laura.

"Only because he has driven me to say that which will make me appear
to be uncivil to himself. Lord Chiltern, I do not love you with that
love of which you are speaking now. As an old friend I have always
regarded you, and I hope that I may always do so." Then she got up
and left the room.

"Why were you so sudden with her,--so abrupt,--so loud?" said his
sister, coming up to him and taking him by the arm almost in anger.

"It would make no difference," said he. "She does not care for me."

"It makes all the difference in the world," said Lady Laura. "Such
a woman as Violet cannot be had after that fashion. You must begin
again."

"I have begun and ended," he said.

"That is nonsense. Of course you will persist. It was madness to
speak in that way to-day. You may be sure of this, however, that
there is no one she likes better than you. You must remember that you
have done much to make any girl afraid of you."

"I do remember it."

"Do something now to make her fear you no longer. Speak to her
softly. Tell her of the sort of life which you would live with her.
Tell her that all is changed. As she comes to love you, she will
believe you when she would believe no one else on that matter."

"Am I to tell her a lie?" said Lord Chiltern, looking his sister full
in the face. Then he turned upon his heel and left her.




CHAPTER XII

Autumnal Prospects


The session went on very calmly after the opening battle which ousted
Lord de Terrier and sent Mr. Mildmay back to the Treasury,--so calmly
that Phineas Finn was unconsciously disappointed, as lacking that
excitement of contest to which he had been introduced in the first
days of his parliamentary career. From time to time certain waspish
attacks were made by Mr. Daubeny, now on this Secretary of State and
now on that; but they were felt by both parties to mean nothing; and
as no great measure was brought forward, nothing which would serve
by the magnitude of its interests to divide the liberal side of the
House into fractions, Mr. Mildmay's Cabinet was allowed to hold its
own in comparative peace and quiet. It was now July,--the middle of
July,--and the member for Loughshane had not yet addressed the House.
How often had he meditated doing so; how he had composed his speeches
walking round the Park on his way down to the House; how he got his
subjects up,--only to find on hearing them discussed that he really
knew little or nothing about them; how he had his arguments and
almost his very words taken out of his mouth by some other member;
and lastly, how he had actually been deterred from getting upon his
legs by a certain tremor of blood round his heart when the moment
for rising had come,--of all this he never said a word to any man.
Since that last journey to county Mayo, Laurence Fitzgibbon had been
his most intimate friend, but he said nothing of all this even to
Laurence Fitzgibbon. To his other friend, Lady Laura Standish, he did
explain something of his feelings, not absolutely describing to her
the extent of hindrance to which his modesty had subjected him, but
letting her know that he had his qualms as well as his aspirations.
But as Lady Laura always recommended patience, and more than once
expressed her opinion that a young member would be better to sit
in silence at least for one session, he was not driven to the
mortification of feeling that he was incurring her contempt by his
bashfulness. As regarded the men among whom he lived, I think he was
almost annoyed at finding that no one seemed to expect that he should
speak. Barrington Erle, when he had first talked of sending Phineas
down to Loughshane, had predicted for him all manner of parliamentary
successes, and had expressed the warmest admiration of the manner in
which Phineas had discussed this or that subject at the Union. "We
have not above one or two men in the House who can do that kind of
thing," Barrington Erle had once said. But now no allusions whatever
were made to his powers of speech, and Phineas in his modest moments
began to be more amazed than ever that he should find himself seated
in that chamber.

To the forms and technicalities of parliamentary business he did give
close attention, and was unremitting in his attendance. On one or two
occasions he ventured to ask a question of the Speaker, and as the
words of experience fell into his ears, he would tell himself that
he was going through his education,--that he was learning to be a
working member, and perhaps to be a statesman. But his regrets with
reference to Mr. Low and the dingy chambers in Old Square were very
frequent; and had it been possible for him to undo all that he had
done, he would often have abandoned to some one else the honour of
representing the electors of Loughshane.

But he was supported in all his difficulties by the kindness of his
friend, Lady Laura Standish. He was often in the house in Portman
Square, and was always received with cordiality, and, as he thought,
almost with affection. She would sit and talk to him, sometimes
saying a word about her brother and sometimes about her father, as
though there were more between them than the casual intimacy of
London acquaintance. And in Portman Square he had been introduced to
Miss Effingham, and had found Miss Effingham to be--very nice. Miss
Effingham had quite taken to him, and he had danced with her at two
or three parties, talking always, as he did so, about Lady Laura
Standish.

"I declare, Laura, I think your friend Mr. Finn is in love with you,"
said Violet to Lady Laura one night.

"I don't think that. He is fond of me, and so am I of him. He is
so honest, and so naive without being awkward! And then he is
undoubtedly clever."

"And so uncommonly handsome," said Violet.

"I don't know that that makes much difference," said Lady Laura.

"I think it does if a man looks like a gentleman as well."

"Mr. Finn certainly looks like a gentleman," said Lady Laura.

"And no doubt is one," said Violet. "I wonder whether he has got any
money."

"Not a penny, I should say."

"How does such a man manage to live? There are so many men like that,
and they are always mysteries to me. I suppose he'll have to marry an
heiress."

"Whoever gets him will not have a bad husband," said Lady Laura
Standish.

Phineas during the summer had very often met Mr. Kennedy. They sat
on the same side of the House, they belonged to the same club, they
dined together more than once in Portman Square, and on one occasion
Phineas had accepted an invitation to dinner sent to him by Mr.
Kennedy himself. "A slower affair I never saw in my life," he said
afterwards to Laurence Fitzgibbon. "Though there were two or three
men there who talk everywhere else, they could not talk at his
table." "He gave you good wine, I should say," said Fitzgibbon, "and
let me tell you that that covers a multitude of sins." In spite,
however, of all these opportunities for intimacy, now, nearly at
the end of the session, Phineas had hardly spoken a dozen words to
Mr. Kennedy, and really knew nothing whatsoever of the man, as one
friend,--or even as one acquaintance knows another. Lady Laura had
desired him to be on good terms with Mr. Kennedy, and for that reason
he had dined with him. Nevertheless he disliked Mr. Kennedy, and felt
quite sure that Mr. Kennedy disliked him. He was therefore rather
surprised when he received the following note:--


   Albany, Z 3, July 17, 186--.

   MY DEAR MR. FINN,

   I shall have some friends at Loughlinter next month, and
   should be very glad if you will join us. I will name the
   16th August. I don't know whether you shoot, but there are
   grouse and deer.

   Yours truly,

   ROBERT KENNEDY.


What was he to do? He had already begun to feel rather uncomfortable
at the prospect of being separated from all his new friends as soon
as the session should be over. Laurence Fitzgibhon had asked him to
make another visit to county Mayo, but that he had declined. Lady
Laura had said something to him about going abroad with her brother,
and since that there had sprung up a sort of intimacy between him and
Lord Chiltern; but nothing had been fixed about this foreign trip,
and there were pecuniary objections to it which put it almost out of
his power. The Christmas holidays he would of course pass with his
family at Killaloe, but he hardly liked the idea of hurrying off to
Killaloe immediately the session should be over. Everybody around
him seemed to be looking forward to pleasant leisure doings in the
country. Men talked about grouse, and of the ladies at the houses to
which they were going and of the people whom they were to meet. Lady
Laura had said nothing of her own movements for the early autumn, and
no invitation had come to him to go to the Earl's country house. He
had already felt that every one would depart and that he would be
left,--and this had made him uncomfortable. What was he to do with
the invitation from Mr. Kennedy? He disliked the man, and had told
himself half a dozen times that he despised him. Of course he must
refuse it. Even for the sake of the scenery, and the grouse, and the
pleasant party, and the feeling that going to Loughlinter in August
would be the proper sort of thing to do, he must refuse it! But it
occurred to him at last that he would call in Portman Square before
he wrote his note.

"Of course you will go," said Lady Laura, in her most decided tone.

"And why?"

"In the first place it is civil in him to ask you, and why should you
be uncivil in return?"

"There is nothing uncivil in not accepting a man's invitation," said
Phineas.

"We are going," said Lady Laura, "and I can only say that I shall be
disappointed if you do not go too. Both Mr. Gresham and Mr. Monk will
be there, and I believe they have never stayed together in the same
house before. I have no doubt there are a dozen men on your side of
the House who would give their eyes to be there. Of course you will
go."

Of course he did go. The note accepting Mr. Kennedy's invitation was
written at the Reform Club within a quarter of an hour of his leaving
Portman Square. He was very careful in writing to be not more
familiar or more civil than Mr. Kennedy had been to himself, and
then he signed himself "Yours truly, Phineas Finn." But another
proposition was made to him, and a most charming proposition, during
the few minutes that he remained in Portman Square. "I am so glad,"
said Lady Laura, "because I can now ask you to run down to us at
Saulsby for a couple of days on your way to Loughlinter. Till this
was fixed I couldn't ask you to come all the way to Saulsby for two
days; and there won't be room for more between our leaving London
and starting to Loughlinter." Phineas swore that he would have gone
if it had been but for one hour, and if Saulsby had been twice the
distance. "Very well; come on the 13th and go on the 15th. You must
go on the 15th, unless you choose to stay with the housekeeper.
And remember, Mr. Finn, we have got no grouse at Saulsby." Phineas
declared that he did not care a straw for grouse.

There was another little occurrence which happened before Phineas
left London, and which was not altogether so charming as his
prospects at Saulsby and Loughlinter. Early in August, when the
session was still incomplete, he dined with Laurence Fitzgibbon at
the Reform Club. Laurence had specially invited him to do so, and
made very much of him on the occasion. "By George, my dear fellow,"
Laurence said to him that morning, "nothing has happened to me this
session that has given me so much pleasure as your being in the
House. Of course there are fellows with whom one is very intimate and
of whom one is very fond,--and all that sort of thing. But most of
these Englishmen on our side are such cold fellows; or else they are
like Ratler and Barrington Erle, thinking of nothing but politics.
And then as to our own men, there are so many of them one can hardly
trust! That's the truth of it. Your being in the House has been such
a comfort to me!" Phineas, who really liked his friend Laurence,
expressed himself very warmly in answer to this, and became
affectionate, and made sundry protestations of friendship which were
perfectly sincere. Their sincerity was tested after dinner, when
Fitzgibbon, as they two were seated on a sofa in the corner of the
smoking-room, asked Phineas to put his name to the back of a bill for
two hundred and fifty pounds at six months' date.

"But, my dear Laurence," said Phineas, "two hundred and fifty pounds
is a sum of money utterly beyond my reach."

"Exactly, my dear boy, and that's why I've come to you. D'ye think
I'd have asked anybody who by any impossibility might have been made
to pay anything for me?"

"But what's the use of it then?"

"All the use in the world. It's for me to judge of the use, you know.
Why, d'ye think I'd ask it if it wasn't any use? I'll make it of use,
my boy. And take my word, you'll never hear about it again. It's just
a forestalling of my salary; that's all. I wouldn't do it till I saw
that we were at least safe for six months to come." Then Phineas Finn
with many misgivings, with much inward hatred of himself for his own
weakness, did put his name on the back of the bill which Laurence
Fitzgibbon had prepared for his signature.




CHAPTER XIII

Saulsby Wood


"So you won't come to Moydrum again?" said Laurence Fitzgibbon to his
friend.

"Not this autumn, Laurence. Your father would think that I want to
live there."

"Bedad, it's my father would be glad to see you,--and the oftener the
better."

"The fact is, my time is filled up."

"You're not going to be one of the party at Loughlinter?"

"I believe I am. Kennedy asked me, and people seem to think that
everybody is to do what he bids them."

"I should think so too. I wish he had asked me. I should have thought
it as good as a promise of an under-secretaryship. All the Cabinet
are to be there. I don't suppose he ever had an Irishman in his house
before. When do you start?"

"Well;--on the 12th or 13th. I believe I shall go to Saulsby on my
way."

"The devil you will. Upon my word, Phineas, my boy, you're the
luckiest fellow I know. This is your first year, and you're asked to
the two most difficult houses in England. You have only to look out
for an heiress now. There is little Vi Effingham;--she is sure to be
at Saulsby. Good-bye, old fellow. Don't you be in the least unhappy
about the bill. I'll see to making that all right."

Phineas was rather unhappy about the bill; but there was so much that
was pleasant in his cup at the present moment, that he resolved, as
far as possible, to ignore the bitter of that one ingredient. He was
a little in the dark as to two or three matters respecting these
coming visits. He would have liked to have taken a servant with him;
but he had no servant, and felt ashamed to hire one for the occasion.
And then he was in trouble about a gun, and the paraphernalia of
shooting. He was not a bad shot at snipe in the bogs of county Clare,
but he had never even seen a gun used in England. However, he bought
himself a gun,--with other paraphernalia, and took a license for
himself, and then groaned over the expense to which he found that his
journey would subject him. And at last he hired a servant for the
occasion. He was intensely ashamed of himself when he had done so,
hating himself, and telling himself that he was going to the devil
headlong. And why had he done it? Not that Lady Laura would like him
the better, or that she would care whether he had a servant or not.
She probably would know nothing of his servant. But the people about
her would know, and he was foolishly anxious that the people about
her should think that he was worthy of her.

Then he called on Mr. Low before he started. "I did not like to leave
London without seeing you," he said; "but I know you will have
nothing pleasant to say to me."

"I shall say nothing unpleasant certainly. I see your name in the
divisions, and I feel a sort of envy myself."

"Any fool could go into a lobby," said Phineas.

"To tell you the truth, I have been gratified to see that you have
had the patience to abstain from speaking till you had looked about
you. It was more than I expected from your hot Irish blood. Going
to meet Mr. Gresham and Mr. Monk,--are you? Well, I hope you may
meet them in the Cabinet some day. Mind you come and see me when
Parliament meets in February."

Mrs. Bunce was delighted when she found that Phineas had hired a
servant; but Mr. Bunce predicted nothing but evil from so vain an
expense. "Don't tell me; where is it to come from? He ain't no
richer because he's in Parliament. There ain't no wages. M.P. and
M.T.,"--whereby Mr. Bunce, I fear, meant empty,--"are pretty much
alike when a man hasn't a fortune at his back." "But he's going to
stay with all the lords in the Cabinet," said Mrs. Bunce, to whom
Phineas, in his pride, had confided perhaps more than was necessary.
"Cabinet, indeed," said Bunce; "if he'd stick to chambers, and let
alone cabinets, he'd do a deal better. Given up his rooms, has
he,--till February? He don't expect we're going to keep them empty
for him!"

Phineas found that the house was full at Saulsby, although the
sojourn of the visitors would necessarily be so short. There
were three or four there on their way on to Loughlinter, like
himself,--Mr. Bonteen and Mr. Ratler, with Mr. Palliser, the
Chancellor of the Exchequer, and his wife,--and there was Violet
Effingham, who, however, was not going to Loughlinter. "No, indeed,"
she said to our hero, who on the first evening had the pleasure
of taking her in to dinner, "unfortunately I haven't a seat in
Parliament, and therefore I am not asked."

"Lady Laura is going."

"Yes;--but Lady Laura has a Cabinet Minister in her keeping. I've
only one comfort;--you'll be awfully dull."

"I daresay it would be very much nicer to stay here," said Phineas.

"If you want to know my real mind," said Violet, "I would give one of
my little fingers to go. There will be four Cabinet Ministers in the
house, and four un-Cabinet Ministers, and half a dozen other members
of Parliament, and there will be Lady Glencora Palliser, who is the
best fun in the world; and, in point of fact, it's the thing of the
year. But I am not asked. You see I belong to the Baldock faction,
and we don't sit on your side of the House. Mr. Kennedy thinks that I
should tell secrets."

Why on earth had Mr. Kennedy invited him, Phineas Finn, to meet four
Cabinet Ministers and Lady Glencora Palliser? He could only have done
so at the instance of Lady Laura Standish. It was delightful for
Phineas to think that Lady Laura cared for him so deeply; but it was
not equally delightful when he remembered how very close must be
the alliance between Mr. Kennedy and Lady Laura, when she was thus
powerful with him.

At Saulsby Phineas did not see much of his hostess. When they were
making their plans for the one entire day of this visit, she said a
soft word of apology to him. "I am so busy with all these people,
that I hardly know what I am doing. But we shall be able to find a
quiet minute or two at Loughlinter,--unless, indeed, you intend to
be on the mountains all day. I suppose you have brought a gun like
everybody else?"

"Yes;--I have brought a gun. I do shoot; but I am not an inveterate
sportsman."

On that one day there was a great riding party made up, and Phineas
found himself mounted, after luncheon, with some dozen other
equestrians. Among them were Miss Effingham and Lady Glencora, Mr.
Ratler and the Earl of Brentford himself. Lady Glencora, whose
husband was, as has been said, Chancellor of the Exchequer, and who
was still a young woman, and a very pretty woman, had taken lately
very strongly to politics, which she discussed among men and women
of both parties with something more than ordinary audacity. "What a
nice, happy, lazy time you've had of it since you've been in," said
she to the Earl.

"I hope we have been more happy than lazy," said the Earl.

"But you've done nothing. Mr. Palliser has twenty schemes of reform,
all mature; but among you you've not let him bring in one of them.
The Duke and Mr. Mildmay and you will break his heart among you."

"Poor Mr. Palliser!"

"The truth is, if you don't take care he and Mr. Monk and Mr. Gresham
will arise and shake themselves, and turn you all out."

"We must look to ourselves, Lady Glencora."

"Indeed, yes;--or you will be known to all posterity as the faineant
government."

"Let me tell you, Lady Glencora, that a faineant government is not
the worst government that England can have. It has been the great
fault of our politicians that they have all wanted to do something."

"Mr. Mildmay is at any rate innocent of that charge," said Lady
Glencora.

They were now riding through a vast wood, and Phineas found himself
delightfully established by the side of Violet Effingham. "Mr. Ratler
has been explaining to me that he must have nineteen next session.
Now, if I were you, Mr. Finn, I would decline to be counted up in
that way as one of Mr. Ratler's sheep."

"But what am I to do?"

"Do something on your own hook. You men in Parliament are so much
like sheep! If one jumps at a gap, all go after him,--and then you
are penned into lobbies, and then you are fed, and then you are
fleeced. I wish I were in Parliament. I'd get up in the middle and
make such a speech. You all seem to me to be so much afraid of one
another that you don't quite dare to speak out. Do you see that
cottage there?"

"What a pretty cottage it is!"

"Yes;--is it not? Twelve years ago I took off my shoes and stockings
and had them dried in that cottage, and when I got back to the house
I was put to bed for having been out all day in the wood."

"Were you wandering about alone?"

"No, I wasn't alone. Oswald Standish was with me. We were children
then. Do you know him?"

"Lord Chiltern;--yes, I know him. He and I have been rather friends
this year."

"He is very good;--is he not?"

"Good,--in what way?"

"Honest and generous!"

"I know no man whom I believe to be more so."

"And he is clever?" asked Miss Effingham.

"Very clever. That is, he talks very well if you will let him talk
after his own fashion. You would always fancy that he was going to
eat you;--but that is his way."

"And you like him?"

"Very much."

"I am so glad to hear you say so."

"Is he a favourite of yours, Miss Effingham?"

"Not now,--not particularly. I hardly ever see him. But his sister is
the best friend I have, and I used to like him so much when he was a
boy! I have not seen that cottage since that day, and I remember it
as though it were yesterday. Lord Chiltern is quite changed, is he
not?"

"Changed,--in what way?"

"They used to say that he was--unsteady you know."

"I think he is changed. But Chiltern is at heart a Bohemian. It is
impossible not to see that at once. He hates the decencies of life."

"I suppose he does," said Violet. "He ought to marry. If he were
married, that would all be cured;--don't you think so?"

"I cannot fancy him with a wife," said Phineas, "There is a savagery
about him which would make him an uncomfortable companion for a
woman."

"But he would love his wife?"

"Yes, as he does his horses. And he would treat her well,--as he does
his horses. But he expects every horse he has to do anything that any
horse can do; and he would expect the same of his wife."

Phineas had no idea how deep an injury he might be doing his friend
by this description, nor did it once occur to him that his companion
was thinking of herself as the possible wife of this Red Indian. Miss
Effingham rode on in silence for some distance, and then she said
but one word more about Lord Chiltern. "He was so good to me in that
cottage."

On the following day the party at Saulsby was broken up, and there
was a regular pilgrimage towards Loughlinter. Phineas resolved upon
sleeping a night at Edinburgh on his way, and he found himself joined
in the bands of close companionship with Mr. Ratler for the occasion.
The evening was by no means thrown away, for he learned much of his
trade from Mr. Ratler. And Mr. Ratler was heard to declare afterwards
at Loughlinter that Mr. Finn was a pleasant young man.

It soon came to be admitted by all who knew Phineas Finn that he had
a peculiar power of making himself agreeable which no one knew how to
analyse or define. "I think it is because he listens so well," said
one man. "But the women would not like him for that," said another.
"He has studied when to listen and when to talk," said a third. The
truth, however, was, that Phineas Finn had made no study in the
matter at all. It was simply his nature to be pleasant.




CHAPTER XIV

Loughlinter


Phineas Finn reached Loughlinter together with Mr. Ratler in a
post-chaise from the neighbouring town. Mr. Ratler, who had done this
kind of thing very often before, travelled without impediments, but
the new servant of our hero's was stuck outside with the driver, and
was in the way. "I never bring a man with me," said Mr. Ratler to his
young friend. "The servants of the house like it much better, because
they get fee'd; you are just as well waited on, and it don't cost
half as much." Phineas blushed as he heard all this; but there was
the impediment, not to be got rid of for the nonce, and Phineas made
the best of his attendant. "It's one of those points," said he, "as
to which a man never quite makes up his mind. If you bring a fellow,
you wish you hadn't brought him; and if you don't, you wish you had."
"I'm a great deal more decided in my ways that that," said Mr.
Ratler.

Loughlinter, as they approached it, seemed to Phineas to be a much
finer place than Saulsby. And so it was, except that Loughlinter
wanted that graceful beauty of age which Saulsby possessed.
Loughlinter was all of cut stone, but the stones had been cut only
yesterday. It stood on a gentle slope, with a greensward falling from
the front entrance down to a mountain lake. And on the other side of
the Lough there rose a mighty mountain to the skies, Ben Linter. At
the foot of it, and all round to the left, there ran the woods of
Linter, stretching for miles through crags and bogs and mountain
lands. No better ground for deer than the side of Ben Linter was
there in all those highlands. And the Linter, rushing down into the
Lough through rocks which, in some places, almost met together above
its waters, ran so near to the house that the pleasant noise of its
cataracts could be heard from the hall door. Behind the house the
expanse of drained park land seemed to be interminable; and then,
again, came the mountains. There were Ben Linn and Ben Lody;--and
the whole territory belonging to Mr. Kennedy. He was laird of Linn
and laird of Linter, as his people used to say. And yet his father
had walked into Glasgow as a little boy,--no doubt with the normal
half-crown in his breeches pocket.

"Magnificent;--is it not?" said Phineas to the Treasury Secretary,
as they were being driven up to the door.

"Very grand;--but the young trees show the new man. A new man may buy
a forest; but he can't get park trees."

Phineas, at the moment, was thinking how far all these things which
he saw, the mountains stretching everywhere around him, the castle,
the lake, the river, the wealth of it all, and, more than the wealth,
the nobility of the beauty, might act as temptations to Lady Laura
Standish. If a woman were asked to have the half of all this, would
it be possible that she should prefer to take the half of his
nothing? He thought it might be possible for a girl who would
confess, or seem to confess, that love should be everything. But it
could hardly be possible for a woman who looked at the world almost
as a man looked at it,--as an oyster to be opened with such weapon
as she could find ready to her hand. Lady Laura professed to have a
care for all the affairs of the world. She loved politics, and could
talk of social science, and had broad ideas about religion, and was
devoted to certain educational views. Such a woman would feel that
wealth was necessary to her, and would be willing, for the sake of
wealth, to put up with a husband without romance. Nay; might it not
be that she would prefer a husband without romance? Thus Phineas was
arguing to himself as he was driven up to the door of Loughlinter
Castle, while Mr. Ratler was eloquent on the beauty of old park
trees. "After all, a Scotch forest is a very scrubby sort of thing,"
said Mr. Ratler.

There was nobody in the house,--at least, they found nobody; and
within half an hour Phineas was walking about the grounds by himself.
Mr. Ratler had declared himself to be delighted at having an
opportunity of writing letters,--and no doubt was writing them by
the dozen, all dated from Loughlinter, and all detailing the facts
that Mr. Gresham, and Mr. Monk, and Plantagenet Palliser, and Lord
Brentford were in the same house with him. Phineas had no letters to
write, and therefore rushed down across the broad lawn to the river,
of which he heard the noisy tumbling waters. There was something in
the air which immediately filled him with high spirits; and, in his
desire to investigate the glories of the place, he forgot that he was
going to dine with four Cabinet Ministers in a row. He soon reached
the stream, and began to make his way up it through the ravine. There
was waterfall over waterfall, and there were little bridges here and
there which looked to be half natural and half artificial, and a path
which required that you should climb, but which was yet a path, and
all was so arranged that not a pleasant splashing rush of the waters
was lost to the visitor. He went on and on, up the stream, till there
was a sharp turn in the ravine, and then, looking upwards, he saw
above his head a man and a woman standing together on one of the
little half-made wooden bridges. His eyes were sharp, and he saw at a
glance that the woman was Lady Laura Standish. He had not recognised
the man, but he had very little doubt that it was Mr. Kennedy. Of
course it was Mr. Kennedy, because he would prefer that it should be
any other man under the sun. He would have turned back at once if he
had thought that he could have done so without being observed; but he
felt sure that, standing as they were, they must have observed him.
He did not like to join them. He would not intrude himself. So he
remained still, and began to throw stones into the river. But he had
not thrown above a stone or two when he was called from above. He
looked up, and then he perceived that the man who called him was his
host. Of course it was Mr. Kennedy. Thereupon he ceased to throw
stones, and went up the path, and joined them upon the bridge. Mr.
Kennedy stepped forward, and bade him welcome to Loughlinter. His
manner was less cold, and he seemed to have more words at command
than was usual with him. "You have not been long," he said, "in
finding out the most beautiful spot about the place."

"Is it not lovely?" said Laura. "We have not been here an hour yet,
and Mr. Kennedy insisted on bringing me here."

"It is wonderfully beautiful," said Phineas.

"It is this very spot where we now stand that made me build the house
where it is," said Mr. Kennedy, "and I was only eighteen when I stood
here and made up my mind. That is just twenty-five years ago." "So he
is forty-three," said Phineas to himself, thinking how glorious it
was to be only twenty-five. "And within twelve months," continued Mr.
Kennedy, "the foundations were being dug and the stone-cutters were
at work."

"What a good-natured man your father must have been," said Lady
Laura.

"He had nothing else to do with his money but to pour it over my
head, as it were. I don't think he had any other enjoyment of it
himself. Will you go a little higher, Lady Laura? We shall get a fine
view over to Ben Linn just now." Lady Laura declared that she would
go as much higher as he chose to take her, and Phineas was rather in
doubt as to what it would become him to do. He would stay where he
was, or go down, or make himself to vanish after any most acceptable
fashion; but if he were to do so abruptly it would seem as though he
were attributing something special to the companionship of the other
two. Mr. Kennedy saw his doubt, and asked him to join them. "You may
as well come on, Mr. Finn. We don't dine till eight, and it is not
much past six yet. The men of business are all writing letters, and
the ladies who have been travelling are in bed, I believe."

"Not all of them, Mr. Kennedy," said Lady Laura. Then they went
on with their walk very pleasantly, and the lord of all that they
surveyed took them from one point of vantage to another, till they
both swore that of all spots upon the earth Loughlinter was surely
the most lovely. "I do delight in it, I own," said the lord. "When
I come up here alone, and feel that in the midst of this little bit
of a crowded island I have all this to myself,--all this with which
no other man's wealth can interfere,--I grow proud of my own, till
I become thoroughly ashamed of myself. After all, I believe it is
better to dwell in cities than in the country,--better, at any rate,
for a rich man." Mr. Kennedy had now spoken more words than Phineas
had heard to fall from his lips during the whole time that they had
been acquainted with each other.

"I believe so too," said Laura, "if one were obliged to choose
between the two. For myself, I think that a little of both is good
for man and woman."

"There is no doubt about that," said Phineas.

"No doubt as far as enjoyment goes," said Mr. Kennedy.

He took them up out of the ravine on to the side of the mountain, and
then down by another path through the woods to the back of the house.
As they went he relapsed into his usual silence, and the conversation
was kept up between the other two. At a point not very far from the
castle,--just so far that one could see by the break of the ground
where the castle stood, Kennedy left them. "Mr. Finn will take you
back in safety, I am sure," said he, "and, as I am here, I'll go up
to the farm for a moment. If I don't show myself now and again when I
am here, they think I'm indifferent about the 'bestials'."

"Now, Mr. Kennedy," said Lady Laura, "you are going to pretend to
understand all about sheep and oxen." Mr. Kennedy, owning that it
was so, went away to his farm, and Phineas with Lady Laura returned
towards the house. "I think, upon the whole," said Lady Laura, "that
that is as good a man as I know."

"I should think he is an idle one," said Phineas.

"I doubt that. He is, perhaps, neither zealous nor active. But he is
thoughtful and high-principled, and has a method and a purpose in the
use which he makes of his money. And you see that he has poetry in
his nature too, if you get him upon the right string. How fond he is
of the scenery of this place!"

"Any man would be fond of that. I'm ashamed to say that it almost
makes me envy him. I certainly never have wished to be Mr. Robert
Kennedy in London, but I should like to be the Laird of Loughlinter."

"'Laird of Linn and Laird of Linter,--Here in summer, gone in
winter.' There is some ballad about the old lairds; but that belongs
to a time when Mr. Kennedy had not been heard of, when some branch of
the Mackenzies lived down at that wretched old tower which you see as
you first come upon the lake. When old Mr. Kennedy bought it there
were hardly a hundred acres on the property under cultivation."

"And it belonged to the Mackenzies."

"Yes;--to the Mackenzie of Linn, as he was called. It was Mr.
Kennedy, the old man, who was first called Loughlinter. That is
Linn Castle, and they lived there for hundreds of years. But these
Highlanders, with all that is said of their family pride, have
forgotten the Mackenzies already, and are quite proud of their rich
landlord."

"That is unpoetical," said Phineas.

"Yes;--but then poetry is so usually false. I doubt whether Scotland
would not have been as prosaic a country as any under the sun but for
Walter Scott;--and I have no doubt that Henry V owes the romance of
his character altogether to Shakspeare."

"I sometimes think you despise poetry," said Phineas.

"When it is false I do. The difficulty is to know when it is false
and when it is true. Tom Moore was always false."

"Not so false as Byron," said Phineas with energy.

"Much more so, my friend. But we will not discuss that now. Have you
seen Mr. Monk since you have been here?"

"I have seen no one. I came with Mr. Ratler."

"Why with Mr. Ratler? You cannot find Mr. Ratler a companion much to
your taste."

"Chance brought us together. But Mr. Ratler is a man of sense, Lady
Laura, and is not to be despised."

"It always seems to me," said Lady Laura, "that nothing is to be
gained in politics by sitting at the feet of the little Gamaliels."

"But the great Gamaliels will not have a novice on their footstools."

"Then sit at no man's feet. Is it not astonishing that the price
generally put upon any article by the world is that which the owner
puts on it?--and that this is specially true of a man's own self? If
you herd with Ratler, men will take it for granted that you are a
Ratlerite, and no more. If you consort with Greshams and Pallisers,
you will equally be supposed to know your own place."

"I never knew a Mentor," said Phineas, "so apt as you are to fill his
Telemachus with pride."

"It is because I do not think your fault lies that way. If it did,
or if I thought so, my Telemachus, you may be sure that I should
resign my position as Mentor. Here are Mr. Kennedy and Lady Glencora
and Mrs. Gresham on the steps." Then they went up through the Ionic
columns on to the broad stone terrace before the door, and there they
found a crowd of men and women. For the legislators and statesmen had
written their letters, and the ladies had taken their necessary rest.

Phineas, as he was dressing, considered deeply all that Lady Laura
had said to him,--not so much with reference to the advice which she
had given him, though that also was of importance, as to the fact
that it had been given by her. She had first called herself his
Mentor; but he had accepted the name and had addressed her as her
Telemachus. And yet he believed himself to be older than she,--if,
indeed, there was any difference in their ages. And was it possible
that a female Mentor should love her Telemachus,--should love him as
Phineas desired to be loved by Lady Laura? He would not say that it
was impossible. Perhaps there had been mistakes between them;--a
mistake in his manner of addressing her, and another in hers of
addressing him. Perhaps the old bachelor of forty-three was not
thinking of a wife. Had this old bachelor of forty-three been really
in love with Lady Laura, would he have allowed her to walk home alone
with Phineas, leaving her with some flimsy pretext of having to look
at his sheep? Phineas resolved that he must at any rate play out his
game,--whether he were to lose it or to win it; and in playing it he
must, if possible, drop something of that Mentor and Telemachus style
of conversation. As to the advice given him of herding with Greshams
and Pallisers, instead of with Ratlers and Fitzgibbons,--he must use
that as circumstances might direct. To him, himself, as he thought
of it all, it was sufficiently astonishing that even the Ratlers and
Fitzgibbons should admit him among them as one of themselves. "When
I think of my father and of the old house at Killaloe, and remember
that hitherto I have done nothing myself, I cannot understand how
it is that I should be at Loughlinter." There was only one way of
understanding it. If Lady Laura really loved him, the riddle might
be read.

The rooms at Loughlinter were splendid, much larger and very much
more richly furnished than those at Saulsby. But there was a certain
stiffness in the movement of things, and perhaps in the manner of
some of those present, which was not felt at Saulsby. Phineas at
once missed the grace and prettiness and cheery audacity of Violet
Effingham, and felt at the same time that Violet Effingham would be
out of her element at Loughlinter. At Loughlinter they were met for
business. It was at least a semi-political, or perhaps rather a
semi-official gathering, and he became aware that he ought not to
look simply for amusement. When he entered the drawing-room before
dinner, Mr. Monk and Mr. Palliser, and Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Gresham,
with sundry others, were standing in a wide group before the
fireplace, and among them were Lady Glencora Palliser and Lady Laura
and Mrs. Bonteen. As he approached them it seemed as though a sort
of opening was made for himself; but he could see, though others did
not, that the movement came from Lady Laura.

"I believe, Mr. Monk," said Lady Glencora, "that you and I are the
only two in the whole party who really know what we would be at."

"If I must be divided from so many of my friends," said Mr. Monk, "I
am happy to go astray in the company of Lady Glencora Palliser."

"And might I ask," said Mr. Gresham, with a peculiar smile for which
he was famous, "what it is that you and Mr. Monk are really at?"

"Making men and women all equal," said Lady Glencora. "That I take to
be the gist of our political theory."

"Lady Glencora, I must cry off," said Mr. Monk.

"Yes;--no doubt. If I were in the Cabinet myself I should not admit
so much. There are reticences,--of course. And there is an official
discretion."

"But you don't mean to say, Lady Glencora, that you would really
advocate equality?" said Mrs. Bonteen.

"I do mean to say so, Mrs. Bonteen. And I mean to go further, and to
tell you that you are no Liberal at heart unless you do so likewise;
unless that is the basis of your political aspirations."

"Pray let me speak for myself, Lady Glencora."

"By no means,--not when you are criticising me and my politics. Do
you not wish to make the lower orders comfortable?"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Bonteen.

"And educated, and happy and good?"

"Undoubtedly."

"To make them as comfortable and as good as yourself?"

"Better if possible."

"And I'm sure you wish to make yourself as good and as comfortable as
anybody else,--as those above you, if anybody is above you? You will
admit that?"

"Yes;--if I understand you."

"Then you have admitted everything, and are an advocate for general
equality,--just as Mr. Monk is, and as I am. There is no getting out
of it;--is there, Mr. Kennedy?" Then dinner was announced, and Mr.
Kennedy walked off with the French Republican on his arm. As she
went, she whispered into Mr. Kennedy's ear, "You will understand
me. I am not saying that people are equal; but that the tendency
of all law-making and of all governing should be to reduce the
inequalities." In answer to which Mr. Kennedy said not a word. Lady
Glencora's politics were too fast and furious for his nature.

A week passed by at Loughlinter, at the end of which Phineas found
himself on terms of friendly intercourse with all the political
magnates assembled in the house, but especially with Mr. Monk. He had
determined that he would not follow Lady Laura's advice as to his
selection of companions, if in doing so he should be driven even to
a seeming of intrusion. He made no attempt to sit at the feet of
anybody, and would stand aloof when bigger men than himself were
talking, and was content to be less,--as indeed he was less,--than
Mr. Bonteen or Mr. Ratler. But at the end of a week he found that,
without any effort on his part,--almost in opposition to efforts on
his part,--he had fallen into an easy pleasant way with these men
which was very delightful to him. He had killed a stag in company
with Mr. Palliser, and had stopped beneath a crag to discuss with him
a question as to the duty on Irish malt. He had played chess with Mr.
Gresham, and had been told that gentleman's opinion on the trial of
Mr. Jefferson Davis. Lord Brentford had--at last--called him Finn,
and had proved to him that nothing was known in Ireland about sheep.
But with Mr. Monk he had had long discussions on abstract questions
in politics,--and before the week was over was almost disposed to
call himself a disciple, or, at least, a follower of Mr. Monk. Why
not of Mr. Monk as well as of any one else? Mr. Monk was in the
Cabinet, and of all the members of the Cabinet was the most advanced
Liberal. "Lady Glencora was not so far wrong the other night," Mr.
Monk said to him. "Equality is an ugly word and shouldn't be used. It
misleads, and frightens, and is a bugbear. And she, in using it, had
not perhaps a clearly defined meaning for it in her own mind. But
the wish of every honest man should be to assist in lifting up those
below him, till they be something nearer his own level than he finds
them." To this Phineas assented,--and by degrees he found himself
assenting to a great many things that Mr. Monk said to him.

Mr. Monk was a thin, tall, gaunt man, who had devoted his whole life
to politics, hitherto without any personal reward beyond that which
came to him from the reputation of his name, and from the honour of
a seat in Parliament. He was one of four or five brothers,--and all
besides him were in trade. They had prospered in trade, whereas he
had prospered solely in politics; and men said that he was dependent
altogether on what his relatives supplied for his support. He had now
been in Parliament for more than twenty years, and had been known not
only as a Radical but as a Democrat. Ten years since, when he had
risen to fame, but not to repute, among the men who then governed
England, nobody dreamed that Joshua Monk would ever be a paid servant
of the Crown. He had inveighed against one minister after another
as though they all deserved impeachment. He had advocated political
doctrines which at that time seemed to be altogether at variance
with any possibility of governing according to English rules of
government. He had been regarded as a pestilent thorn in the sides of
all ministers. But now he was a member of the Cabinet, and those whom
he had terrified in the old days began to find that he was not so
much unlike other men. There are but few horses which you cannot put
into harness, and those of the highest spirit will generally do your
work the best.

Phineas, who had his eyes about him, thought that he could perceive
that Mr. Palliser did not shoot a deer with Mr. Ratler, and that Mr.
Gresham played no chess with Mr. Bonteen. Bonteen, indeed, was a
noisy pushing man whom nobody seemed to like, and Phineas wondered
why he should be at Loughlinter, and why he should be in office. His
friend Laurence Fitzgibbon had indeed once endeavoured to explain
this. "A man who can vote hard, as I call it; and who will speak a
few words now and then as they're wanted, without any ambition that
way, may always have his price. And if he has a pretty wife into the
bargain, he ought to have a pleasant time of it." Mr. Ratler no doubt
was a very useful man, who thoroughly knew his business; but yet,
as it seemed to Phineas, no very great distinction was shown to
Mr. Ratler at Loughlinter. "If I got as high as that," he said to
himself, "I should think myself a miracle of luck. And yet nobody
seems to think anything of Ratler. It is all nothing unless one can
go to the very top."

"I believe I did right to accept office," Mr. Monk said to him one
day, as they sat together on a rock close by one of the little
bridges over the Linter. "Indeed, unless a man does so when the bonds
of the office tendered to him are made compatible with his own views,
he declines to proceed on the open path towards the prosecution of
those views. A man who is combating one ministry after another, and
striving to imbue those ministers with his convictions, can hardly
decline to become a minister himself when he finds that those
convictions of his own are henceforth,--or at least for some time to
come,--to be the ministerial convictions of the day. Do you follow
me?"

"Very clearly," said Phineas. "You would have denied your own
children had you refused."

"Unless indeed a man were to feel that he was in some way unfitted
for office work. I very nearly provided for myself an escape on that
plea;--but when I came to sift it, I thought that it would be false.
But let me tell you that the delight of political life is altogether
in opposition. Why, it is freedom against slavery, fire against clay,
movement against stagnation! The very inaccuracy which is permitted
to opposition is in itself a charm worth more than all the patronage
and all the prestige of ministerial power. You'll try them both, and
then say if you do not agree with me. Give me the full swing of the
benches below the gangway, where I needed to care for no one, and
could always enjoy myself on my legs as long as I felt that I was
true to those who sent me there! That is all over now. They have got
me into harness, and my shoulders are sore. The oats, however, are of
the best, and the hay is unexceptionable."




CHAPTER XV

Donald Bean's Pony


Phineas liked being told that the pleasures of opposition and the
pleasures of office were both open to him,--and he liked also to
be the chosen receptacle of Mr. Monk's confidence. He had come to
understand that he was expected to remain ten days at Loughlinter,
and that then there was to be a general movement. Since the first day
he had seen but little of Mr. Kennedy, but he had found himself very
frequently with Lady Laura. And then had come up the question of his
projected trip to Paris with Lord Chiltern. He had received a letter
from Lord Chiltern.


   DEAR FINN,

   Are you going to Paris with me?

   Yours, C.


There had been not a word beyond this, and before he answered it he
made up his mind to tell Lady Laura the truth. He could not go to
Paris because he had no money.

"I've just got that from your brother," said he.

"How like Oswald. He writes to me perhaps three times in the year,
and his letters are just the same. You will go I hope?"

"Well;--no."

"I am sorry for that."

"I wonder whether I may tell you the real reason, Lady Laura."

"Nay;--I cannot answer that; but unless it be some political secret
between you and Mr. Monk, I should think you might."

"I cannot afford to go to Paris this autumn. It seems to be a
shocking admission to make,--though I don't know why it should be."

"Nor I;--but, Mr. Finn, I like you all the better for making it. I
am very sorry, for Oswald's sake. It's so hard to find any companion
for him whom he would like and whom we,--that is I,--should think
altogether--; you know what I mean, Mr. Finn."

"Your wish that I should go with him is a great compliment, and I
thoroughly wish that I could do it. As it is, I must go to Killaloe
and retrieve my finances. I daresay, Lady Laura, you can hardly
conceive how very poor a man I am." There was a melancholy tone
about his voice as he said this, which made her think for the moment
whether or no he had been right in going into Parliament, and whether
she had been right in instigating him to do so. But it was too late
to recur to that question now.

"You must climb into office early, and forego those pleasures of
opposition which are so dear to Mr. Monk," she said, smiling. "After
all, money is an accident which does not count nearly so high as do
some other things. You and Mr. Kennedy have the same enjoyment of
everything around you here."

"Yes; while it lasts."

"And Lady Glencora and I stand pretty much on the same footing, in
spite of all her wealth,--except that she is a married woman. I do
not know what she is worth,--something not to be counted; and I am
worth,--just what papa chooses to give me. A ten-pound note at the
present moment I should look upon as great riches." This was the
first time she had ever spoken to him of her own position as regards
money; but he had heard, or thought that he had heard, that she had
been left a fortune altogether independent of her father.

The last of the ten days had now come, and Phineas was discontented
and almost unhappy. The more he saw of Lady Laura the more he feared
that it was impossible that she should become his wife. And yet from
day to day his intimacy with her became more close. He had never made
love to her, nor could he discover that it was possible for him to
do so. She seemed to be a woman for whom all the ordinary stages of
love-making were quite unsuitable, Of course he could declare his
love and ask her to be his wife on any occasion on which he might
find himself to be alone with her. And on this morning he had made
up his mind that he would do so before the day was over. It might
be possible that she would never speak to him again;--that all the
pleasures and ambitious hopes to which she had introduced him might
be over as soon as that rash word should have been spoken! But,
nevertheless, he would speak it.

On this day there was to be a grouse-shooting party, and the shooters
were to be out early. It had been talked of for some day or two past,
and Phineas knew that he could not escape it. There had been some
rivalry between him and Mr. Bonteen, and there was to be a sort of
match as to which of the two would kill most birds before lunch. But
there had also been some half promise on Lady Laura's part that she
would walk with him up the Linter and come down upon the lake, taking
an opposite direction from that by which they had returned with Mr.
Kennedy.

"But you will be shooting all day," she said, when he proposed it to
her as they were starting for the moor. The waggonet that was to take
them was at the door, and she was there to see them start. Her father
was one of the shooting party, and Mr. Kennedy was another.

"I will undertake to be back in time, if you will not think it too
hot. I shall not see you again till we meet in town next year."

"Then I certainly will go with you,--that is to say, if you are here.
But you cannot return without the rest of the party, as you are going
so far."

"I'll get back somehow," said Phineas, who was resolved that a
few miles more or less of mountain should not detain him from the
prosecution of a task so vitally important to him. "If we start at
five that will be early enough."

"Quite early enough," said Lady Laura.

Phineas went off to the mountains, and shot his grouse, and won his
match, and eat his luncheon. Mr. Bonteen, however, was not beaten by
much, and was in consequence somewhat ill-humoured.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Mr. Bonteen, "I'll back myself for
the rest of the day for a ten-pound note."

Now there had been no money staked on the match at all,--but it had
been simply a trial of skill, as to which would kill the most birds
in a given time. And the proposition for that trial had come from Mr.
Bonteen himself. "I should not think of shooting for money," said
Phineas.

"And why not? A bet is the only way to decide these things."

"Partly because I'm sure I shouldn't hit a bird," said Phineas, "and
partly because I haven't got any money to lose."

"I hate bets," said Mr. Kennedy to him afterwards. "I was annoyed
when Bonteen offered the wager. I felt sure, however, you would not
accept it."

"I suppose such bets are very common."

"I don't think men ought to propose them unless they are quite
sure of their company. Maybe I'm wrong, and I often feel that I am
strait-laced about such things. It is so odd to me that men cannot
amuse themselves without pitting themselves against each other. When
a man tells me that he can shoot better than I, I tell him that my
keeper can shoot better than he."

"All the same, it's a good thing to excel," said Phineas.

"I'm not so sure of that," said Mr. Kennedy. "A man who can kill more
salmon than anybody else, can rarely do anything else. Are you going
on with your match?"

"No; I'm going to make my way to Loughlinter."

"Not alone?"

"Yes, alone."

"It's over nine miles. You can't walk it."

Phineas looked at his watch, and found that it was now two o'clock.
It was a broiling day in August, and the way back to Loughlinter, for
six or seven out of the nine miles, would be along a high road. "I
must do it all the same," said he, preparing for a start. "I have an
engagement with Lady Laura Standish; and as this is the last day that
I shall see her, I certainly do not mean to break it."

"An engagement with Lady Laura," said Mr. Kennedy. "Why did you not
tell me, that I might have a pony ready? But come along. Donald Bean
has a pony. He's not much bigger than a dog, but he'll carry you to
Loughlinter."

"I can walk it, Mr. Kennedy."

"Yes; and think of the state in which you'd reach Loughlinter! Come
along with me."

"But I can't take you off the mountain," said Phineas.

"Then you must allow me to take you off."

So Mr. Kennedy led the way down to Donald Bean's cottage, and before
three o'clock Phineas found himself mounted on a shaggy steed, which,
in sober truth, was not much bigger than a large dog. "If Mr. Kennedy
is really my rival," said Phineas to himself, as he trotted along, "I
almost think that I am doing an unhandsome thing in taking the pony."

At five o'clock he was under the portico before the front door, and
there he found Lady Laura waiting for him,--waiting for him, or at
least ready for him. She had on her hat and gloves and light shawl,
and her parasol was in her hand. He thought that he had never seen
her look so young, so pretty, and so fit to receive a lover's vows.
But at the same moment it occurred to him that she was Lady Laura
Standish, the daughter of an Earl, the descendant of a line of
Earls,--and that he was the son of a simple country doctor in
Ireland. Was it fitting that he should ask such a woman to be his
wife? But then Mr. Kennedy was the son of a man who had walked into
Glasgow with half-a-crown in his pocket. Mr. Kennedy's grandfather
had been,--Phineas thought that he had heard that Mr. Kennedy's
grandfather had been a Scotch drover; whereas his own grandfather
had been a little squire near Ennistimon, in county Clare, and his
own first cousin once removed still held the paternal acres at Finn
Grove. His family was supposed to be descended from kings in that
part of Ireland. It certainly did not become him to fear Lady Laura
on the score of rank, if it was to be allowed to Mr. Kennedy to
proceed without fear on that head. As to wealth, Lady Laura had
already told him that her fortune was no greater than his. Her
statement to himself on that head made him feel that he should not
hesitate on the score of money. They neither had any, and he was
willing to work for both. If she feared the risk, let her say so.

It was thus that he argued with himself; but yet he knew,--knew as
well as the reader will know,--that he was going to do that which he
had no right to do. It might be very well for him to wait,--presuming
him to be successful in his love,--for the opening of that oyster
with his political sword, that oyster on which he proposed that they
should both live; but such waiting could not well be to the taste
of Lady Laura Standish. It could hardly be pleasant to her to look
forward to his being made a junior lord or an assistant secretary
before she could establish herself in her home. So he told himself.
And yet he told himself at the same time that it was incumbent on him
to persevere.

"I did not expect you in the least," said Lady Laura.

"And yet I spoke very positively."

"But there are things as to which a man may be very positive, and yet
may be allowed to fail. In the first place, how on earth did you get
home?"

"Mr. Kennedy got me a pony,--Donald Bean's pony."

"You told him, then?"

"Yes; I told him why I was coming, and that I must be here. Then he
took the trouble to come all the way off the mountain to persuade
Donald to lend me his pony. I must acknowledge that Mr. Kennedy has
conquered me at last."

"I am so glad of that," said Lady Laura. "I knew he would,--unless it
were your own fault."

They went up the path by the brook, from bridge to bridge, till they
found themselves out upon the open mountain at the top. Phineas had
resolved that he would not speak out his mind till he found himself
on that spot; that then he would ask her to sit down, and that while
she was so seated he would tell her everything. At the present moment
he had on his head a Scotch cap with a grouse's feather in it, and he
was dressed in a velvet shooting-jacket and dark knickerbockers; and
was certainly, in this costume, as handsome a man as any woman would
wish to see. And there was, too, a look of breeding about him which
had come to him, no doubt, from the royal Finns of old, which ever
served him in great stead. He was, indeed, only Phineas Finn, and
was known by the world to be no more; but he looked as though he
might have been anybody,--a royal Finn himself. And then he had
that special grace of appearing to be altogether unconscious of his
own personal advantages. And I think that in truth he was barely
conscious of them; that he depended on them very little, if at all;
that there was nothing of personal vanity in his composition. He had
never indulged in any hope that Lady Laura would accept him because
he was a handsome man.

"After all that climbing," he said, "will you not sit down for a
moment?" As he spoke to her she looked at him and told herself that
he was as handsome as a god. "Do sit down for one moment," he said.
"I have something that I desire to say to you, and to say it here."

"I will," she said; "but I also have something to tell you, and will
say it while I am yet standing. Yesterday I accepted an offer of
marriage from Mr. Kennedy."

"Then I am too late," said Phineas, and putting his hands into the
pockets of his coat, he turned his back upon her, and walked away
across the mountain.

What a fool he had been to let her know his secret when her knowledge
of it could be of no service to him,--when her knowledge of it could
only make him appear foolish in her eyes! But for his life he could
not have kept his secret to himself. Nor now could he bring himself
to utter a word of even decent civility. But he went on walking as
though he could thus leave her there, and never see her again. What
an ass he had been in supposing that she cared for him! What a fool
to imagine that his poverty could stand a chance against the wealth
of Loughlinter! But why had she lured him on? How he wished that he
were now grinding, hard at work in Mr. Low's chambers, or sitting
at home at Killaloe with the hand of that pretty little Irish girl
within his own!

Presently he heard a voice behind him,--calling him gently. Then he
turned and found that she was very near him. He himself had then
been standing still for some moments, and she had followed him. "Mr.
Finn," she said.

"Well;--yes: what is it?" And turning round he made an attempt to
smile.

"Will you not wish me joy, or say a word of congratulation? Had I not
thought much of your friendship, I should not have been so quick to
tell you of my destiny. No one else has been told, except papa."

"Of course I hope you will be happy. Of course I do. No wonder he
lent me the pony!"

"You must forget all that."

"Forget what?"

"Well,--nothing. You need forget nothing," said Lady Laura, "for
nothing has been said that need be regretted. Only wish me joy, and
all will be pleasant."

"Lady Laura, I do wish you joy, with all my heart,--but that will not
make all things pleasant. I came up here to ask you to be my wife."

"No;--no, no; do not say it."

"But I have said it, and will say it again. I, poor, penniless, plain
simple fool that I am, have been ass enough to love you, Lady Laura
Standish; and I brought you up here to-day to ask you to share with
me--my nothingness. And this I have done on soil that is to be all
your own. Tell me that you regard me as a conceited fool,--as a
bewildered idiot."

"I wish to regard you as a dear friend,--both of my own and of my
husband," said she, offering him her hand.

"Should I have had a chance, I wonder, if I had spoken a week since?"

"How can I answer such a question, Mr. Finn? Or, rather, I will,
answer it fully. It is not a week since we told each other, you to
me and I to you, that we were both poor,--both without other means
than those which come to us from our fathers. You will make your
way;--will make it surely; but how at present could you marry any
woman unless she had money of her own? For me,--like so many other
girls, it was necessary that I should stay at home or marry some one
rich enough to dispense with fortune in a wife. The man whom in all
the world I think the best has asked me to share everything with
him;--and I have thought it wise to accept his offer."

"And I was fool enough to think that you loved me," said Phineas. To
this she made no immediate answer. "Yes, I was. I feel that I owe it
you to tell you what a fool I have been. I did. I thought you loved
me. At least I thought that perhaps you loved me. It was like a child
wanting the moon;--was it not?"

"And why should I not have loved you?" she said slowly, laying her
hand gently upon his arm.

"Why not? Because Loughlinter--"

"Stop, Mr. Finn; stop. Do not say to me any unkind word that I
have not deserved, and that would make a breach between us. I have
accepted the owner of Loughlinter as my husband, because I verily
believe that I shall thus do my duty in that sphere of life to which
it has pleased God to call me. I have always liked him, and I will
love him. For you,--may I trust myself to speak openly to you?"

"You may trust me as against all others, except us two ourselves."

"For you, then, I will say also that I have always liked you since I
knew you; that I have loved you as a friend;--and could have loved
you otherwise had not circumstances showed me so plainly that it
would be unwise."

"Oh, Lady Laura!"

"Listen a moment. And pray remember that what I say to you now must
never be repeated to any ears. No one knows it but my father, my
brother, and Mr. Kennedy. Early in the spring I paid my brother's
debts. His affection to me is more than a return for what I have done
for him. But when I did this,--when I made up my mind to do it, I
made up my mind also that I could not allow myself the same freedom
of choice which would otherwise have belonged to me. Will that be
sufficient, Mr. Finn?"

"How can I answer you, Lady Laura? Sufficient! And you are not angry
with me for what I have said?"

"No, I am not angry. But it is understood, of course, that nothing
of this shall ever be repeated,--even among ourselves. Is that a
bargain?"

"Oh, yes. I shall never speak of it again."

"And now you will wish me joy?"

"I have wished you joy, Lady Laura. And I will do so again. May you
have every blessing which the world can give you. You cannot expect
me to be very jovial for awhile myself; but there will be nobody to
see my melancholy moods. I shall be hiding myself away in Ireland.
When is the marriage to be?"

"Nothing has been said of that. I shall be guided by him,--but there
must, of course, be delay. There will be settlements and I know not
what. It may probably be in the spring,--or perhaps the summer. I
shall do just what my betters tell me to do."

Phineas had now seated himself on the exact stone on which he had
wished her to sit when he proposed to tell his own story, and was
looking forth upon the lake. It seemed to him that everything had
been changed for him while he had been up there upon the mountain,
and that the change had been marvellous in its nature. When he had
been coming up, there had been apparently two alternatives before
him: the glory of successful love,--which, indeed, had seemed to him
to be a most improbable result of the coming interview,--and the
despair and utter banishment attendant on disdainful rejection. But
his position was far removed from either of these alternatives. She
had almost told him that she would have loved him had she not been
poor,--that she was beginning to love him and had quenched her love,
because it had become impossible to her to marry a poor man. In such
circumstances he could not be angry with her,--he could not quarrel
with her; he could not do other than swear to himself that he would
be her friend. And yet he loved her better than ever;--and she was
the promised wife of his rival! Why had not Donald Bean's pony broken
his neck?

"Shall we go down now?" she said.

"Oh, yes."

"You will not go on by the lake?"

"What is the use? It is all the same now. You will want to be back to
receive him in from shooting."

"Not that, I think. He is above those little cares. But it will be as
well we should go the nearest way, as we have spent so much of our
time here. I shall tell Mr. Kennedy that I have told you,--if you do
not mind."

"Tell him what you please," said Phineas.

"But I won't have it taken in that way, Mr. Finn. Your brusque want
of courtesy to me I have forgiven, but I shall expect you to make up
for it by the alacrity of your congratulations to him. I will not
have you uncourteous to Mr. Kennedy."

"If I have been uncourteous I beg your pardon."

"You need not do that. We are old friends, and may take the liberty
of speaking plainly to each other;--but you will owe it to Mr.
Kennedy to be gracious. Think of the pony."

They walked back to the house together, and as they went down the
path very little was said. Just as they were about to come out upon
the open lawn, while they were still under cover of the rocks and
shrubs, Phineas stopped his companion by standing before her, and
then he made his farewell speech to her.

"I must say good-bye to you. I shall be away early in the morning."

"Good-bye, and God bless you," said Lady Laura.

"Give me your hand," said he. And she gave him her hand. "I don't
suppose you know what it is to love dearly."

"I hope I do."

"But to be in love! I believe you do not. And to miss your love! I
think,--I am bound to think that you have never been so tormented. It
is very sore;--but I will do my best, like a man, to get over it."

"Do, my friend, do. So small a trouble will never weigh heavily on
shoulders such as yours."

"It will weigh very heavily, but I will struggle hard that it may not
crush me. I have loved you so dearly! As we are parting give me one
kiss, that I may think of it and treasure it in my memory!" What
murmuring words she spoke to express her refusal of such a request,
I will not quote; but the kiss had been taken before the denial was
completed, and then they walked on in silence together,--and in
peace, towards the house.

On the next morning six or seven men were going away, and there was
an early breakfast. There were none of the ladies there, but Mr.
Kennedy, the host, was among his friends. A large drag with four
horses was there to take the travellers and their luggage to the
station, and there was naturally a good deal of noise at the front
door as the preparations for the departure were made. In the middle
of them Mr. Kennedy took our hero aside. "Laura has told me," said
Mr. Kennedy, "that she has acquainted you with my good fortune."

"And I congratulate you most heartily," said Phineas, grasping the
other's hand. "You are indeed a lucky fellow."

"I feel myself to be so," said Mr. Kennedy. "Such a wife was all that
was wanting to me, and such a wife is very hard to find. Will you
remember, Finn, that Loughlinter will never be so full but what
there will be a room for you, or so empty but what you will be made
welcome? I say this on Lady Laura's part and on my own."

Phineas, as he was being carried away to the railway station, could
not keep himself from speculating as to how much Kennedy knew of
what had taken place during the walk up the Linter. Of one small
circumstance that had occurred, he felt quite sure that Mr. Kennedy
knew nothing.




CHAPTER XVI

Phineas Finn Returns to Killaloe


Phineas Finn's first session of Parliament was over,--his first
session with all its adventures. When he got back to Mrs. Bunce's
house,--for Mrs. Bunce received him for a night in spite of her
husband's advice to the contrary,--I am afraid he almost felt that
Mrs. Bunce and her rooms were beneath him. Of course he was very
unhappy,--as wretched as a man can be; there were moments in which he
thought that it would hardly become him to live unless he could do
something to prevent the marriage of Lady Laura and Mr. Kennedy. But,
nevertheless, he had his consolations. These were reflections which
had in them much of melancholy satisfaction. He had not been despised
by the woman to whom he had told his love. She had not shown him that
she thought him to be unworthy of her. She had not regarded his love
as an offence. Indeed, she had almost told him that prudence alone
had forbidden her to return his passion. And he had kissed her, and
had afterwards parted from her as a dear friend. I do not know why
there should have been a flavour of exquisite joy in the midst of his
agony as he thought of this;--but it was so. He would never kiss her
again. All future delights of that kind would belong to Mr. Kennedy,
and he had no real idea of interfering with that gentleman in the
fruition of his privileges. But still there was the kiss,--an
eternal fact. And then, in all respects except that of his love, his
visit to Loughlinter had been pre-eminently successful. Mr. Monk had
become his friend, and had encouraged him to speak during the next
session,--setting before him various models, and prescribing for him
a course of reading. Lord Brentford had become intimate with him. He
was on pleasant terms with Mr. Palliser and Mr. Gresham. And as for
Mr. Kennedy,--he and Mr. Kennedy were almost bosom friends. It seemed
to him that he had quite surpassed the Ratlers, Fitzgibbons, and
Bonteens in that politico-social success which goes so far towards
downright political success, and which in itself is so pleasant. He
had surpassed these men in spite of their offices and their acquired
positions, and could not but think that even Mr. Low, if he knew it
all, would confess that he had been right.

As to his bosom friendship with Mr. Kennedy, that of course troubled
him. Ought he not to be driving a poniard into Mr. Kennedy's heart?
The conventions of life forbade that; and therefore the bosom
friendship was to be excused. If not an enemy to the death, then
there could be no reason why he should not be a bosom friend.

He went over to Ireland, staying but one night with Mrs. Bunce, and
came down upon them at Killaloe like a god out of the heavens. Even
his father was well-nigh overwhelmed by admiration, and his mother
and sisters thought themselves only fit to minister to his pleasures.
He had learned, if he had learned nothing else, to look as though he
were master of the circumstances around him, and was entirely free
from internal embarrassment. When his father spoke to him about his
legal studies, he did not exactly laugh at his father's ignorance,
but he recapitulated to his father so much of Mr. Monk's wisdom at
second hand,--showing plainly that it was his business to study the
arts of speech and the technicalities of the House, and not to study
law,--that his father had nothing further to say. He had become a
man of such dimensions that an ordinary father could hardly dare to
inquire into his proceedings; and as for an ordinary mother,--such as
Mrs. Finn certainly was,--she could do no more than look after her
son's linen with awe.

Mary Flood Jones,--the reader I hope will not quite have forgotten
Mary Flood Jones,--was in a great tremor when first she met the hero
of Loughshane after returning from the honours of his first session.
She had been somewhat disappointed because the newspapers had not
been full of the speeches he had made in Parliament. And indeed the
ladies of the Finn household had all been ill at ease on this head.
They could not imagine why Phineas had restrained himself with so
much philosophy. But Miss Flood Jones in discussing the matter
with the Miss Finns had never expressed the slightest doubt of his
capacity or his judgment. And when tidings came,--the tidings came
in a letter from Phineas to his father,--that he did not intend to
speak that session, because speeches from a young member on his first
session were thought to be inexpedient, Miss Flood Jones and the Miss
Finns were quite willing to accept the wisdom of this decision, much
as they might regret the effect of it. Mary, when she met her hero,
hardly dared to look him in the face, but she remembered accurately
all the circumstances of her last interview with him. Could it be
that he wore that ringlet near his heart? Mary had received from
Barbara Finn certain hairs supposed to have come from the head of
Phineas, and these she always wore near her own. And moreover, since
she had seen Phineas she had refused an offer of marriage from Mr.
Elias Bodkin,--had refused it almost ignominiously,--and when doing
so had told herself that she would never be false to Phineas Finn.

"We think it so good of you to come to see us again," she said.

"Good to come home to my own people?"

"Of course you might be staying with plenty of grandees if you liked
it."

"No, indeed, Mary. It did happen by accident that I had to go to the
house of a man whom perhaps you would call a grandee, and to meet
grandees there. But it was only for a few days, and I am very glad to
be taken in again here, I can assure you."

"You know how very glad we all are to have you."

"Are you glad to see me, Mary?"

"Very glad. Why should I not be glad, and Barbara the dearest friend
I have in the world? Of course she talks about you,--and that makes
me think of you."

"If you knew, Mary, how often I think about you." Then Mary, who was
very happy at hearing such words, and who was walking in to dinner
with him at the moment, could not refrain herself from pressing his
arm with her little fingers. She knew that Phineas in his position
could not marry at once; but she would wait for him,--oh, for ever,
if he would only ask her. He of course was a wicked traitor to tell
her that he was wont to think of her. But Jove smiles at lovers'
perjuries;--and it is well that he should do so, as such perjuries
can hardly be avoided altogether in the difficult circumstances of a
successful gentleman's life. Phineas was a traitor, of course, but he
was almost forced to be a traitor, by the simple fact that Lady Laura
Standish was in London, and Mary Flood Jones in Killaloe.

He remained for nearly five months at Killaloe, and I doubt whether
his time was altogether well spent. Some of the books recommended
to him by Mr. Monk he probably did read, and was often to be found
encompassed by blue books. I fear that there was a grain of pretence
about his blue books and parliamentary papers, and that in these days
he was, in a gentle way, something of an impostor. "You must not be
angry with me for not going to you," he said once to Mary's mother
when he had declined an invitation to drink tea; "but the fact is
that my time is not my own." "Pray don't make any apologies. We are
quite aware that we have very little to offer," said Mrs. Flood
Jones, who was not altogether happy about Mary, and who perhaps knew
more about members of Parliament and blue books than Phineas Finn had
supposed. "Mary, you are a fool to think of that man," the mother
said to her daughter the next morning. "I don't think of him, mamma;
not particularly." "He is no better than anybody else that I can see,
and he is beginning to give himself airs," said Mrs. Flood Jones.
Mary made no answer; but she went up into her room and swore before a
figure of the Virgin that she would be true to Phineas for ever and
ever, in spite of her mother, in spite of all the world,--in spite,
should it be necessary, even of himself.

About Christmas time there came a discussion between Phineas and his
father about money. "I hope you find you get on pretty well," said
the doctor, who thought that he had been liberal.

"It's a tight fit," said Phineas,--who was less afraid of his father
than he had been when he last discussed these things.

"I had hoped it would have been ample," said the doctor.

"Don't think for a moment, sir, that I am complaining," said Phineas.
"I know it is much more than I have a right to expect."

The doctor began to make an inquiry within his own breast as to
whether his son had a right to expect anything;--whether the time
had not come in which his son should be earning his own bread. "I
suppose," he said, after a pause, "there is no chance of your doing
anything at the bar now?"

"Not immediately. It is almost impossible to combine the two studies
together." Mr. Low himself was aware of that. "But you are not to
suppose that I have given the profession up."

"I hope not,--after all the money it has cost us."

"By no means, sir. And all that I am doing now will, I trust, be of
assistance to me when I shall come back to work at the law. Of course
it is on the cards that I may go into office,--and if so, public
business will become my profession."

"And be turned out with the Ministry!"

"Yes; that is true, sir. I must run my chance. If the worst comes to
the worst, I hope I might be able to secure some permanent place. I
should think that I can hardly fail to do so. But I trust I may never
be driven to want it. I thought, however, that we had settled all
this before." Then Phineas assumed a look of injured innocence, as
though his father was driving him too hard.

"And in the mean time your money has been enough?" said the doctor,
after a pause.

"I had intended to ask you to advance me a hundred pounds," said
Phineas. "There were expenses to which I was driven on first entering
Parliament."

"A hundred pounds."

"If it be inconvenient, sir, I can do without it." He had not as
yet paid for his gun, or for that velvet coat in which he had been
shooting, or, most probably, for the knickerbockers. He knew he
wanted the hundred pounds badly; but he felt ashamed of himself in
asking for it. If he were once in office,--though the office were but
a sorry junior lordship,--he would repay his father instantly.

"You shall have it, of course," said the doctor; "but do not let the
necessity for asking for more hundreds come oftener than you can
help." Phineas said that he would not, and then there was no further
discourse about money. It need hardly be said that he told his father
nothing of that bill which he had endorsed for Laurence Fitzgibbon.

At last came the time which called him again to London and the
glories of London life,--to lobbies, and the clubs, and the gossip of
men in office, and the chance of promotion for himself; to the glare
of the gas-lamps, the mock anger of rival debaters, and the prospect
of the Speaker's wig. During the idleness of the recess he had
resolved at any rate upon this,--that a month of the session should
not have passed by before he had been seen upon his legs in the
House,--had been seen and heard. And many a time as he had wandered
alone, with his gun, across the bogs which lie on the other side of
the Shannon from Killaloe, he had practised the sort of address which
he would make to the House. He would be short,--always short; and he
would eschew all action and gesticulation; Mr. Monk had been very
urgent in his instructions to him on that head; but he would be
especially careful that no words should escape him which had not in
them some purpose. He might be wrong in his purpose, but purpose
there should be. He had been twitted more than once at Killaloe
with his silence;--for it had been conceived by his fellow-townsmen
that he had been sent to Parliament on the special ground of his
eloquence. They should twit him no more on his next return. He would
speak and would carry the House with him if a human effort might
prevail.

So he packed up his things, and started again for London in the
beginning of February. "Good-bye, Mary," he said with his sweetest
smile. But on this occasion there was no kiss, and no culling of
locks. "I know he cannot help it," said Mary to herself. "It is his
position. But whether it be for good or evil, I will be true to him."

"I am afraid you are unhappy," Babara Finn said to her on the next
morning.

"No; I am not unhappy,--not at all. I have a deal to make me happy
and proud. I don't mean to be a bit unhappy." Then she turned away
and cried heartily, and Barbara Finn cried with her for company.




CHAPTER XVII

Phineas Finn Returns to London


Phineas had received two letters during his recess at Killaloe from
two women who admired him much, which, as they were both short, shall
be submitted to the reader. The first was as follows:--


   Saulsby, October 20, 186--.

   MY DEAR MR. FINN,

   I write a line to tell you that our marriage is to be
   hurried on as quickly as possible. Mr. Kennedy does not
   like to be absent from Parliament; nor will he be content
   to postpone the ceremony till the session be over. The day
   fixed is the 3rd of December, and we then go at once to
   Rome, and intend to be back in London by the opening of
   Parliament.

   Yours most sincerely,

   LAURA STANDISH.

   Our London address will be No. 52, Grosvenor Place.


To this he wrote an answer as short, expressing his ardent wishes
that those winter hymeneals might produce nothing but happiness, and
saying that he would not be in town many days before he knocked at
the door of No. 52, Grosvenor Place.

And the second letter was as follows:--


   Great Marlborough Street, December, 186--.

   DEAR AND HONOURED SIR,

   Bunce is getting ever so anxious about the rooms, and
   says as how he has a young Equity draftsman and wife and
   baby as would take the whole house, and all because Miss
   Pouncefoot said a word about her port wine, which any lady
   of her age might say in her tantrums, and mean nothing
   after all. Me and Miss Pouncefoot's knowed each other for
   seven years, and what's a word or two as isn't meant after
   that? But, honoured sir, it's not about that as I write
   to trouble you, but to ask if I may say for certain that
   you'll take the rooms again in February. It's easy to
   let them for the month after Christmas, because of the
   pantomimes. Only say at once, because Bunce is nagging
   me day after day. I don't want nobody's wife and baby to
   have to do for, and 'd sooner have a Parliament gent like
   yourself than any one else.

   Yours umbly and respectful,

   JANE BUNCE.


To this he replied that he would certainly come back to the rooms
in Great Marlborough Street, should he be lucky enough to find them
vacant, and he expressed his willingness to take them on and from
the 1st of February. And on the 3rd of February he found himself in
the old quarters, Mrs. Bunce having contrived, with much conjugal
adroitness, both to keep Miss Pouncefoot and to stave off the Equity
draftsman's wife and baby. Bunce, however, received Phineas very
coldly, and told his wife the same evening that as far as he could
see their lodger would never turn up to be a trump in the matter of
the ballot. "If he means well, why did he go and stay with them lords
down in Scotland? I knows all about it. I knows a man when I sees
him. Mr. Low, who's looking out to be a Tory judge some of these
days, is a deal better;--because he knows what he's after."

Immediately on his return to town, Phineas found himself summoned to
a political meeting at Mr. Mildmay's house in St. James's Square.
"We're going to begin in earnest this time," Barrington Erle said to
him at the club.

"I am glad of that," said Phineas.

"I suppose you heard all about it down at Loughlinter?"

Now, in truth, Phineas had heard very little of any settled plan down
at Loughlinter. He had played a game of chess with Mr. Gresham, and
had shot a stag with Mr. Palliser, and had discussed sheep with Lord
Brentford, but had hardly heard a word about politics from any one
of those influential gentlemen. From Mr. Monk he had heard much of a
coming Reform Bill; but his communications with Mr. Monk had rather
been private discussions,--in which he had learned Mr. Monk's own
views on certain points,--than revelations on the intention of the
party to which Mr. Monk belonged. "I heard of nothing settled," said
Phineas; "but I suppose we are to have a Reform Bill."

"That is a matter of course."

"And I suppose we are not to touch the question of ballot."

"That's the difficulty," said Barrington Erle. "But of course we
shan't touch it as long as Mr. Mildmay is in the Cabinet. He will
never consent to the ballot as First Minister of the Crown."

"Nor would Gresham, or Palliser," said Phineas, who did not choose to
bring forward his greatest gun at first.

"I don't know about Gresham. It is impossible to say what Gresham
might bring himself to do. Gresham is a man who may go any lengths
before he has done. Planty Pall,"--for such was the name by which Mr.
Plantagenet Palliser was ordinarily known among his friends,--"would
of course go with Mr. Mildmay and the Duke."

"And Monk is opposed to the ballot," said Phineas.

"Ah, that's the question. No doubt he has assented to the proposition
of a measure without the ballot; but if there should come a row, and
men like Turnbull demand it, and the London mob kick up a shindy, I
don't know how far Monk would be steady."

"Whatever he says, he'll stick to."

"He is your leader, then?" asked Barrington.

"I don't know that I have a leader. Mr. Mildmay leads our side; and
if anybody leads me, he does. But I have great faith in Mr. Monk."

"There's one who would go for the ballot to-morrow, if it were
brought forward stoutly," said Barrington Erle to Mr. Ratler a few
minutes afterwards, pointing to Phineas as he spoke.

"I don't think much of that young man," said Ratler.

Mr. Bonteen and Mr. Ratler had put their heads together during that
last evening at Loughlinter, and had agreed that they did not think
much of Phineas Finn. Why did Mr. Kennedy go down off the mountain
to get him a pony? And why did Mr. Gresham play chess with him? Mr.
Ratler and Mr. Bonteen may have been right in making up their minds
to think but little of Phineas Finn, but Barrington Erle had been
quite wrong when he had said that Phineas would "go for the ballot"
to-morrow. Phineas had made up his mind very strongly that he would
always oppose the ballot. That he would hold the same opinion
throughout his life, no one should pretend to say; but in his present
mood, and under the tuition which he had received from Mr. Monk,
he was prepared to demonstrate, out of the House and in it, that
the ballot was, as a political measure, unmanly, ineffective, and
enervating. Enervating had been a great word with Mr. Monk, and
Phineas had clung to it with admiration.

The meeting took place at Mr. Mildmay's on the third day of the
session. Phineas had of course heard of such meetings before, but had
never attended one. Indeed, there had been no such gathering when
Mr. Mildmay's party came into power early in the last session. Mr.
Mildmay and his men had then made their effort in turning out their
opponents, and had been well pleased to rest awhile upon their oars.
Now, however, they must go again to work, and therefore the liberal
party was collected at Mr. Mildmay's house, in order that the liberal
party might be told what it was that Mr. Mildmay and his Cabinet
intended to do.

Phineas Finn was quite in the dark as to what would be the nature
of the performance on this occasion, and entertained some idea that
every gentleman present would be called upon to express individually
his assent or dissent in regard to the measure proposed. He walked to
St. James's Square with Laurence Fitzgibbon; but even with Fitzgibbon
was ashamed to show his ignorance by asking questions. "After all,"
said Fitzgibbon, "this kind of thing means nothing. I know as well as
possible, and so do you, what Mr. Mildmay will say,--and then Gresham
will say a few words; and then Turnbull will make a murmur, and then
we shall all assent,--to anything or to nothing;--and then it will be
over." Still Phineas did not understand whether the assent required
would or would not be an individual personal assent. When the affair
was over he found that he was disappointed, and that he might almost
as well have stayed away from the meeting,--except that he had
attended at Mr. Mildmay's bidding, and had given a silent adhesion to
Mr. Mildmay's plan of reform for that session. Laurence Fitzgibbon
had been very nearly correct in his description of what would occur.
Mr. Mildmay made a long speech. Mr. Turnbull, the great Radical of
the day,--the man who was supposed to represent what many called the
Manchester school of politics,--asked half a dozen questions. In
answer to these Mr. Gresham made a short speech. Then Mr. Mildmay
made another speech, and then all was over. The gist of the whole
thing was, that there should be a Reform Bill,--very generous in its
enlargement of the franchise,--but no ballot. Mr. Turnbull expressed
his doubt whether this would be satisfactory to the country; but even
Mr. Turnbull was soft in his tone and complaisant in his manner. As
there was no reporter present,--that plan of turning private meetings
at gentlemen's houses into public assemblies not having been as yet
adopted,--there could be no need for energy or violence. They went to
Mr. Mildmay's house to hear Mr. Mildmay's plan,--and they heard it.

Two days after this Phineas was to dine with Mr. Monk. Mr. Monk had
asked him in the lobby of the House. "I don't give dinner parties,"
he said, "but I should like you to come and meet Mr. Turnbull."
Phineas accepted the invitation as a matter of course. There were
many who said that Mr. Turnbull was the greatest man in the nation,
and that the nation could be saved only by a direct obedience to
Mr. Turnbull's instructions. Others said that Mr. Turnbull was a
demagogue and at heart a rebel; that he was un-English, false and
very dangerous. Phineas was rather inclined to believe the latter
statement; and as danger and dangerous men are always more attractive
than safety and safe men, he was glad to have an opportunity of
meeting Mr. Turnbull at dinner.

In the meantime he went to call on Lady Laura, whom he had not
seen since the last evening which he spent in her company at
Loughlinter,--whom, when he was last speaking to her, he had kissed
close beneath the falls of the Linter. He found her at home, and with
her was her husband. "Here is a Darby and Joan meeting, is it not?"
she said, getting up to welcome him. He had seen Mr. Kennedy before,
and had been standing close to him during the meeting at Mr.
Mildmay's.

"I am very glad to find you both together."

"But Robert is going away this instant," said Lady Laura. "Has he
told you of our adventures at Rome?"

"Not a word."

"Then I must tell you;--but not now. The dear old Pope was so civil
to us. I came to think it quite a pity that he should be in trouble."

"I must be off," said the husband, getting up. "But I shall meet you
at dinner, I believe."

"Do you dine at Mr. Monk's?"

"Yes, and am asked expressly to hear Turnbull make a convert of you.
There are only to be us four. Au revoir." Then Mr. Kennedy went, and
Phineas found himself alone with Lady Laura. He hardly knew how to
address her, and remained silent. He had not prepared himself for the
interview as he ought to have done, and felt himself to be awkward.
She evidently expected him to speak, and for a few seconds sat
waiting for what he might say.

At last she found that it was incumbent on her to begin. "Were you
surprised at our suddenness when you got my note?"

"A little. You had spoken of waiting."

"I had never imagined that he would have been impetuous. And he seems
to think that even the business of getting himself married would not
justify him staying away from Parliament. He is a rigid martinet in
all matters of duty."

"I did not wonder that he should be in a hurry, but that you should
submit."

"I told you that I should do just what the wise people told me. I
asked papa, and he said that it would be better. So the lawyers were
driven out of their minds, and the milliners out of their bodies, and
the thing was done."

"Who was there at the marriage?"

"Oswald was not there. That I know is what you mean to ask. Papa said
that he might come if he pleased. Oswald stipulated that he should be
received as a son. Then my father spoke the hardest word that ever
fell from his mouth."

"What did he say?"

"I will not repeat it,--not altogether. But he said that Oswald was
not entitled to a son's treatment. He was very sore about my money,
because Robert was so generous as to his settlement. So the breach
between them is as wide as ever."

"And where is Chiltern now?" said Phineas.

"Down in Northamptonshire, staying at some inn from whence he hunts.
He tells me that he is quite alone,--that he never dines out, never
has any one to dine with him, that he hunts five or six days a
week,--and reads at night."

"That is not a bad sort of life."

"Not if the reading is any good. But I cannot bear that he should be
so solitary. And if he breaks down in it, then his companions will
not be fit for him. Do you ever hunt?"

"Oh yes,--at home in county Clare. All Irishmen hunt."

"I wish you would go down to him and see him. He would be delighted
to have you."

Phineas thought over the proposition before he answered it, and then
made the reply that he had made once before. "I would do so, Lady
Laura,--but that I have no money for hunting in England."

"Alas, alas!" said she, smiling. "How that hits one on every side!"

"I might manage it,--for a couple of days,--in March."

"Do not do what you think you ought not to do," said Lady Laura.

"No; certainly. But I should like it, and if I can I will."

"He could mount you, I have no doubt. He has no other expense now,
and keeps a stable full of horses. I think he has seven or eight. And
now tell me, Mr. Finn; when are you going to charm the House? Or is
it your first intention to strike terror?"

He blushed,--he knew that he blushed as he answered. "Oh, I suppose I
shall make some sort of attempt before long. I can't bear the idea of
being a bore."

"I think you ought to speak, Mr. Finn."

"I do not know about that, but I certainly mean to try. There will be
lots of opportunities about the new Reform Bill. Of course you know
that Mr. Mildmay is going to bring it in at once. You hear all that
from Mr. Kennedy."

"And papa has told me. I still see papa almost every day. You must
call upon him. Mind you do." Phineas said that he certainly would.
"Papa is very lonely now, and I sometimes feel that I have been
almost cruel in deserting him. And I think that he has a horror of
the house,--especially later in the year,--always fancying that he
will meet Oswald. I am so unhappy about it all, Mr. Finn."

"Why doesn't your brother marry?" said Phineas, knowing nothing as
yet of Lord Chiltern and Violet Effingham. "If he were to marry well,
that would bring your father round."

"Yes,--it would."

"And why should he not?"

Lady Laura paused before she answered; and then she told the whole
story. "He is violently in love, and the girl he loves has refused
him twice."

"Is it with Miss Effingham?" asked Phineas, guessing the truth at
once, and remembering what Miss Effingham had said to him when riding
in the wood.

"Yes;--with Violet Effingham; my father's pet, his favourite, whom he
loves next to myself,--almost as well as myself; whom he would really
welcome as a daughter. He would gladly make her mistress of his
house, and of Saulsby. Everything would then go smoothly."

"But she does not like Lord Chiltern?"

"I believe she loves him in her heart; but she is afraid of him. As
she says herself, a girl is bound to be so careful of herself. With
all her seeming frolic, Violet Effingham is very wise."

Phineas, though not conscious of anything akin to jealousy, was
annoyed at the revelation made to him. Since he had heard that Lord
Chiltern was in love with Miss Effingham, he did not like Lord
Chiltern quite as well as he had done before. He himself had simply
admired Miss Effingham, and had taken pleasure in her society; but,
though this had been all, he did not like to hear of another man
wanting to marry her, and he was almost angry with Lady Laura for
saying that she believed Miss Effingham loved her brother. If Miss
Effingham had twice refused Lord Chiltern, that ought to have been
sufficient. It was not that Phineas was in love with Miss Effingham
himself. As he was still violently in love with Lady Laura, any other
love was of course impossible; but, nevertheless, there was something
offensive to him in the story as it had been told. "If it be wisdom
on her part," said he, answering Lady Laura's last words, "you cannot
find fault with her for her decision."

"I find no fault;--but I think my brother would make her happy."

Lady Laura, when she was left alone, at once reverted to the tone in
which Phineas Finn had answered her remarks about Miss Effingham.
Phineas was very ill able to conceal his thoughts, and wore his heart
almost upon his sleeve. "Can it be possible that he cares for her
himself?" That was the nature of Lady Laura's first question to
herself upon the matter. And in asking herself that question, she
thought nothing of the disparity in rank or fortune between Phineas
Finn and Violet Effingham. Nor did it occur to her as at all
improbable that Violet might accept the love of him who had so lately
been her own lover. But the idea grated against her wishes on two
sides. She was most anxious that Violet should ultimately become her
brother's wife,--and she could not be pleased that Phineas should be
able to love any woman.

I must beg my readers not to be carried away by those last words
into any erroneous conclusion. They must not suppose that Lady Laura
Kennedy, the lately married bride, indulged a guilty passion for the
young man who had loved her. Though she had probably thought often
of Phineas Finn since her marriage, her thoughts had never been of
a nature to disturb her rest. It had never occurred to her even to
think that she regarded him with any feeling that was an offence
to her husband. She would have hated herself had any such idea
presented itself to her mind. She prided herself on being a pure
high-principled woman, who had kept so strong a guard upon herself as
to be nearly free from the dangers of those rocks upon which other
women made shipwreck of their happiness. She took pride in this, and
would then blame herself for her own pride. But though she so blamed
herself, it never occurred to her to think that to her there might be
danger of such shipwreck. She had put away from herself the idea of
love when she had first perceived that Phineas had regarded her with
more than friendship, and had accepted Mr. Kennedy's offer with an
assured conviction that by doing so she was acting best for her own
happiness and for that of all those concerned. She had felt the
romance of the position to be sweet when Phineas had stood with her
at the top of the falls of the Linter, and had told her of the hopes
which he had dared to indulge. And when at the bottom of the falls he
had presumed to take her in his arms, she had forgiven him without
difficulty to herself, telling herself that that would be the alpha
and the omega of the romance of her life. She had not felt herself
bound to tell Mr. Kennedy of what had occurred,--but she had felt
that he could hardly have been angry even had he been told. And she
had often thought of her lover since, and of his love,--telling
herself that she too had once had a lover, never regarding her
husband in that light; but her thoughts had not frightened her as
guilty thoughts will do. There had come a romance which had been
pleasant, and it was gone. It had been soon banished,--but it
had left to her a sweet flavour, of which she loved to taste the
sweetness though she knew that it was gone. And the man should be her
friend, but especially her husband's friend. It should be her care to
see that his life was successful,--and especially her husband's care.
It was a great delight to her to know that her husband liked the man.
And the man would marry, and the man's wife should be her friend. All
this had been very pure and very pleasant. Now an idea had flitted
across her brain that the man was in love with some one else,--and
she did not like it!

But she did not therefore become afraid of herself, or in the least
realise at once the danger of her own position. Her immediate glance
at the matter did not go beyond the falseness of men. If it were so,
as she suspected,--if Phineas had in truth transferred his affections
to Violet Effingham, of how little value was the love of such a man!
It did not occur to her at this moment that she also had transferred
hers to Robert Kennedy, or that, if not, she had done worse. But she
did remember that in the autumn this young Phoebus among men had
turned his back upon her out upon the mountain that he might hide
from her the agony of his heart when he learned that she was to be
the wife of another man; and that now, before the winter was over, he
could not hide from her the fact that his heart was elsewhere! And
then she speculated, and counted up facts, and satisfied herself that
Phineas could not even have seen Violet Effingham since they two had
stood together upon the mountain. How false are men!--how false and
how weak of heart!

"Chiltern and Violet Effingham!" said Phineas to himself, as he
walked away from Grosvenor Place. "Is it fair that she should be
sacrificed because she is rich, and because she is so winning and so
fascinating that Lord Brentford would receive even his son for the
sake of receiving also such a daughter-in-law?" Phineas also liked
Lord Chiltern; had seen or fancied that he had seen fine things in
him; had looked forward to his regeneration, hoping, perhaps, that he
might have some hand in the good work. But he did not recognise the
propriety of sacrificing Violet Effingham even for work so good as
this. If Miss Effingham had refused Lord Chiltern twice, surely that
ought to be sufficient. It did not occur to him that the love of such
a girl as Violet would be a great treasure--to himself. As regarded
himself, he was still in love,--hopelessly in love, with Lady Laura
Kennedy!




CHAPTER XVIII

Mr. Turnbull


It was a Wednesday evening and there was no House;--and at seven
o'clock Phineas was at Mr. Monk's hall door. He was the first of the
guests, and he found Mr. Monk alone in the dining-room. "I am doing
butler," said Mr. Monk, who had a brace of decanters in his hands,
which he proceeded to put down in the neighbourhood of the fire.
"But I have finished, and now we will go up-stairs to receive the
two great men properly."

"I beg your pardon for coming too early," said Finn.

"Not a minute too early. Seven is seven, and it is I who am too late.
But, Lord bless you, you don't think I'm ashamed of being found in
the act of decanting my own wine! I remember Lord Palmerston saying
before some committee about salaries, five or six years ago now, I
daresay, that it wouldn't do for an English Minister to have his hall
door opened by a maid-servant. Now, I'm an English Minister, and
I've got nobody but a maid-servant to open my hall door, and I'm
obliged to look after my own wine. I wonder whether it's improper? I
shouldn't like to be the means of injuring the British Constitution."

"Perhaps if you resign soon, and if nobody follows your example,
grave evil results may be avoided."

"I sincerely hope so, for I do love the British Constitution; and I
love also the respect in which members of the English Cabinet are
held. Now Turnbull, who will be here in a moment, hates it all; but
he is a rich man, and has more powdered footmen hanging about his
house than ever Lord Palmerston had himself."

"He is still in business."

"Oh yes;--and makes his thirty thousand a year. Here he is. How are
you, Turnbull? We were talking about my maid-servant. I hope she
opened the door for you properly."

"Certainly,--as far as I perceived," said Mr. Turnbull, who was
better at a speech than a joke. "A very respectable young woman I
should say."

"There is not one more so in all London," said Mr. Monk; "but Finn
seems to think that I ought to have a man in livery."

"It is a matter of perfect indifference to me," said Mr. Turnbull.
"I am one of those who never think of such things."

"Nor I either," said Mr. Monk. Then the laird of Loughlinter was
announced, and they all went down to dinner.

Mr. Turnbull was a good-looking robust man about sixty, with long
grey hair and a red complexion, with hard eyes, a well-cut nose, and
full lips. He was nearly six feet high, stood quite upright, and
always wore a black swallow-tail coat, black trousers, and a black
silk waistcoat. In the House, at least, he was always so dressed, and
at dinner tables. What difference there might be in his costume when
at home at Staleybridge few of those who saw him in London had the
means of knowing. There was nothing in his face to indicate special
talent. No one looking at him would take him to be a fool; but there
was none of the fire of genius in his eye, nor was there in the lines
of his mouth any of that play of thought or fancy which is generally
to be found in the faces of men and women who have made themselves
great. Mr. Turnbull had certainly made himself great, and could
hardly have done so without force of intellect. He was one of the
most popular, if not the most popular politician in the country. Poor
men believed in him, thinking that he was their most honest public
friend; and men who were not poor believed in his power, thinking
that his counsels must surely prevail. He had obtained the ear of the
House and the favour of the reporters, and opened his voice at no
public dinner, on no public platform, without a conviction that the
words spoken by him would be read by thousands. The first necessity
for good speaking is a large audience; and of this advantage Mr.
Turnbull had made himself sure. And yet it could hardly be said that
he was a great orator. He was gifted with a powerful voice, with
strong, and I may, perhaps, call them broad convictions, with perfect
self-reliance, with almost unlimited powers of endurance, with hot
ambition, with no keen scruples, and with a moral skin of great
thickness. Nothing said against him pained him, no attacks wounded
him, no raillery touched him in the least. There was not a sore spot
about him, and probably his first thoughts on waking every morning
told him that he, at least, was totus teres atque rotundus. He was,
of course, a thorough Radical,--and so was Mr. Monk. But Mr. Monk's
first waking thoughts were probably exactly the reverse of those
of his friend. Mr. Monk was a much hotter man in debate than Mr.
Turnbull;--but Mr. Monk was ever doubting of himself, and never
doubted of himself so much as when he had been most violent, and
also most effective, in debate. When Mr. Monk jeered at himself for
being a Cabinet Minister and keeping no attendant grander than a
parlour-maid, there was a substratum of self-doubt under the joke.

Mr. Turnbull was certainly a great Radical, and as such enjoyed a
great reputation. I do not think that high office in the State had
ever been offered to him; but things had been said which justified
him, or seemed to himself to justify him, in declaring that in
no possible circumstances would he serve the Crown. "I serve the
people," he had said, "and much as I respect the servants of the
Crown, I think that my own office is the higher." He had been greatly
called to task for this speech; and Mr. Mildmay, the present Premier,
had asked him whether he did not recognise the so-called servants of
the Crown as the most hard-worked and truest servants of the people.
The House and the press had supported Mr. Mildmay, but to all that
Mr. Turnbull was quite indifferent; and when an assertion made by him
before three or four thousand persons at Manchester, to the effect
that he,--he specially,--was the friend and servant of the people,
was received with acclamation, he felt quite satisfied that he had
gained his point. Progressive reform in the franchise, of which
manhood suffrage should be the acknowledged and not far distant end,
equal electoral districts, ballot, tenant right for England as well
as Ireland, reduction of the standing army till there should be no
standing army to reduce, utter disregard of all political movements
in Europe, an almost idolatrous admiration for all political
movements in America, free trade in everything except malt, and
an absolute extinction of a State Church,--these were among the
principal articles in Mr. Turnbull's political catalogue. And I
think that when once he had learned the art of arranging his words
as he stood upon his legs, and had so mastered his voice as to
have obtained the ear of the House, the work of his life was not
difficult. Having nothing to construct, he could always deal with
generalities. Being free from responsibility, he was not called upon
either to study details or to master even great facts. It was his
business to inveigh against existing evils, and perhaps there is
no easier business when once the privilege of an audience has been
attained. It was his work to cut down forest-trees, and he had
nothing to do with the subsequent cultivation of the land. Mr.
Monk had once told Phineas Finn how great were the charms of that
inaccuracy which was permitted to the Opposition. Mr. Turnbull no
doubt enjoyed these charms to the full, though he would sooner have
put a padlock on his mouth for a month than have owned as much. Upon
the whole, Mr. Turnbull was no doubt right in resolving that he would
not take office, though some reticence on that subject might have
been more becoming to him.

The conversation at dinner, though it was altogether on political
subjects, had in it nothing of special interest as long as the girl
was there to change the plates; but when she was gone, and the door
was closed, it gradually opened out, and there came on to be a
pleasant sparring match between the two great Radicals,--the Radical
who had joined himself to the governing powers, and the Radical who
stood aloof. Mr. Kennedy barely said a word now and then, and Phineas
was almost as silent as Mr. Kennedy. He had come there to hear some
such discussion, and was quite willing to listen while guns of such
great calibre were being fired off for his amusement.

"I think Mr. Mildmay is making a great step forward," said Mr.
Turnbull.

"I think he is," said Mr. Monk.

"I did not believe that he would ever live to go so far. It will
hardly suffice even for this year; but still coming from him, it is
a great deal. It only shows how far a man may be made to go, if only
the proper force be applied. After all, it matters very little who
are the Ministers."

"That is what I have always declared," said Mr. Monk.

"Very little indeed. We don't mind whether it be Lord de Terrier, or
Mr. Mildmay, or Mr. Gresham, or you yourself, if you choose to get
yourself made First Lord of the Treasury."

"I have no such ambition, Turnbull."

"I should have thought you had. If I went in for that kind of thing
myself, I should like to go to the top of the ladder. I should feel
that if I could do any good at all by becoming a Minister, I could
only do it by becoming first Minister."

"You wouldn't doubt your own fitness for such a position?"

"I doubt my fitness for the position of any Minister," said Mr.
Turnbull.

"You mean that on other grounds," said Mr. Kennedy.

"I mean it on every ground," said Mr. Turnbull, rising on his legs
and standing with his back to the fire. "Of course I am not fit to
have diplomatic intercourse with men who would come to me simply with
the desire of deceiving me. Of course I am unfit to deal with members
of Parliament who would flock around me because they wanted places.
Of course I am unfit to answer every man's question so as to give no
information to any one."

"Could you not answer them so as to give information?" said Mr.
Kennedy.

But Mr. Turnbull was so intent on his speech that it may be doubted
whether he heard this interruption. He took no notice of it as he
went on. "Of course I am unfit to maintain the proprieties of a
seeming confidence between a Crown all-powerless and a people
all-powerful. No man recognises his own unfitness for such work more
clearly than I do, Mr. Monk. But if I took in hand such work at all,
I should like to be the leader, and not the led. Tell us fairly, now,
what are your convictions worth in Mr. Mildmay's Cabinet?"

"That is a question which a man may hardly answer himself," said Mr.
Monk.

"It is a question which a man should at least answer for himself
before he consents to sit there," said Mr. Turnbull, in a tone of
voice which was almost angry.

"And what reason have you for supposing that I have omitted that
duty?" said Mr. Monk.

"Simply this,--that I cannot reconcile your known opinions with the
practices of your colleagues."

"I will not tell you what my convictions may be worth in Mr.
Mildmay's Cabinet. I will not take upon myself to say that they are
worth the chair on which I sit when I am there. But I will tell you
what my aspirations were when I consented to fill that chair, and you
shall judge of their worth. I thought that they might possibly leaven
the batch of bread which we have to bake,--giving to the whole batch
more of the flavour of reform than it would have possessed had I
absented myself. I thought that when I was asked to join Mr. Mildmay
and Mr. Gresham, the very fact of that request indicated liberal
progress, and that if I refused the request I should be declining to
assist in good work."

"You could have supported them, if anything were proposed worthy of
support," said Mr. Turnbull.

"Yes; but I could not have been so effective in taking care that
some measure be proposed worthy of support as I may possibly be now.
I thought a good deal about it, and I believe that my decision was
right."

"I am sure you were right," said Mr. Kennedy.

"There can be no juster object of ambition than a seat in the
Cabinet," said Phineas.

"Sir, I must dispute that," said Mr. Turnbull, turning round upon our
hero. "I regard the position of our high Ministers as most
respectable."

"Thank you for so much," said Mr. Monk. But the orator went on again,
regardless of the interruption:--

"The position of gentlemen in inferior offices,--of gentlemen who
attend rather to the nods and winks of their superiors in Downing
Street than to the interest of their constituents,--I do not regard
as being highly respectable."

"A man cannot begin at the top," said Phineas.

"Our friend Mr. Monk has begun at what you are pleased to call the
top," said Mr. Turnbull. "But I will not profess to think that even
he has raised himself by going into office. To be an independent
representative of a really popular commercial constituency is, in my
estimation, the highest object of an Englishman's ambition."

"But why commercial, Mr. Turnbull?" said Mr. Kennedy.

"Because the commercial constituencies really do elect their own
members in accordance with their own judgments, whereas the counties
and the small towns are coerced either by individuals or by a
combination of aristocratic influences."

"And yet," said Mr. Kennedy, "there are not half a dozen
Conservatives returned by all the counties in Scotland."

"Scotland is very much to be honoured," said Mr. Turnbull.

Mr. Kennedy was the first to take his departure, and Mr. Turnbull
followed him very quickly. Phineas got up to go at the same time, but
stayed at his host's request, and sat for awhile smoking a cigar.

"Turnbull is a wonderful man," said Mr. Monk.

"Does he not domineer too much?"

"His fault is not arrogance, so much as ignorance that there is,
or should be, a difference between public and private life. In the
House of Commons a man in Mr. Turnbull's position must speak with
dictatorial assurance. He is always addressing, not the House only,
but the country at large, and the country will not believe in him
unless he believe in himself. But he forgets that he is not always
addressing the country at large. I wonder what sort of a time Mrs.
Turnbull and the little Turnbulls have of it?"

Phineas, as he went home, made up his mind that Mrs. Turnbull and
the little Turnbulls must probably have a bad time of it.




CHAPTER XIX

Lord Chiltern Rides His Horse Bonebreaker


It was known that whatever might be the details of Mr. Mildmay's
bill, the ballot would not form a part of it; and as there was a
strong party in the House of Commons, and a very numerous party out
of it, who were desirous that voting by ballot should be made a part
of the electoral law, it was decided that an independent motion
should be brought on in anticipation of Mr. Mildmay's bill. The
arrangement was probably one of Mr. Mildmay's own making; so that
he might be hampered by no opposition on that subject by his own
followers if,--as he did not doubt,--the motion should be lost.
It was expected that the debate would not last over one night,
and Phineas resolved that he would make his maiden speech on this
occasion. He had very strong opinions as to the inefficacy of the
ballot for any good purposes, and thought that he might be able to
strike out from his convictions some sparks of that fire which used
to be so plentiful with him at the old debating clubs. But even at
breakfast that morning his heart began to beat quickly at the idea
of having to stand on his legs before so critical an audience.

He knew that it would be well that he should if possible get the
subject off his mind during the day, and therefore went out among the
people who certainly would not talk to him about the ballot. He sat
for nearly an hour in the morning with Mr. Low, and did not even tell
Mr. Low that it was his intention to speak on that day. Then he made
one or two other calls, and at about three went up to Portman Square
to look for Lord Chiltern. It was now nearly the end of February, and
Phineas had often seen Lady Laura. He had not seen her brother, but
had learned from his sister that he had been driven up to London by
the frost, He was told by the porter at Lord Brentford's that Lord
Chiltern was in the house, and as he was passing through the hall he
met Lord Brentford himself. He was thus driven to speak, and felt
himself called upon to explain why he was there. "I am come to see
Lord Chiltern," he said.

"Is Lord Chiltern in the house?" said the Earl, turning to the
servant.

"Yes, my lord; his lordship arrived last night."

"You will find him upstairs, I suppose," said the Earl. "For myself
I know nothing of him." He spoke in an angry tone, as though he
resented the fact that any one should come to his house to call upon
his son; and turned his back quickly upon Phineas. But he thought
better of it before he reached the front door, and turned again.
"By-the-bye," said he,  "what majority shall we have to-night, Finn?"

"Pretty nearly as many as you please to name, my lord," said Phineas.

"Well;--yes; I suppose we are tolerably safe. You ought to speak upon
it."

"Perhaps I may," said Phineas, feeling that he blushed as he spoke.

"Do," said the Earl. "Do. If you see Lord Chiltern will you tell him
from me that I should be glad to see him before he leaves London. I
shall be at home till noon to-morrow." Phineas, much astonished at
the commission given to him, of course said that he would do as he
was desired, and then passed on to Lord Chiltern's apartments.

He found his friend standing in the middle of the room, without coat
and waistcoat, with a pair of dumb-bells in his hands. "When there's
no hunting I'm driven to this kind of thing," said Lord Chiltern.

"I suppose it's good exercise," said Phineas.

"And it gives me something to do. When I'm in London I feel like a
gipsy in church, till the time comes for prowling out at night. I've
no occupation for my days whatever, and no place to which I can take
myself. I can't stand in a club window as some men do, and I should
disgrace any decent club if I did stand there. I belong to the
Travellers, but I doubt whether the porter would let me go in."

"I think you pique yourself on being more of an outer Bohemian than
you are," said Phineas.

"I pique myself on this, that whether Bohemian or not, I will go
nowhere that I am not wanted. Though,--for the matter of that, I
suppose I'm not wanted here." Then Phineas gave him the message from
his father. "He wishes to see me to-morrow morning?" continued Lord
Chiltern. "Let him send me word what it is he has to say to me. I do
not choose to be insulted by him, though he is my father."

"I would certainly go, if I were you."

"I doubt it very much, if all the circumstances were the same. Let
him tell me what he wants."

"Of course I cannot ask him, Chiltern."

"I know what he wants very well. Laura has been interfering and doing
no good. You know Violet Effingham?"

"Yes; I know her," said Phineas, much surprised.

"They want her to marry me."

"And you do not wish to marry her?"

"I did not say that. But do you think that such a girl as Miss
Effingham would marry such a man as I am? She would be much more
likely to take you. By George, she would! Do you know that she has
three thousand a year of her own?"

"I know that she has money."

"That's about the tune of it. I would take her without a shilling
to-morrow, if she would have me,--because I like her. She is the only
girl I ever did like. But what is the use of my liking her? They have
painted me so black among them, especially my father, that no decent
girl would think of marrying me."

"Your father can't be angry with you if you do your best to comply
with his wishes."

"I don't care a straw whether he be angry or not. He allows me eight
hundred a year, and he knows that if he stopped it I should go to the
Jews the next day. I could not help myself. He can't leave an acre
away from me, and yet he won't join me in raising money for the sake
of paying Laura her fortune."

"Lady Laura can hardly want money now."

"That detestable prig whom she has chosen to marry, and whom I
hate with all my heart, is richer than ever Croesus was; but
nevertheless Laura ought to have her own money. She shall have it
some day."

"I would see Lord Brentford, if I were you."

"I will think about it. Now tell me about coming down to Willingford.
Laura says you will come some day in March. I can mount you for a
couple of days and should be delighted to have you. My horses all
pull like the mischief, and rush like devils, and want a deal of
riding; but an Irishman likes that."

"I do not dislike it particularly."

"I like it. I prefer to have something to do on horseback. When
a man tells me that a horse is an armchair, I always tell him to
put the brute into his bedroom. Mind you come. The house I stay
at is called the Willingford Bull, and it's just four miles from
Peterborough." Phineas swore that he would go down and ride the
pulling horses, and then took his leave, earnestly advising Lord
Chiltern, as he went, to keep the appointment proposed by his father.

When the morning came, at half-past eleven, the son, who had been
standing for half an hour with his back to the fire in the large
gloomy dining-room, suddenly rang the bell. "Tell the Earl," he said
to the servant, "that I am here and will go to him if he wishes it."
The servant came back, and said that the Earl was waiting. Then Lord
Chiltern strode after the man into his father's room.

"Oswald," said the father, "I have sent for you because I think it
may be as well to speak to you on some business. Will you sit down?"
Lord Chiltern sat down, but did not answer a word. "I feel very
unhappy about your sister's fortune," said the Earl.

"So do I,--very unhappy. We can raise the money between us, and pay
her to-morrow, if you please it."

"It was in opposition to my advice that she paid your debts."

"And in opposition to mine too."

"I told her that I would not pay them, and were I to give her back
to-morrow, as you say, the money that she has so used, I should be
stultifying myself. But I will do so on one condition. I will join
with you in raising the money for your sister, on one condition."

"What is that?"

"Laura tells me,--indeed she has told me often,--that you are
attached to Violet Effingham."

"But Violet Effingham, my lord, is unhappily not attached to me."

"I do not know how that may be. Of course I cannot say. I have never
taken the liberty of interrogating her upon the subject."

"Even you, my lord, could hardly have done that."

"What do you mean by that? I say that I never have," said the Earl,
angrily.

"I simply mean that even you could hardly have asked Miss Effingham
such a question. I have asked her, and she has refused me."

"But girls often do that, and yet accept afterwards the men whom they
have refused. Laura tells me that she believes that Violet would
consent if you pressed your suit."

"Laura knows nothing about it, my lord."

"There you are probably wrong. Laura and Violet are very close
friends, and have no doubt discussed this matter between them. At any
rate, it may be as well that you should hear what I have to say. Of
course I shall not interfere myself. There is no ground on which I
can do so with propriety."

"None whatever," said Lord Chiltern.

The Earl became very angry, and nearly broke down in his anger. He
paused for a moment, feeling disposed to tell his son to go and never
to see him again. But he gulped down his wrath, and went on with his
speech. "My meaning, sir, is this;--that I have so great faith in
Violet Effingham, that I would receive her acceptance of your hand as
the only proof which would be convincing to me of amendment in your
mode of life. If she were to do so, I would join with you in raising
money to pay your sister, would make some further sacrifice with
reference to an income for you and your wife, and--would make you
both welcome to Saulsby,--if you chose to come." The Earl's voice
hesitated much and became almost tremulous as he made the last
proposition. And his eyes had fallen away from his son's gaze, and
he had bent a little over the table, and was moved. But he recovered
himself at once, and added, with all proper dignity, "If you have
anything to say I shall be glad to hear it."

"All your offers would be nothing, my lord, if I did not like the
girl."

"I should not ask you to marry a girl if you did not like her, as you
call it."

"But as to Miss Effingham, it happens that our wishes jump together.
I have asked her, and she has refused me. I don't even know where
to find her to ask her again. If I went to Lady Baldock's house the
servants would not let me in."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Yours partly, my lord. You have told everybody that I am the devil,
and now all the old women believe it."

"I never told anybody so."

"I'll tell you what I'll do. I will go down to Lady Baldock's to-day.
I suppose she is at Baddingham. And if I can get speech of Miss
Effingham--"

"Miss Effingham is not at Baddingham. Miss Effingham is staying with
your sister in Grosvenor Place. I saw her yesterday."

"She is in London?"

"I tell you that I saw her yesterday."

"Very well, my lord. Then I will do the best I can. Laura will tell
you of the result."

The father would have given the son some advice as to the mode in
which he should put forward his claim upon Violet's hand, but the son
would not wait to hear it. Choosing to presume that the conference
was over, he went back to the room in which he had kept his
dumb-bells, and for a minute or two went to work at his favourite
exercise. But he soon put the dumb-bells down, and began to prepare
himself for his work. If this thing was to be done, it might as
well be done at once. He looked out of his window, and saw that the
streets were in a mess of slush. White snow was becoming black mud,
as it will do in London; and the violence of frost was giving way to
the horrors of thaw. All would be soft and comparatively pleasant in
Northamptonshire on the following morning, and if everything went
right he would breakfast at the Willingford Bull. He would go down by
the hunting train, and be at the inn by ten. The meet was only six
miles distant, and all would be pleasant. He would do this whatever
might be the result of his work to-day;--but in the meantime he would
go and do his work. He had a cab called, and within half an hour of
the time at which he had left his father, he was at the door of his
sister's house in Grosvenor Place. The servants told him that the
ladies were at lunch. "I can't eat lunch," he said. "Tell them that I
am in the drawing-room."

"He has come to see you," said Lady Laura, as soon as the servant had
left the room.

"I hope not," said Violet.

"Do not say that."

"But I do say it. I hope he has not come to see me;--that is, not to
see me specially. Of course I cannot pretend not to know what you
mean."

"He may think it civil to call if he has heard that you are in town,"
said Lady Laura, after a pause.

"If it be only that, I will be civil in return;--as sweet as May to
him. If it be really only that, and if I were sure of it, I should
be really glad to see him." Then they finished their lunch, and Lady
Laura got up and led the way to the drawing-room.

"I hope you remember," said she, gravely, "that you might be a
saviour to him."

"I do not believe in girls being saviours to men. It is the man who
should be the saviour to the girl. If I marry at all, I have the
right to expect that protection shall be given to me,--not that I
shall have to give it."

"Violet, you are determined to misrepresent what I mean."

Lord Chiltern was walking about the room, and did not sit down when
they entered. The ordinary greetings took place, and Miss Effingham
made some remark about the frost. "But it seems to be going," she
said, "and I suppose that you will soon be at work again?"

"Yes;--I shall hunt to-morrow," said Lord Chiltern.

"And the next day, and the next, and the next," said Violet, "till
about the middle of April;--and then your period of misery will
begin!"

"Exactly," said Lord Chiltern. "I have nothing but hunting that I can
call an occupation."

"Why don't you make one?" said his sister.

"I mean to do so, if it be possible. Laura, would you mind leaving me
and Miss Effingham alone for a few minutes?"

Lady Laura got up, and so also did Miss Effingham. "For what
purpose?" said the latter. "It cannot be for any good purpose."

"At any rate I wish it, and I will not harm you." Lady Laura was now
going, but paused before she reached the door. "Laura, will you do as
I ask you?" said the brother. Then Lady Laura went.

"It was not that I feared you would harm me, Lord Chiltern," said
Violet.

"No;--I know it was not. But what I say is always said awkwardly. An
hour ago I did not know that you were in town, but when I was told
the news I came at once. My father told me."

"I am so glad that you see your father."

"I have not spoken to him for months before, and probably may not
speak to him for months again. But there is one point, Violet, on
which he and I agree."

"I hope there will soon be many."

"It is possible,--but I fear not probable. Look here, Violet,"--and
he looked at her with all his eyes, till it seemed to her that he was
all eyes, so great was the intensity of his gaze;--"I should scorn
myself were I to permit myself to come before you with a plea for
your favour founded on my father's whims. My father is unreasonable,
and has been very unjust to me. He has ever believed evil of me, and
has believed it often when all the world knew that he was wrong. I
care little for being reconciled to a father who has been so cruel to
me."

"He loves me dearly, and is my friend. I would rather that you should
not speak against him to me."

"You will understand, at least, that I am asking nothing from you
because he wishes it. Laura probably has told you that you may make
things straight by becoming my wife."

"She has,--certainly, Lord Chiltern."

"It is an argument that she should never have used. It is an argument
to which you should not listen for a moment. Make things straight
indeed! Who can tell? There would be very little made straight by
such a marriage, if it were not that I loved you. Violet, that is
my plea, and my only one. I love you so well that I do believe that
if you took me I should return to the old ways, and become as other
men are, and be in time as respectable, as stupid,--and perhaps as
ill-natured as old Lady Baldock herself."

"My poor aunt!"

"You know she says worse things of me than that. Now, dearest, you
have heard all that I have to say to you." As he spoke he came close
to her, and put out his hand,--but she did not touch it. "I have no
other argument to use,--not a word more to say. As I came here in
the cab I was turning it over in my mind that I might find what best
I should say. But, after all, there is nothing more to be said than
that."

"The words make no difference," she replied.

"Not unless they be so uttered as to force a belief. I do love you. I
know no other reason but that why you should be my wife. I have no
other excuse to offer for coming to you again. You are the one thing
in the world that to me has any charm. Can you be surprised that I
should be persistent in asking for it?" He was looking at her still
with the same gaze, and there seemed to be a power in his eye from
which she could not escape. He was still standing with his right hand
out, as though expecting, or at least hoping, that her hand might be
put into his.

"How am I to answer you?" she said.

"With your love, if you can give it to me. Do you remember how you
swore once that you would love me for ever and always?"

"You should not remind me of that. I was a child then,--a naughty
child," she added, smiling; "and was put to bed for what I did on
that day."

"Be a child still."

"Ah, if we but could!"

"And have you no other answer to make me?"

"Of course I must answer you. You are entitled to an answer. Lord
Chiltern, I am sorry that I cannot give you the love for which you
ask."

"Never?"

"Never."

"Is it myself personally, or what you have heard of me, that is so
hateful to you?"

"Nothing is hateful to me. I have never spoken of hate. I shall
always feel the strongest regard for my old friend and playfellow.
But there are many things which a woman is bound to consider before
she allows herself so to love a man that she can consent to become
his wife."

"Allow herself! Then it is a matter entirely of calculation."

"I suppose there should be some thought in it, Lord Chiltern."

There was now a pause, and the man's hand was at last allowed to
drop, as there came no response to the proffered grasp. He walked
once or twice across the room before he spoke again, and then he
stopped himself closely opposite to her.

"I shall never try again," he said.

"It will be better so," she replied.

"There is something to me unmanly in a man's persecuting a girl. Just
tell Laura, will you, that it is all over; and she may as well tell
my father. Good-bye."

She then tendered her hand to him, but he did not take it,--probably
did not see it, and at once left the room and the house.

"And yet I believe you love him," Lady Laura said to her friend
in her anger, when they discussed the matter immediately on Lord
Chiltern's departure.

"You have no right to say that, Laura."

"I have a right to my belief, and I do believe it. I think you love
him, and that you lack the courage to risk yourself in trying to save
him."

"Is a woman bound to marry a man if she love him?"

"Yes, she is," replied Lady Laura impetuously, without thinking of
what she was saying; "that is, if she be convinced that she also is
loved."

"Whatever be the man's character;--whatever be the circumstances?
Must she do so, whatever friends may say to the contrary? Is there to
be no prudence in marriage?"

"There may be a great deal too much prudence," said Lady Laura.

"That is true. There is certainly too much prudence if a woman
marries prudently, but without love." Violet intended by this no
attack upon her friend,--had not had present in her mind at the
moment any idea of Lady Laura's special prudence in marrying Mr.
Kennedy; but Lady Laura felt it keenly, and knew at once that an
arrow had been shot which had wounded her.

"We shall get nothing," she said, "by descending to personalities
with each other."

"I meant none, Laura."

"I suppose it is always hard," said Lady Laura, "for any one person
to judge altogether of the mind of another. If I have said anything
severe of your refusal of my brother, I retract it. I only wish that
it could have been otherwise."

Lord Chiltern, when he left his sister's house, walked through the
slush and dirt to a haunt of his in the neighbourhood of Covent
Garden, and there he remained through the whole afternoon and
evening. A certain Captain Clutterbuck joined him, and dined with
him. He told nothing to Captain Clutterbuck of his sorrow, but
Captain Clutterbuck could see that he was unhappy.

"Let's have another bottle of 'cham,'" said Captain Clutterbuck, when
their dinner was nearly over. "'Cham' is the only thing to screw one
up when one is down a peg."

"You can have what you like," said Lord Chiltern; "but I shall have
some brandy-and-water."

"The worst of brandy-and-water is, that one gets tired of it before
the night is over," said Captain Clutterbuck.

Nevertheless, Lord Chiltern did go down to Peterborough the next day
by the hunting train, and rode his horse Bonebreaker so well in that
famous run from Sutton springs to Gidding that after the run young
Piles,--of the house of Piles, Sarsnet, and Gingham,--offered him
three hundred pounds for the animal.

"He isn't worth above fifty," said Lord Chiltern.

"But I'll give you the three hundred," said Piles.

"You couldn't ride him if you'd got him," said Lord Chiltern.

"Oh, couldn't I!" said Piles. But Mr. Piles did not continue the
conversation, contenting himself with telling his friend Grogram that
that red devil Chiltern was as drunk as a lord.




CHAPTER XX

The Debate on the Ballot


Phineas took his seat in the House with a consciousness of much
inward trepidation of heart on that night of the ballot debate. After
leaving Lord Chiltern he went down to his club and dined alone. Three
or four men came and spoke to him; but he could not talk to them at
his ease, nor did he quite know what they were saying to him. He
was going to do something which he longed to achieve, but the very
idea of which, now that it was so near to him, was a terror to him.
To be in the House and not to speak would, to his thinking, be a
disgraceful failure. Indeed, he could not continue to keep his seat
unless he spoke. He had been put there that he might speak. He would
speak. Of course he would speak. Had he not already been conspicuous
almost as a boy orator? And yet, at this moment he did not know
whether he was eating mutton or beef, or who was standing opposite to
him and talking to him, so much was he in dread of the ordeal which
he had prepared for himself. As he went down to the House after
dinner, he almost made up his mind that it would be a good thing to
leave London by one of the night mail trains. He felt himself to be
stiff and stilted as he walked, and that his clothes were uneasy to
him. When he turned into Westminster Hall he regretted more keenly
than ever he had done that he had seceded from the keeping of Mr.
Low. He could, he thought, have spoken very well in court, and would
there have learned that self-confidence which now failed him so
terribly. It was, however, too late to think of that. He could only
go in and take his seat.

He went in and took his seat, and the chamber seemed to him to be
mysteriously large, as though benches were crowded over benches, and
galleries over galleries. He had been long enough in the House to
have lost the original awe inspired by the Speaker and the clerks of
the House, by the row of Ministers, and by the unequalled importance
of the place. On ordinary occasions he could saunter in and out, and
whisper at his ease to a neighbour. But on this occasion he went
direct to the bench on which he ordinarily sat, and began at once to
rehearse to himself his speech. He had in truth been doing this all
day, in spite of the effort that he had made to rid himself of all
memory of the occasion. He had been collecting the heads of his
speech while Mr. Low had been talking to him, and refreshing his
quotations in the presence of Lord Chiltern and the dumb-bells. He
had taxed his memory and his intellect with various tasks, which,
as he feared, would not adjust themselves one with another. He had
learned the headings of his speech,--so that one heading might follow
the other, and nothing be forgotten. And he had learned verbatim the
words which he intended to utter under each heading,--with a hope
that if any one compact part should be destroyed or injured in its
compactness by treachery of memory, or by the course of the debate,
each other compact part might be there in its entirety, ready for
use;--or at least so many of the compact parts as treachery of
memory and the accidents of the debate might leave to him; so
that his speech might be like a vessel, watertight in its various
compartments, that would float by the buoyancy of its stern and bow,
even though the hold should be waterlogged. But this use of his
composed words, even though he should be able to carry it through,
would not complete his work;--for it would be his duty to answer in
some sort those who had gone before him, and in order to do this he
must be able to insert, without any prearrangement of words or ideas,
little intercalatory parts between those compact masses of argument
with which he had been occupying himself for many laborious hours. As
he looked round upon the House and perceived that everything was dim
before him, that all his original awe of the House had returned, and
with it a present quaking fear that made him feel the pulsations
of his own heart, he became painfully aware that the task he had
prepared for himself was too great. He should, on this the occasion
of his rising to his maiden legs, have either prepared for himself
a short general speech, which could indeed have done little for his
credit in the House, but which might have served to carry off the
novelty of the thing, and have introduced him to the sound of his own
voice within those walls,--or he should have trusted to what his wit
and spirit would produce for him on the spur of the moment, and not
have burdened himself with a huge exercise of memory. During the
presentation of a few petitions he tried to repeat to himself the
first of his compact parts,--a compact part on which, as it might
certainly be brought into use let the debate have gone as it might,
he had expended great care. He had flattered himself that there
was something of real strength in his words as he repeated them to
himself in the comfortable seclusion of his own room, and he had made
them so ready to his tongue that he thought it to be impossible that
he should forget even an intonation. Now he found that he could not
remember the first phrases without unloosing and looking at a small
roll of paper which he held furtively in his hand. What was the good
of looking at it? He would forget it again in the next moment. He had
intended to satisfy the most eager of his friends, and to astound his
opponents. As it was, no one would be satisfied,--and none astounded
but they who had trusted in him.

The debate began, and if the leisure afforded by a long and tedious
speech could have served him, he might have had leisure enough. He
tried at first to follow all that this advocate for the ballot might
say, hoping thence to acquire the impetus of strong interest; but he
soon wearied of the work, and began to long that the speech might
be ended, although the period of his own martyrdom would thereby
be brought nearer to him. At half-past seven so many members had
deserted their seats, that Phineas began to think that he might be
saved all further pains by a "count out." He reckoned the members
present and found that they were below the mystic forty,--first by
two, then by four, by five, by seven, and at one time by eleven.
It was not for him to ask the Speaker to count the House, but he
wondered that no one else should do so. And yet, as the idea of this
termination to the night's work came upon him, and as he thought of
his lost labour, he almost took courage again,--almost dreaded rather
than wished for the interference of some malicious member. But there
was no malicious member then present, or else it was known that Lords
of the Treasury and Lords of the Admiralty would flock in during
the Speaker's ponderous counting,--and thus the slow length of the
ballot-lover's verbosity was permitted to evolve itself without
interruption. At eight o'clock he had completed his catalogue of
illustrations, and immediately Mr. Monk rose from the Treasury bench
to explain the grounds on which the Government must decline to
support the motion before the House.

Phineas was aware that Mr. Monk intended to speak, and was aware also
that his speech would be very short. "My idea is," he had said to
Phineas, "that every man possessed of the franchise should dare to
have and to express a political opinion of his own; that otherwise
the franchise is not worth having; and that men will learn that when
all so dare, no evil can come from such daring. As the ballot would
make any courage of that kind unnecessary, I dislike the ballot. I
shall confine myself to that, and leave the illustration to younger
debaters." Phineas also had been informed that Mr. Turnbull would
reply to Mr. Monk, with the purpose of crushing Mr. Monk into dust,
and Phineas had prepared his speech with something of an intention of
subsequently crushing Mr. Turnbull. He knew, however, that he could
not command his opportunity. There was the chapter of accidents to
which he must accommodate himself; but such had been his programme
for the evening.

Mr. Monk made his speech,--and though he was short, he was very fiery
and energetic. Quick as lightning words of wrath and scorn flew from
him, in which he painted the cowardice, the meanness, the falsehood
of the ballot. "The ballot-box," he said, "was the grave of all true
political opinion." Though he spoke hardly for ten minutes, he seemed
to say more than enough, ten times enough, to slaughter the argument
of the former speaker. At every hot word as it fell Phineas was
driven to regret that a paragraph of his own was taken away from him,
and that his choicest morsels of standing ground were being cut from
under his feet. When Mr. Monk sat down, Phineas felt that Mr. Monk
had said all that he, Phineas Finn, had intended to say.

Then Mr. Turnbull rose slowly from the bench below the gangway. With
a speaker so frequent and so famous as Mr. Turnbull no hurry is
necessary. He is sure to have his opportunity. The Speaker's eye is
ever travelling to the accustomed spots. Mr. Turnbull rose slowly and
began his oration very mildly. "There was nothing," he said, "that he
admired so much as the poetic imagery and the high-flown sentiment
of his right honourable friend the member for West Bromwich,"--Mr.
Monk sat for West Bromwich,--"unless it were the stubborn facts and
unanswered arguments of his honourable friend who had brought forward
this motion." Then Mr. Turnbull proceeded after his fashion to crush
Mr. Monk. He was very prosaic, very clear both in voice and language,
very harsh, and very unscrupulous. He and Mr. Monk had been joined
together in politics for over twenty years;--but one would have
thought, from Mr. Turnbull's words, that they had been the bitterest
of enemies. Mr. Monk was taunted with his office, taunted with his
desertion of the liberal party, taunted with his ambition,--and
taunted with his lack of ambition. "I once thought," said Mr.
Turnbull,--"nay, not long ago I thought, that he and I would have
fought this battle for the people, shoulder to shoulder, and knee to
knee;--but he has preferred that the knee next to his own shall wear
a garter, and that the shoulder which supports him shall be decked
with a blue ribbon,--as shoulders, I presume, are decked in those
closet conferences which are called Cabinets."

Just after this, while Mr. Turnbull was still going on with a variety
of illustrations drawn from the United States, Barrington Erle
stepped across the benches up to the place where Phineas was sitting,
and whispered a few words into his ear. "Bonteen is prepared to
answer Turnbull, and wishes to do it. I told him that I thought you
should have the opportunity, if you wish it." Phineas was not ready
with a reply to Erle at the spur of the moment. "Somebody told
me," continued Erle, "that you had said that you would like to speak
to-night."

"So I did," said Phineas.

"Shall I tell Bonteen that you will do it?"

The chamber seemed to swim round before our hero's eyes. Mr. Turnbull
was still going on with his clear, loud, unpleasant voice, but there
was no knowing how long he might go on. Upon Phineas, if he should
now consent, might devolve the duty, within ten minutes, within three
minutes, of rising there before a full House to defend his great
friend, Mr. Monk, from a gross personal attack. Was it fit that
such a novice as he should undertake such a work as that? Were he
to do so, all that speech which he had prepared, with its various
self-floating parts, must go for nothing. The task was exactly that
which, of all tasks, he would best like to have accomplished, and
to have accomplished well. But if he should fail! And he felt that
he would fail. For such work a man should have all his senses
about him,--his full courage, perfect confidence, something almost
approaching to contempt for listening opponents, and nothing of fear
in regard to listening friends. He should be as a cock in his own
farmyard, master of all the circumstances around him. But Phineas
Finn had not even as yet heard the sound of his own voice in that
room. At this moment, so confused was he, that he did not know where
sat Mr. Mildmay, and where Mr. Daubeny. All was confused, and there
arose as it were a sound of waters in his ears, and a feeling as of a
great hell around him. "I had rather wait," he said at last. "Bonteen
had better reply." Barrington Erle looked into his face, and then
stepping back across the benches, told Mr. Bonteen that the
opportunity was his.

Mr. Turnbull continued speaking quite long enough to give poor
Phineas time for repentance; but repentance was of no use. He had
decided against himself, and his decision could not be reversed. He
would have left the House, only it seemed to him that had he done so
every one would look at him. He drew his hat down over his eyes, and
remained in his place, hating Mr. Bonteen, hating Barrington Erle,
hating Mr. Turnbull,--but hating no one so much as he hated himself.
He had disgraced himself for ever and could never recover the
occasion which he had lost.

Mr. Bonteen's speech was in no way remarkable. Mr. Monk, he said, had
done the State good service by adding his wisdom and patriotism to
the Cabinet. The sort of argument which Mr. Bonteen used to prove
that a man who has gained credit as a legislator should in process of
time become a member of the executive, is trite and common, and was
not used by Mr. Bonteen with any special force. Mr. Bonteen was glib
of tongue and possessed that familiarity with the place which poor
Phineas had lacked so sorely. There was one moment, however, which
was terrible to Phineas. As soon as Mr. Bonteen had shown the purpose
for which he was on his legs, Mr. Monk looked round at Phineas, as
though in reproach. He had expected that this work should fall into
the hands of one who would perform it with more warmth of heart than
could be expected from Mr. Bonteen. When Mr. Bonteen ceased, two or
three other short speeches were made and members fired off their
little guns. Phineas having lost so great an opportunity, would not
now consent to accept one that should be comparatively valueless.
Then there came a division. The motion was lost by a large
majority,--by any number you might choose to name, as Phineas had
said to Lord Brentford; but in that there was no triumph to the poor
wretch who had failed through fear, and who was now a coward in his
own esteem.

He left the House alone, carefully avoiding all speech with any one.
As he came out he had seen Laurence Fitzgibbon in the lobby, but he
had gone on without pausing a moment, so that he might avoid his
friend. And when he was out in Palace Yard, where was he to go next?
He looked at his watch, and found that it was just ten. He did not
dare to go to his club, and it was impossible for him to go home and
to bed. He was very miserable, and nothing would comfort him but
sympathy. Was there any one who would listen to his abuse of himself,
and would then answer him with kindly apologies for his own weakness?
Mrs. Bunce would do it if she knew how, but sympathy from Mrs. Bunce
would hardly avail. There was but one person in the world to whom he
could tell his own humiliation with any hope of comfort, and that
person was Lady Laura Kennedy. Sympathy from any man would have been
distasteful to him. He had thought for a moment of flinging himself
at Mr. Monk's feet and telling all his weakness;--but he could not
have endured pity even from Mr. Monk. It was not to be endured from
any man.

He thought that Lady Laura Kennedy would be at home, and probably
alone. He knew, at any rate, that he might be allowed to knock at her
door, even at that hour. He had left Mr. Kennedy in the House, and
there he would probably remain for the next hour. There was no man
more constant than Mr. Kennedy in seeing the work of the day,--or of
the night,--to its end. So Phineas walked up Victoria Street, and
from thence into Grosvenor Place, and knocked at Lady Laura's door.
"Yes; Lady Laura was at home; and alone." He was shown up into the
drawing-room, and there he found Lady Laura waiting for her husband.

"So the great debate is over," she said, with as much of irony as she
knew how to throw into the epithet.

"Yes; it is over."

"And what have they done,--those leviathans of the people?"

Then Phineas told her what was the majority.

"Is there anything the matter with you, Mr. Finn?" she said, looking
at him suddenly. "Are you not well?"

"Yes; I am very well."

"Will you not sit down? There is something wrong, I know. What is
it?"

"I have simply been the greatest idiot, the greatest coward, the most
awkward ass that ever lived!"

"What do you mean?"

"I do not know why I should come to tell you of it at this hour at
night, but I have come that I might tell you. Probably because there
is no one else in the whole world who would not laugh at me."

"At any rate, I shall not laugh at you," said Lady Laura.

"But you will despise me."

"That I am sure I shall not do."

"You cannot help it. I despise myself. For years I have placed before
myself the ambition of speaking in the House of Commons;--for years I
have been thinking whether there would ever come to me an opportunity
of making myself heard in that assembly, which I consider to be
the first in the world. To-day the opportunity has been offered to
me,--and, though the motion was nothing, the opportunity was great.
The subject was one on which I was thoroughly prepared. The manner
in which I was summoned was most flattering to me. I was especially
called on to perform a task which was most congenial to my
feelings;--and I declined because I was afraid."

"You had thought too much about it, my friend," said Lady Laura.

"Too much or too little, what does it matter?" replied Phineas, in
despair. "There is the fact. I could not do it. Do you remember the
story of Conachar in the 'Fair Maid of Perth;'--how his heart refused
to give him blood enough to fight? He had been suckled with the milk
of a timid creature, and, though he could die, there was none of the
strength of manhood in him. It is about the same thing with me, I
take it."

"I do not think you are at all like Conachar," said Lady Laura.

"I am equally disgraced, and I must perish after the same fashion. I
shall apply for the Chiltern Hundreds in a day or two."

"You will do nothing of the kind," said Lady Laura, getting up from
her chair and coming towards him. "You shall not leave this room till
you have promised me that you will do nothing of the kind. I do not
know as yet what has occurred to-night; but I do know that that
modesty which has kept you silent is more often a grace than a
disgrace."

This was the kind of sympathy which he wanted, She drew her chair
nearer to him, and then he explained to her as accurately as he could
what had taken place in the House on this evening,--how he had
prepared his speech, how he had felt that his preparation was vain,
how he perceived from the course of the debate that if he spoke
at all his speech must be very different from what he had first
intended; how he had declined to take upon himself a task which
seemed to require so close a knowledge of the ways of the House and
of the temper of the men, as the defence of such a man as Mr. Monk.
In accusing himself he, unconsciously, excused himself, and his
excuse, in Lady Laura's ears, was more valid than his accusation.

"And you would give it all up for that?" she said.

"Yes; I think I ought."

"I have very little doubt but that you were right in allowing Mr.
Bonteen to undertake such a task. I should simply explain to Mr. Monk
that you felt too keen an interest in his welfare to stand up as an
untried member in his defence. It is not, I think, the work for a man
who is not at home in the House. I am sure Mr. Monk will feel this,
and I am quite certain that Mr. Kennedy will think that you have been
right."

"I do not care what Mr. Kennedy may think."

"Why do you say that, Mr. Finn? That is not courteous."

"Simply because I care so much what Mr. Kennedy's wife may think.
Your opinion is all in all to me,--only that I know you are too kind
to me."

"He would not be too kind to you. He is never too kind to any one. He
is justice itself."

Phineas, as he heard the tones of her voice, could not but feel that
there was in Lady Laura's words something of an accusation against
her husband.

"I hate justice," said Phineas. "I know that justice would condemn
me. But love and friendship know nothing of justice. The value of
love is that it overlooks faults, and forgives even crimes."

"I, at any rate," said Lady Laura, "will forgive the crime of your
silence in the House. My strong belief in your success will not be in
the least affected by what you tell me of your failure to-night. You
must await another opportunity; and, if possible, you should be less
anxious as to your own performance. There is Violet." As Lady Laura
spoke the last words, there was a sound of a carriage stopping in the
street, and the front door was immediately opened. "She is staying
here, but has been dining with her uncle, Admiral Effingham." Then
Violet Effingham entered the room, rolled up in pretty white furs,
and silk cloaks, and lace shawls. "Here is Mr. Finn, come to tell us
of the debate about the ballot."

"I don't care twopence about the ballot," said Violet, as she put out
her hand to Phineas. "Are we going to have a new iron fleet built?
That's the question."

"Sir Simeon has come out strong to-night," said Lady Laura.

"There is no political question of any importance except the question
of the iron fleet," said Violet. "I am quite sure of that, and so, if
Mr. Finn can tell me nothing about the iron fleet, I'll go to bed."

"Mr. Kennedy will tell you everything when he comes home," said
Phineas.

"Oh, Mr. Kennedy! Mr. Kennedy never tells one anything. I doubt
whether Mr. Kennedy thinks that any woman knows the meaning of the
British Constitution."

"Do you know what it means, Violet?" asked Lady Laura.

"To be sure I do. It is liberty to growl about the iron fleet, or
the ballot, or the taxes, or the peers, or the bishops,--or anything
else, except the House of Commons. That's the British Constitution.
Good-night, Mr. Finn."

"What a beautiful creature she is!" said Phineas.

"Yes, indeed," said Lady Laura.

"And full of wit and grace and pleasantness. I do not wonder at your
brother's choice."

It will be remembered that this was said on the day before Lord
Chiltern had made his offer for the third time.

"Poor Oswald! he does not know as yet that she is in town."

After that Phineas went, not wishing to await the return of Mr.
Kennedy. He had felt that Violet Effingham had come into the room
just in time to remedy a great difficulty. He did not wish to speak
of his love to a married woman,--to the wife of the man who called
him friend,--to a woman who he felt sure would have rebuked him. But
he could hardly have restrained himself had not Miss Effingham been
there.

But as he went home he thought more of Miss Effingham than he did of
Lady Laura; and I think that the voice of Miss Effingham had done
almost as much towards comforting him as had the kindness of the
other.

At any rate, he had been comforted.




CHAPTER XXI

"Do be punctual"


On the very morning after his failure in the House of Commons, when
Phineas was reading in the _Telegraph_,--he took the _Telegraph_ not
from choice but for economy,--the words of that debate which he had
heard and in which he should have taken a part, a most unwelcome
visit was paid to him. It was near eleven, and the breakfast things
were still on the table. He was at this time on a Committee of the
House with reference to the use of potted peas in the army and
navy, at which he had sat once,--at a preliminary meeting,--and in
reference to which he had already resolved that as he had failed so
frightfully in debate, he would certainly do his duty to the utmost
in the more easy but infinitely more tedious work of the Committee
Room. The Committee met at twelve, and he intended to walk down to
the Reform Club, and then to the House. He had just completed his
reading of the debate and of the leaders in the _Telegraph_ on the
subject. He had told himself how little the writer of the article
knew about Mr. Turnbull, how little about Mr. Monk, and how little
about the people,--such being his own ideas as to the qualifications
of the writer of that leading article,--and was about to start. But
Mrs. Bunce arrested him by telling him that there was a man below who
wanted to see him.

"What sort of a man, Mrs. Bunce?"

"He ain't a gentleman, sir."

"Did he give his name?"

"He did not, sir; but I know it's about money. I know the ways of
them so well. I've seen this one's face before somewhere."

"You had better show him up," said Phineas. He knew well the business
on which the man was come. The man wanted money for that bill which
Laurence Fitzgibbon had sent afloat, and which Phineas had endorsed.
Phineas had never as yet fallen so deeply into troubles of money as
to make it necessary that he need refuse himself to any callers on
that score, and he did not choose to do so now. Nevertheless he most
heartily wished that he had left his lodgings for the club before the
man had come. This was not the first he had heard of the bill being
overdue and unpaid. The bill had been brought to him noted a month
since, and then he had simply told the youth who brought it that he
would see Mr. Fitzgibbon and have the matter settled. He had spoken
to his friend Laurence, and Laurence had simply assured him that all
should be made right in two days,--or, at furthest, by the end of
a week. Since that time he had observed that his friend had been
somewhat shy of speaking to him when no others were with them.
Phineas would not have alluded to the bill had he and Laurence been
alone together; but he had been quick enough to guess from his
friend's manner that the matter was not settled. Now, no doubt,
serious trouble was about to commence.

The visitor was a little man with grey hair and a white cravat, some
sixty years of age, dressed in black, with a very decent hat,--which,
on entering the room, he at once put down on the nearest chair,--with
reference to whom, any judge on the subject would have concurred at
first sight in the decision pronounced by Mrs. Bunce, though none
but a judge very well used to sift the causes of his own conclusions
could have given the reasons for that early decision. "He ain't a
gentleman," Mrs. Bunce had said. And the man certainly was not a
gentleman. The old man in the white cravat was very neatly dressed,
and carried himself without any of that humility which betrays one
class of uncertified aspirants to gentility, or of that assumed
arrogance which is at once fatal to another class. But, nevertheless,
Mrs. Bunce had seen at a glance that he was not a gentleman,--had
seen, moreover, that such a man could have come only upon one
mission. She was right there too. This visitor had come about money.

"About this bill, Mr. Finn," said the visitor, proceeding to take
out of his breast coat-pocket a rather large leathern case, as he
advanced up towards the fire. "My name is Clarkson, Mr. Finn. If I
may venture so far, I'll take a chair."

"Certainly, Mr. Clarkson," said Phineas, getting up and pointing to
a seat.

"Thankye, Mr. Finn, thankye. We shall be more comfortable doing
business sitting, shan't we?" Whereupon the horrid little man drew
himself close in to the fire, and spreading out his leathern case
upon his knees, began to turn over one suspicious bit of paper after
another, as though he were uncertain in what part of his portfolio
lay this identical bit which he was seeking. He seemed to be quite
at home, and to feel that there was no ground whatever for hurry
in such comfortable quarters. Phineas hated him at once,--with a
hatred altogether unconnected with the difficulty which his friend
Fitzgibbon had brought upon him.

"Here it is," said Mr. Clarkson at last. "Oh, dear me, dear me! the
third of November, and here we are in March! I didn't think it was
so bad as this;--I didn't indeed. This is very bad,--very bad! And
for Parliament gents, too, who should be more punctual than anybody,
because of the privilege. Shouldn't they now, Mr. Finn?"

"All men should be punctual, I suppose," said Phineas.

"Of course they should; of course they should. I always say to my
gents, 'Be punctual, and I'll do anything for you.' But, perhaps, Mr.
Finn, you can hand me a cheque for this amount, and then you and I
will begin square."

"Indeed I cannot, Mr. Clarkson."

"Not hand me a cheque for it!"

"Upon my word, no."

"That's very bad;--very bad indeed. Then I suppose I must take the
half, and renew for the remainder, though I don't like it;--I don't
indeed."

"I can pay no part of that bill, Mr. Clarkson."

"Pay no part of it!" and Mr. Clarkson, in order that he might the
better express his surprise, arrested his hand in the very act of
poking his host's fire.

"If you'll allow me, I'll manage the fire," said Phineas, putting out
his hand for the poker.

But Mr. Clarkson was fond of poking fires, and would not surrender
the poker. "Pay no part of it!" he said again, holding the poker away
from Phineas in his left hand. "Don't say that, Mr. Finn. Pray don't
say that. Don't drive me to be severe. I don't like to be severe with
my gents. I'll do anything, Mr. Finn, if you'll only be punctual."

"The fact is, Mr. Clarkson, I have never had one penny of
consideration for that bill, and--"

"Oh, Mr. Finn! oh, Mr. Finn!" and then Mr. Clarkson had his will of
the fire.

"I never had one penny of consideration for that bill," continued
Phineas. "Of course, I don't deny my responsibility."

"No, Mr. Finn; you can't deny that. Here it is;--Phineas Finn;--and
everybody knows you, because you're a Parliament gent."

"I don't deny it. But I had no reason to suppose that I should
be called upon for the money when I accommodated my friend, Mr.
Fitzgibbon, and I have not got it. That is the long and the short
of it. I must see him and take care that arrangements are made."

"Arrangements!"

"Yes, arrangements for settling the bill."

"He hasn't got the money, Mr. Finn. You know that as well as I do."

"I know nothing about it, Mr. Clarkson."

"Oh yes, Mr. Finn; you know; you know."

"I tell you I know nothing about it," said Phineas, waxing angry.

"As to Mr. Fitzgibbon, he's the pleasantest gent that ever lived.
Isn't he now? I've know'd him these ten years. I don't suppose that
for ten years I've been without his name in my pocket. But, bless
you, Mr. Finn, there's an end to everything. I shouldn't have looked
at this bit of paper if it hadn't been for your signature. Of course
not. You're just beginning, and it's natural you should want a little
help. You'll find me always ready, if you'll only be punctual."

"I tell you again, sir, that I never had a shilling out of that for
myself, and do not want any such help." Here Mr. Clarkson smiled
sweetly. "I gave my name to my friend simply to oblige him."

"I like you Irish gents because you do hang together so close," said
Mr. Clarkson.

"Simply to oblige him," continued Phineas. "As I said before, I know
that I am responsible; but, as I said before also, I have not the
means of taking up that bill. I will see Mr. Fitzgibbon, and let
you know what we propose to do." Then Phineas got up from his seat
and took his hat. It was full time that he should go down to his
Committee. But Mr. Clarkson did not get up from his seat. "I'm afraid
I must ask you to leave me now, Mr. Clarkson, as I have business down
at the House."

"Business at the House never presses, Mr. Finn," said Mr. Clarkson.
"That's the best of Parliament. I've known Parliament gents this
thirty years and more. Would you believe it--I've had a Prime
Minister's name in that portfolio; that I have; and a Lord
Chancellor's; that I have;--and an Archbishop's too. I know
what Parliament is, Mr. Finn. Come, come; don't put me off with
Parliament."

There he sat before the fire with his pouch open before him, and
Phineas had no power of moving him. Could Phineas have paid him the
money which was manifestly due to him on the bill, the man would of
course have gone; but failing in that, Phineas could not turn him
out. There was a black cloud on the young member's brow, and great
anger at his heart,--against Fitzgibbon rather than against the man
who was sitting there before him. "Sir," he said, "it is really
imperative that I should go. I am pledged to an appointment at the
House at twelve, and it wants now only a quarter. I regret that your
interview with me should be so unsatisfactory, but I can only promise
you that I will see Mr. Fitzgibbon."

"And when shall I call again, Mr. Finn?"

"Perhaps I had better write to you," said Phineas.

"Oh dear, no," said Mr. Clarkson. "I should much prefer to look in.
Looking in is always best. We can get to understand one another in
that way. Let me see. I daresay you're not particular. Suppose I say
Sunday morning."

"Really, I could not see you on Sunday morning, Mr. Clarkson."

"Parliament gents ain't generally particular,--'speciaily not among
the Catholics," pleaded Mr. Clarkson.

"I am always engaged on Sundays," said Phineas.

"Suppose we say Monday,--or Tuesday. Tuesday morning at eleven. And
do be punctual, Mr. Finn. At Tuesday morning I'll come, and then no
doubt I shall find you ready." Whereupon Mr. Clarkson slowly put up
his bills within his portfolio, and then, before Phineas knew where
he was, had warmly shaken that poor dismayed member of Parliament by
the hand. "Only do be punctual, Mr. Finn," he said, as he made his
way down the stairs.

It was now twelve, and Phineas rushed off to a cab. He was in such
a fervour of rage and misery that he could hardly think of his
position, or what he had better do, till he got into the Committee
Room; and when there he could think of nothing else. He intended to
go deeply into the question of potted peas, holding an equal balance
between the assailed Government offices on the one hand, and the
advocates of the potted peas on the other. The potters of the peas,
who wanted to sell their article to the Crown, declared that an
extensive,--perhaps we may say, an unlimited,--use of the article
would save the whole army and navy from the scourges of scurvy,
dyspepsia, and rheumatism, would be the best safeguard against
typhus and other fevers, and would be an invaluable aid in all other
maladies to which soldiers and sailors are peculiarly subject. The
peas in question were grown on a large scale in Holstein, and their
growth had been fostered with the special object of doing good to the
British army and navy. The peas were so cheap that there would be a
great saving in money,--and it really had seemed to many that the
officials of the Horse Guards and the Admiralty had been actuated
by some fiendish desire to deprive their men of salutary fresh
vegetables, simply because they were of foreign growth. But the
officials of the War Office and the Admiralty declared that the
potted peas in question were hardly fit for swine. The motion for the
Committee had been made by a gentleman of the opposition, and Phineas
had been put upon it as an independent member. He had resolved to
give it all his mind, and, as far as he was concerned, to reach a
just decision, in which there should be no favour shown to the
Government side. New brooms are proverbial for thorough work,
and in this Committee work Phineas was as yet a new broom. But,
unfortunately, on this day his mind was so harassed that he could
hardly understand what was going on. It did not, perhaps, much
signify, as the witnesses examined were altogether agricultural. They
only proved the production of peas in Holstein,--a fact as to which
Phineas had no doubt. The proof was naturally slow, as the evidence
was given in German, and had to be translated into English. And
the work of the day was much impeded by a certain member who
unfortunately spoke German, who seemed to be fond of speaking German
before his brethren of the Committee, and who was curious as to
agriculture in Holstein generally. The chairman did not understand
German, and there was a difficulty in checking this gentleman, and
in making him understand that his questions were not relevant to the
issue.

Phineas could not keep his mind during the whole afternoon from the
subject of his misfortune. What should he do if this horrid man came
to him once or twice a week? He certainly did owe the man the money.
He must admit that to himself. The man no doubt was a dishonest
knave who had discounted the bill probably at fifty per cent; but,
nevertheless, Phineas had made himself legally responsible for the
amount. The privilege of the House prohibited him from arrest. He
thought of that very often, but the thought only made him the more
unhappy. Would it not be said, and might it not be said truly, that
he had incurred this responsibility,--a responsibility which he was
altogether unequal to answer,--because he was so protected? He did
feel that a certain consciousness of his privilege had been present
to him when he had put his name across the paper, and there had been
dishonesty in that very consciousness. And of what service would his
privilege be to him, if this man could harass every hour of his
life? The man was to be with him again in a day or two, and when the
appointment had been proposed, he, Phineas, had not dared to negative
it. And how was he to escape? As for paying the bill, that with him
was altogether impossible. The man had told him,--and he had believed
the man,--that payment by Fitzgibbon was out of the question. And
yet Fitzgibbon was the son of a peer, whereas he was only the son of
a country doctor! Of course Fitzgibbon must make some effort,--some
great effort,--and have the thing settled. Alas, alas! He knew enough
of the world already to feel that the hope was vain.

He went down from the Committee Room into the House, and he dined
at the House, and remained there until eight or nine at night; but
Fitzgibbon did not come. He then went to the Reform Club, but he was
not there. Both at the club and in the House many men spoke to him
about the debate of the previous night, expressing surprise that he
had not spoken,--making him more and more wretched. He saw Mr. Monk,
but Mr. Monk was walking arm in arm with his colleague, Mr. Palliser,
and Phineas could do no more than just speak to them. He thought that
Mr. Monk's nod of recognition was very cold. That might be fancy, but
it certainly was a fact that Mr. Monk only nodded to him. He would
tell Mr. Monk the truth, and then, if Mr. Monk chose to quarrel with
him, he at any rate would take no step to renew their friendship.

From the Reform Club he went to the Shakspeare, a smaller club to
which Fitzgibbon belonged,--and of which Phineas much wished to
become a member,--and to which he knew that his friend resorted when
he wished to enjoy himself thoroughly, and to be at ease in his
inn. Men at the Shakspeare could do as they pleased. There were no
politics there, no fashion, no stiffness, and no rules,--so men said;
but that was hardly true. Everybody called everybody by his Christian
name, and members smoked all over the house. They who did not belong
to the Shakspeare thought it an Elysium upon earth; and they who
did, believed it to be among Pandemoniums the most pleasant. Phineas
called at the Shakspeare, and was told by the porter that Mr.
Fitzgibbon was up-stairs. He was shown into the strangers room, and
in five minutes his friend came down to him.

"I want you to come down to the Reform with me," said Phineas.

"By jingo, my dear fellow, I'm in the middle of a rubber of whist."

"There has been a man with me about that bill."

"What;--Clarkson?"

"Yes, Clarkson," said Phineas.

"Don't mind him," said Fitzgibbon.

"That's nonsense. How am I to help minding him? I must mind him. He
is coming to me again on Tuesday morning."

"Don't see him."

"How can I help seeing him?"

"Make them say you're not at home."

"He has made an appointment. He has told me that he'll never leave me
alone. He'll be the death of me if this is not settled."

"It shall be settled, my dear fellow. I'll see about it. I'll see
about it and write you a line. You must excuse me now, because those
fellows are waiting. I'll have it all arranged."

Again as Phineas went home he thoroughly wished that he had not
seceded from Mr. Low.




CHAPTER XXII

Lady Baldock at Home


About the middle of March Lady Baldock came up from Baddingham to
London, coerced into doing so, as Violet Effingham declared, in
thorough opposition to all her own tastes, by the known wishes of her
friends and relatives. Her friends and relatives, so Miss Effingham
insinuated, were unanimous in wishing that Lady Baldock should
remain at Baddingham Park, and therefore,--that wish having been
indiscreetly expressed,--she had put herself to great inconvenience,
and had come to London in March. "Gustavus will go mad," said Violet
to Lady Laura. The Gustavus in question was the Lord Baldock of the
present generation, Miss Effingham's Lady Baldock being the peer's
mother. "Why does not Lord Baldock take a house himself?" asked Lady
Laura. "Don't you know, my dear," Violet answered, "how much we
Baddingham people think of money? We don't like being vexed and
driven mad, but even that is better than keeping up two households."
As regarded Violet, the injury arising from Lady Baldock's early
migration was very great, for she was thus compelled to move from
Grosvenor Place to Lady Baldock's house in Berkeley Square. "As you
are so fond of being in London, Augusta and I have made up our minds
to come up before Easter," Lady Baldock had written to her.

"I shall go to her now," Violet had said to her friend, "because I
have not quite made up my mind as to what I will do for the future."

"Marry Oswald, and be your own mistress."

"I mean to be my own mistress without marrying Oswald, though I don't
see my way quite clearly as yet. I think I shall set up a little
house of my own, and let the world say what it pleases. I suppose
they couldn't make me out to be a lunatic."

"I shouldn't wonder if they were to try," said Lady Laura.

"They could not prevent me in any other way. But I am in the dark as
yet, and so I shall be obedient and go to my aunt."

Miss Effingham went to Berkeley Square, and Phineas Finn was
introduced to Lady Baldock. He had been often in Grosvenor Place,
and had seen Violet frequently. Mr. Kennedy gave periodical
dinners,--once a week,--to which everybody went who could get an
invitation; and Phineas had been a guest more than once. Indeed, in
spite of his miseries he had taken to dining out a good deal, and was
popular as an eater of dinners. He could talk when wanted, and did
not talk too much, was pleasant in manners and appearance, and had
already achieved a certain recognised position in London life. Of
those who knew him intimately, not one in twenty were aware from
whence he came, what was his parentage, or what his means of living.
He was a member of Parliament, a friend of Mr. Kennedy's, was
intimate with Mr. Monk, though an Irishman did not as a rule herd
with other Irishmen, and was the right sort of person to have at your
house. Some people said he was a cousin of Lord Brentford's, and
others declared that he was Lord Chiltern's earliest friend. There he
was, however, with a position gained, and even Lady Baldock asked him
to her house.

Lady Baldock had evenings. People went to her house, and stood about
the room and on the stairs, talked to each other for half an hour,
and went away. In these March days there was no crowding, but still
there were always enough of people there to show that Lady Baldock
was successful. Why people should have gone to Lady Baldock's I
cannot explain;--but there are houses to which people go without
any reason. Phineas received a little card asking him to go, and he
always went.

"I think you like my friend, Mr. Finn," Lady Laura said to Miss
Effingham, after the first of these evenings.

"Yes, I do. I like him decidedly."

"So do I. I should hardly have thought that you would have taken a
fancy to him."

"I hardly know what you call taking a fancy," said Violet. "I am not
quite sure I like to be told that I have taken a fancy for a young
man."

"I mean no offence, my dear."

"Of course you don't But, to speak truth, I think I have rather taken
a fancy to him. There is just enough of him, but not too much. I
don't mean materially,--in regard to his inches; but as to his mental
belongings. I hate a stupid man who can't talk to me, and I hate a
clever man who talks me down. I don't like a man who is too lazy to
make any effort to shine; but I particularly dislike the man who is
always striving for effect. I abominate a humble man, but yet I love
to perceive that a man acknowledges the superiority of my sex, and
youth, and all that kind of thing."

"You want to be flattered without plain flattery."

"Of course I do. A man who would tell me that I am pretty, unless he
is over seventy, ought to be kicked out of the room. But a man who
can't show me that he thinks me so without saying a word about it,
is a lout. Now in all those matters, your friend, Mr. Finn, seems to
know what he is about. In other words, he makes himself pleasant,
and, therefore, one is glad to see him."

"I suppose you do not mean to fall in love with him?"

"Not that I know of, my dear. But when I do, I'll be sure to give you
notice."

I fear that there was more of earnestness in Lady Laura's last
question than Miss Effingham had supposed. She had declared to
herself over and over again that she had never been in love with
Phineas Finn. She had acknowledged to herself, before Mr. Kennedy had
asked her hand in marriage, that there had been danger,--that she
could have learned to love the man if such love would not have been
ruinous to her,--that the romance of such a passion would have been
pleasant to her. She had gone farther than this, and had said to
herself that she would have given way to that romance, and would have
been ready to accept such love if offered to her, had she not put
it out of her own power to marry a poor man by her generosity to
her brother. Then she had thrust the thing aside, and had clearly
understood,--she thought that she had clearly understood,--that life
for her must be a matter of business. Was it not the case with nine
out of every ten among mankind, with nine hundred and ninety-nine out
of every thousand, that life must be a matter of business and not of
romance? Of course she could not marry Mr. Finn, knowing, as she did,
that neither of them had a shilling. Of all men in the world she
esteemed Mr. Kennedy the most, and when these thoughts were passing
through her mind, she was well aware that he would ask her to be
his wife. Had she not resolved that she would accept the offer, she
would not have gone to Loughlinter. Having put aside all romance as
unfitted to her life, she could, she thought, do her duty as Mr.
Kennedy's wife. She would teach herself to love him. Nay,--she had
taught herself to love him. She was at any rate so sure of her
own heart that she would never give her husband cause to rue the
confidence he placed in her. And yet there was something sore within
her when she thought that Phineas Finn was fond of Violet Effingham.

It was Lady Baldock's second evening, and Phineas came to the house
at about eleven o'clock. At this time he had encountered a second
and a third interview with Mr. Clarkson, and had already failed in
obtaining any word of comfort from Laurence Fitzgibbon about the
bill. It was clear enough now that Laurence felt that they were both
made safe by their privilege, and that Mr. Clarkson should be treated
as you treat the organ-grinders. They are a nuisance and must be
endured. But the nuisance is not so great but what you can live in
comfort,--if only you are not too sore as to the annoyance. "My dear
fellow," Laurence had said to him, "I have had Clarkson almost living
in my rooms. He used to drink nearly a pint of sherry a day for me.
All I looked to was that I didn't live there at the same time. If you
wish it, I'll send in the sherry." This was very bad, and Phineas
tried to quarrel with his friend; but he found that it was difficult
to quarrel with Laurence Fitzgibbon.

But though on this side Phineas was very miserable, on another side
he had obtained great comfort. Mr. Monk and he were better friends
than ever. "As to what Turnbull says about me in the House," Mr.
Monk had said, laughing; "he and I understand each other perfectly.
I should like to see you on your legs, but it is just as well,
perhaps, that you have deferred it. We shall have the real question
on immediately after Easter, and then you'll have plenty of
opportunities." Phineas had explained how he had attempted, how he
had failed, and how he had suffered;--and Mr. Monk had been generous
in his sympathy. "I know all about it," said he, "and have gone
through it all myself. The more respect you feel for the House,
the more satisfaction you will have in addressing it when you have
mastered this difficulty."

The first person who spoke to Phineas at Lady Baldock's was Miss
Fitzgibbon, Laurence's sister. Aspasia Fitzgibbon was a warm woman as
regarded money, and as she was moreover a most discreet spinster,
she was made welcome by Lady Baldock, in spite of the well-known
iniquities of her male relatives. "Mr. Finn," said she, "how d'ye do?
I want to say a word to ye. Just come here into the corner." Phineas,
not knowing how to escape, did retreat into the corner with Miss
Fitzgibbon. "Tell me now, Mr. Finn;--have ye been lending money to
Laurence?"

"No; I have lent him no money," said Phineas, much astonished by the
question.

"Don't. That's my advice to ye. Don't. On any other matter Laurence
is the best creature in the world,--but he's bad to lend money to.
You ain't in any hobble with him, then?"

"Well;--nothing to speak of. What makes you ask?"

"Then you are in a hobble? Dear, dear! I never saw such a man as
Laurence;--never. Good-bye. I wouldn't do it again, if I were
you;--that's all." Then Miss Fitzgibbon came out of the corner and
made her way down-stairs.

Phineas immediately afterwards came across Miss Effingham. "I did not
know," said she, "that you and the divine Aspasia were such close
allies."

"We are the dearest friends in the world, but she has taken my breath
away now."

"May a body be told how she has done that?" Violet asked.

"Well, no; I'm afraid not, even though the body be Miss Effingham. It
was a profound secret;--really a secret concerning a third person,
and she began about it just as though she were speaking about the
weather!"

"How charming! I do so like her. You haven't heard, have you, that
Mr. Ratler proposed to her the other day?"

"No!"

"But he did;--at least, so she tells everybody. She said she'd take
him if he would promise to get her brother's salary doubled."

"Did she tell you?"

"No; not me. And of course I don't believe a word of it. I suppose
Barrington Erle made up the story. Are you going out of town next
week, Mr. Finn?" The week next to this was Easter-week. "I heard you
were going into Northamptonshire."

"From Lady Laura?"

"Yes;--from Lady Laura."

"I intend to spend three days with Lord Chiltern at Willingford. It
is an old promise. I am going to ride his horses,--that is, if I am
able to ride them."

"Take care what you are about, Mr. Finn;--they say his horses are so
dangerous!"

"I'm rather good at falling, I flatter myself."

"I know that Lord Chiltern rides anything he can sit, so long as it
is some animal that nobody else will ride. It was always so with him.
He is so odd; is he not?"

Phineas knew, of course, that Lord Chiltern had more than once asked
Violet Effingham to be his wife,--and he believed that she, from her
intimacy with Lady Laura, must know that he knew it. He had also
heard Lady Laura express a very strong wish that, in spite of these
refusals, Violet might even yet become her brother's wife. And
Phineas also knew that Violet Effingham was becoming, in his own
estimation, the most charming woman of his acquaintance. How was he
to talk to her about Lord Chiltern?

"He is odd," said Phineas; "but he is an excellent fellow,--whom his
father altogether misunderstands."

"Exactly,--just so; I am so glad to hear you say that,--you who have
never had the misfortune to have anything to do with a bad set. Why
don't you tell Lord Brentford? Lord Brentford would listen to you."

"To me?"

"Yes;--of course he would,--for you are just the link that is
wanting. You are Chiltern's intimate friend, and you are also the
friend of big-wigs and Cabinet Ministers."

"Lord Brentford would put me down at once if I spoke to him on such a
subject."

"I am sure he would not. You are too big to be put down, and no man
can really dislike to hear his son well spoken of by those who are
well spoken of themselves. Won't you try, Mr. Finn?" Phineas said
that he would think of it,--that he would try if any fit opportunity
could be found. "Of course you know how intimate I have been with the
Standishes," said Violet; "that Laura is to me a sister, and that
Oswald used to be almost a brother."

"Why do not you speak to Lord Brentford;--you who are his favourite?"

"There are reasons, Mr. Finn. Besides, how can any girl come forward
and say that she knows the disposition of any man? You can live with
Lord Chiltern, and see what he is made of, and know his thoughts, and
learn what is good in him, and also what is bad. After all, how is
any girl really to know anything of a man's life?"

"If I can do anything, Miss Effingham, I will," said Phineas.

"And then we shall all of us be so grateful to you," said Violet,
with her sweetest smile.

Phineas, retreating from this conversation, stood for a while alone,
thinking of it. Had she spoken thus of Lord Chiltern because she did
love him or because she did not? And the sweet commendations which
had fallen from her lips upon him,--him, Phineas Finn,--were they
compatible with anything like a growing partiality for himself, or
were they incompatible with any such feeling? Had he most reason to
be comforted or to be discomfited by what had taken place? It seemed
hardly possible to his imagination that Violet Effingham should
love such a nobody as he. And yet he had had fair evidence that one
standing as high in the world as Violet Effingham would fain have
loved him could she have followed the dictates of her heart. He had
trembled when he had first resolved to declare his passion to Lady
Laura,--fearing that she would scorn him as being presumptuous. But
there had been no cause for such fear as that. He had declared his
love, and she had not thought him to be presumptuous. That now was
ages ago,--eight months since; and Lady Laura had become a married
woman. Since he had become so warmly alive to the charms of Violet
Effingham he had determined, with stern propriety, that a passion for
a married woman was disgraceful. Such love was in itself a sin, even
though it was accompanied by the severest forbearance and the most
rigid propriety of conduct. No;--Lady Laura had done wisely to check
the growing feeling of partiality which she had admitted; and now
that she was married, he would be as wise as she. It was clear to him
that, as regarded his own heart, the way was open to him for a new
enterprise. But what if he were to fail again, and be told by Violet,
when he declared his love, that she had just engaged herself to Lord
Chiltern!

"What were you and Violet talking about so eagerly?" said Lady Laura
to him, with a smile that, in its approach to laughter, almost
betrayed its mistress.

"We were talking about your brother."

"You are going to him, are you not?"

"Yes; I leave London on Sunday night;--but only for a day or two."

"Has he any chance there, do you think?"

"What, with Miss Effingham?"

"Yes;--with Violet. Sometimes I think she loves him."

"How can I say? In such a matter you can judge better than I can do.
One woman with reference to another can draw the line between love
and friendship. She certainly likes Chiltern."

"Oh, I believe she loves him. I do indeed. But she fears him. She
does not quite understand how much there is of tenderness with that
assumed ferocity. And Oswald is so strange, so unwise, so impolitic,
that though he loves her better than all the world beside, he will
not sacrifice even a turn of a word to win her. When he asks her to
marry him, he almost flies at her throat, as an angry debtor who
applies for instant payment. Tell him, Mr. Finn, never to give it
over;--and teach him that he should be soft with her. Tell him, also,
that in her heart she likes him. One woman, as you say, knows another
woman; and I am certain he would win her if he would only be gentle
with her." Then, again, before they parted, Lady Laura told him that
this marriage was the dearest wish of her heart, and that there would
be no end to her gratitude if Phineas could do anything to promote
it. All which again made our hero unhappy.




CHAPTER XXIII

Sunday in Grosvenor Place


Mr. Kennedy, though he was a most scrupulously attentive member of
Parliament, was a man very punctual to hours and rules in his own
house,--and liked that his wife should be as punctual as himself.
Lady Laura, who in marrying him had firmly resolved that she would do
her duty to him in all ways, even though the ways might sometimes be
painful,--and had been perhaps more punctilious in this respect than
she might have been had she loved him heartily,--was not perhaps
quite so fond of accurate regularity as her husband; and thus, by
this time, certain habits of his had become rather bonds than habits
to her. He always had prayers at nine, and breakfasted at a quarter
past nine, let the hours on the night before have been as late as
they might before the time for rest had come. After breakfast he
would open his letters in his study, but he liked her to be with
him, and desired to discuss with her every application he got from
a constituent. He had his private secretary in a room apart, but he
thought that everything should be filtered to his private secretary
through his wife. He was very anxious that she herself should
superintend the accounts of their own private expenditure, and had
taken some trouble to teach her an excellent mode of book-keeping.
He had recommended to her a certain course of reading,--which was
pleasant enough; ladies like to receive such recommendations; but Mr.
Kennedy, having drawn out the course, seemed to expect that his wife
should read the books he had named, and, worse still, that she should
read them in the time he had allocated for the work. This, I think,
was tyranny. Then the Sundays became very wearisome to Lady Laura.
Going to church twice, she had learnt, would be a part of her duty;
and though in her father's household attendance at church had never
been very strict, she had made up her mind to this cheerfully. But
Mr. Kennedy expected also that he and she should always dine together
on Sundays, that there should be no guests, and that there should be
no evening company. After all, the demand was not very severe, but
yet she found that it operated injuriously upon her comfort. The
Sundays were very wearisome to her, and made her feel that her lord
and master was--her lord and master. She made an effort or two to
escape, but the efforts were all in vain. He never spoke a cross word
to her. He never gave a stern command. But yet he had his way. "I
won't say that reading a novel on a Sunday is a sin," he said; "but
we must at any rate admit that it is a matter on which men disagree,
that many of the best of men are against such occupation on Sunday,
and that to abstain is to be on the safe side." So the novels were
put away, and Sunday afternoon with the long evening became rather
a stumbling-block to Lady Laura.

Those two hours, moreover, with her husband in the morning became
very wearisome to her. At first she had declared that it would be her
greatest ambition to help her husband in his work, and she had read
all the letters from the MacNabs and MacFies, asking to be made
gaugers and landing-waiters, with an assumed interest. But the work
palled upon her very quickly. Her quick intellect discovered soon
that there was nothing in it which she really did. It was all form
and verbiage, and pretence at business. Her husband went through it
all with the utmost patience, reading every word, giving orders as
to every detail, and conscientiously doing that which he conceived
he had undertaken to do. But Lady Laura wanted to meddle with high
politics, to discuss reform bills, to assist in putting up Mr. This
and putting down my Lord That. Why should she waste her time in
doing that which the lad in the next room, who was called a private
secretary, could do as well?

Still she would obey. Let the task be as hard as it might, she would
obey. If he counselled her to do this or that, she would follow his
counsel,--because she owed him so much. If she had accepted the half
of all his wealth without loving him, she owed him the more on that
account. But she knew,--she could not but know,--that her intellect
was brighter than his; and might it not be possible for her to lead
him? Then she made efforts to lead her husband, and found that he was
as stiff-necked as an ox. Mr. Kennedy was not, perhaps, a clever man;
but he was a man who knew his own way, and who intended to keep it.

"I have got a headache, Robert," she said to him one Sunday after
luncheon. "I think I will not go to church this afternoon."

"It is not serious, I hope."

"Oh dear no. Don't you know how one feels sometimes that one has got
a head? And when that is the case one's armchair is the best place."

"I am not sure of that," said Mr. Kennedy.

"If I went to church I should not attend," said Lady Laura.

"The fresh air would do you more good than anything else, and we
could walk across the park."

"Thank you;--I won't go out again to-day." This she said with
something almost of crossness in her manner, and Mr. Kennedy went to
the afternoon service by himself.

Lady Laura when she was left alone began to think of her position.
She was not more than four or five months married, and she was
becoming very tired of her life. Was it not also true that she was
becoming tired of her husband? She had twice told Phineas Finn that
of all men in the world she esteemed Mr. Kennedy the most. She did
not esteem him less now. She knew no point or particle in which
he did not do his duty with accuracy. But no person can live
happily with another,--not even with a brother or a sister or a
friend,--simply upon esteem. All the virtues in the calendar,
though they exist on each side, will not make a man and woman happy
together, unless there be sympathy. Lady Laura was beginning to
find out that there was a lack of sympathy between herself and her
husband.

She thought of this till she was tired of thinking of it, and then,
wishing to divert her mind, she took up the book that was lying
nearest to her hand. It was a volume of a new novel which she had
been reading on the previous day, and now, without much thought about
it, she went on with her reading. There came to her, no doubt, some
dim, half-formed idea that, as she was freed from going to church by
the plea of a headache, she was also absolved by the same plea from
other Sunday hindrances. A child, when it is ill, has buttered toast
and a picture-book instead of bread-and-milk and lessons. In this
way, Lady Laura conceived herself to be entitled to her novel.

While she was reading it, there came a knock at the door, and
Barrington Erle was shown upstairs. Mr. Kennedy had given no orders
against Sunday visitors, but had simply said that Sunday visiting was
not to his taste. Barrington, however, was Lady Laura's cousin, and
people must be very strict if they can't see their cousins on Sunday.
Lady Laura soon lost her headache altogether in the animation
of discussing the chances of the new Reform Bill with the Prime
Minister's private secretary; and had left her chair, and was
standing by the table with the novel in her hand, protesting this
and denying that, expressing infinite confidence in Mr. Monk, and
violently denouncing Mr. Turnbull, when her husband returned from
church and came up into the drawing-room. Lady Laura had forgotten
her headache altogether, and had in her composition none of that
thoughtfulness of hypocrisy which would have taught her to moderate
her political feeling at her husband's return.

"I do declare," she said, "that if Mr. Turnbull opposes the
Government measure now, because he can't have his own way in
everything, I will never again put my trust in any man who calls
himself a popular leader."

"You never should," said Barrington Erle.

"That's all very well for you, Barrington, who are an aristocratic
Whig of the old official school, and who call yourself a Liberal
simply because Fox was a Liberal a hundred years ago. My heart's in
it."

"Heart should never have anything to do with politics; should it?"
said Erle, turning round to Mr. Kennedy.

Mr. Kennedy did not wish to discuss the matter on a Sunday, nor yet
did he wish to say before Barrington Erle that he thought it wrong
to do so. And he was desirous of treating his wife in some way
as though she were an invalid,--that she thereby might be, as it
were, punished; but he did not wish to do this in such a way that
Barrington should be aware of the punishment.

"Laura had better not disturb herself about it now," he said.

"How is a person to help being disturbed?" said Lady Laura, laughing.

"Well, well; we won't mind all that now," said Mr. Kennedy, turning
away. Then he took up the novel which Lady Laura had just laid down
from her hand, and, having looked at it, carried it aside, and placed
it on a book-shelf which was remote from them. Lady Laura watched him
as he did this, and the whole course of her husband's thoughts on the
subject was open to her at once. She regretted the novel, and she
regretted also the political discussion. Soon afterwards Barrington
Erle went away, and the husband and wife were alone together.

"I am glad that your head is so much better," said he. He did not
intend to be severe, but he spoke with a gravity of manner which
almost amounted to severity.

"Yes; it is," she said, "Barrington's coming in cheered me up."

"I am sorry that you should have wanted cheering."

"Don't you know what I mean, Robert?"

"No; I do not think that I do, exactly."

"I suppose your head is stronger. You do not get that feeling
of dazed, helpless imbecility of brain, which hardly amounts to
headache, but which yet--is almost as bad."

"Imbecility of brain may be worse than headache, but I don't think it
can produce it."

"Well, well;--I don't know how to explain it."

"Headache comes, I think, always from the stomach, even when produced
by nervous affections. But imbecility of the brain--"

"Oh, Robert, I am so sorry that I used the word."

"I see that it did not prevent your reading," he said, after a pause.

"Not such reading as that. I was up to nothing better."

Then there was another pause.

"I won't deny that it may be a prejudice," he said, "but I confess
that the use of novels in my own house on Sundays is a pain to me.
My mother's ideas on the subject are very strict, and I cannot think
that it is bad for a son to hang on to the teaching of his mother."
This he said in the most serious tone which he could command.

"I don't know why I took it up," said Lady Laura. "Simply, I believe,
because it was there. I will avoid doing so for the future."

"Do, my dear," said the husband. "I shall be obliged and grateful if
you will remember what I have said." Then he left her, and she sat
alone, first in the dusk and then in the dark, for two hours, doing
nothing. Was this to be the life which she had procured for herself
by marrying Mr. Kennedy of Loughlinter? If it was harsh and
unendurable in London, what would it be in the country?




CHAPTER XXIV

The Willingford Bull


Phineas left London by a night mail train on Easter Sunday, and found
himself at the Willingford Bull about half an hour after midnight.
Lord Chiltern was up and waiting for him, and supper was on the
table. The Willingford Bull was an English inn of the old stamp,
which had now, in these latter years of railway travelling, ceased
to have a road business,--for there were no travellers on the road,
and but little posting--but had acquired a new trade as a depot for
hunters and hunting men. The landlord let out horses and kept hunting
stables, and the house was generally filled from the beginning of
November till the middle of April. Then it became a desert in the
summer, and no guests were seen there, till the pink coats flocked
down again into the shires.

"How many days do you mean to give us?" said Lord Chiltern, as he
helped his friend to a devilled leg of turkey.

"I must go back on Wednesday," said Phineas.

"That means Wednesday night. I'll tell you what we'll do. We've the
Cottesmore to-morrow. We'll get into Tailby's country on Tuesday, and
Fitzwilliam will be only twelve miles off on Wednesday. We shall be
rather short of horses."

"Pray don't let me put you out. I can hire something here, I
suppose?"

"You won't put me out at all. There'll be three between us each day,
and we'll run our luck. The horses have gone on to Empingham for
to-morrow. Tailby is rather a way off,--at Somerby; but we'll manage
it. If the worst comes to the worst, we can get back to Stamford by
rail. On Wednesday we shall have everything very comfortable. They're
out beyond Stilton and will draw home our way. I've planned it all
out. I've a trap with a fast stepper, and if we start to-morrow at
half-past nine, we shall be in plenty of time. You shall ride Meg
Merrilies, and if she don't carry you, you may shoot her."

"Is she one of the pulling ones?"

"She is heavy in hand if you are heavy at her, but leave her mouth
alone and she'll go like flowing water. You'd better not ride more
in a crowd than you can help. Now what'll you drink?"

They sat up half the night smoking and talking, and Phineas learned
more about Lord Chiltern then than ever he had learned before. There
was brandy and water before them, but neither of them drank. Lord
Chiltern, indeed, had a pint of beer by his side from which he sipped
occasionally. "I've taken to beer," he said, "as being the best drink
going. When a man hunts six days a week he can afford to drink beer.
I'm on an allowance,--three pints a day. That's not too much."

"And you drink nothing else?"

"Nothing when I'm alone,--except a little cherry-brandy when I'm out.
I never cared for drink;--never in my life. I do like excitement, and
have been less careful than I ought to have been as to what it has
come from. I could give up drink to-morrow, without a struggle,--if
it were worth my while to make up my mind to do it. And it's the same
with gambling. I never do gamble now, because I've got no money; but
I own I like it better than anything in the world. While you are at
it, there is life in it."

"You should take to politics, Chiltern."

"And I would have done so, but my father would not help me. Never
mind, we will not talk about him. How does Laura get on with her
husband?"

"Very happily, I should say."

"I don't believe it," said Lord Chiltern. "Her temper is too much
like mine to allow her to be happy with such a log of wood as Robert
Kennedy. It is such men as he who drive me out of the pale of decent
life. If that is decency, I'd sooner be indecent. You mark my words.
They'll come to grief. She'll never be able to stand it."

"I should think she had her own way in everything," said Phineas.

"No, no. Though he's a prig, he's a man; and she will not find it
easy to drive him."

"But she may bend him."

"Not an inch;--that is if I understand his character. I suppose you
see a good deal of them?"

"Yes,--pretty well. I'm not there so often as I used to be in the
Square."

"You get sick of it, I suppose. I should. Do you see my father
often?"

"Only occasionally. He is always very civil when I do see him."

"He is the very pink of civility when he pleases, but the most unjust
man I ever met."

"I should not have thought that."

"Yes, he is," said the Earl's son, "and all from lack of judgment to
discern the truth. He makes up his mind to a thing on insufficient
proof, and then nothing will turn him. He thinks well of you,--would
probably believe your word on any indifferent subject without thought
of a doubt; but if you were to tell him that I didn't get drunk every
night of my life and spend most of my time in thrashing policemen, he
would not believe you. He would smile incredulously and make you a
little bow. I can see him do it."

"You are too hard on him, Chiltern."

"He has been too hard on me, I know. Is Violet Effingham still in
Grosvenor Place?"

"No; she's with Lady Baldock."

"That old grandmother of evil has come to town,--has she? Poor
Violet! When we were young together we used to have such fun about
that old woman."

"The old woman is an ally of mine now," said Phineas.

"You make allies everywhere. You know Violet Effingham of course?"

"Oh yes. I know her."

"Don't you think her very charming?" said Lord Chiltern.

"Exceedingly charming."

"I have asked that girl to marry me three times, and I shall never
ask her again. There is a point beyond which a man shouldn't go.
There are many reasons why it would be a good marriage. In the first
place, her money would be serviceable. Then it would heal matters in
our family, for my father is as prejudiced in her favour as he is
against me. And I love her dearly. I've loved her all my life,--since
I used to buy cakes for her. But I shall never ask her again."

"I would if I were you," said Phineas,--hardly knowing what it might
be best for him to say.

"No; I never will. But I'll tell you what. I shall get into some
desperate scrape about her. Of course she'll marry, and that soon.
Then I shall make a fool of myself. When I hear that she is engaged I
shall go and quarrel with the man, and kick him,--or get kicked. All
the world will turn against me, and I shall be called a wild beast."

"A dog in the manger is what you should be called."

"Exactly;--but how is a man to help it? If you loved a girl, could
you see another man take her?" Phineas remembered of course that he
had lately come through this ordeal. "It is as though he were to come
and put his hand upon me, and wanted my own heart out of me. Though
I have no property in her at all, no right to her,--though she never
gave me a word of encouragement, it is as though she were the most
private thing in the world to me. I should be half mad, and in my
madness I could not master the idea that I was being robbed. I should
resent it as a personal interference."

"I suppose it will come to that if you give her up yourself," said
Phineas.

"It is no question of giving up. Of course I cannot make her marry
me. Light another cigar, old fellow."

Phineas, as he lit the other cigar, remembered that he owed a certain
duty in this matter to Lady Laura. She had commissioned him to
persuade her brother that his suit with Violet Effingham would not be
hopeless, if he could only restrain himself in his mode of conducting
it. Phineas was disposed to do his duty, although he felt it to be
very hard that he should be called upon to be eloquent against his
own interest. He had been thinking for the last quarter of an hour
how he must bear himself if it might turn out that he should be the
man whom Lord Chiltern was resolved to kick. He looked at his friend
and host, and became aware that a kicking-match with such a one would
not be pleasant pastime. Nevertheless, he would be happy enough to be
subject to Lord Chiltern's wrath for such a reason. He would do his
duty by Lord Chiltern; and then, when that had been adequately done,
he would, if occasion served, fight a battle for himself.

"You are too sudden with her, Chiltern," he said, after a pause.

"What do you mean by too sudden?" said Lord Chiltern, almost angrily.

"You frighten her by being so impetuous. You rush at her as though
you wanted to conquer her by a single blow."

"So I do."

"You should be more gentle with her. You should give her time to find
out whether she likes you or not."

"She has known me all her life, and has found that out long ago. Not
but what you are right. I know you are right. If I were you, and had
your skill in pleasing, I should drop soft words into her ear till I
had caught her. But I have no gifts in that way. I am as awkward as
a pig at what is called flirting. And I have an accursed pride which
stands in my own light. If she were in this house this moment, and
if I knew she were to be had for asking, I don't think I could bring
myself to ask again. But we'll go to bed. It's half-past two, and we
must be off at half-past nine, if we're to be at Exton Park gates at
eleven."

Phineas, as he went up-stairs, assured himself that he had done his
duty. If there ever should come to be anything between him and Violet
Effingham, Lord Chiltern might quarrel with him,--might probably
attempt that kicking encounter to which allusion had been made,--but
nobody could justly say that he had not behaved honourably to his
friend.

On the next morning there was a bustle and a scurry, as there always
is on such occasions, and the two men got off about ten minutes after
time. But Lord Chiltern drove hard, and they reached the meet before
the master had moved off. They had a fair day's sport with the
Cottesmore; and Phineas, though he found that Meg Merrilies did
require a good deal of riding, went through his day's work with
credit. He had been riding since he was a child, as is the custom
with all boys in Munster, and had an Irishman's natural aptitude for
jumping. When they got back to the Willingford Bull he felt pleased
with the day and rather proud of himself. "It wasn't fast, you know,"
said Chiltern, "and I don't call that a stiff country. Besides, Meg
is very handy when you've got her out of the crowd. You shall ride
Bonebreaker to-morrow at Somerby, and you'll find that better fun."

"Bonebreaker? Haven't I heard you say he rushes like mischief?"

"Well, he does rush. But, by George! you want a horse to rush in that
country. When you have to go right through four or five feet of stiff
green wood, like a bullet through a target, you want a little force,
or you're apt to be left up a tree."

"And what do you ride?"

"A brute I never put my leg on yet. He was sent down to Wilcox here,
out of Lincolnshire, because they couldn't get anybody to ride him
there. They say he goes with his head up in the air, and won't look
at a fence that isn't as high as his breast. But I think he'll do
here. I never saw a better made beast, or one with more power. Do you
look at his shoulders. He's to be had for seventy pounds, and these
are the sort of horses I like to buy."

Again they dined alone, and Lord Chiltern explained to Phineas that
he rarely associated with the men of either of the hunts in which
he rode. "There is a set of fellows down here who are poison to me,
and there is another set, and I am poison to them. Everybody is
very civil, as you see, but I have no associates. And gradually I am
getting to have a reputation as though I were the devil himself. I
think I shall come out next year dressed entirely in black."

"Are you not wrong to give way to that kind of thing?"

"What the deuce am I to do? I can't make civil little speeches. When
once a man gets a reputation as an ogre, it is the most difficult
thing in the world to drop it. I could have a score of men here every
day if I liked it,--my title would do that for me;--but they would
be men I should loathe, and I should be sure to tell them so,
even though I did not mean it. Bonebreaker, and the new horse,
and another, went on at twelve to-day. You must expect hard work
to-morrow, as I daresay we shan't be home before eight."

The next day's meet was in Leicestershire, not far from Melton, and
they started early. Phineas, to tell the truth of him, was rather
afraid of Bonebreaker, and looked forward to the probability of an
accident. He had neither wife nor child, and nobody had a better
right to risk his neck. "We'll put a gag on 'im," said the groom,
"and you'll ride 'im in a ring,--so that you may well-nigh break
his jaw; but he is a rum un, sir." "I'll do my best," said Phineas.
"He'll take all that," said the groom. "Just let him have his own way
at everything," said Lord Chiltern, as they moved away from the meet
to Pickwell Gorse; "and if you'll only sit on his back, he'll carry
you through as safe as a church." Phineas could not help thinking
that the counsels of the master and of the groom were very different.
"My idea is," continued Lord Chiltern, "that in hunting you should
always avoid a crowd. I don't think a horse is worth riding that
will go in a crowd. It's just like yachting,--you should have plenty
of sea-room. If you're to pull your horse up at every fence till
somebody else is over, I think you'd better come out on a donkey."
And so they went away to Pickwell Gorse.

There were over two hundred men out, and Phineas began to think that
it might not be so easy to get out of the crowd. A crowd in a fast
run no doubt quickly becomes small by degrees and beautifully less;
but it is very difficult, especially for a stranger, to free himself
from the rush at the first start. Lord Chiltern's horse plunged about
so violently, as they stood on a little hill-side looking down upon
the cover, that he was obliged to take him to a distance, and Phineas
followed him. "If he breaks down wind," said Lord Chiltern, "we can't
be better than we are here. If he goes up wind, he must turn before
long, and we shall be all right." As he spoke an old hound opened
true and sharp,--an old hound whom all the pack believed,--and in a
moment there was no doubt that the fox had been found. "There are not
above eight or nine acres in it," said Lord Chiltern, "and he can't
hang long. Did you ever see such an uneasy brute as this in your
life? But I feel certain he'll go well when he gets away."

Phineas was too much occupied with his own horse to think much of
that on which Lord Chiltern was mounted. Bonebreaker, the very moment
that he heard the old hound's note, stretched out his head, and put
his mouth upon the bit, and began to tremble in every muscle. "He's
a great deal more anxious for it than you and I are," said Lord
Chiltern. "I see they've given you that gag. But don't you ride him
on it till he wants it. Give him lots of room, and he'll go in the
snaffle." All which caution made Phineas think that any insurance
office would charge very dear on his life at the present moment.

The fox took two rings of the gorse, and then he went,--up wind.
"It's not a vixen, I'll swear," said Lord Chiltern. "A vixen in cub
never went away like that yet. Now then, Finn, my boy, keep to the
right." And Lord Chiltern, with the horse out of Lincolnshire, went
away across the brow of the hill, leaving the hounds to the left, and
selected, as his point of exit into the next field, a stiff rail,
which, had there been an accident, must have put a very wide margin
of ground between the rider and his horse. "Go hard at your fences,
and then you'll fall clear," he had said to Phineas. I don't think,
however, that he would have ridden at the rail as he did, but
that there was no help for him. "The brute began in his own way,
and carried on after in the same fashion all through," he said
afterwards. Phineas took the fence a little lower down, and what
it was at which he rode he never knew. Bonebreaker sailed over it,
whatever it was, and he soon found himself by his friend's side.

The ruck of the men were lower down than our two heroes, and there
were others far away to the left, and others, again, who had been at
the end of the gorse, and were now behind. Our friends were not near
the hounds, not within two fields of them, but the hounds were below
them, and therefore could be seen. "Don't be in a hurry, and they'll
be round upon us," Lord Chiltern said. "How the deuce is one to help
being in a hurry?" said Phineas, who was doing his very best to ride
Bonebreaker with the snaffle, but had already began to feel that
Bonebreaker cared nothing for that weak instrument. "By George, I
should like to change with you," said Lord Chiltern. The Lincolnshire
horse was going along with his head very low, boring as he galloped,
but throwing his neck up at his fences, just when he ought to have
kept himself steady. After this, though Phineas kept near Lord
Chiltern throughout the run, they were not again near enough to
exchange words; and, indeed, they had but little breath for such
purpose.

Lord Chiltern rode still a little in advance, and Phineas, knowing
his friend's partiality for solitude when taking his fences, kept a
little to his left. He began to find that Bonebreaker knew pretty
well what he was about. As for not using the gag rein, that was
impossible. When a horse puts out what strength he has against a
man's arm, a man must put out what strength he has against the
horse's mouth. But Bonebreaker was cunning, and had had a gag rein
on before. He contracted his lip here, and bent out his jaw there,
till he had settled it to his mind, and then went away after his
own fashion. He seemed to have a passion for smashing through big,
high-grown ox-fences, and by degrees his rider came to feel that if
there was nothing worse coming, the fun was not bad.

The fox ran up wind for a couple of miles or so, as Lord Chiltern had
prophesied, and then turned,--not to the right, as would best have
served him and Phineas, but to the left,--so that they were forced
to make their way through the ruck of horses before they could place
themselves again. Phineas found himself crossing a road, in and out
of it, before he knew where he was, and for a while he lost sight of
Lord Chiltern. But in truth he was leading now, whereas Lord Chiltern
had led before. The two horses having been together all the morning,
and on the previous day, were willing enough to remain in company,
if they were allowed to do so. They both crossed the road, not very
far from each other, going in and out amidst a crowd of horses, and
before long were again placed well, now having the hunt on their
right, whereas hitherto it had been on their left. They went over
large pasture fields, and Phineas began to think that as long as
Bonebreaker would be able to go through the thick grown-up hedges,
all would be right. Now and again he came to a cut fence, a fence
that had been cut and laid, and these were not so pleasant. Force
was not sufficient for them, and they admitted of a mistake. But the
horse, though he would rush at them unpleasantly, took them when they
came without touching them. It might be all right yet,--unless the
beast should tire with him; and then, Phineas thought, a misfortune
might probably occur. He remembered, as he flew over one such
impediment, that he rode a stone heavier than his friend. At the end
of forty-five minutes Bonebreaker also might become aware of the
fact.

The hounds were running well in sight to their right, and Phineas
began to feel some of that pride which a man indulges when he becomes
aware that he has taken his place comfortably, has left the squad
behind, and is going well. There were men nearer the hounds than he
was, but he was near enough even for ambition. There had already been
enough of the run to make him sure that it would be a "good thing",
and enough to make him aware also that probably it might be too good.
When a run is over, men are very apt to regret the termination, who
a minute or two before were anxiously longing that the hounds might
pull down their game. To finish well is everything in hunting. To
have led for over an hour is nothing, let the pace and country have
been what they might, if you fall away during the last half mile.
Therefore it is that those behind hope that the fox may make this
or that cover, while the forward men long to see him turned over in
every field. To ride to hounds is very glorious; but to have ridden
to hounds is more glorious still. They had now crossed another road,
and a larger one, and had got into a somewhat closer country. The
fields were not so big, and the fences were not so high. Phineas got
a moment to look about him, and saw Lord Chiltern riding without his
cap. He was very red in the face, and his eyes seemed to glare, and
he was tugging at his horse with all his might. But the animal seemed
still to go with perfect command of strength, and Phineas had too
much work on his own hands to think of offering Quixotic assistance
to any one else. He saw some one, a farmer, as he thought, speak to
Lord Chiltern as they rode close together; but Chiltern only shook
his head and pulled at his horse.

There were brooks in those parts. The river Eye forms itself
thereabouts, or some of its tributaries do so; and these tributaries,
though small as rivers, are considerable to men on one side who are
called by the exigencies of the occasion to place themselves quickly
on the other. Phineas knew nothing of these brooks; but Bonebreaker
had gone gallantly over two, and now that there came a third in the
way, it was to be hoped that he might go gallantly over that also.
Phineas, at any rate, had no power to decide otherwise. As long as
the brute would go straight with him he could sit him; but he had
long given up the idea of having a will of his own. Indeed, till he
was within twenty yards of the brook, he did not see that it was
larger than the others. He looked around, and there was Chiltern
close to him, still fighting with his horse;--but the farmer had
turned away. He thought that Chiltern nodded to him, as much as to
tell him to go on. On he went at any rate. The brook, when he came to
it, seemed to be a huge black hole, yawning beneath him. The banks
were quite steep, and just where he was to take off there was an
ugly stump. It was too late to think of anything. He stuck his knees
against his saddle,--and in a moment was on the other side. The
brute, who had taken off a yard before the stump, knowing well the
danger of striking it with his foot, came down with a grunt, and did,
I think, begin to feel the weight of that extra stone. Phineas, as
soon as he was safe, looked back, and there was Lord Chiltern's horse
in the very act of his spring,--higher up the rivulet, where it was
even broader. At that distance Phineas could see that Lord Chiltern
was wild with rage against the beast. But whether he wished to take
the leap or wished to avoid it, there was no choice left to him. The
animal rushed at the brook, and in a moment the horse and horseman
were lost to sight. It was well then that that extra stone should
tell, as it enabled Phineas to arrest his horse and to come back to
his friend.

The Lincolnshire horse had chested the further bank, and of course
had fallen back into the stream. When Phineas got down he found that
Lord Chiltern was wedged in between the horse and the bank, which was
better, at any rate, than being under the horse in the water. "All
right, old fellow," he said, with a smile, when he saw Phineas. "You
go on; it's too good to lose." But he was very pale, and seemed to be
quite helpless where he lay. The horse did not move,--and never did
move again. He had smashed his shoulder to pieces against a stump on
the bank, and was afterwards shot on that very spot.

When Phineas got down he found that there was but little water where
the horse lay. The depth of the stream had been on the side from
which they had taken off, and the thick black mud lay within a foot
of the surface, close to the bank against which Lord Chiltern was
propped. "That's the worst one I ever was on," said Lord Chiltern;
"but I think he's gruelled now."

"Are you hurt?"

"Well;--I fancy there is something amiss. I can't move my arms; and I
catch my breath. My legs are all right if I could get away from this
accursed brute."

"I told you so," said the farmer, coming and looking down upon them
from the bank. "I told you so, but you wouldn't be said." Then he too
got down, and between them both they extricated Lord Chiltern from
his position, and got him on to the bank.

"That un's a dead un," said the farmer, pointing to the horse.

"So much the better," said his lordship. "Give us a drop of sherry,
Finn."

He had broken his collar-bone and three of his ribs. They got a
farmer's trap from Wissindine and took him into Oakham. When there,
he insisted on being taken on through Stamford to the Willingford
Bull before he would have his bones set,--picking up, however, a
surgeon at Stamford. Phineas remained with him for a couple of days,
losing his run with the Fitzwilliams and a day at the potted peas,
and became very fond of his patient as he sat by his bedside.

"That was a good run, though, wasn't it?" said Lord Chiltern
as Phineas took his leave. "And, by George, Phineas, you rode
Bonebreaker so well, that you shall have him as often as you'll come
down. I don't know how it is, but you Irish fellows always ride."




CHAPTER XXV

Mr. Turnbull's Carriage Stops the Way


When Phineas got back to London, a day after his time, he found that
there was already a great political commotion in the metropolis.
He had known that on Easter Monday and Tuesday there was to be
a gathering of the people in favour of the ballot, and that on
Wednesday there was to be a procession with a petition which Mr.
Turnbull was to receive from the hands of the people on Primrose
Hill. It had been at first intended that Mr. Turnbull should receive
the petition at the door of Westminster Hall on the Thursday; but he
had been requested by the Home Secretary to put aside this intention,
and he had complied with the request made to him. Mr. Mildmay was
to move the second reading of his Reform Bill on that day, the
preliminary steps having been taken without any special notice; but
the bill of course included no clause in favour of the ballot; and
this petition was the consequence of that omission. Mr. Turnbull had
predicted evil consequences, both in the House and out of it, and
was now doing the best in his power to bring about the verification
of his own prophecies. Phineas, who reached his lodgings late on the
Thursday, found that the town had been in a state of ferment for
three days, that on the Wednesday forty or fifty thousand persons had
been collected at Primrose Hill, and that the police had been forced
to interfere,--and that worse was expected on the Friday. Though Mr.
Turnbull had yielded to the Government as to receiving the petition,
the crowd was resolved that they would see the petition carried into
the House. It was argued that the Government would have done better
to have refrained from interfering as to the previously intended
arrangement. It would have been easier to deal with a procession than
with a mob of men gathered together without any semblance of form.
Mr. Mildmay had been asked to postpone the second reading of his
bill; but the request had come from his opponents, and he would
not yield to it. He said that it would be a bad expedient to close
Parliament from fear of the people. Phineas found at the Reform Club
on the Thursday evening that members of the House of Commons were
requested to enter on the Friday by the door usually used by the
peers, and to make their way thence to their own House. He found that
his landlord, Mr. Bunce, had been out with the people during the
entire three days;--and Mrs. Bunce, with a flood of tears, begged
Phineas to interfere as to the Friday. "He's that headstrong that
he'll be took if anybody's took; and they say that all Westminster is
to be lined with soldiers." Phineas on the Friday morning did have
some conversation with his landlord; but his first work on reaching
London was to see Lord Chiltern's friends, and tell them of the
accident.

The potted peas Committee sat on the Thursday, and he ought to have
been there. His absence, however, was unavoidable, as he could not
have left his friend's bed-side so soon after the accident. On the
Wednesday he had written to Lady Laura, and on the Thursday evening
he went first to Portman Square and then to Grosvenor Place.

"Of course he will kill himself some day," said the Earl,--with a
tear, however, in each eye.

"I hope not, my lord. He is a magnificent horseman; but accidents of
course will happen."

"How many of his bones are there not broken, I wonder?" said the
father. "It is useless to talk, of course. You think he is not in
danger?"

"Certainly not."

"I should fear that he would be so liable to inflammation."

"The doctor says that there is none. He has been taking an enormous
deal of exercise," said Phineas, "and drinking no wine. All that is
in his favour."

"What does he drink, then?" asked the Earl.

"Nothing. I rather think, my lord, you are mistaken a little about
his habits. I don't fancy he ever drinks unless he is provoked to do
it."

"Provoked! Could anything provoke you to make a brute of yourself?
But I am glad that he is in no danger. If you hear of him, let me
know how he goes on."

Lady Laura was of course full of concern. "I wanted to go down to
him," she said, "but Mr. Kennedy thought that there was no occasion."

"Nor is there any;--I mean in regard to danger. He is very solitary
there."

"You must go to him again. Mr. Kennedy will not let me go unless I
can say that there is danger. He seems to think that because Oswald
has had accidents before, it is nothing. Of course I cannot leave
London without his leave."

"Your brother makes very little of it, you know."

"Ah;--he would make little of anything. But if I were ill he would be
in London by the first train."

"Kennedy would let you go if you asked him."

"But he advises me not to go. He says my duty does not require it,
unless Oswald be in danger. Don't you know, Mr. Finn, how hard it is
for a wife not to take advice when it is so given?" This she said,
within six months of her marriage, to the man who had been her
husband's rival!

Phineas asked her whether Violet had heard the news, and learned that
she was still ignorant of it. "I got your letter only this morning,
and I have not seen her," said Lady Laura. "Indeed, I am so angry
with her that I hardly wish to see her." Thursday was Lady Baldock's
night, and Phineas went from Grosvenor Place to Berkeley Square.
There he saw Violet, and found that she had heard of the accident.

"I am so glad to see you, Mr. Finn," she said. "Do tell me;--is it
much?"

"Much in inconvenience, certainly; but not much in danger."

"I think Laura was so unkind not to send me word! I only heard it
just now. Did you see it?"

"I was close to him, and helped him up. The horse jumped into a river
with him, and crushed him up against the bank."

"How lucky that you should be there! Had you jumped the river?"

"Yes;--almost unintentionally, for my horse was rushing so that I
could not hold him. Chiltern was riding a brute that no one should
have ridden. No one will again."

"Did he destroy himself?"

"He had to be killed afterwards. He broke his shoulder."

"How very lucky that you should have been near him,--and, again, how
lucky that you should not have been hurt yourself!"

"It was not likely that we should both come to grief at the same
fence."

"But it might have been you. And you think there is no danger?"

"None whatever,--if I may believe the doctor. His hunting is done for
this year, and he will be very desolate. I shall go down again to him
in a few days, and try to bring him up to town."

"Do;--do. If he is laid up in his father's house, his father must
see him." Phineas had not looked at the matter in that light; but he
thought that Miss Effingham might probably be right.

Early on the next morning he saw Mr. Bunce, and used all his
eloquence to keep that respectable member of society at home;--but
in vain. "What good do you expect to do, Mr. Bunce?" he said, with
perhaps some little tone of authority in his voice.

"To carry my point," said Bunce.

"And what is your point?"

"My present point is the ballot, as a part of the Government
measure."

"And you expect to carry that by going out into the streets with all
the roughs of London, and putting yourself in direct opposition to
the authority of the magistrates? Do you really believe that the
ballot will become the law of the land any sooner because you incur
this danger and inconvenience?"

"Look here, Mr. Finn; I don't believe the sea will become any fuller
because the Piddle runs into it out of the Dorsetshire fields; but I
do believe that the waters from all the countries is what makes the
ocean. I shall help; and it's my duty to help."

"It's your duty as a respectable citizen, with a wife and family, to
stay at home."

"If everybody with a wife and family was to say so, there'd be
none there but roughs, and then where should we be? What would the
Government people say to us then? If every man with a wife and family
was to show hisself in the streets to-night, we should have the
ballot before Parliament breaks up, and if none of 'em don't do it,
we shall never have the ballot. Ain't that so?" Phineas, who intended
to be honest, was not prepared to dispute the assertion on the spur
of the moment. "If that's so," said Bunce, triumphantly, "a man's
duty's clear enough. He ought to go, though he'd two wives and
families." And he went.

The petition was to be presented at six o'clock, but the crowd, who
collected to see it carried into Westminster Hall, began to form
itself by noon. It was said afterwards that many of the houses in
the neighbourhood of Palace Yard and the Bridge were filled with
soldiers; but if so, the men did not show themselves. In the course
of the evening three or four companies of the Guards in St. James's
Park did show themselves, and had some rough work to do, for many of
the people took themselves away from Westminster by that route. The
police, who were very numerous in Palace Yard, had a hard time of it
all the afternoon, and it was said afterwards that it would have been
much better to have allowed the petition to have been brought up by
the procession on Wednesday. A procession, let it be who it will that
proceeds, has in it, of its own nature something of order. But now
there was no order. The petition, which was said to fill fifteen
cabs,--though the absolute sheets of signatures were carried into
the House by four men,--was being dragged about half the day and it
certainly would have been impossible for a member to have made his
way into the House through Westminster Hall between the hours of four
and six. To effect an entrance at all they were obliged to go round
at the back of the Abbey, as all the spaces round St. Margaret's
Church and Canning's monument were filled with the crowd. Parliament
Street was quite impassable at five o clock, and there was no traffic
across the bridge from that hour till after eight. As the evening
went on, the mob extended itself to Downing Street and the front
of the Treasury Chambers, and before the night was over all the
hoardings round the new Government offices had been pulled down. The
windows also of certain obnoxious members of Parliament were broken,
when those obnoxious members lived within reach. One gentleman who
unfortunately held a house in Richmond Terrace, and who was said
to have said that the ballot was the resort of cowards, fared very
badly;--for his windows were not only broken, but his furniture and
mirrors were destroyed by the stones that were thrown. Mr. Mildmay,
I say, was much blamed. But after all, it may be a doubt whether the
procession on Wednesday might not have ended worse. Mr. Turnbull was
heard to say afterwards that the number of people collected would
have been much greater.

Mr. Mildmay moved the second reading of his bill, and made his
speech. He made his speech with the knowledge that the Houses of
Parliament were surrounded by a mob, and I think that the fact added
to its efficacy. It certainly gave him an appropriate opportunity
for a display which was not difficult. His voice faltered on two or
three occasions, and faltered through real feeling; but this sort of
feeling, though it be real, is at the command of orators on certain
occasions, and does them yeoman's service. Mr. Mildmay was an
old man, nearly worn out in the service of his country, who was
known to have been true and honest, and to have loved his country
well,--though there were of course they who declared that his
hand had been too weak for power, and that his services had been
naught;--and on this evening his virtues were remembered. Once when
his voice failed him the whole House got up and cheered. The nature
of a Whig Prime Minister's speech on such an occasion will be
understood by most of my readers without further indication. The bill
itself had been read before, and it was understood that no objection
would be made to the extent of the changes provided in it by the
liberal side of the House. The opposition coming from liberal members
was to be confined to the subject of the ballot. And even as yet
it was not known whether Mr. Turnbull and his followers would vote
against the second reading, or whether they would take what was
given, and declare their intention of obtaining the remainder on a
separate motion. The opposition of a large party of Conservatives was
a matter of certainty; but to this party Mr. Mildmay did not conceive
himself bound to offer so large an amount of argument as he would
have given had there been at the moment no crowd in Palace Yard. And
he probably felt that that crowd would assist him with his old Tory
enemies. When, in the last words of his speech, he declared that
under no circumstances would he disfigure the close of his political
career by voting for the ballot,--not though the people, on whose
behalf he had been fighting battles all his life, should be there in
any number to coerce him,--there came another round of applause from
the opposition benches, and Mr. Daubeny began to fear that some young
horses in his team might get loose from their traces. With great
dignity Mr. Daubeny had kept aloof from Mr. Turnbull and from Mr.
Turnbull's tactics; but he was not the less alive to the fact
that Mr. Turnbull, with his mob and his big petition, might be of
considerable assistance to him in this present duel between himself
and Mr. Mildmay. I think Mr. Daubeny was in the habit of looking at
these contests as duels between himself and the leader on the other
side of the House,--in which assistance from any quarter might be
accepted if offered.

Mr. Mildmay's speech did not occupy much over an hour, and at
half-past seven Mr. Turnbull got up to reply. It was presumed that he
would do so, and not a member left his place, though that time of the
day is an interesting time, and though Mr. Turnbull was accustomed to
be long. There soon came to be but little ground for doubting what
would be the nature of Mr. Turnbull's vote on the second reading.
"How may I dare," said he, "to accept so small a measure of reform as
this with such a message from the country as is now conveyed to me
through the presence of fifty thousand of my countrymen, who are at
this moment demanding their measure of reform just beyond the frail
walls of this chamber? The right honourable gentleman has told us
that he will never be intimidated by a concourse of people. I do not
know that there was any need that he should speak of intimidation.
No one has accused the right honourable gentleman of political
cowardice. But, as he has so said, I will follow in his footsteps.
Neither will I be intimidated by the large majority which this House
presented the other night against the wishes of the people. I will
support no great measure of reform which does not include the ballot
among its clauses." And so Mr. Turnbull threw down the gauntlet.

Mr. Turnbull spoke for two hours, and then the debate was adjourned
till the Monday. The adjournment was moved by an independent member,
who, as was known, would support the Government, and at once received
Mr. Turnbull's assent. There was no great hurry with the bill, and
it was felt that it would be well to let the ferment subside. Enough
had been done for glory when Mr. Mildmay moved the second reading,
and quite enough in the way of debate,--with such an audience almost
within hearing,--when Mr. Turnbull's speech had been made. Then the
House emptied itself at once. The elderly, cautious members made
their exit through the peers' door. The younger men got out into
the crowd through Westminster Hall, and were pushed about among the
roughs for an hour or so. Phineas, who made his way through the hall
with Laurence Fitzgibbon, found Mr. Turnbull's carriage waiting at
the entrance with a dozen policemen round it.

"I hope he won't get home to dinner before midnight," said Phineas.

"He understands all about it," said Laurence. "He had a good meal at
three, before he left home, and you'd find sandwiches and sherry in
plenty if you were to search his carriage. He knows how to remedy the
costs of mob popularity."

At that time poor Bunce was being hustled about in the crowd in the
vicinity of Mr. Turnbull's carriage. Phineas and Fitzgibbon made
their way out, and by degrees worked a passage for themselves into
Parliament Street. Mr. Turnbull had been somewhat behind them in
coming down the hall, and had not been without a sense of enjoyment
in the ovation which was being given to him. There can be no doubt
that he was wrong in what he was doing. That affair of the carriage
was altogether wrong, and did Mr. Turnbull much harm for many a day
afterwards. When he got outside the door, where were the twelve
policemen guarding his carriage, a great number of his admirers
endeavoured to shake hands with him. Among them was the devoted
Bunce. But the policemen seemed to think that Mr. Turnbull was to be
guarded, even from the affection of his friends, and were as careful
that he should be ushered into his carriage untouched, as though he
had been the favourite object of political aversion for the moment.
Mr. Turnbull himself, when he began to perceive that men were
crowding close upon the gates, and to hear the noise, and to feel, as
it were, the breath of the mob, stepped on quickly into his carriage.
He said a word or two in a loud voice. "Thank you, my friends. I
trust you may obtain all your just demands." But he did not pause
to speak. Indeed, he could hardly have done so, as the policemen
were manifestly in a hurry. The carriage was got away at a snail's
pace;--but there remained in the spot where the carriage had stood
the makings of a very pretty street row.

Bunce had striven hard to shake hands with his hero,--Bunce and some
other reformers as ardent and as decent as himself. The police were
very determinate that there should be no such interruption to their
programme for getting Mr. Turnbull off the scene. Mr. Bunce, who had
his own ideas as to his right to shake hands with any gentleman at
Westminster Hall who might choose to shake hands with him, became
uneasy under the impediments that were placed in his way, and
expressed himself warmly as to his civil rights. Now a London
policeman in a political row is, I believe, the most forbearing
of men. So long as he meets with no special political opposition,
ordinary ill-usage does not even put him out of temper. He is paid
for rough work among roughs, and takes his rubs gallantly. But he
feels himself to be an instrument for the moment of despotic power
as opposed to civil rights, and he won't stand what he calls "jaw."
Trip up a policeman in such a scramble, and he will take it in good
spirit; but mention the words "Habeas Corpus," and he'll lock you up
if he can. As a rule, his instincts are right; for the man who talks
about "Habeas Corpus" in a political crowd will generally do more
harm than can be effected by the tripping up of any constable. But
these instincts may be the means of individual injustice. I think
they were so when Mr. Bunce was arrested and kept a fast prisoner.
His wife had shown her knowledge of his character when she declared
that he'd be "took" if any one was "took."

Bunce was taken into custody with some three or four others like
himself,--decent men, who meant no harm, but who thought that as men
they were bound to show their political opinions, perhaps at the
expense of a little martyrdom,--and was carried into a temporary
stronghold, which had been provided for the necessities of the
police, under the clock-tower.

"Keep me, at your peril!" said Bunce, indignantly.

"We means it," said the sergeant who had him in custody.

"I've done no ha'porth to break the law," said Bunce.

"You was breaking the law when you was upsetting my men, as I saw
you," said the sergeant.

"I've upset nobody," said Bunce.

"Very well," rejoined the sergeant; "you can say it all before the
magistrate, to-morrow."

"And am I to be locked up all night?" said Bunce.

"I'm afraid you will," replied the sergeant.

Bunce, who was not by nature a very talkative man, said no more; but
he swore in his heart that there should be vengeance. Between eleven
and twelve he was taken to the regular police-station, and from
thence he was enabled to send word to his wife.

"Bunce has been taken," said she, with something of the tragic queen,
and something also of the injured wife in the tone of her voice, as
soon as Phineas let himself in with the latchkey between twelve and
one. And then, mingled with, and at last dominant over, those severer
tones, came the voice of the loving woman whose beloved one was in
trouble. "I knew how it'd be, Mr. Finn. Didn't I? And what must we
do? I don't suppose he'd had a bit to eat from the moment he went
out;--and as for a drop of beer, he never thinks of it, except what
I puts down for him at his meals. Them nasty police always take the
best. That's why I was so afeard."

Phineas said all that he could to comfort her, and promised to go
to the police-office early in the morning and look after Bunce. No
serious evil would, he thought, probably come of it; but still Bunce
had been wrong to go.

"But you might have been took yourself," argued Mrs. Bunce, "just as
well as he." Then Phineas explained that he had gone forth in the
execution of a public duty. "You might have been took, all the same,"
said Mrs. Bunce, "for I'm sure Bunce didn't do nothing amiss."




CHAPTER XXVI

"The First Speech"


On the following morning, which was Saturday, Phineas was early at
the police-office at Westminster looking after the interests of his
landlord; but there had been a considerable number of men taken up
during the row, and our friend could hardly procure that attention
for Mr. Bunce's case to which he thought the decency of his client
and his own position as a member of Parliament were entitled. The men
who had been taken up were taken in batches before the magistrates;
but as the soldiers in the park had been maltreated, and a
considerable injury had been done in the neighbourhood of Downing
Street, there was a good deal of strong feeling against the mob, and
the magistrates were disposed to be severe. If decent men chose to go
out among such companions, and thereby get into trouble, decent men
must take the consequences. During the Saturday and Sunday a very
strong feeling grew up against Mr. Turnbull. The story of the
carriage was told, and he was declared to be a turbulent demagogue,
only desirous of getting popularity. And together with this feeling
there arose a general verdict of "Serve them right" against all who
had come into contact with the police in the great Turnbull row; and
thus it came to pass that Mr. Bunce had not been liberated up to
the Monday morning. On the Sunday Mrs. Bunce was in hysterics, and
declared her conviction that Mr. Bunce would be imprisoned for life.
Poor Phineas had an unquiet time with her on the morning of that day.
In every ecstasy of her grief she threw herself into his arms, either
metaphorically or materially, according to the excess of her agony at
the moment, and expressed repeatedly an assured conviction that all
her children would die of starvation, and that she herself would be
picked up under the arches of one of the bridges. Phineas, who was
soft-hearted, did what he could to comfort her, and allowed himself
to be worked up to strong parliamentary anger against the magistrates
and police. "When they think that they have public opinion on their
side, there is nothing in the way or arbitrary excess which is too
great for them." This he said to Barrington Erle, who angered him and
increased the warmth of his feeling by declaring that a little close
confinement would be good for the Bunces of the day. "If we don't
keep the mob down, the mob will keep us down," said the Whig private
secretary. Phineas had no opportunity of answering this, but declared
to himself that Barrington Erle was no more a Liberal at heart than
was Mr. Daubeny. "He was born on that side of the question, and has
been receiving Whig wages all his life. That is the history of his
politics!"

On the Sunday afternoon Phineas went to Lord Brentford's in Portman
Square, intending to say a word or two about Lord Chiltern, and
meaning also to induce, if possible, the Cabinet Minister to take
part with him against the magistrates,--having a hope also, in which
he was not disappointed, that he might find Lady Laura Kennedy with
her father. He had come to understand that Lady Laura was not to be
visited at her own house on Sundays. So much indeed she had told
him in so many words. But he had come to understand also, without
any plain telling, that she rebelled in heart against this Sabbath
tyranny,--and that she would escape from it when escape was possible.
She had now come to talk to her father about her brother, and had
brought Violet Effingham with her. They had walked together across
the park after church, and intended to walk back again. Mr. Kennedy
did not like to have any carriage out on a Sunday, and to this
arrangement his wife made no objection.

Phineas had received a letter from the Stamford surgeon, and was able
to report favourably of Lord Chiltern. "The man says that he had
better not be moved for a month," said Phineas. "But that means
nothing. They always say that."

"Will it not be best for him to remain where he is?" said the Earl.

"He has not a soul to speak to," said Phineas.

"I wish I were with him," said his sister.

"That is, of course, out of the question," said the Earl. "They know
him at that inn, and it really seems to me best that he should stay
there. I do not think he would be so much at his ease here."

"It must be dreadful for a man to be confined to his room without
a creature near him, except the servants," said Violet. The Earl
frowned, but said nothing further. They all perceived that as soon as
he had learned that there was no real danger as to his son's life, he
was determined that this accident should not work him up to any show
of tenderness. "I do so hope he will come up to London," continued
Violet, who was not afraid of the Earl, and was determined not to be
put down.

"You don't know what you are talking about, my dear," said Lord
Brentford.

After this Phineas found it very difficult to extract any sympathy
from the Earl on behalf of the men who had been locked up. He was
moody and cross, and could not be induced to talk on the great
subject of the day. Violet Effingham declared that she did not care
how many Bunces were locked up; nor for how long,--adding, however,
a wish that Mr. Turnbull himself had been among the number of the
prisoners. Lady Laura was somewhat softer than this, and consented to
express pity in the case of Mr. Bunce himself; but Phineas perceived
that the pity was awarded to him and not to the sufferer. The feeling
against Mr. Turnbull was at the present moment so strong among all
the upper classes, that Mr. Bunce and his brethren might have been
kept in durance for a week without commiseration from them.

"It is very hard certainly on a man like Mr. Bunce," said Lady Laura.

"Why did not Mr. Bunce stay at home and mind his business?" said the
Earl.

Phineas spent the remainder of that day alone, and came to a
resolution that on the coming occasion he certainly would speak in
the House. The debate would be resumed on the Monday, and he would
rise to his legs on the very first moment that it became possible
for him to do so. And he would do nothing towards preparing a
speech;--nothing whatever. On this occasion he would trust entirely
to such words as might come to him at the moment;--ay, and to such
thoughts. He had before burdened his memory with preparations, and
the very weight of the burden had been too much for his mind. He had
feared to trust himself to speak, because he had felt that he was
not capable of performing the double labour of saying his lesson
by heart, and of facing the House for the first time. There should
be nothing now for him to remember. His thoughts were full of his
subject. He would support Mr. Mildmay's bill with all his eloquence,
but he would implore Mr. Mildmay, and the Home Secretary, and the
Government generally, to abstain from animosity against the populace
of London, because they desired one special boon which Mr. Mildmay
did not think that it was his duty to give them. He hoped that ideas
and words would come to him. Ideas and words had been free enough
with him in the old days of the Dublin debating society. If they
failed him now, he must give the thing up, and go back to Mr. Low.

On the Monday morning Phineas was for two hours at the police-court
in Westminster, and at about one on that day Mr. Bunce was liberated.
When he was brought up before the magistrate, Mr. Bunce spoke his
mind very freely as to the usage he had received, and declared his
intention of bringing an action against the sergeant who had detained
him. The magistrate, of course, took the part of the police, and
declared that, from the evidence of two men who were examined, Bunce
had certainly used such violence in the crowd as had justified his
arrest.

"I used no violence," said Bunce.

"According to your own showing, you endeavoured to make your way up
to Mr. Turnbull's carriage," said the magistrate.

"I was close to the carriage before the police even saw me," said
Bunce.

"But you tried to force your way round to the door."

"I used no force till a man had me by the collar to push me back; and
I wasn't violent, not then. I told him I was doing what I had a right
to do,--and it was that as made him hang on to me."

"You were not doing what you had a right to do. You were assisting to
create a riot," said the magistrate, with that indignation which a
London magistrate should always know how to affect.

Phineas, however, was allowed to give evidence as to his landlord's
character, and then Bunce was liberated. But before he went he
again swore that that should not be the last of it, and he told the
magistrate that he had been ill-used. When liberated, he was joined
by a dozen sympathising friends, who escorted him home, and among
them were one or two literary gentlemen, employed on those excellent
penny papers, the _People's Banner_ and the _Ballot-box_. It was
their intention that Mr. Bunce's case should not be allowed to sleep.
One of these gentlemen made a distinct offer to Phineas Finn of
unbounded popularity during life and of immortality afterwards,
if he, as a member of Parliament, would take up Bunce's case with
vigour. Phineas, not quite understanding the nature of the offer, and
not as yet knowing the profession of the gentleman, gave some general
reply.

"You come out strong, Mr. Finn, and we'll see that you are properly
reported. I'm on the _Banner_, sir, and I'll answer for that."

Phineas, who had been somewhat eager in expressing his sympathy
with Bunce, and had not given very close attention to the gentleman
who was addressing him, was still in the dark. The nature of the
_Banner_, which the gentleman was on, did not at once come home to
him.

"Something ought to be done, certainly," said Phineas.

"We shall take it up strong," said the gentleman, "and we shall be
happy to have you among us. You'll find, Mr. Finn, that in public
life there's nothing like having a horgan to back you. What is the
most you can do in the 'Ouse? Nothing, if you're not reported. You're
speaking to the country;--ain't you? And you can't do that without a
horgan, Mr. Finn. You come among us on the _Banner_, Mr. Finn. You
can't do better."

Then Phineas understood the nature of the offer made to him. As they
parted, the literary gentleman gave our hero his card. "Mr. Quintus
Slide." So much was printed. Then, on the corner of the card was
written, "_Banner_ Office, 137, Fetter Lane." Mr. Quintus Slide
was a young man, under thirty, not remarkable for clean linen, and
who always talked of the "'Ouse." But he was a well-known and not
undistinguished member of a powerful class of men. He had been a
reporter, and as such knew the "'Ouse" well, and was a writer for the
press. And, though he talked of "'Ouses" and "horgans", he wrote good
English with great rapidity, and was possessed of that special sort
of political fervour which shows itself in a man's work rather than
in his conduct. It was Mr. Slide's taste to be an advanced reformer,
and in all his operations on behalf of the _People's Banner_ he
was a reformer very much advanced. No man could do an article on the
people's indefeasible rights with more pronounced vigour than Mr.
Slide. But it had never occurred to him as yet that he ought to care
for anything else than the fight,--than the advantage of having a
good subject on which to write slashing articles. Mr. Slide was an
energetic but not a thoughtful man; but in his thoughts on politics,
as far as they went with him, he regarded the wrongs of the people as
being of infinitely greater value than their rights. It was not that
he was insincere in all that he was daily saying;--but simply that
he never thought about it. Very early in life he had fallen among
"people's friends," and an opening on the liberal press had come in
his way. To be a "people's friend" suited the turn of his ambition,
and he was a "people's friend." It was his business to abuse
Government, and to express on all occasions an opinion that as a
matter of course the ruling powers were the "people's enemies." Had
the ruling powers ceased to be the "people's enemies," Mr. Slide's
ground would have been taken from under his feet. But such a
catastrophe was out of the question. That excellent old arrangement
that had gone on since demagogues were first invented was in
full vigour. There were the ruling powers and there were the
people,--devils on one side and angels on the other,--and as long
as a people's friend had a pen in his hand all was right.

Phineas, when he left the indignant Bunce to go among his friends,
walked to the House thinking a good deal of what Mr. Slide had said
to him. The potted peas Committee was again on, and he had intended
to be in the Committee Room by twelve punctually: but he had been
unable to leave Mr. Bunce in the lurch, and it was now past one.
Indeed, he had, from one unfortunate circumstance after another,
failed hitherto in giving to the potted peas that resolute attention
which the subject demanded. On the present occasion his mind was full
of Mr. Quintus Slide and the _People's Banner_. After all, was there
not something in Mr. Slide's proposition? He, Phineas, had come into
Parliament as it were under the wing of a Government pack, and his
friendships, which had been very successful, had been made with
Ministers, and with the friends of Ministers. He had made up his mind
to be Whig Ministerial, and to look for his profession in that line.
He had been specially fortified in this resolution by his dislike
to the ballot,--which dislike had been the result of Mr. Monk's
teaching. Had Mr. Turnbull become his friend instead, it may well be
that he would have liked the ballot. On such subjects men must think
long, and be sure that they have thought in earnest, before they are
justified in saying that their opinions are the results of their
own thoughts. But now he began to reflect how far this ministerial
profession would suit him. Would it be much to be a Lord of the
Treasury, subject to the dominion of Mr. Ratler? Such lordship and
such subjection would be the result of success. He told himself
that he was at heart a true Liberal. Would it not be better for him
to abandon the idea of office trammels, and go among them on the
_People's Banner_? A glow of enthusiasm came over him as he thought
of it. But what would Violet Effingham say to the _People's Banner_
and Mr. Quintus Slide? And he would have liked the _Banner_ better
had not Mr. Slide talked about the 'Ouse.

From the Committee Room, in which, alas! he took no active part in
reference to the potted peas, he went down to the House, and was
present when the debate was resumed. Not unnaturally, one speaker
after another made some allusion to the row in the streets, and the
work which had fallen to the lot of the magistrates. Mr. Turnbull
had declared that he would vote against the second reading of Mr.
Mildmay's bill, and had explained that he would do so because he
could consent to no Reform Bill which did not include the ballot as
one of its measures. The debate fashioned itself after this speech of
Mr. Turnbull's, and turned again very much upon the ballot,--although
it had been thought that the late debate had settled that question.
One or two of Mr. Turnbull's followers declared that they also would
vote against the bill,--of course, as not going far enough; and one
or two gentlemen from the Conservative benches extended a spoken
welcome to these new colleagues. Then Mr. Palliser got up and
addressed the House for an hour, struggling hard to bring back the
real subject, and to make the House understand that the ballot,
whether good or bad, had been knocked on the head, and that members
had no right at the present moment to consider anything but the
expediency or inexpediency of so much Reform as Mr. Mildmay presented
to them in the present bill.

Phineas was determined to speak, and to speak on this evening if he
could catch the Speaker's eye. Again the scene before him was going
round before him; again things became dim, and again he felt his
blood beating hard at his heart. But things were not so bad with
him as they had been before, because he had nothing to remember. He
hardly knew, indeed, what he intended to say. He had an idea that he
was desirous of joining in earnest support of the measure, with a
vehement protest against the injustice which had been done to the
people in general, and to Mr. Bunce in particular. He had firmly
resolved that no fear of losing favour with the Government should
induce him to hold his tongue as to the Buncean cruelties. Sooner
than do so he would certainly "go among them" at the _Banner_ office.

He started up, wildly, when Mr. Palliser had completed his speech;
but the Speaker's eye, not unnaturally, had travelled to the other
side of the House, and there was a Tory of the old school upon his
legs,--Mr. Western, the member for East Barsetshire, one of the
gallant few who dared to vote against Sir Robert Peel's bill for
repealing the Corn Laws in 1846. Mr. Western spoke with a slow,
ponderous, unimpressive, but very audible voice, for some twenty
minutes, disdaining to make reference to Mr. Turnbull and his
politics, but pleading against any Reform, with all the old
arguments. Phineas did not hear a word that he said;--did not attempt
to hear. He was keen in his resolution to make another attempt at the
Speaker's eye, and at the present moment was thinking of that, and
of that only. He did not even give himself a moment's reflection as
to what his own speech should be. He would dash at it and take his
chance, resolved that at least he would not fail in courage. Twice he
was on his legs before Mr. Western had finished his slow harangue,
and twice he was compelled to reseat himself,--thinking that he had
subjected himself to ridicule. At last the member for East Barset sat
down, and Phineas was conscious that he had lost a moment or two in
presenting himself again to the Speaker.

He held his ground, however, though he saw that he had various rivals
for the right of speech. He held his ground, and was instantly aware
that he had gained his point. There was a slight pause, and as
some other urgent member did not reseat himself, Phineas heard the
president of that august assembly call upon himself to address the
House. The thing was now to be done. There he was with the House of
Commons at his feet,--a crowded House, bound to be his auditors as
long as he should think fit to address them, and reporters by tens
and twenties in the gallery ready and eager to let the country know
what the young member for Loughshane would say in this his maiden
speech.

Phineas Finn had sundry gifts, a powerful and pleasant voice, which
he had learned to modulate, a handsome presence, and a certain
natural mixture of modesty and self-reliance, which would certainly
protect him from the faults of arrogance and pomposity, and which,
perhaps, might carry him through the perils of his new position. And
he had also the great advantage of friends in the House who were
anxious that he should do well. But he had not that gift of slow
blood which on the former occasion would have enabled him to remember
his prepared speech, and which would now have placed all his own
resources within his own reach. He began with the expression of an
opinion that every true reformer ought to accept Mr. Mildmay's bill,
even if it were accepted only as an instalment,--but before he had
got through these sentences, he became painfully conscious that he
was repeating his own words.

He was cheered almost from the outset, and yet he knew as he went
on that he was failing. He had certain arguments at his fingers'
ends,--points with which he was, in truth, so familiar that he need
hardly have troubled himself to arrange them for special use,--and he
forgot even these. He found that he was going on with one platitude
after another as to the benefit of reform, in a manner that would
have shamed him six or seven years ago at a debating club. He pressed
on, fearing that words would fail him altogether if he paused;--but
he did in truth speak very much too fast, knocking his words together
so that no reporter could properly catch them. But he had nothing to
say for the bill except what hundreds had said before, and hundreds
would say again. Still he was cheered, and still he went on; and as
he became more and more conscious of his failure there grew upon him
the idea,--the dangerous hope, that he might still save himself from
ignominy by the eloquence of his invective against the police.

He tried it, and succeeded thoroughly in making the House understand
that he was very angry,--but he succeeded in nothing else. He could
not catch the words to express the thoughts of his mind. He could not
explain his idea that the people out of the House had as much right
to express their opinion in favour of the ballot as members in the
House had to express theirs against it; and that animosity had been
shown to the people by the authorities because they had so expressed
their opinion. Then he attempted to tell the story of Mr. Bunce in a
light and airy way, failed, and sat down in the middle of it. Again
he was cheered by all around him,--cheered as a new member is usually
cheered,--and in the midst of the cheer would have blown out his
brains had there been a pistol there ready for such an operation.

That hour with him was very bad. He did not know how to get up and
go away, or how to keep his place. For some time he sat with his
hat off, forgetful of his privilege of wearing it; and then put it
on hurriedly, as though the fact of his not wearing it must have
been observed by everybody. At last, at about two, the debate was
adjourned, and then as he was slowly leaving the House, thinking how
he might creep away without companionship, Mr. Monk took him by the
arm.

"Are you going to walk?" said Mr. Monk.

"Yes", said Phineas; "I shall walk."

"Then we may go together as far as Pall Mall. Come along." Phineas
had no means of escape, and left the House hanging on Mr. Monk's arm,
without a word. Nor did Mr. Monk speak till they were out in Palace
Yard. "It was not much amiss," said Mr. Monk; "but you'll do better
than that yet."

"Mr. Monk," said Phineas, "I have made an ass of myself so
thoroughly, that there will at any rate be this good result, that I
shall never make an ass of myself again after the same fashion."

"Ah!--I thought you had some such feeling as that, and therefore I
was determined to speak to you. You may be sure, Finn, that I do not
care to flatter you, and I think you ought to know that, as far as I
am able, I will tell you the truth. Your speech, which was certainly
nothing great, was about on a par with other maiden speeches in the
House of Commons. You have done yourself neither good nor harm. Nor
was it desirable that you should. My advice to you now is, never to
avoid speaking on any subject that interests you, but never to speak
for above three minutes till you find yourself as much at home on
your legs as you are when sitting. But do not suppose that you have
made an ass of yourself,--that is, in any special degree. Now,
good-night."




CHAPTER XXVII

Phineas Discussed


Lady Laura Kennedy heard two accounts of her friend's speech,--and
both from men who had been present. Her husband was in his place, in
accordance with his constant practice, and Lord Brentford had been
seated, perhaps unfortunately, in the peers' gallery.

"And you think it was a failure?" Lady Laura said to her husband.

"It certainly was not a success. There was nothing particular about
it. There was a good deal of it you could hardly hear."

After that she got the morning newspapers, and turned with great
interest to the report. Phineas Finn had been, as it were, adopted by
her as her own political offspring,--or at any rate as her political
godchild. She had made promises on his behalf to various personages
of high political standing,--to her father, to Mr. Monk, to the Duke
of St. Bungay, and even to Mr. Mildmay himself. She had thoroughly
intended that Phineas Finn should be a political success from the
first; and since her marriage, she had, I think, been more intent
upon it than before. Perhaps there was a feeling on her part that
having wronged him in one way, she would repay him in another. She
had become so eager for his success,--for a while scorning to conceal
her feeling,--that her husband had unconsciously begun to entertain
a dislike to her eagerness. We know how quickly women arrive at an
understanding of the feelings of those with whom they live; and now,
on that very occasion, Lady Laura perceived that her husband did not
take in good part her anxiety on behalf of her friend. She saw that
it was so as she turned over the newspaper looking for the report of
the speech. It was given in six lines, and at the end of it there was
an intimation,--expressed in the shape of advice,--that the young
orator had better speak more slowly if he wished to be efficacious
either with the House or with the country.

"He seems to have been cheered a good deal," said Lady Laura.

"All members are cheered at their first speech," said Mr. Kennedy.

"I've no doubt he'll do well yet," said Lady Laura.

"Very likely," said Mr. Kennedy. Then he turned to his newspaper, and
did not take his eyes off it as long as his wife remained with him.

Later in the day Lady Laura saw her father, and Miss Effingham was
with her at the time. Lord Brentford said something which indicated
that he had heard the debate on the previous evening, and Lady Laura
instantly began to ask him about Phineas.

"The less said the better," was the Earl's reply.

"Do you mean that it was so bad as that?" asked Lady Laura.

"It was not very bad at first;--though indeed nobody could say it was
very good. But he got himself into a mess about the police and the
magistrates before he had done, and nothing but the kindly feeling
always shown to a first effort saved him from being coughed down."
Lady Laura had not a word more to say about Phineas to her father;
but, womanlike, she resolved that she would not abandon him. How
many first failures in the world had been the precursors of ultimate
success! "Mildmay will lose his bill," said the Earl, sorrowfully.
"There does not seem to be a doubt about that."

"And what will you all do?" asked Lady Laura.

"We must go to the country, I suppose," said the Earl.

"What's the use? You can't have a more liberal House than you have
now," said Lady Laura.

"We may have one less liberal,--or rather less radical,--with fewer
men to support Mr. Turnbull. I do not see what else we can do. They
say that there are no less than twenty-seven men on our side of the
House who will either vote with Turnbull against us, or will decline
to vote at all."

"Every one of them ought to lose his seat," said Lady Laura.

"But what can we do? How is the Queen's Government to be carried on?"
We all know the sad earnestness which impressed itself on the Earl's
brow as he asked these momentous questions. "I don't suppose that Mr.
Turnbull can form a Ministry."

"With Mr. Daubeny as whipper-in, perhaps he might," said Lady Laura.

"And will Mr. Finn lose his seat?" asked Violet Effingham. "Most
probably," said the Earl. "He only got it by an accident."

"You must find him a seat somewhere in England," said Violet.

"That might be difficult," said the Earl, who then left the room.

The two women remained together for some quarter of an hour before
they spoke again. Then Lady Laura said something about her brother.
"If there be a dissolution, I hope Oswald will stand for Loughton."
Loughton was a borough close to Saulsby, in which, as regarded its
political interests, Lord Brentford was supposed to have considerable
influence. To this Violet said nothing. "It is quite time," continued
Lady Laura, "that old Mr. Standish should give way. He has had the
seat for twenty-five years, and has never done anything, and he
seldom goes to the House now."

"He is not your uncle, is he?"

"No; he is papa's cousin; but he is ever so much older than
papa;--nearly eighty, I believe."

"Would not that be just the place for Mr. Finn?" said Violet.

Then Lady Laura became very serious. "Oswald would of course have a
better right to it than anybody else."

"But would Lord Chiltern go into Parliament? I have heard him declare
that he would not."

"If we could get papa to ask him, I think he would change his mind,"
said Lady Laura.

There was again silence for a few moments, after which Violet
returned to the original subject of their conversation. "It would be
a thousand pities that Mr. Finn should be turned out into the cold.
Don't you think so?"

"I, for one, should be very sorry."

"So should I,--and the more so from what Lord Brentford says about
his not speaking well last night. I don't think that it is very much
of an accomplishment for a gentleman to speak well. Mr. Turnbull, I
suppose, speaks well; and they say that that horrid man, Mr. Bonteen,
can talk by the hour together. I don't think that it shows a man to
be clever at all. But I believe Mr. Finn would do it, if he set his
mind to it, and I shall think it a great shame if they turn him out."

"It would depend very much, I suppose, on Lord Tulla."

"I don't know anything about Lord Tulla," said Violet; "but I'm quite
sure that he might have Loughton, if we manage it properly. Of course
Lord Chiltern should have it if he wants it, but I don't think he
will stand in Mr. Finn's way."

"I'm afraid it's out of the question," said Lady Laura, gravely.
"Papa thinks so much about the borough." The reader will remember
that both Lord Brentford and his daughter were thorough reformers!
The use of a little borough of his own, however, is a convenience to
a great peer.

"Those difficult things have always to be talked of for a long while,
and then they become easy," said Violet. "I believe if you were
to propose to Mr. Kennedy to give all his property to the Church
Missionaries and emigrate to New Zealand, he'd begin to consider it
seriously after a time."

"I shall not try, at any rate."

"Because you don't want to go to New Zealand;--but you might try
about Loughton for poor Mr. Finn."

"Violet," said Lady Laura, after a moment's pause;--and she spoke
sharply; "Violet, I believe you are in love with Mr. Finn."

"That's just like you, Laura."

"I never made such an accusation against you before, or against
anybody else that I can remember. But I do begin to believe that you
are in love with Mr. Finn."

"Why shouldn't I be in love with him, if I like?"

"I say nothing about that;--only he has not got a penny."

"But I have, my dear."

"And I doubt whether you have any reason for supposing that he is in
love with you."

"That would be my affair, my dear."

"Then you are in love with him?"

"That is my affair also."

Lady Laura shrugged her shoulders. "Of course it is; and if you tell
me to hold my tongue, of course I will do so. If you ask me whether I
think it a good match, of course I must say I do not."

"I don't tell you to hold your tongue, and I don't ask you what you
think about the match. You are quite welcome to talk as much about me
as you please;--but as to Mr. Phineas Finn, you have no business to
think anything."

"I shouldn't talk to anybody but yourself."

"I am growing to be quite indifferent as to what people say. Lady
Baldock asked me the other day whether I was going to throw myself
away on Mr. Laurence Fitzgibbon."

"No!"

"Indeed she did."

"And what did you answer?"

"I told her that it was not quite settled; but that as I had only
spoken to him once during the last two years, and then for not more
than half a minute, and as I wasn't sure whether I knew him by sight,
and as I had reason to suppose he didn't know my name, there might,
perhaps, be a delay of a week or two before the thing came off. Then
she flounced out of the room."

"But what made her ask about Mr. Fitzgibbon?"

"Somebody had been hoaxing her. I am beginning to think that Augusta
does it for her private amusement. If so, I shall think more highly
of my dear cousin than I have hitherto done. But, Laura, as you
have made a similar accusation against me, and as I cannot get out
of it with you as I do with my aunt, I must ask you to hear my
protestation. I am not in love with Mr. Phineas Finn. Heaven help
me;--as far as I can tell, I am not in love with any one, and never
shall be." Lady Laura looked pleased. "Do you know," continued
Violet, "that I think I could be in love with Mr. Phineas Finn, if
I could be in love with anybody?" Then Lady Laura looked displeased.
"In the first place, he is a gentleman," continued Violet. "Then he
is a man of spirit. And then he has not too much spirit;--not that
kind of spirit which makes some men think that they are the finest
things going. His manners are perfect;--not Chesterfieldian, and yet
never offensive. He never browbeats any one, and never toadies any
one. He knows how to live easily with men of all ranks, without any
appearance of claiming a special status for himself. If he were made
Archbishop of Canterbury to-morrow, I believe he would settle down
into the place of the first subject in the land without arrogance,
and without false shame."

"You are his eulogist with a vengeance."

"I am his eulogist; but I am not in love with him. If he were to
ask me to be his wife to-morrow, I should be distressed, and should
refuse him. If he were to marry my dearest friend in the world, I
should tell him to kiss me and be my brother. As to Mr. Phineas
Finn,--those are my sentiments."

"What you say is very odd."

"Why odd?"

"Simply because mine are the same."

"Are they the same? I once thought, Laura, that you did love
him;--that you meant to be his wife."

Lady Laura sat for a while without making any reply to this. She
sat with her elbow on the table and with her face leaning on her
hand,--thinking how far it would tend to her comfort if she spoke in
true confidence. Violet during the time never took her eyes from her
friend's face, but remained silent as though waiting for an answer.
She had been very explicit as to her feelings. Would Laura Kennedy be
equally explicit? She was too clever to forget that such plainness
of speech would be, must be more difficult to Lady Laura than to
herself. Lady Laura was a married woman; but she felt that her friend
would have been wrong to search for secrets, unless she were ready to
tell her own. It was probably some such feeling which made Lady Laura
speak at last.

"So I did, nearly--" said Lady Laura; "very nearly. You told me just
now that you had money, and could therefore do as you pleased. I had
no money, and could not do as I pleased."

"And you told me also that I had no reason for thinking that he cared
for me."

"Did I? Well;--I suppose you have no reason. He did care for me. He
did love me."

"He told you so?"

"Yes;--he told me so."

"And how did you answer him?"

"I had that very morning become engaged to Mr. Kennedy. That was my
answer."

"And what did he say when you told him?"

"I do not know. I cannot remember. But he behaved very well."

"And now,--if he were to love me, you would grudge me his love?"

"Not for that reason,--not if I know myself. Oh no! I would not be so
selfish as that."

"For what reason then?"

"Because I look upon it as written in heaven that you are to be
Oswald's wife."

"Heaven's writings then are false," said Violet, getting up and
walking away.

In the meantime Phineas was very wretched at home. When he reached
his lodgings after leaving the House,--after his short conversation
with Mr. Monk,--he tried to comfort himself with what that gentleman
had said to him. For a while, while he was walking, there had been
some comfort in Mr. Monk's words. Mr. Monk had much experience, and
doubtless knew what he was saying,--and there might yet be hope. But
all this hope faded away when Phineas was in his own rooms. There
came upon him, as he looked round them, an idea that he had no
business to be in Parliament, that he was an impostor, that he was
going about the world under false pretences, and that he would never
set himself aright, even unto himself, till he had gone through some
terrible act of humiliation. He had been a cheat even to Mr. Quintus
Slide of the _Banner_, in accepting an invitation to come among
them. He had been a cheat to Lady Laura, in that he had induced
her to think that he was fit to live with her. He was a cheat to
Violet Effingham, in assuming that he was capable of making himself
agreeable to her. He was a cheat to Lord Chiltern when riding his
horses, and pretending to be a proper associate for a man of fortune.
Why,--what was his income? What his birth? What his proper position?
And now he had got the reward which all cheats deserve. Then he went
to bed, and as he lay there, he thought of Mary Flood Jones. Had he
plighted his troth to Mary, and then worked like a slave under Mr.
Low's auspices,--he would not have been a cheat.

It seemed to him that he had hardly been asleep when the girl
came into his room in the morning. "Sir," said she, "there's that
gentleman there."

"What gentleman?"

"The old gentleman."

Then Phineas knew that Mr. Clarkson was in his sitting-room, and
that he would not leave it till he had seen the owner of the room.
Nay,--Phineas was pretty sure that Mr. Clarkson would come into the
bedroom, if he were kept long waiting. "Damn the old gentleman," said
Phineas in his wrath;--and the maid-servant heard him say so.

In about twenty minutes he went out into the sitting-room, with
his slippers on and in his dressing-gown. Suffering under the
circumstances of such an emergency, how is any man to go through the
work of dressing and washing with proper exactness? As to the prayers
which he said on that morning, I think that no question should be
asked. He came out with a black cloud on his brow, and with his mind
half made up to kick Mr. Clarkson out of the room. Mr. Clarkson, when
he saw him, moved his chin round within his white cravat, as was a
custom with him, and put his thumb and forefinger on his lips, and
then shook his head.

"Very bad, Mr. Finn; very bad indeed; very bad, ain't it?"

"You coming here in this way at all times in the day is very bad,"
said Phineas.

"And where would you have me go? Would you like to see me down in the
lobby of the House?"

"To tell you the truth, Mr. Clarkson, I don't want to see you
anywhere."

"Ah; yes; I daresay! And that's what you call honest, being a
Parliament gent! You had my money, and then you tell me you don't
want to see me any more!"

"I have not had your money," said Phineas.

"But let me tell you," continued Mr. Clarkson, "that I want to see
you;--and shall go on seeing you till the money is paid."

"I've not had any of your money," said Phineas.

Mr. Clarkson again twitched his chin about on the top of his cravat
and smiled. "Mr. Finn," said he, showing the bill, "is that your
name?"

"Yes, it is."

"Then I want my money."

"I have no money to give you."

"Do be punctual now. Why ain't you punctual? I'd do anything for you
if you were punctual. I would indeed." Mr. Clarkson, as he said this,
sat down in the chair which had been placed for our hero's breakfast,
and cutting a slice off the loaf, began to butter it with great
composure.

"Mr. Clarkson," said Phineas, "I cannot ask you to breakfast here. I
am engaged."

"I'll just take a bit of bread and butter all the same," said
Clarkson. "Where do you get your butter? Now I could tell you a woman
who'd give it you cheaper and a deal better than this. This is all
lard. Shall I send her to you?"

"No," said Phineas. There was no tea ready, and therefore Mr.
Clarkson emptied the milk into a cup and drank it. "After this," said
Phineas, "I must beg, Mr. Clarkson, that you will never come to my
room any more. I shall not be at home to you."

"The lobby of the House is the same thing to me," said Mr. Clarkson.
"They know me there well. I wish you'd be punctual, and then we'd be
the best of friends." After that Mr. Clarkson, having finished his
bread and butter, took his leave.




CHAPTER XXVIII

The Second Reading Is Carried


The debate on the bill was prolonged during the whole of that week.
Lord Brentford, who loved his seat in the Cabinet and the glory of
being a Minister, better even than he loved his borough, had taken
a gloomy estimate when he spoke of twenty-seven defaulters, and of
the bill as certainly lost. Men who were better able than he to make
estimates,--the Bonteens and Fitzgibbons on each side of the House,
and above all, the Ratlers and Robys, produced lists from day to
day which varied now by three names in one direction, then by two
in another, and which fluctuated at last by units only. They all
concurred in declaring that it would be a very near division. A great
effort was made to close the debate on the Friday, but it failed, and
the full tide of speech was carried on till the following Monday. On
that morning Phineas heard Mr. Ratler declare at the club that, as
far as his judgment went, the division at that moment was a fair
subject for a bet. "There are two men doubtful in the House," said
Ratler, "and if one votes on one side and one on the other, or if
neither votes at all, it will be a tie." Mr. Roby, however, the
whip on the other side, was quite sure that one at least of these
gentlemen would go into his lobby, and that the other would not go
into Mr. Ratler's lobby. I am inclined to think that the town was
generally inclined to put more confidence in the accuracy of Mr. Roby
than in that of Mr. Ratler; and among betting men there certainly
was a point given by those who backed the Conservatives. The odds,
however, were lost, for on the division the numbers in the two
lobbies were equal, and the Speaker gave his casting vote in favour
of the Government. The bill was read a second time, and was lost, as
a matter of course, in reference to any subsequent action. Mr. Roby
declared that even Mr. Mildmay could not go on with nothing but the
Speaker's vote to support him. Mr. Mildmay had no doubt felt that he
could not go on with his bill from the moment in which Mr. Turnbull
had declared his opposition; but he could not with propriety withdraw
it in deference to Mr. Turnbull's opinion.

During the week Phineas had had his hands sufficiently full. Twice he
had gone to the potted peas inquiry; but he had been at the office
of the _People's Banner_ more often than that. Bunce had been very
resolute in his determination to bring an action against the police
for false imprisonment, even though he spent every shilling of his
savings in doing so. And when his wife, in the presence of Phineas,
begged that bygones might be bygones, reminding him that spilt milk
could not be recovered, he called her a mean-spirited woman. Then
Mrs. Bunce wept a flood of tears, and told her favourite lodger that
for her all comfort in this world was over. "Drat the reformers, I
say. And I wish there was no Parliament; so I do. What's the use of
all the voting, when it means nothing but dry bread and cross words?"
Phineas by no means encouraged his landlord in his litigious spirit,
advising him rather to keep his money in his pocket, and leave the
fighting of the battle to the columns of the _Banner_,--which would
fight it, at any rate, with economy. But Bunce, though he delighted
in the _Banner_, and showed an unfortunate readiness to sit at the
feet of Mr. Quintus Slide, would have his action at law;--in which
resolution Mr. Slide did, I fear, encourage him behind the back of
his better friend, Phineas Finn.

Phineas went with Bunce to Mr. Low's chambers,--for Mr. Low had in
some way become acquainted with the law-stationer's journeyman,--and
there some very good advice was given. "Have you asked yourself what
is your object, Mr. Bunce?" said Mr. Low. Mr. Bunce declared he had
asked himself that question, and had answered it. His object was
redress. "In the shape of compensation to yourself," suggested Mr.
Low. No; Mr. Bunce would not admit that he personally required any
compensation. The redress wanted was punishment to the man. "Is it
for vengeance?" asked Mr. Low. No; it was not for vengeance, Mr.
Bunce declared. "It ought not to be," continued Mr. Low; "because,
though you think that the man exceeded in his duty, you must feel
that he was doing so through no personal ill-will to yourself."

"What I want is, to have the fellows kept in their proper places,"
said Mr. Bunce.

"Exactly;--and therefore these things, when they occur, are mentioned
in the press and in Parliament,--and the attention of a Secretary of
State is called to them. Thank God, we don't have very much of that
kind of thing in England."

"Maybe we shall have more if we don't look to it," said Bunce
stoutly.

"We always are looking to it," said Mr. Low;--"looking to it very
carefully. But I don't think anything is to be done in that way by
indictment against a single man, whose conduct has been already
approved by the magistrates. If you want notoriety, Mr. Bunce, and
don't mind what you pay for it; or have got anybody else to pay