CHAPTER L

Again Successful
 

Phineas also said a word of farewell to Violet before he left Matching, but there was nothing peculiar in her little speech to him, or in his to her. “Of course we shall see each other in London. Don’t talk of not being in the House. Of course you will be in the House.” Then Phineas had shaken his head and smiled. Where was he to find a requisite number of householders prepared to return him? But as he went up to London he told himself that the air of the House of Commons was now the very breath of his nostrils. Life to him without it would be no life. To have come within the reach of the good things of political life, to have made his mark so as to have almost insured future success, to have been the petted young official aspirant of the day,—and then to sink down into the miserable platitudes of private life, to undergo daily attendance in law-courts without a brief, to listen to men who had come to be much below him in estimation and social intercourse, to sit in a wretched chamber up three pairs of stairs at Lincoln’s Inn, whereas he was now at this moment provided with a gorgeous apartment looking out into the Park from the Colonial Office in Downing Street, to be attended by a mongrel between a clerk and an errand boy at 17s. 6d. a week instead of by a private secretary who was the son of an earl’s sister, and was petted by countesses’ daughters innumerable,—all this would surely break his heart. He could have done it, so he told himself, and could have taken glory in doing it, had not these other things come in his way. But the other things had come. He had run the risk, and had thrown the dice. And now when the game was so nearly won, must it be that everything should be lost at last?

He knew that nothing was to be gained by melancholy looks at his club, or by show of wretchedness at his office. London was very empty; but the approaching elections still kept some there who otherwise would have been looking after the first flush of pheasants. Barrington Erle was there, and was not long in asking Phineas what were his views.

“Ah;—that is so hard to say. Ratler told me that he would be looking about.”

“Ratler is very well in the House,” said Barrington, “but he is of no use for anything beyond it. I suppose you were not brought up at the London University?”

“Oh no,” said Phineas, remembering the glories of Trinity.

“Because there would have been an opening. What do you say to Stratford,—the new Essex borough?”

“Broadbury the brewer is there already!”

“Yes;—and ready to spend any money you like to name. Let me see. Loughton is grouped with Smotherem, and Walker is a deal too strong at Smotherem to hear of any other claim. I don’t think we could dare to propose it. There are the Chelsea hamlets, but it will take a wack of money.”

“I have not got a wack of money,” said Phineas, laughing.

“That’s the devil of it. I think, if I were you, I should hark back upon some place in Ireland. Couldn’t you get Laurence to give you up his seat?”

“What! Fitzgibbon?”

“Yes. He has not a ghost of a chance of getting into office again. Nothing on earth would induce him to look at a paper during all those weeks he was at the Colonial Office; and when Cantrip spoke to him, all he said was, ‘Ah, bother!’ Cantrip did not like it, I can tell you.”

“But that wouldn’t make him give up his seat.”

“Of course you’d have to arrange it.” By which Phineas understood Barrington Erle to mean that he, Phineas, was in some way to give to Laurence Fitzgibbon some adequate compensation for the surrender of his position as a county member.

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” said Phineas. “If he were to go, I should not get it.”

“Would you have a chance at Loughshane?”

“I was thinking of trying it,” said Phineas.

“Of course you know that Morris is very ill.” This Mr. Morris was the brother of Lord Tulla, and was the sitting member of Loughshane. “Upon my word I think I should try that. I don’t see where we’re to put our hands on a seat in England. I don’t indeed.” Phineas, as he listened to this, could not help thinking that Barrington Erle, though he had certainly expressed a great deal of solicitude, was not as true a friend as he used to be. Perhaps he, Phineas, had risen too fast, and Barrington Erle was beginning to think that he might as well be out of the way.

He wrote to his father, asking after the borough, and asking after the health of Mr. Morris. And in his letter he told his own story very plainly,—almost pathetically. He perhaps had been wrong to make the attempt which he had made. He began to believe that he had been wrong. But at any rate he had made it so far successfully, and failure now would be doubly bitter. He thought that the party to which he belonged must now remain in office. It would hardly be possible that a new election would produce a House of Commons favourable to a conservative ministry. And with a liberal ministry he, Phineas, would be sure of his place, and sure of an official income,—if only he could find a seat. It was all very true, and was almost pathetic. The old doctor, who was inclined to be proud of his son, was not unwilling to make a sacrifice. Mrs. Finn declared before her daughters that if there was a seat in all Ireland, Phineas ought to have it. And Mary Flood Jones stood by listening, and wondering what Phineas would do if he lost his seat. Would he come back and live in County Clare, and be like any other girl’s lover? Poor Mary had come to lose her ambition, and to think that girls whose lovers stayed at home were the happiest. Nevertheless, she would have walked all the way to Lord Tulla’s house and back again, might that have availed to get the seat for Phineas. Then there came an express over from Castlemorris. The doctor was wanted at once to see Mr. Morris. Mr. Morris was very bad with gout in his stomach. According to the messenger it was supposed that Mr. Morris was dying. Before Dr. Finn had had an opportunity of answering his son’s letter, Mr. Morris, the late member for Loughshane, had been gathered to his fathers.

Dr. Finn understood enough of elections for Parliament, and of the nature of boroughs, to be aware that a candidate’s chance of success is very much improved by being early in the field; and he was aware, also, that the death of Mr. Morris would probably create various aspirants for the honour of representing Loughshane. But he could hardly address the Earl on the subject while the dead body of the late member was lying in the house at Castlemorris. The bill which had passed in the late session for reforming the constitution of the House of Commons had not touched Ireland, a future measure having been promised to the Irish for their comfort; and Loughshane therefore was, as to Lord Tulla’s influence, the same as it had ever been. He had not there the plenary power which the other lord had held in his hands in regard to Loughton;—but still the Castlemorris interest would go a long way. It might be possible to stand against it, but it would be much more desirable that the candidate should have it at his back. Dr. Finn was fully alive to this as he sat opposite to the old lord, saying now a word about the old lord’s gout in his legs and arms, and then about the gout in the stomach, which had carried away to another world the lamented late member for the borough.

“Poor Jack!” said Lord Tulla, piteously. “If I’d known it, I needn’t have paid over two thousand pounds for him last year;—need I, doctor?”

“No, indeed,” said Dr. Finn, feeling that his patient might perhaps approach the subject of the borough himself.

“He never would live by any rule, you know,” said the desolate brother.

“Very hard to guide;—was he not, my lord?”

“The very devil. Now, you see, I do do what I’m told pretty well,—don’t I, doctor?”

“Sometimes.”

“By George, I do nearly always. I don’t know what you mean by sometimes. I’ve been drinking brandy-and-water till I’m sick of it, to oblige you, and you tell me about—sometimes. You doctors expect a man to be a slave. Haven’t I kept it out of my stomach?”

“Thank God, yes.”

“It’s all very well thanking God, but I should have gone as poor Jack has gone, if I hadn’t been the most careful man in the world. He was drinking champagne ten days ago;—would do it, you know.” Lord Tulla could talk about himself and his own ailments by the hour together, and Dr. Finn, who had thought that his noble patient was approaching the subject of the borough, was beginning again to feel that the double interest of the gout that was present, and the gout that had passed away, would be too absorbing. He, however, could say but little to direct the conversation.

“Mr. Morris, you see, lived more in London than you do, and was subject to temptation.”

“I don’t know what you call temptation. Haven’t I the temptation of a bottle of wine under my nose every day of my life?”

“No doubt you have.”

“And I don’t drink it. I hardly ever take above a glass or two of brown sherry. By George! when I think of it, I wonder at my own courage. I do, indeed.”

“But a man in London, my lord—”

“Why the deuce would he go to London? By-the-bye, what am I to do about the borough now?”

“Let my son stand for it, if you will, my lord.”

“They’ve clean swept away Brentford’s seat at Loughton, haven’t they? Ha, ha, ha! What a nice game for him,—to have been forced to help to do it himself! There’s nobody on earth I pity so much as a radical peer who is obliged to work like a nigger with a spade to shovel away the ground from under his own feet. As for me, I don’t care who sits for Loughshane. I did care for poor Jack while he was alive. I don’t think I shall interfere any longer. I am glad it lasted Jack’s time.” Lord Tulla had probably already forgotten that he himself had thrown Jack over for the last session but one.

“Phineas, my lord,” began the father, “is now Under-Secretary of State.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt he’s a very fine fellow;—but you see, he’s an out-and-out Radical.”

“No, my lord.”

“Then how can he serve with such men as Mr. Gresham and Mr. Monk? They’ve turned out poor old Mildmay among them, because he’s not fast enough for them. Don’t tell me.”

“My anxiety, of course, is for my boy’s prospects. He seems to have done so well in Parliament.”

“Why don’t he stand for Marylebone or Finsbury?”

“The money, you know, my lord!”

“I shan’t interfere here, doctor. If he comes, and the people then choose to return him, I shall say nothing. They may do just as they please. They tell me Lambert St. George, of Mockrath, is going to stand. If he does, it’s the d–––– piece of impudence I ever heard of. He’s a tenant of my own, though he has a lease for ever; and his father never owned an acre of land in the county till his uncle died.” Then the doctor knew that, with a little management, the lord’s interest might be secured for his son.

Phineas came over and stood for the borough against Mr. Lambert St. George, and the contest was sharp enough. The gentry of the neighbourhood could not understand why such a man as Lord Tulla should admit a liberal candidate to succeed his brother. No one canvassed for the young Under-Secretary with more persistent zeal than did his father, who, when Phineas first spoke of going into Parliament, had produced so many good arguments against that perilous step. Lord Tulla’s agent stood aloof,—desolate with grief at the death of the late member. At such a moment of family affliction, Lord Tulla, he declared, could not think of such a matter as the borough. But it was known that Lord Tulla was dreadfully jealous of Mr. Lambert St. George, whose property in that part of the county was now nearly equal to his own, and who saw much more company at Mockrath than was ever entertained at Castlemorris. A word from Lord Tulla,—so said the Conservatives of the county,—would have put Mr. St. George into the seat; but that word was not spoken, and the Conservatives of the neighbourhood swore that Lord Tulla was a renegade. The contest was very sharp, but our hero was returned by a majority of seventeen votes.

Again successful! As he thought of it he remembered stories of great generals who were said to have chained Fortune to the wheels of their chariots, but it seemed to him that the goddess had never served any general with such staunch obedience as she had displayed in his cause. Had not everything gone well with him;—so well, as almost to justify him in expecting that even yet Violet Effingham would become his wife? Dear, dearest Violet! If he could only achieve that, no general, who ever led an army across the Alps, would be his equal either in success or in the reward of success. Then he questioned himself as to what he would say to Miss Flood Jones on that very night. He was to meet dear little Mary Flood Jones that evening at a neighbour’s house. His sister Barbara had so told him in a tone of voice which he quite understood to imply a caution. “I shall be so glad to see her,” Phineas had replied.

“If there ever was an angel on earth, it is Mary,” said Barbara Finn.

“I know that she is as good as gold,” said Phineas.

“Gold!” replied Barbara,—“gold indeed! She is more precious than refined gold. But, Phineas, perhaps you had better not single her out for any special attention. She has thought it wisest to meet you.”

“Of course,” said Phineas. “Why not?”

“That is all, Phineas. I have nothing more to say. Men of course are different from girls.”

“That’s true, Barbara, at any rate.”

“Don’t laugh at me, Phineas, when I am thinking of nothing but of you and your interests, and when I am making all manner of excuses for you because I know what must be the distractions of the world in which you live.” Barbara made more than one attempt to renew the conversation before the evening came, but Phineas thought that he had had enough of it. He did not like being told that excuses were made for him. After all, what had he done? He had once kissed Mary Flood Jones behind the door.

“I am so glad to see you, Mary,” he said, coming and taking a chair by her side. He had been specially warned not to single Mary out for his attention, and yet there was the chair left vacant as though it were expected that he would fall into it.

“Thank you. We did not happen to meet last year, did we,—Mr. Finn?”

“Do not call me Mr. Finn, Mary.”

“You are such a great man now!”

“Not at all a great man. If you only knew what little men we understrappers are in London you would hardly speak to me.”

“But you are something—of State now;—are you not?”

“Well;—yes. That’s the name they give me. It simply means that if any member wants to badger some one in the House about the Colonies, I am the man to be badgered. But if there is any credit to be had, I am not the man who is to have it.”

“But it is a great thing to be in Parliament and in the Government too.”

“It is a great thing for me, Mary, to have a salary, though it may only be for a year or two. However, I will not deny that it is pleasant to have been successful.”

“It has been very pleasant to us, Phineas. Mamma has been so much rejoiced.”

“I am so sorry not to see her. She is at Floodborough, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes;—she is at home. She does not like coming out at night in winter. I have been staying here you know for two days, but I go home to-morrow.”

“I will ride over and call on your mother.” Then there was a pause in the conversation for a moment. “Does it not seem odd, Mary, that we should see so little of each other?”

“You are so much away, of course.”

“Yes;—that is the reason. But still it seems almost unnatural. I often wonder when the time will come that I shall be quietly at home again. I have to be back in my office in London this day week, and yet I have not had a single hour to myself since I have been at Killaloe. But I will certainly ride over and see your mother. You will be at home on Wednesday I suppose.”

“Yes,—I shall be at home.”

Upon that he got up and went away, but again in the evening he found himself near her. Perhaps there is no position more perilous to a man’s honesty than that in which Phineas now found himself;—that, namely, of knowing himself to be quite loved by a girl whom he almost loves himself. Of course he loved Violet Effingham; and they who talk best of love protest that no man or woman can be in love with two persons at once. Phineas was not in love with Mary Flood Jones; but he would have liked to take her in his arms and kiss her;—he would have liked to gratify her by swearing that she was dearer to him than all the world; he would have liked to have an episode,—and did, at the moment, think that it might be possible to have one life in London and another life altogether different at Killaloe. “Dear Mary,” he said as he pressed her hand that night, “things will get themselves settled at last, I suppose.” He was behaving very ill to her, but he did not mean to behave ill.

He rode over to Floodborough, and saw Mrs. Flood Jones. Mrs. Flood Jones, however, received him very coldly; and Mary did not appear. Mary had communicated to her mother her resolutions as to her future life. “The fact is, mamma, I love him. I cannot help it. If he ever chooses to come for me, here I am. If he does not, I will bear it as well as I can. It may be very mean of me, but it’s true.”

CHAPTER LI

Troubles at Loughlinter
 

There was a dull house at Loughlinter during the greater part of this autumn. A few men went down for the grouse shooting late in the season; but they stayed but a short time, and when they went Lady Laura was left alone with her husband. Mr. Kennedy had explained to his wife, more than once, that though he understood the duties of hospitality and enjoyed the performance of them, he had not married with the intention of living in a whirlwind. He was disposed to think that the whirlwind had hitherto been too predominant, and had said so very plainly with a good deal of marital authority. This autumn and winter were to be devoted to the cultivation of proper relations between him and his wife. “Does that mean Darby and Joan?” his wife had asked him, when the proposition was made to her. “It means mutual regard and esteem,” replied Mr. Kennedy in his most solemn tone, “and I trust that such mutual regard and esteem between us may yet be possible.” When Lady Laura showed him a letter from her brother, received some weeks after this conversation, in which Lord Chiltern expressed his intention of coming to Loughlinter for Christmas, he returned the note to his wife without a word. He suspected that she had made the arrangement without asking him, and was angry; but he would not tell her that her brother would not be welcome at his house. “It is not my doing,” she said, when she saw the frown on his brow.

“I said nothing about anybody’s doing,” he replied.

“I will write to Oswald and bid him not come, if you wish it. Of course you can understand why he is coming.”

“Not to see me, I am sure,” said Mr. Kennedy.

“Nor me,” replied Lady Laura. “He is coming because my friend Violet Effingham will be here.”

“Miss Effingham! Why was I not told of this? I knew nothing of Miss Effingham’s coming.”

“Robert, it was settled in your own presence last July.”

“I deny it.”

Then Lady Laura rose up, very haughty in her gait and with something of fire in her eye, and silently left the room. Mr. Kennedy, when he found himself alone, was very unhappy. Looking back in his mind to the summer weeks in London, he remembered that his wife had told Violet that she was to spend her Christmas at Loughlinter, that he himself had given a muttered assent and that Violet,—as far as he could remember,—had made no reply. It had been one of those things which are so often mentioned, but not settled. He felt that he had been strictly right in denying that it had been “settled” in his presence;—but yet he felt that he had been wrong in contradicting his wife so peremptorily. He was a just man, and he would apologise for his fault; but he was an austere man, and would take back the value of his apology in additional austerity. He did not see his wife for some hours after the conversation which has been narrated, but when he did meet her his mind was still full of the subject. “Laura”, he said, “I am sorry that I contradicted you.”

“I am quite used to it, Robert.”

“No;—you are not used to it.” She smiled and bowed her head. “You wrong me by saying that you are used to it.” Then he paused a moment, but she said not a word,—only smiled and bowed her head again. “I remember,” he continued, “that something was said in my presence to Miss Effingham about her coming here at Christmas. It was so slight, however, that it had passed out of my memory till recalled by an effort. I beg your pardon.”

“That is unnecessary, Robert.”

“It is, dear.”

“And do you wish that I should put her off,—or put Oswald off,—or both? My brother never yet has seen me in your house.”

“And whose fault has that been?”

“I have said nothing about anybody’s fault, Robert. I merely mentioned a fact. Will you let me know whether I shall bid him stay away?”

“He is welcome to come,—only I do not like assignations for love-making.”

“Assignations!”

“Clandestine meetings. Lady Baldock would not wish it.”

“Lady Baldock! Do you think that Violet would exercise any secrecy in the matter,—or that she will not tell Lady Baldock that Oswald will be here,—as soon as she knows it herself?”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“Surely, Robert, it must have much to do with it. And why should not these two young people meet? The acknowledged wish of all the family is that they should marry each other. And in this matter, at any rate, my brother has behaved extremely well.” Mr. Kennedy said nothing further at the time, and it became an understanding that Violet Effingham was to be a month at Loughlinter, staying from the 20th of December to the 20th of January, and that Lord Chiltern was to come there for Christmas,—which with him would probably mean three days.

Before Christmas came, however, there were various other sources of uneasiness at Loughlinter. There had been, as a matter of course, great anxiety as to the elections. With Lady Laura this anxiety had been very strong, and even Mr. Kennedy had been warmed with some amount of fire as the announcements reached him of the successes and of the failures. The English returns came first,—and then the Scotch, which were quite as interesting to Mr. Kennedy as the English. His own seat was quite safe,—was not contested; but some neighbouring seats were sources of great solicitude. Then, when this was over, there were the tidings from Ireland to be received; and respecting one special borough in Ireland, Lady Laura evinced more solicitude than her husband approved. There was much danger for the domestic bliss of the house of Loughlinter, when things came to such a pass, and such words were spoken, as the election at Loughshane produced.

“He is in,” said Lady Laura, opening a telegram.

“Who is in?” said Mr. Kennedy, with that frown on his brow to which his wife was now well accustomed. Though he asked the question, he knew very well who was the hero to whom the telegram referred.

“Our friend Phineas Finn,” said Lady Laura, speaking still with an excited voice,—with a voice that was intended to display excitement. If there was to be a battle on this matter, there should be a battle. She would display all her anxiety for her young friend, and fling it in her husband’s face if he chose to take it as an injury. What,—should she endure reproach from her husband because she regarded the interests of the man who had saved his life, of the man respecting whom she had suffered so many heart-struggles, and as to whom she had at last come to the conclusion that he should ever be regarded as a second brother, loved equally with the elder brother? She had done her duty by her husband,—so at least she had assured herself;—and should he dare to reproach her on this subject, she would be ready for the battle. And now the battle came. “I am glad of this,” she said, with all the eagerness she could throw into her voice. “I am, indeed,—and so ought you to be.” The husband’s brow grew blacker and blacker, but still he said nothing. He had long been too proud to be jealous, and was now too proud to express his jealousy,—if only he could keep the expression back. But his wife would not leave the subject. “I am so thankful for this,” she said, pressing the telegram between her hands. “I was so afraid he would fail!”

“You over-do your anxiety on such a subject,” at last he said, speaking very slowly.

“What do you mean, Robert? How can I be over-anxious? If it concerned any other dear friend that I have in the world, it would not be an affair of life and death. To him it is almost so. I would have walked from here to London to get him his election.” And as she spoke she held up the clenched fist of her left hand, and shook it, while she still held the telegram in her right hand.

“Laura, I must tell you that it is improper that you should speak of any man in those terms;—of any man that is a stranger to your blood.”

“A stranger to my blood! What has that to do with it? This man is my friend, is your friend;—saved your life, has been my brother’s best friend, is loved by my father,—and is loved by me, very dearly. Tell me what you mean by improper!”

“I will not have you love any man,—very dearly.”

“Robert!”

“I tell you that I will have no such expressions from you. They are unseemly, and are used only to provoke me.”

“Am I to understand that I am insulted by an accusation? If so, let me beg at once that I may be allowed to go to Saulsby. I would rather accept your apology and retractation there than here.”

“You will not go to Saulsby, and there has been no accusation, and there will be no apology. If you please there will be no more mention of Mr. Finn’s name between us, for the present. If you will take my advice you will cease to think of him extravagantly;—and I must desire you to hold no further direct communication with him.”

“I have held no communication with him,” said Lady Laura, advancing a step towards him. But Mr. Kennedy simply pointed to the telegram in her hand, and left the room. Now in respect to this telegram there had been an unfortunate mistake. I am not prepared to say that there was any reason why Phineas himself should not have sent the news of his success to Lady Laura; but he had not done so. The piece of paper which she still held crushed in her hand was in itself very innocent. “Hurrah for the Loughshanes. Finny has done the trick.” Such were the words written on the slip, and they had been sent to Lady Laura by her young cousin, the clerk in the office who acted as private secretary to the Under-Secretary of State. Lady Laura resolved that her husband should never see those innocent but rather undignified words. The occasion had become one of importance, and such words were unworthy of it. Besides, she would not condescend to defend herself by bringing forward a telegram as evidence in her favour. So she burned the morsel of paper.

Lady Laura and Mr. Kennedy did not meet again till late that evening. She was ill, she said, and would not come down to dinner. After dinner she wrote him a note. “Dear Robert, I think you must regret what you said to me. If so, pray let me have a line from you to that effect. Yours affectionately, L.” When the servant handed it to him, and he had read it, he smiled and thanked the girl who had brought it, and said he would see her mistress just now. Anything would be better than that the servants should know that there was a quarrel. But every servant in the house had known all about it for the last three hours. When the door was closed and he was alone, he sat fingering the note, thinking deeply how he should answer it, or whether he would answer it at all. No; he would not answer it;—not in writing. He would give his wife no written record of his humiliation. He had not acted wrongly. He had said nothing more than now, upon mature consideration, he thought that the circumstances demanded. But yet he felt that he must in some sort withdraw the accusation which he had made. If he did not withdraw it, there was no knowing what his wife might do. About ten in the evening he went up to her and made his little speech. “My dear, I have come to answer your note.”

“I thought you would have written to me a line.”

“I have come instead, Laura. Now, if you will listen to me for one moment, I think everything will be made smooth.”

“Of course I will listen,” said Lady Laura, knowing very well that her husband’s moment would be rather tedious, and resolving that she also would have her moment afterwards.

“I think you will acknowledge that if there be a difference of opinion between you and me as to any question of social intercourse, it will be better that you should consent to adopt my opinion.”

“You have the law on your side.”

“I am not speaking of the law.”

“Well;—go on, Robert. I will not interrupt you if I can help it.”

“I am not speaking of the law. I am speaking simply of convenience, and of that which you must feel to be right. If I wish that your intercourse with any person should be of such or such a nature it must be best that you should comply with my wishes.” He paused for her assent, but she neither assented nor dissented. “As far as I can understand the position of a man and wife in this country, there is no other way in which life can be made harmonious.”

“Life will not run in harmonies.”

“I expect that ours shall be made to do so, Laura. I need hardly say to you that I intend to accuse you of no impropriety of feeling in reference to this young man.”

“No, Robert; you need hardly say that. Indeed, to speak my own mind, I think that you need hardly have alluded to it. I might go further, and say that such an allusion is in itself an insult,—an insult now repeated after hours of deliberation,—an insult which I will not endure to have repeated again. If you say another word in any way suggesting the possibility of improper relations between me and Mr. Finn, either as to deeds or thoughts, as God is above me, I will write to both my father and my brother, and desire them to take me from your house. If you wish me to remain here, you had better be careful!” As she was making this speech, her temper seemed to rise, and to become hot, and then hotter, till it glowed with a red heat. She had been cool till the word insult, used by herself, had conveyed back to her a strong impression of her own wrong,—or perhaps I should rather say a strong feeling of the necessity of becoming indignant. She was standing as she spoke, and the fire flashed from her eyes, and he quailed before her. The threat which she had held out to him was very dreadful to him. He was a man terribly in fear of the world’s good opinion, who lacked the courage to go through a great and harassing trial in order that something better might come afterwards. His married life had been unhappy. His wife had not submitted either to his will or to his ways. He had that great desire to enjoy his full rights, so strong in the minds of weak, ambitious men, and he had told himself that a wife’s obedience was one of those rights which he could not abandon without injury to his self-esteem. He had thought about the matter, slowly, as was his wont, and had resolved that he would assert himself. He had asserted himself, and his wife told him to his face that she would go away and leave him. He could detain her legally, but he could not do even that without the fact of such forcible detention being known to all the world. How was he to answer her now at this moment, so that she might not write to her father, and so that his self-assertion might still be maintained?

“Passion, Laura, can never be right.”

“Would you have a woman submit to insult without passion? I at any rate am not such a woman.” Then there was a pause for a moment. “If you have nothing else to say to me, you had better leave me. I am far from well, and my head is throbbing.”

He came up and took her hand, but she snatched it away from him. “Laura,” he said, “do not let us quarrel.”

“I certainly shall quarrel if such insinuations are repeated.”

“I made no insinuation.”

“Do not repeat them. That is all.”

He was cowed and left her, having first attempted to get out of the difficulty of his position by making much of her alleged illness, and by offering to send for Dr. Macnuthrie. She positively refused to see Dr. Macnuthrie, and at last succeeded in inducing him to quit the room.

This had occurred about the end of November, and on the 20th of December Violet Effingham reached Loughlinter. Life in Mr. Kennedy’s house had gone quietly during the intervening three weeks, but not very pleasantly. The name of Phineas Finn had not been mentioned. Lady Laura had triumphed; but she had no desire to acerbate her husband by any unpalatable allusion to her victory. And he was quite willing to let the subject die away, if only it would die. On some other matters he continued to assert himself, taking his wife to church twice every Sunday, using longer family prayers than she approved, reading an additional sermon himself every Sunday evening, calling upon her for weekly attention to elaborate household accounts, asking for her personal assistance in much local visiting, initiating her into his favourite methods of family life in the country, till sometimes she almost longed to talk again about Phineas Finn, so that there might be a rupture, and she might escape. But her husband asserted himself within bounds, and she submitted, longing for the coming of Violet Effingham. She could not write to her father and beg to be taken away, because her husband would read a sermon to her on Sunday evening.

To Violet, very shortly after her arrival, she told her whole story. “This is terrible,” said Violet. “This makes me feel that I never will be married.”

“And yet what can a woman become if she remain single? The curse is to be a woman at all.”

“I have always felt so proud of the privileges of my sex,” said Violet.

“I never have found them,” said the other; “never. I have tried to make the best of its weaknesses, and this is what I have come to! I suppose I ought to have loved some man.”

“And did you never love any man?”

“No;—I think I never did,—not as people mean when they speak of love. I have felt that I would consent to be cut in little pieces for my brother,—because of my regard for him.”

“Ah, that is nothing.”

“And I have felt something of the same thing for another,—a longing for his welfare, a delight to hear him praised, a charm in his presence,—so strong a feeling for his interest, that were he to go to wrack and ruin, I too, should, after a fashion, be wracked and ruined. But it has not been love either.”

“Do I know whom you mean? May I name him? It is Phineas Finn.”

“Of course it is Phineas Finn.”

“Did he ever ask you,—to love him?”

“I feared he would do so, and therefore accepted Mr. Kennedy’s offer almost at the first word.”

“I do not quite understand your reasoning, Laura.”

“I understand it. I could have refused him nothing in my power to give him, but I did not wish to be his wife.”

“And he never asked you?”

Lady Laura paused a moment, thinking what reply she should make;—and then she told a fib. “No; he never asked me.” But Violet did not believe the fib. Violet was quite sure that Phineas had asked Lady Laura Standish to be his wife. “As far as I can see,” said Violet, “Madame Max Goesler is his present passion.”

“I do not believe it in the least,” said Lady Laura, firing up.

“It does not much matter,” said Violet.

“It would matter very much. You know, you,—you; you know whom he loves. And I do believe that sooner or later you will be his wife.”

“Never.”

“Yes, you will. Had you not loved him you would never have condescended to accuse him about that woman.”

“I have not accused him. Why should he not marry Madame Max Goesler? It would be just the thing for him. She is very rich.”

“Never. You will be his wife.”

“Laura, you are the most capricious of women. You have two dear friends, and you insist that I shall marry them both. Which shall I take first?”

“Oswald will be here in a day or two, and you can take him if you like it. No doubt he will ask you. But I do not think you will.”

“No; I do not think I shall. I shall knock under to Mr. Mill, and go in for women’s rights, and look forward to stand for some female borough. Matrimony never seemed to me to be very charming, and upon my word it does not become more alluring by what I find at Loughlinter.”

It was thus that Violet and Lady Laura discussed these matters together, but Violet had never showed to her friend the cards in her hand, as Lady Laura had shown those which she held. Lady Laura had in fact told almost everything that there was to tell,—had spoken either plainly with true words, or equally plainly with words that were not true. Violet Effingham had almost come to love Phineas Finn;—but she never told her friend that it was so. At one time she had almost made up her mind to give herself and all her wealth to this adventurer. He was a better man, she thought, than Lord Chiltern; and she had come to persuade herself that it was almost imperative on her to take the one or the other. Though she could talk about remaining unmarried, she knew that that was practically impossible. All those around her,—those of the Baldock as well as those of the Brentford faction,—would make such a life impossible to her. Besides, in such a case what could she do? It was all very well to talk of disregarding the world and of setting up a house for herself;—but she was quite aware that that project could not be used further than for the purpose of scaring her amiable aunt. And if not that,—then could she content herself to look forward to a joint life with Lady Baldock and Augusta Boreham? She might, of course, oblige her aunt by taking Lord Fawn, or oblige her aunt equally by taking Mr. Appledom; but she was strongly of opinion that either Lord Chiltern or Phineas would be preferable to these. Thinking over it always she had come to feel that it must be either Lord Chiltern or Phineas; but she had never whispered her thought to man or woman. On her journey to Loughlinter, where she then knew that she was to meet Lord Chiltern, she endeavoured to persuade herself that it should be Phineas. But Lady Laura had marred it all by that ill-told fib. There had been a moment before in which Violet had felt that Phineas had sacrificed something of that truth of love for which she gave him credit to the glances of Madame Goesler’s eyes; but she had rebuked herself for the idea, accusing herself not only of a little jealousy, but of foolish vanity. Was he, whom she had rejected, not to speak to another woman? Then came the blow from Lady Laura, and Violet knew that it was a blow. This gallant lover, this young Crichton, this unassuming but ardent lover, had simply taken up with her as soon as he had failed with her friend. Lady Laura had been most enthusiastic in her expressions of friendship. Such platonic regards might be all very well. It was for Mr. Kennedy to look to that. But, for herself, she felt that such expressions were hardly compatible with her ideas of having her lover all to herself. And then she again remembered Madame Goesler’s bright blue eyes.

Lord Chiltern came on Christmas eve, and was received with open arms by his sister, and with that painful, irritating affection which such a girl as Violet can show to such a man as Lord Chiltern, when she will not give him that other affection for which his heart is panting. The two men were civil to each other,—but very cold. They called each other Kennedy and Chiltern, but even that was not done without an effort. On the Christmas morning Mr. Kennedy asked his brother-in-law to go to church. “It’s a kind of thing I never do,” said Lord Chiltern. Mr. Kennedy gave a little start, and looked a look of horror. Lady Laura showed that she was unhappy. Violet Effingham turned away her face, and smiled.

As they walked across the park Violet took Lord Chiltern’s part. “He only means that he does not go to church on Christmas day.”

“I don’t know what he means,” said Mr. Kennedy.

“We need not speak of it,” said Lady Laura.

“Certainly not,” said Mr. Kennedy.

“I have been to church with him on Sundays myself,” said Violet, perhaps not reflecting that the practices of early years had little to do with the young man’s life at present.

Christmas day and the next day passed without any sign from Lord Chiltern, and on the day after that he was to go away. But he was not to leave till one or two in the afternoon. Not a word had been said between the two women, since he had been in the house, on the subject of which both of them were thinking. Very much had been said of the expediency of his going to Saulsby, but on this matter he had declined to make any promise. Sitting in Lady Laura’s room, in the presence of both of them, he had refused to do so. “I am bad to drive,” he said, turning to Violet, “and you had better not try to drive me.”

“Why should not you be driven as well as another?” she answered, laughing.

CHAPTER LII

The First Blow
 

Lord Chiltern, though he had passed two entire days in the house with Violet without renewing his suit, had come to Loughlinter for the express purpose of doing so, and had his plans perfectly fixed in his own mind. After breakfast on that last morning he was up-stairs with his sister in her own room, and immediately made his request to her. “Laura,” he said, “go down like a good girl, and make Violet come up here.” She stood a moment looking at him and smiled. “And, mind,” he continued, “you are not to come back yourself. I must have Violet alone.”

“But suppose Violet will not come? Young ladies do not generally wait upon young men on such occasions.”

“No;—but I rank her so high among young women, that I think she will have common sense enough to teach her that, after what has passed between us, I have a right to ask for an interview, and that it may be more conveniently had here than in the wilderness of the house below.”

Whatever may have been the arguments used by her friend, Violet did come. She reached the door all alone, and opened it bravely. She had promised herself, as she came along the passages, that she would not pause with her hand on the lock for a moment. She had first gone to her own room, and as she left it she had looked into the glass with a hurried glance, and had then rested for a moment,—thinking that something should be done, that her hair might be smoothed, or a ribbon set straight, or the chain arranged under her brooch. A girl would wish to look well before her lover, even when she means to refuse him. But her pause was but for an instant, and then she went on, having touched nothing. She shook her head and pressed her hands together, and went on quick and opened the door,—almost with a little start. “Violet, this is very good of you,” said Lord Chiltern, standing with his back to the fire, and not moving from the spot.

“Laura has told me that you thought I would do as much as this for you, and therefore I have done it.”

“Thanks, dearest. It is the old story, Violet, and I am so bad at words!”

“I must have been bad at words too, as I have not been able to make you understand.”

“I think I have understood. You are always clear-spoken, and I, though I cannot talk, am not muddle-pated. I have understood. But while you are single there must be yet hope;—unless, indeed, you will tell me that you have already given yourself to another man.”

“I have not done that.”

“Then how can I not hope? Violet, I would if I could tell you all my feelings plainly. Once, twice, thrice, I have said to myself that I would think of you no more. I have tried to persuade myself that I am better single than married.”

“But I am not the only woman.”

“To me you are,—absolutely, as though there were none other on the face of God’s earth. I live much alone; but you are always with me. Should you marry any other man, it will be the same with me still. If you refuse me now I shall go away,—and live wildly.”

“Oswald, what do you mean?”

“I mean that I will go to some distant part of the world, where I may be killed or live a life of adventure. But I shall do so simply in despair. It will not be that I do not know how much better and greater should be the life at home of a man in my position.”

“Then do not talk of going.”

“I cannot stay. You will acknowledge, Violet, that I have never lied to you. I am thinking of you day and night. The more indifferent you show yourself to me, the more I love you. Violet, try to love me.” He came up to her, and took her by both her hands, and tears were in his eyes. “Say you will try to love me.”

“It is not that,” said Violet, looking away, but still leaving her hands with him.

“It is not what, dear?”

“What you call,—trying.”

“It is that you do not wish to try?”

“Oswald, you are so violent, so headstrong. I am afraid of you,—as is everybody. Why have you not written to your father, as we have asked you?”

“I will write to him instantly, now, before I leave the room, and you shall dictate the letter to him. By heavens, you shall!” He had dropped her hands when she called him violent; but now he took them again, and still she permitted it. “I have postponed it only till I had spoken to you once again.”

“No, Lord Chiltern, I will not dictate to you.”

“But will you love me?” She paused and looked down, having even now not withdrawn her hands from him. But I do not think he knew how much he had gained. “You used to love me,—a little,” he said.

“Indeed,—indeed, I did.”

“And now? Is it all changed now?”

“No,” she said, retreating from him.

“How is it, then? Violet, speak to me honestly. Will you be my wife?” She did not answer him, and he stood for a moment looking at her. Then he rushed at her, and, seizing her in his arms, kissed her all over,—her forehead, her lips, her cheeks, then both her hands, and then her lips again. “By G––––, she is my own!” he said. Then he went back to the rug before the fire, and stood there with his back turned to her. Violet, when she found herself thus deserted, retreated to a sofa, and sat herself down. She had no negative to produce now in answer to the violent assertion which he had pronounced as to his own success. It was true. She had doubted, and doubted,—and still doubted. But now she must doubt no longer. Of one thing she was quite sure. She could love him. As things had now gone, she would make him quite happy with assurances on that subject. As to that other question,—that fearful question, whether or not she could trust him,—on that matter she had better at present say nothing, and think as little, perhaps, as might be. She had taken the jump, and therefore why should she not be gracious to him? But how was she to be gracious to a lover who stood there with his back turned to her?

After the interval of a minute or two he remembered himself, and turned round. Seeing her seated, he approached her, and went down on both knees close at her feet. Then he took her hands again, for the third time, and looked up into her eyes.

“Oswald, you on your knees!” she said.

“I would not bend to a princess,” he said, “to ask for half her throne; but I will kneel here all day, if you will let me, in thanks for the gift of your love. I never kneeled to beg for it.”

“This is the man who cannot make speeches.”

“I think I could talk now by the hour, with you for a listener.”

“Oh, but I must talk too.”

“What will you say to me?”

“Nothing while you are kneeling. It is not natural that you should kneel. You are like Samson with his locks shorn, or Hercules with a distaff.”

“Is that better?” he said, as he got up and put his arm round her waist.

“You are in earnest?” she asked.

“In earnest. I hardly thought that that would be doubted. Do you not believe me?”

“I do believe you. And you will be good?”

“Ah,—I do not know that.”

“Try, and I will love you so dearly. Nay, I do love you dearly. I do. I do.”

“Say it again.”

“I will say it fifty times,—till your ears are weary with it”;—and she did say it to him, after her own fashion, fifty times.

“This is a great change,” he said, getting up after a while and walking about the room.

“But a change for the better;—is it not, Oswald?”

“So much for the better that I hardly know myself in my new joy. But, Violet, we’ll have no delay,—will we? No shilly-shallying. What is the use of waiting now that it’s settled?”

“None in the least, Lord Chiltern. Let us say,—this day twelvemonth.”

“You are laughing at me, Violet.”

“Remember, sir, that the first thing you have to do is to write to your father.”

He instantly went to the writing-table and took up paper and pen. “Come along,” he said. “You are to dictate it.” But this she refused to do, telling him that he must write his letter to his father out of his own head, and out of his own heart. “I cannot write it,” he said, throwing down the pen. “My blood is in such a tumult that I cannot steady my hand.”

“You must not be so tumultuous, Oswald, or I shall have to live in a whirlwind.”

“Oh, I shall shake down. I shall become as steady as an old stager. I’ll go as quiet in harness by-and-by as though I had been broken to it a four-year-old. I wonder whether Laura could not write this letter.”

“I think you should write it yourself, Oswald.”

“If you bid me I will.”

“Bid you indeed! As if it was for me to bid you. Do you not know that in these new troubles you are undertaking you will have to bid me in everything, and that I shall be bound to do your bidding? Does it not seem to be dreadful? My wonder is that any girl can ever accept any man.”

“But you have accepted me now.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“And you repent?”

“No, indeed, and I will try to do your biddings;—but you must not be rough to me, and outrageous, and fierce,—will you, Oswald?”

“I will not at any rate be like Kennedy is with poor Laura.”

“No;—that is not your nature.”

“I will do my best, dearest. And you may at any rate be sure of this, that I will love you always. So much good of myself, if it be good, I can say.”

“It is very good,” she answered; “the best of all good words. And now I must go. And as you are leaving Loughlinter I will say good-bye. When am I to have the honour and felicity of beholding your lordship again?”

“Say a nice word to me before I am off, Violet.”

“I,—love,—you,—better,—than all the world beside; and I mean,—to be your wife,—some day. Are not those twenty nice words?”

He would not prolong his stay at Loughlinter, though he was asked to do so both by Violet and his sister, and though, as he confessed himself, he had no special business elsewhere. “It is no use mincing the matter. I don’t like Kennedy, and I don’t like being in his house,” he said to Violet. And then he promised that there should be a party got up at Saulsby before the winter was over. His plan was to stop that night at Carlisle, and write to his father from thence. “Your blood, perhaps, won’t be so tumultuous at Carlisle,” said Violet. He shook his head and went on with his plans. He would then go on to London and down to Willingford, and there wait for his father’s answer. “There is no reason why I should lose more of the hunting than necessary.” “Pray don’t lose a day for me,” said Violet. As soon as he heard from his father, he would do his father’s bidding. “You will go to Saulsby,” said Violet; “you can hunt at Saulsby, you know.”

“I will go to Jericho if he asks me, only you will have to go with me.” “I thought we were to go to,—Belgium,” said Violet.

“And so that is settled at last,” said Violet to Laura that night.

“I hope you do not regret it.”

“On the contrary, I am as happy as the moments are long.”

“My fine girl!”

“I am happy because I love him. I have always loved him. You have known that.”

“Indeed, no.”

“But I have, after my fashion. I am not tumultuous, as he calls himself. Since he began to make eyes at me when he was nineteen—”

“Fancy Oswald making eyes!”

“Oh, he did, and mouths too. But from the beginning, when I was a child, I have known that he was dangerous, and I have thought that he would pass on and forget me after a while. And I could have lived without him. Nay, there have been moments when I thought I could learn to love some one else.”

“Poor Phineas, for instance.”

“We will mention no names. Mr. Appledom, perhaps, more likely. He has been my most constant lover, and then he would be so safe! Your brother, Laura, is dangerous. He is like the bad ice in the parks where they stick up the poles. He has had a pole stuck upon him ever since he was a boy.”

“Yes;—give a dog a bad name and hang him.”

“Remember that I do not love him a bit the less on that account;—perhaps the better. A sense of danger does not make me unhappy, though the threatened evil may be fatal. I have entered myself for my forlorn hope, and I mean to stick to it. Now I must go and write to his worship. Only think,—I never wrote a love-letter yet!”

Nothing more shall be said about Miss Effingham’s first love-letter, which was, no doubt, creditable to her head and heart; but there were two other letters sent by the same post from Loughlinter which shall be submitted to the reader, as they will assist the telling of the story. One was from Lady Laura Kennedy to her friend Phineas Finn, and the other from Violet to her aunt, Lady Baldock. No letter was written to Lord Brentford, as it was thought desirable that he should receive the first intimation of what had been done from his son.

Respecting the letter to Phineas, which shall be first given, Lady Laura thought it right to say a word to her husband. He had been of course told of the engagement, and had replied that he could have wished that the arrangement could have been made elsewhere than at his house, knowing as he did that Lady Baldock would not approve of it. To this Lady Laura had made no reply, and Mr. Kennedy had condescended to congratulate the bride-elect. When Lady Laura’s letter to Phineas was completed she took care to put it into the letter-box in the presence of her husband. “I have written to Mr. Finn,” she said, “to tell him of this marriage.”

“Why was it necessary that he should be told?”

“I think it was due to him,—from certain circumstances.”

“I wonder whether there was any truth in what everybody was saying about their fighting a duel?” asked Mr. Kennedy. His wife made no answer, and then he continued—“You told me of your own knowledge that it was untrue.”

“Not of my own knowledge, Robert.”

“Yes;—of your own knowledge.” Then Mr. Kennedy walked away, and was certain that his wife had deceived him about the duel. There had been a duel, and she had known it; and yet she had told him that the report was a ridiculous fabrication. He never forgot anything. He remembered at this moment the words of the falsehood, and the look of her face as she told it. He had believed her implicitly, but he would never believe her again. He was one of those men who, in spite of their experience of the world, of their experience of their own lives, imagine that lips that have once lied can never tell the truth.

Lady Laura’s letter to Phineas was as follows:
 

Loughlinter, December 28th, 186––.

My dear Friend,

Violet Effingham is here, and Oswald has just left us. It is possible that you may see him as he passes through London. But, at any rate, I think it best to let you know immediately that she has accepted him,—at last. If there be any pang in this to you, be sure that I will grieve for you. You will not wish me to say that I regret that which was the dearest wish of my heart before I knew you. Lately, indeed, I have been torn in two ways. You will understand what I mean, and I believe I need say nothing more;—except this, that it shall be among my prayers that you may obtain all things that may tend to make you happy, honourable, and of high esteem.

Your most sincere friend

Laura Kennedy.
 

Even though her husband should read the letter, there was nothing in that of which she need be ashamed. But he did not read the letter. He simply speculated as to its contents, and inquired within himself whether it would not be for the welfare of the world in general, and for the welfare of himself in particular, that husbands should demand to read their wives’ letters.

And this was Violet’s letter to her aunt:—
 

My dear Aunt,

The thing has come at last, and all your troubles will be soon over;—for I do believe that all your troubles have come from your unfortunate niece. At last I am going to be married, and thus take myself off your hands. Lord Chiltern has just been here, and I have accepted him. I am afraid you hardly think so well of Lord Chiltern as I do; but then, perhaps, you have not known him so long. You do know, however, that there has been some difference between him and his father. I think I may take upon myself to say that now, upon his engagement, this will be settled. I have the inexpressible pleasure of feeling sure that Lord Brentford will welcome me as his daughter-in-law. Tell the news to Augusta with my best love. I will write to her in a day or two. I hope my cousin Gustavus will condescend to give me away. Of course there is nothing fixed about time;—but I should say, perhaps, in nine years.

Your affectionate niece,

Violet Effingham.

Loughlinter, Friday.
 

“What does she mean about nine years?” said Lady Baldock in her wrath.

“She is joking,” said the mild Augusta.

“I believe she would—joke, if I were going to be buried,” said Lady Baldock.