When Phineas received Lady Laura Kennedy’s letter, he was sitting in his gorgeous apartment in the Colonial Office. It was gorgeous in comparison with the very dingy room at Mr. Low’s to which he had been accustomed in his early days,—and somewhat gorgeous also as compared with the lodgings he had so long inhabited in Mr. Bunce’s house. The room was large and square, and looked out from three windows on to St. James’s Park. There were in it two very comfortable arm-chairs and a comfortable sofa. And the office table at which he sat was of old mahogany, shining brightly, and seemed to be fitted up with every possible appliance for official comfort. This stood near one of the windows, so that he could sit and look down upon the park. And there was a large round table covered with books and newspapers. And the walls of the room were bright with maps of all the colonies. And there was one very interesting map,—but not very bright,—showing the American colonies, as they used to be. And there was a little inner closet in which he could brush his hair and wash his hands; and in the room adjoining there sat,—or ought to have sat, for he was often absent, vexing the mind of Phineas,—the Earl’s nephew, his private secretary. And it was all very gorgeous. Often as he looked round upon it, thinking of his old bedroom at Killaloe, of his little garrets at Trinity, of the dingy chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, he would tell himself that it was very gorgeous. He would wonder that anything so grand had fallen to his lot.
The letter from Scotland was brought to him in the afternoon, having reached London by some day-mail from Glasgow. He was sitting at his desk with a heap of papers before him referring to a contemplated railway from Halifax, in Nova Scotia, to the foot of the Rocky Mountains. It had become his business to get up the subject, and then discuss with his principal, Lord Cantrip, the expediency of advising the Government to lend a company five million of money, in order that this railway might be made. It was a big subject, and the contemplation of it gratified him. It required that he should look forward to great events, and exercise the wisdom of a statesman. What was the chance of these colonies being swallowed up by those other regions,—once colonies,—of which the map that hung in the corner told so eloquent a tale? And if so, would the five million ever be repaid? And if not swallowed up, were the colonies worth so great an adventure of national money? Could they repay it? Would they do so? Should they be made to do so? Mr. Low, who was now a Q.C. and in Parliament, would not have greater subjects than this before him, even if he should come to be Solicitor General. Lord Cantrip had specially asked him to get up this matter,—and he was getting it up sedulously. Once in nine years the harbour of Halifax was blocked up by ice. He had just jotted down the fact, which was material, when Lady Laura’s letter was brought to him. He read it, and putting it down by his side very gently, went back to his maps as though the thing would not so trouble his mind as to disturb his work. He absolutely wrote, automatically, certain words of a note about the harbour, after he had received the information. A horse will gallop for some scores of yards, after his back has been broken, before he knows of his great ruin;—and so it was with Phineas Finn. His back was broken, but, nevertheless, he galloped, for a yard or two. “Closed in 1860-61 for thirteen days.” Then he began to be aware that his back was broken, and that the writing of any more notes about the ice in Halifax harbour was for the present out of the question. “I think it best to let you know immediately that she has accepted him.” These were the words which he read the oftenest. Then it was all over! The game was played out, and all his victories were as nothing to him. He sat for an hour in his gorgeous room thinking of it, and various were the answers which he gave during the time to various messages;—but he would see nobody. As for the colonies, he did not care if they revolted to-morrow. He would have parted with every colony belonging to Great Britain to have gotten the hand of Violet Effingham for himself. Now,—now at this moment, he told himself with oaths that he had never loved any one but Violet Effingham.
There had been so much to make such a marriage desirable! I should wrong my hero deeply were I to say that the weight of his sorrow was occasioned by the fact that he had lost an heiress. He would never have thought of looking for Violet Effingham had he not first learned to love her. But as the idea opened itself out to him, everything had seemed to be so suitable. Had Miss Effingham become his wife, the mouths of the Lows and of the Bunces would have been stopped altogether. Mr. Monk would have come to his house as his familiar guest, and he would have been connected with half a score of peers. A seat in Parliament would be simply his proper place, and even Under-Secretaryships of State might soon come to be below him. He was playing a great game, but hitherto he had played it with so much success,—with such wonderful luck! that it had seemed to him that all things were within his reach. Nothing more had been wanting to him than Violet’s hand for his own comfort, and Violet’s fortune to support his position; and these, too, had almost seemed to be within his grasp. His goddess had indeed refused him,—but not with disdain. Even Lady Laura had talked of his marriage as not improbable. All the world, almost, had heard of the duel; and all the world had smiled, and seemed to think that in the real fight Phineas Finn would be the victor,—that the lucky pistol was in his hands. It had never occurred to any one to suppose,—as far as he could see,—that he was presuming at all, or pushing himself out of his own sphere, in asking Violet Effingham to be his wife. No;—he would trust his luck, would persevere, and would succeed. Such had been his resolution on that very morning,—and now there had come this letter to dash him to the ground.
There were moments in which he declared to himself that he would not believe the letter,—not that there was any moment in which there was in his mind the slightest spark of real hope. But he would tell himself that he would still persevere. Violet might have been driven to accept that violent man by violent influence,—or it might be that she had not in truth accepted him, that Chiltern had simply so asserted. Or, even if it were so, did women never change their minds? The manly thing would be to persevere to the end. Had he not before been successful, when success seemed to be as far from him? But he could buoy himself up with no real hope. Even when these ideas were present to his mind, he knew,—he knew well,—at those very moments, that his back was broken.
Some one had come in and lighted the candles and drawn down the blinds while he was sitting there, and now, as he looked at his watch, he found that it was past five o’clock. He was engaged to dine with Madame Max Goesler at eight, and in his agony he half-resolved that he would send an excuse. Madame Max would be full of wrath, as she was very particular about her little dinner-parties;—but, what did he care now about the wrath of Madame Max Goesler? And yet only this morning he had been congratulating himself, among his other successes, upon her favour, and had laughed inwardly at his own falseness,—his falseness to Violet Effingham,—as he did so. He had said something to himself jocosely about lovers’ perjuries, the remembrance of which was now very bitter to him. He took up a sheet of note-paper and scrawled an excuse to Madame Goesler. News from the country, he said, made it impossible that he should go out to-night. But he did not send the note. At about half-past five he opened the door of his private secretary’s room and found the young man fast asleep, with a cigar in his mouth. “Halloa, Charles,” he said.
“All right!” Charles Standish was a first cousin of Lady Laura’s, and, having been in the office before Phineas had joined it, and being a great favourite with his cousin, had of course become the Under-Secretary’s private secretary. “I’m all here,” said Charles Standish, getting up and shaking himself.
“I am going. Just tie up those papers,—exactly as they are. I shall be here early to-morrow, but I shan’t want you before twelve. Good night, Charles.”
“Ta, ta,” said his private secretary, who was very fond of his master, but not very respectful,—unless upon express occasions.
Then Phineas went out and walked across the park; but as he went he became quite aware that his back was broken. It was not the less broken because he sang to himself little songs to prove to himself that it was whole and sound. It was broken, and it seemed to him now that he never could become an Atlas again, to bear the weight of the world upon his shoulders. What did anything signify? All that he had done had been part of a game which he had been playing throughout, and now he had been beaten in his game. He absolutely ignored his old passion for Lady Laura as though it had never been, and regarded himself as a model of constancy,—as a man who had loved, not wisely perhaps, but much too well,—and who must now therefore suffer a living death. He hated Parliament. He hated the Colonial Office. He hated his friend Mr. Monk; and he especially hated Madame Max Goesler. As to Lord Chiltern,—he believed that Lord Chiltern had obtained his object by violence. He would see to that! Yes;—let the consequences be what they might, he would see to that!
He went up by the Duke of York’s column, and as he passed the Athenæum he saw his chief, Lord Cantrip, standing under the portico talking to a bishop. He would have gone on unnoticed, had it been possible; but Lord Cantrip came down to him at once. “I have put your name down here,” said his lordship.
“What’s the use?” said Phineas, who was profoundly indifferent at this moment to all the clubs in London.
“It can’t do any harm, you know. You’ll come up in time. And if you should get into the ministry, they’ll let you in at once.”
“Ministry!” ejaculated Phineas. But Lord Cantrip took the tone of voice as simply suggestive of humility, and suspected nothing of that profound indifference to all ministers and ministerial honours which Phineas had intended to express. “By-the-bye,” said Lord Cantrip, putting his arm through that of the Under-Secretary, “I wanted to speak to you about the guarantees. We shall be in the devil’s own mess, you know—” And so the Secretary of State went on about the Rocky Mountain Railroad, and Phineas strove hard to bear his burden with his broken back. He was obliged to say something about the guarantees, and the railway, and the frozen harbour,—and something especially about the difficulties which would be found, not in the measures themselves, but in the natural pugnacity of the Opposition. In the fabrication of garments for the national wear, the great thing is to produce garments that shall, as far as possible, defy hole-picking. It may be, and sometimes is, the case, that garments so fabricated will be good also for wear. Lord Cantrip, at the present moment, was very anxious and very ingenious in the stopping of holes; and he thought that perhaps his Under-Secretary was too much prone to the indulgence of large philanthropical views without sufficient thought of the hole-pickers. But on this occasion, by the time that he reached Brooks’s, he had been enabled to convince his Under-Secretary, and though he had always thought well of his Under-Secretary, he thought better of him now than ever he had done. Phineas during the whole time had been meditating what he could do to Lord Chiltern when they two should meet. Could he take him by the throat and smite him? “I happen to know that Broderick is working as hard at the matter as we are,” said Lord Cantrip, stopping opposite to the club. “He moved for papers, you know, at the end of last session.” Now Mr. Broderick was a gentleman in the House looking for promotion in a Conservative Government, and of course would oppose any measure that could be brought forward by the Cantrip-Finn Colonial Administration. Then Lord Cantrip slipped into the club, and Phineas went on alone.
A spark of his old ambition with reference to Brooks’s was the first thing to make him forget his misery for a moment. He had asked Lord Brentford to put his name down, and was not sure whether it had been done. The threat of Mr. Broderick’s opposition had been of no use towards the strengthening of his broken back, but the sight of Lord Cantrip hurrying in at the coveted door did do something. “A man can’t cut his throat or blow his brains out,” he said to himself; “after all, he must go on and do his work. For hearts will break, yet brokenly live on.” Thereupon he went home, and after sitting for an hour over his own fire, and looking wistfully at a little treasure which he had,—a treasure obtained by some slight fraud at Saulsby, and which he now chucked into the fire, and then instantly again pulled out of it, soiled but unscorched,—he dressed himself for dinner, and went out to Madame Max Goesler’s. Upon the whole, he was glad that he had not sent the note of excuse. A man must live, even though his heart be broken, and living he must dine.
Madame Max Goesler was fond of giving little dinners at this period of the year, before London was crowded, and when her guests might probably not be called away by subsequent social arrangements. Her number seldom exceeded six or eight, and she always spoke of these entertainments as being of the humblest kind. She sent out no big cards. She preferred to catch her people as though by chance, when that was possible. “Dear Mr. Jones. Mr. Smith is coming to tell me about some sherry on Tuesday. Will you come and tell me too? I daresay you know as much about it.” And then there was a studious absence of parade. The dishes were not very numerous. The bill of fare was simply written out once, for the mistress, and so circulated round the table. Not a word about the things to be eaten or the things to be drunk was ever spoken at the table,—or at least no such word was ever spoken by Madame Goesler. But, nevertheless, they who knew anything about dinners were aware that Madame Goesler gave very good dinners indeed. Phineas Finn was beginning to flatter himself that he knew something about dinners, and had been heard to assert that the soups at the cottage in Park Lane were not to be beaten in London. But he cared for no soup to-day, as he slowly made his way up Madame Goesler’s staircase.
There had been one difficulty in the way of Madame Goesler’s dinner-parties which had required some patience and great ingenuity in its management. She must either have ladies, or she must not have them. There was a great allurement in the latter alternative; but she knew well that if she gave way to it, all prospect of general society would for her be closed,—and for ever. This had been in the early days of her widowhood in Park Lane. She cared but little for women’s society; but she knew well that the society of gentlemen without women would not be that which she desired. She knew also that she might as effectually crush herself and all her aspirations by bringing to her house indifferent women,—women lacking something either in character, or in position, or in talent,—as by having none at all. Thus there had been a great difficulty, and sometimes she had thought that the thing could not be done at all. “These English are so stiff, so hard, so heavy!” And yet she would not have cared to succeed elsewhere than among the English. By degrees, however, the thing was done. Her prudence equalled her wit, and even suspicious people had come to acknowledge that they could not put their fingers on anything wrong. When Lady Glencora Palliser had once dined at the cottage in Park Lane, Madame Max Goesler had told herself that henceforth she did not care what the suspicious people said. Since that the Duke of Omnium had almost promised that he would come. If she could only entertain the Duke of Omnium she would have done everything.
But there was no Duke of Omnium there to-night. At this time the Duke of Omnium was, of course, not in London. But Lord Fawn was there; and our old friend Laurence Fitzgibbon, who had—resigned his place at the Colonial Office; and there were Mr. and Mrs. Bonteen. They, with our hero, made up the party. No one doubted for a moment to what source Mr. Bonteen owed his dinner. Mrs. Bonteen was good-looking, could talk, was sufficiently proper, and all that kind of thing,—and did as well as any other woman at this time of year to keep Madame Max Goesler in countenance. There was never any sitting after dinner at the cottage; or, I should rather say, there was never any sitting after Madame Goesler went; so that the two ladies could not weary each other by being alone together. Mrs. Bonteen understood quite well that she was not required there to talk to her hostess, and was as willing as any woman to make herself agreeable to the gentlemen she might meet at Madame Goesler’s table. And thus Mr. and Mrs. Bonteen not unfrequently dined in Park Lane.
“Now we have only to wait for that horrible man, Mr. Fitzgibbon,” said Madame Max Goesler, as she welcomed Phineas. “He is always late.”
“What a blow for me!” said Phineas.
“No,—you are always in good time. But there is a limit beyond which good time ends, and being shamefully late at once begins. But here he is.” And then, as Laurence Fitzgibbon entered the room, Madame Goesler rang the bell for dinner.
Phineas found himself placed between his hostess and Mr. Bonteen, and Lord Fawn was on the other side of Madame Goesler. They were hardly seated at the table before some one stated it as a fact that Lord Brentford and his son were reconciled. Now Phineas knew, or thought that he knew, that this could not as yet be the case; and indeed such was not the case, though the father had already received the son’s letter. But Phineas did not choose to say anything at present about Lord Chiltern.
“How odd it is,” said Madame Goesler; “how often you English fathers quarrel with your sons!”
“How often we English sons quarrel with our fathers rather,” said Lord Fawn, who was known for the respect he had always paid to the fifth commandment.
“It all comes from entail and primogeniture, and old-fashioned English prejudices of that kind,” said Madame Goesler. “Lord Chiltern is a friend of yours, Mr. Finn, I think.”
“They are both friends of mine,” said Phineas.
“Ah, yes; but you,—you,—you and Lord Chiltern once did something odd together. There was a little mystery, was there not?”
“It is very little of a mystery now,” said Fitzgibbon.
“It was about a lady;—was it not?” said Mrs. Bonteen, affecting to whisper to her neighbour.
“I am not at liberty to say anything on the subject,” said Fitzgibbon; “but I have no doubt Phineas will tell you.”
“I don’t believe this about Lord Brentford,” said Mr. Bonteen. “I happen to know that Chiltern was down at Loughlinter three days ago, and that he passed through London yesterday on his way to the place where he hunts. The Earl is at Saulsby. He would have gone to Saulsby if it were true.”
“It all depends upon whether Miss Effingham will accept him,” said Mrs. Bonteen, looking over at Phineas as she spoke.
As there were two of Violet Effingham’s suitors at table, the subject was becoming disagreeably personal; and the more so, as every one of the party knew or surmised something of the facts of the case. The cause of the duel at Blankenberg had become almost as public as the duel, and Lord Fawn’s courtship had not been altogether hidden from the public eye. He on the present occasion might probably be able to carry himself better than Phineas, even presuming him to be equally eager in his love,—for he knew nothing of the fatal truth. But he was unable to hear Mrs. Bonteen’s statement with indifference, and showed his concern in the matter by his reply. “Any lady will be much to be pitied,” he said, “who does that. Chiltern is the last man in the world to whom I would wish to trust the happiness of a woman for whom I cared.”
“Chiltern is a very good fellow,” said Laurence Fitzgibbon.
“Just a little wild,” said Mrs. Bonteen.
“And never had a shilling in his pocket in his life,” said her husband.
“I regard him as simply a madman,” said Lord Fawn.
“I do so wish I knew him,” said Madame Max Goesler. “I am fond of madmen, and men who haven’t shillings, and who are a little wild. Could you not bring him here, Mr. Finn?”
Phineas did not know what to say, or how to open his mouth without showing his deep concern. “I shall be happy to ask him if you wish it,” he replied, as though the question had been put to him in earnest; “but I do not see so much of Lord Chiltern as I used to do.”
“You do not believe that Violet Effingham will accept him?” asked Mrs. Bonteen.
He paused a moment before he spoke, and then made his answer in a deep solemn voice,—with a seriousness which he was unable to repress. “She has accepted him,” he said.
“Do you mean that you know it?” said Madame Goesler.
“Yes;—I mean that I know it.”
Had anybody told him beforehand that he would openly make this declaration at Madame Goesler’s table, he would have said that of all things it was the most impossible. He would have declared that nothing would have induced him to speak of Violet Effingham in his existing frame of mind, and that he would have had his tongue cut out before he spoke of her as the promised bride of his rival. And now he had declared the whole truth of his own wretchedness and discomfiture. He was well aware that all of them there knew why he had fought the duel at Blankenberg;—all, that is, except perhaps Lord Fawn. And he felt as he made the statement as to Lord Chiltern that he blushed up to his forehead, and that his voice was strange, and that he was telling the tale of his own disgrace. But when the direct question had been asked him he had been unable to refrain from answering it directly. He had thought of turning it off with some jest or affectation of drollery, but had failed. At the moment he had been unable not to speak the truth.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Lord Fawn,—who also forgot himself.
“I do believe it, if Mr. Finn says so,” said Mrs. Bonteen, who rather liked the confusion she had caused.
“But who could have told you, Finn?” asked Mr. Bonteen.
“His sister, Lady Laura, told me so,” said Phineas.
“Then it must be true,” said Madame Goesler.
“It is quite impossible,” said Lord Fawn. “I think I may say that I know that it is impossible. If it were so, it would be a most shameful arrangement. Every shilling she has in the world would be swallowed up.” Now, Lord Fawn in making his proposals had been magnanimous in his offers as to settlements and pecuniary provisions generally.
For some minutes after that Phineas did not speak another word, and the conversation generally was not so brisk and bright as it was expected to be at Madame Goesler’s. Madame Max Goesler herself thoroughly understood our hero’s position, and felt for him. She would have encouraged no questionings about Violet Effingham had she thought that they would have led to such a result, and now she exerted herself to turn the minds of her guests to other subjects. At last she succeeded; and after a while, too, Phineas himself was able to talk. He drank two or three glasses of wine, and dashed away into politics, taking the earliest opportunity in his power of contradicting Lord Fawn very plainly on one or two matters. Laurence Fitzgibbon was of course of opinion that the ministry could not stay in long. Since he had left the Government the ministers had made wonderful mistakes, and he spoke of them quite as an enemy might speak. “And yet, Fitz,” said Mr. Bonteen, “you used to be so staunch a supporter.”
“I have seen the error of my way, I can assure you,” said Laurence.
“I always observe,” said Madame Max Goesler, “that when any of you gentlemen resign,—which you usually do on some very trivial matter,—the resigning gentleman becomes of all foes the bitterest. Somebody goes on very well with his friends, agreeing most cordially about everything, till he finds that his public virtue cannot swallow some little detail, and then he resigns. Or some one, perhaps, on the other side has attacked him, and in the mêlée he is hurt, and so he resigns. But when he has resigned, and made his parting speech full of love and gratitude, I know well after that where to look for the bitterest hostility to his late friends. Yes, I am beginning to understand the way in which politics are done in England.”
All this was rather severe upon Laurence Fitzgibbon; but he was a man of the world, and bore it better than Phineas had borne his defeat.
The dinner, taken altogether, was not a success, and so Madame Goesler understood. Lord Fawn, after he had been contradicted by Phineas, hardly opened his mouth. Phineas himself talked rather too much and rather too loudly; and Mrs. Bonteen, who was well enough inclined to flatter Lord Fawn, contradicted him. “I made a mistake,” said Madame Goesler afterwards, “in having four members of Parliament who all of them were or had been in office. I never will have two men in office together again.” This she said to Mrs. Bonteen. “My dear Madame Max,” said Mrs. Bonteen, “your resolution ought to be that you will never again have two claimants for the same young lady.”
In the drawing-room up-stairs Madame Goesler managed to be alone for three minutes with Phineas Finn. “And it is as you say, my friend?” she asked. Her voice was plaintive and soft, and there was a look of real sympathy in her eyes. Phineas almost felt that if they two had been quite alone he could have told her everything, and have wept at her feet.
“Yes,” he said, “it is so.”
“I never doubted it when you had declared it. May I venture to say that I wish it had been otherwise?”
“It is too late now, Madame Goesler. A man of course is a fool to show that he has any feelings in such a matter. The fact is, I heard it just before I came here, and had made up my mind to send you an excuse. I wish I had now.”
“Do not say that, Mr. Finn.”
“I have made such an ass of myself.”
“In my estimation you have done yourself honour. But if I may venture to give you counsel, do not speak of this affair again as though you had been personally concerned in it. In the world now-a-days the only thing disgraceful is to admit a failure.”
“And I have failed.”
“But you need not admit it, Mr. Finn. I know I ought not to say as much to you.”
“I, rather, am deeply indebted to you. I will go now, Madame Goesler, as I do not wish to leave the house with Lord Fawn.”
“But you will come and see me soon.” Then Phineas promised that he would come soon; and felt as he made the promise that he would have an opportunity of talking over his love with his new friend at any rate without fresh shame as to his failure.
Laurence Fitzgibbon went away with Phineas, and Mr. Bonteen, having sent his wife away by herself, walked off towards the clubs with Lord Fawn. He was very anxious to have a few words with Lord Fawn. Lord Fawn had evidently been annoyed by Phineas, and Mr. Bonteen did not at all love the young Under-Secretary. “That fellow has become the most consummate puppy I ever met,” said he, as he linked himself on to the lord, “Monk, and one or two others among them, have contrived to spoil him altogether.”
“I don’t believe a word of what he said about Lord Chiltern,” said Lord Fawn.
“About his marriage with Miss Effingham?”
“It would be such an abominable shame to sacrifice the girl,” said Lord Fawn. “Only think of it. Everything is gone. The man is a drunkard, and I don’t believe he is any more reconciled to his father than you are. Lady Laura Kennedy must have had some object in saying so.”
“Perhaps an invention of Finn’s altogether,” said Mr. Bonteen. “Those Irish fellows are just the men for that kind of thing.”
“A man, you know, so violent that nobody can hold him,” said Lord Fawn, thinking of Chiltern.
“And so absurdly conceited,” said Mr. Bonteen, thinking of Phineas.
“A man who has never done anything, with all his advantages in the world,—and never will.”
“He won’t hold his place long,” said Mr. Bonteen.
“Whom do you mean?”
“Phineas Finn.”
“Oh, Mr. Finn. I was talking of Lord Chiltern. I believe Finn to be a very good sort of a fellow, and he is undoubtedly clever. They say Cantrip likes him amazingly. He’ll do very well. But I don’t believe a word of this about Lord Chiltern.” Then Mr. Bonteen felt himself to be snubbed, and soon afterwards left Lord Fawn alone.
On the day following Madame Goesler’s dinner party, Phineas, though he was early at his office, was not able to do much work, still feeling that as regarded the realities of the world, his back was broken. He might no doubt go on learning, and, after a time, might be able to exert himself in a perhaps useful, but altogether uninteresting kind of way, doing his work simply because it was there to be done,—as the carter or the tailor does his;—and from the same cause, knowing that a man must have bread to live. But as for ambition, and the idea of doing good, and the love of work for work’s sake,—as for the elastic springs of delicious and beneficent labour,—all that was over for him. He would have worked from day till night, and from night till day, and from month till month throughout the year to have secured for Violet Effingham the assurance that her husband’s position was worthy of her own. But now he had no motive for such work as this. As long as he took the public pay, he would earn it; and that was all.
On the next day things were a little better with him. He received a note in the morning from Lord Cantrip saying that they two were to see the Prime Minister that evening, in order that the whole question of the railway to the Rocky Mountains might be understood, and Phineas was driven to his work. Before the time of the meeting came he had once more lost his own identity in great ideas of colonial welfare, and had planned and peopled a mighty region on the Red River, which should have no sympathy with American democracy. When he waited upon Mr. Gresham in the afternoon he said nothing about the mighty region; indeed, he left it to Lord Cantrip to explain most of the proposed arrangements,—speaking only a word or two here and there as occasion required. But he was aware that he had so far recovered as to be able to save himself from losing ground during the interview.
“He’s about the first Irishman we’ve had that has been worth his salt,” said Mr. Gresham to his colleague afterwards.
“That other Irishman was a terrible fellow,” said Lord Cantrip, shaking his head.
On the fourth day after his sorrow had befallen him, Phineas went again to the cottage in Park Lane. And in order that he might not be balked in his search for sympathy he wrote a line to Madame Goesler to ask if she would be at home. “I will be at home from five to six,—and alone.—M. M. G.” That was the answer from Marie Max Goesler, and Phineas was of course at the cottage a few minutes after five. It is not, I think, surprising that a man when he wants sympathy in such a calamity as that which had now befallen Phineas Finn, should seek it from a woman. Women sympathise most effectually with men, as men do with women. But it is, perhaps, a little odd that a man when he wants consolation because his heart has been broken, always likes to receive it from a pretty woman. One would be disposed to think that at such a moment he would be profoundly indifferent to such a matter, that no delight could come to him from female beauty, and that all he would want would be the softness of a simply sympathetic soul. But he generally wants a soft hand as well, and an eye that can be bright behind the mutual tear, and lips that shall be young and fresh as they express their concern for his sorrow. All these things were added to Phineas when he went to Madame Goesler in his grief.
“I am so glad to see you,” said Madame Max.
“You are very good-natured to let me come.”
“No;—but it is so good of you to trust me. But I was sure you would come after what took place the other night. I saw that you were pained, and I was so sorry for it.”
“I made such a fool of myself.”
“Not at all. And I thought that you were right to tell them when the question had been asked. If the thing was not to be kept a secret, it was better to speak it out. You will get over it quicker in that way than in any other. I have never seen the young lord, myself.”
“Oh, there is nothing amiss about him. As to what Lord Fawn said, the half of it is simply exaggeration, and the other half is misunderstood.”
“In this country it is so much to be a lord,” said Madame Goesler.
Phineas thought a moment of that matter before he replied. All the Standish family had been very good to him, and Violet Effingham had been very good. It was not the fault of any of them that he was now wretched and back-broken. He had meditated much on this, and had resolved that he would not even think evil of them. “I do not in my heart believe that that has had anything to do with it,” he said.
“But it has, my friend,—always. I do not know your Violet Effingham.”
“She is not mine.”
“Well;—I do not know this Violet that is not yours. I have met her, and did not specially admire her. But then the tastes of men and women about beauty are never the same. But I know she is one that always lives with lords and countesses. A girl who always lived with countesses feels it to be hard to settle down as a plain Mistress.”
“She has had plenty of choice among all sorts of men. It was not the title. She would not have accepted Chiltern unless she had—. But what is the use of talking of it?”
“They had known each other long?”
“Oh, yes,—as children. And the Earl desired it of all things.”
“Ah;—then he arranged it.”
“Not exactly. Nobody could arrange anything for Chiltern,—nor, as far as that goes, for Miss Effingham. They arranged it themselves, I fancy.”
“You had asked her?”
“Yes;—twice. And she had refused him more than twice. I have nothing for which to blame her; but yet I had thought,—I had thought—”
“She is a jilt then?”
“No;—I will not let you say that of her. She is no jilt. But I think she has been strangely ignorant of her own mind. What is the use of talking of it, Madame Goesler?”
“None;—only sometimes it is better to speak a word, than to keep one’s sorrow to oneself.”
“So it is;—and there is not one in the world to whom I can speak such a word, except yourself. Is not that odd? I have sisters, but they have never heard of Miss Effingham, and would be quite indifferent.”
“Perhaps they have some other favourites.”
“Ah;—well. That does not matter, And my best friend here in London is Lord Chiltern’s own sister.”
“She knew of your attachment?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And she told you of Miss Effingham’s engagement. Was she glad of it?”
“She has always desired the marriage. And yet I think she would have been satisfied had it been otherwise. But of course her heart must be with her brother. I need not have troubled myself to go to Blankenberg after all.”
“It was for the best, perhaps. Everybody says you behaved so well.”
“I could not but go, as things were then.”
“What if you had—shot him?”
“There would have been an end of everything. She would never have seen me after that. Indeed I should have shot myself next, feeling that there was nothing else left for me to do.”
“Ah;—you English are so peculiar. But I suppose it is best not to
shoot a man. And, Mr. Finn, there are other ladies in the world
prettier than Miss Violet Effingham. No;—of course you will not
admit that now. Just at this moment, and for a month or two, she
is peerless, and you will feel yourself to be of all men the most
unfortunate. But you have the ball at your feet. I know no one so
young who has got the ball at his feet so well. I call it nothing
to have the ball at your feet if you are born with it there. It is
so easy to be a lord if your father is one before you,—and so
easy to marry a pretty girl if you can make her a countess. But to
make yourself a lord, or to be as good as a lord, when nothing has
been born to you,—that I call very much. And there are women, and
pretty women too, Mr. Finn, who have spirit enough to understand
this, and to think that the man, after all, is more important than
the lord.” Then she sang the old well-worn verse of the Scotch
song with wonderful spirit, and with a clearness of voice and
knowledge of music for which he had hitherto never given her
credit.
“A prince can mak’ a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a’ that;
But an honest man’s aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa’ that.”
“I did not know that you sung, Madame Goesler.”
“Only now and then when something specially requires it. And I am
very fond of Scotch songs. I will sing to you now if you like it.”
Then she sang the whole song,—“A man’s a man for a’ that,” she
said as she finished. “Even though he cannot get the special bit
of painted Eve’s flesh for which his heart has had a craving.”
Then she sang again:—
“There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
Who would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”
“But young Lochinvar got his bride,” said Phineas.
“Take the spirit of the lines, Mr. Finn, which is true; and not the tale as it is told, which is probably false. I often think that Jock of Hazledean, and young Lochinvar too, probably lived to repent their bargains. We will hope that Lord Chiltern may not do so.”
“I am sure he never will.”
“That is all right. And as for you, do you for a while think of your politics, and your speeches, and your colonies, rather than of your love. You are at home there, and no Lord Chiltern can rob you of your success. And if you are down in the mouth, come to me, and I will sing you a Scotch song. And, look you, the next time I ask you to dinner I will promise you that Mrs. Bonteen shall not be here. Good-bye.” She gave him her hand, which was very soft, and left it for a moment in his, and he was consoled.
Madame Goesler, when she was alone, threw herself on to her chair and began to think of things. In these days she would often ask herself what in truth was the object of her ambition, and the aim of her life. Now at this moment she had in her hand a note from the Duke of Omnium. The Duke had allowed himself to say something about a photograph, which had justified her in writing to him,—or which she had taken for such justification. And the Duke had replied. “He would not,” he said, “lose the opportunity of waiting upon her in person which the presentation of the little gift might afford him.” It would be a great success to have the Duke of Omnium at her house,—but to what would the success reach? What was her definite object,—or had she any? In what way could she make herself happy? She could not say that she was happy yet. The hours with her were too long and the days too many.
The Duke of Omnium should come,—if he would. And she was quite resolved as to this,—that if the Duke did come she would not be afraid of him. Heavens and earth! What would be the feelings of such a woman as her, were the world to greet her some fine morning as Duchess of Omnium! Then she made up her mind very resolutely on one subject. Should the Duke give her any opportunity she would take a very short time in letting him know what was the extent of her ambition.
Lord Chiltern did exactly as he said he would do. He wrote to his
father as he passed through Carlisle, and at once went on to his
hunting at Willingford. But his letter was very stiff and
ungainly, and it may be doubted whether Miss Effingham was not
wrong in refusing the offer which he had made to her as to the
dictation of it. He began his letter, “My Lord,” and did not much
improve the style as he went on with it. The reader may as well
see the whole letter;—
Railway Hotel, Carlisle,
December 27, 186––.My Lord,
I am now on my way from Loughlinter to London, and write this letter to you in compliance with a promise made by me to my sister and to Miss Effingham. I have asked Violet to be my wife, and she has accepted me, and they think that you will be pleased to hear that this has been done. I shall be, of course, obliged, if you will instruct Mr. Edwards to let me know what you would propose to do in regard to settlements. Laura thinks that you will wish to see both Violet and myself at Saulsby. For myself, I can only say that, should you desire me to come, I will do so on receiving your assurance that I shall be treated neither with fatted calves nor with reproaches. I am not aware that I have deserved either.
I am, my lord, yours affect.,
Chiltern.
P.S.—My address will be “The Bull, Willingford.”
That last word, in which he half-declared himself to be joined in affectionate relations to his father, caused him a world of trouble. But he could find no term for expressing, without a circumlocution which was disagreeable to him, exactly that position of feeling towards his father which really belonged to him. He would have written “yours with affection,” or “yours with deadly enmity,” or “yours with respect,” or “yours with most profound indifference,” exactly in accordance with the state of his father’s mind, if he had only known what was that state. He was afraid of going beyond his father in any offer of reconciliation, and was firmly fixed in his resolution that he would never be either repentant or submissive in regard to the past. If his father had wishes for the future, he would comply with them if he could do so without unreasonable inconvenience, but he would not give way a single point as to things done and gone. If his father should choose to make any reference to them, his father must prepare for battle.
The Earl was of course disgusted by the pertinacious obstinacy of
his son’s letter, and for an hour or two swore to himself that he
would not answer it. But it is natural that the father should
yearn for the son, while the son’s feeling for the father is of a
very much weaker nature. Here, at any rate, was that engagement
made which he had ever desired. And his son had made a step,
though it was so very unsatisfactory a step, towards
reconciliation. When the old man read the letter a second time, he
skipped that reference to fatted calves which had been so
peculiarly distasteful to him, and before the evening had passed
he had answered his son as follows;—
Saulsby, December 29, 186––.
My dear Chiltern,
I have received your letter, and am truly delighted to hear that dear Violet has accepted you as her husband. Her fortune will be very material to you, but she herself is better than any fortune. You have long known my opinion of her. I shall be proud to welcome her as a daughter to my house.
I shall of course write to her immediately, and will endeavour to settle some early day for her coming here. When I have done so, I will write to you again, and can only say that I will endeavour to make Saulsby comfortable to you.
Your affectionate father,
Brentford.
Richards, the groom, is still here. You had perhaps better write to him direct about your horses.
By the middle of February arrangements had all been made, and Violet met her lover at his father’s house. She in the meantime had been with her aunt, and had undergone a good deal of mild unceasing persecution. “My dear Violet,” said her aunt to her on her arrival at Baddingham, speaking with a solemnity that ought to have been terrible to the young lady, “I do not know what to say to you.”
“Say ’how d’you do?’ aunt,” said Violet.
“I mean about this engagement,” said Lady Baldock, with an increase of awe-inspiring severity in her voice.
“Say nothing about it at all, if you don’t like it,” said Violet.
“How can I say nothing about it? How can I be silent? Or how am I to congratulate you?”
“The least said, perhaps, the soonest mended,” and Violet smiled as she spoke.
“That is very well, and if I had no duty to perform, I would be silent. But, Violet, you have been left in my charge. If I see you shipwrecked in life, I shall ever tell myself that the fault has been partly mine.”
“Nay, aunt, that will be quite unnecessary. I will always admit that you did everything in your power to—to—to—make me run straight, as the sporting men say.”
“Sporting men! Oh, Violet.”
“And you know, aunt, I still hope that I shall be found to have kept on the right side of the posts. You will find that poor Lord Chiltern is not so black as he is painted.”
“But why take anybody that is black at all?”
“I like a little shade in the picture, aunt.”
“Look at Lord Fawn.”
“I have looked at him.”
“A young nobleman beginning a career of useful official life, that will end in—; there is no knowing what it may end in.”
“I daresay not;—but it never could have begun or ended in my being Lady Fawn.”
“And Mr. Appledom!”
“Poor Mr. Appledom. I do like Mr. Appledom. But, you see, aunt, I like Lord Chiltern so much better. A young woman will go by her feelings.”
“And yet you refused him a dozen times.”
“I never counted the times, aunt; but not quite so many as that.”
The same thing was repeated over and over again during the month that Miss Effingham remained at Baddingham, but Lady Baldock had no power of interfering, and Violet bore her persecution bravely. Her future husband was generally spoken of as “that violent young man,” and hints were thrown out as to the personal injuries to which his wife might be possibly subjected. But the threatened bride only laughed, and spoke of these coming dangers as part of the general lot of married women. “I daresay, if the truth were known, my uncle Baldock did not always keep his temper,” she once said. Now, the truth was, as Violet well knew, that “my uncle Baldock” had been dumb as a sheep before the shearers in the hands of his wife, and had never been known to do anything improper by those who had been most intimate with him even in his earlier days. “Your uncle Baldock, miss,” said the outraged aunt, “was a nobleman as different in his manner of life from Lord Chiltern as chalk from cheese.” “But then comes the question, which is the cheese?” said Violet. Lady Baldock would not argue the question any further, but stalked out of the room.
Lady Laura Kennedy met them at Saulsby, having had something of a battle with her husband before she left her home to do so. When she told him of her desire to assist at this reconciliation between her father and brother, he replied by pointing out that her first duty was at Loughlinter, and before the interview was ended had come to express an opinion that that duty was very much neglected. She in the meantime had declared that she would go to Saulsby, or that she would explain to her father that she was forbidden by her husband to do so. “And I also forbid any such communication,” said Mr. Kennedy. In answer to which, Lady Laura told him that there were some marital commands which she should not consider it to be her duty to obey. When matters had come to this pass, it may be conceived that both Mr. Kennedy and his wife were very unhappy. She had almost resolved that she would take steps to enable her to live apart from her husband; and he had begun to consider what course he would pursue if such steps were taken. The wife was subject to her husband by the laws both of God and man; and Mr. Kennedy was one who thought much of such laws. In the meantime, Lady Laura carried her point and went to Saulsby, leaving her husband to go up to London and begin the session by himself.
Lady Laura and Violet were both at Saulsby before Lord Chiltern arrived, and many were the consultations which were held between them as to the best mode in which things might be arranged. Violet was of opinion that there had better be no arrangement, that Lord Chiltern should be allowed to come in and take his father’s hand, and sit down to dinner,—and that so things should fall into their places. Lady Laura was rather in favour of some scene. But the interview had taken place before either of them were able to say a word. Lord Chiltern, on his arrival, had gone immediately to his father, taking the Earl very much by surprise, and had come off best in the encounter.
“My lord,” said he, walking up to his father with his hand out, “I am very glad to come back to Saulsby.” He had written to his sister to say that he would be at Saulsby on that day, but had named no hour. He now appeared between ten and eleven in the morning, and his father had as yet made no preparation for him,—had arranged no appropriate words. He had walked in at the front door, and had asked for the Earl. The Earl was in his own morning-room,—a gloomy room, full of dark books and darker furniture, and thither Lord Chiltern had at once gone. The two women still were sitting together over the fire in the breakfast-room, and knew nothing of his arrival.
“Oswald!” said his father, “I hardly expected you so early.”
“I have come early. I came across country, and slept at Birmingham. I suppose Violet is here.”
“Yes, she is here,—and Laura. They will be very glad to see you. So am I.” And the father took the son’s hand for the second time.
“Thank you, sir,” said Lord Chiltern, looking his father full in the face.
“I have been very much pleased by this engagement,” continued the Earl.
“What do you think I must be, then?” said the son, laughing. “I have been at it, you know, off and on, ever so many years; and have sometimes thought I was quite a fool not to get it out of my head. But I couldn’t get it out of my head. And now she talks as though it were she who had been in love with me all the time!”
“Perhaps she was,” said the father.
“I don’t believe it in the least. She may be a little so now.”
“I hope you mean that she always shall be so.”
“I shan’t be the worst husband in the world, I hope; and I am quite sure I shan’t be the best. I will go and see her now. I suppose I shall find her somewhere in the house. I thought it best to see you first.”
“Stop half a moment, Oswald,” said the Earl. And then Lord Brentford did make something of a shambling speech, in which he expressed a hope that they two might for the future live together on friendly terms, forgetting the past. He ought to have been prepared for the occasion, and the speech was poor and shambling. But I think that it was more useful than it might have been, had it been uttered roundly and with that paternal and almost majestic effect which he would have achieved had he been thoroughly prepared. But the roundness and the majesty would have gone against the grain with his son, and there would have been a danger of some outbreak. As it was, Lord Chiltern smiled, and muttered some word about things being “all right,” and then made his way out of the room. “That’s a great deal better than I had hoped,” he said to himself; “and it has all come from my going in without being announced.” But there was still a fear upon him that his father even yet might prepare a speech, and speak it, to the great peril of their mutual comfort.
His meeting with Violet was of course pleasant enough. Now that she had succumbed, and had told herself and had told him that she loved him, she did not scruple to be as generous as a maiden should be who has acknowledged herself to be conquered, and has rendered herself to the conqueror. She would walk with him and ride with him, and take a lively interest in the performances of all his horses, and listen to hunting stories as long as he chose to tell them. In all this, she was so good and so loving that Lady Laura was more than once tempted to throw in her teeth her old, often-repeated assertions, that she was not prone to be in love,—that it was not her nature to feel any ardent affection for a man, and that, therefore, she would probably remain unmarried. “You begrudge me my little bits of pleasure,” Violet said, in answer to one such attack. “No;—but it is so odd to see you, of all women, become so love-lorn,” “I am not love-lorn,” said Violet, “but I like the freedom of telling him everything and of hearing everything from him, and of having him for my own best friend. He might go away for twelve months, and I should not be unhappy, believing, as I do, that he would be true to me.” All of which set Lady Laura thinking whether her friend had not been wiser than she had been. She had never known anything of that sort of friendship with her husband which already seemed to be quite established between these two.
In her misery one day Lady Laura told the whole story of her own unhappiness to her brother, saying nothing of Phineas Finn,—thinking nothing of him as she told her story, but speaking more strongly perhaps than she should have done, of the terrible dreariness of her life at Loughlinter, and of her inability to induce her husband to alter it for her sake.
“Do you mean that he,—ill-treats you?” said the brother, with a scowl on his face which seemed to indicate that he would like no task better than that of resenting such ill-treatment.
“He does not beat me, if you mean that.”
“Is he cruel to you? Does he use harsh language?”
“He never said a word in his life either to me or, as I believe, to any other human being, that he would think himself bound to regret.”
“What is it then?”
“He simply chooses to have his own way, and his way cannot be my way. He is hard, and dry, and just, and dispassionate, and he wishes me to be the same. That is all.”
“I tell you fairly, Laura, as far as I am concerned, I never could speak to him. He is antipathetic to me. But then I am not his wife.”
“I am;—and I suppose I must bear it.”
“Have you spoken to my father?”
“No.”
“Or to Violet?”
“Yes.”
“And what does she say?”
“What can she say? She has nothing to say. Nor have you. Nor, if I am driven to leave him, can I make the world understand why I do so. To be simply miserable, as I am, is nothing to the world.”
“I could never understand why you married him.”
“Do not be cruel to me, Oswald.”
“Cruel! I will stick by you in any way that you wish. If you think well of it, I will go off to Loughlinter to-morrow, and tell him that you will never return to him. And if you are not safe from him here at Saulsby, you shall go abroad with us. I am sure Violet would not object. I will not be cruel to you.”
But in truth neither of Lady Laura’s councillors was able to give her advice that could serve her. She felt that she could not leave her husband without other cause than now existed, although she felt, also, that to go back to him was to go back to utter wretchedness. And when she saw Violet and her brother together there came to her dreams of what might have been her own happiness had she kept herself free from those terrible bonds in which she was now held a prisoner. She could not get out of her heart the remembrance of that young man who would have been her lover, if she would have let him,—of whose love for herself she had been aware before she had handed herself over as a bale of goods to her unloved, unloving husband. She had married Mr. Kennedy because she was afraid that otherwise she might find herself forced to own that she loved that other man who was then a nobody;—almost nobody. It was not Mr. Kennedy’s money that had bought her. This woman in regard to money had shown herself to be as generous as the sun. But in marrying Mr. Kennedy she had maintained herself in her high position, among the first of her own people,—among the first socially and among the first politically. But had she married Phineas,—had she become Lady Laura Finn,—there would have been a great descent. She could not have entertained the leading men of her party. She would not have been on a level with the wives and daughters of Cabinet Ministers. She might, indeed, have remained unmarried! But she knew that had she done so,—had she so resolved,—that which she called her fancy would have been too strong for her. She would not have remained unmarried. At that time it was her fate to be either Lady Laura Kennedy or Lady Laura Finn. And she had chosen to be Lady Laura Kennedy. To neither Violet Effingham nor to her brother could she tell one half of the sorrow which afflicted her.
“I shall go back to Loughlinter,” she said to her brother.
“Do not, unless you wish it,” he answered.
“I do not wish it. But I shall do it. Mr. Kennedy is in London now, and has been there since Parliament met, but he will be in Scotland again in March, and I will go and meet him there. I told him that I would do so when I left.”
“But you will go up to London?”
“I suppose so. I must do as he tells me, of course. What I mean is, I will try it for another year.”
“If it does not succeed, come to us.”
“I cannot say what I will do. I would die if I knew how. Never be a tyrant, Oswald; or at any rate, not a cold tyrant. And remember this, there is no tyranny to a woman like telling her of her duty. Talk of beating a woman! Beating might often be a mercy.”
Lord Chiltern remained ten days at Saulsby, and at last did not get away without a few unpleasant words with his father,—or without a few words that were almost unpleasant with his mistress. On his first arrival he had told his sister that he should go on a certain day, and some intimation to this effect had probably been conveyed to the Earl. But when his son told him one evening that the post-chaise had been ordered for seven o’clock the next morning, he felt that his son was ungracious and abrupt. There were many things still to be said, and indeed there had been no speech of any account made at all as yet.
“That is very sudden,” said the Earl.
“I thought Laura had told you.”
“She has not told me a word lately. She may have said something before you came here. What is there to hurry you?”
“I thought ten days would be as long as you would care to have me here, and as I said that I would be back by the first, I would rather not change my plans.”
“You are going to hunt?”
“Yes;—I shall hunt till the end of March.”
“You might have hunted here, Oswald.” But the son made no sign of changing his plans; and the father, seeing that he would not change them, became solemn and severe. There were a few words which he must say to his son,—something of a speech that he must make;—so he led the way into the room with the dark books and the dark furniture, and pointed to a great deep arm-chair for his son’s accommodation. But as he did not sit down himself, neither did Lord Chiltern. Lord Chiltern understood very well how great is the advantage of a standing orator over a sitting recipient of his oratory, and that advantage he would not give to his father. “I had hoped to have an opportunity of saying a few words to you about the future,” said the Earl.
“I think we shall be married in July,” said Lord Chiltern.
“So I have heard;—but after that. Now I do not want to interfere, Oswald, and of course the less so, because Violet’s money will to a great degree restore the inroads which have been made upon the property.”
“It will more than restore them altogether.”
“Not if her estate be settled on a second son, Oswald, and I hear from Lady Baldock that that is the wish of her relations.”
“She shall have her own way,—as she ought. What that way is I do not know. I have not even asked about it. She asked me, and I told her to speak to you.”
“Of course I should wish it to go with the family property. Of course that would be best.”
“She shall have her own way,—as far as I am concerned.”
“But it is not about that, Oswald, that I would speak. What are your plans of life when you are married?”
“Plans of life?”
“Yes;—plans of life. I suppose you have some plans. I suppose you mean to apply yourself to some useful occupation?”
“I don’t know really, sir, that I am of much use for any purpose.” Lord Chiltern laughed as he said this, but did not laugh pleasantly.
“You would not be a drone in the hive always?”
“As far as I can see, sir, we who call ourselves lords generally are drones.”
“I deny it,” said the Earl, becoming quite energetic as he defended his order. “I deny it utterly. I know no class of men who do work more useful or more honest. Am I a drone? Have I been so from my youth upwards? I have always worked, either in the one House or in the other, and those of my fellows with whom I have been most intimate have worked also. The same career is open to you.”
“You mean politics?”
“Of course I mean politics.”
“I don’t care for politics. I see no difference in parties.”
“But you should care for politics, and you should see a difference in parties. It is your duty to do so. My wish is that you should go into Parliament.”
“I can’t do that, sir.”
“And why not?”
“In the first place, sir, you have not got a seat to offer me. You have managed matters among you in such a way that poor little Loughton has been swallowed up. If I were to canvass the electors of Smotherem, I don’t think that many would look very sweet on me.”
“There is the county, Oswald.”
“And whom am I to turn out? I should spend four or five thousand pounds, and have nothing but vexation in return for it. I had rather not begin that game, and indeed I am too old for Parliament. I did not take it up early enough to believe in it.”
All this made the Earl very angry, and from these things they went on to worse things. When questioned again as to the future, Lord Chiltern scowled, and at last declared that it was his idea to live abroad in the summer for his wife’s recreation, and somewhere down in the shires during the winter for his own. He would admit of no purpose higher than recreation, and when his father again talked to him of a nobleman’s duty, he said that he knew of no other special duty than that of not exceeding his income. Then his father made a longer speech than before, and at the end of it Lord Chiltern simply wished him good night. “It’s getting late, and I’ve promised to see Violet before I go to bed. Good-bye.” Then he was off, and Lord Brentford was left there, standing with his back to the fire.
After that Lord Chiltern had a discussion with Violet, which lasted nearly half the night; and during the discussion she told him more than once that he was wrong. “Such as I am you must take me, or leave me,” he said, in anger. “Nay; there is no choice now,” she answered. “I have taken you, and I will stick by you,—whether you are right or wrong. But when I think you wrong, I shall say so.” He swore to her as he pressed her to his heart that she was the finest, grandest, sweetest woman that ever the world had produced. But still there was present on his palate, when he left her, the bitter taste of her reprimand.
Phineas Finn, when the session began, was still hard at work upon his Canada bill, and in his work found some relief for his broken back. He went into the matter with all his energy, and before the debate came on, knew much more about the seven thousand inhabitants of some hundreds of thousands of square miles at the back of Canada, than he did of the people of London or of County Clare. And he found some consolation also in the good-nature of Madame Goesler, whose drawing-room was always open to him. He could talk freely now to Madame Goesler about Violet, and had even ventured to tell her that once, in old days, he had thought of loving Lady Laura Standish. He spoke of those days as being very old; and then he perhaps said some word to her about dear little Mary Flood Jones. I think that there was not much in his career of which he did not say something to Madame Goesler, and that he received from her a good deal of excellent advice and encouragement in the direction of his political ambition. “A man should work,” she said,—“and you do work. A woman can only look on, and admire and long. What is there that I can do? I can learn to care for these Canadians, just because you care for them. If it was the beavers that you told me of, I should have to care for the beavers.” Then Phineas of course told her that such sympathy from her was all and all to him. But the reader must not on this account suppose that he was untrue in his love to Violet Effingham. His back was altogether broken by his fall, and he was quite aware that such was the fact. Not as yet, at least, had come to him any remotest idea that a cure was possible.
Early in March he heard that Lady Laura was up in town, and of course he was bound to go to her. The information was given to him by Mr. Kennedy himself, who told him that he had been to Scotland to fetch her. In these days there was an acknowledged friendship between these two, but there was no intimacy. Indeed, Mr. Kennedy was a man who was hardly intimate with any other man. With Phineas he now and then exchanged a few words in the lobby of the House, and when they chanced to meet each other, they met as friends. Mr. Kennedy had no strong wish to see again in his house the man respecting whom he had ventured to caution his wife; but he was thoughtful; and thinking over it all, he found it better to ask him there. No one must know that there was any reason why Phineas should not come to his house; especially as all the world knew that Phineas had protected him from the garrotters. “Lady Laura is in town now,” he said; “you must go and see her before long.” Phineas of course promised that he would go.
In these days Phineas was beginning to be aware that he had enemies,—though he could not understand why anybody should be his enemy now that Violet Effingham had decided against him. There was poor Laurence Fitzgibbon, indeed, whom he had superseded at the Colonial Office, but Laurence Fitzgibbon, to give merit where merit was due, felt no animosity against him at all. “You’re welcome, me boy; you’re welcome,—as far as yourself goes. But as for the party, bedad, it’s rotten to the core, and won’t stand another session. Mind, it’s I who tell you so.” And the poor idle Irishman, in so speaking, spoke the truth as well as he knew it. But the Ratlers and the Bonteens were Finn’s bitter foes, and did not scruple to let him know that such was the case. Barrington Erle had scruples on the subject, and in a certain mildly apologetic way still spoke well of the young man, whom he had himself first introduced into political life only four years since;—but there was no earnestness or cordiality in Barrington Erle’s manner, and Phineas knew that his first staunch friend could no longer be regarded as a pillar of support. But there was a set of men, quite as influential,—so Phineas thought,—as the busy politicians of the club, who were very friendly to him. These were men, generally of high position, of steady character,—hard workers,—who thought quite as much of what a man did in his office as what he said in the House. Lords Cantrip, Thrift, and Fawn were of this class,—and they were all very courteous to Phineas. Envious men began to say of him that he cared little now for any one of the party who had not a handle to his name, and that he preferred to live with lords and lordlings. This was hard upon him, as the great political ambition of his life was to call Mr. Monk his friend; and he would sooner have acted with Mr. Monk than with any other man in the Cabinet. But though Mr. Monk had not deserted him, there had come to be little of late in common between the two. His life was becoming that of a parliamentary official rather than that of a politician;—whereas, though Mr. Monk was in office, his public life was purely political. Mr. Monk had great ideas of his own which he intended to hold, whether by holding them he might remain in office or be forced out of office; and he was indifferent as to the direction which things in this respect might take with him. But Phineas, who had achieved his declared object in getting into place, felt that he was almost constrained to adopt the views of others, let them be what they might. Men spoke to him, as though his parliamentary career were wholly at the disposal of the Government,—as though he were like a proxy in Mr. Gresham’s pocket,—with this difference, that when directed to get up and speak on a subject he was bound to do so. This annoyed him, and he complained to Mr. Monk; but Mr. Monk only shrugged his shoulders and told him that he must make his choice. He soon discovered Mr. Monk’s meaning. “If you choose to make Parliament a profession,—as you have chosen,—you can have no right even to think of independence. If the country finds you out when you are in Parliament, and then invites you to office, of course the thing is different. But the latter is a slow career, and probably would not have suited you.” That was the meaning of what Mr. Monk said to him. After all, these official and parliamentary honours were greater when seen at a distance than he found them to be now that he possessed them. Mr. Low worked ten hours a day, and could rarely call a day his own; but, after all, with all this work, Mr. Low was less of a slave, and more independent, than was he, Phineas Finn, Under-Secretary of State, the friend of Cabinet Ministers, and Member of Parliament since his twenty-fifth year! He began to dislike the House, and to think it a bore to sit on the Treasury bench;—he, who a few years since had regarded Parliament as the British heaven on earth, and who, since he had been in Parliament, had looked at that bench with longing envious eyes. Laurence Fitzgibbon, who seemed to have as much to eat and drink as ever, and a bed also to lie on, could come and go in the House as he pleased, since his—resignation.