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COLLECTION 
 
 OF 
 
 BRITISH AUTHORS 
 
 TAUCHNITZ EDITION. 
 
 VOL. 1018. 
 PHINEAS FINN BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. III. 
 
PHINEAS FINK, 
 
 
 ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 COPYBIGET EDITION. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. III. 
 
 LEIPZIG 
 BERN HARD TAUCHNITZ 
 
 The Right of Translation is reserved. 
 
 THE IRISH MEMBER. 
 
 BY 
 
 18 69. 
 
-ft 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF VOLUME III. 
 
 Page 
 
 CHAPTER I. The First Blow ^ 
 
 — II. Showing how Phineas bore the Blow .... ig 
 
 — III. Consolation 2 8 
 
 — IV. Lord Chiltern at Saulsby ^6 
 
 — V. What the People in Marylebone Thought ... 62 
 
 — VI. The Top Brick of the Chimney 74 
 
 — VII. Rara Avis in Terris gg 
 
 — VIII. The Earl's Wrath 
 
 — IX. Madame Goesler's Politics 
 
 — X. Another Duel . . * 
 
 — XI. The Letter that was sent to Brighton . . , 133 
 -- XII. Showing how the Duke stood his Ground ... 148 
 
 — XIII. The Horns ,63 
 
 — XIV. The Cabinet Minister at Killaloe . . . . 180 
 
 — XV. Victrix 
 
 — XVI. Job's Comforters 203 
 
 — XVn. The Joint Attack 215 
 
 — XVIII. The Temptress 226 
 
 — XIX. The Prime Minister's House 242 
 
 — XX. Comparing Notes 250 
 
6 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOLUME III. 
 
 Page 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. Madame Goeslcr's Generosity .... 260 
 
 — XXII. Amantium Irae 273 
 
 — XXIII. The Beginning of the End 282 
 
 — XXIV. P. P. C 294 
 
 — XXV. Conclusion 312 
 
PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 The First Blow. 
 
 Lord Chiltern, though he had passed two entire 
 days in the house with Violet without renewing his 
 suit, had come to LoughHnter 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 im- 
 mediately 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 occa- 
 sions." 
 
 "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 
 
8 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 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 
 
THE FIRST BLOW. 
 
 9 
 
 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 ahvays 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 adven- 
 ture. 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 posi- 
 tion." 
 
 "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 
 
10 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 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 as- 
 sertion 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 
 
THE FIRST BLOW. 
 
 II 
 
 present say nothing, and think as httle, 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 remem- 
 bered 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." 
 
12 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "I will say it fifty times, — till your ears are weary 
 with it;" — and she did say it to him, after her own 
 fahion, 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 wait- 
 ing 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. TU 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, 
 
THE FIRST BLOW. 
 
 13 
 
 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 be- 
 side; 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 
 
14 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 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 be- 
 ginning, 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." 
 
THE FIRST BLOW. 
 
 15 
 
 "Poor Phineas, for instance/' 
 
 "We will mention no names. Mr. Appledom, per- 
 haps, 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 
 headland heart; but there were two other letters sent 
 by the same post from Loughlinter which shall be sub- 
 mitted 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 
 
PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 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 circum- 
 stances." 
 
 "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 know- 
 ledge that it was untrue." 
 
 "Not of my own knowledge, Robert." 
 
 "Yes; — of your own knowledge." Then Mr. Ken- 
 nedy 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 for- 
 got 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: — 
 
 Lozighlinte?; December "zZthy i86 — . 
 
 "My dear Friend, 
 "Violet Effingham is here, and Oswald has just 
 left us. It is possible that you may see him as he 
 
THE FIRST BLOW. 
 
 17 
 
 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 Kenned y.^' 
 
 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 hus- 
 bands 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 my- 
 self 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, per- 
 haps, you have not known him so long. You do know, 
 however, that there has been some difference between 
 
 Phineas Finn. III. 2 
 
i8 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 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." 
 
 * * Loughlin ter, 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. 
 
SHOWING HOW PHINEAS BORE THE BLOW. 
 
 19 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Showing how Phineas bore the Blow. 
 
 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 would 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, 
 
 2* 
 
20 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 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 rail- 
 way 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 Govern- 
 ment 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 exer- 
 cise 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 
 
SHOWING HOW PHINEAS BORE THE BLOW. 2 1 
 
 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, automati- 
 cally, 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 1860-6 1 
 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 co- 
 lonies, 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 Effing- 
 ham 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 suit- 
 
22 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 able. Had Miss Effingham become his vv^fe, 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-Secretary- 
 ships 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 w^onderful 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 Violefs 
 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 im- 
 probable. 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 w^ould 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 Effing- 
 ham 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 him- 
 self that he would not believe the letter, — not that 
 there was any moment in w^hich there was in his mind 
 tlie 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 
 
SHOWING HOW PHINEAS BORE THE BLOW. 
 
 23 
 
 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 im- 
 possible 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 
 
24 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 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. "Tm all here," said Charles Stan- 
 dish, 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 v/orld upon his shoulders. 
 What did anything signify? All that he had done had 
 been part of a game which he had been playing through- 
 out, 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 Parlia- 
 ment. 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 
 
SHOWING HOW PHINEAS BORE THE BLOW. 25 
 
 as he passed the Athenaeum 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 pro- 
 foundly 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 
 
26 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 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 oc- 
 casion, 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 Bro- 
 derick 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 Adminis- 
 tration. 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 opposi- 
 tion had been of no use towards the strengthening of 
 his broken back, but the sight of Lord Cantrip hurry- 
 ing 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." There- 
 upon he went home, and after sitting for an hour over 
 
SHOWINCx HOW PHINEAS BORE THE BLOW. 27 
 
 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 
 crow^ded, 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 mis- 
 tress, 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 din- 
 ners indeed. Phineas Finn was beginning to flatter him- 
 self 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 
 
28 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 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 Ma- 
 dame 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 pro- 
 spect 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 dif- 
 ficulty, 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 de- 
 grees, 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 
 
SHOWING HOW PHINEAS BORE THE BLOW. 2g 
 
 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 shame- 
 fully 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 
 
30 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 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 command- 
 ment. 
 
 "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 Fitz- 
 gibbon. 
 
 "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 sub- 
 ject," 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." 
 
SHOWING HOW PHINEAS BORE THE BLOW. 
 
 31 
 
 "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 
 
3^ 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 though the question had been put to him in earnest; 
 
 but I do not see so much of Lord Chihern as I used 
 to do." 
 
 "You do not beheve that Violet Effingham will ac- 
 cept 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 discom- 
 fiture. 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 affecta- 
 tion of drollery, but had failed. At the moment he 
 had been unable not to speak the truth. 
 
SHOWING HOW PHINEAS BORE THE BLOW. 33 
 
 "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 pe- 
 cuniary 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 sub- 
 jects. 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 con- 
 tradicting 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 
 
 Phineas Finn. IJT. 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 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. Some- 
 body 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 melee 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 Fitz- 
 gibbon; 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 after- 
 wards, "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 
 
SHOWING HOW PHINEAS BORE THE BLOW. 35 
 
 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 other- 
 wise?" 
 
 "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 per- 
 sonally 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." 
 
36 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "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 op- 
 portunity 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 con- 
 summate 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. Every- 
 thing 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." 
 
SHOWING HOW PHINEAS BORE THE BLOW. 
 
 37 
 
 "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 after- 
 wards left Lord Fawn alone. 
 
38 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Consolation. 
 
 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 re- 
 garded 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 un- 
 
CONSOLATION. 
 
 39 
 
 derstood, 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 inter- 
 view. 
 
 "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. 
 
40 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 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 exaggera- 
 tion, 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 
 
CONSOLATION. 
 
 41 
 
 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 has 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 ac- 
 cepted 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 Effing- 
 ham. 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 jih 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?" 
 
42 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "No; — 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 in- 
 different." 
 
 "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. 
 Whas she glad of it?" 
 
 "She has always desired the marriage. And yet I 
 think she would have been satisfied had it been other- 
 wise. 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 
 
CONSOLATION. 
 
 43 
 
 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 wonder- 
 ful spirit, and with a clearness of voice and knowledge 
 of music for which he had hitherto never given her 
 credit. 
 
 "A prince can male* 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 re- 
 quires 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,** 
 
44 
 
 PHINEAS FINK. 
 
 "But young Lochinvar got his bride/^ said Phi- 
 neas. 
 
 "Take the spirit of the Knes, 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 her- 
 self 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 re- 
 plied. "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 
 
CONSOLATION. 
 
 45 
 
 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. 
 
40 PHINEAS FINN; 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 Lord Chiltern at Saulsby. 
 
 Lord Chiltern did exactly as he said he would 
 do. He wrote to his father as he passed through Car- 
 lisle, 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 pro- 
 mise made by me to my sister and to Miss Effingham. 
 I have asked Violet to be my wife, and she has ac- 
 cepted 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 
 
LORD CHILTERN AT SAULSBY. 
 
 47 
 
 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, Willing- 
 ford.'^^ 
 
 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 feel- 
 ing 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 reconcilia- 
 tion, 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 pertina- 
 cious 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 
 
48 
 
 pHiNEAS nm. 
 
 weaker nature. Here, at any rate, was that engage- 
 ment made which he had ever desired. And his son 
 had made a step, though it was so very unsatisfactory 
 a step, towards reconciUation. When the old man 
 read the letter a second time, he skipped that reference 
 to fatted calves which had been so peculiarly distaste- 
 ful to him, and before the evening had passed he had 
 answered his son as follows; — 
 
 *'Saulshy, December '2% 186 — . 
 
 *'My dear Chiltern, 
 "I have received your letter, and am truly delighted 
 to hear that dear Violet has accepted you as her hus- 
 band. 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 wel- 
 come 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 per- 
 haps 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 per- 
 secution. "My dear Violet," said her aunt to her on 
 her arrival at Baddingham, speaking with a solemnity 
 
LORD CHILTERN AT SAULSBY. 
 
 49 
 
 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 Bal- 
 dock, 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 per- 
 form, 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 sport- 
 ing 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 hfe, that will end in ; there is no knowing 
 
 what it may end in." 
 
 Phineas Finn, III. 4 
 
50 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "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 thern at Saulsby, having 
 
LORD CHILTERN AT SAULSBY. 
 
 51 
 
 ^^c: something of a battle with her husband before she 
 \{t her home to do so. When she told him of her de- 
 SL;*e 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 be- 
 fore Lord Chiltern arrived, and many were the con- 
 sultations 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 
 
 4* 
 
52 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 Laura was rather in favour of some scene. Butn or 
 interview had taken place before either of them we e 
 able to say a word. Lord Chiltern, on his arrivil, 
 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 Sauls- 
 by." 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 morn- 
 ing, 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 engage- 
 ment," 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 
 
LORD CHILTERN AT SAULSBY. 
 
 53 
 
 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 
 
54 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 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 her- 
 self 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 per- 
 formances 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 re- 
 main 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, be- 
 come 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 
 
LORD CHILTKRN AT SAULSBY. 
 
 55 
 
 than she should have done, of the terrible dreariness 
 of her life at Loughlinter, and of her inability to in- 
 duce 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 in- 
 dicate 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 
 
56 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 wish. If you think well of it, I will go off to Lough- 
 linter to-morrow, and tell him that you will never re- 
 turn 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 hus- 
 band. 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 
 
LORD CHILTERN AT SAULSBY. 
 
 57 
 
 Ministers. She might, indeed, have remained unmar- 
 ried! 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 prob- 
 
58 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 ably been conveyed to the Earl. But when his son 
 told him one evening that the postchaise 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 armchair 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. 
 
LORD CHILTERN AT SAULSBY. 
 
 59 
 
 "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 pro- 
 perty." 
 
 "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 her 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 Hfe?" 
 
 "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 
 
6o 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 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." 
 
 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 swal- 
 lowed up. If I were to canvass the electors of Smo- 
 therem, 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 
 
LORD CHILTERN AT SAULSBY. 6 1 
 
 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 Tve 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 Chihern 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 re- 
 primand. 
 
62 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 What the People in Marylebone thought. 
 
 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 mattei 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 Ma- 
 dame 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." 
 
WHAT THE PEOPLE IN MARYLEBONE THOUGHT. 63 
 
 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. 
 Lideed, Mr. Kennedy was a man who was hardly in- 
 timate 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 Effing- 
 ham had decided against him. There was poor dear 
 Laurence Fitzgibbon, indeed, whom he had superseded 
 at the Colonial Office, but Laurence Fitzgibbon, to give 
 
 I 
 
64 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 merit where merit was due, felt no animosity against 
 him at all. "You're welcome, me boy; you're wel- 
 come, — 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 Erie had scruples 
 on the subject, and in a certain mildly apologetic way 
 still spoke well of the young man, whom he had him- 
 self first introduced into political life only four years 
 since; — but there was no earnestness or cordiality in 
 Barrington Erie'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 poli- 
 ticians 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 
 liis 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 
 
WHAT THE PEOPLE IN MARYLEBONE THOUGHT. 65 
 
 than that of a politician; — whereas, though Mr. Monk 
 was in office, his pubUc Ufe 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- 
 
 Phineas Finn, III, 5 
 
66 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 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 ParUament as the 
 British heaven on earth, and who, since he had been 
 in ParHament, 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. 
 
 And there was a new trouble coming. The Re- 
 form Bill for England had passed; but now there was 
 to be another Reform Bill for Ireland. Let them pass 
 what bill they might, this would not render necessary 
 a new Irish election till the entire House should be 
 dissolved. But he feared that he would be called upon 
 to vote for the abolition of his own borough, — and for 
 other points almost equally distasteful to him. He 
 knew that he would not be consulted, — but would be 
 called upon to vote, and perhaps to speak; and was 
 certain that if he did so, there would be war between 
 him and his constituents. Lord Tulla had already 
 communicated to him his ideas that, for certain excel- 
 lent reasons, Loughshane ought to be spared. But this 
 evil was, he hoped, a distant one. It was generally 
 thought that, as the English Reform Bill had been 
 passed last year, and as the Irish bill, if carried, could 
 not be immediately operative, the doing of the thing 
 might probably be postponed to the next session. 
 
 When he first saw Lady Laura he was struck by 
 the great change in her look and manner. She seemed 
 to him to be old and worn, and he judged her to be 
 wretched, — as she was. She had written to him to say 
 that she would be at her father's house on such and 
 
WHAT THE PEOPLE IN MARYLEBONE THOUGHT. 67 
 
 such a morning, and he had gone to her there. "It is 
 of no use your coming to Grosvenor Place/' she said, 
 "I see nobody there, and the house is hke a prison." 
 Later in the interview she told him not to come and 
 dine there, even though Mr. Kennedy should ask him. 
 
 "And why not?" he demanded. 
 
 "Because everything would be stiff, and cold, and 
 uncomfortable. I suppose you do not wish to make 
 your way into a lady's house if she asks you not." 
 There was a sort of smile on her face as she said this, 
 but he could perceive that it was a very bitter smile. 
 "You can easily excuse yourself." 
 
 "Yes, I can excuse myself." 
 
 "Then do so. If you are particularly anxious to 
 dine with Mr. Kennedy, you can easily do so at your 
 club." In the tone of her voice, and the words she 
 used, she hardly attempted to conceal her dislike of 
 her husband. 
 
 "And now tell me about Miss Effingham," he 
 said. 
 
 "There is nothing for me to tell." 
 
 "Yes, there is; — much to tell. You need not spare 
 me. I do not pretend to deny to you that I have 
 been hit hard, — so hard, that I have been nearly 
 knocked down; but it will not hurt me now to hear of 
 it all. Did she always love him?" 
 
 "I cannot say. I think she did after her own 
 fashion." 
 
 "I sometimes think women would be less cruel," 
 he said, "if they knew how great is the anguish they 
 can cause." 
 
 "Has she been cruel to you?" 
 
 "I have nothing to complain of. But if she loved 
 
 5* 
 
68 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 Chiltern, why did she not tell him so at once? And 
 why 
 
 "This is complaining, Mr. Finn." 
 
 "I will not complain. I would not even think of 
 it, if I could help it. Are they to be married soon?" 
 
 "In July; — so they now say." 
 
 "And where will they live?" 
 
 "Ah! no one can tell. I do not think that they 
 agree as yet as to that. But if she has a strong wish 
 Oswald will yield to it. He was always generous." 
 
 "I would not even have had a wish, — except to 
 have her with me." 
 
 There was a pause for a moment, and then Lady 
 Laura answered him with a touch of scorn in her 
 voice, — and with some scorn, too, in her eye; — "That 
 is all very well, Mr. Finn; but the season will not be 
 over before there is some one else." 
 
 "There you wrong me." 
 
 "They tell me that you are already at Madame 
 Goesler's feet." 
 
 "Madame Goesler!" 
 
 "What matters who it is as long as she is young 
 and pretty, and has the interest attached to her of 
 something more than ordinary position? When men 
 tell me of the cruelty of women, I think that no woman 
 can be really cruel because no man is capable of 
 suffering. A woman, if she is thrown aside, does 
 suffer." 
 
 "Do you mean to tell me, then, that I am indif- 
 ferent to Miss Effingham?" When he thus spoke, I 
 wonder whether he had forgotten that he had ever 
 declared to this very woman to whom he was speaking, 
 a passion for herself. 
 
WHAT THE PEOPLE IN MARYLEBONE THOUGHT. 69 
 
 "Psha!" 
 
 "It suits you, Lady Laura, to be harsh to me, but 
 you are not speaking your thoughts." 
 
 Then she lost all control of herself, and poured out 
 to him the real truth that was in her. "And whose 
 thoughts did you speak when you and I were on the 
 braes of Loughlinter? Am I wrong in saying that 
 change is easy to you, or have I grown to be so old 
 that you can talk to me as though those far away 
 follies ought to be forgotten? Was it so long ago? 
 Talk of love! I tell you, sir, that your heart is one 
 in which love can have no durable hold. Violet Effing- 
 ham! There may be a dozen Violets after her, and 
 you will be none the worse." Then she walked away 
 from him to the window, and he stood still, dumb, on 
 the spot that he had occupied. "You had better go 
 now," she said, "and forget what has passed between 
 us. I know that you are a gentleman, and that you 
 will forget it." The strong idea of his mind when he 
 heard all this was the injustice of her attack, — of the 
 attack as coming from her, who had all but openly 
 acknowledged that she had married a man whom she 
 had not loved because it suited her to escape from a 
 man whom she did love. She was reproaching him 
 now for his fickleness in having ventured to set his 
 heart upon another woman, when she herself had been 
 so much worse than fickle, — so profoundly false! And 
 yet he could not defend himself by accusing her. 
 What would she have had of him? What would she 
 have proposed to him, had he questioned her as to his 
 future, when they were together on the braes of Lough- 
 linter? Would she not have bid him to find some 
 one else whom he could love? Would she then have 
 
70 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 suggested to him the propriety of nursing his love for 
 herself, — for her who was about to become another 
 man's wife, — for her after she should have become an- 
 other man's wife? And yet because he had not done 
 so, and because she had made herself wretched by 
 marrying a man whom she did not love, she reproached 
 him! 
 
 He could not tell her of all this, so he fell back 
 for his defence on words which had passed between 
 them since the day when they had met on the braes. 
 "Lady Laura," he said, "it is only a month or two 
 since you spoke to me as though you wished that 
 Violet Effingham might be my wife." 
 
 "I never wished it. I never said that I wished it. 
 There are moments in whicti we try to give a child 
 any brick on the chimney top for which it may whimper." 
 Then there was another silence which she was the first 
 to break. "You had better go," she said. "I know 
 that I have committed myself, and of course I would 
 rather be alone." 
 
 "And what would you wish that I should do?" 
 
 "Do?" she said. "What you do can be nothing 
 to me." 
 
 "Must we be strangers, you and I, because there 
 was a time in which we were almost more than friends?" 
 
 "I have spoken nothing about myself, sir, — only 
 as I have been drawn to do so by your pretence of 
 being love-sick. You can do nothing for me, — nothing, 
 — nothing. What is it possible that you should do 
 for me? You are not my father, or my brother." It 
 is not to be supposed that she wanted him to fall at 
 her feet. It is to be supposed that had he done so 
 her reproaches would have been hot and heavy on 
 
WHAT THE PEOPLE IN MARYLEBC:>NE THOUGHT. 7 I 
 
 him; but yet it almost seemed to him as though he 
 had no other alternative. No ! — Hei was not her father 
 or her brother; — nor could he be her husband. And 
 at this very moment, as she knew, his heart was sore 
 with love for another woman. And yet he hardly 
 knew how, not to throw himself at her feet, and swear, 
 that he would return now and for e\^.er to his old pas- 
 sion, hopeless, sinful, degraded as it w&uld be. 
 
 "I wish it were possible for me to ctQ^ something," 
 he said, drawing near to her. 
 
 "There is nothing to be done," she said, clasping 
 her hands together. "For me nothing. I have i>e fore 
 me no escape, no hope, no prospect of relief, no places., 
 of consolation. You have everything before you. You 
 complain of a wound! You have at least shown, that 
 such wounds with you are capable of cure. You can- 
 not but feel that when I hear your wailings, I must 
 be impatient. You had better leave me now, if you 
 please." 
 
 "And are we to be no longer friends?" he asked. 
 
 "As far as friendship can go without intercourse, 
 I shall always be your friend." 
 
 Then he went, and as he walked down to his 
 office, so intent was he on that which had just passed 
 that he hardly saw the people as he met them, or was 
 aware of the streets through which his way led him. 
 There had been something in the later words which 
 Lady Laura had spoken that had made him feel almost 
 unconsciously that the injustice of her reproaches was 
 not so great as he had at first felt it to be, and that 
 she had some cause for her scorn. If her case was 
 such as she had so plainly described it, what was his 
 plight as compared with hers? He had lost his Violet, 
 
72 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 and was in pain. There must be much of suffering 
 before him. But t|hough Violet were lost, the world 
 was not all blank before his eyes. He had not told 
 himself even in hk, dreariest moments, that there was 
 before him "no esc^ape, no hope, no prospect of relief, 
 no place of consolation." And then he began to think 
 whether this mi^t in truth be the case with Lady 
 Laura. What^^f Mr. Kennedy were to die? What 
 in such easels that would he do? In ten or perhaps 
 in five yea^ time might it not be possible for him to 
 go through the ceremony of falling upon his knees, 
 with sMfened joints indeed, but still with something 
 1^4/of the ardour of his old love, of his oldest love 
 ^(5f all? 
 
 As he was thinking of this he was brought up 
 short in his walk as he was entering the Green Park 
 beneath the Duke's figure, by Laurence Fitzgibbon. 
 "How dare you not be in your office at such an hour 
 as this, Finn, me boy, — or, at least, not in the House, 
 — or serving your masters after some fashion?" said 
 the late Under Secretary. 
 
 "So I am. IVe been on a message to Marylebone, 
 to find what the people there think about the Canadas." 
 
 "And what do they think about the Canadas in 
 Marylebone?" 
 
 "Not one man in a thousand cares whether the 
 Canadians prosper or fail to prosper. They care that 
 Canada should not go to the States, because, — though 
 they don't love the Canadians, they do hate the Ameri- 
 cans. That's about the feeling in Marylebone, — and 
 it's astonishing how like the Maryleboners are to the 
 rest of the world." 
 
WHAT IHE PEOPLE IN MARYLEBONE THOUGHT. 73 
 
 "Dear me, what a fellow you are for an Under 
 Secretary! YouVe heard the news about little Violet." 
 "What news?" 
 
 "She has quarrelled with Chiltern, you know." 
 "Who says so?" 
 
 "Never mind who says so, but they tell me it's 
 true. Take an old friend's advice, and strike while 
 the iron's hot." 
 
 Phineas did not believe what he had heard, but 
 though he did not believe it, still the tidings set his 
 heart beating. He would have believed it less perhaps 
 had he known that Laurence had just received the 
 news from Mrs. Bonteen. 
 
74 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 The Top Brick of the Chimney. 
 
 Madame Max Goesler was a lady who knew that 
 in fighting the battles which fell to her lot, in arrang- 
 ing the social difficulties which she found in her way, 
 in doing the work of the world which came to her 
 share, very much more care was necessary, — and care 
 too about things apparently trifling, — than was de- 
 manded by the affairs of people in general. And this 
 was not the case so much on account of any special 
 disadvantage under which she laboured, as because she 
 was ambitious of doing the very uttermost with those 
 advantages which she possessed. Her own birth had 
 not been high, and that of her husband, we may per- 
 haps say, had been very low. He had been old when 
 she had married him, and she had had little power of 
 making any progress till he had left her a widow. 
 Then she found herself possessed of money, certainly; 
 of wit, — as she believed; and of a something in her 
 personal appearance which, as she plainly told her- 
 self, she might perhaps palm off upon the world as 
 beauty. She was a woman who did not flatter herself, 
 who did not strongly believe in herself, who could 
 even bring herself to wonder that men and women in 
 high position should condescend to notice such a one 
 as her. With all her ambition, there was a something 
 of genuine humility about her; and with all the hard- 
 
THE TOP BRICK OF THE CHIMNEY. 
 
 75 
 
 ness she had learned there was a touch of womanly 
 softness which would sometimes obtrude itself upon her 
 heart. When she found a woman really kind to her, 
 she would be very kind in return. And though she 
 prized wealth, and knew that her money was her only 
 rock of strength, she could be lavish with it, as though 
 it were dirt. 
 
 But she was highly ambitious, and she played her 
 game with great skill and great caution. Her doors 
 were not open to all callers; — were shut even to some 
 who find but few doors closed against them; — were 
 shut occasionally to those whom she most specially 
 wished to see within them. She knew how to allure 
 by denying, and to make the gift rich by delaying it. 
 We are told by the Latin proverb that he who gives 
 quickly gives twice; but I say that she who gives 
 quickly seldom gives more than half. When in the 
 early spring the Duke of Omnium first knocked at 
 Madame Max Goesler's door, he was informed that she 
 was not at home. The Duke felt very cross as he 
 handed his card out from his dark green brougham, — 
 on the panel of which there was no blazon to tell of 
 the owner's rank. He was very cross. She had told 
 him that she was always at home between four and six 
 on a Thursday. He had condescended to remember 
 the information, and had acted upon it, — and now she 
 was not at home! She was not at home, though he 
 had come on a Thursday at the very hour she had 
 named to him. Any duke would have been cross, but 
 the Duke of Omnium was particularly cross. No; — 
 he certainly would give himself no further trouble by 
 going to the cottage in Park Lane. And yet Madame 
 Max Goesler had been in her own drawing-room, while 
 
76 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 the Duke was handing out his card from the brougham 
 below. 
 
 On the next morning there came to him a note 
 from the cottage, — such a pretty note ! — so penitent, so 
 full of remorse, — and, which was better still, so laden 
 with disappointment, that he forgave her. 
 
 "My dear Duke, 
 "I hardly know how to apologise to you, after 
 having told you that I am always at home on Thurs- 
 days; and I was at home yesterday when you called. 
 But I was unwell, and I had told the servant to deny 
 me, not thinking how much I might be losing. In- 
 deed, indeed, I would not have given way to a silly 
 headache, had I thought that your Grace would have 
 been here. I suppose that now I must not even hope 
 for the photograph. 
 
 "Yours penitently, 
 
 "Marie M. G." 
 
 The note-paper was very pretty note-paper, hardly 
 scented, and yet conveying a sense of something sweet, 
 and the monogram was small and new, and fantastic 
 without being grotesque, and the writing was of that 
 sort which the Duke, having much experience, had 
 learned to like, — and there was something in the 
 signature which pleased him. So he wrote a reply, — 
 
 "Dear Madame Max Goesler, 
 "I will call again next Thursday, or, if prevented, 
 will let you know. 
 
 "Yours faithfully, 
 
THE TOP BRICK OF THE CHIMNEY. 
 
 77 
 
 When the green brougham drew up at the door of 
 the cottage on the next Thursday, Madame Goesler 
 was at home, and had no headache. 
 
 She was not all penitent now. She had probably 
 studied the subject, and had resolved that penitence 
 was more alluring in a letter than when acted in per- 
 son. She received her guest with perfect ease, and 
 apologised for the injury done to him in the preceding 
 week, with much self-complacency. "I was so sorry 
 when I got your card,^' she said; "and yet I am so 
 glad now that you were refused." 
 
 "If you were ill," said the Duke, "it was better." 
 
 "I was horribly ill, to tell the truth; — as pale as a 
 death's head, and without a word to say for myself. I 
 was fit to see no one." 
 
 "Then of course you were right." 
 
 "But it flashed upon me immediately that I had 
 named a day, and that you had been kind enough to 
 remember it. But I did not think you came to London 
 till the March winds were over." 
 
 "The March winds blow everywhere in this 
 wretched island, Madame Goesler, and there is no 
 escaping them. Youth may prevail against them; but 
 on me they are so potent that I think they will succeed 
 in driving me out of my country. I doubt whether 
 an old man should ever live in England if he can 
 help it." 
 
 The Duke certainly was an old man, if a man 
 turned of seventy be old; — and he was a man too who 
 did not bear his years with hearty strength. He moved 
 slowly, and turned his limbs, when he did turn them, 
 as though the joints were stiff in their sockets. But 
 there was nevertheless about him a dignity of de- 
 
78 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 meanour, a majesty of person, and an upright carriage 
 which did not leave an idea of old age as the first 
 impress on the minds of those who encountered the 
 Duke of Omnium. He was tall and moved without 
 a stoop; and though he moved slowly, he had learned 
 to seem so to do because it was the proper kind of 
 movement for one so high up in the world as himself. 
 And perhaps his tailor did something for him. He 
 had not been long under Madame Max Goesler's eyes 
 before she perceived that his tailor had done a good 
 deal for him. When he alluded to his own age and 
 to her youth, she said some pleasant little word as to 
 the difference between oak-trees and currant-bushes; 
 and by that time she was seated comfortably on her 
 sofa, and the Duke was on a chair before her, — ^just 
 as might have been any man who was not a Duke. 
 
 After a little time the photograph was brought 
 forth from his Grace's pocket. That bringing out and 
 giving of photographs, with the demand for counter 
 photographs, is the most absurd practice of the day. 
 "I don't think I look very nice, do I?'' "Oh yes; — 
 very nice; but a little too old; and certainly you 
 haven't got those spots all over your forehead." These 
 are the remarks which on such occasions are the most 
 common. It may be said that to give a photograph 
 or to take a photograph without the utterance of some 
 words which would be felt by a bystander to be 
 absurd, is almost an impossibility. At this moment 
 there was no bystander, and therefore the Duke and 
 the lady had no need for caution. Words were spoken 
 that were very absurd. Madame Goesler protested that 
 the Duke's photograph was more to her than the 
 photographs of all the world beside; and the Duke 
 
THE TOP BRICK OF THE CHIMNEY. 
 
 79 
 
 declared that he would carry the lady's picture next 
 to his heart, — I am afraid he said for ever and ever. 
 Then he took her hand and pressed it, and v^as con- 
 scious that for a man over seventy years of age he did 
 that kind of thing very well. 
 
 "You will come and dine with me, Duke?" she 
 said, when he began to talk of going. 
 
 "I never dine out." 
 
 "That is just the reason you should dine with me. 
 You shall meet nobody you do not wish to meet." 
 
 "I would so much rather see you in this way, — 
 I would indeed. I do dine out occasionally, but it is 
 at big formal parties, which I cannot escape without 
 giving offence." 
 
 "And you cannot escape my little not formal party, 
 — without giving offence." She looked into his face 
 as she spoke, and he knew that she meant it. And he 
 looked into hers, and thought that her eyes were 
 brighter than any he was in the habit of seeing in these 
 latter days. "Name your own day, Duke. Will a 
 Sunday suit you?" 
 
 "If I must come " 
 
 "You must come." As she spoke her eyes sparkled 
 more ai^d more, and her colour went and came, and 
 she shook her curls till they emitted through the air 
 the same soft feeling of a perfume that her note had 
 produced. Then her foot peeped out from beneath 
 the black and yellow drapery of her dress, and the 
 Duke saw that it was perfect. And she put out 
 her finger and touched his arm as she spoke. Her 
 hand was very fair, and her fingers were bright with 
 rich gems. To men such as the Duke, a hand, to be 
 quite fair, should be bright with rich gems. "You 
 
8o 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 must come," she said, — not imploring him now but 
 commanding him. 
 
 "Then I will come,'^ he answered, and a certain 
 Sunday was fixed. 
 
 The arranging of the guests was a little difficulty, 
 till Madame Goesler begged the Duke to bring with 
 him Lady Glencora Palliser, his nephew's wife. This 
 at last he agreed to do. As the wife of his nephew 
 and heir. Lady Glencora was to the Duke all that a 
 woman could be. She was everything that was proper 
 as to her own conduct, and not obtrusive as to his. 
 She did not bore him, and yet she was attentive. Al- 
 though in her husband's house she was a fierce poli- 
 tician, in his house she was simply an attractive 
 woman. "Ah; she is very clever," the Duke once 
 said, "she adapts herself. If she were to go from any 
 one place to any other, she would be at home in both." 
 And the movement of his Grace's hand as he spoke 
 seemed to indicate the widest possible sphere for 
 travelling and the widest possible scope for adaptation. 
 The dinner was arranged, and went off very pleasantly. 
 Madame Goesler's eyes were not quite so bright as 
 they were during that morning visit, nor did she touch 
 her guest's arm in a manner so alluring. She was 
 very quiet, allowing her guests to do most of the talk- 
 ing. But the dinner and the flowers and the wine 
 were excellent, and the whole thing was so quiet that 
 the Duke liked it. "And now you must come and 
 dine with me," the Duke said as he took his leave. 
 "A command to that effect will be one which I cer- 
 tainly shall not disobey," w^hispered Madame Goesler. 
 
 "I am afraid he is going to get fond of that 
 woman." These words were spoken early on the fol- 
 
THE TOP BRICK OF THE CHIMNEY. 8l 
 
 lowing morning by Lady Glencora to her husband, Mr. 
 PaUiser. 
 
 "He is always getting fond of some woman, and he 
 will to the end," said Mr. Palliser. 
 
 "But this Madame Max Goesler is very clever." 
 
 "So they tell me. I have generally thought that 
 my uncle likes talking to a fool the best." 
 
 "Every man likes a clever woman the best," said 
 Lady Glencora, "if the clever woman only knows how 
 to use her cleverness." 
 
 "Fm sure I hope he^U be amused," said Mr. Palliser 
 innocently. "A little amusement is all that he cares 
 for now." 
 
 "Suppose you were told some day that he was 
 
 going to be married?" said Lady Glencora. 
 
 "My uncle married!" 
 
 "Why not he as well as another?" 
 
 "And to Madame Goesler?" 
 
 "If he be ever married it will be to some such 
 woman." 
 
 "There is not a man in all England who thinks 
 more of his own position than my uncle," said Mr. 
 Palliser somewhat proudly, — almost with a touch of 
 anger. 
 
 "That is all very well, Plantagenet, and true enough 
 in a kind of way. But a child will sacrifice all that it 
 has for the top brick of the chimney, and old men 
 sometimes become children. You would not like to 
 be told some morning that there was a little Lord 
 Silverbridge in the world." Now the eldest son of 
 the Duke of Omnium, when the Duke of Omnium had 
 a son, was called the Earl of Silverbridge; and Mr. 
 Palliser, when this question was asked him, became 
 
 Phineas Finn. III. 6 
 
82 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 very pale. Mr. Palliser knew well how thoroughly 
 the cunning of the serpent was joined to the purity of 
 the dove in the person of his wife, and he was sure 
 that there was cause for fear when she hinted at 
 danger. 
 
 "Perhaps you had better keep your eye upon him," 
 he said to his wife. 
 
 "And upon her," said Lady Glencora. 
 
 When Madame Goesler dined at the Duke's house 
 in St. James's Square there was a large party, and 
 Lady Glencora knew that there was no need for ap- 
 prehension then. Indeed Madame Goesler was no 
 more than any other guest, and the Duke hardly 
 spoke to her. There was a Duchess there, — the 
 Duchess of St. Bungay, and old Lady Hartletop, who 
 was a dowager marchioness, — an old lady who pestered 
 the Duke very sorely, — and Madame Max Goesler re- 
 ceived her reward, and knew that she was receiving it, 
 in being asked to meet these people. Would not all 
 these names, including her own, be blazoned to the 
 world in the columns of the next day's "Morning 
 Post?" There was no absolute danger here, as Lady 
 Glencora knew; and Lady Glencora, who was tolerant 
 and begrudged nothing to Madame Max except the 
 one thing, was quite willing to meet the lady at such 
 a grand affair as this. But the Duke, even should he 
 become ever so childish a child in his old age, still 
 would have that plain green brougham at his com- 
 mand, and could go anywhere in that at any hour in 
 the day. And then Madame Goesler was so manifestly 
 a clever woman. A Duchess of Omnium might be 
 said to fill, — in the estimation, at any rate, of English 
 people, — the highest position in the world short of 
 
THE TOP BRICK OF THE CHIMNEY. 
 
 83 
 
 royalty. And the reader will remember that Lady 
 Glencora intended to be a Duchess of Omnium herself, 
 - — unless some very unexpected event should intrude 
 itself. She intended also that her little boy, her fair- 
 haired, curly-pated, bold-faced little boy, should be 
 Earl of Silverbridge when the sand of the old man 
 should have run itself out. Heavens, what a blow 
 would it be, should some little wizen-cheeked half- 
 monkey baby, with black, brown, and yellow skin, be 
 brought forward and shown to her some day as the 
 heir! What a blow to herself; — and what a blow to 
 all England! "We can't prevent it if he chooses to 
 do it," said her husband, who had his budget to bring 
 forward that very night, and who in truth cared more 
 for his budget than he did for his heirship at that 
 moment. "But we must prevent it," said Lady Glen- 
 cora. "If I stick to him by the tail of his coat, Fll 
 prevent it." At the time when she thus spoke, the 
 dark green brougham had been twice again brought 
 up at the door in Park Lane. 
 
 And the brougham was standing there a third time. 
 It was May now, the latter end of May, and the park 
 opposite was beautiful with green things, and the air 
 was soft and balmy, as it will be sometimes even in 
 May, and the flowers in the balcony were full of per- 
 fume, and the charm of London, — what London can 
 be to the rich, — was at its height. The Duke was 
 sitting in Madame Goesler's drawing-room, at some 
 distance from her, for she had retreated. The Duke 
 had a habit of taking her hand, which she never would 
 permit for above a few seconds. At such times she 
 would show no anger, but would retreat. 
 
 "Marie," said the Duke, "you will go abroad when 
 
 6* 
 
84 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 the summer is over." As an old man he had taken 
 the privilege of calling her Marie, and she had not for- 
 bidden it. 
 
 "Yes, probably; to Vienna. I have property in 
 Vienna, you know, which must be looked after." 
 
 "Do not mind Vienna this year. Come to Italy." 
 "What; in summer, Duke?" 
 
 "The lakes are charming in August. I have a 
 villa on Como which is empty now, and I think I shall 
 go there. If you do not know the Italian lakes, I shall 
 be so happy to show them to you." 
 
 "I know them well, my lord. When I was young 
 I was on the Maggiore almost alone. Some day I will 
 tell you a history of what I was in those days." 
 
 "You shall tell it me there." 
 
 "No, my lord, I fear not. I have no villa there." 
 
 "Will you not accept the loan of mine? It shall 
 be all your own while you use it." 
 
 "My own, — to deny the right of entrance to its 
 owner?" 
 
 "If it so pleases you." 
 
 "It would not please me. It would so far from 
 please me that I will never put myself in a position 
 that might make it possible for me to require to do so. 
 No, Duke; it behoves me to live in houses of my own. 
 Women of whom more is known can afford to be your 
 guests." 
 
 "Marie, I would have no other guest than you." 
 "It cannot be so, Duke." 
 "And why not?" 
 
 "Why not? Am I to be put to the blush by 
 being made to answer such a question as that? Be- 
 cause the world would say that the Duke of Omnium 
 
THE TOP BRICK OF THE CHIMNEY. 
 
 had a new mistress, and that Madame Goesler was the 
 woman. Do you think that I would be any man's mis- 
 tress; — even yours? Or do you beHeve that for the 
 sake of the softness of a summer evening on an Itahan 
 lake, I would give cause to the tongues of the women 
 here to say that I was such a thing? You would have 
 me lose all that I have gained by steady years of sober 
 work for the sake of a week or two of dalliance such 
 as that! No, Duke; not for your dukedom!" 
 
 How his Grace might have got through his diffi- 
 culty had they been left alone, cannot be told. For 
 at this moment the door was opened, and Lady Glen- 
 cora Palliser was announced. 
 
 I 
 
86 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Rara Avis in Terris. 
 
 "Come and see the country and judge for your- 
 self," said Phineas. 
 
 "I should like nothing better," said Mr. Monk. 
 
 "It has often seemed to me that men in Parliament 
 know less about Ireland than they do of the interior 
 of Africa," said Phineas. 
 
 "It is seldom that we know anything accurately 
 on any subject that we have not made matter of care- 
 ful study," said Mr. Monk, "and very often do not do 
 so even then. We are very apt to think that we men 
 and women understand one another; but most probably 
 you know nothing even of the modes of thought of the 
 man who lives next door to you." 
 
 "I suppose not." 
 
 "There are general laws current in the world as to 
 morality. ^Thou shalt not steal,' for instance. That 
 has necessarily been current as a law through all na- 
 tions. But the first man you meet in the street will 
 have ideas about theft so different from yours, that, if 
 you knew them as you know your own, -you would 
 say that his law and yours were not even founded on 
 the same principle. It is compatible with this man's 
 honesty to cheat you in a matter of horseflesh, with 
 that man's in a traffic of railway shares, with that other 
 man's as to a woman's fortune; with a fourth's any- 
 
RARA AVIS IN TERRIS. 
 
 87 
 
 thing may be done for a seat in Parliament, while the 
 fifth man, who stands high among us, and who im- 
 plores his God every Sunday to write that law on his 
 heart, spends every hour of his daily toil in a system 
 of fraud, and is regarded as a pattern of the national 
 commerce ! " 
 
 Mr. Monk and Phineas were dining together at Mr. 
 Monk's house, and the elder politician of the two in 
 this little speech had recurred to certain matters which 
 had already been discussed between them. Mr. Monk 
 was becoming somewhat sick of his place in the Cabinet, 
 though he had not as yet whispered a word of his sick- 
 ness to any living ears; and he had begun to pine for 
 the lost freedom of a seat below the gangway. He had 
 been discussing political honesty with Phineas, and 
 hence had come the sermon of which I have ventured 
 to reproduce the concluding denunciations. 
 
 Phineas was fond of such discussions and fond of 
 holding them with Mr. Monk, — in this matter fluttering 
 like a moth round a candle. He would not perceive 
 that as he had made up his mind to be a servant of 
 the public in Parliament, he must abandon all idea of 
 independent action; and unless he did so he could be 
 neither successful as regarded himself, or useful to the 
 public whom he served. Could a man be honest in 
 Parliament, and yet abandon all idea of independence? 
 When he put such questions to Mr. Monk he did not 
 get a direct answer. And indeed the question was 
 never put directly. But the teaching which he received 
 was ever of a nature to make him uneasy. It was al- 
 ways to this effect: "You have taken up the trade now, 
 and seem to be fit for success in it. You had better 
 give up thinking about its special honesty." And yet 
 
88 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 Mr. Monk would on an occasion preach to him such a 
 sermon as that which he had just uttered! Perhaps 
 there is no question more difficult to a man's mind 
 than that of the expediency or inexpediency of scruples 
 in political life. Whether would a candidate for office 
 be more liable to rejection from a leader because he 
 was known to be scrupulous, or because he was known 
 to be the reverse? 
 
 "But putting aside the fourth commandment and 
 all the theories, you will come tolreland?'' said Phineas. 
 
 "I shall be delighted." 
 
 "I don't live in a castle, you know." 
 
 "I thought everybody did live in a castle in 
 Ireland," said Mr. Monk. "They seemed to do when 
 I was there twenty years ago. But for myself, I prefer 
 a cottage." 
 
 This trip to Ireland had been proposed in con- 
 sequence of certain ideas respecting tenant-right which 
 Mr. Monk was beginning to adopt, and as to which the 
 minds of politicians were becoming moved. It had 
 been all very well to put down Fenianism, and Riband- 
 men, and Repeal, — and everything that had been put 
 down in Ireland in the way of rebellion for the last 
 seventy-five years. England and Ireland had been ap- 
 parently joined together by laws of nature so fixed, 
 that even politicians liberal as was Mr. Monk, — liberal 
 as was Mr. Turnbull, — could not thrust themselves to 
 think that disunion could be for the good of the Irish. 
 They had taught themselves that it certainly could not 
 be good for the English. But if it was incumbent on 
 England to force upon Ireland the maintenance of the 
 Union for her own sake, and for England's sake, — 
 because England could not afford independence estab- 
 
RARA AVIS IN TERRIS. 
 
 89 
 
 lished so close against her own ribs, — it was at any 
 rate necessary to England's character that the bride 
 thus bound in a compulsory wedlock should be endowed 
 with all the best privileges that a wife can enjoy. Let 
 her at least not be a kept mistress. Let it be bone of 
 my bone and flesh of my flesh, if we are to live to- 
 gether in the married state. Between husband and 
 wife a warm word now and then matters but little,^ if 
 there be a thoroughly good understanding at bottom. 
 But let there be that good understanding at bottom. 
 What about this Protestant Church; and what about 
 this tenant-right? Mr. Monk had been asking himself 
 these questions for some time past. In regard to the 
 Church, he had long made up his mind that the Estab- 
 lishment in Ireland was a crying sin. A man had 
 married a woman whom he knew to be of a religion 
 difl*erent from his own, and then insisted that his wife 
 should say that she believed those things which he 
 knew very well that she did not believe. But, as Mr. 
 Monk well knew, the subject of the Protestant Endow- 
 ments in Ireland was so difficult that it would require 
 almost more than human wisdom to adjust it. It was 
 one of those matters which almost seemed to require 
 the interposition of some higher power, — the coming 
 of some apparently chance event, — to clear away the 
 evil; as a fire comes, and pestilential alleys are re- 
 moved; as a famine comes, and men are driven from 
 want and ignorance and dirt to seek new homes and 
 new thoughts across the broad waters; as a war comes, 
 and slavery is banished from the face of the earth. 
 But in regard to tenant-right, to some arrangement by 
 which a tenant in Ireland might be at least encouraged 
 to lay out what little capital he might have in labour 
 
90 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 or money without being at once called upon to pay 
 rent for that outlay which was his own, as well as for 
 the land which was not his own, — Mr. Monk thought 
 that it was possible that if a man would look hard 
 enough he might perhaps be able to see his way as to 
 that. He had spoken to two of his colleagues on the 
 subject, the two men in the Cabinet whom he believed 
 to be the most thoroughly honest in their ideas as 
 public servants, the Duke and Mr. Gresham. There 
 was so much to be done; — and then so little was known 
 upon the subject! "I will endeavour to study it," said 
 Mr. Monk. "If you can see your way, do;'' said Mr. 
 Gresham, — "but of course we cannot bind ourselves.'' 
 "I should be glad to see it named in the Queen's 
 speech at the beginning of the next session," said Mr. 
 Monk. "That is a long way off as yet," said Mr. 
 Gresham, laughing. "Who will be in then, and who 
 will be out?" So the matter was disposed of at the 
 time, but Mr. Monk did not abandon his idea. He 
 rather felt himself the more bound to cling to it because 
 he received so little encouragement. What was a seat 
 in the Cabinet to him that he should on that account 
 omit a duty? He had not taken up politics as a trade. 
 He had sat far behind the Treasury bench or below 
 the gangway for many a year, without owing any man 
 a shilling, — and could afford to do so again. 
 
 But it was different with Phineas Finn, as Mr. Monk 
 himself understood; — and, understanding this, he felt 
 himself bound to caution his young friend. But it may 
 be a question whether his cautions did not do more 
 harm than good. "I shall be delighted," he said, "to 
 go over with you in August, but I do not think that 
 if I were you, I would take up this matter." 
 
RARA AVIS IN TERRIS. 
 
 91 
 
 "And why not? You don't want to fight the battle 
 single-handed?" 
 
 "No; I desire no such glory, and would wish to 
 have no better lieutenant than you. But you have a 
 subject of which you are really fond, which you are 
 beginning to understand, and in regard to which you 
 can make yourself useful." 
 
 "You mean this Canada business?" 
 
 "Yes; — and that will grow to other matters as re- 
 gards the colonies. There is nothing so important to a 
 public man as that he should have his own subject; — 
 the thing which he understands, and in respect of 
 which he can make himself really useful." 
 
 "Then there comes a change." 
 
 "Yes; — and the man who has half learned how to 
 have a ship built without waste is sent into opposition, 
 and is then brought back to look after regiments, or 
 perhaps has to take up that beautiful subject, a study 
 of the career of India. But, nevertheless, if you have 
 a subject stick to it at any rate as long as it will stick 
 to you." 
 
 "But," said Phineas, "if a man takes up his own 
 subject, independent of the Government, no man can 
 drive him from it." 
 
 "And how often does he do anything? Look at 
 the annual motions which come forward in the hands 
 of private men, — Maynooth and the ballot for instance. 
 It is becoming more and more apparent every day that 
 all legislation must be carried by the Government, and 
 must be carried in obedience to the expressed wish of 
 the people. The truest democracy that ever had a 
 chance of living is that which we are now establishing 
 in Great Britain." 
 
92 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "Then leave tenant-right to the people and the 
 Cabinet. Why should you take it up?'' 
 
 Mr. Monk paused a moment or two before he replied. 
 "If I choose to run a-muck, there is no reason why 
 you should follow me. I am old and you are young. 
 I want nothing from politics as a profession, and you 
 do. Moreover, you have a congenial subject where 
 you are, and need not disturb yourself. For myself, I 
 tell you, in confidence, that I cannot speak so com- 
 fortably of my own position." 
 
 "We will go and see, at any rate," said Phineas. 
 
 "Yes," said Mr. Monk, "we will go and see." And 
 thus, in the month of May, it was settled between them 
 that, as soon as the session should be over, and the 
 incidental work of his office should allow Phineas to 
 pack up and be off, they two should start together for 
 Ireland. Phineas felt rather proud as he wrote to his 
 father and asked permission to bring home with him a 
 Cabinet Minister as a visitor. At this time the reputa- 
 tion of Phineas at Killaloe, as well in the hands of the 
 Killaloeians generally as in those of the inhabitants of 
 the paternal house, stood very high indeed. How 
 could a father think that a son had done badly when 
 before he was thirty years of age he was earning 2,000 
 a year? And how could a father not think well of a 
 son who had absolutely paid back certain moneys into 
 the paternal coffers? The moneys so repaid had not 
 been much; but the repayment of any such money at 
 Killaloe had been regarded as little short of miraculous. 
 The news of Mr. Monk's coming flew about the town, 
 about the county, about the diocese, and all people 
 began to say all good things about the old doctor's 
 only son. Mrs. Finn had long since been quite sure 
 
RARA AVIS IN TERRIS. 
 
 93 
 
 that a real black swan had been sent forth out of her 
 nest. And the sisters Finn, for some time past, had 
 felt in all social gatherings they stood quite on a 
 different footing than formerly because of their brother. 
 They were asked about in the county, and two of them 
 had been staying only last Easter with the Moronys, — 
 the Moronys of Poldoodie ! How should a father and 
 a mother and sisters not be grateful to such a son, to 
 such a brother, to such a veritable black swan out of 
 the nest! And as for dear little Mary Flood Jones, 
 her eyes became suffused with tears as in her solitude 
 she thought how much out of her reach this swan was 
 flying. And yet she took joy in his swanhood, and 
 swore that she would love him still; — that she would 
 love him always. Might he bring home with him to 
 Killaloe, Mr. Monk, the Cabinet Minister! Of course 
 he might. When Mrs. Finn first heard of this august 
 arrival, she felt as though she would like to expend herself 
 in entertaining, though but an hour, the whole cabinet. 
 
 Phineas, during the spring, had, of course, met 
 Mr. Kennedy frequently in and about the House, and 
 had become aware that Lady Laura^s husband, from 
 time to time, made little overtures of civility to him, — 
 taking him now and again by the button-hole, walking 
 home with him as far as their joint paths allowed, and 
 asking him once or twice to come and dine in Grosvenor 
 Place. These little advances towards a repetition of 
 the old friendship Phineas would have avoided altogether, 
 had it been possible. The invitation to Mr. Kennedy's 
 house he did refuse, feeling himself positively bound to 
 do so by Lady Laura's command, let the consequences 
 be what they might. When he did refuse, Mr. Kennedy 
 would assume a look of displeasure and leave him, and 
 
94 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 Phineas would hope that the work was done. Then 
 there would come another encounter, and the invitation 
 would be repeated. At last, about the middle of May, 
 there came another note. "Dear Finn, will you dine 
 with us on Wednesday, the 28th? I give you a long 
 notice, because you seem to have so many appointments. 
 Yours always, Robert Kennedy.'^ He had no alternative. 
 He must refuse, even though double the notice had 
 been given. He could only think that Mr. Kennedy 
 was a very obtuse man and one who would not take a 
 hint, and hope that he might succeed at last. So he 
 wrote an answer, not intended to be conciliatory. "My 
 dear Kennedy, I am sorry to say that I am engaged 
 on the 28th. Yours always, Phineas Finn." At this 
 period he did his best to keep out of Mr. Kennedy's 
 way, and would be very cunning in his manoeuvres 
 that they should not be alone together. It was difficult, 
 as they sat on the same bench in the House, and con- 
 sequently saw each other almost every day of their 
 lives. Nevertheless, he thought that with a little cun- 
 ning he might prevail, especially as he was not unwilling 
 to give so much of offence as might assist his own 
 object. But when Mr. Kennedy called upon him at 
 his office the day after he had written the above note, 
 he had no means of escape. 
 
 "I am sorry you cannot come to us on the 28th," 
 Mr. Kennedy said, as soon as he was seated. 
 
 Phineas was taken so much by surprise that all his 
 cunning failed him. "Well, yes,'' said he; "I was 
 very sorry; — very sorry indeed." 
 
 "It seems to me, Finn, that you have had some 
 reason for avoiding me of late. I do not know that I 
 have done anything to offend you." 
 
RARA A\ IN TERRIS. 
 
 95 
 
 "Nothing on earth," said Phineas. 
 
 "I am wrong, then, in supposing that anything 
 beyond mere chance has prevented you from coming to 
 my house?" Phineas felt that he was in a terrible 
 difficulty, and he felt also that he w^as being rather ill- 
 used in being thus cross-examined as to his reasons for 
 not going to a gentleman^s dinner. He thought that a 
 man ought to be allowed to choose when he would go 
 and when he would not go, and that questions such as 
 these were very uncommon. Mr. Kennedy was sitting 
 opposite to him, looking more grave and more sour 
 than usual; and now his own countenance also became 
 a little solemn. It was impossible that he should use 
 Lady Laura's name, and yet he must, in some way, let 
 his persecuting friend know that no further invitation 
 would be of any use; — that there was something beyond 
 mere chance in his not going to Grosvenor Place. But 
 how was he to do this? The difficulty was so great 
 that he could not see his way out of it. So he sat 
 silent with a solemn face. Mr. Kennedy then asked 
 him another question, which made the difficulty ten 
 times greater. "Has my wife asked you not to come 
 to our house?" 
 
 It was necessary now that he should make a rush 
 and get out of his trouble in some way. "To tell you the 
 truth, Kennedy, I don't think she wants to see me there." 
 
 "That does not answer my question. Has she asked 
 you not to come?" 
 
 "She said that which left on my mind an impres- 
 sion that she would sooner that I did not come." 
 
 "What did she say?" 
 
 "How can I answer such a question as that, Ken- 
 nedy? Is it fair to ask it?" 
 
96 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "Quite fair— I think." 
 
 "I think it quite unfair, and I must dedine to 
 answer it. I cannot imagine what you expect to gain 
 by cross-questioning me in this way. Of course no 
 man Ukes to go to a house if he does not beheve that 
 everybody there will make him welcome." 
 
 "You and Lady Laura used to be great friends.'' 
 
 "I hope we are not enemies now. But things will 
 occur that cause friendships to grow cool." 
 
 "Have you quarrelled with her father?" 
 
 "With Lord Brentford?— no." 
 
 "Or with her brother, — since the duel I mean?" 
 
 "Upon my word and honour I cannot stand this, 
 and I will not. I have not as yet quarrelled with 
 anybody; but I must quarrel with you, if you go on in 
 this way. It is quite unusual that a man should be 
 put through his facings after such a fashion, and I 
 must beg that there may be an end of it." 
 
 "Then I must ask Lady Laura." 
 
 "You can say what you like to your own wife of 
 course. I cannot hinder you." 
 
 Upon that Mr. Kennedy formally shook hands with 
 him, in token that there was no positive breach between 
 them, — as two nations may still maintain their alliance, 
 though they have made up their minds to hate each 
 other, and thwart each other at every turn, — and took 
 his leave. Phineas, as he sat at his window, looking 
 out into the park, and thinking of what had passed, 
 could not but reflect that, disagreeable as Mr. Kennedy 
 had been to him, he would probably make himself 
 much more disagreeable to his wife. And, for himself, 
 he thought that he had got out of the scrape very well 
 by the exhibition of a little mock anger. 
 
THE earl's wrath. 
 
 97 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 The Earl's Wrath. 
 
 The reader may remember that a rumour had been 
 conveyed to Phineas, — a rumour indeed which reached 
 him from a source which he regarded as very untrust- 
 worthy, — that Violet Effingham had quarrelled with 
 her lover. He would probably have paid no attention 
 to the rumour, beyond that which necessarily attached 
 itself to any tidings as to a matter so full of interest 
 to him, had it not been repeated to him in another 
 quarter. "A bird has told me that your Violet Effing- 
 ham has broken with her lover," Madame Goesler 
 said to him one day. "What bird?" he asked. "Ah, 
 that I cannot tell you. But this I will confess to you, 
 that these birds which tell us news are seldom very 
 credible, — and are often not very creditable. You 
 must take a bird's word for what it may be worth. 
 It is said that they have quarrelled. I daresay, if the 
 truth were known, they are billing and cooing in each 
 other's arms at this moment." 
 
 Phineas did not like to be told of their billing and 
 cooing, — did not like to be told even of their quarrel- 
 ling. Though they were to quarrel, it would do him 
 no good. He would rather that nobody should men- 
 tion their names to him; — so that his back, which had 
 been so utterly broken, might in process of time get 
 itself cured. From what he knew of Violet he thought 
 it very improbable that, even were she to quarrel with 
 
 Phineas Finn, 111,, 7 
 
98 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 one lover, she would at once throw herself into the 
 arms of another. And he did feel, too, that there 
 would be some meanness in taking her, were she 
 willing to be so taken. But, nevertheless, these 
 rumours, coming to him in this way from different 
 sources, almost made it incumbent on him to find out 
 the truth. He began to think that his broken back 
 was not cured; — that perhaps, after all, it was not in 
 the way of being cured. And was it not possible that 
 there might be explanations? Then he went to work 
 and built castles in the air, so constructed as to admit 
 of the possibility of Violet Effingham becoming his 
 wife. 
 
 This had been in April, and at that time all that 
 he knew of Violet was, that she was not yet in London. 
 And he thought that he knew the same as to Lord 
 Chiltern. The Earl had told him that Chiltern was 
 not in town, nor expected in town as yet; and in say- 
 ing so had seemed to express displeasure against his 
 son. Phineas had met Lady Baldock at some house 
 which he frequented, and had been quite surprised to 
 find himself graciously received by the old woman. 
 She had said not a word of Violet, but had spoken of 
 Lord Chiltern, — mentioning his name in bitter wrath. 
 "But he is a friend of mine," said Phineas, smiling. 
 "A friend indeed! Mr. Finn. I know what sort of a 
 friend. I don't believe that you are his friend. I am 
 afraid he is not worthy of having any friend." Phineas 
 did not quite understand from this that Lady Baldock 
 was signifying to him that, badly as she had thought 
 of him as a suitor for her niece, she would have 
 preferred him, — especially now when people were be- 
 ginning to speak well of him, — to that terrible young 
 
THE earl's wrath. 
 
 99 
 
 man, who, from his youth upwards, had been to her 
 a cause of fear and trembhng. Of course it was de- 
 sirable that Violet should marry an elder son, and a 
 peer's heir. All that kind of thing, in Lady Baldock's 
 eyes, was most desirable. But, nevertheless, anything 
 was better than Lord Chiltern. If Violet would not 
 take Mr. Appledom or Lord Fawn, in heaven's name 
 let her take this young man, who was kind, worthy, 
 and steady, who was civilised in his manners, and 
 would no doubt be amenable in regard to settlements. 
 Lady Baldock had so far fallen in the world that she 
 would have consented to make a bargain with her 
 niece, — almost any bargain, so long as Lord Chiltern 
 was excluded. Phineas did not quite understand all 
 this; but when Lady Baldock asked him to come to 
 Berkeley Square, he perceived that help was being 
 proffered to him where he certainly had not looked for 
 help. 
 
 He was frequently with Lord Brentford, who talked 
 to him constantly on matters connected with his par- 
 liamentary life. After having been the intimate friend 
 of the daughter and of the son, it now seemed to be 
 his lot to be the intimate friend of the father. The 
 Earl had constantly discussed with him his arrange- 
 ments with his son, and had lately expressed himself 
 as only half satisfied with such reconciliation as had 
 taken place. And Phineas could perceive that from 
 day to day the Earl was less and less satisfied. He 
 would complain bitterly of his son, — complain of his 
 silence, complain of his not coming to London, com- 
 plain of his conduct to Violet, complain of his idle 
 indifference to anything like proper occupation ; but he 
 ! had never as yet said a word to show that there had 
 
 i T 
 
 \ 
 
lOO 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 been any quarrel between Violet and her lover, and 
 Phineas had felt that he could not ask the question. 
 "Mr. Finn/' said the Earl to him one morning, as 
 soon as he entered the room, "I have just heard a 
 story which has almost seemed to me to be incredible." 
 The nobleman's manner was very stern, and the fact 
 that he called his young friend "Mr. Finn," showed at 
 once that something was wrong. 
 
 "What is it you have heard, my lord?" said 
 Phineas. 
 
 "That you and Chiltern went over, — last year to, 
 — Belgium, and fought, — a duel there!" 
 
 Now it must have been the case that, in the set 
 among which they all lived, — Lord Brentford and his 
 son and daughter and Phineas Finn, — the old lord 
 was the only man who had not heard of the duel be- 
 fore this. It had even penetrated to the dull ears of 
 Mr. Kennedy, reminding him, as it did so, that his 
 wife had, — told him a lie! But it was the fact that 
 no rumour of the duel had reached the Earl till this 
 morning. 
 
 "It is true," said Phineas. 
 
 "I have never been so much shocked in my life; 
 —never. I had no idea that you had any thought of 
 aspiring to the hand of Miss Effingham." The lord's 
 voice as he said this was very stern. 
 
 "As I aspired in vain, and as Chiltern has been 
 successful, that need not now be made a" reproach 
 against me." 
 
 "I do not know what to think of it, Mr. Finn. I 
 am so much surprised that I hardly know what to say. 
 I must declare my opinion at once, that you behaved, 
 ■ — very badly." 
 
THE earl's wrath. 
 
 lOI 
 
 "I do not know how much you know, my lord, 
 and how much you do not know; and the circum- 
 stances of the httle affair do not permit me to be ex- 
 phcit about them; but, as you have expressed your 
 opinion so openly you must allow me to express mine, 
 and to say that, as far as I can judge of my own 
 actions, I did not behave badly at all." 
 
 "Do you intend to defend duelling, sir?" 
 
 "No. If you mean to tell me that a duel is of 
 itself sinful, I have nothing to say. I suppose it is. 
 My defence of myself merely goes to the manner in 
 which this duel was fought, and the fact that I fought 
 it with your son." 
 
 "I cannot conceive how you can have come to my 
 house as my guest, and stood upon my interest for my 
 borough, when you at the time were doing your very 
 best to interpose yourself between Chiltern and the 
 lady whom you so well knew I wished to become his 
 wife." Phineas was aware that the Earl must have 
 been very much moved indeed when he thus permitted 
 himself to speak of "his" borough. He said nothing 
 now, however, though the Earl paused; — and then 
 the angry lord went on. "I must say that there was 
 something, — something almost approaching to duplicity 
 in such conduct." 
 
 "If I were to defend myself by evidence. Lord 
 Brentford, I should have to go back to exact dates, — 
 and dates not of facts which I could verify, but dates 
 as to my feelings which could not be verified, — and 
 that would be useless. I can only say that I believe 
 I know what the honour and truth of a gentleman 
 demand, — even to the verge of self-sacrifice, and that 
 I have done nothing that ought to place my character 
 
102 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 as a gentleman in jeopardy. If you will ask your son, 
 I think he will tell you the same." 
 
 "I have asked him. It was he who told me of the 
 duel." 
 
 "When did he tell you, my lord?" 
 
 "Just now; this morning." Thus Phineas learned 
 that Lord Chiltern was at this moment in the house, — 
 or at least in London. 
 
 "And did he complain of my conduct?" 
 
 "I complain of it, sir. I complain of it very 
 bitterly. I placed the greatest confidence in you, 
 especially in regard to my son's affairs, and you de- 
 ceived me." The Earl was very angry, and was more 
 angry from the fact that this young man who had 
 offended him, to whom he had given such vital as- 
 sistance when assistance was needed, had used that 
 assistance to its utmost before his sin was found out. 
 Had Phineas still been sitting for Loughton, so that 
 the Earl could have said to him, "You are now bound 
 to retreat from this borough because you have offended 
 me, your patron," I think that he would have forgiven 
 the offender and allowed him to remain in his seat. 
 There would have been a scene, and the Earl would 
 have been pacified. But now the offender was beyond 
 his reach altogether, having used the borough as a 
 most convenient stepping-stone over his difficulties, and 
 having so used it just at the time when he was com- 
 mitting this sin. There was a good fortune about 
 Phineas which added greatly to the lord's wrath. And 
 then, to tell the truth, he had not that rich consolation 
 for which Phineas gave him credit. Lord Chiltern had 
 told him that morning that the engagement between 
 him and Violet was at an end. "You have so preached 
 
THE earl's WRA'm. 
 
 103 
 
 to her, my lord, about my duties," the son had said 
 to his father, "that she finds herself obliged to give 
 me your sermons at second hand, till I can bear them 
 no longer." But of this Phineas knew nothing as yet. 
 The Earl, however, was so imprudent in his anger 
 that before this interview was over he had told the 
 whole story. "Yes; — you deceived me," he continued; 
 "and I can never trust you again." 
 
 "Was it for me, my lord, to tell you of that which 
 would have increased your anger against your own 
 son? When he wanted me to fight was I to come, 
 like a sneak at school, and tell you the story? I know 
 what you would have thought of me had I done so. 
 And when it was over was I to come and tell you 
 then? Think what you yourself would have done when 
 you were young, and you may be quite sure that I did 
 the same. What have I gained? He has got all that 
 he wanted; and you have also got all that you wanted; 
 — and I have helped you both. Lord Brentford, I can 
 put my hand on my heart and say that I have been 
 honest to you." 
 
 "I have got nothing that I wanted," said the Earl 
 in his despair. 
 
 "Lord Chiltern and Miss Effingham will be man 
 and wife." 
 
 "No; — they will not. He has quarrelled with 
 her. He is so obstinate that she will not bear with 
 him. 
 
 Then it was all true, even though the rumours had 
 reached him through Laurence Fitzgibbon and Madame 
 Max Goesler. "At any rate, my lord, that has not 
 been my fault," he said, after a moment's hesitation. 
 The Earl was walking up and down the room, angry 
 
I04 . PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 with himself at his own mistake in having told the 
 story, and not knowing what further to say to his 
 visitor. He had been in the habit of talking so freely 
 to Phineas about his son that he could hardly resist 
 the temptation of doing so still; and yet it was impos- 
 sible that he could swallow his anger and continue in 
 the same strain. "My lord/' said Phineas, after a 
 w^hile, "I can assure you that I grieve that you should 
 be grieved. I have received so much undeserved 
 favour from your family, that I owe you a debt 
 which I can never pay. I am sorry that you should 
 be angry with me now; but I hope that a time may 
 come when you will think less severely of my con- 
 duct." 
 
 He was about to leave the room when the Earl 
 stopped him. "Will you give me your word," said 
 the Earl, "that you will think no more of Miss Ef- 
 fingham?" Phineas stood silent, considering how he 
 might answer this proposal, resolving that nothing 
 should bring him to such a pledge as that suggested 
 Avhile there was yet a ledge for hope to stand on. 
 "Say that, Mr. Finn, and I will forgive everything." 
 
 "I cannot acknowledge that I have done anything 
 to be forgiven." 
 
 "Say that," repeated the Earl, "and everything 
 shall be forgotten." 
 
 "There need be no cause for alarm, my lord," said 
 Phineas. "You may be sure that Miss Effingham will 
 not think of me." 
 
 "Will you give me your word?" 
 
 "No, my lord; — certainly not. You have no right 
 to ask it, and the pursuit is open to me as to any 
 other man who may choose to follow it. I have hardly 
 
THE EARL S WRATH. 
 
 a vestige of a hope of success. It is barely possible 
 that T should succeed. But if it be true that Miss 
 Effingham be disengaged, I shall endeavour to find an 
 opportunity of urging my suit. I would give up every- 
 thing that I have, my seat in Parliament, all the am- 
 bition of my life, for the barest chance of success. 
 When she had accepted your son, I desisted, — of course. 
 I have now heard, from more sources than one, that 
 she or he or both of them have changed their minds. 
 If this be so, I am free to try again." The Earl stood 
 opposite to him, scowling at him, but said nothing. 
 "Good morning, my lord.'' 
 "Good morning, sir.'' 
 
 "I am afraid it must be good-bye, for some long 
 days to come." 
 
 "Good morning, sir." And the Earl as he spoke 
 rang the bell. Then Phineas took up his hat and de- 
 parted. 
 
 As he walked away his mind filled itself gradually 
 with various ideas, all springing from the words which 
 Lord Brentford had spoken. What account had Lord 
 Chiltern given to his father of the duel? Our hero 
 was a man very sensitive as to the good opinion of 
 others, and in spite of his bold assertion of his own 
 knowledge of what became a gentleman, was beyond 
 measure solicitous that others should acknowledge his 
 claim at any rate to that title. He thought that he 
 had been generous to Lord Chiltern; and as he went 
 back in his memory over almost every word that had 
 been spoken in the interview that had just passed, he 
 fancied that he was able to collect evidence that his 
 antagonist at Blankenberg had not spoken ill of him. 
 As to the charge of deceit which the Earl had made 
 
PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 against him, he told himself that the Earl had made it 
 in anger. He would not even think hardly of the Earl 
 who had been so good a friend to him, but he believed 
 in his heart that the Earl had made the accusation out 
 of his wrath and not out of his judgment. "He cannot 
 think that I have been false to him,'^ Phineas said to 
 himself. But it was very sad to him that he should 
 have to quarrel with all the family of the Standishes, 
 as he could not but feel that it was they who had put 
 him on his feet. It seemed as though he were never 
 to see Lady Laura again except when they chanced to 
 meet in company, — on which occasions he simply 
 bowed to her. Now the Earl had almost turned him 
 out of his house. And though there had been to a 
 certain extent a reconciliation between him and Lord 
 Chiltern, he in these days never saw the friend who 
 had once put him upon Bonebreaker; and now, — now 
 that Violet Effingham was again free, — how was it pos- 
 sible to avoid some renewal of enmity between them? 
 He would, however, endeavour to see Lord Chiltern at 
 once. 
 
 And then he thought of Violet, — of Violet again 
 free, of Violet as again a possible wife for himself, of 
 Violet to whom he might address himself at any rate 
 without any scruple as to his own unworthiness. Every- 
 body concerned, and many who were not concerned at 
 all, were aware that he had been among her lovers, 
 and he thought that he could perceive that those who 
 interested themselves on the subject, had regarded him 
 as the only horse in the race likely to run with success 
 against Lord Chiltern. She herself had received his 
 offers without scorn, and had always treated him as ' 
 though he were a favoured friend, though not favoured 
 
THE earl's wrath. 
 
 107 
 
 as a lover. And now even Lady Baldock was smiling 
 upon him, and asking him to her house as though the 
 red-faced porter in the hall in Berkeley Square had 
 never been ordered to refuse him a moment's admission 
 inside the doors. He had been very humble in speak- 
 ing of his own hopes to the Earl, but surely there 
 might be a chance. What if after all the little strain 
 which he had had in his back was to the cured after 
 such a fashion as this! When he got to his lodgings, 
 he found a card from Lady Baldock, informing him 
 that Lady Baldock would be at home on a certain 
 night, and that there would be music. He could not 
 go to Lady Baldock's on the night named, as it would 
 be necessary that he should be in the House; — nor did 
 he much care to go there, as Violet Effingham was not 
 in town. But he would call and explain, and endeavour 
 to curry favour in that way. 
 
 He at once wrote a note to Lord Chiltern, which 
 he addressed to Portman Square. "As you are in 
 town, can we not meet? Come and dine with me at 
 
 the Club on Saturday.'' That was the note. After 
 
 a few days he received the following answer, dated 
 from the Bull at Willingford. Why on earth should 
 Chiltern be staying at the Bull at Willingford in 
 May? 
 
 ** The old Shop at W , Friday. 
 
 "Dear Phineas, 
 "I can't dine with you, because I am down here, 
 looking after the cripples, and writing a sporting 
 novel. They tell me I ought to do something, so I 
 am going to do that. I hope you don't think I turned 
 informer against you in telling the Earl of our pleasant 
 
io8 
 
 PHINEAS FINNi 
 
 little meeting on the sands. It had become necessary, 
 and you are too much of a man to care much for any 
 truth being told. He was terribly angry both with me 
 and with you; but the fact is, he is so blindly un- 
 reasonable that one cannot regard his anger. I en- 
 deavoured to tell the story truly, and, so told, it cer- 
 tainly should not have injured you in his estimation. 
 But it did. Very sorry, old fellow, and I hope you'll 
 get over it. It is a good deal more important to me 
 than to you. 
 
 "Yours, "C." 
 
 There was not a word about Violet. But then it 
 was hardly to be expected that there should be words 
 about Violet. It was not likely that a man should 
 write to his rival of his own failure. But yet there 
 was a flavour of Violet in the letter which would not 
 have been there, so Phineas thought, if the writer had 
 been despondent. The pleasant little meeting on the 
 sands had been convened altogether in respect of 
 Violet. And the telling of the story to the Earl must 
 have arisen from discussions about Violet. Lord Chiltern 
 must have told his father that Phineas v/as his rival. 
 Could the rejected suitor have written on such a sub- 
 ject in such a strain to such a correspondent if he had 
 believed his own rejection to be certain? But then Lord 
 Chiltern was not like anybody else in the world, and 
 it was impossible to judge of him by one's experience 
 of the motives of others. 
 
 Shortly afterwards Phineas did call in Berkeley 
 Square, and was shown up at once into Lady Baldock's 
 drawing-room. The whole aspect of the porter's 
 countenance was changed towards him, and from this, 
 
THE earl's wrath. 
 
 109 
 
 too, he gathered good auguries. This had surprised 
 him; but his surpris'^ was far greater, when, on enter- 
 ing the room, he found Violet Effingham there alone. 
 A little fresh colour came to her face as she greeted 
 him, though it cannot be said that she blushed. She 
 behaved herself admirably, not endeavouring to con- 
 ceal some little emotion at thus meeting him, but be- 
 traying none that was injurious to her composure. "I 
 am so glad to see you, Mr. Finn," she said. "My aunt 
 has just left me, and will be back directly.'' 
 
 He was by no means her equal in his management 
 of himself on the occasion; but perhaps it may be ac- 
 knowledged that his position was the more difficult of 
 the two. He had not seen her since her engagement 
 had been proclaimed to the world, and now he had 
 heard from a source which was not to be doubted, that 
 it had been broken off. Of course there was nothing 
 to be said on that matter. He could not have con- 
 gratulated her in the one case, nor could he either 
 congratulate her or condole with her on the other. 
 And yet he did not know how to speak to her as 
 though no such events had occurred. "I did not 
 know that you were in town," he said. 
 
 "I only came yesterday. I have been, you know, 
 at Rome with the Effinghams; and since that I have 
 
 been ; but, indeed, I have been such a vagrant 
 
 that I cannot tell you of all my comings and goings. 
 And you, — you are hard at work ! " 
 
 "Oh yes; — always." 
 
 "That is right. I wish I could be something, if it 
 were only a stick in waiting, or a door-keeper. It is 
 so good to be something." Was it some such teaching 
 as this that had jarred against Lord Chiltern's suscepti- 
 
no 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 bilities, and had seemed to him to be a repetition of 
 his father's sermons? 
 
 "A man should try to be something," said 
 Phineas. 
 
 "And a woman must be content to be nothing, — 
 unless Mr. Mill can pull us through! And now, tell 
 me, — have you seen Lady Laura?" 
 
 "Not lately." 
 
 "Nor Mr. Kennedy?" 
 
 "I sometimes see him in the House." The visit to 
 the Colonial Office of which the reader has been made 
 aware had not at that time as yet been made. 
 
 "I am sorry for all that," she said. Upon which 
 Phineas smiled and shook his head. "I am very 
 sorry that there should be a quarrel between you 
 two." 
 
 "There is no quarrel." 
 
 "I used to think that you and he might do so 
 much for each other, — that is, of course, if you could 
 make a friend of him." 
 
 "He is a man of whom it is very hard to make a 
 friend," said Phineas, feeling that he was dishonest to 
 Mr. Kennedy in saying so, but thinking that such 
 dishonesty was justified by what he owed to Lady 
 Laura. 
 
 "Yes; — he is hard, and what I call ungenial. We 
 won't say anything about him, — will we? Have you 
 seen much of the Earl?" This she asked as though 
 such a question had no reference whatever to Lord 
 Chiltern. 
 
 "Oh dear, — alas, alas!" 
 
 "You have not quarrelled with him too?" 
 
 "He has quarrelled with me. He has heard. Miss 
 
THE earl's wrath. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Effingham, of what happened last year, and he thinks 
 that I was wrong." 
 
 "Of course you were wrong, Mr. Finn." 
 
 "Very Hkely. To him I chose to defend myself, 
 but I certainly shall not do so to you. At any rate, 
 you did not think it necessary to quarrel with me." 
 
 "I ought to have done so. I wonder why my aunt 
 does not come." Then she rang the bell. 
 
 "Now I have told you all about myself," said he; 
 "you should tell me something of yourself." 
 
 "About me? I am like the knife-grinder, who had 
 no story to tell, — none at least to be told. We have 
 all, no doubt, got our little stories, interesting enough 
 to ourselves." 
 
 "But your story. Miss Effingham," he said, "is of 
 such intense interest to me." At that moment, luckily. 
 Lady Baldock came into the room, and Phineas was 
 saved from the necessity of making a declaration at a 
 moment which would have been most inopportune. 
 
 Lady Baldock was exceedingly gracious to him, 
 bidding Violet use her influence to persuade him to 
 come to the gathering. "Persuade him to desert his 
 work to come and hear some fiddlers!" said Miss Ef- 
 fingham. "Indeed I shall not, aunt. Who can tell 
 but what the colonies might suffer from it through 
 centuries, and that such a lapse of duty might drive 
 a province or two into the arms of our mortal 
 enemies?" 
 
 "Herr Moll is coming," said Lady Baldock, "and 
 so is Signor Scrubi, and Pjinskt, who, they say, is the 
 greatest man living on the flageolet. Have you ever 
 heard Pjinskt, Mr. Finn?" Phineas never had heard 
 Pjinskt. "And as for Herr Moll, there is nothing 
 
112 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 equal to him, this year, at least." Lady Baldock had 
 taken up music this season, but all her enthusiasm 
 was unable to shake the conscientious zeal of the 
 young Under Secretary of State. At such a gathering 
 he would have been unable to say a word in private 
 to Violet Effingham. 
 
MADAME GOESLER'S POLITICS. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Madame Goesler's Politics. 
 
 It may be remembered that when Lady Glencora 
 Palliser was shown into Madame Goesler's room, Ma- 
 dame Goesler had just explained somewhat forcibly to 
 the Duke of Omnium her reasons for refusing the loan 
 of his Grace's villa at Como. She had told the Duke 
 in so many words that she did not mean to give the 
 world an opportunity of maligning her, and it would 
 then have been left to the Duke to decide whether 
 any other arrangements might have been made for 
 taking Madame Goesler to Como, had he not been in- 
 terrupted. That he was very anxious to take her was 
 certain. The green brougham had already been often 
 enough at the door in Park Lane to make his Grace 
 feel that Madame Goesler's company was very de- 
 sirable, — was, perhaps, of all things left for his enjoy- 
 ment, the one thing the most desirable. Lady Glen- 
 cora had spoken to her husband of children crying for 
 the top brick of the chimney. Now it had come to 
 this, that in the eyes of the Duke of Omnium Marie 
 Max Goesler was the top brick of the chimney. She 
 ; had more wit for him than other women, — more of 
 that sort of wit which he was capable of enjoying. She 
 had a beauty which he had learned to think more al- 
 luring than other beauty. He was sick of fair faces, 
 and fat arms, and free necks. Madame Goesler's eyes 
 
 Phineas Finn, 11 L S 
 
 I 
 
114 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 sparkled as other eyes did not sparkle, and there was 
 something of the vagueness of mystery in the very 
 blackness and gloss and abundance of her hair, — as 
 though her beauty was the beauty of some world which 
 he had not yet known. And there was a quickness 
 and yet a grace of motion about her which was quite 
 new to him. The ladies upon whom the Duke had of 
 late most often smiled had been somewhat slow, — per- 
 haps almost heavy, — though, no doubt, graceful withal. 
 In his early youth he remembered to have seen, some- 
 where in Greece, such a houri as was this Madame 
 Goesler. The houri in that case had run off with the 
 captain of a Russian vessel engaged in the tallow 
 trade; but not the less was there left on the Grace's 
 mind some dreamy memory of charms which had im- 
 pressed him very strongly when he was simply a 
 young Mr. Palliser, and had had at his command not 
 so convenient a mode of sudden abduction as the Rus- 
 sian captain's tallow ship. Pressed hard by such cir- 
 cumstances as these, there is no knowing how the Duke 
 might have got out of his difficulties had not Lady 
 Glencora appeared upon the scene. 
 
 Since the future little Lord Silverbridge had been 
 born, the Duke had been very constant in his worship 
 of Lady Glencora, and as, from year to year, a little 
 brother was added, thus making the family very strong 
 and stable, his acts of worship had increased; but with 
 his worship there had come of late something almost of 
 dread, — something almost of obedience, which had made 
 those who were immediately about the Duke declare 
 that his Grace was a good deal changed. For, hitherto, 
 whatever may have been the Duke's weaknesses, he 
 certainly had known no master. His heir, Plantagenet 
 
MADAME GOESLER'S POLITICS. 
 
 Palliser, had been always subject to him. His other 
 relations had been kept at such a distance as hardly 
 to be more than recognised; and though his Grace no 
 doubt had had his intimacies, they who had been in- 
 timate with him had either never tried to obtain ascen- 
 dancy, or had failed. Lady Glencora, whether with 
 or without a struggle, had succeeded, and people about 
 the Duke said that the Duke was much changed. Mr. 
 Fothergill, — who was his Grace's man of business, and 
 who was not a favourite with Lady Glencora, — said 
 that he was very much changed indeed. Finding his 
 Grace so much changed, Mr. Fothergill had made a 
 little attempt at dictation himself, but had receded with 
 fingers very much scorched in the attempt. It was in- 
 deed possible that the Duke was becoming in the slight- 
 est degree weary of Lady Glencora's thraldom, and that 
 he thought that Madame Max Goesler might be more 
 tender with him. Madame Max Goesler, however, in- 
 tended to be tender only on one condition. 
 
 When Lady Glencora entered the room, Madame 
 Goesler received, her beautifully. "How lucky that you 
 should have come just when his Grace is here!" she 
 said. 
 
 "I saw my uncle's carriage, and of course I knew 
 it," said Lady Glencora. 
 
 "Then the favour is to him," said Madame Goesler, 
 smiling. 
 
 "No, indeed; I was coming. If my word is to be 
 doubted in that point, I must insist on having the 
 servant up; I must, certainly. I told him to drive to 
 this door, as far back as Grosvenor Street. Did I not, 
 Pianty?" Planty was the little Lord Silverbridge as 
 
 8* 
 
ii6 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 was to be, if nothing unfortunate intervened, who was 
 now sitting on his granduncle's knee. 
 
 "Dou said to the Uttle house in Park Lane,^' said 
 the boy. 
 
 "Yes, — because I forgot the number." 
 
 "And it is the smallest house in Park Lane, so the 
 evidence is complete," said Madame Goesler. Lady 
 Glencora had not cared much for evidence to convince 
 Madame Goesler, but she had not wished her uncle to 
 think that he was watched and hunted down. It might 
 be necessary that he should know that he was watched, 
 but things had not come to that as yet. 
 
 "How is Plantagenet?" asked the Duke. 
 
 "Answer for papa," said Lady Glencora to her 
 child. 
 
 "Papa is very well, but he almost never comes 
 home." 
 
 "He is working for his country," said the Duke. 
 "Your papa is a busy, useful man, and can't afford 
 time to play with a little boy as I can." 
 
 "But papa is not a duke." 
 
 "He will be some day, and that probably before 
 long, my boy. He will be a duke quite as soon as he 
 wants to be a duke. He likes the House of Commons 
 better than the strawberry leaves, I fancy. There is 
 not a man in England less in a hurry than he is." 
 
 "No, indeed," said Lady Glencora. 
 
 "How nice that is," said Madame Goesler. 
 
 "And I ain't in a hurry either, — am I, mamma?" 
 said the little future Lord Silverbridge. 
 
 "You are a wicked little monkey," said his grand- 
 uncle, kissing him. At this moment Lady Glencora 
 was, no doubt, thinking how necessary it was that she 
 
MADAME GOESLER'S POLITICS. 
 
 117 
 
 should be careful to see that things did turn out in the 
 manner proposed, — so that people who had waited 
 should not be disappointed; and the Duke was perhaps 
 thinking that he was not absolutely bound to his nephew 
 by any law of God or man; and Madame Max Goesler, 
 — I wonder whether her thoughts were injurious to the 
 prospects of that handsome boldfaced little boy. 
 
 Lady Glencora rose to take her leave first. It was 
 not for her to show any anxiety to force the Duke out 
 of the lady's presence. If the Duke were resolved to 
 make a fool of himself, nothing that she could do would 
 prevent it. But she thought that this little inspection 
 might possibly be of service, and that her uncle's 
 ardour would be cooled by the interruption to which 
 he had been subjected. So she went, and immediately 
 afterwards the Duke followed her. The interruption 
 had, at any rate, saved him on that occasion from 
 making the highest bid for the pleasure of Madame 
 Goesler's company at Como. The Duke went down 
 with the little boy in his hand, so that there was not 
 an opportunity for a single word of interest between 
 the gentleman and the lady. 
 
 Madame Goesler, when she was alone, seated her- 
 self on her sofa, tucking her feet up under her as 
 though she were seated somewhere in the East, pushed 
 her ringlets back roughly from her face, and then placed 
 her two hands to her sides so that her thumbs rested 
 tightly on her girdle. When alone with something 
 weighty on her mind she would sit in this form for the 
 hour together, resolving, or trying to resolve, what 
 should be her conduct. She did few things without 
 much thinking, and though she walked very boldly, 
 she walked warily. She often told herself that such 
 
Il8 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 success as she had achieved could not have been achieved 
 without much caution. And yet she was ever discon- 
 tented with herself, telhng herself that all that she had 
 done was nothing, or worse than nothing. What was 
 it all, to have a duke and to have lords dining with 
 her, to dine with lords or with a duke itself, if life 
 were dull with her, and the hours hung heavy! Life 
 with her was dull, and the hours did hang heavy. And 
 what if she caught this old man, and became herself a 
 duchess, — caught him by means of his weakness, to the 
 inexpressible dismay of all those who were bound to 
 him by ties of blood, — would that make her life hap- 
 pier, or her hours less tedious? That prospect of a 
 life on the Italian lakes with an old man tied to her 
 side was not so charming in her eyes as it was in those 
 of the Duke. Were she to succeed, and to be blazoned 
 forth to the world as Duchess of Omnium, what would 
 she have gained? 
 
 She perfectly understood the motive of Lady Glen- 
 cora's visit, and thought that she would at any rate 
 gain something in the very triumph of baffling the 
 manoeuvres of so clever a woman. Let Lady Glencora 
 throw her ^^^gis before the Duke, and it would be some- 
 thing to carry off his Grace from beneath the protection 
 of so thick a shield. The very flavour of the contest 
 was pleasing to Madame Goesler. But, the victory 
 gained, what then would remain to her? Money she 
 had already; position, too, she had of her own. She 
 was free as air, and should it suit her at any time to 
 go off to some lake of Como in society that would per- 
 sonally be more agreeable to her than that of the Duke 
 of Omnium, there was nothing to hinder her for a mo- 
 ment. And then came a smile over her face, — but the 
 
MADAME GOESLER'S POLITICS. HQ 
 
 saddest smile, — as she thought of one with whom it 
 might be pleasant to look at the colour of Italian skies 
 and feel the softness of Italian breezes. In feigning to 
 like to do this with an old man, in acting the raptures 
 of love on behalf of a worn-out duke who at the best 
 would scarce believe in her acting, there would not be 
 much delight for her. She had never yet known what 
 it was to have anything of the pleasure of love. She 
 had grown, as she often told herself, to be a hard, 
 cautious, selfish, successful woman, without any inter- 
 ference or assistance from such pleasure. Might there 
 not be yet time left for her to try it without selfish- 
 ness, — with an absolute devotion of self, — if only she 
 could find the right companion? There was one who 
 might be such a companion, but the Duke of Omnium 
 certainly could not be such a one. 
 
 But to be Duchess of Omnium! After all, success 
 in this world is everything; — is at any rate the only 
 thing the pleasure of which will endure. There was 
 the name of many a woman written in a black list 
 within Madame Goesler's breast, — written there because 
 of scorn, because of rejected overtures, because of deep 
 social injury; and Madame Goesler told herself often 
 that it would be a pleasure to her to use the list, and 
 to be revenged on those who had ill-used and scorn- 
 fully treated her. She did not readily forgive those 
 who had injured her. As Duchess of Omnium she 
 thought that probably she might use that list with effi- 
 cacy. Lady Glencora had treated her well, and she 
 had no such feeling against Lady Glencora. As Duchess 
 of Omnium she would accept Lady Glencora as her dearest 
 friend, if Lady Glencora would admit it. But if it should 
 be necessary that there should be a little duel between 
 
I20 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 them, as to which of them should take the Duke in 
 hand, the duel must of course be fought. In a matter 
 so important, one woman would of course expect no 
 false sentiment from another. She and Lady Glencora 
 would understand each other; — and no doubt, respect 
 each other. 
 
 I have said that she would sit there resolving, or 
 trying to resolve. There is nothing in the world so 
 difficult as that task of making up one's mind. Who 
 is there that has not longed that the power and pri- 
 vilege of selection among alternatives should be taken 
 away from him in some important crisis of his life, and 
 that his conduct should be arranged for him, either 
 this way or that, by some divine power if it were pos- 
 sible, — by some patriarchal power in the absence of 
 divinity, — or by chance even, if nothing better than 
 chance could be found to do it? But no one dares to 
 cast the die, and to go honestly by the hazard. 
 There must be the actual necessity of obeying the 
 die, before even the die can be of any use. As it 
 was, when Madame Goesler had sat there for an hour, 
 till her legs were tired beneath her, she had not re- 
 solved. It must be as her impulse should direct her 
 when the important moment came. There was not a 
 soul on earth to whom she could go for counsel, and 
 when she asked herself for counsel, the counsel would 
 not come. 
 
 Two days afterwards the Duke called again. He 
 would come generally on a Thursday, — early, so that 
 he might be there before other visitors; and he had 
 already quite learned that when he was there other 
 visitors would probably be refused admittance. How 
 Lady Glencora had made her way in, telling the 
 
MADAME GOESLER'S POLITICS. 
 
 121 
 
 servant that her uncle was there, he had not understood. 
 That visit had been made on the Thursday, but now 
 he came on the Saturday, — having, I regret to say, 
 sent down some early fruit from his own hot-houses, — 
 or from Covent Garden, — with a little note on the 
 previous day. The grapes might have been pretty 
 well, but the note was injudicious. There were three 
 lines about the grapes, as to which there was some 
 special history, the vine having been brought from the 
 garden of some villa in which some ill-used queen had 
 lived and died; and then there was a postscript in one 
 line to say that the Duke would call on the following 
 morning. I do not think that he had meant to add 
 this when he began his note; but then children, who 
 want the top brick, want it so badly, and cry for it so 
 perversely ! 
 
 Of course Madame Goesler was at home. But even 
 then she had not made up her mind. She had made 
 up her mind only to this, — that he should be made to 
 speak plainly, and that she would take time for her 
 reply. Not even with such a gem as the Duke's coronet 
 before her eyes, would she jump at it. Where there 
 was so much doubt, there need at least be no impatience. 
 
 "You ran away the other day, Duke, because you 
 could not resist the charm of that little boy," she said, 
 laughing. 
 
 "He is a dear little boy, — but it was not that," he 
 answered. 
 
 "Then what was it? Your niece carried you off in 
 a whirl-wind. She was come and gone, taking you 
 with her, in half a minute." 
 
 "She had disturbed me when I was thinking of 
 something," said the Duke. 
 
122 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "Things shouldn't be thought of, — not so deeply 
 as that." Madame Goesler was playing with a bunch 
 of his grapes now, eating one or two, from a small 
 china plate which had stood upon the table, and he 
 thought that he had never seen a woman so graceful 
 and yet so natural. "Will you not eat your own 
 grapes with me? They are delicious; — flavoured with 
 the poor queen's sorrows." He shook his head, know- 
 ing that it did not suit his gastric juices to have to 
 deal with fruit eaten at odd times. "Never think, 
 Duke. I am convinced that it does no good. It 
 simply means doubting, and doubt always leads to 
 error. The safest way in the world is to do nothing." 
 
 "I believe so," said the Duke. 
 
 "Much the safest. But if you have not sufficient 
 command over yourself to enable you to sit in repose, 
 always quiet, never committing yourself to the chance 
 of any danger, — then take a leap in the dark; or rather 
 many leaps. A stumbling horse regains his footing by 
 persevering in his onward course. As for moving 
 cautiously, that I detest." 
 
 "And yet one must think; — for instance, whether 
 one will succeed or not." 
 
 "Take that for granted always. Remember, I do 
 not recommend motion at all. Repose is my idea of 
 life; — repose and grapes." 
 
 The Duke sat for a while silent, taking his repose 
 as far as the outer man was concerned, looking at his 
 top brick of the chimney, as from time to time she ate 
 one of his grapes. Probably she did not eat above 
 half-a-dozen of them altogether, but he thought that 
 the grapes must have been made for the woman, she 
 was so pretty in the eating of them. But it was ne- 
 
MADAME GOESLER^S POLITICS. 
 
 123 
 
 cessary that he should speak at last. "Have you been 
 thinking of coming to Como?'' he said. 
 
 "I told you that I never think." 
 
 *'But I want an answer to my proposition.'^ 
 
 "I thought I had answered your Grace on that 
 question." Then she put down the grapes, and moved 
 herself on her chair, so that she sat with her face 
 turned away from him. 
 
 "But a request to a lady may be made twice." 
 
 "Oh, yes. And I am grateful, knowing how far 
 it is from your intention to do me any harm. And I 
 am somewhat ashamed of my warmth on the other 
 day. But still there can be but one answer. There 
 are delights which a woman must deny herself, let 
 them be ever so delightful." 
 
 "I had thought, " the Duke began, and then 
 
 he stopped himself. 
 
 "Your Grace was saying that you thought, " 
 
 "Marie, a man at my age does not like to be 
 denied." 
 
 "What man likes to be denied anything by a woman 
 at any age? A woman who denies anything is called 
 cruel at once, — even though it be her very soul." She 
 had turned round upon him now, and was leaning 
 forward towards him from her chair, so that he could 
 touch her if he put out his hand. 
 
 He put out his hand and touched her. "Marie," 
 he said, "will you deny me if I ask?" 
 
 "Nay, my lord; how shall I say? There is many 
 a trifle I would deny you. There is many a great gift 
 I would give you willingly." 
 
 "But the greatest gift of all?" 
 
 "My lord, if you have anything to say, you must 
 
124 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 say it plainly. There never was a woman worse than 
 I am at the reading of riddles." 
 
 "Could you endure to live in the quietude of an 
 Italian lake with an old man?" Now he touched her 
 again, and had taken her hand. 
 
 "No, my lord; — nor with a young one, — for all my 
 days. But I do not know that age would guide me." 
 
 Then the Duke rose and made his proposition in 
 form. "Marie, you know that I love you. Why it is 
 that I at my age should feel so sore a love, I cannot say." 
 
 "So sore a love!" 
 
 "So sore, if it be not gratified. Marie, I ask you 
 to be my wife." 
 
 "Duke of Omnium, this from you!" 
 
 "Yes, from me. My coronet is at your feet. If 
 you will allow me to raise it, I will place it on your 
 brow." 
 
 Then she went away from him, and seated herself 
 at a distance. After a moment or two he followed her, 
 and stood with his arm upon her shoulder. "You will 
 give me an answer, Marie?" 
 
 "You cannot have thought of this, my lord." 
 
 "Nay; I have thought of it much." 
 
 "And your friends?" 
 
 "My dear, I may venture to please myself in this, 
 — as in everything. Will you not answer me?" 
 
 "Certainly not on the spur of the moment, my 
 lord. Think how high is the position you offer me, 
 and how immense is the change you propose to me. 
 Allow me two days, and I will answer you by letter. 
 I am so fluttered now that I must leave you." Then 
 he came to her, took her hand, kissed her brow, and 
 opened the door for her. 
 
ANOTHER DUEL. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 Another Duel. 
 
 It happened that there were at this time certain 
 matters of business to be settled between the Duke of 
 Omnium and his nephew Mr. PalUser, respecting which 
 the latter called upon his uncle on the morning after 
 the Duke had committed himself by his offer. Mr. 
 Palliser had come hy appointment made with Mr. 
 Fothergill, the Duke^s man of business, and had ex- 
 pected to meet Mr. Fothergill. Mr. Fothergill, however, 
 was not with the Duke, and the uncle told the nephew 
 that the business had been postponed. Then Mr. 
 Palliser asked some question as to the reason of such 
 postponement, not meaning much by his question, — 
 and the Duke, after a moment's hesitation, answered 
 him, meaning very much by his answer. "The truth 
 is, Plantagenet, that it is possible that I may marry, 
 and if so this arrangement would not suit me." 
 
 "Are you going to be married?" asked the astonished 
 nephew. 
 
 "It is not exactly that, — but it is possible that I 
 may do so. Since I proposed this matter to Fother- 
 gill, I have been thinking over it, and I have changed 
 my mind. It will make but little difference to you; 
 and after all you are a far richer man than I am." 
 
 "I am not thinking of money, Duke," said Plan- 
 tagenet Palliser. 
 
PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "Of what then were you thinking?" 
 "Simply of what you told me. I do not in the 
 least mean to interfere." 
 
 "I hope not, Plantagenet." 
 
 "But I could not hear such a statement from you 
 without some surprise. Whatever you do I hope will 
 tend to make you happy." 
 
 So much passed between the uncle and the nephew, 
 and what the uncle told to the nephew, the nephew of 
 course told to his wife. "He was with her again, 
 yesterday," said Lady Glencora, "for more than an 
 hour. And he had been half the morning dressing 
 himself before he went to her." 
 
 "He is not engaged to her, or he would have told 
 me," said Phantagenet Palliser. 
 
 "I think he would, but there is no knowing. At 
 the present moment I have only one doubt, — whether 
 to act upon him or upon her." 
 
 "I do not see that you can do good by going to 
 either." 
 
 "Well, we will see. If she be the woman I take 
 her to be, I think I could do something with her. I 
 liave never supposed her to be a bad woman, — never. 
 I will think of it." Then Lady Glencora left her hus- 
 band, and did not consult him afterwards as to the 
 course she would pursue. He had his budget to manage, 
 and his speeches to make. The little affair of the 
 Duke and Madame Goesler, she thought it best to 
 take into her own hands without any assistance from 
 him. "What a fool I was," she said to herself, "to 
 have her down there when the Duke was at Match- 
 ing!" 
 
 Madame Goesler, when she was left alone, felt that 
 
ANOTHER DUEL. 
 
 127 
 
 now indeed she must make up her mind. She had 
 asked for two days. The intervening day was a Sun- 
 day, and on the Monday she must send her answer. 
 She might doubt at any rate for this one night, — the 
 Saturday night, — and sit playing, as it were, with the 
 coronet of a duchess in her lap. She had been born 
 the daughter of a small country attorney, and now a 
 duke had asked her to be his wife, — and a duke who 
 was acknowledged to stand above other dukes! No- 
 thing at any rate could rob her of that satisfaction. 
 Whatever resolution she might form at last, she had 
 by her own resources reached a point of success in re- 
 membering which there would always be a keen grati- 
 fication. It would be much to be Duchess of Omnium; 
 but it would be something also to have refused to be 
 a Duchess of Omnium. During that evening, that 
 night, and the next morning, she remained playing 
 with the coronet in her lap. She would not go to 
 church. What good could any sermon do her while 
 that bauble was dangling before her eyes? After 
 church-time, about two o'clock, Phineas Finn came to 
 her. Just at this period Phineas would come to her 
 often; — sometimes full of a new decision to forget Violet 
 Effingham altogether, at others minded to continue 
 his siege let the hope of success be ever so small. He 
 had now heard that Violet and Lord Chiltern had in 
 truth quarrelled, and was of course anxious to be ad- 
 vised to continue the siege. When he first came in 
 and spoke a word or two, in which there was no re- 
 ference to Violet Effingham, there came upon Madame 
 Goesler a strong wish to decide at once that she would 
 play no longer with the coronet, that the gem was not 
 worth the cost she would be called upon to pay for it. 
 
128 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 There was something in the world better for her than 
 the coronet, — if only it might be had. But within ten 
 minutes he had told her the whole tale about Lord 
 Chiltern, and how he had seen Violet at Lady Bal- 
 dock's, — and how there might yet be hope for him. 
 What would she advise him to do? "Go home, Mr. 
 Finn," she said, "and write a sonnet to her eyebrow. 
 See if that will have any effect." 
 
 "Ah, well! It is natural that you should laugh at 
 me; but somehow, I did not expect it from you." 
 
 "Do not be angry with me. What I mean is that 
 such little things seem to influence this Violet of 
 yours." 
 
 "Do they? I have not found that they do so." 
 
 "If she had loved Lord Chiltern she would not 
 have quarrelled with him for a few words. If she had 
 loved you, she would not have accepted Lord Chiltern. 
 If she loves neither of you, she should say so. I am 
 losing my respect for her." 
 
 "Do not say that, Madame Goesler. I respect her 
 as strongly as I love her." Then Madame Goesler al- 
 most made up her mind that she would have the coronet. 
 There was a substance about the coronet that would 
 not elude her grasp. 
 
 Late that afternoon, while she was still hesitating, 
 there came another caller to the cottage in Park Lane. 
 She was still hesitating, feeling that she had as yet an- 
 other night before her. Should she be Duchess of 
 Omnium or not? All that she wished to be, she could 
 not be; — but to be Duchess of Omnium was within her 
 reach. Then she began to ask herself various ques- 
 tions. Would the Queen refuse to accept her in her 
 new rank? Refuse! How could any Queen refuse to 
 
ANOTHER DUEL. 
 
 129 
 
 accept her? She had not done aught amiss in life. 
 There was no slur on her name; no stain on her cha- 
 racter. What, though her father had been a small at- 
 torney, and her first husband a Jew banker! She had 
 broken no law of God or man, had been accused of 
 breaking no law, which breaking or which accusation 
 need stand in the way of her being as good a duchess 
 as any other woman! She was sitting thinking of this, 
 almost angry with herself at the awe with which the 
 proposed rank inspired her, when Lady Glencora was 
 announced to her. 
 
 "Madame Goesler," said Lady Glencora, "I am 
 very glad to find you.'' 
 
 "And I more than equally so, to be found/' said 
 Madame Goesler, smiling with all her grace. 
 
 "My uncle has been with you since I saw you last?" 
 
 "Oh yes; — more than once if I remember right. 
 He was here yesterday at any rate." 
 
 "He comes often to you then?" 
 
 "Not so often as I would wish, Lady Glencora. 
 The Duke is one of my dearest friends." 
 
 "It has been a quick friendship." 
 
 "Yes; — a quick friendship," said Madame Goesler. 
 Then there was a pause for some moments which 
 Madame Goesler was determined that she would not 
 break. It was clear to her now on what ground Lady 
 Glencora had come to her, and she was full minded 
 that if she could bear the full light of the god himself 
 in all his glory, she would not allow herself to be 
 scorched by any reflected heat coming from the god's 
 niece. She thought she could endure anything that 
 Lady Glencora might say; but she would wait and hear 
 what might be said. 
 
 Phineas Fi?in. Ill, 9 
 
I30 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "I think, Madame Goesler, that I had better hurry 
 on to my subject at once," said Lady Glencora, ahxiost 
 hesitating as she spoke, and feeling that the colour 
 was rushing up to her cheeks and covering her brow. 
 "Of course what I have to say will be disagreeable. 
 Of course I shall offend you. And yet I do not 
 mean it." 
 
 "I shall be offended at nothing, Lady Glencora, 
 unless I think that you mean to offend me." 
 
 "I protest that I do not. You have seen my little boy." 
 
 "Yes, indeed. The sweetest child! God never 
 gave me anything half so precious as that." 
 
 "He is the Duke's heir." 
 
 "So I understand." 
 
 "For myself, by my honour as a woman, I care 
 nothing. I am rich and have all that the world can 
 give me. For my husband, in this matter, I care no- 
 thing. His career he will make for himself, and it 
 will depend on no title." 
 
 "Why all this to me. Lady Glencora? What have 
 I to do with your husband's titles?" 
 
 "Much; — if it be true that there is an idea of mar- 
 riage between you and the Duke of Omnium." 
 
 "Psha!" said Madame Goesler, with all the scorn 
 of which she was mistress. 
 
 "It is untrue, then?" asked Lady Glencora. 
 
 "No; — it is not untrue. There is an idea of such 
 a marriage." 
 
 "And you are engaged to him?" 
 
 "No; — I am not engaged to him." 
 
 "Has he asked you?" 
 
 "Lady Glencora, I really must say that such a cross- 
 questioning from one lady to another is very unusual. I 
 
ANOTHER DUEL, 
 
 13^ 
 
 have promised not to be offended, unless I thought that 
 you wished to offend me. But do not drive me too far." 
 
 "Madame Goesler, if you will tell me that I am 
 mistaken, I will beg your pardon, and offer to you the most 
 sincere friendship which one woman can give another." 
 
 "Lady Glencora, I can tell you nothing of the kind." 
 
 "Then it is to be so! And have you thought what 
 you would gain?" 
 
 "I have thought much of what I should gain: — and 
 something also of what I should lose." 
 
 "You have money." 
 
 "Yes, indeed; plenty, — for wants so moderate as mine." 
 "And position." 
 
 "Well, yes; a sort of position. Not such as yo^irs. 
 Lady Glencora. That, if it be not born to a woman, 
 can only come to her from a husband. She cannot 
 win it for herself." 
 
 "You are free as air, going where you like, and 
 doing what you like." 
 
 "Too free, sometimes," said Madame Goesler. 
 
 "And what will you gain by changing all this 
 simply for a title?" 
 
 "But for such a title. Lady Glencora! It may be 
 little to you to be Duchess of Omnium, but think what 
 it must be to me!" 
 
 "And for this you will not hesitate to rob him of 
 all his friends, to embitter his future life, to degrade 
 him among his peers, ^" 
 
 "Degrade him! Who dares say that I shall degrade 
 him? He will exalt me, but I shall no whit degrade 
 him. You forget yourself. Lady Glencora." 
 
 "Ask any one. It is not that I despise you. If I 
 did, would I offer you my hand in friendship? But an 
 
 9* 
 
132 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 old man, over seventy, carrying the weight and burden 
 of such rank as his, will degrade himself in the eyes 
 of his fellows, if he marries a young woman without 
 rank, -let her be ever so clever, ever so beautiful. A 
 Duke of Omnium may not do as he pleases, as may 
 another man." 
 
 "It may be well. Lady Glencora, for other dukes, 
 and for the daughters and heirs and cousins of other 
 dukes, that his Grace should try that question. I will, 
 if you wish it, argue this matter with you on many 
 points, but I will not allow you to say that I should 
 degrade any man whom I might marry. My name is 
 as unstained as your own." 
 
 "I meant nothing of that," said Lady Glencora. 
 
 "For him; — I certainly would not willingly injure 
 him. Who wishes to injure a friend? And, in truth, 
 I have so little to gain, that the temptation to do him 
 an injury, if I thought it one, is not strong. For your 
 little boy. Lady Glencora, I think your fears are pre- 
 mature." As she said this there came a smile over 
 her face, which threatened to break from control and 
 almost become laughter. "But, if you will allow me 
 to say so, my mind will not be turned against this 
 marriage half so strongly by any arguments you can 
 use as by those which I can adduce myself. You 
 have nearly driven me into it by telling me I should 
 degrade his house. It is almost incumbent on me 
 to prove that you are wrong. But you had better 
 leave me to settle the matter in my own bosom. You 
 had indeed." 
 
 After a while Lady Glencora did leave her, — to 
 settle the matter within her own bosom, — having no 
 other alternative. 
 
THE LETTER THAT WAS SENT TO BRIGHTON. 1 33 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The Letter that was sent to Brighton. 
 
 Monday morning came and Madame Goesler had 
 as yet written no answer to the Duke of Omnium. Had 
 not Lady Glencora gone to Park Lane on the Sunday 
 afternoon, I think the letter would have been written 
 on that day; but, whatever may have been the effect 
 of Lady Glencora's visit, it so far disturbed Madame 
 Goesler as to keep her from her writing-table. There 
 was yet another night for thought, and then the letter 
 should be written on the Monday morning. 
 
 When Lady Glencora left Madame Goesler she went 
 at once to the Duke's house. It was her custom to see 
 her husband's uncle on a Sunday, and she would most 
 frequently find him just at this hour, — before he went 
 up-stairs to dress for dinner. She usually took her 
 boy with her, but on this occasion she went alone. 
 She had tried what she could do with Madame Goesler, 
 and she found that she had failed. She must now 
 make her attempt upon the Duke. But th-e Duke, per- 
 haps anticipating some attack of the kind, had fled. 
 "Where is his grace, Barker?" said Lady Glencora to 
 the porter. "We do not know, your ladyship. His 
 grace went away yesterday evening with nobody but 
 Lapoule." Lapoule was the Duke's French vafet. 
 Lady Glencora could only return home and consider 
 in her own mind what batteries might yet be brought 
 to bear upon the Duke, towards stopping the marriage, 
 
134 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 even after the engagement should have been made, — 
 if it were to be made. Lady Glencora felt that such 
 batteries might still be brought up as v^ould not im- 
 probably have an effect on a proud, weak old man. 
 If all other resources failed, royalty in some of its 
 branches might be induced to make a request, and 
 every august relation in the peerage should interfere. 
 The Duke no doubt might persevere and marry whom 
 he pleased, — if he were strong enough. But it re- 
 quires much personal strength, — that standing alone 
 against the well-armed batteries of all one^s friends. 
 Lady Glencora had once tried such a battle on her 
 own behalf, and had failed. She had wished to be 
 imprudent when she was young; but her friends had 
 been too strong for her. She had been reduced, and 
 kept in order, and made to run in a groove, — and 
 was now, when she sat looking at her little boy with 
 his bold face, almost inclined to think that the world 
 was right, and that grooves were best. But if she had 
 been controlled when she was young, so ought the 
 Duke to be controlled now that he was old. It is all 
 very well for a man or woman to boast that he, — or 
 she, — may do what he likes with his own, — or with 
 her own. But there are circumstances in which such 
 self-action is ruinous to so many that coercion from 
 the outside becomes absolutely needed. Nobody had 
 felt the injustice of such coercion when applied to her- 
 self more sharply than had Lady Glencora. But she 
 had lived to acknowledge that such coercion might be 
 proper, and was ncfw prepared to use it in any shape 
 in which it might be made available. It was all very 
 well for Madame Goesler to laugh and exclaim, "Psha!'' 
 when Lady Glencora declared her real trouble. But 
 
THE LETTER THAT WAS SENT TO BRIGHTON. I 35 
 
 should it ever come to pass that a black-browed baby 
 with a yellow skin should be shown to the world as 
 Lord Silverbridge, Lady Glencora knew that her peace 
 of mind would be gone for ever. She had begun the 
 world desiring one thing, and had missed it. She had 
 sufered much, and had then reconciled herself to other 
 hopes. If those other hopes were also to be cut away 
 frora her, the world would not be worth a pinch of 
 snuf to her. The Duke had fled, and she could do 
 noth'ng to-day; but to-morrow she would begin with 
 her latteries. And she herself had done the mischief! 
 She had invited this woman down to Matching! 
 Heaven and earth! — that such a man as the Duke 
 should be such a fool! — The widow of a Jew banker! 
 He, tht Duke of Omnium, — and thus to cut away from 
 himself for the rest of his life, all honour, all peace of 
 mind, ill the grace of a noble end to a career which, 
 if not v^ry noble in itself, had received the praise of 
 nobility! And to do this for a thin, black-browed, 
 yellow-vi.aged woman with ringlets and deviFs eyes, 
 and a beird on her upper lip, — a Jewess, — a creature 
 of whose habits of life and manners of thought they 
 all were ibsolutely ignorant; who drank, possibly; 
 who mighthave been a forger, for what any one knew; 
 an adventuess who had found her way into society by 
 her art ard perseverance, — and who did not even 
 pretend to .ave a relation in the world! That such a 
 one should lave influence enough to intrude herself 
 into the housi of Omnium, and blot the scutcheon, and, 
 — what was vorst of all, — perhaps be the mother of 
 future dukes! Lady Glencora, in her anger, was very 
 unjust to Malame Goesler, thinking all evil of her, 
 accusing her \ her mind of every crime, denying her 
 
136 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 all charm, all beauty. Had the Duke forgotten him- 
 self and his position for the sake of some fair girl wi:h 
 a pink complexion and grey eyes, and smooth hair, 
 and a father. Lady Glencora thought that she would 
 have forgiven it better. It might be that Madame 
 Goesler would win her way to the coronet; but when 
 she came to put it on, she should find that there were 
 sharp thorns inside the lining of it. Not a wonan 
 worth the knowing in all London should speak to ler; 
 — nor a man either of those men with whom a Duoiess 
 of Omnium would wish to hold converse. She sbDuld 
 find her husband rated as a doting fool, and herself 
 rated as a scheming female adventuress. And it siould 
 go hard with Lady Glencora, if the Duke weie not 
 separated from his new Duchess before the end of 
 the first year! In her anger Lady Glencora wis very 
 unjust. 
 
 The Duke, when he left his house withou' telling 
 his household whither he was going, did ssnd his 
 address to, — the top brick of the chimney. lis note, 
 which was delivered at Madame Goesler's hmse late 
 on the Sunday evening, was as follows: — *I am to 
 have your answer on Monday. I shall be atBrighton. 
 Send it by a private messenger to the Bedord Hotel 
 there. I need not tell you with what expedition, with 
 what hope, with what fear I shall await it.-yO." Poor 
 old man! He had run through all the Measures of 
 life too quickly, and had not much left w^h which to 
 amuse himself. At length he had set hi eyes on a 
 top brick, and being tired of everything ^Ise, wanted 
 it very sorely. Poor old man! How shoW it do him 
 any good, even if he got it? Madame (oesler, when 
 she received the note, sat with it in her ttnd, thinking 
 
THE LETTER THAT WAS SENT TO BRIGHTON. I37 
 
 of his great want. "And he would be tired of his new 
 plaything after a month/' she said to herself. But she 
 had given herself to the next morning, and she would 
 not make up her mind that night. She would sleep 
 once more with the coronet of a duchess within her 
 reach. She did do so; and woke in the morning with 
 her mind absolutely in doubt. When she walked down 
 to breakfast, all doubt was at an end. The time had 
 come when it was necessary that she should resolve, 
 and while her maid was brushing her hair for her she 
 did make her resolution. 
 
 "What a thing it is to be a great lady," said the 
 maid, who may probably have reflected that the Duke 
 of Omnium did not come here so often for nothing. 
 
 "What do you mean by that, Lotta?'' 
 
 "The women I know, madame, talk so much of 
 their countesses, and ladyships, and duchesses. I would 
 never rest till I had a title in this country, if I were 
 a lady, — and rich and beautiful.^' 
 
 "And can the countesses, and the ladyships, and 
 the duchesses do as they please 
 
 "Ah, madame; — I know not that." 
 
 "But I know. That will do, Lotta. Now leave 
 me." Then Madame Goesler had made up her mind; 
 but I do not know whether that doubt as to having 
 her own way had much to do with it. As the wife of 
 an old man she w^ould probably have had much of her 
 own way. Immediately after breakfast she wrote her 
 answer to the Duke, which was as follows: — 
 
 ** Pai-k Lane, Monday. 
 
 "My dear Duke of Omnium, 
 "I find so great a difficulty in expressing myself 
 
138 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 to your grace in a written letter, that since you left 
 me I have never ceased to wish that I had been less 
 nervous, less doubting, and less foolish when you were 
 present with me here in my room. I might then have 
 said in one word what will take so many awkward 
 words to explain. 
 
 "Great as is the honour you propose to confer on 
 me, rich as is the gift you offer to me, I cannot accept 
 it. I cannot be your grace's wife. I may almost say 
 that I knew it was so when you parted from me; but 
 the surprise of the situation took away from me a part 
 of my judgment, and made me unable to answer you 
 as I should have done. My lord, the truth is, that I 
 am not fit to be the wife of the Duke of Omnium. I 
 should injure you; and though I should raise myself 
 in name, I should injure myself in character. But 
 you must not think, because I say this, that there is 
 any reason why I should not be an honest man's wife. 
 There is none. I have nothing on my conscience which 
 I could not tell to you, — or to another man; nothing 
 that I need fear to tell to all the world. Indeed, my 
 lord, there is nothing to tell but this, — that I am not 
 fitted by birth and position to be the wife of the Duke 
 of Omnium. You would have to blush for me, and 
 that no man shall ever have to do on my account. 
 
 "I will own that I have been ambitious, too ambi- 
 tious, and have been pleased to think that one so 
 exalted as you are, one whose high position is so rife 
 in the eyes of all men, should have taken pleasure in 
 my company. I will confess to a foolish woman's 
 silly vanity in having wished to be known to be the 
 friend of the Duke of Omnium. I am like the other 
 moths that flutter near the light and have their wings 
 
THE LETTER THAT WAS SENT TO BRIGHTON. 1 39 
 
 burned. But I am wiser than they in this, that having 
 been scorched, I know that I must keep my distance. 
 You will easily believe that a woman, such as I am, 
 does not refuse to ride in a carriage with your grace's 
 arms on the panels without a regret. I am no philo- 
 sopher. I do not pretend to despise the rich things of 
 the world, or the high things. According to my way 
 of thinking a woman ought to wish to be Duchess of 
 Omnium; — but she ought to wish also to be able to 
 carry her coronet with a proper grace. As Madame 
 Goesler I can live, even among my superiors, at my 
 ease. As your grace's wife, I should be easy no 
 longer; — nor would your grace. 
 
 "You will think perhaps that what I write is heart- 
 less, that I speak altogether of your rank, and not at 
 all of the affection you have shown me, or of that 
 which I might possibly bear towards you. I think 
 that when the first flush of passion is over in early 
 youth men and women should strive to regulate their 
 love, as they do their other desires, by their reason. 
 I could love your grace, fondly, as your wife, if I 
 thought it well for your grace or for myself that we 
 should be man and wife. As I think it would be ill 
 for both of us, I will restrain that feeling, and re- 
 member your grace ever with the purest feeling of 
 true friendship. 
 
 "Before I close this letter, I must utter a word of 
 gratitude. In the kind of life which I have led as a 
 widow, a life which has been very isolated as regards 
 true fellowship, it has been my greatest effort to obtain 
 the good opinion of those among whom I have attempted 
 to make my way. I may, perhaps, own to you now 
 that I have had many difficulties. A woman who is 
 
I40 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 alone in the world is ever regarded with suspicion. 
 In this country a woman with a foreign name, with 
 means derived from foreign sources, with a foreign 
 history, is specially suspected. I have striven to live 
 that down, and I have succeeded. But in my wildest 
 dreams I never dreamed of such success as this, — that 
 the Duke of Omnium should think me the worthiest of 
 the worthy. You may be sure that I am not ungrate- 
 ful, — that I never will be ungrateful. And I trust it 
 will not derogate from your opinion of my worth, that 
 I have known what was due to your grace's highness. 
 "I have the honour to be, 
 
 "My Lord Duke, 
 "Your most obliged and faithful servant, 
 
 "Marie Max Goesler." 
 
 "How many unmarried women in England are 
 there would do the same?" she said to herself, as she 
 folded the paper, and put it into an envelope, and 
 sealed the cover. The moment that the letter was 
 completed she sent it off, as she was directed to send 
 it, so that there might be no possibility of repentance 
 and subsequent hesitation. She had at last made up 
 her mind, and she would stand by the making. She 
 knew that there would come moments in which she 
 would deeply regret the opportunity that she had lost, 
 — the chance of greatness that she had flung away 
 from her. But so would she have often regretted it, 
 also, had she accepted the greatness. Her position 
 was one in which there must be regret, let her decision 
 have been what it might. But she had decided, and 
 the thing was done. She would still be free, — Marie 
 Max Goesler, — unless in abandoning her freedom she 
 
THE LETTER THAT WAS SENT TO BRIGHTON. I4I 
 
 would obtain something that she might in truth prefer 
 to it. When the letter was gone she sat disconsolate, 
 at the window of an up-stairs room in which she had 
 written, thinking much of the coronet, much of the 
 name, much of the rank, much of that position in 
 society which she had flattered herself she might have 
 won for herself as Duchess of Omnium by her beauty, 
 her grace, and her wit. It had not been simply her 
 ambition to be a duchess, without further aim or object. 
 She had fancied that she might have been such a 
 duchess as there is never another, so that her fame 
 might have been great throughout Europe, as a woman 
 charming at all points. And she would have had 
 friends, then, — real friends, and would not have lived 
 alone as it was now her fate to do. And she would 
 have loved her ducal husband, old though he was, and 
 stiff with pomp and ceremony. She would have loved 
 him, and done her best to add something of brightness 
 to his life. It was indeed true that there was one 
 whom she loved better; but of what avail was it to 
 love a man who, when he came to her, would speak 
 to her of nothing but of the charms which he found in 
 another woman! 
 
 She had been sitting thus at her window, with a 
 book in her hand, at which she never looked, gazing 
 over the park which was now beautiful with its May 
 verdure, when on a sudden a thought struck her. Lady 
 Glencora Palliser had come to her, trying to enlist her 
 sympathy for the little heir, behaving, indeed, not very 
 well, as Madame Goesler had thought, but still with 
 an earnest purpose which was in itself good. She 
 would write to Lady Glencora and put her out of her 
 misery. Perhaps there was some feeling of triumph 
 
142 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 in her mind as she returned to the desk from which 
 her epistle had been sent to the Duke; — not of that 
 triumph which would have found its gratification in 
 boasting of the offer that had been made to her, but 
 arising from a feeling that she could now show the 
 proud mother of the bold-faced boy that though she 
 would not pledge herself to any woman as to what she 
 might do or not do, she was nevertheless capable of re- 
 sisting such a temptation as would have been irresistible 
 to many. Of the Duke's 'offer to her she would have 
 spoken to no human being, had not this woman shown 
 that the Duke's purpose was known at least to her, 
 and now, in her letter, she would write no plain word 
 of that offer. She would not state, in words intelligible 
 to any one who might read, that the Duke had offered 
 her his hand and his coronet. But she would write 
 so that Lady Glencora should understand her. And 
 she would be careful that there should be no word in 
 the letter to make Lady Glencora think that she sup- 
 posed herself to |be unfit for the rank offered to her. 
 She had been very humble in what she had written to 
 the Duke, but she would not be at all humble in what 
 she was about to write to the mother of the bold-faced 
 boy. And this was the letter when it was written; — 
 
 "My dear Lady Glencora, 
 "I venture to send you a line to put you out of 
 your misery; — for you were very miserable when you 
 were so good as to come here yesterday. Your dear 
 little boy is safe from me; — and, what is more to the 
 purpose, so are you and your husband, — and your 
 uncle, whom, in truth, I love. You asked me a down- 
 right question which I did not then choose to answer 
 
THE LETTER THAT WAS SENT TO BRIGHTON. I43 
 
 by a downright answer. The downright answer was 
 not at that time due to you. It has since been given, 
 and as I Hke you too well to wish you to be in tor- 
 ment, I send you a line to say that I shall never be in 
 the way of you or your boy. 
 
 "And now, dear Lady Glencora, one word more. 
 Should it ever again appear to you to be necessary to 
 use your zeal for the protection of your husband or 
 your child, do not endeavour to dissuade a woman by 
 trying to make her think that she, by her alliance, 
 would bring degradation into any house, or to any 
 man. If there could have been an argument powerful 
 with me to make me do that which you wished to 
 prevent, it was the argument which you used. But my 
 own comfort, and the happiness of another person 
 whom I value almost as much as myself, were too im- 
 portant to be sacrificed even to a woman's revenge. I 
 take mine by writing to you and telling you that I am 
 better and more rational and wiser than you took me 
 to be. 
 
 "If, after thiSj you choose to be on good terms with 
 me, I shall be happy to be your friend. I shall want 
 no further revenge. You owe me some little apology; 
 but whether you make it or not, I will be contented, 
 and will never do more than ask whether your darling's 
 prospects are still safe. There are more women than 
 one in the world, you know, and you must not con- 
 sider yourself to be out of the wood because you have 
 escaped from a single danger. If there arise another, 
 come to me, and we will consult together. 
 
 "Dear Lady Glencora, yours always sincerely, 
 
 "Marie M. G.'' 
 
144 
 
 PHINEAS FINN» 
 
 There was a thing or two besides which she longed 
 to say, laughing as she thought of them. But she 
 refrained, and her letter, when finished, was as it is 
 given above. 
 
 On the day following, Lady Glencora was again 
 in Park Lane. When she first read Madame Goesler's 
 letter, she felt herself to be annoyed and angry, but 
 her anger was with herself rather than with her cor- 
 respondent. Ever since her last interview with the 
 woman whom she had feared, she had been conscious 
 of having been indiscreet. All her feelings had been 
 too violent, and it might well have been that she 
 should have driven this woman to do the very thing 
 that she was so anxious to avoid. "You owe me some 
 little apology,'' Madame Goesler had said. It was 
 true, — and she would apologise. Undue pride was not 
 a part of Lady Glencora's character. Indeed, there 
 was not enough of pride in her composition. She had 
 been quite ready to hate this woman, and to fight her 
 on every point as long as the danger existed; but she 
 was equally willing to take the woman to her heart 
 now that the danger was over. Apologise! Of course 
 she would apologise. And she would make a friend 
 of the woman if the woman wished it. But she would 
 not have the woman and the Duke at Matching to- 
 gether again, lest, after all, there might be a mistake. 
 She did not show Madame Goesler's letter to her hus- 
 band, or tell him anything of the relief she had re- 
 ceived. He had cared but little for the danger, think- 
 ing more of his budget than of the danger; and would 
 be sufficiently at his ease if he heard no more rumours 
 of his uncle's marriage. Lady Glencora went to Park 
 Lane early on the Tuesday morning, but she did not 
 
THE LETTER THAT WAS SENT TO BRIGHTON. 1 45 
 
 take her boy with her. She understood that Madame 
 Goesler might perhaps indulge in a Uttle gentle raillery 
 at the child's expense, and the mother felt that this 
 might be borne the more easily if the child were not 
 present. 
 
 "I have come to thank you for your letter, 
 Madame Goesler,'' said Lady Glencora, before she sat 
 down. 
 
 "Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 
 or to dance at our bridal?" said Madame Goesler, 
 standing up from her chair and laughing, as she sang 
 the lines. 
 
 "Certainly not to dance at your bridal," said Lady 
 Glencora. 
 
 "Alas! no. You have forbidden the banns too 
 effectually for that, and I sit here wearing the willow 
 all alone. Why shouldn't I be allowed to get married 
 as well as another woman, I wonder? I think you 
 have been very hard upon me among you. But sit 
 down. Lady Glencora. At any rate you come in 
 peace." 
 
 "Certainly in peace, and with much admiration, — 
 and a great deal of love and affection, and all that 
 kind of thing, if you will only accept it." 
 
 "I shall be too proud. Lady Glencora; — for the 
 Duke's sake, if for no other reason." 
 
 "And I have to make my apology." 
 
 "It was made as soon as your carriage stopped at 
 my door with friendly wheels. Of course I understand. 
 I can know how terrible it all was to you, — even 
 though the dear little Plantagenet might not have been 
 in much danger. Fancy what it would be to disturb 
 
 Phineas Finn, III, lO 
 
146 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 the career of a Plantagenet ! I am far too well read in 
 history, I can assure you." 
 
 "I said a word for which I am sorry, and which I 
 should not have said." 
 
 "Never mind the word. After all, it was a true 
 word. I do not hesitate to say so now myself, though 
 I will allow no other woman to say it, — and no man 
 either. I should have degraded him, — and disgraced 
 him." Madame Goesler now had dropped the bantering 
 tone which she had assumed, and was speaking in 
 sober earnest. "I, for myself, have nothing about me 
 of which I am ashamed. I have no history to hide, 
 no story to be brought to light to my discredit. But 
 I have not been so born, or so placed by circum- 
 stances, as to make me fit to be the wife of the Duke 
 of Omnium. I should not have been happy, you know." 
 
 "You want nothing, dear Madame Goesler. You 
 have all that society can give you." 
 
 "I do not know about that. I have much given to 
 me by society, but there are many things that I want; 
 — a bright-faced little boy, for instance, to go about 
 with me in my carriage. Why did you not bring him. 
 Lady Glencora?" 
 
 came out in my penitential sheet, and when one 
 goes in that guise, one goes alone. I had half a mind 
 to walk." 
 
 "You will bring him soon?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. He was very anxious to know the other 
 day who was the beautiful lady with the black 
 hair." 
 
 "You did not tell him that the beautiful lady with 
 
 the black hair was a possible aunt, was a possible ? 
 
 But we will not think any more of things so horrible." 
 
THE LETTER THAT WAS SENT TO BRIGHTON. 1 47 
 
 told him nothing of my fears, you may be 
 
 sure." 
 
 "Some day, when I am a very old woman, and 
 when his father is quite an old duke, and when he 
 has a dozen little boys and girls of his own, you will 
 tell him the story. Then he will reflect what a mad- 
 man his great uncle must have been, to have thought 
 of making a duchess out of such a wizened old woman 
 as that.'' 
 
 They parted the best of friends, but Lady Glencora 
 was still of opinion that if the lady and the Duke were 
 to be brought together at Matching, or elsewhere, 
 there might still be danger. 
 
 10^ 
 
148 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Showing how the Duke stood his Ground. 
 
 Mr. Low, the barrister, who had given so many 
 lectures to our friend Phineas Finn, lectures that ought 
 to have been useful, was now himself in the House of 
 Commons, having reached it in the legitimate course 
 of his profession. At a certain point of his career, 
 supposing his career to have been sufficiently pros- 
 perous, it becomes natural to a barrister to stand for 
 some constituency, and natural for him also to form his 
 politics at that period of his life with a view to his 
 further advancement, looking, as he does so, carefully 
 at the age and standing of the various candidates for 
 high legal office. When a man has worked as Mr. 
 Low had worked, he begins to regard the bench wist- 
 fully, and to calculate the profits of a two years' run 
 in the Attorney -Generalship. It is the way of the 
 profession, and thus a proper and sufficient number of 
 real barristers finds its way into the House. Mr. Low 
 had been angry with Phineas because he, being a 
 barrister had climbed into it after another fashion, 
 having taken up politics, not in the proper way as an 
 assistance to his great profession, but as a profession 
 in itself 4 Mr. Low had been quite sure that his pupil 
 had been wrong in this, and that the error would at 
 last show itself, to his pupil's cost. And Mrs. Low had 
 been more sure than Mr. Low, having not unnaturally 
 been jealous that a young whipper-snapper of a pupil, 
 
SHOWING HOW THE DUKE STOOD HIS GROUND. 1 49 
 
 — as she had once called Phineas, — should become a 
 Parliament man before her husband, who had worked 
 his way up gallantly, in the usual course. She would 
 not give way a jot even now, — not even when she 
 heard that Phineas was going to marry this and that 
 heiress. For at this period of his life such rumours 
 were afloat about him, originating probably in his 
 hopes as to Violet Effingham and his intimacy with 
 Madame Goesler. "Oh, heiresses!" said Mrs. Low. "I 
 don't believe in heiresses' money till I see it. Three or 
 four hundred a year is a great fortune for a woman, 
 but it don't go far in keeping a house in London. 
 And when a woman has got a little money she gener- 
 ally knows how to spend it. He has begun at the 
 wrong end, and they who do that never get themselves 
 right at the last." 
 
 At this time Phineas had become somewhat of a 
 fine gentleman, which made Mrs. Low the more angry 
 with him. He showed himself willing enough to go to 
 Mrs. Low's house, but when there he seemed to her to 
 give himself airs. I think that she was unjust to him, 
 and that it was natural that he should not bear him- 
 self beneath her remarks exactly as he had done when 
 he was nobody. He had certainly been very success- 
 ful. He was always listened to in the House, and 
 rarely spoke except on subjects which belonged to him, 
 or had been allotted to him as part of his business. 
 He lived quite at his ease with people of the highest 
 rank, — and those of his own mode of life who disliked 
 him did so simply because they regarded with envy 
 his too rapid rise. He rode upon a pretty horse in the 
 park, and was careful in his dress, and had about him 
 an air of comfortable wealth which Mrs. Low thought 
 
PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 he had not earned. When her husband told her of 
 his sufficient salary, she would shake her head and ex- 
 press her opinion that a good time was coming. By 
 which she perhaps meant to imply a belief that a time 
 was coming in which her husband would have a salary 
 much better than that now enjoyed by Phineas, and 
 much more likely to be permanent. The Radicals 
 were not to have office for ever, and when they were 
 gone, what then? "I don't suppose he saves a shilling,'' 
 said Mrs. Low. "How can he, keeping a horse in the 
 park, and hunting down in the country, and living with 
 lords? I shouldn't wonder if he isn't found to be over head 
 and ears in debt when things come to be looked into." 
 Mrs. Low was fond of an assured prosperity, of money 
 in the funds, and was proud to think that her husband 
 lived in a house of his own. "^19 10^. ground-rent 
 to the Portman estate is what we pay, Mr. Bunce," 
 she once said to that gallant Radical, "and that comes 
 of beginning at the right end. Mr. Low had nothing 
 when he began the world, and I had just what made 
 us decent the day we married. But he began at the 
 right end, and let things go as they may he can't get 
 a fall." Mr. Bunce and Mrs. Low, though they 
 differed much in politics, sympathised in reference to 
 Phineas. 
 
 "I never believes, ma'am, in nobody doing any 
 good by getting a place," said Mr. Bunce. "Of course 
 I don't mean judges and them like, which must be. But 
 when a young man has ever so much a year for sitting 
 in a big room down at Whitehall, and reading a news- 
 paper with his feet up on a chair, I don't think it 
 honest, whether he's a Parliament man or whether he 
 ain't." Whence Mr. Bunce had got his notions as to 
 
SHOWING HOW THE DUKE STOOD HIS GROUND. I5I 
 
 the way in which officials at Whitehall pass their time, 
 I cannot say; but his notions are very common notions. 
 The British world at large is slow to believe that the 
 great British housekeeper keeps no more cats than 
 what kill mice. 
 
 Mr. Low, who was now frequently in the habit of 
 seeing Phineas at the House, had somewhat changed 
 his opinions, and was not so eager in condemning 
 Phineas as was his wife. He had begun to think that 
 perhaps Phineas had shown some knowledge of his 
 own aptitudes in the career which he had sought, and 
 was aware, at any rate, that his late pupil was some- 
 body in the House of Commons. A man will almost 
 always respect him whom those around him respect, 
 and will generally look up to one who is evidently 
 above himself in his own daily avocation. Now 
 Phineas was certainly above Mr. Low in parliamentary 
 reputation. He sat on a front bendh. He knew the 
 leaders of parties. He was at home amidst the forms 
 of the House. He enjoyed something of the prestige 
 of Government power. And he walked about familiar- 
 ly with the sons of dukes and the brothers of earls in 
 a manner which had its effect even on Mr. Low. 
 Seeing these things Mr. Low could not maintain his 
 old opinion as stoutly as did his wife. It was almost 
 a privilege to Mr. Low to be intimate with Phineas 
 Finn. How then could he look down upon him? 
 
 He was surprised, therefore, one day when Phineas 
 discussed the matter with him fully. Phineas had 
 asked him what would be his chance of success if even 
 now he were to give up politics and take to the Bar 
 as the means of earning his livelihood. "You would 
 
PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 have uphill work at first, as a matter of course," said 
 Mr. Low. 
 
 "But it might be done, I suppose. To have been 
 in office would not be fatal to me?" 
 
 "No, not fatal. Nothing of the kind need be fatal. 
 Men have succeeded, and have sat on the bench after- 
 wards, who did not begin till they were past forty. 
 You would have to live down a prejudice created 
 against yourself; that is all. The attorneys do not like 
 barristers who are anything else but barristers." 
 
 "The attorneys are very arbitrary, I know," said 
 Phineas. 
 
 "Yes; — and there would be this against you — that 
 it is so difficult for a man to go back to the verdure 
 and malleability of pupildom, who has once escaped 
 from the necessary humility of its conditions. You 
 will find it difficult to sit and wait for business in 
 a Vice-Chancellor's Court, after having had Vice- 
 Chancellors, or men as big as Vice-Chancellors , to 
 wait upon you." 
 
 "I do not think much of that." 
 
 "But others would think of it, and you would find 
 that there were difficulties. But you are not thinking 
 of it in earnest?" 
 
 "Yes, in earnest." 
 
 "Why so? I should have thought that every day 
 had removed you further and further from any such 
 idea." 
 
 "The ground Tm on at present is so slippery." 
 
 "Well, yes. I can understand that. But yet it is 
 less slippery than it used to be." 
 
 "Ah; — you do not exactly see. What if I were to 
 lose my seat?" 
 
SHOWING HOW THE DUKE STOOD HIS GROUND. 1 53 
 
 "You are safe at least for the next four years, I 
 should say." 
 
 "Ah; — no one can tell. And suppose I took it 
 into my head to differ from the Government?" 
 
 "You must not do that. You have put yourself into 
 a boat with these men, and you must remain in the 
 boat. I should have thought all that was easy to you." 
 
 "It is not so easy at it seems. The very necessity 
 of sitting still in the boat is in itself irksome, — very 
 irksome. And then there comes some crisis in which 
 a man cannot sit still." 
 
 "Is there any such crisis at hand now?" 
 
 "I cannot say that; — but I am beginning to find that 
 sitting still is very disagreeable to me. When I hear 
 those fellows below having their own way, and saying 
 just what they like, it makes me furious. There is 
 Robson. He tried office for a couple of years and has 
 broken away; and now, by George, there is no man 
 they think so much of as they do of Robson. He is twice 
 the man he was when he sat on the Treasury Bench." 
 
 "He is a man of fortune; — is he not?" 
 
 "I suppose so. Of course he is, because he lives. 
 He never earns anything. His wife had money." 
 
 "My dear Finn, that makes all the difference. When 
 a man has means of his own he can please himself. 
 Do you marry a wife with money, and then you may 
 kick up your heels, and do as you like about the Co- 
 lonial Office. When a man hasn't money, of course he 
 must fit himself to the circumstances of a profession." 
 
 "Though his profession may require him to be 
 dishonest." 
 
 "I did not say that." 
 
 "But I say it, my dear Low. A man who is ready 
 
154 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 to vote black white because somebody tells him, is dis- 
 honest. Never mind, old fellow. I shall pull through, 
 I daresay. Don't go and tell your wife all this, or she'll 
 be harder upon me than ever when she sees me." After 
 that Mr. Low began to think that his wife's judgment 
 in this matter had been better than his own. 
 
 Robson could do as he liked because he had 
 married a woman with money. Phineas told himself 
 that that game was also open to him. He, too, might 
 marry money. Violet Effingham had money; — quite 
 enough to make him independent were he married to 
 her. And Madame Goesler had money; — plenty of 
 money. And an idea had begun to creep upon him 
 that Madame Goesler would take him were he to offer 
 himself. But he would sooner go back to the Bar as 
 the lowest pupil, sooner clean boots for barristers, — -so 
 he told himself, — than marry a woman simply because 
 she had money, than marry any other woman as long 
 as there was a chance that Violet might be won. But 
 it was very desirable that he should know whether 
 Violet might be won or not. It was now July, and 
 everybody would be gone in another month. Before 
 August would be over he was to start for Ireland with 
 Mr. Monk, and he knew that words would be spoken 
 in Ireland which might make it indispensable for him 
 to be, at any rate, able to throw up his office. In these 
 days he became more anxious than he used to be about 
 Miss Effingham's fortune. 
 
 He had never spoken as yet to Lord Brentford since 
 the day on which the Earl had quarrelled with him, 
 nor had he ever been at the house in Portman Square. 
 Lady Laura he met occasionally, and had always 
 spoken to her. She was gracious to him, but there 
 
SHOWING HOW THE DUKE STOOD HIS GROUND. 1 55 
 
 had been no renewal of their intimacy. Rumours had 
 reached him that things were going badly with her and 
 her husband; but when men repeated such rumours in 
 his presence, he said little or nothing on the subject. It 
 was not for him, at any rate, to speak of Lady Laura's 
 unhappiness. Lord Chiltern he had seen once or twice 
 during the last month, and they had met cordially as 
 friends. Of course he could ask no question from 
 Lord Chiltern as to Violet; but he did learn that his 
 friend had again patched up some reconciliation with 
 his father. "He has quarrelled with me, you know," 
 said Phineas. 
 
 "I am very sorry, but what could I do? As things 
 went, I was obliged to tell him." 
 
 "Do not suppose for a moment that I am blaming 
 you. It is, no doubt, much better that he should knov/ 
 it all." 
 
 "And it cannot make much difference to you, I 
 should say." 
 
 "One doesn't like to quarrel with those who have 
 been kind to one," said Phineas. 
 
 "But it isn't your doing. He'll come right again 
 after a time. When I can get my own affairs settled, 
 you may be sure I'll do my best to bring him round. 
 But what's the reason you never see Laura now?" 
 
 "What's the reason that everything goes awry?" 
 said Phineas bitterly. 
 
 "When I mentioned your name to Kennedy the 
 other day, he looked as black as thunder. But it is 
 not odd that any one should quarrel with him. I can't 
 stand him. Do you know, I sometimes think that 
 Laura will have to give it up. Then there will be an- 
 other mess in the family!" 
 
156 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 This was all very well as coming from Lord Chil- 
 tern; but there was no word about Violet, and Phineas 
 did not know how to get a word from any one. Lady 
 Laura could have told him everything, but he could 
 not go to Lady Laura. He did go to Lady Baldock's 
 house as often as he thought he could with propriety, 
 and occasionally he saw Violet. But he could do no 
 more than see her, and the days and weeks were 
 passing by, and the time was coming in which he 
 would have to go away, and be with her no more. 
 ' The end of the season, which was always to other men, 
 — to other working men such as our hero, — a period 
 of pleasurable anticipation, to him was a time of sad- 
 ness, in which he felt that he was not exactly like to, 
 or even equal to, the men with whom he lived in 
 London. In the old days, in which he was allowed to 
 go to Loughlinter or to Saulsby, when all men and 
 women were going to their Loughlinters and their 
 Saulsbys, it was very well with him; but there was 
 something melancholy to him in his yearly journey to 
 Ireland. He loved his father and mother and sisters 
 as well as do other men; but there was a falling off in 
 the manner of his life which made him feel that he 
 had been in some sort out of his own element in Lon- 
 don. He would have liked to have shot grouse at 
 Loughlinter, or pheasants at Saulsby, or to have hunted 
 down at Willingford, — or better still, to have made 
 love to Violet Effingham wherever Violet Effingham 
 might have placed herself. But all this was closed to 
 him now; and there would be nothing for him but to 
 remain at Killaloe, or to return to his work in Down- 
 ing Street, from August to February. Mr. Monk, indeed, 
 was going with him for a few weeks; but even this 
 
SHOWING HOW THE DUKE STOOD HIS GROUND. 1 57 
 
 association did not make up for that sort of society 
 which he would have preferred. 
 
 The session went on very quietly. The question of 
 the Irish Reform Bill was postponed till the next year, 
 which was a great thing gained. He carried his bill 
 about the Canada Railway, with sundry other small 
 bills appertaining to it, through the House in a manner 
 which redounded infinitely to his credit. There was 
 just enough of opposition to give a zest to the work, 
 and to make the affair conspicuous among the affairs 
 of the year. As his chief was in the other House, the 
 work fell altogether into his hands, so that he came to 
 be conspicuous among Under Secretaries. It was only 
 when he said a word to any leaders of his party about 
 other matters, — about Irish Tenant-right, for instance, 
 which was beginning to loom very large, that he found 
 himself to be snubbed. But there was no room for 
 action this year in reference to Irish Tenant-right, and 
 therefore any deep consideration of that discomfort 
 might be legitimately postponed. If he did by chance 
 open his mouth on the subject to Mr. Monk, even Mr. 
 Monk discouraged him. 
 
 In the early days of July, when the weather was 
 very hot, and people were beginning to complain of 
 the Thames, and members were becoming thirsty after 
 grouse, and the remaining days of parliamentary work 
 were being counted up, there came to him news, — 
 news that was soon known throughout the fashionable 
 world, — that the Duke of Omnium was going to give 
 a garden party at a certain villa residence on the 
 banks of the Thames above Ri(ihmond. It was to be 
 such a garden party as had never been seen before. 
 And it would be the more remarkable because the 
 
158 
 
 PHINEAS FINN, 
 
 Duke had never been known to do such a thing. The 
 villa was called The Horns, and had, indeed, been 
 given by the Duke to Lady Glencora on her marriage; 
 but the party was to be the Duke's party, and The 
 Horns, with all its gardens, conservatories, lawns, 
 shrubberies, paddocks, boat-houses, and boats, was to 
 be made bright and beautiful for the occasion. Scores 
 of workmen were about the place through the three 
 first weeks of July. The world at large did not at all 
 know why the Duke was doing so unwonted a thing, 
 — why he should undertake so new a trouble. But 
 Lady Glencora knew, and Madame Goesler shrewdly 
 guessed, the riddle. When Madame Goesler's unex- 
 pected refusal had reached his grace, he felt that he 
 must either accept the lady's refusal, or persevere. 
 After a day's consideration, he resolved that he would 
 accept it. The top brick of the chimney was very de- 
 sirable; but perhaps it might be well that he should 
 endeavour to live without it. Then, accepting this re- 
 fusal, he must either stand his ground and bear the 
 blow, — or he must run away to that villa at Como, or 
 elsewhere. The running away seemed to him at first 
 to be the better, or at least the more pleasant, course; 
 but at last he determined that he would stand his 
 ground and bear the blow. Therefore he gave his 
 garden party at The Horns. 
 
 Who was to be invited? Before the first week in 
 July was over, many a bosom in London was flutter- 
 ing with anxiety on that subject. The Duke, in giving 
 his short word of instruction to Lady Glencora, made 
 her understand that he would wish her to be parti- 
 cular in her invitations. Her Royal Highness the Prin- 
 cess, and his Royal Highness the Prince, had both 
 
SHOWING HOW THE DUKE STOOD HIS GROUND. 1 59 
 
 been' so gracious as to say that they would honour his 
 fete. The Duke himself had made out a short list, with 
 not more than a dozen names. Lady Glencora was em- 
 ployed to select the real crowd, — the five hundred out 
 of the ten thousand who were to be blessed. On the 
 Duke^s own private list was the name of Madame 
 Goesler. Lady Glencora understood it all. When Ma- 
 dame Goesler got her card, she thought that she under- 
 stood it too. And she thought also that the Duke was 
 behaving in a gallant way. 
 
 There was, no doubt, much difficulty about the in- 
 vitations, and a considerable amount of ill-will was 
 created. And they who considered themselves entitled 
 to be asked, and were not asked, were full of wrath 
 against their more fortunate friends, instead of being 
 angry with the Duke or with Lady Glencora, who had 
 neglected them. It was soon known that Lady Glen- 
 cora was the real dispenser of the favours, and I fancy 
 that her ladyship was tired of her task before it was 
 completed. The party was to take place on Wednes- 
 day, the 27th of July, and before the day had come, 
 men and women had become so hardy in the combat 
 that personal applications were made with unflinching* 
 importunity; and letters were written to Lady Glencora 
 putting forward this claim and that claim with a piteous 
 clamour. "No, that is too bad," Lady Glencora said 
 to her particular friend Mrs. Grey, when a letter came 
 from Mrs. Bonteen, stating all that her husband had 
 ever done towards supporting Mr. Palliser in Parlia- 
 ment, — and all that he ever would do. "She shan't 
 have it, even though she could put Plantagenet into a 
 minority to morrow." 
 
 Mrs. Bonteen did not get a card; and when she 
 
i6o 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 heard that Phineas Finn had received one, her \vrath 
 against Phineas was very great. He was "an Irish ad- 
 venturer," and she regretted deeply that Mr. Bonteen 
 had ever interested himself in bringing such an upstart 
 forward in the world of politics. But as Mr. Bonteen 
 never had done anything towards bringing Phineas for- 
 ward, there was not much cause for regret on this head. 
 Phineas, however, got his card, and, of course, accepted 
 the invitation. 
 
 The grounds were opened at four. There was to 
 be an early dinner out in tents at five; and after dinner 
 men and women were to walk about, or dance, or make 
 love — or hay, as suited them. The haycocks, however, 
 were ready prepared, while it was expected that they 
 should bring the love with them. Phineas, knowing 
 that he should meet Violet Effingham, took a great 
 deal with him ready made. 
 
 For an hour and a half Lady Glencora kept her 
 position in a saloon through which the guests passed 
 to the grounds, and to every comer she imparted the 
 information that the Duke was on the lawn; — to every 
 comer but one. To Madame Goesler she said no such 
 •word. "So glad to see you, my dear," she said, as she 
 pressed her friend's hand; "if I am not killed by this 
 work, ril make you out again by-and-by." Then Ma- 
 dame Goesler passed on, and soon found herself amidst 
 a throng of acquaintance. After a few minutes she 
 saw the Duke seated in an arm-chair, close to the 
 river -bank, and she bravely went up to him, and 
 thanked him for the invitation. "The thanks are due 
 to you for gracing our entertainment," said the Duke, 
 rising to greet her. There were a dozen people standing 
 round, and so the thing was done without difficulty. 
 
SHOWING HOW THE DUKE STOOD HIS GROUND. l6l 
 
 At that moment there came a notice that their royal 
 highnesses were on the ground, and the Duke, of 
 course, went off to meet them. There was not a word 
 more spoken between the Duke and Madame Goesler 
 on that afternoon. 
 
 Phineas did not come till late, — till seven, when 
 the banquet was over. I think he was right in this, 
 as the banqueting in tents loses in comfort almost more 
 than it gains in romance. A small picnic may be very 
 well, and the distance previously travelled may give to 
 a dinner on the ground the seeming excuse of necessity. 
 Frail human nature must be supported, — and human 
 nature, having gone so far in pursuit of the beautiful, 
 is entitled to what best support the unaccustomed cir- 
 cumstances will allow. Therefore, out with the cold 
 pies, out with the salads, and the chickens, and the 
 champagne. Since no better may be, let us recruit 
 human nature sitting upon this moss, and forget our 
 discomforts in the glory of the verdure around us. 
 And dear Mary, seeing that the cushion from the 
 waggonet is small, and not wishing to accept the too 
 generous offer that she should take it all for her ov/n 
 use, will admit a contact somewhat closer than the or- 
 dinary chairs of a dining-room render necessary. That 
 in its way is very well; — but I hold that a banquet on 
 narrow tables in a tent is displeasing. 
 
 Phineas strolled into the grounds when the tent 
 was nearly empty, and when Lady Glencora, almost 
 sinking beneath her exertions, was taking rest in an 
 inner room. The Duke at this time was dining with 
 I their royal highnesses, and three or four others, specially 
 selected, very comfortably within doors. Out of doors 
 the world had begun to dance, — and the world was 
 
 Phineas Finn. III. 1 1 
 
l62 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 beginning to say that it would be much nicer to go 
 and dance upon the boards inside as soon as possible. 
 For, though of all parties a garden party is the nicest, 
 everybody is always anxious to get out of the garden 
 as quick as may be. A few ardent lovers of suburban 
 picturesque effect were sitting beneath the haycocks, 
 and four forlorn damsels were vainly endeavouring to 
 excite the sympathy of manly youth by playing croquet 
 in a corner. I am not sure, however, that the lovers 
 beneath the haycocks and the players at croquet were 
 not actors hired by Lady Glencora for the occasion. 
 
 Phineas had not been long on the lawn before he 
 saw Lady Laura Kennedy. She was standing with an- 
 other lady, and Barrington Erie was with them. "So 
 you have been successful?" said Barrington, greeting 
 him. 
 
 "Successful in what?" 
 
 "In what? In getting a ticket. I have had to pro- 
 mise three tide-waiterships, and to give deep hints 
 about a bishopric expected to be vacant, before I got 
 in. But what matters? Success pays for everything. My 
 only trouble now is how Fm to get back to London." 
 
 Lady Laura shook hands with Phineas, and then as 
 he was passing on, followed him for a step and whis- 
 pered a word to him. "Mr. Finn," she said, "if you are 
 not going yet, come back to me presently, I have some- 
 thing to say to you. I shall not be far from the river, 
 and shall stay here for about an hour." 
 
 Phineas said that he would, and then went on, not 
 knowing exactly where he was going. He had one 
 desire, — to find Violet Effingham, but when he should 
 find her he could not carry her off, and sit with her 
 beneath a haycock. 
 
THE HORNS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 The Horns. 
 
 While looking for Violet Effingham, Phineas en- 
 countered Madame Goesler, among a crowd of people 
 who were watching the adventurous embarkation of 
 certain daring spirits in a pleasure-boat. There were 
 watermen there in the Duke's livery, ready to take 
 such spirits down to Richmond or up to Teddington 
 lock, and many daring spirits did take such trips, — to 
 the great peril of muslins, ribbons, and starch, to the 
 peril also of ornamental summer white garments, so 
 that when the thing was over, the boats were voted to 
 have been a bore. 
 
 "Are you going to venture?'' said Phineas to the 
 lady. 
 
 should like it of all things if I were not afraid 
 for my clothes. Will you come?" 
 
 "I was never good upon the water. I should be 
 sea-sick to a certainty. They are going down beneath 
 the bridge too, a^id we should be splashed by the 
 steamers. I don't think my courage is high enough." 
 Thus Phineas excused himself, being still intent on 
 prosecuting his search for Violet. 
 
 "Then neither will I," said Madame Goesle^*. "One 
 dash from a peccant oar would destroy the whole sym- 
 metry of my dress. Look. That green young lady 
 has already been sprinkled." 
 
 "But the blue young gentleman has been sprinkled 
 
164 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 also/' said Phineas, "and they will be happy in a joint 
 baptism/' Then they strolled along the river path 
 together, and were soon alone. "You will be leaving 
 town soon, Madame Goesler?" 
 
 "Almost immediately.'' 
 
 "And where do you go?" 
 
 "Oh, — to Vienna. I am there for a couple of 
 months every year, minding my business. I wonder 
 whether you would know me, if you saw me; — some- 
 times sitting on a stool in a counting-house, sometimes 
 going about among old houses, settling what must be 
 done to save them from tumbling down. I dress so 
 differently at such times, and talk so differently, and 
 look so much older, that I almost fancy myself to be 
 another person." 
 
 "Is it a great trouble to you?" 
 
 "No, — I rather like it. It makes me feel that I 
 do something in the world." 
 
 "Do you go alone?" 
 
 "Quite alone. I take a German maid with me, 
 and never speak a word to any one else on the 
 journey." 
 
 "That must be very bad," said Phineas. 
 
 "Yes; it is the worst of it. But then I am so much 
 accustomed to be alone. You see me in society, and 
 in society only, and therefore naturally look upon me 
 as one of a gregarious herd; but I am in truth an 
 animal that feeds alone and lives alone. Take the 
 hours of the year all through, and I am a solitary 
 during four-fifths of them. And what do you intend 
 to do?" 
 
 "I go to Ireland." 
 
 "Home to your own people. How nice! I have 
 
THE HORNS. 
 
 165 
 
 no people to go to. I have one sister, who lives with 
 her husband at Riga. She is my only relation, and I 
 never see her." 
 
 "But you have thousands of friends in England." 
 
 "Yes, — as you see them," — and she turned and 
 spread out her hands towards the crowded lawn, which 
 was behind them. "What are such friends worth? 
 What would they do for me?" 
 
 "I do not know that the Duke would do much," 
 said Phineas laughing. 
 
 Madame Goesler laughed also. "The Duke is not 
 so bad," she said. "The Duke would do as much as 
 any one else. I won't have the Duke abused." 
 
 "He may be your particular friend, for what I 
 know," said Phineas. 
 
 "Ah; — no. I have no particular friend. And were 
 I to wish to choose one, I should think the Duke a 
 little above me." 
 
 "Oh, yes; — and too stiff, and too old, and too 
 pompous, and too cold, and too make-believe, and too 
 gingerbread." 
 
 "Mr. Finn!" 
 
 "The Duke is all buckram, you know." 
 "Then why do you come to his house?" 
 "To see you, Madame Goesler." 
 "Is that true, Mr. Finn?" 
 
 "Yes; — it is true in its way. One goes about to 
 meet those whom one likes, not always for the pleasure 
 of the host's society. I hope I am not wrong because 
 I go to houses at which I like neither the host nor 
 the hostess." Phineas as he said this was thinking of 
 Lady Baldock, to whom of late he had been exceedingly 
 civil, — but he certainly did not like Lady Baldock. 
 
i66 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "I think you have been too hard upon the Duke 
 of Omnium. Do you know him well?" 
 
 "Personally? certainly not. Do you? Does any- 
 body?'' 
 
 "I think he is a gracious gentleman," said Madame 
 Goesler, "and though I cannot boast of knowing him 
 well, I do not like to hear him called buckram. I do 
 not think he is buckram. It is not very easy for a 
 man in his position to live so as to please all people. 
 He has to maintain the prestige of the highest aristo- 
 cracy in Europe." 
 
 "Look at his nephew, who will be the next Duke, 
 and who works as hard as any man in the country. 
 Will he not maintain it better? What good did the 
 present man ever do?" 
 
 "You believe only in motion, Mr. Finn; — and not 
 at all in quiescence. An express train at full speed is 
 grander to you than a mountain with heaps of snow. 
 I own that to me there is something glorious in the 
 dignity of a man too high to do anything, — if only he 
 knows how to carry that dignity with a proper grace. 
 I think that there should be breasts made to carry 
 stars." 
 
 "Stars which they have never earned," said Phineas. 
 
 "Ah; — well; we will not fight about it. Go and 
 earn your star, and I will say that it becomes you 
 better than any glitter on the coat of the Duke of 
 Omnium." This she said with an earnestness which 
 he could not pretend not to notice or not to under- 
 stand. "I too may be able to see that the express 
 train is really greater than the mountain." 
 
 "Though, for your own life, you would prefer to 
 sit and gaze upon the snowy peaks?" 
 
THE HORNS. 
 
 167 
 
 "No; — that is not so. For myself, I would prefer 
 to be of use somewhere, — to some one, if it were pos- 
 sible. I strive sometimes." 
 
 "And I am sure successfully." 
 
 "Never mind. I hate to talk about myself. You 
 and the Duke are fair subjects for conversation; you 
 as the express train, who will probably do your sixty 
 miles an hour in safety, but may possibly go down a 
 bank with a crash." 
 
 "Certainly I may," said Phineas. 
 
 "And the Duke, as the mountain, which is fixed 
 in its stateliness, short of the power of some earth- 
 quake, which shall be grander and more terrible than 
 any earthquake yet known. Here we are at the house 
 again. I will go in and sit down for a while." 
 
 "If I leave you, Madame Goesler, I will say good- 
 bye till next winter." 
 
 "I shall be in town again before Christmas, you 
 know. You will come and see me?" 
 
 "Of course I will." 
 
 "And then this love trouble of course will be over, 
 — one way or the other; — will it not?" 
 "Ah! — who can say?" 
 
 "Faint heart never won fair lady. But your heart 
 is never faint. Farewell." 
 
 Then he left her. Up to this moment he had not 
 seen Violet, and yet he knew that she was to be there. 
 She had herself told him that she was to accompany 
 Lady Laura, whom he had already met. Lady Bal- 
 dock had not been invited, and had expressed great 
 animosity against the Duke in consequence. She had 
 gone so far as to say that the Duke was a man at 
 whose house a young lady such as her niece ought not 
 
i68 
 
 PyiNEAS FINN. 
 
 to be seen. But Violet had laughed at this, and de- 
 clared her intention of accepting the invitation. "Go," 
 she had said; "of course I shall go. I should have 
 broken my heart if I could not have got there." 
 Phineas therefore was sure that she must be in the 
 place. He had kept his eyes ever on the alert, and 
 yet he had not found her. And now he must keep 
 his appointment with Lady Laura Kennedy. So he 
 went down to the path by the river, and there he 
 found her seated close by the water's edge. Her cousin 
 Barrington Erie was still with her, but as soon as 
 Phineas joined them, Erie went away. "I had told 
 him," said Lady Laura, "that I wished to speak to 
 you, and he stayed with me till you came. There are 
 worse men than Barrington a great deal." 
 "I am sure of that." 
 
 "Are you and he still friends, Mr. Finn?" 
 
 "I hope so. I do not see so much of him as I did 
 when I had less to do." 
 
 "He says that you have got into altogether a dif- 
 ferent set." 
 
 "I don't know that. I have gone as circumstances 
 have directed me, but I have certainly not intended to 
 throw over as old and good a friend as Barrington 
 Erie." 
 
 "Oh, — he does not blame you. He tells me that 
 you have found your way among what he calls the 
 working men of the party, and he thinks you will do 
 very well, — if you can only be patient enough. We 
 all expected a different line from you, you know, — 
 more of words and less of deeds, if I may say so; — 
 more of liberal oratory and less of government action; 
 but I do not doubt that you are right " 
 
THE HORNS. 
 
 169 
 
 "I think that I have been wrong," said Phineas. 
 "I am becoming heartily sick of officiaKties." 
 
 "That comes from the fickleness about which papa 
 is so fond of quoting his Latin. The ox desires the 
 saddle. The charger wants to plough." 
 
 "And which am I?" 
 
 "Your career may combine the dignity of the one 
 with the utility of the other. At any rate you must 
 not think of changing now. Have you seen Mr. 
 Kennedy lately?" She asked the question abruptly, 
 showing that she was anxious to get to the matter respect- 
 ing which she had summoned him to her side, and that 
 all that she had said hitherto had been uttered as it 
 were in preparation of that subject. 
 
 "Seen him? yes; I see him daily. But we hardly 
 do more than speak." 
 
 "Why not?" Phineas stood for a moment in 
 silence, hesitating. "Why is it that he and you do 
 not speak?" 
 
 "How can I answer that question, Lady Laura?" 
 
 "Do you know any reason? Sit down, or, if you 
 please, I will get up and walk with you. He tells 
 me that you have chosen to quarrel with him, and 
 that I have made you do so. He says that you have 
 confessed to him that I have asked you to quarrel with 
 him." 
 
 "He can hardly have said that." 
 "But he has said it, — in so many words. Do you 
 think that I would tell you such a story falsely?" 
 "Is he here now?" 
 
 "No; — he is not here. He would not come. I 
 came alone." 
 
 "Is not Miss Effingham with you?" 
 
PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "No; — she is to, come with my father later. She 
 is here no doubt, now. But answer my question, Mr. 
 Finn; — unless you find that you cannot answer it. 
 What was it that you did say to my husband?" 
 
 "Nothing to justify what he has told you." 
 
 "Do you mean to say that he has spoken falsely?" 
 
 "I mean to use no harsh word, — but I think that 
 Mr. Kennedy when troubled in his spirit looks at 
 things gloomily, and puts meaning upon words which 
 they should not bear." 
 
 "And what has troubled his spirit?" 
 
 "You must know that better than I can do, Lady 
 Laura. I will tell you all that I can tell you. He 
 invited me to his house and I would not go, because 
 you had forbidden me. Then he asked me some 
 questions about you. Did I refuse because of you, — 
 or of anything that you had said? If I remember 
 right, I told him that I did fancy that you would not 
 be glad to see me, — and that therefore I would rather 
 stay away. What was I to say?" 
 
 "You should have said nothing." 
 
 "Nothing with him would have been worse than 
 what I did say. Remember that he asked me the 
 question point-blank, and that no reply would have 
 been equal to an affirmation. I should have confessed 
 that his suggestion was true." 
 
 "He could not then have twitted me with your 
 words." 
 
 "If I have erred. Lady Laura, and brought any 
 sorrow on you, I am indeed grieved." 
 
 "It is all sorrow. There is nothing but sorrow. I 
 have made up my mind to leave him." 
 
 "Oh, Lady Laura!" 
 
THE HORNS. 
 
 171 
 
 "It is very bad, — but not so ^^ad, I think, as the 
 
 hfe I am now leading. He has accused me , 
 
 of what do you think? He says that you are my 
 lover!" 
 
 "He did not say that, — in those words?" 
 
 "He said it in words which made me feel that I 
 must part from him." 
 
 "And how did you answer him?" 
 
 "I would not answer him at all. If he had come 
 to me like a man, — not accusing me, but asking me, — 
 I would have told him everything. And what was 
 there to tell? I should have broken my faith to you, 
 in speaking of that scene at Loughlinter, but women 
 always tell such stories to their husbands when their 
 husbands are good to them, and true, and just. And 
 it is well that they should be told. But to Mr. Ken- 
 nedy I can tell nothing. He does not believe my 
 word." 
 
 "Not believe you, Lady Laura." 
 
 "No! Because I did not blurt out to him all that 
 story about your foolish duel, — because I thought it 
 best to keep my brother's secret, as long as there was 
 a secret to be kept, he told me that I had, — lied to 
 him!" 
 
 "What!— with that word?" 
 
 "Yes, — with that very word. He is not particular 
 about his words, when he thinks it necessary to ex- 
 press himself strongly. And he has told me since that 
 because of that he could never believe me again. How 
 is it possible that a woman should live with such a 
 man?" But why did she come to him with this story, 
 — to him whom she had been accused of entertaining 
 as a lover; — to him who of all her friends was the last 
 
172 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 whom she should have chosen as the recipient for such 
 a tale? Phineas as he thought how he might best 
 answer her, with what words he might try to comfort 
 her, could not but ask himself this question. "The 
 moment that the word was out of his mouth,'' she went 
 on to say, "I resolved that I would tell you. The ac- 
 cusation is against you as it is against me, and is 
 equally false to both. I have written to him, and 
 there is my letter." 
 
 "But you will see him again?" 
 
 "No; — I will go to my father's house. I have 
 already arranged it. Mr. Kennedy has my letter 
 by this time, and I go from hence home with my 
 father." 
 
 "Do you wish that I should read the. letter?" 
 
 "Yes, — certainly. I wish that you should read it. 
 Should I ever meet him again, I shall tell him that 
 you saw it." 
 
 They were now standing close upon the river's 
 bank, at a corner of the grounds, and, though the 
 voices of people sounded near to them, they were 
 alone. Phineas had no alternative but to read the 
 letter, which was as follows: — 
 
 "After what you have said to me it is impossible 
 that I should return to your house. I shall meet my 
 father at the Duke of Omnium's, and have already 
 asked him to give me an asylum. It is my wish to 
 remain wherever he may be, either in town or in the 
 country. Should I change my purpose in this, and 
 change my residence, I will not fail to let you know 
 where I go and what I propose to do. You I think 
 
THE HORNS. 
 
 must have forgotten that I was your wife; but I will 
 never forget it. 
 
 "You have accused me of having a lover. You 
 cannot have expected that I should continue to live 
 with you after such an accusation. For myself I can- 
 not understand how any man can have brought him- 
 self to bring such a charge against his wife. Even had 
 it been true the accusation should not have been made 
 by your mouth to my ears. 
 
 "That it is untrue I believe you must be as well 
 aware as I am myself. How intimate I was with Mr. 
 Finn, and what were the limits of my intimacy with 
 him you knew before I married you. After our mar- 
 riage I encouraged his friendship till I found that 
 there was something in it that displeased you, — and, 
 after learning that, I discouraged it. You have said 
 that he is my lover, but you have probably not defined 
 for yourself that word very clearly. You have felt 
 yourself slighted because his name has been mentioned 
 with praise; — and your jealousy has been wounded 
 because you have thought that I have regarded him as 
 in some way superior to yourself. You have never 
 really thought that he was my lover, — that he spoke 
 words to me which others might not hear, that he 
 claimed from me aught that a wife may not give, that 
 he received aught which a friend should not receive. 
 The accusation has been a coward's accusation. 
 
 "I shall be at my father's to-night, and to-morrow 
 I will get you to let my servant bring to me such 
 things as are my own, — my clothes, namely, and desk, 
 and a few books. She will know what I want. I trust 
 you may be happier without a wife, than ever you 
 have been with me. I have felt almost daily since 
 
174 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 we were married that you were a man who would have 
 been happier without a wife than with one. 
 
 "Yours affectionately, 
 
 "Laura Kennedy." 
 
 "It is at any rate true," she said, when Phineas 
 had read the letter. 
 
 "True! Doubtless it is true," said Phineas, "except 
 that I do not suppose he was ever really angry with 
 me, or jealous, or anything of the sort, — because I got 
 on well. It seems absurd even to think it." 
 
 "There is nothing too absurd for some men. I re- 
 member your telling me that he was weak, and poor, 
 and unworthy. I remember your saying so when I 
 first thought that he might become my husband. I 
 wish I had believed you when you told me so. I should 
 not have made such a shipwreck of myself as I have 
 done. That is all I had to say to you. After what 
 has passed between us I did not choose that you 
 should hear how I was separated from my husband 
 from any lips but my own. I will go now and find 
 papa. Do not come with me. I prefer being alone." 
 Then he was left standing by himself, looking down 
 upon the river as it glided by. How would it have 
 been with both of them if Lady Laura had accepted 
 him three years ago, when she consented to join her 
 lot with that of Mr. Kennedy, and had rejected him? 
 As he stood he heard the sound of music from the 
 house, and remembered that he had come there with 
 the one sole object of seeing Violet Effingham. He 
 had known that he would meet Lady Laura, and it 
 had been in his mind to break through that law of 
 silence which she had imposed upon him, and once 
 
THE HORNS. 
 
 more to ask her to assist him, — to implore her for the 
 sake of their old friendship to tell him whether there 
 might yet be for him any chance of success. But in 
 the interview which had just taken place it had been 
 impossible for him to speak a word of himself or of 
 Violet. To her, in her great desolation, he could ad- 
 dress himself on no other subject than that of her own 
 misery. But not the less when she was talking to him 
 of her own sorrow, of her regret that she had not lis- 
 tened to him when in years past he had spoken slight- 
 ingly of Mr. Kennedy, was he thinking of Violet 
 Effingham. Mr. Kennedy had certainly mistaken the 
 signs of things when he had accused his wife by say- 
 ing that Phineas was her lover. Phineas had soon got 
 over that early feeling; and as far as he himself 
 was concerned had never regretted Lady Laura's mar- 
 riage. 
 
 He remained down by the water for a few minutes, 
 giving Lady Laura time to escape, and then he w^andered 
 across the grounds towards the house. It was now 
 about nine o'clock, and though there were still many 
 walking about the grounds, the crowd of people were 
 in the rooms. The musicians were ranged out on a 
 verandah, so that their music might have been available 
 for dancing within or without; but the dancers had 
 found the boards pleasanter than the lawn, and the 
 Duke's garden party was becoming a mere ball, with 
 privilege for the dancers to stroll about the lawn be- 
 tween the dances. And in this respect the fun was 
 better than at a ball, — that let the engagements made 
 for partners be what they might, they could always be 
 broken with ease. No lady felt herself bound to dance 
 with a cavalier who was displeasing to her; and some 
 
176 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 gentlemen were left sadly in the lurch. Phineas felt 
 himself to be very much in the lurch, even after he 
 had discovered Violet Effingham standing up to dance 
 with Lord Fawn. 
 
 He bided his time patiently, and at last he found 
 his opportunity. "Would she dance with him?" She 
 declared that she intended to dance no more, and that 
 she had promised to be ready to return home with 
 Lord Brentford before ten o'clock. "I have pledged 
 myself not to be after ten,'' she said, laughing. Then 
 she put her hand upon his arm, and they stepped out 
 upon the terrace together. "Have you heard any- 
 thing?" she asked him, almost in a whisper. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "I have heard what you mean. I 
 have heard it all." 
 
 "Is it not dreadful?" 
 
 "I fear it is the best thing she can do. She has 
 never been happy with him." 
 
 "But to be accused after that fashion, — by her 
 husband!" said Violet. "One can hardly believe it in 
 these days. And of all women she is the last to de- 
 serve such accusation." 
 
 "The very last," said Phineas, feeling that the 
 subject was one upon which it was not easy for him 
 to speak. 
 
 "I cannot conceive to whom he can have alluded," 
 said Violet. Then Phineas began to understand that 
 Violet had not heard the whole story; but the difficulty 
 of speaking was still very great. 
 
 "It has been the result of ungovernable temper," 
 he said. 
 
 "But a man does not usually strive to dishonour 
 himself because he is in a rage. And this man is in- 
 
THE HORNS. 
 
 177 
 
 capable of rage. He must be cursed with one of those 
 dark gloomy mmds in which love always leads to jea- 
 lousy. She will never return to him.'' 
 
 "One cannot say. In many respects it would be 
 better that she should/' said Phineas. 
 
 "She will never return to him," repeated Violet, — - 
 "never. Would you advise her to do so?" 
 
 "How can I say? If one were called upon for ad- 
 vice, one would think so much before one spoke." 
 
 "I would not, — not for a minute. What! to be 
 accused of that! How are a man and woman to live 
 together after there have been such words between 
 them? Poor Laura! What a terrible end to all her 
 high hopes! Do you not grieve for her?" 
 
 They were now at some distance from the house, 
 and Phineas could not but feel that chance had been 
 very good to him in giving him his opportunity. She 
 was leaning on his arm, and they were alone, and she 
 was speaking to him with all the familiarity of old 
 friendship. "I wonder whether I may change the sub- 
 ject," said he, "and ask you a word about yourself?" 
 
 "What word?" she said sharply. 
 
 "I have heard " 
 
 "What have you heard?" 
 
 "Simply this, — that you are not now as you were 
 six months ago. Your marriage was then fixed for 
 June." 
 
 "It has been unfixed since then," she said. 
 
 "Yes; — it has been unfixed. I know it. Miss Ef- 
 fingham, you will not be angry with me if I say that 
 when I heard it was so, something of a hope, — no, I 
 must not call it a hope — something that longed to 
 form itself into hope returned to my breast, and from 
 
 Phineas Fifm, III, 12 
 
178 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 that hour to this has been the only subject on which I 
 have cared to think.'' 
 
 "Lord Chiltern is your friend, Mr. Finn?" 
 
 "He is so, and I do not think that I have ever 
 been untrue to my friendship for him." 
 
 "He says that no man has ever had a truer friend. 
 He will swear to that in all companies. And I, when 
 it was allowed to me to swear with him, swore it too. 
 As his friend, let me tell you one thing, — one thing 
 which I would never tell to any other man, — one thing 
 which I know I may tell you in confidence. You are 
 a gentleman, and will not break my confidence?" 
 
 "I think I will not." 
 
 "I know you will not, because you area gentleman. 
 I told Lord Chiltern in the autumn of last year that I 
 loved him. And I did love him. I shall never have 
 the same confession to make to another man. That he 
 and I are not now, — on those loving terms, — which 
 once existed, can make no difference in that. A woman 
 cannot transfer her heart. There have been things 
 which have made me feel, — that I was perhaps mis- 
 taken, — in saying that I would be, — his wife. But I 
 said so, and cannot now give myself to another. Here 
 is Lord Brentford, and we will join him." There was 
 Lord Brentford with Lady Laura on his arm, very 
 gloomy, — resolving on what way he might be avenged 
 on the man who had insulted his daughter. He took 
 but little notice of Phineas as he resumed his charge 
 of Miss Effingham; but the two ladies wished him 
 good night. 
 
 "Good night, Lady Laura," said Phineas, standing 
 with his hat in his hand, — "good night, Miss Effing- 
 ham." Then he was alone, — quite alone. Would it 
 
THE HORNS. 
 
 179 
 
 not be well for him to go down to the bottom of the 
 garden, and fling himself into the quiet river, so that 
 there might be an end of him? Or would it not be 
 better still that he should create for himself some quiet 
 river of life, away from London, away from politics, 
 away from lords, and titled ladies, and fashionable 
 squares, and the parties given by dukes, and the dis- 
 appointments incident to a small man in attempting to 
 make for himself a career among big men? There had 
 frequently been in the mind of this young man an idea 
 that there was something almost false in his own po- 
 sition, — that his life was a pretence, and that he would 
 ultimately be subject to that ruin which always comes, 
 sooner or later, on things which are false; and now as 
 he wandered alone about Lady Glencora's gardens, this 
 feeling was very strong within his bosom, and robbed 
 him altogether of the honour and glory of having 
 been one of the Duke of Omnium's guests. 
 
l8o PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 The Cabinet Minister at Killaloe. 
 
 Phineas did not throw himself into the river from 
 the Duke's garden; and was ready, in spite of Violet 
 Effingham, to start for Ireland with Mr. Monk at the 
 end of the first week in August. The close of that 
 season in London certainly was not a happy period of 
 his life. Violet had spoken to him after such a fashion 
 that he could not bring himself not to believe her. She 
 had given him no hint whether it was likely or un- 
 likely that she and Lord Chiltern would be reconciled ; 
 but she had convinced him that he could not be allowed 
 to take Lord Chiltern's place. "A woman cannot 
 transfer her heart," she had said. Phineas was well 
 aware that many women do transfer their hearts; but 
 he had gone to this woman too soon after the wrench 
 which her love had received; he had been too sudden 
 with his proposal for a transfer; and the punishment 
 for such ill judgment must be that success would now 
 be impossible to him. And yet how could he have 
 waited, feeling that Miss Effingham, if she were at all 
 like other girls whom he had known, might have pro- 
 mised herself to some other lover before she would re- 
 turn within his reach in the succeeding spring? But 
 she was not like some other girls. Ah; — he knew that 
 now, and repented him of his haste. 
 
 But he was ready for Mr. Monk on the yth of 
 August, and they started together. Something less than 
 
THE CABINET MINISTER AT KILLALOE. l8l 
 
 twenty hours took them from London to Killaloe, and 
 during four or five of those twenty hours Mr. Monk 
 was unfitted for any conversation by the uncomfortable 
 feelings incidental to the passage from Holyhead to 
 Kingstown. Nevertheless, there was a great deal of 
 conversation between them during the journey. Mr. 
 Monk had almost made up his mind to leave the Ca- 
 binet. "It is sad to me to have to confess it," he said, 
 "but the truth is that my old rival, Turnbull, is right. 
 A man who begins his political life as I began mine, 
 is not the man of whom a Minister should be formed. 
 I am inclined to think that Ministers of Government 
 require almost as much education in their trade as 
 shoemakers or tallow-chandlers. I doubt whether you 
 can make a good public servant of a man simply be- 
 cause he has got the ear of the House of Commons." 
 
 "Then you mean to say," said Phineas, "that we 
 are altogether wrong from beginning to end, in our 
 way of arranging these things?" 
 
 "I do not say that at all. Look at the men who 
 have been leading statesmen since our present mode 
 of government was formed, — from the days in which it 
 was forming itself, say from Walpole down, and you 
 will find that all who have been of real use had early 
 training as public servants." 
 
 "Are we never to get out of the old groove?" 
 
 "Not if the groove is good," said Mr. Monk. "Those 
 who have been efficient as ministers sucked in their 
 efficacy with their mother's milk. Lord Brock did so, 
 and Lord de Terrier, and Mr. Mildmay. They seated 
 themselves in office chairs the moment they left college. 
 Mr. Gresham was in office before he was eight-and- 
 twenty. The Duke of St. Bungay was at work as a 
 
l82 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 Private Secretary when he was three-and-twenty. You, 
 luckily for yourself, have done the same." 
 
 "And regret it every hour of my life." 
 
 "You have no cause for regret, but it is not so 
 with me. If there be any man unfitted by his previous 
 career for office, it is he who has become, or who has 
 endeavoured to become, a popular politician, — an ex- 
 ponent, if I may say so, of public opinion. As far as 
 I can see, office is offered to such men with one view 
 only, — that of clipping their wings." 
 
 "And of obtaining their help." 
 
 "It is the same thing. Help from Turnbull would 
 mean the writhdrawal of all power of opposition from 
 him. He could not give other help for any long term, 
 as the very fact of his accepting power and patronage 
 would take from him his popular leadership. The 
 masses outside require to have their minister as the 
 Queen has hers; but the same man cannot be minister 
 to both. If the people's minister chooses to change his 
 master, and to take the Queen's shilling, something of 
 temporary relief may be gained by government in the 
 fact that the other place will for a time be vacant. 
 But there are candidates enough for such places, and 
 the vacancy is not a vacancy long. Of course the 
 Crown has this pull, that it pays wages, and the people 
 do not." 
 
 "I do not think that that influenced you," said 
 Phineas. 
 
 "It did not influence me. To you I will make bold 
 to state so much positively, though it would be foolish, 
 perhaps, to do so to others. I did not go for the 
 shilling, though I am so poor a man that the shilling 
 is more to me than it would be to almost any man in 
 
THE CABINET MINISTER AT KILLALOE. 1 83 
 
 the House. I took the shilHng, much doubting, but guided 
 in part by this, that I was ashamed of being afraid to 
 take it. They told me, — Mr. Mildmay and the Duke, — 
 that I could earn it to the benefit of the country. I 
 have not earned it, and the country has not been bene- 
 fited, — unless it be for the good of the country that 
 my voice in the House should be silenced. If I believe 
 that, I ought to hold my tongue without taking a salary 
 for holding it. I have made a mistake, my friend. 
 Such mistakes made at my time of life cannot be wholly 
 rectified; but, being convinced of my error, I must do 
 the best in my power to put myself right again." 
 
 There was a bitterness in all this to Phineas him- 
 self of which he could not but make plaint to his com- 
 panion. "The truth is," he said, "that a man in office 
 must be a slave, and that slavery is distasteful." 
 
 "There I think you are wrong. If you mean that 
 you cannot do joint work with other men altogether 
 after your own fashion the same may be said of all 
 work. If you had stuck to the Bar you must have 
 pleaded your causes in conformity with instructions 
 from the attorneys." 
 
 "I should have been guided by my own lights in 
 advising those attorneys." 
 
 "I cannot see that you suffer anything that ought 
 to go against the grain with you. You are beginning 
 young, and it is your first adopted career. With me it is 
 otherwise. If by my telling you this I shall have led 
 you astray, I shall regret my openness with you. Could 
 I begin again, I would willingly begin as you began." 
 
 It was a great day in Killaloe, that on which Mr. 
 Monk arrived with Phineas at the doctor's house. In 
 London, perhaps, a bishop inspires more awe than a 
 
i84 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 Cabinet Minister. In Killaloe, where a bishop might 
 be seen walking about every day, the mitred dignitary 
 of the Church, though much loved, was thought of, I 
 fear, but lightly; whereas a Cabinet Minister coming 
 to stay in the house of a townsman was a thing to be 
 wondered at, to be talked about, to be afraid of, to 
 be a fruitful source of conversation for a year to come. 
 There were many in Killaloe, especially among the 
 elder ladies, who had shaken their heads and expressed 
 the saddest doubts when young Phineas Finn had first 
 become a Parliament man. And though by degrees 
 they had been half brought round, having been driven 
 to acknowledge that he had been wonderfully successful 
 as a Parliament man, still they had continued to shake 
 their heads among themselves, and to fear something 
 in the future, — until he appeared at his old home lead- 
 ing a Cabinet Minister by the hand. There was such 
 assurance in this that even old Mrs. Callaghan, at the 
 brewery, gave way, and began to say all manner of 
 good things, and to praise the doctor's luck in that he 
 had a son gifted with parts so excellent. There was a 
 great desire to see the Cabinet Minister in the flesh, to 
 be with him when he ate and drank, to watch the gait 
 and countenance of the man , and to drink water from 
 this fountain of state lore which had been so wonder- 
 fully brought among them by their young townsman. 
 Mrs. Finn was aware that it behoved her to be chary 
 of her invitations, but the lady from the brewery had 
 said such good things of Mrs. Finn's black swan, that 
 she carried her point, and was invited to meet the Ca- 
 binet Minister at dinner on the day after his arrival. 
 
 Mrs. Flood Jones and her daughter were invited 
 also to be of the party. When Phineas had been last 
 
THE CABIMET MINISTER AT KILLALOE. 
 
 185 
 
 at Killaloe, Mrs. Flood Jones, as the reader may re- 
 member, had remained with her daughter at Flood- 
 borough, — feeling it to be her duty to keep her daughter 
 away from the danger of an unrequited attachment. 
 But it seemed that her purpose was changed now, or 
 that she no longer feared the danger, — for both Mary 
 and her mother were now again living in Killaloe, and 
 Mary was at the doctor's house as much as ever. 
 
 A day or two before the coming of the god and the 
 demigod to the little town, Barbara Finn, and her friend 
 had thus come to understand each other as they walked 
 along the Shannon side. "I am sure, my dear, that 
 he is engaged to nobody,'^ said Barbara Finn. 
 
 "And I am sure, my dear,'' said Mary, "that I do 
 not care whether he is or is not." 
 
 "What do you mean, Mary?" 
 
 "I mean what I say. Why should I care? Five 
 years ago I had a foolish dream, and now I am awake 
 again. Think how old I have got to be!" 
 
 "Yes; — you are twenty- three. What has that to do 
 with it?" 
 
 "It has this to do with it; — that I am old enough 
 to know better. Mamma and I quite understand each 
 other. She used to be angry v/ith him, but she has 
 got over all that foolishness now. It always made me 
 so vexed; — the idea of being angry with a man be- 
 cause, — because ! You know one can't talk about 
 
 it, it is so foolish. But that is all over now." 
 
 "Do you mean to say you don't care for him, 
 Mary? Do you remember what you used to swear to 
 me less than two years ago?" 
 
 "I remember it all very well, and I remember what 
 a goose I was. As for caring for him, of course I do, 
 
i86 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 — because he is your brother, and because I have 
 known him all my life. But if he were going to be 
 married to-morrow, you would see that it would make 
 no difference to me/' 
 
 Barbara Finn walked on for a couple of minutes in 
 silence before she replied. "Mary," she said at last, 
 "I don't believe a word of it." 
 
 "Very well; — then all that I shall ask of you is, 
 that we may not talk about him any more. Mamma 
 believes it, and that is enough for me." Nevertheless, 
 they did talk about Phineas during the whole of that 
 day, and very often talked about him afterwards, as 
 long as Mary remained at Killaloe. 
 
 There was a large dinner party at the doctor's on 
 the day after Mr. Monk's arrival. The bishop was not 
 there, though he was on terms sufficiently friendly with 
 the doctor's family to have been invited on so grand 
 an occasion; but he was not there, because Mrs. Finn 
 was determined that she would be taken out to dinner 
 by a Cabinet Minister in the face of all her friends. 
 She was aware that had the bishop been there, she 
 must have taken the bishop's arm. And though there 
 would have been glory in that, the other glory was 
 more to her taste. It was the first time in her life that 
 she had ever seen a Cabinet Minister, and I think that 
 she was a little disappointed at finding him so like 
 other middle-aged gentlemen. She had hoped that Mr. 
 Monk would have assumed something of the dignity 
 of his position; but he assumed nothing. Now the 
 bishop, though he was a very mild old man, did as- 
 sume something by the very facts of his apron and 
 knee-breeches. 
 
 "I am sure, sir, it is very good of you to come 
 
THE CABINET MINISTER AT KILL ALOE. 1 87 
 
 and put up with our humble way of Hving," said Mrs. 
 Finn to her guest, as they sat down at table. And 
 yet she had resolved that she would not make any 
 speech of the kind, — that she would condescend to no 
 apology, — that she would bear herself as though a Ca- 
 binet Minister dined with her at least once a year. But 
 when the moment came, she broke down, and made 
 this apology with almost abject meekness, and then 
 hated herself because she had done so. 
 
 "My dear madam," said Mr. Monk, "I live myself 
 so much like a hermit that your house is a palace of 
 luxury to me.'^ Then he felt that he had made a 
 foolish speech, and he also hated himself. He found 
 it very difficult to talk to his hostess upon any subject, 
 until by chance he mentioned his young friend Phineas. 
 Then her tongue was unloosed. "Your son, madam," 
 he said, "is going with me to Limerick and back to 
 Dublin. It is a shame, I know, taking him so soon 
 away from home, but I should not know how to get 
 on without him." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Monk, it is such a blessing for him, and 
 such an honour for us, that you should be so good to 
 him." Then the mother spoke out all her past fears 
 and all her present hopes, and acknowledged the great 
 glory which it was to her to have a son sitting in Par- 
 liament, holding an office with a stately name and a 
 great salary, and blessed with the friendship of such a 
 man as Mr. Monk. After that Mr. Monk got on better 
 with her. 
 
 "I don't know any young man," said he, "in whose 
 career I have taken so strong an interest." 
 
 "He was always good," said Mrs. Finn, with a tear 
 forcing itself into the corner of each eye. "I am his 
 
i88 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 mother, and of course I ought not to say so, — not in 
 this way; but it is true, Mr. Monk." And then the 
 poor lady was obHged to raise her handkerchief and 
 wipe away the drops. 
 
 Phineas on this occasion had taken out to dinner 
 the mother of his devoted Mary, Mrs. Flood Jones. 
 "What a pleasure it must be to the doctor and Mrs. 
 Finn to see you come back in this way," said Mrs. 
 Flood Jones. 
 
 "With all my bones unbroken?" said he, laughing. 
 
 "Yes; with all your bones unbroken. You know, 
 Phineas, when we first heard that you were to sit in 
 Parliament, we were afraid that you might break a rib 
 or two, — since you choose to talk about the breaking 
 of bones." 
 
 "Yes, I know. Everybody thought I should come 
 to grief; but nobody felt so sure of it as I did my- 
 self." 
 
 "But you have not come to grief." 
 
 "I am not out of the wood yet, you know, Mrs. 
 Flood Jones. There is plenty of possibility for grief 
 in my way still." 
 
 "As far as I can understand it, you are out of the 
 wood. All that your friends here want to see now is, 
 that you should marry some nice English girl, with a 
 little money, if possible. Rumours have reached us, 
 you know." 
 
 "Rumours always lie," said Phineas. 
 
 "Sometimes they do, of course; and I am not going 
 to ask any indiscreet questions. But that is what we 
 all hope. Mary was saying, only the other day, that 
 if you were once married, we should all feel quite safe 
 about you. And you know we all take the most lively 
 
THE CABINET MINISTER AT KILLALOE. 1 89 
 
 interest in your welfare. It is not every day that a 
 man from County Clare gets on as you have done, and 
 therefore we are bound to think of you/' Thus Mrs. 
 Flood Jones signified to Phineas Finn that she had 
 forgiven him the thoughtlessness of his early youth, — 
 even though there had been something of treachery in 
 that thoughtlessness to her own daughter; and showed 
 him, also, that whatever Mary^s feelings might have 
 been once, they were not now of a nature to trouble 
 her. "Of course you will marry?'' said Mrs. Flood 
 Jones. 
 
 "I should think very likely not," said Phineas, who 
 perhaps looked farther into the mind of the lady than 
 the lady intended. 
 
 "Oh, do," said the lady. "Every man should 
 marry as soon as he can, and especially a man in your 
 position." 
 
 When the ladies met together in the drawing-room 
 after dinner, it was impossible but that they should 
 discuss Mr. Monk. There was Mrs. Callaghan from the 
 brewery there, and old Lady Blood, of Bloodstone, — 
 who on ordinary occasions would hardly admit that she 
 was on dining-out terms with any one in Killaloe ex- 
 cept the bishop, but who had found it impossible to 
 decline to meet a Cabinet Minister, — and there was 
 Mrs. Stackpoole from Sixmiletown, a far-away cousin 
 of the Finns, who hated Lady Blood with a true pro- 
 vincial hatred. 
 
 "I don't see anything particularly uncommon in 
 him, after all," said Lady Blood. 
 
 "I think he is very nice indeed," said Mrs. Flood 
 Jones. 
 
 "So very quiet, my dear, and just like other 
 
PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 people/' said Mrs. Callaghan, meaning to pronounce a 
 strong eulogium on the Cabinet Minister. 
 
 "Very like other people indeed," said Lady Blood. 
 
 "And what would you expect, Lady Blood?" said 
 Mrs. Stackpoole. "Men and women in London walk 
 upon two legs, just as they do in Ennis." Now Lady 
 Blood herself had been born and bred in Ennis, whereas 
 Mrs. Stackpoole had come from Limerick, which is a 
 much more considerable town, and therefore there was 
 a satire in this allusion to the habits of the men of 
 Ennis which Lady Blood understood thoroughly. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Stackpoole, I know how the people 
 walk in London quite as well as you do." Lady 
 Blood had once passed three months in London while 
 Sir Patrick had been alive, whereas Mrs. Stackpoole 
 had never done more than visit the metropolis for a 
 day or two. 
 
 "Oh, no doubt," said Mrs. Stackpoole; "but I never 
 can understand what it is that people expect. I sup- 
 pose Mr. Monk ought to have come with his stars on 
 the breast of his coat, to have pleased Lady Blood." 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Stackpoole, Cabinet Ministers don't 
 have stars," said Lady Blood. 
 
 "I never said they did," said Mrs. Stackpoole. 
 
 "He is so nice and gentle to talk to," said Mrs. 
 Finn. "You may say what you will, but men who are 
 high up do very often give themselves airs. Now I 
 must say that this friend of my son's does not do any- 
 thing of that kind." 
 
 "Not the least," said Mrs. Callaghan. 
 
 "Quite the contrary," said Mrs. Stackpoole. 
 
 "I dare say he is a wonderful man," said Lady 
 Blood. "All I say is, that I didn't hear anything 
 
THE CABINET MINISTER AT KILLALOE. I9I 
 
 wonderful come out of his mouth; and as for people in 
 Ennis walking on two legs, I have seen donkeys in 
 Limerick doing just the same thing." Now it was 
 well known that Mrs. Stackpoole had two sons living 
 in Limerick, as to neither of whom was it expected 
 that he would set the Shannon on fire. After this little 
 speech there was no further mention of Mr. Monk, as 
 it became necessary that all the good-nature of Mrs. 
 Finn and all the tact of Mrs. Flood Jones and all the 
 energy of Mrs. Callaghan should be used, to prevent 
 the raging of an internecine battle between Mrs, Stack- 
 poole and Lady Blood. 
 
igz 
 
 PHINEAS FINN, 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 Victrix. 
 
 Mr. Monk's holiday programme allowed him a 
 week at Killaloe, and from thence he was to go to 
 Limerick, and from Limerick to Dublin, in order that, 
 at both places, he might be entertained at a public 
 dinner and make a speech about tenant-right. Fore- 
 seeing that Phineas might commit himself if he at- 
 tended these meetings, Mr. Monk had counselled him 
 to remain at Killaloe. But Phineas had refused to 
 subject himself to such cautious abstinence. Mr. Monk 
 had come to Ireland as his friend, and he would see 
 him through his travels. "I shall not, probably, be 
 asked to speak," said Phineas, "and if I am asked, I 
 need not say more than a few words. And what if I 
 did speak out?" 
 
 "You might find it disadvantageous to you in 
 London." 
 
 "I must take my chance of that. I am not going 
 to tie myself down for ever and ever for the sake of 
 being Under-Secretary to the Colonies." Mr. Monk 
 said very much to him on the subject, — was constantly 
 saying very much to him about it; but in spite of all 
 that Mr. Monk said, Phineas did make the journey to 
 Limerik and Dublin. 
 
 He had not, since his arrival at Killaloe, been a 
 moment alone with Mary Flood Jones till the evening 
 before he started with Mr. Monk. She had kept out 
 
VICTRIX. 
 
 of his way successfully, though she had constantly been 
 with him in company, and was beginning to plume 
 herself on the strength and valour of her conduct. But 
 her self-praise had in it nothing of joy, and her glory 
 was very sad. Of course she would care for him no 
 more, — more especially as it was so very evident that 
 he cared not at all for her. But the very fact of her 
 keeping out of his way, made her acknowledge to her- 
 self that her position was very miserable. She had 
 declared to her mother that she might certainly go to 
 Killaloe with safety, — that it would be better for her 
 to put herself in the way of meeting him as an old 
 friend, — that the idea of the necessity of shutting her- 
 self up because of his approach, was the one thing that 
 gave her real pain. Therefore her mother had brought 
 her to Killaloe and she had met him; but her fancied 
 security had deserted her, and she found herself to be 
 miserable, hoping for something she did not know what, 
 still dreaming of possibilities, feeling during every 
 moment of his presence with her that some special con- 
 duct was necessary on her part. She could not make 
 further confession to her mother and ask to be carried 
 back to Floodborough; but she knew that she was very 
 wretched at Killaloe. 
 
 As for Phineas, he had felt that his old friend was 
 very cold to him. He was in that humour with re- 
 ference to Violet Effingham which seemed especially 
 to require consolation. He knew now that all hope 
 was over there. Violet Effingham could never be his 
 wife. Even were she not to marry Lord Chiltern for 
 the next five years, she would not, during those five 
 years, marry any other man. Such was our hero's con- 
 viction; and, suffering under this conviction, he was in 
 
 Phineas Finn. 111. 13 
 
194 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 want of the comfort of feminine sympathy. Had Mary 
 known all this, and had it suited her to play such a 
 part, I think she might have had Phineas at her feet 
 before he had been a week at home. But she had 
 kept aloof from him and had heard nothing of his 
 sorrows. As a natural consequence of this, Phineas 
 was more in love with her than ever. 
 
 On the evening before he started with Mr. Monk 
 for Limerick, he managed to be alone with her for a 
 few minutes. Barbara may probably have assisted in 
 bringing about this arrangement, and had, perhaps, 
 been guilty of some treachery, — sisters in such circum- 
 stances will sometimes be very treacherous to their 
 friends. I feel sure, however, that Mary herself was 
 quite innocent of any guile in the matter. '*Mary," 
 Phineas said to her suddenly, "it seems to me that you 
 have avoided me purposely ever since I have been at 
 home." She smiled and blushed, and stammered and 
 said nothing. "Has there been any reason for it, 
 Mary?" 
 
 "No reason at all that I know of," she said. 
 
 "We used to be such great friends." 
 
 "That was before you were a great man, Phineas. 
 It must necessarily be different now. You know so 
 many people now, and people of such a different sort, 
 that of course I fall a little into the background." 
 
 "When you talk in that way, Mary, I know that 
 you are laughing at me." 
 
 "Indeed, indeed I am not." 
 
 "I believe there is no one in the whole world," he 
 said, after a pause, "whose friendship is more to me 
 than yours is. I think of it so often, Mary. Say that 
 when we come back it shall be between us as it used 
 
VICTRIX. 
 
 to be." Then he put out his hand for hers, and she 
 could not help giving it to him. "Of course there will 
 be people," he said, "who talk nonsense, and one 
 cannot help it; but I will not put up with it from you." 
 
 "I did not mean to talk nonsense, Phineas!" Then 
 there came some one across them, and the conversation 
 was ended; but the sound of his voice remained on her 
 ears, and she could not help to remember that he had 
 declared that her friendship was dearer to him than 
 the friendship of any one else. 
 
 Phineas went with Mr. Monk first to Limerick and 
 then to Dublin, and found himself at both places to 
 be regarded as a hero only second to the great hero. 
 At both places the one subject of debate was tenant- 
 right; — could anything be done to make it profitable 
 for men with capital to put their capital into Irish land? 
 The fertility of the soil was questioned by no one, — 
 nor the sufficiency of external circumstances, such as 
 railroads and the like;— nor the abundance of labour; 
 —nor even security for the wealth to be produced. 
 The only difficulty was in this, that the men who were 
 to produce the wealth had no guarantee that it would 
 be theirs when it was created. In England and else- 
 where such guarantees were in existence. Might it not 
 be possible to introduce them into Ireland? That was 
 the^ question which Mr. Monk had in hand; and in 
 various speeches which he made both before and after 
 the dinners given to him, he pledged himself to keep it 
 well in hand when Parliament should meet. Of course 
 Phineas spoke also. It was impossible that he should 
 be silent when his friend and leader was pouring out 
 his eloquence. Of course he spoke, and of course he 
 pledged himself. Something like the old pleasures of the 
 
196 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 debating society returned to him, as standing upon a 
 platform before a listening multitude, he gave full vent 
 to his words. In the House of Commons, of late he had 
 been so cabined, cribbed, and confined by office as to 
 have enjoyed nothing of this. Indeed, from the com- 
 mencement of his career, he had fallen so thoroughly 
 into the decorum of Government ways, as to have missed 
 altogether the delights of that wild irresponsible oratory 
 of which Mr. Monk had spoken to him so often. He 
 had envied men below the gangway, who, though 
 supporting the Government on main questions, could 
 get up on their legs whenever the House was full 
 enough to make it worth their while, and say almost 
 whatever they pleased. There was that Mr. Robson, 
 who literally did say just what came uppermost; and 
 the thing that came uppermost was often ill-natured, 
 often unbecoming the gravity of the House, was always 
 startling; but men listened to him and liked him to 
 speak. But Mr. Robson had — married a woman with 
 money. Oh, why, — why, had not Violet Effingham 
 been kinder to him? He might even yet, perhaps, 
 marry a woman with money. But he could not bring 
 himself to do so unless he loved her. 
 
 The upshot of the Dublin meeting was that he also' 
 positively pledged himself to support during the next 
 session of Parliament a bill advocating tenant-right. 
 "I am sorry you went so far as that," Mr. Monk said 
 to him almost as soon as the meeting was over. They 
 were standing on the pier at Kingstown, and Mr. Monk 
 was preparing to return to England. 
 
 "And why not I as far as you?" 
 
 "Because I had thought about it, and I do not 
 think that you have. I am prepared to resign my 
 
VICTRIX. 
 
 197 
 
 office to-morrow; and directly that I can see Mr. 
 Gresham and explain to him what I have done, I shall 
 offer to do so." 
 
 "He won't accept your resignation." 
 
 "He must accept it, unless he is prepared to in- 
 struct the Irish Secretary to bring in such a bill as I 
 can support." 
 
 "I shall be exactly in the same boat." 
 
 "But you ought not to be in the same boat; — nor 
 need you. My advice to you is to say nothing about 
 it till you get back to London, and then speak to Lord 
 Cantrip. Tell him that you will not say anything on 
 the subject in the House, but that in the event of there 
 being a division you hope to be allowed to vote as on 
 an open question. It may be that I shall get Gresham's 
 assent, and if so we shall be all right. If I do not, 
 and if they choose to make it a point with you, you 
 must resign also." 
 
 "Of course I shall," said Phineas. 
 
 "But I do not think they will. You have been too 
 useful, and they will wish to avoid the weakness which 
 comes to a ministry from changing its team. Good-bye, 
 my dear fellow; and remember this, — my last word of 
 advice to you is to stick by the ship. I am quite sure 
 it is a career which will suit you. I did not begin it 
 soon enough." 
 
 Phineas was rather melancholy as he returned alone 
 to Killaloe. It was all very well to bid him stick to 
 the ship, and he knew as well as any one could tell 
 him how material the ship was to him; but there are 
 circumstances in which a man cannot stick to his ship, 
 — cannot stick, at least, to this special Government 
 ship. He knew that whither Mr. Monk went> in this 
 
PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 session, he must follow. He had considerable hope 
 that when Mr. Monk explained his purpose to the 
 Prime Minister, the Prime Minister would feel himself 
 obliged to give way. In that case Phineas would not 
 only be able to keep his office, but would have such 
 an opportunity of making a speech in Parliament as 
 circumstances had never yet given to him. When he 
 was again at home he said nothing to his father or to 
 the Killaloeians as to the danger of his position. Of 
 what use would it be to make his mother and sister 
 miserable, or to incur the useless counsels of the doctor? 
 They seemed to think his speech at Dublin very fine, 
 and were never tired of talking of what Mr. Monk and 
 Phineas were going to do; but the idea had not come 
 home to them that if Mr. Monk or Phineas chose to 
 do anything on their own account, they must give up 
 the places which they held under the Crown. 
 
 It was September when Phineas found himself back 
 at Killaloe, and he was due to be at his office in Lon- 
 don in November. The excitement of Mr. Monk's 
 company was now over, and he had nothing to do but 
 to receive pouches full of official papers from the 
 Colonial Office, and study all the statistics which came 
 within his reach in reference to the proposed new law 
 for tenant-right. In the meantime Mary was still liv- 
 ing with her mother at Killaloe, and still kept herself 
 somewhat aloof from the man she loved. How could 
 it be possible for him not to give way in such circum- 
 stances as those? 
 
 One day he found himself talking to her about 
 himself, and speaking to her of his own position with 
 more frankness than he ever used with his own family. 
 He had begun by reminding her of that conversation 
 
VICTRIX. 
 
 199 
 
 which they had had before he went away with Mr. 
 Monk, and by reminding her also that she had pro- 
 mised to return to her old friendly ways with him. 
 
 "Nay, Phineas; there was no promise she said. 
 
 "And are we not to be friends 
 
 "I only say that I made no particular promise. 
 Of course we are friends. We have always been friends." 
 
 "What would you say if you heard that I had 
 resigned my office and given up my seat?" he asked. 
 Of course she expressed her surprise, almost her horror, 
 at such an idea, and then he told her everything. It 
 took long in the telling, because it was necessary that 
 he should explain to her the working of the system 
 which made it impossible for him, as a member of the 
 Government, to entertain an opinion of his own. 
 
 "And do you mean that you would lose your 
 salary?" she asked. 
 
 "Certainly I should." 
 
 "Would not that be very dreadful?" 
 
 He laughed as he acknowledged that it would be 
 dreadful. "It is very dreadful, Mary, to have nothing 
 to eat and drink. But what is a man to do? Would 
 you recommend me to say that black is white?" 
 
 "I am sure you will never do that." 
 
 "You see, Mary, it is very nice to be called by a 
 big name and to have a salary, and it is very com- 
 fortable to be envied by one's friends and enemies; — 
 but there are drawbacks. There is this especial draw- 
 back." Then he paused for a moment before he 
 went on. 
 
 "What especial drawback, Phineas?" 
 "A man cannot do what he pleases with himself. 
 J How can a man marry, so circumstanced as I am?" 
 
200 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 She hesitated for a moment, and then she answered 
 him, — "A man may be very happy without marrying, 
 I suppose." 
 
 He also paused for many moments before he spoke 
 again, and she then made a faint attempt to escape 
 from him. But before she succeeded he had asked her 
 a question which arrested her. "I wonder whether you 
 would listen to me if I were to tell you a history?" 
 Of course she listened, and the history he told her 
 was the tale of his love for Violet Effingham. 
 
 "And she has money of her own?" Mary asked. 
 
 "Yes; — she is rich. She has a large fortune." 
 
 "Then, Mr. Finn, you must seek some one else 
 who is equally blessed." 
 
 "Mary, that is untrue, — that is ill-natured. You do 
 not mean that. Say that you do not mean it. You 
 have not believed that I loved Miss Effingham because 
 she was rich." 
 
 "But you have told me that you could love no one 
 who is not rich." 
 
 "I have said nothing of the kind. Love is in- 
 voluntary. It does not often run in a yoke with pru- 
 dence. I have told you my history as far as it is con- 
 cerned with Violet Effingham. I did love her very 
 dearly." 
 
 "Did love her, Mr. Finn?" 
 
 "Yes; — did love her. Is there any inconstancy in 
 ceasing to love when one is not loved? Is there in- 
 constancy in changing one's love, and in loving 
 again?" 
 
 "I do not know," said Mary, to whom the occasion 
 was becoming so embarrassing that she no longer was 
 able to reply with words that had a meaning in them. 
 
VICTRIX. 
 
 20I 
 
 "If there be, dear, I am inconstant.'' He paused, 
 but of course she had not a syllable to say. "I have 
 changed my love. But I could not speak of a new 
 passion till I had told the story of that which has 
 passed away. You have heard it all now, Mary. Can 
 you try to love me, after that?" It had come at last, 
 — the thing for which she had been ever wishing. It 
 had come in spite of her imprudence, and in spite of 
 her prudence. When she had heard him to the end 
 she was not a whit angry with him, — she was not in 
 the least aggrieved, — because he had been lost to her 
 in his love for this Miss Effingham, while she had 
 been so nearly lost by her love for him. For women 
 such episodes in the lives of their lovers have an ex- 
 citement which is almost pleasurable, whereas each man 
 is anxious to hear his lady swear that until he appeared 
 upon the scene her heart had been fancy free. Mary, 
 upon the whole, had liked the story, — had thought that 
 it had been finely told, and was well pleased with the 
 final catastrophe. But, nevertheless, she was not pre- 
 pared with her reply. "Have you no answer to give 
 me, Mary?" he said, looking up into her eyes. I am 
 afraid that he did not doubt what would be her answer, 
 — as it would be good that all lovers should do. "You 
 must vouchsafe me some word, Mary." 
 
 When she essayed to speak she found that she was 
 dumb. She could not get her voice to give her the 
 assistance of a single word. She did not cry, but there 
 was a motion as of sobbing in her throat which im- 
 peded all utterance. She was as happy as earth, — as 
 heaven could make her; but she did not know how to 
 tell him that she was happy. And yet she longed to 
 tell it, that he might know how thankful she was to 
 
202 
 
 PHII^^EAS FINN. 
 
 him for his goodness. He still sat looking at her, and 
 now by degrees he had got her hand in his. "Mary," 
 he said, "will you be my wife, — my own wife?" 
 
 When half an hour had passed, they were still to- 
 gether, and now she had found the use of her tongue. 
 "Do whatever you like best," she said. "I do not 
 care which you do. If you came to me to-morrow and 
 told me you had no income, it would make no dif- 
 ference. Though to love you and to have your love 
 is all the world to me, — though it makes all the dif- 
 ference between misery and happiness, — I would sooner 
 give up that than be a clog on you." Then he took 
 her in his arms and kissed her. "Oh, Phineasl" she 
 said, "I do love you so entirely!" 
 
 "My own one!" 
 
 "Yes; your own one. But if you had known it all 
 always! Never mind. Now you are my own, — are 
 you not?" 
 
 "Indeed yes, dearest." 
 
 **0h, what a thing it is to be victorious at last." 
 
 "What on earth are you two doing here these two 
 hours together?" said Barbara, bursting into the room. 
 
 "What are we doing?" said Phineas. 
 
 "Yes; — what are you doing?" 
 
 "Nothing in particular," said Mary. 
 
 "Nothing at all in particular," said Phineas. "Only 
 this, — that we have engaged ourselves to marry each 
 other. It is quite a trifle, — is it not, Mary?" 
 
 "Oh, Barbara!" said the joyful girl, springing for- 
 ward into her friend's arms; "I do believe I am the 
 happiest creature on the face of this earth!" 
 
job's comforters. 
 
 203 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 Job's Comforters. 
 
 Before Phineas had returned to London his en- 
 gagement with Mary Flood Jones was known to all 
 his family, was known to Mrs. Flood Jones, and was 
 indeed known generally to all Killaloe. That other 
 secret of his, which had reference to the probability of 
 his being obliged to throw up his office, was known 
 only to Mary herself. He thought that he had done 
 all that honour required of him in telling her of his 
 position before he had proposed; — so that she might 
 on that ground refuse him if she were so minded. And 
 yet he had known very well that such prudence on her 
 part was not to be expected. If she loved him, of 
 course she would say so when she was asked. And he 
 had known that she loved him "There may be delay, 
 Mary,'' he said to her as he was going; "nay, there 
 must be delay, if I am obliged to resign.'' 
 
 "I do not care a straw for delay if you will be 
 true to me," she said. 
 
 "Do you doubt my truth, dearest?" 
 
 "Not in the least. I will swear by it as the one 
 thing that is truest in the world." 
 
 "You may, dearest. And if this should come to 
 pass I must go to work and put my shoulder to the 
 wheel, and earn an income for you by my old profes- 
 sion before I can make you my wife. With such a 
 motive before me I know that I shall earn an income." 
 
204 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 And thus they parted. Mary, though of course she 
 would have preferred that her future husband should 
 remain in his high office, that he should be a member 
 of Parliament and an Under-Secretary of State, ad- 
 mitted no doubt into her mind to disturb her happi- 
 ness; and Phineas, though he had many misgivings as 
 to the prudence of what he had done, was not the less 
 strong in his resolution of constancy and endurance. 
 He would throw up his position, resign his seat, and 
 go to work at the Bar instantly, if he found that his 
 independence as a man required him to do so. And, 
 above all, let come what might, he would be true to 
 Mary Flood Jones. 
 
 December was half over before he saw Lord Cantrip. 
 "Yes, — yes;'' said Lord Cantrip, when the Under- 
 Secretary began to tell his story; "I saw what you 
 were about. I wish I had been at your elbow." 
 
 "If you knew the country as I know it, you would 
 be as eager about it as I am." 
 
 "Then I can only say that I am very glad that I 
 do not know the country as you know it. You see, 
 Finn, it's my idea that if a man wants to make him- 
 self useful he should stick to some special kind of 
 work. With you it's a thousand pities that you should 
 not do so." 
 
 "You think, then, I ought to resign?" 
 
 "I don't say anything about that. As you wish it, 
 of course I'll speak to Gresham. Monk, I believe, 
 has resigned already." 
 
 "He has written to me; and told me so," said 
 Phineas. 
 
 "I always felt afraid of him for your sake, Finn. 
 Mr. Monk is a clever man, and as honest a man as 
 
job's comforters. 
 
 205 
 
 any in the House, but I always thought that he was a 
 dangerous friend for you. However, we will see. I 
 will speak to Gresham after Christmas. There is no 
 hurry about it." 
 
 When Parliament met the first great subject of in- 
 terest was the desertion of Mr. Monk from the Ministry. 
 He at once took his place below the gangway, sitting 
 as it happened exactly in front of Mr. Turnbull, and 
 there he made his explanation. Some one opposite 
 asked a question whether a certain right honourable 
 gentleman had not left the Cabinet. Then Mr. Gresham 
 replied that to his infinite regret his right honourable 
 friend, who lately presided at the Board of Trade, had 
 resigned; and he went on to explain that this resigna- 
 tion had, according to his ideas, been quite unnecessary. 
 His right honourable friend entertained certain ideas 
 about Irish tenant-right, as to which he himself and 
 his right honourable friend the Secretary for Ireland 
 could not exactly pledge themselves to be in unison 
 with him; but he had thought that the motion might 
 have rested at any rate over this session. Then Mr. 
 Monk explained, making his first great speech on Irish 
 tenant-right. He found himself obliged to advocate 
 some immediate measure for giving security to the 
 Irish farmer; and as he could not do so as a member 
 of the Cabinet, he was forced to resign the honour of 
 that position. He said something also as to the great 
 doubt which had ever weighed on his own mind as to 
 the inexpediency of a man at his time of life sub- 
 mitting himself for the first time to the trammels of 
 office. This called up Mr. Turnbull, who took the op- 
 portunity of saying that he now agreed cordially with 
 his old friend for the first time since that old friend 
 
2o6 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 had listened to the blandishments of the ministerial 
 seducer, and that he welcomed his old friend back to 
 those independent benches with great satisfaction. In 
 this way the debate was very exciting. Nothing was 
 said which made it then necessary for Phineas to get 
 upon his legs or to declare himself; but he perceived 
 that the time would rapidly come in which he must do 
 so. Mr. Gresham, though he strove to speak with 
 gentle words, was evidently very angry with the late 
 President of the Board of Trade; and, moreover, it 
 was quite clear that a bill would be introduced by Mr. 
 Monk himself, which Mr. Gresham was determined to 
 oppose. If all this came to pass and there should be 
 a close division, Phineas felt that his fate would be 
 sealed. When he again spoke to Lord Cantrip on the 
 subject, the Secretary of State shrugged his shoulders 
 and shook his head. "I can only advise you," said 
 Lord Cantrip, "to forget all that took place in Ireland. 
 If you will do so, nobody else will remember it." "As 
 if it were possible to forget such things," he said in 
 the letter which he wrote to Mary that night. "Of 
 course I shall go now. If it were not for your sake, 
 I should not in the least regret it." 
 
 He had been with Madame Goesler frequently in 
 the winter, and had discussed with her so often the 
 question of his official position that she had declared 
 that she was coming at last to understand the mysteries 
 of an English cabinet. "I think you are quite right, 
 my friend," she s?id, — "quite right. What — you are 
 to be in Parliament and say that this black thing is 
 white, or that this white thing is black, because you 
 like to take your salary! That cannot be honest!" 
 Then, when he came to talk to her of money, — that 
 
job's comforters. 
 
 207 
 
 he must give up Parliament itself, if he gave up his 
 place, — she offered to lend him money. "Why should 
 you not treat me as a friend?" she said. When he 
 pointed out to her that there would never come a time 
 in which he could pay such money back, she stamped 
 her foot and told him that he had better leave her. 
 "You have high principle,'' she said, "but not principle 
 sufficiently high to understand that this thing could 
 be done between you and me without disgrace to either 
 of us." Then Phineas assured her with tears in his 
 eyes that such an arrangement was impossible without 
 disgrace to him. 
 
 But he whispered to this new friend no word of the 
 engagement with his dear Irish Mary. His Irish life, 
 he would tell himself, was a thing quite apart and 
 separate from his life in England. He said not a word 
 about Mary Flood Jones to any of those with whom 
 he lived in London. Why should he, feeling as he 
 did that it would so soon be necessary that he should 
 disappear from among them? About Miss Effingham 
 he had said much to Madame Goesler. She had asked 
 him whether he had abandoned all hope. "That affair, 
 then, is over?" she had said. 
 
 "Yes; — it is all over now." 
 
 "And she will marry the red-headed, violent lord?" 
 
 "Heaven knows. I think she will. But she is 
 exactly the girl to remain unmarried if she takes it 
 into her head that the man she likes is in any way 
 unfitted for her." 
 
 "Does she love this lord?" 
 
 "Oh yes; — there is no doubt of that." And Phineas, 
 as he made this acknowledgment, seemed to do so 
 without much inward agony of soul. When he had 
 
208 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 been last in London he could not speak of Violet and 
 Lord Chiltern together without showing that his misery 
 was almost too much for him. 
 
 At this time he received some counsel from two 
 friends. One was Laurence Fitzgibbon, and the other 
 was Harrington Erie. Laurence had always been true 
 to him after a fashion, and had never resented his in- 
 trusion at the Colonial Office. "Phineas, me boy," he 
 said, "if all this is thrue, you're about up a tree.'' 
 
 "It is true that I shall support Monk's motion." 
 
 "Then, me boy, you're up a tree as far as office 
 goes. A place like that niver suited me, because, you 
 see, that poker of a young lord expected so much of a 
 man; but you don't mind that kind of thing, and I 
 thought you were as snug as snug." 
 
 "Troubles will come, you see, Laurence." 
 
 "Bedad, yes. It's all throubles, I think, sometimes. 
 But you've a way out of all your throubles." 
 
 "What way?" 
 
 "Pop the question to Madame Max. The money's 
 all thrue, you know." 
 
 "I don't doubt the money in the least," said Phineas. 
 
 "And it's my belief she'll take you without a 
 second word. Anyways, thry it, Phinny, my boy. 
 That's my advice." Phineas so far agreed with his 
 friend Laurence that he thought it possible that Madame 
 Goesler might accept him were he to propose marriage 
 to her. He knew, of course, that that mode of escape 
 from his difficulties was out of the question for him, 
 but he could not explain this to Laurence Fitzgibbon. 
 
 "I am sorry to hear that you have taken up a bad 
 cause," said Barrington Erie to him. 
 
 "It is a pity; — is it not?" 
 
JOB'S COMFORTERS. 
 
 209 
 
 "And the worst of it is that you^U sacrifice yourself 
 and do no good to the cause. I never knew a man 
 break away in this fashion, and not feel afterwards 
 that he had done it all for nothing." 
 
 "But what is a man to do, Barrington? He can't 
 smother his convictions." 
 
 "Convictions! There is nothing on earth that Fm 
 so much afraid of in a young member of Parliament 
 as convictions. There are ever so many rocks against 
 which men get broken. One man can't keep his 
 temper. Another can't hold his tongue. A third can't 
 say a word unless he has been priming himself half 
 a session. A fourth is always thinking of himself, 
 and w^anting more than he can get. A fifth is idle, 
 and won't be there when he's wanted. A sixth is 
 always in the way. A seventh lies so that you never 
 can trust him. I've had to do with them all, but a 
 fellow with convictions is the worst of all." 
 
 "I don't see how a fellow is to help himself," said 
 Phineas. "When a fellow begins to meddle with poli- 
 tics they will come." 
 
 "Why can't you grow into them gradually as your 
 betters and elders have done before you? It ought to 
 be enough for any man, when he begins, to know that 
 he's a Liberal. He understands which side of the 
 House he's to vote, and who is to lead him. What's 
 the meaning of having a leader to a party, if it's not 
 that? Do you think that you and Mr. Monk can go 
 and make a government between you?" 
 
 "Whatever I think, I'm sure he doesn't." 
 
 "I'm not so sure of that. But look here, Phineas. 
 I don't care two straws about Monk's going. I always 
 thought that Mildmay and the Duke were wrong wheu 
 
 Phineas Finn. HI. 1 4 
 
2IO 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 they asked him to join. I knew he'd go over the 
 traces, — unless, indeed, he took his money and did no- 
 thing for it, which is the way with some of those 
 Radicals. I look upon him as gone." 
 "He has gone." 
 
 "The devil go along with him, as you say in Ire- 
 land. But don't you be such a fool as to ruin yourself 
 for a crotchet of Monk's. It isn't too late yet for you 
 to hold back. To tell you the truth, Gresham has said 
 a word to me about it already. He is most anxious 
 that you should stay, but of course you can't stay and 
 vote against us." 
 
 "Of course I cannot." 
 
 "I look upon you, you know, as in some sort my 
 own child. I've tried to bring other fellows forward who 
 seemed to have something in them, but I have never 
 succeeded as I have with you. You've hit the thing 
 off, and have got the ball at your foot. Upon my 
 honour, in the whole course of my experience I have 
 never known such good fortune as yours." 
 
 "And I shall always remember how it began, Bar- 
 rington," said Phineas, who was greatly moved by the 
 energy and solicitude of his friend. 
 
 "But, for God's sake, don't go and destroy it all 
 by such mad perversity as this. They mean to do 
 something next session. Morrison is going to take it 
 up." Sir Walter Morrison was at this time Secretary 
 for Ireland. "But of course we can't let a fellow like 
 Monk take the matter into his own hands just when 
 he pleases. I call it d d treachery." 
 
 "Monk is no traitor, Barrington." 
 
 "Men will have their own opinions about that. It's 
 generally understood that when a man is asked to 
 
job's comforters. 
 
 21 11 
 
 take a seat in the Cabinet he is expected to conform 
 with his colleagues, unless something very special turns 
 up. But I am speaking of you now, and not of Monk. 
 You are not a man of fortune. You cannot afford to 
 make ducks and drakes. You are excellently placed, 
 and you have plenty of time to hark back, if you'll 
 only listen to reason. All that Irish stump balderdash 
 will never be thrown in your teeth by us, if you will 
 just go on as though it had never been uttered." 
 
 Phineas could only thank his friend for his advice, 
 which was at ]east disinterested, and was good of its 
 kind, and tell him that he would think of it. He did 
 think of it very much. He almost thought that, were 
 it to do again, he would allow Mr. Monk to go upon 
 his tour alone, and keep himself from the utterance 
 of anything that so good a judge as Erie could call 
 stump balderdash. As he sat in his arm-chair in his 
 room at the Colonial Office, with despatch-boxes around 
 him, and official papers spread before him, — feeling 
 himself to be one of those w^ho in truth managed and 
 governed the affairs of this great nation, feeling also 
 that if he relinquished his post now he could never 
 regain it, — he did wish that he had been a little less 
 in love with independence, a little quieter in his boast- 
 ings that no official considerations should ever silence 
 his tongue. But all this was too late now. He knew 
 that his skin was not thick enough to bear the arrows 
 of those archers who would bend their bows against 
 him if he should now dare to vote against Mr. Monk's 
 motion. His own party might be willing to forgive 
 and forget; but there would be others who would 
 have read those reports, and would appear in tjie 
 House with the odious tell-tale newspapers in their hands. 
 
 14* 
 
212 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 Then he received a letter from his father. Some 
 good-natured person had enhghtened the doctor as to 
 the danger in which his son was placing himself. Dr. 
 Finn, who in his own profession was a very excellent 
 and well-instructed man, had been so ignorant of Par- 
 liamentary tactics, as to have been proud at his son's 
 success at the Irish meetings. He had thought that 
 Phineas was carrying on his trade as a public speaker 
 with proper energy and continued success. He had 
 cared nothing himself for tenant-right, and had acknow- 
 ledged to Mr. Monk that he could not understand in 
 what it was that the farmers were wronged. But he 
 knew that Mr. Monk was a Cabinet Minisucr, and he 
 thought that Phineas was earning his salary. Then 
 there came some one who undeceived him, and the 
 paternal bosom of the doctor was dismayed. "I don't 
 mean to interfere," he said in his letter, "but I can 
 hardly believe that you really intend to resign your 
 place. Yet I am told that you must do so if you go 
 on with this matter. My dear boy, pray think about 
 it. I cannot imagine you are disposed to lose all that 
 you have won for nothing." Mary also wrote to him. 
 Mrs. Finn had been talking to her, and Mary had 
 taught herself to believe that after the many sweet 
 conversations she had had with a man so high in office 
 as Phineas, she really did understand something about 
 the British Government. Mrs. Finn had interrogated 
 Mary, and Mary had been obliged to own that it was 
 quite possible that Phineas would be called upon to resign. 
 
 "But why, my dear? Heaven and earth! Resign 
 two thousand a year!" 
 
 "That he may maintain his independence," said 
 Mary proudly. 
 
JOB^S COMFORTERS. 
 
 ''Fiddlestick!'' said Mrs. Finn. "How is he to 
 maintain you, or himself either, if he goes on in that 
 way? I shouldn't wonder if he didn't get himself all 
 wrong, even now.'' Then Mrs. Finn began to cry; 
 and Mary could only write to her lover, pointing out 
 to him how very anxious all his friends were that he 
 should do nothing in a hurry. But what if the thing 
 were done already! Phineas in his great discomfort 
 went to seek further counsel from Madame Goesler. 
 Of all his counsellors, Madame Goesler was the only 
 one who applauded him for what he was about to do. 
 
 "But, after all, what is it you give up? Mr. Gresham 
 may be out to-morrow, and then where will be your 
 place?" 
 
 "There does not seem to be much chance of that 
 at present." 
 
 "Who can tell? Of course I do not understand, 
 — but it was only the other day when Mr. MiMmay 
 was there, and only the day before that when Lord de 
 Terrier was there, and again only the day before that 
 when Lord Brock was there." Phineas endeavoured to 
 make her understand that of the four Prime Ministers 
 whom she had named, three were men of the same 
 party as himself, under whom it would have suited 
 him to serve. "I would noi serve under any man if 
 I were an English gentleman in Parliament," said 
 Madame Goesler. 
 
 "What is a poor fellow to do?" said Phineas, 
 laughing. 
 
 "A poor fellow need not be a poor fellow unless 
 he likes," said Madame Goesler. Immediately after 
 this Phineas left her, and as he went along the street 
 he began to question himself whether the prospects of 
 
214 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 his own darling Mary were at all endangered by his 
 visits to Park Lane; and to reflect what sort of a 
 blackguard he would be, — a blackguard of how deep 
 a dye, — were he to desert Mary and marry Madame 
 Max Goesler. Then he also asked himself as to the 
 nature and quality of his own political honesty if he 
 were to abandon Mary in order that he might maintain 
 his parliamentary independence. After all, if it should 
 ever come to pass that his biography should be written, 
 his biographer would say very much more about the 
 manner in which he kept his seat in Parliament than 
 of the manner in which he kept his engagement with 
 Miss Mary Flood Jones. Half a dozen people who 
 knew him and her might think ill of him for his con- 
 duct to Mary, but the world would not condemn him! 
 And when he thundered forth his liberal eloquence 
 from below the gangway as an independent member, 
 having the fortune of his charming wife to back him, 
 giving excellent dinners at the same time in Park Lane, 
 would not the world praise him very loudly? 
 
 When he got to his office he found a note from 
 Lord Brentford inviting him to dine in Portman 
 Square. 
 
THE JOINT ATTACK. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 The Joint Attack. 
 
 The note from Lord Brentford surprised our hero 
 not a little. He had had no communication with the 
 Earl since the day on which he had been so savagely 
 scolded about the duel, when the Earl had plainly told 
 him that his conduct had been as bad as it could be. 
 Phineas had not on that account become at all ashamed 
 of his conduct in reference to the duel, but he had 
 conceived that any reconciliation between him and the 
 Earl had been out of the question. Now there had 
 come a civilly-w^orded invitation, asking him to dine 
 with the offended nobleman. The note had been written 
 by Lady Laura, but it had purposed to come from 
 Lord Brentford himself. He sent back word to say 
 that he should be happy to have the honour of dining 
 with Lord Brentford. 
 
 Parliament at this time had been sitting nearly a 
 month, and it was already March. Phineas had heard 
 nothing of Lady Laura, and did not even know that 
 she was in London till he saw her handwriting. He 
 did know that she had not gone back to her husband, 
 and that she had remained with her father all the 
 winter at Saulsby. He had also heard that Lord 
 Chiltern had been at Saulsby. All the world had been 
 talking of the separation of Mr. Kennedy from his wife, 
 one half of the world declaring that his wife, if not 
 absolutely false to him, had neglected all her duties; 
 and the other half asserting that Mr. Kennedy's treat- 
 ment of his wife had been so bad that no woman could 
 
2l6 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 possibly have lived with him. There had even been 
 a rumour that Lady Laura had gone off with a lover 
 from the Duke of Omnium's garden party, and some 
 indiscreet tongue had hinted that a certain unmarried 
 Under Secretary of State was missing at the same time. 
 But Lord Chiltern upon this had shown his teeth with 
 so strong a propensity to do some real biting, that no 
 one had ventured to repeat that rumour. Its untruth 
 was soon established by the fact that Lady Laura Ken- 
 nedy was living with her father at Saulsby. Of Mr. 
 Kennedy, Phineas had as yet seen nothing since he 
 had been up in town. That gentleman, though a 
 member of the Cabinet, had not been in London at the 
 opening of the session, nor had he attended the Cabinet 
 meetings during the recess. It had been stated in the 
 newspapers that he was ill, and stated in private that 
 he could not bear to show himself since his wife had 
 left him. At last, however, he came to London, and 
 Phineas saw him in the House. Then, when the first 
 meeting of the Cabinet was summoned after his return, 
 it became known that he also had resigned his office. 
 There was nothing said about his resignation in the 
 House. He had resigned on the score of ill-health, 
 and that very worthy peer. Lord Mount Thistle, 
 formerly Sir Marmaduke Morecombe, came back to the 
 Duchy of Lancaster in his place. A Prime Minister 
 sometimes finds great relief in the possession of a 
 serviceable stick who can be made to go in and out 
 as occasion may require; only it generally happens 
 that the stick will expect some reward when he is 
 made to go out. Lord Mount Thistle immediately saw 
 his way to a viscount's coronet, when he was once 
 more summoned to the august councils of the Ministers. 
 
THE JOINT ATTACK. 
 
 217 
 
 A few days after this had been arranged, in the 
 interval between Lord Brentford^s invitation and Lord 
 Brentford's dinner, Phineas encountered Mr. Kennedy 
 so closely in one of the passages of the House that it 
 was impossible that they should not speak to each 
 other, unless they were to avoid each other as people 
 do who have palpably quarrelled. Phineas saw that 
 Mr. Kennedy was hesitating, and therefore took the 
 bull by the horns. He greeted his former friend in a 
 friendly fashion, shaking him by the hand, and then 
 prepared to pass on. But Mr. Kennedy, though he had 
 hesitated at first, now detained his brother member. 
 **Finn,'' he said, "if you are not engaged I should like 
 to speak to you for a moment." Phineas was not 
 engaged, and allowed himself to be led out arm-in-arm 
 by the late Chancellor of the Duchy into Westminster 
 Hall. "Of course you know what a terrible thing has 
 happened to me," said Mr. Kennedy. 
 
 "Yes; — I have heard of it," said Phineas. 
 
 "Everybody has heard of it. That is one of the 
 terrible cruelties of such a blow." 
 
 "All those things are very bad of course. I was 
 very much grieved, — because you have both been 
 intimate friends of mine." 
 
 "Yes, — yes; we were. Do you ever see her now?" 
 
 "Not since last July, — at the Duke's party, you know." 
 
 "Ah, yes; — the morning of that day was the last 
 on which I spoke to her. It was then she left me." 
 
 "I am going to dine with Lord Brentford to-morrow, 
 and I dare say she will be there." 
 
 "Yes; — she is in town. I saw her yesterday in 
 her father's carriage. I think that she had no cause to 
 leave me." 
 
2l8 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "Of course I cannot say anything about that." 
 
 "I think she had no cause to leave me." Phineas 
 as he heard this could not but remember all that Lady 
 Laura had told himself, and thought that no woman 
 had ever had a better reason for leaving her husband. 
 "There were things I did not like, and I said so." 
 
 "I suppose that is generally the way," replied Phineas. 
 
 "But surely a wife should listen to a word of 
 caution from her husband." 
 
 "I fancy they never like it," said Phineas. 
 
 "But are we all of us to have all that we like? I 
 have not found it so. Or would it be good for us if 
 we had?" Then he paused; but as Phineas had no 
 further remark to make, he continued speaking after 
 they had walked about a third of the length of the hall. 
 "It is not of my own comfort I am thinking now so 
 much as of her name and her future conduct. Of 
 course it will in every sense be best for her that she 
 should come back to her husband's roof." 
 
 "Well; yes; — perhaps it would," said Phineas. 
 
 "Has she not accepted that lot for better or for 
 worse?" said Mr. Kennedy, solemnly. 
 
 "But incompatibility of temper, you know, is al- 
 ways, — always supposed . You understand me?" 
 
 "It is my intention that she should come back to 
 me. I do not wish to make any legal demand; — at 
 any rate, not as yet. Will you consent to be the bearer 
 of a message from me both to herself and to the Earl?" 
 
 Now it seemed to Phineas that of all the mes- 
 sengers whom Mr. Kennedy could have chosen he was 
 the most unsuited to be a Mercury in this cause, — not 
 perceiving that he had been so selected with some 
 craft, in order that Lady Laura might understand that 
 
THE JOINT ATTACK. 
 
 219 
 
 the accusation against her was, at any rate, withdrawn, 
 which had named Phineas as her lover. He paused 
 again before he answered. "Of course," he said, "I 
 should be most willing to be of service, if it were 
 possible. But I do not see how I can speak to the 
 Earl about it. Though I am going to dine with him 
 I don't know why he has asked me; — for he and I are 
 on very bad terms. He heard that stupid story about 
 the duel, and has not spoken to me since." 
 
 "I heard that, too," said Mr. Kennedy, frowning 
 blackly as he remembered his wife's duplicity. 
 
 "Everybody heard of it. But it has made such a 
 difference between him and me, that I don't think I 
 can meddle. Send for Lord Chiltern, and speak to him." 
 
 "Speak to Chiltern! Never! He would probably 
 strike me on the head with his club." 
 
 "Call on the Earl yourself." 
 
 "I did, and he would not see me." 
 
 "Write to him." 
 
 "I did, and he sent back my letter unopened." 
 "Write to her." 
 
 "I did; — and she answered me, saying only thus; 
 * Indeed, indeed, it cannot be so.' But it must be so. 
 The laws of God require it, and the laws of man 
 permit it. I want some one to point out that to them 
 more softly than I could do if I were simply to write 
 to that effect. To the Earl, of course, I cannot write 
 again." The conference ended by a promise from 
 Phineas that he would, if possible, say a word to Lady 
 Laura. 
 
 When he was shown into Lord Brentford's drawing- 
 room he found not only Lady Laura there, but her 
 brother. Lord Brentford was not in the room. Bar- 
 
220 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 rington Erie was there, and so also were Lord and 
 Lady Cantrip. 
 
 "Is not your father going to be here?" he said to 
 Lady Laura, after their first greeting. 
 
 "We live in that hope," said she, "and do not at 
 all know why he should be late. What has become of 
 him, Oswald?" 
 
 "He came in with me half an hour ago, and I 
 suppose he does not dress as quickly as I do," said 
 Lord Chiltern; upon which Phineas immediately under- 
 stood that the father and the son were reconciled, and 
 he rushed to the conclusion that Violet and her lover 
 would also soon be reconciled, if such were not already 
 the case. He felt some remnant of a soreness that it 
 should be so, as a man feels where his headache has 
 been when the real ache itself has left him. Then the 
 host came in and made his apologies. "Chiltern kept 
 me standing about," he said, "till the east wind had 
 chilled me through and through. The only charm I 
 recognise in youth is that it is impervious to the east 
 wind." Phineas felt quite sure now that Violet and 
 her lover were reconciled, and he had a distinct feel- 
 ing of the place where the ache had been. Dear 
 Violet! But, after all, Violet lacked that sweet, cling- 
 ing, feminine softness which made Mary Flood Jones 
 so pre-eminently the most charming of her sex. The 
 Earl, when he had repeated his general apology, 
 especially to Lady Cantrip, who was the only lady 
 present except his daughter, came up to our hero and 
 shook him kindly by the hand. He took him up to 
 one of the windows and then addressed him in a voice 
 of mock solemnity. 
 
 "Stick to the colonies, young man," he said, "and 
 
THE JOINT ATTACK. 
 
 221 
 
 never meddle with foreign affairs;— especially not at 
 Blankenberg." 
 
 "Never again, my Lord; — never again/' 
 
 "And leave all questions of fire-arms to be ar- 
 ranged between the Horse Guards and the War Of- 
 fice. I have heard a good deal about it since I saw 
 you, and I retract a part of what I said. But a duel 
 is a foolish thing, — a very foolish thing. Come; — 
 here is dinner." And the Earl walked off with Lady 
 Cantrip, and Lord Cantrip walked off with Lady Laura. 
 Barrington Erie followed, and Phineas had an op- 
 portunity of saying a word to his friend, Lord Chiltern, 
 as they went down together. 
 
 "It's all right between you and your father?" 
 
 "Yes; — after a fashion. There is no knowing how 
 long it will last. He wants me to do three things, and 
 I won't do any one of them." 
 
 "What are the three?" 
 
 "To go into Parliament, to be an owner of sheep 
 and oxen, and to hunt in his own county. I should 
 never attend the first, I should ruin myself with the 
 second, and I should never get a run in the third." 
 But there was not a word said about his marriage. 
 
 There were only seven who sat down to dinner, 
 and the six were all people with whom Phineas was 
 or had been on most intimate terms. Lord Cantrip 
 was his official chief, and, since that connection had 
 existed between them. Lady Cantrip had been very 
 gracious to him. She quite understood the comfort 
 which it was to her husband to have under him, as 
 his representative in the House of Commons, a man 
 whom he could thoroughly trust and like, and there- 
 fore she had used her woman's arts to bind Phineas to 
 
222 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 her lord in more than mere official bondage. She had 
 tried her skill also upon Laurence Fitzgibbon, — but 
 altogether in vain. He had eaten her dinners and ac- 
 cepted her courtesies, and had given for them no re- 
 turn whatever. But Phineas had possessed a more 
 grateful mind, and had done all that had been re- 
 quired of him; — had done all that had been required 
 of him till there had come that terrible absurdity in 
 Ireland. "I knew very well what sort of things would 
 happen when they brought such a man as Mr. Monk into 
 the Cabinet," Lady Cantrip had said to her husband. 
 
 But though the party was very small, and though 
 the guests were all his intimate friends, Pliineas sus- 
 pected nothing special till an attack was made upon 
 him as soon as the servants had left the room. This 
 was done in the presence of the two ladies, and, no 
 doubt, had been preconcerted. There was Lord Cantrip 
 there, who had already said much to him, and Barring- 
 ton Erie who had said more even than Lord Cantrip. 
 Lord Brentford, himself a member of the Cabinet, 
 opened the attack by asking whether it was actually 
 true that Mr. Monk meant to go on with his motion. 
 Barrington Erie asserted that Mr. Monk positively 
 would do so. "And Gresham will oppose it?'' asked 
 the Earl. "Of course he will,'' said Barrington. "Of 
 course he will," said Lord Cantrip. "I know what I 
 should think of him if he did not," said Lady Cantrip. 
 "He is the last man in the world to be forced into a 
 thing," said Lady Laura. Then- Phineas knew pretty 
 well what was coming on him. 
 
 Lord Brentford began again by asking how many 
 supporters Mr. Monk would have in the House. "That 
 depends upon the amount of courage which the Con- 
 
THE JOINT ATTACK. 
 
 223 
 
 servatives may have," said Barrington Erie. "If they 
 dare to vote for a thoroughly democratic measure, 
 simply for the sake of turning us out, it is quite on 
 the cards that they may succeed." "But of our own 
 people?" asked Lord Cantrip. "You had better in- 
 quire that of Phineas Finn," said Barrington. And 
 then the attack was made. 
 
 Our hero had a bad half hour of it, though many 
 words were said which must have gratified him much. 
 They all wanted to keep him, — so Lord Cantrip de- 
 clared, "except one or two whom I could name, and 
 who are particularly anxious to wear his shoes," said 
 Barrington, thinking that certain reminiscences of 
 Phineas with regard to Mr. Bonteen and others might 
 operate as strongly as any other consideration to make 
 him love his place. Lord Brentford declared that he 
 could not understand it, — that he should find himself 
 lost in amazement if such a man as his young friend 
 allowed himself to be led into the outer wilderness by 
 such an ignis-fatuus of light as this. Lord Cantrip 
 laid down the unwritten traditional law of Government 
 officials very plainly. A man in office, — in an office 
 which really imposed upon him as much work as he 
 could possibly do with credit to himself or his cause, 
 — was dispensed from the necessity of a conscience 
 with reference to other matters. It was for Sir Walter 
 Morrison to have a conscience about Irish tenant-right, 
 as no doubt he had, — just as Phineas Finn had a con- 
 science about Canada, and Jamaica, and the Cape. 
 Barrington Erie was very strong about parties in 
 general, and painted the comforts of official position 
 in glowing colours. But I think that the two ladies 
 were more efficacious than even their male relatives in 
 
224 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 the arguments which they used. "We have been so 
 happy to have you among us," said Lady Cantrip, 
 looking at him with beseeching, almost loving eyes. 
 "Mr. Finn knows," said Lady Laura, "that since he 
 first came into Parliament I have always believed in 
 his success, and I have been very proud to see it." 
 "We shall weep over him, as over a fallen angel, if 
 he leaves us," said Lady Cantrip. "I won't say that I 
 will weep," said Lady Laura, "but I do not know any- 
 thing of the kind that would so truly make me unhappy." 
 
 What was he to say in answer to applications so 
 flattering and so pressing? He would have said no- 
 thing, had that been possible, but he felt himself 
 obliged to reply. He replied very weakly, — of course, 
 not justifying himself, but declaring that as he had 
 gone so far he must go further. He must vote for the 
 measure now. Both his chief and Barrington Erie 
 proved, or attempted to prove, that he was wrong in 
 this. Of course he would not speak on the measure, 
 and his vote for his party would probably be allowed 
 to pass without notice. One or two newspapers might 
 perhaps attack him; but what public man cared for 
 such attacks as those? His whole party would hang 
 by him, and in that he would find ample consolation. 
 Phineas could only say that he would think of it; — 
 and this he said in so irresolute a tone of voice that 
 all the men then present believed that he was gained. 
 The two ladies, however, were of a different opinion. 
 "In spite of anything that anybody may say, he will 
 do what he thinks right when the time comes," said 
 Laura to her father afterwards. But then Lady Laura 
 had been in love with him, — was perhaps almost in 
 love with him still. "Fm afraid he is a mule," said 
 
THE JOINT ATTACK. 
 
 225 
 
 Lady Cantrip to her husband. "He^s a good mule up 
 a hill with a load on his back," said his lordship. 
 "But with a mule there always comes a time when you 
 can't manage him/' said Lady Cantrip. But Lady 
 Cantrip had never been in love with Phineas. 
 
 Phineas found a moment, before he left Lord 
 Brentford's house, to say a word to Lady Laura as to 
 the commission that had been given to him. "It can 
 never be," said Lady Laura, shuddering; — "never, 
 never, never!" 
 
 "You are not angry with me for speaking?" 
 
 "Oh, no, — not if he told you." 
 
 "He made me promise that I would." 
 
 "Tell him it cannot be. Tell him that if he has 
 any instruction to send me as to what he considers to 
 be my duty, I will endeavour to comply, if that duty 
 can be done apart. I will recognise him so far, be- 
 cause of my vow. But not even for the sake of my 
 vow, will I endeavour to live with him. His presence 
 would kill me!" 
 
 When Phineas repeated this, or as much of this as 
 he judged to be necessary to Mr. Kennedy a day or 
 two afterwards, that gentleman replied that in such 
 case he would have no alternative but to seek redress 
 at law. "I have done nothing to my wife," said he, 
 "of which I need be ashamed. It will be sad, no 
 doubt, to have all our affairs bandied about in court, 
 and made the subject of comment in newspapers, but 
 a man must go through that, or worse than that, in 
 the vindication of his rights, and for the performance 
 of his duty to his Maker." That very day Mr. Kennedy 
 went to his lawyer, and desired that steps might be 
 taken for the restitution to him of his conjugal rights. 
 
 Fhi?teas Finn. III. 1 5 
 
226 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIl. 
 The Temptress. 
 
 Mr. Monk's bill was read the first time before 
 Easter, and Phineas Finn still held his office. He had 
 spoken to the Prime Minister once on the subject, and 
 had been surprised at that gentleman's courtesy; — for 
 Mr. Gresham had the reputation of being unconciliatory 
 in his manners, and very prone to resent any thing 
 like desertion from that allegiance which was due to 
 himself as the leader of his party. "You had better 
 stay where you are and take no step that may be irre- 
 trievable, till you have quite made up your mind,'' 
 said Mr. Gresham. 
 
 "I fear I have made up my mind," said Phineas. 
 
 "Nothing can be done till after Easter," replied 
 the great man, "and there is no knowing how things 
 may go then. I strongly recommend you to stay with 
 us. If you can do this it will be only necessary that 
 you shall put your resignation in Lord Cantrip's hands 
 before you speak or vote against us. See Monk and 
 talk it over with him." Mr. Gresham possibly imagined 
 that Mr. Monk might be moved to abandon his bill, 
 when he saw what injury he was about to do. 
 
 At this time Phineas received the following letter 
 from his darling Mary; — 
 
 * * Floodboroughf Thursday . 
 
 "Dearest Phineas, 
 "We have just got home from Killaloe, and mean 
 
THE TEMPTRESS. 
 
 227 
 
 to remain here all through the summer. After leaving 
 your sisters this house seems so desolate; but I shall 
 have the more time to think of you. I have been 
 reading Tennyson, as you told me, and I fancy that 
 I could in truth be a Mariana here, if it were not that 
 I am so quite certain that you will come; — and that 
 makes all the difference in the world in a moated 
 grange. Last night I sat at the window and tried to 
 realise what I should feel if you were to tell me that 
 you did not want me; and I got myself into such an 
 ecstatic state of mock melancholy that I cried for half 
 an hour. But when one has such a real living joy at 
 the back of one's romantic melancholy, tears are very 
 pleasant; — they water and do not burn. 
 
 "I must tell you about them all at Killaloe. They 
 certainly are very unhappy at the idea of your resign- 
 ing. Your father says very little, but I made him own 
 that to act as you are acting for the sake of principle 
 is very grand. I would not leave him till he had said 
 so, and he did say it. Dear Mrs. Finn does not under- 
 stand it as well, but she will do so. She complains 
 mostly for my sake, and when I tell her that I will 
 wait twenty years if it is necessary, she tells me I 
 do not know what waiting means. But I will, — 
 and will be happy, and will never really think 
 myself a Mariana. Dear, dear, dear Phineas, indeed 
 I won't. The girls are half sad and half proud. But 
 I am' wholly proud, and know that you are doing 
 just what you ought to do. I shall think more of you 
 as a man who might have been a Prime Minister than 
 if you were really sitting in the Cabinet like Lord 
 Cantrip. As for mamma, I cannot make her quite 
 understand it. She merely says that no young man 
 
 15* 
 
228 
 
 PHINEAS FINN, 
 
 who is going to be married ought to resign anything. 
 Dear mamma; — sometimes she does say such odd things. 
 
 "You told me to tell you everything, and so I have. 
 I talk to some of the people here, and tell them what 
 they might do if they had tenant-right. One old fel- 
 low, Mike Dufferty, — I don't know whether you remem- 
 ber him, — asked if he would have to pay the rent all 
 the same. When I said certainly he would, then he 
 shook his head. But as you said once, when we 
 want to do good to people one has no right to expect 
 that they should understand it. It is like baptizing 
 little infants. 
 
 "I got both your notes; — seven words in one, Mr. 
 Under-Secretary, and nine in the other! But the one 
 little word at the end was worth a whole sheet full of 
 common words. How nice it is to write letters without 
 paying postage, and to send them about the w^orld 
 with a grand name in the corner. When Barney brings 
 me one he always looks as if he didn't know whether 
 it was a love letter or an order to go to Botany Bay. 
 If he saw the inside of them, how short they are, I 
 don't think he'd think much of you as a lover nor yet 
 as an Under-Secretary. 
 
 "But I think ever so much of you as both; — I do, 
 indeed; and I am not scolding you a bit. As long as 
 I can have two or three dear, sweet, loving words, I 
 shall be as happy as a queen. Ah, if you knew it 
 all! But you never can know it all. A man has so 
 many other things to learn that he cannot understand it. 
 
 "Good-bye, dear, dear, dearest man. Whatever you 
 do I shall be quite sure you have done the best. 
 
 "Ever your own, with all the love of her heart, 
 
 "Mary F. Jones." 
 
THE TEMPTRESS. 
 
 22g 
 
 This was very nice. Such a man as was Phineas 
 Finn always takes a delight which he cannot express 
 even to himself in the receipt of such a letter as this. 
 There is nothing so flattering as the warm expression 
 of the confidence of a woman's love, and Phineas 
 thought that no woman ever expressed this more com- 
 pletely than did his Mary. Dear, dearest Mary. As 
 for giving her up, as for treachery to one so trusting, 
 so sweet, so well beloved, that was out of the question. 
 But nevertheless the truth came home to him more 
 clearly day by day, that he of all men was the last 
 who ought to have given himself up to such a passion. 
 For her sake he ought to have abstained. So he told 
 himself now. For her sake he ought to have kept 
 aloof from her; — and for his own sake he ought to 
 have kept aloof from Mr. Monk. That very day, with 
 Mary's letter in his pocket, he w^ent to the livery 
 stables and explained that he would not keep his horse 
 any longer. There was no difficulty about the horse. 
 Mr. Howard Macleod of the Treasury would take him 
 from that very hour. Phineas, as he walked away, 
 uttered a curse upon Mr. Howard Macleod. Mr. Howard 
 Macleod was just beginning the glory of his life in 
 London, and he, Phineas Finn, was bringing his to an 
 end. 
 
 With Mary's letter in his pocket he went up to 
 Portman Square. He had again got into the habit of 
 seeing Tady Laura frequently, and was often with her 
 brother, who now again lived at his father's house. A 
 letter had reached Lord Brentford, through his lawyer, 
 in which a demand was made by Mr. Kennedy for the 
 return of his wife. She was quite determined that she 
 would never go back to him; and there had come to 
 
230 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 her a doubt whether it would not be expedient that 
 she should live abroad so as to be out of the way of 
 persecution from her husband. Lord Brentford was in 
 great wrath, and Lord Chiltern had once or twice 
 hinted that perhaps he had better "see" Mr. Kennedy. 
 The amenities of such an interview, as this would be, 
 had up to the present day been postponed; and, in a 
 certain way, Phineas had been used as a messenger 
 between Mr. Kennedy and his wife's family. 
 
 "I think it will end," she said, "in my going to 
 Dresden, and settling myself there. Papa will come 
 to me when Parliament is not sitting." 
 
 "It will be very dull." 
 
 "Dull! What does dulness amount to when one 
 has come to such a pass as this? When one is in the 
 ruck of fortune, to be dull is very bad; but when mis- 
 fortune comes, simple dulness is nothing. It sounds 
 almost like relief." 
 
 ^^It is so hard that you should be driven away." 
 She did not answer him for a while, and he was be- 
 ginning to think of his own case also. Was it not 
 hard that he too should be driven away? "It is odd 
 enough that we should both be going at the same 
 time." 
 
 "But you will not go?" 
 
 "I think I shall. I have resolved upon this, — that 
 if I give up my place, I will give up my seat too. I 
 went into Parliament with the hope of office, and how 
 can I remain there when I shall have gained it and 
 then have lost it?" 
 
 "But you will stay in London, Mr. Finn?" 
 
 "I think not. After all that has come and gone I 
 should not be happy here, and I should make my way 
 
THE TEMPTRESS. 
 
 easier and on cheaper terms in Dublin. My present 
 idea is that I shall endeavour to make a practice over 
 in my own country. It will be hard work beginning 
 at the bottom; — will it not?" 
 "And so unnecessary." 
 
 "Ah, Lady Laura, — if it only could be avoided! 
 But it is of no use going through all that again." 
 
 "How much we would both of us avoid if we could 
 only have another chance!" said Lady Laura. "If I 
 could only be as I was before I persuaded myself to 
 marry a man whom I never loved, what a paradise 
 the earth w^ould be to me! With me all regrets are 
 too late." 
 
 "And with me as much so." 
 
 "No, Mr. Finn. Even should you resign your 
 office, there is no reason why you should give up your 
 seat." 
 
 "Simply that I have no income to maintain me in 
 London." 
 
 She was silent for a few moments, during which 
 she changed her seat so as to come nearer to him, 
 placing herself on a corner of a sofa close to the chair 
 on which he was seated. "I wonder whether I may 
 speak to you plainly," she said. 
 
 "Inded you may." 
 
 "On any subject?" 
 
 "Yes; — on any subject." 
 
 "I trusc you have been able to rid your bosom of 
 all remembrances of Violet Effingham." 
 
 "Certainly not of all remembrances. Lady Laura." 
 
 "Of all hope, then?" 
 
 "I have no such hope." 
 
 "And of all lingering desires?" 
 
232 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "Well, yes; — and of all lingering desires. I know 
 now that it cannot be. Your brother is welcome to 
 her.'' 
 
 "Ah; — of that I know nothing. He, with his per- 
 versity, has estranged her. But I am sure of this, — 
 that if she do not marry him, she will marry no one. 
 But it is not on account of him that I speak. He 
 must fight his own battles now." 
 
 "I shall not interfere with him. Lady Laura." 
 
 "Then why should you not establish yourself by 
 a marriage that will make place a matter of indifference 
 to you? I know that it is within your power to do 
 so." Phineas put his hand up to his breastcoat 
 pocket, and felt that Mary's letter, — her precious 
 letter, — was there safe. It certainly was not in his 
 power to do this thing which Lady Laura recommended 
 to him, but he hardly thought that the present was a 
 moment suitable for explaining to her the nature of 
 the impediment which stood in the way of such an 
 arrangement. He had so lately spoken to Lady Laura 
 with an assurance of undying constancy of his love 
 for Miss Effingham, that he could not as yet acknow- 
 ledge the force of another passion. He shook his head 
 by way of reply. "I tell you that it is so," she said 
 with energy. 
 
 "I am afraid not." 
 
 "Go to Madame Goesler, and ask her. Hear what 
 she will say." 
 
 "Madame Goesler would laugh at me, no doubt." 
 
 "Psha! You do not think so. You know that she 
 would not laugh. And are you the man to be afraid 
 of a woman's laughter? I think not." 
 
 Again he did not answer her at once, and when 
 
THE TEMPTRESS. 
 
 he did speak the tone of his voice was altered. "What 
 was it you said of yourself, just now?'' 
 "What did I say of myself?'' 
 
 "You regretted that you had consented to marry a 
 man, — whom you did not love." 
 
 "Why should you not love her? And it is so dif- 
 ferent with a man! A woman is wretched if she does 
 not love her husband, but I fancy that a man gets on 
 very well without any such feeling. She cannot do- 
 mineer over you. She cannot expect you to pluck 
 yourself out of your own soil, and begin a new growth 
 altogether in accordance with the laws of her own. It 
 was that which Mr. Kennedy did." 
 
 "I do not for a moment think that she would take 
 me, if I were to offer myself." 
 
 "Try her," said Lady Laura energetically. "Such 
 trials cost you but little; — we both of us know that!" 
 Still he said nothing of the letter in his pocket. "It 
 is everything that you should go on now that you have 
 once begun. I do not believe in your working at the 
 Bar. You cannot do it. A man who has commenced 
 life as you have done with the excitement of politics, 
 who has known what it is to take a prominent part in 
 the control of public affairs, cannot give it up and be 
 happy at other work. Make her your wife, and you 
 may resign or remain in office just as you choose. 
 Office will be much easier to you than it is now, be- 
 cause it will not be a necessity. Let me at any rate 
 have the pleasure of thinking that one of us can re- 
 main here, — that we need not both fall together." 
 
 Still he did not tell her of the letter in his pocket. 
 He felt that she moved him, — that she made him 
 acknowledge to himself how great would be the pity 
 
234 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 of such a failure as would be his. He was quite as 
 much alive as she could be to the fact that work at the 
 Bar, either in London or in Dublin, would have no 
 charms for him now. The prospect of such a life was 
 very dreary to him. Even with the comfort of Mary's 
 love such a life would be very dreary to him. And 
 then he knew, — he thought that he knew, — that were 
 he to offer himself to Madame Goesler he would not 
 in truth be rejected. She had told him that if poverty 
 was a trouble to him he need be no longer poor. Of 
 course he had understood this. Her money was at his 
 service if he should choose to stoop and pick it up. 
 And it was not only money that such a marriage would 
 give him. He had acknowledged to himself more than 
 once that Madame Goesler was very lovely, that she 
 was clever, attractive in every way, and, as far as he 
 could see, blessed with a sweet temper. She had a 
 position, too, in the world that would help him rather 
 than mar him. What might he not do with an in- 
 dependent seat in the House of Commons, and as joint 
 owner of the little house in Park Lane? Of all careers 
 which the world could offer to a man the pleasantest 
 would then be within his reach. "You appear to me 
 as a tempter,'^ he said at last to Lady Laura. 
 
 "It is unkind of you to say that, and ungrateful. 
 I would do anything on earth in my power to help 
 you." 
 
 "Nevertheless you are a tempter." 
 
 "I know how it ought to have been," she said, in 
 a low voice. "I know very well how it ought to have 
 been. I should have kept myself free till that time 
 when we met on the braes of Loughlinter, and then 
 all would have been well with us." 
 
THE TEMPTRESS. 
 
 "I do not know how that might have been/' said 
 Phineas, hoarsely. 
 
 "You do not know! But I know. Of course you 
 have stabbed me with a thousand daggers when you 
 have told me from time to time of your love for Violet. 
 You have been very cruel, — needlessly cruel. Men are 
 so cruel! But for all that I have known that I could 
 have kept you, — had it not been too late when you 
 spoke to me. Will you not own as much as that?" 
 
 " Of course you would have been everything to me. 
 I should never have thought of Violet then." 
 
 "That is the only kind word you have said to me 
 from that day to this. I try to comfort myself in think- 
 ing that it would have been so. But all that is past 
 and gone, and done. I have had my romance and you 
 have had yours. As you are a man, it is natural that 
 you should have been disturbed by a double image; — 
 it is not so with me." "And yet you can advise me 
 to offer marriage to a woman, — a woman whom I am 
 to seek merely because she is rich?" 
 
 "Yes; — I do so advise you. You have had your 
 romance and must now put up with reality. Why 
 should I so advise you but for the interest that I have 
 in you? Your prosperity will do me no good. I shall 
 not even be here to see it. I shall hear of it only as 
 so many a woman banished out of England hears a 
 distant misunderstood report of what is going on in 
 the country she has left. But I still have regard 
 enough, — I will be bold, and, knowing that you will 
 not take it amiss, will say love enough for you, — to 
 feel a desire that you should not be shipwrecked. 
 Since we first took you in hand between us, Barrington 
 and I, I have never swerved in my anxiety on your 
 
236 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 behalf. When I resolved that it would be better for 
 us both that we should be only friends, I did not 
 swerve. When you would talk to me so cruelly of your 
 love for Violet, I did not swerve. When I warned you 
 from Loughlinter because I thought there was danger, 
 I did not swerve. When I bade you not to come to 
 me in London because of my husband, I did not 
 swerve. When my father was hard upon you, I did not 
 swerve then. I would not leave him till he was softened. 
 When you tried to rob Oswald of his love, and I [thought 
 you would succeed, — for I did think so, — I did not 
 swerve. I have ever been true to you. And now that 
 I must hide myself and go away, and be seen no more, 
 I am true still." 
 
 "Laura, — dearest Laura!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Ah, no!" she said, speaking with no touch of 
 anger, but all in sorrow; — "it must not be like that. 
 There is no room for that. Nor do you mean it. I 
 do not think so ill of you. But there may not be even 
 words of affection between us — only such as I may 
 speak to make you know that I am your friend." 
 
 "You are my friend," he said, stretching out his 
 hand to her as he turned away his face. "You are my 
 friend, indeed." 
 
 "Then do as I would have you do." 
 
 He put his hand into his pocket, and had the letter 
 between his fingers with the purport of showing it to 
 her. But at the moment the thought occurred to him 
 that were he to do so, then, indeed, he would be bound 
 for ever. He knew that he was bound for ever, — 
 bound for ever to his own Mary; but he desired to 
 have the privilege of thinking over such bondage once 
 more before he proclaimed it even to his dearest 
 
THE TEMPTRESS. 
 
 friend. He had told her that she tempted him, and 
 she stood before him now as a temptress. But lest it 
 might be possible that she should not tempt in vain, — 
 that letter in his pocket must never be shown to her. 
 In that case Lady Laura must never hear from his lips 
 the name of Mary Flood Jones. 
 
 He left her without any assured purpose; — without, 
 that is, the assurance to her of any fixed purpose. 
 There yet wanted a week to the day on which Mr. 
 Monk's Bill was to be read, — or not to be read, — the 
 second time; and he had still that interval before he 
 need decide. He went to his club, and before he dined 
 he strove to write a line to Mary; — but when he had 
 the paper before him he found that it was impossible 
 to do so. Though he did not even suspect himself of 
 an intention to be false, the idea that was in his mind 
 made the effort too much for him. He put the paper 
 away from him and went down and eat his dinner. 
 
 It was a Saturday, and there was no House in the 
 evening. He had remained in Portman Square with 
 Lady Laura till near seven o'clock, and was engaged 
 to go out in the evening to a gathering at Mrs. Gresham's 
 house. Everybody in London would be there, and 
 Phineas was resolved that as long as he remained in 
 London he would be seen at places where everybody 
 was seen. He would certainly be at Mrs. Gresham's 
 gathering; but there was an hour or two before he 
 need go home to dress, and as he had nothing to do, 
 he went down to the smoking-room of his club. The 
 seats were crowded, but there was one vacant; and be- 
 fore he had looked about him to scrutinise his neigh- 
 bourhood, he found that he had placed himself with 
 Ponteen on his right hand and Ratler on his left, 
 
238 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 There were no two men in all London whom he more 
 thoroughly disliked ; but it was too late for him to avoid 
 them now. 
 
 They instantly attacked him, first on one side and 
 then on the other. "So I am told you are going to 
 leave us," said Bonteen. 
 
 "Who can have been ill-natured enough to whisper 
 such a thing?" replied Phineas. 
 
 "The whispers are very loud, I can tell you," said 
 Ratler. "I think I know already pretty nearly how 
 every man in the House will vote, and I have not got 
 your name down on the right side." 
 
 "Change it for heaven's sake," said Phineas. 
 
 "I will, if you'll tell me seriously that I may," said 
 Ratler. 
 
 "My opinion is," said Bonteen, "that a man should 
 be known either as a friend or foe. I respect a de- 
 clared foe." 
 
 "Know me as a declared foe then," said Phineas, 
 "and respect me." 
 
 "That's all very well," said Ratler, "but it means 
 nothing. I've always had a sort of fear about you, 
 Finn, that you would go over the traces some day. Of 
 course it's a very grand thing to be independent." 
 
 "The finest thing in the world," said Bonteen; 
 **only so d — d useless." 
 
 "But a man shouldn't be independent and stick to 
 the ship at the same time. You forget the trouble you 
 cause, and how you upset all calculations." 
 
 "I hadn't thought of the calculations," said Phineas. 
 
 "The fact is, Finn," said Bonteen, "you are made 
 of clay too fine for office. I've always found it has 
 been so with men from your country. You are the 
 
THE TEMPTRESS. 
 
 grandest horses in the world to look at out on a prairie, 
 but you don't like the slavery of harness." 
 
 "And the sound of a whip over our shoulders sets 
 us kicking; — does it not, Ratler?" 
 
 "I shall show the list to Gresham to-morrow," said 
 Ratler, "and of course he can do as he pleases; but 
 I don't understand this kind of thing." 
 
 "Don't you be in a hurry," said Bonteen. "Til bet 
 you a sovereign Finn votes with us yet. There's nothing 
 like being a little coy to set off a girl's charms. I'll bet 
 you a sovereign, Ratler, that Finn goes out into the 
 lobby with you and me against Monk's bill." 
 
 Phineas not being able to stand any more of this 
 most unpleasant raillery, got up and went away. The 
 club was distasteful to him, and he walked off and 
 sauntered for a while about the park. He went down 
 by the Duke of York's column as though he were go- 
 ing to his office, which of course was closed at this 
 hour, but turned round when he got beyond the new 
 public buildings, — buildings which he was never des- 
 tined to use in their completed state, — and entered 
 the gates of the enclosure, and wandered on over the 
 bridge across the water. As he went his mind was 
 full of thought. Could it be good for him to give up 
 everything for a fair face? He swore to himself that 
 of all women whom he had ever seen Mary was the 
 sweetest and the dearest and the best. If it could be 
 well to lose the world for a woman, it would be well 
 to lose it for her. Violet, with all her skill, and all 
 her strength, and all her grace, could never have written 
 such a letter as that which he still held in his pocket. 
 The best charm of a woman is that she should be soft, 
 and trusting, and generous; and who ever had beea 
 
240 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 more soft, more trusting, and more generous than his 
 Mary? Of course he would be true to her, though he 
 did lose the world. 
 
 But to yield such a triumph to the Ratlers and 
 Bonteens whom he left behind him, — to let them have 
 their will over him, — to know that they would rejoice 
 scurrilously behind his back over his downfall! The 
 feeling was terrible to him. The last words which 
 Bonteen had spoken made it impossible to him now 
 not to support his old friend Mr. Monk. It was not 
 only what Bonteen had said, but that the words of Mr. 
 Bonteen so plainly indicated what would be the words 
 of all the other Bonteens. He knew that he was weak 
 in this. He knew that had he been strong, he would 
 have allowed himself to be guided, — if not by the firm 
 decision of his own spirit, — by the counsels of such 
 men as Mr. Gresham and Lord Cantrip, and not by 
 the sarcasms of the Bonteens and Ratlers of official life. 
 But men who sojourn amidst savagery fear the mos- 
 quito more than they do the lion. He could not bear 
 to think that he should yield his blood to such a one 
 as Bonteen. 
 
 And he must yield his blood, unless he could vote 
 for Mr. Monk's motion, and hold his ground afterwards 
 among them all in the House of Commons. He would 
 at any rate see the session out, and try a fall with 
 Mr. Bonteen when they should be sitting on different 
 benches, — if ever fortune should give him an oppor- 
 tunity. And in the meantime, what should he do 
 about Madame Goesler? What a fate was his to have 
 the handsomest woman in London with thousands and 
 thousands a year at his disposal! For,— so he now 
 swore to himself, — Madame Goesler was the hand- 
 
THE TEMPTRESS. 
 
 241 
 
 somest woman in London, as Mary Flood Jones was 
 the sweetest girl in all the world. 
 
 He had not arrived at any decision so fixed as to 
 make him comfortable when he went home and dressed 
 for Mrs. Gresham's party. And yet he knew, — he 
 thought that he knew that he would be true to Mary 
 Flood Jones. 
 
 Phineas Finn. ill. 
 
 16 
 
242 
 
 PHINEAS FINN, 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 The Prime Minister's House. 
 
 The rooms and passages and staircases at Mrs. 
 Gresham's house were very crowded when Phineas 
 arrived there. Men of all shades of politics were there, 
 and the wives and daughters of such men; and there 
 was a streak of royalty in one of the saloons, and a 
 whole rainbow of foreign ministers with their stars, and 
 two blue ribbons were to be seen together on the first 
 landing-place, with a stout lady between them carrying 
 diamonds enough to load a pannier. Everybody was 
 there. Phineas found that even Lord Chiltern was 
 come, as he stumbled across his friend on the first 
 foot-ground that he gained in his ascent towards the 
 rooms. "Halloa, — you here?'^ said Phineas. "Yes, by 
 George!" said the other, "but I am going to escape as 
 soon as possible. IVe been trying to make my way 
 up for the last hour, but could never get round that 
 huge promontory there. Laura was more persevering." 
 "Is Kennedy here?" Phineas whispered. "I do not 
 know," said Chiltern, "but she was determined to run 
 the chance." 
 
 A little higher up, — for Phineas was blessed with 
 more patience than Lord Chiltern possessed, — he came 
 upon Mr. Monk. "So you are still admitted privately," 
 said Phineas. 
 
 "Oh dear yes, — and we have just been having a 
 most friendly conversation about you. What a man 
 
TOE PRIME minister's HOUSE. 
 
 he is ! He knows everything. He is so accurate ; so just 
 in the abstract, — and in the abstract so generous!" 
 
 "He has been very generous to me in detail as well 
 as in abstract," said Phineas. 
 
 "Ah, yes; I am not thinking of individuals exactly. 
 His want of generosity is to large masses, — to a party, 
 to classes, to a people; whereas his generosity is for 
 mankind at large. He assumes the god, affects to nod, 
 and seems to shake the spheres. But I have nothing, 
 to say against him. He has asked me here to-night, 
 and has talked to me most familiarly about Ireland." 
 
 "What do you think of your chance of a second 
 reading?" asked Phineas. 
 
 "What do you think of it? — you hear more of those 
 things than I do." 
 
 "Everybody says it will be a close division." 
 
 "I never expected it," said Mr. Monk. 
 
 "Nor I, — till I heard what Daubeny said at the 
 first reading. They will all vote for the bill en masse, 
 — hating it in their hearts all the time." 
 
 "Let us hope they are not so bad as that." 
 
 "It is the way with them always. They do all our 
 work for us, — sailing either on one tack or the other. 
 That is their use in creation, that when we split among 
 ourselves, as we always do, they come in and finish 
 our job for us. It must be unpleasant for them to be 
 always doing that which they always say should never 
 be done at all." 
 
 "Wherever the gift horse may come from, I shall 
 not look it in the mouth," said Mr. Monk. "There is 
 only one man in the House whom I hope I may not 
 see in the lobby with me, and that is yourself." 
 
 "The question is decided now," said Phineas. 
 
 i6» 
 
244 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "And how is it decided 
 
 Phineas could not tell his friend that a question of 
 so great magnitude to him had been decided by the 
 last sting which he had received from an insect so con- 
 temptible as Mr. Bonteen, but he expressed the feeling 
 as well as he knew how to express it. "Oh, I shall be 
 with you. I know what you are going to say, and I 
 know how good you are. But I could not stand it. 
 Men are beginning already to say things which almost 
 make me get up and kick them. If I can help it, I 
 will give occasion to no man to hint anything to me 
 which can make me be so wretched as I have been to- 
 day. Pray do not say anything more. My idea is that 
 I shall resign to-morrow." 
 
 "Then I hope that we may fight the battle side by 
 side," said Mr. Monk, giving him his hand. 
 
 "We will fight the battle side by side," replied 
 Phineas. 
 
 After that he pushed his way still higher up the 
 stairs, having no special purpose in view, not dreaming 
 of any such success as that of reaching his host or 
 hostess, — merely feeling that it should be a point of 
 honour with him to make a tour through the rooms be- 
 fore he descended the stairs. The thing, he thought, 
 was to be done with courage and patience, and this 
 might, probably, be the last time in his life that he 
 would find himself in the house of a Prime Minister. 
 Just at the turn of the balustrade at the top of the 
 stairs, he found Mr. Gresham in the very spot on 
 which Mr. Monk had been talking with him. "Very 
 glad to see you," said Mr. Gresham. "You, I find, 
 are a persevering man, with a genius for getting up- 
 wards" 
 
THE PRIME minister's HOUSE. 
 
 "Like the sparks," said Phineas. 
 "Not quite so quickly/' said Mr. Gresham. 
 "But with the same assurance of speedy loss of my 
 little light." 
 
 It did not suit Mr. Gresham to understand this, so 
 he changed the subject. "Have you seen the news 
 from America?" 
 
 "Yes, I have seen it, but do not believe it," said 
 Phineas. 
 
 "Ah, you have such faith in a combination of 
 British colonies, properly backed in Downing Street, 
 as to think them strong against a world in arms. In 
 your place I should hold to the same doctrine, — hold 
 to it stoutly." 
 
 "And you do now, I hope, Mr. Gresham?" 
 
 "Well, — yes, — I am not down-hearted. But I con- 
 fess to a feeling that the world would go on even 
 though we had nothing to say to a single province in 
 North America. But that is for your private ear. You 
 are not to whisper that in Downing Street." Then 
 there came up somebody else, and Phineas went on 
 upon his slow course. He had longed for an op- 
 portunity to tell Mr. Gresham that he could go to 
 Downing Street no more, but such opportunity had 
 not reached him. 
 
 For a long time he found himself stuck close by 
 the side of Miss Fitzgibbon, — Miss Aspasia Fitzgibbon, 
 — who had once relieved him from terrible pecuniary 
 anxiety by paying for him a sum of money which was 
 due by him on her brother's account. "It's a very 
 nice thing to be here, but one does get tired of it," 
 said Miss Fitzgibbon. 
 
 "Very tired," said Phineas. 
 
246 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "Of course it is a part of your duty, Mr. Finn. 
 You are on your promotion and are bound to be here. 
 When I asked Laurence to come, he said there was 
 nothing to be got till the cards were shuffled again.'' 
 
 "They'll be shuffled very soon," said Phineas. 
 
 "Whatever colour comes up, you'll hold trumps, I 
 know," said the lady. "Some hands always hold 
 trumps." He could not explain to Miss Fitzgibbon 
 that it would never again be his fate to hold a single 
 trump in his hand; so he made another fight, and got 
 on a few steps farther. 
 
 He said a word as he went to half a dozen friends, 
 — as friends went with him. He was detained for five 
 minutes by Lady Baldock, who was very gracious and 
 very disagreeable. She told him that Violet was in the 
 room, but where she did hot know. " She is somewhere 
 with Lady Laura, I believe; and really, Mr. Finn, I 
 do not like it." Lady Baldock had heard that Phineas 
 had quarrelled with Lord Brentford, but had not heard 
 of the reconciliation. "Really, I do not like it. I am 
 told that Mr. Kennedy is in the house, and nobody 
 knows what may happen." 
 
 "Mr. Kennedy is not likely to say anything." 
 
 "One cannot tell. And when I hear that a woman 
 is separated from her husband, I always think that she 
 must have been imprudent. It may be uncharitable, 
 but I think it is most safe so to consider." 
 
 "As far as I have heard the circumstances, Lady 
 Laura was quite right," said Phineas. 
 
 "It may be so. Gentlemen will always take the 
 lady's part, — of course. But I should be very sorry 
 to have a daughter separated from her husband, — very 
 sorry." 
 
THE PRIME minister's HOUSE. 247 
 
 Phineas, who had nothing now to gain from Lady 
 Baldock's favour, left her abruptly, and went on again. 
 He had a great desire to see Lady Laura and Violet 
 together, though he could hardly tell himself why. He 
 had not seen Miss Effingham since his return from 
 Ireland, and he thought that if he met her alone he 
 could hardly have talked to her with comfort; but 
 he knew that if he met her with Lady Laura, she 
 would greet him as a friend, and speak to him as 
 though there were no cause for embarrassment between 
 them. But he was so far disappointed, that he suddenly 
 encountered Violet alone. She had been leaning on 
 the arm of Lord Baldock, and Phineas saw her cousin 
 leave her. But he would not be such a coward as to 
 avoid her, especially as he knew that she had seen 
 him. "Oh, Mr. Finn!" she said, "do you see that?" 
 
 "See what?" 
 
 "Look. There is Mr. Kennedy. We had heard 
 that it was possible, and Laura made me promise that 
 I would not leave her." Phineas turned his head, and 
 saw Mr. Kennedy standing with his back bolt upright 
 against a door-post, with his brow as black as thunder. 
 "She is just opposite to him, where he can see her," 
 said Violet. "Pray take me to her. He will think 
 nothing of you; because I know that you are still 
 friends with both of them. I came away because Lord 
 Baldock wanted to introduce me to Lady Mouser. You 
 know he is going to marry Miss Mouser." 
 
 Phineas, not caring much about Lord Baldock and 
 Miss Mouser, took Violet's hand upon his arm, and very 
 slowly made his way across the room to the spot in- 
 dicated. There they found Lady Laura alone, sitting 
 under the upas-tree influence of her husband's gaze. 
 
248 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 There was a concourse of people between them, and 
 Mr. Kennedy did not seem incHned to make any at- 
 tempt to lessen the distance. But Lady Laura had 
 found it impossible to move while she was under her 
 husband's eyes. 
 
 "Mr. Finn," she said, "could you find Oswald? I 
 know he is here." 
 
 "He has gone," said Phineas. "I was speaking to 
 him downstairs." 
 
 "You have not seen my father? He said he would 
 come. 
 
 "I have not seen him, but I will search." 
 
 "No; — it will do no good. I cannot stay. His 
 carriage is there, I know, — waiting for me." Phineas 
 immediately started off to have the carriage called, and 
 promised to return with as much celerity as he could 
 use. As he went, making his way much quicker 
 through the crowd than he had done when he had no 
 such object for haste, he purposely avoided the door 
 by which Mr. Kennedy had stood. It would have been 
 his nearest way, but his present service, he thought, 
 required that he should keep aloof from the man. But 
 Mr. Kennedy passed through the door and intercepted 
 him in his path. 
 
 "Is she going?" he asked. 
 
 "Well. Yes. I dare say she may before long. I 
 shall look for Lord Brentford's carriage by-and-by." 
 
 "Tell her she need not go because of me. I shall 
 not return. I shall not annoy her here. It would 
 have been much better that a woman in such a plight 
 should not have come to such an assembly." 
 
 "You would not wish her to shut herself up." 
 
THE PRIME minister's HOUSE. 
 
 249 
 
 "I would wish her to come back to the home that 
 she has left, and, if there be any law in the land, she 
 shall be made to do so. You tell her that I say so." 
 Then Mr. Kennedy fought his way down the stairs, 
 and Phineas Finn followed in his wake. 
 
 About half an hour afterwards Phineas returned to 
 the two ladies with tidings that the carriage would be 
 at hand as soon as they could be below. "Did he see 
 you?'' said Lady Laura. 
 
 "Yes, he followed me.'' 
 
 "And did he speak to you?" 
 
 "Yes; — he spoke to me." 
 
 "And what did he say?" And then, in the pre- 
 sence of Violet, Phineas gave the message. He thought 
 it better that it should be given; and were he to de- 
 cline to deliver it now, it would never be given. 
 "Whether there be law in the land to protect me, or 
 whether there be none, I will never live with him," 
 said Lady Laura. "Is a woman like a head of cattle, 
 that she can be fastened in her crib by force? I will 
 never live with him though all the judges of the land 
 should decide that I must do so." 
 
 Phineas thought much of all this as he went to his 
 solitary lodgings. After all, was not the world much 
 better Avith him than it was with either of those two 
 wretched married beings? And why? He had not, 
 at any rate as yet, sacrificed for money or social gains 
 any of the instincts of his nature. He had been fickle, 
 foolish, vain, uncertain, and perhaps covetous; — but as 
 yet he had not been false. Then he took out Mary's 
 last letter and read it again. 
 
250 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 ^ CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Comparing Notes. 
 
 It would, perhaps, be difficult to decide, — between 
 Lord Chiltern and Miss Effingham, — which had been 
 most wrong, or which had been nearest to the right, in 
 the circumstances which had led to their separation. The 
 old lord, wishing to induce his son to undertake work of 
 some sort, and feeling that his own efforts in this direc- 
 tion were worse than useless, had closeted himself with 
 his intended daughter-in-law, and had obtained from 
 her a promise that she would use her influence with her 
 lover. "Of course I think it right that he should do 
 something," Violet had said. "And he will if you bid 
 him," replied the Earl. Violet expressed a great doubt as 
 to this willingness of obedience; but, nevertheless, she 
 promised to do her best, and she did her best. Lord 
 Chiltern, when she spoke to him, knit his brows with 
 an apparent ferocity of anger which his countenance 
 frequently expressed without any intention of ferocity 
 on his part. He was annoyed, but was not savagely 
 disposed to Violet. As he looked at her, however, he 
 seemed to be very savagely disposed. "What is it you 
 would have me do?" he said. 
 
 "I would have you choose some occupation, Os- 
 wald." 
 
 "What occupation? What is it that you mean? 
 Ought I to be a shoemaker?" 
 
 "Not that by preference, I should say; but that if 
 
COMPARING NOTES. 
 
 you please." When her lover had frowned at her, Violet 
 had resolved, — had strongly determined, with inward 
 assertions of her own rights, — that she would not be 
 frightened by him. 
 
 "You are talking nonsense, Violet. You know that 
 I cannot be a shoemaker." 
 
 "You may go into Parliament." 
 
 "I neither can, nor would I if I could. I dislike 
 the life." 
 
 "You might farm." 
 
 "I cannot afford it." 
 
 "You might, — might do anything. You ought to 
 do something. You know that you ought. You know 
 that your father is right in what he says." 
 
 "That is easily asserted, Violet; but it would, I 
 think, be better that you should take my part than 
 my father's, if it be that you intend to be my wife." 
 
 "You know that I intend to be your wife; but 
 would you wish that I should respect my husband?" 
 
 "And will you not do so if you marry me?" he 
 asked. 
 
 Then Violet looked into his face and saw that the 
 frown was blacker than ever. The great mark down 
 his forehead was deeper and more like an ugly wound 
 than she had ever seen it; and his eyes sparkled with 
 anger; and his face was red as with fiery wrath. If 
 it was so with him when she was no more than en- 
 gaged to him, how would it be when they should be 
 man and wife? At any rate, she would not fear him, 
 — not now at least, "No, Oswald," she said. "If you 
 resolve upon being an idle man, I shall not respect 
 you. It is better that I should tell you the truth." 
 
 "A great deal better," he said. 
 
252 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 '*How can I respect one whose whole hfe will be, 
 —will be 
 
 "Will be what?'' he demanded with a loud shout. 
 
 "Oswald, you are very rough with me." 
 
 "What do you say that my life will be?" 
 
 Then she again resolved that she would not fear 
 him. "It will be discreditable," she said. 
 
 "It shall not discredit you," he replied. "I will 
 not bring disgrace on one I have loved so well. Violet, 
 after what you have said, we had better part." She 
 was still proud, still determined, and they did part. 
 Though it nearly broke her heart to see him leave her, 
 she bid him go. She hated herself afterwards for her 
 severity to him; but, nevertheless, she would not sub- 
 mit to recall the words which she had spoken. She 
 had thought him to be wrong, and, so thinking, had 
 conceived it to be her duty and her privilege to tell 
 him what she thought. But she had no wish to lose 
 him; — no wish not to be his wife even, though he 
 should be as idle as the wind. She was so constituted 
 that she had never allowed him or any other man to 
 be master of her heart, — till she had with a full pur- 
 pose given her heart away. The day before she had 
 resolved to give it to one man, she might, I think, 
 have resolved to give it to another. Love had not 
 conquered her, but had been taken into her service. 
 Nevertheless, she could not now rid herself of her 
 servant, when she found that his services would stand 
 her no longer in good stead. She parted from Lord 
 Chiltern with an assent, with an assured brow, and 
 with much dignity in her gait; but as soon as she 
 was alone she was a prey to remorse. She had de- 
 clared to the man who was to have been her husband 
 
COMPARING NOTES. 
 
 that his Hfe was discreditable, — and, of course, no man 
 would bear such language. Had Lord Chiltern borne 
 it, he w^ould not have been worthy of her love. 
 
 She herself told Lady Laura and Lord Brentford 
 what had occurred, — and had told Lady Baldock also. 
 Lady Baldock had, of course, triumphed, — and Violet 
 sought her revenge by swearing that she would regret 
 for ever the loss of so inestimable a gentleman. "Then 
 why have you given him up, my dear?" demanded 
 Lady Baldock. "Because I found that he was too 
 good for me," said Violet. It may be doubtful whether 
 Lady Baldock was not justified, when she declared that 
 her niece was to her a care so harassing that no aunt 
 known in history had ever been so troubled before. 
 
 Lord Brentford had fussed and fumed, and had 
 certainly made things worse. He had quarrelled with 
 his son, and then made it up, and then quarrelled 
 again, — swearing that the fault must all be attributed 
 to Chiltern's stubbornness and Chiltern's temper. Lat- 
 terly, however, by Lady Laura's intervention. Lord 
 Brentford and his son had again been reconciled, and 
 the Earl endeavoured manfully to keep his tongue 
 from disagreeable words, and his face from evil looks, 
 when his son was present. "They will make it up," 
 Lady Laura had said, "if you and I do not attempt to 
 make it up for them. If we do, they will never come 
 together." The Earl was convinced, and did his best. 
 But the task was very difficult to him. How was he 
 to keep his tongue off his son while his son was daily 
 saying things of which any father, — any such father 
 as Lord Brentford, — could not but disapprove. Lord 
 Chiltern professed to disbelieve even in the wisdom of 
 the House of Lords, and on one occasion asserted that 
 
254 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 it must be a great comfort to any Prime Minister to 
 have three or four old women in the Cabinet. The 
 father, when he heard this, tried to rebuke his son ten- 
 derly, strove even to be jocose. It was the one wish 
 of his heart that Violet Effingham should be his 
 daughter-in-law. But even with this wish he found it 
 very hard to keep his tongue off Lord Chiltern. 
 
 When Lady Laura discussed the matter with Violet, 
 Violet would always declare that there was no hope. 
 "The truth is,*' she said on the morning of that day on 
 which they both went to Mrs. Gresham's, "that though 
 we like each other, — love each other, if you choose to 
 say so, — we are not fit to be man and wife." 
 
 "And why not fit?" 
 
 "We are too much alike. Each is too violent, too 
 headstrong, and too masterful." 
 
 "You, as the woman, ought to give way," said 
 Lady Laura. 
 
 "But we do not always do just what we ought." 
 
 "I know how difficult it is for me to advise, seeing 
 to what a pass I have brought myself" 
 
 "Do not say that, dear; — or rather do say it, for 
 we have, both of us, brought ourselves to what you 
 call a pass, — to such a pass that we are like to be able 
 to live together and discuss it for the rest of our lives. 
 The difference is, I take it, that you have not to accuse 
 yourself, and that I have." 
 
 "I cannot say that I have not to accuse myself," 
 said Lady Laura. "I do not know that I have done 
 much wrong to Mr. Kennedy since I married him; but 
 in marrying him I did him a grievous wrong." 
 
 "And he has avenged himself." 
 
 "We will not talk of vengeance. I believe he is 
 
COMPARING NOTES. 
 
 wretched, and I know that I am; — and that has come 
 of the wrong that I have done." 
 
 "I will make no mau wretched," said Violet. 
 
 "Do you mean that your mind is made up against 
 Oswald?" 
 
 "I mean that, and I mean much more. I say that 
 I will make no man wretched. Your brother is not 
 the only man who is so weak as to be willing to run 
 the hazard." 
 
 "There is Lord Fawn." 
 
 "Yes, there is Lord Fawn, certainly. Perhaps I 
 should not do him much harm; but then I should do 
 him no good." 
 
 "And poor Phineas Finn." 
 
 "Yes; — there is Mr. Finn. 1 will tell you some- 
 thing, Laura. The only man I ever saw in the 
 world whom I have thought for a moment that it 
 was possible that I should like, — like enough to 
 love as my husband, — except your brother, was Mr. 
 Finn." 
 
 "And now?" 
 
 "Oh; — now; of course that is over," said Violet. 
 "It is over?" 
 
 "Quite over. Is he not going to marry Madame 
 Goesler? I suppose all that is fixed by this time. I 
 hope she will be good to him, and gracious, and let 
 him have his own way, and give him his tea comfort- 
 ably when he comes up tired from the House; for I 
 confess that my heart is a little tender towards Phineas 
 still. I should not like to think that he had fallen 
 into the hands of a female Philistine." 
 
 "I do not think he will marry Madame Goesler." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
256 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "I can hardly tell you;— but I do not think he 
 will. And you loved him once, — eh, Violet?" 
 
 "Not quite that, my dear. It has been difficult 
 with me to love. The difficulty with most girls, I 
 fancy, is not to love. Mr. Finn, when I came to mea- 
 sure him in my mind, was not small, but he was never 
 quite tall enough. One feels oneself to be a sort of 
 recruiting sergeant, going about with a standard of 
 inches. Mr. Finn was just half an inch too short. He 
 lacks something in individuality. He is a little too 
 much a friend to everybody." 
 
 "Shall I tell you a secret, Violet?" 
 
 "If you please, dear; though I fancy it is one I 
 know already." 
 
 "He is the only man whom I ever loved," said 
 Lady Laura. 
 
 "But it was too late when you learned to love 
 him," said Violet. 
 
 "It was too late, when I was so sure of it as to 
 wish that I had never seen Mr. Kennedy. I felt it 
 coming on me, and I argued with myself that such a 
 marriage would be bad for us both. At that moment 
 there was trouble in the family, and I had not a shil- 
 ling of my own." 
 
 "You had paid it for Oswald." 
 
 "At any rate, I had nothing; — and he had nothing. 
 How could I have dared to think even of such a mar- 
 riage?" 
 
 "Did he think of it, Laura?" 
 "I suppose he did." 
 
 "You know he did. Did you not tell me before?" 
 "Well; — yes. He thought of it. I had come to 
 some foolish, half-sentimental resolution as to friend- 
 
COMPARING NOTES. 
 
 ship, believing that he and I could be knit together by 
 some adhesion of fraternal affection that should be void 
 of offence to my husband; and in furtherance of this 
 he was asked to Loughlinter when I went there, just 
 after I had accepted Robert. He came down, and I 
 measured him too, as you have done. I measured him, 
 and I found that he wanted nothing to come up to the 
 height required by my standard. I think I knew him 
 better than you did." 
 
 "Very possibly; — but why measure him at all, 
 when such measurement was useless?" 
 
 "Can one help such things? He came to me one 
 day as I was sitting up by the Linter. You remember 
 the place, where it makes its first leap." 
 
 "I remember it very well." 
 
 "So do I. Robert had shown it me as the fairest 
 spot in all Scotland." 
 
 "And there this lover of ours sang his song to 
 you?" 
 
 "I do not know what he told me then; but I know 
 that I told him that I was engaged; and I felt when I 
 told him so that my engagement was a sorrow to me. 
 And it has been a sorrow from that day to this." 
 
 "And the hero, Phineas, — he is still dear to you?" 
 
 "Dear to me?" 
 
 "Yes. You would have hated me, had he become 
 my husband? And you will hate Madame Goesler when 
 she becomes his wife?" 
 
 "Not in the least. I am no dog in the manger. I 
 have even gone so far as almost to wish, at certain 
 moments, that you should accept him." 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 "Because he has wished, it so heartily." 
 
 Phineas Finn, III. 17 
 
258 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "One can hardly forgive a man for such speedy 
 changes," said Violet. 
 
 "Was I not to forgive him; — I, who had turned 
 myself away from him with a fixed purpose the mo- 
 ment that I found that he had made a mark upon my 
 heart? I could not wipe off the mark, and yet I mar- 
 ried. Was he not to try to wipe off his mark?" 
 
 "It seems that he wiped it off very quickly; — and 
 since that he has wiped off another mark. One doesn't 
 know how many marks he has wiped off. Tliey are 
 like the inn-keeper's score which he makes in chalk. 
 A damp cloth brings them all away, and leaves nothing 
 behind." 
 
 "What would you have?" 
 
 "There should be a little notch on the stick, — to 
 remember by," said Violet. "Not that I complain, 
 you know. I cannot complain, as I was not notched 
 myself." 
 
 "You are silly, Violet." 
 
 "In not having allowed myself to be notched by 
 this great champion." 
 
 "A man like Mr. Finn has his life to deal with, — 
 to make the most of it, and to divide it between work, 
 pleasure, duty, ambition, and the rest of it as best he 
 may. If he have any softness of heart, it will be ne- 
 cessary to him that love should bear a part in all these 
 interests. But a man will be a fool who will allow 
 love to be the master of them all. He will be one 
 whose mind is so ill-balanced as to allow him to be the 
 victim of a single wish. Even in a woman passion 
 such as that is evidence of weakness, and not of 
 strength." 
 
 "It seems, then, Laura, that you are weak." 
 
COMPARING NOTES. 
 
 "And if I am, does that condemn him? He is a 
 man, if I judge him rightly, who will be constant as 
 the sun, when constancy can be of service." 
 
 "You mean that the future Mrs. Finn will be 
 secure?" 
 
 "That is what I mean; — and that you or I, had 
 either of us chosen to take his name, might have been 
 quite secure. We have thought it right to refuse to 
 do so." 
 
 "And how many more, I wonder?" 
 
 "You are unjust, and unkind, Violet. So unjust 
 and unkind that it is clear to me he has just gratified 
 your vanity, and has never touched your heart. What 
 would you have had him do, when 1 told him that I 
 was engaged?" 
 
 "I suppose that Mr. Kennedy would not have gone 
 to Blankenberg with him." 
 
 "Violet!" 
 
 "That seems to be the proper thing to do. But 
 even that does not adjust things finally; — does it?" 
 Then some one came upon them, and the conversa- 
 tion was brought to an end. 
 
26o 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Madame Goesler's Generosity. 
 
 When Phineas Finn left Mr. Gresham's house he 
 had quite resolved what he would do. On the next 
 morning he would tell Lord Cantrip that his resigna- 
 tion was a necessity, and that he would take that 
 nobleman's advice as to resigning at once, or waiting 
 till the day on which Mr. Monk's Irish Bill would be 
 read for the second time. 
 
 "My dear Finn, I can only say that I deeply regret 
 it," said Lord Cantrip. 
 
 "So do I. I regret to leave office, which I like, 
 — and which indeed I want. I regret specially to leave 
 this office, as it has been a thorough pleasure to me; 
 and I regret, above all, to leave you. But I am con- 
 vinced that Monk is right, and I find it impossible not 
 to support him." 
 
 "I wish that Mr. Monk was at Bath," said Lord 
 Cantrip. 
 
 Phineas could only smile, and shrug his shoulders, 
 and say that even though Mr. Monk were at Bath it 
 would not probably make much difference. When he 
 tendered his letter of resignation, Lord Cantrip begged 
 him to withdraw it for a day or two. He would, he 
 said, speak to Mr. Gresham. The debate on the second 
 reading of Mr. Monk's Bill would not take place till 
 that day week, and the resignation would be in time 
 if it was tendered before Phineas either spoke or voted 
 
MADAME GOESLER's GENEROSITY. 
 
 261 
 
 against the Government. So Phineas went back to 
 his room, and endeavoured to make himself useful in 
 some work appertaining to his favourite Colonies. 
 
 That conversation had taken place on a Friday, 
 and on the following Sunday, early in the day, he left 
 his rooms after a late breakfast, — a prolonged breakfast, 
 during which he had been studying tenant-right statistics, 
 preparing his own speech, and endeavouring to look 
 forward into the future which that speech was to do so 
 much to influence, — and turned his face towards Park 
 Lane. There had been a certain understanding between 
 him and Madame Goesler that he was to call in Park 
 Lane on this Sunday morning, and then declare to her 
 what was his final resolve as to the office which he 
 held. "It is simply to bid her adieu," he said to him- 
 self, "for I shall hardly see her again." And yet, as 
 he took off his morning easy coat, and dressed himself 
 for the streets, and stood for a moment before his 
 looking-glass, and saw that his gloves were fresh and 
 that his boots were properly polished I think there was 
 a care about his person which he would have hardly 
 taken had he been quite assured that he simply in- 
 tended to say good-bye to the lady whom he was about 
 to visit. But if there were any such conscious feeling, 
 he administered to himself an antidote before he left 
 the house. On returning to the sitting-room he went 
 to a little desk from which he took out the letter from 
 Mary which the reader has seen, and carefully perused 
 every word of it. "She is the best of them all," he 
 said to himself, as he refolded the letter and put it 
 back into his desk. I am not sure that it is well that 
 a man should have any large number from whom to 
 select a best; as, in such circumstances, he is so very 
 
262 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 apt to change his judgment from hour to hour. The 
 quahties which are the most attractive before dinner 
 sometimes become the least so in the evening. 
 
 The morning was warm, and he took a cab. It 
 would not do that he should speak even his last fare- 
 well to such a one as Madame Goesler with all the 
 heat and dust of a long walk upon him. Having been 
 so careful about his boots and gloves, he might as well 
 use his care to the end. Madame Goesler was a very 
 pretty woman, who spared herself no trouble in making 
 herself as pretty as Nature would allow, on behalf of 
 those whom she favoured with her smiles; and to such 
 a lady some special attention was due by one who had 
 received so many of her smiles as had Phineas. And 
 he felt, too, that there was something special in this 
 very visit. It was to be made by appointment, and 
 there had come to be an understanding between them 
 that Phineas should tell her on this occasion what was 
 his resolution with reference to his future life. I think 
 that he had been very wise in fortifying himself with 
 a further glance at our dear Mary's letter, before he 
 trusted himself within Madame Goesler's door. 
 
 Yes; — Madame Goesler was at home. The door 
 was opened by Madame Goesler's own maid, who, 
 smiling, explained that the other servants were all at 
 church. Phineas had become sufficiently intimate at 
 the cottage in Park Lane to be on friendly terms with 
 Madame Goesler's own maid, and now made some little 
 half-familiar remark as to the propriety of his visit 
 during church time. "Madame will not refuse to see 
 you, I am thinking,^' said the girl, who was a German. 
 "And she is alone?" asked Phineas. "Alone? Yes; — 
 of course she is alone. Who should be with her now?" 
 
MADAME GOESLER'S GEN|ER0SITY. 263 
 
 Then she took him up into the )drawing-room ; but, 
 when there, he found that Madan^ie Goesler was absent. 
 "She shall be down directly," said the girl. "I shall 
 tell her who is here, and she will co^xe.^'' 
 
 It was a very pretty room. It may almc;vst be said 
 that there could be no prettier room in all Lontiqn. It 
 looked out across certain small private gardens,--- 
 which were as bright and gay as money could make 
 them when brought into competition with London smoke, 
 — right on to the park. Outside and inside the window, 
 flowers and green things were so arranged that the room 
 itself almost looked as though it were a bower in a 
 garden. And everything in that bower was rich and 
 rare; and there was nothing there which annoyed by 
 its rarity or was distasteful by its richness. The seats, 
 though they were costly as money could buy, were 
 meant for sitting, and were comfortable as seats. There 
 were books for reading, and the means of reading them. 
 Two or three gems of English art were hung upon the 
 walls, and could be seen backwards and forwards in 
 the mirrors. And there were precious toys lying here 
 and there about the room, — toys very precious, but 
 placed there not because of their price, but because of 
 their beauty. Phineas already knew enough of the art 
 of living to be aware that the woman who had made 
 that room what it was, had charms to add a beauty to 
 everything she touched. What would such a life as 
 his want, if graced by such a companion, — such a life 
 as his might be, if the means which were hers were 
 at his command? It would want one thing, he thought, 
 — the self-respect which he would lose if he were false 
 to the girl who was trusting him with such sweet trust 
 at home in Ireland. 
 
264 
 
 IPHINEAS FINN. 
 
 In a very few minutes Madame Goesler was with 
 him, and, though ht did not think about it, he per- 
 ceived that she wa*^,-^ bright in her apparel, that her 
 hair was as s^ care could make it, and that every 
 charm belo^^ing to her had been brought into use for 
 his gr^tmcation. He almost told himself that he was 
 Ji^re in order that he might ask to have all those 
 charms bestowed upon himself. He did not know who 
 had lately come to Park Lane and been a suppliant 
 for the possession of those rich endowments; but I 
 wonder whether they would have been more precious 
 in his eyes had he known that they had so moved the 
 heart of the great Duke as to have induced him to 
 lay his coronet at the lady's feet. I think that had he 
 known that the lady had refused the coronet, that 
 knowledge would have enhanced the value of the 
 prize. 
 
 "I am so sorry to have kept you waiting," she 
 said, as she gave him her hand. "I was an owl not 
 to be ready for you when you told me that you would 
 come." 
 
 "No; — but a bird of paradise to come to me so 
 sweetly, and at an hour when all the other birds re- 
 fuse to show the feather of a single wing." 
 
 **And you, — you feel like a naughty boy, do you 
 not, in thus coming out on a Sunday morning?" 
 
 "Do you feel like a naughty girl?" 
 
 "Yes; — just a little so. I do not know that I 
 should care for everybody to hear that I received 
 visitors, — or worse still, a visitor, — at this hour on this 
 day. But then it is so pleasant to feel oneself to be 
 naughty! There is a Bohemian flavour of picnic about 
 it which, though it does not come up to the rich gusto 
 
MADAME GOESLER's GENEROSITY. 265 
 
 of real wickedness, makes one fancy that one is on 
 the border of that dehghtful region in which there 
 is none of the constraint of custom, — where men 
 and women say what they Hke, and do what they 
 Uke.'^ 
 
 "It is pleasant enough to be on the borders," said 
 Phineas. 
 
 "That is just it. Of course decency, morality, 
 and propriety, all made to suit the eye of the public, 
 are the things which are really delightful. We all 
 know that, and live accordingly, — as well as we can. 
 I do at least." 
 
 "And do not I, Madame Goesler?" 
 
 "I know nothing about that, Mr. Finn, and want 
 to ask no questions. But if you do, I am sure you 
 agree with me that you often envy the improper 
 people, — the Bohemians, — the people w^ho don't trouble 
 themselves about keeping any laws except those for 
 breaking which they would be put into nasty, un- 
 pleasant prisons. I envy them. Oh, how I envy 
 them!" 
 
 "But you are free as air." 
 
 "The most cabined, cribbed, and confined creature 
 in the world! I have been fighting my way up for the 
 last four years, and have not allowed myself the 
 liberty of one flirtation; — not often even the recreation 
 of a natural laugh. And now I shouldn't wonder if 
 I don't find myself falling back a year or two, just 
 because I have allowed you to come and see me on a 
 Sunday morning. When I told Lotta that you were 
 coming, she shook her head at me in dismay. But 
 now that you are here, tell me what you have 
 done." 
 
266 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "Nothing as yet, Madame Goesler." 
 "I thought it was to have been settled on Fri- 
 day?" 
 
 "It was settled, — before Friday. Indeed, as I 
 look back at it all now, I can hardly tell when it was 
 not settled. It is impossible, and has been impossible, 
 that I should do otherwise. I still hold my place, 
 Madame Goesler, but I have declared that I shall give 
 it up before the debate comes on." 
 
 "It is quite fixed?" 
 
 "Quite fixed, my friend." 
 
 "And what next?" Madame Goesler, as she thus 
 interrogated him, was leaning across towards him from 
 the sofa on which she was placed, with both her elbows 
 resting on a small table before her. We all know that 
 look of true interest which the countenance of a real 
 friend will bear when the welfare of his friend is in 
 question. There are doubtless some who can assume 
 it without feeling, — as there are actors who can per- 
 sonate all the passions. But in ordinary life we think 
 that we can trust such a face, and that we know the 
 true look when we see it. Phineas, as he gazed into 
 Madame Goesler's eyes, was sure that the lady op- 
 posite to him was not acting. She at least was anxious 
 for his welfare, and was making his cares her own. 
 "What next?" said she, repeating her words in a tone 
 that was somewhat hurried. 
 
 "I do not know that there will be any next. As 
 far as public life is concerned, there will be no next 
 for me, Madame Goesler." 
 
 "That is out of the question," she said. "You are 
 made for pubHc life." 
 
MADAME GOESLER^S GENEROSITY. 
 
 267 
 
 "Then I shall be untrue to my making, I fea^ 
 But to speak plainly " 
 
 "Yes; speak plainly. I want to understand the 
 reality." 
 
 "The reality is this. I shall keep my seat to the 
 end of the session, as I think I may be of use. After 
 that I shall give it up.'' 
 
 "Resign that too?" she said in a tone of chagrin. 
 
 "The chances are, I think, that there will be an- 
 other dissolution. If they hold their own against Mr. 
 Monk's motion, then they will pass an Irish Reform 
 Bill. After that I think they must dissolve." 
 
 "And you will not come forward again?" 
 
 "I cannot afford it." 
 
 "Psha! Some five hundred pounds or so!" 
 
 "And, besides that, I am well aware that my only 
 chance at my old profession is to give up all idea of 
 Parliament. The two things are not compatible for a 
 beginner at the law. I know it now, and have bought 
 my knowledge by a bitter experience." 
 
 "And where will you live?" 
 
 "In Dublin, probably." 
 
 "And you will do, — will do what?" 
 
 "Anything honest in a barrister's way that may 
 be brought to me. I hope that I may never descend 
 below that." 
 
 "You will stand up for all the blackguards, and 
 try to make out that the thieves did not steal." 
 
 "It may be that that sort of work may come in my 
 way." 
 
 "And you will wear a wig and try to look 
 wise." 
 
268 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 •*The wig is not universal in Ireland, Madame 
 Goesler." 
 
 "And you will wrangle, as though your very soul 
 were in it, for somebody's twenty pounds?" 
 "Exactly." 
 
 "You have already made a name in the greatest 
 senate in the world, and have governed other countries 
 larger than your own — " 
 
 "No; — I have not done that. I have governed no 
 country." 
 
 "I tell you, my friend, that you cannot do it. It 
 is out of the question. Men may move forward from 
 little work to big work; but they cannot move back 
 and do little work, when they have had tasks which 
 were really great. I tell you, Mr. Finn, that the House 
 of Parliament is the place for you to work in. It is 
 the only place; — that and the abodes of ministers. Am 
 not I your friend who tell you this?" 
 
 "I know that you are my friend." 
 
 "And will you not credit me when I tell you this? 
 What do you fear, that you should run away? You 
 have no wife; — no children. What is the coming mis- 
 fortune that you dread?" She paused a moment as 
 though for an answer, and he felt that now had come 
 the time in which it would be well that he should tell 
 her of his engagement with his own Mary. She had 
 received him very playfully; but now within the last 
 few minutes there had come upon her a seriousness of 
 gesture, and almost a solemnity of tone, which made 
 him conscious that he should in no way trifle with her. 
 She was so earnest in her friendship that he owed it 
 to her to tell her everything. But before he could 
 think of the words in which his tale should be told, 
 
MADAIVIE GOESLER^S GENEROSITY. 269 
 
 she had gone on with her quick questions. "Is it 
 solely about money that you fear?" she said. 
 
 "It is simply that I have no income on which to 
 live." 
 
 "Have I not offered you money?" 
 
 "But, Madame Goesler, you who offer it would 
 yourself despise me if I took it." 
 
 "No; — I do deny it." As she said this, — not 
 loudly, but with much emphasis, — she came and stood 
 before him where he was sitting. And as he looked 
 at her he could perceive that there was a strength 
 about her of which he had not been aware. She was 
 stronger, larger, more robust physically than he had 
 hitherto conceived. "I do deny it," she said. "Money 
 is neither god nor devil, that it should make one noble 
 and another vile. It is an accident, and, if honestly 
 possessed, may pass from you to me, or from me to 
 you, without a stain. You may take my dinner from 
 me if I give it you , my flowers , my friendship , my, — 
 my, — my everything, but my money! Explain to me 
 the cause of the phenomenon. If I give to you a thou- 
 sand pounds, now this moment, and you take it, you 
 are base; — but if I leave it you in my will, — and die, 
 — you take it, and are not base. Explain to me the 
 cause of that." 
 
 "You have not said it quite all," said Phineas 
 hoarsely. 
 
 "What have I left unsaid? If I have left anything 
 unsaid, do you say the rest." 
 
 "It is because you are a woman, and young, and 
 beautiful, that no man may take wealth from your 
 hands." 
 
 "Oh, it is that!" 
 
270 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "It is that partly." 
 
 "If I were a man you might take it, though I were 
 young and beautiful as the morning?" 
 
 "No; — presents of money are always bad. They 
 stain and load the spirit, and break the heart." 
 
 "And specially when given by a woman's hand?" 
 
 "It seems so to me. But I cannot argue of it. Do 
 not let us talk of it any more." 
 
 "Nor can I argue. I cannot argue, but I can be 
 generous, — very generous. I can deny myself for my 
 friend, — can even lower myself in my own esteem for 
 my friend. I can do more than a man can do for a 
 friend. You will not take money from my hand?" 
 
 "No, Madame Goesler; — I cannot do that." 
 
 "Take the hand theii first. When it and all that 
 it holds are your own, you can help yourself as you 
 list." So saying, she stood before him with her right 
 hand stretched out towards him. 
 
 What man will say that he would not have been 
 tempted ? Or what woman will declare that such tempta- 
 tion should have had no force? The very air of the 
 room in which she dwelt was sweet in his nostrils, and 
 there hovered around her an halo of grace and beauty 
 which greeted all his senses. She invited him to join 
 his lot to hers, in order that she might give to him all 
 that was needed to make his life rich and glorious. 
 How would the Ratlers and the Bonteens envy him 
 when they heard of the prize which had become his! 
 The Cantrips and the Greshams would feel that he 
 was a friend doubly valuable, if he could be won 
 back; and Mr. Monk would greet him as a fitting ally, 
 — an ally strong with the strength which he had before 
 wanted. With whom would he not be equal? Whom 
 
MADAME GOESLER's GENEROSITY. 27 I 
 
 need he fear? Who would not praise him? The story 
 of his poor Mary would be known only in a small 
 village, out beyond the Channel. The temptation 
 certainly was very strong. 
 
 But he had not a moment in which to doubt. She 
 was standing there with her face turned from him, but 
 with her hand still stretched towards him. Of course 
 he took it. What man so placed could do otherwise 
 than take a woman's hand? 
 
 "My friend," he said. 
 
 "I will be called friend by you no more," she 
 said. "You must call me Marie, your own Marie, or 
 you must never call me by any name again. Which 
 shall it be, sir?" He paused a moment, holding her 
 hand, and she let it lie there for an instant while she 
 listened. But still she did not look at him. "Speak 
 to me! Tell me! Which shall it be?" Still he paused. 
 "Speak to me. Tell me!" she said again. 
 
 "It cannot be as you have hinted to me," he said 
 at last. His words did not come louder than a low 
 whisper; but they were plainly heard, and instantly 
 the hand was withdrawn. 
 
 "Cannot be!" she exclaimed. "Then I have be- 
 trayed myself" 
 
 "No; — Madame Goesler." 
 
 "Sir; I say yes! If you will allow me I will leave 
 you. You will, I know, excuse me if I am abrupt to 
 you." Then she strode out of the room, and was no 
 more seen of the eyes of Phineas Finn. 
 
 He never afterwards knew how he escaped out of 
 that room and found his way into Park Lane. In after 
 days he had some memory that he remained there, he 
 knew not how long, standing on the very spot on 
 
272 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 which she had left him; and that at last there grew 
 upon him almost a fear of moving, a dread lest he 
 should be heard, an inordinate desire to escape without 
 the sound of a footfall, without the clicking of a lock. 
 Everything in that house had been offered to him. 
 He had refused it all, and then felt that of all human 
 beings under the sun none had so little right to be 
 standing there as he. His very presence in that draw- 
 ing-room was an insult to the woman whom he had 
 driven from it. 
 
 But at length he was in the street, and had found 
 his way across Piccadilly into the Green Park. Then, 
 as soon as he could find a spot apart from the Sunday 
 world, he threw himself upon the turf, and tried to fix 
 his thoughts upon the thing that he had done. His 
 first feeling, I think, was one of pure and unmixed 
 disappointment; — of disappointment so bitter, that even 
 the vision of his own Mary did not tend to comfort 
 him. How great might have been his success, and how 
 terrible was his failure! Had he taken the woman's 
 hand and her money, had he clenched his grasp on 
 the great prize offered to him, his misery would have 
 been ten times worse the first moment that he would 
 have been away from her. Then, indeed, — it being so 
 that he was a man with a heart within his breast, — 
 there would have been no comfort for him, in his out- 
 looks on any side. But even now, when he had done 
 right, — knowing well that he had done right, — he 
 found that comfort did not come readily within his 
 reach. 
 
AMANTIUM IR^. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Amantium Irse. 
 
 Miss Effingham's life at this time was not the 
 happiest in the world. Her lines, as she once said to 
 her friend Lady Laura, were not laid for her in pleasant 
 places. Her residence was still with her aunt, and she 
 had come to find that it was almost impossible any 
 longer to endure Lady Baldock, and quite impossible 
 to escape from Lady Baldock. In former days she had 
 had a dream that she might escape, and live alone if 
 she chose to be alone; that she might be independent 
 in her life, as a man is independent, if she chose to 
 live after that fashion; that she might take her own 
 fortune in her own hand, as the law certainly allowed 
 her to do, and act with it as she might please. But 
 latterly she had learned to understand that all this was 
 not possible for her. Though one law allowed it, 
 another law disallowed it, and the latter law was at 
 least as powerful as the former. And then her present 
 misery was enhanced by the fact that she was now 
 banished from the second home which she had formerly 
 possessed. Hitherto she had always been able to escape 
 from Lady Baldock to the house of her friend, but 
 now such escape was out of the question. Lady Laura 
 and Lord Chiltern lived in the same house, and Violet 
 could not live with them. 
 
 Lady Baldock understood all this, and tortured her 
 
 Phifieas Finn. Ill, 1 8 
 
274 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 niece accordingly. It was not premeditated torture. 
 The aunt did not mean to make her niece's life a 
 burden to her, and, so intending, systematically work 
 upon a principle to that effect. Lady Baldock, no 
 doubt, desired to do her duty conscientiously. But the 
 result was torture to poor Violet, and a strong con- 
 viction on the mind of each of the two ladies that the 
 other was the most unreasonable being in the world. 
 
 The aunt, in these days, had taken it into her head 
 to talk of poor Lord Chiltern. This arose partly from 
 a belief that the quarrel was final, and that, therefore, 
 there would be no danger in aggravating Violet by this 
 expression of pity, — partly from a feeling that it would 
 be better that her niece should marry Lord Chiltern 
 than that she should not marry at all, — and partly, 
 perhaps, from the general principle that, as she thought 
 it right to scold her niece on all occasions, this might 
 be best done by taking an opposite view of all questions 
 to that taken by the niece to be scolded. Violet was 
 supposed to regard Lord Chiltern as having sinned 
 against her, and therefore Lady Baldock talked of 
 "poor Lord Chiltern." As to the other lovers, she had 
 begun to perceive that their conditions were hopeless. 
 Her daughter Augusta had explained to her that there 
 was no chance remaining either for Phineas, or for 
 Lord Fawn, or for Mr. Appledom. believe she will 
 be an old maid, on purpose to bring me to my grave," 
 said Lady Baldock. When, therefore. Lady Baldock 
 was told one day that Lord Chiltern was in the house, 
 and was asking to see Miss Effingham, she did not at 
 once faint away, and declare that they would all be 
 murdered, — as she would have done some months since. 
 She was perplexed by a double duty. If it were 
 
AMANTIUM IRJE. 
 
 possible that Violet should relent and be reconciled, 
 then it would be her duty to save Violet from the 
 claws of the wild beast. But if there was no such 
 chance, then it would be her duty to poor Lord Chil- 
 tern to see that he was not treated with contumely 
 and ill-humour. 
 
 "Does she know that he is here?" Lady Baldock 
 asked her daughter. 
 
 "Not yet, mamma." 
 
 "Oh dear, oh dear! I suppose she ought to see him. 
 She has given him so much encouragement!" 
 
 "I suppose she will do as she pleases, mamma." 
 
 "Augusta, how. can you talk in that way? Am I to 
 have no control in my own house?" It was, however, 
 soon apparent to her that in this matter she was to 
 have no control. 
 
 "Lord Chiltern is down-stairs," said Violet, coming 
 into the room abruptly. 
 
 "So Augusta tells me. Sit down, my dear." 
 
 "I cannot sit down, aunt, — not just now. I have 
 sent down to say that I would be with him in a minute. 
 He is the most impatient soul alive, and I must not 
 keep him waiting." 
 
 "And you mean to see him?" 
 
 "Certainly I shall see him," said Violet, as she left 
 the room. 
 
 "I wonder that any woman should ever take upon 
 herself the charge of a niece!" said Lady Baldock to 
 her daughter in a despondent tone, as she held up her 
 hands in dismay. In the meantime, Violet had gone 
 down-stairs with a quick step, and had then boldly 
 entered the room in which her lover was waiting to 
 receive her. 
 
276 
 
 PHINEA.S FINN. 
 
 "I have to thank you for coming to me, Violet/^ 
 said Lord Chiltern. There was still in his face some- 
 thing of savagery, — an expression partly of anger and 
 partly of resolution to tame the thing with which he 
 was angry. Violet did not regard the anger half so 
 keenly as she did that resolution of taming. An angry 
 lord, she thought, she could endure, but she could not 
 bear the idea of being tamed by any one. 
 
 "Why should I not come?" she said. "Of course 
 I came when I was told that you were here. I do not 
 think that there need be a quarrel between us, because 
 we have changed our minds." 
 
 "Such changes make quarrels," said he. 
 
 "It shall not do so with me, unless you choose that 
 it shall," said Violet. "Why should we be enemies, — 
 we who have known each other since we were children? 
 My dearest friends are your father and your sister. 
 Why should we be enemies?" 
 
 "I have come to ask you whether you think that I 
 have ill-used you?" 
 
 "Ill-used me! Certainly not. Has any one told 
 you that I have accused you?" 
 
 "No one has told me so." 
 
 "Then why do you ask me?" 
 
 "Because I would not have you think so, — if I could 
 help it. I did not intend to be rough with you. When 
 you told me that my life was disreputable " 
 
 "Oh, Oswald, do not let us go back to that. What 
 good will it do?" 
 
 "But you said so." 
 
 "I think not." 
 
AMANTIUM IRJE. 
 
 277 
 
 ^'I believe that that was your word, — the harshest 
 word that you could use in all the language/' 
 
 "I did not mean to be harsh. If I used it, I will 
 beg your pardon. Only let there be an end of it. As 
 we think so differently about life in general, it was 
 better that we should not be married. But that is 
 settled, and why should we go back to words that 
 were spoken in haste, and which are simply disagree- 
 able?" 
 
 "I have come to know whether it is settled." 
 
 "Certainly. You settled it yourself, Oswald. I told 
 you what I thought myself bound to tell you. Perhaps 
 I used language which I should not have used. Then 
 you told me that I could not be your wife; — and I 
 thought you were right, quite right." 
 
 "I was wrong, quite wrong," he said impetuously. 
 "So wrong, that I can never forgive myself, if you do 
 not relent. I was such a fool, that I cannot forgive 
 myself my folly. I had known before that I could not 
 live without you; and when you were mine, I threw 
 you away for an angry word." 
 
 "It was not an angry word," she said. 
 
 "Say it again, and let me have another chance to 
 answer it." 
 
 "I think I said that idleness was not, — respectable, 
 or something like that, taken out of a copy-book pro- 
 bably. But you are a man who do not like rebukes, 
 even out of copy-books. A man so thin-skinned as 
 you are must choose for himself a wife with a softer 
 tongue than mine." 
 
 "I will choose none other!" he said. But still he 
 was savage in his tone and in his gestures. "I made 
 
278 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 my choice long since, as you know well enough. I do 
 not change easily. I cannot change in this. Violet, 
 say that you will be my wife once more, and I will 
 swear to work for you like a coal-heaver." 
 
 "My wish is that my husband — should I ever have 
 one,— should work, not exactly as a coal-heaver." 
 
 "Come, Violet," he said, — and now the look of 
 savagery departed from him, and there came a smile 
 over his face, which, however, had in it more of sad- 
 ness than of hope or joy, — "treat me fairly, — or rather, 
 treat me generously if you can. I do not know whether 
 you ever loved me much." 
 
 "Very much, — years ago, when you were a boy." 
 
 "But not since? If it be so, I had better go. Love 
 on one side only is a poor affair at best." 
 
 "A very poor affair." 
 
 "It is better to bear anything than to try and make 
 out life with that. Some of you women never want to 
 love any one." 
 
 "That was what I was saying of myself to Laura 
 but the other day. With some women it is so easy. 
 With others it is so difficult, that perhaps it never 
 comes to them." 
 
 "And with you?" 
 
 "Oh, with me . But it is better in these matters 
 
 to confine oneself to generalities. If you please, I will 
 not describe myself personally. Were I to do so, doubt- 
 less I should do it falsely." 
 
 "You love no one else, Violet?" 
 
 "That is my affair, my lord." 
 
 "By heavens, and it is mine too. Tell me that 
 you do, and I will go away and leave you at once. I 
 
AMANTIUM IRJE, 
 
 279 
 
 will not ask his name, and I will trouble you no more. 
 If it is not so, and if it is possible that you should 
 
 forgive me " 
 
 "Forgive you! When have I been angry with 
 you?" 
 
 "Answer me my question, Violet/' 
 "I will not answer you your question, — not that 
 one." 
 
 "What question will you answer?" 
 
 "Any that may concern yourself and myself. None 
 that may concern other people." 
 
 "You told me once that you loved me." 
 
 "This moment I told you that I did so, — years 
 ago." 
 
 "But now?" 
 
 "That is another matter." 
 "Violet, do you love me now?" 
 "That is a point blank question at any rate," she 
 said. 
 
 "And you will answer it?" 
 
 "I must answer it, — I suppose." 
 
 "Well, then?" 
 
 "Oh, Oswald, what a fool you are! Love you! of 
 course I love you. If you can understand anything, you 
 ought to know that I have never loved any one else; 
 — that after what has passed between us, I never shall 
 love any one else. I do love you. There. Whether 
 you throw me away from you, as you did the other 
 day, — with great scorn, mind you, — or come to me 
 with sweet, beautiful promises, as you do now, I shall 
 love you all the same. I cannot be your wife, if you 
 will not have me; can I? When you run away in 
 your tantrums because I quote something out of the 
 
28o 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 copy-book, I can't run after you? It would not be 
 pretty. But as for loving you, if you doubt that, I tell 
 you, you are a — fool.'' As she spoke the last words 
 she pouted out her lips at him, and when he looked 
 into her face he saw that her eyes were full of tears. 
 He was standing now with his arm round her waist, 
 so that it was not easy for him to look into her face. 
 "I am a fool," he said. 
 
 "Yes; — you are; but I don't love you the less on 
 that account." 
 
 "I will never doubt it again." 
 
 "No; — do not; and, for me, I will not say another 
 word, whether you choose to heave coals or not. You 
 shall do as you please. I meant to be very wise; — 
 I did indeed." 
 
 "You are the grandest girl that ever was made." 
 
 "I do not want to be grand at all, and I never will 
 be wise any more. Only do not frown at me and 
 look savage." Then she put up her hand to smooth 
 his brow. "I am half afraid of you still, you know. 
 There. That will do. Now let me go, that I may tell 
 my aunt. During the last two months she has been 
 full of pity for poor Lord Chiltern." 
 
 "It has been poor Lord Chiltern with a ven- 
 geance!" said he. 
 
 "But now that we have made it up, she will be 
 horrified again at all your wickednesses. You have 
 been a turtle dove lately; — now you will be an ogre 
 again. But, Oswald, you must not be an ogre to me." 
 
 As soon as she could get quit of her lover, she did 
 tell her tale to Lady Baldock. "You have accepted 
 him again!" said her aunt, holding up her hands. 
 **Yes, — I have accepted him again," replied Violet. 
 
AMANTIUM IRJE. 
 
 281 
 
 "Then the responsibihty must be on your own 
 shoulders/' said her aunt; "I wash my hands of it/' 
 That evening, when she discussed the matter with her 
 daughter, Lady Baldock spoke of Violet and Lord 
 Chiltern, as though their intended marriage were the 
 one thing in the world which she most deplored. 
 
282 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 The Beginning of the End. 
 
 The day of the debate had come, and Phineas Finn 
 was still sitting in his room at the Colonial Office. 
 But his resignation had been sent in and accepted, 
 and he was simply awaiting the coming of his successor. 
 About noon his successor came, and he had the grati- 
 fication of resigning his arm-chair to Mr. Bonteen. It 
 is generally understood that gentlemen leaving offices 
 give up either seals or a portfolio. Phineas had been 
 put in possession of no seal and no portfolio; but there 
 was in the room which he had occupied a special arm- 
 chair, and this with much regret he surrendered to the 
 use and comfort of Mr. Bonteen. There was a glance 
 of triumph in his enemy's eyes, and an exultation in 
 the tone of his enemy's voice , which were very bitter 
 to him. "So you are really going?'' said Mr. Bonteen. 
 "Well; I dare say it is all very proper. I don't quite 
 understand the thing myself, but I have no doubt you 
 are right." "It isn't easy to understand; is it?" said 
 Phineas, trying to laugh. But Mr. Bonteen did not 
 feel the intended satire, and poor Phineas found it 
 useless to attempt to punish the man he hated. He 
 left him as quickly as he could, and went to say a few 
 words of farewell to his late chief. 
 
 "Good-bye, Finn," said Lord Cantrip. "It is a 
 great trouble to me that we should have to part in 
 this way." 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 283 
 
 "And to me also, my lord. I wish it could have 
 been avoided/^ 
 
 "You should not have gone to Ireland with so 
 dangerous a man as Mr. Monk. But it is too late to 
 think of that now." 
 
 "The milk is spilt; is it not?'' 
 
 "But these terrible rendings asunder never last very 
 long/' said Lord Cantrip, "unless a man changes his 
 opinions altogether. How many quarrels and how many 
 reconciliations we have lived to see ! I remember when 
 Gresham went out of office, because he could not sit 
 in the same room with Mr. Mildmay, and yet they 
 became the fastest of political friends. There was a 
 time when Plinlimmon and the Duke could not stable 
 their horses together at all; and don't you remember 
 when Palliser was obliged to give up his hopes of office 
 because he had some bee in his bonnet?" I think, 
 however, that the bee in Mr. Palliser's bonnet to which 
 Lord Cantrip was alluding made its buzzing audible 
 on some subject that was not exactly political. "We 
 shall have you back again before long, I don't doubt. 
 Men who can really do their work are too rare to be 
 left long in the comfort of the benches below the 
 gangway." This was very kindly said, and Phineas 
 was flattered and comforted. He could not, however, 
 make Lord Cantrip understand the whole truth. For 
 him the dream of a life of politics was over for ever. 
 He had tried it, and had succeeded beyond his utmost 
 hopes; but, in spite of his success, the ground had 
 crumbled to pieces beneath his feet, and he knew that 
 he could never recover the niche in the Avorld's gallery 
 which he was now leaving. 
 
 That same afternoon he met Mr. Gresham in one 
 
284 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 of the passages leading to the House, and the Prime 
 Minister put his arm through that of our hero as they 
 walked together into the lobby. "I am sorry that we 
 are losing you/' said Mr. Gresham. 
 
 "You may be sure that I am sorry to be so lost," 
 said Phineas. 
 
 "These things will occur in political life," said the 
 leader; "but I think that they seldom leave rancour 
 behind them when the purpose is declared, and when 
 the subject of disagreement is marked and understood. 
 The defalcation which creates angry feeling is that 
 which has to be endured without previous warning, — 
 when a man votes against his party,— or a set of men, 
 from private pique or from some cause which is never 
 clear." Phineas, when he heard this, knew well how 
 terribly this very man had been harassed, and driven 
 nearly wild, by defalcation, exactly of that nature which 
 he was attempting to describe. "No doubt you and 
 Mr. Monk think you are right," continued Mr. Gresham. 
 
 "We have given strong evidence that we think so," 
 said Phineas. "We give up our places, and we are, 
 both of us, very poor men." 
 
 "I think you are wrong, you know not so much in 
 your views on the question itself, — which, to tell the 
 truth, I hardly understand as yet." 
 
 "We will endeavour to explain them." 
 
 "And will do so very clearly, no doubt. But I 
 think that Mr. Monk was wrong in desiring, as a 
 member of a Government, to force a measure which, 
 whether good or bad, the Government as a body does 
 not desire to initiate, — at any rate, just now." 
 
 "And therefore he resigned," said Phineas. 
 
 "Of course. But it seems to me that he failed to 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 285 
 
 comprehend the only way in which a great party can 
 act together, if it is to do any service in this country. 
 Don't for a moment think that I am blaming him or 
 you." 
 
 "I am nobody in this matter," said Phineas. 
 
 "I can assure you, Mr. Finn, that we have not 
 regarded you in that light, and I hope that the time 
 may come when we may be sitting together again on 
 the same bench." 
 
 Neither on the Treasury bench nor on any other 
 in that House was he to sit again after this fashion! 
 That was the trouble which was crushing his spirit at 
 this moment, and not the loss of his office ! He knew 
 that he could not venture to think of remaining in 
 London as a member of Parliament with no other in- 
 come than that which his father could allow him, even 
 if he could again secure a seat in Parliament. When 
 he had first been returned for Loughshane he had 
 assured his friends that his duty as a member of the 
 House of Commons would not be a bar to his practice 
 in the Courts. He had now been five years a member, 
 and had never once made an attempt at doing any 
 part of a barrister's work. He had gone altogether into 
 a different line of life, and had been most successful; — 
 so successful that men told him, and women more 
 frequently than men, that his career had been a miracle 
 of success. But there had been, as he had well known 
 from the first, this drawback in the new profession 
 which he had chosen, that nothing in it could be per- 
 manent. They who succeed in it, may probably succeed 
 again; but then the success is intermittent, and there 
 may be years of hard work in opposition, to which, 
 unfortunately, no pay is assigned. It is almost im- 
 
286 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 perative, as he now found, that they who devote them- 
 selves to such a profession should be men of fortune. 
 When he had commenced his work, — at the period of 
 his first return for Loughshane, — he had had no thought 
 of mending his deficiency in this respect by a rich 
 marriage. Nor had it ever occurred to him that he 
 would seek a marriage for that purpose. Such an idea 
 would have been thoroughly distasteful to him. There 
 had been no stain of premeditated mercenary arrange- 
 ment upon him at any time. But circumstances had 
 so fallen out with him, that as he won his spurs in 
 Parliament, as he became known, and was placed first 
 in one office and then in another, prospects of love and 
 money together were opened to him, and he ventured 
 on, leaving Mr. Low and the law behind him, — because 
 these prospects were so alluring. Then had come Mr. 
 Monk and Mary Flood Jones, — and everything around 
 him had collapsed. 
 
 Everything around him had collapsed, — with, how- 
 ever, a terrible temptation to him to inflate his sails 
 again, at the cost of his truth and his honour. The 
 temptation would have affected him not at all, had 
 Madame Goesler been ugly, stupid, or personally dis- 
 agreeable. But she was, he thought, the most beautiful 
 woman he had ever seen, the most witty, and in many 
 respects the most charming. She had offered to give 
 him everything that she had, so to place him in the 
 world that opposition would be more pleasant to him 
 than office, to supply every want, and had done so in 
 a manner that had gratified all his vanity. But he had 
 refused it all, because he was bound to the girl at 
 Floodborough. My readers will probably say that he 
 was not a true man unless he could do this w^ithout 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 
 
 287 
 
 a regret. When Phineas thought of it all, there were 
 many regrets. 
 
 But there was at the same time a resolve on his 
 part, that if any man had ever loved the girl he pro- 
 mised to love, he would love Mary Flood Jones. A 
 thousand times he had told himself that she had not 
 the spirit of Lady Laura, or the bright wit of Violet 
 Effingham, or the beauty of Madame Goesler. But 
 Mary had charms of her own that were more valuable 
 than them all. Was there one among the three who 
 had trusted him as she trusted him, — or loved him with 
 the same satisfied devotion? There were regrets, re- 
 grets that were heavy on his heart; — for London, and 
 Parliament, and the clubs, and Downing Street, had 
 become dear to him. He liked to think of himself as 
 he rode in the park, and was greeted by all those 
 whose greeting was the most worth having. There 
 were regrets, — sad regrets. But the girl whom he 
 loved better than the parks and the clubs, — better even 
 than Westminster and Downing Street, should never 
 know that they had existed. 
 
 These thoughts were running through his mind 
 even while he was listening to Mr. Monk, as he pro- 
 pounded his theory of doing justice to Ireland. This 
 might probably be the last great debate in which 
 Phineas would be able to take a part, and he was 
 determined that he would do his best in it. He did 
 not intend to speak on this day, if, as was generally 
 supposed, the House would be adjourned before a di- 
 vision could be obtained. But he would remain on the 
 alert and see how the thing went. He had come to 
 understand the forms of the place, and was as well- 
 trained a young member of Parliament as any there. 
 
288 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 He had been quick at learning a lesson that is not 
 easily learned, and knew how things were going, and 
 what were the proper moments for this question or that 
 form of motion. He could anticipate a count- out, under- 
 stood the tone of men's minds, and could read the 
 gestures of the House. It was very little likely that 
 the debate should be over to-night. He knew that; 
 and as the present time was the evening of Tuesday, 
 he resolved at once that he would speak as early as 
 he could on the following Thursday. What a pity it 
 was, that with one who had learned so much, all his 
 learning should be in vain! 
 
 At about two o'clock, he himself succeeded in 
 moving the adjournment of the debate. This he did 
 from a seat below the gangway, to which he had re- 
 moved himself from the Treasury bench. Then the 
 House was up, and he walked home with Mr. Monk. 
 Mr. Monk, since he had been told positively by Phineas 
 that he had resolved upon resigning his office, had 
 said nothing more of his sorrow at his friend's resolve, 
 but had used him as one political friend uses another, 
 telling him all his thoughts and all his hopes as to 
 this new measure of his, and taking counsel with him 
 as to the way in which the fight should be fought. 
 Together they had counted over the list of members, 
 marking these men as supporters, those as opponents, 
 and another set, now more important than either, as 
 being doubtful. From day to day those who had 
 been written down as doubtful were struck off that 
 third list, and put in either the one or the other of 
 those who were either supporters or opponents. And 
 their different modes of argument were settled between 
 these two allied orators, how one should take this line 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 
 
 289 
 
 and the other that. To Mr. Monk this was very 
 pleasant. He was quite assured now that opposition 
 was more congenial to his spirit, and more fitting for 
 him than office. There was no doubt to him as to 
 his future sitting in Parliament, let the result of this 
 contest be what it might. The work which he was 
 now doing, was the work for which he had been train- 
 ing himself all his life. While he had been forced to 
 attend Cabinet Councils from week to week, he had 
 been depressed. Now he was exultant. Phineas seeing 
 and understanding all this, said but little to his friend 
 of his own prospects. As long as this pleasant battle 
 was raging, he could fight in it shoulder to shoulder 
 with the man he loved. After that there would be a 
 blank. 
 
 "I do not see how we are to fail to have a majority 
 after Daubeny's speech to-night," said Mr. Monk, as 
 they walked together down Parliament Street through 
 the bright moonlight. 
 
 "He expressly said that he only spoke for him- 
 self,'' said Phineas. 
 
 "But we know what that means. He is bidding 
 for office, and of course those who want office with 
 him will vote as he votes. We have already counted 
 those who would go into office, but they will not carry 
 the whole party." 
 
 "It will carry enough of them." 
 
 "There are forty or fifty men on his side of the 
 House, and as many perhaps on ours," said Mr. Monk, 
 "who have no idea of any kind on any bill, and who 
 simply follow the bell, whether into this lobby or that. 
 Argument never touches them. They do not even 
 
 Phineas Finn. Ill, 1 9 
 
290 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 look to the result of a division on their own interests, 
 as the making of any calculation would be laborious 
 to them. Their party leader is to them a Pope whom 
 they do not dream of doubting. I never can quite 
 make up my mind whether it is good or bad that there 
 should be such men in Parliament." 
 
 "Men who think much want to speak often," said 
 Phineas. 
 
 "Exactly so, — and of speaking members, God 
 knows that we have enough. And I suppose that 
 these purblind sheep do have some occult weight that 
 is salutary. They enable a leader to be a leader, and 
 even in that way they are useful. We shall get a 
 division on Thursday." 
 
 "I understand that Gresham has consented to 
 that." 
 
 "So Ratler told me. Palliser is to speak, and 
 Barrington Erie. And they say that Robson is going 
 to make an onslaught specially on me. We shall get 
 it over by one o'clock." 
 
 "And if we beat them?" asked Phineas. 
 
 "It will depend on the numbers. Everybody who 
 has spoken to me about it, seems to think that they 
 will dissolve if there be a respectable majority against 
 them." 
 
 "Of course he will dissolve," said Phineas, speak- 
 ing of Mr. Gresham; "what else can he do?" 
 
 "He is very anxious to carry his Irish Reform Bill 
 first, if he can do so. Good-night, Phineas. I shall 
 not be down to-morrow as there is nothing to be done. 
 Come to me on Thursday, and we will go to the House 
 together." 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 
 
 291 
 
 On the Wednesday Phineas was engaged to dine 
 with Mr. Low. There was a dinner party in Bedford 
 Square, and Phineas met half-a-dozen barristers and 
 their wives, — men to whom he had looked up as suc- 
 cessful pundits in the law some five or six years ago, 
 but who since that time had almost learned to look 
 up to him. And now they treated him with that 
 courteousness of manner which success in life always 
 begets. There was a judge there who was very civil 
 to him; and the judge's wife whom he had taken 
 down to dinner was very gracious to him. The judge 
 had got his prize in life, and was therefore personally 
 indifferent to the fate of ministers; but the judge's wife 
 had a brother who wanted a County Court from Lord 
 De Terrier, and it was known that Phineas was giving 
 valuable assistance towards the attainment of this ob- 
 ject. "I do think that you and Mr. Monk are so 
 right," said the judge's wife. Phineas who understood 
 how it came to pass that the judge's wife should so 
 cordially approve his conduct, could not help thinking 
 how grand a thing it would be for him to have a 
 County Court for himself. 
 
 When the guests were gone he was left alone with 
 Mr. and Mrs. Low, and remained awhile with them, 
 there having been an understanding that they should 
 have a last chat together over the affairs of our hero. 
 "Do you really mean that you will not stand again?" 
 asked Mrs. Low. 
 
 "I do mean it. I may say that I cannot do so. 
 My father is hardly so well able to help me as he was 
 when I began this game, and I certainly shall not ask 
 him for money to support a canvass." 
 
 19* 
 
292 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "It's a thousand pities," said Mrs. Low. 
 
 "I really had begun to think that you would make 
 it answer," said Mr. Low. 
 
 "In one way I have made it answer. For the last 
 three years I have lived upon what I have earned, and 
 I am not in debt. But now I must begin the world 
 again. I am afraid I shall find the drudgery very 
 hard." 
 
 "It is hard no doubt," said the barrister, who had 
 gone through it all, and was now reaping the fruits of 
 it. "But I suppose you have not forgotten what you 
 learned?" 
 
 "Who can say? I dare say I have. But I did not 
 mean the drudgery of learning, so much as the drudgery 
 of looking after work; — of expecting briefs which per- 
 haps will never come. I am thirty yeats old now, you 
 know." 
 
 "Are you indeed?" said Mrs. Low, — who knew his 
 age to a day. "How the time passes. Tm sure I 
 hope you'll get on, Mr. Finn. I do indeed." 
 
 "I am sure he will, if he puts his shoulder to it," 
 said Mr. Low. 
 
 Neither the lawyer nor his wife repeated any of 
 those sententious admonitions, which had almost be- 
 come rebukes, and which had been so common in their 
 mouths. The fall with which they had threatened 
 Phineas Finn had come upon him, and they were too 
 generous to remind him of their wisdom and sagacity. 
 Indeed, when he got up to take his leave, Mrs. Low, 
 who probably might not see him again for years, was 
 quite affectionate in her manners to him, and looked 
 as if she were almost minded to kiss him as she 
 pressed his hand. "We will come ^nd see you," 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 
 
 she said, "when you are Master of the Rolls in 
 Dublin/' 
 
 "We shall see him before then thundering at us 
 poor Tories in the House," said Mr. Low. "He will 
 be back again sooner or later." And so they parted. 
 
294 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 P. P. C. 
 
 On the Thursday morning before Phineas went to 
 Mr. Monk, a gentleman called upon him at his lodgings. 
 Phineas requested the servant to bring up the gentle- 
 man's name, but tempted perhaps by a shilling the 
 girl brought up the gentleman instead. It was Mr. 
 Quintus Slide from the office of the "Banner of the 
 People." 
 
 "Mr. Finn," said Quintus, with his hand extended, 
 "I have come to offer you the calumet of peace.'' 
 Phineas certainly desired no such calumet. But to re- 
 fuse a man's hand is to declare active war after a 
 fashion which men do not like to adopt except on de- 
 liberation. He had never cared a straw for the abuse 
 which Mr. Slide had poured upon him, and now he 
 gave his hand to the man of letters. But he did not 
 sit down, nor did he offer a seat to Mr. Slide. "I 
 know that as a man of sense who knows the world, 
 you will accept the calumet of peace," continued Mr., 
 
 "I don't know why I should be asked particularly 
 to accept war or peace," said Phineas. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Finn,— I don't often quote the Bible; 
 but those who are not for us must be against us. You 
 will agree to that. Now that you've freed yourself 
 
 Slide. 
 
p. p. c. 
 
 295 
 
 from the iniquities of that sink of abomination in Down- 
 ing Street, I look upon you as a man again/' 
 
 "Upon my word you are very kind." 
 
 "As a man and also a brother. I suppose you 
 know that Fve got the Banner into my own 'ands 
 now." Phineas was obliged to explain that he had not 
 hitherto been made acquainted with this great literary 
 and political secret. "Oh dear, yes, altogether so. 
 We've got rid of old Rusty as I used to call him. He 
 wouldn't go the pace, and so we stripped him. He's 
 doing the West of England Art Journal now, and he 
 'angs out down at Bristol." 
 
 "I hope he'll succeed, Mr. Slide." 
 
 "He'll earn his wages. He's a man who will al- 
 ways earn his wages, but nothing more. Well, now, 
 Mr. Finn, I will just offer you one word of apology for 
 our little severities." 
 
 "Pray do nothing of the kind." 
 
 "Indeed I shall. Dooty is dooty. There was some 
 things printed which were a little rough, but if one 
 isn't a little rough there ain't no flavour. Of course I 
 wrote 'em. You know my 'and, I dare say." 
 
 "I only remember that there was some throwing of 
 mud." 
 
 "Just so. But mud don't break any bones; does 
 it? When you turned against us I had to be down on 
 you, and I was down upon you; — that's just about all 
 of it. Now you're coming among us again, and so I 
 come to you with a calumet of peace." 
 
 "But I am not coming among you." 
 
 "Yes you are, Finn, and bringing Monk with you." 
 It was now becoming very disagreeable, and Phineas 
 was beginning to perceive that it would soon be his 
 
296 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 turn to say something rough. "Now Til tell you what 
 my proposition is. If you'll do us two leaders a week 
 through the session, you shall have a cheque for £16 
 on the last day of every month. If that's not honester 
 money than what you got in Downing Street, my name 
 is not Quintus Slide.'' 
 
 "Mr. Slide," said Phineas, and then he paused. 
 
 "If we are to come to business, drop the Mister. 
 It makes things go so much easier." 
 
 "We are not to come to business, and I do not 
 want things to go easy. I believe you said some things 
 of me in your newspaper that were very scurrilous." 
 
 "What of that? If you mind that sort of 
 thing " 
 
 "I did not regard it in the least. You are quite 
 welcome to continue it. I don't doubt but you will 
 continue it. But you are not welcome to come here 
 afterwards." 
 
 "Do you mean to turn me out?" 
 
 "Just that. You printed a heap of lies " 
 
 "Lies, Mr. Finn! Did you say lies, sir?" 
 
 "I said lies; — lies; — lies!" And Phineas walked 
 over at him as though he were going to pitch him in- 
 stantly out of the window. "You may go and write 
 as many more as you like. It is your trade, and you 
 must do it or starve. But do not come to me again." 
 Then he opened the door and stood with it in his 
 hand. 
 
 "Very well, sir. I shall know how to punish this." 
 
 "Exactly. But if you please you'll go and do your 
 punishment at the office of the Banner, — unless you 
 like to try it here. You want to kick me and spit at 
 me, but you will prefer to do it in print." 
 
p. p. c. 
 
 297 
 
 "Yes, sir/' said Quintus Slide. "I shall prefer to 
 do it in print, — though I must own that the temptation 
 to adopt the manual violence of a ruffian is great, very 
 great, very great indeed." But he resisted the tempta- 
 tion and walked down the stairs, concocting his article 
 as he went. 
 
 Mr. Quintus Slide did not so much impede the 
 business of his day but what Phineas was with Mr. 
 Monk by two, and in his place in the House when 
 prayers were read at four. As he sat in his place, 
 conscious of the work that was before him, listening 
 to the presentation of petitions, and to the formal read- 
 ing of certain notices of motions, which with the ask- 
 ing of sundry questions occupied over half an hour, he 
 looked back and remembered accurately his own feel- 
 ings on a certain night on which he had intended to 
 get up and address the House. The ordeal before him 
 had then been so terrible, that it had almost obliterated 
 for the moment his senses of hearing and of sight. He 
 had hardly been able to perceive what had been going 
 on around him, and had vainly endeavoured to occupy 
 himself in recalling to his memory the words which he 
 wished to pronounce. When the time for pronouncing 
 them had come, he had found himself unable to stand 
 upon his legs. He smiled as he recalled all this in his 
 memory, waiting impatiently for the moment in which 
 he might rise. His audience was assured to him now, 
 and he did not fear it. His opportunity for utterance 
 was hi« own, and even the Speaker could not deprive 
 him of it. During these minutes he thought not at all 
 of the words that he was to say. He had prepared his 
 matter but had prepared no words. He knew that 
 words would come readily enough to him, and that he 
 
298 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 had learned the task of turning his thoughts quickly 
 into language while standing with a crowd of listeners 
 around him, — as a practised writer does when seated 
 in his chair. There was no violent beating at his 
 heart now, no dimness of the eyes, no feeling that the 
 ground was turning round under his feet. If only 
 those weary vain questions would get themselves all 
 asked, so that he might rise and begin the work of 
 the night. Then there came the last thought as the 
 House was hushed for his rising. What was the good 
 of it all, when he would never have an opportunity of 
 speaking there again? 
 
 But not on that account would he be slack in his 
 endeavour now. He would be listened to once at 
 least, not as a subaltern of the Government but as the 
 owner of a voice prominent in opposition to the Govern- 
 ment. He had been taught by Mr. Monk that that 
 was the one plan in the House in which a man with a 
 power of speaking could really enjoy pleasure without 
 alloy. He would make the trial, — once, if never again. 
 Things had so gone with him that the rostrum was his 
 own, and a House crammed to overflowing was there 
 to listen to him. He had given up his place in order 
 that he might be able to speak his mind, and had be- 
 come aware that many intended to listen to him while 
 he spoke. He had observed that the rows of strangers 
 were thick in the galleries, that peers were standing in 
 the passages, and that over the reporter's head, the 
 ribbons of many ladies were to be seen through the 
 bars of their cage. Yes; — for this once he would have 
 an audience. 
 
 He spoke for about an hour, and while he was 
 speaking he knew nothing about himself, whether he 
 
p. p. c. 
 
 299 
 
 was doing it well or ill. Something of himself he did 
 say soon after he had commenced, — not quite beginning 
 with it, as though his mind had been laden with the 
 matter. He had, he said, found himself compelled to 
 renounce his happy allegiance to the First Lord of the 
 Treasury, and to quit the pleasant company in which, 
 humble as had been his place, he had been allowed to 
 sit and act, by his unfortunate conviction on this great 
 subject. He had been told, he said, that it was a mis- 
 fortune in itself for one so young as he to have con- 
 victions. But his Irish birth and Irish connection had 
 brought this misfortune of his country so closely home 
 to him that he had found the task of extricating him- 
 self from it to be impossible. Of what further he said, 
 speaking on that terribly unintelligible subject, a tenant- 
 right proposed for Irish farmers, no English reader 
 will desire to know much. Irish subjects in the House 
 of Commons are interesting or are dull, are debated 
 before a crowded audience composed of all who are 
 leaders in the great world of London, or before empty 
 benches, in accordance with the importance of the 
 moment and the character of the debate. For us now 
 it is enough to know that to our hero was accorded 
 that attention which orators love, — which will almost 
 make an orator if it can be as^)Ured. A full House 
 with a promise of big type on the next morning would 
 wake to eloquence the propounder of a Canadian 
 grievance, or the mover of an Indian budget. 
 
 Phineas did not stir out of the House till the divi- 
 sion was over, having agreed with Mr. Monk that they 
 two would remain through it all and hear everything 
 that was to be said. Mr. Gresham had already spoken, 
 and. to Mr. Palliser was confided the task of winding 
 
300 
 
 PHINEAS P*INN. 
 
 up the argument for the Government. Mr. Robson 
 spoke also, greatly enlivening the tedium of the even- 
 ing, and to Mr. Monk was permitted the privilege of a 
 final reply. At two o'clock the division came, and the 
 Ministry were beaten by a majority of twenty-three. 
 "And now," said Mr. Monk, as he again walked home 
 with Phineas, "the pity is that we are not a bit nearer 
 tenant-right than we were before." 
 "But we are nearer to it." 
 
 "In one sense, yes. Such a debate and such a 
 majority will make men think. But no; — think is too 
 high a word; as a rule men don't think. But it will 
 make them believe that there is something in it. Many 
 who before regarded legislation on the subject as 
 chimerical, will now fancy that it is only dangerous, 
 or perhaps not more than difficult. And so in time it 
 will come to be looked on as among the things possible, 
 then among the things probable; — and so at last it will 
 be ranged in the list of those few measures which the 
 country requires as being absolutely needed. That is 
 the way in which public opinion is made." 
 
 "It is no loss of time," said Phineas, "to have 
 taken the first great step in making it." 
 
 "The first great step was taken long ago," said Mr. 
 Monk, — "taken by men who were looked upon as re- 
 volutionary demagogues, almost as traitors, because 
 they took it. But it is a great thing to take any step 
 that leads us onwards." 
 
 Two days after this Mr. Gresham declared his in- 
 tention of dissolving the House because of the adverse 
 division which had been produced by Mr. Monk's mo- 
 tion, but expressed a wish to be allowed to carry an 
 
p. p. c. 
 
 3ot 
 
 Irish Reform Bill through Parliament before he did so. 
 He explained how expedient this would be, but declared 
 at the same time that if any strong opposition were 
 made, he would abandon the project. His intention 
 simply was to pass with regard to Ireland a measure 
 which must be passed soon, and which ought to be 
 passed before a new election took place. The bill was 
 ready, and should be read for the first time on the next 
 night, if the House were willing. The House was willing, 
 though there were very many recalcitrant Irish members. 
 The Irish members made loud opposition, and then 
 twitted Mr. Gresham with his promise that he would 
 not go on with his bill, if opposition were made. But, 
 nevertheless, he did go on, and the measure was hurried 
 through the two Houses in a week. Our hero who 
 still sat for Loughshane, but who was never to sit for 
 Loughshane again, gave what assistance he could to 
 the Government, and voted for the measure which 
 deprived Loughshane for ever of its parliamentary 
 honours. 
 
 "And very dirty conduct I think it w^as," said Lord 
 Tulla, when he discussed the subject with his agent. 
 "After being put in for the borough twice, almost free 
 of expense, it was very dirty." It never occurred to 
 Lord Tulla that a member of Parliament might feel 
 himself obliged to vote on such a subject in accordance 
 with his judgment. 
 
 This Irish Reform Bill was scrambled through the two 
 Houses, and then the session was over. The session was 
 over, and they who knew anything of the private con- 
 cerns of Mr. Phineas Finn were aware that he was 
 about to return to Ireland, and did not intend to re- 
 appear on the scene which had known him so well for 
 
302 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 the last five years. "I cannot tell you how sad it 
 makes me," said Mr. Monk. 
 
 "And it makes me sad too," said Phineas. "I try 
 to shake off the melancholy, and tell myself from day 
 to day that it is unmanly. But it gets the better of me 
 just at present." 
 
 "I feel quite certain that you will come back among 
 us again," said Mr. Monk. 
 
 "Everybody tells me so; and yet I feel quite cer- 
 tain that I shall never come back, — never come back 
 with a seat in Parliament. As my old tutor. Low, has 
 told me scores of times, I began at the wrong end. 
 Here I am, thirty years of age, and I have not a 
 shilling in the world, and I do not know how to earn 
 one." 
 
 "Only for me you would still be receiving ever so 
 much a year, and all would be pleasant," said Mr. 
 Monk. 
 
 "But how long would it have lasted? The first 
 moment that Daubeny got the upper hand I should 
 have fallen lower than I have fallen now. If not this 
 year, it would have been the next. My only comfort 
 is in this, — that I have done the thing myself, and 
 have not been turned out." To the very last, however, 
 Mr. Monk continued to express his opinion that Phineas 
 would come back, declaring that he had known no in- 
 stance of a young man who had made himself useful 
 in Parliament, and then had been allowed to leave it 
 in early life. 
 
 Among those of whom he was bound to take a 
 special leave, the members of the family of Lord Brent- 
 ford were, of course, the foremost. He had already 
 heard of the reconciliation of Miss Effingham and 
 
p. p. c. 
 
 303 
 
 Lord Chiltern, and was anxious to offer his congratula- 
 tion to both of them. And it was essential to him that 
 he should see Lady Laura. To her he wrote a line, 
 saying how much he hoped that he should be able to 
 bid her adieu, and a time was fixed for his coming at 
 w^hich she knew^ that she would meet him alone. But, 
 as chance ruled it, he came upon the two lovers to- 
 gether, and then remembered that he had hardly ever 
 before been in the same room with both of them at 
 the same time. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Finn, what a beautiful speech you made. 
 I read every word of it," said Violet. 
 
 "And I didn^t even lock at it, old fellow," said 
 Chiltern, getting up and putting his arm on the other's 
 shoulder in a way that was common with him when he 
 was quite intimate with the friend near him. 
 
 "Laura went down and heard it," said Violet. "I 
 could not do that, because I was tied to my aunt. 
 You can't conceive how dutiful I am during this last 
 month." 
 
 "And is it to be in a month, Chiltern?" saidPhineas. 
 
 "She says so. She arranges everything, — in con- 
 cert with my father. When I threw up the sponge, I 
 simply asked for a long day. *A long day, my lord,' 
 I said. But my father and Violet between them refused 
 me any mercy." 
 
 "You do not believe him," said Violet. 
 
 "Not a word. If I did he would want to see me 
 on the coast of Flanders again, I don't doubt. I have 
 come to congratulate you both." 
 
 "Thank you, Mr. Finn," said Violet, taking his 
 hand with hearty kindness. "I should not have been 
 quite happy without one nice word from you." 
 
304 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "I shall try and make the best of it," said Chiltern. 
 "But, I say, you'll come over and ride Bonebreaker 
 jagain. He's down there at the Bull, and I've taken a 
 little box close by. I can't stand the governor's county 
 for hunting." 
 
 "And will your wife go down to Willingford?" 
 
 "Of course she will, and ride to hounds a great 
 deal closer than I can ever do. Mind you come, and 
 if there's anything in the stable fit to carry you, you 
 shall have it." 
 
 Then Phineas had to explain that he had come to 
 bid them farewell, and that it was not at all probable 
 that he should ever be able to see Willingford again 
 in the hunting season. "I don't suppose that I shall 
 make either of you quite understand it, but I have got 
 to begin again. The chances are that I shall never 
 see another foxhound all my life." 
 
 "Not in Ireland!" exclaimed Lord Chiltern. 
 
 "Not unless I should have to examine one as a 
 witness. I have nothing before me but downright hard 
 work; and a great deal of that must be done before I 
 can hope to earn a shilling." 
 
 "But you are so clever," said Violet. "Of course 
 it will come quickly." 
 
 "I do not mean to be impatient about it, nor yet 
 unhappy," said Phineas. "Only hunting won't be 
 much in my line." 
 
 "And will you leave London altogether?" Violet 
 asked. 
 
 "Altogether. I shall stick to one club, — Brookes's; 
 but I shall take my name off all the others." 
 
 "What a deuce of a nuisance!" said Lord Chiltern, 
 
p. p. c. 
 
 305 
 
 "I have no doubt you will be very happy," said 
 Violet; "and you'll be a Lord Chancellor in no time. 
 But you won't go quite yet." 
 
 "Next Sunday." 
 
 "You will return. You must be here for our wed- 
 ding; — indeed you must. I will not be married unless 
 you do." 
 
 Even this, however, was impossible. He must go 
 on Sunday, and must return no more. Then he made 
 his little farewell speech, which he could not deliver 
 without some awkward stuttering. He would think of 
 her on the day of her marriage, and pray that she 
 might be happy. And he would send her a little trifle 
 before he went, which he hoped she would wear in 
 remembrance of their old friendship. 
 
 "She shall wear it, whatever it is, or Til know the 
 reason why," said Chiltern. 
 
 "Hold your tongue, you rough bear!" said Violet. 
 "Of course Fll wear it. And of course Til think of 
 the giver. I shall have many presents, but few that I 
 will think of so much." Then Phineas left the room, 
 with his throat so full that he could not speak another 
 word. 
 
 "He is still broken-hearted about you," said the 
 favoured lover as soon as his rival had left the room. 
 
 "It is not that," said Violet. "He is broken- 
 hearted about everything. The whole world is vanish- 
 ing away from him. I wish he could have made up 
 his mind to marry that German woman with all the 
 money." It must be understood, however, that Phineas 
 had never spoken a word to any one as to the offer 
 which the German woman had made to him. 
 
 It was on the morning of the Sunday on which he 
 
 Phineas Finn. Ill, 20 
 
3o6 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 was to leave London that he saw Lady Laura. He 
 had asked that it might be so, in order that he might 
 then have nothing more upon his mind. He found her 
 quite alone, and he could see by her eyes that she had 
 been weeping. As he looked at her, remembering that 
 it was not yet six years since he had first been allowed 
 to enter that room, he could not but perceive how very 
 much she was altered in appearance. Then she had 
 been three-and-twenty, and had not looked to be a day 
 older. Now she might have been taken to be nearly 
 forty, so much had her troubles preyed upon her spirit, 
 and eaten into the vitality of her youth. "So you 
 have come to say good-bye," she said, smiling as she 
 rose to meet him. 
 
 "Yes, Lady Laura; — to say good-bye. Not for 
 ever, I hope, but probably for long." 
 
 "No, not for ever. At any rate, we will not think 
 so." Then she paused; but he was silent, sitting with 
 his hat dangling in his two hands, and his eyes fixed 
 upon the floor. "Do you know, Mr. Finn," she con- 
 tinued, "that sometimes I am very angry with myself 
 about you." 
 
 "Then it must be because you have been too kind 
 to me." 
 
 "It is because I fear that I have done much to in- 
 jure you. From the first day that I knew you, — do 
 you remember, when we were talking here, in this 
 very room, about the beginning of the Reform Bill;— - 
 from that day I wished that you should come among 
 us and be one of us." 
 
 "I have been with you, to my infinite satisfaction, 
 — while it lasted." 
 
p. p. c. 
 
 307 
 
 "But it has not lasted, and now I fear that it has 
 done you harm/' 
 
 "Who can say whether it has been for good or 
 evil? But of this I am sure you will be certain, — that 
 I am very grateful to you for all the goodness you 
 have shown me/' Then again he was silent. 
 
 She did not know what it was that she wanted, but 
 she did desire some expression from his lips that should 
 be warmer than an expression of gratitude. An ex- 
 pression of love, — of existing love, — she would have 
 felt to be an insult, and would have treated it as such. 
 Indeed, she knew that from him no such insult could 
 come. But she was in that morbid, melancholy state 
 of mind which requires the excitement of more than 
 ordinary sympathy, even though that sympathy be all 
 painful; and I think that she would have been pleased 
 had he referred to the passion for herself which he had 
 once expressed. If he would have spoken of his love, 
 and of her mistake, and have made some half-sugges- 
 tion as to what might have been their lives had things 
 gone differently, — though she would have rebuked him 
 even for that, — still it would have comforted her. But 
 at this moment, though he remembered much that had 
 passed between them, he was not even thinking of the 
 Braes of Linter. All that had taken place four years 
 ago; — and there had been so many other things since 
 which had moved him even more than that! "You 
 have heard what I have arranged for myself?" she 
 said at last. 
 
 "Your father has told me that you are going to 
 Dresden." 
 
 "Yes; — he will accompany me, — coming home of 
 course for Parliament. It is a sad break up, is it not? 
 
 20* 
 
3o8 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 But the lawyer says that if I remain here I may be 
 subject to very disagreeable attempts from Mr. Ken- 
 nedy to force me to go back again. It is odd, is it 
 noL, that he should not understand how impossible 
 it is." 
 
 "He means to do his duty." 
 
 "I believe so. But he becomes more stern every 
 day to those who are with him. And then, why should 
 I remain here? What is there to tempt me? As a 
 woman separated from her husband I cannot take an 
 interest in those things which used to charm me. I 
 feel that I am crushed and quelled by my position, 
 even though there is no disgrace in it." 
 
 "No disgrace, certainly," said Phineas. 
 
 "But I am nobody, — or worse than nobody." 
 
 "And I also am going to be a nobody," said Phineas, 
 laughing. 
 
 "Ah; you are a man and will get over it, and you 
 have many years before you will begin to be growing 
 old. I am growing old already. Yes, I am. I feel 
 it, and know it, and see it. A woman has a fine game 
 to play; but then she is so easily bowled out, and the 
 term allowed to her is so short." 
 
 "A man's allowance of ume may be short too," 
 said Phineas. 
 
 "But he can try his hand again." Then there was 
 another pause. "I had thought, Mr. Finn, that you 
 would have married," she said in her very lowest 
 voice. 
 
 "You knew all my hopes and fears about that." 
 "I mean that you would have married Madame 
 Goesler." 
 
 "What made you think that, Lady Laura?" 
 
p. p. c. 
 
 309 
 
 Because I saw that she Hked you, and because 
 such a marriage would have been so suitable. She has 
 all that you want. You know what they say of her 
 now?" 
 
 "What do they say?" 
 
 "That the Duke of Omnium offered to make her 
 his wife, and that she refused him for your sake." 
 
 "There is nothing that people won't say; — nothing 
 on earth," said Phineas. Then he got up and took his 
 leave of her. He also wanted to part from her with 
 some special expression of affection, but he did not 
 know how to choose his words. He had wished that 
 some allusion should be made, not to the Braes of 
 Linger, but to the close confidence which had so long 
 existed between them; but he found that the language 
 to do this properly was wanting to him. Had the op- 
 portunity arisen he would have told her now the whole 
 story of Maiy Flood Jones; but the opportunity did 
 not come, and he left her, never having mentioned the 
 name of his Mary or having hinted at his engagement 
 to any one of his friends in London. "It is better so," 
 he said to himself. "My life in Ireland is to be a new 
 life, and why should I mix two things together that 
 will be so different." 
 
 He was to dine at his lodgings, and then leave 
 them for good at eight o'clock. He had packed up 
 everything before he went to Portman Square, and he 
 returned home only just in time to sit down to his 
 solitary mutton chop. But as he sat down he saw a 
 small note addressed to himself lying on the table 
 among the crowd of books, letters, and papers, of which 
 he had still to make disposal. It was a very small 
 note in an envelope of a peculiar tint of pink, and he 
 
PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 knew the handwriting well. The blood mounted all 
 over his face as he took it up, and he hesitated for a 
 moment before he opened it. It could not be that the 
 offer should be repeated to him. Slowly, hardly ven- 
 turing at first to look at the enclosure, he opened it, 
 and the words which it contained were as follows: — 
 
 "I learn that you are going to-day, and I write a 
 word which you will receive just as you are departing. 
 It is to say merely this, — that when I left you the 
 other day I was angry, not with you, but with myself. 
 Let me wish you all good wishes and that prosperity 
 which I know you will deserve, and which I think you 
 will win, 
 
 "Yours very truly, 
 
 "M. M. G. 
 
 ** Sunday morning^ 
 
 Should he put off his journey and go to her this 
 very evening and claim her as his friend? The question 
 was asked and answered in a moment. Of course he 
 would not go to her. Were he to do so there would 
 be only one possible word for him to say, and that 
 word should certainly never be spoken. But he wrote 
 to her a reply, shorter even than her own short note. 
 
 "Thanks, dear friend. I do not doubt but that you 
 and I understand each other thoroughly, and that each 
 trusts the other for good wishes and honest intentions. 
 
 "Always yours, 
 
 "P F 
 
 "I write these as I am starting." ' ' 
 
 When he had written this, he kept it till the last 
 
moment in his hand, thinking that he would not send 
 it. But as he slipped into the cab, he gave the note 
 to his late landlady to post. 
 
 At the station Bunce came to him to say a word of 
 farewell, and Mrs. Bunce was on his arm. 
 
 "Well done, Mr. Finn, well done," said Bunce. "I 
 always knew there was a good drop in you." 
 
 "You always told me I should ruin myself in Par- 
 liament, and so I have," said Phineas. 
 
 "Not at all. It takes a deal to ruin a man if he's 
 got the right sperrit. IVe better hopes of you now 
 than ever I had in the old days when you used to be 
 looking out for Government place; — and Mr. Monk has 
 tried that too. I thought he wouJd find the iron too 
 heavy for him." "God bless you, Mr. Finn," said Mrs. 
 Bunce with her handkerchief up to her eyes. "Theres' 
 not one of 'em I ever had as lodgers I've cared about 
 half as much as I did for you." Then they shook 
 hands with him through the window, and the trian 
 was off. 
 
312 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Conclusion. 
 
 We are told that it is a bitter moment with the 
 Lord Mayor when he leaves the Mansion House and 
 becomes once more Alderman Jones, of No. 75, Buck- 
 lersbury. Lord Chancellors going out of office have a 
 great fall though they take pensions with them for their 
 consolation. And the President of the United States 
 when he leaves the glory of the White House and once 
 more becomes a simple citizen must feel the change 
 severely. But our hero, Phineas Finn, as he turned 
 his back upon the scene of his many successes, and 
 prepared himself for permanent residence in his own 
 country, was, I think, in a worse plight than any of 
 the reduced divinities to whom I have alluded. They 
 at any rate had known that their fall would come. He, 
 like Icarus, had flown up towards the sun, hoping that 
 his wings of wax would bear him steadily aloft among 
 the gods. Seeing that his wings were wings of wax, 
 we must acknowledge that they were very good. But 
 the celestial lights had been too strong for them, and 
 now, having lived for five years with lords and count- 
 esses, with ministers and orators, with beautiful women 
 and men of fashion, he must start again in a little 
 lodging in Dublin, and hope that the attorneys of that 
 litigious city might be good to him. On his journey 
 home he made but one resolution. He would make 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 the change, or attempt to make it, with manly strength. 
 During his last month in London he had allowed him- 
 self to be sad, depressed, and melancholy. There should 
 be an end of all that now. Nobody at home should 
 see that he was depressed. And Mary, his own Mary, 
 should at any rate have no cause to think that her love 
 and his own engagement had ever been the cause to 
 him of depression. Did he not value her love more 
 than anything in the world? A thousand times he told 
 himself that he did. 
 
 She was there in the old house at Killaloe to greet 
 him. Her engagement was an affair known to all the 
 county, and she had no idea that it would become her 
 to be coy in her love. She was in his arms before he 
 had spoken to his father and mother, and had made 
 her little speech to him, — very inaudibly indeed, — 
 while he was covering her sweet face with kisses. "Oh, 
 Phineas, I am so proud of you; and I think you are 
 so right, and I am so glad you have done it." Again 
 he covered her face with kisses. Could he ever have 
 had such satisfaction as this had he allowed Madame 
 Goesler's hand to remain in his? 
 
 On the first night of his arrival he sat for an hour 
 down-stairs with his father talking over his plans. He 
 felt, — he could not but feel, — that he was not the hero 
 now that he had been when he was last at Killaloe, — 
 when he had come thither with a Cabinet Minister 
 under his wing. And yet his father did his best to 
 prevent the growth of any such feeling. The old 
 doctor was not quite as well off as he had been when 
 Phineas first started with his high hopes for London. 
 Since that day he had abandoned his profession and 
 was now living on the fruits of his life's labour. For 
 
314 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 the last two years he had been absolved from the ne- 
 cessity of providing an income for his son, and had 
 probably allowed himself to feel that no such demand 
 upon him would again be made. Now, however, it was 
 necessary that he should do so. Could his son manage 
 to live on two hundred a-year? There would then be 
 four hundred a-year left for the wants of the family at 
 home. Phineas swore that he could fight his battle on 
 a hundred and fifty, and they ended the argument by 
 splitting the difference. He had been paying exactly 
 the same sum of money for the rooms he had just left 
 in London; but then, while he held those rooms, his 
 income had been two thousand a-year. Tenant-right 
 was a very fine thing, but could it be worth such a 
 fall as this? 
 
 "And about dear Mary?" said the father. 
 
 "I hope it may not be very long," said Phineas. 
 
 "I have not spoken to her about it, but your mo- 
 ther says that Mrs. Flood Jones is very averse to a 
 long engagement." 
 
 "What can I do? She would not wish me to marry 
 her daughter with no other income than an allowance 
 made by you." 
 
 "Your mother says that she has some idea that you 
 and she might live together; — that if they let Flood- 
 borough you might take a small house in Dublin. Re- 
 member, Phineas, I am not proposing it myself." 
 
 Then Phineas bethought himself that he was not 
 even yet so low in the world that he need submit him- 
 self to terms dictated to him by Mrs. Flood Jones. "I 
 am glad that you do not propose it, sir." 
 
 "Why so, Phineas?" 
 
 "Because I should have been obliged to oppose 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 the plan even if it had come from you. Mothers-in-law 
 are never a comfort in a house." 
 
 "I never tried it myself," said the doctor. 
 
 "And I never will try it. I am quite sure that 
 Mary does not expect any such thing, and that she is 
 willing to wait. If I can shorten the term of waiting 
 by hard work, I will do so." The decision to which 
 Phineas had come on this matter was probably made 
 known to Mrs. Flood Jones after some mild fashion by 
 old Mrs. Finn. Nothing more was said to Phineas about 
 a joint household; but he was quite able to perceive 
 from the manner of the lady towards him that his pro- 
 posed mother-in-law wished him to understand that he 
 was treating her daughter very badly. What did it 
 signify? None of them knew the story of Madame 
 Goesler, and of course none of them would know it. 
 None of them would ever hear how well he had be- 
 haved to his little Mary. 
 
 But Mary did know it all before he left her to go 
 up to Dublin. The two lovers allowed themselves, — 
 or were allowed by their elders, one week of exquisite 
 bliss together; and during this week, Phineas told her, 
 I think, everything. He told her everything as far as 
 he could do so without seeming to boast of his own 
 successes. How is a man not 10 tell such tales when 
 he has on his arm, close to him, a girl who tells him 
 her little everything of life, and only asks for his con- 
 fidence in return. And then his secrets are so precious 
 to her and so sacred, that he feels as sure of her fidelity 
 as though she were a very goddess of faith and trust. 
 And the temptation to tell is so great. For all that he 
 has to tell she loves him the better and still the better. 
 A man desires to win a virgin heart, and is happy to 
 
3i6 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 know, — or at least to believe, — that he has won it. 
 With a woman every former rival is an added victim 
 to the wheels of the trimiaphant chariot in which she 
 is sitting. "All these has he known and loved, culling 
 sweets from each of them. But now he has come to 
 me, and I am the sweetest of them all.*' And so Mary 
 was taught to believe of Laura and of Violet and of 
 Madame Goesler, — that though they had had charms to 
 please, her lover had never been so charmed as he was 
 now while she was hanging lo his breast. And I think 
 that she was right in her belief During those lovely 
 summer evening walks along the shores of Lough 
 Derg, Phineas was as happy as he had ever been at 
 any moment of his life. 
 
 "I shall never be impatient, — never,*' she said to 
 him on the last evening. "All I want is that you 
 should write to me." 
 
 "I shall want more than that, Mary." 
 
 "Then you must come down and see me. When 
 you do come they will be happy, happy days for me. 
 But of course we cannot be married for the next 
 twenty years." 
 
 "Say forty, Mary." 
 
 "I will say anything that you like; — you will know 
 what I mean just as well. And, Phineas, I must tell 
 you one thing, — though it makes me sad to think of 
 it, and will make me sad to speak of it." 
 
 "I will not have you sad on our last night, Mary." 
 
 "I must say it. I am beginning to understand how 
 much you have given up for me." 
 
 "I have given up nothing for you." 
 
 "If I had not been at Killaloe when Mr. Monk 
 was here, and if we had not, — had not, — oh dear, if I 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 had not loved yoii so very much, you might have re- 
 mained in London, and that lady would have been 
 your wife/' 
 
 "Never!'' said Phineas stoutly. 
 
 "Would she not? She must not be your wife now, 
 Phineas. I am not going to pretend that I will give 
 you up." 
 
 "That is unkind, Mary." 
 
 "Oh, well; you may say what you please. If that 
 is unkind, I am unkind. It would kill me to lose you." 
 
 Had he done right? How could there be a doubt 
 about it? How could there be a question about it? 
 Which of them had loved him, or was capable of loving 
 him as Mary loved him? What girl was ever so sweet, 
 so gracious, so angelic, as his own Mary? He swore to 
 her that he was prouder of winning her than of any- 
 thing he had ever done in all his life, and that of all 
 the treasures that had ever come in his way she was 
 the most precious. She went to bed that night the 
 happiest girl in all Connaught, although when she 
 parted from him she understood that she was not to 
 see him again till Christmas-Eve. 
 
 But she did see him again before the summer was 
 over, and the manner of their meeting was in this wise. 
 Immediately after the passing of that scrambled Irish 
 Reform Bill, Parliament, as the reader knows, was dis- 
 solved. This was in the early days of June, and be- 
 fore the end of July the new members were again 
 assembled at Westminster. This session, late in sum- 
 mer, was very terrible; but it was not very long, and 
 then it was essentially necessary. There was some- 
 thing of the year's business which must yet be done, 
 and the country would require to know who were to be 
 
3i8 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 the Ministers of the Government. It is not needed 
 that the reader should be troubled any further with the 
 strategy of one political leader or of another, or that 
 more should be said of Mr. Monk and his tenant-right. 
 The House of Commons had offended Mr. Gresham by 
 voting in a majority against him, and Mr. Gresham had 
 punished the House of Commons by subjecting it to 
 the expense and nuisance of a new election. All this 
 is constitutional, and rational enough to Englishmen, 
 though it may be unintelligible to strangers. The up- 
 shot on the present occasion was that the Ministers 
 remained in their places and that Mr. Monk's bill, though 
 it had received the substantial honour of a second 
 reading, passed away for the present into the limbo of 
 abortive legislation. 
 
 All this would not concern us at all, nor our poor 
 hero much, were it not that the great men with whom 
 he had been for two years so pleasant a colleague, re- 
 membered him with something of affectionate regret. 
 Whether it began with Mr. Gresham or with Lord 
 Cantrip, I will not say; — or whether Mr. Monk, though 
 now a political enemy, may have said a word that 
 brought about the good deed. Be that as it may, just 
 before the summer session was brought to a close Phi- 
 neas received the following letter from Lord Cantrip: — 
 
 Douming Street, August/^, 186 — . 
 
 "My dear Mr. Finn, — 
 "Mr. Gresham has been talking to me, and we both 
 think that possibly a permanent Government appoint- 
 ment may be acceptable to you. We have no doubt, 
 that should this be the case, your services would be 
 very valuable to the country. There is a vacancy for 
 
COKCLUSION. 
 
 a poor-law inspector at present in Ireland, whose re- 
 sidence I believe should be in Cork. The salary is a 
 thousand a-year. Should the appointment suit you, Mr. 
 Gresham will be most happy to nominate you to the 
 office. Let me have a line at your early convenience. 
 "Believe me, 
 
 "Most sincerely yours, 
 
 "Cantrip." 
 
 He received the letter one morning in Dublin, and 
 within three hours he was on his route to Killaloe. Of 
 course he would accept the appointment, but he would 
 not even do that without telling Mary of his new pro- 
 spect. Of course he would accept the appointment. 
 Though he had been as yet barely two months in 
 Dublin, though he had hardly been long enough settled 
 to his work to have hoped to be able to see in which 
 way there might be a vista open leading to success, 
 still he had fancied that he had seen that success was 
 impossible. He did not know how to begin, — and men 
 were afraid of him, thinking that he was unsteady, ar- 
 rogant, and prone to failure. He had not seen his 
 way to the possibility of a guinea. 
 
 "A thousand a-year!" said Mary Flood Jones, open- 
 ing her eyes wide with wonder at the golden future 
 before them. 
 
 "It is nothing very great for a perpetuity," said 
 Phineas. 
 
 "Oh, Phineas; surely a thousand a-year will be very 
 nice." 
 
 "It will be certain," said Phineas, "and then we 
 can be married to-morrow." 
 
320 
 
 PHINEAS FINN. 
 
 "But I have been making up my mind to wait ever 
 so long," said Mary. 
 
 "Then your mind must be unmade," said Phineas. 
 
 What was the nature of the reply to Lord Cantrip 
 the reader may imagine, and thus we will leave our 
 hero an Inspector of Poor Houses in the County of 
 Cork. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.