PHINEAS FINN
PHINEAS FINN
THE IRISH MEMBER
BY
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
VOL. I
NEW-YORK
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
1924
Copyright, 1893,
By Dodd, Mead & Company.
All rights reserved.
Printed in U. S. A.
WW
k"a_vwAa."t
or. CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Phineas Finn proposes to stand for Lough-
SHANE I
II. Phineas Finn is elected for Loughshane. . 16
III. Phineas Finn takes his Seat 30
IV. Lady Laura Standish 4°
V. Mr. and Mrs. Low 48
VI. Lord Brentford's Dinner 63
VII. Mr. and Mrs. Bunce 78
VIII. The News about Mr. Mildmay and Sir
Everard 93
IX. The New Government 106
X. Violet Effingham 116
XI. Lord Chiltern 129
XII. Autumnal Prospects 140
XIII. Saulsby Wood 148
XIV. Loughlinter 156
XV. Donald Bean's Pony 172
XVI. Phineas Finn returns to Killaloe 187
XVII. Phineas Finn returns to London 195
XVIII. Mr. Turnbull 210
XIX. Lord Chiltern rides his Horse Bone-
breaker 219
v
I
vi CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
XX. The Debate on the Ballot 234
XXI. "Do be Punctual" 249
XXII. Lady Baldock at Home 261
XXIII. Sunday in Grosvenor P^rjc <. 272
XXIV. The Willingford jbult* 279
XXV. Mr. Turnbull's Carriage stops the Way. .. 295
1
PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH
MEMBER.
CHAPTER I.
PHINEAS FINN PROPOSES TO STAND FOR LOUGHSHANE.
Dr. Finn, of Killaloe, in county Clare, was as well
known in those parts,—the confines, that is, of the
counties Clare, Limerick, Tipperary, and Galway,—as
was the bishop himself, who lived in the same town,
and was as much respected. Many said that the doc-
tor was the richer man of the two, and the practice of
his profession was extended over almost as wide a dis-
trict. Indeed the bishop, whom he was privileged to
attend, although a Roman Catholic, always spoke of
their dioceses being conterminate. It will therefore
be understood that Dr. Finn,—Malachi Finn was his
full name,—had obtained a wide reputation as a
country practitioner in the west of Ireland. And he
was a man sufficiently well to do, though that boast
made by his friends, that he was as warm a man as the
bishop, had but little truth to support it. Bishops in
Ireland, if they live at home, even in these days, are
very warm men; and Dr. Finn had not a penny in the
2 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
world for which he had not worked hard. He had,
moreover, a costly family, five daughters and one son,
and, at the time of which we are speaking, no provision
in the way of marriage or profession had been made
for any of them. Of the one son, Phineas, the hero
of the following pages, the mother and five sisters were
very proud. The doctor was accustomed to say that
his goose was as good as any other man's goose, as far
as he could see as yet; but that he should like some
very strong evidence before he allowed himself to ex-
press an opinion that the young bird partook, in any
degree, of the qualities of a swan. From which it may
be gathered that Dr. Finn was a man of common sense.
Phineas had come to be a swan in the estimation of
his mother and sisters by reason of certain early suc-
cesses at college. His father, whose religion was not
of that bitter kind in which we in England are apt to
suppose that all the Irish Roman Catholics indulge,
had sent his son to Trinity; and there were some in
the neighbourhood of Killaloe,—patients, probably, of
Dr. Duggin, of Castle Connell, a learned physician who
had spent a fruitless life in endeavouring to make head
against Df. Finn,—who declared that old Finn would
not be sorry if his son were to turn Protestant and go
in for a fellowship. Mrs. Finn was a Protestant, and
the five Miss Finns were Protestants, and the doctor
himself was very much given to dining out among his
Protestant friends on a Friday. Our Phineas, how-
ever, did not turn Protestant up in Dublin, whatever
his father's secret wishes on that subject may have
been. He did join a debating society, to success in
which his religion was no bar; and he there achieved
a sort of distinction which was both easy and pleasant,
PHINEAS FINN STANDS FOR LOUGHSHANE. 3
and which, making its way down to Killaloe, assisted
in engendering those ideas as to swanhood of which
maternal and sisterly minds are so sweetly susceptible.
"I know half-a-dozen old windbags at the present
moment," said the doctor, "who were great fellows at
debating clubs when they were boys." "Phineas is
not a boy any longer," said Mrs. Finn. "And wind-
bags don't get college scholarships," said Matilda Finn,
the second daughter. "But papa always snubs
Phinny," said Barbara, the youngest. "I '11 snub you,
if you don't take care," said the doctor, taking Barbara
tenderly by the ear,—for his youngest daughter was
the doctor's pet.
The doctor certainly did not snub his son, for he al-
lowed him to go over to London when he was twenty-
two years of age, in order that he might read with an
English barrister. It was the doctor's wish that his
son might be called to the Irish Bar, and the young
man's desire that he might go to the English Bar.
The doctor so far gave way, under the influence of
Phineas himself, and of all the young women of the
family, as to pay the usual fee to a very competent and
learned gentleman in the Middle Temple, and to allow
his son one hundred and fifty pounds per annum for
three years. Dr. Finn, however, was still firm in his
intention that his son should settle in Dublin, and take
the Munster Circuit,—believing that Phineas might
come to want home influences and home connections,
in spite of the swanhood which was attributed to him.
Phineas eat his terms for three years, and was duly
called to the Bar; but no evidence came home as to
the acquirement of any considerable amount of law
lore, or even as to much law study, on the part of the
4 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
young aspirant. The learned pundit at whose feet he
had been sitting was not especially loud in praise of
his pupil's industry, though he did say a pleasant word
or two as to his pupil's intelligence. Phineas himself
did not boast much of his own hard work when at
home during the long vacation. No rumours of ex-
pected successes,—of expected professional successes,
—reached the ears of any of the Finn family at Killa-
loe. But, nevertheless, there came tidings which main-
tained those high ideas in the maternal bosom of which
mention has been made, and which were of sufficient
strength to induce the doctor, in opposition to his own
judgment, to consent to the continued residence of
his son in London. Phineas belonged to an excellent
club,—the Reform Club,—and went into very good
society. He was hand and glove with the Hon. Lau-
rence Fitzgibbon, the eldest son of Lord Claddagh.
He was intimate with Barrington Erie, who had been
private secretary,—one of the private secretaries,—to
the great whig Prime Minister who was lately in but
was now out. He had dined three or four times with
that great whig nobleman, the Earl of Brentford.
And he had been assured that if he stuck to the Eng-
lish Bar he would certainly do well. Though he might
fail to succeed in court or in chambers, he would
doubtless have given to him some one of those nu-
merous appointments for which none but clever young
barristers are supposed to be fitting candidates. The
old doctor yielded for another year, although at the
end of the second year he was called upon to pay a
sum of three hundred pounds, which was then due by
Phineas to creditors in London. When the doctor's
male friends in and about Killaloe heard that he had
PHINEAS FINN STANDS FOR LOUGHSHANE. 5
done so, they said that he was doting. Not one of
the Miss Finns was as yet married; and, after all that
had been said about the doctor's wealth, it was sup-
posed that there would not be above five hundred
pounds a year among them all, were he to give up his
profession. But the doctor, when he paid that three
hundred pounds for his son, buckled to his work again,
though he had for twelve months talked of giving up
the midwifery. He buckled to again, to the great dis-
gust of Dr. Duggin, who at this time said very ill-
natured things about young Phineas.
At the end of the three years Phineas was called to
the Bar, and immediately received a letter from his father
asking minutely as to his professional intentions. His fa-
ther recommended him to settle in Dublin, and promised
the one hundred and fifty pounds for three more years,
on condition that this advice was followed. He did
not absolutely say that the allowance would be stopped
if the advice were not followed, but that was plainly
to be implied. That letter came at the moment of a
dissolution of Parliament. Lord de Terrier, the con-
servative Prime Minister, who had now been in office
for the almost unprecedentedly long period of fifteen
months, had found that he could not face continued
majorities against him in the House of Commons, and
had dissolved the House. Rumour declared that he
would have much preferred to resign, and betake him-
self once again to the easy glories of opposition; but
his party had naturally been obdurate with him, and
he had resolved to appeal to the country. When
Phineas received his father's letter, it had just been
suggested to him at the Reform Club that he should
stand for the Irish borough of Loughshane.
6 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
This proposition had taken Phineas Finn so much
by surprise, that when first made to him by Barrington
Erie it took his breath away. What! he stand for
Parliament, twenty-four years old, with no vestige of
property belonging to him, without a penny in his
purse, as completely dependent on his father as he
was when he first went to school at eleven years of
age! And for Loughshane, a little borough in the
county Galway, for which a brother of that fine old
Irish peer, the Earl of Tulla, had been sitting for the
last twenty years,—a fine, high-minded representative
of the thorough-going Orange Protestant feeling of
Ireland! And the Earl of Tulla, to whom almost
all Loughshane belonged,—or at any rate the land
about Loughshane,—was one of his father's staunch-
est friends! Loughshane is in county Galway, but
the Earl of Tulla usually lived at his seat in county
Clare, not more than ten miles from Killaloe, and al-
ways confided his gouty feet, and the weak nerves of
the old countess, and the stomachs of all his domestics,
to the care of Dr. Finn. How was it possible that
Phineas should stand for Loughshane? From whence
was the money to come for such a contest? It was a
beautiful dream, a grand idea, lifting Phineas almost
off the earth by its glory. When the proposition was
first made to him in the smoking-room at the Reform
Club by his friend Erie, he was aware that he blushed
like a girl, and that he was unable at the moment to
express himself plainly,—so great was his astonishment
and so great his gratification. But before ten minutes
had passed by, while Barrington Erie was still sitting
over his shoulder on the club sofa, and before the
blushes had altogether vanished, he had seen the im-
PHINEAS FINN STANDS FOR LOUGHSHANE. 7
probability of the scheme, and had explained to his
friend that the thing could not be done. But to his
increased astonishment, his friend made nothing of
the difficulties. Loughshane, according to Barrington
Erie, was so small a place, that the expense would be
very little. There were altogether no more than 307
registered electors. The inhabitants were so far re-
moved from the world, and were so ignorant of the
world's good things, that they knew nothing about
bribery. The Hon. George Morris, who had sat for
the last twenty years, was very unpopular. He had
not been near the borough since the last election, he
had hardly done more than show himself in Parliament,
and had neither given a shilling in the town nor got a
place under Government for a single son of Lough-
shane. "And he has quarrelled with his brother," said
Barrington Erie. "The devil he has!" said Phineas.
"I thought they always swore by each other." "It's
at each other they swear now," said Barrington;
"George has asked the Earl for more money, and the
Earl has cut up rusty." Then the negotiator went on
to explain that the expenses of the election would be
defrayed out of a certain fund collected for such pur-
poses, that Loughshane had been chosen as a cheap
place, and that Phineas Finn had been chosen as a
safe and promising young man. As for qualification,
if any question were raised, that should be made all
right. An Irish candidate was wanted, and a Roman
Catholic. So much the Loughshaners would require
on their own account when instigated to dismiss from
their service that thorough-going Protestant, the Hon.
George Morris. Then "the party,"—by which Bar-
rington Erie probably meant the great man in whose
8 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
service he himself had become a politician,—required
that the candidate should be a safe man, one who
would support "the party,"—not a cantankerous, red-
hot semi-Fenian, running about to meetings at the
Rotunda, and such like, with views of his own about
tenant-right and the Irish Church. "But I have views
of my own," said Phineas, blushing again. "Of course
you have, my dear boy," said Barrington, clapping him
on the back. "I should n't come to you unless you
had views. But your views and ours are the same,
and you 're just the lad for Galway. You might n't
have such an opening again in your life, and of course
you '11 stand for Loughshane." Then the conversation
was over, the private secretary went away to arrange
some other little matter of the kind, and Phineas Finn
was left alone to consider the proposition that had been
made to him.
To become a member of the British Parliament!
In all those hot contests at the two debating clubs to
which he had belonged, this had been the ambition
which had moved him. For, after all, to what purpose
of their own had those empty debates ever tended?
He and three or four others who had called themselves
liberals had been pitted against four or five who had
called themselves conservatives, and night after night
they had discussed some ponderous subject without
any idea that one would ever persuade another, or that
their talking would ever conduce to any action or to
any result. But each of these combatants had felt,—
without daring to announce a hope on the subject
among themselves,—that the present arena was only a
trial-ground for some possible greater amphitheatre, for
some future debating club in which debates would lead
PHINEAS FINN STANDS FOR LOUGHSHANE. 9
to action, and in which eloquence would have power,
even though persuasion might be out of the question.
Phineas certainly had never dared to speak, even to
himself, of such a hope. The labours of the Bar had
to be encountered before the dawn of such a hope
could come to him. And he had gradually learned to
feel that his prospects at the Bar were not as yet very
promising. As regarded professional work he had
been idle, and how then could he have a hope?
And now this thing, which he regarded as being of
all things in the world the most honourable, had come
to him all at once, and was possibly within his reach!
If he could believe Barrington Erie, he had only to lift
up his hand, and he might be in Parliament within two
months. And who was to be believed on such a sub-
ject if not Barrington Erie? This was Erie's special
business, and such a man would not have come to him
on such a subject had he not been in earnest, and had
he not himself believed in success. There was an
opening ready, an opening to this great glory,—if only
it might be possible for him to fill it!
What would his father say? His father would of
course oppose the plan. And if he opposed his father,
his father would of course stop his income. And such
an income as it was! Could it be that a man should
sit in Parliament and live upon a hundred and fifty
pounds a year? Since that payment of his debts he
had become again embarrassed,—to a slight amount.
He owed a tailor a trifle, and a bootmaker a trifle,—
and something to the man who sold gloves and shirts;
and yet he had done his best to keep out of debt with
more than Irish pertinacity, living very closely, break-
fasting upon tea and a roll, and dining frequently for
IO PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER. ~
a shilling at a luncheon-house up a court near Lin-
coln's Inn. Where should he dine if the Loughshaners
elected him to Parliament? And then he painted to
himself a not untrue picture of the probable miseries
of a man who begins life too high up on the ladder,—
who succeeds in mounting before he has learned how to
hold on when he is aloft. For our Phineas Finn was
a young man not without sense,—not entirely a wind-
bag. If he did this thing the probability was that
he might become utterly a castaway, and go entirely
to the dogs before he was thirty. He had heard of
penniless men who had got into Parliament, and to
whom had come such a fate. He was able to name
to himself a man or two whose barks, carrying more
sail than they could bear, had gone to pieces among
early breakers in this way. But then, would it not be
better to go to pieces early than never to carry any sail
at all? And there was, at any rate, the chance of suc-
cess. He was already a barrister, and there were so
many things open to a barrister with a seat in Parlia-
ment! And as he knew of men who had been utterly
ruined by such early mounting, so also did he know
of others whose fortunes had been made by happy
audacity when they were young. He almost thought
that he could die happy if he had once taken his seat
in Parliament,—if he had received one letter with those
grand initials written after his name on the address.
Young men in battle are called upon to lead forlorn
hopes. Three fall, perhaps, to one who gets through;
but the one who gets through will have the Victoria
Cross to carry for the rest of his life. This was his
forlorn hope; and as he had been invited to undertake
the work, he would not turn from the danger. On the
PHINEAS FINN STANDS FOR LOUGHSHANE. II
following morning he again saw Barrington Erie by
appointment, and then wrote the following letter to his
father:—
"Reform Club, Feb., 186—.
"My dear Father,—I am afraid that the purport of
this letter will startle you, but I hope that when you
have finished it you will think that I am right in my
decision as to what I am going to do. You are no
doubt aware that the dissolution of Parliament will
take place at once, and that we shall be in all the tur-
moil of a general election by the middle of March. I
have been invited to stand for Loughshane, and have
consented. The proposition has been made to me by
my friend Barrington Erie, Mr. Mildmay's private sec-
retary, and has been made on behalf of the Political
Committee of the Reform Club. I need hardly say
that I should not have thought of such a thing with a
less thorough promise of support than this gives me,
nor should I think of it now had I not been assured
that none of the expense of the election would fall
upon me. Of course I could not have asked you to
pay for it.
"But to such a proposition, so made, I have felt that
it would be cowardly to give a refusal. I cannot but
regard such a selection as a great honour. I own that
I am fond of politics, and have taken great delight in
their study ?—(" Stupid young fool!" his father said to
himself as he read this)—" and it has been my dream
for years past to have a seat in Parliament at some
future time." ("Dream! yes; I wonder whether he
has ever dreamed what he is to live upon.") "The
chance has now come to me much earlier than I have
looked for it, but I do not think that it should on that
12 MINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
account be thrown away. Looking to my profession,
I find that many things are open to a barrister with a
seat in Parliament, and that the House need not inter-
fere much with a man's practice." (" Not if he has got
to the top of his tree," said the doctor.)
"My chief doubt arose from the fact of your old
friendship with Lord Tulla, whose brother has filled
the seat for I don't know how many years. But it
seems that George Morris must go; or, at least, that
he must be opposed by a liberal candidate. If I do
not stand, some one else will, and I should think that
Lord Tulla will be too much of a man to make any
personal quarrel on such a subject. If he is to lose
the borough, why should not I have it as well as
another?
"I can fancy, my dear father, all that you will say
as to my imprudence, and I quite confess that I have
not a word to answer. I have told myself more than
once, since last night, that I shall probably ruin my-
self." (" I wonder whether he has ever told himself
that he will probably ruin me also," said the doctor.)
"But I am prepared to ruin myself in such a cause.
I have no one dependent on me; and, as long as I
do nothing to disgrace my name, I may dispose of
myself as I please. If you decide on stopping my al-
lowance, I shall have no feeling of anger against you!"
(" How very considerate!" said the doctor.) "And in
that case I shall endeavour to support myself by my
pen. I have already done a little for the magazines.
"Give my best love to my mother and sisters. If
you will receive me during the time of the election, I
shall see them soon. Perhaps it will be best for me to
say that I have positively decided on making the at-
PHINEAS FINN STANDS FOR LOUGHSHANE. 13
tempt; that is to say, if the Club Committee is as good
as its promise. I have weighed the matter all round,
and I regard the prize as being so great, that I am
prepared to run any risk to obtain it. Indeed to me,
with my views about politics, the running of such a risk
is no more than a duty. I cannot keep my hand from
the work now that the work has come in the way of
my hand. I shall be most anxious to get a line from
you in answer to this.
"Your most affectionate son,
"Phineas Finn."
I question whether Dr. Finn, when he read this let-
ter, did not feel more of pride than of anger,—whether
he was not rather gratified than displeased, in spite
of all that his common sense told him on the subject.
His wife and daughters, when they heard the news,
were clearly on the side of the young man. Mrs.
Finn immediately expressed an opinion that Parlia-
ment would be the making of her son, and that every-
body would be sure to employ so distinguished a bar-
rister. The girls declared that Phineas ought, at any
rate, to have his chance, and almost asserted that it
would be brutal in their father to stand in their brother's
way. It was in vain that the doctor tried to explain
that going into Parliament could not help a young bar-
rister, whatever it might do for one thoroughly estab-
lished in his profession; that Phineas, if successful at
Loughshane, would at once abandon all idea of earn-
ing any income,—that the proposition, coming from
so poor a man, was a monstrosity,—that such an op-
position to the Morris family, coming from a son of
his, would be gross ingratitude to Lord Tulla^ Mrs.
14 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
Finn and the girls talked him down, and the doctor
himself was almost carried away by something like
vanity in regard to his son's future position.
Nevertheless he wrote a letter strongly advising
Phineas to abandon the project. But he himself was
aware that the letter which he wrote was not one from
which any success could be expected. He advised
his son, but did not command him. He made no
threats as to stopping his income. He did hot tell
Phineas, in so many words, that he was proposing to
make an ass of himself. He argued very prudently
against the plan, and Phineas, when he received his
father's letter, of course felt that it was tantamount to
a paternal permission to proceed with the matter. On
the next day he got a letter from his mother full of af-
fection, full of pride,—not exactly telling him to stand
for Loughshane by all means, for Mrs. Finn was riot
the woman to run openly counter to her husband in
any advice given by her to their son,—but giving him
every encouragement which motherly affection and
motherly pride could bestow. "Of course you will
come to us," she said, "if you do make up your mind
\ to be member for Loughshane. We shall all of us be
so delighted to have you!" Phineas, who had fallen
into a sea of doubt after writing to his father, and who
had demanded a week from Barrington Erie to con-
sider the matter, was elated to positive certainty by the
joint effect of the two letters from home. He under-
stood it all. His mother and sisters were altogether
in favour of his audacity, and even his father was not
disposed to quarrel with him on the subject.
"I shall take you at your word," he said to Barring-
ton Erie at the club that evening.
PHINEAS FINN STANDS FOR LOUGHSHANE. 1$
"What word?" said Erie, who had too many irons
in the fire to be thinking always of Lbughshane and
Phineas Finn,—or who at any rate did not choose to
let his anxiety on the subject be seen.
"About Loughshane."
"All right, old fellow; we shall be sure to carry yoti
through. The Irish writs will be out on the 3rd of
March, and the sooner you 're there the better."
CHAPTER II.
PHINEAS FINN IS ELECTED FOR LOUGHSHANE.
One great difficulty about the borough vanished ii/
a very wonderful way at the first touch. Dr. Finn,
who was a man stout at heart, and by no means afraid
of his great friends, drove himself over to Castlemorris
to tell his news to the Earl, as soon as he got a second
letter from his son declaring his intention of proceeding
with the business, let the results be what they might.
Lord Tulla was a passionate old man, and the doctor
expected that there would be a quarrel;—but he was
prepared to face that. He was under no special debt
of gratitude to the lord, having given as much as he
had taken in the long intercourse which had existed be-
tween them;—and he agreed with his son in thinking
that if there was to be a liberal candidate at Lough-
shane, no consideration of old pill-boxes and gallipots
should deter his son Phineas from standing. Other
considerations might very probably deter him, but not
that. The Earl probably would be of a different opin-
ion, and the doctor felt it to be incumbent on him to
break the news to Lord Tulla.
"The devil he is!" said the Earl, when the doctor
had told his story. "Then I '11 tell you what, Finn,
I '11 support him."
"You support him, Lord Tulla!"
"Yes;—why should n't I support him? I suppose
it *s not so bad with me in the county that my support
16
PHINEAS FINN IS ELECTED FOR LOUGHSHANE. 17
will rob him of his chance! I '11 tell you one thing
for certain, I won't support George Morris."
"But, my lord"
"Well; goon."
"I Ve never taken much part in politics myself, as
you know; but my boy Phineas is on the other side."
"I don't care a d for sides. What has my
party done for me? Look at my cousin, Dick Morris.
There's not a clergyman in Ireland stauncher to them
than he has been, and now they Ve given the deanery
of Kilfenora to a man that never had a father, though
I condescended to ask for it for my cousin. Let them
wait till I ask for anything again." Dr. Finn, who
knew all about Dick Morris's debts, and who had
heard of his modes of preaching, was not surprised
at the decision of the conservative bestower of Irish
Church patronage; but on this subject he said nothing.
"And as for George," continued the Earl, "I will
never lift my hand again for him. His standing for
Loughshane would be quite out of the question. My
own tenants would n't vote for him if I were to ask
them myself. Peter Blake "—Mr. Peter Blake was the
lord's agent—" told me only a week ago that it would
be useless. The whole thing is gone, and for my part
I wish they'd disenfranchise the borough. I wish
they'd disenfranchise the whole country, and send us
a military governor. What's the use of such members
as we send? There is n't one gentleman among ten
of them. Your son is welcome for me. What sup-
port I can give him he shall have, but it is n't much.
I suppose he had better come and see me."
The doctor promised that his son should ride over
to Castlemorris, and then took his leave,—not specially
18 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
flattered, as he felt that were his son to be returned,
the Earl would not regard him as the one gentleman
among ten whom the county might send to leaven the
remainder of its members,—but aware that die greatest
impediment in his son's way was already removed.
< He certainly had not gone to Castlemorris with any idea
of canvassing for his son, and yet he had canvassed
for him most satisfactorily. When he got home he
did not know how to speak of the matter otherwise
than triumphantly to his wife and daughters. Though
he desired to curse, his mouth would speak blessings.
Before that evening was over the prospects of Phineas
at Loughshane were spoken of with open enthusiasm
before the doctor, and by the next day's post a letter
was written to him by Matilda, informing him that
the Earl was prepared to receive him with open arms.
"Papa has been over there and managed it all," said
Matilda.
"I'm told George Morris is n't going to stand,"
said Barrington Erie to Phineas the night before his
departure.
"His brother won't support him. His brother
means to support me," said Phineas.
"That can hardly be so."
"But I tell you it is. My father has known the
Earl these twenty years, and has managed it."
"I say, Finn, you 're not going to play us a trick,
are you?" said Mr. Erie, with something like dismay
in his voice.
"What sort of trick?"
"You 're not coming out on the other side?"
"Not if I know it," said Phineas proudly. "Let
me assure you I would n't change my views in politics
PHINEAS FINN IS ELECTED FOR LOUGHSHANE. 19
either for you or for the Earl, though each of you
carried seats in your breeches pockets. If I go into
Parliament, I shall go there as a sound liberal,—not
to support a party, but to do the best I can for the
country. I tell you so, and I shall tell the Earl the
same."
Barrington Erie turned away in disgust. Such lan-
guage was to him simply disgusting. It fell upon his
ears as false maudlin sentiment falls on the ears of the
ordinary honest man of the world. Barrington Erie
was a man ordinarily honest. He would not have
been untrue to his mother's brother, William Mildmay,
the great whig Minister of the day, for any earthly
consideration. He was ready to work with wages or
without wages. He was really zealous in the cause,
not asking very much for himself. He had some un-
defined belief that it was much better for the country
that Mr. Mildmay should be in power than that Lord
de Terrier should be there. He was convinced that
liberal politics were good for Englishmen, and that
liberal politics and the Mildmay party were one and
the same thing. It would be unfair to Barrington Erie
to deny to him some praise for patriotism. But he
hated the very name of independence in Parliament,
and when he was told of any man, that that man in-
tended to look to measures and not to men, he re-
garded that man as being both unstable as water and
dishonest as the wind. No good could possibly come
from such a one, and much evil might and probably
would come. Such a politician was a Greek to Bar-
rington Erie, from whose hands he feared to accept
even the gift of a vote. Parliamentary hermits were
distasteful to him, and dwellers in political caves were
20 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
regarded by him with aversion as being either knavish
or impractical. With a good conservative opponent
he could shake hands almost as readily as with a good
whig ally; but the man who was neither flesh nor fowl
was odious to him. According to his theory of parlia-
mentary government, the House of Commons should
be divided by a marked line, and every member should
be required to stand on one side of it or on the other.
"If not with me, at any rate be against me," he would
have said to every representative of the people in
the name of the great leader whom he followed. He
thought that debates were good, because of the people
outside,—because they served to create that public
opinion which was hereafter to be used in creating
some future- House of Commons; but he did not think
it possible that any vote should be given on a great
question, either this way or that, as the result of a de-
bate; and he was certainly assured in his own opinion
that any such changing of votes would be dangerous,
revolutionary, and almost unparliamentary. A mem-
ber's vote,—except on some small crotchety open
question thrown out for the amusement of crotchety
members,—was due to the leader of that member's
party. Such was Mr. Erie's idea of the English system
of Parliament, and, lending semi-official assistance as
he did frequently to the introduction of candidates into
the House, he was naturally anxious that his candi-
dates should be candidates after his own heart. When,
therefore, Phineas Finn talked of measures and not
men, Barrington Erie turned away in open disgust.
But he remembered the youth and extreme rawness of
the lad, and he remembered also the careers of other
men.
PHINEAS FINN IS ELECTED FOR LOUGHSHANE. 21
Barrington Erie was forty, and experience had
taught him something. After a few seconds, he
brought himself to think mildly of the young man's
vanity,—as of the vanity of a plunging colt who re-
sents the liberty even of a touch. "By the end of the
first session the thong will be cracked over his head,
as he patiently assists in pulling the coach up hill,
without producing from him even a flick of his tail,"
said Barrington Erie to an old parliamentary friend.
"If he were to come out after all on the wrong side,"
said the parliamentary friend.
Erie admitted that such a trick as that would be
unpleasant, but he thought that old Lord Tulla was
hardly equal to so clever a stratagem.
Phineas went to Ireland, and walked over the course
at Loughshane. He called upon Lord Tulla, and
heard that venerable nobleman talk a great deal of
nonsense. To tell the truth of Phineas, I must confess
that he wished to talk the nonsense himself; but the
Earl would not hear him, and put him down very
quickly. "We won't discuss politics, if you please,
Mr. Finn; because, as I have already said, I am
throwing aside all political considerations." Phineas,
therefore, was not allowed to express his views on the
government of the country in the Erie's sitting-room
at Castlemorris. There was, however, a good time
coming; and so, for the present, he allowed the Earl
to ramble on about the sins of his brother George, and
the want of all proper pedigree on the part of the new
Dean of Kilfenora. The conference ended with an
assurance on the part of Lord Tulla that if the Lough-
shaners chose to elect Mr. Phineas Finn he would not
be in the least offended. The electors did elect Mr.
22 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
Phineas Finn,—perhaps for the reason given by one
of the Dublin conservative papers, which declared
that it was all the fault of the Carlton Club in not
sending a proper candidate. There was a great deal
said about the matter, both in London and Dublin,
and the blame was supposed to fall on the joint
shoulders of George Morris and his elder brother. In
the meantime, our hero, Phineas Finn, had been duly
elected member of Parliament for the borough of
Loughshane.
The Finn family could not restrain their triumphings
at Killaloe, and I do not know that it would have been
natural had they done so. A gosling from such a flock
does become something of a real swan by getting into
Parliament. The doctor had his misgivings,—had
great misgivings, fearful forebodings; but there was
the young man elected, and he could not help it. He
could not refuse his right hand to his son or withdraw
his paternal assistance because that son had been spe-
cially honoured among the young men of his country.
So he pulled out of his hoard what sufficed to pay off
outstanding debts,—they were not heavy,—and under-
took to allow Phineas two hundred and fifty pounds a
year as long as the session should last.
There was a widow lady living at Killaloe who was
named Mrs. Flood Jones, and she had a daughter.
She had a son also, born to inherit the property of the
late Floscabel Flood Jones, of Floodborough, as soon
as that property should have disembarrassed itself; but
with him, now serving with his regiment in India, we
shall have no concern. Mrs. Flood Jones was living
modestly at Killaloe on her widow's jointure,—Flood-
borough having, to tell the truth, pretty nearly fallen
PHINEAS FINN IS ELECTED FOR LOUGHSHANE. 23
into absolute ruin,—and with her one daughter, Mary.
Now, on the evening before the return of Phineas
Finn, Esq., M.P., to London, Mrs. and Miss Flood
Jones drank tea at the doctor's house.
"It won't make a bit of change in him," Barbara
Finn said to her friend Mary, up in some bedroom
privacy before the tea-drinking ceremonies had alto-
gether commenced.
"Oh, it must," said Mary.
"I tell you it won't, my dear; he is so good and so
true."
"I know he is good, Barbara; and as for truth,
there is no question about it, because he has never
said a word to me that he might not say to any girl."
"That's nonsense, Mary."
"He never has, then, as sure as the blessed Virgin
watches over us;—only you don't believe she does."
"Never mind about the Virgin now, Mary."
"But he never has. Your brother is nothing to me,
Barbara." *
"Then I hope he will be before the evening is over.
He was walking with you all yesterday and the day
before."
"Why should n't he,—and we that have known each
other all our lives? But, Barbara, pray, pray never
say a word of this to any one!"
"Is it I? Would n't I cut out my tongue first?"
"I don't know why I let you talk to me in this way.
There has never been anything between me and Phin-
eas,—your brother, I mean."
"I know whom you mean very well."
"And I feel quite sure that there never will be.
Why should there? He '11 go out among great people
24 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
and be a great man; and I 've already found out that
there's a certain Lady Laura Standish whom he ad-
mires very much."
"Lady Laura Fiddlestick!"
"A man in Parliament, you know, may look up to
anybody," said Miss Mary Flood Jones. *
"I want Phin to look up to you, my dear."
"That would n't be looking up. Placed as he is
now, that would be looking down; and he is so proud
that he '11 never do that. But come down, dear, else
they '11 wonder where we are."
Mary Flood Jones was a little girl about twenty
years of age, with the softest hair in the world, of a
colour varying between brown and auburn,—for some-
times you would swear it was the one and sometimes
the other; and she was as pretty as ever she could be.
She was one of those girls, so common in Ireland, whom
men, with tastes that way given, feel inclined to take
up and devour on the spur of the moment; and when
she liked her lion, she had a look about her which
seemed to ask to be devoured. There are girls so
cold-looking,—pretty girls, too, ladylike, discreet, and
armed with all accomplishments,—whom to attack
seems to require the same sort of courage, and the
same sort of preparation, as a journey in quest of the
northwest passage. One thinks of a pedestal near the
Athenaeum as the most appropriate and most honour-
able reward of such courage. But, again, there are
other girls to abstain from attacking whom is, to a
man of any warmth of temperament, quite impossible.
They are like water when one is athirst, like plovers'
eggs in March, like cigars when one is out in the
autumn. No one ever dreams of denying himself
PHINEAS FINN IS ELECTED FOR LOUGHSHANE. 25
when such temptation comes in the way. It often
happens, however, that in spite of appearances, the
water will not come from the well, nor the egg from
its shell, nor will the cigar allow itself to be lit. A girl
of such appearance, so charming, was Mary Flood
Jones of Killaloe, and our hero Phineas was not al-
lowed to thirst in vain for a drop from the cool spring.
When the girls went down into the drawing-room
Mary was careful to go to a part of the room quite
remote from Phineas, so as to seat herself between
Mrs. Finn and Dr. Finn's young partner, Mr. Elias
Bodkin, from Ballinasloe. But Mrs. Finn and the
Miss Finns and all Killaloe knew that Mary had no
love for Mr. Bodkiri, and when Mr. Bodkin handed
her the hot cake she hardly so much as smiled at him.
But in two minutes Phineas was behind her chair, and
then she smiled; and in five minutes more she had
got herself so twisted round that she was sitting in a
corner with Phineas and his sister Barbara; and in
two more minutes Barbara had returned to Mr. Elias
Bodkin, so that Phineas and Mary were uninterrupted.
They manage these things very quickly and very clev-
erly in Killaloe.
"I shall be off to-morrow morning by the early
train," said Phineas.
"So soon;—and when will you have to begin,—in
Parliament, I mean?"
"I shall have to take my seat on Friday. I'm going
back just in time."
"But when shall we hear of your saying something?"
"Never, probably. Not one in ten who go into Par-
liament ever do say anything."
"But you will; won't you? I hope you will. I do
26 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
so hope you will distinguish yourself;—because of
your sister, and for the sake of the town, you know.''*
"And is that all, Mary?"
"Is n't that enough?"
"You don't care a bit about myself, then?"
"You know that I do. Have n't we been friends
ever since we were children? Of course it will be a
great pride to me that a person whom I have known
so intimately should come to be talked about as a
great man."
"I shall never be talked about as a great man."
"You 're a great man to me already, being in Par-
liament. Only think;—I never $aw a member of
Parliament in my life before."
"You Ve seen the bishop scores of times."
"Is he in Parliament? Ah, but not like you. He
could n't come to be a Cabinet Minister, and one
never reads anything about him in the newspapers. I
shall expect to see your name very often, and I shall
always look for it. 'Mr. Phineas Finn paired off with
Mr. Mildmay.' What is the meaning of pairing off?"
"I '11 explain it all to you when I come back, after
learning my lesson."
"Mind you do come back. But I don't suppose
you ever will. You will be going somewhere to see
Lady Laura Standish when you are not wanted in
Parliament."
"Lady Laura Standish!"
"And why should n't you? Of course, with your
prospects, you should go as much as possible among
people of that sort. Is Lady Laura very pretty?"
"She's about six feet high."
PHINEAS FINN IS ELECTED FO$ LOUGHSHANE. 27
"Nonsense. I don't believe that."
"She would look as though she were, standing by
you."
"Because I am so insignificant and small."
"Because your figure is perfect, and because she is
straggling. She is as unlike you as possible in every-
thing. She has thick lumpy red hair, while yours is
all silk and softness. She has large hands and feet,
and"
"Why, Phineas, you are making her out to be an
ogress, and yet I know that you admire her."
"So I do, because she possesses such an appearance
of power. And after all, in spite of the lumpy hair,
and in spite of large hands and straggling figure, she
is handsome. One can't tell what it is. One can
see that she is quite contented with herself, and in-
tends to make others contented with her. And so she
does."
"I see you are in love with her, Phineas."
"No; not in love,—not with her at least. Of all
men in the world, I suppose that I am the last that
has a right to be in love. I dare say I shall marry
some day."
"I'm sure I hope you will."
"But not till I'm forty or perhaps fifty years old.
If I was not fool enough to have what men call a high
ambition I might venture to be in love now."
"I'm sure I'm very glad that you Ve got a high
ambition. It is what every man ought to have; and
I Ve no doubt that we shall hear of your marriage
soon,—very soon. And then,—if she can help you in
your ambition, we—shall—all—be so—glad."
28 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
Phineas did not say a word further then. Perhaps
some commotion among the party broke up the little
private conversation in the corner. And he was not
alone with Mary again till there came a moment for
him to put her cloak over her shoulders in the back
parlour, while Mrs. Flood Jones was finishing some
important narrative to his mother. It was Barbara, I
think, who stood in some doorway, and prevented
people from passing, and so gave him the opportunity
which he abused.
"Mary," said he, taking her in his arms, without a
single word of love-making beyond what the reader has
heard,—" one kiss before we part."
"No, Phineas, no!" But the kiss had been taken
and given before she had even answered him. "Oh,
Phineas, you should n't!"
"I should. Why should n't I? And, Mary, I will
have one morsel of your hair."
"You shall not; indeed you shall not!" But the
scissors were at hand, and the ringlet was cut and in
his pocket before she was ready with her resistance.
There was nothing further;—not a word more, and
Mary went away with her veil down, under her mother's
wing, weeping sweet silent tears which no one saw.
"You do love her; don't you, Phineas?" asked
Barbara.
"Bother! Do you go to bed, and don't trouble
yourself about such trifles. But mind you 're up, old
girl, to see me off in the morning."
Everybody was up to see him off in the morning, to
give him coffee and good advice, and kisses, and to
throw all manner of old shoes after him as he started
on his great expedition to Parliament. His father
PHINEAS FINN IS ELECTED FOR LOUGHSHANE. 29
gave him an extra twenty-pound note, and begged him
for God's sake to be careful about his money. His
mother told him always to have an orange in his
pocket when he intended to speak longer than usual.
And Barbara in a *ast whisper begged him never to
forget dear Mary Flood Jones.
CHAPTER III,
PHINEAS FINN TAKES HIS SEAT.
Phineas had many serious, almost solemn thoughts
on his journey towards London. I am sorry I must
assure my female readers that very few of them had
reference to Mary Flood Jones. He had, however,
very carefully packed up the tress, and could bring
that out for proper acts of erotic worship at seasons in
which his mind might be less engaged with affairs of
state than it was at present. Would he make a failure
of this great matter which he had taken in hand? He
could not but tell himself that the chances were twenty
to one against him. Now that he looked nearer at it
all, the difficulties loomed larger than ever, and the re-
wards seemed to be less, more difficult of approach,
and more evanescent. How many members were
there who could never get a hearing! How many
who only spoke to fail! How many, who spoke well,
who could speak to no effect as far as their own
worldly prospects were concerned! He had already
known many members of Parliament to whom no out-
ward respect or sign of honour was ever given by any
one; and it seemed to him, as he thought over it, that
Irish members of Parliament were generally treated
with more indifference than any others. There were
O'B and O'C and O'D , for whom no
one cared a straw, who could hardly get men to dine
30
PHINEAS FINN TAKES HIS SEAT.
3*
with them at the club, and yet they were genuine
members of Parliament. Why should he ever be bet-
ter than O'B- , or O'C , or O'D ?And in
what way should he begin to be better? He had an
idea of the fashion after which it would be his duty to
strive that he might excel those gentlemen. He did
not give any of them credit for much earnestness in
their country's behalf, and he was minded to be very
earnest. He would go to his work honestly and con-
scientiously, determined to do his duty as best he might,
let the results to himself be what they would. This
was a noble resolution, and might have been pleasant
to him,—had he not remembered that smile of derision
which had come over his friend Erie's face when he
declared his intention of doing his duty to his country
as a liberal, and not of supporting a party. O'B
and O'C and O'D were keen enough to sup-
port their party, only they were sometimes a little
astray at knowing which was their party for the nonce.
He knew that Erie and such men would despise him
if he did not fall into the regular groove,—and if the
Barrington Erles despised him, what would then be left
for him?
His moody thoughts were somewhat dissipated when
he found one Laurence Fitzgibbon,—the Honourable
Laurence Fitzgibbon,—a special friend of his own,
and a very clever fellow, on board the boat as it
steamed out of Kingston harbour. Laurence Fitzgib-
bon had also just been over about his election, and had
been returned as a matter of course for his father's
county. Laurence Fitzgibbon had sat in the House
for the last fifteen years, and was yet well-nigh as
young a man as any in it. And he was a man alto-
32 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
gether different from the O'B s, O'C s, and
O'D s. Laurence Fitzgibbon could always get
the ear of the House if he chose to speak, and his
friends declared that he might have been high up in
office long since if he would have taken the trouble to
work. He was a welcome guest at the houses of the
very best people, and was a friend of whom any one
might be proud. It had for two years been a feather
in the cap of Phineas that he knew Laurence Fitzgib-
bon. And yet people said that Laurence Fitzgibbon
had nothing of his own, and men wondered how he
lived. He was the youngest son of Lord Claddagh,
an Irish peer with a large family, who could do noth-
ing for Laurence, his favourite child, beyond finding
him a seat in Parliament.
"Well, Finn, my boy," said Laurence, shaking hands
with the young member on board the steamer, "so
you Ve made it all right at Loughshane." Then Phin-
eas was beginning to tell all the story, the wonderful
story, of George Morris and the Earl of Tulla,—how
the men of Loughshane had elected him without oppo-
sition; how he had been supported by conservatives
as well as liberals;—how unanimous Loughshane had
been in electing him, Phineas Finn, as its representa-
tive. But Mr. Fitzgibbon seemed to care very little
about all this, and went so far as to declare that those
things were accidents which fell out sometimes one
way and sometimes another, and were altogether in-
dependent of any merit or demerit on the part of the
candidate himself. And it was marvellous and almost
painful to Phineas that his friend Fitzgibbon should
accept the fact of his membership with so little of con-
gratulation,—with absolutely no blowing of trumpets
PHINEAS FINN TAKES HIS SEAT.
33
whatever. Had he been elected a member of the
municipal corporation of Loughshane, instead of its
representative in the British Parliament, Laurence
Fitzgibbon could not have made less fuss about it.
Phineas was disappointed, but he took the cue from
his friend too quickly to show his disappointment.
And when, half an hour after their meeting, Fitzgibbon
had to be reminded that his companion was not in
the House during the last session, Phineas was able to
make the remark as though he thought as little about
the House as did the old-accustomed member himself.
"As far as I can see as yet," said Fitzgibbon, "we
are sure to have seventeen."
"Seventeen? " said Phineas, not quite understanding
the meaning of the number quoted.
"A majority of seventeen. There are four Irish
counties and three Scotch which have n't returned as
yet; but we know pretty well what they '11 do. There's
a doubt about Tipperary, of course; but whichever
gets in of the seven who are standing, it will be a vote
on our side. Now the Government can't live against
that. The uphill strain is too much for them."
"According to my idea, nothing can justify them in
trying to live against a majority."
"That's gammon. When th€^ thing is so equal,
anything is fair. But you see they don't like it. Of
course there are some among them as hungry as we
are; and Dubby would give his toes and fingers to re-
main in." Dubby was the ordinary name by which,
among friends and foes, Mr. Daubeny was known:
Mr. Daubeny, who at that time was the leader of the
conservative party in the House of Commons. "But
most of them," continued Mr. Fitzgibbon, "prefer the
34 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
other game, and if you don't care about money, upon
my word it's the pleasanter game of the two."
"But the country gets nothing done by a tory
Government."
"As to that, it 's six of one and half-a-dozen of the
other. I never knew a Government yet that wanted
to do anything. Give a Government a real strong
majority, as the tories used to have half a century
since, and as a matter of course it will do nothing.
Why should it? Doing things, as you call it, is only
bidding for power,—for patronage and pay."
"And is the country to have no service done?"
"The country gets quite as much service as it pays
for,—and perhaps a little more. The clerks in the
offices work for the country. And the Ministers work
too, if they Ve got anything to manage. There is
plenty of work done;—but of work in Parliament, the
less the better, according to my ideas. It's very little
that ever is done, and that little is generally too much."
"But the people"
"Come down and have a glass of brandy and water,
and leave the people alone for the present. The peo-
ple can take care of themselves a great deal better than
we can take care of them." Mr. Fitzgibbon's doctrine
as to the commonwealth was very different from that
of Barrington Erie, and was still less to the taste of
the new member. Barrington Erie considered that his
leader, Mr. Mildmay, should be intrusted to make all
necessary changes in the laws, and that an obedient
House of Commons should implicitly obey that leader
in authorising all changes proposed by him;—but ac-
cording to Barrington Erie, such changes should be
PHINEAS FINN TAKES HIS SEAT. ^5
numerous and of great importance, and would, if duly
passed into law at his lord's behest, gradually pro-
duce such a whig Utopia in England as has never yet
been seen on the face of the earth. Now, according
to Mr. Fitzgibbon, the present Utopia would be good
enough,—if only he himself might be once more put
into possession of a certain semi-political place about
the Court, from which he had heretofore drawn
^1,000 per annum, without any work, much to his
comfort. He made no secret of his ambition, and was
chagrined simply at the prospect of having to return
to his electors before he could enjoy those good things
which he expected to receive from the undoubted
majority of seventeen, which had been, or would be,
achieved.
"I hate all change as a rule," said Fitzgibbon; "but,
upon my word, we ought to alter that. When a fellow
has got a crumb of comfort, after waiting for it years
and years, and perhaps spending thousands in elections,
he has to go back and try his hand again at the last
moment, merely in obedience to some antiquated preju-
dice. Look at poor Jack Bond,—the best friend I
ever had in the world. He was wrecked upon that
rock forever. He spent every shilling he had in con-
testing Romford three times running,—and three times
running he got in. Then they made him Vice-Comp-
troller of the Granaries, and I Jm shot if he did n't get
spilt at Romford on standing for his re-election!"
"And what became of him?"
"God knows. I think I heard that he married an
old woman and settled down somewhere. I know he
never came up again. Now, I call that a confounded
36 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
shame. I suppose I'm safe down in Mayo, but
there's no knowing what may happen in these days."
As they parted at Euston Square, Phineas asked his
friend some little nervous question as to the best mode
of making a first entrance into the House. Would
Laurence Fitzgibbon see him through the difficulties
of the oath-taking? But Laurence Fitzgibbon made
very little of the difficulty. "Oh;—you just come
down, and there '11 be a rush of fellows, and you '11
know everybody. You '11 have to hang about for an
hour or so, and then you '11 get pushed through. There
is n't time for much ceremony after a general election."
Phineas reached London early in the morning, and
went home to bed for an hour or so. The House was"
to meet on that very day, and he intended to begin his
parliamentary duties at once if he should find it pos-
sible to get some one to accompany him. He felt
that he should lack courage to go down to Westmin-
ster Hall all alone, and explain to the policeman and
doorkeepers that he was the man who had just been
elected member for Loughshane. So about noon he
went into the Reform Club, and there he found a
great crowd of men, among whom there was a plenti-
ful sprinkling of members. Erie saw him in a mo-
ment, and came to him with congratulations.
"So you 're all right, Finn," said he.
"Yes; I'm all right,—I did n't have much doubt
about it when I went over."
"I never heard of a fellow with such a run of luck,"
said Erie. "It's just one of those flukes that occur
once in a dozen elections. Any one on earth might
have got in without spending a shilling."
Phineas did n't at all like this. "I don't think any
PHINEAS FINN TAKES HIS SEAT. 37
one could have got in," said he, "without knowing
Lord Tulla."
"Lord Tulla was nowhere, my dear boy, and could
have nothing to say to it. But never mind that. You
meet me in the lobby at two. There '11 be a lot of us
there, and we '11 go in together. Have you seen Fitz-
gibbon?" Then Barrington Erie went off to other
business, and Finn was congratulated by other men.
But it seemed to him that the congratulations of hi&
friends were not hearty. He spoke to some men, of
whom he thought that he knew they would have given
their eyes to be in Parliament;—and yet they spoke
of his success as being a very ordinary thing. "Well,
my boy, I hope you like it," said one middle-aged
gentleman whom he had known ever since he came
up to London. "The difference is between working
for nothing and working for money. You '11 have to
work for nothing now."
"That's about it, I suppose," said Phineas.
"They say the House is a comfortable club," said
the middle-aged friend, "but I confess that I should n't
like being rung away from my dinner myself."
At two punctually Phineas was in the lobby at
Westminster, and then he found himself taken into
the House with a crowd of other men. The old and
young, and they who were neither old nor young, were
mingled together, and there seemed to be very little
respect of persons. On three or four occasions there
was some cheering when a popular man or a great
leader came in; but the work of the day left but little
clear impression on the mind of the young member.
He was confused, half elated, half disappointed, and
had not his wits about him. He found himself con.
38 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
stantly regretting that he was there; and as constantly
telling himself that he, hardly yet twenty-five, without
a shilling of his own, had achieved an entrance into
that assembly which by the consent of all men is the
greatest in the world, and which many of the rich mag-
nates of the country had in vain spent heaps of treas-
ure in their endeavours to open to their own footsteps.
He tried hard to realise what he had gained, but the
dust and the noise and the crowds and the want of
something august to the eye were almost too strong
for him. He managed, however, to take the oath early
among those who took it, and heard the Queen's
Speech read and the Address moved and seconded.
He was seated very uncomfortably, high up on a back
seat, between two men whom he did not know; and
he found the speeches to be very long. He had been
in the habit of seeing such speeches reported in about
a column, and he thought that these speeches must
take at least four columns each. He sat out the de-
bate on the Address till the House was adjourned, and
then he went away to dine at his club. He did go
into the dining-room of the House, but there was a
crowd there, and he found himself alone,—and to tell
the truth, he was afraid to order his dinner.
The nearest approach to a triumph which he had in
London came to him from the glory which his election
reflected upon his landlady. She was a kindly, good,
motherly soul, whose husband was a journeyman law-
stationer, and who kept a very decent house in Great
Marlborough Street. Here Phineas had lodged since
he had been in London, and was a great favourite.
"God bless my soul, Mr. Phineas," said she, "only
think of your being a member of Parliament!"
PHINEAS FINN TAKES HIS SEAT. 39
"Yes, I'm a member of Parliament, Mrs. Bunce."
"And you '11 go on with the rooms the same as
ever? Well, I never thought to have a member of
Parliament in 'em."
Mrs. Bunce really had realised the magnitude of the
step which her lodger had taken, and Phineas was
grateful to her.
CHAPTER IV.
LADY LAURA STANDISH.
Phineas, in describing Lady Laura Standish to
Mary Flood Jones at Killaloe, had not painted her in
very glowing colours. Nevertheless he admired Lady
Laura very much, and she was worthy of admira-
tion. It was probably the greatest pride of our hero's
life that Lady Laura Standish was his friend, and that
she had instigated him to undertake the risk of par-
liamentary life. Lady Laura was intimate also with
Barrington Erie, who was, in some distant degree, her
cousin; and Phineas was not without a suspicion that
his selection for Loughshane, from out of all the young
liberal candidates, may have been in some degree
owing to Lady Laura's influence with Barrington Erie.
He was not unwilling that it should be so; for though,
as he had repeatedly told himself, he was by no means
in love with Lady Laura,—who was, as he imagined,
somewhat older than himself,—nevertheless, he would
feel gratified at accepting anything from her hands,
and he felt a keen desire for some increase to those
ties of friendship which bound them together. No;—
he was not in love with Lady Laura Standish. He
had not the remotest idea of asking her to be his wife.
So he told himself, both before he went over for his
election, and after his return. When he had found
himself in a corner with poor little Mary Flood Jones
40
LADY LAURA STANDISH.
41
he had kissed her as a matter of course; but he did
not think that he could, in any circumstances, be
tempted to kiss Lady Laura. He supposed that he
was in love with his darling little Mary,—after a fash-
ion. Of course, it could never come to anything, be-
cause of the circumstances of his life, which were so
imperious to him. He was not in love with Lady
Laura, and yet he hoped that his intimacy with her
might come to much. He had more than once asked
himself how he would feel when somebody else came
to be really in love with Lady Laura,—for she was by
no means a woman to lack lovers,—when some one
else should be in love with her, and be received by her
as a lover; but this question he had never been able
to answer. There were many questions about him-
self which he usually answered by telling himself that
it was his fate to walk over volcanoes. "Of course, I
shall be blown into atoms some fine day," he would
say; "but, after all, that is better than being slowly
boiled down into pulp."
The House had met on a Friday, again on the Sat-
urday morning, and the debate on the Address had
been adjourned till the Monday. On the Sunday,
Phineas determined that he would see Lady Laura.
She professed to be always at home on Sunday, and
from three to four in the afternoon her drawing-room
would probably be half full of people. There would, at
any rate, be comers and goers, who would prevent any-
thing like real conversation between himself and her.
But for a few minutes before that he might probably
find her alone, and he was most anxious to see whether
her reception of him, as a member of Parliament,
would be in any degree warmer than that of his other
42 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
friends. Hitherto he had found no such warmth since
he came to London, excepting that which had glowed
in the bosom of Mrs. Bunce.
Lady Laura Standish was the daughter of the Earl
of Brentford, and was the only remaining lady of the
Earl's family. The Countess had been long dead;
and Lady Emily, the younger daughter, who had been
the great beauty of her day, was now the wife of a
Russian nobleman whom she had persisted in preferring
to any of her English suitors, and lived at St. Peters-
burg. There was an aunt, old Lady Laura, who came
up to town about the middle of May; but she was al-
ways in the country except for some six weeks in the
season. There was a certain Lord Chiltern, the Earl's
son and heir, who did indeed live at the family town
house in Portman Square; but Lord Chiltern was a
man of whom Lady Laura's set did not often speak,
and Phineas, frequently as he had been at the house,
had never seen Lord Chiltern there. He was a young
nobleman of whom various accounts were given by
various people; but I fear that the account most
readily accepted in London attributed to him a great
intimacy with the affairs at Newmarket, and a partial-
ity for convivial pleasures. Respecting Lord Chiltern
Phineas had never as yet exchanged a word with Lady
Laura. With her father he was acquainted, as he had
dined perhaps half-a-dozen times at the house. The
point in Lord Brentford's character which had more
than any other struck our hero, was the unlimited
confidence which he seemed to place in his daughter.
Lady Laura seemed to have perfect power of doing
what she pleased. She was much more mistress of
herself than if she had been the wife instead of the
LADY LAURA STANDISH.
43
daughter of the Earl of Brentford,—and she seemed
to be quite as much mistress of the house.
Phineas had declared at Killaloe that Lady Laura
was six feet high, that she had red hair, that her figure
was straggling, and that her hands and feet were large.
She was in fact about five feet seven in height, and she
carried her height well. There was something of no-
bility in her gait, and she seemed thus to be taller than
her inches. Her hair was in truth red,—of a deep
thorough redness. Her brother's hair was the same;
and so had been that of her father, before it had be-
come sandy with age. Her sister's had been of a soft
auburn hue, and hers had been said to be the prettiest
head of hair in Europe at the time of her marriage.
But in these days we have got to like red hair, and
Lady Laura's was not supposed to stand in the way of
her being considered a beauty. Her face was very
fair, though it lacked that softness which we all love
in women. Her eyes, which were large and bright,
and very clear, never seemed to quail, never rose and
sunk or showed themselves to be afraid of their own
power. Indeed, Lady Laura Standish had nothing of
fear about her. Her nose was perfectly cut, but was
rather large, having the slightest possible tendency to
be aquiline. Her mouth also was large, but was full
of expression, and her teeth were perfect. Her com-
plexion was very bright, but in spite of its brightness
she never blushed. The shades of her complexion
were set and steady. Those who knew her said that
her heart was so fully under command that nothing-
could stir her blood to any sudden motion. As to that
accusation of straggling which had been made against
her, it had sprung from ill-natured observation of her
44 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
modes of sitting. She never straggled when she stood
or walked; but she would lean forward when sitting,
as a man does, and would use her arms in talking, and
would put her hand over her face, and pass her fingers
through her hair,—after the fashion of men rather than
of women;—and she seemed to despise that soft quies-
cence of her sex in which are generally found so many
charms. Her hands and feet were large,—as was her
whole frame. Such was Lady Laura Standish; and
Phineas Finn had been untrue to himself and to his
own appreciation of the lady when he had described
her in disparaging terms to Mary Flood Jones. But,
though he had spoken of Lady Laura in disparaging
terms, he had so spoken of her as to make Miss Flood
Jones quite understand that he thought a great deal
about Lady Laura.
And now, early on the Sunday, he made his way to
Portman Square in order that he might learn whether
there might be any sympathy for him there. Hitherto
he had found none. Everything had been terribly dry
and hard, and he had gathered as yet none of the fruit
which he had expected that his good fortune would
bear for him. It is true that he had not as yet gone
among any friends, except those of his club, and men
who were in the House along with him;—and at the
club it might be that there were some who envied him
his good fortune, and others who thought nothing of
it because it had been theirs for years. Now he would
try a friend who, he hoped, could sympathise; and
therefore he called in Portman Square at about half-
past two on the Sunday morning. Yes,—Lady Laura
was in the drawing-room. The hall-porter admitted
as much, but evidently seemed to think that he had
LADY LAURA STANDISH.
45
been disturbed from his dinner before his time. Phin-
eas did not care a straw for the hall-porter. If Lady
Laura were not kind to him, he would never trouble
that hall-porter again. He was especially sore at this
moment because a valued friend, the barrister with
whom he had been reading for the last three years, had
spent the best part of an hour that Sunday morning in
proving to him that he had as good as ruined himself.
"When I first heard it, of course I thought you had
inherited a fortune," said Mr. Low. "I have inherited
nothing," Phineas replied;—"not a penny; and I
never shall." Then Mr. Low had opened his eyes
very wide, and shaken his head very sadly, and had
whistled.
"I am so glad you have come, Mr. Finn," said Lady
Laura, meeting Phineas half-way across the large room.
"■ Thanks," said he, as he took her hand.
"I thought that perhaps you would manage to see
me before any one else was here."
"Well;—to tell the truth, I have wished it; though
I can hardly tell why."
"I can tell you why, Mr. Finn. But never mind;
—come and sit down. I am so very glad that you
have been successful;—so very glad. You know I
told you that I should never think much of you if you
did not at least try it."
"And therefore I did try."
"And have succeeded. Faint heart, you know,
never did any good. I think it is a man's duty to
make his way into the House;—that is, if he ever
means to be anybody. Of course it is not every man
who can get there by the time that he is five-and-
twenty."
46 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"Every friend that I have in the world says that I
have ruined myself."
"No;—I don't say so," said Lady Laura.
"And you are worth all the others put together. It
is such a comfort to have some one to say a cheery
word to one."
"You shall hear nothing but cheery words here.
Papa shall say cheery words to you that shall be better
than mine, because they shall be weighted with the
wisdom of age. I have heard him say twenty times
that the earlier a man goes into the House the better.
There is so much to learn."
"But your iather was thinking of men of fortune."
"Not at all;—of younger brothers, and barristers,
and of men who have their way to make, as you have.
Let me see,—can you dine here on Wednesday?
There will be no party, of course, but papa will want
to shake hands with you; and you legislators of the
Lower House are more easily reached on Wednesdays
than on any other day."
"I shall be delighted," said Phineas, feeling, how-
ever, that he did not expect much sympathy from Lord
Brentford.
"Mr. Kennedy dines here;—you know Mr. Ken-
nedy, of Loughlinter; and we will ask your friend Mr.
Fitzgibbon. There will be nobody else. As for catch-
ing Barrington Erie, that is out of the question at such
a time as this."
"But, going back to my being ruined "said
Phineas, after a pause.
"Don't think of anything so disagreeable."
"You must not suppose that I am afraid of it. I
was going to say that there are worse things than ruin.
LADY LAURA STANDISH.
47
—or, at any rate, than the chance of ruin. Supposing
that I have to emigrate and skin sheep, what does it
matter? I myself, being unencumbered, have myself
as my own property to do what I like with. With
Nelson it was Westminster Abbey or a peerage. With
me it is parliamentary success or sheep-skinning."
"There shall be no sheep-skinning, Mr. Finn. I
will guarantee you."
"Then I shall be safe."
At that moment the door of the room was opened,
and a man entered with quick steps, came a few yards
in, and then retreated, slamming the door after him.
He was a man with thick short red hair, and an abun-
dance of very red beard. And his face was red,—and,
as it seemed to Phineas, his very eyes. There was
something in the countenance of the man which struck
him almost with dread,—something approaching to
ferocity.
There was a pause a moment after the door was
closed, and then Lady Laura spoke. "It was my
brother Chiltern. I do not think that you have ever
met him."
CHAPTER V.
MR. AND MRS. LOW.
That terrible apparition of the red Lord Chiltern
had disturbed Phineas in the moment of his happi-
ness as he sat listening to the kind flatteries of Lady
Laura; and though Lord Chiltern had vanished as
quickly as he had appeared, there had come no return
of his joy. Lady Laura had said some word about
her brother, and Phineas had replied that he had never
chanced to see Lord Chiltern. Then there had been
an awkward silence, and almost immediately other
persons had come in. After greeting one or two old
acquaintances, among whom an elder sister of Lau-
rence Fitzgibbon was one, he took his leave and es-
caped out into the square. "Miss Fitzgibbon is going
to dine with us on Wednesday,,, said Lady Laura.
"She says she won't answer for her brother, but she
will bring him if she can."
"And you 're a member of Parliament now too, they
tell me," said Miss Fitzgibbon, holding up her hands.
"I think everybody will be in Parliament before long.
I wish I knew some man who was n't, that I might
think of changing my condition."
But Phineas cared very little what Miss Fitzgibbon
said to him. Everybody knew Aspasia Fitzgibbon,
and all who knew her were accustomed to put up with
the violence of her jokes and the bitterness of her re-
48
MR. AND MRS. LOW. 49
marks. She was an old maid, over forty, very plain,
who, having reconciled herself to the fact that she was
an old maid, chose to take advantage of such poor
privileges as the position gave her. Within the last
few years a considerable fortune had fallen into her
hands, some twenty-five thousand pounds, which had
come to her unexpectedly,—a wonderful windfall.
And now she was the only one of her family who had
money at command. She lived in a small house by
herself, in one of the smallest streets of May Fair,
and walked about sturdily by herself, and spoke her
mind about everything. She was greatly devoted to
her brother Laurence,—so devoted that there was
nothing she would not do for him, short of lending
him money.
But Phineas when he found himself out in the square
thought nothing of Aspasia Fitzgibbon. He had gone
to Lady Laura Standish for sympathy, and she had
given it to him in full measure. She understood him
and his aspirations if no one else did so on the face of
the earth. She rejoiced in his triumph, and was not
too hard to tell him that she looked forward to his
success. And in what delightful language she had
done so! "Faint heart never won fair lady." It was
thus, or almost thus, that she had encouraged him.
He knew well that she had in truth meant nothing
more than her words seemed to signify. He did not
for a moment attribute to her aught else. But might
not he get another lesson from them? He had often
told himself that he was not in love with Laura Stan-
dish ;—but why should he not now tell himself that he
was in love with her? Of course there would be diffi-
culty. But was it not the business of his life to over-
50 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
come difficulties? Had he not already overcome one
'difficulty almost as great; and why should he be afraid
of this other? Faint heart never won fair lady! And
this fair lady,—for at this moment he was ready to
swear that she was very fair,—was already half won.
She could not have taken him by the hand so warmly,
and looked into his face so keenly, had she not felt for
him something stronger than common friendship.
, He had turned down Baker Street from the Square,
and was now walking towards the Regent's Park. He
would go and see the beasts in the Zoological Gardens,
and make up his mind as to his future mode of life
in that delightful Sunday solitude. There was very
much as to which it was necessary that he should
make up his mind. If he resolved that he would ask
Lady Laura Standish to be his wife, when should he
ask her, and in what manner might he propose to her
that they should live? It would hardly suit him to
postpone his courtship indefinitely, knowing, as he did
know, that he would be one among many suitors. He
could not expect her to wait for him if he did not de-
clare himself. And yet he could hardly ask her to
come and share with him the allowance made to him
by his father! Whether she had much fortune of her
own, or little, or none at all, he did not in the least
know. He did not know that the Earl had been dis-
tressed by his son's extravagance, and that there had
been some money difficulties arising from this source.
But his great desire would be to support his own
wife by his own labour. At present he was hardly in
a fair way to do that, unless he could get paid for his
parliamentary work. Those fortunate gentlemen who
form "The Government" are so paid. Yes;—there
MR. AND MRS. LOW.
51
was the Treasury Bench open to him, and he must
resolve that he would seat himself there. He would
make Lady Laura understand this, and then he would
ask his question. It was true that at present his polit-
ical opponents had possession of the Treasury Bench;
—but all governments are mortal, and conservative
governments in this country are especially prone to die.
It was true that he could not hold even a Treasury
lordship with a poor thousand a year for his salary
without having to face the electors of Loughshane
again before he entered upon the enjoyment of his
place;—but if he could only do something to give a
grace to his name, to show that he was a rising man,
the electors of Loughshane, who had once been so
easy with him, would surely not be cruel to him when
he showed himself a second time among them. Lord
Tulla was his friend, and he had those points of law
in his favour which possession bestows. And then he
remembered that Lady Laura was related to almost
everybody who was anybody among the high whigs.
She was, he knew, second cousin to Mr. Mildmay,
who for years had been the leader of the whigs, and
was third cousin to Barrington Erie. The late Presi-
dent of the Council, the Duke of St. Bungay, and Lord
Brentford had married sisters, and the St. Bungay
people, and the Mildmay people, and the Brentford
people had all some sort of connection with the Palli-
ser people, of whom the heir and coming chief, Plan-
tagenet Palliser, would certainly be Chancellor of the
Exchequer in the next Government. Simply as an
introduction into official life nothing could be more
conducive to chances of success than a matrimonial
alliance with Lady Laura. Not that he would have
52 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBEK.
thought of such a thing on that account! No;—he
thought of it because he loved her; honestly because
he loved her. He swore to that half-a-dozen times,
for his own satisfaction. But, loving her as he did,
and resolving that in spite of all difficulties she should
become his wife, there could be no reason why he
should not,—on her account as well as on his own,—
take advantage of any circumstances that there might
be in his favour.
As he wandered among the unsavoury beasts, el-
bowed on every side by the Sunday visitors to the
garden, he made up his mind that he would first let
Lady Laura understand what were his intentions with
regard to his future career, and then he would ask her
to join her lot to his. At every turn the chances
would of course be very much against him;—ten to
one against him, perhaps, on every point; but it was
his lot in life to have to face such odds. Twelve
months since it had been much more than ten to one
against his getting into Parliament; and yet he was
there. He expected to be blown into fragments,—to
be sheep-skinning in Australia, or packing preserved
meats on the plains of Paraguay; but when the blow-
ing into atoms should come, he was resolved that
courage to bear the ruin should not be wanting. Then
he quoted a line or two of a Latin poet, and felt him-
self to be comfortable.
"So, here you are again, Mr. Finn," said a voice in
his ear.
"Yes, Miss Fitzgibbon; here I am again."
"I fancied you members of Parliament had some-
thing else to do besides looking at wild beasts. I
thought you always spent Sunday in arranging how
MR. AND MRS. LOW.
53
you might most effectually badger each other on
Monday."
"We got through all that early this morning, Miss
Fitzgibbon, while you were saying your prayers."
"Here is Mr. Kennedy too;—you know him, I
dare say. He also is a member; but then he can afford
to be idle." But it so happened that Phineas did not
know Mr. Kennedy, and consequently there was some
slight form of introduction.
"I believe I am to meet you at dinner on Wednes-
day," said Phineas,—" at Lord Brentford's."
"And me too," said Miss Fitzgibbon.
"Which will be the greatest possible addition to our
pleasure," said Phineas.
Mr. Kennedy, who seemed to be afflicted with some
difficulty in speaking, and whose bow to our hero had
hardly done more than produce the slightest possible
motion to the top of his hat, hereupon muttered some-
thing which was taken to mean an assent to the prop-
osition as to Wednesday's dinner. Then he stood
perfectly still, with his two hands fixed on the top of
his umbrella, and gazed at the great monkeys' cage.
But it was clear that he was not looking at any special
monkey, for his eyes never wandered.
"Did you ever see such a contrast in your life?"
said Miss Fitzgibbon to Phineas,—hardly in a whisper.
"Between what?" said Phineas.
"Between Mr. Kennedy and a monkey. The mon-
key has so much to say for himself, and is so delight-
fully wicked! I don't suppose that Mr. Kennedy
ever did anything wrong in his life."
Mr. Kennedy was a man who had very little temp-
tation 'o do anything wrong. He was possessed of
54 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
over a million and a half of money, which he was
mistaken enough to suppose he had made himself;
whereas it may be doubted whether he had ever earned
a penny. His father and his uncle had created a
business in Glasgow, and that business now belonged
to him. But his father and his uncle, who had toiled
through their long lives, had left behind them servants
who understood the work, and the business now went
on prospering almost by its own momentum. The
Mr. Kennedy of the present day, the sole owner of the
business, though he did occasionally go to Glasgow,
certainly did nothing towards maintaining it. He had
a magnificent place in Perthshire, called Loughlinter,
and he sat for a Scotch group of boroughs, and he had
a house in London, and a stud of horses in Leicester-
shire, which he rarely visited, and was unmarried. He
never spoke much to any one, although he was con-
stantly in society. He rarely did anything, although
he had the means of doing everything. He had
very seldom been on his legs in the House of Com-
mons, though he had sat there for ten years. He
was seen about everywhere, sometimes with one ac-
quaintance and sometimes with another;—but it may
be doubted whether he had any friend. It may be
doubted whether he had ever talked enough to any
man to make that man his friend. Laurence Fitz-
gibbon tried him for one season, and after a month
or two asked for a loan of a few hundred pounds. "I
never lend money to any one under any circumstances,"
said Mr. Kennedy, and it was the longest speech which
had ever fallen from his mouth in the hearing of
Laurence Fitzgibbon. But though he would not lend
money, he gave a great deal,—and he would give
MR. AND MRS. LOW.
55
it for almost every object. "Mr. Robert Kennedy,
M.P., Loughlinter, ^105," appeared on almost every
charitable list that was advertised. No one ever spoke
to him as to this expenditure, nor did he ever speak to
any one. Circulars came to him and the cheques were
returned. The duty was a very easy one to him, and
he performed it willingly. Had any amount of inquiry
been necessary, it is possible that the labour would
have been too much for him. Such was Mr. Robert
Kennedy, as to whom Phineas had heard that he had
during the last winter entertained Lord Brentford and
Lady Laura, with very many other people of note, at
his place in Perthshire.
"I very much prefer the monkey," said Phineas to
Miss Fitzgibbon.
il I thought you would," said she. "Like to like,
you know. You have both of you the same aptitude
for climbing. But the monkeys never fall, they tell
me."
Phineas, knowing that he could gain nothing by
sparring with Miss Fitzgibbon, raised his hat and took
his leave. Going out of a narrow gate he found him-
self again brought into contact with Mr. Kennedy.
"What a crowd there is here," he said, finding himself
bound to say something. Mr. Kennedy, who was be-
hind him, answered him not a word. Then Phineas
made up his mind that Mr. Kennedy was insolent with
the insolence of riches, and that he would hate Mr.
Kennedy.
He was engaged to dine on this Sunday with Mr.
Low, the barrister, with whom he had been reading
for the last three years. Mr. Low had taken a strong
liking to Phineas, as had also Mrs. Low, and the tutor
56 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
had more than once told his pupil that success in his
profession was certainly open to him if he would only-
stick to his work. Mr. Low was himself an ambitious
man, looking forward to entering Parliament at some
future time, when the exigencies of his life of labour
might enable him to do so; but he was prudent, given
to close calculation, and resolved to make the ground
sure beneath his feet in every step that he took for-
ward. When he first heard that Finn intended to stand
for Loughshane he was stricken with dismay, and
strongly dissuaded him. "The electors may probably
reject him. That's his only chance now," Mr. Low
had said to his wife, when he found that Phineas was,
as he thought, foolhardy. But the electors of Lough-
shane had not rejected Mr. Low's pupil, and Mr. Low
was now called upon to advise what Phineas should do
in his present circumstances. There is nothing to pre-
vent the work of a Chancery barrister being done by
a member of Parliament. Indeed, the most successful
barristers are members of Parliament. But Phineas
Finn was beginning at the wrong end, and Mr. Low
knew that no good would come of it.
"Only think of your being in Parliament, Mr. Finn,"
said Mrs. Low.
"It is wonderful, is n't it?" said Phineas.
"It took us so much by surprise!" said Mrs. Low.
"As a rule one never hears of a barrister going into
Parliament till after he's forty."
"And I'm only twenty-five. I do feel that I Ve
disgraced myself. I do, indeed, Mrs. Low."
"No;—you Ve not disgraced yourself, Mr. Finn.
The only question is, whether it's prudent. I hope
it will all turn out for the best, most heartily." Mrs.
MR. AND MRS. LOW.
57
Low was a very matter-of-fact lady, four or five years
older than her husband, who had had a little money of
her own, and was possessed of every virtue under the
sun. Nevertheless she did not quite like the idea of
her husband's pupil having got into Parliament. If
her husband and Phineas Finn were dining anywhere
together, Phineas, who had come to them quite a boy,
would walk out of the room before her husband. This
could hardly be right! Nevertheless she helped Phin-
eas to the nicest bit of fish she could find, and had he
been ill, would have nursed him with the greatest care.
After dinner, when Mrs. Low had gone upstairs,
there came the great discussion between the tutor and
the pupil, for the sake of which this little dinner had
been given. When Phineas had last been with Mr.
Low,—on the occasion of his showing himself at his
tutor's chambers after his return from Ireland,—he had
not made up his mind so thoroughly on certain points
as he had done since he had seen Lady Laura. The
discussion could hardly be of any avail now,—but it
could not be avoided.
"Well, Phineas, and what do you mean to do?"
said Mr. Low. Everybody who knew our hero, or
nearly everybody, called him by his Christian name.
There are men who seem to be so treated by general
consent in all societies. Even Mrs. Low, who was
very prosaic, and unlikely to be familiar in her mode
of address, had fallen into the way of doing it before
the election. But she had dropped it when the Phin-
eas whom she used to know became a member of Par-
liament.
"That's the question;—is n't it ?" said Phineas.
"Of course you 11 stick to your work?"
58 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"What;—to the Bar?"
"Yes;—to the Bar."
"I am not thinking of giving it up permanently."
"Giving it up!" said Mr. Low, raising his hands in
surprise. "If you give it up, how do you intend to
live? Men are not paid for being members of Parlia-
ment."
"Not exactly. But, as I said before, I am not
thinking of giving it up,—permanently."
"You must n't give it up at all,—not for a day; that
is, if you ever mean to do any good."
"There I think that perhaps you may be wrong,
Low!"
"How can I be wrong? Did a period of idleness
ever help a man in any profession? And is it not
acknowledged by all who know anything about it, that
continuous labour is more necessary in our profession
than in any other?"
"I do not mean to be idle."
"What is it you do mean, Phineas?"
"Why simply this. Here I am in Parliament. We
must take that as fact."
"I don't doubt the fact."
"And if it be a misfortune, we must make the best
of it. Even you would n't advise me to apply for the
Chiltern Hundreds at once."
"I would;—to-morrow. My dear fellow, though
I do not like to give you pain, if you come to me I
can only tell you what I think. My advice to you is -
to give it up to-morrow. Men would laugh at you for
a few weeks, but that is better than being ruined for
life."
"I can't do that," said Phineas sadly.
MR. AND MRS. LOW.
59
"Very well;—then let us go on," said Mr. Low.
"If you won't give up your seat, the next best thing
will be to take care that it shall interfere as little as
possible with your work. I suppose you must sit upon
some committees."
"My idea is this,—that I will give up one year to
learning the practices of the House."
"And do nothing?"
"Nothing but that. Why, the thing is a study in
itself. As for learning it in a year, that is out of the
question. But I am convinced that if a man intends
to be a useful member of Parliament, he should make
a study of it."
"And how do you mean to live in the meantime?"
Mr. Low, who was an energetic man, had assumed al-
most an angry tone of voice. Phineas for a while sat
silent;—not that he felt himself to be without words
for a reply, but that he was thinking in what fewest
words he might best convey his ideas. "You have a
very modest allowance from your father, on which you
have never been able to keep yourself free from debt,"
continued Mr. Low.
"He has increased it."
"And will it satisfy you to live here, in what will
turn out to be parliamentary club idleness, on the sav-
ings of his industrious life? I think you will find your-
self unhappy if you do that. Phineas, my dear fellow,
as far as I have as yet been able to see the world, men
don't begin either very good or very bad. They have
generally good aspirations with infirm purposes;—or,
as we may say, strong bodies with weak legs to carry
them. Then, because their legs are weak, they drift
into idleness and ruin. During all this drifting they
6o PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
are wretched, and when they have thoroughly arifted
they are still wretched. The agony of their old dis-
appointment still clings to them. In nine cases out of
ten it is some one small unfortunate event that puts a
man astray at first. He sees some woman and loses
himself with her;—or he is taken to a racecourse and
unluckily wins money;—or some devil in the shape
of a friend lures him to tobacco and brandy. Your
temptation has come in the shape of this accursed seat
in Parliament." Mr. Low had never said a soft word
in his life to any woman but the wife of his bosom,
had never seen a racehorse, always confined himself
to two glasses of port after dinner, and looked upon
smoking as the darkest of all the vices.
"You have made up your mind, then, that I mean
to be idle?"
"I have made up my mind that your time will be
wholly unprofitable,—if you do as you say you intend
to do."
"But you do not know my plan;—just listen to me."
Then Mr. Low did listen, and Phineas explained his
plan,—saying, of course, nothing of his love for Lady
Laura, but giving Mr. Low to understand that he in-
tended to assist in turning out the existing Government
and to mount up to some seat,—a humble seat at first,
—on the Treasury Bench, by the help of his exalted
friends and by the use of his own gifts of eloquence.
Mr. Low heard him without a word. "Of course,"
said Phineas, "after the first year my time will not be
fully employed, unless I succeed. And if I fail totally,
—for, of course, I may fail altogether"
"It is possible," said Mr. Low.
"If you are resolved to turn yourself against me,
MR. AND MRS. LOW.
61
I must not say another word," said Phineas, with
anger.
"Turn myself against you! I would turn myself
any way so that I might save you from the sort of life
which you are preparing for yourself. I see nothing in
it that can satisfy any manly heart. Even if you are
successful, what are you to become? You will be the
creature of some minister, not his colleague. You are
to make your way up the ladder by pretending to agree
whenever agreement is demanded from you, and by
voting whether you agree or do not. And what is to
be your reward? Some few precarious hundreds a
year, lasting just so long as a party may remain in
power and you can retain a seat in Parliament! It is
at the best slavery and degradation,—even if you are
lucky enough to achieve the slavery."
"You yourself hope to go into Parliament and join
a ministry some day," said Phineas.
Mr. Low was not quick to answer, but he did an-
swer at last. "That is true, though I have never told
you so. Indeed, it is hardly true to say that I hope
it. I have my dreams, and sometimes dare to tell
myself that they may possibly become waking facts.
But if ever I sit on a Treasury Bench I shall sit there
by special invitation, having been summoned to take
a high place because of my professional success. It
is but a dream after all, and I would not have you re-
peat what I have said to any one. I had no intention
to talk about myself."
"I am sure that you will succeed," said Phineas.
"Yes;—I shall succeed. I am succeeding. I live
upon what I earn, like a gentleman, and can already
afford to be indifferent to work that I dislike. After
62 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
all, the other part of it,—that of which I dream,—is
but an unnecessary adjunct; the gilding on the gin-
gerbread. I am inclined to think that the cake is
more wholesome without it."
Phineas did not go upstairs into Mrs. Low's drawing-
room on that evening, nor did he stay very late with
Mr. Low. He had heard enough of counsel to make
him very unhappy,—to shake from him much of the
audacity which he had acquired for himself during
his morning's walk,—and to make him almost doubt
whether, after all, the Chiltern Hundreds would not be
for him the safest escape from his difficulties. But in
that case he must never venture to see Lady Laura
Standish again.
CHAPTER VI.
lord Brentford's dinner.
No;—in such case as that,—should he resolve upon
taking the advice of his old friend Mr. Low, Phineas
Finn must make up his mind never to see Lady Laura
Standish again! And he was in love with Lady
Laura Standish;—and, for aught he knew, Lady
Laura Standish might be in love with him. As he
walked home from Mr. Low's house in Bedford Square,
he was by no means a triumphant man. There had
been much more said between him and Mr. Low than
could be laid before the reader in the last chapter.
Mr. Low had urged him again and again, and had pre-
vailed so far that Phineas, before he left the house,
had promised to consider that suicidal expedient of the
Chiltern Hundreds. What a by-word he would be-
come if he were to give up Parliament, having sat
there for about a week. But such immediate giving
up was one of the necessities of Mr. Low's programme.
According to Mr. Low's teaching, a single year passed
amidst the miasma of the House of Commons would
be altogether fatal to any chance of professional suc-
cess. And Mr. Low had at any rate succeeded in
making Phineas believe that he was right in this lesson.
There was his profession, as to which Mr. Low assured
him that success was within his reach; and there was
Parliament on the other side, as to which he knew that
the chances were all against him, in spite of his advan-
63
64 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
tage of a seat. That he could not combine the two,
beginning with Parliament, he did believe. Which
should it be? That was the question which he tried
to decide as he walked home from Bedford Square to
Great Marlborough Street. He could not answer the
question satisfactorily, and went to bed an unhappy
man.
He must at any rate go to Lord Brentford's dinner
on Wednesday, and, to enable him to join in the con-
versation there, must attend the debates on Monday
and Tuesday. The reader may perhaps be best made
to understand how terrible was our hero's state of
doubt by being told that for a while he thought of ab-
senting himself from these debates, as being likely to
weaken his purpose of withdrawing altogether from
the House. It is not very often that so strong a fury
rages between party and party at the commencement
of the session that a division is taken upon the Address.
It is customary for the leader of the opposition on such
occasions to express his opinion in the most courteous
language, that his right honourable friend, sitting oppo-
site to him on the Treasury Bench, has been, is, and
will be wrong in everything that he thinks, says, or
does in public life; but that, as anything like factious
opposition is never adopted on that side of the House,
the Address to the Queen, in answer to that most fatu-
ous speech which has been put into her Majesty's gra-
cious mouth, shall be allowed to pass unquestioned.
Then the leader of the House thanks his adversary for
his consideration, explains to all men how happy the
country ought to be that the Government has not fallen
into the disgracefully incapable hands of his right hon-
ourable friend opposite; and after that the Address is
lord Brentford's dinner. 65
carried amidst universal serenity. But such was not
the order of the day on the present occasion. Mr.
Mildmay, the veteran leader of the liberal side of the
House, had moved an amendment to the Address, and
had urged upon the House, in very strong language,
the expediency of showing, at the very commencement
of the session, that the country had returned to Parlia-
ment a strong majority determined not to put up with
conservative inactivity. "I conceive it to be my duty/'
Mr. Mildmay had said, "at once to assume that the
country is unwilling that the right honourable gentle-
men opposite should keep their seats on the bench upon
which they sit, and in the performance of that duty I
am called upon to divide the House upon the Address
to her Majesty." And if Mr. Mildmay used strong
language, the reader may be sure that Mr. Mildmay's
followers used language much stronger. And Mr.
Daubeny, who was the present leader of the House,
and representative there of the ministry,—Lord De
Terrier, the Premier, sitting in the House of Lords,—
was not the man to allow these amenities to pass by
without adequate replies. He and his friends were
Very strong in sarcasm, if they failed in argument, and
lacked nothing for words, though it might perhaps be
proved that they were short in numbers. It was con-
sidered that the speech in which Mr. Daubeny re-
viewed the long political life of Mr. Mildmay, and
showed that Mr. Mildmay had been at one time a
bugbear, and then a nightmare, and latterly simply a
fungus, was one of the severest attacks, if not the most
severe, that had been heard in that House since the
Reform Bill. Mr. Mildmay, the while, was sitting with
his hat low down over his eyes, and many men said
66 PHINEAS FINN, THE II^ISH MEMBER.
that he did not like it. But this speech was not made
till after that dinner at Lord Brentford's, of which a
short account must be given.
Had it not been for the overwhelming interest of the
doings in Parliament at the commencement of the
session, Phineas might have perhaps abstained from
attending, in spite of the charm of novelty. For, in
truth, Mr. Low's words had moved him much. But if
it was to be his fate to be a member of Parliament
only for ten days, surely it would be well that he should
take advantage of the time to hear such a debate as
this. It would be a thing to talk of to his children in
twenty years' time, or to his grandchildren in fifty;—
and it would be essentially necessary that he should be
able to talk of it to Lady Laura Standish. He did,
therefore, sit in the House till one on the Monday
night, and till two on the Tuesday night, and heard
the debate adjourned till the Thursday. On the Thurs-
day Mr. Daubeny was to make his great speech, and
then the division would come.
When Phineas entered Lady Laura's drawing-room
on the Wednesday before dinner, he found the other
guests all assembled. Why men should have been
earlier in keeping their dinner engagements on that day
than on any other he did not understand; but it was
the fact, probably, that the great anxiety of the time
made those who were at all concerned in the matter
very keen to hear and to be heard. During these
days everybody was in a hurry,—everybody was eager;
and there was a common feeling that not a minute was
to be lost. There were three ladies in the room,—
Lady Laura, Miss Fitzgibbon, and Mrs. Bonteen.
The latter was the wife of a gentleman who had been
lord brentford's dinner- 67
a former Lord of the Admiralty in the late Govern-
ment, and who lived in the expectation of filling, per-
haps, some higher office in the Government which, as
he hoped, was soon to be called into existence. There
were five gentlemen beside Phineas Finn himself,—
Mr. Bonteen, Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Fitzgibbon, Barring-
ton Erie, who had been caught in spite of all that
Lady Laura had said as to the difficulty of such an
operation, and Lord Brentford. Phineas was quick to
observe that every male guest was in Parliament, and
to tell himself that he would not have been there un-
less he also had had a seat.
"We are all here now," said the Earl, ringing the bell.
"I hope I 've not kept you waiting," said Phineas.
"Not at all," said Lady Laura. "I do not know
why we are in such a hurry. And how many do you
say it will be, Mr. Finn?"
"Seventeen, I suppose," said Phineas.
"More likely twenty-two," said Mr. Bonteen.
"There is Colcleugh so ill they can't possibly bring
him up, and young Rochester is at Vienna, and Gun-
ning is sulking about something, and Moody has lost
his eldest son. By George! they pressed him to come
up, although Frank Moody won't be buried till Friday."
"I don't believe it," said Lord Brentford.
"You ask some of the Carlton fellows, and they '11
own it."
"If I'd lost every relation I had in the world," said
Fitzgibbon, "I'd vote on such a question as this.
Staying away won't bring poor Frank Moody back to
life."
"But there's a decency in these matters, is there
not, Mr. Fitzgibbon? " said Lady Laura.
68 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"I thought they had thrown all that kind of thing
overboard long ago," said Miss Fitzgibbon. "It would
be better that they should have no veil, than squabble
about the thickness of it."
Then dinner was announced. The Earl walked off
with Miss Fitzgibbon, Barrington Erie took Mrs. Bon-
teen, and Mr. Fitzgibbon took Lady Laura.
"I 11 bet four pounds to two it's over nineteen,"
said Mr. Bonteen, as he passed through the drawing-
room door. The remark seemed to have been ad-
dressed to Mr. Kennedy, and Phineas therefore made
no reply.
"I dare say it will," said Kennedy, " but I never bet"
"But you vote—sometimes, I hope," said Bonteen.
"Sometimes," said Mr. Kennedy.
"I think he is the most odious man that ever I set
my eyes on," said Phineas to himself as he followed
Mr. Kennedy into the dining-room. He had observed
that Mr. Kennedy had been standing very near to
Lady Laura in the drawing-room, and that Lady
Laura had said a few words to him. He was more
determined than ever that he would hate Mr. Ken-
nedy, and would probably have been moody and un-
happy throughout the whole dinner had not Lady
Laura called him to a chair at her left hand. It was
very generous of her; and the more so, as Mr. Ken-
nedy had, in a half-hesitating manner, prepared to seat
himself in that very place. As it was, Phineas and
Mr. Kennedy were neighbours, but Phineas had the
place of honour.
"I suppose you will not speak during the debate?"
said Lady Laura.
"Who? I? Certainly not. In the first place, I
lord Brentford's dinner.
69
could not get a hearing, and, in the next place, I
should not think of commencing on such an occasion.
I do not know that I shall ever speak at all."
"Indeed you will. You are just the sort of man
who will succeed with the House. What I doubt is,
whether you will do as well in office."
"I wish I might have the chance."
"Of course you can have the chance if you try for
it. Beginning so early, and being on the right side,—
and, if you will allow me to say so, among the right
set,—there can be no doubt that you may take office
if you will. But I am not sure that you will be tract-
able. You cannot begin, you know, by being Prime
Minister."
"I have seen enough to realise that already," said
Phineas.
"If you will only keep that little fact steadily before
your eyes, there is nothing you may not reach in offi-
cial life. But Pitt was Prime Minister at four-and-
twenty, and that precedent has ruined half our young
politicians."
"It has not affected me, Lady Laura."
"As far as I can see, there is no great difficulty in
government. A man must learn to have words at
command when he is on his legs in the House of
Commons, in the same way as he would if he were
talking to his own servants. He must keep his tem-
per; and he must be very patient. As far as I have
seen Cabinet Ministers, they are not more clever than
other people."
"I think there are generally one or two men of abil-
ity in the Cabinet."
"Yes, of fair ability. Mr. Mildmay is a good spec-
70 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
imen. There is not, and never was, anything brilliant
in him. He is not eloquent, nor, as far as I am aware,
did he ever create anything. But he has always been
a steady, honest, persevering man, and circumstances
have made politics come easy to him."
"Think of the momentous questions which he has
been called upon to decide," said Phineas.
"Every question so handled by him has been de-
cided rightly according to his own party, and wrongly
according to the party opposite. A political leader is
so sure of support and so sure of attack, that it is
hardly necessary for him to be even anxious to be
right. For the country's sake, he should have officials
under him who know the routine of business."
"You think very badly then of politics as a pro-
fession." v
"No; I think of them very highly. It must be bet-
ter to deal with the repeal of laws than the defending
of criminals. But all this is papa's wisdom, not mine.
Papa has never been in the Cabinet yet, and therefore
of course he is a little caustic."
"I think he was quite right," said Barrington Erie
stoutly. He spoke so stoutly that everybody at the
table listened to him.
"I don't exactly see the necessity for such inter-
necine war just at present," said Lord Brentford.
"I must say I do," said the other. "Lord De Ter-
rier took office knowing that he was in a minority.
We had a fair majority of nearly thirty when he
came in." /
"Then how very soft you must have been to go
out," said Miss Fitzgibbon.
"Not in the least soft," continued Barrington Erie.
lord Brentford's dinner. 71
"We could not command our men, and were bound
to go out. For aught we know, some score of them
might have chosen to support Lord De Terrier, and
then we should have owned ourselves beaten for the
time/'
"You were beaten,—hollow," said Miss Fitzgibbon.
"Then why did Lord De Terrier dissolve?"
"A Prime Minister is quite right to dissolve in such
a position," said Lord Brentford. "He must do so
for the Queen's sake. It is his only chance."
"Just so. It is, as you say, his only chance, and it
is his right. His very possession of power will give
him near a score of votes, and if he thinks that he has
a chance, let him try it. We maintain that he had no
chance, and that he must have known that he had
none:—that if he could not get on with the late
House, he certainly could not get on with a new
House. We let him have his own way as far as we
could in February. We had failed last summer, and
if he could get along he was welcome. But he could
not get along."
"I must say I think he was right to dissolve," said
Lady Laura.
"And we are right to force the consequences upon
him as quickly as we can. He practically lost nine
seats by his dissolution. Look at Loughshane."
"Yes; look at Loughshane," said Miss Fitzgibbon.
"The country at any rate has gained something there."
"It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good, Mr.
Finn," said the Earl.
"What on earth is to become of poor George? "said
Mr. Fitzgibbon. "I wonder whether any one knows
where he is. George was n't a bad sort of fellow. '\
72 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"Roby used to think that he was a very bad fellow,"
said Mr. Bonteen. "Roby used to swear that it was
hopeless trying to catch him." It may be as well to
explain that Mr. Roby was a conservative gentleman
of great fame who had for years acted as Whip under
Mr. Daubeny, and who now filled the high office of
Patronage Secretary to the Treasury. "I believe in
my heart," continued Mr. Bonteen, "that Roby is re-
joiced that poor George Morris should be out in the
cold."
"If seats were halveable, he should share mine, for
the sake of auld lang syne," said Laurence Fitzgibbon.
"But not to-morrow night," said Barrington Erie;
"the division to-morrow will be a thing not to be joked
with. Upon my word I think they 're right about old
Moody. All private considerations should give way.
And as for Gunning, I'd have him up or I'd know
the reason why."
"And shall we have no defaulters, Barrington?"
asked Lady Laura.
"I'm not going to boast, but I don't know of one
for whom we need blush. Sir Everard Powell is so
bad with gout that he can't even bear any one to look
at him, but Rattler says that he '11 bring him up." Mr.
Rattler was in those days the Whip on the liberal side
of the House.
"Unfortunate wretch!" said Miss Fitzgibbon.
"The worst of it is that he screams in his par-
oxysms," said Mr. Bonteen.
"And you mean to say that you '11 take him into
the lobby," said Lady Laura.
"Undoubtedly," said Barrington Erie. "Why not?
He has no business with a seat if he can't vote. But
lord Brentford's dinner.
73
Sir Everard is a good man, and he '11 be there if lauda-
num and bath-chair make it possible."
The same kind of conversation went on during the
whole of dinner, and became, if anything, more ani-
mated when the three ladies had left the room. Mr.
Kennedy made but one remark, and then he observed
that as far as he could see a majority of nineteen
would be as serviceable as a majority of twenty. This
he said in a very mild voice, and in a tone that was
intended to be expressive of doubt; but in spite of his
humility Barrington Erie flew at him almost savagely,
—as though a liberal member of the House of Com-
mons was disgraced by so mean a spirit; and Phineas
found himself despising the man for his want of zeal.
"If we are to beat them, let us beat them well," said
Phineas*
"Let there be no doubt about it," said Barrington
Erie.
"I should like to see every man with a seat polled,"
said Bonteen.
"Poor Sir Everard!" said Lord Brentford. "It will
kill him, no doubt, but I suppose the seat is safe."
"Oh yes; Llanwrwsth is quite safe," said Barring-
ton, in his eagerness omitting to catch Lord Brentford's
grim joke.
Phineas went up into the drawing-room for a few
minutes after dinner, and was eagerly desirous of say-
ing a few more words,—he knew not what words,—to
Lady Laura. Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Bonteen had left
the dining-room first, and Phineas again found Mr.
Kennedy standing close to Lady Laura's shoulder.
Could it be possible that there was anything in it?
Mr. Kennedy was an unmarried man, with an immense
74 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
fortune, a magnificent place, a seat in Parliament, and
was not perhaps above forty years of age. There
could be no reason why he should not ask Lady Laura
to be his wife,—except, indeed, that he did not seem to
have sufficient words at command to ask anybody for
anything. But could it be that such a woman as Lady
Laura could accept such a man as Mr. Kennedy be-
cause of his wealth, and because of his fine place,—a
man who had not a word to throw to a dog, who did
not seem to be possessed of an idea, who hardly looked
like a gentleman;—so Phineas told himself. But in
truth Mr. Kennedy, though he was a plain, unattract-
ive man, with nothing in his personal appearance to
call for remark, was not unlike a gentleman in his
usual demeanour. Phineas himself, it may be here
said, was six feet high, and very handsome, with bright
blue eyes, and brown wavy hair, and light silken beard.
Mrs. Low had told her husband more than once that
he was much too handsome to do any good. Mr.
Low, however, had replied that young Finn had never
shown himself to be conscious of his own personal ad-
vantages. "He '11 learn it soon enough," said Mrs.
Low. "Some woman will tell him, and then he '11 be
spoilt." I do not think that Phineas depended much
as yet on his own good looks, but he felt that Mr.
Kennedy ought to be despised by such a one as Lady
Laura Standish, because his looks were not good.
And she must despise him! It could not be that a
woman so full of life should be willing to put up with
a man who absolutely seemed to have no life within
him. And yet why was he there, and why was he al-
lowed to hang about just over her shoulders? Phin-
eas Finn began to feel himself to be an injured man.
LORD BRENTFORD'S DINNER.
75
But Lady Laura had the power of dispelling in-
stantly this sense of injury. She had done it effectually
in the dining-room by calling him to the seat by her
side, to the express exclusion of the millionaire, and
she did it again now by walking away from Mr. Ken-
nedy to the spot on which Phineas had placed himself
somewhat sulkily.
"Of course you '11 be at the club on Friday morning
after the division," she said.
"No doubt."
"When you leave it, come and tell me what are
your impressions, and what you think of Mr. Dau-
beny's speech. There '11 be nothing done in the House
before four, and you '11 be able to run up to me."
"Certainly I will."
"I have asked Mr. Kennedy to come, and Mr. Fitz-
gibbon. I am so anxious about it, that I want to hear
what different people say. You know, perhaps, that
papa is to be in the Cabinet if there 7s a change."
"Is he indeed?"
"Oh yes;—and you '11 come up?"
"Of course I will. Do you expect to hear much of
an opinion from Mr. Kennedy?"
"Yes, I do. You don't quite know Mr. Kennedy
yet. And you must remember that he will say more
to me than he will to you. He 's not quick, you know,
as you are, and has no enthusiasm on any subject;—
but he has opinions, and sound opinions too." Phin-
eas felt that Lady Laura was in a slight degree scold-
ing him for the disrespectful manner in which he had
spoken of Mr. Kennedy; and he felt also that he had
committed himself,—that he had shown himself to be
sore, and that she had seen and understood his soreness.
76 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"The truth is I do not know him," said he, trying
to correct his blunder.
"No;—not as yet. But I hope that you may some
day, as he is one of those men who are both useful and
estimable."
"I do not know that I can use him," said Phineas;
"but if you wish it, I will endeavour to esteem him."
"I wish you to do both;—but that will all come in
due time. I think it probable that in the early autumn
there will be a great gathering of the real whig liber-
als at Loughlinter;—of those, I mean, who have their
heart in it, and are at the same time gentlemen. If it
is so, I should be sorry that you should not be there.
You need not mention it, but Mr. Kennedy has just
said a word about it to papa, and a word from him al-
ways means so much! Well;—good night; and mind
you come up on Friday. You are going to the club
now, of course. I envy you men your clubs more
than I do the House;—though I feel that a woman's
life is only half a life, as she cannot have a seat in
Parliament."
Then Phineas went away, and walked down to Pall
Mall with Laurence Fitzgibbon. He would have pre-
ferred to take his walk alone, but he could not get rid
of his affectionate countryman. He wanted to think
over what had taken place during the evening; and,
indeed, he did so in spite of his friend's conversation.
Lady Laura, when she first saw him after his return to
London, had told him how anxious her father was to
congratulate him on his seat, but the Earl had not
spoken a word to him on the subject. The Earl had
been courteous, as hosts customarily are, but had been
in no way specially kind to him. And then Mr. Ken-
LORD BRENTFORD'S DINNER.
77
nedy! As to going to Loughlinter, he would not do
such a thing,—not though the success of the liberal
party were to depend on it. He declared to himself
that there were some things which a man could not
do. But although he was not altogether satisfied with
what had occurred in Portman Square, he felt as he
walked down arm-in-arm with Fitzgibbon that Mr. Low
and Mr. Low's counsels must be scattered to the winds.
He had thrown the die in consenting to stand for
Loughshane, and must stand the hazard of the cast.
"Bedad, Phin, my boy, I don't think you 're listen-
ing to me at all," said Laurence Fitzgibbon.
"I'm listening to every word you say," said Phineas.
"And if I have to go down to the ould country
again this session, you '11 go with me?"
"If I can I will."
"That's my boy! And it's I that hope you '11
have the chance. What's the good of turning these
fellows out if one is n't to get something for one's
trouble?"
CHAPTER VII.
MR. AND MRS. BUNCE.
It was three o'clock on the Thursday night before
Mr. Daubeny's speech was finished. I do not think
that there was any truth in the allegation made at the
time, that he continued on his legs an hour longer than
the necessities of his speech required, in order that five
or six very ancient whigs might be wearied out and
shrink to their beds. Let a whig have been ever so
ancient and ever so weary, he would not have been
allowed to depart from Westminster Hall that night.
Sir Everard Powell was there in his bath-chair at
twelve, with a doctor on one side of him and a friend
on the other, in some purlieu of, the House, and did
his duty like a fine old Briton as he was. That speech
of Mr. Daubeny's will never be forgotten by any one
who heard it. Its studied bitterness had perhaps never
been equalled, and yet not a word was uttered for the
saying of which he could be accused of going beyond
the limits of parliamentary antagonism. It is true that
personalities could not have been closer, that accusa-
tions of political dishonesty and of almost worse than
political cowardice and falsehood could not have been
clearer, that no words in the language could have at-
tributed meaner motives or more unscrupulous conduct.
But, nevertheless, Mr. Daubeny in all that he said was
parliamentary, and showed himself to be a gladiator
thoroughly well trained for the arena in which he had
78
MR. AND MRS. BUNCE.
79
descended to the combat. His arrows were poisoned,
and his lance was barbed, and his shot was heated red,
—because such things are allowed. He did not poi-
son his enemies' wells or use Greek fire, because those
things are not allowed. He knew exactly the rules of
the combat. Mr. Mildmay sat and heard him without
once raising his hat from his brow, or speaking a word
to his neighbour. Men on both sides of the House
said that Mr. Mildmay suffered terribly; but as Mr.
Mildmay uttered no word of complaint to any one,
and was quite ready to take Mr. Daubeny by the hand
the next time they met in company, I do not know
that any one was able to form a true idea of Mr. Mild-
may's feelings. Mr. Mildmay was an impassive man
who rarely spoke of his own feelings, and no doubt
sat with his hat low down over his eyes in order that
no man might judge of them on that occasion by the
impression on his features. "If he could have left off
half an hour earlier it would have been perfect as an
attack," said Barrington Erie in criticising Mr. Dau-
beny's speech, "but he allowed himself to sink into
comparative weakness, and the glory of it was over
before the end."—Then came the division. The lib-
erals had 333 votes to 314 for the conservatives, and
therefore counted a majority of 19. It was said that
so large a number of members had never before voted
at any division.
"I own I 'm disappointed," said Barrington Erie to
Mr. Rattler.
"I thought there would be twenty," said Mr. Rattler.
"I never went beyond that. I knew they would have
old Moody up, but I thought Gunning would have
been too hard for them."
80 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
%
"They say they 've promised them both peerages."
"Yes;—if they remain in. But they know they 're
going out."
"They must go, with such a majority against them,"
said Barrington Erie.
"Of course they must," said Mr. Rattler. "Lord De
Terrier wants nothing better, but it is rather hard upon
poor Daubeny. I never saw such an unfortunate old
Tantalus."
"He gets a good drop of real water now and again,
and I don't pity him in the least. He's clever of
course, and has made his own way, but I Ve always a
feeling that he has no business where he is. I suppose
we shall know all about it at Brooks's by one o'clock
to-morrow."
Phineas, though it had been past five before he went
to bed,—for there had been much triumphant talking
to be done among liberal members after the division,
—was up at his breakfast at Mrs. Bunce's lodgings by
nine. There was a matter which he was called upon
to settle immediately in which Mrs. Bunce herself was
much interested, and respecting which he had promised
to give an answer on this very morning. A set of very
dingy chambers up two pairs of stairs at No. 9, Old
Square, Lincoln's Inn, to which Mr. Low had recom-
mended him to transfer himself and all his belongings,
were waiting his occupation, should he resolve upon
occupying them. If he intended to commence opera-
tions as a barrister, it would be necessary that he
should have chambers and a clerk; and before he had
left Mr. Low's house on Sunday evening he had al-
most given that gentleman authority to secure for him
these rooms at No; 9. "Whether you remain in Par-
MR. AND MRS. BUNCE.
8l
liament or no, you must make a beginning," Mr. Low
had said;—" and how are you ever to pretend to be-
gin if you don't have chambers?" Mr. Low hoped
that he might be able to wean Phineas away from his
Parliament bauble; that he might induce the young
barrister to give up his madness, if not this session or
the next, at any rate before a third year had com-
menced. Mr. Low was a persistent man, liking very
much when he did like, and loving very strongly when
he did love. He would have many a tug for Phineas
Finn before he would allow that false Westminster
Satan to carry off the prey as altogether his own. If
he could only get Phineas into the dingy chambers he
might do much!
But Phineas had now become so imbued with the
atmosphere of politics, had been so breathed upon by
Lady Laura and Barrington Erie, that he could no
longer endure the thought of any other life than that
of a life spent among the lobbies. A desire to help to
beat the conservatives had fastened on his very soul,
and almost made Mr. Low odious in his eyes. He
was afraid of Mr. Low, and for the nonce would not
go to him any more;—but he must see the porter at
Lincoln's Inn, he must write a line to Mr. Low, and
he must tell Mrs. Bunce that for the present he would
still keep on her rooms. His letter to Mr. Low was
as follows:—
"Great Marlborough Street, May, 186—:.
"My dear Low,<—I have made up my mind
against taking the chambers, and am now off to the
Inn to say that I shall not want them. Of course, I
know what you will think of me, and it is very griev-
ous to me to have to bear the hard judgment of a man
82 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
whose opinion I value so highly; but, in the teeth of
your terribly strong arguments, I think that there is
something to be said on my side of the question. This
seat in Parliament has come in my way by chance, and
I think it would be pusillanimous in me to reject it,
feeling, as I do, that a seat in Parliament confers very
great honour. I am, too, very fond of politics, and
regard legislation as the finest profession going. Had
I any one dependent on me, I probably might not be
justified in following the bent of my inclination. But
I am all alone in the world, and therefore have a right
to make the attempt. If, after a trial of one or two
sessions, I should fail in that which I am attempting,
it will not even then be too late to go back to the bet-
ter way. I can assure you that at any rate it is not
my intention to be idle.
"I know very well how you will fret and fume over
what I say, and how utterly I shall fail in bringing you
round to my way of thinking; but as I must write to
tell you of my decision, I cannot refrain from defend-
ing myself to the best of my ability.
"Yours always faithfully,
"Phineas Finn."
Mr. Low received this letter at his chambers, and
when he had read it, he simply pressed his lips closely *
together, placed the sheet of paper back in its envelope,
and put it into a drawer at his left hand. Having
done this, he went on with what work he had before
him, as though his friend's decision were a matter of
no consequence to him. As far as he was concerned
the thing was done, and there should be an end of it.
So he told himself; but nevertheless his mind was full
MR. AND MRS. BUNCE.
83
of it all day; and, though he wrote not a word of an-
swer to Phineas, he made a reply within his own mind
to every one of the arguments used in the letter.
"Great honours! How can there be honour in what
comes, as he says, by chance? He has n't sense
enough to understand that the honour comes from the
mode of winning it, and from the mode of wearing it;
and that the very fact of his being member for Lough-
shane at this instant simply proves that Loughshane
should have had no privilege to return a member!
No one dependent on him! Are not his father and
his mother and his sisters dependent on him as long as
he must eat their bread till he can earn bread of his
own? He will never earn bread of his own. He will
always be eating bread that others have earned." In
this way, before the day was over, Mr. Low became
very angry, and swore to himself that he would have
nothing more to say to Phineas Finn. But yet he
found himself creating plans for encountering and con-
quering the parliamentary fiend who was at present so
cruelly potent with his pupil. It was not till the third
evening that he told his wife that Finn had made up
his mind not to take chambers. "Then I would have
nothing more to say to him," said Mrs. Low savagely.
"For the ^present I can have nothing more to say to
him." "But neither now nor ever," said Mrs. Low,
with great emphasis; "he has been false to you."
"No," said Mr. Low, who was a man thoroughly and
thoughtfully just at all points; "he has not been false
to me, He has always meant what he has said, when
he was saying it. But he is weak and blind, and flies
like a moth to the candle; one pities the poor moth, and
would save him a stump of his wing if it be possible."
#4 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
Phineas, when he had written his letter to Mr. Low,
started off for Lincoln's Inn, making his way through
the well-known dreary streets of Soho, and through St.
Giles's, to Long Acre. He knew every corner well, for
he had walked the same road almost daily for the last
three years. He had conceived a liking for the route,
which he might easily have changed without much ad-
dition to the distance, by passing through Oxford Street
and Holborn; but there was an air of business on
which he prided himself in going by the most direct
passage, and he declared to himself very often that
things dreary and dingy to the eye might be good in
themselves. Lincoln's Inn itself is dingy, and the Law
Courts therein are perhaps the meanest in which Equity
ever disclosed herself. Mr. Low's three rooms in the
Old Square, each of them brown with the binding of
law books and with the dust collected on law papers,
and with furniture that had been brown always, and
had become browner with years, were perhaps as unat-
tractive to the eye of a young pupil as any rooms which
were ever entered. And the study of the Chancery
law itself is not an alluring pursuit till the mind has
come to have some insight into the beauty of its ulti-
mate object. Phineas, during his three years' course
of reasoning on these things, had taught himself to be-
lieve that things ugly on the outside might be very
beautiful within; and had therefore come to prefer
crossing Poland Street and Soho Square, and so con-
tinuing his travels by the Seven Dials and Long Acre.
His morning walk was of a piece with his morning
studies, and he took pleasure in the gloom of both. But
now the taste of his palate had been already changed
by the glare of the lamps in and about palatial West-
MR. AND MRS. BUNCE.
85
minster, and he found that St. Giles's was disagreeable.
The ways about Pall Mall and across the Park to Par-
liament Street, or to the Treasury, were much pleas-
anter, and the new offices in Downing Street, already
half built, absorbed all that interest which he had
hitherto been able to take in the suggested but uncom-
menced erection of new Law Courts in the neighbour-
hood of Lincoln's Inn. As h,e made his way to the
porter's lodge under the great gateway of Lincoln's
Inn, he told himself that he was glad that he had
escaped, at any rate for a while, from a life so dull and
dreary. If he could only sit in chambers at the Treas-
ury instead of chambers in that old court, how much
pleasanter it would be! After all, as regarded that
question of income, it might well be that the Treasury
chambers should be the more remunerative, and the
more quickly remunerative, of the two. And, as he
thought, Lady Laura might be compatible with the
Treasury chambers and Parliament, but could not pos-
sibly be made compatible with Old Square, Lincoln's
Inn.
But nevertheless there came upon him a feeling of
sorrow when the old man at the lodge seemed to be
rather glad than otherwise that he did not want the
chambers. "Then Mr. Green can have them," said the
porter; "that '11 be good news for Mr. Green. I don't
know what the gen'lemen '11 do for chambers if things
goes on as they 're going." Mr. Green was welcome
to the chambers as far as Phineas was concerned; but
Phineas felt nevertheless a certain amount of regret
that he should have been compelled to abandon a
thing which was regarded both by the porter and by
Mr. Green as being so desirable. He had, however,
86 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
written his letter to Mr. Low, and made his promise
to Barrington Erie, and was bound to Lady Laura
Standish; and he walked out through the old gateway
into Chancery Lane, resolving that he would not even
visit Lincoln's Inn again for a year. There were cer-
tain books,—law books,—which he would read at such
intervals of leisure as politics might give him; but
within the precincts of the Inns of Court he would
not again put his foot for twelve months, let learned
pundits of the law,—such, for instance, as Mr. and
Mrs. Low,—say what they might.
He had told Mrs. Bunce, before he left his home
after breakfast, that he should for the present remain
under her roof. She had been much gratified, not
simply because lodgings in Great Marlborough Street
are less readily let than chambers in Lincoln's Inn, but
also because it was a great honour to her to have a
member of Parliament in her house. Members of Par-
liament are not so common about Oxford Street as they
are in the neighbourhood of Pall Mall and St. James's
Square. But Mr. Bunce, when he came home to his
dinner, did not join as heartily as he should have done
in his wife's rejoicing. Mr. Bunce was in the employ-
ment of certain copying law-stationers in Carey Street,
and had a strong belief in the law as a profession;—
but he had none whatever in the House of Commons.
"And he's given up going into chambers? " said Mr.
Bunce to his wife.
"Given it up altogether for the present," said Mrs.
Bunce.
"And he don't mean to have no clerk?" said Mr.
Bunce.
"Not unless it is for his Parliament work."
MR. AND MRS. BUNCE.
87
"There ain't no clerks wanted for that, and what's
worse, there ain't no fees to pay 'em. I '11 tell you
what it is, Jane;—if you don't look sharp there won't
be nothing to pay you before long."
"And he in Parliament, Jacob!"
"There ain't no salary for being in Parliament.
There are scores of them Parliament gents ain't got
so much as '11 pay their dinners for 'em. And then if
anybody does trust 'em, there's no getting at 'em to
make 'em pay as there is at other folk."
"I don't know that our Mr. Phineas will ever be
like that, Jacob."
"That's gammon, Jane. That's the way as women
gets themselves took in always. Our Mr. Phineas!
Why should our Mr. Phineas be better than anybody
else?"
"He's always acted handsome, Jacob."
"There was one time he could not pay his lodgings
for well-nigh nine months, till his governor come down
with the money. I don't know whether that was hand-
some. It knocked me about terrible, I know."
"He always meant honest, Jacob."
"I don't know that I care much for a man's mean-
ing when he runs short of money. How is he going
to see his way, with his seat in Parliament, and this
giving up of his profession? He owes us near a
quarter now."
"He paid me two months this morning, Jacob; so
he don't owe a farthing."
"Very well;—so much the better for us. I shall
just have a few words with Mr. Low, and see what he
says to it. For myself I don't think half so much of
Parliament folk as some do. They 're for promising
88 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
everything before they 's elected; but not one in
twenty of 'em is as good as his word when he gets
there."
Mr. Bunce was a copying journeyman, who spent
ten hours a day in Carey Street with a pen between
his fingers; and after that he would often spend two
or three hours of the night with a pen between his fin-
gers in Marlborough Street. He was a thoroughly
hard-working man, doing pretty well in the world, for
he had a good house over his head, and always could
find raiment and bread for his wife and eight children;
but, nevertheless, he was an unhappy man because he
suffered from political grievances, or, I should more
correctly say, that his grievances were semi-political
and semi-social. He had no vote, not being himself
the tenant of the house in Great Marlborough Street.
The tenant was a tailor who occupied the shop, whereas
Bunce occupied the whole of the remainder of the
premises. He was a lodger, and lodgers were not as
yet trusted with the franchise. And he had ideas,
which he himself admitted to be very raw, as to the
injustice of the manner in which he was paid for his
work. So much a folio, without reference to the way
in which his work was done, without regard to the suc-
cess of his work, with no questions asked of himself,
was, as he thought, no proper way of remunerating a
man for his labours. He had long since joined a
Trade Union, and for two years past had paid a sub-
scription of a shilling a week towards its funds. He
longed to be doing some battle against his superiors,
and to be putting himself in opposition to his employ-
ers ;—not that he objected personally to Messrs. Fools-
cap, Margin & Vellum, who always made much of him
MR. AND MRS. BUNCE.
89
as a useful man;—but because some such antagonism
would be manly, and the fighting of some battle would
be the right thing to do. "If Labour don't mean to
go to the wall himself," Bunce would say to his wife,
"Labour must look alive, and put somebody else
there."
Mrs. Bunce was a comfortable motherly woman,
who loved her husband but hated politics. As he had
an aversion to his superiors in the world because they
were his superiors, so had she a liking for them for the
same reason. She despised people poorer than herself,
and thought it a fair subject for boasting that her chil-
dren always had meat for dinner. If it was ever so
small a morsel, she took care that they had it, in order
that the boast might be maintained. The world had
once or twice been almost too much for her,—when,
for instance, her husband had been ill; and again, to
tell the truth, for the last three months of that long
period in which Phineas had omitted to pay his bills;
but she had kept a fine brave heart during those
troubles, and could honestly swear that the children
always had a bit of meat, though she herself had been
occasionally without it for days together. At such
times she would be more than ordinarily meek to Mr.
Margin, and especially courteous to the old lady who
lodged in her first-floor drawing-room,—for Phineas
lived up two pairs of stairs,—and she would excuse
such servility by declaring that there was no knowing
how soon she might want assistance. But her hus-
band, in such emergencies, would become furious and
quarrelsome, and would declare that Labour was going
to the wall, and that something very strong must be
done at once. That shilling which Bunce paid weekly
90 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
to the Union she regarded as being absolutely thrown
away,—as much so as though he cast it weekly into
the Thames. And she had told him so, over and
over again, making heart-piercing allusions to the
eight children and to the bit of meat. He would
always endeavour to explain to her that there was no
other way under the sun for keeping Labour from
being sent to the wall;—but he would do so hopelessly
and altogether ineffectually, and she had come to re-
gard him as a lunatic to the extent of that one weekly
shilling.
She had a woman's instinctive partiality for comeli-
ness in a man, and was very fond of Phineas Finn be-
cause he was handsome. And now she was very proud
of him because he was a member of Parliament. She
had heard,—from her husband, who had told her the
fact with much disgust,—that the sons of dukes and
earls go into Parliament, and she liked to think that
the fine young man to whom she talked more or less
every day should sit with the sons of dukes and earls.
When Phineas had really brought distress upon her by
owing her some thirty or forty pounds, she could never
bring herself to be angry with him,—because he was
handsome and because he dined out with lords. And
she had triumphed greatly over her husband, who had
desired to be severe upon his aristocratic debtor, when
the money had all been paid in a lump.
"I don't know that he's any great catch," Bunce
had said, when the prospect of their lodger's departure
had been debated between them.
"Jacob," said his wife, "I don't think you feel it
when you Ve got people respectable about you."
"The only respectable man I know," said Jacob,
MR. AND MRS. BUNCE.
91
"is the man as earns his bread; and Mr. Finn, as I
take it, is a long way from that yet."
Phineas returned to his lodgings before he went down
to his club, and again told Mrs. Bunce that he had al-
together made up his mind about the chambers. "If
you 11 keep me I shall stay here for the first session, I
dare say."
"Of course we shall be only too proud, Mr. Finn;
and though it may n't perhaps be quite the place for
a member of Parliament——"
"But I think it is quite the place."
"It 's very good of you to say so, Mr. Finn, and
we '11 do our very best to make you comfortable. Re-
spectable we are, I may say; and though Bunce is a
bit rough sometimes"
"Never to me, Mrs. Bunce."
"But he is rough,—and silly, too, with his radical
nonsense, paying a shilling a week to a nasty Union
just for nothing. Still he means well, and there ain't
a man who works harder for his wife and children;—
that I will say of him. And if he do talk politics"
"But I like a man to talk politics, Mrs. Bunce."
"For a gentleman in Parliament of course it 's
proper; but I never could see what good it could do
to a law-stationer; and when he talks of Labour going
to the wall, I always ask him whether he did n't get
his wages regular last Saturday. But, Lord love you,
Mr. Finn, when a man as is a journeyman has took
up politics and joined a Trade Union, he ain't no bet-
ter than a milestone for his wife to take and talk to
him."
After that Phineas went down to the Reform Club,
and made one of those who were buzzing there in little
92 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
crowds and uttering their prophecies as to future events.
Lord De Terrier was to go out. That was certain.
Whether Mr. Mildmay was to come in was uncertain.
That he would go to Windsor to-morrow morning was
not to be doubted; but it was thought very probable
that he might plead his age, and decline to undertake
the responsibility of forming a ministry. 5
"And what then?" said Phineas to his friend Fitz-
gibbon.
"Why, then there will be a choice out of three.
There is the Duke, who is the most incompetent man
in England; there is Monk, who is the most unfit;
and there is Gresham, who is the most unpopular. I
can't conceive it possible to find a worse Prime Minis-
ter than either of the three;—but the country affords
no other."
"And which would Mildmay name?"
"All of them,—one after the other, so as to make
the embarrassment the greater." That was Mr. Fitz-
gibbon's description of the crisis; but then it was un-
derstood that Mr. Fitzgibbon was given to romancing.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE NEWS ABOUT MR. MILDMAY AND SIR EVERARD.
Fitzgibbon and Phineas started together from Pall
Mall for Portman Square,—as both of them had prom-
ised to call on Lady Laura,—but Fitzgibbon turned in
at Brooks's as they walked up St. James's Square, and
Phineas went on by himself in a cab. "You should
belong here," said Fitzgibbon as his friend entered the
cab, and Phineas immediately began to feel that he
would have done nothing till he could get into Brooks's.
It might be very well to begin by talking politics at
the Reform Club. Such talking had procured for him
his seat at Loughshane. But that was done now, and
something more than talking was wanted for any fur-
ther progress. Nothing, as he told himself, of politi-
cal import was managed at the Reform Club. No
influence from thence was ever brought to bear upon
the adjustment of places under the Government, or
upon the arrangement of cabinets. It might be very
well to count votes at the Reform Club; but after the
votes had been counted,—had been counted success-
fully,—Brooks's was the place, as Phineas believed, to
learn at the earliest moment what would be the exact
result of the success. He must get into Brooks's, if it
might be possible for him. Fitzgibbon was not exactly
the man to propose him. Perhaps the Earl of Brent-
ford would do it.
Lady Laura was at home, and with her was sitting
93
94 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
—Mr. Kennedy. Phineas had intended to be triumph-
ant as he entered Lady Laura's room. He was there
with the express purpose of triumphing in the success
of their great party, and of singing a pleasant paean
in conjunction with Lady Laura. But his trumpet was
put out of tune at once when he saw Mr. Kennedy.
He said hardly a word as he gave his hand to Lady
Laura,—and then afterwards to Mr. Kennedy, who
chose to greet him with this show of cordiality.
"I hope you are satisfied, Mr. Finn," said Lady
Laura, laughing.
"Oh yes."
"And is that all? I thought to have found your
joy quite irrepressible."
"A bottle of soda-water, though it is a very lively
thing when opened, won't maintain its vivacity beyond
a certain period, Lady Laura."
"And you have had your gas let off already?"
"Well,—yes; at any rate, the sputtering part of it.
Nineteen is very well, but the question is whether we
might not have had twenty-one."
"Mr. Kennedy has just been saying that not a single
available vote has been missed on our side. He has
just come from Brooks's, and that seems to be what
they say there."
So Mr. Kennedy also was a member of Brooks's!
At the Reform Club there certainly had been an idea
that the number might have been swelled to twenty-one;
but then, as Phineas began to understand, nothing was
correctly known at the Reform Club. For an accurate
appreciation of the political balances of the day, you
must go to Brooks's.
"Mr. Kennedy must of course be right," said Phin-
NEWS ABOUT MR. MILDMAY AND SIR EVERARD. 95
eas. "I don't belong to Brooks's myself. But I was
only joking, Lady Laura. There is, I suppose, no
doubt that Lord De Terrier is out, and that is every-
thing."
"He has probably tendered his resignation," said
Mr. Kennedy.
"That is the same thing," said Phineas roughly.
"Not exactly," said Lady Laura. "Should there
be any difficulty about Mr. Mildmay, he might, at the
Queen's request, make another attempt."
"With a majority of nineteen against him!" said
Phineas. "Surely Mr. Mildmay is not the only man
in the country. There is the Duke, and there is Mr.
Gresham,—and there is Mr. Monk." Phineas had at
his tongue's end all the lesson that he had been able
to learn at the Reform Club.
"I should hardly think the Duke would venture,"
said Mr. Kennedy.
"Nothing venture, nothing have," said Phineas.
"It is all very well to say that the Duke is incompetent,
but I do not know that anything very wonderful is re-
quired in the way of genius. The Duke has held his
own in both Houses successfully, and he is both honest
and popular. I quite agree that a Prime Minister at
the present day should be commonly honest, and more
than commonly popular."
"So you are all for the Duke, are you?" said Lady
Laura, again smiling as she spoke to him.
"Certainly;—if we are deserted by Mr. Mildmajy
Don't you think so?"
"I don't find it quite so easy to make up my mind
as you do. I am inclined to think that Mr. Mildmay
will form a government; and as long as there is that
g6 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
prospect, I need hardly commit myself to an opinion
as to his probable successor." Then the objectionable
Mr. Kennedy took his leave, and Phineas was left
alone with Lady Laura.
"It is glorious;—is it not?" he began, as soon as
he found the field to be open for himself and his own
manoeuvring. But he was very young, and had not as
yet learned the manner in which he might best advance
his cause with such a woman as Lady Laura Standish.
He was telling her too clearly that he could have no
gratification in talking with her unless he could be
allowed to have her all to himself. That might be very
well if Lady Laura were in love with him, but would
hardly be the way to reduce her to that condition.
"Mr. Finn," said she, smiling as she spoke, "I am
sure that you did not mean it, but you were uncourt-
eous to my friend Mr. Kennedy."
"Who? I? Was I? Upon my word, I did n't
intend to be uncourteous."
"If I had thought you had intended it, of course I
could not tell you of it. And now I take the liberty;
—for it is a liberty"
"Oh no."
"Because I feel so anxious that you should do noth-
ing to mar your chances as a rising man."
"You are only too kind to me,—always."
"I know how clever you are, and how excellent are
all your instincts; but I see that you are a little impet-
uous. I wonder whether you will be angry if I take
upon myself the task of mentor."
"Nothing you could say would make me angry,—
though you might make me very unhappy."
"I will not do that if I can help it. A mentor ought
NEWS ABOUT MR. MILDMAY AND SIR EVERARD. 97
to be very old, you know, and I am infinitely older
than you are."
"I should have thought it was the reverse;—indeed,
I may say that I know that it is," said Phineas.
"I am not talking of years. Years have very little
to do with the comparative ages of men and women.
A woman at forty is quite old, whereas a man at forty
is young." Phineas, remembering that he had put
down Mr. Kennedy's age as forty in his own mind,
frowned when he heard this, and walked about the
room in displeasure. "And therefore," continued
Lady Laura, "I talk to you as though I were a kind
of grandmother."
"You shall be my great-grandmother if you will only
be kind enough to me to say what you really think."
"You must not then be so impetuous, and you must
be a little more careful to be civil to persons to whom
you may not take any particular fancy. Now Mr.
Kennedy is a man who may be very useful to you."
"I do not want Mr. Kennedy to be of use to me."
"That is what I call being impetuous,—being young,
—being a boy. Why should not Mr. Kennedy be of
use to you as well as any one else? You do not mean
to conquer the world all by yourself."
"No;—but there is something mean to me in the
expressed idea that I should make use of any man,—
and more especially of a man whom I don't like."
"And why do you not like him, Mr. Finn?"
"Because he is one of my Dr. Fells."
"You don't like him simply because he does not talk
much. That may be a good reason why you should not
make of him an intimate companion,—because you like
talkative people; but it should be no ground for dislike."
98 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
Phineas paused for a moment before he answered
her, thinking whether or not it would be well to ask
her some question which might produce from her a
truth which he would not like to hear. Then he did
ask it. "And do you like him? " he said.
She too paused, but only for a second. "Yes,—I
think I may say that I do like him."
"No more than that?"
"Certainly no more than that;—but that I think is
a great deal."
"I wonder what you would say if any one asked
you whether you liked me," said Phineas, looking away
from her through the window.
"Just the same;-—but without the doubt, if the per-
son who questioned me had any right to ask the ques-
tion. There are not above one or two who could
have such a right."
"And I was wrong, of course, to ask it about Mr.
Kennedy," said Phineas, looking out into the Square.
"I did not say so."
"But I see you think it."
"You see nothing of the kind. I was quite willing
to be asked the question by you, and quite willing to
answer it. Mr. Kennedy is a man of great wealth."
"What can that have to do with it?"
"Wait a moment, you impetuous Irish boy, and
hear me out." Phineas liked being called an impet-
uous Irish boy, and came close to her, sitting where he
could look up into her face; and then came a smile
upon his own, and he was very handsome. "I say
that he is a man of great wealth," continued Lady
Laura; "and as wealth gives influence, he is of great
use,—politically,—to the party to which he belongs."
NEWS ABOUT MR. MILDMAY AND SIR EVERARD. 99
"Oh, politically!"
"Am I to suppose you care nothing for politics?
To such men, to men who think as you think, who are
to sit on the same benches with yourself, and go into
the same lobby, and be seen at the same club, it is your
duty to be civil both for your own sake and for that
of the cause. It is for the hermits of society to indulge
in personal dislikings,—for men who have never been
active and never mean to be active. I had been tell-
ing Mr. Kennedy how much I thought of you,—as a
good liberal."
"And I came in and spoilt it all."
"Yes, you did. You knocked down my little house,
and I must build it all up again."
"Don't trouble yourself, Lady Laura."
"I shall. It wiH be a great deal of trouble,—a great
deal, indeed; but I shall take it. I mean you to be
very intimate with Mr. Kennedy, and to shoot his
grouse, and to stalk his deer, and to help to keep him
in progress as a liberal member of Parliament. I am
quite prepared to admit, as a friend, that he would go
back without some such help."
"Oh;—I understand."
"I do not believe that you do understand at all, but
I must endeavour to make you do so by degrees. If
you are to be my political pupil, you must at any rate
be obedient. The next time you meet Mr. Kennedy,
ask him his opinion instead of telling him your own.
He has been in Parliament twelve years, and he was a
good deal older than you when he began." At this
moment a side door was opened, and the red-haired,
red-bearded man whom Phineas had seen before e$-,
tered the room. He hesitated a moment, as though'
lOO PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
he were going to retreat again, and then began to pull
about the books and toys which lay on one of the dis-
tant tables, as though he were in quest of some article.
And he would have retreated had not Lady Laura
called to him.
"Oswald," she said, "let me introduce you to Mr.
Finn. Mr. Finn, I do not think you have ever met
my brother, Lord Chiltern." Then the two young
men bowed, and each of them muttered something.
"Do not be in a hurry, Oswald. You have nothing
special to take you away. Here is Mr. Finn come to
tell us who are all the possible new Prime Ministers.
He is uncivil enough not to have named papa."
"My father is out of the question," said Lord
Chiltern.
"Of course he is," said Lady Laura; "but I may
be allowed my little joke."
"I suppose he will at any rate be in the Cabinet,"
said Phineas.
"I know nothing whatever about politics," said Lord
Chiltern.
"I wish you did," said his sister,—" with all my
heart."
"I never did,—and I never shall, for all your wish-
ing. It's the meanest trade going, I think, and I'm
sure it's the most dishonest. They talk of legs on the
turf, and of course there are legs; but what are they
to the legs in the House? I don't know whether you
are in Parliament, Mr. Finn."
"Yes, I am; but do not mind me."
"I beg your pardon. Of course there are honest
men there, and no doubt you are one of them."
:" He is indifferent honest,—as yet," said Lady Laura.
NEWS ABOUT MR. MILDMAY AND SIR EVERARD. IOI
"I was speaking of men who go into Parliament to
look after Government places/' said Lord Chiltern.
"That is just what I 'm doing," said Phineas.
"Why should not a man serve the Crown? He has
to work very hard for what he earns."
"I don't believe that the most of them work at all.
However, I beg your pardon. I did n't mean you in
particular."
"Mr. Finn is such a thorough politician that he will
never forgive you," said Lady Laura.
"Yes, I will," said Phineas, "and I '11 convert him
some day. If he does come into the House, Lady
Laura, I suppose he '11 come on the right side?"
"I '11 never go into the House, as you call it," said
Lord Chiltern. "But, I '11 tell you what; I shall be
very happy if you '11 dine with me to-morrow at Mor-
oni's. They give you a capital little dinner at Moroni's,
and they've the best Chateau Yquem in London."
u Do," said Lady Laura, in a whisper. "Oblige me."
Phineas was engaged to dine with one of the Vice-
Chancellors on the day named. He had never before
dined at the house of this great law luminary, whose
acquaintance he had made through Mr. Low, and he
had thought a great deal of the occasion. Mrs. Free-
mantle had sent him the invitation nearly a fort-
night ago, and he understood there was to be an elab-
orate dinner-party. He did not know it for a fact,
but he was in hopes of meeting the expiring Lord
Chancellor. He considered it to be his duty never to
throw away such a chance. He would in all respects
have preferred Mr. Freemantle's dinner in Eaton Place,
dull and heavy though it might probably be, to the
chance of Lord Chiltern's companions at Moroni's.
102 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
*
Whatever might be the faults of our hero, he was not
given to what is generally called dissipation by the
world at large,—by which the world means self-indul-
gence. He cared not a brass farthing for Moroni's
Chateau Yquem, nor for the wondrously studied repast
which he would doubtless find prepared for him at
that celebrated establishment in St. James's Street;—
not a farthing as compared with the chance of meeting
so great a man as Lord Moles. And Lord Chiltern's
friends might probably be just the men whom he would
not desire to know. But Lady Laura's request over-
rode everything with him. She had asked him to oblige
her, and of course he would do so. Had he been go-
ing to dine with the incoming Prime Minister, he would
have put off his engagement at her request. He was
not quick enough to make an answer without hesita-
tion; but after a moment's pause he said he should be
most happy to dine with Lord Chiltern at Moroni's.
"That's right; 7.30 sharp,—only I can tell you you
won't meet any other members." Then the servant
announced more visitors, and Lord Chiltern escaped
out of the room before he was seen by the new-comers.
These were Mrs. Bonteen and Laurence Fitzgibbon,
and then Mr. Bonteen,—and after them Mr. Rattler
the Whip, who was in a violent hurry, and did not stay
there a moment, and then Barrington Erie and young
Lord James Fitz-Howard, the youngest son of the
Duke of St. Bungay. In twenty or thirty minutes
there was a gathering of liberal political notabilities in
Lady Laura's drawing-room. There were two great
pieces of news by which they were all enthralled. Mr.
Mildmay would not be Prime Minister, and Sir Everard
Powell was—dead. Of course nothing quite positive
NEWS ABOUT MR. MILDMAY AND SIR EVERARD. 103
could be known about Mr. Mildmay. He was to be
with the Queen at Windsor on the morrow at eleven
o'clock, and it was improbable that he would tell his
mind to any one before he told it to her Majesty.
But there was no doubt that he had engaged "the
Duke,"—so he was called by Lord James,—to go down
to Windsor with him, that he might be in readiness if
wanted. "I have learned that at home," said Lord
James, who had just heard the news from his sister,
who had heard it from the Duchess. Lord James was
delighted with the importance given to him by his
fathers coming journey. From this, and from other
equally well-known circumstances, it was surmised that
Mr. Mildmay would decline the task proposed to him.
This, nevertheless, was only a surmise,—whereas the
fact with reference to Sir Everard was fully substan-
tiated. The gout had flown to his stomach, and he
was dead. "By yes; as dead as a herring," said
Mr. Rattler, who at that moment, however, was not
within hearing of either of the ladies present. And
then he rubbed his hands, and looked as though he
were delighted. And he was delighted,—not because
his old friend Sir Everard was dead, but by the excite-
ment of the tragedy. "Having done so good a deed
in his last moments," said Laurence Fitzgibbon, "we
may take it for granted that he will go straight to
heaven." "I hope there will be no crowner's quest,
Rattler," said Mr. Bonteen; "if there is I don't know
how you '11 get out of it."
"I don't see anything in it so horrible," said Mr.
Rattler. "If a fellow dies leading his regiment we
don't think anything of it. Sir Everard's vote was of
more service to his country than anything that a colo-
104 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
nel or a captain can do." But nevertheless I think
that Mr. Rattler was somewhat in dread of future
newspaper paragraphs, should it be found necessary
to summon a coroner's inquest to sit upon poor Sir
Everard.
While this was going on Lady Laura took Phineas
apart for a moment. "I am so much obliged to you;
I am indeed," she said.
"What nonsense."
"Never mind whether it 's nonsense or not;—but I
am. I can't explain it all now, but I do so want you
to know my brother. You may be of the greatest ser-
vice to him,—of the very greatest. He is not half so
bad as people say he is. In many ways he is very
good,-^-very good. And he is very clever."
"At any rate I will think and believe no ill of him."
"Just so;—do not believe evil of him,—not more
evil than you see. I am so anxious,—so very anxious
to try to put him on his legs, and I find it so difficult
to get any connecting link with him. Papa will not
speak with him,—because of money."
"But he is friends with you."
"Yes; I think he loves me. I saw how distasteful
it was to you to go to him ;—and probably you were
engaged?"
"One can always get off those sort of things if there
is an object."
"Yes;—just so. And the object was to oblige me;
—was it not?"
"Of course it was. But I must go now. We are
to hear Daubeny's statement at four, and I would not
miss it for worlds."
"I wonder whether you would go abroad with my
NEWS ABOUT MR. MILDMAY AND SIR EVERARD. 105
brother in the autumn? But I have no right to think
of such a thing;—have I? At any rate I will not
think of it yet. Good-bye,—I shall see you perhaps
on Sunday if you are in town."
Phineas walked down to Westminster with his mind
very full of Lady Laura and Lord Chiltern. What
did she mean by her affectionate manner to himself,
and what did she mean by the continual praises which
she lavished upon Mr. Kennedy? Of whom was she
thinking most, of Mr. Kennedy, or of him? She had
called herself his mentor. Was the description of her ^
feelings towards himself, as conveyed in that name, of t
a kind to be gratifying to him? No;—he thought
not. But then might it not be within his power to
change the nature of those feelings? She was not in
love with him at present. He could not make any
boast to himself on that head. But it might be within
his power to compel her to love him. The female
mentor might be softened. That she could not love
Mr. Kennedy, he thought that he was quite sure.
There was nothing like love in her manner to Mr.
Kennedy. As to Lord Chiltern, Phineas would do
whatever might be in his power. All that he really
knew of Lord Chiltern was that he had gambled and
that he had drunk.
CHAPTER IX.
THE NEW GOVERNMENT.
In the House of Lords that night, and in the House
of Commons, the outgoing Ministers made their ex-
planations. As our business at the present moment is
with the Commons, we will confine ourselves to their
chamber, and will do so the more willingly because
the upshot of what was said in the two places was the
same. The outgoing Ministers were very grave, very
self-laudatory, and very courteous. In regard to court-
esy it may be declared that no stranger to the ways of
the place could have understood how such soft words
could be spoken by Mr. Daubeny, beaten, so quickly
after the very sharp words which he had uttered when
he only expected to be beaten. He announced to his
fellow-commoners that his right honourable friend and
colleague Lord De Terrier had thought it right to retire
from the Treasury. Lord De Terrier, in constitutional
obedience to the vote of the Lower House, had re-
signed, and the Queen had been graciously pleased to
accept Lord De Terrier's resignation. Mr. Daubeny
could only inform the House that her Majesty had sig-
nified her pleasure that Mr. Mildmay should wait upon
her to-morrow at eleven o'clock. Mr. Mildmay,—so
Mr. Daubeny understood,—would be with her Majesty
to-morrow at that hour. Lord De Terrier had found
it to be his duty to recommend her Majesty to send
106
THE NEW GOVERNMENT.
for Mr. Mildmay. Such was the real import of Mr.
Daubeny's speech. That further portion of it in which
he explained with blandest, most beneficent, honey-
flowing words that his party would have done every-
thing that the country could require of any party, had
the House allowed it to remain on the Treasury
benches for a month or two,—and explained also that
his party would never recriminate, would never return
evil for evil, would in no wise copy the factious opposi-
tion of their adversaries; that his party would now, as
it ever had done, carry itself with the meekness of the
dove, and the wisdom of the serpent;—all this, I say,
was so generally felt by gentlemen on both sides of the
House to be "leather and prunella," that very little
attention was paid to it. The great point was that
Lord De Terrier had resigned, and that Mr. Mildmay
had been summoned to Windsor.
The Queen had sent for Mr. Mildmay in compliance
with advice given to her by Lord De Terrier. And yet
Lord De Terrier and his first lieutenant had used all
the most practised efforts of their eloquence for the
last three days in endeavouring to make their country-
men believe that no more unfitting Minister than Mr.
Mildmay ever attempted to hold the reins of office!
Nothing had been too bad for them to say of Mr.
Mildmay,—and yet, in the very first moment in which
they found themselves unable to carry on the Govern-
ment themselves, they advised the Queen to send for
that most incompetent and baneful statesman! We
who are conversant with our own methods of politics,
see nothing odd in this, because we are used to it;
but surely in the eyes of strangers our practice must be
very singular. There is nothing like it in any other
108 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
country—nothing as yet. Nowhere else is there the
same good-humoured, aifectionate, prize-fighting feroc-
ity in politics. The leaders of our two great parties
are to each other exactly as are the two champions of
the ring who knock each other about for the belt and
for five hundred pounds a side once in every two years.
How they fly at each other, striking as though each
blow should carry death if it were but possible! And
yet there is no one whom the Birmingham Bantam
respects so highly as he does Bill Burns the Brighton
Bully, or with whom he has so much delight in discuss-
ing the merits of a pot of half-and-half. And so it was
with Mr. Daubeny and Mr. Mildmay. In private life
Mr. Daubeny almost adulated his elder rival,—and Mr.
Mildmay never omitted an opportunity of taking Mr.
Daubeny warmly by the hand. It is not so in the
United States. There the same political enmity exists,
but the political enmity produces private hatred. The
leaders of parties there really mean what they say
when they abuse each other, and are in earnest when
they talk as though they were about to tear each other
limb from limb. I doubt whether Mr. Daubeny would
have injured a hair of Mr. Mildmay's venerable head,
even for an assurance of six continued months in office.
When Mr. Daubeny had completed his statement,
Mr. Mildmay simply told the House that he had re-
ceived and would obey her Majesty's commands. The
House would of course understand that he by no means
meant to aver that the Queen would ever commission
him to form a ministry. But if he took no such com-
mand from her Majesty it would become his duty to
recommend her Majesty to impose the task upon some
other person. Then everything was said that had to
THE NEW GOVERNMENT. 109
be said, and members returned to their clubs. A cer-
tain damp was thrown over the joy of some excitable
liberals by tidings which reached the House during
Mr. Daubeny's speech. Sir Everard Powell was no
more dead than was Mr. Daubeny himself. Now it
is very unpleasant to find that your news is untrue,
when you have been at great pains to disseminate it.
"Oh, but he is dead," said Mr. Rattler. "Lady Powell
assured me half an hour ago," said Mr. Rattler's oppo-
nent, "that he was at that moment a great deal better
than he had been for the last three months. The
journey down to the House did him a world of good."
"Then we '11 have him down for every division," said
Mr. Rattler.
The political portion of London was in a ferment
for the next five days. On the Sunday morning it
was known that Mr. Mildmay had declined to put him-
self at the head of a liberal Government. He and the
Duke of St. Bungay, and Mr. Plantagenet Palliser,
had been in conference so often, and so long, that it
may almost be said they lived together in conference.
Then Mr. Gresham had been with Mr. Mildmay,—and
Mr. Monk also. At the clubs it was said by many
that Mr. Monk had been with Mr. Mildmay; but it
was also said very vehemently by others that no such
interview had taken place. Mr. Monk was a radical,
much admired by the people, sitting in Parliament for
that most radical of all constituencies, the Pottery
Hamlets, who had never as yet been in power. It
was the great question of the day whether Mr. Mild-
may would or would not ask Mr. Monk to join him;
and it was said by those who habitually think at every
period of change that the time has now come in which
IIO PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
the difficulties to forming a Government will at last be
found to be insuperable, that Mr. Mildmay could not
succeed either with Mr. Monk or without him. There
were at the present moment two sections of these gen-
tlemen,—the section which declared that Mr. Mildmay
had sent for Mr. Monk, and the section which declared
that he had not. But there were others, who perhaps
knew better what they were saying, by whom it was
asserted that the whole difficulty lay with Mr. Gresham.
Mr. Gresham was willing to serve with Mr. Mildmay,
—with certain stipulations as to the special seat in the
Cabinet which he himself was to occupy, and as to the
introduction of certain friends of his own; but,—so
said these gentlemen who were supposed really to un-
derstand the matter,—Mr. Gresham was not willing
to serve with the Duke and with Mr. Palliser. Now,
everybody who knew anything knew that the Duke
and Mr. Palliser were indispensable* to Mr. Mildmay.
And a liberal Government, with Mr. Gresham in the
opposition, could not live half through a session! All
Sunday and Monday these things were discussed; and
on the Monday Lord De Terrier absolutely stated to
the Upper House that he had received her Majesty's
commands to form another Government. Mr. Dau-
beny, in half-a-dozen most modest words,—in words
hardly audible, and most unlike himself, made his state-
ment in the Lower House to the same effect. Then
Mr. Rattler, and Mr. Bonteen, and Mr. Barrington Erie,
and Mr. Laurence Fitzgibbon aroused themselves and
swore that such things could not be. Should the prey
which they had won for themselves, the spoil of their
bows and arrows, be snatched from out of their very
mouths by treachery? Lord De Terrier and Mr.
THE NEW GOVERNMENT.
Ill
Daubeny could not venture even to make another
attempt unless they did so in combination with Mr.
Gresham. Such a combination, said Mr. Barrington
Erie, would be disgraceful to both parties, but would
prove Mr. Gresham to be as false as Satan himself.
Early on the Tuesday morning, when it was known
that Mr. Gresham had been at Lord De Terrier's house,
Barrington Erie was free to confess that he had always
been afraid of Mr. Gresham. "I have felt for years,"
said he, "that if anybody could break up the party it
would be Mr. Gresham."
On that Tuesday morning Mr. Gresham certainly
was with Lord De Terrier, but nothing came of it.
Mr. Gresham was either not enough like Satan for the
occasion, or else he was too closely like him. Lord
De Terrier did not bid high enough, or else Mr. Gresh-
am did not like biddings from that quarter. Nothing
then came from this attempt, and on the Tuesday after-
noon the Queen again sent for Mr. Mildmay. On the
Wednesday morning the gentlemen who thought that
the insuperable difficulties had at length arrived, began
to wear their longest faces, and to be triumphant with
melancholy forebodings. Now at last there was a
dead lock. Nobody could form a Government. It
was asserted that Mr. Mildmay had fallen at her Maj-
esty's feet dissolved in tears, and had implored to be
relieved from further responsibility. It was well known
to many at the clubs that the Queen had on that
morning telegraphed to Germany for advice. There
were men so gloomy as to declare that the Queen must
throw herself into the arms of Mr. Monk* unless Mr.
Mildmay would consent to rise from his knees and
once more buckle on his ancient armour. "Even that
112 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
would be better than Gresham," said Barrington Erie,
in his anger. "I '11 tell you what it is," said Rattler,
"we shall have Gresham and Monk together, and you
and I shall have to do their biddings." Mr. Barring-
ton Erie's reply to that suggestion I may not dare to
insert in these pages.
On the Wednesday night, however, it was known
that everything had been arranged, and before the
Houses met on the Thursday every place had been be-
stowed, either in reality or in imagination. The Times,
in its second edition on the Thursday, gave a list of
the Cabinet, in which four places out of fourteen were
rightly filled. On the Friday it named ten places aright,
and indicated the law offices, with only one mistake in
reference to Ireland; and on the Saturday it gave a
list of the Under Secretaries of State, and Secretaries
and Vice-Presidents generally, with wonderful correct-
ness as to the individuals, though the offices were a
little jumbled. The Government was at last formed
in a manner which everybody had seen to be the only
possible way in which a Government could be formed.
Nobody was surprised, and the week's work was re-
garded as though the regular routine of Government
making had simply been followed. Mr. Mildmay was
Prime Minister; Mr. Gresham was at the Foreign
Office; Mr. Monk was at the Board of Trade; the
Duke was President of the Council; the Earl of
Brentford was Privy Seal; and Mr. Palliser was Chan-
cellor of the Exchequer. Barrington Erie made a step
up in the world, and went to the Admiralty as Secre-
tary; Mr. Bonteen was sent again to the Admiralty;
and Laurence Fitzgibbon became a junior Lord of the
Treasury, Mr. Rattler was, of course, installed as
THE NEW GOVERNMENT. 113
Patronage Secretary to the same Board. Mr. Rattler
was perhaps the only man in the party as to whose
destination there could not possibly be a doubt. Mr.
Rattler had really qualified himself for a position in such
a way as to make all men feel that he would, as a mat-
ter of course, be called upon to fill it. I do not know
whether as much could be said on behalf of any other
man in the new Government.
During all this excitement, and through all these
movements, Phineas Finn felt himself to be left more
and more out in the cold. He had not been such
a fool as to suppose that any office would be offered
to him. He had never hinted at such a thing to his
one dearly intimate friend, Lady Laura. He had not
hitherto opened his mouth in Parliament. Indeed,
when the new Government was formed he had not
been sitting for above a fortnight. Of course nothing
could be done for him as yet. But, nevertheless, he
felt himself to be out in the cold. The very men who
had discussed with him the question of the division,—
who had discussed it with him because his vote was
then as good as that of any other member,—did not
care to talk to him about the distribution of places.
He, at any rate, could not be one of them. He, at
any rate, could not be a rival. He could neither mar
nor assist. He could not be either a successful or a
disappointed sympathiser,—because he could not him-
self be a candidate. The affair which perhaps disgusted
him more than anything else was the offer of an office,
not in the Cabinet, indeed, but one supposed to confer
high dignity,—to Mr. Kennedy. - Mr. Kennedy refused
the offer, and this somewhat lessened Finn's disgust,
but the offer itself made him unhappy.
114 PHINEAS* FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"I suppose it was made simply because of his
money," he said to Fitzgibbon.
"I don't believe that," said Fitzgibbon. "People
seem to think that he has got a head on his shoulders,
though he has got no tongue in it. I wonder at his
refusing it because of the Right Honourable."
"I am so glad that Mr. Kennedy refused," said
Lady Laura to him.
"And why? He would have been the Right Hon.
Robert Kennedy forever and ever." Phineas when
he said this did not as yet know exactly how it would
have come to pass that such honour,—the honour of
that enduring prefix to his name,—would have come
in the way of Mr. Kennedy had Mr. Kennedy accepted
the office in question; but he was very quick to learn
all these things, and, in the meantime, he rarely made
any mistake about them.
"What would that have been to him,—with his
wealth?" said Lady Laura. "He has a position of
his own and need not care for such things. There are
men who should not attempt what is called independ-
ence in Parliament. By doing so they simply decline
to make themselves useful. But there are a few whose
special walk in life it is to be independent, and, as it
were, unmoved by parties."
"Great Akinetoses! You know Orion," said
Phineas.
"Mr. Kennedy is not an Akinetos," said Lady
Laura.
"He holds a very proud position," said Phineas
ironically.
"A very proud position indeed," said Lady Laura,
in sober earnest.
THE NEW GOVERNMENT.
115
The dinner at Moroni's had been eaten, and Phineas
had given an account of the entertainment to Lord
Chiltern's sister. There had been only two other
guests, and both of them had been men on the turf.
u I was the first there," said Phineas, " and he surprised
me ever so much by telling me that you had spoken
to him of me before."
"Yes; I did so. I wish him to know you. I want
him to know some men who think of something besides
horses. He is very well educated, you know, and
would certainly have taken honours if he had not
quarrelled with the people at Christ Church."
"Did he take a degree?"
"No;—they sent him down. It is best always to
have the truth among friends. Of course you will
hear it some day. They expelled him because he
was drunk." Then Lady Laura burst out into tears,
and Phineas sat near her, and consoled her, and swore
that if in any way he could befriend her brother he
would do so.
Mr. Fitzgibbon at this time claimed a promise which
he said that Phineas had made to him,—that Phineas
would go over with him to Mayo to assist at his re-
election. And Phineas did go. The whole affair oc-
cupied but a week, and was chiefly memorable as
being the means of cementing the friendship which
existed between the two Irish members.
"A thousand a year!" said Laurence Fitzgibbon,
speaking of the salary of his office. "It is n't much;
is it? And every fellow to whom I owe a shilling will
be down upon me. If I had studied my own comfort,
I should have done the same as Kennedy."
CHAPTER X.
VIOLET EFFINGHAM.
It was now the middle of May, and a month had
elapsed since the terrible difficulty about the Queen's
Government had been solved. A month had elapsed,
and things had shaken themselves into their places with
more of ease and apparent fitness than men had given
them credit for possessing. Mr. Mildmay, Mr. Gresh-
am, and Mr. Monk were the best friends in the world,
swearing by each other in their own House, and sup-
ported in the other by as gallant a phalanx of whig
peers as ever were got together to fight against the
instincts of their own order in compliance with the in-
stincts of those below them. Lady Laura's father was
in the Cabinet, to Lady Laura's infinite delight. It
was her ambition to be brought as near to political
action as was possible for a woman without surrender-
ing any of the privileges of feminine inaction. That
women should even wish to have votes at parliament-
ary elections was to her abominable, and the cause
of the Rights of Women generally was odious to her;
but, nevertheless, for herself, she delighted in hoping
that she too might be useful,—in thinking that she too
was perhaps, in some degree, politically powerful; and #
she had received considerable increase to such hopes
when her father accepted the Privy Seal. The Earl
himself was not an ambitious man, and, but for his
daughter, would have severed himself altogether £rer*
116
VIOLET EFFINGHAM.
117
political life before this time. He was an unhappy
man;—being an obstinate man, and having in his ob-
stinacy quarrelled with his only son. In his unhappi-
ness he would have kept himself alone, living in the
country, brooding over his wretchedness, were it not
for his daughter. On her behalf, and in obedience to
her requirements, he came yearly up to London, and,
perhaps in compliance with her persuasion, had taken
some part in the debates of the House of Lords. It is
easy for a peer to be a statesman, if the trouble of the
life be not too much for him. Lord Brentford was
now a statesman, if a seat in the Cabinet be proof of
statesmanship.
At this time, in May, there was staying with Lady
Laura in Portman Square a very dear friend of hers,
by name Violet Effingham. Violet Effingham was an
orphan, an heiress, and a beauty; with a terrible aunt,
one Lady Baldock, who was supposed to be the dragon
who had Violet, as a captive maiden, in charge. But
as Miss Effingham was of age, and was mistress of her
own fortune, Lady Baldock was, in truth, not omnipo-
tent as a dragon should be. The dragon, at any rate,
was not now staying in Portman Square, and the cap-
tivity of the maiden was therefore not severe at the
present moment. Violet Effingham was very pretty,
but could hardly be said to be beautiful. She was
small, with light crispy hair, which seemed to be ever
on the flutter round her brows, and which yet was
never a hair astray. She had sweet, soft grey eyes,
which never looked at you long, hardly for a moment,
—but which yet, in that half moment, nearly killed you
by the power of their sweetness. Her cheek was the
softest thing in nature, and the colour of it, when its
Il8 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
colour was fixed enough to be told, was a shade of pink
so faint and creamy that you would hardly dare to
call it by its name. Her mouth was perfect, not small
enough to give that expression of silliness which is so
common, but almost divine, with the temptation of its
full, rich, ruby Hps. Her teeth, which she but seldom
showed, were very even and very white, and there
rested on her chin the dearest dimple that ever acted
as a loadstar to men's eyes. The fault of her face, if
it had a fault, was in her nose,—which was a little too
sharp, and perhaps too small. A woman who wanted
to depreciate Violet Effingham had once called her a
pug-nosed puppet; but I, as her chronicler, deny that
she was pug-nosed,—and all the world who knew her
soon came to understand that she was no puppet. In
figure she was small, but not so small as she looked to be.
Her feet and hands were delicately fine, and there was
a softness about her whole person, an apparent com-
pressibility, which seemed to indicate that she might
go into very small compass. Into what compass and
how compressed, there were very many men who held
very different opinions. Violet Effingham was cer-
tainly no puppet. She was great at dancing,—as per-
haps might be a puppet,—but she was great also at
archery, great at skating,—and great, too, at hunting.
With reference to that last accomplishment, she and
Lady Baldock had had more than one terrible tussle,
not always with advantage to the dragon. "My dear
aunt," she had said once during the last winter, "I
am going to the meet with George,"—George was her
cousin, Lord Baldock, and was the dragon's son,—
"and there, let there be an end of it" "And you will
promise me that you will not go further," said the
VIOLET EFFINGHAM.
II9
dragon. "I will promise nothing to-day to any man
or to any woman," said Violet. What was to be said
to a young lady who spoke in this way, and who had
become of age only a fortnight since? She rode that
day the famous run from Bagnall's Gorse to Foulsham
Common, and was in at the death.
Violet Effingham was now sitting in conference
with her friend Lady Laura, and they were discussing
matters of high import,—of very high import, indeed,
—to the interests of both of them. "I do not ask
you to accept him," said Lady Laura.
"That is lucky," said the other, "as he has never
asked me."
"He has done much the same. You know that he
loves you."
"I know,—or fancy that I know,—that so many
men love me! But, after all, what sort of love is it?
It is just as when you and I, when we see something
nice in a shop, call it a dear duck of a thing, and tell
somebody to go and buy it, let the price be ever so
extravagant. I know my own position, Laura. I'm
a dear duck of a thing."
"You are a very dear thing to Oswald."
"But you, Laura, will some day inspire a grand pas-
sion,—or I dare say have already, for you are a great
deal too close to tell;—and then there will be cutting of
throats, and a mighty hubbub, and a real tragedy. I
shall never go beyond genteel comedy,—unless I run
away with somebody beneath me, or do something
awfully improper."
"Don't do that, dear."
"I should like to, because of my aunt. I should
indeed. If it were possible, without compromising
120 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
myself, I should like her to be told some morning that
I had gone off with the curate."
"How can you be so wicked, Violet!"
"It would serve her right,—and her countenance
would be so awfully comic. Mind, if it is ever to
come off, I must be there to see it. I know what she
would say as well as possible. She would turn to poor
Gussy. 'Augusta/ she would say,'I always expected
it. I always did.* Then I should come out and
curtsey to her, and say so prettily, 'Dear aunt, it was
only our little joke/ That's my line. But for you,
—you, if you planned it, would go off to-morrow with
Lucifer himself if you liked him."
"But failing Lucifer, I shall probably be very hum-
drum."
"You don't mean that there is anything settled,
Laura?"
"There is nothing settled,—or any beginning of any-
thing that ever can be settled. But I am not talking
about myself. He has told me that if you will accept
him, he will do anything that you and I may ask him."
"Yes;—he will promise."
"Did you ever know him to break his word?"
"I know nothing about him, my dear. How should
I?"
"Do not pretend to be ignorant and meek, Violet.
You do know him,—much better than most girls know
the men they marry. You have known him, more or
less intimately, all your life."
"But am I bound to marry him because of that ac-
cident?"
"No; you are not bound to marry him,—unless
you love him."
VIOLET EFFINGHAM.
121
"I do not love him," said Violet, with slow, em-
phatic words, and a little forward motion of her face,
as though she were specially eager to convince her
friend that she was quite in earnest in what she said.
"I fancy, Violet, that you are nearer to loving him
than any other man."
"I am not at all near to loving any man. I doubt
whether I ever shall be. It does not seem to me to
be possible to myself to be what girls call in love. I
can like a man. I do like, perhaps, half-a-dozen. I
like them so much that if I go to a house or to a party
it is quite a matter of importance to me whether this
man or that will or will not be there. And then I
suppose I flirt with them. At least Augusta tells me
that my aunt says that I do. But as for caring about
any one of them in the way of loving him,—wanting
to marry him, and have him all to myself, and that
sort of thing,—I don't know what it means."
"But you intend to be married some day," said
Lady Laura.
"Certainly I do. And I don't intend to wait very
much longer. I am heartily tired of Lady Baldock,
and though I can generally escape among my friends,
that is not sufficient. I am beginning to think that it
would be pleasant to have a house of my own. A girl
becomes such a Bohemian when she is always going
about, and does n't quite know where any of her things
are."
Then there was a silence between them for a few
minutes. Violet Effingham was doubled up in a corner
of a sofa, with her feet tucked under her, and her face
reclining upon one of her shoulders. And as she talked
she was playing with a little toy which was constructed
122 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
to take various shapes as it was flung this way or that
A bystander looking at her would have thought that
the toy was much more to her than the conversation.
Lady Laura was sitting upright, in a common chair,
at a table not far from her companion, and was mani-
festly devoting herself altogether to the subject that
was being discussed between them. She had taken no
lounging, easy attitude, she had found no employment
for her fingers, and she looked steadily at Violet as
she talked,—whereas Violet was looking only at the
little manikin which she tossed. And now Laura got
up and came to the sofa, and sat close to her friend.
Violet, though she somewhat moved one foot, so as to
*eem to make room for the other, still went on with
fier play.
"If you do marry, Violet, you must choose some
one man out of the lot."
"That's quite true, my dear. I certainly can't
marry them all."
"And how do you mean to make the choice?"
"I don't know. I suppose I shall toss up."
"I wish you would be in earnest with me."
"Well;—I will be in earnest. I shall take the first
that comes after I have quite made up my mind.
You '11 think it very horrible, but that is really what I
shall do. After all, a husband is very much like a
house or a horse. You don't take your house because
it's the best house in the world, but because just then
you want a house. You go and see a house, and if it's
very nasty you don't take it. But if you think it will
suit pretty well, and if you are tired of looking about
for houses, you do take it. That's the way one buys
one's horses,—and one's husbands."
VIOLET EFFINGHAM.
123
"And you have not made up your mind yet?"
"Not quite. Lady Baldock was a little more decent
than usual just before I left Baddingham. When I
told her that I meant to have a pair of ponies, she
merely threw up her hands and grunted. She did n't
gnash her teeth, and curse and swear, and declare to
me that I was a child of perdition."
"What do you mean by cursing and swearing?"
"She told me once that if I bought a certain little
dog, it would lead to my being everlastingly—you
know what. She is n't so squeamish as I am, and said
; it out."
"What did you do?"
"I bought the little dog, and it bit my aunt's heel.
I was very sorry then, and gave the creature to Mary
Rivers. He was such a beauty! I hope the perdi-
tion has gone with him, for I don't like Mary Rivers
at all. I had to give the poor beasty to somebody,
and Mary Rivers happened to be there. I told her
that Puck was connected with Apollyon, but she
did n't mind that. Puck was worth twenty guineas,
and I dare say she has sold him."
"Oswald may have an equal chance then among
the other favourites?" said Lady Laura, after another
pause.
"There are no favourites, and I will not say that
any man may have a chance. Why do you press me
about your brother in this way?"
"Because I am so anxious. Because it would save
him* Because you are the only woman for whom he has
ever eared, and because he loves you with all his heart;
and because his father would be reconciled to him to-
morrow if he heard that you and he were engaged."
124 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"Laura, my dear"
"Well."
"You won't be angry if I speak out?"
"Certainly not. After what I have said, you have
a right to speak out."
"It seems to me that all your reasons are reasons
why he should marry me;—not reasons why I should
marry him."
"Is not his love for you a reason?"
"No," said Violet, pausing,—and speaking the word
in the lowest possible whisper. "If he did not love
me, that, if known to me, should be a reason why I
should not marry him. Ten men may love me,—I
don't say that any man does"
"He does."
"But I can't many all the ten. And as for that
business of saving him-"
"You know what I mean!"
"I don't know that I have any special mission for
saving young men. I sometimes think that I shall
have quite enough to do to save myself. It is strange
what a propensity I feel for the wrong side of the post."
"I feel the strongest assurance that you will always
keep on the right side."
"Thank you, my dear. I mean to try, but I 'm
quite sure that the jockey who takes me in hand ought
to be very steady himself. Now, Lord Chiltern"
"Well,—out with it. What have you to say?"
"He does not bear the best reputation in this world
as a steady man. Is he altogether the sort of man
that mammas of the best kind are seeking for their
daughters? I like a roue* myself;—and a prig who
sits all night in the House, and talks about nothing
VIOLET EFFINGHAM.
but church-rates and suffrage, is to me intolerable. I
prefer men who are improper, and all that sort of
thing. If I were a man myself I should go in for
everything I ought to leave alone. I know I should.
But you see,—I'm not a man, and I must take care
of myself. The wrong side of a post for a woman is
so very much the wrong side. I like a fast man, but
I know that I must not dare to marry the sort of man
that I like."
"To be one of us, then,—the very first among us;
—would that be the wrong side?"
"You mean that to be Lady Chiltern in the present
tense, and Lady Brentford in the future, would be
promotion for Violet Effingham in the past?"
"How hard you are, Violet!"
"Fancy,—that it should come to this,—that you
should call me hard, Laura. I should like to be your
sister. I should like well enough to be your father's
daughter. I should like well enough to be Chiltern's
friend. I am his friend. Nothing that any one has
ever said of him has estranged me from him. I have
fought for him till I have been black in the face. Yes,
I have,—with my aunt. But I am afraid to be his
wife. The risk would be so great. Suppose that I
did not save him, but that he brought me to shipwreck
instead?"
"That could not be!"
"Could it not? I think it might be so very well.
When I was a child they used to be always telling me
to mind myself. It seems to me that a child and a
man need not mind themselves. Let them do what
they may, they can be set right again. Let them fall
as they will, you can put them on their feet. But a
120 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
woman has to mind herself;—and very hard work it
is when she has a dragon of her own driving her ever
the wrong way."
"I want to take you from the dragon."
"Yes;—and to hand me over to a griffin."
"The truth is, Violet, that you do not know Oswald.
He is not a griffin."
"I did not mean to be uncomplimentary. Take
any of the dangerous wild beasts you please. I merely
intend to point out that he is a dangerous wild beast.
I dare say he is noble-minded, and I will call him a
lion if you like it better. But even with a lion there
is risk."
"Of course there will be risk. There is risk with
every man,—unless you will be contented with the
prig you described. Of course there would be risk
with my brother. He has been a gambler."
"They say he is one still."
"He has given it up in part, and would entirely at
your instance."
"And they say other things of him, Laura."
"It is true. He has had paroxysms of evil life
which have well-nigh ruined him."
"And these paroxysms are so dangerous! Is he
not in debt?"
"He is,—but not deeply. Every shilling that he
owes would be paid;—every shilling. Mind, I know
all his circumstances, and I give you my word that
every shilling should be paid. He has never lied,—
and he has told me everything. His father could not
leave an acre away from him if he would, and would
not if he could."
"I did not ask as fearing that. I spoke only of a
VIOLET EFFINGHAM.
127
dangerous habit. A paroxysm of spending money is
apt to make one so uncomfortable. And then"
"Well."
"I don't know why I should make a catalogue of
your brother's weaknesses."
"You mean to say that he drinks too much?"
"I do not say so. People say so. The dragon
says so. And as I always find her sayings to be un-
true, I suppose this is like the rest of them."
"It is untrue if it be said of him as a habit."
"It is another paroxysm,—just now and then."
"Do not laugh at me, Violet, when I am taking his
part, or I shall be offended."
"But you see, if I am to be his wife, it is—rather
important."
"Still you need not ridicule me."
"Dear Laura, you know I do not ridicule you. You
know I love you for what you are doing. Would not
I do the same, and fight for him down to my nails if
I had a brother?"
"And therefore I want you to be Oswald's wife;—
because I know that you would fight for him. It is
not true that he is a—drunkard. Look at his hand,
which is as steady as yours. Look at his eye. Is
there a sign of it? He has been drunk, once or twice,
perhaps,—and has done fearful things."
"It might be that he would do fearful things to me."
"You never knew a man with a softer heart or with
a finer spirit. I believe as I sit here that if he were
married to-morrow, his vices would fall from him like
old clothes."
"You will admit, Laura, that there will be some risk
for the wife."
128 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"Of course there will be a risk. Is there not always
a risk?"
"The men in the City would call this double-dan-
gerous, I think," said Violet. Then the door was
opened, and the man of whom they were speaking
entered the room.
/
CHAPTER XL
LORD CHILTERN.
The reader has been told that Lord Chiltern was a
red man, and that peculiarity of his personal appear-
ance was certainly the first to strike a stranger. It
imparted a certain look of ferocity to him, which was
apt to make men afraid of him at first sight. Women
are not actuated in the same way, and are accustomed
to look deeper into men at the first sight than other
men will trouble themselves to do. His beard was
red, and was clipped, so as to have none of the softness
of waving hair. The hair on his head also was kept
short, and was very red,—and the colour of his face
was red. Nevertheless he was a handsome man, with
well-cut features, not tall, but very strongly built, and
with a certain curl in the corner of his eyelids which
gave to him a look of resolution,—which perhaps he
did not possess. He was known to be a clever man,
and when very young had had the reputation of being
a scholar. When he was three-and-twenty grey-haired
votaries of the turf declared that he would make his
fortune on the racecourse,—so clear-headed was he
as to odds, so excellent a judge of a horse's perform-
ances, and so gifted with a memory of events. When
he was five-and-twenty he had lost every shilling of a
fortune of his own, had squeezed from his father more
than his father ever chose to name in speaking of his
129
130 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
affairs to any one, and was known to be in debt. But
he had sacrificed himself on one or two memorable oc-
casions in conformity with turf laws of honour, and
men said of him, either that he was very honest or very
chivalric,—in acordance with the special views on the
subject of the man who was speaking. It was re-
ported now that he no longer owned horses on the
turf;—but this was doubted by some who could name
the animals which they said that he owned, and which
he ran in the name of Mr. Macnab,—said some; of Mr.
Pardoe,—said others; of Mr. Chickerwick,—said a
third set of informants. The fact was that Lord Chil-
tern at this moment had no interest of his own in any
horse upon the turf.
But all the world knew that he drank. He had
taken by the throat a proctor's bull-dog when he had
been drunk at Oxford, had nearly strangled the man,
and had been expelled. He had fallen through his
violence into some terrible misfortune at Paris, had
been brought before a public judge, and his name and
his infamy had been made notorious in every news-
paper in the two capitals. After that he had fought a
ruffian at Newmarket, and had really killed him with
his fists. In reference to this latter affray it had been
proved that the attack had been made on him, that
he had not been to blame, and that he had not been
drunk. After a prolonged investigation he had come
forth from that affair without disgrace. He would
have done so, at least, if he had not been heretofore
disgraced. But we all know how the man well spoken
of may steal a horse, while he who is of evil repute
may not look over a hedge. It was asserted widely
by many who were supposed to know all about every-
LORD CHILTERN.
thing that Lord Chiltern was in a fit of delirium tremens
when he killed the ruffian at Newmarket. The worst
of that latter affair was that it produced the total
estrangement which now existed between Lord Brent-
ford and his son. Lord Brentford would not believe
that his son was in that matter more sinned against
than sinning. "Such things do not happen to other
men's sons," he said, when Lady Laura pleaded for
her brother. Lady Laura could not induce Eer father
to see his son, but so far prevailed that no sentence
of banishment was pronounced against Lord Chiltern.
There was nothing to prevent the son sitting at his
father's table if he so pleased. He never did so please,
—but nevertheless he continued to live in the house in
Portman Square; and when he met the Earl, in the
hall, perhaps, or on the staircase, would simply bow to
him. Then the Earl would bow again, and shuffle on,
—and look very wretched, as no doubt he was. A
grown-up son must be the greatest comfort a man can
have,—if he be his father's best friend; but otherwise
he can hardly be a comfort. As it was in this house,
the son was a constant thorn in his father's side.
"What does he do when we leave London?" Lord
Brentford once said to his daughter.
"He stays here, papa."
"But he hunts still?"
"Yes, he hunts,—and he has a room somewhere at
an inn,—down in Northamptonshire. But he is mostly
in London. They have trains on purpose."
"What a life for my son!" said the Earl. "What
a life! Of course no decent person will let him into
his house." Lady Laura did not know what to say to
this, for in truth Lord Chiltern was not fond of staying
132 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
at the houses of persons whom the Earl would have
called decent.
General Effingham, the father of Violet, and Lord
Brentford had been the closest and dearest of friends.
They had been young men in the same regiment, and
through life each had confided in the other. When
the GeneraFs only son, then a youth of seventeen, was
killed in one of our grand New Zealand wars, the be-
reaved father and the Earl had been together for a
month in their sorrow. At that time Lord Chiltern's
career had still been open to hope,—and the one man
had contrasted his lot with the other. General Effing-
ham lived long enough to hear the Earl declare that
his lot was the happier of the two. Now the General
was dead, and Violet, the daughter of a second wife,
was all that was left of the Effinghams. This second
wife had been a Miss Plummer, a lady from the City
with much money, whose sister had married Lord Bal-
dock. Violet in this way had fallen to the care of the
Baldock people, and not into the hands of her father's
friends. But, as the reader will have surmised, she
had ideas of her own of emancipating herself from
Baldock thraldom.
Twice before that last terrible affair at Newmarket,
before the quarrel between the father and the son had
been complete, Lord Brentford had said a word to his
daughter,—merely a word,—of his son in connection
with Miss Effingham.
"If he thinks of it I shall be glad to see him on the
subject. You may tell him so." That had been the
first word. He had just then resolved that the affair
in Paris should be regarded as condoned,—as among
the things to be forgotten. "She is too good for
LORD CHILTERN.
133
him; but if he asks her let him tell her everything."
That had been the second word, and had been spoken
immediately subsequent to a payment of twelve thou-
sand pounds made by the Earl towards the settlement
of certain Doncaster accounts. Lady Laura in nego-
tiating for the money had been very eloquent in de-
scribing some honest,—or shall we say chivalric,—sac-
rifice which had brought her brother into this special
difficulty. Since that the Earl had declined to interest
himself in his son's matrimonial affairs; and when
Lady Laura had once again mentioned the matter,
declaring her belief that it would be the means of sav-
ing her brother Oswald, the Earl had desired her to
be silent. "Would you wish to destroy the poor
child?" he had said. Nevertheless Lady Laura felt
sure that if she were to go to her father with a posi-
tive statement that Oswald and Violet were engaged,
he would relent and would accept Violet as his daugh-
ter. As for the payment of Lord Chiltern's present
debts;—she had a little scheme of her own about
that.
Miss Effingham, who had been already two days in
Portman Square, had not as yet seen Lord Chiltern.
She knew that he lived in the house,—that is, that he
slept there, and probably eat his breakfast in some
apartment of his own;—but she knew also that the
Habits of the house would not by any means make
it necessary that they should meet. Laura and her
brother probably saw each other daily,—but they never
went into society together, and did not know the same
sets of people. When she had announced to Lady
Baldock her intention of spending the first fortnight of
her London season with her friend Lady Laura, Lady
134 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
Baldock had as a matter of course—" jumped upon
her," as Miss Effingham would herself call it.
"You are going to the house of the worst reprobate
in all England," said Lady Baldock.
"What;—dear old Lord Brentford, whom papa
loved so well!"
"I mean Lord Chiltern, who, only last year,—mur-
dered a man!"
"That is not true, aunt."
"There is worse than that,—much worse. He is
always—tipsy, and always gambling, and always
But it is quite unfit that I should speak a word more
to you about such a man as Lord Chiltern. His name
ought never to be mentioned."
"Then why did you mention it, aunt?"
Lady Baldock's process of jumping upon her niece,
—in which I think the aunt had generally the worst
of the exercise,—went on for some time, but Violet of
course carried her point
"If she marries him there will be an end of every-
thing," said Lady Baldock to her daughter Augusta.
"She has more sense than that, mamma," said Au-
gusta.
"I don't think she has any sense at all," said Lady
Baldock;—" not in the least. I do wish my poor sis-
ter had lived;—I do indeed."
Lord Chiltern had now entered the room with Vio-
let,—immediately upon that conversation between
Violet and his sister as to the expediency of Violet
becoming his wife. Indeed his entrance had inter-
rupted the conversation before it was over. "I am
so glad to see you, Miss Effingham," he said. "I
came in thinking that I might find you."
LORD CHILTERN.
"Here I am, as large as life," she said, getting up
from her corner on the sofa and giving him her hand.
"Laura and I have been discussing the affairs of the
nation for the last two days, and have nearly brought
our discussion to an end." She could not help looking)
first at his eye and then at his hand, not as wanting
evidence to the truth of the statement which his sister
had made, but because the idea of a drunkard's eye
and a drunkard's hand had been brought before her
mind. Lord Chiltern's hand was like the hand of any
other man, but there was something in his eye that
almost frightened her. It looked as though he would
not hesitate to wring his wife's neck round, if ever he
should be brought to threaten to do so. And then his
eye, like the rest of him, was red. No;—she did not
think that she could ever bring herself to marry him.
Why take a venture that was double-dangerous, when
there were so many ventures open to her, apparently
with very little of danger attached to them ?" If it
should ever be that I loved him, I would do it all the
same," she said to herself.
"If I did not come and see you here, I suppose that
I should never see you," said he, seating himself. "I
do not often go to parties, and when I do you are not
likely to be there."
"We might make our little arrangements for meet-
ing," said she, laughing. "My aunt, Lady Baldock,
is going to have an evening next week."
"The servants would be ordered to put me out of
the house."
"Oh no. You can tell her that I invited you."
"I don't think that Oswald and Lady Baldock are
great friends," said Lady Laura.
136 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"Or he might come and take you and me to the
Zoo on Sunday. That's the proper sort of thing for
a brother and a friend to do."
"I hate that place in the Regent's Park," said Lord
Chiltern.
"When were you there last?" demanded Miss
Effingham.
"When I came home once from Eton. But I won't
go again till I can come home from Eton again."
Then he altered his tone as he continued to speak.
"People would look at me as if I were the wildest
beast in the whole collection."
"Then," said Violet, "if you won't go to Lady Bal-
dock's or to the Zoo, we must confine ourselves to
Laura's drawing-room;—unless, indeed, you like to
take me to the top of the Monument."
"I '11 take you to the top of the Monument with
pleasure."
"What do you say, Laura?"
"I say that you are a foolish girl," said Lady Laura,
"and that I will have nothing to do with such a
scheme."
"Then there is nothing for it but that you should
come here; and as you live in the house, and as I am
sure to be here every morning, and as you have no
possible occupation for your time, and as we have noth-
ing particular to do with ours,—I dare say I shan't see
you again before I go to my aunt's in Berkeley Square."
"Very likely not," he said.
"And why not, Oswald? " asked his sister.
He passed his hand over his face before he answered
her. "Because she and I run in different grooves now,
and are not such meet playfellows as we used to be
LORD CHILTERN.
137
once. Do you remember my taking you away right
through Saulsby Wood once on the old pony, and not
bringing you back till tea-time, and Miss Blink going
and telling my father?"
"Do I remember it? I think it was the happiest day
in my life. His pockets were crammed full of ginger-
bread and Everton toffy, and we had three bottles
of lemonade slung on to the pony's saddlebows. I
thought it was a pity that we should ever come back."
"It was a pity," said Lord Chiltern.
"But, nevertheless, substantially necessary," said
Lady Laura.
"Failing our power of reproducing the toffy, I sup-
pose it was," said Violet.
"You were not Miss Effingham then," said Lord
Chiltern.
"No,—not as yet. These disagreeable realities of
life grow upon one; do they not? You took off my
shoes and dried them for me at a woodman's cottage.
I am obliged to put up with my maid's doing those
things now. And Miss Blink the mild is changed
for Lady Baldock the martinet. And if I rode about
with you in a wood all day I should be sent to Coven-
try instead of to bed. And so you see everything is
changed as well as my name."
"Everything is not changed," said Lord Chiltern,
getting up from his seat. "I am not changed,—at
least not in this, that as I then loved you better than
any being in the world,—better even than Laura there,
—so do I love you now infinitely the best of all. Do
not look so surprised at me. You knew it before as
well as you do now;—and Laura knows it. There is
no secret to be kept in the matter among us three."
138 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"But, Lord Chiltern,—" said Miss Effingham, rising
also to her feet, and then pausing, not knowing how to
answer him. There had been a suddenness in his mode
of addressing her which had, so to say, almost taken
away her breath; and then to be told by a man of his
love before his sister was in itself", to her, a matter so
surprising, that none of those words came at her com-
mand which will come, as though by instinct, to young
ladies on such occasions.
"You have known it always," said he, as though he
were angry with her.
"Lord Chiltern," she replied, "you must excuse me
if I say that you are, at the least, very abrupt. I did
not think when I was going back so joyfully to our old
childish days that you would turn the tables on me in
this way."
"He has said nothing that ought to make you angry,"
said Lady Laura.
"Only because he has driven me to say that which
will make me appear to be uncivil to himself. Lord
Chiltern, I do not love you with that love of which you
are speaking now. As an old friend I have always
regarded you, and I hope that I may always do so."
Then she got up and left the room.
"Why were you so sudden with her,—so abrupt,—.
so loud? " said his sister, coming up to him and taking
him by the arm almost in anger.
"It would make no difference," said he. "She does
not care for me."
"It makes all the difference in the world," said Lady
Laura. "Such a woman as Violet cannot be had after
that fashion. You must begin again."
"I have begun and ended," he said.
LORD CHILTERN.
*39
"That is nonsense. Of course you will persist. It
was madness to speak in that way to-day. You may
be sure of this, however, that there is no one she likes
better than you. You must remember that you have
done much to make any girl afraid of you."
"I do remember it."
"Do something now to make her fear you no longer.
Speak to her softly. Tell her of the sort of life which
you would live with her. Tell her that all is changed.
As she comes to love you, she will believe you when
she would believe no one else on that matter."
"Am I to tell her a lie?" said Lord Chiltern, look-
ing his sister full in the face. Then he turned upon his
heel and left her.
CHAPTER XII.
AUTUMNAL PROSPECTS.
The session went on very calmly after the opening
battle which ousted Lord De Terrier and sent Mr.
Mildmay back to the Treasury,—so calmly that Phineas
Finn was unconsciously disappointed, as lacking that
excitement of contest to which he had been introduced
in the first days of his parliamentary career. From
time to time certain waspish attacks were made by Mr.
Daubeny, now on this Secretary of State and now on
that; but they were felt by both parties to mean noth-
ing; and as no great measure was brought forward,
nothing which would serve by the magnitude of its
interests to divide the liberal side of the House into
fractions, Mr. Mildmay's Cabinet was allowed to hold
its own in comparative peace and quiet. It was now
July,—the middle of July,—and the member for
Loughshane had not yet addressed the House. How
often had he meditated doing so; how he had com-
posed his speeches walking round the Park on his
way down to the House; how he got his subjects up,
—only to find on hearing them discussed that he really
knew little or nothing about them; how he had his
arguments and almost his very words taken out of his
mouth by some other member; and lastly, how he had
actually been deterred from getting upon his legs by a
certain tremor of blood round his heart when the mo-
ment for rising had come,—of all this he never said a
140
AUTUMNAL PROSPECTS.
141
word to any man. Since that last journey to county
Mayo, Laurence Fitzgibbon had been his most intimate
friend, but he said nothing of all this even to Laurence
Fitzgibbon. To his other friend, Lady Laura Stan-
dish, he did explain something of his feelings, not ab-
solutely describing to her the extent of hindrance to
which his modesty had subjected him, but letting her
know that he had his qualms as well as his aspirations.
But as Lady Laura always recommended patience, and
more than once expressed her opinion that a young
member would be better to sit in silence at least for
one session, he was not driven to the mortification of
feeling that he was incurring her contempt by his bash-
fulness. As regarded the men among whom he lived
I think he was almost annoyed at finding that no one
seemed to expect that he should speak. Barrington
Erie, when he had first talked of sending Phineas down
to Loughshane, had predicted for him all manner of
parliamentary successes, and had expressed the warmest
admiration of the manner in which Phineas had dis-
cussed this or that subject at the Union. "We have
not above one or two men in the House who can do
that kind of thing," Barrington Erie had once said.
But now no allusions whatever were made to his powers
of speech, and Phineas in his modest moments began
to be more amazed than ever that he should find him-
self seated in that chamber.
To the forms and technicalities of parliamentary
business he did give close attention, and was unremit-
ting in his attendance. On one or two occasions he
ventured to ask a question of the Speaker, and as the
words of experience fell into his ears, he would tell
himself that he was going through his education,—that
142 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
he was learning to be a working member, and perhaps
to be a statesman. But his regrets with reference to
Mr. Low and the dingy chambers in Old Square were
very frequent; and had it been possible for him to
undo all that he had done, he would often have aban-
doned to some one else the honour of representing the
electors of Loughshane.
But he was supported in all his difficulties by the
kindness of his friend, Lady Laura Standish. He was
often in the house in Portman Square, and was always
received with cordiality,—and, as he thought, almost
with affection. She would sit and talk to him, some-
times saying a word about her brother and sometimes
about her father, as though there were more between
them than the casual intimacy of London acquaintance.
And in Portman Square he had been introduced to
Miss Effingham, and had found Miss Effingham to be
—very nice. Miss Effingham had quite taken to him,
and he had danced with her at two or three parties,
talking always, as he did so, about Lady Laura
Standish.
"I declare, Laura, I think your friend Mr. Finn is
in love with you," said Violet to Lady Laura one night.
"I don't think that. He is fond of me, and so am
I of him. He is so honest, and so naive without being
awkward! And then he is undoubtedly clever."
"And so uncommonly handsome," said Violet.
"I don't know that that makes much difference,"
said Lady Laura.
"I think it does if a man looks like a gentleman as
well."
"Mr. Finn certainly looks like a gentleman," said
Lady Laura.
AUTUMNAL PROSPECTS.
H3
"And no doubt is one," said Violet. "I wonder
whether he has got any money."
"Not a penny, I should say."
"How does such a man manage to live? There are
so many men like that, and they are always mysteries
to me. I suppose he '11 have to marry an heiress."
"Whoever gets him will not have a bad husband,"
said Lady Laura Standish.
Phineas during the summer had very often met Mr.
Kennedy. They sat on the same side of the House,
they belonged to the same club, they dined together
more than once in Portman Square, and on one occasion
Phineas had accepted an invitation to dinner sent to him
by Mr. Kennedy himself. "A slower affair I never saw
in my life," he said afterwards to Laurence Fitzgibbon.
"Though there were two or three men there who talk
everywhere else, they could not talk at his table."
"He gave you good wine, I should say," said Fitzgib-
bon, "and let me tell you that that covers a multitude
of sins." In spite, however, of all these opportunities
for intimacy, now, nearly at the end of the session,
Phineas had hardly spoken a dozen words to Mr. Ken-
nedy, and really knew nothing whatsoever of the man,
as one friend,—or even as one acquaintance knows an-
other. Lady Laura had desired him to be on good
terms with Mr. Kennedy, and for that reason he had
dined with him. Nevertheless he disliked Mr. Ken-
nedy, and felt quite sure that Mr. Kennedy disliked him.
He was therefore rather surprised when he received the
following note:—
"Albany, Z 3, July 17, 186—.
"My dear Mr. Finn,—I shall have some friends at
Loughlinter next month, and should be very glad if you
144 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
will join us. I will name the 16th August. I don't
know whether you shoot, but there are grouse and deer.
"Yours truly,
"Robert Kennedy."
What was he to do? He had already begun to feel
rather uncomfortable at the prospect of being separated
from all his new friends as soon as the session should
be over. Laurence Fitzgibbon had asked him to make
another visit to county Mayo, but that he had declined.
Lady Laura had said something to him about going
abroad with her brother, and since that there had
sprung up a sort of intimacy between him and Lord
Chiltern; but nothing had been fixed about this foreign
trip, and there were pecuniary objections to it which
put it almost out of his power. The Christmas holidays
he would of course pass with his family at Killaloe, but
he hardly liked the idea of hurrying off to Killaloe
immediately the session should be over. Everybody
around him seemed to be looking forward to pleasant
leisure doings in the country. Men talked about
grouse, and of the ladies at the houses to which they
were going and of the people whom they were to meet.
Lady Laura had said nothing of her own movements
for the early autumn, and no invitation had come to
him to go to the Earl's country house. He had already
felt that every one would depart and that he would be
left,—and this had made him uncomfortable. What
was he to do with the invitation from Mr. Kennedy?
He disliked the man, and had told himself half-a-dozen
times that he despised him. Of course he must refuse
it. Even for the sake of the scenery, and the grouse,
and the pleasant party, and the feeling that going to
AUTUMNAL PROSPECTS.
Loughlinter in August would be the proper sort of thing
to do, he must refuse it! But it occurred to him at
last that he would call in Portman Square before he
wrote his note.
"Of course you will go," said Lady Laura, in her
most decided tone.
"And why?"
"In the first place it is civil in him to ask you, and
why should you be uncivil in return?"
"There is nothing uncivil in not accepting a man's
invitation," said Phineas.
"We are going," said Lady Laura, "and I can only
say that I shall be disappointed if you do not go too.
Both Mr. Gresham and Mr. Monk will be there, and I
believe they have never stayed together in the same
house before. I have no doubt there are a dozen men
on your side of the House who would give their eyes
to be there. Of course you will go."
Of course he did go. The note accepting Mr. Ken-
nedy's invitation was written at the Reform Club with-
in a quarter of an hour of his leaving Portman Square.
He was very careful in writing to be not more familiar
or more civil than Mr. Kennedy had been to himself,
and then he signed himself " Yours truly, Phineas Finn."
But another proposition was made to him, and a most
charming proposition, during the few minutes that he
remained in Portman Square. "I am so glad," said
Lady Laura, "because I can now ask you to run down
to us at Saulsby for a couple of days on your way to
Loughlinter. Till this was fixed I could n't ask you
to come all the way to Saulsby for two days; and there
won't be room for more between our leaving London
and starting to Loughlinter." Phineas swore that he
146 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
would have gone if it had been but for one hour, and
if Saulsby had been twice the distance. "V,ery well;
come on the 13th and go on the 15th. You must go
on the 15th, unless you choose to stay with the house-
keeper. And remember, Mr. Finn, we have got no
grouse at Saulsby." Phineas declared that he did not
care a straw for grouse.
There was another little occurrence which happened
before Phineas left London, and which was not alto-
gether so charming as his prospects at Saulsby and
Loughlinter. Early in August, when the session was
still incomplete, he dined with Laurence Fitzgibbon at
the Reform Club. Laurence had specially invited him
to do so, and made very much of him on the occasion.
"By George, my dear fellow," Laurence said to him
that morning, "nothing has happened to me this ses-
sion that has given me so much pleasure as your being
in the House. Of course there are fellows with whom
one is very intimate and of whom one is very fond,—
and all that sort of thing. But most of these English-
men on our side are such cold fellows; or else they
are like Rattler and Barrington Erie, thinking of noth-
ing but politics. And then as to our own men, there
are so many of them one can hardly trust! That's
the truth of it. Your being in the House has been such
a comfort to me!" Phineas, who really liked his friend
Laurence, expressed himself very warmly in answer to
this, and became affectionate, and made sundry pro-
testations of friendship which were perfectly sincere.
Their sincerity was tested after dinner, when Fitzgib-
bon, as they two were seated on a sofa in the corner of
the smoking-room, asked Phineas to put his name to
AUTUMNAL PROSPECTS.
H7
the back of a bill for two hundred and fifty pounds at
six months' date.
"But, my dear Laurence," said Phineas, "two hun-
dred and fifty pounds is a sum of money utterly beyond
my reach."
"Exactly, my dear boy, and that's why I Ve come
to you. D' ye think I'd have asked anybody who by
any impossibility might have been made to pay any-
thing for me?"
"But what's the use of it then?"
"All the use in the world. It's for me to judge of
the use, you know. Why, d' ye think I'd ask it if it
was n't of use? I '11 make it of use, my boy. And
take my word, you '11 never hear about it again. It's
just a forestalling of my salary; that's all. I would n't
do it till I saw that we were at least safe for six months
to come." Then Phineas Finn with many misgivings,
with much inward hatred of himself for his own weak-
ness, did put his name on the back of the bill which
Laurence Fitzgibbon had prepared for his signature.
CHAPTER XIII.
SAULSBY WOOD.
"So you won't come to Moydrum again?" said
Laurence Fitzgibbon to his friend.
"Not this autumn, Laurence. Your father would
think that I want to live there."
"Bedad, it's my father would be glad to see you,—
and the oftener the better."
"The fact is, my time is filled up."
"You 're not going to be one of the party at Lough-
linter?"
"I believe I am. Kennedy asked me, and people
seem to think that everybody is to do what he bids
them."
"I should think so too. I wish he had asked me.
I should have thought it as good as a promise of an
under-secretaryship. All the Cabinet are to be there.
I don't suppose he ever had an Irishman in his house
before. When do you start?"
"Well;—on the 12th or 13th. I believe I shall go
to Saulsby on my way."
"The devil you will. Upon my word, Phineas, my
boy, you 're the luckiest fellow I know. This is your
first year, and you 're asked to the two most difficult
houses in England. You have only to look out for an
heiress now. There is little Vi Effingham;—she is
sure to be at Saulsby. Good-bye, old fellow. Don't
148
SAULSBY WOOD.
149
you be in the least unhappy about the bill. I '11 see
to making that all right."
Phineas was rather unhappy about the bill; but there
was so much that was pleasant in his cup at the present
moment, that he resolved, as far as possible, to ignore
the bitter of that one ingredient. He was a little in
the dark as to two or three matters respecting these
coming visits. He would have liked to have taken a
servant with him; but he had no servant, and felt
ashamed to hire one for the occasion. And then he was
in trouble about a gun, and the paraphernalia of shoot-
ing. He was not a bad shot at snipe in the bogs of
county Clare, but he had never even seen a gun used in
England. However, he bought himself a gun,—with
other paraphernalia, and took a license for himself, and
then groaned over the expense to which he found that
his journey would subject him. And at last he hired
a servant for the occasion. He was intensely ashamed
of himself when he had done so, hating himself, and
telling himself that he was going to the devil headlong.
And why had he done it? Not that Lady Laura
would like him the better, or that she would care
whether he had a servant or not. She probably would
know nothing of his servant. But the people about
her would know, and he was foolishly anxious that the
people about her should think that he was worthy of her.
Then he called on Mr. Low before he started. "I
did not like to leave London without seeing you," he
said; "but I know you will have nothing pleasant to
say to me."
"I shall say nothing unpleasant certainly. I see
your name in the divisions, and I feel a sort of envy
myself."
150 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"Any fool could go into a lobby," said Phineas.
"To tell you the truth, I have been gratified to see
that you have had the patience to abstain from speak-
ing till you have looked about you. It was more than
I expected from your hot Irish blood. Going to meet
Mr. Gresham and Mr. Monk,—are you? Well, I hope
you may meet them in the Cabinet some day. Mind
you come and see me when Parliament meets in Feb-
ruary."
Mrs. Bunce was delighted when she found that
Phineas had hired a servant; but Mr. Bunce predicted
nothing but evil from so vain an expense. "Don't tell
me; where is it to come from? He ain't no richer
because he's in Parliament. There ain't no wages.
M.P. and M.T.,"—whereby Mr. Bunce, I fear, meant
empty,—" are pretty much alike when a man has n't a
fortune at his back."
"But he's going to stay with all the lords in the
Cabinet," said Mrs. Bunce, to whom Phineas, in his
pride, had confided perhaps more than was necessary.
"Cabinet, indeed," said Bunce; "if he'd stick to
chambers, and let alone cabinets, he'd do a deal better.
Given up his rooms, has he,—till February? He don't
expect we 're going to keep them empty for him!"
Phineas found that the house was full at Saulsby,
although the sojourn of the visitors would necessarily
be so short. There were three or four there on their
way on to Loughlinter, like himself,—Mr. Bonteen and
Mr. Rattler, with Mr. Palliser, the Chancellor of the
Exchequer, and his wife,—and there was Violet Effing-
ham, who, however, was not going to Loughlinter.
"No, indeed," she said to our hero, who on the first
evening had the pleasure of taking her in to dinner,
SAULSBY WOOD.
"unfortunately I have n't a seat in Parliament, and
therefore I am not asked."
44 Lady Laura is going."
"Yes;—but Lady Laura has a Cabinet Minister in
her keeping. I 've only one comfort;—you '11 be aw-
fully dull."
"I dare say it would be very much nicer to stay
here," said Phineas.
"If you want to know my real mind," said Violet,
"I would give one of my little fingers to go. There
will be four Cabinet Ministers in the house, and four
un-Cabinet Ministers, and half-a-dozen other members
of Parliament, and there will be Lady Glencora Palliser,
who is the best fun in the world; and, in point of fact,
it *s the thing of the year. But I am not asked. You
see I belong to the Baldock faction, and we don't sit
on your side of the House. Mr. Kennedy thinks that
I should tell secrets."
Why on earth had Mr. Kennedy invited him, Phineas
Finn, to meet four Cabinet Ministers and Lady Glen-
cora Palliser? He could only have done so at the in-
stance of Lady Laura Standish. It was delightful for
Phineas to think that Lady Laura cared for him so
deeply; but it was not equally delightful when he re-
membered how very close must be the alliance between
Mr. Kennedy and Lady Laura, when she was thus
powerful with him.
At Saulsby Phineas did not see much of his hostess.
When they were making their plans for the one entire
day of this visit, she said a soft word of apology to him.
"1 am so busy with all these people, that I hardly know
what I am doing. But we shall be able to find a quiet
minute or two at Loughlinter,—unless, indeed, you
152 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
intend to be on the mountains all day. I suppose you
have brought a gun like everybody else?"
"Yes;—I have brought a gun. I do shoot; but I
am not an inveterate sportsman."
On that one day there was a great riding party made
up, and Phineas found himself mounted, after luncheon,
with some dozen other equestrians. Among them were
Miss Effingham and Lady Glencora, Mr. Rattler and
the Earl of Brentford himself. Lady Glencora, whose
husband was, as has been said, Chancellor of the Ex-
chequer, and who was still a young woman, and a very
pretty woman, had taken lately very strongly to poli-
tics, which she discussed among men and women of
both parties with something more than ordinary au-
dacity. "What a nice happy, lazy, time you've had
of it since you 've been in," said she to the Earl.
"I hope we have been more happy than lazy," said
the Earl.
"But you 've done nothing. Mr. Palliser has twenty
schemes of reform, all mature; but among you you Ve
not let him bring in one of them. The Duke and Mr.
Mildmay and you will break his heart among you,"
"Poor Mr. Palliser!"
"The truth is, if you don't take care he and Mr.
Monk and Mr. Gresham will arise and shake them-
selves, and turn you all out."
"We must look to ourselves, Lady Glencora."
"Indeed, yes;—or you will be known to all posterity
as the faineant Government."
"Let me tell you, Lady Glencora, that a fain6ant
Government is not the worst government that England
can have. It has been the great fault of our politicians
that they have all wanted to do something."
SAULSBY WOOD.
"Mr. Mildmay is at any rate innocent of that
charge," said Lady Glencora.
They were now riding through a vast wood, and
Phineas found himself delightfully established by the
side of Violet Effingham. "Mr. Rattler has been ex-
plaining to me that he must have nineteen next session.
Now, if I were you, Mr. Finn, I would decline to be
counted up in that way as one of Mr. Rattler's sheep."
"But what am I to do?"
"Do something on your own hook. You men in
Parliament are so much like sheep! If one jumps at
a gap, all go after him,—and then you are penned into
lobbies, and then you are fed, and then you are fleeced.
I wish I were in Parliament. I 'd get up in the mid-
dle and make such a speech. You all seem to me to
be so much afraid of one another that you don't quite
dare to speak out. Do you see that cottage there?"
"What a pretty cottage it is!"
"Yes;—is it not? Twelve years ago I took off my
shoes and stockings and had them dried in that cot-
tage, and when I got back to the house I was put to
bed for having been out all day in the wood."
"Were you wandering about alone?"
"No, I was n't alone. Oswald Standish was with
me. We were children then. Do you know him?"
"Lord Chiltern;—yes, I know him. He and I
have been rather friends this year."
"He is very good;—is he not?"
"Good,—in what way?"
"Honest and generous!"
"I know no man whom I believe to be more so."
"And he is clever?" asked Miss Effingham.
"Very clever. That is, he talks very well if you
154 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
will let him talk after his own fashion. You would
always fancy that he was going to eat you; —but that
is his way."
"And you like him?"
"Very much."
"I am so glad to hear you say so."
"Is he a favourite of yours, Miss Effingham?99
"Not now,—not particularly. I hardly ever see
him. But his sister is the best friend I have, and I
used to like him so much when he was a boy! I
have not seen that cottage since that day, and I re-
member it as though it were yesterday. Lord Chiltern
is quite changed, is he not?"
"Changed,—in what way?"
"They used to say that he was—unsteady, you
know."
"I think he is changed. But Chiltern is at heart a
Bohemian. It is impossible not to see that at once.
He hates the decencies of life."
"I suppose he does," said Violet. "He ought to
marry. If he were married, that would all be cured;
—don't you think so?"
"I cannot fancy him with a wife," said Phineas.
"There is a savagery about him which would make
him an uncomfortable companion for a woman."
"But he would love his wife?"
"Yes, as he does his horses. And he would treat
her well,—as he does his horses. But he expects every
horse he has to do anything that any horse can do; and
he would expect the same of his wife."
Phineas had no idea how deep an injury he might
be doing his friend by this description, nor did it once
occur to him that his companion was thinking of her-
SAULSBY WOOD.
self as the possible wife of this Red Indian. Miss
Effingham rode on in silence for some distance, and
then she said but one word more about Lord Chiltern.
"He was so good to me in that cottage."
On the following day the party at Saulsby was
broken up, and there was a regular pilgrimage towards
Loughlinter. Phineas resolved upon sleeping a night
at Edinburgh on his way, and he found himself joined
in the bands of close companionship with Mr. Rattler
for the occasion. The evening was by no means
thrown away, for he learned much of his trade from
Mr. Rattler. And Mr. Rattler was heard to declare
afterwards at Loughlinter that Mr. Finn was a pleasant
young man.
It soon came to be admitted by all who knew Phin-
eas Finn that he had a peculiar power of making him-
self agreeable which no one knew how to analyse or
define. "I think it is because he listens so well," said
one man. "But the women would not like him for
that," said another. "He has studied when to listen
and when to talk," said a third. The truth, however,
was, that Phineas Finn had made no study in the mat-
ter at all. It was simply his nature to be pleasant.
CHAPTER XIV.
LOUGHLINTER.
Phineas Finn reached Loughlinter together with Mr.
Rattler in a post-chaise from the neighbouring town.
Mr. Rattler, who had done this kind of thing very often
before, travelled without impediments, but the new ser-
vant of our hero's was stuck outside with the driver,
and was in the way. "I never bring a man with me,"
said Mr. Rattler to his young friend. "The servants
of the house like it much better, because they get
feed; you are just as well waited on, and it don't cost
half as much." Phineas blushed as he heard all this;
but there was the impediment, not to be got rid of for
the nonce, and Phineas made the best of his attendant.
"It's one of those points," said he, "as to which a
man never quite makes up his mind. If you bring a
fellow, you wish you had n't brought him; and if you
don't, you wish you had." "I'm a great deal more
decided in my ways than that," said Mr. Rattler.
Loughlinter, as they approached it, seemed to Phin-
eas to be a much finer place than Saulsby. And so
it was, except that Loughlinter wanted that graceful
beauty of age which Saulsby possessed. Loughlinter
was all of cut stone, but the stones had been cut only
yesterday. It stood on a gentle slope, with a green-
sward falling from the front entrance down to a moun-
tain lake. And on the other side of the Lough there
156
LOUGHLINTER.
157
rose a mighty mountain to the skies, Ben Linter. At
the foot of it, and all round to the left, there ran the
woods of Linter, stretching for miles through crags and
bogs and mountain lands. No better ground for deer
than the side of Ben Linter was there in all those high-
lands. And the Linter, rushing down into the Lough
through rocks which, in some places, almost met to-
gether above its waters, ran so near to the house that
the pleasant noise of its cataracts could be heard from
the hall door. Behind the house the expanse of drained
park land seemed to be interminable; and then, again,
came the mountains. There were Ben Linn and Ben
Lody;—and the whole territory belonging to Mr.
Kennedy. He was Laird of Linn and Laird of Linter,
as his people used to say. And yet his father had
walked into Glasgow as a little boy,—no doubt with
the normal half-crown in his breeches pocket.
"Magnificent; —is it not?" said Phineas to the
Treasury Secretary, as they were being driven up to
the door.
"Very grand;—but the young trees show the new
man. A new man may buy a forest; but he can't
get park trees."
Phineas, at the moment, was thinking how far all
these things which he saw, the mountains stretching
everywhere around him, the castle, the lake, the river,
the wealth of it all, and, more than the wealth, the no-
bility of the beauty, might act as temptations to Lady
Laura Standish. If a woman were asked to have the
half of all this, would it be possible that she should
prefer to take the half of his nothing? He thought it
might be possible for a girl who would confess, or seem
to confess, that love should be everything. But it
158 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
could hardly be possible for a woman who looked at
the world almost as a man looked at it,—as an oyster
to be opened with such weapon as she could find ready
to her hand. Lady Laura professed to have a care
for all the affairs of the world. She loved politics,
and could talk of social science, and had broad ideas
about religion, and was devoted to certain educational
views. Such a woman would feel that wealth was
necessary to her, and would be willing, for the sake of
wealth, to put up with a husband without romance.
Nay; might it not be that she would prefer a husband
without romance? Thus Phineas was arguing to him-
self as he was driven up to the door of Loughlinter
Castle, while Mr. Rattler was eloquent on the beauty
of old park trees. "After all, a Scotch forest is a very
scrubby sort of thing," said Mr. Rattler.
There was nobody in the house,—at least, they
found nobody; and within half an hour Phineas was
walking about the grounds by himself. Mr. Rattler
had declared himself to be delighted at having an op-
portunity of writing letters,—and no doubt was writing
them by the dozen, all dated from Loughlinter, and all
detailing the facts that Mr. Gresham, and Mr. Monk,
and Plantagenet Palliser, and Lord Brentford were in
the same house with him. Phineas had no letters to
write, and therefore rushed down across the broad lawn
to the river, of which he heard the noisy tumbling
waters. There was something in the air which imme-
diately filled him with high spirits; and, in his desire
to investigate the glories of the place, he forgot that he
was going to dine with four Cabinet Ministers in a row.
He soon reached the stream, and began to make his
way up it through the ravine. There was waterfall
LOUGHLINTER.
over waterfall, and there were little bridges here and
there which looked to be half natural and half artifi-
cial, and a path which required that you should climb,
but which was yet a path, and all was so arranged
that not a pleasant splashing rush of the waters was
lost to the visitor* He went on and on, up the stream,
till there was a sharp turn in the ravine, and then,
looking upwards, he saw above his head a man and
a woman standing together on one of the little half-
made wooden bridges. His eyes were sharp, and he
saw at a glance that the woman was Lady Laura
Standish. He had not recognised the man, but he
had very little doubt that it was Mr. Kennedy. Of
course it was Mr. Kennedy, because he would prefer
that it should be any other man under the sun. He
would have turned back at once if he had thought that
he could have done so without being observed; but
he felt sure that, standing as they were, they must
have observed him. He did not like to join them.
He would not intrude himself. So he remained still,
and began to throw stones into the river. But he had
not thrown above a stone or two when he was called
from above. He looked up, and then he perceived
that the man who called him was his host. Of course
it was Mr. Kennedy. Thereupon he ceased to throw
stones, and went up the path, and joined them upon
the bridge. Mr. Kennedy stepped forward, and bade
him welcome to Loughlinter. His manner was less
cold, and he seemed to have more words at command
than was usual with him. "You have not been long,"
he said, "in finding out the most beautiful spot about
the place."
"Is it not lovely?" said Laura. "We have not
l6o PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
been here an hour yet, and Mr. Kennedy insisted on
bringing me here."
"It is wonderfully beautiful/' said Phineas.
"It is this very spot where we now stand that made
me build the house where it is," said Mr. Kennedy,
"and I was only eighteen when I stood here and made
up my mind. That is just twenty-five years ago."
"So he is forty-three," said Phineas to himself, thinking
how glorious it was to be only twenty-five. "And
within twelve months," continued Mr. Kennedy, "the
foundations were being dug and the stone-cutters were
at work."
"What a good-natured man your father must have
been," said Lady Laura.
"He had nothing else to do with his money but to
pour it over my head, as it were. I don't think he
had any other enjoyment of it himself. Will you go
a little higher, Lady Laura? We shall get a fine view
over to Ben Linn just now." Lady Laura declared
that she would go as much higher as he chose to take
her, and Phineas was rather in doubt as to what it
would become him to do. He would stay where he
was, or go down, or make himself to vanish after any
most acceptable fashion; but if he were to do so ab-
ruptly it would seem as though he were attributing
something special to the companionship of the other
two. Mr. Kennedy saw his doubt, and asked him to
join them. "You may as well come on, Mr. Finn. We
don't dine till eight, and it is not much past six yet.
The men of business are all writing letters, and the
ladies who have been travelling are in bed, I believe."
"Not all of them, Mr. Kennedy," said Lady Laura.
Then they went on with their walk very pleasantly,
LOUGHLINTER.
and the lord of all that they surveyed took them from
one point of vantage to another, till they both swore
that of all spots upon the earth Loughlinter was surely
the most lovely. "I do delight in it, I own," said the
lord. "When I come up here alone, and feel that
in the midst of this little bit of a crowded island I
have all this to myself,—all this with which no other
man's wealth can interfere,—I grow proud of my own,
till I become thoroughly ashamed of myself. After
all, I believe it is better to dwell in cities than in the
country,—better, at any rate, for a rich man." Mr.
Kennedy had now spoken more words than Phineas
had heard to fall from his lips during the whole time
that they had been acquainted with each other.
"I believe so too," said Laura, "if one were obliged
to choose between the two. For myself, I think that
a little of both is good for man and woman."
"There is no doubt about that," said Phineas.
"No doubt as far as enjoyment goes," said Mr.
Kennedy.
He took them up out of the ravine on to the side of
the mountain, and then down by another path through
the woods to the back of the house. As they went he
relapsed into his usual silence, and the conversation
was kept up between the other two. At a point not
very far from the castle,—just so far that one could
see by the break of the ground where the castle stood,
Kennedy left them. "Mr. Finn will take you back in
safety, I am sure," said he, "and, as I am here, I '11
go up to the farm for a moment. If I don't show
myself now and again when I am here, they think I'm
indifferent about the 'bestials.'"
"Now, Mr. Kennedy," said Lady Laura, "you are
162 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
going to pretend to understand all about sheep and
oxen/* Mr. Kennedy, owning that it was so, went
away to his farm, and Phineas with Lady Laura re-
turned towards the house. "I think, upon the whole,"
said Lady Laura, "that that is as good a man as I
know."
"I should think he is an idle one," said Phineas.
"I doubt that. He is, perhaps, neither zealous nor
active. But he is thoughtful and high-principled, and
has a method and a purpose in the use which he
makes of his money. And you see that he has poetry
in his nature too, if you get him upon the right string.
How fond he is of the scenery of this place!"
"Any man would be fond of that. I'm ashamed
to say that it almost makes me envy him. I certainly
never have wished to be Mr. Robert Kennedy in Lon-
don, but I should like to be the Laird of Loughlinter."
"' Laird of Linn and Laird of Linter,—Here in
summer, gone in winter/ There is some ballad about
the old lairds; but that belongs to a time when Mr.
Kennedy had not been heard of, when some branch
of the Mackenzies lived down at that wretched old
tower which you see as you first come upon the lake.
When old Mr. Kennedy bought it there were hardly a
hundred acres on the property under cultivation."
"And it belonged to the Mackenzies."
"Yes;—to the Mackenzie of Linn, as he was called.
It was Mr. Kennedy, the old man, who was first called
Loughlinter. That is Linn Castle, and they lived there
for hundreds of years. But these Highlanders, with
all that is said of their family pride, have forgotten the
Mackenzies already, and are quite proud of their rich
landlord."
LOUGHLINTER.
I63
"That is unpoetical," said Phineas.
"Yes;—but then poetry is so usually false. I doubt
whether Scotland would not have been as prosaic a
country as any under the sun but for Walter Scott;—
and I have no doubt that Henry V. owes the romance
of his character altogether to Shakspeare."
"I sometimes think you despise poetry," said Phineas.
"When it is false I do. The difficulty is to know
when it is false and when it is true. Tom Moore was
always false."
"Not so false as Byron," said Phineas with energy.
"Much more so, my friend. But we will not discuss
that now. Have you seen Mr. Monk since you have
been here?"
"I have seen no one. I came with Mr. Rattler."
"Why with Mr. Rattler? You cannot find Mr.
Rattler a companion much to your taste."
"Chance brought us together. But Mr. Rattler is
a man of sense, Lady Laura, and is not to be de-
spised."
"It always seems to me," said Lady Laura, "that
nothing is to be gained in politics by sitting at the feet
of the little Gamaliels."
"But the great Gamaliels will not have a novice on
their footstools."
"Then sit at no man's feet. Is it not astonishing
that the price generally put upon any article by the
world is that which the owner puts on it ?—and that
this is specially true of a man's own self? If you herd
with Rattler, men will take it for granted that you
are a Rattlerite, and no more. If you consort with
Greshams and Pallisers, you will equally be supposed
to know your own place."
164 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"I never knew a Mentor," said Phineas, "so apt as
you are to fill his Telemachus with pride."
"It is because I do not think your fault lies that
way. If it did, or if I thought so, my Telemachus,
you may be sure that I should resign my position as
Mentor. Here are Mr. Kennedy and Lady Glencora
and Mrs. Gresham on the steps." Then they went up
through the Ionic columns on to the broad stone ter-
race before the door, and there they found a crowd of
men and women. For the legislators and statesmen
had written their letters, and the ladies had taken their
necessary rest.
Phineas, as he was dressing, considered deeply all
that Lady Laura had said to him,—not so much with
reference to the advice which she had given him,
though that also was of importance, as to the fact that
it had been given by her. She had first called herself
his Mentor; but he had accepted the name and had
addressed her as her Telemachus. And yet he believed
himself to be older than she,—if, indeed, there was
any difference in their ages. And was it possible that
a female Mentor should have her Telemachus,—should
love him as Phineas desired to be loved by Lady
Laura? He would not say that it was impossible.
Perhaps there had been mistakes between them;—a
mistake in his manner of addressing her, and another
in hers of addressing him. Perhaps the old bachelor
of forty-three was not thinking of a wife. Had this
old bachelor of forty-three been really in love with
Lady Laura, would he have allowed her to walk home
alone with Phineas, leaving her with some flimsy pre-
text of having to look at his sheep? Phineas resolved
that he must at any rate play out his game)—whether
LOUGHLINTER.
165
he were to lose it or to win it; and in playing it he
must, if possible, drop something of that Mentor and
Telemachus style of conversation. As to the advice
given him of herding with Greshams and Pallisers,
instead of with Rattlers and Fitzgibbons,—he must use
that as circumstances might direct. To him, himself, as
he thought of it all, it was sufficiently astonishing that
even the Rattlers and Fitzgibbons should admit him
among them as one of themselves. "When I think
of my father and of the old house at Killaloe, and
remember that hitherto I have done nothing myself,
I cannot understand how it is that I should be at
Loughlinter." There was only one way of under-
standing it. If Lady Laura really loved him, the rid-
dle might be read.
The rooms at Loughlinter were splendid, much
larger and very much more richly furnished than those
at Saulsby. But there was a certain stiffness in the
movement of things, and perhaps in the manner of
some of those present, which was not felt at Saulsby.
Phineas at once missed the grace and prettiness and
cheery audacity of Violet Effingham, and felt at the
same time that Violet Effingham would be out of her
element at Loughlinter. At Loughlinter they were
met for business. It was at least a semi-political, or
perhaps rather a semi-official gathering, and he became
aware that he ought not to look simply for amusement.
When he entered the drawing-room before dinner, Mr.
Monk and Mr. Palliser, and Mr. Kennedy and Mr.
Gresham, with sundry others, were standing in a wide
group before the fireplace, and among them were Lady
Glencora Palliser and Lady Laura and Mrs. Bonteen.
As he approached them it seemed as though a sort
166 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
of opening was made for himself; but he could see,
though others did not, that the movement came from
Lady Laura.
"I believe, Mr. Monk," said Lady Glencora, "that
you and I are the only two in the whole party who
really know what we would be at."
a If I must be divided from so many of my friends,"
said Mr. Monk, "I am happy to go astray in the com-
pany of Lady Glencora Palliser."
"And might I ask," said Mr. Gresham, with a pe-
culiar smile for which he was famous, "what it is that
you and Mr. Monk are really at?"
"Making men and women all equal," said Lady
Glencora. "That I take to be the gist of our political
theory."
"Lady Glencora, I must cry off," said Mr. Monk.
"Yes;—no doubt. If I were in the Cabinet myself
I should not admit so much. There are reticences,—
of course. And there is an official discretion."
u But you don't mean to say, Lady Glencora, that
you would really advocate equality?" said Mrs. Bon-
teen.
"I do mean to say so, Mrs. Bonteen. And I mean
to go further, and to tell you that you are no liberal
at heart unless you do so likewise; unless that is the
basis of your political aspirations."
"Pray let me speak for myself, Lady Glencora."
"By no means,—not when you are criticising me
and my politics. Do you not wish to make the lower
orders comfortable?"
"Certainly," said Mrs. Bonteen.
"And educated, and happy and good ? w
"Undoubtedly."
LOUGHLINTER.
167
"To make them as comfortable and as good as your-
self?"
"Better if possible."
"And I'm sure you wish to make yourself as good
and as comfortable as anybody else,—as those above
you, if anybody is above you? You will admit that?"
"Yes;—if I understand you."
"Then you have admitted everything, and are an
advocate for general equality,—just as Mr. Monk is,
and as I am. There is no getting out of it;—is there
Mr. Kennedy?" Then dinner was announced, and
Mr. Kennedy walked off with the French republican
on his arm. As she went, she whispered into Mr.
Kennedy's ear, "You will understand me. I am not
saying that people are equal; but that the tendency
of all law-making and of all governing should be to re-
duce the inequalities." In answer to which Mr. Ken-
nedy said not a word. Lady Glencora's politics were
too fast and furious for his nature.
A week passed by at Loughlinter, at the end of
which Phineas found himself on terms of friendly inter-
course with all the political magnates assembled in the
house, but especially with Mr. Monk. He had deter-
mined that he would not follow Lady Laura's advice as
to his selection of companions, if in doing so he should
be driven even to a seeming of intrusion. He made no
attempt to sit at the feet of anybody, and would stand
aloof when bigger men than himself were talking, and
was content to be less,—as indeed he was less,-—than
Mr. Bonteen or Mr. Rattler. But at the end of a
week he found that, without any effort on his part,—
almost in opposition to efforts on his part,—he had
fallen into an easy pleasant way with these men which
168 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
was very delightful to him. He had killed a stag in
company with Mr. Palliser, and had stopped beneath
a crag to discuss with him a question as to the duty on
Irish malt. He had played chess with Mr. Gresham,
and had been told that gentleman's opinion on the trial
of Mr. Jefferson Davis. Lord Brentford had—at last
—called him Finn, and had proved to him that noth-
ing was known in Ireland about sheep. But with Mr.
Monk he had had long discussions on abstract questions
in politics,—and before the week was over was almost
disposed to call himself a disciple, or, at least, a fol-
lower of Mr. Monk. Why not of Mr. Monk as well
as of any one else? Mr. Monk was in the Cabinet,
and of all the members of the Cabinet was the most
advanced liberal. "Lady Glencora was not so far
wrong the other night," Mr. Monk said to him.
"Equality is an ugly word and should n't be used.
It misleads, and frightens, and is a bugbear. And
she, in using it, had not perhaps a clearly defined
meaning for it in her own mind. But the wish of
every honest man should be to assist in lifting up those
below him, till they be something nearer his own level
than he finds them." To this Phineas assented,—and
by degrees he found himself assenting to a great many
things that Mr. Monk said to him.
Mr. Monk was a thin, tall, gaunt man, who had de-
voted his whole life to politics, hitherto without any
personal reward beyond that which came to him from
the reputation of his name, and from the honour of a
seat in Parliament. He was one of four or five brothers,
—and all besides him were in trade. They had pros-
pered in trade, whereas he had prospered solely in
politics; and men said that he was dependent alto-
LOUGHLINTER.
169
gether on what his relatives supplied for his support.
He had now been in Parliament for more than twenty
years, and had been known not only as a radical but
as a democrat. Ten years since, when he had risen
to fame, but not to repute, among the men who then
governed England, nobody dreamed that Joshua Monk
would ever be a paid servant of the Crown. He had
inveighed against one Minister after another as though
they all deserved impeachment. He had advocated
political doctrines which at that time seemed to be al-
together at variance with any possibility of governing
according to English rules of government. He had
been regarded as a pestilent thorn in the sides of all
Ministers. But now he was a member of the Cabinet,
and those whom he had terrified in the old days began
to find that he was not so much unlike other men.
There are but few horses which you cannot put into
harness, and those of the highest spirit will generally
do your work the best.
Phineas, who had his eyes about him, thought that
he could perceive that Mr. Palliser did not shoot a
deer with Mr. Rattler, and that Mr. Gresham played
no chess with Mr. Bonteen. Bonteen, indeed, was a
noisy pushing man whom nobody seemed to like, and
Phineas wondered why he should be at Loughlinter,
and why he should be in office. His friend Laurence
Fitzgibbon had indeed once endeavoured to explain
this. "A man who can vote hard, as I call it; and
who will speak a few words now and then as they 're
wanted, without any ambition that way, may always
have his price. And if he has a pretty wife into the
bargain, he ought to have a pleasant time of it." Mr.
Rattler no doubt was a very useful man, who thor-
170 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
oughly knew his business; but yet, as it seemed to
Phineas, no very great distinction was shown to Mr.
Rattler at Loughlinter. "If I got as high as that," he
said to himself, "I should think myself a miracle of
luck. And yet nobody seems to think anything of
Rattler. It is all nothing unless one can go to the
very top."
"I believe I did right to accept office," Mr. Monk
said to him one day, as they sat together on a rock
close by one of the little bridges over the Linter.
"Indeed, unless a man does so when the bonds of the
office tendered to him are made compatible with his
own views, he declines to proceed on the open path
towards the prosecution of those views. A man who
is combating one ministry after another, and striving to
imbue those Ministers with his convictions, can hardly
decline to become a Minister himself when he finds
that those convictions of his own are henceforth,—or
at least for some time to come,—to be the ministerial
convictions of the day. Do you follow me?"
"Very clearly," said Phineas. "You would have
denied your own children had you refused."
"Unless indeed a man were to feel that he was in
some way unfitted for office work. I very nearly pro-
vided for myself an escape on that plea;—but when I
came to sift it, I thought that it would be false. But
let me tell you that the delight of political life is alto-
gether in opposition. Why, it is freedom against slav-
ery, fire against clay, movement against stagnation!
The very inaccuracy which is permitted to opposition
is in itself a charm worth more than all the patronage
and all the prestige of ministerial power. You '11 try
them both, and then say if you do not agree with me.
LOUGHLINTER.
Give me the full swing of the benches below the gang-
way, where I needed to care for no one, and could al-
ways enjoy myself on my legs as long as I felt that I
was true to those who sent me there! That is all over
now. They have got me into harness, and my shoul-
ders are sore. The oats, however, are of the best, and
the hay is unexceptionable."
CHAPTER XV.
DONALD BEAN'S PONY.
Phineas liked being told that the pleasures of op-
position and the pleasures of office were both open to
him,—and he liked also to be the chosen receptacle of
Mr. Monk's confidence. He had come to understand
that he was expected to remain ten days at Loughlinter,
and that then there was to be a general movement.
Since the first day he had seen but little of Mr. Ken-
nedy, but he had found himself very frequently with
Lady Laura. And then had come up the question of
his projected trip to Paris with Lord Chiltern. He
had received a letter from Lord Chiltern.
"Dear Finn,—Are you going to Paris with me?
"Yours, C."
There had been not a word beyond this, and before
he answered it he made up his mind to tell Lady Laura
the truth. He could not go to Paris because he had
no money.
"I Ve just got that from your brother," said he.
"How like Oswald. He writes to me perhaps three
times in the year, and his letters are just the same.
You will go, I hope?"
"Well;-—no."
"I am sorry for that."
"I wonder whether I may tell you the real reason,
Lady Laura."
172
DONALD BEAN'S PONY.
173
"Nay;—I cannot answer that; but unless it be
some political secret between you and Mr. Monk, I
should think you might."
"I cannot afford to go to Paris this autumn. It
seems to be a shocking admission to make,—though I
don't know why it should be."
"Nor I;—but, Mr. Finn, I like you all the better
for making it. I am very sorry, for Oswald's sake.
It *s so hard to find any companion for him whom he
would like and whom we,—that is I,—should think al-
together ;you know what I mean, Mr. Finn."
"Your wish that I should go with him is a great
compliment, and I thoroughly wish that I could do it.
As it is, I must go to Killaloe and retrieve my finances.
I dare say, Lady Laura, you can hardly conceive how
very poor a man I am." There was a melancholy
tone about his voice as he said this, which made her
think for the moment whether or no he had been right
in going into Parliament, and whether she had been
right in instigating him to do so. But it was too late
to recur to that question now.
"You must climb into office early, and forego those
pleasures of opposition which are so dear to Mr.
Monk," she said, smiling. "After all, money is an ac-
cident which does not count nearly so high as do some
other things. You and Mr. Kennedy have the same
enjoyment of everything around you here."
"Yes; while it lasts."
"And Lady Glencora and I stand pretty much on
the same footing, in spite of all her wealth,—except that
she is a married woman. I do not know what she is
worth,—something not to be counted; and I am worth,
—just what papa chooses to give me. A ten-pound
174 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
note at the present moment I should look upon as great
riches." This was the first time she had ever spoken
to him of her own position as regards money; but
he had heard, or thought that he had heard, that she
had been left a fortune altogether independent of her
father.
The last of the ten days had now come, and Phineas
was discontented and almost unhappy. The more he
saw of Lady Laura the more he feared that it was im-
possible that she should become his wife. And yet
from day to day his intimacy with her became more
close. He had never made love to her, nor could he
discover that it was possible for him to do so. She
seemed to be a woman for whom all the ordinary
stages of love-making were quite unsuitable. Of course
he could declare his love and ask her to be his wife on
any occasion on which he might find himself to be
alone with her. And on this morning he had made up
his mind that he would do so before the day was over.
It might be possible that she would never speak to him
again;—that all the pleasures and ambitious hopes to
which she had introduced him might be over as soon
as that rash word should have been spoken! But,
nevertheless, he would speak it.
On this day there was to be a grouse-shooting party,
and the shooters were to be out early. It had been
talked of for some day or two past, and Phineas knew
that he could not escape it. There had been some
rivalry between him and Mr. Bonteen, and there was
to be a sort of match as to which of the two would kill
most birds before lunch. But there had also been
some half promise on Lady Laura's part that she would
walk with him up the Linter and come down upon the
DONALD BEAN'S PONY.
175 •
lake, taking an opposite direction from that by which
they had returned with Mr. Kennedy.
"But you will be shooting all day," she said, when
he proposed it to her as they were starting for the moor.
The wagonette that was to take them was at the door,
and she was there to see them start. Her father was
one of the shooting party, and Mr. Kennedy was an-
other.
"I will undertake to be back in time, if you will not
think it too hot. I shall not see you again till we meet
in town next year."
"Then I certainly will go with you,—that is to say,
if you are here. But you cannot return without the rest
of the party, as you are going so far."
"I '11 get back somehow," said Phineas, who was
resolved that a few miles more or less of mountain
should not detain him from the prosecution of a task
so vitally important to him. "If we start at five that
will be early enough."
"Quite early enough," said Lady Laura.
Phineas went off to the mountains, and shot his
grouse, and won his match, and eat his luncheon. Mr.
Bonteen, however, was not beaten by much, and was
in consequence somewhat ill-humoured.
"I '11 tell you what 111 do," said Mr. Bonteen, " 111
back myself for the rest of the day for a ten-pound
note."
Now there had been no money staked on the match
at all,—but it had been simply a trial of skill, as to
which would kill the most birds in a given time. And
the proposition for that trial had come from Mr. Bon-
teen himself. "I should not think of shooting for
money," said Phineas,
176 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"And why not? A bet is the only way to decide
these things."
"Partly because I'm sure I should n't hit a bird,"
said Phineas, "and partly because I have n't got any
money to lose."
"I hate bets," said Mr. Kennedy to him afterwards.
"I was annoyed when Bonteen offered the wager. I
felt sure, however, you would not accept it."
"I suppose such bets are very common."
"I don't think men ought to propose them unless
they are quite sure of their company. Maybe I 'm
wrong, and I often feel that I am strait-laced about
such things. It is so odd to me that men cannot amuse
themselves without pitting themselves against each
other. When a man tells me that he can shoot better
than I, I tell him that my keeper can shoot better
than he."
"All the same, it 's a good thing to excel," said
Phineas.
"I'm not so sure of that," said Mr. Kennedy. "A
man who can kill more salmon than anybody else, can
rarely do anything else. Are you going on with your
match?"
"No; I'm going to make my way back to Lough-
linter."
"Not alone?"
"Yes, alone."
"It's over nine miles. You can't walk it."
Phineas looked at his watch, and found that it was
now two o'clock. It was a broiling day in August,
and the way back to Loughlinter, for six or seven out
of the nine miles, would be along a high road. "I
must do it all the same," said he, preparing for a start.
DONALD BEAN'S PONY.
177
"I have an engagement with Lady Laura Standish;
and as this is the last day that I shall see her, I cer-
tainly do not mean to break it."
"An engagement with Lady Laura/' said Mr. Ken-
nedy. "Why did you not tell me, that I might have a
pony ready? But come along. Donald Bean has a
pony. He's not much bigger than a dog, but he 11
carry you to Loughlinter."
"I can walk it, Mr. Kennedy."
"Yes; and think of the state in which you'd reach
Loughlinter! Come along with me."
"But I can't take you off the mountain," said Phineas.
"Then you must allow me to take you off."
So Mr. Kennedy led the way down to Donald Bean's
cottage, and before three o'clock Phineas found himself
mounted on a shaggy steed, which, in sober truth, was
not much bigger than a large dog. "If Mr. Kennedy
is really my rival," said Phineas to himself, as he trotted
along, "I almost think that I am doing an unhandsome
thing in taking the pony." At five o'clock he was un-
der the portico before the front door, and there he
found Lady Laura waiting for him,—waiting for him,
or at least ready for him. She had on her hat and
gloves and light shawl, and her parasol was in her
hand. He thought that he had never seen her look so
young, so pretty, and so fit to receive a lover's vows.
But at the same moment it occurred to him that she
was Lady Laura Standish, the daughter of an Earl, the
descendant of a line of Earls,—and that he was the son
of a simple country doctor in Ireland. Was it fitting
that he should ask such a woman to be his wife? But
then Mr. Kennedy was the son of a man who had
walked into Glasgow with half-a-crown in his pocket.
!*]& PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
Mr. Kennedy's grandfather had been,—Phineas thought
that he had heard that Mr. Kennedy's grandfather had
been a Scotch drover; whereas his own grandfather
had been a little squire near Ennistimon, in county
Clare, and his own first cousin once removed still
held the paternal acres at Finn Grove. His family was
supposed to be descended from kings in that part of
Ireland. It certainly did not become him to fear Lady
Laura on the score of rank, if it was to be allowed
to Mr. Kennedy to proceed without fear on that head.
As to wealth, Lady Laura had already told him that
her fortune was no greater than his. Her statement to
himself on that head made him feel that he should not
hesitate on the score of money. They neither had any,
and he was willing to work for both. If she feared
the risk, let her say so.
It was thus that he argued with himself; but yet he
knew,—knew as well as the reader will know,—that he
was going to do that which he had no right to do. It
might be very well for him to wait,—persuming him to
be successful in his love,—for the opening of that oyster
with his political sword, that oyster on which he pro-
posed that they should both live; but such waiting
could not well be to the taste of Lady Laura Standish.
It could hardly be pleasant to her to look forward to
his being made a junior lord or an assistant secretary
before she could establish herself in her home. So he
told himself. And yet he told himself at the same
time that it was incumbent on him to persevere.
"I did not expect you in the least," said Lady
Laura.
"And yet I spoke very positively."
"But there are things as to which a man may be
DONALD BEAN'S PONY.
179
very positive, and yet may be allowed to fail. In the
first place, how on earth did you get home?"
"Mr. Kennedy got me a pony,—Donald Bean's
pony."
"You told him, then?"
"Yes; I told him why I was coming, and that I
must be here. Then he took the trouble to come all
the way off the mountain to persuade Donald to lend
me his pony. I must acknowledge that Mr. Kennedy
has conquered me at last."
"I am so glad of that," said Lady Laura. "I knew
he would,—unless it were your own fault."
They then went up the path by the brook, from bridge
to bridge, till they found themselves out upon the open
mountain at the top. Phineas had resolved that he
would not speak out his mind till he found himself on
that spot; that then he would ask her to sit down, and
that while she was so seated he would tell her every-
thing. At the present moment he had on his head a
Scotch cap with a grouse's feather in it, and he was
dressed in a velvet shooting-jacket and dark knicker-
bockers; and was certainly, in this costume, as hand-
some a man as any woman would wish to see. And
there was, too, a look of breeding about him which had
come to him, no doubt, from the royal Finns of old,
which ever served him in great stead. He was, indeed,
only Phineas Finn, and was known by the world to be
no more; but he looked as though he might have been
anybody,—a royal Finn himself. And then he had
that special grace of appearing to be altogether uncon-
scious of his own personal advantages. And I think
that in truth he was barely conscious of them; that
he depended on them very little, if at all; that there
l8o PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
was nothing of personal vanity in his composition.
He had never indulged in any hope that Lady Laura
would accept him because he was a handsome man.
"After all that climbing," he said, "will you not sit
down for a moment?" As he spoke to her she looked
at him and told herself that he was as handsome as a
god. "Do sit down for one moment," he said. "I
have something that I desire to say to you, and to say
it here."
"I will," she said; "but I also have something to
tell you, and will say it while I am yet standing. Yes-
terday I accepted an offer of marriage from Mr. Ken-
nedy."
"Then I am too late," said Phineas, and putting his
hands into the pockets of his coat, he turned his back
upon her, and walked away across the mountain.
What a fool he had been to let her know his secret
when her knowledge of it could be of no service to
him,—when her knowledge of it could only make him
appear foolish in her eyes! But for his life he could
not have kept his secret to himself. Nor now could he
bring himself to utter a word of even decent civility.
But he went on walking as though he could thus leave
her there, and never see her again. What an ass he
had been in supposing that she cared for him! What
a fool to imagine that his poverty could stand a chance
against the wealth of Loughlinter! But why had she
lured him on? How he wished that he were now
grinding, hard at work in Mr. Low's chambers, or sit-
ting at home at Killaloe with the hand of that pretty
little Irish girl within his own!
Presently he heard a voice behind him,—calling him
gently. Then he turned and found that she was very
DONALD BEAN*S PONY.
near him. He himself had then been standing still for
some moments, and she had followed him. "Mr.
Finn," she said.
"Weil;—yes: what is it?" And turning round he
made an attempt to smile.
"Will you not wish me joy, or say a word of congrat-
ulation? Had I not thought much of your friendship
I should not have been so quick to tell you of my
destiny. No one else has been told, except papa."
"Of course I hope you will be happy. Of course I
do. No wonder he lent me the pony!"
"You must forget all that."
"Forget what?"
"Well,—nothing. You need forget nothing," said
Lady Laura, "for nothing has been said that need be
regretted. Only wish me joy, and all will be pleasant."
"Lady Laura, I do wish you joy, with all my heart;
—but that will not make all things pleasant. I came
up here to ask you to be my wife."
"No;—no, no; do not say it."
"But I have said it, and will say it again. I, poor,
penniless, plain simple fool that I am, have been ass
enough to love you, Lady Laura Standish; and I
brought you up here to-day to ask you to share with
me—my nothingness. And this I have done on soil
that is to be all your own. Tell me that you regard
me as a conceited foolf—as a bewildered idiot."
"I wish to regard you as a dear friend,—both of my
own and of my husband," said she, offering him her
hand.
"Should I have had a chance, I wonder, if I had
spoken a week since?"
"How can I answer such a question, Mr. Finn?
182 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
Or, rather, I will answer it fully. It is not a week
since we told each other, you to me and I to you, that
we were both poor,—both without other means than
those which come to us from our fathers. You will
make your way;—will make it surely; but how at
present could you marry any woman unless she had
money of her own? For me,—like so many other
girls, it was necessary that I should stay at home or
marry some one rich enough to dispense with fortune
in a wife. The man whom in all the world I think the
best has asked me to share everything with him;—and
I have thought it wise to accept his offer."
"And I was fool enough to think that you loved
me," said Phineas. To this she made no immediate an-
swer. "Yes, I was. I feel that I owe it you to tell you
what a fool I have been. I did. I thought you loved
me. At least I thought that perhaps you loved me.
It was like a child wanting the moon;—was it not?"
"And why should I not have loved you?" she said
slowly, laying her hand gently upon his arm.
"Why not? Because Loughlinter"
"Stop, Mr. Finn; stop. Do not say to me any un-
kind word that I have not deserved, and that would
make a breach between us. I have accepted the owner
of Loughlinter as my husband, because I verily believe
that I shall thus best do my duty in that sphere of life
to which it has pleased God to call me. I have always
liked him, and I will love him. For you,—may I trust
myself to speak openly to you?"
"You may trust me as against all others, except us
two ourselves."
"For you, then, I will say also that I have always
liked you since I knew you; that I have loved you as
DONALD BEAN'S PONY.
183
a friend;—and could have loved you otherwise had not
circumstances showed me so plainly that it would be
unwise."
"Oh, Lady Laura!"
"Listen a moment. And pray remember that what
I say to you now must never be repeated to any ears.
No one knows it but my father, my brother, and Mr.
Kennedy. Early in the spring I paid my brother's
debts. His affection to me is more than a return for
what I have done for him. But when I did this,—
when I made up my mind to do it, I made up my mind
also that I could not allow myself the same freedom of
choice which would otherwise have belonged to me.
Will that be sufficient, Mr. Finn?"
"How can I answer you, Lady Laura? Sufficient!
And you are not angry with me for what I have said?"
"No, I am not angry. But it is understood, of
course, that nothing of this shall ever be repeated,—
even among ourselves. Is that a bargain?"
"Oh yes. I shall never speak of it again."
"And now you will wish me joy?"
"I have wished you joy, Lady Laura. And I will
do so again. May you have every blessing which the
world can give you. You cannot expect me to be very
jovial for a while myself; but there will be nobody to
see my melancholy moods. I shall be hiding myself
away in Ireland. When is the marriage to be?"
"Nothing has been said of that. I shall be guided
by him,—but there must, of course, be delay. There
will be settlements and I know not what. It may
probably be in the spring,—or perhaps the summer.
I shall do just what my betters tell me to do."
Phineas had now seated himself on the exact stone
184 PHINEAS FINN,-THE IRrSH MEMBER.
on which he had wished her to sit when he proposed to
tell his own story, and was looking forth upon the lake.
It seemed to him that everything had been changed for
him while he had been up there upon the mountain,
and that the change had been marvellous in its nature.
When he had been coming up, there had been apparently
two alternatives before him: the glory of successful
love,—which, indeed, had seemed to him to be a most
improbable result of the coming interview,—and the
despair and utter banishment attendant on disdainful
rejection. But his position was far removed from either
of these alternatives. She had almost told him that she
would have loved him had she not been poor,—that
she was beginning to love him and had quenched hei
love, because it had become impossible to her to marry
a poor man. In such circumstances he could not be
angry with her,—he could not quarrel with her; he
could not do other than swear to himself that he would
be her friend. And yet he loved her better than ever;
—and she was the promised wife of his rival! Why
had not Donald Bean's pony broken his neck?
"Shall we go down now?" she said.
"Oh yes."
"You will not go on by the lake?"
"What is the use? It is all the same now. You
will want to be back to receive him in from shooting."
"Not that, I think. He is above those little cares.
But it will be as well we should go the nearest way,
as we have spent so much of our time here. I shall
tell Mr. Kennedy that I have told you,—if you do not
mind."
"Tell him what you please," said Phineas.
"But I won't have it taken in that way, Mr. Finn.
DONALD BEAN'S PONY.
185
Your brusque want of courtesy to me I have forgiven,
but I shall expect you to make up for it by the alacrity
of your congratulations to him. I will not have you
uncourteous to Mr. Kennedy."
"If I have been uncourteous I beg your pardon."
"You need not do that. We are old friends, and
may take the liberty of speaking plainly to each other;
—but you will owe it to Mr. Kennedy to be gracious.
Think of the pony."
They walked back to the house together, and as
they went down the path very little was said. Just as
they were about to come out upon the open lawn, while
they were still under cover of the rocks and shrubs,
Phineas stopped his companion by standing before her,
and then he made his farewell speech to her.
"I must say good-bye to you. I shall be away early
in the morning."
"Good-bye, and God bless you," said Lady Laura.
"Give me your hand," said he. And she gave him
her hand. "I don't suppose you know what it is to
love dearly."
"I hope I do."
"But to be in love! I believe you do not. And to
miss your love! I think,—I am bound to think that
you have never been so tormented. It is very sore;—
but I will do my best, like a man, to get over it."
"Do, my friend, do. So small a trouble will never
weigh heavily on shoulders such as yours."
"It will weigh very heavily, but I will struggle hard
that it may not crush me. I have loved you so dearly!
As we are parting, give me one kiss, that I may think
of it and treasure it in my memory!" What murmur-
ing words she spoke to express her refusal of such a
l86 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
request, I will not quote; but the kiss had been taken
before the denial was completed, and then they walked
on in silence together,—and in peace, towards the
house.
On the next morning six or seven men were going
away and there was an early breakfast. There were
none of the ladies there, but Mr. Kennedy, the host,
was among his friends. A large drag with four horses ^
was there to take the travellers and their luggage to
the station, and there was naturally a good deal of
noise at the front door as the preparations for the de-
parture were made. In the middle of them Mr. Ken-
nedy took our hero aside. "Laura has told me," said
Mr. Kennedy, "that she has acquainted you with my
good fortune."
"And I congratulate you most heartily," said Phin-
eas, grasping the other's hand. "You are indeed a
lucky fellow."
"I feel myself to be so," said Mr. Kennedy. "Such
a wife was all that was wanting to me, and such a wife
is very hard to find. Will you remember, Finn, that ■
Loughlinter will never be so full but what there will
be a room for you, or so empty but what you will be
made welcome? I say this on Lady Laura's part and
on my own."
Phineas, as he was being carried away to the railway
station, could not keep himself from speculating as to
how much Kennedy knew of what had taken place
during the walk up the Linter. Of one small circum-
stance that had occurred, he felt quite sure that Mr.
Kennedy knew nothing.
CHAPTER XVI.
PHINEAS FINN RETURNS TO KILLALOE.
Phineas Finn's first session of Parliament was over,
—his first session with all its adventures. When he got
back to Mrs. Bunce's house,—for Mrs. Bunce received
him for a night in spite of her husband's advice to the
contrary,—I am afraid he almost felt that Mrs. Bunce
and her rooms were beneath him. Of course he was
very unhappy,—as wretched as a man can be; there
were moments in which he thought that it would hardly
become him to live unless he could do something to
prevent the marriage of Lady Laura and Mr. Kennedy.
But, nevertheless, he had his consolations. These were
reflections which had in them much of melancholy sat-
isfaction. He had not been despised by the woman to
whom he had told his love. She had not shown him
that she thought him to be unworthy of her. She had
not regarded his love as an offence. Indeed, she had
almost told him that prudence alone had forbidden her
to return his passion. And he had kissed her, and had
afterwards parted from her as a dear friend. I do not
know why there should have been a flavour of exquisite
joy in the midst of his agony as he thought of this;—
but it was so. He would never kiss her again. All
future delights of that kind would belong to Mr. Ken-
nedy, and he had no real idea of interfering with that
gentleman in the fruition of his privileges. But still
there was the kiss,—an eternal fact. And then, in all
187
188 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
respects except that of his love, his visit to Loughlinter
had been pre-eminently successful. Mr. Monk had be-
come his friend, and had encouraged him to speak dur-
ing the next session,—setting before him various mod-
els, and prescribing for him a course of reading. Lord
Brentford had become intimate with him. He was on
pleasant terms with Mr. Palliser and Mr. Gresham.
And as for Mr. Kennedy,—he and Mr. Kennedy were
almost bosom friends. It seemed to him that he had
quite surpassed the Rattlers, Fitzgibbons, and Bonteens
in that political social success which goes so far towards
downright political success, and which in itself is so
pleasant. He had surpassed these men in spite of their
offices and their acquired positions, and could not but
think that even Mr. Low, if he knew it all, would con-
fess that he had been right.
As to his bosom friendship with Mr. Kennedy, that
of course troubled him. Ought he not to be driving a
poniard into Mr. Kennedy's heart? The conventions
of life forbade that; and therefore the bosom friendship
was to be excused. If not an enemy to the death, then
there could be no reason why he should not be a bosom
friend.
He went over to Ireland, staying but one night with
Mrs. Bunce, and came down upon them at Killaloe
like a god out of the heavens. Even his father was
well-nigh overwhelmed by admiration, and his mother
and sisters thought themselves only fit to minister to his
pleasures. He had learned, if he had learned nothing
else, to look as though he were master of the circum-
stances around him, and was entirely free from internal
embarrassment. When his father spoke to him about
his legal studies, he did not exactly laugh at his father's
PHINEAS FINN RETURNS TO KILLALOE. 189
ignorance, but he recapitulated to his father so much
of Mr. Monk's wisdom at second hand,—showing
plainly that it was his business to study the arts of
speech and the technicalities of the House, and not to
study law,—that his father had nothing further to say.
He had become a man of such dimensions that an or-
dinary father could hardly dare to inquire into his pro-
ceedings; and as for an ordinary mother,—such as
Mrs. Finn certainly was,—she could do no more than
look after her son's linen with awe.
Mary Flood Jones,—the reader I hope will, not quite
have forgotten Mary Flood Jones,—was in a great
tremor when first she met the hero of Loughshane after
returning from the honours of his first session. She
had been somewhat disappointed because the news-
papers had not been full of the speeches he had made in
Parliament. And indeed the ladies of the Finn house-
hold had all been ill at ease on this head. They could
not imagine why Phineas had restrained himself with
so much philosophy. But Miss Flood Jones in dis-
cussing the matter with the Miss Finns had never ex-
pressed the slightest doubt of his capacity or his judg-
ment. And when tidings came,—the tidings came in
a letter from Phineas to his father,—that he did not
intend to speak that session, because speeches from a
young member on his first session were thought to be
inexpedient, Miss Flood Jones and the Miss Finns were
quite willing to accept the wisdom of this decision, much
as they might regret the effect of it. Mary, when she
met her hero, hardly dared to look him in the face, but
she remembered accurately all the circumstances of her
last interview with him. Could it be that he wore that
ringlet near his heart? Mary had received from Bar-
190 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
bara Finn certain hairs supposed to have come from
the head of Phineas, and these she always wore near
her own. And moreover, since she had seen Phineas
she had refused an offer of marriage from Mr. Elias
Bodkin,—had refused it almost ignominiously,—and
when doing so had told herself that she would never be
false to Phineas Finn.
"We think it so good of you to come and see us
again," she said.
"Good to come home to my own people?"
"Of course you might be staying with plenty of
grandees if you liked it."
"No, indeed, Mary. It did happen by accident that
I had to go to the house of a man whom perhaps you
would call a grandee, and to meet grandees there. But
it was only for a few days, and I am very glad to be
taken in again here, I can assure you."
"You know how very glad we all are to have you."
"Are you glad to see me, Mary?"
"Very glad. Why should I not be glad, and Bar-
bara the dearest friend I have in the world? Of course
she talks about you,—and that makes me think of you."
"If you knew, Mary, how often I think about you."
Then Mary, who was very happy at hearing such words,
and who was walking in to dinner with him at the
moment, could not refrain herself from pressing his
arm with her little fingers. She knew that Phineas in
his position could not marry at once; but she would
wait for him,—oh, forever, if he would only ask her.
He of course was a wicked traitor to tell her that he was
wont to think of her. But Jove smiles at lovers' per-
juries;—and it is well that he should do so, as such
perjuries can hardly be avoided altogether in the difficult
PHINEAS FINN RETURNS TO KILLALOE. 191
circumstances of a successful gentleman's life. Phin-
eas was a traitor, of course, but he was almost forced
to be a traitor by the simple fact that Lady Laura
Standish was in London, and Mary Flood Jones in
Killaloe.
He remained for nearly five months at Killaloe, and
I doubt whether his time was altogether well spent.
Some of the books recommended to him by Mr. Monk
he probably did read, and was often to be found en-
compassed by blue books. I fear that there was a
grain of pretence about his blue books and parlia-
mentary papers, and that in these days he was, in a
gentle way, something of an impostor. "You must
not be angry with me for not going to you," he said
once to Mary's mother when he had declined an invi-
tation to drink tea; "but the fact is that my time is not
my own." "Pray don't make any apologies. We are
quite aware that we have very little to offer," said Mrs.
Flood Jones, who was not altogether happy about Mary,
and who perhaps knew more about members of Parlia-
ment and blue books than Phineas Finn had supposed.
"Mary, you are a fool to think of that man," the
mother said to her daughter the next morning. "I
don't think of him, mamma; not particularly." "He
is no better than anybody else that I can see, and he is
beginning to give himself airs," said Mrs. Flood Jones.
Mary made no answer; but she went up into her room
and swore before a figure of the Virgin that she would
be true to Phineas forever and ever, in spite of her
mother, in spite of all the world,—in spite, should it be
necessary, even of himself.
About Christmas time there came a discussion be-
tween Phineas and his father about money. "I hope
I92 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
you find you get on pretty well," said the doctor, who
thought that he had been liberal.
"It's a tight fit," said Phineas,—who was less afraid
of his father than he had been when he last discussed
these things.
"I had hoped it would have been ample," said the
doctor.
"Don't think for a moment, sir, that I am complain-
ing," said Phineas. "I know it is much more than I
have a right to expect."
The doctor began to make an inquiry within his own
breast as to whether his son had a right to expect any-
thing ;—whether the time had not come in which his
son should be earning his own bread. "I suppose,"
he said, after a pause, "there is no chance of your
doing anything at the Bar now?"
"Not immediately. It is almost impossible to com-
bine the two studies together. Mr. Low himself was
aware of that. But you are not to suppose that I have
given the profession up."
"I hope not,—after all the money it has cost us."
"By no means, sir. And all that I am doing now
will, I trust, be of assistance to me when I shall come
back to work at the law. Of course it is on the cards
that I may go into office,—and if so, public business
will become my profession."
"And be turned out with the ministry!"
"Yes; that is true, sir. I must run my chance. If
the worst comes to the worst, I hope I might be able
to secure some permanent place. I should think that
I can hardly fail to do so. But I trust I may never be
driven to want it. I thought, however, that we had
settled all this before." Then Phineas assumed a look
PHINEAS FINN RETURNS TO KILLALOE. 193
of injured innocence, as though his father was driving
him too hard.
"And in the meantime your money has been
enough?" said the doctor, after a pause.
"I had intended to ask you to advance me a hun-
dred pounds," said Phineas. "There were expenses to
which I was driven on first entering Parliament."
"A hundred pounds."
"If it be inconvenient, sir, I can do without it." He
had not as yet paid for his gun, or for that velvet coat
in which he had been shooting, or, most probably, for
the knickerbockers. He knew he wanted the hundred
pounds badly; but he felt ashamed of himself in ask-
ing for it. If he were once in office,—though the office
were but a sorry junior lordship,—he would repay his
father instantly.
"You shall have it, of course," said the doctor; "but
do not let the necessity for asking for more hundreds
come oftener than you can help." Phineas said that
he would not, and then there was no further discourse
about money. It need hardly be said that he told his
father nothing of that bill which he had endorsed for
Laurence Fitzgibbon.
At last came the time which called him again to Lon-
don and the glories of London life,—to lobbies, and the
clubs, and the gossip of men in office, and the chance
of promotion for himself; to the glare of the gas-lamps,
the mock anger of rival debaters, and the prospect of
the Speaker's wig. During the idleness of the recess
he had resolved at any rate upon this,—that a month
of the session should not have passed by before he had
been seen upon his legs in the House,—had been seen
and heard. And many a time as he had wandered
194 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
alone, with his gun, across the bogs which lie on the
other side of the Shannon from Killaloe, he had prac-
tised the sort of address which he would make to the
House. He would be short,—always short; and he
would eschew all action and gesticulation; Mr. Monk
had been very urgent in his instructions to him on that
head; but he would be especially careful that no words
should escape him which had not in them some pur-
pose. He might be wrong in his purpose, but purpose
there should be. He had been twitted more than once
at Killaloe with his silence;—for it had been conceived
by his fellow-townsmen that he had been sent to Parlia-
ment on the special ground of his eloquence. They
should twit him no more on his next return. He would
speak and would carry the House with him if a human
effort might prevail.
So he packed up his things, and started again for
London in the beginning of February. "Good-bye,
Mary," he _ said with his sweetest smile. But on this
occasion there was no kiss, and no culling of locks. "I
know he cannot help it," said Mary to herself. "It is
his position. But whether it be for good or evil, I will
be true to him."
"I am afraid you are unhappy," Barbara Finn said
to her on the next morning.
"No; I am not unhappy,—not at all. I have a
deal to make me happy and proud. I don't mean to
be a bit unhappy." Then she turned away and cried,
heartily, and Barbara Finn cried with her for company.
CHAPTER XVII.
PHINEAS FINN RETURNS TO LONDON.
Phineas had received two letters during his recess
at Killaloe from two women who admired him much,
which, as they were both short, shall be submitted to
the reader. The first was as follows:—
"Saulsby, October 20, 186—.
"My dear Mr. Finn,—I write a line to tell you that
our marriage is to be hurried on as quickly as possible.
Mr. Kennedy does not like to be absent from Parlia-
ment; nor will he be content to postpone the ceremony
till the session be over. The day fixed is the 3rd of
December, and we then go at once to Rome, and in-
tend to be back in London by the opening of Parlia-
ment. Yours most sincerely,
"Laura Standish.
"Our London address will be No. 52, Grosvenor
Place."
To this he wrote an answer as short, expressing his
ardent wishes that those winter hymeneals might pro-
duce nothing but happiness, and saying that he would
not be in town many days before he knocked at the
door of No. 52, Grosvenor Place.
And the second letter was as follows:—
"Great Marlborough Street, December, 186—.
"Dear and Honoured Sir,—Bunce is getting ever so
anxious about the rooms, and says as how he has a
i95
196 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
young Equity draftsman and wife and baby as would
take the whole house, and all because Miss Pouncefoot
said a word about her port-wine, which any lady of
her age might say in her tantrums, and mean nothing
after all. Me and Miss Pouncefoot's knowed each
other for seven years, and what 's a word or two as
is n't meant after that? But, honoured sir, it's not
about that as I write to trouble you, but to ask if I
may say for certain that you '11 take the rooms again
in February. It *s easy to let them for the month after
Christmas, because of the pantomimes. Only say at
once, because Bunce is nagging me day after day. I
don't want nobody's wife and baby to have to do for,
and'd sooner have a Parliament gent like yourself
than any one else.
"Yours 'umbly and respectful,
"Jane Bunce."
To this he replied that he would certainly come back
to the rooms in Great Marlborough Street, should he
be lucky enough to find them vacant, and he expressed
his willingness to take them on and from the 1st of
February. And on the 3rd of February he found
himself in the old quarters, Mrs. Bunce having con-
trived, with much conjugal adroitness, both to keep
Miss Pouncefoot and to stave off the Equity drafts-
man's wife and baby. Bunce, however, received Phin-
eas very coldly, and told his wife the same evening
that as far as he could see their lodger would never
turn up to be a trump in the matter of the ballot. "If
he means well, why did he go and stay with them lords
down in Scotland? I knows all about it. I knows a
man when I sees him. Mr. Low, who's looking out
PHINEAS FINN RETURNS TO LONDON. 197
to be a tory judge some of these days, is a deal bet-
ter ;—because he knows what he's after."
Immediately on his return to town, Phineas found
himself summoned to a political meeting at Mr. Mild-
may's house in St. James's Square. "We 're going to
begin in earnest this time," Barrington Erie said to him
at the club.
"I am glad of that," said Phineas.
"I suppose you heard all about it down at Lough-
linter?"
Now, in truth, Phineas had heard very little of any
settled plan down at Loughlinter. He had played a
game of chess with Mr. Gresham, and had shot a stag
with Mr. Palliser, and had discussed sheep with Lord
Brentford, but had hardly heard a word about politics
from any one of those influential gentlemen. From
Mr. Monk he had heard much of a coming Reform
Bill; but his communications with Mr. Monk had
rather been private discussions,—in which he had
learned Mr. Monk's own views on certain points,—
than revelations on the intention of the party to which
Mr. Monk belonged. "I heard of nothing settled," said
Phineas; "but I suppose we are to have a Reform Bill."
"That is a matter of course."
"And I suppose we are not to touch the question
of ballot."
That's the difficulty," said Barrington Erie. "But
of course we shan't touch it as long as Mr. Mildmay
is in the Cabinet. He will never consent to the ballot
as First Minister of the Crown."
"Nor would Gresham, or Palliser," said Phineas,
who did not choose to bring forward his greatest gun
at first
198 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"I don't know about Gresham. It is impossible to
say what Gresham might bring himself to do. Gresh-
am is a man who may go any lengths before he has
done. Planty Pall,"—for such was the name by which
Mr. Piantagenet Palliser was ordinarily known among
his friends,—" would of course go with Mr. Mildmay
and the Duke."
"And Monk is opposed to the ballot," said Phineas.
"Ah, that's the question. No doubt he has assented
to the proposition of a measure without the ballot;
but if there should come a row, and men like Turnbull
demand it, and the London mob kick up a shindy, I
don't know how far Monk would be steady."
"Whatever he says, he '11 stick to."
"He is your leader, then?" asked Barrington.
"I don't know that I have a leader. Mr. Mildmay
leads our side; and if anybody leads me, he does.
But I have great faith in Mr. Monk."
"There's one who would go for the ballot to-mor-
row, if it were brought forward stoutly," said Bar-
rington Erie to Mr. Rattler a few minutes afterwards,
pointing to Phineas as he spoke.
"I don't think much of that young man," said Rattler.
Mr. Bonteen and Mr. Rattler had put their heads to-
gether during that last evening at Loughlinter, and had
agreed that they did not think much of Phineas Finn.
Why did Mr. Kennedy go down off the mountain to
get him a pony? And why did Mr. Gresham play
chess with him? Mr. Rattler and Mr. Bonteen may
have been right in making up their minds to think but
little of Phineas Finn, but Barrington Erie had been
quite wrong when he had said that Phineas would "go
for the ballot" to-morrow. Phineas had made up his
PHINEAS FINN RETURNS TO LONDON. 199
mind very strongly that he would always oppose the
ballot. That he would hold the same opinion through-
out his life, no one should pretend to say; but in his
present mood, and under the tuition which he had re-
ceived from Mr. Monk, he was prepared to demon-
strate, out of the House and in it, that the ballot was,
as a political measure, unmanly, ineffective, and ener-
vating. Enervating had been a great word with Mr.
Monk, and Phineas had clung to it with admiration.
The meeting took place at Mr. Mildmay's on the
third day of the session. Phineas had of course heard
of such meetings before, but had never attended one.
Indeed, there had been no such gathering when Mr.
Mildmay's party came into power early in the last ses-
sion. Mr. Mildmay and his men had then made their
effort in turning out their opponents, and had been
well pleased to rest awhile upon their oars. Now,
however, they must go again to work, and therefore
the liberal party was collected at Mr. Mildmay's house,
in order that the liberal party might be told what it
was that Mr. Mildmay and his Cabinet intended to do.
Phineas Finn was quite in the dark as to what would
be the nature of the performance on this occasion, and
entertained some idea that every gentleman present
would be called upon to express individually his assent
or dissent in regard to the measure proposed. He
walked to St. James's Square with Laurence Fitzgib-
bon; but even with Fitzgibbon was ashamed to show
his ignorance by asking questions. "After all," said
Fitzgibbon, "this kind of thing means nothing. I
know as well as possible, and so do you, what Mr.
Mildmay will say,—and then Gresham will say a few
words; and then Turnbull will make a murmur, and
200 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
then we shall all assent,—to anything or to nothing;
—and then it will be over." Still Phineas did not un-
derstand whether the assent required would or would
not be an individual personal assent. When the affair
was over he found that he was disappointed, and that
he might almost as well have stayed away from the
meeting,—except that he had attended at Mr. Mild-
may's bidding, and had given a silent adhesion to Mr.
Mildmay's plan of reform for that session. Laurence
Fitzgibbon had been very nearly correct in his de-
scription of what would occur. Mr. Mildmay made
a long speech. Mr. Turnbull, the great radical of
the day,—the man who was supposed to represent what
many called the Manchester school of politics,—asked
half-a-dozen questions. In answer to these Mr. Gresh-
am made a short speech. Then Mr. Mildmay made
another speech, and then all was over. The gist of
the whole thing was, that there should be a Reform
Bill,—very generous in its enlargement of the franchise,
—but no ballot. Mr. Turnbull expressed his doubt
whether this would be satisfactory to the country;
but even Mr. Turnbull was soft in his tone and com-
plaisant in his manner. As there was no reporter
present,—that plan of turning private meetings at gen-
tlemen's houses into public assemblies not having been
as yet adopted,—there could be no need for energy
or violence. They went to Mildmay's house to hear
Mr. Mildmay's plan,—and they heard it.
Two days after this Phineas was to dine with Mr.
Monk. Mr. Monk had asked him in the lobby of the
House. "I don't give dinner-parties," he said, "but
I should like you to come and meet Mr. Turnbull."
Phineas accepted the invitation as a matter of course.
PHINEAS FINN RETURNS TO LONDON. 201
There were many who said that Mr. Turnbull was the
greatest man in the nation, and that the nation could
be saved only by a direct obedience to Mr. TurnbulPs
instructions. Others said that Mr. Turnbull was a
demagogue and at heart a rebel; that he was un-Eng-
lish, false, and very dangerous. Phineas was rather
inclined to believe the latter statement; and as danger
and dangerous men are always more attractive than
safety and safe men, he was glad to have an opportu-
nity of meeting Mr. Turnbull at dinner.
In the meantime he went to call on Lady Laura,
whom he had not seen since the last evening which he
spent in her company at Loughlinter,—whom, when
he was last speaking to her, he had kissed close be-
neath the falls of the Linter. He found her at home,
and with her was her husband. "Here is a Darby
and Joan meeting, is it not?" she said, getting up to
welcome him. He had seen Mr. Kennedy before,
and had been standing close to him during the meet-
ing at Mr. Mildmay's.
"I am very glad to find you both together."
"But Robert is going away this instant," said Lady
Laura. "Has he told you of our adventures at
Rome?"
"Not a word."
"Then I must tell you;—but not now. The dear
old Pope was so civil to us. I came to think it quite
a pity that he should be in trouble."
"I must be off," said the husband, getting up.
"But I shall meet you at dinner, I believe."
"Do you dine at Mr. Monk's?"
"Yes, and am asked expressly to hear Turnbull
make a convert of you. There are only to be us four.
202 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
Au revoir." Then Mr. Kennedy went, and Phineas
found himself alone with Lady Laura. He hardly knew
how to address her, and remained silent. He had not
prepared himself for the interview as he ought to have
done, and felt himself to be awkward. She evidently
expected him to speak, and for a few seconds sat wait-
ing for what he might say.
At last she found that it was incumbent on her to
begin. "Were you surprised at our suddenness when
you got my note?"
"A little. You had spoken of waiting."
"I had never imagined that he would have been
impetuous. And he seems to think that even the busi-
ness of getting himself married would not justify him
in staying away from Parliament. He is a rigid mar-
tinet in all matters of duty."
"I did not wonder that he should be in a hurry,
but that you should submit."
"I told you that I should do just what the wise
people told me. I asked papa, and he said that it
would be better. So • the lawyers were driven out of
their minds, and the milliners out of their bodies, and
the thing was done."
"Who was there at the marriage?"
"Oswald was not there. That I know is what you
mean to ask. Papa said that he might come if he
pleased. Oswald stipulated that he should be received
as a son. Then my father spoke the hardest word
that ever fell from his mouth."
"What did he say?"
"I will not repeat it,—not altogether. But he said
that Oswald was not entitled to a son's treatment. He
PHINEAS FINN RETURNS TO LONDON. 203
was very sore about my money, because Robert was so
generous as to his settlement. So the breach between
them is as wide as ever."
"And where is Chiltern now?" said Phineas.
"Down in Northamptonshire, staying at some inn
from whence he hunts. He tells me that he is quite
alone,—that he never dines out, never has any one to
dine with him, that he hunts five or six days a week,—
and reads at night."'
"That is not a bad sort of life."
"Not if the reading is any good. But I cannot
bear that he should be so solitary. And if he breaks
down in it, then his companions will not be fit for him.
Do you ever hunt?"
"Oh yes,—at home in county Clare. All Irishmen -
hunt."
"I wish you would go down to him and see him.
He would be delighted to have you."
Phineas thought over the proposition before he an-
swered it, and then made the reply that he had made
once before. "I would do so, Lady Laura,—but that
I have no money for hunting in England."
"Alas, alas 1" said she, smiling. "How that hits
one on every side!"
"I might manage it,—for a couple of days,—in
March."
"Do not do what you think you ought not to do,"
said Lady Laura.
"No; certainly. But I should like it, and if I can
I will."
"He could mount you, I have no doubt He has
no «>ther expense now, and keeps a stable full of horses.
204 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER,
I think he has seven or eight. And now tell me, Mr.
Finn; when are you going to charm the House? Or
is it your first intention to strike terrror?"
He blushed,—he knew that he flushed as he an-
swered. "Oh, I suppose I shall make some sort of
attempt before long. I can't bear the idea of being
a bore."
"I think you ought to speak, Mr. Finn."
"I do not know about that, but I certainly mean to
try. There will be lots of opportunities about the new
Reform Bill. Of course yov{ know that Mr. Mildmay
is going to bring it in at once. You hear all that from
Mr. Kennedy."
"And papa has told me. I still see papa almost
every day. You must call upon him. Mind you do."
Phineas said that he certainly would. "Papa is very
lonely now, and I sometimes feel that I have been al-
most cruel in deserting him. And I think that he has
a horror of the house,—especially later in the year,—
always fancying that he will meet Oswald. I am so
unhappy about it all, Mr. Finn."
"Why does n't your brother marry?" said Phineas,
knowing nothing as yet of Lord Chiltern and Violet
Effingham. "If he were to marry well, that would
bring your father round."
"Yes,—it would."
"And why should he not?"
Lady Laura paused before she answered; and then
she told the whole story. "He is violently in love,
and the girl he loves has refused him twice."
"Is it with Miss Effingham? " asked Phineas, guess-
ing the truth at once, and remembering what Miss
Effingham had said to him when riding in the wood.
PHINEAS FINN RETURNS TO LONDON. 205
"Yes;—with Violet Effingham; my father's pet, his
favourite, whom he loves next to myself,—almost as
well as myself; whom he would really welcome as a
daughter. He would gladly make her mistress of his
house, and of Saulsby. Everything would then go
smoothly."
"But she does not like Lord Chiltern?"
"I believe she loves him in her heart; but she is
afraid of him. As she says herself, a girl is bound to
be so careful of herself. With all her seeming frolic,
Violet Effingham is very wise."
Phineas, though not conscious of anything akin to
jealousy, was annoyed at the revelation made to him.
Since he had heard that Lord Chiltern was in love
with Miss Effingham, he did not like Lord Chiltern
quite as well as he had done before. He himself had
simply admired Miss Effingham, and had taken pleas-
ure in her society; but, though this had been all, he
did not like to hear of another man wanting to marry
her, and he was almost angry with Lady Laura for
saying that she believed Miss Effingham loved her
brother. If Miss Effingham had twice refused Lord
Chiltern, that ought to have been sufficient. It was
not that Phineas was in love with Miss Effingham
himself. As he was still violently in love with Lady
Laura, any other love was of course impossible; but,
nevertheless, there was something offensive to him in
the story as it had- been told. "If it be wisdom
on her part," said he, answering Lady Laura's last
words, "you cannot find fault with her for her de-
cision."
"I find no fault;—but I think my brother would
make her happy."
206 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
Lady Laura, when she was left alone, at once re-
verted to the tone in which Phineas Finn had answered
her remarks about Miss Effingham. Phineas was very
ill able to conceal his thoughts, and wore his heart
almost upon his sleeve. "Can it be possible that he
cares for her himself?" That was the nature of Lady
Laura's first question to herself upon the matter. And
in asking herself that question, she thought nothing of
the disparity in rank or fortune between Phineas Finn
and Violet Effingham. Nor did it occur to her as at
all improbable that Violet might accept the love of him
who had so lately been her own lover. But the idea
grated against her wishes on two sides. She was most
anxious that Violet should ultimately become her
brother's wife,—and she could not be pleased that
Phineas should be able to love any woman.
I must beg my readers not to be carried away by
those last words into any erroneous conclusion. They
must not suppose that Lady Laura Kennedy, the lately
married bride, indulged a guilty passion for the young
man who had loved her. Though she had probably
thought often of Phineas Finn since her marriage, her
thoughts had never been of a nature to disturb her
rest. It had never occurred to her even to think that
she regarded him with any feeling that was an offence
to her husband. She would have hated herself had
any such idea presented itself to her mind. She prided
herself on being a pure high-principled woman, who
had kept so strong a guard upon herself as to be nearly
free from the dangers of those rocks upon which other
women made shipwreck of their happiness. She took
pride in this, and would then blame herself for her own
pride. But though she so blamed herself, it never oc-
PHINEAS FINN .RETURNS TO LONDON. 207
curred to her to think that to her there might be dan-
ger of such shipwreck. She had put away from herself
the idea of love when she had first perceived that
Phineas had regarded her with more than friendship,
and had accepted Mr. Kennedy's offer with an assured
conviction that by doing so she was acting best for her
own happiness and for that of all those concerned.
She had felt the romance of the position to be sweet
when Phineas had stood with her at the top of the
falls of the Linter, and had told her of the hopes which
he had dared to indulge. And when at the bottom of
the falls he had presumed to take her in his arms, she
had forgiven him without difficulty to herself, telling
herself that that would be the alpha and the omega of
the romance of her life. She had not felt herself
bound to tell Mr. Kennedy of what had occurred,—
but she had felt that he could hardly have been angry
even had he been told. And she had often thought
of her lover since, and of his love,—telling herself that
she top had once had a lover, never regarding her hus-
band in that light; but her thoughts had not frightened
her as guilty thoughts will do. There had come a
romance which had been pleasant, and it was gone.
It had been soon banished,—but it had left to her a
sweet flavour, of which she loved to taste the sweetness
though she knew that it was gone. And the man should
be her friend, but especially her husband's friend. It
should be her care to see that his life was successful,—
and especially her husband's care. It was a great de-
light to her to know that her husband liked the man.
And the man would marry, and the man's wife should
be her friend. All this had been very pure and very
pleasant. Now an idea had flitted across her brain
208 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
that the man was in love with some one else,—and she
did not like it!
But she did not therefore become afraid of herself,
or in the least realise at once the danger of her own
position. Her immediate glance at the matter did not
go beyond the falseness of men. If it were so, as she
suspected,—if Phineas Finn had in truth transferred
his affections to Violet Effingham, of how little value
was the love of such a man! It did not occur to her
at this moment that she also had transferred hers to
Robert Kennedy, or that, if not, she had done worse.
But she did remember that in the autumn this young
Phoebus among men had turned his back upon her out
upon the mountain that he might hide from her the
agony of his heart when he learned that she was to be
the wife of another man; and that now, before the
winter was over, he could not hide from her the fact
that his heart was elsewhere! And then she specu-
lated, and counted up facts, and satisfied herself that
Phineas could not even have seen Violet Effingham
since they two had stood together upon the mountain.
How false are men!—how false and how weak of
heart!
"Chiltern and Violet Effingham!" said Phineas to
himself, as he walked away from Grosvenor Place.
"Is it fair that she should be sacrificed because she is
rich, and because she is so winning and so fascinating
that Lord Brentford would receive even his son for the
sake of receiving also such a daughter-in-law?" Phin-
eas also liked Lord Chiltern; had seen or fancied that
he had seen fine things in him; had looked forward to
his regeneration, hoping, perhaps, that he might have
some hand in the good work. But he did not recog-
PHINEAS FINN RETURNS TO LONDON. 2og
nise the propriety of sacrificing Violet Effingham even
for work so good as this. If Miss Effingham had re-
fused Lord Chiltern twice, surely that ought to be suf-
ficient. It did not as yet occur to him that the love
of such a girl^as Violet would be a great treasure—to
himself. As regarded himself, he was still in love,—
hopelessly in love, with Lady Laura Kennedy!
CHAPTER XVIII.
MR. TURNBULL.
It was a Wednesday evening and there was no
House;—and at seven o'clock Phineas was at Mr.
Monk's hall door. He was the first of the guests, and
he found Mr. Monk alone in the dining-room. "I am
doing butler," said Mr. Monk, who had a brace of
decanters in his hands, which he proceeded to put
down in the neighbourhood of the fire. "But I have
finished, and now we will go upstairs to receive the two
great men properly."
"I beg your pardon for coming too early," said Finn.
"Not a minute too early. Seven is seven, and it is
I who am too late. But, Lord bless you, you don't
think I'm ashamed of being found in the act of de-
canting my own wine! I remember Lord Palmerston
saying before some committee about salaries, five or six
years ago now, I dare say, that it would n't do for an
English Minister to have his hall door opened by a
maid-servant. Now, I'm an English Minister, and
I've got nobody but a maid-servant to open my hall
door, and I'm obliged to look after my own wine. I
wonder whether it's improper? I should n't like to
be the means of injuring the British Constitution."
"Perhaps if you resign soon, and if nobody follows
your example, grave evil results may be avoided."
"I sincerely hope so, for I do love the British Con-
stitution; and I love also the respect in which mem-
210
MR. TURNBULL.
211
bers of the English Cabinet are held. Now Turnbull,
who will be here in a moment, hates it all; but he is
a rich man, and has more powdered footmen hanging
about his house than ever Lord Palmerston had
himself."
"He is still in business."
"Oh yes;—and makes his thirty thousand a year.
Here he is. How are you, Turnbull? We were talk-
ing about my maid-servant. I hope she opened the
door for you properly."
"Certainly,—as far as I perceived," said Mr. Turn-
bull, who was better at a speech than a joke. "A very
respectable young woman I should say."
"There is not one more so in all London," said Mr.
Monk; "but Finn seems to think that I ought to have
a man in livery."
"It is a matter of perfect indifference to me," said
Mr. Turnbull. "I am one of those who never think
of such things."
"Nor I either," said Mr. Monk. Then the Laird of
Loughlinter was announced, and they all went down
to dinner.
Mr. Turnbull was a good-looking robust man about
sixty, with long grey hair and a red complexion, with
hard eyes, a well-cut nose, and full hps. He was nearly
six feet high, stood quite upright, and always wore a
black swallow-tail coat, black trousers, and a black silk
waistcoat. In the House, at least, he was always so
dressed, and at dinner tables. What difference there
might be in his costume when at home at Staleybridge
few of those who saw him in London had the means of
knowing. There was nothing in his face to indicate
special talent. No one looking at him would take him
212 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
to be a fool; but there was none of the fire of genius in
his eye, nor was there in the lines of his mouth any of
that play of thought or fancy which is generally to be
found in the faces of men and women who have made
themselves great. Mr. Turnbull had certainly made
himself great, and could hardly have done so without
force of intellect. He was one of the most popular,
if not the most popular politician in the country. Poor
men believed in him, thinking that he was their most
honest public friend; and men who were not poor be-
lieved in his power, thinking that his counsels must
surely prevail. He had obtained the ear of the House
and the favour of the reporters, and opened his voice
at no public dinner, on no public platform, without a
conviction that the words spoken by him would be read
by thousands. The first necessity for good speaking
is a large audience; and of this advantage Mr. Turn-
bull had made himself sure. And yet it could hardly
be said that he was a great orator. He was gifted
with a powerful voice, with strong, and I may, per-
haps, call them broad convictions, with perfect self-
reliance, with almost unlimited powers of endurance,
with hot ambition, with no keen scruples, and with a
moral skin of great thickness. Nothing said against
him pained him, no attacks wounded him, no raillery
touched him in the least. There was not a sore spot
about him, and probably his first thoughts on waking
every morning told him that he, at least, was totus teres
atque rotundus. He was, of course, a thorough rad-
ical,—and so was Mr. Monk. But Mr. Monk's first
waking thoughts were probably exactly the reverse of
those of his friend. Mr. Monk was a much hotter man
in debate than Mr. Turnbull; but Mr. Monk was ever
MR. TURNBULL.
213
doubting of himself, and never doubted of himself so
much as when he had been most violent, and also most
effective, in debate. When Mr. Monk jeered at him-
self for being a Cabinet Minister and keeping no at-
tendant grander than a parlour-maid, there was a sub-
stratum of self-doubt under the joke.
Mr. Turnbull was certainly a great radical, and as
such enjoyed a great reputation. I do not think that
high office in the State had ever been offered to him;
but things had been said which justified him, or seemed
to himself to justify him, in declaring that in no possible
circumstances would he serve the Crown. "I serve the
people," he had said, "and much as I respect the ser-
vants of the Crown, I think that my own office is the
higher." He had been greatly called to task for this
speech; and Mr. Mildmay, the present Premier, had
asked him whether he did not recognise the so-called
servants of the Crown as the most hard-worked and
truest servants of the people. The House and the press
had supported Mr. Mildmay, but to all that Mr. Turn-
bull was quite indifferent; and when an assertion made
by him before three or four thousand persons at Man-
chester, to the effect that he,—he specially,—was the
friend and servant of the people, was received with
acclamation, he felt quite satisfied that he had gained
his point. Progressive reform in the franchise, of which
manhood suffrage should be the acknowledged and
not far distant end, equal electoral districts, ballot,
tenant right for England as well as Ireland, reduction
of the standing army till there should be no standing
army to reduce, utter disregard of all political move-
ments in Europe, an almost idolatrous admiration for
all political movements in America, free trade in every-
214 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
thing except malt, and an absolute extinction of a State
Church,—these were among the principal articles in
Mr. TurnbulTs political catalogue. And I think that
when once he had learned the art of arranging his
words as he stood upon his legs, and had so mastered
his own voice as to have obtained the ear of the
House, the work of his life was not difficult. Having
nothing to construct, he could always deal with gener-
alities. Being free from responsibility, he was not
called upon either to study details or to master even
great facts. It was his business to inveigh against
existing evils, and perhaps there is no easier business
when once the privilege of an audience has been at-
tained. It was his work to cut down forest-trees, and
he had nothing to do with the subsequent cultivation
of the land. Mr. Monk had once told Phineas Finn
how great were the charms of that inaccuracy which
was permitted to the Opposition. Mr. TurnbuU no
doubt enjoyed these charms to the full, though he
would sooner have put a padlock on his mouth for a
month than have owned as much. Upon the whole,
Mr. Turnbull was no doubt right in resolving that he
would not take office, though some reticence on that
subject might have been more becoming to him.
The conversation at dinner, though it was altogether
on political subjects, had in it nothing of special inter-
est as long as the girl was there to change the plates;
but when she was gone, and the door was closed, it
gradually opened out, and there came on to be a pleas-
ant sparring match between the two great radicals,—
the radical who had joined himself to the governing
powers, and the radical who stood aloof. Mr. Ken-
nedy barely said a word now and then, and Phineas
MR. TURNBULL.
215
was almost as silent as Mr. Kennedy. He had come
there to hear some such discussion, and was quite will-
ing to listen while guns of such great calibre were being
fired off for his amusement.
"I think Mr. Mildmay is making a great step for-
ward," said Mr. Turnbull.
"I think he is," said Mr. Monk.
I did not believe that he would ever live to go so
far. It will hardly suffice even for this year; but still,
coming from him, it is a great deal. It only shows
how far a man may be made to go, if only the proper
force be applied. After all, it matters very little who
are the Ministers."
"That is what I have always declared," said Mr.
Monk.
"Very little indeed. We don't mind whether it be
Lord De Terrier, or Mr. Mildmay, or Mr. Gresham, or
you yourself, if you choose to get yourself made First
Lord of the Treasury."
"I have no such ambition, Turnbull."
"I should have thought you had. If I went m for
that kind of thing myself, I should like to go to the top
of the ladder. I should feel that if I could do any
good at all by becoming a Minister, I could only do
it by becoming first Minister."
"You would n't doubt your own fitness for such a
position?"
"I doubt my fitness for the position of any Minis-
ter," said Mr. Turnbull.
"You mean that on other grounds," said Mr. Ken-
nedy.
"I mean it on every ground," said Mr. Turnbull,
rising on his legs and standing with his back to the fire.
2l6 PH1NEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"Of course I am not fit to have diplomatic intercourse
with men who would come to me simply with the de-
sire of deceiving me. Of course I am unfit to deal
with members of Parliament who would flock around
me because they wanted places. Of course I am unfit
to answer every man's question so as to give no infor-
mation to any one."
"Could you not answer them so as to give informa-
tion?" said Mr. Kennedy.
But Mr. Turnbull was so intent on his speech that
it may be doubted whether he heard this interruption.
He took no notice of it as he went on. "Of course I
am unfit to maintain the proprieties of a seeming con-
fidence between a Crown all-powerless and a people
all-powerful. No man recognises his own unfitness for
such work more clearly than I do, Mr. Monk. But if
I took in hand such work at all, I should like to be
the leader, and not the led. Tell us fairly, now, what
are your convictions worth in Mr. Mildmay's Cabinet?"
"That is a question which a man may hardly answer
himself,'' said Mr. Monk.
"It is a question which a man should at least an-
swer for himself before he consents to sit there," said Mr.
Turnbull, in a tone of voice which was almost angry.
"And what reason have you for supposing that I
have omitted that duty?" said Mr. Monk.
"Simply this,—that I cannot reconcile your known
opinions with the practices of your colleagues."
"I will not tell you what my convictions may be worth
in Mr. Mildmay's Cabinet. I will not take upon my-
self to say that they are worth the chair on which I sit
when I am there. But I will tell you what my aspira-
tions were when I consented to fill that chair, and you
MR. TURNBULL.
217
shall judge of their worth. I thought that they might
possibly leaven the batch of bread which we have to
bake,—giving to the whole batch more of the flavour
of reform than it would have possessed had I absented
myself. I thought that when I was asked to join Mr.
Mildmay and Mr. Gresham, the very fact of that re-
quest indicated liberal progress, and that if I refused the
request I should be declining to assist in good work."
"You could have supported them, if anything were
proposed worthy of support," said Mr. Turnbull.
"Yes; but I could not have been so effective in
taking care that some measure be proposed worthy of
support as I may possibly be now. I thought a good
deal about it, and I believe that my decision was right/
"I am sure you were right," said Mr. Kennedy.
"There can be no juster object of ambition than a
seat in the Cabinet," said Phineas.
"Sir, I much dispute that," said Mr. Turnbull, turn-
ing round upon our hero.. "I regard the position of
our high Ministers as most respectable."
"Thank you for so much," said Mr. Monk. But the
orator went on again, regardless of the interruption:
"The position of gentlemen in inferior offices,—of
gentlemen who attend rather to the nods and winks of
their superiors in Downing Street than to the interest
of their constituents,—I do not regard as being highly
respectable."
"A man cannot begin at the top," said Phineas.
"Our friend Mr. Monk has begun at what you are
pleased to call the top," said Mr. Turnbull. "But I
will not profess to think that even he has raised him-
self by going into office. To be an independent rep-
resentative of a really popular commercial constitu-
2l8 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
ency is, in my estimation, the highest object of an
Englishman's ambition."
"But why commercial, Mr. Turnbull?" said Mr.
Kennedy.
"Because the commercial constituencies really do
elect their own members in accordance with their own
judgments, whereas the counties and the small towns
are coerced either by individuals or by a combination
of aristocratic influences."
"And yet," said Mr. Kennedy, "there are not half-
a-dozen conservatives returned by all the counties in
Scotland."
"Scotland is very much to be honoured," said Mr.
Turnbull.
Mr. Kennedy was the first to take his departure,
and Mr. Turnbull followed him very quickly. Phineas
got up to go at the same time, but stayed at his host's
request, and sat for a while smoking a cigar.
"Turnbull is a wonderful man," said Mr. Monk.
"Does he not domineer too much?"
"His fault is not arrogance, so much as ignorance
that there is, or should be, a difference between public
and private life. In the House of Commons a man in
Mr. Turnbull's position must speak with dictatorial as-
surance. He is always addressing, not the House
only, but the country at large, and the country will not
believe in him unless he believe in himself., But he
forgets that he is not always addressing the country at
large. I wonder what sort of a time Mrs. Turnbull
and the little Turnbulls have of it?"
Phineas, as he went home, made up his mind that
Mrs. Turnbull and the little Turnbulls must probably
have a bad time of it.
CHAPTER XIX.
LORD CHILTERN RIDES HIS HORSE BONEBREAKER.
It was known that whatever might be the details of
Mr. Mildmay's bill, the ballot would not form a part
of it; and as there was a strong party in the House of
Commons, and a very numerous party out of it, who
were desirous that voting by ballot should be made a
part of the electoral law, it was decided that an inde-
pendent motion should be brought on in anticipation
of Mr. Mildmay's bill. The arrangement was probably
one of Mr. Mildmay's own making; so that he might
be hampered by no opposition on that subject by his
own followers if,—as he did not doubt,—the motion
should be lost. It was expected that the debate would
not last over one night, and Phineas resolved that he
would make his maiden speech on this occasion. He
had very strong opinions as to the inefficacy of the
ballot for any good purposes, and thought that he
might be able to strike out from his convictions some
sparks of that fire which used to be so plentiful with
him at the old debating clubs. But even at breakfast
that morning his heart began to beat quickly at the
idea of having to stand on his legs before so critical
an audience.
He knew that it would be well that he should if
possible get the subject off his mind during the day,
and therefore went out among the people who cer-
tainly would not talk to him about the ballot. He sat
219
220 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
for nearly an hour in the morning with Mr. Low, and
did not even tell Mr. Low that it was his intention to
speak on that day. Then he made one or two other
calls, and at about three went up to Portman Square to
look for Lord Chiltern. It was now nearly the end of
February, and Phineas had often seen Lady Laura.
He had not seen her brother, but had learned from his
sister that he had been driven up to London by the
frost. He was told by the porter at Lord Brentford's
that Lord Chiltern was in the house, and as he was
passing through the hall he met Lord Brentford him-
self. He was thus driven to speak, and felt himself
called upon to explain why he was there. "I am come
to see Lord Chiltern," he said.
"Is Lord Chiltern in the house?" said the Earl,
turning to the servant.
"Yes, my lord; his lordship arrived last night."
"You will find him upstairs, I suppose," said the
Earl. "For myself I know nothing of him." He
spoke in an angry tone, as though he resented the fact
that any one should come to his house to call upon his
son; and turned his back quickly upon Phineas. But
he thought better of it before he reached the front
door, and turned again. "By-the-bye," said he, "what
majority shall we have to-night, Finn?"
"Pretty nearly as many as you please to name, my
lord," said Phineas.
"Well;—yes; I suppose we are tolerably safe. You
ought to speak upon it."
"Perhaps I may," said Phineas, feeling that he
blushed as he spoke.
"Do," said the Earl. "Do. If you see Lord Chil-
tern will you tell him from me that I should be glad to
LORD CHILTERN RIDES HIS HORSE BONEBREAKER. 221
see him before he leaves London. I shall be at home
till noon to-morrow." Phineas, much astonished at
the commission given to him, of course said that he
would do as he was desired, and then passed on to
Lord Chiltern's apartments.
He found his friend standing in the middle of the
room, without coat and waistcoat, with a pair of dumb-
bells in his hands. "When there's no hunting I'm
driven to this kind of thing," said Lord Chiltern.
"I suppose it's good exercise," said Phineas.
"And it gives me something to do. When I'm in
London I feel like a gipsy in church, till the time
comes for prowling out at night. I Ve no occupation
for my days whatever, and no place to which I can
take myself. I can't stand in a club window as
some men do, and I should disgrace any decent club
if I did stand there. I belong to the Travellers, but
I doubt whether the porter would let me go in."
"I think you pique yourself on being more of an
outer Bohemian than you are," said Phineas.
"I pique myself on this, that whether Bohemian or
not, I will go nowhere that I am not wanted. Though,
—for the matter of that, I suppose I'm not wanted
here." Then Phineas gave him the message from his
father. "He wishes to see me to-morrow morning?"
continued Lord Chiltern. "Let him send me word
what it is he has to say to me. I do not choose to
be insulted by him, though he is my father."
"I would certainly go, if I were you."
"I doubt it very much, if all the circumstances were
the same. Let him tell me what he wants."
"Of course I cannot ask him, Chiltern."
"I know what he wants very well. Laura has been
22 2 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
interfering and doing no good. You know Violet
Effingham?"
"Yes; I know her," said Phineas, much surprised.
"They want her to marry me."
"And you do not wish to marry her?"
"I did not say that. But do you think that such
a girl as Miss Effingham would marry such a man as
I am? She would be much more likely to take you.
By George, she would! Do you know that she has
three thousand a year of her own?"
"I know that she has money."
"That's about the tune of it. I would take her
without a shilling to-morrow, if she would have me,—
because I like her. She is the only girl I ever did like.
But what is the use of my liking her? They have
painted me so black among them, especially my father,
that no decent girl would think of marrying me."
"Your father can't be angry with you if you do your
best to comply with his wishes."
"I don't care a straw whether he be angry or not.
He allows me eight hundred a year, and he knows
that if he stopped it I should go to the Jews the next
day. I could not help myself. He can't leave an
acre away from me, and yet he won't join me in rais-
ing money for the sake of paying Laura her fortune."
"Lady Laura can hardly want money now."
"That detestable prig whom she has chosen to
marry, and whom I hate with all my heart, is richer
than ever Croesus was; but nevertheless Laura ought
to have her own money. She shall have it some day."
"I would see Lord Brentford, if I were you."
"I will think about it. Now tell me about coming
down to Willingford. Laura says you will come some
LORD CHILTERN RIDES HIS HORSE BONEBREAKER. 22$
day in March. I can mount you for a couple of days
and should be delighted to have you. My horses all
pull like the mischief, and rush like devils, and want a
deal of riding; but an Irishman likes that."
"I do not dislike it particularly."
"I like it. I prefer to have something to do on
horseback. When a man tells me that a horse is an
arm-chair, I always tell him to put the brute into his
bedroom. Mind you come. The house I stay at is
called the Willingford Bull, and it 's just four miles
from Peterborough." Phineas swore that he would go
down and ride the pulling horses, and then took his
leave, earnestly advising Lord Chiltern, as he went, to
keep the appointment proposed by his father.
When the morning came, at half-past eleven, the
son, who had been standing for half an hour with his
back to the fire in the large gloomy dining-room, sud-
denly rang the bell. "Tell the Earl," he said to the
servant, "that I am here and will go to him if he
wishes it." The servant came back, and said that the
Earl was waiting. Then Lord Chiltern strode after
the man into his father's room.
"Oswald," said the father, "I have sent for you
because I think it may be as well to speak to you on
some business. Will you sit down?" Lord Chiltern
sat down, but did not answer a word. "I feel very
unhappy about your sister's fortune," said the Earl.
"So do I,—very unhappy. We can raise the money
between us, and pay her to-morrow, if you please it."
"It was in opposition to my advice that she paid
your debts."
"And in opposition to mine too."
"I told her that I would not pay them, and were I
224 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
r
to give her back to-morrow, as you say, the money that
she has so used, I should be stultifying myself. But I
will do so on one condition. I will join with you in
raising the money for your sister on one condition."
"What is that?"
"Laura tells me,—indeed she has told me often,—
that you are attached to Violet Effingham."
"But Violet Effingham, my lord, is unhappily not at-
tached to me."
"I do not know how that may be. Of course I
cannot say. I have never taken the liberty of inter-
rogating her upon the subject."
"Even you, my lord, could hardly have done that."
"What do you mean by that? I say that I never
have," said the Earl angrily.
"I simply mean that even you could hardly have
asked Miss Effingham such a question. I have asked
her, and she has refused me."
"But girls often do that, and yet accept afterwards
the men whom they have refused. Laura tells me that
she believes that Violet would consent if you pressed
your suit."
"Laura knows nothing about it, my lord."
"There you are probably wrong. Laura and Violet
are very close friends, and have no doubt discussed
this matter among them. At any rate, it may be as
well that you should hear what I have to say. Of
course I shall not interfere myself. There is no ground
on which I can do so with propriety."
"None whatever," said Lord Chiltern.
The Earl became very angry, and nearly broke down
in his anger. He paused for a moment, feeling dis-
posed to tell his son to go and never to see him again.
LORD CHILTERN RIDES HIS HORSE BONEBREAKER. 225
But he gulped down his wrath, and went on with his
speech. "My meaning, sir, is this;—that I have so
great faith in Violet Effingham, that I would receive
her acceptance of your hand as the only proof which
would be convincing to me of amendment in your mode
of life. If she were to do so, I would join with you in
raising money to pay your sister, would make some
further sacrifice with reference to an income for you
and your wife, and would make you both welcome
to Saulsby,—if you chose to come." The EarFs voice
hesitated much, and became almost tremulous as he
made the last proposition. And his eyes had fallen
away from his son's gaze, and he had bent a little over
the table, and was moved. But he recovered himself
at once, and added, with all proper dignity, "If you
have anything to say I shall be glad to hear it."
"All your offers would be nothing, my lord, if I did
not like the girl."
"I should not ask you to marry a girl if you did not
like her, as you call it.*
"But as to Miss Effingham, it happens that our
wishes jump together. I have asked her, and she has
refused me. I don't even know where to find her to
ask her again. If I went to Lady Baldock's house the
servants would not let me in."
"And whose fault is that?"
"Yours, partly, my lord. You have told everybody
that I am the devil, and now all the old women be-
lieve it."
"I never told anybody so."
"111 tell you what I '11 do. I will go down to Lady
Baldock's to-day. I suppose she is at Baddingham.
And if I can get speech of Miss Effingham"
226 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"Miss Effingham is not at Baddingham. Miss
Effingham is staying with your sister in Grosvenor
Place. I saw her yesterday."
"She is in London?"
"I tell you that I saw her yesterday."
"Very well, my lord. Then I will do the best I can.
Laura will tell you of the result."
The father would have given the son some advice
as to the mode in which he should put forward his claim
upon Violet's hand, but the son would not wait to hear
it. Choosing to presume that the conference was over,
he went back to the room in which he kept his dumb-
bells, and for a minute or two went to work at his fa-
> vourite exercise. But he soon put the dumb-bells down,
and began to prepare himself for his work. If this
thing was to be done, it might as well be done at once.
He looked out of his window, and saw that the streets
were in a mess of slush. White snow was becoming
black mud, as it will do in London; and the violence
of frost was giving way to the horrors of thaw. All
would be soft and comparatively pleasant in North-
amptonshire on the following morning, and if everything
went right he would breakfast at the Willingford Bull.
He would go down by the hunting train, and be at the
inn by ten. The meet was only six miles distant, and
all would be pleasant. He would do this whatever
might be the result of his work to-day;—but in the
meantime he would go and do his work. He had a
cab called, and within half an hour of the time at which
he had left his father he was at the door of his sister's
house in Grosvenor Place. The servants told him that
the ladies were at lunch. "I can't eat lunch," he said.
"Tell them that I am in the drawing-room."
LORD CHILTERN RIDES HIS HORSE BONEBREAKER. 227
"He has come to see you," said Lady Laura, as soon
as the servant had left the room.
"I hope not," said Violet.
"Do not say that."
"But I do say it. I hope he has not come to see
me;—that is, not to see me specially. Of course I
cannot pretend not to know what you mean."
"He may think it civil to call if he has heard that
you are in town," said Lady Laura, after a pause.
"If it be only that, I will be civil in return;—as
sweet as May to him. If it be really only that, and if
I were sure of it, I should be really glad to see him."
Then they finished their lunch, and Lady Laura got up
and led the way to the drawing-room.
"I hope you remember," said she, gravely, "that you
might be a saviour to him."
"I do not believe in girls being saviours to men. It
is the man who should be the saviour to the girl. If I
marry at all, I have the right to expect that protec-
tion shall be given to me,—not that I shall have to
give it."
"Violet, you are determined to misrepresent what I
mean."
Lord Chiltern was walking about the room, and did
not sit down when they entered. The ordinary greet-
ings took place, and Miss Effingham made some re-
mark about the frost. "But it seems to be going," she
said, "and I suppose that you will soon be at work
again?"
"Yes;—I shall hunt to-morrow," said Lord Chiltern.
"And the next day, and the next, and the next,"
said Violet, "till about the middle of April;—and then
your period of misery will begin!"
228 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"Exactly," said Lord Chiltern. "I have nothing
but hunting that I can call an occupation."
"Why don't you make one? " said his sister.
"I mean to do so, if it be possible. Laura, would
you mind leaving me and Miss Effingham alone for a
few minutes?"
Lady Laura got up, and so also did Miss Effingham.
"For what purpose? " said the latter. "It cannot be
for any good purpose."
"At any rate I wish it, and I will not harm you."
Lady Laura was now going, but paused before she
reached the door. "Laura, will you do as I ask you?"
said the brother. Then Lady Laura went.
"It was not that I feared you would harm me, Lord
Chiltern," said Violet.
"No;—I know it was not. But what I say is always
said awkwardly. An hour ago I did not know that
you were in town, but when I was told the news I came
at once. My father told me."
"I am so glad that you see your father."
"I have not spoken to him for months before, and
probably may not speak to him for^ months again. But
there is one point, Violet, on which he and I agree."
"I hope there will soon be many."
"It is possible,—but I fear not probable. Look
here, Violet,"—and he looked at her with all his eyes,
till it seemed to her that he was all eyes, so great was
the intensity of his gaze;—" I should scorn myself were
I to permit myself to come before you with a plea
for your favour founded on my father's whims. My
father is unreasonable, and has been very unjust to me.
Re has ever believed evil of me, and has believed it
often when all the world knew that he was wrong. I
LORD CHILTERN RIDES HIS HORSE BONEBREAKER. 229
care little for being reconciled to a father who has been
so cruel to me."
"He loves me dearly, and is my friend. I would
rather that you shojild not speak against him to me."
"You will understand, at least, that I am asking
nothing from you because he wishes it. Laura prob-
ably has told you that you may make things straight
by becoming my wife."
"She has,—certainly, Lord Chiltern."
"It is an argument that she should never have used.
It is an argument to which you should not listen for
a moment. Make things straight indeed! Who can
tell? There would be very little made straight by such
a marriage, if it were not that I loved you. Violet,
that is my plea, and my only one. I love you so well
that I do believe that if you took me I should return
to the old ways, and become as other men are, and be
in time as respectable, as stupid,—and perhaps as ill-
natured as old Lady Baldock herself."
"My poor aunt!"
"You know she says worse things of me than that.
Now, dearest, you have heard all that I have to say
to you." As he spoke he came close to her, and put
out his hand, but she did not touch it. "I have no
other argument to use,—not a word more to say.
As I came here in the cab I was turning it over in
my mind that I might find what best I should say.
But, after all, there is nothing more to be said than
that."
"The words make no difference," she replied.
"Not unless they be so uttered as to force a belief.
I do love you. I know no other reason but that why
you should be my wife. I have no other excuse to
230 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
offer for coining to you again. You are the one thing
in the world that to me has any charm. Can you be
surprised that I should be persistent in asking for it?"
He was looking at her still with the same gaze, and
there seemed to be a power in his eye from which she
could not escape. He was still standing with his right
hand out, as though expecting, or at least hoping, that
her hand might be put into his.
"How am I to answer you? " she said.
"With your love, if you can give it to me. Do you
remember how you swore once that you would love me
forever and always?"
"You should not remind me of that. I was a child
then,—a naughty child," she added, smiling; "and was
put to bed for what I did on that day."
"Be a child still."
"Ah, if we but could!"
"And have you no other answer to make me?"
"Of course I must answer you. You are entitled
to an answer. Lord Chiltern, I am sorry that I can-
not give you the love for which you ask."
"Never?"
"Never."
"Is it myself personally, or what you have heard of
me, that is so hateful to you?"
"Nothing is hateful to me. I have never spoken of
hate. I shall always feel the strongest regard for my
old friend and playfellow. But there are many things
which a woman is bound to consider before she allows
herself so to love a man that she can consent to be-
come his wife."
"Allow herself! Then it is a matter entirely of cal-
culation."
LORD CHILTERN RIDES HIS HORSE BONEBREAKER. 231
"I suppose there should be some thought in it, Lord
Chiltern."
There was now a pause, and the man's hand was at
last allowed to drop, as there came no response to the
proffered grasp. He walked once or twice across the
room before he spoke again, and then he stopped him-
self closely opposite to her.
"I shall never try again," he said.
"It will be better so," she replied.
"There is something to me unmanly in a man's per-
secuting a girl. Just tell Laura, will you, that it is all
over; and she may as well tell my father. Good-bye."
She then tendered her hand to him, but he did not
take it,—probably did not see it, and at once left the
room and the house.
"And yet I believe you love him," Lady Laura said
to her friend in her anger, when they discussed the
matter immediately on Lord Chiltern's departure.
"You have no right to say that, Laura."
"I have a right to my belief, and I do believe it. I
think you love him, and that you lack the courage to
risk yourself in trying to save him."
"Is a woman bound to marry a man if she loves
him?"
"Yes, she is," replied Lady Laura impetuously, with-
out thinking of what she was saying; "that is, if she
be convinced that she also is loved."
"Whatever be the man's character;—whatever be
the circumstances? Must she do so, whatever friends
may say to the contrary? Is there to be no prudence
in marriage?"
"There may be a great deal too much prudence,"
said Lady Laura.
232 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"That is true. There is certainly too much pru-
dence if a woman marries prudently, but without love."
Violet intended by this no attack upon her friend,—
had not had present in her mind at the moment any
idea of Lady Laura's special prudence in marrying Mr.
Kennedy; but Lady Laura felt it keenly, and knew at
once that an arrow had been shot which had wounded
her.
"We shall get nothing," she said, "by descending
to personalities with each other."
"I meant none, Laura."
"I suppose it is always hard," said Lady Laura, "for
any one person to judge altogether of the mind of an-
other. If I have said anything severe of your refusal
of my brother, I retract it. I only wish that it could
have been otherwise."
Lord Chiltern, when he left his sister's house, walked
through the slush and dirt to a haunt of his in the
neighbourhood of Covent Garden, and there he re-
mained through the whole afternoon and evening. A
certain Captain Clutterbuck joined him, and dined with
him. He told nothing to Captain Clutterbuck of his
sorrow, but Captain Clutterbuck could see that he was
unhappy.
"Let's have another bottle of 'cham,'" said Cap-
tain Clutterbuck, when their dinner was nearly over.
"' Cham' is the only thing to screw one up when one
is down a peg."
"Youcan have what you like," said Lord Chiltern;
"but I shall have some brandy and water."
"The worst of brandy and water is, that one gets
tired of it before the night is over," said Captain
Clutterbuck.
LORD CHILTERN RIDES HIS HORSE BONEBREAKER. 233
Nevertheless, Lord Chiltern did go down to Peter-
borough the next day by the hunting train, and rode
his horse Bonebreaker so well in that famous run from
Sutton Springs to Gidding that after the run young
Piles,—of the house of Piles, Sarsnet & Gingham,—
offered him three hundred pounds for the animal.
"He is n't worth above fifty," said Lord Chiltern.
"But I '11 give you the three hundred," said Piles.
"You could n't ride him if you'd got him," said
Lord Chiltern.
"Oh, could n't I!" said Piles. But Mr. Piles did not
continue the conversation, contenting himself with tell-
ing his friend Grogram that that red devil Chiltern was
as drunk as a lord.
CHAPTER XX.
THE DEBATE ON THE BALLOT.
Phineas took his seat in the House with a con-
sciousness of much inward trepidation of heart on that
night of the ballot debate. After leaving Lord Chiltern
he went down to his club and dined alone. Three or
four men came and spoke to him; but he could not
talk to them at his ease, nor did he quite know what
they were saying to him. He was going to do some-
thing which he longed to achieve, but the very idea of
which, now that it was so near to him, was a terror to
him. To be in the House and not to speak would, to
his thinking, be a disgraceful failure. Indeed, he could
not continue to keep his seat unless he spoke. He had
been put there that he might speak. He would speak.
Of course he would speak. Had he not already been
conspicuous almost as a boy orator? And yet, at this
moment he did not know whether he was eating mutton
or beef, or who was standing opposite to him and talk-
ing to him, so much was he in dread of the ordeal which
he had prepared for himself. As he went down to the
House after dinner, he almost made up his mind that
it would be a good thing to leave London by one of
the night mail trains. He felt himself to be stiff and
stilted as he walked, and that his clothes were uneasy
to him. When he turned into Westminster Hall he re-
gretted more keenly than ever he had done that he had
seceded from the keeping of Mr. Low. He could, he
234
THE DEBATE ON THE BALLOT. 235
thought, have spoken very well in court, and would
there have learned that self-confidence which now failed
him so terribly. It was, however, too late to think of
that. He could only go in and take his seat.
He went in and took his seat, and the chamber
seemed to him to be mysteriously large, as though
benches were crowded over benches, and galleries over
galleries. He had been long enough in the House to
have lost the original awe inspired by the Speaker and
the clerks of the House, by the row of Ministers, and
by the unequalled importance of the place. On ordi-
nary occasions he could saunter in and out, and whis-
per at his ease to a neighbour. But on this occasion he
went direct to the bench on which he ordinarily sat,
and began at once to rehearse to himself his speech.
He had in truth been doing this all day, in spite of the
effort that he had made to rid himself of all memory of
the occasion. He had been collecting the heads of his
speech while Mr. Low had been talking to him, and
refreshing his quotations in the presence of Lord Chil-
tern and the dumb-bells. He had taxed his memory
and his intellect with various tasks, which, as he feared,
would not adjust themselves one with another. He
had learned the headings of his speech,—so that one
heading might follow the other, and nothing be for-
gotten. And he had learned verbatim the words which
he intended to utter under each heading,—with a hope
that if any one compact part should be destroyed or
injured in its compactness by treachery of memory, or
by the course of the debate, each other compact part
might be there in its entirety, ready for use;—or at
least so many of the compact parts as treachery of
memory and the accidents of the debate might leave
236 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
to him; so that his speech might be like a vessel,
water-tight in its various compartments, that would float
by the buoyancy of its stern and bow, even though
the hold should be waterlogged. But this use of his
composed words, even though he should be able to
carry it through, would not complete his work;—for it
would be his duty to answer in some sort those who
had gone before him, and in order to do this he must
be able to insert, without any pre-arrangement of words
or ideas, little intercalatory parts between those com-
pact masses of argument with which he had been
occupying himself for many laborious hours. As he
looked round upon the House and perceived that
everything was dim before him, that all his original awe
of the House had returned, and with it a present quak-
ing fear that made him feel the pulsations of his own
heart, he became painfully aware that the task he had
prepared for himself was too great. He should, on
this the occasion of his rising to his maiden legs, have
either prepared for himself a short general speech,
which could indeed have done little for his credit in the
House, but which might have served to carry off the
novelty of the thing, and have introduced him to the
sound of his own voice within those walls,—or he should
have trusted to what his wit and spirit would produce
for him on the spur of the moment, and not have bur-
dened himself with a huge exercise of memory. Dur-
ing the presentation of a few petitions he tried to repeat
to himself the first of his compact parts,—a compact
part on which, as it might certainly be brought into use
let the debate have gone as it might, he had expended
great care. He had flattered himself that there was
something of real strength in his words as he repeated
THE DEBATE ON THE BALLOT. 237
them to himself in the comfortable seclusion of his own
room, and he had made them so ready to his tongue
that he thought it to be impossible that he should for-
get even an intonation. Now he found that he could
not remember the first phrases without unloosing and
looking at a small roll of paper which he held furtively
in his hand. What was the good of looking at it? He
would forget it again in the next moment. He had
intended to satisfy the most eager of his friends, and to
astound his opponents. As it was, no one would be
satisfied,—and none astounded but they who had trusted
in him.
The debate began, and if the leisure afforded by a
long and tedious speech could have served him, he
might have had leisure enough. He tried at first to
follow all that this advocate for the ballot might say,
hoping thence to acquire the impetus of strong interest;
but he soon wearied of the work, and began to long
that the speech might be ended, although the period of
his own martyrdom would thereby be brought nearer
to him. At half-past seven so many members had de-
serted their seats, that Phineas began to think that he
might be saved all further pains by a " count out." He
reckoned the members present and found that they
were below the mystic forty,—first by two, then by
four, by five, by seven, and at one time by eleven. It
was not for him to ask the Speaker to count the House,
but he wondered that no one else should do so. And
yet, as the idea of this termination to the night's work
came upon him, and as he thought of his lost labour,
he almost took courage again,—almost dreaded rather
than wished for the interference of some malicious
member. But there was no malicious member then
238 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
present, or else it was known that Lords of the Treasury
and Lords of the Admiralty would flock in during the
Speaker's ponderous counting,—and thus the slow
length of the ballot-lover's verbosity was permitted to
evolve itself without interruption. At eight o'clock he
had completed his catalogue of illustrations, and im-
mediately Mr. Monk rose from the Treasury Bench to
explain the grounds on which the Government must
decline to support the motion before the House.
Phineas was aware that Mr. Monk intended to speak,
and was aware also that his speech would be very short.
"My idea is," he had said to Phineas, "that every man
possessed of the franchise should dare to have and to
express a political opinion of his own; that otherwise
the franchise is not worth having; and that men will
learn that when all so dare, no evil can come from
such daring. As the ballot would make any courage
of that kind unnecessary, I dislike the ballot. I shall
confine myself to that, and leave the illustration to
younger debaters." Phineas also had been informed
that Mr. Turnbull would reply to Mr. Monk, with the
purpose of crushing Mr. Monk into dust, and Phineas
had prepared his' speech with something of an inten-
tion of subsequently crushing Mr. Turnbull. He knew,
however, that he could not command his opportunity.
There was the chapter of accidents to which he must
accommodate himself; but such had been his pro-
gramme for the evening.
Mr. Monk made his speech,—and though he was
short, he was very fiery and energetic. Quick as light-
ning words of wrath and scorn flew from him, in which
he painted the cowardice, the meanness, the falsehood
of the ballot. "The ballot-box," he said, "was the
THE DEBATE ON THE BALLOT. ^39
grave of all true political opinion." Though he spoke
hardly for ten minutes, he seemed to say more than
enough, ten times enough, to slaughter the argument
of the former speaker. At every hot word as it fell
Phineas was driven to regret that a paragraph of his
own was taken away from him, and that his choicest
morsels of standing ground were being cut from under
his feet. When Mr. Monk sat down, Phineas felt that
Mr. Monk had said all that he, Phineas Finn, had
intended to say.
Then Mr. Turnbull rose slowly from the bench be-
low the gangway. With a speaker so frequent and so
famous as Mr. Turnbull no hurry is necessary. He is
sure to have his opportunity. The Speaker's eye is ever
travelling to the accustomed spots. Mr. Turnbull rose
slowly and began his oration very mildly. "There was
nothing," he said, "that he admired so much as the
poetic imagery and the high-flown sentiment of his right
honourable friend the member for West Bromwich,"—
Mr. Monk sat for West Bromwich,—" unless it were the
stubborn facts and unanswered arguments of his honour-
able friend who had brought forward this motion."
Then Mr. Turnbull proceeded after his fashion to crush
Mr. Monk. He was very prosaic, very clear both in
voice and language, very harsh, and very unscrupulous.
He and Mr. Monk had been joined together in politics
for over twenty years;—but one would have thought,
from Mr. TurnbulPs words, that they had been the
bitterest of enemies. Mr. Monk was taunted with his
office, taunted with his desertion of the liberal party,
taunted with his ambition,—and taunted with his lack
of ambition. "I once thought," said Mr. Turnbull,—•
"nay, not long ago I thought, that he and I would
240 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
have fought this battle for the people, shoulder to
shoulder, and knee to knee;—but he has preferred that
the knee next to his own shall wear a garter, and that
the shoulder which supports him shall be decked with
a blue ribbon,—as shoulders, I presume, are decked in
those closet conferences which are called Cabinets."
Just after this, while Mr. Turnbull was still going on
with a variety of illustrations drawn from the United
States, Barrington Erie stepped across the benches up
to the place where Phineas was sitting, and whispered
a few words into his ear. "Bonteen is prepared to an-
swer Turnbull, and wishes to do it. I told him that I
thought you should have the opportunity, if you wish
it." Phineas was not ready with a reply to Erie at the
spur of the moment. "Somebody told me," continued
Erie, "that you had said that you would like to speak
to-night."
"So I did," said Phineas.
"Shall I tell Bonteen that you will do it?"
The chamber seemed to swim round before our
hero's eyes. Mr. Turnbull was still going on with his
clear, loud, unpleasant voice, but there was no knowing
how long he might go on. Upon Phineas, if he should
now consent, might devolve the duty, within ten min-
utes, within three minutes, of rising there before a full
House to defend his great friend, Mr. Monk, from a
gross personal attack. Was it fit that such a novice as
he should undertake such a work as that? Were he
to do so, all that speech which he had prepared, with
its various self-floating parts, must go for nothing. The
task was exactly that which, of all tasks, he would best
like to have accomplished, and to have accomplished
well But if he should fail! And he felt that he
THE DEBATE ON THE BALLOT. 241
would fail. For such work a man should have all his
senses about him,—his full courage, perfect confidence,
something almost approaching to contempt for listen-
ing opponents, and nothing of fear in regard to listen-
ing friends. He should be as a cock in his own farm-
yard, master of all the circumstances around him. But
Phineas Finn had not even as yet heard the sound of
his own voice in that room. At this moment, so con-
fused was he, that he did not know where sat Mr. Mild-
may, and where Mr. Daubeny. All was confused, and
there arose as it were a sound of waters in his ears,
and a feeling as of a great hell around him. "I had
rather wait," he said at last. "Bonteen had better re-
ply." Barrington Erie looked into his face, and then
stepping back across the benches, told Mr. Bonteen that
the opportunity was his.
Mr. Tumbull continued speaking quite long enough
to give poor Phineas time for repentance; but repent-
ance was of no use. He had decided against himself,
and his decision could not be reversed. He would
have left the House, only it seemed to him that had he
done so every one would look at him. He drew his
hat down over his eyes, and remained in his place, hat-
ing Mr. Bonteen, hating Barrington Erie, hating Mr.
Tumbull,—but hating no one so much as he hated
himself. He had disgraced himself forever, and could
never recover the occasion which he had lost.
Mr. Bonteen's speech was in no way remarkable.
Mr. Monk, he said, had done the State good service by
adding his wisdom and patriotism to the Cabinet. The
sort of argument which Mr. Bonteen used to prove that
a man who has gained credit as a legislator should in
process of time become a member of the executive, is
242 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
trite and common, and was not used by Mr. Bonteen
with any special force. Mr. Bonteen was glib of
tongue, and possessed that familiarity with the place
which poor Phineas had lacked so sorely. There was
one moment, however, which was terrible to Phineas.
As soon as Mr. Bonteen had shown the purpose for
which he was on his legs, Mr. Monk looked round at
Phineas, as though in reproach. He had expected
that this work should fall into the hands of one who
would perform it with more warmth of heart than could
be expected from Mr. Bonteen. When Mr. Bonteen
ceased, two or three other short speeches were made,
and members fired off their little guns. Phineas hav-
ing lost so great an opportunity, would not now con-
sent to accept one that should be comparatively value-
less. Then there came a division. The motion was
lost by a large majority,—by any number you might
choose to name, as Phineas had said to Lord Brentford;
but in that there was no triumph to the poor wretch
who had failed through fear, and who was now a cow-
ard in his own esteem.
He left the House alone, carefully avoiding all speech
with any one. As he came out he had seen Laurence
Fitzgibbon in the lobby, but he had gone on without
pausing a moment, so that he might avoid his friend.
And when he was out in the Palace Yard, where was
he to go next? He looked at his watch, and found
that it was just ten. He did not dare to go to his club,
and it was impossible for him to go home and to bed.
He was very miserable, and nothing would comfort
him but sympathy. Was there any one who would
listen to his abuse of himself, and would then answer
him with kindly apologies for his own weakness?
THE DEBATE ON THE BALLOT.
243
Mrs. Bunce would do it if she knew how, but sym-
pathy from Mrs. Bunce would hardly avail. There
was but one person in the world to whom he could tell
his own humiliation with any hope of comfort, and
that person was Lady Laura Kennedy. Sympathy from
any man would have been distasteful to him. He had
thought for a moment of flinging himself at Mr. Monk's
feet and telling all his weakness;—but he could not
have endured pity even from Mr. Monk. It was not
to be endured from any man.
He thought that Lady Laura Kennedy would be at
home, and probably alone. He knew, at any rate, that
he might be allowed to knock at hex door, even at that
hour. He had left Mr. Kennedy in the House, and
there he would probably remain for the next hour.
There was no man more constant than Mr. Kennedy
in seeing the work of the day,—or of .the night,—to
its end. So Phineas walked up Victoria Street, and
from thence into Grosvenor Place, and knocked at
Lady Laura's door. "Yes; Lady Laura was at home;
and alone." He was shown up into the drawing-
room, and there he found Lady Laura waiting for her
husband.
"So the great debate is over," she said, with as much
of irony as she knew how to throw into the epithet.
"Yes; it is over."
"And what have they done,—those leviathans of the
people?"
Then Phineas told her what was the majority.
"Is there anything the matter with you, Mr. Finn?"
she said, looking at him suddenly. "Are you not
well?"
"Yes; I am very well."
244 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"Will you not sit down? There is something wrong,
I know. What is it?"
"I have simply been the greatest idiot, the greatest
coward, the most awkward ass that ever lived!"
"What do you mean?"
"I do not know why I should come to tell you of it
at this hour at night, but I have come that I might tell
you. Probably because there is no one else in the
whole world who would not laugh at me."
"At any rate, I shall not laugh at you," said Lady
Laura.
"But you will despise me."
"That I am sure I shall not do."
"You cannot help it. I despise tnyself. For years
I have placed before myself the ambition of speaking
in the House of Commons;—for years I have been
thinking whether there would ever come to me an op-
portunity of making myself heard in that assembly,
which I consider to be the first in the world. To-day
the opportunity has been offered to me,—and, though
the motion was nothing, the opportunity was great.
The subject was one on which I was thoroughly pre-
pared. The manner in which I was summoned was
most flattering to me. I was especially called on to
perform a task which was most congenial to my feel-
ings ;—and I declined because I was afraid."
"You had thought too much about it, my friend,"
said Lady Laura.
"Too much or too little, what does it matter?" re-
plied Phineas, in despair. "There is the fact. I could
not do it. Do you remember the story of Conachar
in the 'Fair Maid of Perth;1—how his heart refused
to give him blood enough to fight? He had been
THE DEBATE ON THE BALLOT. 245
suckled with the milk of a timid creature, and, though
he could die, there was none of the strength of man-
hood in him. It is about the same thing with me, I
take it."
"I do not think you are at all like Conachar," said
Lady Laura.
"I am equally disgraced, and I must perish after the
same fashion. I shall apply for the Chiltern Hundreds
in a day or two."
"You will do nothing of the kind," said Lady Laura,
getting up from her chair and coming towards him.
"You shall not leave this room till you have promised
me that you will do nothing of the kind. I do not
know as yet what has occurred to-night; but I do
know that that modesty which has kept you silent is
more often a grace than a disgrace."
This was the kind of sympathy which he wanted.
She drew her chair nearer to him, and then he explained
to her as accurately as he could what had taken place
in the House on this evening,—how he had prepared
his speech, how he had felt that his preparation was
vain, how he perceived from the course of the debate
that if he spoke at all his speech must be very different
from what he had first intended; how he had declined
to take upon himself a task which seemed to require
so close a knowledge of the ways of the House and
of the temper of the men, as the defence of such a
man as Mr. Monk. In accusing himself he, uncon-
sciously, excused himself, and his excuse, in Lady
Laura's ears, was more valid than his accusation.
"And you would give it all up for that?" she said.
"Yes; I think I ought."
"I have very little doubt but that you were right
246 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
in allowing Mr. Bonteen to undertake such a task. I
should simply explain to Mr. Monk that you felt too
keen an interest in his welfare to stand up as an un-
tried member in his defence. It is not, I think, the
work for a man who is not at home in the House. I
am sure Mr. Monk will feel this, and I am quite cer-
tain that Mr. Kennedy will think that you have been
right."
"I do not care what Mr. Kennedy may think."
"Why do you say that, Mr. Finn? That is not
courteous."
"Simply because I care so much what Mr. Kennedy's
wife may think. Your opinion is all in all to me,—
only that I know you are too kind to me."
"He would not be too kind to you. He is never
too kind to any one. He is justice itself."
Phineas, as he heard the tones of her voice, could
not but feel that there was in Lady Laura's words
something of an accusation against her husband.
"I hate justice," said Phineas. "I know that justice
would condemn me. But love and friendship know
nothing of justice. The value of love is that it over-
looks faults, and forgives even crimes."
"I, at any rate," said Lady Laura, "will forgive the
crime of your silence in the House. My strong belief
in your success will not be in the least affected by what
you tell me of your failure to-night. You must await
another opportunity; and, if possible, you should be
less anxious as to your own performance. There is
Violet." As Lady Laura spoke the last words, there
was the sound of a carriage stopping in the street, and
the front door was immediately opened. "She is stay-
ing here, but has been dining with her uncle, Admiral
THE DEBATE ON THE BALLOT. 247
Effingham." Then Violet Effingham entered the
room, rolled up in pretty white furs, and silk cloaks,
and lace shawls. "Here is Mr. Finn, come to tell us
of the debate about the ballot."
"I don't care twopence about the ballot," said Violet,
as she put out her hand to Phineas. "Are we going to
have a new iron fleet built? That's the question."
"Sir Simeon has come out strong to-night," said Lady
Laura.
"There is no political question of any importance
except the question of the iron fleet," said Violet. "I
am quite sure of that, and so, if Mr. Finn can tell me
nothing about the iron fleet, I '11 go to bed."
"Mr. Kennedy will tell you everything when he
comes home," said Phineas.
"Oh, Mr. Kennedy! Mr. Kennedy never tells one
anything. I doubt whether Mr. Kennedy thinks that
any woman knows the meaning of the British Consti-
tution."
"Do you know what it means, Violet?" asked Lady
Laura.
"To be sure I do. It is liberty to growl about the
iron fleet, or the ballot, or the taxes, or the peers, or
the bishops,—or anything else, except the House of
Commons. That 's the British Constitution. Good
night, Mr. Finn."
"What a beautiful creature she is!" said Phineas.
"Yes, indeed," said Lady Laura.
"And full of wit and grace and pleasantness. I do
not wonder at your brother's choice."
It will be remembered that this was said on the day
before Lord Chiltern had made his offer for the third
time.
248 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"Poor Oswald! he does not know as yet that she
is in town."
After that Phineas went, not wishing to await the
return of Mr. Kennedy. He had felt that Violet
Effingham had come into the room just in time to rem-
edy a great difficulty. He did not wish to speak of
his love to a married woman,—to the wife of the man
who called him friend,—to the woman who he felt sure
would have rebuked him. But he could hardly have
restrained himself had not Miss Effingham been there.
But as he went home he thought more of Miss
Effingham than he did of Lady Laura; and I think
that the voice of Miss Effingham had done almost as
much towards comforting him as had the kindness of
the other.
At any rate, he had been comforted.
CHAPTER XXI.
"do be punctual."
On the very morning after his failure in the House
of Commons, when Phineas was reading in the Tele-
graph,—he took the Telegraph not from choice but
for economy,—the words of that debate which he had
heard and in which he should have taken a part, a most
unwelcome visit was paid to him. It was near eleven,
and the breakfast things were still on the table. He
was at this time on a Committee of the House with
reference to the use of potted peas in the army and
navy, at which he sat once,—at a preliminary meeting,
—and in reference to which he had already resolved
that as he had failed so frightfully in debate, he would
certainly do his duty to the utmost in the more easy
but infinitely more tedious work of the Committee
Room. The Committee met at twelve, and he in-
tended to walk down to the Reform Club, and then to
the House. He had just completed his reading of the
debate and of the leaders in the Telegraph on the sub-
ject. He had told himself how little the writer of the
article knew about Mr. Turnbull, how little about Mr.
Monk, and how little about the people,—such being
his ideas as to the qualifications of the writer of that
leading article,—and was about to start. But Mrs.
Bunce arrested him by telling him that there was a
man below who wanted to see him.
"What sort of a man, Mrs. Bunce?"
249
250 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"He ain't a gentleman, sir."
"Did he give his name?"
"He did not, sir; but I know it's about money.
I know the ways of them so well. I 've seen this
one's face before somewhere."
You had better show him up," said Phineas. He
knew well the business on which the man was come.
The man wanted money for that bill which Laurence
Fitzgibbon had sent afloat, and which Phineas had
endorsed. Phineas had never as yet fallen so deeply
into troubles of money as to make it necessary that he
need refuse himself to any callers on that score, and
he did not choose to do so now. Nevertheless he
most heartily wished that he had left his lodgings for
the club before the man had come. This was not the
first he had heard of the bill being overdue and un-
paid. The bill had been brought to him noted a
month since, and then he had simply told the youth
who brought it that he would see Mr. Fitzgibbon and
have the matter settled. He had spoken to his friend
Laurence, and Laurence had simply assured him that
all should be made right in two days,—or, at fur-
thest, by the end of a week. Since that time he had
observed that his friend had been somewhat shy of
speaking to him when no others were with them.
Phineas would not have alluded to the bill had he and
Laurence been alone together; but he had been quick
enough to guess from his friend's manner that the mat-
ter was not settled. Now, no doubt, serious trouble
was about to commence.
The visitor was a little man with grey hair and a
white cravat, some sixty years of age, dressed in black,
with a very decent hat,—which, on entering the room,
"do be punctual."
he at once put down on the nearest chair,—with refer-
ence to whom, any judge on the subject would have
concurred at first sight in the decision pronounced by
Mrs. Bunce, though none but a judge very well used
to sift the causes of his own conclusions could have
given the reasons for that early decision. "He ain't
a gentleman,*' Mrs. Bunce had said. And the man
certainly was not a gentleman. The old man in the
white cravat was very neatly dressed, and carried him-
self without any of that humility which betrays one
class of uncertified aspirants to gentility; or of that
assumed arrogance which is at once fatal to another
class. But, nevertheless, Mrs. Bunce had seen at a
glance that he was not a gentleman,—had seen, more-
over, that such a man could have come only upon one
mission. She was right there too. The visitor had
come about money.
"About this bill, Mr. Finn," said the visitor, pro-
ceeding to take out of his breast coat-pocket a rather
large leathern case, as he advanced up towards the fire.
"My name is Clarkson, Mr. Finn. If I may venture
so far, I '11 take a chair."
"Certainly, Mr. Clarkson," said Phineas, getting up
and pointing to a seat.
"Thankye, Mr. Finn, thankye. We shall be more
comfortable doing business sitting, shan't we?"
Whereupon the horrid little man drew himself close
in to the fire, and spreading out his leathern case upon
his knees, began to turn over one suspicious bit of paper
after another, as though he were uncertain in what
part of his portfolio lay this identical bit which he was
seeking. He seemed to be quite at home, and to feel
that there was no ground whatever for hurry in such
252 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
comfortable quarters. Phineas hated him at once,—
with a hatred altogether unconnected with the difficulty
which his friend Fitzgibbon had brought upon him.
"Here it is," said Mr. Clarkson at last, "Oh, dear
me, dear me! the 3rd of November, and here we are
in March! I did n't think it was so bad as this; I
did n't indeed. This is very bad,—very bad! And
for Parliament gents, too, who should be more punctual
than anybody, because of the privilege. Should n't
they now, Mr. Finn?"
"All men should be punctual, I suppose," said
Phineas.
"Of course they should; of course they should. I
always say to my gents, 'Be punctual, and I '11 do
anything for you.' But, perhaps, Mr. Finn, you can
hand me a cheque for this amount, and then you and
I will begin square."
"Indeed I cannot, Mr. Clarkson."
"Not hand me a cheque for it!"
"Upon my word, no."
"That's very bad;—very bad indeed. Then I sup-
pose I must take the half, and renew for the remainder,
though I don't like it;—I don't indeed."
"I can pay no part of that bill, Mr. Clarkson."
"Pay no part of it!" and Mr. Clarkson, in order
that he might the better express his surprise, arrested
his hand in the very act of poking his host's fire.
"If you '11 allow me, I '11 manage the fire," said
Phineas, putting out his hand for the poker.
But Mr. Clarkson was fond of poking fires, and
would not surrender the poker. "Pay no part of it!"
he said again, holding the poker away from Phineas
in his left hand. "Don't say that, Mr. Finn. Pray
DO BE PUNCTUAL."
253
don't say that. Don't drive me to be severe. I don't
like to be severe with my gents. I '11 do anything,
Mr. Finn, if you '11 only be punctual."
"The fact is, Mr. Clarkson, I have never had one
penny of consideration for that bill, and"
"Oh, Mr. Finn! oh, Mr. Finn!" and then Mr.
Clarkson had his will of the fire.
"I never had one penny of consideration for that
bill," continued Phineas. "Of course I don't deny my
responsibility."
"No, Mr. Finn; you can't deny that. Here it is;
—Phineas Finn,—and everybody knows you, because
you 're a Parliament gent."
"I don't deny it. But I had no reason to suppose
that I should be called upon for the money when I
accommodated my friend, Mr. Fitzgibbon, and I have
not got it. That is the long and the short of it. I
must see him and take care that arrangements are
made."
"Arrangements!"
"Yes, arrangements for settling the bill.**
"He has n't got the money, Mr. Finn. You know
that as well as I do."
"I know nothing about it, Mr. Clarkson."
"Oh yes, Mr. Finn; you know; you know."
"I tell you I know nothing about it," said Phineas,
waxing angry.
"As to Mr. Fitzgibbon, he's the pleasantest gent
that ever lived. Is n't he now? I 've knowed him
these ten years. I don't suppose that for ten years
I've been without his name in my pocket. But, bless
you, Mr. Finn, there 's an end to everything. I
should n't have looked at this bit of paper if it had n't
254 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
been for your signature. Of course not. You 're just
beginning, and it 's natural you should want a little
help. You 11 find me always ready, if you '11 only be
punctual."
"I tell you again, sir, that I never had a shilling out
of that for myself, and do not want any such help."
Here Mr. Clarkson smiled sweetly. "I gave my name
to my friend simply to oblige him."
"I like you Irish gents because you do hang to-
gether so close," said Mr. Clarkson.
"Simply to oblige him," continued Phineas. "As
I said before, I know that I am responsible; but, as
I said before also, I have not the means of taking up
that bill. I will see Mr. Fitzgibbon, and let you know
what we propose to do." Then Phineas got up from
his seat and took his hat. It was full time that he
should go down to his Committee. But Mr. Clarkson
did not get up from his seat. "I'm afraid I must ask
you to leave me now, Mr. Clarkson, as I have business
down at the House."
"Business at the House never presses, Mr. Finn,"
said Mr. Clarkson. "That 's the best of Parliament.
I 've known Parliament gents this thirty years and
more. Would you believe it,—I Ve had a Prime
Minister's name in that portfolio; that I have; and a
Lord Chancellor's; that I have;—and an Archbishop's
too. I know what Parliament is, Mr. Finn. Come,
come; don't put me off with Parliament."
There he sat before the fire with his pouch open be-
fore him, and Phineas had no power of moving him.
Could Phineas have paid him the money which was
manifestly due to him on the bill, the man would of
course have gone; but failing in that, Phineas could
"do be punctual."
not turn him out. There was a black cloud on the
young member's brow, and great anger at his heart,—
against Fitzgibbon rather than against the man who was
sitting there before him. "Sir," he said, "it is really-
imperative that I should go. I am pledged to an ap-
pointment at the House at twelve, and it wants now
only a quarter. I regret that your interview with me
should be so unsatisfactory, but I can only promise
you that I will see Mr. Fitzgibbon."
"And when shall I call again, Mr. Finn?"
"Perhaps I had better write to you," said Phineas.
"Oh dear, no," said Mr. Clarkson. "I should
much prefer to look in. Looking in is always best.
We can get to understand one another in that way.
Let me see. I dare say you 're not particular. Sup-
pose I say Sunday morning."
"Really, I could not see you on Sunday morning,
Mr. Clarkson."
"Parliament gents ain't generally particular,—
'specially not among the Catholics," pleaded Mr.
Clarkson.
"I am always engaged on Sundays," said Phineas.
"Suppose we say Monday,—or Tuesday. Tuesday
morning at eleven. And do be punctual, Mr. Finn.
At Tuesday morning I '11 come, and then no doubt I
shall find you ready." Whereupon Mr. Clarkson
slowly put up his bills within his portfolio, and then,
before Phineas knew where he was, had warmly shaken
that poor dismayed member of Parliament by the
hand. "Only do be punctual, Mr. Finn," he said, as
he made his way down the stairs.
It was now twelve, and Phineas rushed off to a cab.
He was in such a fervour of rage and misery that he
256 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
could hardly think of his position, or what he had bet-
ter do, till he got into the Committee Room; and
when there he could think of nothing else. He in-
tended to go deeply into the question of potted peas,
holding an equal balance between the assailed Govern-
ment officers on the one hand, and the advocates of
the potted peas on the other. The potters of the peas,
who wanted to sell their article to the Crown, declared
that an extensive,—perhaps we may say, an unlimited,
—use of the article would save the whole army and
navy from the scourges of scurvy, dyspepsia, and rheu-
matism, would be the best safeguard against typhus
and other fevers, and would be an invaluable aid in
all other maladies to which soldiers and sailors are
peculiarly subject. The peas in question were grown
on a large scale in Holstein, and their growth had been
fostered with the special object of doing good to the
British army and navy. The peas were so cheap that
there would be a great saving in money,—and it really
had seemed to many that the officials of the Horse
Guards and the Admiralty had been actuated by some
fiendish desire to deprive their men of salutary fresh
vegetables, simply because they were of foreign growth.
But the officials of the War Office and the Admiralty
declared that the potted peas in question were hardly
fit for swine. The motion for the Committee had been
made by a gentleman of the Opposition, and Phineas
had been put upon it as an independent member. He
had resolved to give it all his mind, and, as far as he
was concerned, to reach a just decision, in which there
should be no favour shown to the Government side.
New brooms are proverbial for thorough work, and in
this Committee work Phineas was as yet a new broom.
"do be punctual."
257
But, unfortunately, on this day his mind was so har-
assed that he could hardly understand what was going
on. It did not, perhaps, much signify, as the witnesses
examined were altogether agricultural. They only
proved the production of peas in Holstein,—a fact as
to which Phineas had no doubt. The proof was nat-
urally slow, as the evidence was given in German, and
had to be translated into English. And the work of the
day was much impeded by a certain member who un-
fortunately spoke German, who seemed to be fond of
speaking German before his brethren of the Committee,
and who was curious as to agriculture in Holstein gener-
ally. The chairman did not understand German, and
there was a difficulty in checking this gentleman, and
in making him understand that his questions were not
relevant to the issue.
Phineas could not keep his mind during the whole
afternoon from the subject of his misfortune. What
should he do if this horrid man came to him once or
twice a week? He certainly did owe the man the
money. He must admit that to himself. The man no
doubt was a dishonest knave who had discounted the bill
probably at fifty per cent.; but, nevertheless, Phineas
had made himself legally responsible for the amount.
The privilege of the House prohibited him from arrest.
He thought of that very often, but the thought only
made him the more unhappy. Would it not be said,
and might it not be said truly, that he had incurred
this responsibility,—a responsibility which he was al-
together unequal to answer,—because he was so pro-
tected? He did feel that a certain consciousness of
his privilege had been present to him when he had put
his name across the paper, and that there had been
258 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
dishonesty in that very consciousness. And of what
service would his privilege be to him, if this man could
harass every hour of his life? The man was to be
with him again in a day or two, and when the appoint-
ment had been proposed, he, Phineas, had not dared
to negative it. And how was he to escape? As for
paying the bill, that with him was altogether impossible.
The man had told him,—and he had believed the
man,—that payment by Fitzgibbon was out of the
question. And yet Fitzgibbon was the son of a peer,
whereas he was only the son of a country doctor! Of
course Fitzgibbon must make some effort,—some great
effort,—and liave the thing settled. Alas, alas! He
knew enough of the world already to feel that the hope
was vain.
He went down from the Committe Room into the
House, and he dined at the House, and remained there
until eight or nine at night; but Fitzgibbon did not
come. He then went to the Reform Club, but he
was not there. Both at the club and in the House
many men spoke to him about the debate of the pre-
vious night, expressing surprise that he had not spoken,
—making him more and more wretched. He saw
Mr. Monk, but Mr. Monk was walking arm in arm
with his colleague, Mr. Palliser, and Phineas could do
no more than just speak to them. He thought that
Mr. Monk's nod of recognition was very cold. That
might be fancy, but it certainly was a fact that Mr.
Monk only nodded to him. He would tell Mr. Monk
the truth, and then, if Mr. Monk chose to quarrel with
him, he at any rate would take no step to renew their
friendship.
From the Reform Club he went to the Shakspeare,
"do be punctual."
259
a smaller club to which Fitzgibbon belonged,;—and of
which Phineas much wished to become a member,—
and to which he knew that his friend resorted when he
wished to enjoy himself thoroughly, and to be at'ease
in his inn. Men at the Shakspeare could do as they
pleased. There were no politics there, no fashion, no
stiffness, and no rules,—so men said; but that was
hardly true. Everybody called everybody by his
Christian name, and members smoked all over the
house. They who did not belong to the Shakspeare
thought it an Elysium upon earth; and they who did,
believed it to be among Pandemoniums the most
pleasant. Phineas called at the Shakspeare, and was
told by the porter that Mr. Fitzgibbon was upstairs.
He was shown into the strangers' room, and in five
minutes his friend came down to him.
"I want you to come down to the Reform with
me," said Phineas.
"By jingo, my dear fellow, I 'm in the middle of a
rubber of whist."
"There has been a man with me about that bill."
"What;—Clarkson?"
"Yes, Clarkson," said Phineas.
"Don't mind him," said Fitzgibbon.
"That's nonsense. How am I to help minding him?
I must mind him. He is coming to me again on
Tuesday morning."
"Don't see him."
"How can I help seeing him?"
"Make them say you 're not at home."
"He has made an appointment. He has told me
that he will never leave me alone. He '11 be the death
of me if this is not settled."
260 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"It shall be settled, my dear fellow. I '11 see about
it. I '11 see about it and write you a line. You must
excuse me now, because those fellows are waiting.
I '11 have it all arranged."
Again as Phineas went home he thoroughly wished
that he had never seceded from Mr. Low.
CHAPTER XXII.
LADY BALDOCK AT HOME.
About the middle of March Lady Baldock came up
from Baddingham to London, coerced into doing so, as
Violet Effingham declared, in thorough opposition to
all her own tastes, by the known wishes of her friends
and relatives. Her friends and relatives, so Miss
Effingham insinuated, were unanimous in wishing that
Lady Baldock should remain at Baddingham Park, and
therefore,—that wish having been indiscreetly ex-
pressed,—she had put herself to great inconvenience,
and had come to London in March. "Gustavus will
go mad," said Violet to Lady Laura. The Gustavus
in question was the Lord Baldock of the present gen-
eration, Miss Effingham's Lady Baldock being the
peer's mother. "Why does not Lord Baldock take a
house himself?" asked Lady Laura. "Don't you
know, my dear," Violet answered, "how much we
Baddingham people think of money? We don't like
being vexed and driven mad, but even that is better
than keeping up two households." As regarded Violet,
the injury arising from Lady Baldock's early migration
was very great, for she was thus compelled to move
from Grosvenor Place to Lady Baldock's house in
Berkeley Square. "As you are so fond of being in
London, Augusta and I have made up our minds to
come up before Easter," Lady Baldock had written to
her.
261
262 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"I shall go to her now," Violet had said to her
fr ;nd, "because I have not quite made up my mind
c to what I will do for the future."
"Marry Oswald, and be your own mistress.''
"I mean to be my own mistress without marrying
Oswald, though I don't see my way quite clearly as
yet. I think I shall set up a little house of my own,
and let the world say what it pleases. I suppose they
could n't make me out to be a lunatic."
"I should n't wonder if they were to try," said Lady
Laura.
"They could not prevent me in any other way.
But I am in the dark as yet, and so I shall be obe-
dient and go to my aunt."
Miss Effingham went to Berkeley Square, and Phin-
eas Finn was introduced to Lady Baldock. He had
been often in Grosvenor Place, and had seen Violet
frequently. Mr. Kennedy gave periodical dinners,—
once a week,—to which everybody went who could
get an invitation; and Phineas had been a guest more
than once. Indeed, in spite of his miseries he had
taken to dining out a good deal, and was popular as
an eater of dinners. He could talk when wanted, and
did not talk too much, was pleasant in manners and
appearance, and had already achieved a certain recog-
nised position in London life. Of those who knew
him intimately, not one in twenty were aware from
whence he came, what was his parentage, or what his
means of living. He was a member of Parliament, a
friend of Mr. Kennedy's, was intimate with Mr. Monk,
though an Irishman did not as a rule herd with other
Irishman, and was the right sort of person to have at
your house. Some people said he was a cousin of
LADY BALDOCK AT HOME.
263
Lord Brentford's, and others declared that he was Lord
Chiltern's earliest friend. There he was, however, witti*
a position gained, and even Lady Baldock asked himz$
to her house. ^
Lady Baldock had evenings. People went to her
house, and stood about the room and on the stairs,
talked to each other for half an hour, and went away.
In these March days there was no crowding, but still
there was always enough of people there to show that
Lady Baldock was successful. Why people should
have gone to Lady Baldock's I cannot explain;—but
there are houses to which people go without any reason.
Phineas received a little card asking him to go, and he
always went.
"I think you like my friend, Mr. Finn," Lady Laura
said to Miss Effingham, after the first of these evenings.
"Yes, I do. I like him decidedly."
"So do I. I should hardly have thought that you
would have taken a fancy to him."
"'I hardly know what you call taking a fancy," said
Violet. "I am not quite sure I like to be told that I
have taken a fancy for a young man."
"I mean no offence, my dear."
"Of course you don't. But, to speak the truth, I
think I have rather taken a fancy to him. There is
just enough of him, but not too much. I don't mean
materially,—in regard to his inches; but as to his
mental belongings. I hate a stupid man who can't
talk to me, and I hate a clever man who talks me
down. I don't like a man who is too lazy to make any
effort to shine; but I particularly dislike the man who
is always striving for effect. I abominate a humble
man, but yet I love to perceive that a man acknowl-
264 PH1NEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
edges the superiority of my sex, and youth, and all that
kind of thing."
"You want to be flattered without plain flattery."
"Of course I do. A man who would tell me that
I am pretty, unless he is over seventy, ought to be
kicked out of the room. But a man who can't show
me that he thinks me so without saying a word about
it, is a lout. Now in all those matters, your friend,
Mr. Finn, seems to know what he is about. In other
words, he makes himself pleasant, and, therefore, one
is glad to see him."
"I suppose you do not mean to fall in love with
him?"
"Not that I know of, my dear. But when I do,
I '11 be sure to give you notice."
I fear that there was more of earnestness in Lady
Laura's last question than Miss Effingham had sup-
posed. She had declared to herself over and over
again that she had never been in love with Phineas
Finn. She had acknowledged to herself, before Mr.
Kennedy had asked her hand in marriage, that there
had been danger,—that she could have learned to love
the man if such love would not have been ruinous to
her,—that the romance of such a passion would have
been pleasant to her. She had gone farther than this,
and had said to herself that she would have given way
to that romance, and would have been ready to accept
such love if offered to her, had she not put it out of
her own power to marry a poor man by her generosity
to her brother. Then she had thrust the thing aside,
and had clearly understood,—she thought that she had
clearly understood,—that life for her must be a matter
of business. Was it not the case with nine out of every
LADY BALDOCK AT HOME.
265
ten among mankind, with nine hundred and ninety-
nine out of every thousand, that life must be a matter
of business and not of romance? Of course she could
not marry Mr. Finn, knowing, as she did, that neither
of them had a shilling. Of all men in the world she
esteemed Mr. Kennedy the most, and when these
thoughts were passing through her mind, she was well
aware that he would ask her to be his wife. Had she
not resolved that she would accept the offer, she would
not have gone to Loughlinter. Having put aside all
romance as unfitted to her life, she could, she thought,
do her duty as Mr. Kennedy's wife. She would teach
herself to love him. Nay,—she had taught herself to
love him. She was at any rate so sure of her own
heart that she would never give her husband cause to
rue the confidence he placed in her. And yet there
was something sore within her when she thought that
Phineas Finn was becoming fond of Violet Effingham.
It was Lady Baldock's second evening, and Phineas
came to the house at about eleven o'clock. At this time
he had encountered a second and a third interview
with Mr. Clarkson, and had already failed in obtaining
any word of comfort from Laurence Fitzgibbon about
the bill. It was clear enough now that Laurence felt
that they were both made safe by their privilege, and that
Mr. Clarkson should be treated as you treat the organ-
grinders. They are a nuisance and must be endured.
But the nuisance is not so great but what you can live
in comfort,—if only you are not too sore as to the an-
noyance. "My dear fellow," Laurence had said to
him, "I have had Clarkson almost living in my rooms.
He used to drink nearly a pint of sherry a day for me.
All I looked to was that I did n't live there at the
266 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
same time. If you wish it, I '11 send in the sherry."
This was very bad, and Phineas tried to quarrel with
his friend; but he found that it was difficult to quarrel
with Laurence Fitzgibbon.
But though on this side Phineas was very miserable,
on another side he had obtained great comfort. Mr.
Monk and he were better friends than ever. a As to
what Turnbull says about me in the House," Mr.
Monk had said, laughing; "he and I understand each
other perfectly. I should like to see you on your legs,
but it is just as well, perhaps, that you have deferred
it. We shall have the real question on immediately
after Easter, and then you '11 have plenty of opportu-
nities." Phineas had explained how he had attempted,
how he had failed, and how he had suffered;—and
Mr. Monk had been generous in his sympathy. "I
know all about it," said he, "and have gone through it
all myself. The more respect you feel for the House,
the more satisfaction you will have in addressing it
when you have mastered this difficulty."
The first person who spoke to Phineas at Lady
Baldock's was Miss Fitzgibbon, Laurence's sister. As-
pasia Fitzgibbon was a warm woman as regarded
money, and as she was moreover a most discreet spinster,
she was made welcome by Lady Baldock, in spite of
the well-known iniquities of her male relatives. "Mr.
Finn," said she, "how d' ye do? I want to say a word
to ye. Just come here into the corner." Phineas, not
knowing how to escape, did retreat into the corner
with Miss Fitzgibbon. "Tell me now, Mr. Finn;—
have ye been lending money to Larrence?"
"No; I have lent him no money," said Phineas,
much astonished by the question.
LADY BALDOCK AT HOME.
267
"Don't. That 's my advice to ye. Don't. On
any other matter Larrence is the best creature in the
world,—but he 's bad to lend money to. You ain't in
any hobble with him, then?"
"Well;—nothing to speak of. What makes you
ask?"
"Then you are in a hobble? Dear, dear! I never
saw such a man as Larrence;—never. Good-bye. I
would n't do it again, if I were you;—that 's all."
Then Miss Fitzgibbon came out of the corner and
made her way downstairs.
Phineas immediately afterwards came across Miss
Effingham. "I did not know," said she, "that you
and the divine Aspasia were such close allies."
"We are the dearest friends in the world, but she
has taken my breath away now."
"May a body be told how she has done that?"
Violet asked.
"Well, no; I'm afraid not, even though the body
be Miss Effingham. It was a profound secret;—really
a secret concerning a third person, and she began about
it just as though she were speaking about the weather!"
"How charming! I do so like her. You have n't
heard, have you, that Mr. Rattler proposed to her the
other day?"
"No!"
"But he did;—at least, so she tells everybody. She
said she'd take him if he would promise to get her
brother's salary doubled."
"Did she tell you?"
"No; not me. And of course I don't believe a
word of it. I suppose Barrington Erie made up the.
story. Are you going out of town next week, Mr. -
268 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
Finn?" The week next to this was Easter-week. "I
heard you were going into Northamptonshire."
"From Lady Laura?"
"Yes;—from Lady Laura."
"I intend to spend three days with Lord Chiltern at
Willingford. It is an old promise. I am going to ride
his horses,—that is, if I am able to ride them."
"Take care what you are about, Mr. Finn;—they
say his horses are so dangerous!"
"I'm rather good at falling, I flatter myself."
"I know that Lord Chiltern rides anything he can
sit, so long as it is some animal that nobody else will
ride. It was always so with him. He is so odd; is
he not?"
Phineas knew, of course, that Lord Chiltern had
more than once asked Violet Effingham to be his wife,
—and he believed that she, from her intimacy with
Lady Laura, must know that he knew it. He had also
heard Lady Laura express a very strong wish that, in
spite of these refusals, Violet might even yet become
her brother's wife. And Phineas also knew that Violet
Effingham was becoming, in his own estimation, the
most charming woman of his acquaintance. How was
he to talk to her about Lord Chiltern?
"He is odd," said Phineas; "but he is an excellent
fellow,—whom his father altogether misunderstands."
"Exactly,—just so; I am so glad to hear you say
that,—you who have never had the misfortune to have
anything to do with a bad set. Why don't you tell
Lord Brentford? Lord Brentford would listen to
you."
"To me?"
* :"Yes;—of course he would,—for you are just the
LADY BALDOCK AT HOME.
269
link that is wanting. You are Chiltern's intimate friend,
and you are also the friend of big-wigs and Cabinet
Ministers."
"Lord Brentford would put me down at once if I
spoke to him on such a subject."
"I am sure he would not. You are too big to be
put down, and no man can really dislike to hear his
son well spoken of by those who are well spoken of
themselves. Won't you try, Mr. Finn?" Phineas
said that he would think of it,—that he would try if
any fit opportunity could be found. "Of course you
know how intimate I have been with the Standishes,"
said Violet; "that Laura is to me a sister, and that
Oswald used to be almost a brother."
"Why do not you speak to Lord Brentford;—you
who are his favourite?"
"There are reasons, Mr. Finn. Besides, how can
any girl come forward and say that she knows the dis-
position of any man? You can live with Lord Chiltern,
and see what he is made of and know his thoughts,
and learn what is good in him, and also what is bad.
After all, how is any girl really to know anything of
a man's life?"
"If I can do anything, Miss Effingham, I will," said
Phineas.
"And then we shall all of us be so grateful to you,"
said Violet, with her sweetest smile.
Phineas, retreating from this conversation, stood for
a while alone, thinking of it. Had she spoken thus of
Lord Chiltern because she did love him or because she
did not? And the sweet commendations which had
fallen from her lips upon him,—him, Phineas Finn,—
were they compatible with anything like a growing
270 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
partiality for himself, or were they incompatible with
any such feeling? Had he most reason to be com-
forted or to be discomfited by what had taken place?
It seemed hardly possible to his imagination that Violet
Effingham should love such a nobody as he. And yet
he had had fair evidence that one standing as high in
the world as Violet Effingham would fain have loved
him could she have followed the dictates of her heart.
He had trembled when he had first resolved to de-
clare his passion to Lady Laura,—fearing that she
would scorn him as being presumptuous. But there
had been no cause for such fear as that. He had de-
clared his love, and she had not thought him to be
presumptuous. That now was ages ago,—eight months
since; and Lady Laura had become a married woman.
Since he had become so warmly alive to the charms of
Violet Effingham he had determined, with stern pro-
priety, that a passion for a married woman was disgrace-
ful. Such love was in itself a sin, even though it was
accompanied by the severest forbearance and the most
rigid propriety of conduct. No;—Lady Laura had
done wisely to check the growing feeling of partiality
which she had admitted; and now that she was married,
he would be as wise as she. It was clear to him that,
as regarded his own heart, the way was open to him for
a new enterprise. But what if he were to fail again,
and be told by Violet, when he declared his love, that
she had just engaged herself to Lord Chiltern.
"What were you and Violet talking about so eager-
ly? " said Lady Laura to him, with a smile that, in its
approach to laughter, almost betrayed its mistress.
"We were talking about your brother."
"You are going to him, are you not? n
LADY BALDOCK AT HOME.
27I
"Yes; I leave London on Sunday night;—but only
for a day or two."
"Has he any chance there, do you think?"
"What, with Miss Effingham?"
"Yes;—with Violet. Sometimes I think she loves
him."
"How can I say? In such a matter you can judge
better than I can do. One woman with reference to
another can draw the line between love and friendship.
She certainly likes Lord Chiltern."
"Oh, I believe she loves him. I do indeed. But
she fears him. She does not quite understand how
much there is of tenderness with that assumed ferocity.
And Oswald is so strange, so unwise, so impolitic, that
though he loves her better than all the world beside,
he will not sacrifice even a turn of a word to win her.
When he asks her to marry him, he almost flies at her
throat, as an angry debtor who applies for instant pay-
ment. Tell him, Mr. Finn, never to give it over;—and
teach him that he should be soft with her. Tell him,
also, that in her heart she likes him. One woman, as
you say, knows another woman; and I am certain he
would win her if he would only be gentle with her."
Then, again, before they parted, Lady Laura told him
that this marriage was the dearest wish of her heart,
and that there would be no end to her gratitude if
Phineas could do anything to promote it. All which
again made our hero unhappy.
CHAPTER XXIII.
SUNDAY IN GROSVENOR PLACE.
Mr. Kennedy, though he was a most scrupulously at-
tentive member of Parliament, was a man very punctual
to hours and rules in his own house,—and liked that his
wife should be as punctual as himself. Lady Laura,
who in marrying him had firmly resolved that she would
do her duty to him in all ways, even though the ways
might sometimes be painful,—and had been perhaps
more punctilious in this respect than she might have
been had she loved him heartily,—was not perhaps
quite so fond of accurate regularity as her husband;
and thus, by this time, certain habits of his had become
rather bonds than habits to her. He always had prayers
at nine, and breakfasted at a quarter past nine, let the
hours on the night before have been as late as they
might before the time for rest had come. After break-
fast he would open his letters in his study, but he liked
her to be with him, and desired to discuss with her
every application he got from a constituent. He had
his private secretary in a room apart, but he thought
that everything should be filtered to his private secre-
tary through his wife. He was very anxious that she
herself should superintend the accounts of their own
private expenditure, and had taken some trouble to
teach her an excellent mode of book-keeping. He had
recommended to her a certain course of reading,—which
was pleasant enough; ladies like to receive such rec-
273
SUNDAY IN GROSVENOR PLACE. 273
ommendations; but Mr. Kennedy, having drawn out
the course, seemed to expect that his wife should read
the books he had named, and, worse still, that she should
read them in the time he had allocated for the work.
This, I think, was tyranny. Then the Sundays became
very wearisome to Lady Laura. Going to church
twice, she had learnt, would be a part of her duty; and
though in her father's household attendance at church
had never been very strict, she had made up her mind
to this cheerfully. But Mr. Kennedy expected also
that he and she should always dine together on Sun-
days, that there should be no guests, and that there
should be no evening company. After all, the demand
was not very severe, but yet she found that it operated
injuriously upon her comfort. The Sundays were very
wearisome to her, and made her feel that her lord and
master was—her lord and master. She made an effort
or two to escape, but the efforts were all in vain. He
never spoke a cross word to her. He never gave a
stern command. But yet he had his way. "I won't
say that reading a novel on a Sunday is a sin," he said;
"but we must at any rate admit that it is a matter on
which men disagree, that many of the best of men are
against such occupation on Sunday, and that to abstain
is to be on the safe side." So the novels were put
away, and Sunday afternoon with the long evening be-
came rather a stumbling-block to Lady Laura.
Those two hours, moreover, with her husband in the
morning became very wearisome to her. At first she
had declared that it would be her greatest ambition to
help her husband in his work, and she had read all the
letters from the MacNabs and MacFies, asking to be
made gaugers and landing-waiters, with an assumed
274 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
interest. But the work palled upon her very quickly.
Her quick intellect discovered soon that there was
nothing in it which she really did. It was all form and
verbiage, and pretence at business. Her husband went
through it all with the utmost patience, reading every
word, giving orders as to every detail, and conscien-
tiously doing that which he conceived he had under-
taken to do. But Lady Laura wanted to meddle with
high politics, to discuss reform bills, to assist in putting
up Mr. This and in putting down my Lord That. Why
should she waste her time in doing that which the lad
in the next room, who was called a private secretary,
could do as well?
Still she would obey. Let the task be as hard as it
might, she would obey. If he counselled her to do this
or that, she would follow his counsel,—because she
owed him so much. If she had accepted the half of
all his wealth without loving him, she owed him thev
more on that account. But she knew,—she could not
but know,—that her intellect was brighter than his;
and might it not be possible for her to lead him? Then
she made efforts to lead her husband, and found that he
was as stiff-necked as an ox. Mr. Kennedy was not,
perhaps, a clever man; but he was a man who knew
his own way, and who intended to keep it.
"I have got a headache, Robert," she said to him
one Sunday after luncheon. "I think I will not go to
church this afternoon."
"It is not serious, I hope."
"Oh dear, no. Don't you know how one feels some-
times that one has got a head? And when that is the
case one's arm-chair is the best place."
"I am not sure of that," said Mr. Kennedy.
SUNDAY IN GROSVENOR PLACE. 275
"If I went to church I should not attend," said
Lady Laura.
"The fresh air would do you more good than any-
thing else, and we could walk across the park."
"Thank you;—I won't go out again to-day." This
she said with something almost of crossness in her
manner, and Mr. Kennedy went to the afternoon ser-
vice by himself.
Lady Laura when she was left alone began to think
of her position. She was not more than four or five
months married, and she was becoming very tired of
her life. Was it not also true that she was becoming
tired of her husband? She had twice told Phineas
Finn that of all men in the world she esteemed Mr.
Kennedy the most. She did not esteem him less now.
She knew no point or particle in which he did not do
his duty with accuracy. But no person can live happily
with another,—not even with a brother or a sister or a
friend,—simply upon esteem. All the virtues in the
calendar, though they exist on each side, will not make
a man and woman happy together, unless there be
sympathy. Lady Laura was beginning to find out that
there was a lack of sympathy between herself and her
husband.
She thought of this till she was tired of thinking of
it, and then, wishing to divert her mind, she took up
the book that was lying nearest to her hand. It was
a volume of a new novel which she had been reading
on the previous day, and now, without much thought
about it, she went on with her reading. There came
to her, no doubt, some dim, half-formed idea that, as
she was freed from going to church by the plea of a
headache, she was also absolved by the same plea from
276 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
other Sunday hindrances. A child, when it is ill, has
buttered toast and a picture-book instead of bread-and-
milk and lessons. In this way, Lady Laura conceived
herself to be entitled to her novel.
While she was reading it, there came a knock at the
door, and Barrington Erie was shown upstairs. Mr.
Kennedy had given no orders against Sunday visitors,
but had simply said that Sunday visiting was not to his
taste. Barrington, however, was Lady Laura's cousin,
and people must be very strict if they can't see their
cousins on Sunday. Lady Laura soon lost her head-
ache altogether in the animation of discussing the
chances of the new Reform Bill with the Prime Minis-
ter's private secretary; and had left her chair, and was
standing by the table with the novel in her hand, pro-
testing this and denying that, expressing infinite confi-
dence in Mr. Monk, and violently denouncing Mr.
Turnbull, when her husband returned from church and
came up into the drawing-room. Lady Laura had for-
gotten her headache altogether, and had in her com-
position none of that thoughtfulness of hypocrisy which
would have taught her to moderate her political feeling
at her husband's return.
"I do declare," she said, "that if Mr. Turnbull op-
poses the Government measure now, because he can't
have his own way in everything, I will never again put
my trust in any man who calls himself a popular leader."
"You never should," said Barrington Erie.
"That's all very well for you, Barrington, who are
an aristocratic whig of the old official school, and who
call yourself a liberal simply because Fox was a lib-
eral a hundred years ago. My heart's in it."
"Heart should never have anything to do with poli-
SUNDAY IN GROSVENOR PLACE. 277
tics; should it?" said Erie, turning round to Mr.
Kennedy.
Mr. Kennedy did not wish to discuss the matter on
a Sunday, nor yet did he wish to say before Barrington
Erie that he thought it wrong to do so. And he was
desirous of treating his wife in some way as though she
were an invalid,—that she thereby might be, as it were,
punished; but he did not wish to do this in such a way
that Barrington should be aware of the punishment.
"Laura had better not disturb herself about it now,"
he said.
"How is a person to help being disturbed?" said
Lady Laura, laughing.
"Well, well; we won't mind all that now," said Mr.
Kennedy, turning away. Then he took up the novel
which Lady Laura had just laid down from her hand,
and, having looked at it, carried it aside, and placed it
on a book-shelf which was remote from them. Lady
Laura watched him as he did this, and the whole course
of her husband's thoughts on the subject was open to
her at once. She regretted the novel, and she regretted
also the political discussion. Soon afterwards Barring-
ton Erie went away, and the husband and wife were
alone together.
"I am glad that your head is so much better," said
he. He did not intend to be severe, but he spoke with
a gravity of manner which almost amounted to severity.
"Yes; it is," she said. "Barrington's coming in
cheered me up."
"I am sorry that you should have wanted cheering."
"Don't you know what I mean, Robert?"
"No; I do not think that I do, exactly."
"I suppose your head is stronger. You do not get
278 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
that feeling of dazed, helpless imbecility of brain, which
hardly amounts to headache, but which yet—is almost
as bad."
"Imbecility of brain may be worse than headache,
but I don't think it can produce it."
"Well, well;—I don't know how to explain it."
"Headache comes, I think, always from the stomach,
even when produced originally by nervous affections.
But imbecility of the brain"
"Oh, Robert, I am so sorry that I used the word."
"I see that it did not prevent your reading," he said,
after a pause.
"Not such reading as that. I was up to nothing
better."
Then there was another pause.
"I won't deny that it may be a prejudice," he said,
"but I confess that the use of novels in my own house
on Sundays is a pain to me. My mother's ideas on the
subject are very strict, and I cannot think that it is bad
for a son to hang on to the teaching of his mother."
This he said in the most serious tone which he could
command.
"I don't know why I took it up," said Lady Laura.
"Simply, I believe, because it was there. I will avoid
doing so for the future."
"Do, my dear," said the husband. "I shall be
obliged and grateful if you will remember what I have
said." Then he left her, and she sat alone, first in the
dusk and then in the dark, for two hours, doing noth-
ing. Was this to be the life which she had procured
for herself by marrying Mr. Kennedy of Loughlinter?
If it was harsh and unendurable in London, what would
it be in the country?
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE WILLINGFORD BULL.
Phineas left London by a night-mail train on Easter
Sunday, and found himself at the Willingford Bull about
half an hour after midnight. Lord Chiltern was up and
waiting for him, and supper was on the table. The
Willingford Bull was an English inn of the old stamp,
which had now, in these latter years of railway travel-
ling, ceased to have a road business,—for there were no
travellers on the road, and but little posting,—but had
acquired a new trade as a d6p6t for hunters and hunt-
ing men. The landlord let out horses and kept hunt-
ing stables, and the house was generally filled from the
beginning of November till the middle of April. Then
it became a desert in the summer, and no guests were
seen there, till the pink coats flocked down again into
the shires.
"How many days do you mean to give us?" said
Lord Chiltern, as he helped his friend to a devilled leg
of a turkey.
"I must go back on Wednesday,'' said Phineas.
"That means Wednesday night. I '11 tell you what
we '11 do. We've the Cottesmore to-morrow. We '11
get into Tailby's country on Tuesday, and Fitzwilliam
will be only twelve miles off on Wednesday. We shall
be rather short of horses."
"Pray don't let me put you out. I can hire some-
thing here, I suppose?"
"You won't put me out at all. There '11 be three
279
280 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
between us each day, and we '11 run our luck. The
horses have gone on to Empingham for to-morrow.
Tailby is rather a way off,—at Somerby; but we '11
manage it. If the worst comes to the worst, we can
get back to Stamford by rail. On Wednesday we shall
have everything very comfortable. They 're out be-
yond Stilton and will draw home our way. I Ve
planned it all out. I Ve a trap with a fast stepper, and
if we start to-morrow at half-past nine, we shall be in
plenty of time. You shall ride Meg Merrilies, and if
she don't carry you, you may shoot her."
"Is she one of the pulling ones?"
"She is heavy in hand if you are heavy at her, but
leave her mouth alone and she '11 go like flowing water.
You'd better not ride more in a crowd than you can
help. Now, what '11 you drink?"
They sat up half the night smoking and talking, and
Phineas learned more about Lord Chiltern then than
ever he had learned before. There was brandy and
water before them, but neither of them drank. Lord
Chiltern, indeed, had a pint of beer by his side from
which he sipped occasionally. "I Ve taken to beer,"
he said, "as being the best drink going. When a man
hunts six days a week he can afford to drink beer. I'm
on an allowance,—three pints a day. That's not too
much."
"And you drink nothing else?"
"Nothing when I'm alone,—except a little cherry-
brandy when I 'm out. I never cared for drink;—
never in my life. I do like excitement, and have been
less careful than I ought to have been as to what it has
come from. I could give up drink to-morrow, with-
out a struggle,—if it were worth my while to make up
THE WILLINGFORD BULL.
28l
my mind to do it. And it *s the same with gambling.
I never do gamble now, because I've got no money;
but I own I like it better than anything in the world.
While you are at it, there is life in it."
"You should take to politics, Chiltern."
"And I would have done so, but my father would
not help me. Never mind, we will not talk about him.
How does Laura get on with her husband?"
"Very happily, I should say."
"I don't believe it," said Lord Chiltern. "Her
temper is too much like mine to allow her to be happy
with such a log of wood as Robert Kennedy. It is
such men as he who drive me out of the pale of decent
life. If that is decency, I'd sooner be indecent. You
mark my words. They '11 come to grief. She '11 never
be able to stand it."
"I should think she had her own way in everything,"
said Phineas. .
"No, no. Though he 's- a prig, he's a man; and
she will not find it easy to drive him."
"But she may bend him."
"Not an inch;—that is if I understand his character.
I suppose you see a good deal of them?"
"Yes,—pretty well. I'm not there so often as I
used to be in the Square."
"You get sick of it, I suppose. I should. Do you
see my father often?"
"Only occasionally. He is always very civil when
I do see him."
"He is the very pink of civility when he pleases, but
the most unjust man I ever met."
"I should not have thought that."
"Yes, he is," said the EarPs son, "and all from lack
282 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
of judgment to discern the truth. He makes up his
mind to a thing on insufficient proof, and then noth-
ing will turn him. He thinks well of you,—would
probably believe your word on any indifferent subject
without thought of a doubt; but if you were to tell him
that I did n't get drunk every night of my life and
spend most of my time in thrashing policemen, he
would not believe you. He would smile incredulously
and make you a little bow. I can see him do it."
"You are too hard on him, Chiltern."
"He has been too hard on me, I know. Is Violet
Effingham still in Grosvenor Place?"
"No; she's with Lady Baldock."
"That old grandmother of evil has come to town,—
has she? Poor Violet! When we were young to-
gether we used to have such fun about that old woman."
"The old woman is an ally of mine now," said
Phineas.
"You make allies everywhere. You know Violet
Effingham, of course?"
"Oh yes. I know her."
"Don't you think her very charming?" said Lord
Chiltern.
"Exceedingly charming."
"I have asked that girl to marry me three times, and
I shall never ask her again. There is a point beyond
which a man should n't go. There are many reasons
why it would be a good marriage. In the first place,
her money would be serviceable. Then it would heal
matters in our family, for my father is as prejudiced in
her favour as he is against me. And I love her dearly.
I've loved her all my life,—since I used to buy cakes
for her. But I shall never ask her again."
THE WILLINGFORD BULL. 283
"I would if I were you," said Phineas,—hardly
knowing what it might be best for him to say.
"No; I never will. But I '11 tell you what. I shall
get into some desperate scrape about her. Of course
she 11 marry, and that soon. Then I shall make a fool
of myself. When I hear that she is engaged I shall go
and quarrel with the man, and kick him,—or get kicked.
All the world will turn against me, and I shall be called
a wild beast."
"A dog in the manger is what you should be called."
"Exactly;—but how is a man to help it? If you
loved a girl, could you see another man take her?"
Phineas remembered of course that he had lately come
through this ordeal. "It is as though he were to come
and put his hand upon me, and wanted my own heart
out of me. Though I have no property in her at all,
no right to her,—though she never gave me a word of
encouragement, it is as though she were the most pri-
vate thing in the world to me. I should be half mad,
and in my madness I could not master the idea that I
was being robbed. I should resent it as a personal in-
terference."
"I suppose it will come to that if you give her up
yourself," said Phineas.
"It is no question of giving up. Of course I cannot
make her marry me. Light another cigar, old fellow."
Phineas, as he lit the other cigar, remembered that
he owed a certain duty in this matter to Lady Laura.
She had commissioned him to persuade her brother
that his suit with Violet Effingham would not be hope-
less, if he could only restrain himself in his mode of
conducting it. Phineas was disposed to do his duty,
although he felt it to be very hard that he should be
284 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
called upon to be eloquent against his own interest.
He had been thinking for the last quarter of an hour
how he must bear himself if it might turn out that he
should be the man whom Lord Chiltern was resolved
to kick. He looked at his friend and host, and became
aware that a kicking-match with such a one would not
be pleasant pastime. Nevertheless, he would be happy
enough to be subject to Lord Chiltern's wrath for such
a reason. He would do his duty by Lord Chiltern;
and then, when that had been adequately done, he
would, if occasion served, fight a battle for himself.
"You are too sudden with her, Chiltern," he said,
after a pause.
"What do you mean by too sudden?" said Lord
Chiltern, almost angrily.
"You frighten her by being so impetuous. You rush
at her as though you wanted to conquer her by a single
blow."
"So I do."
"You should be more gentle with her. You should
give her time to find out whether she likes you or not."
"She has known me all her life, and has found that
out long ago. Not but what you are right. I know
you are right. If I were you, and had your skill in
pleasing, I should drop soft words into her ear till I
had caught her. But I have no gifts in that way. I
am as awkward as a pig at what is called flirting. And
I have an accursed pride which stands in my own light.
If she were in this house this moment, and if I knew
she were to be had for asking, I don't think I could
bring myself to ask again. But we '11 go to bed. It's
half-past two, and we must be off at half-past nine, if
we 're to be at Exton Park gates at eleven."
THE WILLINGFORD BULL. 285
Phineas, as he went upstairs, assured himself that he
had done his duty. If there ever should come to be
anything between him and Violet Effingham, Lord
Chiltern might quarrel with him,—might probably at-
tempt that kicking encounter to which allusion had
been made,—but nobody could justly say that he had
not behaved honourably to his friend.
On the next morning there was a bustle and a scurry,
as there always is on such occasions, and the two men
got off about ten minutes after time. But Lord Chil-
tern drove hard, and they reached the meet before the
master had moved off. They had a fair day's sport
with the Cottesmore; and Phineas, though he found
that Meg Merrilies did require a good deal of riding,
went through his day's work with credit. He had been
riding since he was a child, as is the custom with all
boys in Munster, and had an Irishman's natural apti-
tude for jumping. When they got back to the Willing-
ford Bull he felt pleased with the day and rather proud
of himself. "It was n't fast, you know," said Chiltern,
"and I don't call that a stiff country. Besides, Meg is
very handy when you 've got her out of the crowd.
You shall ride Bonebreaker to-morrow at Somerby, and
you '11 find that better fun."
"Bonebreaker? Have n't I heard you say he rushes
like mischief?"
"Well, he does rush. But, by George! you want a
horse to rush in that country. When you have to go
right through four or five feet of stiff green wood, like
a bullet through a target, you want a little force, or
you 're apt to be left up a tree."
"And what do you ride?"
"A brute I never put my leg on yet. He was sent
286 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
down to Wilcox here, out of Lincolnshire, because they
could n't get anybody to ride him there. They say he
goes with his head up in the air, and won't look at a
fence that is n't as high as his breast. But I think he '11
do here. I never saw a better made beast, or one with
more power. Do you look at his shoulders. He's to
be had for seventy pounds, and these are the sort of
horses I like to buy."
Again they dined alone, and Lord Chiltern explained
to Phineas that he rarely associated with the men of
either of the hunts in which he rode. "There is a set
of fellows down here who are poison to me, and there
is another set, and I am poison to them. Everybody
is very civil, as you see, but I have no associates. And
gradually I am getting to have a reputation as though
I were the devil himself. I think I shall come out
next year dressed entirely in black."
"Are you not wrong to give way to that kind of
thing?"
"What the deuce am I to do? I can't make civil
little speeches. When once a man gets a reputation
as an ogre, it is the most difficult thing in the world to
drop it. I could have a score of men here every day
if I liked it,—my title would do that for me;—but
they would be men I should loathe, and I should be
sure to tell them so, even though I did not mean it.
Bonebreaker, and the new horse, and another, went on
at twelve to-day. You must expect hard work to-mor-
row, as I dare say we shan't be home before eight."
The next day's meet was in Leicestershire, not far
from Melton, and they started early. Phineas, to tell
the truth of him, was rather afraid of Bonebreaker, and
looked forward to the probability of an accident. He
THE WILLINGFORD BULL.
287
had neither wife nor child, and nobody had a better
right to risk his neck. "We '11 put a gag on 'im," said
the groom, "and you '11 ride 'im in a ring,—so that you
may well-nigh break his jaw; but he is a rum un, sir."
"I '11 do my best/1 said Phineas. "He 11 take all
that," said the groom. "Just let him have his own
way at everything," said Lord Chiltern, as they moved
away from the meet to Pickwell Gorse; "and if you '11
only sit on his back, he 11 carry you through as safe as
a church." Phineas could not help thinking that the
counsels of the master and of the groom were very
different. "My idea is," continued Lord Chiltern,
"that in hunting you should always avoid a crowd. I
don't think a horse is worth riding that will go in a
crowd. It 's just like yachting,—you should have
plenty of sea-room. If you 're to pull your horse up
at every fence till somebody else is over, I think you'd
better come out on a donkey." And so they went
away to Pickwell Gorse.
There were over two hundred men out, and Phineas
began to think that it might not be so easy to get out
of the crowd. A crowd in a fast run no doubt quickly
becomes small by degrees and beautifully less; but it
is very difficult, especially for a stranger, to free himself
from the rush at the first start. Lord Chiltern's horse
plunged about so violently, as they stood on a little hill-
side looking down upon the cover, that he was obliged
to take him to a distance, and Phineas followed him.
"If he breaks down wind," said Lord Chiltern, "we
can't be better than we are here. If he goes up wind,
he must turn before long, and we shall be all right."
As he spoke an old hound opened true and sharp,—an
old hound whom all the pack believed,—and in a
288 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
moment there was no doubt that the fox had been
found. "There are not above eight or nine acres in
it," said Lord Chiltern, "and he can't hang long. Did
you ever see such an uneasy brute as this in your life?
But I feel certain he '11 go well when he gets away."
Phineas was too much occupied with his own horse
to think much of that on which Lord Chiltern was
mounted. Bonebreaker, the very moment that he heard
the old hound's note, stretched out his head, and put
his mouth upon the bit, and began to tremble in every
muscle. "He's a great deal more anxious for it than
you and I are," said Lord Chiltern. "I see they've
given you that gag. But don't you ride him on it till
he wants it. Give him lots of room, and he '11 go in
the snaffle." All which caution made Phineas think
that any insurance office would charge very dear on
his life at the present moment.
The fox took two rings of the gorse, and then he
went,—up wind. "It's not a vixen, I '11 swear," said
Lord Chiltern. "A vixen in cub never went away like
that yet. Now then, Finn, my boy, keep to the right."
And Lord Chiltern, with the horse out of Lincolnshire,
went away across the brow of the hill, leaving the
hounds to the left, and selected, as his point of exit
into the next field, a stiff rail, which, had there been an
accident, must have put a very wide margin of ground
between the rider and his horse. "Go hard at your
fences, and then you '11 fall clear," he had said to
Phineas. I don't think, however, that he would have
ridden at the rail as he did, but that there was no help
for him. "The brute began in his own way, and
carried on after in the same fashion all through," he
said afterwards. Phineas took the fence a little lower
THE WILLINGFORD BULL.
289
down, and what it was at which he rode he never
knew. Bonebreaker sailed over it, whatever it was,
and he soon found himself by his friend's side.
The ruck of the men were lower down than our two
heroes, and there were others far away to the left, and
others, again, who had been at the end of the gorse,
and were now behind. Our friends were not near the
hounds, not within two fields of them, but the hounds
were below them, and therefore could be seen. "Don't
be in a hurry, and they '11 be round upon us," Lord
Chiltern said. "How the deuce is one to help being
in a hurry? " said Phineas, who was doing his very best
to ride Bonebreaker with the snaffle, but had already
begun to feel that Bonebreaker cared nothing for that
weak instrument. "By George, I should like to charge
with you," said Lord Chiltern. The Lincolnshire horse
was going along with his head very low, boring as he
galloped, but throwing his neck up at his fences, just
when he ought to have kept himself steady. After
this, though Phineas kept near Lord Chiltern through-
out the run, they were not again near enough to ex-
change words; and, indeed, they had but little breath
for such purpose.
Lord Chiltern rode still a little in advance, and
Phineas, knowing his friend's partiality for solitude
when taking his fences, kept a little to his left. He
began to find that Bonebreaker knew pretty well what
he was about. As for not using the gag rein, that was
impossible. When a horse puts out what strength he
has against a man's arm, a man must put out what
strength he has against the horse's mouth. But Bone-
breaker was cunning, and had had a gag rein on be-
fore. He contracted his lip here, and bent out his jaw
290 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
there, till he had settled it to his mind, and then went
away after his own fashion. He seemed to have a
passion for smashing through big, high-grown ox-fences,
and by degrees his rider came to feel that if there was
nothing worse coming, the fun was not bad.
The fox ran up wind for a couple of miles or so, as
Lord Chiltern had prophesied, and then turned,—not
to the right, as would best have served him and Phineas,
but to the left,—so that they were forced to make their
way through the ruck of horses before they could place
themselves again. Phineas found himself crossing a
road, in and out of it, before he knew where he was,
and for a while he lost sight of Lord Chiltern. But in
truth he was leading now, whereas Lord Chiltern had
led before. The two horses having been together all
the morning, and on the previous day, were willing
enough to remain in company, if they were allowed to
do so. They both crossed the road, not very far from
each other, going in and out amidst a crowd of horses,
and before long were again placed well, now having
the hunt on their right, whereas hitherto it had been
on their left. They went over large pasture fields, and
Phineas began to think that as long as Bonebreaker
would be able to go through the thick grown-up hedges,
all would be right. Now and again he came to a cut
fence, a fence that had been cut and laid, and these
were not so pleasant. Force was not sufficient for them,
and they admitted of a mistake. But the horse, though
he would rush at them unpleasantly, took them when
they came without touching them. It might be all
right yet,—unless the beast should tire with him; and
then, Phineas thought, a misfortune might probably
occur. He remembered, as he flew over one such im-
THE WILLINGFORD BULL.
291
pediment, that he rode a stone heavier than his friend.
At the end of forty-five minutes Bonebreaker also might
become aware of the fact.
The hounds were running well in sight to their right,
and Phineas began to feel some of that pride which a
man indulges when he becomes aware that he has taken
his place comfortably, has left the squad behind, and
is going well. There were men nearer the hounds than
he was, but he was near enough even for ambition.
There had already been enough of the run to make
him sure that it would be a "good thing," and enough
to make him aware also that probably it might be too
good. When a run is over, men are very apt to regret
the termination, who a minute or two before were anx-
iously longing that the hounds might pull down their
game. To finish well is everything in hunting. To
have led for over an hour is nothing, let the pace and
country have been what they might, if you fall away
during the last half mile. Therefore it is that those
behind hope that the fox may make this or that cover,
while the forward men long to see him turned over in
every field. To ride to hounds is very glorious; but
to have ridden to hounds is more glorious still. They
had now crossed another road, and a larger one, and
had got into a somewhat closer country. The fields
were not so big, and the fences were not so high.
Phineas got a moment to look about him, and saw
Lord Chiltern riding without his cap. He was very
red in the face, and his eyes seemed to glare, and he
was tugging at his horse with all his might. But the
animal seemed still to go with perfect command of
strength, and Phineas had too much work on his own
hands to think of offering Quixotic assistance to any
292 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
one else. He saw some one, a farmer, as he thought,
speak to Lord Chiltern as they rode close together;
but Chiltern only shook his head and pulled at his horse.
There were brooks in those parts. The River Eye
forms itself thereabouts, or some of its tributaries do so;
and these tributaries, though small as rivers, are con-
siderable to men on one side who are called by the ex-
igencies of the occasion to place themselves quickly on
the other. Phineas knew nothing of these brooks; but
Bonebreaker had gone gallantly over two, and now
that there came a third in the way, it was to be hoped
that he might go gallantly over that also. Phineas, at
any rate, had no power to decide otherwise. As long
as the brute would go straight with him he could sit
him; but he had long given up the idea of having a
will of his own. Indeed, till he was within twenty
yards of the brook, be did not see that it was larger
than the others. He looked round, and there was
Chiltern close to him, still fighting with his horse;—but
the farmer had turned away. He thought that Chiltern
nodded to him, as much as to tell him to go on. On
he went at any rate. The brook, when he came to it,
seemed to be a huge black hole, yawning beneath him.
The banks were quite steep, and just where he was to
take off there was an ugly stump. It was too late to
think of anything. He stuck his knees against his
saddle,—and in a moment was on the other side. The
brute, who had taken off a yard before the stump,
knowing well the danger of striking it with his foot,
came down with a grunt, and did, I think, begin to feel
the weight of that extra stone. Phineas, as soon as he
was safe, looked back, and there was Lord Chiltern's
horse in the very act of his spring,—higher up the
THE WILLINGFORD BULL.
293
rivulet, where it was even broader. At that distance
Phineas could see that Lord Chiltern was wild with
rage against the beast. But whether he wished to take
the leap or wished to avoid it, there was no choice left
to him. The animal rushed at the brook, in a moment
the horse and horseman were lost to sight. It was well
then that that extra stone should tell, as it enabled Phin-
eas to arrest his horse and to come back to his friend.
The Lincolnshire horse had chested the further bank,
and of course had fallen back into the stream. When
Phineas got down he found that Lord Chiltern was
wedged in between the horse and the bank, which was
better, at any rate, than being under the horse in the
water. "All right, old fellow," he said, with a smile,
when he saw Phineas. "You go on; it's too good to
lose." But he was very pale; and seemed to be quite
helpless where he lay. The horse did not move,—and
never did move again. He had smashed his shoulder
to pieces against a stump on the bank, and was after-
wards shot on that very spot.
When Phineas got down he found that there was but
little water where the horse lay. The depth of the
stream had been on the side from which they had taken
off, and the thick black mud lay within a foot of the
surface, close to the bank against which Lord Chiltern
was propped. "That's the worst one I ever was on,"
said Lord Chiltern; "but I think he 's gruelled now."
"Are you hurt?"
"Well;—I fancy there is something amiss. I can't
move my arms; and I catch my breath. My legs are
all right if I could get away from this accursed brute."
"I told you so," said the farmer, coming and look-
ing down upon them from the bank. "I told you so,
294 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
i
but you would n't be said." Then he too got down,
and between them both they extricated Lord Chiltern
from his position, and got him on to the bank.
"That un *s a dead un," said the farmer,'pointing to
the horse.
"So much the better," said his lordship. "Give us
a drop of sherry, Finn."
He had broken his collar-bone and three of his ribs.
They got a farmer's trap from Wissindine and took him
into Oakham. When there, he insisted on being taken
on through Stamford to the Willingford Bull before he
would have his bones set,—picking up, however, a sur-
geon at Stamford. Phineas remained with him for a
couple of days, losing his run with the Fitzwilliams
and a day at the potted peas, and became very fond
of his patient as he sat by his bedside.
"That was a good run, though, was n't it?" said
Lord Chiltern as Phineas took his leave. "And, by
George, Phineas, you rode Bonebreaker so well, that
you shall have him as often as you '11 come down. I
don't know how it is, but you Irish fellows always ride."
CHAPTER XXV.
MR. TURNBULL'S CARRIAGE STOPS THE WAY.
When Phineas got back to London, a day after his
time, he found that there was already a great political
commotion in the metropolis. He had known that on
Easter Monday and Tuesday there was to be a gather-
ing of the people in favour of the ballot, and that on
Wednesday there was to be a procession with a petition
which Mr. Turnbull was to receive from the hands of
the people on Primrose Hill. It had been at first in-
tended that Mr. Turnbull should receive the petition
at the door of Westminster Hall on the Thursday; but
he had been requested by the Home Secretary to put
aside this intention, and he had complied with the re-
quest made to him. Mr. Mildmay was to move the
second reading of his Reform Bill on that day, the pre-
liminary steps having been taken without any special
notice; but the bill of course included no clause in
favour of the ballot; and this petition was the conse-
quence of that omission. Mr. Turnbull had predicted
evil consequences, both in the House and out of it, and
was now doing the best in his power to bring about the
verification of his own prophecies. Phineas, who
reached his lodgings late on the Thursday, found that
the town had been in a state of ferment for three days,
that on the Wednesday forty or fifty thousand persons
had been collected at Primrose Hill, and that the police
295
296 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
had been forced to interfere,—and that worse was ex-
pected on the Friday. Though Mr. Turnbull had
yielded to the Government as to receiving the petition,
the crowd was resolved that they would see the petition
carried into the House. It was argued that the Gov-
ernment would have done better to have refrained from
interfering as to the previously intended arrangement.
It would have been easier to deal with a procession
than with a mob of men gathered together without any
semblage of form. Mr. Mildmay had been asked to
postpone the second reading of his bill; but the request
had come from his opponents, and he would not yield
to it. He said that it would be a bad expedient to
close Parliament from fear of the people. Phineas
found at the Reform Club on the Thursday evening
that members of the House of Commons were requested
to enter on the Friday by the door usually used by the
peers, and to make their way thence to their own House.
He found that his landlord, Mr. Bunce, had been out
with the people during the entire three days;—and
Mrs. Bunce, with a flood of tears, begged Phineas to
interfere as to the Friday. "He 's that headstrong
that he '11 be took if anybody 's took; and they say that
all Westminster is to be lined with soldiers." Phineas
on the Friday morning did have some conversation with
his landlord; but his first work on reaching London
was to see Lord Chiltern's friends, and tell them of the
accident.
The potted peas Committee sat on the Thursday,
and he ought to have been there. His absence, how-
ever, was unavoidable, as he could not have left his
friend's bedside so soon after the accident. On the
Wednesday he had written to Lady Laura, and on the
MR. TURNBULL's CARRIAGE STOPS THE WAY. 297
Thursday evening he went first to Portman Square and
then to Grosvenor Place.
"Of course he will kill himself some day," said the
Earl,—with a tear, however, in each eye.
"I hope not, my lord. He is a magnificent horse-
man; but accidents of course will happen."
"How many of his bones are there not broken, I
wonder? " said the father. "It is useless to talk, of
course. You think he is not in danger?"
"Certainly not."
"I should fear that he would be so liable to inflam-
mation."
"The doctor says that there is none. He has been
taking an enormous deal of exercise," said Phineas,
"and drinking no wine. All that is in his favour."
"What does he drink, then?" asked the Earl.
"Nothing. I rather think, my lord, you are mis-
taken a little about his habits. I don't fancy he ever
drinks unless he is provoked to do it."
"Provoked! Could anything provoke you to make
a brute of yourself? But I am glad that he is in no
danger. If you hear of him, let me know how he goes
on."
Lady Laura was of course full of concern. "I
wanted to go down to him," she said, "but Mr. Ken-
nedy thought that there was no occasion."
"Nor is there any;—I mean in regard to danger.
He is very solitary there."
"You must go to him again. Mr. Kennedy will not
let me go unless I can say that there is danger. He
seems to think that because Oswald has had accidents
before, it is nothing. Of course I cannot leave Lon-
don without his leave."
298 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"Your brother makes very little of it, you know."
"Ah;—he would make little of anything. But if I
were ill he would be in London by the first train."
"Kennedy would let you go if you asked him."
"But he advises me not to go. He says my duty
does not require it unless Oswald be in danger. Don't
you know, Mr. Finn, how hard it is for a wife not to
take advice when it is so given?" This she said, with-
in six months of her marriage, to the man who had
been her husband's rival!
Phineas asked her whether Violet had heard the
news, and learned that she was still ignorant of it. "I
got your letter only this morning, and I have not seen
her," said Lady Laura. "Indeed, I am so angry with
her that I hardly wish to see her." Thursday was
Lady Baldock's night, and Phineas went from Gros-
venor Place to Berkeley Square. There he saw Violet,
and found that she had heard of the accident.
"I am so glad to see you, Mr. Finn," she said. "Do
tell me;—is it much?"
"Much in inconvenience, certainly; but not much
in danger."
"I think Laura was so unkind not to send me word!
I only heard it just now. Did you see it?"
"I was close to him, and helped him up. The
horse jumped into a river with him, and crushed him
up against the bank."
"How lucky that you should be there! Had you
jumped the river?"
"Yes;—almost unintentionally, for my horse was
rushing so that I could not hold him. Chiltern was
riding a brute that no one should have ridden. No
one will again."
MR. TURNBULL's CARRIAGE STOPS THE WAY. 299
"Did he destroy himself?"
"He had to be killed afterwards. He broke his
shoulder."
"How very lucky that you should have been near
him,—and, again, how lucky that you should not have
been hurt yourself!"
"It was not likely that we should both come to grief
at the same fence."
"But it might have been you. And you think there
is no danger?"
"None whatever,—if I may believe the doctor. His
hunting is done for this year, and he will be very des-
olate. I shall go down again to him in a few days, and
try to bring him up to town."
"Do;—do. If he is laid up in his father's house,
his father must see him." Phineas had not looked at
the matter in that light; but he thought that Miss
Effingham might probably be right.
Early on the next morning he saw Mr. Bunce, and
used all his eloquence to keep that respectable member
of society at home;—but in vain. "What good do
you expect to do, Mr. Bunce?" he said, with perhaps
some little tone of authority in his voice.
"To carry my point," said Bunce.
"And what is your point?"
"My present point is the ballot, as a part of the
Government measure."
"And you expect to carry that by going out into the
streets with all the roughs of London, and putting
yourself in direct opposition to the authority of the
magistrates? Do you really believe that the ballot will
become the law of the land any sooner because you
incur this danger and inconvenience?"
300 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
"Look here, Mr. Finn; I don't believe the sea will
become any fuller because the Piddle runs into it out
of the Dorsetshire fields; but I do believe that the
waters from all the countries is what makes the ocean.
I shall help; and it 's my duty to help."
"It's your duty, as a respectable citizen, with a wife
and family, to stay at home."
"If everybody with a wife and family was to say
so, there'd be none there but roughs, and then where
should we be? What would the Government people
say to us then? If every man with a wife and family
was to show hisself in the streets to-night, we should
have the ballot before Parliament breaks up, and if
none of 'em don't do it, we shall never have the ballot.
Ain't that so?" Phineas, who intended to be honest,
was not prepared to dispute the assertion on the spur
of the moment. "If that's so," said Bunce, triumph-
antly, "a man's duty's clear enough. He ought to go,
though he'd two wives and families." And he went
The petition was to be presented at six o'clock, but
the crowd, who collected to see it carried into West-
minster Hall, began to form itself by noon. It was
said afterwards that many of the houses in the neigh-
bourhood of Palace Yard and the Bridge were filled
with soldiers; but if so, the men did not show them-
selves. In the course of the evening three or four
companies of the Guards in St. James's Park did show
themselves, and had some rough work to do, for many
of the people took themselves away from Westminster
by that route. The police, who were very numerous
in Palace Yard, had a hard time of it all the afternoon,
and it was said afterwards that it would have been
much better to have allowed the petition to have been
MR. TURNBULL's CARRIAGE STOPS THE WAY. 301
brought up by the procession on Wednesday. A pro-
cession, let it be who it will that proceeds, has in it, of
its own nature, something of order. But now there
was no order. The petition, which was said to fill fif-
teen cabs,—though the absolute sheets of signatures
were carried into the House by four men,—was being
dragged about half the day, and it certainly would
have been impossible for a member to have made his
way into the House through Westminster Hall between
the hours of four and six. To effect an entrance at all
they were obliged to go round at the back of the Ab-
bey, as all the space round St. Margaret's Church and
Canning's monument were filled with the crowd. Par-
liament Street was quite impassable at five o'clock, and
there was no traffic across the bridge from that hour
till after eight. As the evening went on, the mob ex-
tended itself to Downing Street and the front of the
Treasury Chambers, and before the night was over all
the hoardings round the new Government offices had
been pulled down. The windows also of certain ob-
noxious members of Parliament were broken, when
those obnoxious members lived within reach. One
gentleman who unfortunately held a house in Richmond
Terrace, and who was said to have said that the ballot
was the resort of cowards, fared very badly;—for his
windows were not only broken, but his furniture and
mirrors were destroyed by the stones that were thrown.
Mr. Mildrriay, I say, was much blamed. But after all,
it may be a doubt whether the procession on Wednes-
day might not have ended worse. Mr. Turnbull was
heard to say afterwards that the number of people col-
lected would have been much greater.
Mr. Mildmay moved the second reading of his bill,
302 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
and made his speech. He made his speech with the
knowledge that the Houses of Parliament were sur-
rounded by a mob, and I think that the fact added to
its efficacy. It certainly gave him an appropriate op-
portunity for a display which was not difficult. His
voice faltered on two or three occasions, and faltered
through real feeling; but this sort of feeling, though it
be real, is at the command of orators on certain oc-
casions, and does them yeoman's service. Mr. Mild-
may was an old man, nearly worn out in the service of
his country, who was known to have been true and
honest, and to have loved his country well,—though
there were of course they who declared that his hand
had been too weak for power, and that his services had
been naught;—and on this evening his virtues were re-
membered. Once when his voice failed him the whole
House got up and cheered. The nature of a whig
Prime Minister's speech on such an occasion will be
understood by most of my readers without further in-
dication. The bill itself had been read before, and it
was understood that no objection would be made to
the extent of the changes provided in it by the liberal
side of the House. The opposition coming from liberal
members was to be confined to the subject of the ballot.
And even as yet it was not known whether Mr. Turn-
bull and his followers would vote against the second
reading, or whether they would take what was given,
and declare their intention of obtaining the remainder
on a separate motion. The opposition of a large party
of conservatives was a matter of certainty; but to this
party Mr. Mildmay did not conceive himself bound to
offer so large an amount of argument as he would have
given had there been at the moment no crowd in
MR. TURNBULL'S CARRIAGE STOPS THE WAY. 303
Palace Yard. And he probably felt that that crowd
would assist him with his old tory enemies. When, in
the last words of his speech, he declared that under no
circumstances would he disfigure the close of his polit-
ical career by voting for the ballot,—not though the
people, on whose behalf he had been fighting battles
all his life, should be there in any number to coerce
him,—there came another round of applause from the
Opposition benches, and Mr. Daubeny began to fear
that some young horses in his team might get loose
from their traces. With great dignity Mr. Daubeny
had kept aloof from Mr. Turnbull and from Mr. Turn-
bulPs tactics; but he was not the less alive to the fact
that Mr. Turnbull, with his mob and his big petition,
might be of considerable assistance to him in this pres-
ent duel between himself and Mr. Mildmay. I think
Mr. Daubeny was in the habit of looking at these con-
tests as duels between himself and the leader on the
other side of the House,—in which assistance from any
quarter might be accepted if offered.
Mr. Mildmay's speech did not occupy much over an
hour, and at half-past seven Mr. Turnbull got up to
reply. It was presumed that he would do so, and not
a member left his place, though that time of the day is
an interesting time, and though Mr. Turnbull was ac-
customed to be long. There soon came to be but little
ground for doubting what would be the nature of Mr.
TurnbulFs vote on the second reading. "How may I
dare," said he, "to accept so small a measure of reform
as this with such a message from the country as is now
conveyed to me through the presence of fifty thousand
of my countrymen, who are at this moment demanding
their measure of reform just beyond the frail walls of
304 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
this chamber? The right honourable gentleman has
told us that he will never be intimidated by a concourse
of people. I do not know that there was any need
that he should speak of intimidation. No one has ac-
cused the right honourable gentleman of political cow-
ardice. But, as he has so said, I will follow in his
footsteps. Neither will I be intimidated by the large
majority which this House presented the other night
against the wishes of the people. I will support no
great measure of reform which does not include the
ballot among its clauses." And so Mr. Turnbull threw
down the gauntlet.
Mr. Turnbull spoke for two hours, and then the de-
bate was adjourned till the Monday. The adjourn-
v ment was moved by an independent member, who, as
was known, would support the Government, and at
once received Mr. Mildmay's assent. There was no
great hurry with the bill, and it was felt that it would
be well to let the ferment subside. Enough had been
done for glory when Mr. Mildmay moved the second
reading, and quite enough in the way of debate,—with
such an audience almost within hearing,—when Mr.
TurnbulPs speech had been made. Then the House
emptied itself at once. The elderly, cautious members
made their exit through the peers' door. The younger
men got out into the crowd through Westminster Hall,
and were pushed about among the roughs for an hour
or so. Phineas, who made his way through the Hall
with Laurence Fitzgibbon, found Mr. TurnbulPs car-
riage waiting at the entrance with a dozen policemen
round it.
"I hope he won't get home to dinner before mid-
night," said Phineas.
MR. TURNBULL'S CARRIAGE STOPS THE WAY. 305
"He understands all about it," said Laurence. "He
had a good meal at three, before he left home, and
you'd find sandwiches and sherry in plenty if you were
to search his carriage. He knows how to remedy the
costs of mob popularity."
At that time poor Bunce was being hustled about in
the crowd in the vicinity of Mr. Turnbull's carriage.
Phineas and Fitzgibbon made their way out, and by
degrees worked a passage for themselves into Parlia-
ment Street. Mr. Turnbull had been somewhat be-
hind them in coming down the Hall, and had not been
without a sense of enjoyment in the ovation which was
being given to him. There can be no doubt that he
was wrong in what he was doing. That affair of the
carriage was altogether wrong, and did Mr. Turnbull
much harm for many a day afterwards. When he got
outside the door, where were the twelve policemen
guarding his carriage, a great number of his admirers
endeavoured to shake hands with him. Among them
was the devoted Bunce. But the policemen seemed to
think that Mr. Turnbull was to be guarded, even from
the affection of his friends, and were as careful that he
should be ushered into his carriage untouched, as
though he had been the favourite object of political
aversion for the moment. Mr. Turnbull himself, when
he began to perceive that men were crowding close
upon the gates, and to hear the noise, and to feel, as
it were, the breath of the mob, stepped on quickly into
his carriage. He said a word or two in a loud voice.
"Thank you, my friends. I trust you may obtain all
your just demands." But he did not pause to speak.
Indeed, he could hardly have done so, as the police-
men were manifestly in a hurry. The carriage was got
306 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
away at a snail's pace;—but there remained in the spot
where the carriage had stood the makings of a very
pretty street row.
Bunce had striven hard to shake hands with his hero,
—Bunce and some other reformers as ardent and as
decent as himself. The police were very determinate
that there should be no such interruption to their pro-
gramme for getting Mr. Turnbull off the scene. Mr.
Bunce, who had his own ideas as to his right to shake
hands with any gentleman at Westminster Hall who
might choose to shake hands with him, became uneasy
under the impediments that were placed in his way, and
expressed himself warmly as to his civil rights. Now
a London policeman in a political row is, I believe, the
most forbearing of men. So long as he meets with no
special political oppbsition, ordinary ill-usage does not
even put him out of temper. He is paid for rough
work among roughs, and takes his rubs gallantly. But
he feels himself to be an instrument for the moment of
despotic power as opposed to civil rights, and he won't
stand what he calls "jaw." Trip up a policeman in
such a scramble, and he will take it in good spirit; but
mention the words "Habeas Corpus," and he '11 lock
you up if he can. As a rule, his instincts are right;
for the man who talks about "Habeas Corpus" in a
political crowd will generally do more harm than can
be effected by the tripping up of any constable. But
these instincts may be the means of individual injustice.
I think they were so when Mr. Bunce was arrested and
kept a fast prisoner. His wife had shown her knowl-
edge of his character when she declared that he'd be
"took" if any one was "took."
Bunce was taken into custody with some three or
MR. TURNBULL'S CARRIAGE STOPS THE WAY. 307
1
four others like himself,—decent men, who meant no
harm, but who thought that as men they were bound
to show their political opinions, perhaps at the expense
of a little martyrdom,—and was carried into a tempo-
rary stronghold, which had been provided for the
necessities of the police, under the clock-tower.
"Keep me, at your peril!" said Bunce indignantly.
"We means it," said the sergeant who had him in
custody.
"I 've done no ha'porth to break the law," said
Bunce.
"You was breaking the law when you was upsetting
my men, as I saw you," said the sergeant.
"I've upset nobody," said Bunce.
"Very well," rejoined the sergeant; "you can say
it all before the magistrate, to-morrow."
"And am I to be locked up all night? " said Bunce.
"I'm afraid you will," replied the sergeant.
Bunce, who was not by nature a very talkative man,
said no more; but he swore in his heart that there
should be vengeance. Between eleven and twelve he
was taken to the regular police-station, and from thence
he was enabled to send word to his wife.
"Bunce has been taken," said she, with something
of the tragic queen, and something also of the injured
wife in the tone of her voice, as soon as Phineas let
himself in with the latch-key between twelve and one.
And then, mingled with, and at last dominant over,
those severer tones, came the voice of the loving
woman whose beloved one was in trouble. "I knew
how it'd be, Mr. Finn. Did n't I? And what must
we do? I don't suppose he'd had a bit to eat from
the moment he went out;—and as for a drop of beer,
308 PHINEAS FINN, THE IRISH MEMBER.
r
he never thinks of it, except what I puts down for him
at his meals. Them nasty police always take the best.
That *s why I was so afeared."
Phineas said all that he could to comfort her, and
promised to go to the police-office early in the morn-
ing and look after Bunce. No serious evil would, he
thought, probably come of it; but still Bunce had been
wrong to go.
"But you might have been took yourself," argued
Mrs. Bunce, "just as well as he." Then Phineas ex-
plained that he had gone forth in the execution of a
public duty. "You might have been took, all the
same," said Mrs. Bunce, "for I 'm sure Bunce did n't
do nothing amiss."
END OF VOL. I.


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