The Palliser Novels (135 page)

“I am very glad to find you both together.”

“But Robert is going away this instant,” said Lady Laura. “Has he told you of our adventures at Rome?”

“Not a word.”

“Then I must tell you; — but not now. The dear old Pope was so civil to us. I came to think it quite a pity that he should be in trouble.”

“I must be off,” said the husband, getting up. “But I shall meet you at dinner, I believe.”

“Do you dine at Mr. Monk’s?”

“Yes, and am asked expressly to hear Turnbull make a convert of you. There are only to be us four. Au revoir.” Then Mr. Kennedy went, and Phineas found himself alone with Lady Laura. He hardly knew how to address her, and remained silent. He had not prepared himself for the interview as he ought to have done, and felt himself to be awkward. She evidently expected him to speak, and for a few seconds sat waiting for what he might say.

At last she found that it was incumbent on her to begin. “Were you surprised at our suddenness when you got my note?”

“A little. You had spoken of waiting.”

“I had never imagined that he would have been impetuous. And he seems to think that even the business of getting himself married would not justify him staying away from Parliament. He is a rigid martinet in all matters of duty.”

“I did not wonder that he should be in a hurry, but that you should submit.”

“I told you that I should do just what the wise people told me. I asked papa, and he said that it would be better. So the lawyers were driven out of their minds, and the milliners out of their bodies, and the thing was done.”

“Who was there at the marriage?”

“Oswald was not there. That I know is what you mean to ask. Papa said that he might come if he pleased. Oswald stipulated that he should be received as a son. Then my father spoke the hardest word that ever fell from his mouth.”

“What did he say?”

“I will not repeat it, — not altogether. But he said that Oswald was not entitled to a son’s treatment. He was very sore about my money, because Robert was so generous as to his settlement. So the breach between them is as wide as ever.”

“And where is Chiltern now?” said Phineas.

“Down in Northamptonshire, staying at some inn from whence he hunts. He tells me that he is quite alone, — that he never dines out, never has any one to dine with him, that he hunts five or six days a week, — and reads at night.”

“That is not a bad sort of life.”

“Not if the reading is any good. But I cannot bear that he should be so solitary. And if he breaks down in it, then his companions will not be fit for him. Do you ever hunt?”

“Oh yes, — at home in county Clare. All Irishmen hunt.”

“I wish you would go down to him and see him. He would be delighted to have you.”

Phineas thought over the proposition before he answered it, and then made the reply that he had made once before. “I would do so, Lady Laura, — but that I have no money for hunting in England.”

“Alas, alas!” said she, smiling. “How that hits one on every side!”

“I might manage it, — for a couple of days, — in March.”

“Do not do what you think you ought not to do,” said Lady Laura.

“No; certainly. But I should like it, and if I can I will.”

“He could mount you, I have no doubt. He has no other expense now, and keeps a stable full of horses. I think he has seven or eight. And now tell me, Mr. Finn; when are you going to charm the House? Or is it your first intention to strike terror?”

He blushed, — he knew that he blushed as he answered. “Oh, I suppose I shall make some sort of attempt before long. I can’t bear the idea of being a bore.”

“I think you ought to speak, Mr. Finn.”

“I do not know about that, but I certainly mean to try. There will be lots of opportunities about the new Reform Bill. Of course you know that Mr. Mildmay is going to bring it in at once. You hear all that from Mr. Kennedy.”

“And papa has told me. I still see papa almost every day. You must call upon him. Mind you do.” Phineas said that he certainly would. “Papa is very lonely now, and I sometimes feel that I have been almost cruel in deserting him. And I think that he has a horror of the house, — especially later in the year, — always fancying that he will meet Oswald. I am so unhappy about it all, Mr. Finn.”

“Why doesn’t your brother marry?” said Phineas, knowing nothing as yet of Lord Chiltern and Violet Effingham. “If he were to marry well, that would bring your father round.”

“Yes, — it would.”

“And why should he not?”

Lady Laura paused before she answered; and then she told the whole story. “He is violently in love, and the girl he loves has refused him twice.”

“Is it with Miss Effingham?” asked Phineas, guessing the truth at once, and remembering what Miss Effingham had said to him when riding in the wood.

“Yes; — with Violet Effingham; my father’s pet, his favourite, whom he loves next to myself, — almost as well as myself; whom he would really welcome as a daughter. He would gladly make her mistress of his house, and of Saulsby. Everything would then go smoothly.”

“But she does not like Lord Chiltern?”

“I believe she loves him in her heart; but she is afraid of him. As she says herself, a girl is bound to be so careful of herself. With all her seeming frolic, Violet Effingham is very wise.”

Phineas, though not conscious of anything akin to jealousy, was annoyed at the revelation made to him. Since he had heard that Lord Chiltern was in love with Miss Effingham, he did not like Lord Chiltern quite as well as he had done before. He himself had simply admired Miss Effingham, and had taken pleasure in her society; but, though this had been all, he did not like to hear of another man wanting to marry her, and he was almost angry with Lady Laura for saying that she believed Miss Effingham loved her brother. If Miss Effingham had twice refused Lord Chiltern, that ought to have been sufficient. It was not that Phineas was in love with Miss Effingham himself. As he was still violently in love with Lady Laura, any other love was of course impossible; but, nevertheless, there was something offensive to him in the story as it had been told. “If it be wisdom on her part,” said he, answering Lady Laura’s last words, “you cannot find fault with her for her decision.”

“I find no fault; — but I think my brother would make her happy.”

Lady Laura, when she was left alone, at once reverted to the tone in which Phineas Finn had answered her remarks about Miss Effingham. Phineas was very ill able to conceal his thoughts, and wore his heart almost upon his sleeve. “Can it be possible that he cares for her himself?” That was the nature of Lady Laura’s first question to herself upon the matter. And in asking herself that question, she thought nothing of the disparity in rank or fortune between Phineas Finn and Violet Effingham. Nor did it occur to her as at all improbable that Violet might accept the love of him who had so lately been her own lover. But the idea grated against her wishes on two sides. She was most anxious that Violet should ultimately become her brother’s wife, — and she could not be pleased that Phineas should be able to love any woman.

I must beg my readers not to be carried away by those last words into any erroneous conclusion. They must not suppose that Lady Laura Kennedy, the lately married bride, indulged a guilty passion for the young man who had loved her. Though she had probably thought often of Phineas Finn since her marriage, her thoughts had never been of a nature to disturb her rest. It had never occurred to her even to think that she regarded him with any feeling that was an offence to her husband. She would have hated herself had any such idea presented itself to her mind. She prided herself on being a pure high-principled woman, who had kept so strong a guard upon herself as to be nearly free from the dangers of those rocks upon which other women made shipwreck of their happiness. She took pride in this, and would then blame herself for her own pride. But though she so blamed herself, it never occurred to her to think that to her there might be danger of such shipwreck. She had put away from herself the idea of love when she had first perceived that Phineas had regarded her with more than friendship, and had accepted Mr. Kennedy’s offer with an assured conviction that by doing so she was acting best for her own happiness and for that of all those concerned. She had felt the romance of the position to be sweet when Phineas had stood with her at the top of the falls of the Linter, and had told her of the hopes which he had dared to indulge. And when at the bottom of the falls he had presumed to take her in his arms, she had forgiven him without difficulty to herself, telling herself that that would be the alpha and the omega of the romance of her life. She had not felt herself bound to tell Mr. Kennedy of what had occurred, — but she had felt that he could hardly have been angry even had he been told. And she had often thought of her lover since, and of his love, — telling herself that she too had once had a lover, never regarding her husband in that light; but her thoughts had not frightened her as guilty thoughts will do. There had come a romance which had been pleasant, and it was gone. It had been soon banished, — but it had left to her a sweet flavour, of which she loved to taste the sweetness though she knew that it was gone. And the man should be her friend, but especially her husband’s friend. It should be her care to see that his life was successful, — and especially her husband’s care. It was a great delight to her to know that her husband liked the man. And the man would marry, and the man’s wife should be her friend. All this had been very pure and very pleasant. Now an idea had flitted across her brain that the man was in love with some one else, — and she did not like it!

But she did not therefore become afraid of herself, or in the least realise at once the danger of her own position. Her immediate glance at the matter did not go beyond the falseness of men. If it were so, as she suspected, — if Phineas had in truth transferred his affections to Violet Effingham, of how little value was the love of such a man! It did not occur to her at this moment that she also had transferred hers to Robert Kennedy, or that, if not, she had done worse. But she did remember that in the autumn this young Phœbus among men had turned his back upon her out upon the mountain that he might hide from her the agony of his heart when he learned that she was to be the wife of another man; and that now, before the winter was over, he could not hide from her the fact that his heart was elsewhere! And then she speculated, and counted up facts, and satisfied herself that Phineas could not even have seen Violet Effingham since they two had stood together upon the mountain. How false are men! — how false and how weak of heart!

“Chiltern and Violet Effingham!” said Phineas to himself, as he walked away from Grosvenor Place. “Is it fair that she should be sacrificed because she is rich, and because she is so winning and so fascinating that Lord Brentford would receive even his son for the sake of receiving also such a daughter-in-law?” Phineas also liked Lord Chiltern; had seen or fancied that he had seen fine things in him; had looked forward to his regeneration, hoping, perhaps, that he might have some hand in the good work. But he did not recognise the propriety of sacrificing Violet Effingham even for work so good as this. If Miss Effingham had refused Lord Chiltern twice, surely that ought to be sufficient. It did not occur to him that the love of such a girl as Violet would be a great treasure — to himself. As regarded himself, he was still in love, — hopelessly in love, with Lady Laura Kennedy!

It was a Wednesday evening and there was no House; — and at seven o’clock Phineas was at Mr. Monk’s hall door. He was the first of the guests, and he found Mr. Monk alone in the dining-room. “I am doing butler,” said Mr. Monk, who had a brace of decanters in his hands, which he proceeded to put down in the neighbourhood of the fire. “But I have finished, and now we will go up-stairs to receive the two great men properly.”

“I beg your pardon for coming too early,” said Finn.

“Not a minute too early. Seven is seven, and it is I who am too late. But, Lord bless you, you don’t think I’m ashamed of being found in the act of decanting my own wine! I remember Lord Palmerston saying before some committee about salaries, five or six years ago now, I daresay, that it wouldn’t do for an English Minister to have his hall door opened by a maid-servant. Now, I’m an English Minister, and I’ve got nobody but a maid-servant to open my hall door, and I’m obliged to look after my own wine. I wonder whether it’s improper? I shouldn’t like to be the means of injuring the British Constitution.”

“Perhaps if you resign soon, and if nobody follows your example, grave evil results may be avoided.”

“I sincerely hope so, for I do love the British Constitution; and I love also the respect in which members of the English Cabinet are held. Now Turnbull, who will be here in a moment, hates it all; but he is a rich man, and has more powdered footmen hanging about his house than ever Lord Palmerston had himself.”

“He is still in business.”

“Oh yes; — and makes his thirty thousand a year. Here he is. How are you, Turnbull? We were talking about my maid-servant. I hope she opened the door for you properly.”

“Certainly, — as far as I perceived,” said Mr. Turnbull, who was better at a speech than a joke. “A very respectable young woman I should say.”

“There is not one more so in all London,” said Mr. Monk; “but Finn seems to think that I ought to have a man in livery.”

“It is a matter of perfect indifference to me,” said Mr. Turnbull. “I am one of those who never think of such things.”

“Nor I either,” said Mr. Monk. Then the laird of Loughlinter was announced, and they all went down to dinner.

Mr. Turnbull was a good-looking robust man about sixty, with long grey hair and a red complexion, with hard eyes, a well-cut nose, and full lips. He was nearly six feet high, stood quite upright, and always wore a black swallow-tail coat, black trousers, and a black silk waistcoat. In the House, at least, he was always so dressed, and at dinner tables. What difference there might be in his costume when at home at Staleybridge few of those who saw him in London had the means of knowing. There was nothing in his face to indicate special talent. No one looking at him would take him to be a fool; but there was none of the fire of genius in his eye, nor was there in the lines of his mouth any of that play of thought or fancy which is generally to be found in the faces of men and women who have made themselves great. Mr. Turnbull had certainly made himself great, and could hardly have done so without force of intellect. He was one of the most popular, if not the most popular politician in the country. Poor men believed in him, thinking that he was their most honest public friend; and men who were not poor believed in his power, thinking that his counsels must surely prevail. He had obtained the ear of the House and the favour of the reporters, and opened his voice at no public dinner, on no public platform, without a conviction that the words spoken by him would be read by thousands. The first necessity for good speaking is a large audience; and of this advantage Mr. Turnbull had made himself sure. And yet it could hardly be said that he was a great orator. He was gifted with a powerful voice, with strong, and I may, perhaps, call them broad convictions, with perfect self-reliance, with almost unlimited powers of endurance, with hot ambition, with no keen scruples, and with a moral skin of great thickness. Nothing said against him pained him, no attacks wounded him, no raillery touched him in the least. There was not a sore spot about him, and probably his first thoughts on waking every morning told him that he, at least, was totus teres atque rotundus. He was, of course, a thorough Radical, — and so was Mr. Monk. But Mr. Monk’s first waking thoughts were probably exactly the reverse of those of his friend. Mr. Monk was a much hotter man in debate than Mr. Turnbull; — but Mr. Monk was ever doubting of himself, and never doubted of himself so much as when he had been most violent, and also most effective, in debate. When Mr. Monk jeered at himself for being a Cabinet Minister and keeping no attendant grander than a parlour-maid, there was a substratum of self-doubt under the joke.