“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 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 fingers 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 success 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 subscription 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 employers; — not that he objected personally to Messrs. Foolscap, Margin, and Vellum, who always made much of him 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 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 children 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 husband, 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 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 regard him as a lunatic to the extent of that one weekly shilling.
She had a woman’s instinctive partiality for comeliness in a man, and was very fond of Phineas Finn because 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, “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 altogether made up his mind about the chambers. “If you’ll keep me I shall stay here for the first session I daresay.”
“Of course we shall be only too proud, Mr. Finn; and though it mayn’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’ll do our very best to make you comfortable. Respectable 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 didn’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 better 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 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.
“And what then?” said Phineas to his friend Fitzgibbon.
“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 Minister 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. Fitzgibbon’s description of the crisis; but then it was understood 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 promised 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 further progress. Nothing, as h
e told himself, of political 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 successfully, — 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 Brentford would do it.
Lady Laura was at home, and with her was sitting — Mr. Kennedy. Phineas had intended to be triumphant 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 balance of the day, you must go to Brooks’s.
“Mr. Kennedy must of course be right,” said Phineas. “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 everything.”
“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 required 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. Mildmay. 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 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 manœuvring. 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 uncourteous to my friend Mr. Kennedy.”
“Who? I? Was I? Upon my word, I didn’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 nothing 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 impetuous. 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 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.”
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 person who questioned me had any right to ask the question. 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?”
&n
bsp; “Wait a moment, you impetuous Irish boy, and hear me out.” Phineas liked being called an impetuous Irish boy, and came close to her, sitting where he could look up into her face; and there 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.”
“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 telling 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 will 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 entered the room. He hesitated a moment, as though he were going to retreat again, and then began to pull about the books and toys which lay on one of the distant tables, as though he were in quest of some article. And he would have retreated had not Lady Laura called to him.
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