She had schooled herself about him very severely, and had come to various resolutions. She had found out and confessed to herself that she did not, and could not, love her husband. She had found out and confessed to herself that she did love, and could not help loving, Phineas Finn. Then she had resolved to banish him from her presence, and had gone the length of telling him so. After that she had perceived that she had been wrong, and had determined to meet him as she met other men, — and to conquer her love. Then, when this could not be done, when something almost like idolatry grew upon her, she determined that it should be the idolatry of friendship, that she would not sin even in thought, that there should be nothing in her heart of which she need be ashamed; — but that the one great object and purport of her life should be the promotion of this friend’s welfare. She had just begun to love after this fashion, had taught herself to believe that she might combine something of the pleasure of idolatry towards her friend with a full complement of duty towards her husband, when Phineas came to her with his tale of love for Violet Effingham. The lesson which she got then was a very rough one, — so hard that at first she could not bear it. Her anger at his love for her brother’s wished-for bride was lost in her dismay that Phineas should love any one after having once loved her. But by sheer force of mind she had conquered that dismay, that feeling of desolation at her heart, and had almost taught herself to hope that Phineas might succeed with Violet. He wished it, — and why should he not have what he wished, — he, whom she so fondly idolised? It was not his fault that he and she were not man and wife. She had chosen to arrange it otherwise, and was she not bound to assist him now in the present object of his reasonable wishes? She had got over in her heart that difficulty about her brother, but she could not quite conquer the other difficulty. She could not bring herself to plead his cause with Violet. She had not brought herself as yet to do it.
And now she was accused of idolatry for Phineas by her husband, — she with “a lot of others,” in which lot Violet was of course included. Would it not be better that they two should be brought together? Would not her friend’s husband still be her friend? Would she not then forget to love him? Would she not then be safer than she was now?
As she sat alone struggling with her difficulties, she had not as yet forgotten to love him, — nor was she as yet safe.
CHAPTER XLV
Miss Effingham’s Four Lovers
One morning early in June Lady Laura called at Lady Baldock’s house and asked for Miss Effingham. The servant was showing her into the large drawing-room, when she again asked specially for Miss Effingham. “I think Miss Effingham is there,” said the man, opening the door. Miss Effingham was not there. Lady Baldock was sitting all alone, and Lady Laura perceived that she had been caught in the net which she specially wished to avoid. Now Lady Baldock had not actually or openly quarrelled with Lady Laura Kennedy or with Lord Brentford, but she had conceived a strong idea that her niece Violet was countenanced in all improprieties by the Standish family generally, and that therefore the Standish family was to be regarded as a family of enemies. There was doubtless in her mind considerable confusion on the subject, for she did not know whether Lord Chiltern or Mr. Finn was the suitor whom she most feared, — and she was aware, after a sort of muddled fashion, that the claims of these two wicked young men were antagonistic to each other. But they were both regarded by her as emanations from the same source of iniquity, and, therefore, without going deeply into the machinations of Lady Laura, — without resolving whether Lady Laura was injuring her by pressing her brother as a suitor upon Miss Effingham, or by pressing a rival of her brother, — still she became aware that it was her duty to turn a cold shoulder on those two houses in Portman Square and Grosvenor Place. But her difficulties in doing this were very great, and it may be said that Lady Baldock was placed in an unjust and cruel position. Before the end of May she had proposed to leave London, and to take her daughter and Violet down to Baddingham, — or to Brighton, if they preferred it, or to Switzerland. “Brighton in June!” Violet had exclaimed. “Would not a month among the glaciers be delightful!” Miss Boreham had said. “Don’t let me keep you in town, aunt,” Violet replied; “but I do not think I shall go till other people go. I can have a room at Laura Kennedy’s house.” Then Lady Baldock, whose position was hard and cruel, resolved that she would stay in town. Here she had in her hands a ward over whom she had no positive power, and yet in respect to whom her duty was imperative! Her duty was imperative, and Lady Baldock was not the woman to neglect her duty; — and yet she knew that the doing of her duty would all be in vain. Violet would marry a shoe-black out of the streets if she were so minded. It was of no use that the poor lady had provided herself with two strings, two most excellent strings, to her bow, — two strings either one of which should have contented Miss Effingham. There was Lord Fawn, a young peer, not very rich indeed, — but still with means sufficient for a wife, a rising man, and in every way respectable, although a Whig. And there was Mr. Appledom, one of the richest commoners in England, a fine Conservative too, with a seat in the House, and everything appropriate. He was fifty, but looked hardly more than thirty-five, and was, — so at least Lady Baldock frequently asserted, — violently in love with Violet Effingham. Why had not the law, or the executors, or the Lord Chancellor, or some power levied for the protection of the proprieties, made Violet absolutely subject to her guardian till she should be made subject to a husband?
“Yes, I think she is at home,” said Lady Baldock, in answer to Lady Laura’s inquiry for Violet. “At least, I hardly know. She seldom tells me what she means to do, — and sometimes she will walk out quite alone!” A most imprudent old woman was Lady Baldock, always opening her hand to her adversaries, unable to control herself in the scolding of people, either before their faces or behind their backs, even at moments in which such scolding was most injurious to her own cause. “However, we will see,” she continued. Then the bell was rung, and in a few minutes Violet was in the room. In a few minutes more they were up-stairs together in Violet’s own room, in spite of the openly-displayed wrath of Lady Baldock. “I almost wish she had never been born,” said Lady Baldock to her daughter. “Oh, mamma, don’t say that.” “I certainly do wish that I had never seen her.” “Indeed she has been a grievous trouble to you, mamma,” said Miss Boreham, sympathetically.
“Brighton! What nonsense!” said Lady Laura.
“Of course it’s nonsense. Fancy going to Brighton! And then they have proposed Switzerland. If you could only hear Augusta talking in rapture of a month among the glaciers! And I feel so ungrateful. I believe they would spend three months with me at any horrible place that I could suggest, — at Hong Kong if I were to ask it, — so intent are they on taking me away from metropolitan danger.”
“But you will not go?”
“No! — I won’t go. I know I am very naughty; but I can’t help feeling that I cannot be good without being a fool at the same time. I must either fight my aunt, or give way to her. If I were to yield, what a life I should have; — and I should despise myself after all.”
“And what is the special danger to be feared now?”
“I don’t know; — you, I fancy. I told her that if she went, I should go to you. I knew that would make her stay.”
“I wish you would come to me,” said Lady Laura.
“I shouldn’t think of it really, — not for any length of time.”
“Why not?”
“Because I should be in Mr. Kennedy’s way.”
“You wouldn’t be in his way in the least. If you would only be down punctually for morning prayers, and go to church with him on Sunday afternoon, he would be delighted to have you.”
“What did he say about Madame Max coming?”
“Not a word. I don’t think he quite knew who she was then. I fancy he has inquired since, by something he said yesterday.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing that matters; — only a word. I hav
en’t come here to talk about Madame Max Goesler, — nor yet about Mr. Kennedy.”
“Whom have you come to talk about?” asked Violet, laughing a little, with something of increased colour in her cheeks, though she could not be said to blush.
“A lover of course,” said Lady Laura.
“I wish you would leave me alone with my lovers. You are as bad or worse than my aunt. She, at any rate, varies her prescription. She has become sick of poor Lord Fawn because he’s a Whig.”
“And who is her favourite now?”
“Old Mr. Appledom, — who is really a most unexceptionable old party, and whom I like of all things. I really think I could consent to be Mrs. Appledom, to get rid of my troubles, — if he did not dye his whiskers and have his coats padded.”
“He’d give up those little things if you asked him.”
“I shouldn’t have the heart to do it. Besides, this isn’t his time of the year for making proposals. His love fever, which is of a very low kind, and intermits annually, never comes on till the autumn. It is a rural malady, against which he is proof while among his clubs!”
“Well, Violet, — I am like your aunt.”
“Like Lady Baldock?”
“In one respect. I, too, will vary my prescription.”
“What do you mean, Laura?”
“Just this, — that if you like to marry Phineas Finn, I will say that you are right.”
“Heaven and earth! And why am I to marry Phineas Finn?”
“Only for two reasons; because he loves you, and because — “
“No, — I deny it. I do not.”
“I had come to fancy that you did.”
“Keep your fancy more under control then. But upon my word I can’t understand this. He was your great friend.”
“What has that to do with it?” demanded Lady Laura.
“And you have thrown over your brother, Laura?”
“You have thrown him over. Is he to go on for ever asking and being refused?”
“I do not know why he should not,” said Violet, “seeing how very little trouble it gives him. Half an hour once in six months does it all for him, allowing him time for coming and going in a cab.”
“Violet, I do not understand you. Have you refused Oswald so often because he does not pass hours on his knees before you?”
“No, indeed! His nature would be altered very much for the worse before he could do that.”
“Why do you throw it in his teeth then that he does not give you more of his time?”
“Why have you come to tell me to marry Mr. Phineas Finn? That is what I want to know. Mr. Phineas Finn, as far as I am aware, has not a shilling in the world, — except a month’s salary now due to him from the Government. Mr. Phineas Finn I believe to be the son of a country doctor in Ireland, — with about seven sisters. Mr. Phineas Finn is a Roman Catholic. Mr. Phineas Finn is, — or was a short time ago, — in love with another lady; and Mr. Phineas Finn is not so much in love at this moment but what he is able to intrust his cause to an ambassador. None short of a royal suitor should ever do that with success.”
“Has he never pleaded his cause to you himself?”
“My dear, I never tell gentlemen’s secrets. It seems that if he has, his success was so trifling that he has thought he had better trust some one else for the future.”
“He has not trusted me. He has not given me any commission.”
“Then why have you come?”
“Because, — I hardly know how to tell his story. There have been things about Oswald which made it almost necessary that Mr. Finn should explain himself to me.”
“I know it all; — about their fighting. Foolish young men! I am not a bit obliged to either of them, — not a bit. Only fancy, if my aunt knew it, what a life she would lead me! Gustavus knows all about it, and I feel that I am living at his mercy. Why were they so wrong-headed?”
“I cannot answer that, — though I know them well enough to be sure that Chiltern was the one in fault.”
“It is so odd that you should have thrown your brother over.”
“I have not thrown my brother over. Will you accept Oswald if he asks you again?”
“No,” almost shouted Violet.
“Then I hope that Mr. Finn may succeed. I want him to succeed in everything. There; — you may know it all. He is my Phœbus Apollo.”
“That is flattering to me, — looking at the position in which you desire to place your Phœbus at the present moment.”
“Come, Violet, I am true to you, and let me have a little truth from you. This man loves you, and I think is worthy of you. He does not love me, but he is my friend. As his friend, and believing in his worth, I wish for his success beyond almost anything else in the world. Listen to me, Violet. I don’t believe in those reasons which you gave me just now for not becoming this man’s wife.”
“Nor do I.”
“I know you do not. Look at me. I, who have less of real heart than you, I who thought that I could trust myself to satisfy my mind and my ambition without caring for my heart, I have married for what you call position. My husband is very rich, and a Cabinet Minister, and will probably be a peer. And he was willing to marry me at a time when I had not a shilling of my own.”
“He was very generous.”
“He has asked for it since,” said Lady Laura. “But never mind. I have not come to talk about myself; — otherwise than to bid you not do what I have done. All that you have said about this man’s want of money and of family is nothing.”
“Nothing at all,” said Violet. “Mere words, — fit only for such people as my aunt.”
“Well then?”
“Well?”
“If you love him — !”
“Ah! but if I do not? You are very close in inquiring into my secrets. Tell me, Laura; — was not this young Crichton once a lover of your own?”
“Psha! And do you think I cannot keep a gentleman’s secret as well as you?”
“What is the good of any secret, Laura, when we have been already so open? He tried his ‘prentice hand on you; and then he came to me. Let us watch him, and see who’ll be the third. I too like him well enough to hope that he’ll land himself safely at last.”
CHAPTER XLVI
The Mousetrap
Phineas had certainly no desire to make love by an ambassador, — at second-hand. He had given no commission to Lady Laura, and was, as the reader is aware, quite ignorant of what was being done and said on his behalf. He had asked no more from Lady Laura than an opportunity of speaking for himself, and that he had asked almost with a conviction that by so asking he would turn his friend into an enemy. He had read but little of the workings of Lady Laura’s heart towards himself, and had no idea of the assistance she was anxious to give him. She had never told him that she was willing to sacrifice her brother on his behalf, and, of course, had not told him that she was willing also to sacrifice herself. Nor, when she wrote to him one June morning and told him that Violet would be found in Portman Square, alone, that afternoon, — naming an hour, and explaining that Miss Effingham would be there to meet herself and her father, but that at such an hour she would be certainly alone, — did he even then know how much she was prepared to do for him. The short note was signed “L.,” and then there came a long postscript. “Ask for me,” she said in a postscript. “I shall be there later, and I have told them to bid you wait. I can give you no hope of success, but if you choose to try, — you can do so. If you do not come, I shall know that you have changed your mind. I shall not think the worse of you, and your secret will be safe with me. I do that which you have asked me to do, — simply because you have asked it. Burn this at once, — because I ask it.” Phineas destroyed the note, tearing it into atoms, the moment that he had read it and re-read it. Of course he would go to Portman Square at the hour named. Of course he would take his chance. He was not buoyed up by much of hope; — but even though there were no hope, he would take his chance.
W
hen Lord Brentford had first told Phineas of his promotion, he had also asked the new Lord of the Treasury to make a certain communication on his behalf to his son. This Phineas had found himself obliged to promise to do; — and he had done it. The letter had been difficult enough to write, — but he had written it. After having made the promise, he had found himself bound to keep it.
“Dear Lord Chiltern,” he had commenced, “I will not think that there was anything in our late encounter to prevent my so addressing you. I now write at the instance of your father, who has heard nothing of our little affair.” Then he explained at length Lord Brentford’s wishes as he understood them. “Pray come home,” he said, finishing his letter. “Touching V. E., I feel that I am bound to tell you that I still mean to try my fortune, but that I have no ground for hoping that my fortune will be good. Since the day on the sands, I have never met her but in society. I know you will be glad to hear that my wound was nothing; and I think you will be glad to hear that I have got my foot on to the ladder of promotion. — Yours always,
“Phineas Finn.”
Now he had to try his fortune, — that fortune of which he had told Lord Chiltern that he had no reason for hoping that it would be good. He went direct from his office at the Treasury to Portman Square, resolving that he would take no trouble as to his dress, simply washing his hands and brushing his hair as though he were going down to the House, and he knocked at the Earl’s door exactly at the hour named by Lady Laura.
“Miss Effingham,” he said, “I am so glad to find you alone.”
“Yes,” she said, laughing. “I am alone, — a poor unprotected female. But I fear nothing. I have strong reason for believing that Lord Brentford is somewhere about. And Pomfret the butler, who has known me since I was a baby, is a host in himself.”
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