The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  “Why shouldn’t we put it into type?”

  “You don’t mean to say that you’ll publish it.”

  “Why shouldn’t we publish it?”

  “It’s a private quarrel between a man and his wife. What on earth have the public got to do with that?”

  “Private quarrels between gentlemen and ladies have been public affairs for a long time past. You must know that very well.”

  “When they come into court they are.”

  “In court and out of court! The morale of our aristocracy, — what you call the Upper Ten, — would be at a low ebb indeed if the public press didn’t act as their guardians. Do you think that if the Duke of –––– beats his wife black and blue, nothing is to be said about it unless the Duchess brings her husband into court? Did you ever know of a separation among the Upper Ten, that wasn’t handled by the press one way or the other? It’s my belief that there isn’t a peer among ‘em all as would live with his wife constant, if it was not for the press; — only some of the very old ones, who couldn’t help themselves.”

  “And you call yourself a Conservative?”

  “Never mind what I call myself. That has nothing to do with what we’re about now. You see that letter, Finn. There is nothing little or dirty about us. We go in for morals and purity of life, and we mean to do our duty by the public without fear or favour. Your name is mentioned there in a manner that you won’t quite like, and I think I am acting uncommon kind by you in showing it to you before we publish it.” Phineas, who still held the slip in his hand, sat silent thinking of the matter. He hated the man. He could not endure the feeling of being called Finn by him without showing his resentment. As regarded himself, he was thoroughly well inclined to kick Mr. Slide and his Banner into the street. But he was bound to think first of Lady Laura. Such a publication as this, which was now threatened, was the misfortune which the poor woman dreaded more than any other. He, personally, had certainly been faultless in the matter. He had never addressed a word of love to Mr. Kennedy’s wife since the moment in which she had told him that she was engaged to marry the Laird of Loughlinter. Were the letter to be published he could answer it, he thought, in such a manner as to defend himself and her without damage to either. But on her behalf he was bound to prevent this publicity if it could be prevented; — and he was bound also, for her sake, to allow himself to be called Finn by this most obnoxious editor. “In the ordinary course of things, Finn, it will come out to-morrow morning,” said the obnoxious editor.

  “Every word of it is untrue,” said Phineas.

  “You say that, of course.”

  “And I should at once declare myself willing to make such a statement on oath. It is a libel of the grossest kind, and of course there would be a prosecution. Both Lord Brentford and I would be driven to that.”

  “We should be quite indifferent. Mr. Kennedy would hold us harmless. We’re straightforward. My showing it to you would prove that.”

  “What is it you want, Mr. Slide?”

  “Want! You don’t suppose we want anything. If you think that the columns of the People’s Banner are to be bought, you must have opinions respecting the press of the day which make me pity you as one grovelling in the very dust. The daily press of London is pure and immaculate. That is, the morning papers are. Want, indeed! What do you think I want?”

  “I have not the remotest idea.”

  “Purity of morals, Finn; — punishment for the guilty; — defence for the innocent; — support for the weak; — safety for the oppressed; — and a rod of iron for the oppressors!”

  “But that is a libel.”

  “It’s very heavy on the old Earl, and upon you, and upon Lady Laura; — isn’t it?”

  “It’s a libel, — as you know. You tell me that purity of morals can be supported by such a publication as this! Had you meant to go on with it, you would hardly have shown it to me.”

  “You’re in the wrong box there, Finn. Now I’ll tell you what we’ll do, — on behalf of what I call real purity. We’ll delay the publication if you’ll undertake that the lady shall go back to her husband.”

  “The lady is not in my hands.”

  “She’s under your influence. You were with her over at Dresden not much more than a month ago. She’d go sharp enough if you told her.”

  “You never made a greater mistake in your life.”

  “Say that you’ll try.”

  “I certainly will not do so.”

  “Then it goes in to-morrow,” said Mr. Quintus Slide, stretching out his hand and taking back the slip.

  “What on earth is your object?”

  “Morals! Morals! We shall be able to say that we’ve done our best to promote domestic virtue and secure forgiveness for an erring wife. You’ve no notion, Finn, in your mind of what will soon be the hextent of the duties, privileges, and hinfluences of the daily press; — the daily morning press, that is; for I look on those little evening scraps as just so much paper and ink wasted. You won’t interfere, then?”

  “Yes, I will; — if you’ll give me time. Where is Mr. Kennedy?”

  “What has that to do with it? Do you write over to Lady Laura and the old lord and tell them that if she’ll undertake to be at Loughlinter within a month this shall be suppressed. Will you do that?”

  “Let me first see Mr. Kennedy.”

  Mr. Slide thought a while over that matter. “Well,” said he at last, “you can see Kennedy if you will. He came up to town four or five days ago, and he’s staying at an hotel in Judd Street.”

  “An hotel in Judd Street?”

  “Yes; — Macpherson’s in Judd Street. I suppose he likes to keep among the Scotch. I don’t think he ever goes out of the house, and he’s waiting in London till this thing is published.”

  “I will go and see him,” said Phineas.

  “I shouldn’t wonder if he murdered you; — but that’s between you and him.”

  “Just so.”

  “And I shall hear from you?”

  “Yes,” said Phineas, hesitating as he made the promise. “Yes, you shall hear from me.”

  “We’ve got our duty to do, and we mean to do it. If we see that we can induce the lady to go back to her husband, we shall habstain from publishing, and virtue will be its own reward. I needn’t tell you that such a letter as that would sell a great many copies, Finn.” Then, at last, Mr. Slide arose and departed.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  Macpherson’s Hotel

  Phineas, when he was left alone, found himself greatly at a loss as to what he had better do. He had pledged himself to see Mr. Kennedy, and was not much afraid of encountering personal violence at the hands of that gentleman. But he could think of nothing which he could with advantage say to Mr. Kennedy. He knew that Lady Laura would not return to her husband. Much as she dreaded such exposure as was now threatened, she would not return to Loughlinter to avoid even that. He could not hold out any such hope to Mr. Kennedy; — and without doing so how could he stop the publication? He thought of getting an injunction from the Vice-Chancellor; — but it was now Sunday, and he had understood that the publication would appear on the morrow, unless stopped by some note from himself. He thought of finding some attorney, and taking him to Mr. Kennedy; but he knew that Mr. Kennedy would be deterred by no attorney. Then he thought of Mr. Low. He would see Mr. Kennedy first, and then go to Mr. Low’s house.

  Judd Street runs into the New Road near the great stations of the Midland and Northern Railways, and is a highly respectable street. But it can hardly be called fashionable, as is Piccadilly; or central, as is Charing Cross; or commercial, as is the neighbourhood of St. Paul’s. Men seeking the shelter of an hotel in Judd Street most probably prefer decent and respectable obscurity to other advantages. It was some such feeling, no doubt, joined to the fact that the landlord had originally come from the neighbourhood of Loughlinter, which had taken Mr. Kennedy to Macpherson’s Hotel. Phineas, when he called at about three o’clock on Sunday afternoon,
was at once informed by Mrs. Macpherson that Mr. Kennedy was “nae doubt at hame, but was nae willing to see folk on the Saaboth.” Phineas pleaded the extreme necessity of his business, alleging that Mr. Kennedy himself would regard its nature as a sufficient justification for such Sabbath-breaking, — and sent up his card. Then there came down a message to him. Could not Mr. Finn postpone his visit to the following morning? But Phineas declared that it could not be postponed. Circumstances, which he would explain to Mr. Kennedy, made it impossible. At last he was desired to walk up stairs, though Mrs. Macpherson, as she showed him the way, evidently thought that her house was profaned by such wickedness.

  Macpherson in preparing his house had not run into that extravagance of architecture which has lately become so common in our hotels. It was simply an ordinary house, with the words “Macpherson’s Hotel” painted on a semi-circular board over the doorway. The front parlour had been converted into a bar, and in the back parlour the Macphersons lived. The staircase was narrow and dirty, and in the front drawing-room, — with the chamber behind for his bedroom, — Mr. Kennedy was installed. Mr. Macpherson probably did not expect any customers beyond those friendly Scots who came up to London from his own side of the Highlands. Mrs. Macpherson, as she opened the door, was silent and almost mysterious. Such a breach of the law might perhaps be justified by circumstances of which she knew nothing, but should receive no sanction from her which she could avoid. So she did not even whisper the name.

  Mr. Kennedy, as Phineas entered, slowly rose from his chair, putting down the Bible which had been in his hands. He did not speak at once, but looked at his visitor over the spectacles which he wore. Phineas thought that he was even more haggard in appearance and aged than when they two had met hardly three months since at Loughlinter. There was no shaking of hands, and hardly any pretence at greeting. Mr. Kennedy simply bowed his head, and allowed his visitor to begin the conversation.

  “I should not have come to you on such a day as this, Mr. Kennedy — “

  “It is a day very unfitted for the affairs of the world,” said Mr. Kennedy.

  “Had not the matter been most pressing in regard both to time and its own importance.”

  “So the woman told me, and therefore I have consented to see you.”

  “You know a man of the name of — Slide, Mr. Kennedy?” Mr. Kennedy shook his head. “You know the editor of the People’s Banner?” Again he shook his head. “You have, at any rate, written a letter for publication to that newspaper.”

  “Need I consult you as to what I write?”

  “But he, — the editor, — has consulted me.”

  “I can have nothing to do with that.”

  “This Mr. Slide, the editor of the People’s Banner, has just been with me, having in his hand a printed letter from you, which, — you will excuse me, Mr. Kennedy, — is very libellous.”

  “I will bear the responsibility of that.”

  “But you would not wish to publish falsehood about your wife, or even about me.”

  “Falsehood! sir; how dare you use that word to me? Is it false to say that she has left my house? Is it false to say that she is my wife, and cannot desert me, as she has done, without breaking her vows, and disregarding the laws both of God and man? Am I false when I say that I gave her no cause? Am I false when I offer to take her back, let her faults be what they may have been? Am I false when I say that her father acts illegally in detaining her? False! False in your teeth! Falsehood is villainy, and it is not I that am the villain.”

  “You have joined my name in the accusation.”

  “Because you are her paramour. I know you now; — viper that was warmed in my bosom! Will you look me in the face and tell me that, had it not been for you, she would not have strayed from me?” To this Phineas could make no answer. “Is it not true that when she went with me to the altar you had been her lover?”

  “I was her lover no longer, when she once told me that she was to be your wife.”

  “Has she never spoken to you of love since? Did she not warn you from the house in her faint struggle after virtue? Did she not whistle you back again when she found the struggle too much for her? When I asked you to the house, she bade you not come. When I desired that you might never darken my eyes again, did she not seek you? With whom was she walking on the villa grounds by the river banks when she resolved that she would leave all her duties and desert me? Will you dare to say that you were not then in her confidence? With whom was she talking when she had the effrontery to come and meet me at the house of the Prime Minister, which I was bound to attend? Have you not been with her this very winter in her foreign home?”

  “Of course I have, — and you sent her a message by me.”

  “I sent no message. I deny it. I refused to be an accomplice in your double guilt. I laid my command upon you that you should not visit my wife in my absence, and you disobeyed, and you are an adulterer. Who are you that you are to come for ever between me and my wife?”

  “I never injured you in thought or deed. I come to you now because I have seen a printed letter which contains a gross libel upon myself.”

  “It is printed then?” he asked, in an eager tone.

  “It is printed; but it need not, therefore, be published. It is a libel, and should not be published. I shall be forced to seek redress at law. You cannot hope to regain your wife by publishing false accusations against her.”

  “They are true. I can prove every word that I have written. She dare not come here, and submit herself to the laws of her country. She is a renegade from the law, and you abet her in her sin. But it is not vengeance that I seek. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’”

  “It looks like vengeance, Mr. Kennedy.”

  “Is it for you to teach me how I shall bear myself in this time of my great trouble?” Then suddenly he changed; his voice falling from one of haughty defiance to a low, mean, bargaining whisper. “But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. If you will say that she shall come back again I’ll have it cancelled, and pay all the expenses.”

  “I cannot bring her back to you.”

  “She’ll come if you tell her. If you’ll let them understand that she must come they’ll give way. You can try it at any rate.”

  “I shall do nothing of the kind. Why should I ask her to submit herself to misery?”

  “Misery! What misery? Why should she be miserable? Must a woman need be miserable because she lives with her husband? You hear me say that I will forgive everything. Even she will not doubt me when I say so, because I have never lied to her. Let her come back to me, and she shall live in peace and quiet, and hear no word of reproach.”

  “I can have nothing to do with it, Mr. Kennedy.”

  “Then, sir, you shall abide my wrath.” With that he sprang quickly round, grasping at something which lay upon a shelf near him, and Phineas saw that he was armed with a pistol. Phineas, who had hitherto been seated, leaped to his legs; but the pistol in a moment was at his head, and the madman pulled at the trigger. But the mechanism of the instrument required that some bolt should be loosed before the hammer would fall upon the nipple, and the unhandy wretch for an instant fumbled over the work so that Phineas, still facing his enemy, had time to leap backwards towards the door. But Kennedy, though he was awkward, still succeeded in firing before our friend could leave the room. Phineas heard the thud of the bullet, and knew that it must have passed near his head. He was not struck, however; and the man, frightened at his own deed, abstained from the second shot, or loitered long enough in his remorse to enable his prey to escape. With three or four steps Phineas leaped down the stairs, and, finding the front door closed, took shelter within Mrs. Macpherson’s bar. “The man is mad,” he said; “did you not hear the shot?” The woman was too frightened to reply, but stood trembling, holding Phineas by the arm. There was nobody in the house, she said, but she and the two lasses. “Nae doobt the Laird’s by ordinaire,” she said at last. She had known of the pistol; but had not dared to
have it removed. She and Macpherson had only feared that he would hurt himself, — and had at last agreed, as day after day passed without any injury from the weapon, to let the thing remain unnoticed. She had heard the shot, and had been sure that one of the two men above would have been killed.

  Phineas was now in great doubt as to what duty was required of him. His first difficulty consisted in this, — that his hat was still in Mr. Kennedy’s room, and that Mrs. Macpherson altogether refused to go and fetch it. While they were still discussing this, and Phineas had not as yet resolved whether he would first get a policeman or go at once to Mr. Low, the bell from the room was rung furiously. “It’s the Laird,” said Mrs. Macpherson, “and if naebody waits on him he’ll surely be shooting ane of us.” The two girls were now outside the bar shaking in their shoes, and evidently unwilling to face the danger. At last the door of the room above was opened, and our hero’s hat was sent rolling down the stairs.

  It was clear to Phineas that the man was so mad as to be not even aware of the act he had perpetrated. “He’ll do nothing more with the pistol,” he said, “unless he should attempt to destroy himself.” At last it was determined that one of the girls should be sent to fetch Macpherson home from the Scotch Church, and that no application should be made at once to the police. It seemed that the Macphersons knew the circumstances of their guest’s family, and that there was a cousin of his in London who was the only one with whom he seemed to have any near connection. The thing that had occurred was to be told to this cousin, and Phineas left his address, so that if it should be thought necessary he might be called upon to give his account of the affair. Then, in his perturbation of spirit, he asked for a glass of brandy; and having swallowed it, was about to take his leave. “The brandy wull be saxpence, sir,” said Mrs. Macpherson, as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

  Having paid for his refreshment, Phineas got into a cab, and had himself driven to Mr. Low’s house. He had escaped from his peril, and now again it became his strongest object to stop the publication of the letter which Slide had shown him. But as he sat in the cab he could not hinder himself from shuddering at the danger which had been so near to him. He remembered his sensation as he first saw the glimmer of the barrel of the pistol, and then became aware of the man’s first futile attempt, and afterwards saw the flash and heard the hammer fall at the same moment. He had once stood up to be fired at in a duel, and had been struck by the ball. But nothing in that encounter had made him feel sick and faint through every muscle as he had felt just now. As he sat in the cab he was aware that but for the spirits he had swallowed he would be altogether overcome, and he doubted even now whether he would be able to tell his story to Mr. Low. Luckily perhaps for him neither Mr. Low nor his wife were at home. They were out together, but were expected in between five and six. Phineas declared his purpose of waiting for them, and requested that Mr. Low might be asked to join him in the dining-room immediately on his return. In this way an hour was allowed him, and he endeavoured to compose himself. Still, even at the end of the hour, his heart was beating so violently that he could hardly control the motion of his own limbs. “Low, I have been shot at by a madman,” he said, as soon as his friend entered the room. He had determined to be calm, and to speak much more of the document in the editor’s hands than of the attempt which had been made on his own life; but he had been utterly unable to repress the exclamation.