The Palliser Novels

by Anthony Trollope

  I spent two weary weeks at Loughlinter, and then could stand it no longer. I have come here, and here I shall remain for the autumn and winter. If I can sell my interest in the Loughlinter property I shall do so, as I am sure that neither the place nor the occupation is fit for me. Indeed I know not what place or what occupation will suit me! The dreariness of the life before me is hardly preferable to the disappointments I have already endured. There seems to be nothing left for me but to watch my father to the end. The world would say that such a duty in life is fit for a widowed childless daughter; but to you I cannot pretend to say that my bereavements or misfortunes reconcile me to such a fate. I cannot cease to remember my age, my ambition, and I will say, my love. I suppose that everything is over for me, — as though I were an old woman, going down into the grave, but at my time of life I find it hard to believe that it must be so. And then the time of waiting may be so long! I suppose I could start a house in London, and get people around me by feeding and flattering them, and by little intrigues, — like that woman of whom you are so fond. It is money that is chiefly needed for that work, and of money I have enough now. And people would know at any rate who I am. But I could not flatter them, and I should wish the food to choke them if they did not please me. And you would not come, and if you did, — I may as well say it boldly, — others would not. An ill-natured sprite has been busy with me, which seems to deny me everything which is so freely granted to others.

  As for you, the world is at your feet. I dread two things for you, — that you should marry unworthily, and that you should injure your prospects in public life by an uncompromising stiffness. On the former subject I can say nothing to you. As to the latter, let me implore you to come down here before you decide upon anything. Of course you can at once accept Mr. Gresham’s offer; and that is what you should do unless the office proposed to you be unworthy of you. No friend of yours will think that your old place at the Colonies should be rejected. But if your mind is still turned towards refusing, ask Mr. Gresham to give you three or four days for decision, and then come here. He cannot refuse you, — nor after all that is passed can you refuse me.

  Yours affectionately,

  L. K.

  When he had read this letter he at once acknowledged to himself that he could not refuse her request. He must go to Saulsby, and he must do so at once. He was about to see Mr. Gresham immediately, — within half an hour; and as he could not expect at the most above twenty-four hours to be allowed to him for consideration, he must go down to Saulsby on the same evening. As he walked to the Prime Minister’s house he called at a telegraph office and sent down his message. “I will be at Saulsby by the train arriving at 7 p.m. Send to meet me.” Then he went on, and in a few minutes found himself in the presence of the great man.

  The great man received him with an excellent courtesy. It is the special business of Prime Ministers to be civil in detail, though roughness, and perhaps almost rudeness in the gross, becomes not unfrequently a necessity of their position. To a proposed incoming subordinate a Prime Minister is, of course, very civil, and to a retreating subordinate he is generally more so, — unless the retreat be made under unfavourable circumstances. And to give good things is always pleasant, unless there be a suspicion that the good thing will be thought to be not good enough. No such suspicion as that now crossed the mind of Mr. Gresham. He had been pressed very much by various colleagues to admit this young man into the Paradise of his government, and had been pressed very much also to exclude him; and this had been continued till he had come to dislike the name of the young man. He did believe that the young man had behaved badly to Mr. Robert Kennedy, and he knew that the young man on one occasion had taken to kicking in harness, and running a course of his own. He had decided against the young man, — very much no doubt at the instance of Mr. Bonteen, — and he believed that in so doing he closed the Gates of Paradise against a Peri most anxious to enter it. He now stood with the key in his hand and the gate open, — and the seat to be allotted to the re-accepted one was that which he believed the Peri would most gratefully fill. He began by making a little speech about Mr. Bonteen. That was almost unavoidable. And he praised in glowing words the attitude which Phineas had maintained during the trial. He had been delighted with the re-election at Tankerville, and thought that the borough had done itself much honour. Then came forth his proposition. Lord Fawn had retired, absolutely broken down by repeated examinations respecting the man in the grey coat, and the office which Phineas had before held with so much advantage to the public, and comfort to his immediate chief, Lord Cantrip, was there for his acceptance. Mr. Gresham went on to express an ardent hope that he might have the benefit of Mr. Finn’s services. It was quite manifest from his manner that he did not in the least doubt the nature of the reply which he would receive.

  Phineas had come primed with his answer, — so ready with it that it did not even seem to be the result of any hesitation at the moment. “I hope, Mr. Gresham, that you will be able to give me a few hours to think of this.” Mr. Gresham’s face fell, for, in truth, he wanted an immediate answer; and though he knew from experience that Secretaries of State, and First Lords, and Chancellors, do demand time, and will often drive very hard bargains before they will consent to get into harness, he considered that Under-Secretaries, Junior Lords, and the like, should skip about as they were bidden, and take the crumbs offered them without delay. If every underling wanted a few hours to think about it, how could any Government ever be got together? “I am sorry to put you to inconvenience,” continued Phineas, seeing that the great man was but ill-satisfied, “but I am so placed that I cannot avail myself of your flattering kindness without some little time for consideration.”

  “I had hoped that the office was one which you would like.”

  “So it is, Mr. Gresham.”

  “And I was told that you are now free from any scruples, — political scruples, I mean, — which might make it difficult for you to support the Government.”

  “Since the Government came to our way of thinking, — a year or two ago, — about Tenant Right, I mean, — I do not know that there is any subject on which I am likely to oppose it. Perhaps I had better tell you the truth, Mr. Gresham.”

  “Oh, certainly,” said the Prime Minister, who knew very well that on such occasions nothing could be worse than the telling of disagreeable truths.

  “When you came into office, after beating Mr. Daubeny on the Church question, no man in Parliament was more desirous of place than I was, — and I am sure that none of the disappointed ones felt their disappointment so keenly. It was aggravated by various circumstances, — by calumnies in newspapers, and by personal bickerings. I need not go into that wretched story of Mr. Bonteen, and the absurd accusation which grew out of those calumnies. These things have changed me very much. I have a feeling that I have been ill-used, — not by you, Mr. Gresham, specially, but by the party; and I look upon the whole question of office with altered eyes.”

  “In filling up the places at his disposal, a Prime Minister, Mr. Finn, has a most unenviable task.”

  “I can well believe it.”

  “When circumstances, rather than any selection of his own, indicate the future occupant of any office, this abrogation of his patronage is the greatest blessing in the world to him.”

  “I can believe that also.”

  “I wish it were so with every office under the Crown. A Minister is rarely thanked, and would as much look for the peace of heaven in his office as for gratitude.”

  “I am sorry that I should have made no exception to such thanklessness.”

  “We shall neither of us get on by complaining; — shall we, Mr. Finn? You can let me have an answer perhaps by this time to-morrow.”

  “If an answer by telegraph will be sufficient.”

  “Quite sufficient. Yes or No. Nothing more will be wanted. You understand your own reasons, no doubt, fully; but if they were stated at length they would perhaps hardly enlighten me.
Good-morning.” Then as Phineas was turning his back, the Prime Minister remembered that it behoved him as Prime Minister to repress his temper. “I shall still hope, Mr. Finn, for a favourable answer.” Had it not been for that last word Phineas would have turned again, and at once rejected the proposition.

  From Mr. Gresham’s house he went by appointment to Mr. Monk’s, and told him of the interview. Mr. Monk’s advice to him had been exactly the same as that given by Madame Goesler and Lady Laura. Phineas, indeed, understood perfectly that no friend could or would give him any other advice. “He has his troubles, too,” said Mr. Monk, speaking of the Prime Minister.

  “A man can hardly expect to hold such an office without trouble.”

  “Labour of course there must be, — though I doubt whether it is so great as that of some other persons; — and responsibility. The amount of trouble depends on the spirit and nature of the man. Do you remember old Lord Brock? He was never troubled. He had a triple shield, — a thick skin, an equable temper, and perfect self-confidence. Mr. Mildmay was of a softer temper, and would have suffered had he not been protected by the idolatry of a large class of his followers. Mr. Gresham has no such protection. With a finer intellect than either, and a sense of patriotism quite as keen, he has a self-consciousness which makes him sore at every point. He knows the frailty of his temper, and yet cannot control it. And he does not understand men as did these others. Every word from an enemy is a wound to him. Every slight from a friend is a dagger in his side. But I can fancy that self-accusations make the cross on which he is really crucified. He is a man to whom I would extend all my mercy, were it in my power to be merciful.”

  “You will hardly tell me that I should accept office under him by way of obliging him.”

  “Were I you I should do so, — not to oblige him, but because I know him to be an honest man.”

  “I care but little for honesty,” said Phineas, “which is at the disposal of those who are dishonest. What am I to think of a Minister who could allow himself to be led by Mr. Bonteen?”

  CHAPTER LXXVIII

  The Last Visit to Saulsby

  Phineas, as he journeyed down to Saulsby, knew that he had in truth made up his mind. He was going thither nominally that he might listen to the advice of almost his oldest political friend before he resolved on a matter of vital importance to himself; but in truth he was making the visit because he felt that he could not excuse himself from it without unkindness and ingratitude. She had implored him to come, and he was bound to go, and there were tidings to be told which he must tell. It was not only that he might give her his reasons for not becoming an Under-Secretary of State that he went to Saulsby. He felt himself bound to inform her that he intended to ask Marie Goesler to be his wife. He might omit to do so till he had asked the question, — and then say nothing of what he had done should his petition be refused; but it seemed to him that there would be cowardice in this. He was bound to treat Lady Laura as his friend in a special degree, as something more than his sister, — and he was bound above all things to make her understand in some plainest manner that she could be nothing more to him than such a friend. In his dealings with her he had endeavoured always to be honest, — gentle as well as honest; but now it was specially his duty to be honest to her. When he was young he had loved her, and had told her so, — and she had refused him. As a friend he had been true to her ever since, but that offer could never be repeated. And the other offer, — to the woman whom she was now accustomed to abuse, — must be made. Should Lady Laura choose to quarrel with him it must be so; but the quarrel should not be of his seeking.

  He was quite sure that he would refuse Mr. Gresham’s offer, although by doing so he would himself throw away the very thing which he had devoted his life to acquire. In a foolish, soft moment, — as he now confessed to himself, — he had endeavoured to obtain for his own position the sympathy of the Minister. He had spoken of the calumnies which had hurt him, and of his sufferings when he found himself excluded from place in consequence of the evil stories which had been told of him. Mr. Gresham had, in fact, declined to listen to him; — had said Yes or No was all that he required, and had gone on to explain that he would be unable to understand the reasons proposed to be given even were he to hear them. Phineas had felt himself to be repulsed, and would at once have shown his anger, had not the Prime Minister silenced him for the moment by a civilly-worded repetition of the offer made.

  But the offer should certainly be declined. As he told himself that it must be so, he endeavoured to analyse the causes of this decision, but was hardly successful. He had thought that he could explain the reasons to the Minister, but found himself incapable of explaining them to himself. In regard to means of subsistence he was no better off now than when he began the world. He was, indeed, without incumbrance, but was also without any means of procuring an income. For the last twelve months he had been living on his little capital, and two years more of such life would bring him to the end of all that he had. There was, no doubt, one view of his prospects which was bright enough. If Marie Goesler accepted him, he need not, at any rate, look about for the means of earning a living. But he assured himself with perfect confidence that no hope in that direction would have any influence upon the answer he would give to Mr. Gresham. Had not Marie Goesler herself been most urgent with him in begging him to accept the offer; and was he not therefore justified in concluding that she at least had thought it necessary that he should earn his bread? Would her heart be softened towards him, — would any further softening be necessary, — by his obstinate refusal to comply with her advice? The two things had no reference to each other, — and should be regarded by him as perfectly distinct. He would refuse Mr. Gresham’s offer, — not because he hoped that he might live in idleness on the wealth of the woman he loved, — but because the chicaneries and intrigues of office had become distasteful to him. “I don’t know which are the falser,” he said to himself, “the mock courtesies or the mock indignations of statesmen.”

  He found the Earl’s carriage waiting for him at the station, and thought of many former days, as he was carried through the little town for which he had sat in Parliament, up to the house which he had once visited in the hope of wooing Violet Effingham. The women whom he had loved had all, at any rate, become his friends, and his thorough friendships were almost all with women. He and Lord Chiltern regarded each other with warm affection; but there was hardly ground for real sympathy between them. It was the same with Mr. Low and Barrington Erle. Were he to die there would be no gap in their lives; — were they to die there would be none in his. But with Violet Effingham, — as he still loved to call her to himself, — he thought it would be different. When the carriage stopped at the hall door he was thinking of her rather than of Lady Laura Kennedy.

  He was shown at once to his bedroom, — the very room in which he had written the letter to Lord Chiltern which had brought about the duel at Blankenberg. He was told that he would find Lady Laura in the drawing-room waiting for dinner for him. The Earl had already dined.

  “I am so glad you are come,” said Lady Laura, welcoming him. “Papa is not very well and dined early, but I have waited for you, of course. Of course I have. You did not suppose I would let you sit down alone? I would not see you before you dressed because I knew that you must be tired and hungry, and that the sooner you got down the better. Has it not been hot?”

  “And so dusty! I only left Matching yesterday, and seem to have been on the railway ever since.”

  “Government officials have to take frequent journeys, Mr. Finn. How long will it be before you have to go down to Scotland twice in one week, and back as often to form a Ministry? Your next journey must be into the dining-room; — in making which will you give me your arm?”

  She was, he thought, lighter in heart and pleasanter in manner than she had been since her return from Dresden. When she had made her little joke about his future ministerial duties the servant had been in the room, and he had not
, therefore, stopped her by a serious answer. And now she was solicitous about his dinner, — anxious that he should enjoy the good things set before him, as is the manner of loving women, pressing him to take wine, and playing the good hostess in all things. He smiled, and ate, and drank, and was gracious under her petting; but he had a weight on his bosom, knowing, as he did, that he must say that before long which would turn all her playfulness either to anger or to grief. “And who had you at Matching?” she asked.

  “Just the usual set.”

  “Minus the poor old Duke?”

  “Yes; minus the old Duke certainly. The greatest change is in the name. Lady Glencora was so specially Lady Glencora that she ought to have been Lady Glencora to the end. Everybody calls her Duchess, but it does not sound half so nice.”

  “And is he altered?”