Phineas Finn, the Irish Member

by Anthony Trollope

  ‘I hope in time to get beyond fetching and carrying,’ said Phineas.

  ‘Of course you will; and knowing that, I am glad that you are in office. I suppose there will be no difficulty about Loughton.’

  Then Phineas laughed. ‘I hear,’ said he, ‘that Mr Quintus Slide, of the People's Banner, has already gone down to canvass the electors.’

  ‘Mr Quintus Slide! To canvass the electors of Loughton!’ and Lady Laura drew herself up and spoke of this unseemly intrusion on her father's borough, as though the vulgar man who had been named had forced his way into the very drawing-room in Portman Square. At that moment Mr Kennedy came in. ‘Do you hear what Mr Finn tells me?’ she said. ‘He has heard that Mr Quintus Slide has gone down to Loughton to stand against him.’

  ‘And why not?’ said Mr Kennedy.

  ‘My dear!’ ejaculated Lady Laura.

  ‘Mr Quintus Slide will no doubt lose his time and his money; – but he will gain the prestige of having stood for a borough, which will be something for him on the staff of the People's Banner,’ said Mr Kennedy.

  ‘He will get that horrid man Vellum to propose him,’ said Lady Laura.

  ‘Very likely,’ said Mr Kennedy. ‘And the less any of us say about it the better. Finn, my dear fellow, I congratulate you heartily. Nothing for a long time has given me greater pleasure than hearing of your appointment. It is equally honourable to yourself and to Mr Mildmay. It is a great step to have gained so early.’

  Phineas, as he thanked his friend, could not help asking himself what his friend had done to be made a Cabinet Minister. Little as he, Phineas, himself had done in the House in his two sessions and a half, Mr Kennedy had hardly done more in his fifteen or twenty. But then Mr Kennedy was possessed of almost miraculous wealth, and owned half a county, whereas he, Phineas, owned almost nothing at all. Of course no Prime Minister would offer a junior lordship at the Treasury to a man with £30,000 a year. Soon after this Phineas took his leave. ‘I think he will do well,’ said Mr Kennedy to his wife.

  ‘I am sure he will do well,’ replied Lady Laura, almost scornfully.

  ‘He is not quite such a black swan with me as he is with you; but still I think he will succeed, if he takes care of himself. It is astonishing how that absurd story of his duel with Chiltern has got about.’

  ‘It is impossible to prevent people talking,’ said Lady Laura.

  ‘I suppose there was some quarrel, though neither of them will tell you. They say it was about Miss Effingham. I should hardly think that Finn could have any hopes in that direction.’

  ‘Why should he not have hopes?’

  ‘Because he has neither position, nor money, nor birth,’ said Mr Kennedy.

  ‘He is a gentleman,’ said Lady Laura; ‘and I think he has position. I do not see why he should not ask any girl to marry him.’

  ‘There is no understanding you, Laura,’ said Mr Kennedy, angrily. ‘I thought you had quite other hopes about Miss Effingham.’

  ‘So I have; but that has nothing to do with it. You spoke of Mr Finn as though he would be guilty of some crime were he to ask Violet Effingham to be his wife. In that I disagree with you. Mr Finn is –’

  ‘You will make me sick of the name of Mr Finn.’

  ‘I am sorry that I offend you by my gratitude to a man who saved your life.’ Mr Kennedy shook his head. He knew that the argument used against him was false, but he did not know how to show that he knew that it was false. ‘Perhaps I had better not mention his name any more,’ continued Lady Laura.

  ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘I quite agree with you that it is nonsense, Robert.’

  ‘All I mean to say is, that if you go on as you do, you will turn his head and spoil him. Do you think I do not know what is going on among you?’

  ‘What is going on among us, – as you call it?’

  ‘You are taking this young man up and putting him on a pedestal and worshipping him, just because he is well-looking, and rather clever and decently behaved. It's always the way with women who have nothing to do, and who cannot be made to understand that they should have duties. They cannot live without some kind of idolatry.’

  ‘Have I neglected my duty to you, Robert?’

  ‘Yes, – you know you have; – in going to those receptions at your father's house on Sundays.’

  ‘What has that to do with Mr Finn?’

  ‘Psha!’

  ‘I begin to think I had better tell Mr Finn not to come here any more, since his presence is disagreeable to you. All the world knows how great is the service he did you, and it will seem to be very ridiculous. People will say all manner of things; but anything will be better than that you should go on as you have done, – accusing your wife of idolatry towards – a young man, because – he is – well-looking.’

  ‘I never said anything of the kind.’

  ‘You did, Robert.’

  ‘I did not. I did not speak more of you than of a lot of others.’

  ‘You accused me personally, saying that because of my idolatry I had neglected my duty; but really you made such a jumble of it all, with papa's visitors, and Sunday afternoons, that I cannot follow what was in your mind.’

  Then Mr Kennedy stood for a while, collecting his thoughts, so that he might unravel the jumble, if that were possible to him; but finding that it was not possible, he left the room, and closed the door behind him.

  Then Lady Laura was left alone to consider the nature of the accusation which her husband had brought against her; or the nature rather of the accusation which she had chosen to assert that her husband had implied. For in her heart she knew that he had made no such accusation, and had intended to make none such. The idolatry of which he had spoken was the idolatry which a woman might show to her cat, her dog, her picture, her china, her furniture, her carriage and horses, or her pet maid-servant. Such was the idolatry of which Mr Kennedy had spoken; – but was there no other worship in her heart, worse, more pernicious than that, in reference to this young man?

  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 hushand, – she with ‘a lot of others,’ in whic
h 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 45

  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 room. 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 haven'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, – 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,’ s
aid 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 yourself?’

  ‘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.’