‘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 Phoebus Apollo.'
‘That is flattering to me, – looking at the position in which you desire to place your Phoebus 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 46
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.
When 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.’
‘With such allies you can have nothing to fear,’ he replied, attempting to carry on her little jest.
‘Nor even without them, Mr Finn. We unprotected females in these days are so self-reliant that our natural protectors fall off from us, finding themselves to be no longer wanted. Now with you, – what can I fear?’
‘Nothing, – as I hope.’
‘There used to be a time, and that not so long ago either, when young gentlemen and ladies were thought to be very dangerous to each other if they were left alone. But propriety is less rampant now, and upon the whole virtue and morals, with discretion and all that kind of thing, have been the gainers. Don't you think so?’
‘I am sure of it.’
‘All the same, – I don't like to be caught in a trap, Mr Finn.’
‘In a trap?’
‘Yes; – in a trap. Is there no trap here? If you will say so, I will acknowledge myself to be a dolt, and will beg your pardon.’
‘I hardly know what you call a trap.’
‘You were told that I was here?’
He paused a moment before he replied. ‘Yes, I was told.’
‘I call that a trap.’
‘Am I to blame?’
‘I don't say that you set it, – but you use it.’
‘Miss Effingham, of course I have used it. You must know, – I think you must know that I have that to say to you which has made me long for such an opportunity as this.’
‘And therefore you have called in the assistance of your friend.’
‘It is true.’
‘In such matters you should never talk to any one, Mr Finn. If you cannot fight your own battle, no one can fight it for you.’
‘Miss Effingham, do you remember our ride at Saulsby?’
‘Very well; – as if it were yesterday.’
‘And do you remember that I asked you a question which you have never answered?’
‘I did answer it, – as well as I knew how, so that I might tell you a truth without hurting you.’
‘It was necessary, – is necessary that I should be hurt sorely, or made perfectly happy. Violet Effingham, I have come to you to ask you to be my wife; – to tell you that I love you, and to ask for your love in return. Whateve
r may be my fate, the question must be asked, and an answer must be given.67 I have not hoped that you should tell me that you loved me’ –
‘For what then have you hoped?’
‘For not much, indeed; – but if for anything, then for some chance that you might tell me so hereafter.’
‘If I loved you, I would tell you so now, – instantly. I give you my word of that.’
‘Can you never love me?’
‘What is a woman to answer to such a question? No; – I believe never. I do not think I shall ever wish you to be my husband. You ask me to be plain, and I must be plain.’
‘Is is because –?’ He paused, hardly knowing what the question was which he proposed to himself to ask.
‘It is for no because, – for no cause except that simple one which should make any girl refuse any man whom she did not love. Mr Finn, I could say pleasant things to you on any other subject than this, – because I like you.’
‘I know that I have nothing to justify my suit.’
‘You have everything to justify it; – at least I am bound to presume that you have. If you love me, – you are justified.’
‘You know that I love you.’
‘I am sorry that it should ever have been so, – very sorry. I can only hope that I have not been in fault.’
‘Will you try to love me?’
‘No; – why should I try? If any trying were necessary, I would try rather not to love you. Why should I try to do that which would displease everybody belonging to me? For yourself, I admit your right to address me, – and tell you frankly that it would not be in vain, if I loved you. But I tell you as frankly that such a marriage would not please those whom I am bound to try to please.’
He paused a moment before he spoke further. ‘I shall wait,’ he said, ‘and come again.’
‘What am I to say to that? Do not tease me, so that I be driven to treat you with lack of courtesy. Lady Laura is so much attached to you, and Mr Kennedy, and Lord Brentford, – and indeed I may say, I myself also, that I trust there may be nothing to mar our good fellowship. Come, Mr Finn, – say that you will take an answer, and I will give you my hand.’
‘Give it me,’ said he. She gave him her hand, and he put it up to his lips and pressed it. ‘I will wait and come again,’ he said. ‘I will assuredly come again.’ Then he turned from her and went out of the house. At the corner of the square he saw Lady Laura's carriage, but did not stop to speak to her. And she also saw him.
‘So you have had a visitor here,’ said Lady Laura to Violet.
‘Yes; – I have been caught in the trap.’
‘Poor mouse! And has the cat made a meal of you?’
‘I fancy he has, after his fashion. There be cats that eat their mice without playing, – and cats that play with their mice, and then eat them; – and cats again which only play with their mice, and don't care to eat them. Mr Finn is a cat of the latter kind, and has had his afternoon's diversion.’
‘You wrong him there.’
‘I think not, Laura. I do not mean to say that he would not have liked me to accept him. But, if I can see inside his bosom, such a little job as that he has now done will be looked back upon as one of the past pleasures of his life; – not as a pain.’
CHAPTER 47
Mr Mildmay's Bill
It will be necessary that we should go back in our story for a very short period in order that the reader may be told that Phineas Finn was duly re-elected at Loughton after his appoinment at the Treasury Board. There was some little trouble at Loughton, and something more of expense than he had before encountered. Mr Quintus Slide absolutely came down, and was proposed by Mr Vellum for the borough. Mr Vellum being a gentleman learned in the law, and hostile to the interests of the noble owner of Saulsby, was able to raise a little trouble against our hero. Mr Slide was proposed by Mr Vellum, and seconded by Mr Vellum's clerk, though, as it afterwards appeared, Mr Vellum's clerk was not in truth an elector, – and went to the poll like a man. He received three votes, and at twelve o'clock withdrew. This in itself could hardly have afforded compensation for the expense which Mr Slide or his backers must have encountered; – but he had an opportunity of making a speech, every word of which was reported in the People's Banner; and if the speech was made in the language given in the report, Mr Slide was really possessed of some oratorical power. Most of those who read the speech in the columns of the People's Banner were probably not aware how favourable an opportunity of retouching his sentences in type had been given to Mr Slide by the fact of his connection with the newspaper. The speech had been very severe upon our hero; and though the speaker had been so hooted and pelted at Loughton as to have been altogether inaudible, – so maltreated that in point of fact he had not been able to speak above a tenth part of his speech at all, – nevertheless the speech did give Phineas a certain amount of pain. Why Phineas should have read it who can tell? But who is there that abstains from reading that which is printed in abuse of himself?
In the speech as it was printed Mr Slide declared that he had no thought of being returned for the borough. He knew too well how the borough was managed, what slaves the electors were; – how they groaned under a tyranny from which hitherto they had been unable to release themselves. Of course the Earl's nominee, his lacquey as the honourable gentleman might be called, would be returned. The Earl could order them to return whichever of his lacqueys he pleased. – There is something peculiarly pleasing to the democratic ear in the word lacquey! Any one serving a big man, whatever the service may be, is the big man's lacquey in the People's Banner. – The speech throughout was very bitter. Mr Phineas Finn, who had previously served in Parliament as the lacquey of an Irish earl, and had been turned off by him, had now fallen into the service of the English earl, and was the lacquey chosen for the present occasion. But he, Quintus Slide, who boasted himself to be a man of the people, – he could tell them that the days of their thraldom were coming to an end, and that their enfranchisement was near at hand. That friend of the people, Mr Turnbull, had a clause in his breeches-pocket which he would either force down the unwilling throat of Mr Mildmay, or else drive the imbecile Premier from office by carrying it in his teeth. Loughton, as Loughton, must be destroyed, but it should be born again in a better birth as a part of a real electoral district, sending a real member, chosen by a real constituency, to a real Parliament. In those days, – and they would come soon, – Mr Quintus Slide rather thought that Mr Phineas Finn would be found ‘nowhere,’ and he rather thought also that when he showed himself again, as he certainly should do, in the midst of that democratic electoral district as the popular candidate for the honour of representing it in Parliament, that democratic electoral district would accord to him a reception very different from that which he was now receiving from the Earl's lacqueys in the parliamentary village of Loughton. A prettier bit of fiction than these sentences as composing a part of any speech delivered, or proposed to be delivered, at Loughton, Phineas thought he had never seen. And when he read at the close of the speech that though the Earl's hired bullies did their worst, the remarks of Mr Slide were received by the people with reiterated cheering, he threw himself back in his chair at the Treasury and roared. The poor fellow had been three minutes on his legs, had received three rotten eggs, and one dead dog, and had retired. But not the half of the speech as printed in the People's Banner has been quoted. The sins of Phineas, who in spite of his inability to open his mouth in public had been made a Treasury hack by the aristocratic influence, – ‘by aristocratic influence not confined to the male sex,’ – were described at great length, and in such language that Phineas for a while was fool enough to think that it would be his duty to belabour Mr Slide with a horsewhip. This notion, however, did not endure long with him, and when Mr Monk told him that things of that kind came as a matter of course, he was comforted.
But he found it much more difficult to obtain comfort when he weighed the arguments brought forward against the abominations of suc
h a borough as that for which he sat, and reflected that if Mr Turnbull brought forward his clause, he, Phineas Finn, would be bound to vote against the clause, knowing the clause to be right, because he was a servant of the Government. The arguments, even though they appeared in the People's Banner, were true arguments; and he had on one occasion admitted their truth to his friend Lady Laura, – in the presence of that great Cabinet Minister, her husband. ‘What business has such a man as that down there? Is there a single creature who wants him?’ Lady Laura had said. ‘I don't suppose anybody does want Mr Quintus Slide,’ Phineas had replied; ‘but I am disposed to think the electors should choose the man they do want, and that at present they have no choice left to them.’ ‘They are quite satisfied,’ said Lady Laura, angrily. ‘Then, Lady Laura,’ continued Phineas, ‘that alone should be sufficient to prove that their privilege of returning a member to Parliament is too much for them. We can't defend it.’ ‘It is defended by tradition,’ said Mr Kennedy. ‘And by its great utility,’ said Lady Laura, bowing to the young member who was present, and forgetting that very useless old gentleman, her cousin, who had sat for the borough for many years. ‘In this country it doesn't do to go too fast,’ said Mr Kennedy. ‘And then the mixture of vulgarity, falsehood, and pretence!’ said Lady Laura, shuddering as her mind recurred to the fact that Mr Quintus Slide had contaminated Loughton by his presence. ‘I am told that they hardly let him leave the place alive.’
Whatever Mr Kennedy and Lady Laura might think about Loughton and the general question of small boroughs, it was found by the Government, to their great cost, that Mr Turnbull's clause was a reality. After two months of hard work, all questions of franchise had been settled, rating and renting, new and newfangled, fancy franchises and those which no one fancied, franchises for boroughs and franchises for counties, franchises single, dual, three-cornered, and four-sided, – by various clauses to which the Committee of the whole House had agreed after some score of divisions, – the matter of the franchise had been settled. No doubt there was the House of Lords, and there might yet be shipwreck. But it was generally believed that the Lords would hardly look at the bill, – that they would not even venture on an amendment. The Lords would only be too happy to let the matter be settled by the Commons themselves. But then, after the franchise, came redistribution. How sick of the subject were all members of the Government, no one could tell who did not see their weary faces. The whole House was sick, having been whipped into various lobbies, night after night, during the heat of the summer, for weeks past. Redistribution! Why should there be any redistribution? They had got, or would get, a beautiful franchise. Could they not see what that would do for them? Why redistribute anything? But, alas, it was too late to go back to so blessed an idea as that! Redistribution they must have. But there should be as little redistribution as possible. Men were sick of it all, and would not be exigeant. Something should be done for overgrown counties; – something for new towns which had prospered in brick and mortar. It would be easy to crush up a peccant borough or two, – a borough that had been discovered in its sin. And a few boroughs now blessed with two members might consent to be blessed only with one. Fifteen small clauses might settle the redistribution, – in spite of Mr Turnbull, – if only Mr Daubeny would be good-natured.
Phineas Finn, the Irish Member Page 49
