Phineas Finn, the Irish Member

by Anthony Trollope

  ‘Phineas, my lord,’ began the father, ‘is now Under-Secretary of State.’

  ‘Oh, I've no doubt he's a very fine fellow; – but, you see, he's an out-and-out Radical.’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Then how can he serve with such men as Mr Gresham and Mr Monk? They've turned out poor old Mildmay among them, because he's not fast enough for them. Don't tell me.’

  ‘My anxiety, of course, is for my boy's prospects. He seems to have done so well in Parliament.’

  ‘Why don't he stand for Marylebone or Finsbury?’

  ‘The money, you know, my lord!’

  ‘I shan't interfere here, doctor. If he comes, and the people then choose to return him, I shall say nothing. They may do just as they please. They tell me Lambert St George, of Mockrath, is going to stand. If he does, it's the d— piece of impudence I ever heard of. He's a tenant of my own, though he has a lease for ever; and his father never owned an acre of land in the county till his uncle died.’ Then the doctor knew that, with a little management, the lord's interest might be secured for his son.

  Phineas came over and stood for the borough against Mr Lambert St George, and the contest was sharp enough. The gentry of the neighbourhood could not understand why such a man as Lord Tulla should admit a liberal candidate to succeed his brother. No one canvassed for the young Under-Secretary with more persistent zeal than did his father, who, when Phineas first spoke of going into Parliament, had produced so many good arguments against that perilous step. Lord Tulla's agent stood aloof, – desolate with grief at the death of the late member. At such a moment of family affliction, Lord Tulla, he declared, could not think of such a matter as the borough. But it was known that Lord Tulla was dreadfully jealous of Mr Lambert St George, whose property in that part of the county was now nearly equal to his own, and who saw much more company at Mockrath than was ever entertained at Castlemorris. A word from Lord Tulla, – so said the Conservatives of the county, – would have put Mr St George into the seat; but that word was not spoken, and the Conservatives of the neighbourhood swore that Lord Tulla was a renegade. The contest was very sharp, but our hero was returned by a majority of seventeen votes.

  Again successful! As he thought of it he remembered stories of great generals who were said to have chained Fortune to the wheels of their chariots, but it seemed to him that the goddess had never served any general with such staunch obedience as she had displayed in his cause. Had not everything gone well with him; – so well, as almost to justify him in expecting that even yet Violet Effingham would become his wife? Dear, dearest Violet! If he could only achieve that, no general, who ever led an army across the Alps, would be his equal either in success or in the reward of success. Then he questioned himself as to what he would say to Miss Flood Jones on that very night. He was to meet dear little Mary Flood Jones that evening at a neighbour's house. His sister Barbara had so told him in a tone of voice which he quite understood to imply a caution. ‘I shall be so glad to see her,’ Phineas had replied.

  ‘If there ever was an angel on earth, it is Mary,’ said Barbara Finn.

  ‘I know that she is as good as gold,’ said Phineas.

  ‘Gold!’ replied Barbara, – ‘gold indeed! She is more precious than refined gold. But, Phineas, perhaps you had better not single her out for any special attention. She has thought it wisest to meet you.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Phineas. ‘Why not?’

  ‘That is all, Phineas. I have nothing more to say. Men of course are different from girls.’

  ‘That's true, Barbara, at any rate.’

  ‘Don't laugh at me, Phineas, when I am thinking of nothing but of you and your interests, and when I am making all manner of excuses for you because I know what must be the distractions of the world in which you live.’ Barbara made more than one attempt to renew the conversation before the evening came, but Phineas thought that he had had enough of it. He did not like being told that excuses were made for him. After all, what had he done? He had once kissed Mary Flood Jones behind the door.

  ‘I am so glad to see you, Mary,’ he said, coming and taking a chair by her side. He had been specially warned not to single Mary out for his attention, and yet there was the chair left vacant as though it were expected that he would fall into it.

  ‘Thank you. We did not happen to meet last year, did we, Mr Finn?’

  ‘Do not call me Mr Finn, Mary.’

  ‘You are such a great man now!’

  ‘Not at all a great man. If you only knew what little men we under-strappers are in London you would hardly speak to me.’

  ‘But you are something – of State now; – are you not?’

  ‘Well; – yes. That's the name they give me. It simply means that if any member wants to badger some one in the House about the Colonies, I am the man to be badgered. But if there is any credit to be had, I am not the man who is to have it.’

  ‘But it is a great thing to be in Parliament and in the Government too.’

  ‘It is a great thing for me, Mary, to have a salary, though it may only be for a year or two. However, I will not deny that it is pleasant to have been successful.’

  ‘It has been very pleasant to us, Phineas. Mamma has been so much rejoiced.’

  ‘I am so sorry not to see her. She is at Floodborough, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, yes; – she is at home. She does not like coming out at night in winter. I have been staying here you know for two days, but I go home to-morrow.’

  ‘I will ride over and call on your mother.’ Then there was a pause in the conversation for a moment. ‘Does it not seem odd, Mary, that we should see so little of each other?’

  ‘You are so much away, of course.’

  ‘Yes; – that is the reason. But still it seems almost unnatural. I often wonder when the time will come that I shall be quietly at home again. I have to be back in my office in London this day week, and yet I have not had a single hour to myself since I have been at Killaloe. But I will certainly ride over and see your mother. You will be at home on Wednesday I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, – I shall be at home.’

  Upon that he got up and went away, but again in the evening he found himself near her. Perhaps there is no position more perilous to a man's honesty than that in which Phineas now found himself; – that, namely, of knowing himself to be quite loved by a girl whom he almost loves himself. Of course he loved Violet Effingham; and they who talk best of love protest that no man or woman can be in love with two persons at once. Phineas was not in love with Mary Flood Jones; but he would have liked to take her in his arms and kiss her; he would have liked to gratify her by swearing that she was dearer to him than all the world; he would have liked to have an episode, – and did, at the moment, think that it might be possible to have one life in London and another life altogether different at Killaloe. ‘Dear Mary,’ he said as he pressed her hand that night, ‘things will get themselves settled at last, I suppose.’ He was behaving very ill to her, but he did not mean to behave ill.

  He rode over to Floodborough, and saw Mrs Flood Jones. Mrs Flood Jones, however, received him very coldly; and Mary did not appear. Mary had communicated to her mother her resolutions as to her future life. ‘The fact is, mamma, I love him. I cannot help it. If he ever chooses to come for me, here I am. If he does not, I will bear it as well as I can. It may be very mean of me, but it's true.’

  CHAPTER 51

  Troubles at Loughlinter

  THERE was a dull house at Loughlinter during the greater part of this autumn. A few men went down for the grouse shooting late in the season; but they stayed but a short time, and when they went Lady Laura was left alone with her husband. Mr Kennedy had explained to his wife, more than once, that though he understood the duties of hospitality and enjoyed the performance of them, he had not married with the intention of living in a whirlwind. He was disposed to think that the whirlwind had hitherto been too predominant, and had said so very plainly with a good deal of marital aut
hority. This autumn and winter were to be devoted to the cultivation of proper relations between him and his wife. ‘Does that mean Darby and Joan?’ his wife had asked him, when the proposition was made to her. ‘It means mutual regard and esteem,’ replied Mr Kennedy in his most solemn tone, ‘and I trust that such mutual regard and esteem between us may yet be possible.’ When Lady Laura showed him a letter from her brother, received some weeks after this conversation, in which Lord Chiltern expressed his intention of coming to Loughlinter for Christmas, he returned the note to his wife without a word. He suspected that she had made the arrangement without asking him, and was angry; but he would not tell her that her brother would not be welcome at his house. ‘It is not my doing,’ she said, when she saw the frown on his brow.

  ‘I said nothing about anybody's doing,’ he replied.

  ‘I will write to Oswald and bid him not come, if you wish it. Of course you can understand why he is coming.

  ‘Not to see me, I am sure,’ said Mr Kennedy.

  ‘Nor me,’ replied Lady Laura. ‘He is coming because my friend Violet Effingham will be here.’

  ‘Miss Effingham! Why was I not told of this? I knew nothing of Miss Effingham's coming.’

  ‘Robert, it was settled in your own presence last July.’

  ‘I deny it.’

  Then Lady Laura rose up, very haughty in her gait and with something of fire in her eye, and silently left the room. Mr Kennedy, when he found himself alone, was very unhappy. Looking back in his mind to the summer weeks in London, he remembered that his wife had told Violet that she was to spend her Christmas at Loughlinter, that he himself had given a muttered assent, and that Violet, – as far as he could remember, – had made no reply. It had been one of those things which are so often mentioned, but not settled. He felt that he had been strictly right in denying that it had been ‘settled’ in his presence; – but yet he felt that he had been wrong in contradicting his wife so peremptorily. He was a just man, and he would apologise for his fault; but he was an austere man, and would take back the value of his apology in additional austerity. He did not see his wife for some hours after the conversation which has been narrated, but when he did meet her his mind was still full of the subject. ‘Laura,’ he said, ‘I am sorry that I contradicted you.’

  ‘I am quite used to it, Robert.’

  ‘No; – you are not used to it.’ She smiled and bowed her head. ‘You wrong me by saying that you are used to it.’ Then he paused a moment, but she said not a word,–only smiled and bowed her head again. ‘I remember,’ he continued, ‘that something was said in my presence to Miss Effingham about her coming here at Christmas. It was so slight, however, that it had passed out of my memory till recalled by an effort. I beg your pardon.’

  ‘That is unnecessary, Robert.’

  ‘It is, dear.’

  ‘And do you wish that I should put her off, – or put Oswald off, – or both? My brother never yet has seen me in your house.’

  ‘And whose fault has that been?’

  ‘I have said nothing about anybody's fault, Robert. I merely mentioned a fact. Will you let me know whether I shall bid him stay away?’

  ‘He is welcome to come, – only I do not like assignations for love-making.’

  ‘Assignations!’

  ‘Clandestine meetings. Lady Baldock would not wish it.’

  ‘Lady Baldock! Do you think that Violet would exercise any secrecy in the matter, – or that she will not tell Lady Baldock that Oswald will be here, – as soon as she knows it herself?’

  That has nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Surely, Robert, it must have much to do with it. And why should not these two young people meet? The acknowledged wish of all the family is that they should marry each other. And in this matter, at any rate, my brother has behaved uniformly well.’ Mr Kennedy said nothing further at the time, and it became an understanding that Violet Effingham was to be a month at Loughlinter, staying from the 20th of December to the 20th of January, and that Lord Chiltern was to come there for Christmas, – which with him would probably mean three days.

  Before Christmas came, however, there were various other sources of uneasiness at Loughlinter. There had been, as a matter of course, great anxiety as to the elections. With Lady Laura this anxiety had been very strong, and even Mr Kennedy had been warmed with some amount of fire as the announcements reached him of the successes and of the failures. The English returns came first, – and then the Scotch, which were quite as interesting to Mr Kennedy as the English. His own seat was quite safe, – was not contested; but some neighbouring seats were sources of great solicitude. Then, when this was over, there were the tidings from Ireland to be received; and respecting one special borough in Ireland, Lady Laura evinced more solicitude than her husband approved. There was much danger for the domestic bliss of the house of Loughlinter, when things came to such a pass, and such words were spoken, as the election at Loughshane produced.

  ‘He is in,’ said Lady Laura, opening a telegram.

  ‘Who is in?’ said Mr Kennedy, with that frown on his brow to which his wife was now well accustomed. Though he asked the question, he knew very well who was the hero to whom the telegram referred.

  ‘Our friend Phineas Finn,’ said Lady Laura, speaking still with an excited voice, – with a voice that was intended to display excitement. If there was to be a battle on this matter, there should be a battle. She would display all her anxiety for her young friend, and fling it in her husband's face if he chose to take it as an injury. What, – should she endure reproach from her husband because she regarded the interests of the man who had saved his life, of the man respecting whom she had suffered so many heart-struggles, and as to whom she had at last come to the conclusion that he should ever be regarded as a second brother, loved equally with the elder brother? She had done her duty by her husband, – so at least she assured herself; – and should he dare to reproach her on this subject, she would be ready for the battle. And now the battle came. ‘I am glad of this,’ she said, with all the eagerness she could throw into her voice. ‘I am, indeed; – and so ought you to be.’ The husband's brow grew blacker and blacker, but still he said nothing. He had long been too proud to be jealous, and was now too proud to express his jealousy, – if only he could keep the expression back. But his wife would not leave the subject. ‘I am so thankful for this,’ she said, pressing the telegram between her hands. ‘I was so afraid he would fail!’

  ‘You over-do your anxiety on such a subject,’ at last he said, speaking very slowly.

  ‘What do you mean, Robert? How can I be over-anxious? If it concerned any other dear friend that I have in the world, it would not be an affair of life and death. To him it is almost so. I would have walked from here to London to get him his election.’ And as she spoke she held up the clenched fist of her left hand, and shook it, while she still held the telegram in her right hand.

  ‘Laura, I must tell you that it is improper that you should speak of any man in those terms; – of any man that is a stranger to your blood.’

  ‘A stranger to my blood! What has that to do with it? This man is my friend, is your friend; – saved your life, has been my brother's best friend, is loved by my father, – and is loved by me, very dearly. Tell me what you mean by improper!’

  ‘I will not have you love any man, – very dearly.’

  ‘Robert!’

  ‘I tell you that I will have no such expressions from you. They are unseemly, and are used only to provoke me.’

  ‘Am I to understand that I am insulted by an accusation? If so, let me beg at once that I may be allowed to go to Saulsby. I would rather accept your apology and retractation there than here.’

  ‘You will not go to Saulsby, and there has been no accusation, and there will be no apology. If you please there will be no more mention of Mr Finn's name between us, for the present. If you will take my advice, you will cease to think of him extravagantly; – and I must desire you to hold no fur
ther direct communication with him.’

  ‘I have held no communication with him,’ said Lady Laura, advancing a step towards him. But Mr Kennedy simply pointed to the telegram in her hand, and left the room. Now in respect to this telegram there had been an unfortunate mistake. I am not prepared to say that there was any reason why Phineas himself should not have sent the news of his success to Lady Laura; but he had not done so. The piece of paper which she still held crushed in her hand was in itself very innocent. ‘Hurrah for the Lough-shanes. Finny has done the trick.’ Such were the words written on the slip, and they had been sent to Lady Laura by her young cousin, the clerk in the office who acted as private secretary to the Under-Secretary of State. Lady Laura resolved that her husband should never see those innocent but rather undignified words. The occasion had become one of importance, and such words were unworthy of it. Besides, she would not condescend to defend herself by bringing forward a telegram as evidence in her favour. So she burned the morsel of paper.

  Lady Laura and Mr Kennedy did not meet again till late that evening. She was ill, she said, and would not come down to dinner. After dinner she wrote him a note. ‘Dear Robert, I think you must regret what you said to me. If so, pray let me have a line from you to that effect. Yours affectionately, L.’ When the servant handed it to him, and he had read it, he smiled and thanked the girl who had brought it, and said he would see her mistress just now. Anything would be better than that the servants should know that there was a quarrel. But every servant in the house had known all about it for the last three hours. When the door was closed and he was alone, he sat fingering the note, thinking deeply how he should answer it, or whether he would answer it at all. No; he would not answer it; – not in writing. He would give his wife no written record of his humiliation. He had not acted wrongly. He had said nothing more than now, upon mature consideration, he thought that the circumstances demanded. But yet he felt that he must in some sort withdraw the accusation which he had made. If he did not withdraw it, there was no knowing what his wife might do. About ten in the evening he went up to her and made his little speech. ‘My dear, I have come to answer your note.’