Phineas Finn, the Irish Member

by Anthony Trollope

‘But I do not think they will. You have been too useful, and they will wish to avoid the weakness which comes to a ministry from changing its team. Good-bye, my dear fellow; and remember this, – my last word of advice to you is to stick by the ship. I am quite sure it is a career which will suit you. I did not begin it soon enough.’

  Phineas was rather melancholy as he returned alone to Killaloe. It was all very well to bid him stick to the ship, and he knew as well as any one could tell him how material the ship was to him; but there are circumstances in which a man cannot stick to his ship, – cannot stick, at least, to this special Government ship. He knew that whither Mr Monk went, in this session, he must follow. He had considerable hope that when Mr Monk explained his purpose to the Prime Minister, the Prime Minister would feel himself obliged to give way. In that case Phineas would not only be able to keep his office, but would have such an opportunity of making a speech in Parliament as circumstances had never yet given to him. When he was again at home he said nothing to his father or to the Killaloeians as to the danger of his position. Of what use would it be to make his mother and sisters miserable, or to incur the useless counsels of the doctor? They seemed to think his speech at Dublin very fine, and were never tired of talking of what Mr Monk and Phineas were going to do; but the idea had not come home to them that if Mr Monk or Phineas chose to do anything on their own account, they must give up the places which they held under the Crown.

  It was September when Phineas found himself back at Killaloe, and he was due to be at his office in London in November. The excitement of Mr Monk's company was now over, and he had nothing to do but to receive pouches full of official papers from the Colonial Office, and study all the statistics which came within his reach in reference to the proposed new law for tenant-right. In the meantime Mary was still living with her mother at Killaloe, and still kept herself somewhat aloof from the man she loved. How could it be possible for him not to give way in such circumstances as those?

  One day he found himself talking to her about himself, and speaking to her of his own position with more frankness than he ever used with his own family. He had begun by reminding her of that conversation which they had had before he went away with Mr Monk, and by reminding her also that she had promised to return to her old friendly ways with him.

  ‘Nay, Phineas; there was no promise,’ she said.

  ‘And are we not to be friends?’

  ‘I only say that I made no particular promise. Of course we are friends. We have always been friends.’

  ‘What would you say if you heard that I had resigned my office and given up my seat?’ he asked. Of course she expressed her surprise, almost her horror, at such an idea, and then he told her everything. It took long in the telling, because it was necessary that he should explain to her the working of the system which made it impossible for him, as a member of the Government, to entertain an opinion of his own.

  ‘And do you mean that you would lose your salary?’ she asked.

  ‘Certainly I should.’

  ‘Would not that be very dreadful?’

  e laughed as he acknowledged that it would be dreadful. ‘It is very dreadful, Mary, to have nothing to eat and drink. But what is a man to do? Would you recommend me to say that black is white?’

  ‘I am sure you will never do that.’

  ‘You see, Mary, it is very nice to be called by a big name and to have a salary, and it is very comfortable to be envied by one's friends and enemies; – but there are drawbacks. There is this especial drawback.’ Then he paused for a moment before he went on.

  ‘What especial drawback, Phineas?’

  ‘A man cannot do what he pleases with himself. How can a man marry, so circumstanced as I am?’

  She hesitated for a moment, and then she answered him, – ‘A man may be very happy without marrying, I suppose.’

  He also paused for many moments before he spoke again, and she then made a faint attempt to escape from him. But before she succeeded he had asked her a question which arrested her. ‘I wonder whether you would listen to me if I were to tell you a history?’ Of course she listened, and the history he told her was the tale of his love for Violet Effingham.

  ‘And she has money of her own?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Yes; – she is rich. She has a large fortune.’

  ‘Then, Mr Finn, you must seek some one else who is equally blessed.’

  ‘Mary, that is untrue, – that is ill-natured. You do not mean that. Say that you do not mean it. You have not believed that I loved Miss Effingham because she was rich.’

  ‘But you have told me that you could love no one who is not rich.’

  ‘I have said nothing of the kind. Love is involuntary. It does not often run in a yoke with prudence. I have told you my history as far as it is concerned with Violet Effingham. I did love her very dearly.’

  ‘Did love her, Mr Finn?’

  ‘Yes; – did love her. Is there any inconstancy in ceasing to love when one is not loved? Is there inconstancy in changing one's love, and in loving again?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Mary, to whom the occasion was becoming so embarrassing that she no longer was able to reply with words that had a meaning in them.

  ‘If there be, dear, I am inconstant.’ He paused, but of course she had not a syllable to say. ‘I have changed my love. But I could not speak of a new passion till I had told the story of that which has passed away. You have heard it all now, Mary. Can you try to love me, after that?’ It had come at last, – the thing for which she had been ever wishing. It had come in spite of her imprudence, and in spite of her prudence. When she had heard him to the end she was not a whit angry with him, – she was not in the least aggrieved, – because he had been lost to her in his love for this Miss Effingham, while she had been so nearly lost by her love for him. For women such episodes in the lives of their lovers have an excitement which is almost pleasurable, whereas each man is anxious to hear his lady swear that until he appeared upon the scene her heart had been fancy free. Mary, upon the whole, had liked the story, – had thought that it had been finely told, and was well pleased with the final catastrophe. But, nevertheless, she was not prepared with her reply. ‘Have you no answer to give me, Mary?’ he said, looking up into her eyes. I am afraid that he did not doubt what would be her answer, – as it would be good that all lovers should do. ‘You must vouchsafe me some word, Mary.’

  When she essayed to speak she found that she was dumb. She could not get her voice to give her the assistance of a single word. She did not cry, but there was a motion as of sobbing in her

  throat which impeded all utterance. She was as happy as earth, – as heaven could make her; but she did not know how to tell him that she was happy. And yet she longed to tell it, that he might know how thankful she was to him for his goodness. He still sat looking at her, and now by degrees he had got her hand in his. ‘Mary,’ he said, ‘will you be my wife, – my own wife?’

  When half an hour had passed, they were still together, and now she had found the use of her tongue. ‘Do whatever you like best,’ she said. ‘I do not care which you do. If you came to me to-morrow and told me you had no income, it would make no difference. Though to love you and to have your love is all the world to me, – though it makes all the difference between misery and happiness, – I would sooner give up that than be a clog on you.’ Then he took her in his arms and kissed her. ‘Oh, Phineas!' she said, ‘I do love you so entirely!’

  ‘My own one!’

  ‘Yes; your own one. But if you had known it all always! Never mind. Now you are my own, – are you not?’

  ‘Indeed yes, dearest.’

  ‘Oh, what a thing it is to be victorious at last.’

  ‘What on earth are you two doing here these two hours together?’ said Barbara, bursting into the room.

  ‘What are we doing?’ said Phineas.

  ‘Yes; – what are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing in particular,’ said Mary.

 
; ‘Nothing at all in particular,’ said Phineas. ‘Only this, – that we have engaged ourselves to marry each other. It is quite a trifle, – is it not, Mary?’

  ‘Oh, Barbara!’ said the joyful girl, springing forward into her friend's arms; ‘I do believe I am the happiest creature on the face of this earth!’

  CHAPTER 67

  Job's Comforters

  BEFORE Phineas had returned to London his engagement with Mary Flood Jones was known to all his family, was known to Mrs Flood Jones, and was indeed known generally to all Killaloe. That other secret of his, which had reference to the probability of his being obliged to throw up his office, was known only to Mary herself. He thought that he had done all that honour required of him in telling her of his position before he had proposed; – so that she might on that ground refuse him if she were so minded. And yet he had known very well that such prudence on her part was not to be expected. If she loved him, of course she would say so when she was asked. And he had known that she loved him. ‘There may be delay, Mary,’ he said to her as he was going; ‘nay, there must be delay, if I am obliged to resign.’

  ‘I do not care a straw for delay if you will be true to me,’ she said.

  ‘Do you doubt my truth, dearest?’

  ‘Not in the least. I will swear by it as the one thing that is truest in the world.’

  ‘You may, dearest. And if this should come to pass I must go to work and put my shoulder to the wheel, and earn an income for you by my old profession before I can make you my wife. With such a motive before me I know that I shall earn an income.’ And thus they parted. Mary, though of course she would have preferred that her future husband should remain in his high office, that he should be a member of Parliament and an Under-Secretary of State, admitted no doubt into her mind to disturb her happiness; and Phineas, though he had many misgivings as to the prudence of what he had done, was not the less strong in his resolution of constancy and endurance. He would throw up his position, resign his seat, and go to work at the Bar instantly, if he found that his independence as a man required him to do so. And, above all, let come what might, he would be true to Mary Flood Jones.

  December was half over before he saw Lord Cantrip. ‘Yes, – yes;’ said Lord Cantrip, when the Under-Secretary began to tell his story; ‘I see what you were about. I wish I had been at your elbow.’

  ‘If you knew the country as I know it, you would be as eager about it as I am.’

  ‘Then I can only say that I am very glad that I do not know the country as you know it. You see, Finn, it's my idea that if a man wants to make himself useful he should stick to some special kind of work. With you it's a thousand pities that you should not do so.’

  ‘You think, then, I ought to resign?’

  ‘I don't say anything about that. As you wish it, of course I'll speak to Gresham. Monk, I believe, has resigned already.’

  ‘He has written to me, and told me so,’ said Phineas.

  ‘I always felt afraid of him for your sake, Finn. Mr Monk is a clever man, and as honest a man as any in the House, but I always thought that he was a dangerous friend for you. However, we will see. I will speak to Gresham after Christmas. There is no hurry about it.’

  When Parliament met the first great subject of interest was the desertion of Mr Monk from the Ministry. He at once took his place below the gangway, sitting as it happened exactly in front of Mr Turnbull, and there he made his explanation. Some one opposite asked a question whether a certain right honourable gentleman had not left the Cabinet. Then Mr Gresham replied that to his infinite regret his right honourable friend, who lately presided at the Board of Trade, had resigned; and he went on to explain that this resignation had, according to his ideas, been quite unnecessary. His right honourable friend entertained certain ideas about Irish tenant-right, as to which he himself and his right honourable friend the Secretary for Ireland could not exactly pledge themselves to be in unison with him; but he had thought that the motion might have rested at any rate over this session. Then Mr Monk explained, making his first great speech on Irish tenant-right. He found himself obliged to advocate some immediate measure for giving security to the Irish farmer; and as he could not do so as a member of the Cabinet, he was forced to resign the honour of that position. He said something also as to the great doubt which had ever weighed on his own mind as to the inexpediency of a man at his time of life submitting himself for the first time to the trammels of office. This called up Mr Turnbull, who took the opportunity of saying that he now agreed cordially with his old friend for the first time since that old friend had listened to the blandishments of the ministerial seducer, and that he welcomed his old friend back to those independent benches with great satisfaction. In this way the debate was very exciting. Nothing was said which made it then necessary for Phineas to get upon his legs or to declare himself; but he perceived that the time would rapidly come in which he must do so. Mr Gresham, though he strove to speak with gentle words, was evidently very angry with the late President of the Board of Trade; and, moreover, it was quite clear that a bill would be introduced by Mr Monk himself, which Mr Gresham was determined to oppose. If all this came to pass and there should be a close division, Phineas felt that his fate would be sealed. When he again spoke to Lord Cantrip on the subject, the Secretary of State shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. ‘I can only advise you,’ said Lord Cantrip, ‘to forget all that took place in Ireland. If you will do so, nobody else will remember it.’ ‘As if it were possible to forget such things,’ he said in the letter which he wrote to Mary that night. ‘Of course I shall go now. If it were not for your sake, I should not in the least regret it.’

  He had been with Madame Goesler frequently in the winter, and had discussed with her so often the question of his official position that she had declared that she was coming at last to understand the mysteries of an English cabinet. ‘I think you are quite right, my friend,’ she said, – ‘quite right. What – you are to be in Parliament and say that this black thing is white, or that this white thing is black, because you like to take your salary! That cannot be honest!’ Then, when he came to talk to her of money, – that he must give up Parliament itself, if he gave up his place, – she offered to lend him money. ‘Why should you not treat me as a friend?’ she said. When he pointed out to her that there would never come a time in which he could pay such money back, she stamped her foot and told him that he had better leave her. ‘You have high principle,’ she said, ‘but not principle sufficiently high to understand that this thing could be done between you and me without disgrace to either of us.’ Then Phineas assured her with tears in his eyes that such an arrangement was impossible without disgrace to him.

  But he whispered to this new friend no word of the engagement with his dear Irish Mary. His Irish life, he would tell himself, was a thing quite apart, and separate from his life in England. He said not a word about Mary Flood Jones to any of those with whom he lived in London. Why should he, feeling as he did that it would so soon be necessary that he should disappear from among them? About Miss Effingham he had said much to Madame Goesler. She had asked him whether he had abandoned all hope. ‘That affair, then, is over?’ she had said.

  ‘Yes; – it is all over now.’

  ‘And she will marry the red-headed, violent lord?’

  ‘Heaven knows. I think she will. But she is exactly the girl to remain unmarried if she takes it into her head that the man she likes is in any way unfitted for her.’

  ‘Does she love this lord?’

  ‘Oh yes; – there is no doubt of that.’ And Phineas, as he made this acknowledgement, seemed to do so without much inward agony of soul. When he had been last in London he could not speak of Violet and Lord Chiltern together without showing that his misery was almost too much for him.

  At this time he received some counsel from two friends. One was Laurence Fitzgibbon, and the other was Barrington Erle. Laurence had always been true to him after a fashion, and had never resented h
is intrusion at the Colonial Office. ‘Phineas, me boy,’ he said, ‘if all this is thrue, you're about up a tree.’

  ‘It is true that I shall support Monk's motion.’

  ‘Then, me boy, you're up a tree as far as office goes. A place like that niver suited me, because, you see, that poker of a young lord expected so much of a man; but you don't mind that kind of thing, and I thought you were as snug as snug.’

  ‘Troubles will come, you see, Laurence.’

  ‘Bedad, yes. It's all throubles, I think, sometimes. But you've a wa out of all our throubles.’

  ‘What way?’

  ‘Pop the question to Madame Max. The money's all thrue, you know.’

  ‘I don't doubt the money in the least,’ said Phineas.

  ‘And it's my belief she'll take you without a second word. Anyways, thry it, Phinny, my boy. That's my advice.’ Phineas so far agreed with his friend Laurence that he thought it possible that Madame Goesler might accept him were he to propose marriage to her. He knew, of course, that that mode of escape from his difficulties was out of the question for him, but he could not explain this to Laurence Fitzgibbon.

  ‘I am sorry to hear that you have taken up a bad cause,’ said Barrington Erle to him.

  ‘It is a pity; – is it not?’

  ‘And the worst of it is that you'll sacrifice yourself and do no good to the cause. I never knew a man break away in this fashion, and not feel afterwards that he had done it all for nothing.’

  ‘But what is a man to do, Barrington? He can't smother his convictions.’

  ‘Convictions! There is nothing on earth that I'm so much afraid of in a young member of Parliament as convictions. There are ever so many rocks against which men get broken. One man can't keep his temper. Another can't hold his tongue. A third can't say a word unless he has been priming himself half a session. A fourth is always thinking of himself, and wanting more than he can get. A fifth is idle, and won't be there when he's wanted. A sixth is always in the way. A seventh lies so that you never can trust him. I've had to do with them all, but a fellow with convictions is the worst of all.’