Still he did not tell her of the letter in his pocket. He felt that she moved him, – that she made him acknowledge to himself how great would be the pity of such a failure as would be his. He was quite as much alive as she could be to the fact that work at the Bar, either in London or in Dublin, would have no charms for him now. The prospect of such a life was very dreary to him. Even with the comfort of Mary's love such a life would be very dreary to him. And then he knew, – he thought that he knew, – that were he to offer himself to Madame Goesler he would not in truth be rejected. She had told him that if poverty was a trouble to him he need be no longer poor. Of course he had understood this. Her money was at his service if he should choose to stoop and pick it up. And it was not only money that such a marriage would give him. He had acknowledged to himself more than once that Madame Goesler was very lovely, that she was clever, attractive in every way, and, as far as he could see, blessed with a sweet temper. She had a position, too, in the world that would help him rather than mar him. What might he not do with an independent seat in the House of Commons, and as joint owner of the little house in Park Lane? Of all careers which the world could offer to a man the pleasantest would then be within his reach. ‘You appear to me as a tempter,’ he said at last to Lady Laura.
‘It is unkind of you to say that, and ungrateful. I would do anything on earth in my power to help you.’
‘Nevertheless you are a tempter.’
‘I know how it ought to have been,’ she said, in a low voice. ‘I know very well how it ought to have been. I should have kept myself free till that time when we met on the braes of Loughlinter, and then all would have been well with us.’
‘I do not know how that might have been,’ said Phineas, hoarsely.
‘You do not know! But I know. Of course you have stabbed me with a thousand daggers when you have told me from time to time of your love for Violet. You have been very cruel, – needlessly cruel. Men are so cruel! But for all that I have known that I could have kept you, – had it not been too late when you spoke to me. Will you not own as much as that?’
‘Of course you would have been everything to me. I should never have thought of Violet then.’
‘That is the only kind word you have said to me from that day to this. I try to comfort myself in thinking that it would have been so. But all that is past and gone, and done. I have had my romance and you have had yours. As you are a man, it is natural that you should have been disturbed by a double image; – it is not so with me.’
‘And yet you can advise me to offer marriage to a woman, – a woman whom I am to seek merely because she is rich?’
‘Yes; – I do so advise you. You have had your romance and must now put up with reality. Why should I so advise you but for the interest that I have in you? Your prosperity will do me no good. I shall not even be here to see it. I shall hear of it only as so many a woman banished out of England hears a distant misunderstood report of what is going on in the country she has left. But I still have regard enough, – I will be bold, and, knowing that you will not take it amiss, will say love enough for you, – to feel a desire that you should not be shipwrecked. Since we first took you in hand between us, Barrington and I, I have never swerved in my anxiety on your behalf. When I resolved that it would be better for us both that we should be only friends, I did not swerve. When you would talk to me so cruelly of your love for Violet, I did not swerve. When I warned you from Loughlinter because I thought there was danger, I did not swerve. When I bade you not to come to me in London because of my husband, I did not swerve. When my father was hard upon you, I did not swerve then. I would not leave him till he was softened. When you tried to rob Oswald of his love, and I thought you would succeed, – for I did think so, I did not swerve. I have ever been true to you. And now that I must hide myself and go away, and be seen no more, I am true still.’
‘LauLaura, – dearest Laura!’ he exclaimed.
‘Ah, no!’ she said, speaking with no touch of anger, but all in sorrow; – ‘it must not be like that. There is no room for that. Nor do you mean it. I do not think so ill of you. But there may not be even words of affection between us; – only such as I may speak to make you know that I am your friend.’
‘You are my friend,’ he said, stretching out his hand to her as he turned away his face. ‘You are my friend, indeed.’
‘Then do as I would have you do.’
He put his hand into his pocket, and had the letter between his fingers with the purport of showing it to her. But at the moment the thought occurred to him that were he to do so, then, indeed, he would be bound for ever. He knew that he was bound for ever, – bound for ever to his own Mary; but he desired to have the privilege of thinking over such bondage once more before he proclaimed it even to his dearest friend. He had told her that she tempted him, and she stood before him now as a temptress. But lest it might be possible that she should not tempt in vain, – that letter in his pocket must never be shown to her. In that case Lady Laura must never hear from his lips the name of Mary Hood Jones.
He left her without any assured purpose; – without, that is, the assurance to her of any fixed purpose. There yet wanted a week to the day on which Mr Monk's Bill was to be read, – or not to be read, – the second time; and he had still that interval before he need decide. He went to his club, and before he dined he strove to write a line to Mary; – but when he had the paper before him he found that it was impossible to do so. Though he did not even suspect himself of an intention to be false, the idea that was in his mind made the effort too much for him. He put the paper away from him and went down and eat his dinner.
It was a Saturday, and there was no House in the evening. He had remained in Portman Square with Lady Laura till near seven o'clock, and was engaged to go out in the evening to a gathering at Mrs Gresham's house. Everybody in London would be there, and Phineas was resolved that as long as he remained in London he would be seen at places where everybody was seen. He would certainly be at Mrs Gresham's gathering; but there was an hour or two before he need go home to dress, and as he had nothing to do, he went down to the smoking-room of his club. The seats were crowded, but there was one vacant; and before he had looked about him to scrutinise his neighbourhood, he found that he had placed himself with Bonteen on his right hand and Ratler on his left. There were no two men in all London whom he more thoroughly disliked; but it was too late for him to avoid them now.
They instantly attacked him, first on one side and then on the other. ‘So I am told you are going to leave us,’ said Bonteen.
‘Who can have been ill-natured enough to whisper such a thing?’ replied Phineas.
‘The whispers are very loud, I can tell you,’ said Ratler. ‘I think I know already pretty nearly how every man in the House will vote, and I have not got your name down on the right side.’
‘Change it for heaven's sake,’ said Phineas.
‘I will, if you'll tell me seriously that I may,’ said Ratler.
‘My opinion is,’ said Bonteen, ‘that a man should be known either as a friend or foe. I respect a declared foe.’
‘Know me as a declared foe, then,’ said Phineas, ‘and respect me.’
‘That's all very well,’ said Ratler, ‘but it means nothing. I've always had a sort of fear about you, Finn, that you would go over the traces some day. Of course it's a very grand thing to be independent.’
‘The finest thing in the world,’ said Bonteen; ‘only so d—d useless.’
‘But a man shouldn't be independent and stick to the ship at the same time. You forget the trouble you cause, and how you upset all calculations.’
‘I hadn't thought of the calculations,’ said Phineas.
‘The fact is, Finn,’ said Bonteen, ‘you are made of clay too fine for office. I've always found it has been so with men from your country. You are the grandest horses in the world to look at out on a prairie, but you don't like the slavery of harness.’
‘And the sound of a wh
ip over our shoulders sets us kicking; – does it not, Ratler?’
‘I shall show the list to Gresham to-morrow,’ said Ratler, ‘and of course he can do as he pleases; but I don't understand this kind of thing.’
‘Don't you be in a hurry,’ said Bonteen. ‘I'll bet you a sovereign Finn votes with us yet. There's nothing like being a little coy to set off a girl's charms. I'll bet you a sovereign, Ratler, that Finn goes out into the lobby with you and me against Monk's bill.’
Phineas not being able to stand any more of this most unpleasant raillery, got up and went away. The club was distasteful to him, and he walked off and sauntered for a while about the park. He went down by the Duke of York's column as though he were going to his office, which of course was closed at this hour, but turned round when he got beyond the new public buildings, – buildings which he was never destined to use in their completed state, – and entered the gates of the enclosure, and wandered on over the bridge across the water. As he went his mind was full of thought. Could it be good for him to give up everything for a fair face? He swore to himself that of all women whom he had ever seen Mary was the sweetest and the dearest and the best. If it could be well to lose the world for a woman, it would be well to lose it for her. Violet, with all her skill, and all her strength, and all her grace, could never have written such a letter as that which he still held in his pocket. The best charm of a woman is that she should be soft, and trusting, and generous; and who ever had been more soft, more trusting, and more generous than his Mary? Of course he would be true to her, though he did lose the world.
But to yield such a triumph to the Ratlers and Bonteens whom he left behind him, – to let them have their will over him, – to know that they would rejoice scurrilously behind his back over his downfall! The feeling was terrible to him. The last words which Bonteen had spoken made it impossible to him now not to support his old friend Mr Monk. It was not only what Bonteen had said, but that the words of Mr Bonteen so plainly indicated what would be the words of all the other Bonteens. He knew that he was weak in this. He knew that had he been strong, he would have allowed himself to be guided, – if not by the firm decision of his own spirit, – by the counsels of such men as Mr Gresham and Lord Cantrip, and not by the sarcasms of the Bonteens and Ratlers of official life. But men who sojourn amidst savagery fear the mosquito more than they do the lion. He could not bear to think that he should yield his blood to such a one as Bonteen.
And he must yield his blood, unless he could vote for Mr Monk's motion, and hold his ground afterwards among them all in the House of Commons. He would at any rate see the session out, and try a fall with Mr Bonteen when they should be sitting on different benches, – if ever fortune should give him an opportunity. And in the meantime, what should he do about Madame Goesler? What a fate was his to have the handsomest woman in London with thousands and thousands a year at his disposal! For, – so he now swore to himself, – Madame Goesler was the handsomest woman in London, as Mary Flood Jones was the sweetest girl in all the world.
He had not arrived at any decision so fixed as to make him comfortable when he went home and dressed for Mrs Gresham's party. And yet he knew, – he thought that he knew that he would be true to Mary Flood Jones.
CHAPTER 70
The Prime Minister's House
THE rooms and passages and staircases at Mrs Gresham's house were very crowded when Phineas arrived there. Men of all shades of politics were there, and the wives and daughters of such men; and there was a streak of royalty in one of the saloons, and a whole rainbow of foreign ministers with their stars, and two blue ribbons were to be seen together on the first landing-place, with a stout lady between them carrying diamonds enough to load a pannier. Everybody was there. Phineas found that even Lord Chiltern was come, as he stumbled across his friend on the first foot-ground that he gained in his ascent towards the rooms. ‘Halloa, – you here?’ said Phineas, ‘Yes, by George!’ said the other, ‘but I am going to escape as soon as possible. I've been trying to make my way up for the last hour, but could never get round that huge promontory there. Laura was more persevering.’ ‘Is Kennedy here?’ Phineas whispered. ‘I do not know,’ said Chiltern, ‘but she was determined to run the chance.’
A little higher up, – for Phineas was blessed with more patience than Lord Chiltern possessed, – he came upon Mr Monk. ‘So you are still admitted privately,’ said Phineas.
‘Oh dear yes, – and we have just been having a most friendly conversation about you. What a man he is! He knows everything. He is so accurate; so just in the abstract, – and in the abstract so generous!’ 95
‘He has been very generous to me in detail as well as in abstract,’ said Phineas.
‘Ah, yes; I am not thinking of individuals exactly. His want of generosity is to large masses, – to a party, to classes, to a people; whereas his generosity is for mankind at large. He assumes the god, affects to nod, and seems to shake the spheres. But I have nothing to say against him. He has asked me here to-night, and has talked to me most familiarly about Ireland.’
‘What do you think of your chance of a second reading?’ asked Phineas.
‘What do you think of it? – you hear more of those things than I do.’
‘Everybody says it will be a close division.’
‘I never expected it,’ said Mr Monk.
‘Nor I, – till I heard what Daubeny said at the first reading. They will all vote for the bill en masse, – hating it in their hearts all the time.’
‘Let us hope they are not so bad as that.’
‘It is the way with them always. They do all our work for us, – sailing either on one tack or the other. That is their use in creation, that when we split among ourselves, as we always do, they come in and finish our job for us. It must be unpleasant for them to be always doing that which they always say should never be done at all.’
‘Wherever the gift horse may come from, I shall not look it in the mouth,’ said Mr Monk. ‘There is only one man in the House whom I hope I may not see in the lobby with me, and that is yourself.’
‘The question is decided now,’ said Phineas.
‘And how is it decided?’
Phineas could not tell his friend that a question of so great magnitude to him had been decided by the last sting which he had received from an insect so contemptible as Mr Bonteen, but he expressed the feeling as well as he knew how to express it. ‘Oh, I shall be with you. I know what you are going to say, and I know how good you are. But I could not stand it. Men are beginning already to say things which almost make me get up and kick them. If I can help it, I will give occasion to no man to hint anything to me which can make me be so wretched as I have been to-day. Pray do not say anything more. My idea is that I shall resign to-morrow.’
‘Then I hope that we may fight the battle side by side,’ said Mr Monk, giving him his hand.
‘We will fight the battle side by side,’ replied Phineas.
After that he pushed his way still higher up the stairs, having no special purpose in view, not dreaming of any such success as that of reaching his host or hostess, – merely feeling that it should be a point of honour with him to make a tour through the rooms before he descended the stairs. The thing, he thought, was to be done with courage and patience, and this might, probably, be the last time in his life that he would find himself in the house of a Prime Minister. Just at the turn of the balustrade at the top of the stairs, he found Mr Gresham in the very spot on which Mr Monk had been talking with him. ‘Very glad to see you,’ said Mr Gresham. ‘You, I find, are a persevering man, with a genius for getting upwards.’
‘Like the sparks,’ said Phineas.
‘Not quite so quickly,’ said Mr Gresham.
‘But with the same assurance of speedy loss of my little light.’ It did not suit Mr Gresham to understand this, so he changed the subject. ‘Have you seen the news from America?’
‘Yes, I have seen it, but do not believe it,’ said Phineas.96
‘Ah, you have such faith in a combination of British colonies, properly backed in Downing Street, as to think them strong against a world in arms. In your place I should hold to the same doctrine, – hold to it stoutly.’
‘And you do now, I hope, Mr Gresham?’
‘Well, – yes, – am not down-hearted. But I confess to a feeling that the world would go on even though we had nothing to say to a single province in North America. But that is for your private ear. You are not to whisper that in Downing Street.’ Then there came up somebody else, and Phineas went on upon his slow course. He had longed for an opportunity to tell Mr Gresham that he could go to Downing Street no more, but such opportunity had not reached him.
For a long time he found himself stuck close by the side of Miss Fitzgibbon, – Miss Aspasia Fitzgibbon, – who had once relieved him from terrible pecuniary anxiety by paying for him a sum of money which was due by him on her brother's account. ‘It's a very nice thing to be here, but one does get tired of it,’ said Miss Fitzgibbon.
‘Very tired,’ said Phineas.
‘Of course it is a part of your duty, Mr Finn. You are on your promotion and are bound to be here. When I asked Laurence to come, he said there was nothing to be got till the cards were shuffled again.’
‘They'll be shuffled very soon,’ said Phineas.
‘Whatever colour comes up, you'll hold trumps, I know,’ said the lady. ‘Some hands always hold trumps.’ He could not explain to Miss Fitzgibbon that it would never again be his fate to hold a single trump in his hand; so he made another fight, and got on a few steps farther.
Phineas Finn, the Irish Member Page 73
