“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 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 LXVII
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 saw 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 ti
me 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 acknowledgment, 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 his 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 way out of all your 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.”
“I don’t see how a fellow is to help himself,” said Phineas. “When a fellow begins to meddle with politics they will come.”
“Why can’t you grow into them gradually as your betters and elders have done before you? It ought to be enough for any man, when he begins, to know that he’s a Liberal. He understands which side of the House he’s to vote, and who is to lead him. What’s the meaning of having a leader to a party, if it’s not that? Do you think that you and Mr. Monk can go and make a government between you?”
“Whatever I think, I’m sure he doesn’t.”
“I’m not so sure of that. But look here, Phineas, I don’t care two straws about Monk’s going. I always thought that Mildmay and the Duke were wrong when they asked him to join. I knew he’d go over the traces, — unless, indeed, he took his money and did nothing for it, which is the way with some of those Radicals. I look upon him as gone.”
“He has gone.”
“The devil go along with him, as you say in Ireland. But don’t you be such a fool as to ruin yourself for a crotchet of Monk’s. It isn’t too late yet for you to hold back. To tell you the truth, Gresham has said a word to me about it already. He is most anxious that you should stay, but of course you can’t stay and vote against us.”
“Of course I cannot.”
“I look upon you, you know, as in some sort my own child. I’ve tried to bring other fellows forward who seemed to have something in them, but I have never succeeded as I have with you. You’ve hit the thing off, and have got the ball at your foot. Upon my honour, in the whole course of my experience I have never known such good fortune as yours.”
“And I shall always remember how it began, Barrington,” said Phineas, who was greatly moved by the energy and solicitude of his friend.
“But, for God’s sake, don’t go and destroy it all by such mad perversity as this. They mean to do something next session. Morrison is going to take it up.” Sir Walter Morrison was at this time Secretary for Ireland. “But of course we can’t let a fellow like Monk take the matter into his own hands just when he pleases. I call it d––––d treachery.”
“Monk is no traitor, Barrington.”
“Men will have their own opinions about that. It’s generally understood that when a man is asked to take a seat in the Cabinet he is expected to conform with his colleagues, unless something very special turns up. But I am speaking of you now
, and not of Monk. You are not a man of fortune. You cannot afford to make ducks and drakes. You are excellently placed, and you have plenty of time to hark back, if you’ll only listen to reason. All that Irish stump balderdash will never be thrown in your teeth by us, if you will just go on as though it had never been uttered.”
Phineas could only thank his friend for his advice, which was at least disinterested, and was good of its kind, and tell him that he would think of it. He did think of it very much. He almost thought that, were it to do again, he would allow Mr. Monk to go upon his tour alone, and keep himself from the utterance of anything that so good a judge as Erle could call stump balderdash. As he sat in his arm-chair in his room at the Colonial Office, with despatch-boxes around him, and official papers spread before him, — feeling himself to be one of those who in truth managed and governed the affairs of this great nation, feeling also that if he relinquished his post now he could never regain it, — he did wish that he had been a little less in love with independence, a little quieter in his boastings that no official considerations should ever silence his tongue. But all this was too late now. He knew that his skin was not thick enough to bear the arrows of those archers who would bend their bows against him if he should now dare to vote against Mr. Monk’s motion. His own party might be willing to forgive and forget; but there would be others who would read those reports, and would appear in the House with the odious tell-tale newspapers in their hands.
Then he received a letter from his father. Some good-natured person had enlightened the doctor as to the danger in which his son was placing himself. Dr. Finn, who in his own profession was a very excellent and well-instructed man, had been so ignorant of Parliamentary tactics, as to have been proud at his son’s success at the Irish meetings. He had thought that Phineas was carrying on his trade as a public speaker with proper energy and continued success. He had cared nothing himself for tenant-right, and had acknowledged to Mr. Monk that he could not understand in what it was that the farmers were wronged. But he knew that Mr. Monk was a Cabinet Minister, and he thought that Phineas was earning his salary. Then there came some one who undeceived him, and the paternal bosom of the doctor was dismayed. “I don’t mean to interfere,” he said in his letter, “but I can hardly believe that you really intend to resign your place. Yet I am told that you must do so if you go on with this matter. My dear boy, pray think about it. I cannot imagine you are disposed to lose all that you have won for nothing.” Mary also wrote to him. Mrs. Finn had been talking to her, and Mary had taught herself to believe that after the many sweet conversations she had had with a man so high in office as Phineas, she really did understand something about the British Government. Mrs. Finn had interrogated Mary, and Mary had been obliged to own that it was quite possible that Phineas would be called upon to resign.
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