“But, my dear Mr. Finn, people do make efforts in such cases. I don’t doubt but that at this moment there are a dozen men moving heaven and earth to secure something. No one has more friends than you have.”
Had not her father been present he would have told her what his friends were doing for him, and how unhappy such interferences made him; but he could not explain all this before the Earl. “I would so much rather hear about yourself,” he said, again smiling.
“There is but little to say about us. I suppose Papa has told you?”
But the Earl had told him nothing, and indeed, there was nothing to tell. The lawyer had advised that Mr. Kennedy’s friends should be informed that Lady Laura now intended to live in England, and that they should be invited to make to her some statement as to Mr. Kennedy’s condition. If necessary he, on her behalf, would justify her departure from her husband’s roof by a reference to the outrageous conduct of which Mr. Kennedy had since been guilty. In regard to Lady Laura’s fortune, Mr. Forster said that she could no doubt apply for alimony, and that if the application were pressed at law she would probably obtain it; — but he could not recommend such a step at the present moment. As to the accusation which had been made against her character, and which had become public through the malice of the editor of The People’s Banner, Mr. Forster thought that the best refutation would be found in her return to England. At any rate he would advise no further step at the present moment. Should any further libel appear in the columns of the newspaper, then the question might be again considered. Mr. Forster had already been in Portman Square, and this had been the result of the conference.
“There is not much comfort in it all, — is there?” said Lady Laura.
“There is no comfort in anything,” said the Earl.
When Phineas took his leave Lady Laura followed him out into the hall, and they went together into the large, gloomy dining-room, — gloomy and silent now, but which in former days he had known to be brilliant with many lights, and cheerful with eager voices. “I must have one word with you,” she said, standing close to him against the table, and putting her hand upon his arm. “Amidst all my sorrow, I have been so thankful that he did not — kill you.”
“I almost wish he had.”
“Oh, Phineas! — how can you say words so wicked! Would you have had him a murderer?”
“A madman is responsible for nothing.”
“Where should I have been? What should I have done? But of course you do not mean it. You have everything in life before you. Say some word to me more comfortable than that. You cannot think how I have looked forward to meeting you again. It has robbed the last month of half its sadness.” He put his arm round her waist and pressed her to his side, but he said nothing. “It was so good of you to go to him as you did. How was he looking?”
“Twenty years older than when you saw him last.”
“But how in health?”
“He was thin and haggard.”
“Was he pale?”
“No; flushed and red. He had not shaved himself for days; nor, as I believe, had he been out of his room since he came up to London. I fancy that he will not live long.”
“Poor fellow; — unhappy man! I was very wrong to marry him, Phineas.”
“I have never said so; — nor, indeed, thought so.”
“But I have thought so; and I say it also, — to you. I owe him any reparation that I can make him; but I could not have lived with him. I had no idea, before, that the nature of two human beings could be so unlike. I so often remember what you told me of him, — here; in this house, when I first brought you together. Alas, how sad it has been!”
“Sad, indeed.”
“But can this be true that you tell me of yourself?
“It is quite true. I could not say so before your father, but it is Mr. Bonteen’s doing. There is no remedy. I am sure of that. I am only afraid that people are interfering for me in a manner that will be as disagreeable to me as it will be useless.”
“What friends?” she asked.
He was still standing with his arm round her waist, and he did not like to mention the name of Madame Goesler.
“The Duchess of Omnium, — whom you remember as Lady Glencora Palliser.”
“Is she a friend of yours?”
“No; — not particularly. But she is an indiscreet woman, and hates Bonteen, and has taken it into her stupid head to interest herself in my concerns. It is no doing of mine, and yet I cannot help it.”
“She will succeed.”
“I don’t want assistance from such a quarter; and I feel sure that she will not succeed.”
“What will you do, Phineas?”
“What shall I do? Carry on the battle as long as I can without getting into debt, and then — vanish.”
“You vanished once before, — did you not, — with a wife?”
“And now I shall vanish alone. My poor little wife! It seems all like a dream. She was so good, so pure, so pretty, so loving!”
“Loving! A man’s love is so easily transferred; — as easily as a woman’s hand; — is it not, Phineas? Say the word, for it is what you are thinking.”
“I was thinking of no such thing.”
“You must think it — You need not be afraid to reproach me. I could bear it from you. What could I not bear from you? Oh, Phineas; — if I had only known myself then, as I do now!”
“It is too late for regrets,” he said. There was something in the words which grated on her feelings, and induced her at length to withdraw herself from his arm. Too late for regrets! She had never told herself that it was not too late. She was the wife of another man, and therefore, surely it was too late. But still the word coming from his mouth was painful to her. It seemed to signify that for him at least the game was all over.
“Yes, indeed,” she said, — “if our regrets and remorse were at our own disposal! You might as well say that it is too late for unhappiness, too late for weariness, too late for all the misery that comes from a life’s disappointment.”
“I should have said that indulgence in regrets is vain.”
“That is a scrap of philosophy which I have heard so often before! But we will not quarrel, will we, on the first day of my return?”
“I hope not.”
“And I may speak to Barrington?”
“No; certainly not.”
“But I shall. How can I help it? He will be here to-morrow, and will be full of the coming changes. How should I not mention your name? He knows — not all that has passed, but too much not to be aware of my anxiety. Of course your name will come up?”
“What I request, — what I demand is, that you ask no favour for me. Your father will miss you, — will he not? I had better go now.”
“Good night, Phineas.”
“Good night, dear friend.”
“Dearest, dearest friend,” she said. Then he left her, and without assistance, let himself out into the square. In her intercourse with him there was a passion the expression of which caused him sorrow and almost dismay. He did not say so even to himself, but he felt that a time might come in which she would resent the coldness of demeanour which it would be imperative upon him to adopt in his intercourse with her. He knew how imprudent he had been to stand there with his arm round her waist.
CHAPTER XXXIX
Cagliostro
It had been settled that Parliament should meet on the Thursday in Easter week, and it was known to the world at large that Cabinet Councils were held on the Friday previous, on the Monday, and on the Tuesday; but nobody knew what took place at those meetings. Cabinet Councils are, of course, very secret. What kind of oath the members take not to divulge any tittle of the proceedings at these awful conferences, the general public does not know; but it is presumed that oaths are taken very solemn, and it is known that they are very binding. Nevertheless, it is not an uncommon thing to hear openly at the clubs an account of what has been settled; and, as we all know, not a council is held a
s to which the editor of The People’s Banner does not inform its readers next day exactly what took place. But as to these three Cabinet Councils there was an increased mystery abroad. Statements, indeed, were made, very definite and circumstantial, but then they were various, — and directly opposed one to another. According to The People’s Banner, Mr. Daubeny had resolved, with that enduring courage which was his peculiar characteristic, that he would not be overcome by faction, but would continue to exercise all the functions of Prime Minister until he had had an opportunity of learning whether his great measure had been opposed by the sense of the country, or only by the tactics of an angry and greedy party. Other journals declared that the Ministry as a whole had decided on resigning. But the clubs were in a state of agonising doubt. At the great stronghold of conservative policy in Pall Mall men were silent, embarrassed, and unhappy. The party was at heart divorced from its leaders, — and a party without leaders is powerless. To these gentlemen there could be no triumph, whether Mr. Daubeny went out or remained in office. They had been betrayed; — but as a body were unable even to accuse the traitor. As regarded most of them they had accepted the treachery and bowed their heads beneath it, by means of their votes. And as to the few who had been staunch, — they also were cowed by a feeling that they had been instrumental in destroying their own power by endeavouring to protect a doomed institution. Many a thriving county member in those days expressed a wish among his friends that he had never meddled with the affairs of public life, and hinted at the Chiltern Hundreds. On the other side, there was undoubtedly something of a rabid desire for immediate triumph, which almost deserved that epithet of greedy which was then commonly used by Conservatives in speaking of their opponents. With the Liberal leaders, — such men as Mr. Gresham and the two dukes, — the anxiety displayed was, no doubt, on behalf of the country. It is right, according to our constitution, that the Government should be entrusted to the hands of those whom the constituencies of the country have most trusted. And, on behalf of the country, it behoves the men in whom the country has placed its trust to do battle in season and out of season, — to carry on war internecine, — till the demands of the country are obeyed. A sound political instinct had induced Mr. Gresham on this occasion to attack his opponent simply on the ground of his being the leader only of a minority in the House of Commons. But from among Mr. Gresham’s friends there had arisen a noise which sounded very like a clamour for place, and this noise of course became aggravated in the ears of those who were to be displaced. Now, during Easter week, the clamour became very loud. Could it be possible that the archfiend of a Minister would dare to remain in office till the end of a hurried Session, and then again dissolve Parliament? Men talked of rows in London, — even of revolution, and there were meetings in open places both by day and night. Petitions were to be prepared, and the country was to be made to express itself.
When, however, Thursday afternoon came, Mr. Daubeny “threw up the sponge.” Up to the last moment the course which he intended to pursue was not known to the country at large. He entered the House very slowly, — almost with a languid air, as though indifferent to its performances, and took his seat at about half-past four. Every man there felt that there was insolence in his demeanour, — and yet there was nothing on which it was possible to fasten in the way of expressed complaint. There was a faint attempt at a cheer, — for good soldiers acknowledge the importance of supporting even an unpopular general. But Mr. Daubeny’s soldiers on this occasion were not very good. When he had been seated about five minutes he rose, still very languidly, and began his statement. He and his colleagues, he said, in their attempt to legislate for the good of their country had been beaten in regard to a very great measure by a large majority, and in compliance with what he acknowledged to be the expressed opinion of the House, he had considered it to be his duty — as his colleagues had considered it to be theirs — to place their joint resignations in the hands of Her Majesty. This statement was received with considerable surprise, as it was not generally known that Mr. Daubeny had as yet even seen the Queen. But the feeling most predominant in the House was one almost of dismay at the man’s quiescence. He and his colleagues had resigned, and he had recommended Her Majesty to send for Mr. Gresham. He spoke in so low a voice as to be hardly audible to the House at large, and then paused, — ceasing to speak, as though his work were done. He even made some gesture, as though stepping back to his seat; — deceived by which Mr. Gresham, at the other side of the table, rose to his legs. “Perhaps,” said Mr. Daubeny, — “Perhaps the right honourable gentleman would pardon him, and the House would pardon him, if still, for a moment, he interposed between the House and the right honourable gentleman. He could well understand the impatience of the right honourable gentleman, — who no doubt was anxious to reassume that authority among them, the temporary loss of which he had not perhaps borne with all the equanimity which might have been expected from him. He would promise the House and the right honourable gentleman that he would not detain them long.” Mr. Gresham threw himself back into his seat, evidently not without annoyance, and his enemy stood for a moment looking at him. Unless they were angels these two men must at that moment have hated each other; — and it is supposed that they were no more than human. It was afterwards said that the little ruse of pretending to resume his seat had been deliberately planned by Mr. Daubeny with the view of seducing Mr. Gresham into an act of seeming impatience, and that these words about his opponent’s failing equanimity had been carefully prepared.
Mr. Daubeny stood for a minute silent, and then began to pour forth that which was really his speech on the occasion. Those flaccid half-pronounced syllables in which he had declared that he had resigned, — had been studiously careless, purposely flaccid. It was his duty to let the House know the fact, and he did his duty. But now he had a word to say in which he himself could take some little interest. Mr. Daubeny could be fiery or flaccid as it suited himself; — and now it suited him to be fiery. He had a prophecy to make, and prophets have ever been energetic men. Mr. Daubeny conceived it to be his duty to inform the House, and through the House the country, that now, at last, had the day of ruin come upon the British Empire, because it had bowed itself to the dominion of an unscrupulous and greedy faction. It cannot be said that the language which he used was unmeasured, because no word that he uttered would have warranted the Speaker in calling him to order; but, within the very wide bounds of parliamentary etiquette, there was no limit to the reproach and reprobation which he heaped on the House of Commons for its late vote. And his audacity equalled his insolence. In announcing his resignation, he had condescended to speak of himself and his colleagues; but now he dropped his colleagues as though they were unworthy of his notice, and spoke only of his own doings, — of his own efforts to save the country, which was indeed willing to be saved, but unable to select fitting instruments of salvation. “He had been twitted,” he said, “with inconsistency to his principles by men who were simply unable to understand the meaning of the word Conservatism. These gentlemen seemed to think that any man who did not set himself up as an apostle of constant change must therefore be bound always to stand still and see his country perish from stagnation. It might be that there were gentlemen in that House whose timid natures could not face the dangers of any movement; but for himself he would say that no word had ever fallen from his lips which justified either his friends or his adversaries in classing him among the number. If a man be anxious to keep his fire alight, does he refuse to touch the sacred coals as in the course of nature they are consumed? Or does he move them with the salutary poker and add fresh fuel from the basket? They all knew that enemy to the comfort of the domestic hearth, who could not keep his hands for a moment from the fire-irons. Perhaps he might be justified if he said that they had been very much troubled of late in that House by gentlemen who could not keep their fingers from poker and tongs. But there had now fallen upon them a trouble of a nature much more serious in its effects than any that h
ad come or could come from would-be reformers. A spirit of personal ambition, a wretched thirst for office, a hankering after the power and privileges of ruling, had not only actuated men, — as, alas, had been the case since first the need for men to govern others had arisen in the world, — but had been openly avowed and put forward as an adequate and sufficient reason for opposing a measure in disapprobation of which no single argument had been used! The right honourable gentleman’s proposition to the House had been simply this; — ‘I shall oppose this measure, be it good or bad, because I desire, myself, to be Prime Minister, and I call upon those whom I lead in politics to assist me in doing so, in order that they may share the good things on which we may thus be enabled to lay our hands!’”
Then there arose a great row in the House, and there seemed to be a doubt whether the still existing Minister of the day would be allowed to continue his statement. Mr. Gresham rose to his feet, but sat down again instantly, without having spoken a word that was audible. Two or three voices were heard calling upon the Speaker for protection. It was, however, asserted afterwards that nothing had been said which demanded the Speaker’s interference. But all moderate voices were soon lost in the enraged clamour of members on each side. The insolence showered upon those who generally supported Mr. Daubeny had equalled that with which he had exasperated those opposed to him; and as the words had fallen from his lips, there had been no purpose of cheering him from the conservative benches. But noise creates noise, and shouting is a ready and easy mode of contest. For a while it seemed as though the right side of the Speaker’s chair was only beaten by the majority of lungs on the left side; — and in the midst of it all Mr. Daubeny still stood, firm on his feet, till gentlemen had shouted themselves silent, — and then he resumed his speech.
The remainder of what he said was profound, prophetic, and unintelligible. The gist of it, so far as it could be understood when the bran was bolted from it, consisted in an assurance that the country had now reached that period of its life in which rapid decay was inevitable, and that, as the mortal disease had already shown itself in its worst form, national decrepitude was imminent, and natural death could not long be postponed. They who attempted to read the prophecy with accuracy were of opinion that the prophet had intimated that had the nation, even in this its crisis, consented to take him, the prophet, as its sole physician and to obey his prescription with childlike docility, health might not only have been re-established, but a new juvenescence absolutely created. The nature of the medicine that should have been taken was even supposed to have been indicated in some very vague terms. Had he been allowed to operate he would have cut the tap-roots of the national cancer, have introduced fresh blood into the national veins, and resuscitated the national digestion, and he seemed to think that the nation, as a nation, was willing enough to undergo the operation, and be treated as he should choose to treat it; — but that the incubus of Mr. Gresham, backed by an unworthy House of Commons, had prevented, and was preventing, the nation from having its own way. Therefore the nation must be destroyed. Mr. Daubeny as soon as he had completed his speech took up his hat and stalked out of the House.
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