Phineas Redux

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER X.

  THE DESERTED HUSBAND.

  Phineas Finn had been in the gallery of the House throughout thedebate, and was greatly grieved at Mr. Daubeny's success, thoughhe himself had so strongly advocated the disestablishment of theChurch in canvassing the electors of Tankerville. No doubt he hadadvocated the cause,--but he had done so as an advanced member of theLiberal party, and he regarded the proposition when coming from Mr.Daubeny as a horrible and abnormal birth. He, however, was only alooker-on,--could be no more than a looker-on for the existing shortsession. It had already been decided that the judge who was to trythe case at Tankerville should visit that town early in January; andshould it be decided on a scrutiny that the seat belonged to ourhero, then he would enter upon his privilege in the following Sessionwithout any further trouble to himself at Tankerville. Should thisnot be the case,--then the abyss of absolute vacuity would be openbefore him. He would have to make some disposition of himself, but hewould be absolutely without an idea as to the how or where. He was inpossession of funds to support himself for a year or two; but afterthat, and even during that time, all would be dark. If he should gethis seat, then again the power of making an effort would at last bewithin his hands.

  He had made up his mind to spend the Christmas with Lord Brentfordand Lady Laura Kennedy at Dresden, and had already fixed the day ofhis arrival there. But this had been postponed by another invitationwhich had surprised him much, but which it had been impossible forhim not to accept. It had come as follows:--

  November 9th, Loughlinter.

  DEAR SIR,

  I am informed by letter from Dresden that you are in London on your way to that city with the view of spending some days with the Earl of Brentford. You will, of course, be once more thrown into the society of my wife, Lady Laura Kennedy.

  I have never understood, and certainly have never sanctioned, that breach of my wife's marriage vow which has led to her withdrawal from my roof. I never bade her go, and I have bidden her return. Whatever may be her feelings, or mine, her duty demands her presence here, and my duty calls upon me to receive her. This I am and always have been ready to do. Were the laws of Europe sufficiently explicit and intelligible I should force her to return to my house,--because she sins while she remains away, and I should sin were I to omit to use any means which the law might place in my hands for the due control of my own wife. I am very explicit to you although we have of late been strangers, because in former days you were closely acquainted with the condition of my family affairs.

  Since my wife left me I have had no means of communicating with her by the assistance of any common friend. Having heard that you are about to visit her at Dresden I feel a great desire to see you that I may be enabled to send by you a personal message. My health, which is now feeble, and the altered habits of my life render it almost impossible that I should proceed to London with this object, and I therefore ask it of your Christian charity that you should visit me here at Loughlinter. You, as a Roman Catholic, cannot but hold the bond of matrimony to be irrefragable. You cannot, at least, think that it should be set aside at the caprice of an excitable woman who is not able and never has been able to assign any reason for leaving the protection of her husband.

  I shall have much to say to you, and I trust you will come. I will not ask you to prolong your visit, as I have nothing to offer you in the way of amusement. My mother is with me; but otherwise I am alone. Since my wife left me I have not thought it even decent to entertain guests or to enjoy society. I have lived a widowed life. I cannot even offer you shooting, as I have no keepers on the mountains. There are fish in the river doubtless, for the gifts of God are given let men be ever so unworthy; but this, I believe, is not the month for fishermen. I ask you to come to me, not as a pleasure, but as a Christian duty.

  Yours truly,

  ROBERT KENNEDY.

  Phineas Finn, Esq.

  As soon as he had read the letter Phineas felt that he had noalternative but to go. The visit would be very disagreeable, but itmust be made. So he sent a line to Robert Kennedy naming a day; andwrote another to Lady Laura postponing his time at Dresden by a week,and explaining the cause of its postponement. As soon as the debateon the Address was over he started for Loughlinter.

  A thousand memories crowded on his brain as he made the journey.Various circumstances had in his early life,--in that period of hislife which had lately seemed to be cut off from the remainder of hisdays by so clear a line,--thrown him into close connection with thisman, and with the man's wife. He had first gone to Loughlinter, notas Lady Laura's guest,--for Lady Laura had not then been married, oreven engaged to be married,--but on her persuasion rather than onthat of Mr. Kennedy. When there he had asked Lady Laura to be his ownwife, and she had then told him that she was to become the wife ofthe owner of that domain. He remembered the blow as though it hadbeen struck but yesterday, and yet the pain of the blow had not beenlong enduring. But though then rejected he had always been the chosenfriend of the woman,--a friend chosen after an especial fashion. Whenhe had loved another woman this friend had resented his defectionwith all a woman's jealousy. He had saved the husband's life, and hadthen become also the husband's friend, after that cold fashion whichan obligation will create. Then the husband had been jealous, anddissension had come, and the ill-matched pair had been divided, withabsolute ruin to both of them, as far as the material comforts andwell-being of life were concerned. Then he, too, had been ejected,as it were, out of the world, and it had seemed to him as thoughLaura Standish and Robert Kennedy had been the inhabitants of anotherhemisphere. Now he was about to see them both again, both separately;and to become the medium of some communication between them. He knew,or thought that he knew, that no communication could avail anything.

  It was dark night when he was driven up to the door of LoughlinterHouse in a fly from the town of Callender. When he first made thejourney, now some six or seven years since, he had done so with Mr.Ratler, and he remembered well that circumstance. He remembered alsothat on his arrival Lady Laura had scolded him for having travelledin such company. She had desired him to seek other friends,--friendshigher in general estimation, and nobler in purpose. He had done so,partly at her instance, and with success. But Mr. Ratler was nowsomebody in the world, and he was nobody. And he remembered also howon that occasion he had been troubled in his mind in regard to aservant, not as yet knowing whether the usages of the world did ordid not require that he should go so accompanied. He had taken theman, and had been thoroughly ashamed of himself for doing so. He hadno servant now, no grandly developed luggage, no gun, no elaboratedress for the mountains. On that former occasion his heart had beenvery full when he reached Loughlinter, and his heart was full now.Then he had resolved to say a few words to Lady Laura, and he hadhardly known how best to say them. Now he would be called upon tosay a few to Lady Laura's husband, and the task would be almost asdifficult.

  The door was opened for him by an old servant in black, who proposedat once to show him to his room. He looked round the vast hall,which, when he had before known it, was ever filled with signs oflife, and felt at once that it was empty and deserted. It struck himas intolerably cold, and he saw that the huge fireplace was without aspark of fire. Dinner, the servant said, was prepared for half-pastseven. Would Mr. Finn wish to dress? Of course he wished to dress.And as it was already past seven he hurried up stairs to his room.Here again everything was cold and wretched. There was no fire, andthe man had left him with a single candle. There were candlesticks onthe dressing-table, but they were empty. The man had suggested hotwater, but the hot water did not come. In his poorest days he hadnever known discomfort such as this, and yet Mr. Kennedy was one ofthe richest commoners of Great Britain.

  But he dressed, and made his way down stairs, not knowing wherehe should find his host or his host's mother. He recognised thedifferent doors and knew the rooms within t
hem, but they seemedinhospitably closed against him, and he went and stood in the coldhall. But the man was watching for him, and led him into a smallparlour. Then it was explained to him that Mr. Kennedy's state ofhealth did not admit of late dinners. He was to dine alone, and Mr.Kennedy would receive him after dinner. In a moment his cheeks becamered, and a flash of wrath crossed his heart. Was he to be treatedin this way by a man on whose behalf,--with no thought of his owncomfort or pleasure,--he had made this long and abominable journey?Might it not be well for him to leave the house without seeing Mr.Kennedy at all? Then he remembered that he had heard it whisperedthat the man had become bewildered in his mind. He relented,therefore, and condescended to eat his dinner.

  A very poor dinner it was. There was a morsel of flabby white fish,as to the nature of which Phineas was altogether in doubt, a beefsteak as to the nature of which he was not at all in doubt, and alittle crumpled-up tart which he thought the driver of the fly musthave brought with him from the pastry-cook's at Callender. There wassome very hot sherry, but not much of it. And there was a bottle ofclaret, as to which Phineas, who was not usually particular in thematter of wine, persisted in declining to have anything to do withit after the first attempt. The gloomy old servant, who stuck to himduring the repast, persisted in offering it, as though the creditof the hospitality of Loughlinter depended on it. There are so manymen by whom the tenuis ratio saporum has not been achieved, that theCaleb Balderstones of those houses in which plenty does not floware almost justified in hoping that goblets of Gladstone may passcurrent. Phineas Finn was not a martyr to eating or drinking. Heplayed with his fish without thinking much about it. He workedmanfully at the steak. He gave another crumple to the tart, and leftit without a pang. But when the old man urged him, for the thirdtime, to take that pernicious draught with his cheese, he angrilydemanded a glass of beer. The old man toddled out of the room, andon his return he proffered to him a diminutive glass of white spirit,which he called usquebaugh. Phineas, happy to get a little whisky,said nothing more about the beer, and so the dinner was over.

  He rose so suddenly from his chair that the man did not dare to askhim whether he would not sit over his wine. A suggestion that way wasindeed made, would he "visit the laird out o' hand, or would he bideawee?" Phineas decided on visiting the laird out of hand, and wasat once led across the hall, down a back passage which he had neverbefore traversed, and introduced to the chamber which had ever beenknown as the "laird's ain room." Here Robert Kennedy rose to receivehim.

  Phineas knew the man's age well. He was still under fifty, but helooked as though he were seventy. He had always been thin, but he wasthinner now than ever. He was very grey, and stooped so much, thatthough he came forward a step or two to greet his guest, it seemedas though he had not taken the trouble to raise himself to hisproper height. "You find me a much altered man," he said. The changehad been so great that it was impossible to deny it, and Phineasmuttered something of regret that his host's health should be sobad. "It is trouble of the mind,--not of the body, Mr. Finn. It isher doing,--her doing. Life is not to me a light thing, nor arethe obligations of life light. When I married a wife, she becamebone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh. Can I lose my bones andmy flesh,--knowing that they are not with God but still subjectelsewhere to the snares of the devil, and live as though I were asound man? Had she died I could have borne it. I hope they have madeyou comfortable, Mr. Finn?"

  "Oh, yes," said Phineas.

  "Not that Loughlinter can be comfortable now to any one. How can aman, whose wife has deserted him, entertain his guests? I am ashamedeven to look a friend in the face, Mr. Finn." As he said this hestretched forth his open hand as though to hide his countenance, andPhineas hardly knew whether the absurdity of the movement or thetragedy of the feeling struck him the more forcibly. "What did I dothat she should leave me? Did I strike her? Was I faithless? Had shenot the half of all that was mine? Did I frighten her by hard words,or exact hard tasks? Did I not commune with her, telling her all mymost inward purposes? In things of this world, and of that betterworld that is coming, was she not all in all to me? Did I not makeher my very wife? Mr. Finn, do you know what made her go away?" Hehad asked perhaps a dozen questions. As to the eleven which camefirst it was evident that no answer was required; and they had beenput with that pathetic dignity with which it is so easy to investthe interrogatory form of address. But to the last question it wasintended that Phineas should give an answer, as Phineas presumedat once; and then it was asked with a wink of the eye, a low eagervoice, and a sly twist of the face that were frightfully ludicrous."I suppose you do know," said Mr. Kennedy, again working his eye,and thrusting his chin forward.

  The Laird of Loughlinter.]

  "I imagine that she was not happy."

  "Happy? What right had she to expect to be happy? Are we to believethat we should be happy here? Are we not told that we are to lookfor happiness there, and to hope for none below?" As he said this hestretched his left hand to the ceiling. "But why shouldn't she havebeen happy? What did she want? Did she ever say anything against me,Mr. Finn?"

  "Nothing but this,--that your temper and hers were incompatible."

  "I thought at one time that you advised her to go away?"

  "Never!"

  "She told you about it?"

  "Not, if I remember, till she had made up her mind, and her fatherhad consented to receive her. I had known, of course, that thingswere unpleasant."

  "How were they unpleasant? Why were they unpleasant? She wouldn't letyou come and dine with me in London. I never knew why that was. Whenshe did what was wrong, of course I had to tell her. Who else shouldtell her but her husband? If you had been her husband, and I onlyan acquaintance, then I might have said what I pleased. They rebelagainst the yoke because it is a yoke. And yet they accept the yoke,knowing it to be a yoke. It comes of the devil. You think a priestcan put everything right."

  "No, I don't," said Phineas.

  "Nothing can put you right but the fear of God; and when a womanis too proud to ask for that, evils like these are sure to come.She would not go to church on Sunday afternoon, but had meetings ofBelial at her father's house instead." Phineas well remembered thosemeetings of Belial, in which he with others had been wont to discussthe political prospects of the day. "When she persisted in breakingthe Lord's commandment, and defiling the Lord's day, I knew well whatwould come of it."

  "I am not sure, Mr. Kennedy, that a husband is justified in demandingthat a wife shall think just as he thinks on matters of religion. Ifhe is particular about it, he should find all that out before."

  "Particular! God's word is to be obeyed, I suppose?"

  "But people doubt about God's word."

  "Then people will be damned," said Mr. Kennedy, rising from hischair. "And they will be damned."

  "A woman doesn't like to be told so."

  "I never told her so. I never said anything of the kind. I neverspoke a hard word to her in my life. If her head did but ache, I hungover her with the tenderest solicitude. I refused her nothing. WhenI found that she was impatient I chose the shortest sermon for ourSunday evening's worship, to the great discomfort of my mother."Phineas wondered whether this assertion as to the discomfort of oldMrs. Kennedy could possibly be true. Could it be that any human beingreally preferred a long sermon to a short one,--except the being whopreached it or read it aloud? "There was nothing that I did not dofor her. I suppose you really do know why she went away, Mr. Finn?"

  "I know nothing more than I have said."

  "I did think once that she was--"

  "There was nothing more than I have said," asserted Phineas sternly,fearing that the poor insane man was about to make some suggestionthat would be terribly painful. "She felt that she did not make youhappy."

  "I did not want her to make me happy. I do not expect to be madehappy. I wanted her to do her duty. You were in love with her once,Mr. Finn?"

  "Yes, I was. I was in love with Lady Laura Standish."

  "Ah! Yes.
There was no harm in that, of course; only when any thingof that kind happens, people had better keep out of each other's wayafterwards. Not that I was ever jealous, you know."

  "I should hope not."

  "But I don't see why you should go all the way to Dresden to pay hera visit. What good can that do? I think you had much better staywhere you are, Mr. Finn; I do indeed. It isn't a decent thing for ayoung unmarried man to go half across Europe to see a lady who isseparated from her husband, and who was once in love with him;--Imean he was once in love with her. It's a very wicked thing, Mr.Finn, and I have to beg that you will not do it."

  Phineas felt that he had been grossly taken in. He had been asked tocome to Loughlinter in order that he might take a message from thehusband to the wife, and now the husband made use of his complianceto forbid the visit on some grotesque score of jealousy. He knew thatthe man was mad, and that therefore he ought not to be angry; but theman was not too mad to require a rational answer, and had some methodin his madness. "Lady Laura Kennedy is living with her father," saidPhineas.

  "Pshaw;--dotard!"

  "Lady Laura Kennedy is living with her father," repeated Phineas;"and I am going to the house of the Earl of Brentford."

  "Who was it wrote and asked you?"

  "The letter was from Lady Laura."

  "Yes;--from my wife. What right had my wife to write to you whenshe will not even answer my appeals? She is my wife;--my wife! Inthe presence of God she and I have been made one, and even man'sordinances have not dared to separate us. Mr. Finn, as the husbandof Lady Laura Kennedy, I desire that you abstain from seeking herpresence." As he said this he rose from his chair, and took the pokerin his hand. The chair in which he was sitting was placed upon therug, and it might be that the fire required his attention. As hestood bending down, with the poker in his right hand, with his eyestill fixed on his guest's face, his purpose was doubtful. The motionmight be a threat, or simply have a useful domestic tendency. ButPhineas, believing that the man was mad, rose from his seat and stoodupon his guard. The point of the poker had undoubtedly been raised;but as Phineas stretched himself to his height, it fell graduallytowards the fire, and at last was buried very gently among the coals.But he was never convinced that Mr. Kennedy had carried out thepurpose with which he rose from his chair. "After what has passed,you will no doubt abandon your purpose," said Mr. Kennedy.

  "I shall certainly go to Dresden," said Phineas. "If you have amessage to send, I will take it."

  "Then you will be accursed among adulterers," said the laird ofLoughlinter. "By such a one I will send no message. From the firstmoment that I saw you I knew you for a child of Apollyon. But the sinwas my own. Why did I ask to my house an idolater, one who pretendsto believe that a crumb of bread is my God, a Papist, untrue aliketo his country and to his Saviour? When she desired it of me I knewthat I was wrong to yield. Yes;--it is you who have done it all, you,you, you;--and if she be a castaway, the weight of her soul will bedoubly heavy on your own."

  To get out of the room, and then at the earliest possible hour of themorning out of the house, were now the objects to be attained. Thathis presence had had a peculiarly evil influence on Mr. Kennedy,Phineas could not doubt; as assuredly the unfortunate man wouldnot have been left with mastery over his own actions had his usualcondition been such as that which he now displayed. He had been toldthat "poor Kennedy" was mad,--as we are often told of the madnessof our friends when they cease for awhile to run in the commongrooves of life. But the madman had now gone a long way out ofthe grooves;--so far, that he seemed to Phineas to be decidedlydangerous. "I think I had better wish you good night," he said.

  "Look here, Mr. Finn."

  "Well?"

  "I hope you won't go and make more mischief."

  "I shall not do that, certainly."

  "You won't tell her what I have said?"

  "I shall tell her nothing to make her think that your opinion of heris less high than it ought to be."

  "Good night."

  "Good night," said Phineas again; and then he left the room. It wasas yet but nine o'clock, and he had no alternative but to go to bed.He found his way back into the hall, and from thence up to his ownchamber. But there was no fire there, and the night was cold. He wentto the window, and raised it for a moment, that he might hear thewell-remembered sound of the Fall of Linter. Though the night wasdark and wintry, a dismal damp November night, he would have creptout of the house and made his way up to the top of the brae, forthe sake of auld lang syne, had he not feared that the inhospitablemansion would be permanently closed against him on his return. Herang the bell once or twice, and after a while the old serving mancame to him. Could he have a cup of tea? The man shook his head, andfeared that no boiling water could be procured at that late hour ofthe night. Could he have his breakfast the next morning at seven, anda conveyance to Callender at half-past seven? When the old man againshook his head, seeming to be dazed at the enormity of the demand,Phineas insisted that his request should be conveyed to the master ofthe house. As to the breakfast, he said he did not care about it, butthe conveyance he must have. He did, in fact, obtain both, and leftthe house early on the following morning without again seeing Mr.Kennedy, and without having spoken a single word to Mr. Kennedy'smother. And so great was his hurry to get away from the place whichhad been so disagreeable to him, and which he thought might possiblybecome more so, that he did not even run across the sward thatdivided the gravel sweep from the foot of the waterfall.