There he sat before the fire with his pouch open before him, and Phineas had no power of moving him. Could Phineas have paid him the money which was manifestly due to him on the bill, the man would of course have gone; but failing in that, Phineas could not turn him out. There was a black cloud on the young member's brow, and great anger at his heart, – against Fitzgibbon rather than against the man who was sitting there before him. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘it is really imperative that I should go. I am pledged to an appointment at the House at twelve, and it wants now only a quarter. I regret that your interview with me should be so unsatisfactory, but I can only promise you that I will see Mr Fitzgibbon.’
‘And when shall I call again, Mr Finn?’
‘Perhaps I had better write to you,’ said Phineas.
‘Oh dear, no,’ said Mr Clarkson. ‘I should much prefer to look in. Looking in is always best. We can get to understand one another in that way. Let me see. I daresay you're not particular. Suppose I say Sunday morning.’
‘Really, I could not see you on Sunday morning, Mr Clarkson.’
‘Parliament gents ain't generally particular, – 'specially not among the Catholics,’ pleaded Mr Clarkson.
‘I am always engaged on Sundays,’ said Phineas.
‘Suppose we say Monday, – or Tuesday. Tuesday morning at eleven. And do be punctual, Mr Finn. At Tuesday morning I'll come, and then no doubt I shall find you ready.' Whereupon Mr Clarkson slowly put up his bills within his portfolio, and then, before Phineas knew where he was, had warmly shaken that poor dismayed member of Parliament by the hand. ‘Only do be punctual, Mr Finn,’ he said, as he made his way down the stairs.
It was now twelve, and Phineas rushed off to a cab. He was in such a fervour of rage and misery that he could hardly think of his position, or what he had better do, till he got into the Committee room; and when there he could think of nothing else. He intended to go deeply into the question of potted peas, holding an equal balance between the assailed Government offices on the one hand, and the advocates of the potted peas on the other. The potters of the peas, who wanted to sell their article to the Crown, declared that an extensive, – perhaps we may say, an unlimited, – use of the article would save the whole army and navy from the scourges of scurvy, dyspepsia, and rheumatism, would be the best safeguard against typhus and other fevers, and would be an invaluable aid in all other maladies to which soldiers and sailors are peculiarly subject. The peas in question were grown on a large scale in Holstein, and their growth had been fostered with the special object of doing good to the British army and navy. The peas were so cheap that there would be a great saving in money, – and it really had seemed to many that the officials of the Horse Guards and the Admiralty had been actuated by some fiendish desire to deprive their men of salutary fresh vegetables, simply because they were of foreign growth. But the officials of the War Office and the Admiralty declared that the potted peas in question were hardly fit for swine. The motion for the Committee had been made by a gentleman of the opposition, and Phineas had been put upon it as an independent member. He had resolved to give to it all his mind, and, as far as he was concerned, to reach a just decision, in which there should be no favour shown to the Government side. New brooms are proverbial for thorough work, and in this Committee work Phineas was as yet a new broom. But, unfortunately, on this day his mind was so harassed that he could hardly understand what was going on. It did not, perhaps, much signify, as the witnesses examined were altogether agricultural. They only proved the production of peas in Holstein, – a fact as to which Phineas had no doubt. The proof was naturally slow, as the evidence was given in German, and had to be translated into English. And the work of the day was much impeded by a certain member who unfortunately spoke German, who seemed to be fond of speaking German before his brethren of the Committee, and who was curious as to agriculture in Holstein generally. The chairman did not understand German, and there was a difficulty in checking this gentleman, and in making him understand that his questions were not relevant to the issue.
Phineas could not keep his mind during the whole afternoon from the subject of his misfortune. What should he do if this horrid man came to him once or twice a week? He certainly did owe the man the money. He must admit that to himself. The man no doubt was a dishonest knave who had discounted the bill probably at fifty per cent; but, nevertheless, Phineas had made himself legally responsible for the amount. The privilege of the House prohibited him from arrest. He thought of that very often, but the thought only made him the more unhappy. Would it not be said, and might it not be said truly, that he had incurred this responsibility, – a responsibility whch he was altogether unequal to answer, – because he was so protected? He did feel that a certain consciousness of his privilege had been present to him when he had put his name across the paper, and that there had been dishonesty in that very consciousness. And of what service would his privilege be to him, if this man could harass every hour of his life? The man was to be with him again in a day or two, and when the appointment had been proposed, he, Phineas, had not dared to negative it. And how was he to escape? As for paying the bill, that with him was altogether impossible. The man had told him, – and he had believed the man, – that payment by Fitzgibbon was out of the question. And yet Fitzgibbon was the son of a peer, whereas he was only the son of a country doctor! Of course Fitzgibbon must make some effort, – some great effort, – and have the thing settled. Alas, alas! He knew enough of the world already to feel that the hope was vain.
He went down from the Committee room into the House, and he dined at the House, and remained there until eight or nine at night; but Fitzgibbon did not come. He then went to the Reform Club, but he was not there. Both at the club and in the House many men spoke to him about the debate of the previous night, expressing surprise that he had not spoken, – making him more and more wretched. He saw Mr Monk, but Mr Monk was walking arm in arm with his colleague, Mr Palliser, and Phineas could do no more than just speak to them. He thought that Mr Monk's nod of recognition was very cold. That might be fancy, but it certainly was a fact that Mr Monk only nodded to him. He would tell Mr Monk the truth, and then, if Mr Monk chose to quarrel with him, he at any rate would take no step to renew their friendship.
From the Reform Club he went to the Shakspeare, a smaller club to which Fitzgibbon belonged, – and of which Phineas much wished to become a member, – and to which he knew that his friend resorted when he wished to enjoy himself thoroughly, and to be at ease in his inn. Men at the Shakspeare could do as they pleased. There were no politics there, no fashion, no stiffness, and no rules, – so men said; but that was hardly true. Everybody called everybody by his Christian name, and members smoked all over the house. They who did not belong to the Shakspeare thought it an Elysium upon earth; and they who did, believed it to be among Pandemoniums the most pleasant. Phineas called at the Shakspeare, and was told by the porter that Mr Fitzgibbon was upstairs. He was shown into the strangers' room, and in five minutes his friend came down to him.
‘I want you to come down to the Reform with me,’ said Phineas.
‘By jingo, my dear fellow, I'm in the middle of a rubber of whist.’
‘There has been a man with me about that bill.’
‘What; – Clarkson?’
‘Yes, Clarkson,’ said Phineas.
‘Don't mind him,’ said Fitzgibbon.
‘That's nonsense. How am I to help minding him? I must mind him. He is coming to me again on Tuesday morning.’
‘Don't see him.’
‘How can I help seeing him?’
‘Make them say you're not at home.’
‘He has made an appointment. He has told me that he'll never leave me alone. He'll be the death of me if this is not settled.’
‘It shall be settled, my dear fellow. I'll see about it. I'll see about it and write you a line. You must excuse me now, because those fellows are waiting. I'll have it all arranged.’
Again as Phineas went
home he thoroughly wished that he had not seceded from Mr Low.
CHAPTER 22
Lady Baldock At Home
ABOUT the middle of March Lady Baldock came up from Baddingham to London, coerced into doing so, as Violet Effingham declared, in thorough opposition to all her own tastes, by the known wishes of her friends and relatives. Her friends and relatives, so Miss Effingham insinuated, were unanimous in wishing that Lady Baldock should remain at Baddingham Park, and therefore, – that wish having been indiscreetly expressed, – she had put herself to great inconvenience, and had come to London in March. ‘Gustavus will go mad,’ said Violet to Lady Laura. The Gustavus in question was the Lord Baldock of the present generation, Miss Effingham's Lady Baldock being the peer's mother. ‘Why does not Lord Baldock take a house himself?’ asked Lady Laura. ‘Don't you know, my dear,’ Violet answered, ‘how much we Baddingham people think of money? We don't like being vexed and driven mad, but even that is better than keeping two households.’ As regarded Violet, the injury arising from Lady Baldock's early migration was very great, for she was thus compelled to move from Grosvenor Place to Lady Baldock's house in Berkeley Square. ‘As you are so fond of being in London, Augusta and I have made up our minds to come up before Easter,’ Lady Baldock had written to her.
‘I shall go to her now,’ Violet had said to her friend, ‘because I have not quite made up my mind as to what I will do for the future.’
‘Marry Oswald, and be your own mistress.’
‘I mean to be my own mistress without marrying Oswald, though I don't see my way quite clearly as yet. I think I shall set up a little house of my own, and let the world say what it pleases. I suppose they couldn't make me out to be a lunatic.’
‘I shouldn't wonder if they were to try,’ said Lady Laura.
‘They could not prevent me in any other way. But I am in the dark as yet, and so I shall be obedient and go to my aunt.’
Miss Effingham went to Berkeley Square, and Phineas Finn was introduced to Lady Baldock. He had been often in Grosvenor Place, and had seen Violet frequently. Mr Kennedy gave periodical dinners, – once a week, – to which everybody went who could get an invitation; and Phineas had been a guest more than once. Indeed, in spite of his miseries he had taken to dining out a good deal, and was popular as an eater of dinners. He could talk when wanted, and did not talk too much, was pleasant in manners and appearance, and had already achieved a certain recognised position in London life. Of those who knew him intimately, not one in twenty were aware from whence he came, what was his parentage, or what his means of living. He was a member of Parliament, a friend of Mr Kennedy's, was intimate with Mr Monk, though an Irishman did not as a rule herd with other Irishmen, and was the right sort of person to have at your house. Some people said he was a cousin of Lord Brentford's, and others declared that he was Lord Chiltern's earliest friend. There he was, however, with a position gained, and even Lady Baldock asked him to her house.
Lady Baldock had evenings. People went to her house, and stood about the room and on the stairs, talked to each other for half an hour, and went away. In these March days there was no crowding, but still there were always enough of people there to show that Lady Baldock was successful. Why people should have gone to Lady Baldock's I cannot explain; – but there are houses to which people go without any reason. Phineas received a little card asking him to go, and he always went.
‘I think you like my friend, Mr Finn,’ Lady Laura said to Miss Effingham, after the first of these evenings.
‘Yes, I do. I like him decidedly.’
‘So do I. I should hardly have thought that you would have taken a fancy to him.’
‘I hardly know what you call taking a fancy,’ said Violet. ‘I am not quite sure I like to be told that I have taken a fancy for a young man.’
‘I mean no offence, my dear.’
‘Of course you don't. But, to speak truth, I think I have rather taken a fancy to him. There is just enough of him, but not too much. I don't mean materially, – in regard to his inches; but as to his mental belongings. I hate a stupid man who can't talk to me, and I hate a clever man who talks me down. I don't like a man who is too lazy to make any effort to shine; but I particularly dislike the man who is always striving for effect. I abominate a humble man, but yet I love to perceive that a man acknowledges the superiority of my sex, and youth, and all that kind of thing.’
‘You want to be flattered without plain flattery.’
‘Of course I do. A man who would tell me that I am pretty, unless he is over seventy, ought to be kicked out of the room. But a man who can't show me that he thinks me so without saying a word about it, is a lout. Now in all those matters, your friend, Mr Finn, seems to know what he is about. In other words, he makes himself pleasant, and, therefore, one is glad to see him.’
‘I suppose you do not mean to fall in love with him?’
‘Not that I know of, my dear. But when I do, I'll be sure to give you notice.’
I fear that there was more of earnestness in Lady Laura's last question than Miss Effingham had supposed. She had declared to herself over and over again that she had never been in love with Phineas Finn. She had acknowledged to herself, before Mr Kennedy had asked her hand in marriage, that there had been danger, - that she could have learned to love the man if such love would not have been ruinous to her, – that the romance of such a passion would have been pleasant to her. She had gone farther than this, and had said to herself that she would have given way to that romance, and would have been ready to accept such love if offered to her, had she not put it out of her own power to marry a poor man by her generosity to her brother. Then she had thrust the thing aside, and had clearly understood, – she thought that she had clearly understood, – that life for her must be a matter of business. Was it not the case with nine out of every ten among mankind, with nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every thousand, that life must be a matter of business and not of romance? Of course she could not marry Mr Finn, knowing, as she did, that neither of them had a shilling. Of all men in the world she esteemed Mr Kennedy the most, and when these thoughts were passing through her mind, she was well aware that he would ask her to be his wife. Had she not resolved that she would accept the offer, she would not have gone to Loughlinter. Having put aside all romance as unfitted to her life, she could, she thought, do her duty as Mr Kennedy's wife. She would teach herself to love him. Nay, – she had taught herself to love him. She was at any rate so sure of her own heart that she would never give her husband cause to rue the confidence he placed in her. And yet there was something sore within her when she thought that Phineas Finn was becoming fond of Violet Effingham.
It was Lady Baldock's second evening, and Phineas came to the house at about eleven o'clock. At this time he had encountered a second and a third interview with Mr Clarkson, and had already failed in obtaining any word of comfort from Laurence Fitzgibbon about the bill. It was clear enough now that Laurence felt that they were both made safe by their privilege, and that Mr Clarkson should be treated as you treat the organ-grinders. They are a nuisance and must be endured. But the nuisance is not so great but what you can live in comfort, – if only you are not too sore as to the annoyance. ‘My dear fellow,’ Laurence had said to him, ‘I have had Clarkson almost living in my rooms. He used to drink nearly a pint of sherry a day for me. All I looked to was that I didn't live there at the same time. If you wish it, I'll send in the sherry.’ This was very bad, and Phineas tried to quarrel with his friend; but he found that it was difficult to quarrel with Laurence Fitzgibbon.
But though on this side Phineas was very miserable, on another side he had obtained great comfort. Mr Monk and he were better friends than ever. ‘As to what Turnbull says about me in the House,’ Mr Monk had said, laughing; ‘he and I understand each other perfectly. I should like to see you on your legs, but it is just as well, perhaps, that you have deferred it. We shall have the real question on immediately after Easter, and then you'll have
plenty of opportunities.’ Phineas had explained how he had attempted, how he had failed, and how he had suffered; – and Mr Monk had been generous in his sympathy. ‘I know all about it,’ said he, ‘and have gone through it all myself. The more respect you feel for the House, the more satisfaction you will have in addressing it when you have mastered this difficulty.’
The first person who spoke to Phineas at Lady Baldock's was Miss Fitzgibbon, Laurence's sister. Aspasia Fitzgibbon was a warm woman as regarded money, and as she was moreover a most discreet spinster, she was made welcome by Lady Baldock, in spite of the well-known iniquities of her male relatives. ‘Mr Finn,’ said she, ‘how d'ye do? I want to say a word to ye. Just come here into the corner.’ Phineas, not knowing how to escape, did retreat into the corner with Miss Fitzgibbon. ‘Tell me now, Mr Finn; – have ye been lending money to Larrence?’
‘No; I have lent him no money,’ said Phineas, much astonished by the question.
‘Don't. That's my advice to ye. Don't. On any other matter Larrence is the best creature in the world, – but he's bad to lend money to. You ain't in any hobble with him, then?’
‘Well; – nothing to speak of. What makes you ask?’
‘Then you are in a hobble? Dear, dear! I never saw such a man as Larrence; – never. Good-bye. I wouldn't do it again, if I were you; – that's all.’ Then Miss Fitzgibbon came out of the corner and made her way downstairs.
Phineas immediately afterwards came across Miss Effingham. ‘I did not know,’ said she, ‘that you and the divine Aspasia were such close allies.’
‘We are the dearest friends in the world, but she has taken my breath away now.’
‘May a body be told how she has done that?’ Violet asked.
‘Well, no; I'm afraid not, even though the body be Miss Effingham. It was a profound secret; – really a secret concerning a third person, and she began about it just as though she were speaking about the weather!’
Phineas Finn, the Irish Member Page 25