Phineas Finn, the Irish Member

by Anthony Trollope

  Mr Mildmay was soon seated in one of the armchairs, while Lord Plinlimmon leaned against the table close at his elbow. Mr Gresham stood upright at the corner of the chimney-piece furthest from Mr Mildmay, and Mr Palliser at that nearest to him. The Duke took the armchair close at Mr Mildmay's left hand. Lord Plinlimmon was, as I have said, leaning against the table, but the Lord Chancellor, who was next to him, sat upon it. Viscount Thrift and Mr Monk occupied chairs on the further side of the table, near to Mr Mildmay's end, and Mr Legge Wilson placed himself at the head of the table, thus joining them as it were into a body. The Home Secretary stood before the Lord Chancellor screening him from the fire, and the Chancellor of the Duchy, after waiting for a few minutes as though in doubt, took one of the vacant armchairs. The young lord from the Colonies stood a little behind the shoulders of his great friend from the Foreign Office; and the Privy Seal, after moving about for a while uneasily, took a chair behind the Chancellor of the Duchy. One armchair was thus left vacant, but there was no other comer.

  ‘It is not so bad as I thought it would be,’ said the Duke, speaking aloud, but nevertheless addressing himself specially to his chief.

  ‘It was bad enough, said Mr Mildmay, laughing.

  ‘Bad enough indeed,’ said Sir Marmaduke Morecombe, without any laughter.

  ‘And such a good bill lost,’ said Lord Plinlimmon. ‘The worst of these failures is, that the same identical bill can never be brought in again.’

  ‘So that if the lost bill was best, the bill that will not be lost can only be second best,’ said the Lord Chancellor.

  ‘I certainly did think that after the debate before Easter we should not have come to shipwreck about the ballot,’ said Mr Mildmay.

  ‘It was brewing for us all along,’ said Mr Gresham, who then with a gesture of his hand and a pressure of his lips withheld words which he was nearly uttering, and which would not, probably, have been complimentary to Mr Turnbull. As it was, he turned half round and said something to Lord Cantrip which was not audible to any one else in the room. It was worthy of note, however, that Mr Turnbull's name was not once mentioned aloud at that meeting.

  ‘I am afraid it was brewing all along,’ said Sir Marmaduke Morecombe gravely.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, we must take it as we get it,’ said Mr Mild-may, still smiling. ‘And now we must consider what we shall do at once.’ Then he paused as though expecting that counsel would come to him first from one colleague and then from another. But no such counsel came, and probably Mr Mildmay did not in the least expect that it would come.

  ‘We cannot stay where we are, of course,’ said the Duke. The Duke was privileged to say as much as that. But though every man in the room knew that it must be so, no one but the Duke would have said it, before Mr Mildmay had spoken plainly himself.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Mildmay; ‘I suppose that we can hardly stay where we are. Probably none of us wish it, gentlemen.’ Then he looked round upon his colleagues, and there came a sort of an assent, though there were no spoken words. The sound from Sir Marmaduke Morecombe was louder than that from the others; – but yet from him it was no more than an attesting grunt. ‘We have two things to consider,’ continued Mr Mildmay, – and though he spoke in a very low voice, every word was heard by all present, – ‘two things chiefly, that is; the work of the country and the Queen's comfort. I propose to see her Majesty this afternoon at five, – that is, in something less than two hours’ time, and I hope to be able to tell the House by seven what has taken place between her Majesty and me. My friend, his Grace, will do as much in the House of Lords. If you agree with me, gentlemen, I will explain to the Queen that it is not for the welfare of the country that we should retain our places, and I will place your resignations and my own in her Majesty's hands.’

  ‘You will advise her Majesty to send for Lord De Terrier,’ said Mr Gresham.

  ‘Certainly; there will be no other course open to me.’

  ‘Or to her,’ said Mr Gresham. To this remark from the rising Minister of the day, no word of reply was made; but of those present in the room three or four of the most experienced servants of the Crown felt that Mr Gresham had been imprudent. The Duke, who had ever been afraid of Mr Gresham, told Mr Palliser afterwards that such an observation should not have been made; and Sir Henry Coldfoot pondered upon it uneasily, and Sir Marmaduke Morecombe asked Mr Mildmay what he thought about it. ‘Times change so much, and with the times the feelings of men,’ said Mr Mildmay. But I doubt whether Sir Marmaduke quite understood him.

  There was silence in the room for a moment or two after Mr Gresham had spoken, and then Mr Mildmay again addressed his friends. ‘Of course it may be possible that my Lord De Terrier may foresee difficulties, or may find difficulties which will oblige him, either at once, or after an attempt has been made, to decline the task which her Majesty will probably commit to him. All of us, no doubt, know that the arrangement of a government is not the most easy task in the world; and that it is not made the more easy by an absence of a majority in the House of Commons.’

  ‘He would dissolve, I presume,’ said the Duke.

  ‘I should say so,’ continued Mr Mildmay. ‘But it may not improbably come to pass that her Majesty will feel herself obliged to send again for some one or two of us, that we may tender to her Majesty the advice which we owe to her; – for me, for instance, or for my friend the Duke. In such a matter she would be much guided probably by what Lord De Terrier might have suggested to her. Should this be so, and should I be consulted, my present feeling is that we should resume our offices so that the necessary business of the session should be completed, and that we should then dissolve Parliament, and thus ascertain the opinion of the country. In such case, however, we should of course meet again.’

  ‘I quite think that the course proposed by Mr Mildmay will be the best,’ said the Duke, who had no doubt already discussed the matter with his friend the Prime Minister in private. No one else said a word either of argument or disagreement, and the Cabinet Council was broken up. The old messenger, who had been asleep in his chair, stood up and bowed as the Ministers walked by him, and then went in and rearranged the chairs.

  ‘He has as much idea of giving up as you or I have,’ said Lord Cantrip to his friend Mr Gresham, as they walked arm-in-arm together from the Treasury Chambers across St James's Park towards the clubs.

  ‘I am not sure that he is not right,’ said Mr Gresham.

  ‘Do you mean for himself or for the country?’ asked Lord Cantrip.

  ‘For his future fame. They who have abdicated and have clung to their abdication have always lost by it. Cincinnatus was brought back again, and Charles V is felt to have been foolish. The peaches of retired ministers of which we hear so often have generally been cultivated in a constrained seclusion; – or at least the world so believes.’ They were talking probably of Mr Mild-may, as to whom some of his colleagues had thought it probable, knowing that he would now resign, that he would have to-day declared his intention of laying aside for ever the cares of office.

  Mr Monk walked home alone, and as he went there was something of a feeling of disappointment at heart, which made him ask himself whether Mr Turnbull might not have been right in rebuking him for joining the Government. But this, I think, was in no way due to Mr Mildmay's resignation, but rather to a conviction on Mr Monk's part that he had contributed but little to his country's welfare by sitting in Mr Mildmay's Cabinet.

  CHAPTER 30

  Mr Kennedy's Luck

  AFTER the holding of that Cabinet Council of which the author has dared to attempt a slight sketch in the last chapter, there were various visits made to the Queen, first by Mr Mildmay, and then by Lord De Terrier, afterwards by Mr Mildmay and the Duke together, and then again by Lord De Terrier; and there were various explanations made to Parliament in each House, and rivals were very courteous to each other, promising assistance; – and at the end of it the old men held their seats. The only change made was effected by the retirement o
f Sir Marmaduke Morecombe, who was raised to the peerage, and by the selection of – Mr Kennedy to fill his place in the Cabinet. Mr Kennedy during the late debate had made one of those speeches, few and far between, by which he had created for himself a Parliamentary reputation; but, nevertheless, all men expressed their great surprise, and no one could quite understand why Mr Kennedy had been made a Cabinet Minister.

  ‘It is impossible to say whether he is pleased or not,’ said Lady Laura, speaking of him to Phineas. ‘I am pleased, of course.’

  ‘His ambition must be gratified,’ said Phineas.

  ‘It would be, if he had any,’ said Lady Laura.

  ‘I do not believe in a man lacking ambition.’

  ‘It is hard to say. There are men who by no means wear their hearts upon their sleeves, and my husband is one of them. He told me that it would be unbecoming in him to refuse, and that was all he said to me about it.’

  The old men held their seats, but they did so as it were only upon further trial. Mr Mildmay took the course which he had indicated to his colleagues at the Cabinet meeting. Before all the explanations and journeyings were completed, April was over, and the much-needed Whitsuntide holidays were coming on. But little of the routine work of the session had been done; and, as Mr Mildmay told the House more than once, the country would suffer were the Queen to dissolve Parliament at this period of the year. The old Ministers would go on with the business of the country, Lord De Terrier with his followers having declined to take affairs into their hands; and at the close of the session, which should be made as short as possible, writs should be issued for new elections. This was Mr Mildmay's programme, and it was one of which no one dared to complain very loudly.

  Mr Turnbull, indeed, did speak a word of caution. He told Mr Mildmay that he had lost his bill, good in other respects, because he had refused to introduce the ballot into his measure. Let him promise to be wiser for the future, and to obey the manifested wishes of the country, and then all would be well with him. In answer to this, Mr Mildmay declared that to the best of his power of reading the country, his countrymen had manifested no such wish; and that if they did so, if by the fresh election it should be shown that the ballot was in truth desired, he would at once leave the execution of their wishes to abler and younger hands. Mr Turnbull expressed himself perfectly satisfied with the Minister's answers, and said that the coming election would show whether he or Mr Mildmay were right.

  Many men, and among them some of his colleagues, thought that Mr Mildmay had been imprudent. ‘No man ought ever to pledge himself to anything,’ said Sir Henry Coldfoot to the Duke; – ‘that is, to anything unnecessary.’ The Duke, who was very true to Mr Mildmay, made no reply to this, but even he thought that his old friend had been betrayed into a promise too rapidly. But the pledge was given, and some people already began to make much of it. There appeared leader after leader in the People's Banner urging the constituencies to take advantage of the Prime Minister's words, and to show clearly at the hustings that they desired the ballot. ‘You had better come over to us, Mr Finn; you had indeed,’ said Mr Slide. ‘Now's the time to do it, and show yourself a people's friend. You'll have to do it sooner or later, – whether or no. Come to us, and we'll be your horgan.’

  But in those days Phineas was something less in love with Mr Quintus Slide than he had been at the time of the great debate, for he was becoming more and more closely connected with people who in their ways of living and modes of expression were very unlike Mr Slide. This advice was given to him about the end of May, and at that time Lord Chiltern was living with him in the lodgings in Great Marlborough Street. Miss Pouncefoot had temporarily vacated her rooms on the first floor, and the Lord with the broken bones had condescended to occupy them. ‘I don't know that I like having a Lord,’ Bunce had said to his wife. ‘It'll soon come to you not liking anybody decent anywhere,’ Mrs Bunce had replied; ‘but I shan't ask any questions about it. When you're wasting so much time and money at your dirty law proceedings, it's well that somebody should earn something at home.’

  There had been many discussions about the bringing of Lord Chiltern up to London, in all of which Phineas had been concerned. Lord Brentford had thought that his son had better remain down at the Willingford Bull; and although he said that the rooms were at his son's disposal should Lord Chiltern choose to come to London, still he said it in such a way that Phineas, who went down to Willingford, could not tell his friend that he would be made welcome in Portman Square. ‘I think I shall leave those diggings altogether,’ Lord Chiltern said to him. ‘My father annoys me by everything he says and does, and I annoy him by saying and doing nothing.’ Then there came an invitation to him from Lady Laura and Mr Kennedy. Would he come to Grosvenor Place? Lady Laura pressed this very much, though in truth Mr Kennedy had hardly done more than give a cold assent. But Lord Chiltern would not hear of it. ‘There is some reason for my going to my father's house,’ said he, ‘though he and I are not the best friends in the world; but there can be no reason for my going to the house of a man I dislike so much as I do Robert Kennedy.’ The matter was settled in the manner told above. Miss Pouncefoot's rooms were prepared for him at Mr Bunce's house, and Phineas Finn went down to Willingford and brought him up. ‘I've sold Bonebreaker,’ he said, – ‘to a young fellow whose neck will certainly be the sacrifice if he attempts to ride him. I'd have given him to you, Phineas, only you wouldn't have known what to do with him.’

  Lord Chiltern when he came up to London was still in bandages, though, as the surgeon said, his bones seemed to have been made to be broken and set again; and his bandages of course were a sufficient excuse for his visiting the house neither of his father nor his brother-in-law. But Lady Laura went to him frequently, and thus became acquainted with our hero's home and with Mrs Bunce. And there were messages taken from Violet to the man in bandages, some of which lost nothing in the carrying. Once Lady Laura tried to make Violet think that it would be right, or rather not wrong, that they two should go together to Lord Chiltern's rooms.

  ‘And would you have me tell my aunt, or would you have me not tell her?’ Violet asked.

  ‘I would have you do just as you pleased,’ Lady Laura answered.

  ‘So I shall,’ Violet replied, ‘but I will do nothing that I should be ashamed to tell any one. Your brother professes to be in love with me.’

  ‘He is in love with you,’ said Lady Laura. ‘Even you do not pretend to doubt his faith.’

  ‘Very well. In those circumstances a girl should not go to a man's rooms unless she means to consider herself as engaged to him, even with his sister; – not though he had broken every bone in his skin. I know what I may do, Laura, and I know what I mayn't; and I won't be led either by you or by my aunt.’

  ‘May I give him your love?’

  ‘No; – because you'll give it in a wrong spirit. He knows well enough that I wish him well; – but you may tell him that from me, if you please. He has from me all those wishes which one friend owes to another.’

  But there were other messages sent from Violet through Phineas Finn which she worded with more show of affection, – perhaps as much for the discomfort of Phineas as for the consolation of Lord Chiltern. ‘Tell him to take care of himself,’ said Violet, ‘and bid him not to have any more of those wild brutes that are not fit for any Christian to ride. Tell him that I say so. It's a great thing to be brave; but what's the use of being foolhardy?’

  The session was to be closed at the end of June, to the great dismay of London tradesmen and of young ladies who had not been entirely successful in the early season. But before the old Parliament was closed, and the writs for the new election were despatched, there occurred an incident which was of very much importance to Phineas Finn. Near the end of June, when the remaining days of the session were numbered by three or four, he had been dining at Lord Brentford's house in Portman Square in company with Mr Kennedy. But Lady Laura had not been there. At this time he saw Lord Brentford not unfrequent
ly, and there was always a word said about Lord Chiltern. The father would ask how the son occupied himself, and Phineas would hope, – though hitherto he had hoped in vain, – that he would induce the Earl to come and see Lord Chiltern. Lord Brentford could never be brought to that; but it was sufficiently evident that he would have done so, had he not been afraid to descend so far from the altitude of his paternal wrath. On this evening, at about eleven, Mr Kennedy and Phineas left the house together, and walked from the Square through Orchard Street into Oxford Street. Here their ways parted, but Phineas crossed the road with Mr Kennedy, as he was making some reply to a second invitation to Loughlinter. Phineas, considering what had been said before on the subject, thought that the invitation came late, and that it was not warmly worded. He had, therefore, declined it, and was in the act of declining it, when he crossed the road with Mr Kennedy. In walking down Orchard Street from the Square he had seen two men standing in the shadow a few yards up a mews or small alley that was there, but had thought nothing of them. It was just that period of the year when there is hardly any of the darkness of night; but at this moment there were symptoms of coming rain, and heavy drops began to fall; and there were big clouds coming and going before the young moon. Mr Kennedy had said that he would get a cab, but he had seen none as he crossed Oxford Street, and had put up his umbrella as he made his way towards Park Street. Phineas as he left him distinctly perceived the same two figures on the other side of Oxford Street, and then turning into the shadow of a butcher's porch, he saw them cross the street in the wake of Mr Kennedy. It was now raining in earnest, and the few passengers who were out were scudding away quickly, this way and that.