 23 MacPherson's Hotel Phineas, when he was left alone, found himself greatly at a loss as to what he had better do. He pledged himself to see Mr. Kennedy, and was not much afraid in countering personal violence at the hands of that gentleman. But he could think of nothing which he could with advantage say to Mr. Kennedy. He knew that Lady Laura would not return to her husband. Much as she dreaded such exposure as was now threatened, she would not return to Lachlan to avoid even that. He could not hold out any such hope to Mr. Kennedy, and without doing so, how could he stop the publication? He thought of getting an injunction from the Vice-Chancellor, but it was now Sunday, and he had understood that the publication would appear on the morrow, unless stopped by some note from himself. He thought of finding some attorney, and taking him to Mr. Kennedy. But he knew that Mr. Kennedy would be deterred by no attorney. Then he thought of Mr. Lowe. He would see Mr. Kennedy first, and then go to Mr. Lowe's house. Judd Street runs into the new road near the great stations of the Midland and Northern Railways, and is a highly respectable street. But it can hardly be called fashionable, as is Piccadilly, or central, as is Charing Cross, or commercial, as is the neighbourhood of St. Paul's. Men seeking the shelter of an hotel in Judd Street most probably prefer decent and respectable obscurity to other advantages. It was some such feeling, no doubt, joined to the fact that the landlord had originally come from the neighbourhood of Lachlanter, which had taken Mr. Kennedy to Macpherson's hotel. Phineas, when he called at about three o'clock on Sunday afternoon, was at once informed by Mrs. Macpherson that Mr. Kennedy was near doubt at him, but was near willing to see folk on the Sabbath. Phineas pleaded the extreme necessity of his business, alleging that Mr. Kennedy himself would regard its nature as a sufficient justification for such Sabbath-breaking, and sent up his card. Then there came down a message to him. It was not Mr. Finn postponed his visit to the following morning, but Phineas declared that it could not be postponed. Circumstances which he would explain to Mr. Kennedy made it impossible. At last he was desired to walk upstairs, though Mrs. Macpherson, as she showed him the way, evidently thought that our house was profaned by such wickedness. Macpherson, in preparing his house, had not run into that extravagant structure of architecture which has lately become so common in our hotels. It was simply an ordinary house, with the words Macpherson's hotel painted on a semicircular board over the doorway. The front parlor had been converted into a bar, and in the back parlor the Macphersons lived. The staircase was narrow and dirty, and in the front drawing-room, with the chamber behind for his bedroom, Mr. Kennedy was installed. Mr. Macpherson probably did not expect any customers beyond those friendly Scots who came up to London from his own side of the Highlands. Mrs. Macpherson, as she opened the door, was silent and almost mysterious. Such a breach of the law might perhaps be justified by circumstances of which she knew nothing, but should receive no sanction from her which she could avoid. So she did not even whisper the name. Mr. Kennedy, as Phineas entered, slowly rose from his chair, putting down the Bible which had been in his hands. He did not speak at once, but looked at his visitor over the spectacles which he wore. Phineas thought that he was even more haggard in appearance and aged than when they, too, had met hardly three months since at Loch Linter. There was no shaking of hands, and hardly any pretense of greeting. Mr. Kennedy simply bowed his head, and now allowed his visitor to begin the conversation. I should not have come to you on such a day as this, Mr. Kennedy. It is a day very unfitted for the affairs of the world, said Mr. Kennedy, had not the matter been most pressing in regard both to time and its own importance. So the woman told me, and therefore I have consented to see you. You know a man of the name of Slide, Mr. Kennedy? Mr. Kennedy shook his head. You know the editor of the People's Banner? Again he shook his head. You have at any rate written a letter for publication to that newspaper. Need I consult you as to what I write? But he, the editor, has consulted me. I can have nothing to do with that. This Mr. Slide, the editor of the People's Banner, has just been with me, having in his hand a printed letter from you which, he will excuse me, Mr. Kennedy, is very libelous. I will bear the responsibility of that. But you would not wish to publish falsehood about your wife, or even about me? Falsehood. Sir, how dare you use that word to me? Is it false to say that she has left my house? Is it false to say that she is my wife, and cannot desert me as she is done without breaking her vows, and disregarding the laws both of God and man? Am I false when I say that I gave her no cause? Am I false when I offer to take her back, let her faults be what they may have been? Am I false when I say that her father acts illegally in detaining her? False. False in your teeth. Falsehood is villainy, and it is not I that am the villain. You have joined my name in the accusation. Because you are her paramour, I know you now, viper that was warmed in my bosom, would you look me in the face and tell me that had it not been for you she would not have strayed from me? To this, Phineas could make no answer. Is it not true that when she went with me to the altar you had been her lover? I was her lover no longer when she once told me that she was to be your wife. Has she never spoken to you of love since? Did she not warn you from the house in her faint struggle after virtue? Did she not whistle you back again when she found the struggle too much for her? When I asked you to the house, she bade you not come. When I desired that you might never darken my eyes again, did she not seek you? With whom was she walking on the villa grounds by the river banks when she resolved that she would leave all her duties and desert me? Would you dare to say that you were not then in her confidence? With whom was she talking when she had the effrontery to come and meet me at the house of the Prime Minister which I was bound to attend? Have you not been with her this very winter in her foreign home? Of course I have, and you sent her a message by me. I sent no message. I denied. I refused to be an accomplice in your double guilt. I laid my command upon you that you should not visit my wife in my absence, and you disobeyed and you are an adulterer. Who are you that you are to come for ever between me and my wife? I never injured you in thought or deed. I come to you now because I have seen a printed letter which contains a gross libel upon myself. It is printed then? He asked in an eager tone. It is printed, but its need not therefore be published. It is a libel and should not be published. I shall be forced to seek redress at law. You cannot hope to regain your wife by publishing false accusations against her. They are true. I can prove every word that I have written. She dare not come here and submit herself to the laws of her country. She is a renegade from the law, and you are better in her sin. But it is not vengeance that I seek. Vengeance is mine, Seth the Lord. It looks like vengeance, Mr. Kennedy. It is for you to teach me how I shall bear myself in this time of my great trouble. And suddenly he changed, his voice falling from one of haughty defiance to a low mean bargaining whisper. But I'll tell you what I'll do. If you will say that you shall come back again, I'll have it cancelled and pay all the expenses. I cannot bring her back to you. She'll come if you tell her. If you let them understand that she must come, they'll give way. You can try it at any rate. I shall do nothing of the kind. Why should I ask her to submit herself to misery? Misery? What misery? Why should she be miserable? Must a woman be miserable because she lives with her husband? You hear me say that I will forgive everything. Even she will not doubt me when I say so, because I have never lied to her. Let her come back to me, and she shall live in peace and quiet and hear no word of reproach. I can have nothing to do with it, Mr. Kennedy. And, sir, you shall abide my wrath!" With that he sprang quickly round, grasping at something which lay upon a shelf near him, and Phineas saw that he was armed with a pistol. Phineas, who had hitherto been seated, lipped to his legs, but the pistol in a moment was at his head, and the manman pulled at the trigger. But the mechanism of the instrument required that some bolt should be loosed before the hammer would fall upon the nipple, and the unhandy wretch for an instant fumbled over the work so that Phineas, still facing his enemy, had time to leap backwards towards the door. Mr. Kennedy, there he was awkward, still succeeded in firing before our friend could leave the room. Phineas heard the thud of the bullet, and knew that it must have passed near his head. He was not struck, however, and the man frightened at his own deed, abstained from the second shot, or loitered long enough in his remorse to enable his prey to escape. With three or four steps Phineas leaped down the stairs, and finding the front door closed, took shelter within Mrs. MacPherson's bar. The man is mad, he said. Did you not hear the shot? The woman was too frightened to reply, but stood trembling, holding Phineas by the arm. There was nobody in the house, she said, but she in the two lasses. He doughed the lower layers by ordinaire, she said at last. She had known of the pistol, but had not dared to have it removed. She and MacPherson had only feared that he would hurt himself, and had at last agreed, as day after day passed without any injury from the weapon, to let the thing remain unnoticed. She had heard the shot, and had been sure that one of the two men above would have been killed. Phineas was now in great doubt as to what duty was required of him. His first difficulty consisted in this, that his hat was still in Mr. Kennedy's room, and that Mrs. MacPherson altogether refused to go and fetch it. While they were still discussing this, and Phineas had not as yet resolved whether he would first get a policeman or go at once to Mr. Lowe, the bell from the room was rung furiously. It's the Lert, said Mrs. MacPherson, and if anybody waits on him he'll surely be shooting in of us. The two girls were now outside the bar shaking in their shoes, and evidently unwilling to face the danger. At last the door of the room above was opened, and our hero's hat was sent rolling down the stairs. It was clear to Phineas that the man was so mad as to be not even aware of the act he had perpetrated. He'll do nothing more with a pistol, he said, unless he should attempt to destroy himself. At last it was determined that one of the girls should be sent to fetch MacPherson home from the Scotch Church, and that no application should be made at once to the police. It seemed that the MacPhersons knew the circumstances of their guest's family, and that there was a cousin of his in London who was the only one with whom he seemed to have any near connection. The thing that had occurred was to be told to this cousin, and Phineas left his address, so that if it should be thought necessary he might be called upon to give his account of the affair. Then in his putter version of spirit he asked for a glass of brandy, and having swallowed it was about to take his leave. The brandy will be six months, sir, said Mrs. MacPherson, as she wiped the tears from her eyes. Having paid for his refreshment Phineas got into a cab and got himself driven to Mr. Lowe's house. He had escaped from his peril, and now again it became his strongest object to stop the publication of the letter which Slide had shown him. But as he sat in the cab he could not hinder himself from shuddering at the danger which had been so near to him. He remembered his sensation as he first saw the glimmer of the barrel of the pistol, and then became aware of the man's first futile attempts, and afterwards saw the flash and heard the hammer fall at the same moment. He once stood up to be fired at in a duel, and had been struck by the ball. But nothing in that encounter had made him feel sick and faint through every muscle, as he had felt just now. As he sat in the cab he was aware that but for the spirits he had swallowed he would be altogether overcome, and he doubted even now whether he would be able to tell his story to Mr. Lowe. Luckily, perhaps for him, neither Mr. Lowe nor his wife were at home. They were out together, but were expected in between five and six. Phineas declared his purpose of waiting for them, and requested that Mr. Lowe might be asked to join him in the dining-room immediately on his return. In this way an hour was allowed to him, and he endeavoured to compose himself. Still, even at the end of the hour his heart was beating so violently that he could hardly control the motion of his own limbs. "'Lowe, I've been shot out by a madman,' he said, as soon as his friend entered the room. He determined to be calm, and to speak much more of the document in the editor's hands than the attempt which would be made on his own life. But he had been utterly unable to repress the exclamation. "'Shot-out?' "'Yes, by Robert Kennedy, the man who was chancellor of the Dutchie, almost within a yard of my head.' Then he sat down, and burst out into a fit of convulsive laughter. The story about the pistol was soon told, and Mr. Lowe was of opinion that Phineas should not have left the place without calling in policemen and giving an account of them of the transaction. "'But I had something else on my mind,' said Phineas, which made it necessary that I should see you at once. "'Something more important, even than this madman's attack upon me. He has written the most foul mouth attack upon his wife, which is already in print, and will I fear be published to-morrow morning?' Then he told the story of the letter. "'Slide, no doubt, will be at the people's banner office to-night, and I can see him there. Perhaps when I tell him what has occurred he will consent to drop the publication altogether. But in this view of the matter, Mr. Lowe did not agree with his visitor. He argued the case with the deliberation which, to Phineas in his present state of mind, was almost painful. If the whole story of what had occurred were told to Quinta's slide, that worthy protector of morals and caterer for the amusement of the public would, Mr. Lowe thought, at once publish the letter and give a statement of the occurrence at MacPherson's Hotel. There would be nothing to hinder him from so profitable worse proceeding, as he would know that no one would stir on behalf of Lady Laura in the matter of the libel when the tragedy of Mr. Kennedy's madness should have made known. The publication would be as safe as attractive. But if Phineas should have stained from going into him at all, the same calculation which had induced him to show the letter would induce him to postpone the publication, at any rate for another twenty-four hours. He means to make capital out of his virtue, and he won't give that up for the sake of being a day in advance. In the meantime, we will get an injunction for the Vice Chancellor to stop the publication. Can we do that in one day? I think we can. Chancellor isn't what it used to be, said Mr. Lowe, with a sigh. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go this very moment to pickering. Mr. Pickering at this time was one of the three Vice-Chancellors. It isn't exactly the proper thing for Council to call on a judge on a Sunday afternoon with the direct intention of influencing his judgment for the following morning, but this is the case in which a point may be strained. When such a paper is that people's banner gets hold of a letter from a madman, which if published would destroy the happiness of a whole family, one shouldn't stick at a trifle. Pickering is just the matter to make a common-sense view of the matter. You'll have to make an avid avid in the morning, and we can get the injunction served between two or three o'clock. Mr. Septimus Slope, or whatever his name is, will dare to publish it after that. Of course, if it comes out tomorrow morning, we shall have been too late, but this will be our best chance. So Mr. Lowe got his hat and umbrella, and started for the Vice-Chancellors' house. And I tell you what, Phineas, do you stay and dine here? You are so funny by all of this that you are not fit to go anywhere else. I am flurried. Of course you are. Never mind about dressing. Do you go up and tell Georgiana all about it, and I have to put off half an hour. I am a son, pickering him up if I don't find him at home. Then Phineas did go upstairs and tell Georgiana, otherwise Mrs. Lowe, the whole story. Mrs. Lowe was deeply affected to declaring her opinion very strongly as to the horrible condition of things when bad men should go about with pistols and without anybody to take care against them. But as to Lady Laura Kennedy, she seemed to think that the poor husband had great cause of complaint, and that Lady Laura ought to be punished. Wives, she thought, should never leave their husbands on any pretext, and as far as she had heard the story, there would be no pretext at all in the case. Her sympathies were clearly with the madmen, though she was quite ready to acknowledge that any and every step should be taken which might be adverse to Mr. Quintus's slide. End of Chapter 23. Recording by Simon Evers Chapter 24 of Phineas Redux. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Simon Evers Phineas Redux by Anthony Trollop Chapter 24 Madame Gersler Is Sent For When the elder Mr. Mall had sufficiently recovered from the perturbation of mind and body into which he had been thrown by the ill-timed and ill-worded proposition of his son to enable him to resume the accustomed tenor of his life, he arrayed himself in his morning winter costume and went forth in quest of a lady. So much was told some few chapters back, but the name of the lady was not then disclosed. Starting from Victoria Street, Westminster, he walked slowly across St. James's Park and the Green Park till he came out in Piccadilly near the bottom of Park Lane. As he went up the lane he looked at his boots, at his gloves, and at his trousers, and saw that nothing was unduly soiled. The morning air was clear and frosty, and had enabled him to dispense with the costly comfort of a cab. Mr. Mall hated cabs in the morning, preferring never to move beyond the tether of his short daily constitutional walk. A cab for going out to dinner was a necessity, but his income would not stand two or three cabs a day. Consequently he never went north of Oxford Street or east of the theatres, or beyond Eccleston Square towards the river. The regions of South Kensington and New Brompton were a trouble to him, as he found it impossible to lay down a limit in that direction, which would not exclude him from things which he feigned would not exclude. There are dinners given at South Kensington, which such a man as Mr. Mall cannot afford not to eat. In Park Lane he knocked at the door of a very small house, a house that might almost be called tiny by comparison of its dimensions with those around it, and then asked for Madame Gerstler. Madame Gerstler had that morning gone into the country. Mr. Mall, in his blandest manner, expressed some surprise, having understood that she had not long since returned from Harrington Hall. To this the servant assented, but went on to explain that she had been in town any day or two when she was summoned down to matching by a telegram. It was believed, the man said, that the Duke of Omnium was poorly. Oh, indeed, I am sorry to hear that, said Mr. Mall with a rye face. Then with steps perhaps a little less careful, he walked back across the park to his club. On taking up the evening paper he had once saw a paragraph stating that the Duke of Omnium's condition today was much the same as yesterday, but that he had passed a quiet night. That very distinguished but no aged physician, Sir a micron pie, was still staying at matching prairie. So old Omnium is going off the hooks at last, said Mr. Mall to a club acquaintance. The club acquaintance was in Parliament and looked at the matter from a strictly parliamentary point of view. Yes indeed it has given a deal of trouble. Mr. Mall was not parliamentary and did not understand. Why trouble, except to himself, he'll leave his garter and straw-believes and all his acres behind him. What is Gresham to do about the exchequer when he comes in? I don't know whom he'll descend to there. They talk of Bontine, but Bontine hasn't half-weight enough, they'll offer it to Monk, but Monk'll never take office again. Oh yes, Blondie Powell was a chance at the exchequer. I suppose he must give that up now. The parliamentary acquaintance looked up at the unparliamentary man with that mingled disgust and pity which Parliamentary gentlemen and ladies always entertain for those who have not devoted their minds to the constitutional forms of the country. The chance at the exchequer can't very well sit in the House of Lords, and panacea can't very well help becoming Duke of Omnium. I don't know whether he can take the decimal coinage question with him, but I fear not. They don't like it at all in the city. I believe I'll go and play a rubber of wist," said Mr. Mall. He played his wist and lost thirty points without showing the slightest at his pleasure, either by the turn of his voice or by any grimace of his countenance. And yet the money which passed from his hands was material to him. But he was great at such efforts as these, and he understood well the fluctuations of the wist table. The half-crowns which he paid were only so much invested capital. He dined at his club this evening, and joined tables with another acquaintance who was not parliamentary. Mr. Parkinson Seymour was a man much of his own stamp, who cared not one straw as to any difficulty which the Prime Minister might feel in filling the office of Chancellor of the Exchequer, who were meant by dozens ready and willing and no doubt able, or at any rate one as able as the other, to manage the taxes of the country. But the blue ribbon and the lord left tenancy of Barceture were important things, which would now be in the gift of Mr. Albany, and Lady Glencora would at last be a duchess, with much effect on society, either good or bad. And Planty Powell would be a juke, with very much less capability, as Mr. Parkinson Seymour thought, fulfilling that great office, than that which the man had displayed who was now supposed to be dying at matching. He's been a fine old fellow, said Mr. Parkinson Seymour, and very much said that there aren't many of that stamp left. I don't know one, continued the gentleman with enthusiasm. They all go in for something now, just as Jones goes in for being a bank clerk, their politicians, or gamblers, or by heaven tradesmen, as some of them are. The Earl of Tidville and Lord Murther are in partnership together working their own minds, by the Lord with a regular deed of partnership just like two cheese-mongers. The Marquis of Meltonops has a chair in a bitter beer-house at Burton, and the Duke of Discount who married old Bunce's daughter and his brother-in-law to young George Advance retains his interest in the house in Lombard Street, I know for a fact. Well, Domian was about that sort of thing, said Mr. Moll. Lord bless you, quite another sort of man. There's nothing left like it now. With a princely income I don't suppose he ever put by a shilling in his life. I've heard it said that he couldn't afford to marry, living in the manner in which he chose to live. And he understood what dignity meant. None of them understand that now. Duke's was common as dogs in the streets, and a Marquis thinks no more of himself than a market gardener. I'm very sorry the old Duke should go. The nephew may be very good at figures, but he isn't fit to fill his uncle's shoes. As for Lady Glencora, no doubt as things go now she's very popular, but he's more like a dairy-maid than a duchess, to my way of thinking. There was not a club in London and hardly a drawing-room in which something was not said that day in consequence of the two bulletins which had appeared as to the condition of the old Duke. And in no club, and in no drawing-room, was a verdict given against the dying man. It was acknowledged everywhere that he played his part in a noble, and even him, and that he deserved well of his country. And yet, perhaps, no man who'd lived during the same period, or any portion of the period, had done less, or devoted himself more entirely to the presumption of good things without the slightest idea of reducing anything in return. But he had looked like a duke, and known how to set a home presence. To Mr. Maul, the threatened demise of this great man was not without a peculiar interest. His acquaintance with Madame Gerster had not been of long standing, nor even as yet had it reached a close intimacy. During the last London season he had been introduced to her, and had dined twice at her house. He endeavoured to make himself agreeable to her, and he flattered himself that he had succeeded. It may be said of him generally that he had the gift of making himself pleasant to women. When last she had parted from him with a smile, repeating the last few words of some good story which he had told her, the idea struck him that she, after all, might perhaps be the woman. He made his enquiries, and had learnt that there was not a shadow of a doubt as to her wealth, or even to her power of disposing of that wealth that she pleased. So he wrote to her a pretty little note, in which he gave to her the history of that good story, how it originated with a certain cardinal and might be found in certain memoirs, which did not, however, bear the best reputation in the world. Madame Gerster answered his note very graciously thanking him for the reference, but declaring that the information given was already so sufficient that she need prosecute the enquiry no further. Mr. Mull smiled, as he declared to himself that those memoirs would certainly be in Madame Gerster's hands before many days were over. Had his intimacy been a little more advanced, he would have sent the volume to her. But he also learned that there was some romance in the lady's life which connected her with the Duke of Omnium. He was diligent in seeking information and became assured that there could be no chance for himself or for any man as long as the Duke was alive. Some hinted that there had been a private marriage, a marriage-house for which Madame Gerster had bound herself by solemn oaths never to disclose. Others surmised that she was the Duke's daughter. Hints were, of course, thrown out as to a connection of another kind, but with no great vigor, as it was omitted on all hands that Lady Glencora, the Duke's niece by marriage, and the mother of the Duke's future heir, was Madame Gerster's great friend. That there was a mystery was a fact very gratifying to the world at large, and perhaps upon the whole the more gratifying in that nothing had occurred to throw a gleam of light upon the matter since the fact of the intimacy had become generally known. Mr. Moore was aware, however, that there could be no success for him as long as the Duke lived. Whatever might be the nature of the alliance, it was too strong to admit of any other while it lasted. But the Duke was a very old, or at least a very infirm, man. And now the Duke was dying. Of course it was only a chance, Mr. Moore knew the world too well to lay out any great portion of his hopes on a prospect so doubtful. But it was worth a struggle, and he would so struggle that he might enjoy success should success come without laying himself open to the pangs of disappointment. Mr. Moore hated to be unhappy or uncomfortable, and therefore never allowed any aspiration to proceed to such length as to be inconvenient to his feelings should it not be gratified. In the meantime, Madam Max Gersler had been sent for, and had hired off to matching almost without a moment's preparation. As she sat in the train, thinking of it, tears absolutely filled her eyes. Poor dear old man, she said to herself, and yet the poor dear old man had simply been a trouble to her, adding a most disagreeable task to her life, a one which she was not called on to perform by any sense of duty. How is he, she said anxiously, when she met Lady Glancora in the hall at matching? The two women kissed each other, as though they had been almost sisters since their birth. He's a little better now, but he was very uneasy when we telegraphed this morning. He asked for you twice, and then we thought it better to send. Of course it was best, said Madam Gersler. End of Chapter 24 Recording by Simon Evers Phineas Redux by Antony Trollop Chapter 25 I Would Do It Now Though it was rumored all over London that the Duke of Omnium was dying, his grace had been dressed and taken out of his bedchamber into a sitting room when Madam Gersler was brought into his presence by Lady Glancora Palliser. He was reclining in a great armchair with his legs propped up on cushions and a respectable old lady in a black silk gown and a very smart cap was attending to his ones. The respectable old lady took her departure when the younger ladies entered the room, whispering a word of instruction to Lady Glancora as she went. His grace should have had his broth at half past four, my lady, and a glass and a half of champagne. His grace won't drink his wine out of a tumbler, so perhaps your ladyship won't mind giving it him twice. Marie has come, said Lady Glancora. I knew she would, said the old man, turning his head round slowly on the back of his chair. I knew she would be so good to me to the last. And he laid his withered arm on the arm of his chair so that the woman whose presence gratified him might take it within hers and comfort him. Of course I have come, said Madam Gersler, standing close by him and putting her left arm very lightly on his shoulder. It was all that she could do for him, but it was in order that she might do this that she had been summoned from London to his side. He was worn and worn and pale, a man evidently dying, the oil of whose lamp was all but burned out. But still as he turned his eyes up to the woman's face, there was a remnant of that look of grateful, fannyant nobility which had always distinguished him. He had never done any good, but he always carried himself like a duke. And like a duke, he carried himself to the end. He's decidedly better than he was this morning, said Lady Glencora. It is pretty nearly all over, my dear. Sit down, Marie. Did they give you anything after your journey? I could not wait, Duke. I'll get her some tea, said Lady Glencora. Yes, I will. I'll do it myself. I know he wants to say a word to you alone. This she added in a whisper. But sick people hear everything, and the duke did hear the whisper. Yes, my dear, yes, my dear, she is quite right. I am glad to have you for a minute alone. Do you love me, Marie? It was a foolish question to be asked by a dying old man of a young woman who was in no way connected with him, and who he had never seen till some three or four years since. But it was asked with feverish anxiety, and it required an answer. You know I love you, Duke. Why else should I be here? It is a pity you did not take the car in it when I offered it to you. Nade, Duke, it was no pity. Had I done so, you could not have had us both. I should have wanted only you, and I should have stood aloof, in despair to think that I was separating you from those with whom your grace is bound up so closely. We have ever been dear friends since that. Yes, we have been dear friends, but then he closed his eyes and put his long, thin fingers across his face and lay back a while in silence, still holding her by the other hand. Kiss me, Marie, he said at last, and she stooped over him and kissed his forehead. I would do it now if I thought it would serve you. She only shook her head and pressed his hand closely. I would, I would. Such things have been done, my dear. Such a thing shall never be done by me, Duke. They remained seated side by side, the one holding the other by the hand, but without uttering another word, till Lady Glencora returned, bringing a cup of tea and a morsel of toast in her hand. Madam Gursler, as she took it, could not help thinking how it might have been with her, had she accepted the coronet which had been offered. In that case, she might have been a duchess herself, but assuredly, she would not have been waited upon by a future duchess. As it was, there was no one in that family who had not caused to be grateful to her. When the Duke had sipped a spoonful of his broth and swallowed his allowance of wine, they both left him, and the respectable old lady with a smart cap was summoned back to her position. I suppose he whispered something very gracious to you, Lady Glencora said when they were alone. Very gracious. And you were very gracious to him, I hope. I meant to be. I'm sure you did. Poor old man. If you had done what he asked you, I wonder whether his affection would have lasted as it is done. Certainly not, Lady Glencora. He would have known that I had injured him. I declare, I think you were the wisest woman I ever met, Madam Max, and I'm sure you were the most discreet if I had always been as wise as you are. You always have been wise. Well, never mind. Some people fall on their feet like cats, but you are one of those who never fall at all. Others tumble about in the most unfortunate way without any great fault of their own. Think of that poor Lady Laura. Yes, indeed. I suppose it's true about Mr. Kennedy. You've heard it, of course, in London. But as it happened, Madam Gersler had not heard the story. I got it from Barrington Earl, who always writes to me if anything happens. Mr. Kennedy has fired a pistol at the head of Phineas Finn. A Phineas Finn? Yes, indeed. Mr. Finn went to him at some hotel in London. No one knows what it was about. But Mr. Kennedy went off in a fit of jealousy and fired a pistol at him. He did not hit him. It seems not. Mr. Finn is one of those Irish gentlemen who always seems to be under some special protection. The ball went through his whiskers and didn't hurt him. And what has become of Mr. Kennedy? Nothing, it seems. Nobody sent for the police, and he has been allowed to go back to Scotland, as though a man were permitted by a special act of Parliament to try to murder his wife's lover. It would be a bad law because it was caused such a deal of bloodshed. But he is not Lady Laura's lover, said Madam Gersler gravely. That would make the law difficult, because who is to say whether a man is or is not a woman's lover? I don't think there was ever anything of that kind. They were always together, but I dare say it was platonic. I believe these kind of things generally are platonic. And as for Lady Laura, heavens and earth, I suppose it must have been platonic. What did the Duke say to you? He made me kiss him. Poor dear old man, he never ceases to speak of you when you are away, and I do believe he could not have gone in peace without seeing you. I doubt whether in all his life he ever loved anyone as he loves you. We dine at half past seven, dear, and you had better just go into his room for a moment as you come down. There isn't a soul here, except Sir Omicron Pie and Plantagenet, and two of the other nephews, whom, by the by, he has refused to see. Old Lady Hartletop wanted to come. And you wouldn't have her? I couldn't have refused. I shouldn't have dared. But the Duke would not hear of it. He made me right to say that he was too weak to see any but his nearest relatives. Then he made me send for you, my dear, and now he won't see the relatives. What shall we do if Lady Hartletop turns up? I'm living in fear of it. You'll have to be shut up out of sight somewhere, if that should happen. During the next two or three days, the Duke was neither much better nor much worse. Bulletons appeared in the newspapers, though no one at matching knew from whence they came. Sir Omicron Pie, who, having retired from general practice, was unable to devote his time to the dear Duke, protested that he had no hand in sending them out. He declared to Lady Glencora every morning that it was only a question of time. The vital spark is on the spring, said Sir Omicron, waving a gesture heavenward with his hand. For three days, Mr. Palliser was at matching, and he duly visited his uncle twice a day. But not a syllable was ever said between them beyond the ordinary words of compliments. Mr. Palliser spent his time with his private secretary, working out endless sums and toiling for unapproachable results in reference to decibel coinage. To him, his uncle's death would be a great blow, as in his eyes, to be Chancellor of the Exchequer was more than to be Duke of Omnium. For herself, Lady Glencora was nearly equally indifferent, though she did in her heart of hearts wish that her son should go to Eden with the title of Lord Silverbridge. On the third morning, the Duke suddenly asked a question of Madam Gerstler. The two were sitting near to each other, and the Duke was again holding her hand. But Lady Glencora was also in the room. Have you not been staying with Lord Chiltern? Yes, Duke. He is a friend of yours. I used to know his wife before they were married. Why does he go on writing me letters about a wood? This he asked in a wailing voice, as though he were almost weeping. I know nothing of Lord Chiltern. Why does he write to me about the wood? I wish he wouldn't write to me. He does not know that you are ill, Duke. By the by, I promise to speak to Lady Glencora about it. He says that foxes are poisoned at trumpet and wood. I don't believe a word of it, said the Duke. No one would poison foxes in my wood. I wish you'd see about it, Glencora. Plantagenet will never attend to anything, but he shouldn't write to me. He ought to know better than to write letters to me. I will not have people writing letters to me. Why don't they write to Father Gil? And then the Duke began in truth to whimper. I'll put it all right, said Lady Glencora. I wish you would. I don't like them to say there are no foxes, and Plantagenet never will attend to anything. The wife had long since ceased to take the husband's part when accusations such as this were brought against him. Nothing could make Mr. Palacer think it worth his while to give up any shred of his time to such a matter as the preservation of foxes. On the fourth day, the catastrophe happened, which Lady Glencora had feared. A fly with a pair of horses from the matching road station was driven up to the door of the priory, and Lady Hartley Topp was announced. I knew it, said Lady Glencora, slapping her hand down on the table in the room in which she was sitting with Madame Gersler. Unfortunately, the old lady was shown into the room before Madame Gersler could escape, and they passed each other on the threshold. The Dowager Marchioness of Hartley Topp was a very stout old lady, now perhaps nearer to 70 than 65 years of age, who for many years had been the intimate friend of the Duke of Omnium. In latter days, during which she had seen but little of the Duke himself, she had heard of Madame Max Gersler, but she had never met that lady. Nevertheless, she knew her rival friend at a glance. Some instinct told her that the woman with the black brow and dark curls was Madame Gersler. In these days, the Marchioness was given to waddling rather than walking, but she waddled past the foreign female, as she had often called Madame Max, with a dignified though duck-like step. Lady Hartley Topp was a bold woman, and it must be supposed that she had some heart within her, or she would hardly have made such a journey with such a purpose. Dear Lady Hartley Topp, said Lady Glencora, I am so sorry that you should have had this trouble. I must see him, said Lady Hartley Topp. Lady Glencora put both hands together piteously, as though deprecating her visitor's wrath. I must insist on seeing him. Sir Omicron has refused permission to anyone to visit him. I shall not go until I've seen him. Who was that lady? A friend of mine, said Lady Glencora, drawing herself up. She is Madame Gersler. That is her name, Lady Hartley Topp. She is my most intimate friend. Does she see the Duke? Lady Glencora, when expressing her fear that the woman would come to matching, had confessed that she was afraid of Lady Hartley Topp, and a feeling of dismay, almost of awe, had fallen upon her on hearing the Martianess announced. But when she found herself thus cross-examined, she resolved that she would be bold. Nothing on earth should induce her to open the door of the Duke's room to Lady Hartley Topp, nor would she scruple to tell the truth about Madame Gersler. Yes, she said. Madame Gersler does see the Duke. And I am to be excluded? My dear Lady Hartley Topp, what can I do? The Duke for some time past has been accustomed to the presence of my friend, and therefore her presence now is no disturbance. Surely that can be understood. I should not disturb him? He would be inexpressively excited, were he to know that you were even in the house, and I could not take it upon myself to tell him. Then Lady Hartley Topp threw herself upon a sofa, and began to weep piteously. I have known him for more than forty years, she moaned, through her choking tears. Lady Glencara's heart was softened, and she was kind and womanly, but she would not give way about the Duke. It would, as she knew, have been useless, as the Duke had declared that he would see no one except his eldest nephew, his nephew's wife, and Madame Gersler. That evening was very dreadful to all of them at matching, except to the Duke, who was never told of Lady Hartley Topp's perseverance. The poor old woman could not be sent away on that afternoon, and was therefore forced to dine with Mr. Palacer. He, however, was warned by his wife to say nothing in the Lady's presence about his uncle, and he received her as he would receive any other chance guessed at his wife's table. But the presence of Madame Gersler made the Chief difficulty. She herself was desirous of disappearing for the evening, but Lady Glencara would not permit it. She has seen you, my dear, and asked about you. If you hide yourself, she'll say all sorts of things. An introduction was therefore necessary, and Lady Hartley Topp's manner was grotesquely grand. She dropped a very low curtsy, and made a very long face, but she did not say a word. In the evening, the Martianess sat close to Lady Glencara, whispering many things about the Duke, and condescending at last to a final entreaty that she might be permitted to see him on the following morning. There is Sir Omicron, said Lady Glencara, turning round to the little doctor. But Lady Hartley Topp was too proud to appeal to Sir Omicron, who as a matter of course, would support the orders of a Lady Glencara. On the next morning, Madame Gersler did not appear at the breakfast table, and at 11, Lady Hartley Topp was taken back to the train in Lady Glencara's carriage. She had submitted herself to discomfort, indignity, fatigue, and disappointment, and had it all been done for love. With her broad face and her double chin, and her heavy jowl, and the beard that was growing round her lips, she did not look like a romantic woman. But in spite of appearances, romance and a duck-like waddle may go together. The memory of those 40 years had been strong upon her, and her heart was heavy, because she could not see that old man once again. Men will love to the last, but they love what is fresh and new. A woman's love can live on the recollection of the past, and cling to what is old and ugly. What an episode, said Lady Glencara, when the unwelcome visitor was gone. But it's odd how much less dreadful things are than you think they will be. I was frightened when I heard her name, but you see we've gotten through it without much harm. A week passed by, and still the Duke was living. But now he was too weak to be moved from one room to another, and Madame Gersler passed two hours each day sitting at his bedside. He would lie with his hand out upon the cover lid, and she would put hers upon it. But very few words passed between them. He grumbled again about the trumpetan words and Lord Children's interference, and complained of his nephew's indifference. As to himself and his own condition, he seemed to be at any rate without discomfort. He was certainly free from fear. A clergyman attended him and gave him the sacrament. He took it, as the champagne prescribed by Sir Omicron, or the few mouthfuls of chicken broth which were administered to him by the old lady with the smart cap. But it may be doubted whether he thought much more of the one remedy than of the other. He knew that he had lived, and that the thing was done. His courage never failed him. As to the future, he neither feared much nor hoped much, but was unconsciously supported by a general trust in the goodness and the greatness of the God who had made him what he was. It is nearly done now, Marie, he said to Madam Gersler one evening. She only pressed his hand and answered. His condition was too well understood between them to allow of her speaking to him of any possible recovery. It has been a great comfort to me that I have known you, he said. Oh no, a great comfort. Only I wish it had been sooner. I could have talked to you about things which I never did talk of to anyone. I wonder why I should have been a duke and another man a servant. God Almighty ordained such difference. I'm afraid I have not done it well. But I have tried. Indeed I have tried. And then she told him he had ever lived as a great nobleman ought to live. And after a fashion she herself believed what she was saying. Nevertheless her nature was much nobler than his, and she knew that no man should dare to live idly as the duke had lived. Finish Redux by Anthony Trollop, Chapter 26, The Duke's Will On the ninth day after Madame Gerstas' arrival, the duke died, and Lady Lencora Palliser became Duchess of Omnium. But the change probably was much greater to Mr. Palliser than to his wife. It would seem to be impossible to imagine a greater change that had come upon him. As to rank, he was raised from that of a simple he was made master of almost unlimited wealth, garters and lord-left tenancies, and all the added grandiers which come from high influence when joined to high rank were sure to be his. But he was no more moved by these things than would have been a god or a block of wood. His uncle was dead, but his uncle had been an old man, and his grief on that score was moderate. As soon as his uncle's body had been laid in the family vault at Gatherham, men would call him Duke of Omnium, and then he could never sit again in the House of Commons. It was in that light, and in that light only, that he regarded the matter. To his uncle had been everything to be Duke of Omnium. To Plantagenet Palliser it was less than nothing. He had lived among men and women with titles all his life, himself untitled, but regarded by them as one of themselves, to the thing, in his estimation, had come to seem almost nothing. One man walked out of a room before another man, and he, as Chancellor of the Exchequer, had, during a part of his career, walked out of most rooms before most men. But he cared not at all whether he walked out first or last, and for him there was nothing else in it. It was a toy that would perhaps please his wife, but he doubted even whether she would not cease to be Lady Glencora with regret. In himself this thing that had happened had absolutely crushed him, he had won for himself by his own aptitude in his own industry one special position in the Empire, and that position, and that alone, was incompatible with the rank which he was obliged to assume. His case was very hard, and he felt it, but he made no complaint to human ears. I suppose you must give up the Exchequer, his wife said to him. He shook his head, and made no reply, even to her he could not explain his feelings. I think, too, that she did regret the change in her name, that she was by no means indifferent to the rank. As Lady Glencora, she had made a reputation which might very possibly fall away from her as Doch Duchess of Omnium. Fame is a skittish jade, more fickle even than fortune, and apt to shy, and bolt, and plunge away on very trifling causes. As Lady Glencora Palliser, she was known to everyone, and had always done exactly as she had pleased. The world in which she lived had submitted to her fantasies, and had placed her on a pedestal from which, as Lady Glencora, nothing could have moved her. She was by no means sure that the same pedestal would be able to carry the Duchess of Omnium. She must begin again, and such beginnings are dangerous. As Lady Glencora, she had almost taken upon herself to create a rivalry in society to certain, very distinguished, and indeed illustrious people. There were any two houses in London, she used to say, to which she never went. The never was not quite true, but there had been something in it. She doubted whether, as Duchess of Omnium, she could go on with this. She must lay down her mischief, and abandon her eccentricity, and in some degree act like other Duchesses. The poor old man, she said to Madame Gerster, I wish you could have gone on living a little longer. This time the two ladies were alone together at matching. Mr. Palliser, with the cousins, had gone to Gatherham, where there also had been sent all that remained of the late Duke, in order that fitting funeral obsequies might be celebrated over the great family vault. He would hardly have wished it upon himself, I think. One never knows, and as far as one can look into futurity, one has no idea what would be one's own feelings. I suppose he did enjoy life. Hardly for the last twelve months, said Madame Gersler. I think he did. He was happy when you were about him, and he interested himself about things. Do you remember how much he used to think of Lady Eustace and her diamonds? When I first knew him, he was too magnificent to care about anything. I suppose his nature was the same. Yes, my dear, his nature was the same, but he was strong enough to restrain his nature, and wise enough to know that his magnificence was incompatible with ordinary interests. As he got to be older, he broke down and took up with mere mortal gossip. But I think he must have made him happier. He showed his weakness in coming to me, said Madame Gersler, laughing. Of course he did, not in liking your society, but in wanting to give you his name. I have often wondered what kind of things he used to say to that old Lady Hartletop. That was in his full grandeur, and he never condescended to speak much then. I used to think him so hard, but I suppose he was only acting his part. I used to call him the Grand Lama to plantagen it when we were first married, before Planty was born. I shall always call him Silverbridge now, instead of Planty. I would let others do that. Of course I was joking, but others will, and he will be spoiled. I wonder whether he will live to be a Grand Lama or a popular minister. There cannot be two positions further apart. My husband, no doubt, thinks a good deal of himself as a statesman and a clever politician. At least I suppose he does. But he has not the slightest reverence for himself as a nobleman. If the dear old Duke were hobbling along Piccadilly, he was conscious that Piccadilly was graced by his presence, and never moved without being aware that people looked at him and whispered to each other. There goes the Duke of Omnium. Plantagenit considers himself inferior to a sweeper while on the crossing, and never feels any pride of place, unless he is sitting on the treasury bench with his hat over his eyes. You'll never sit on the treasury bench again. No, poor dear. He's an Othello now with a vengeance, for his occupation is gone. I spoke to him about your friend and the foxes, and he told me to write to Mr. Fothergill. I will, as soon as it's decent. I fancy a new duchess shouldn't write letters about foxes till the old Duke is buried. I wonder what sort of a will he'll have made. There's nothing I cat-tuppants for, except his pearls. No man in England had such a collection of precious stones. They'd be yours, my dear, if you consented to be, Mrs. O. The Duke was buried, and the will was read, and Plantagenit's palace was addressed as Duke of Omnium by all the tenetry and retainers of the family in the Great Hall of Gatherham Castle. Mr. Fothergill, who had upon occasion in former days been driven by his duty to remonstrate with the heir, was all submission. Plantipyle had come to the throne, and half a county was ready to worship him. But he did not know how to endure worship, and the half county declared that he was stern and proud, and more haughty even than his uncle. At every grace that was flung at him, he winced, and was miserable, and declared to himself that he should never become accustomed to his new life. So he sat all alone, and meditated how he might best reconcile the forty-eight farthings which go to a shilling with that thoroughgoing, useful decimal fifty. But his meditations did not prevent him from writing to his wife, and on the following morning Lady Glencora, as she shall now be called for the last time, received a letter from him which disturbed her a good deal. She was in her room when it was brought to her, and for an hour after reading it hardly knew how to see her guest and friend, Madame Gerstler. The passage in the letter which abused this dismay was as follows. He has left to Madame Gerstler twenty thousand pounds and all his jewels. The money may be very well, but I think he has been wrong about the jewellery. As to myself, I do not care a straw, but you is sorry. And then people will talk. The lawyers will of course write to her, but I suppose you had better tell her. They seem to think that the stones are worth a great deal of money. But I have long learned never to believe any statement that is made to me. They are all here, and I suppose she will have to send some authorised person to have them packed. There is a regular inventory of which a copy shall be sent to her by post as soon as it can be prepared. Now it must be owned, that the Duchess did begrudge her friend the Duke's collection of pearls and diamonds. About noon they met. My dear, she said, you better hear your good fortune at once. Read that, just that side. Plantation it is wrong in saying that I shall regret it. I do not care a bit about it. If I want a ring or a brooch, I can buy me one. But I never did care about such things, and I do not know. The money is all just as it should be. Madame Gerstler read the passage, and the blood mounted up into her face. She read it very slowly, and when she had finished reading it, she was for a moment or two at a loss for her words to express herself. You better send one of Garnett's people, said the Duchess, naming the house of a distinguished jeweler and goldsmith in London. It will hardly need, said Madame Gerstler. Oh, you better be careful. There is no knowing what they are worth. He spent half his income on them, I believe, during part of his life. There was a roughness about the Duchess, of which she was herself conscious. But which she could not restrain, that she knew that it procured her chagra. Madame Gerstler came gently up to her, and touched her arm caressingly. Do you remember, said Madame Gerstler, a small ring with a black diamond? I suppose it was a diamond, which she always wore. I remember that he always did wear such a ring. I should like to have that, said Madame Gerstler. You have them all. Everything he makes, no distinction. I should like to have that, Lady Glen, for the sake of the hand that wore it. But, as God is great above us, I will never take ought else that has belonged to the Duke. Not take them. Not a gem. Not a stone. Not a shilling. But you must. I rather think that I come to be under no such obligation, she said, laughing. Would you write to Mr. Palliser, or I should say to the Duke, tonight, and tell him that my mind is absolutely made up? I certainly shall not do that. Then I must. As it is, I shall have pleasant memories of his grace. According to my ability, I have endeavoured to be good to him, and I have no stain on my conscience because of his friendship. If I took his money and his jewels, or rather your money and your jewels, do you think I could say as much? Everybody takes what anybody leaves them by will. I will be an exception to the rule, Lady Glen. Don't you think that your friendship is more to me than all the diamonds in London? You shall have both, my dear, said the Duchess. Quite an earnest to her promise. Madam Gerstle shook her head. And nobody ever repudiates legacies the Queen would take the jewels if they were left to her. I am not the Queen. I have to be more careful what I do than any Queen. I will take nothing under the Duke's will. I will ask a boon which I have already named, and if it be given me as a gift by the Duke's air, I will wear it till I die. You will write to Mr. Palliser? I couldn't do it, said the Duchess. Then I will write myself. And she did write. And of all the rich things which the Duke of Omnim had left to her, she took nothing but the little ring with the black stone which you'd always worn on his finger. End of Chapter 26 Recording by Simon Evers Chapter 27 of Finnish Redux This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For information or volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Simon Evers Finnish Redux by Anthony Trollop Chapter 27 And Editors Roth On that Sunday evening in London, Mr. Lowe was successful in finding the Vice-Chancellor, and the great Judge smiled and nodded, listened to the story, and acknowledged that the circumstances were very peculiar. He thought that an injunction to restrain the publication might be given at once upon Mr. Finn's affidavit. QDC circumstances justify the peculiarity of Mr. Lowe's application. Where he would have said as much had the facts concerned the families of Mr. Joseph Smith and his son-in-law, Mr. John Jones, instead of the Earl of Brentford and the right honourable Robert Kennedy, some readers will perhaps doubt. On the following morning, Finneas and Mr. Lowe, and no doubt also Mr. Vice-Chancellor Pickering, obtained early copies of The People's Banner, rightly. The editor, considering that he would gain more by having the young member of Parliament and the Standish family as it were in his hands, than by the publication of a certain libelous letter, had resolved to put the document back for at least twenty-four hours, even though the young member neither came nor wrote as he had promised. The letter did not appear, and before ten o'clock Finneas Finn had made his affidavit in a dingy little room behind the Lowe Vice-Chancellor's court. The injunction was at once issued, and it was of such potency that should any editor dare to publish any paper therein prohibited, that editor and that editor's newspaper would assuredly be crumpled up in a manner very disagreeable, if not altogether destructive. Editors of newspapers are self-willed, arrogant and stiff-necked, a race of men who believe much in themselves and little in anything else, with no feelings of reverence or respect for matters which were august enough to other men. But an injunction from a court of chancery is a power which even an editor respects. At about noon Vice-Chancellor Pickering's injunction was served at the office of the People's Banner in Courtpot Alley, Fleet Street. It was done in duplicate, or perhaps in triplicate, so that there should be no evasion, and all manner of crumpling was threatened in the event of any touch of disobedience. All this happened on Monday, March the 1st, while the poor dying Duke was waiting impatiently for the arrival of his friend at matching. Phineas was busy all the morning till it was time that he should go down to the house. For as soon as he could leave Mr Lowe's chambers in Lincoln's Inn, he had gone to Judd Street to inquire as to the condition of the man who had tried to murder him. He there saw Mr Kennedy's cousin, and received an assurance from that gentleman that Robert Kennedy should be taken down at once to Loch Linter. Up to that moment not a word had been said to the police as to what had been done. No more notice had been taken of the attempt to murder than might have been necessary had Mr Kennedy thrown a clothes-brush at his visitor's head. There was the little hole in the post of the door with a bullet in it just six feet above the ground, and there was the pit-stall, with five chambers still loaded, which MacPherson had cunningly secured on his return from church, and given oath to the cousin that same evening. There was certainly no want of evidence, but nobody was disposed to use it. At noon the injunction was served in Court Pot Alley, and was put into Mr Slides' hands on his arrival at the office at three o'clock. That gentleman's duties required his attendance from three till five in the afternoon, and that a game from nine in the evening till any hour in the morning at which he might be able to complete the people's banner for that day's use. He had been angry with Phineas when the Sunday night passed without a visit or letter at the office, as a promise had been made that there should be either a visit or a letter. But he had felt sure, as he walked into the city from his suburban residence at Candom Town, that he would now find some communication on the great subject. The matter was one of most serious importance. Such a letter as that which was in his possession ought to create much surprise, and receive no ordinary attention. A people's banner could hardly ask for a better bit of good fortune than the privilege of first publishing such a letter. It would no doubt be copied into every London paper and into hundreds of provincial papers, and every journal so copying it would be bound to declare that it was taken from the columns of the people's banner. It was indeed addressed to the editor of the people's banner in the printed slip of which Mr Slides had shown to Phineas Phine, though Kennedy himself had not prefixed to do it any such direction. And the letter, in the hands of Quintus Slide, would not simply have been a letter. It might have been groundwork for perhaps some half-dozen leading articles, all of a most attractive kind. Mr Slides' high moral tone upon such an occasion would have been qualified to do good to every British matron, and to add virtues to the bench of bishops. All this he had postponed with some inadequately defined idea that he could do better with the property in his hands by putting himself into personal communication with the person's concerned. If he could manage to reconcile such a husband to such a wife, or even to be conspicuous in an attempt to do so, and if he could make the old Earl and the young member of Parliament feel that he had spared them by abstaining from the publication, the results might be very beneficial. His conception of the matter had been somewhat hazy, and he had certainly made a mistake. But as he walked from his home to Court Pot Alley, he little dreamed of the treachery with whom he had been treated. As Phine has been here, he asked as he took his accustomed seat within a small closet that might be best described as a glass cage. Around him lay the deadly of many past newspapers and the germs of many future publications. To all the world except himself it would have been a chaos, but to him with his experience it was abrobable order. No, Mr Phine had not been there. And then as he was searching among the letters for one from the member for Tankerville, the injunction was thrust into his hands. To say that he was aghast is but a poor form of speech for the expression of his emotion. He had been done, sold, absolutely robbed by that wretchedly false Irishman whom he had trusted with all the confidence of a candid nature and an open heart. He had been most treacherously misused. Treachery was no adequate word for the inflicted on him. The more potent is a man, the less accustomed to enduring justice, and the more his power to inflict it. The greater is the sting and the greater the astonishment when he himself is made to suffer. Newspaper editors sport daily with the names of men of whom they do not hesitate to publish almost as severe words that can be uttered. But let an editor be himself attacked, even without his name, and he thinks that the thunderbolts of heaven should fall upon the offender. Let his manners, his truth, his judgment, his honesty, or even his inconsistency be questioned, and thunderbolts are forthcoming, though they may not be from heaven. There should certainly be a thunderbolt or two now, but Mr. Slide did not at first quite see how they were to be forged. He read the injunction again and again. As far as the document went, he knew its force and recognised the necessity of obedience. He might perhaps be able to use the information contained in the letter from Mr. Kennedy, so as to Harris, Phineas, and Lady Laura, and the Earl, but he was at once aware that it must not be published. An editor is bound to avoid the meshes of the law, which are always infinitely more costly to companies or things or institutions than they are to individuals. Of fighting with chancellery, he had no notion. But it should go hard with him if he did not have a fight with Phineas Finn. And then there arose another cause for deep sorrow. A paragraph was shown to him in a morning paper of that day which must, he thought, refer to Mr. Kennedy and Phineas Finn. A rumour has reached us that a member of Parliament calling yesterday afternoon upon a right honourable gentleman, a member of a late government at his hotel, was shot at by the latter in his sitting-room. Whether the rumour be true or not, we have no means of saying, and therefore abstain from publishing names. We are informed that the gentleman who used the pistol was out of his mind. The bullet did not take effect. How cruel it was that such intervention should have reached the hands of a rival and not fallen on the way of the people's banner. And what a pity that the bullet should have been wasted. The paragraph must certainly refer to Phineas Finn and Kennedy. Finn, a member of Parliament, had been sent by Slide himself to call upon Kennedy, a member of the late government, at Kennedy's hotel. And the paragraph must be true. He himself had warned Finn that there would be danger in the visit. He had even prophesied murder, and murder had been attempted. The whole transaction had been, as it were, the very goods and shattles of the people's banner. And the paper had been shamefully robbed of its property. Mr. Slide hardly doubted that Phineas Finn had himself sent the paragraph to an adverse paper with the express view of adding to the injury inflicted upon the banner. That day Mr. Slide hardly did his work effectively within his glass cage so much was his mind affected. And at five o'clock, when he left his office, instead of going at once home to Mrs. Slide at Camden Town, he took an omnibus and went down to Westminster. He would have once confront the traitor who had deceived him. It must be acknowledged on behalf of this editor that he did in truth believe that he had been hindered from doing good. The whole practice of his life had taught him to be confident that an editor of a newspaper must be the best possible judge, indeed the only possible good judge, whether any statement or story should or should not be published. Not altogether without a conscience, and intensely conscious of such conscience as did restrain him, Mr. Quintus Slide imagined that no law of libel, no injunction from any vice-chancellor, no outward power or pressure whatever, was needed to keep his energies within their proper limits. He and his newspaper formed together a simply beneficent institution, any interference with which must of necessity be an injury to the public. Everything done at the office of the people's banner was done in the interest of the people. And even though individuals might occasionally be made to suffer by the severity with which their names were handled in its columns, the general result was good. What are the sufferings of the few to the advantage of the many? If there be fault in high-paper places, it is proper that it be exposed. If there be fraud, adulteries, gambling, and lasciviousness, or even quarrels and indiscretions among those whose names are known, let every detail be laid open to the light so that the people may have a warning. That such details will make a paper pay, Mr. Slide knew also. But it is not only Mr. Slide's path of life that the bias of a man's mind may lead him to find that virtue and profit are compatible. An unprofitable newspaper cannot long continue its existence. And, while existing, cannot be widely beneficial. It is the circulation of the profitable circulation of 40, 50, 60, or 100,000 copies through all the arteries and veins of the public body, which is beneficent. And how can such circulation be affected unless the taste of the public be consulted? Mr. Quentus Slide, as he walked up Westminster Hall in search of that wicked member of Parliament, did not at all do the work of the public. He could not contest the Vice Chancellor's injunction, but he was firm in his opinion that the Vice Chancellor's injunction had inflicted an evil on the public at large, and he was unhappy with himself in that the power and majesty and goodness of the press should still be hampered by ignorance, prejudice, and favour for the great. He was quite sure that no injunction would have been granted in favour of Mr. Joseph Smith and Mr. John Jones. He went boldly up to one of the policemen who sit guarding the door of the lobby of our House of Commons and asked for Mr. Finn. The Cerberus on the left was not sure whether Mr. Finn was in the house, but would send in a card if Mr. Slide would stand on one side. For the next quarter of an hour Mr. Slide heard no more of his message, and then applied again to the Cerberus. The Cerberus shook his head and again desired the applicant to stand on one side. He had done all that in him lay. The other watchful Cerberus standing on the right, observing that the intruder was not accommodated with any member, intimated to him the propriety of standing back in one of the corners. Our editor turned round upon the man as though he would bite him, but he did stand back, meditating an article on the gross want of attention to the public shown in the lobby of the House of Commons. Is it possible that any editor should enjoy any inconvenience without meditating an article? But the judicious editor thinks twice of such things. Our editor was still in his wrath when he saw his prey come forth from the house with a card, no doubt his own card. He leaped forward in spite of the policeman, in spite of any Cerberus, and seized Finnus by the arm. I just want to have a few words, he said. He made an effort to repress his wrath, knowing that the whole world would be against him should he exhibit any violence of indignation on that spot. But Finnus could see it all in the far of his eye. Certainly, said Finnus, retiring to the side of the lobby, with a conviction that the distance between him and the house was already sufficient. Can't you come down into Westminster Hall? I should only have to come up again. You can say what you've got to say here. I've got a great deal to say. I never was so badly treated in my life. Never! He could not quite repress his voice, and he saw that a policeman looked at him. Finnus saw it also. Because we have hinted you from publishing an untrue and very slanderous letter about a lady. You promised me that you'd come to me yesterday. I think not. I think I said that you should hear from me. And you did. You call that truth and honesty? Certainly I do. Of course it was my first duty to stop the publication of the letter. You haven't done that yet. I've done my best to stop it. If you have nothing more to say, I'll wish you good evening. I have a deal more to say. You were shot at, weren't you? I have no desire to make any communication to you on anything that has occurred, Mr. Slide. If I stayed with you all the afternoon, I could tell you nothing more. Good evening. I'll crush you, said Quintus Slide, in a stage whisper. I will as sure as my name is Slide. Finnus looked at him, and retired into the house, with a Quintus Slide could not follow him. And the editor of the People's Banner was left alone in his anger. How a cock can crow on his own dung-hill! That was Mr. Slide's first feeling. As with a painful sense of diminished consequence, he retraced his steps through the outer lobbies and down into Westminster Hall. He had been brow-beaten by Finnus Finn simply because Finnus had been able to retreat within those happy doors. He knew that through the eyes of all the policemen and strangers assembled, Finnus Finn had been a hero, a parliamentary hero, and he had been some poor outsider, to be ejected at once should he make himself disagreeable to the members. Nevertheless, had he not all the columns of the People's Banner in his pocket? Was he not great in the Fourth Estate? Much greater than Finnus Finn in his estate. Could he not thunder every night so that an audience to be counted by hundreds of thousands should hear his thunder? Whereas this poor Member of Parliament must struggle night after night for any opportunity of speaking. And could there only speech to benches half deserted, or to a few members half asleep? Unless the press should choose to convert his words into thunderbolts. Who could doubt for a moment with which lay the greater power? And yet this wretched Irishman, who'd wriggled himself into Parliament on her petition, getting the better of a good downright English John Bull by a quibble, had treated him with scorn. The wretched Irishman being for a moment like a cock on his own dung-hill. Gwynter Slide was not slow to tell himself that he also had an elevation of his own from which he could make himself audible. In former days he had forgiven Finnus Finn more than once. If he ever forgave Finnus Finn again, might his right hand forget its cunning and never again draw blood or tear a scalp. CHAPTER XXVIII The First Thunderbolt It was not till after Mr. Slide had left him that Finnus wrote the following letter to Lady Laura. Husser Commons, 1st of March My dear friend, I have a long story to tell which I fear I shall find difficult in the telling, but it is so necessary that you should know the facts that I must go through with it as best I may. It will give you very great pain, but the result as regards your own position will not, I think, be injurious to you. Yesterday, Sunday, a man came to me who edits a newspaper and whom I once knew. You will remember when I used to tell you in Portman's Square of the amenities and angers of Mr. Slide, the man who wanted to sit for Louton. He is the editor. He brought me a long letter from Mr. Kennedy himself, intended for publication, and which was already printed, giving an elaborate, and I may say a most cruelly untrue account of your quarrel. I read the letter, but a false course cannot remember the words, nor if I could remember them should I repeat them. They contained all the old charges with which you are familiar, and with which your unfortunate husband had no desire to publish in consummation of his threats. Why, Mr. Slide, should have brought me the paper before publishing it, I can hardly understand. But he did so, and told me that Mr. Kennedy was in town. We have managed among us to obtain a legal warrant for preventing the publication of the letter, and I think I may say that it will not see the light. When Mr. Slide left me, I called on Mr. Kennedy, whom I found in a miserable little hotel in Judd Street, kept by Scotch people named MacPherson. They had come from the neighborhood of Loch Linter and knew Mr. Kennedy well. This was yesterday afternoon, Sunday, and I found some difficulty in making my way into his presence. My object was to induce him to withdraw the letter. For at that time I doubted whether the law could interfere quickly enough to prevent the publication. I found your husband in a very sad condition. What he said, or what I said, I forget, but he was as usual intensely anxious that you should return to him. I need not hesitate now to say that he is certainly mad. After a while, when I expressed my assured opinion that you would not go back to Loch Linter, he suddenly turned round, grasped a revolver, and fired at my head. How I got out of the room I don't quite remember. Had he repeated the shot, which he might have done over and over again, he must have hit me. As it was, I escaped, and blundered down the stairs to Mrs. MacPherson's room. They whom I have consulted in the matter, namely Barrington Earl and my particular friend Mr. Low, to whom I went for legal assistance in stopping the publication, seemed to think that I should have had a once-cent for the police, and given Mr. Kennedy in charge. But I did not do so, and hitherto the police have, I believe, no knowledge of what occurred. A paragraph appeared in one of the morning papers today, giving almost an accurate account of the matter, but mentioning neither the place nor any of the names. No doubt it will be repeated in all the papers, and the names will soon be known. But the result will be simply a general conviction as to the insanity of poor Mr. Kennedy, as to which they who know him have had for a long time but little doubt. The MacPherson's seemed to have been very anxious to screen their guest, and any other hotel no doubt the landlord would have sent for the police. But in this case the attempt was kept quite a secret. They did send for George Kennedy a cousin of your husband's whom I think you know, and whom I saw this morning. He assures me that Robert Kennedy is quite aware of the wickedness of the attempt he made, and that he is plunged in deep remorse. He is to be taken down to Lachlan to tomorrow, and is, so says his cousin, as tractable as a child. What George Kennedy means to do, I cannot say, but for myself as I do not send for the police at the moment, as I am told I ought to have done, I shall now do nothing. I do not know that a man is subject to punishment because he does not make complaint. I suppose I have a right to regard it all as an accident, if I so please. But for you this must be very important. The Mr. Kennedy is insane, they cannot now, I think, be a doubt, and therefore the question of your returning to him, as far as there has been any question, is absolutely settled. None of your friends will be justified in allowing you to return. He is undoubtedly mad, and has done an act which is not murderous only on that conclusion. This settles the question so perfectly that you could, no doubt, reside in England now without danger. Mr. Kennedy himself would feel that he could take no steps to enforce your return after what he did yesterday. Indeed, if you could bring yourself to face the publicity, you could, I imagine, obtain a legal separation which would give you again the control of your own fortune. I feel myself bound to mention this, but I give you no advice. You will no doubt explain all the circumstances to your father. I think I have now told you everything that I need to tell you. The thing only happened yesterday, and I have been all the morning busy, getting the injunction, and seeing Mr. George Kennedy. Just before I began this letter, that horrible editor was with me again, threatening me with all the penalties which an editor can inflict. To tell the truth, I do feel confused among them all, and still fancy that I hear the click of the pistol. That newspaper paragraph says that the ball went through my whiskers, which was certainly not the case, but a foot or two off is quite near enough for a pistol ball. The Duke of Omnium is dying, and I have heard today that Madame Gersler, our old friend, has been sent for to matching. She and I renewed our acquaintance the other day at Harrington. God bless you. Your most sincere friend, Phineas Finn. Do not let my news oppress you. The firing of the pistol is a thing done and over without ease of all results. The state of Mr. Kennedy's mind is what we have long suspected, and, melancholy though it be, should contain for you at any rate this consolation, that the accusations made against you would not have been made had his mind been unclouded. Twice while Finn was writing this letter, was he rung into the house for a division, and once it was suggested to him to say a few words of angry opposition to the government on some not very important subject under discussion. Since the beginning of the session, hardly a night had passed without some verbal sparring, and very frequently the limits of parliamentary decorum had been almost surpassed. Never within the memory of living politicians have but little ranker been so sharp, and the feeling of injury so keen, both on the one side and on the other. The taunts, thrown at the Conservatives in reference to the Church, have been almost unendurable, and them also because the strong expressions of feeling from their own party throughout the country were against them. Their own convictions also were against them, and they had for a while been almost a determination through the party to deny their leader and disclaim the bill. But a feeling of duty to the party had prevailed, and this had not been done. It had not been done, but the not doing of it was a sore burden on the half-broken shoulders of many a man who sat a gloomily on the benches behind Mr. Dobiny. Men, goaded as they were by their opponents, by their natural friends, and by their own consciences, could not bear it in silence, and very bitter things were said in return. Mr. Gresham was accused of a degrading lust for power. No other feeling could prompt him to oppose with a factious acrimony never before exhibited in the house. So said some Richard Conservative with broken back and broken heart. A measure which he himself would only be too willing to carry were he allowed the privilege of passing over to the other side of the house for the purpose. In these encounters Finneas Finn had already exhibited his pro-s, and in spite of his declarations at Tankerville, had become prominent as an opponent to Mr. Dobiny's bill. He had, of course, himself been taunted and held up in the house to the execration of his own constituents. But he had enjoyed his fight, and had remembered how his friend Mr. Monk had once told him that the pleasure lay all on the side of opposition. But on this evening he declined to speak. I suppose you've hardly recovered from Kennedy's pistol! said Mr. Rattler, who had, of course, heard the whole story. That and the whole affair together hath upset me, said Finneas. Fitzgibbon will do for you, he's in the house. And so it happened that on that occasion the Honourable Lawrence Fitzgibbon made a very effective speech against the Government. On the next morning from the columns of the People's Banner was hurled the first of those thunderbolts, with which it was the purpose of Mr. Slide absolutely to destroy the political and social life of Finneas Finn. He would not miss his aim, as Mr. Kennedy had done. He would strike such blows that no constituency should ever venture to return Mr. Finn again to Parliament. And he thought that he could also so strike his blows that no mighty nobleman, no distinguished commoner, no lady of rank, should again care to entertain the miscreant and feed him with the dainties of fashion. The first thunderbolt was as follows. We abstained yesterday from alluding to a circumstance which occurred at a small hotel in Judd Street on Sunday afternoon, and which, as we observe, was mentioned by one of our contemporaries. The names, however, were not given, although the persons implicated were indicated. We could see no reason why the names should be concealed indeed, as both the gentlemen concerned have been guilty of very great criminality. We think that we are bound to tell the whole story, and this, the more especially, as certain circumstances have in very peculiar manner placed us in possession of the facts. It is no secret that for the last two years Lady Laura Kennedy has been separated from her husband the Honourable Robert Kennedy, who in the last administration under Mr. Marlmay held the office of Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, and we believe as little a secret that Mr. Kennedy has been very persistent in endeavouring to recall his wife to her home. With equal persistence, she has refused to obey, and we have in our hands the clearest possible evidence that Mr. Kennedy has attributed her obstinate refusal to influence exercised over her by Mr. Phineas Finn, who three years since was her father's nominee for the then existing borough of Loudon, and who lately succeeded in ousting poor Mr. Brownobra from his seat for Tankerville by his impetuous promises to support that very measure of church reform, which he is now opposing with that venom which makes him valuable to his party. Whether Mr. Phineas Finn will ever sit in another parliament, we cannot of course say, but we think we can at least assure him that he will never again sit for Tankerville. On last Sunday afternoon, Mr. Finn, knowing well the feeling with which he is regarded by Mr. Kennedy, outraged all decency by calling upon that gentleman whose address he obtained from our office. What took place between them no one knows, and probably no one ever will know. But the interview was ended by Mr. Kennedy firing a pistol at Mr. Finn's head, that he should have done so without the grittest provocation no one will believe. The Mr. Finn had gone to the husband to interfere with him respecting his wife is an undoubted fact, a fact which, if necessary, we are in a position to prove. That such interference must have been most heart-rending everyone would admit. This intruder, who had thrust himself upon the unfortunate husband on the Sabbath afternoon, was the very man who the husband accuses of having robbed him of the company and comfort of his wife. But we cannot on that account absolve Mr. Kennedy of the criminality of his act. It should be for a jury to decide what view should be taken of that act, and to say how far the outrageous provocation offered should be allowed to palliate the offense. But hitherto the matter has not reached the police. Mr. Finn was not struck and managed to escape from the room. It was his manifest duty as one of the community, and more especially so as a member of parliament, to have reported all the circumstances at once to the police. This was not done by him, nor by the persons who kept the hotel. The Mr. Finn should have reasons of his own for keeping the whole affair secret and for screening the attempt at murder is clear enough. What inducements have been used with the people of the house we cannot, of course, say, but we understand that Mr. Kennedy has been allowed to leave London without molestation. Such is the true story of what occurred on Sunday afternoon in Judd Street. And, knowing what we do, we think ourselves justified in calling upon Major Macintosh to take the case into his own hands. Now, Major Macintosh was at this time the head of the London Constabulary. It is quite out of the question that such a transaction should take place in the heart of London at three o'clock on a Sunday afternoon and be allowed to pass without notice. We intend to keep as little of what we know from the public as possible, and do not hesitate to acknowledge that we are depart by an injunction of the Vice Chancellor from publishing a certain document which would throw the clearest light upon the whole circumstances. As soon as possible off the shop was fired, Mr. Finn went to work, and, as we think, by misrepresentations, obtained the injunction early on yesterday morning. We feel sure that it would not have been granted had the transaction in Judd Street been at the time known to the Vice Chancellor in all its enormity. Our hands are, of course, tied. The documenting question is still with us, but it is sacred. When called upon to show it by any proper authority, we shall be ready. But, knowing what we know, we should not be justified in allowing the matter to sleep. In the meantime, we call upon those whose duty it is to preserve the public piece to take the steps necessary for bringing the delinquents to justice. The effect upon Mr. Finn, we should say, must be his immediate withdrawal from public life. For the last year or two he has held some subordinate, but permanent place in Ireland which he has given up on the rumour that the party to which he has attached himself is likely to return to office. That he is a seeker after office is notorious. That any possible government should now employ him, even as a tied waiter, is quite out of the question. And it is equally out of the question that he should be again returned to Parliament, were he to resign his seat on accepting office. As it is, we believe, notorious, that this gentleman cannot maintain the position which he holds without being paid for his services. It is reasonable, suppose, that his friends will recommend him to retire and seek his living in some obscure and, let us hope, honest profession. Mr. Slide, when his thunderbolt was prepared, read it over with delight, but still with some fear as to probable results. It was expedient that he should avoid a prosecution for libel, and essential that he should not offend the Majesty of the Vice-Chancellor's injunction. Was he sure that he was safe in each direction? Out of the libel, he could not tell himself that he was certainly safe. He was saying very hard things both of Lady Laura and of Phineas Finn, and sailing very near the wind. But neither of those persons would probably be willing to prosecute. And should he be prosecuted, he would then at any rate be able to give him Mr. Kennedy's letter as evidence in his own defence. He really did believe that what he was doing was all done in the cause of morality. It was the business of such a paper as that which he conducted to run some risk in defending morals and exposing distinguished culprits on behalf of the public. And then, without some such risk, how could Phineas Finn be adequately punished for the atrocious treachery of which he had been guilty? After the Chancellor's order, Mr. Slide thought that he managed that matter very completely. No doubt he had acted in direct opposition to the spirit of the injunction, but legal orders are read by the letter and not by the spirit. It was open to him to publish anything he pleased, respecting Mr. Kennedy and his wife, subject, of course, to the general laws of the land in regards to libel. The Vice Chancellor's special order to him referred simply to a particular document, and from that document he had not quoted a word, though he had contrived to repeat all the bitter things which he contained with much added venom of his own. He felt secure of being safe from any active anger on the part of the Vice Chancellor. The article was printed and published. The reader will perceive that it was full of lies. It began with a lie in that statement that we abstained yesterday from alluding to circumstances, which had been unknown to the writer when his yesterday's paper was published. The indignant reference to Paul Finn's want of delicacy in forcing a pulse upon Mr. Kennedy on the Sabbath afternoon was, of course, a tissue of lies. The visit had been made almost at the interrogation of the editor himself. The paper from beginning to end was full of falsehood and malice, and had been written with the express intention of creating prejudice against the man who had offended the writer. But Mr. Slide did not know that he was lying, and did not know that he was malicious. The weapon which he used was one to which his hand was accustomed, and he had been led by practice to believe that the use of such weapons by one in his position was not only fair, but also beneficial to the public. Had anybody suggested to him that he was stabbing his enemy in the dark, he would have averred that he was doing nothing of the kind, because the anonymous accusation of sinners in high rank was, on behalf of the public, the special duty of writers and editors attached to the public press. Mr. Slide's blood was running high with virtuous indignation against Arquiero, as he inserted those last cruel words as to the choice of an obscure but honest profession. Phineas Finn read the article before he sat down to breakfast on the following morning, and the dagger went right into his bosom. Every word told upon him. With a jaunted laugh within his own sleeve, he had ensured himself that he was safe against any wound which could be inflicted on him from the columns of the people's banner. He had been sure that he would be attacked, and thought that he was armed to bear it. But the thin blade penetrated every joint of his harness, and every particle of the poison curdled in his blood. He was hurt about Lady Laura. He was hurt about his borough of Tankerville. He was hurt by the charges against him of having outraged delicacy. He was hurt by being handed over to the tender mercies of Major McIntosh. He was hurt by the craft with which the Vice Chancellor's injunction had been evaded, but he was especially hurt by the illusions to his own poverty. It was necessary that he should earn his bread, and no doubt he was a seeker after place. But he did not wish to obtain wages without working for them, and he did not see why the work and wages of a public office should be less honourable than those of any other profession. To him, with his ideas, there was no profession so honourable, as certainly there were none which demanded greater sacrifices or were more precarious. And he did believe that such an article as that would have an effect of shutting against him the gates of that dangerous paradise which he desired to enter. He had no great claim upon his party, and in giving away the good things of office, the giver is only too prone to recognise any objection against an individual which may seem to relieve him from the necessity of bestowing ought in that direction. Phineas felt that he would almost be ashamed to show his face at the clubs or in the house. He must do so of a matter of course, but he knew that he could not do so without confessing by his visage that he'd been deeply wounded by the attack in the people's banner. He went in the first instance to Mr. Lowe, and was almost surprised that Mr. Lowe should not have yet even have heard that such an attack had been made. He had almost felt, as he walked to Lincoln's inn, that everybody had looked at him, and that passers-by on the street had declared to each other that he was the unfortunate one who had been doomed by the editor of the people's banner to seek some obscure way of earning his bread. Mr. Lowe took the paper, read, or probably only half read, the article, and then threw the sheet aside as worthless. What ought I to do? Nothing at all. Once first his hour would be to beat him to a jelly. Of all courses that would be the worst and would most certainly conduce to his triumph. Just so, I only allude to the pleasure one would have, but which one has to deny oneself. I don't know whether he has laid himself open for libel. I should think not. I have any just glances at it, and therefore can't give an opinion, but I should think you would not dream of such a thing. Your object is as a screen laden or as name. I have to think of that first. It may be necessary that steps should be taken to defend her character. If an accusation can be made with such publicity as to enforce belief if not denied, the denouement must be made, and may probably be best made by an action for libel. But that must be done by her or her friends, but certainly not by you. He's laughed at the vice-chance's injunction. I don't think that you can interfere. If, as you believe, Mr. Kennedy be insane, that fact will probably soon be proved, and will have the effect of clearing Lady Lorde's character. A wife may be excuse for leaving a mad husband. And you think I should do nothing? I don't see what you can do. You've encountered a chimney-sweeper, and of course you get some of the soot. What you do do, and what you do not do, must depend at any rate on the wishes of Lady Laura Kennedy and her father. It is a matter in which you must make yourself subordinate to them, fuming and fretting, and yet recognizing the truth of Mr. Lowe's words, Phineas left the chambers and went down to his club. It was a Wednesday, and the house was to sit in the morning. But for before he went to the house, he put himself in the way of certain of his associates, in order that he might hear what would be said, and learn, if possible, what was thought. Nobody seemed to treat the accusations in the newspaper as very serious. Though all around him congratulated him on his escape from Mr. Kennedy's pistol. As it appears, the poor man really is mad, said Lord Cantrip, whom he met on the steps of one of the clubs. No doubt, I should say. I can't understand why you didn't go to the police. I had hoped the thing would not become public, said Phineas. Everything becomes public, every of that kind. It's very hard upon poor Lady Laura. That is the worst of it, Lord Cantrip. If I were her father, I should bring her to England and demand a separation in a regular and legal way. That is what he should do now in her behalf. She would then have an opportunity of clearing her character from the imputations, which to a certain extent will affect it, even though they come from a madman, and from the very scum of the press. You have read the article? Yes, I saw it but a minute ago. I need not tell you that there is not the faintest ground in the world for the imputation made against Lady Laura there. I'm sure there is none, and therefore it is that I tell you my opinion so plainly. I think that Lord Brentford should be advised to bring Lady Laura to England and to put down the charges openly in court. It might be done either by an application to the divorce court for a separation, or by an action against the newspaper for libel. I do not know Lord Brentford quite well enough to intrude upon him with a letter, but I have no objection whatever to having my name mentioned to him. He and I, and you and poor Mr. Kennedy sat together in the last government, and I think that Lord Brentford would trust my friendship so far. Phineas thanked him, and assured him that what he had said should be conveyed to Lord Brentford.