 CHAPTER XI Lord Chiltern The reader has been told that Lord Chiltern was a red man, and that peculiarity of his personal appearance was certainly the first to strike a stranger. It imparted a certain look of ferocity to him, which was apt to make men afraid of him at first sight. Women are not actuated in the same way, and are accustomed to look deeper into men at the first sight than other men will trouble themselves to do. His beard was red and was clipped so as to have none of the softness of waving hair. The hair on his head also was kept short and was very red, and the color of his face was red. Nevertheless, he was a handsome man with well-cut features, not tall but very strongly built, and with a certain curl in the corner of his eyelids which gave to him a look of resolution, which perhaps he did not possess. He was known to be a clever man, and when very young had had the reputation of being a scholar, when he was three and twenty gray-haired votaries of the turf declared that he would make his fortune on the race course, so clear-headed was he as to odds, so excellent a judge of a horse's performances, and so gifted with a memory of events. When he was five and twenty, he had lost every shilling of a fortune of his own, had squeezed from his father more than his father ever chose to name in speaking of his affairs to anyone, and was known to be in debt. But he had sacrificed himself on one or two memorable occasions in conformity with turf laws of honor, and then said of him, either that he was very honest or very chivalric in accordance with the special views on the subject of the man who was speaking. It was reported now that he no longer owned horses on the turf, but this was doubted by some who could name the animals which they said that he owned and which he ran in the name of Mr. McNabb, said some, of Mr. Pardo, said others, of Mr. Chickerwick, said a third set of informants. The fact was that Lord Chiltern at this moment had no interest of his own in any horse upon the turf. But all the world knew that he drank. He had taken by the throat a proctor's bulldog when he had been drunk at Oxford, had nearly strangled the man, and had been expelled. He had fallen through his violence into some terrible misfortune at Paris, had been brought before a public judge, and his name and his infamy had been made notorious in every newspaper in the two capitals. After that he had fought a ruffian at Newmarket and had really killed him with his fists. In reference to this latter affray it has been proved that the attack had been made on him, that he had not been to blame, and that he had not been drunk. After a prolonged investigation he had come forth from that affair without disgrace. He would have done so at least if he had not been heretofore disgraced. But we all know how the man well spoken of may steal a horse, while he who is of evil repute may not look over a hedge. It was asserted widely by many who were supposed to know, all about everything, that Lord Chiltern was in a fit of delirium trimmings when he killed the ruffian at Newmarket. The worst of that latter affair was that it produced the total estrangement which now existed between Lord Brentford and his son. Lord Brentford would not believe that his son was in that matter more sinned against than sinning. Such things do not happen to other men's sons, he said, when Lady Laura pleaded for her brother. Lady Laura could not induce her father to see his son, but so far prevailed that no sonnets of banishment was pronounced against Lord Chiltern. There was nothing to prevent the son sitting at his father's table if he so pleased. He never did so please, but nevertheless he continued to live in the house in Portman Square, and when he met the Earl in the hall, perhaps or on the staircase, would simply bow to him. Then the Earl would bow again and shuffle on, and look very wretched as no doubt he was. A grown-up son must be the greatest comfort a man can have if he be his father's best friend, but otherwise he can hardly be a comfort. As it was in this house the son was a constant thorn in his father's side. What does he do when we leave London, Lord Brentford once said to his daughter? He stays here, papa. But he hunts still. Yes, he hunts, and he has a room somewhere at an inn, down in Northamptonshire, but he is mostly in London. They have trains on purpose. What a life for my son, said the Earl. What a life! Of course no decent person will let him into his house. Lady Laura did not know what to say to this, for in truth Lord Chiltern was not fond of staying at the houses of persons whom the Earl would have called decent. General Effingham, the father of Violet, and Lord Brentford had been the closest and dearest of friends. They had been young men in the same regiment, and through life each had confided in the other. When the general's only son, then a youth of seventeen, was killed in one of our Grand New Zealand Wars, the bereaved father and the Earl had been together for a month in their sorrow. At that time Lord Chiltern's career had still been open to hope, and the one man had contrasted his lot with the other. General Effingham lived long enough to hear the Earl declare that his lot was the happier of the two. Now the general was dead, and Violet, the daughter of a second wife, was all that was left of the Effinghams. The second wife had been a misplumber, a lady from the city with much money, whose sister had married Lord Baldock. Violet in this way had fallen to the care of the Baldock people and not into the hands of her father's friends. But as the reader will have surmised, she had ideas of her own of emancipating herself from Baldock thrall them. Twice before that last terrible affair at Newmarket, before the quarrel between the father and the son had been complete, Lord Brentford had said a word to his daughter, merely a word, of his son in connection with Miss Effingham. If he thinks of it I shall be glad to see him on the subject, you may tell him so. That had been the first word. He had just then resolved that the affair in Paris should be regarded as condoned, as among the things to be forgotten. She is too good for him, but if he asks her, let him tell her everything. That had been the second word and had been spoken immediately subsequent to a payment of twelve thousand pounds made by the Earl towards the settlement of certain donkester accounts. Lady Laura in negotiating for the money had been very eloquent in describing some honest, or shall we say chivalric, sacrifice which had brought her brother into this special difficulty. Since that the Earl had declined to interest himself in his son's matrimony affairs, and when Lady Laura had once again mentioned the matter, declaring her belief that it would be the means of saving her brother Oswald, the Earl had desired her to be silent. Would you wish to destroy the poor child, he had said. Nevertheless Lady Laura felt sure that if she were to go to her father with a positive statement that Oswald and Violet were engaged, he would relent in what except Violet as his daughter. As for the payment of Lord Chiltern's present debts, she had a little scheme of her own about that. Miss Effingham, who had been already two days in Portman Square, had not as yet seen Lord Chiltern. She knew that he lived in the house, that is that he slept there and probably ate his breakfast in some apartment of his own, but she knew also that the habits of the house would not by any means make it necessary that they should meet. Laura and her brother probably saw each other daily, but they never went into society together and did not know the same sets of people. When she had announced to Lady Baldock her intention of spending the first fortnight of her London season with her friend Lady Laura, Lady Baldock had as a matter of course jumped upon her, as Miss Effingham would herself call it. You are going to the house of the worst reprobate in all England, said Lady Baldock. What? Dear old Lord Brentford, whom Papa loved so well. I mean Lord Chiltern, who only last year murdered a man. That is not true, Aunt. There is worse than that, much worse. He is always tipsy and always gambling and always—but it is quite unfit that I should speak a word more to you about such a man as Lord Chiltern, his name ought never to be mentioned. And why did you mention it, Aunt? Lady Baldock's process of jumping upon her niece, in which I think the Aunt had generally the worst of the exercise, went on for some time, but Violet of course carried her point. If she marries him there will be an end of everything, said Lady Baldock to her daughter Augusta. She has more sense than that, Mama, said Augusta. I don't think she has any sense at all, said Lady Baldock. Not on the least. I do wish my poor sister had lived. I do indeed. Lord Chiltern was now in the room with Violet. Immediately upon that conversation between Violet and his sister as to the expediency of Violet becoming his wife, indeed his entrance had interrupted the conversation before it was over. I am so glad to see you, Miss Effingham, he said. I came in thinking that I might find you. Here I am as large as life, she said, getting up from her corner on the sofa and giving him her hand. Lara and I have been discussing the affairs of the nation for the last two days and have nearly brought our discussion to an end. She could not help looking, first at his eye and then at his hand, not as wanting evidence to the truth of the statement which his sister had made, but because the idea of a drunkard's eye and a drunkard's hand had been brought before her mind. Lord Chiltern's hand was like the hand of any other man, but there was something in his eye that almost frightened her. It looked as though he would not hesitate to ring his wife's neck round if ever he should be brought to threaten to do so, and then his eye, like the rest of him, was red. No, she did not think that she could ever bring herself to marry him. Why take a venture that was double dangerous when there were so many ventures open to her, apparently with very little danger attached to them? If it should ever be said that I loved him, I would do it all the same, she said to herself. If I did not come and see you here, I suppose that I should never see you, said he, seating himself. I do not often go to parties, and when I do, you are not likely to be there. We might make our little arrangements for meeting, said she lapping. My aunt, Lady Baldock, is going to have an evening next week. The servants would be ordered to put me out of the house. Oh, no, you can tell her that I invited you. I don't think that Oswald and Lady Baldock are great friends, said Lady Laura. Or he might come and take you and me to the zoo on Sunday. That's the proper sort of thing for a brother and a friend to do. I hate that place in the Regents Park, said Lord Chiltern. When were you there last, demanded Miss Effingham? When I came home once from Eaton, but I won't go again till I can come home from Eaton again. Then he altered his tone as he continued to speak. People would look at me as if I were the wildest beast in the whole collection. Then, said Violet, if you won't go to Lady Baldock's or to the zoo, we must confine ourselves to Laura's drawing-room, unless indeed you'd like to take me to the top of the monument. I'll take you to the top of the monument with pleasure. What do you say, Laura? I say that you were a foolish girl, said Lady Laura, and thought I would have nothing to do with such a scheme. Then there is nothing for it but that you should come here, and as you live in the house, and as I am sure to be here every morning, and as you have no possible occupation for your time, and as we have nothing particular to do with ours, I dare say I shan't see you again before I go to my aunts in Berkeley Square. Very likely not, he said. And why not, Oswald? asked his sister. He passed his hand over his face before he answered her. Because she and I run in different grooves now, and are not such meek playfellows as we used to be once. Do you remember my taking you away right through Salisbury Wood once on the old pony, and not bringing you back till tea time, and Miss Blink going and telling my father? Do I remember it? I think it was the happiest day in my life. His pockets were crammed full of gingerbread and Everton toffee, and we had three bottles of lemonade slung onto the pony's saddle-bows. I thought it was a pity that we should ever come back. It was a pity, said Lord Chiltern. But nevertheless substantially necessary, said Lady Laura. Failing our power of reproducing the toffee, I suppose it was, said Violet. You are not Miss Effingham then, said Lord Chiltern. No, not as yet. These disagreeable realities of life grow upon one, do they not? You took off my shoes and dried them for me at a woodman's cottage. I am obliged to put up with my maids doing those things now, and Miss Blink the mild is changed for Lady Baldock the Martinette. And if I rode about with you in a wood all day, I should be sent to Coventry instead of to bed. And so you see everything has changed as well as my name. Everything is not changed, said Lord Chiltern, getting up from his seat. I am not changed, at least not in this, that as I loved you better than any being in the world, better even than Laura there, so do I love you now infinitely the best of all. Do not look so surprised at me. You knew it before as well as you do now. And Laura knows it. There is no secret to be kept in the matter among us three. But Lord Chiltern, said Miss Effingham, rising also to her feet, and then pausing, not knowing how to answer him. There had been a suddenness in his mode of addressing her, which had, so to say, almost taken away her breath. And then to be told by a man of his love before his sister was in itself to her, a matter so surprising that none of those words came at her command, which will come, as though by instinct, to young ladies on such occasions. You have known it always, said he, as though he were angry with her. Lord Chiltern, she replied, you must excuse me if I say that you are, at the least, very abrupt. I did not think when I was going back so joyfully to our childish days that you would turn the tables on me in this way. He has said nothing that ought to make you angry, said Lady Laura. Only because he has driven me to say that which will make me appear to be uncivil to himself. Lord Chiltern, I do not love you with that love of which you are speaking now. As an old friend, I have always regarded you, and I hope that I may always do so. Then she got up and left the room. Why are you so sudden with her, so abrupt, so loud? Said his sister, coming up to him and taking him by the arm, almost in anger. It would make no difference, said he. She does not care for me. It makes all the difference in the world, said Lady Laura. Such a woman as violent cannot be had after that fashion. You must begin again. I have begun and ended, he said. That is nonsense. Of course you will persist. It was madness to speak in that way today. You may be sure of this, however, that there is no one she likes better than you. You must remember that you have done much to make any girl afraid of you. I do remember it. Do something now to make her fear you no longer. Speak to her softly. Tell her of the sort of life which you would live with her. Tell her that all is changed. As she comes to love you, she will believe you when she would believe no one else on that matter. Am I to tell her a lie, said Lord Chiltern, looking his sister full in the face? Then he turned upon his heel and left her. End of Chapter 11. Chapter 12. Automnal Prospects. The session went on very calmly after the opening battle which ousted Lord De Terrier and sent Mr. Mildmay back to the treasury, so calmly that Phineas Finn was unconsciously disappointed as lacking that excitement of contest to which he had been introduced in the first days of his parliamentary career. From time to time certain washbish attacks were made by Mr. Daveney, now on this Secretary of State, and now on that. But they were felt by both parties to mean nothing. And as no great measure was brought forward, nothing which would serve by the magnitude of its interest to divide the liberal side of the House into fractions, Mr. Mildmay's cabinet was allowed to hold its own in comparative peace and quiet. It was now July, the middle of July, and the member for Loshane had not yet addressed the House. How often had he meditated doing so? How he had composed his speeches walking around the park on his way down to the House? How he got his subjects up? Only to find on hearing them discuss that he really knew little or nothing about them? How he had his arguments and almost his very words taken out of his mouth by some other member? And lastly, how he had actually been deterred from getting up on his legs by a certain tremor of blood round his heart when the moment for rising had come? All of this he never said a word to any man. Since that last journey to County Mayo, Lawrence Fitzgibbon had been his most intimate friend, but he said nothing of all this even to Lawrence Fitzgibbon. To his other friend, Lady Laura Standish, he did explain something of his feelings, not absolutely describing to her the extent of hindrance to which his modesty had subjected him, but letting her know that he had his qualms as well as his aspirations. But as Lady Laura always recommended patience and more than once expressed her opinion that a young member would be better to sit in silence at least for one session. He was not driven to the mortification of feeling that he was incurring her contempt by his bashfulness. As regarded the men among whom he lived, I think he was almost annoyed at finding that no one seemed to expect that he should speak. Barrington Earl, when he had first talked of sending Phineas down to Lowshame, had predicted for him all manner of parliamentary successes and had expressed the warmest admiration of the manner in which Phineas had discussed this or that subject at the union. We have not above one or two men in the house who can do that kind of thing, Barrington Earl had once said, but now no illusions whatever were made to his powers of speech and Phineas in his modest moments began to be more amazed than ever that he should find himself seated in that chamber. To the forms and technicalities of parliamentary business he did give close attention and was unrementing in his attendance. On one or two occasions he ventured to ask a question of the speaker and as the words of experience fell into his ears, he would tell himself that he was going through his education, that he was learning to be a working member and perhaps to be a statesman. But his regrets with reference to Mr. Lowe and the dingy chambers in Old Square were very frequent and had it been possible for him to undo all that he had done, he would often have abandoned to someone else the honor of representing the electors of Lowshame. But he was supported in all his difficulties by the kindness of his friend, Lady Laura Standish. He was often in the house in Portman Square and was always received with cordiality and as he thought, almost with affection. She would sit and talk to him, sometimes saying a word about her brother and sometimes about her father, as though there were more between them than the casual intimacy of London acquaintance. And in Portman Square he had been introduced to Miss Effingham and it found Miss Effingham to be very nice. Miss Effingham had quite taken to him and he had danced with her at two or three parties talking always as he did so about Lady Laura Standish. I declare, Laura, I think your friend, Mr. Finn, is in love with you, said Violet to Lady Laura one night. I don't think that. He is fond of me and so am I of him. He is so honest and so naive without being awkward and then he is undoubtedly clever. And so uncommonly handsome, said Violet. I don't know that that makes much difference, said Lady Laura. I think it does if a man looks like a gentleman as well. Mr. Finn certainly looks like a gentleman, said Lady Laura. And no doubt is one, said Violet. I wonder whether he's got any money. Not a penny, I should say. How does such a man manage to live? There are so many men like that and they are always mysteries to me. I suppose we'll have to marry an heiress. Whoever gets him will not have a bad husband, said Lady Laura Standish. Phineas, during the summer, had very often met Mr. Kennedy. They sat on the same side of the house, they belonged to the same club, they dined together more than once in Portman Square, and on one occasion Phineas had accepted an invitation to dinner sent to him by Mr. Kennedy himself. A slower affair I never saw in my life, he said afterwards to Lawrence Fitzgibbon. Though there were two or three men there who talk everywhere else, they could not talk at his table. He gave you good wine, I should say, said Fitzgibbon, and let me tell you that that covers a multitude of sins. In spite, however, of all these opportunities for intimacy, now nearly at the end of the session, Phineas had hardly spoken a dozen words to Mr. Kennedy and really knew nothing whatsoever of the man as one friend or even as one acquaintance knows another. Lady Laura had desired him to be on good terms with Mr. Kennedy and for that reason he had dined with him. Nevertheless, he disliked Mr. Kennedy and felt quite sure that Mr. Kennedy disliked him. He was therefore rather surprised when he received the following note. Albany, Z3, July 17th, 1860 blank. My dear Mr. Phine, I shall have some friends at Lowlenther next month and should be very glad if you will join us. I will name the 16th August. I don't know whether you shoot but there are grouse and deer. Yours truly, Robert Kennedy. What was he to do? He had already begun to feel rather uncomfortable at the prospect of being separated from all his new friends as soon as the session should be over. Lawrence Fitzgibbon had asked him to make another visit to County Mayo but that he had declined. Lady Laura has said something to him about going abroad with her brother and since that there had sprung up a sort of intimacy between him and Lord Chiltern but nothing had been fixed about this foreign trip and there were pecuniary objections to it which put it almost out of his power. The Christmas holidays he would of course pass with his family at Killalow but he hardly liked the idea of hurrying off to Killalow immediately the session should be over. Everybody around him seemed to be looking forward to pleasant leisure doings in the country. Men talked about grouse and of the ladies at the houses to which they were going and of the people whom they were to meet. Lady Laura had said nothing of her own movements for the early autumn and no invitation had come to him to go to the Earl's country house. He had already felt that everyone would depart and that he would be left and this had made him uncomfortable. What was he to do with the invitation for Mr. Kennedy? He disliked the man and had told himself half a dozen times that he despised him. Of course he must refuse it. Even for the sake of the scenery and the grouse and the pleasant party and the feeling that going to Lowlinter in August would be the proper sort of thing to do he must refuse it but it occurred to him at last that he would call Emportment Square before he wrote his note. Of course you will go, said Lady Laura in her most decided tone. And why? In the first place it is civil in him to ask you and why should you be uncivil in return? There is nothing uncivil and not accepting a man's invitation, said Phineas. We are going, said Lady Laura and I can only say that I shall be disappointed if you do not go too. Both Mr. Gresham and Mr. Monk will be there and I believe they have never stayed together in the same house before. I have no doubt there are a dozen men on your side of the house who would give their eyes to be there. Of course you will go. Of course he did go. The note accepting Mr. Kennedy's invitation was written at the reform club within a quarter of an hour of his leaving Portman Square. He was very careful in writing to be not more familiar or more civil than Mr. Kennedy had been to himself and then he signed himself, yours truly Phineas Finn. But another proposition was made to him and the most charming proposition during the few minutes that he remained in Portman Square. I am so glad, said Lady Laura because I can now ask you to run down to us at Salisby for a couple of days on your way to Lowlunter. Till this was fixed I couldn't ask you to come all the way to Salisby for two days and there won't be room for more between our leaving London and starting to Lowlunter. Phineas swore that he would have gone if it had been but for one hour and if Salisby had been twice the distance. Very well, come on the 13th and go on the 15th. You must go on the 15th unless you choose to stay with the housekeeper and remember Mr. Finn, we have got no grouse at Salisby. Phineas declared that he did not care a straw for grouse. There was another little occurrence which happened before Phineas left London and which was not altogether so charming as his prospects at Salisby and Lowlunter. Early in August, when the session was still incomplete, he died with Lawrence Fitzgibbon at the Reform Club. Lawrence had specially invited him to do so and made very much of him on the occasion. By George, my dear fellow, Lawrence said to him that morning, nothing has happened to me this session that has given me so much pleasure as you're being in the house. Of course, there are fellows with whom one is very intimate and of one whom is very fond and all that sort of thing but most of these Englishmen on our side are such cold fellows or else they are like Rattler and Barrington Earl thinking of nothing but politics. And then as to our own men, there are so many of them one can hardly trust. That's the truth of it. Your being in the house has been such a comfort to me. Phineas, who really liked his friend Lawrence, expressed himself very warmly in answer to this and became affectionate and made sundry protestations of friendship which were perfectly sincere. Their sincerity was tested after dinner when Fitzgibbon, as they too were seated on a sofa in the corner of the smoking room, asked Phineas to put his name to the back of a bill for 250 pounds at six months' date. But my dear Lawrence said, Phineas, 250 pounds is some of money utterly beyond my reach. Exactly my dear boy and that's why I've come to you. Do you think I'd have asked anybody who by any impossibility might have been made to pay anything for me? But what's the use of it then? All the use in the world, it's for me to judge of the use, you know. Why do you think I'd ask it if it wasn't any use? I'll make it of use, my boy, and take my word you'll never hear about it again. It's just a forestalling of my salary, that's all. I wouldn't do it till I saw that we were at least safe for six months to come. Then Phineas spent with many misgivings with much inward hatred of himself for his own weakness, did put his name on the back of the bill which Lawrence Fence Gibbon had prepared for his signature. End of Chapter 12, Recording by Leanne Howlett. Chapter 13 of Phineas Finn. 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 Leanne Howlett. Phineas Finn by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 13. Sal's Bewood. So you won't come to Moidrum again, said Lawrence Fence Gibbon to his friend. Not this autumn, Lawrence. Your father would think that I want to live there. But, dad, it's my father would be glad to see you, and the often are the better. The fact is, my time is filled up. You're not going to be one of the party at Lough Linter. I believe I am. Kennedy asked me, and people seem to think that everybody is to do what he bids them. I should think so, too. I wish he had asked me. I should have thought it as good as the promise of an undersecretary ship. All the cabinet are to be there. I don't suppose he ever had an Irishman in his house before. When do you start? Well, on the 12th or 13th, I believe I shall go to Sal's Be on my way. The devil, you will. Upon my word, Phineas, my boy, you're the luckiest fellow I know. This is your first year, and you're asked to the two most difficult houses in England. You have only to look out for an heiress now. There is little Bi Effingham. She is sure to be at Sal's Be. Goodbye, old fellow. Don't you be in the least unhappy about the bill. I'll see to making that all right. Phineas was rather unhappy about the bill, but there was so much that was pleasant in his cup at the present moment that he resolved, as far as possible, to ignore the bitter of that one ingredient. He was a little in the dark as to two or three matters respecting these coming visits. He would have liked to have taken a servant with him, but he had no servant and felt ashamed to hire one for the occasion. And then he was in trouble about a gun and the paraphernalia of shooting. He was not a bad shot at snipe in the bogs of County Clair, but he had never even seen a gun used in England. However, he bought himself a gun, with other paraphernalia, and took a license for himself, and then groaned over the expense to which he found that his journey would subject him. And at last he hired a servant for the occasion. He was intensely ashamed of himself when he had done so, hating himself and telling himself that he was going to the devil headlong. And why had he done it? Not that Lady Laurel would like him the better or that she would care whether he had a servant or not. She probably would know nothing of his servant, but the people about her would know and he was foolishly anxious that the people about her should think that he was worthy of her. Then he called on Mr. Low before he started. I did not like to leave London without seeing you, he said, but I know you will have nothing pleasant to say to me. I shall say nothing unpleasant, certainly. I see your name in the divisions and I feel a sort of envy myself. Any fool could go into a lobby, said Vinius. To tell you the truth, I've been gratified to see that you have had the patience to abstain from speaking to you had looked about you. It was more than I expected from your hot Irish blood. Going to meet Mr. Gresham and Mr. Monk, are you? Well, I hope you may meet them in the cabinet someday. Mind you come and see me when Parliament meets in February. Mrs. Bunce was delighted when she found that Vinius had hired a servant, but Mr. Bunce predicted nothing but evil from so vain an expense. Don't tell me, where is it to come from? He ain't no richer because he's in Parliament. There ain't no wages, MP and MT, whereby Mr. Bunce, I fear, meant empty, are pretty much alike when a man hasn't a fortune at his back. But he's going to stay with all the lords in the cabinet, said Mrs. Bunce, to whom Vinius and his pride had confided perhaps more than was necessary. Cabinet indeed, said Bunce, if he'd stick to chambers and let alone cabinets, he'd do a deal better. Giving up his rooms, has he, till February. He don't expect we're going to keep them empty for him. Vinius found that the house was full at Salisby, although the sojourn of the visitors would necessarily be so short. There were three or four there on their way on to Loughlynter like himself. Mr. Bonteen and Mr. Rattler, with Mr. Palliser, the Chancellor of the Exchequer and his wife, and there was Violet Effingham, who, however, was not going to Loughlynter. No indeed, she said to our hero, who on the first evening had the pleasure of taking her into dinner. Unfortunately, I haven't a seat in Parliament, and therefore I am not asked. Lady Laura is going. Yes, but Lady Laura has a cabinet minister in her keeping. I've only one comfort. You'll be awfully dull. I daresay it would be very much nicer to stay here, said Vinius. If you want to know my real mind, said Violet, I would give one of my little fingers to go. There will be four cabinet ministers in the House, and four un-cabinet ministers, and half a dozen other members of Parliament, and there will be Lady Glencora Palliser, who is the best fun in the world, and in point of fact, it's the thing of the year. But I am not asked. You see, I belong to the Baldock faction, and we don't sit on your side of the House. Mr. Kennedy thinks that I should tell secrets. Why on earth had Mr. Kennedy invited him, Vinius Finn, to meet four cabinet ministers and Lady Glencora Palliser? He could only have done so at the instance of Lady Laura's standish. It was delightful for Vinius to think that Lady Laura cared for him so deeply, but it was not equally delightful when he remembered how very close must be the alliance between Mr. Kennedy and Lady Laura when she was thus powerful with him. At Salisbury, Vinius did not see much of his hostess. When they were making their plans for the one entire day of this visit, she set a soft word of apology to him. I am so busy with all these people that I hardly know what I am doing, but we shall be able to find a quiet minute or two at Lough Lenter, unless indeed you intend to be on the mountains all day. I suppose you have brought a gun like everybody else. Yes, I have brought a gun. I do shoot, but I am not an inveterate sportsman. On that one day, there was a great writing party made up, and Vinius found himself mounted after luncheon with some dozen other equestrians. Among them were Miss Effingham and Lady Glencora, Mr. Rattler, and the Earl of Brentford himself. Lady Glencora, whose husband was, as has been said, Chancellor of the Exchequer, and who was still a young woman and a very pretty woman, had taken lately very strongly to politics, which she discussed among men and women of both parties with something more than ordinary audacity. What a nice, happy, lazy time you've had of it since you've been in, said she to the Earl. I hope we have been more happy than lazy, said the Earl. But you've done nothing. Mr. Palliser has 20 schemes of reform, all mature, but among you you've not let him bring in one of them. The Duke and Mr. Mildmay and you will break his heart among you. Poor Mr. Palliser. The truth is, if you don't take care, he and Mr. Monk and Mr. Gresham will arise and shake themselves and turn you all out. We must look to ourselves, Lady Glencora. Indeed, yes. Or you will be known to all posterity as a fenyant government. Let me tell you, Lady Glencora, that a fenyant government is not the worst government that England can have. It has been the great fault of our politicians that they have all wanted to do something. Mr. Mildmay is at any rate innocent of that charge, said Lady Glencora. They were now riding through a vast wood and Phineas found himself delightfully established by the side of Violet Effingham. Mr. Rattler has been explaining to me that he must have nineteen next session. Now if I were you, Mr. Fen, I would decline to be counted up in that way as one of Mr. Rattler's sheep. But what am I to do? Do something on your own hook. You men in Parliament are so much like sheep. If one jumps at a gap, I'll go after him. And then you are pinned into lobbies and then you are fed and then you are fleeced. I wish I were in Parliament. I'd get up in the middle and make such a speech. You all seem to me to be so much afraid of one another that you don't quite dare to speak out. Do you see that cottage there? What a pretty cottage it is. Yes, is it not? Twelve years ago I took off my shoes and stockings and had them dried in that cottage and when I got back to the house I was put to bed for having been out all day in the wood. Were you wandering about alone? No, I wasn't alone. Oswald Standish was with me. We were children then. Do you know him? Lord Chiltern. Yes, I know him. He and I have been rather friends this year. He is very good, is he not? Good, in what way? Honest and generous. I know no man whom I believe to be more so. And he is clever, asked Miss Effingham. Very clever. That is, he talks very well if you will let him talk after his own fashion. You would always fancy that he was going to eat you but that is his way. And you like him? Very much. I am so glad to hear you say so. Is he a favorite of yours, Miss Effingham? Not now, not particularly. I hardly ever see him but his sister is the best friend I have and I used to like him so much when he was a boy. I have not seen that cottage since that day and I remembered his old reyesterday. Lord Chiltern is quite changed, is he not? Changed, in what way? They used to say that he was unsteady, you know. I think he has changed but Chiltern is at heart of Bohemian. It is impossible not to see that at once. He hates the decencies of life. I suppose he does, said Violet. He ought to marry. If he were married, that would all be cured. Don't you think so? I cannot fancy him with a wife, said Phineas. There was a savagery about him which would make him an uncomfortable companion for a woman. But he would love his wife? Yes, as he does his horses and he would treat her well as he does his horses but he expects every horse he has to do anything that any horse can do and he would expect the same of his wife. Phineas had no idea how deep an injury he might be doing his friend by this description nor did it once occur to him that his companion was thinking of herself as the possible wife of this red Indian. Miss Effingham wrote on in silence for some distance and then she said but one word more about Lord Chiltern. He was so good to me in that cottage. On the following day the party at Salisbury was broken up and there was a regular pilgrimage towards Luff-Linter. Phineas resolved upon sleeping a night at Edinburgh on his way and he found himself joined in the bands of close companionship with Mr. Rattler for the occasion. The evening was by no means thrown away for he learned much of his trade for Mr. Rattler and Mr. Rattler was heard to declare afterwards at Luff-Linter that Mr. Finn was a pleasant young man. It soon came to be admitted by all who knew Phineas Finn that he had a peculiar power of making himself agreeable which no one knew how to analyze or define. I think it is because he listened so well, said one man but the women would not like him for that, said another. He has studied when to listen and when to talk, said a third. The truth, however, was that Phineas Finn had made no study in the matter at all. It was simply his nature to be pleasant. End of chapter 13, recording by Leanne Howlett. Chapter 14 of Phineas Finn. 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 Leanne Howlett. Phineas Finn by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 14, Luff-Linter. Phineas Finn reached Luff-Linter together with Mr. Rattler in a post-chase from the neighboring town. Mr. Rattler, who had done this kind of thing very often before, traveled without impediments. But the new servant of our heroes was stuck outside with the driver and was in the way. I never bring a man with me, said Mr. Rattler to his young friend. The servants of the house like it much better, because they get feed. You are just as well-weighted on, and it don't cost half as much. Phineas splushed as he heard all this. But there was the impediment not to be got rid of for the nonce, and Phineas made the best of his attendant. It's one of those points, said he, as to which a man never quite makes up his mind. If you bring a fellow, you wish you hadn't brought him. And if you don't, you wish you had. I'm a great deal more decided in my ways than that, said Mr. Rattler. Luff-Linter, as they approached it, seemed to Phineas to be a much finer place than Salisby. And so it was, except that Luff-Linter wanted that graceful beauty of age with Salisby possessed. Luff-Linter was all of cut stone, but the stones had been cut only yesterday. It stood on a gentle slope where the greens were falling from the front entrance down to a mountain lake. And on the other side of the Luff, there rose a mighty mountain to the skies, Ben-Linter. At the foot of it, and all round to the left, there ran the woods of Linter, stretching for miles through crags and bogs and mountain lands. No better ground for deer than the side of Ben-Linter was there in all those highlands. And the Linter, rushing down into the Luff through rocks which, in some places, almost met together above its waters, ran so near to the house that the pleasant noise of its cataracts could be heard from the hall door. Behind the house, the expansive drained parkland seemed to be interminable, and then again came the mountains. There were Ben-Lin and Ben-Lody, and the whole territory belonging to Mr. Kennedy. He was lair of Lin and lair of Linter, as his people used to say. And yet his father had walked into Glasgow as a little boy, no doubt with a normal half-crown in his breech's pocket. Magnificent, is it not, said Phineas to the Treasury Secretary as they were being driven up to the door. Very grand, but the young trees show the new man, a new man by by a forest, but he can't get parked trees. Phineas, at the moment, was thinking how far all these things which he saw, the mountains stretching everywhere around him, the castle, the lake, the river, the wealth of it all, and more than the wealth, the nobility of the beauty might act as temptations to Lady Laura Standish. If a woman were asked to have the half of all this, would it be possible that she should refer to take the half of his nothing? He thought it might be possible for a girl who would confess, or seem to confess, that love should be everything. But it could hardly be possible for a woman who looked at the world almost as a man looked at it, as an oyster to be opened with such weapon as she could find ready to her hand. Lady Laura professed to have a care for all the affairs of the world. She loved politics and could talk of social science and had broad ideas about religion and was devoted to certain educational views. Such a woman would feel that wealth was necessary to her and would be willing for the sake of wealth to put up with a husband without romance. Nay, might it not be that she would prefer a husband without romance? Thus Phineas was arguing to himself as he was driven up to the door of Loughlynter Castle, while Mr. Rattler was eloquent on the beauty of old park trees. After all, a Scotch forest is a very scrubby sort of thing, said Mr. Rattler. There was nobody in the house, at least they found nobody, and within half an hour Phineas was walking about the grounds by himself. Mr. Rattler had declared himself to be delighted at having an opportunity of writing letters and no doubt was writing them by the dozen, all dated from Loughlynter and all detailing the facts that Mr. Gresham and Mr. Monk and Plantagenet Palliser and Lord Brentford were in the same house with him. Phineas had no letters to write and therefore rushed down across the broad lawn to the river of which he heard the noisy tumbling waters. There was something in the air which immediately filled him with high spirits, and in his desire to investigate the glories of the place, he forgot that he was going to dine with four cabinet ministers in a row. He soon reached the stream and began to make his way up it through the ravine. There was waterfall over waterfall and there were little bridges here and there which looked to be half-natural and half-artificial and the path which required that you should climb, but which was yet a path, and all was so arranged that not a pleasant splashing rush of the waters was lost to the visitor. He went on and on up the stream till there was a sharp turn in the ravine and then looking upwards, he saw above his head a man and a woman standing together on one of the little half-made wooden bridges. His eyes were sharp and he saw at a glance that the woman was Lady Laura Standish. He had not recognized the man, but he had very little doubt that it was Mr. Kennedy. Of course it was Mr. Kennedy because he would prefer that it should be any other man under the sun. He would have turned back at once if he had thought that he could have done so without being observed, but he felt sure that standing as they were, they must have observed him. He did not like to join them. He would not intrude himself. So he remained still and began to throw stones into the river. But he had not thrown above a stone or two when he was called from above. He looked up and then he perceived that the man who called him was his host. Of course it was Mr. Kennedy. Thereupon he ceased to throw stones and went up the path and joined them upon the bridge. Mr. Kennedy stepped forward and bade him welcome till off Linter. His manner was less cold and he seemed to have more words at command than was usual with him. You have not been long, he said, in finding out the most beautiful spot about the place. Is it not lovely, said Laura. We have not been here an hour yet and Mr. Kennedy insisted on bringing me here. It is wonderfully beautiful, said Fenneas. It is this very spot where we now stand that made me build the house where it is, said Mr. Kennedy. And I was only 18 when I stood here and made up my mind. That is just 25 years ago. So he is 43, said Fenneas to himself, thinking how glorious it was to be only 25. And within 12 months, continued Mr. Kennedy, the foundations were being dug and the stone cutters were at work. What a good-natured man your father must have been, said Lady Laura. He had nothing else to do with his money but to pour it over my head as it were. I don't think he had any other enjoyment of it himself. Will you go a little higher, Lady Laura? We shall get a fine view over to Ben Lynn just now. Lady Laura declared that she would go as much higher as he chose to take her and Fenneas was rather in doubt as to what it would become him to do. He would stay where he was or go down or make himself to vanish after any most acceptable fashion. But if he were to do so abruptly, it would seem as though he were attributing something special to the companionship of the other two. Mr. Kennedy saw his doubt and asked him to join them. You may as well come on, Mr. Fenne. We don't die until eight and it is not much past six yet. The men of business are all writing letters and the ladies who have been traveling are in bed, I believe. Not all of them, Mr. Kennedy, said Lady Laura. Then they went on with their walk very pleasantly and the lord of all that they surveyed took them from one point of vantage to another until they both swore that of all spots upon the earth Lough Luncher was surely the most lovely. I do delight in it, I own, said the lord. When I come up here alone and feel that in the midst of this little bit of a crowded island I have all this to myself, all this with which no other man's wealth can interfere, I grow proud of my own till I become thoroughly ashamed of myself. After all, I believe it is better to dwell in cities than in the country, better at any rate for a rich man. Mr. Kennedy had now spoken more words than Phineas had heard to fall from his lips during the whole time that they had been acquainted with each other. I believe so too, said Laura. If one were obliged to choose between the two, for myself I think that a little of both is good for man and woman. There is no doubt about that, said Phineas. No doubt as far as enjoyment goes, said Mr. Kennedy. He took them up out of the ravine onto the side of the mountain and then down by another path through the woods to the back of the house. As they went, he relapsed into his usual silence and the conversation was kept up between the other two. At a point not very far from the castle, just so far that one could see by the break of the ground where the castle stood, Kennedy left them. Mr. Finn will take you back in safety, I am sure, said he, and as I am here I'll go up to the farm for a moment. If I don't show myself now and again what I am here, they think I'm indifferent about the bestials. Now Mr. Kennedy, said Lady Laura, you're going to pretend to understand all about sheep and oxen. Mr. Kennedy, owning that it was so, went away to his farm and Phineas with Lady Laura returned towards the house. I think upon the whole, said Lady Laura, that that is as good a man as I know. I should think he is an idle one, said Phineas. I doubt that. He is perhaps neither zealous nor active, but he is thoughtful and high-principled and has a method and a purpose in the use which he makes of his money, and you see that he has poetry in his nature, too, if you get him upon the right string. How fond he is of the scenery of this place. Any man would be fond of that. I'm ashamed to say that it almost makes me envy him. I certainly never have wished to be Mr. Robert Kennedy in London, but I should like to be the Laird of Lough Lenter. Laird of Linn and Laird of Linter, here in summer, gone in winter. There is some ballad about the old Lairds, but that belongs to a time when Mr. Kennedy had not been heard of, when some branch of the Mackenzie's lived down at that wretched old tower, which you see as you first come upon the lake. When old Mr. Kennedy bought it there were hardly a hundred acres on the property under cultivation. And it belonged to the Mackenzie's. Yes, to the Mackenzie of Linn, as he was called. It was Mr. Kennedy, the old man who was first called Lough Linter. That is Linn Castle, and they lived there for hundreds of years. But these Highlanders, with all that is said of their family pride, have forgotten the Mackenzie's already, and are quite proud of their rich landlord. That is unpoetical, said Phineas. Yes, but then poetry is so usually false. I doubt whether Scotland would not have been as prosaic a country as any under the sun but for Walter Scott, and I have no doubt that Henry V owes the romance of his character altogether to Shakespeare. I sometimes think you despise poetry, said Phineas. When it is false I do. The difficulty is to know when it is false and when it is true. Tom Moore was always false. Not so false as Byron, said Phineas, with energy. Much more so, my friend. We will not discuss that now. Have you seen Mr. Monk since you have been here? I have seen no one. I came with Mr. Rattler. Why with Mr. Rattler? You cannot find Mr. Rattler a companion much to your taste. Chance brought us together, but Mr. Rattler is a man of sense, Lady Laura, and is not to be despised. It always seems to me, said Lady Laura, that nothing is to be gained in politics by sitting at the feet of the little gammalials. But the great gammalials will not have a novice on their footstools. Then sit at no man's feet. Is it not astonishing that the price generally put upon any article by the world is that which the owner puts on it, and that this is especially true of a man's own self? If you heard with Rattler, men will take it for granted that you are a Rattlerite and no more. If you can sort with Greshams and Palacers, you will equally be supposed to know your own place. I never knew a mentor, said Phineas, so apt as you are to fill his Telemachus with pride. It is because I do not think your fault lies that way. If it did, or if I thought so, my Telemachus, you may be sure that I should resign my position as mentor. Here are Mr. Kennedy and Lady Gancora and Mrs. Gresham on the steps. Then they went up through the Ionic columns onto the Broadstone Terrace before the door, and there they found a crowd of men and women. For the legislators and statesmen had written their letters, and the ladies had taken their necessary rest. Phineas, as he was dressing, considered deeply all that Lady Laura had said to him, not so much with reference to the advice which she had given him, though that also was of importance, as to the fact that it had been given by her. She had first called herself his mentor, but he had accepted the name and had addressed her as her Telemachus, and yet he believed himself to be older than she, if indeed there was any difference in their ages, and was it possible that a female mentor should love her Telemachus, should love him as Phineas desired to be loved by Lady Laura? He would not say that it was impossible. Perhaps there had been mistakes between them, a mistake in his manner of addressing her and another in hers of addressing him. Perhaps the old bachelor of 43 was not thinking of a wife. Had this old bachelor of 43 been really in love with Lady Laura, would he have allowed her to walk home alone with Phineas, leaving her with some flimsy pretext of having to look at his sheep? Phineas resolved that he must at any rate play out his game, whether he were to lose it or to win it, and in playing it he must, if possible, drop something of that mentor and Telemachus' style of conversation. As to the advice given him of hurting with Greshams and Palacers, instead of with Rattlers and Fitzgibbons, he must use that as circumstances might direct. To him himself, as he thought of it all, it was sufficiently astonishing that even the Rattlers and Fitzgibbons should admit him among them as one of themselves. When I think of my father and of the old house that kill a low and remember that hitherto I have done nothing myself, I cannot understand how it is that I should be at Loughlynter. There was only one way of understanding it. If Lady Laura really loved him, the riddle might be read. The rooms at Loughlynter were splendid, much larger and very much more richly furnished than those at Salisby, but there was a certain stiffness in the movement of things, and perhaps in the manner of some of those present, which was not felt at Salisby. Phineas at once missed the grace and prettiness and cheery audacity of Violet Effingham and felt at the same time that Violet Effingham would be out of her element at Loughlynter. At Loughlynter they were met for business. It was at least a semi-political or perhaps rather a semi-official gathering and he became aware that he ought not to look simply for amusement. When he entered the drawing room before dinner, Mr. Monk and Mr. Palliser and Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Gresham, with sundry others, were standing in a wide group before the fireplace and among them were Lady Glencora Palliser and Lady Laura and Mrs. Bonteen. As he approached them, it seemed as though a sort of opening was made for himself, but he could see, though others did not, that the movement came from Lady Laura. I believe, Mr. Monk, said Lady Glencora, that you and I are the only two in the whole party who really know what we would be at. If I must be divided from so many of my friends, said Mr. Monk, I am happy to go astray in the company of Lady Glencora Palliser. And might I ask, said Mr. Gresham, with a peculiar smile for which he was famous, what is it that you and Mr. Monk are really at? Making men and women all equal, said Lady Glencora, that I take to be the gist of our political theory. Lady Glencora, I must cry off, said Mr. Monk. Yes, no doubt. If I were in the cabinet myself, I should not admit so much. There are reticences, of course, and there is an official discretion. But you don't mean to say, Lady Glencora, that you would really advocate equality, said Mrs. Bonteen. I do mean to say so, Mrs. Bonteen, and I mean to go further and to tell you that you are no liberal at heart unless you do so likewise, unless that is the basis of your political aspirations. Pray let me speak for myself, Lady Glencora. By no means, not when you are criticizing me and my politics. Do you not wish to make the lower orders comfortable? Certainly, said Mrs. Bonteen, and educated and happy and good. Undoubtedly, to make them as comfortable and as good as yourself, better if possible. And I'm sure you wish to make yourself as good and as comfortable as anybody else, as those above you, if anybody is above you, you will admit that? Yes, if I understand you. Then you have admitted everything and are an advocate for general equality, just as Mr. Monk is and as I am. There is no getting out of it, is there, Mr. Kennedy? Then dinner was announced and Mr. Kennedy walked off with the French Republican on his arm. As she went, she whispered into Mr. Kennedy's ear, you will understand me, I'm not saying that people are equal, but that the tendency of all lawmaking and of all governing should be to reduce the inequalities. An answer to which Mr. Kennedy said not a word. Lady Glencora's politics were too fast and furious for his nature. A week passed by at Luff-Linter, at the end of which Phineas found himself on terms of friendly intercourse with all the political magnets assembled in the house, but especially with Mr. Monk. He had determined that he would not follow Lady Laura's advice as to his selection of companions. If in doing so, he should be driven even to a seeming of intrusion. He made no attempt to sit at the feet of anybody and would stand aloof when bigger men than himself were talking and was content to be less, as indeed he was less, than Mr. Bontein or Mr. Rattler. But at the end of a week, he found that without any effort on his part, almost an opposition to efforts on his part, he had fallen into an easy pleasant way with these men which was very delightful to him. He had killed a stag in company with Mr. Palacer and had stopped beneath a crag to discuss with him a question as to the duty on Irish malt. He had played chess with Mr. Gresham and had been told that gentleman's opinion on the trial of Mr. Jefferson Davis. Lord Brentford had at last called him Finn and had proved to him that nothing was known in Ireland about sheep. But with Mr. Monk, he had had long discussions on abstract questions and politics and before the week was over, was almost disposed to call himself a disciple or at least a follower of Mr. Monk. Why not of Mr. Monk as well as of anyone else? Mr. Monk was in the cabinet and of all the members of the cabinet was the most advanced liberal. Lady Glencora was not so far wrong the other night, Mr. Monk said to him. Equality is an ugly word and shouldn't be used. It misleads and frightens and is a bugbear. And she in using it had not perhaps a clearly defined meaning for it in her own mind. But the wish of every honest man should be to assist in lifting up those below him till they be something nearer his own level than he finds them. To this, Phineas assented and by degrees he found himself assenting to a great many things that Mr. Monk said to him. Mr. Monk was a thin, tall, gaunt man who had devoted his whole life to politics, hitherto without any personal reward beyond that which came to him from the reputation of his name and from the honor of a seat in Parliament. He was one of four or five brothers and all besides him were in trade. They had prospered in trade whereas he had prospered solely in politics and men said that he was dependent altogether on what his relatives supplied for his support. He had now been in Parliament for more than 20 years and had been known not only as a radical but as a Democrat. Ten years since when he had risen to fame but not to repute among the men who then governed England nobody dreamed that Joshua Monk would ever be a paid servant of the Crown. He had invaded against one minister after another as though they all deserved impeachment. He had advocated political doctrines which at that time seemed to be altogether at variance with any possibility of governing according to English rules of government. He had been regarded as a pestilent thorn in the sides of all ministers but now he was a member of the Cabinet and those whom he had terrified in the old days began to find that he was not so much unlike other men. There are but few horses which you cannot put into harness and those of the highest spirit who generally do your work the best. Phineas, who had his eyes about him thought that he could perceive that Mr. Palliser did not shoot a deer with Mr. Rattler and that Mr. Gresham played no chess with Mr. Bonteen. Bonteen indeed was a noisy pushing man whom nobody seemed to like and Phineas wondered why he should be at Loughlanter and why he should be in office. His friend Lawrence Fitzgibbon had indeed once endeavored to explain this. A man who can vote hard as I call it and who will speak a few words now and then as they're wanted without any ambition that way may always have his price and if he has a pretty wife into the bargain he ought to have a pleasant time of it. Mr. Rattler no doubt was a very useful man who thoroughly knew his business but yet as it seemed to Phineas no very great distinction was shown to Mr. Rattler at Loughlanter. If I got as high as that he said to himself I should think myself a miracle of luck and yet nobody seems to think anything of Rattler. It is all nothing unless one can go to the very top. I believe I did right to accept office. Mr. Monk said to him one day as they sat together on a rock close by one of the little bridges over the lyncher. Indeed, unless a man does so when the bonds of the office tendered to him are made compatible with his own views he declines to proceed on the open path towards the prosecution of those views. A man who was combating one ministry after another and striving to imbue those ministers with his convictions can hardly decline to become a minister himself when he finds that those convictions of his own are henceforth or at least for some time to come to be the ministerial convictions of the day. Do you follow me? Very clearly said Phineas you would have denied your own children had you refused. And thus indeed a man were to feel that he was in some way unfitted for office work. I very nearly provided for myself an escape on that plea but when I came to sift it I thought that it would be false. But let me tell you that the delight of political life is altogether an opposition. Why it is freedom against slavery, fire against clay, movement against stagnation. The very inaccuracy which is permitted to opposition is in itself a charm worth more than all the patronage and all the prestige of ministerial power. You'll try them both and then say if you do not agree with me. Give me the full swing of the benches below the gangway where I needed to care for no one and could always enjoy myself on my legs as long as I felt that I was true to those who sent me there. That is all over now. They have got me into harness and my shoulders are sore. The oats, however, are of the best and the hay is unexceptionable. End of chapter 14 recording by Leanne Howlett. Chapter 15 of Phineas Finn by Anthony Trollop. 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 Pete Lutz. Phineas Finn by Anthony Trollop. Chapter 15. Donald Beans Pony. Phineas liked being told that the pleasures of opposition and the pleasures of office were both open to him, and he liked also to be the chosen receptacle of Mr. Monk's confidence. He had come to understand that he was expected to remain ten days at Laughlinter, and that then there was to be a general movement. Since the first day he had seen but little of Mr. Kennedy, but he had found himself very frequently with Lady Laura, and then had come up the question of his projected trip to Paris with Lord Chilton. He had received a letter from Lord Chilton. Dear Finn, are you going to Paris with me? Yours, see. There had been not a word beyond this, and before he answered it he made up his mind to tell Lady Laura the truth. He could not go to Paris because he had no money. I've just got that from your brother," said he. How like, Oswald? He writes to me perhaps three times in the year, and his letters are just the same. You will go, I hope. Well, no. I am sorry for that. I wonder whether I may tell you the real reason, Lady Laura. May. I cannot answer that, but unless it be some political secret between you and Mr. Monk, I should think you might. I cannot afford to go to Paris this autumn. It seems to be a shocking admission to make, though I don't know why it should be. Nor I, but Mr. Finn, I like you all the better for making it. I am very sorry for Oswald's sake. It's so hard to find any companion for him whom he would like, whom we—that is, I—should think altogether—you know what I mean, Mr. Finn. Your wish that I should go with him is a great compliment, and I thoroughly wish that I could do it. As it is, I must go to Killalo and retrieve my finances. I dare say, Lady Laura, you can hardly conceive how very poor a man I am. There was a melancholy tone about his voice as he said this, which made her think for the moment whether or no he had been right in going into Parliament, and whether she had been right in instigating him to do so. But it was too late to recur to that question now. You must climb into office early, and forego those pleasures of opposition, which are so dear to Mr. Monk, she said, smiling. After all, money is an accident which does not count nearly so high as do some other things. You and Mr. Kennedy have the same enjoyment of everything around you here. Yes, while it lasts. And Lady Glencora and I stand pretty much on the same footing in spite of all her health, except that she is a married woman. I do not know what she is worth, something not to be counted, and I am worth just what Papa chooses to give me—a ten-pound note at the present moment I should look upon is great riches. This was the first time she had ever spoken to him of her own position as regards money, but he had heard, or thought that he had heard, that she had been left a fortune altogether independent of her father. The last of the ten days had now come, and Phineas was discontented and almost unhappy. The more he saw of Lady Laura, the more he feared that it was impossible that she should become his wife, and yet from day to day his intimacy with her became more close. He had never made love to her, nor could he discover that it was possible for him to do so. She seemed to be a woman for whom all the ordinary stages of love-making were quite unsuitable. Of course he could declare his love and ask her to be his wife on any occasion on which he might find himself to be alone with her, and on this morning he had made up his mind that he would do so before the day was over. It might be possible that she would never speak to him again, that all the pleasures and ambitious hopes to which she had introduced him might be over as soon as that rash word should have been spoken, but nevertheless he would speak it. On this day there was to be a grouse-shooting party, and the shooters were to be out early. It had been talked of for some day or two past, and Phineas knew that he could not escape it. There had been some rivalry between him and Mr. Bantine, and there was to be a sort of match as to which of the two would kill most birds before lunch, but there had also been some half-promise on Lady Laura's part that she would walk with him up the linter and come down upon the lake, taking an opposite direction from that by which they had returned with Mr. Kennedy. But you will be shooting all day, she said, when he proposed it to her as they were starting for the more. The wagonet that was to take them was at the door, and she was there to see them start. Her father was one of the shooting party, and Mr. Kennedy was another. I will undertake to be back in time, if you will not think it too hot. I shall not see you again till we meet in town next year. Then I certainly will go with you, that is to say, if you are here, but you cannot return without the rest of the party as you are going so far. I'll get back somehow," said Phineas, who was resolved that a few miles more or less of mountain should not detain him from the prosecution of a task so vitally important to him. If we start at five, that will be early enough. Quite early enough, said Lady Laura. Phineas went off to the mountain, and shot his grouse, and won his match, and at his luncheon. Mr. Bonteen, however, was not beaten by much, and was in consequence somewhat ill-humored. I'll tell you what I'll do," said Mr. Bonteen. I'll back myself for the rest of the day with a ten-pound note. Now there had been no money staked on the match at all, but it had been simply a trial of skill as to which would kill the most birds in a given time, and the proposition for that trial had come from Mr. Bonteen himself. I should not think of shooting for money, said Phineas, and why not, a bet is the only way to decide these things. Partly, because I'm sure I shouldn't hit a barred, said Phineas, and partly because I haven't got any money to lose. I hate bets, said Mr. Kennedy to him afterwards. I was annoyed when Bonteen offered the wager. I felt sure, however, you would not accept it. I suppose such bats are very common. I don't think men ought to propose them unless they are quite sure of their company. Maybe I'm wrong, and I often fear that I am straight-laced about such things. It is so odd to me that men cannot amuse themselves without pitting themselves against each other. When a man tells me that he can shoot better than I, I tell him that my keeper can shoot better than he. All the same, it's a good thing to excel, said Phineas. I'm not so sure of that, said Mr. Kennedy. A man who can kill more salmon than anybody else can rarely do anything else. Are you going on with your match? No. I'm going to make my way to Loughlinter. Not alone. Yes, alone. It's over nine miles. You can't walk it. Phineas looked at his watch, and found that it was now two o'clock. It was a broiling day in August, and the way back to Loughlinter for six or seven out of the nine miles would be along a high road. I must do it all the same, said he, preparing for a start. I have an engagement with Lady Laura Standish, and as this is the last day that I shall see her, I certainly do not mean to break it. An engagement with Lady Laura, said Mr. Kennedy. Why did you not tell me that I might have a pony ready, but come along? Donald Bean has a pony. He's not much bigger than a dog, but he'll carry it to Loughlinter. I can walk it, Mr. Kennedy. Yes, and think of the state in which you reach Loughlinter. Come along with me. But I can't take you off the mountain, said Phineas. Then you must allow me to take you off. So Mr. Kennedy led the way down to Donald Bean's cottage, and before three o'clock Phineas found himself mounted on a shaggy steed, which, in sober truth, was not much bigger than a large dog. If Mr. Kennedy is really my rival, said Phineas to himself as he trotted along, I almost think that I am doing an unhandsome thing and taking the pony. At five o'clock he was under the portico before the front door, and there he found Lady Laura waiting for him, waiting for him, or at least ready for him. She had on her hat and gloves and light shawl, and her parasol was in her hand. He thought that he had never seen her look so young, so pretty, and so fit to receive a lover's vows, but at the same moment it occurred to him that she was Lady Laura Standish, the daughter of an earl, the descendant of a line of earls, and that he was the son of a simple country doctor in Ireland. Was it fitting that he should ask such a woman to be his wife? But then Mr. Kennedy was the son of a man who had walked into Glasgow with half a crown in his pocket. Mr. Kennedy's grandfather had been—Phineas thought that he had heard that Mr. Kennedy's grandfather had been a scotch drover, whereas his own grandfather had been a little squire near Ennestyman in County Clare, and his own first cousin once removed still held the paternal acres at Fingrove. His family was supposed to be descended from kings in that part of Ireland. It certainly did not become him to fear Lady Laura on the score of rank if it was to be allowed to Mr. Kennedy to proceed without fear on that head. As to wealth, Lady Laura had already told him that her fortune was no greater than his. Her statement to himself on that head made him feel that he should not hesitate on the score of money. They neither had any, and he was willing to work for both. If she feared the risk, let her say so. It was thus that he argued with himself, but yet he knew, knew as well as the reader will know, that he was going to do that which he had no right to do. It might be very well for him to wait, presuming him to be successful in his love, for the opening of that oyster with his political sword, that oyster on which he proposed that they should both live, but such waiting could not well be to the taste of Lady Laura's standish. It could hardly be pleasant to her to look forward to his being made a junior lord or an assistant secretary before she could establish herself in her home, so he told himself, and yet he told himself at the same time that it was incumbent on him to persevere. I did not expect you in the least, said Lady Laura, and yet I spoke very positively. But there are things as to which a man may be very positive, and yet may be allowed to fail. In the first place, how on earth did you get home? Mr. Kennedy got me a pony, Donald Bean's pony. You told him then? Yes. I told him why he was coming, and that I must be here. Then he took the trouble to come all the way off the mountain to persuade Donald to lend me his pony. I must acknowledge that Mr. Kennedy has conquered me at last. I am so glad of that, said Lady Laura. I knew he would, unless it were your own fault. They went up the path by the brook from bridge to bridge till they found themselves out upon the open mountain at the top. Phineas had resolved that he would not speak out his mind till he found himself on that spot. That then he would ask her to sit down, and that while she was so seated he would tell her everything. At the present moment he had on his head a scotch cap with a grouse's feather in it, and he was dressed in a velvet shooting-jacket and dark knickerbockers, and was certainly in this costume as handsome a man as any woman would wish to see. And there was, too, a look of breeding about him which had come to him no doubt from the royal fins of old which ever served him in great stead. He was indeed only Phineas's fin, and was known by the world to be no more. But he looked as though he might have been anybody, a royal fin himself, and then he had that special grace of appearing to be altogether unconscious of his own personal advantages. And I think that in truth he was barely conscious of them, that he depended on them very little, if at all, that there was nothing of personal vanity in his composition, he had never indulged in any hope that Lady Laura would accept him because he was a handsome man. After all that climbing, he said, were you not sit down for a moment? As he spoke to her, she looked at him and told herself that he was as handsome as a god. Do sit down for one moment, he said, I have something that I desire to say to you, and to say it here. I will, she said, but I also have something to tell you, and will say it while I am yet standing. Yesterday I accepted an offer of marriage from Mr. Kennedy. Then I am too late," said Phineas, and putting his hands into the pockets of his coat, he turned his back upon her and walked away across the mountain. What a fool he had been to let her know his secret when her knowledge of it could be of no service to him, when her knowledge of it could only make him appear foolish in her eyes. But for his life he could not have kept his secret to himself, nor now could he bring himself to utter a word of even decent civility, but he went on walking as though he could thus leave her there, and never see her again. What an ass he had been in supposing that she cared for him! What a fool to imagine that his poverty could stand a chance against the wealth of love, Linda! Why had she lured him on? How he wished that he were now grinding hard at work in Mr. Low's chambers, or sitting at home in Kailala with the hand of that pretty little iris girl within his own. Presently he heard a voice behind him, calling him gently. Then he turned and found that she was very near him. He himself had then been standing still for some moments, and she had followed him. Mr. Finn, she said, well, yes, what is it? And turning round he made an attempt to smile. Will you not wish me joy, or say a word of congratulation? Had I not thought much of your friendship, I should not have been so quick to tell you of my destiny. No one else has been told except Papa. Of course I hope you will be happy. Of course I do. No wonder he lent me the pony. You must forget all that. Forget what? Well, nothing. You need forget nothing, said Lady Laura. For nothing has been said that need be regretted. Only wish me joy, and all will be pleasant. Lady Laura, I do wish you joy with all my heart. But that will not make all things pleasant. I came up here to ask you to be my wife. No, no, no. Do not say it. But I have said it, and will say it again. I, poor, penniless, plain, simple fool that I am, have been ass enough to love you, Lady Laura Standish, and I brought you up here to ask you to share with me my nothingness, and this I have done on soil that is to be all your own. Tell me that you regard me as a conceited fool, as a bewildered idiot. I wish to regard you as a dear friend, both of my own and of my husband, said she, offering him her hand. When I have had a chance, I wonder, if I had spoken a week since. How can I answer such a question, Mr. Finn, or, rather, I will, answer it fully? It is not a week since we have held each other, you to me, and I to you, that we were both poor, both without other means than those which come to us from our fathers. You will make your way. We'll make it surely. But how at present could you marry any woman unless she had money of her own? For me, like so many other girls, it was necessary that I should stay at home or marry someone rich enough to dispense with fortune in a wife. The man whom in all the world I think the best has asked me to share everything with him, and I have thought it wise to accept his offer. And I was full enough to think that you loved me, said Phineas. To this she made no immediate answer. Yes, I was. I feel that I owe it to you to tell you what a fool I have been. I did. I thought you loved me. At least I thought that perhaps you loved me. It was like a child wanting the moon. Was it not? And why should I not have loved you? She said slowly, laying her hand gently upon his arm. Why not? Because, Loughlynter, stop, Mr. Finn, stop. Do not say to me any unkind word that I have not deserved, and that would make a breach between us. I have accepted the owner of Loughlynter as my husband, because I verily believe that I shall thus do my duty in that sphere of life to which it is pleased God to call me. I have always liked him, and I will love him. For you, may I trust myself to speak openly to you? You may trust me as against all others, except us to ourselves. For you, then, I will say also that I have always liked you since I knew you, that I have loved you as a friend, and could have loved you otherwise, had not circumstances showed me so plainly that it would be unwise. Oh, Lady Laura! Listen a moment, and pray remember that what I say to you now must never be repeated to any ears. No one knows it but my father, my brother, and Mr. Kennedy. Early in the spring I paid my brother's debts. His affection to me is more than a return for what I have done for him, but when I did this, when I made up my mind to do it, I made up my mind also that I could not allow myself the same freedom of choice which would otherwise have belonged to me. Will that be sufficient, Mr. Finn? How can I answer you, Lady Laura, sufficient, and you are not angry with me for what I have said? No, I am not angry, but it is understood, of course, that nothing of this shall ever be repeated, even among ourselves. Is that a bargain? Oh, yes, I shall never speak of it again. And now will you wish me joy? I have wished you joy, Lady Laura, and I will do so again. May you have every blessing which the world can give you. You cannot expect me to be very jovial for a while myself, but there will be nobody to see my melancholy moods. I shall be hiding myself away in Ireland. When is the marriage to be? Nothing has been said of that. I shall be guided by him, but there must, of course, be delay. There will be settlements, and I know not what. It may probably be in the spring, or perhaps the summer. I shall do just what my betters tell me to do." Phineas had now seated himself on the exact stone on which he had wished her to sit, when he proposed to tell his own story, and was looking forth upon the lake. It seemed to him that everything had been changed for him, while he had been up there on the mountain, and that the change had been marvellous in its nature. When he had been coming up, there had been, apparently, two alternatives before him—the glory of successful love, which, indeed, had seemed to him to be a most improbable result of the coming interview, and the despair and utter banishment attendant on disdainful rejection. But his position was far removed from either of these alternatives. She had almost told him that she would have loved him had she not been poor, that she was beginning to love him, and had quenched her love, because it had become impossible to her to marry a poor man. In such circumstances he could not be angry with her, he could not quarrel with her, he could not do other than swear to himself that he would be her friend. And yet he loved her better than ever, and she was the promised wife of his rival. Why had not Donald Bean's pony broken his neck? Shall we go down now? She said. Oh, yes. You will not go on by the lake? What is the use? It is all the same now. You will want to be back to receive him in from shooting. Not that, I think. He is above those little cares. But it will be as well we should go the nearest way, as we have spent so much of our time here. I shall tell Mr. Kennedy that I have told you, if you do not mind. Tell him what you please, said Phineas. But I won't have it taken in that way, Mr. Finn. Your brusque want of courtesy to me I have forgiven, but I shall expect you to make up for it by the alacrity of your congratulations to him. I will not have you uncurtious to Mr. Kennedy. If I have been uncurtious, I beg your pardon. You need not do that. We are old friends, and may take the liberty of speaking plainly to each other. But you will owe it to Mr. Kennedy to be gracious. Think of the pony. They walked back to the house together, and as they went down the path very little was said. Just as they were about to come out upon the open lawn, while they were still under cover of the rocks and shrubs, Phineas stopped his companion by standing before her, and then he made his farewell speech to her. I must say good-bye to you. I shall be away early in the morning. Good-bye, and God bless you, said Lady Laura. Give me your hand, said he, and she gave him her hand. I don't suppose you know what it is to love dearly. I hope I do. But to be in love. I believe you do not. And to miss your love. I think—I am bound to think that you have never been so tormented. It is very sore, but I will do my best, like a man, to get over it. Do, my friend, do, so small a trouble will never weigh heavily on shoulders such as yours. It will weigh very heavily, but I will struggle hard that it may not crush me. I have loved you so dearly. As we are parting, give me one kiss that I may think of it and treasure it in my memory. What murmuring word she spoke to express her refusal of such a request I will not quote. But the kiss had been taken before the denial was completed, and then they walked on in silence together, and in peace towards the house. On the next morning six or seven men were going away, and there was an early breakfast. There were none of the ladies there, but Mr. Kennedy, the host, was among his friends. A large drag with four horses was there to take the travellers and their luggage to the station, and there was naturally a good deal of noise at the front door as the preparations for the departure were made. In the middle of them Mr. Kennedy took a hero aside. "'Laura has told me,' said Mr. Kennedy, that she has acquainted you with my good fortune. "'And I congratulate you most heartily,' said Phineas, grasping the other's hand. "'You are indeed a lucky fellow. I feel myself to be so,' said Mr. Kennedy. "'Such a wife was all that was wanting to me, and such a wife is very hard to find. Will you remember, Finn, that Loft-Linter will never be so full, but what there will be a room for you, or so empty but what you will be made welcome? I say this on Lady Laura's part, and on my own.' Phineas, as he was being carried away to the railway station, could not keep himself from speculating as to how much Kennedy knew of what had taken place during the walk up the linter. Of one small circumstance that had occurred he felt quite sure that Mr. Kennedy knew nothing.