 CHAPTER 35 Mr. Monk Upon Reform M.S. Finn went to Ireland immediately after his return from Salisby, having said nothing further to Violet Effingham, and having heard nothing further from her than that what is recorded in the last chapter. He felt very keenly that his position was unsatisfactory and brooded over it all the autumn and early winter, but he could form no plan for improving it. A dozen times he thought of writing to Miss Effingham and asking for an explicit answer. He could not, however, bring himself to write the letter, thinking that written expressions of love are always weak and vapid, and deterred also by a conviction that Violet, if driven to reply in writing, would undoubtedly reply by a refusal. Fifty times he wrote again in his imagination his ride in Salisby Wood and told himself as often that the sirens answered to him, her no, no, no, had been of all possible answers the most indefinite and provoking. The tone of her voice as she galloped away from him, the bearing of her countenance when he rejoined her, her manner to him when he saw her start from the castle in the morning, all forbade him to believe that his words to her had been taken as an offence. She had replied to him with a direct negative simply with the word no, but she had so said it there had hardly been any sting in the no, and he had known at the moment that whatever might be the result of his suit he need not regard Violet Effingham as his enemy. But the doubt made his sojourn in Ireland very wearisome to him, and there were other matters which tended also to his discomfort, though he was not left even at this period of his life without a continuation of success which seemed to be very wonderful. And first I will say a word of his discomfort. He heard not a line from Lord Chiltern in answer to the letter which he had written to his lordship. From Lady Laura he did hear frequently. Lady Laura wrote to him exactly as though she had never warned him away from Laughlinter, and as though there had been no occasion for such warning. She sent him letters filled chiefly with politics, saying something also of the guests at Laughlinter, something of the game and just a word or two here and there of her husband. The letters were very good letters, and he preserved them carefully. It was manifest to him that they were intended to be good letters and as such to be preserved. In one of these, which he received about the end of November, she told him that her brother was again in his old haunt at the Willingford Bowl, and that he had sent to Portman Square for all property of his own that had been left there. But there was no word in that letter of Violet Effingham. And though Lady Laura did speak more than once of Violet, she always did so as though Violet were simply a joint acquaintance of herself and her correspondent. There was no illusion to the existence of any special regard on his part for Miss Effingham. He had thought that Violet might probably tell her friend what had occurred at Salisbury, but if she did so, Lady Laura was happy in her powers of reticence. Our hero was disturbed also when he reached home by finding that Mrs. Flood Jones and Miss Flood Jones had retired from Killaloa for the winter. I do not know whether he might not have been more disturbed by the presence of the young lady, for he would have found himself constrained to exhibit toward her some tenderness of manner, and any such tenderness of manner would, in his existing circumstances, have been dangerous. But he was made to understand that Mary Flood Jones had been taken away from Killaloa because it was thought that he had ill-treated the lady, and the accusation made him unhappy. In the middle of the heat of the last session he had received a letter from his sister in which some pushing questions had been asked as to his then existing feeling about poor Mary. This he had answered petulently. Nothing more had been written to him about Miss Jones and nothing was said to him when he reached home. He could not, however, but ask after Mary, and when he did ask, the accusation was made again in that quietly, severe manner with which, perhaps, most of us have been acquainted at some period of our lives. I think, Phineas said to his sister, we had better say nothing about dear Mary. She is not here at present, and probably you may not see her while you remain with us. What's all that about, Phineas had demanded, understanding the whole matter thoroughly. Then his sister had demurely refused to say a word further on the subject, and not a word further was said about Miss Mary Flood Jones. They were at Floodborough, living he did not doubt in a very desolate way, and quite willing he did not doubt also to abandon their desolation if he would go over there in the manner that would become him after what had passed on one or two occasions between him and the young lady. But how was he to do this with such work on his hands as he had undertaken? Now that he was in Ireland he thought that he did love dear Mary very dearly. He felt that he had two identities, that he was, as it were, two separate persons, and that he could, without any real faithlessness, be very much in love with Violet Effingham in his position of man of fashion and member of parliament in England, and also warmly attached to dear little Mary Flood Jones as an Irishman of Killaloe. He was aware, however, that there was a prejudice against such fullness of heart, and therefore resolved sternly that it was his duty to be constant to Miss Effingham. How was it possible that he should marry dear Mary? He, with such extensive jobs of work on his hands, it was not possible. He must abandon all thought of making dear Mary his own. No doubt they had been right to remove her. But still, as he took his solitary walks along the Shannon and up on the hills that overhung the lake above the town, he felt somewhat ashamed of himself, and dreamed of giving up parliament, of leaving Violet to some noble suitor, to Lord Chiltern if she would take him, and of going to Floodborough with an honest proposal that he should be allowed to press Mary to his heart. Miss Effingham would probably reject him at last, whereas Mary, dear Mary, would come to his heart without a scruple of doubt. Dear Mary! In these days of dreaming, he told himself that, after all, dear Mary was his real love. But, of course, such days were days of dreaming only. He had letters in his pocket from Lady Laura Kennedy, which made it impossible for him to think in earnest of giving up parliament. And then there came a wonderful piece of luck in his way. There lived, or had lived, in the town of Galway, a very eccentric old lady, one Miss Marion Percy, who was the aunt of Mrs. Finn, the mother of our hero. With this lady Dr. Finn had quarrelled persistently, ever since his marriage, because the lady had expressed her wish to interfere in the management of his family, offering to purchase such right by favorable arrangements in reference to her will. This the doctor had resented, and there had been quarrels. Miss Percy was not a very rich old lady, but she thought a good deal of her own money. And now she died, leaving three thousand pounds to her nephew, Finneas Finn. Another sum of about equal amount she bequeathed to a Roman Catholic seminary, and thus, with her worldly wealth divided, she couldn't have done better with it, said the old doctor. And as far as we are concerned, the windfall is the more pleasant as being wholly unexpected. In these days the doctor was undoubtedly gratified by his son's success in life and never said much about the law. Finneas, in truth, did do some work during the autumn reading blue books, reading law books, reading perhaps a novel or two at the same time, but shutting himself up very carefully as he studied, so that his sisters were made to understand that for a certain four hours in the day not a sound was to be allowed to disturb him. On the receipt of his legacy he had once offered to repay his father all money that had been advanced to him over and above his original allowance. But this the doctor refused to take. It comes to the same thing, Finneas, he said. What you have of your share now you can't have hereafter. As regards my present income, it has only made me work a little longer than I had intended, and I believe that the later in life a man works the more likely he is to live. Finneas, therefore, when he returned to London, had his three thousand pounds in his pocket. He owed some five hundred pounds, and the remainder he would of course invest. There had been some talk of an autumnal session, but Mr. Mildmay's decision had at last been against it. Who cannot understand that such would be the decision of any minister to whom was left the slightest fraction of free will in the matter? Why should any minister court the danger of unnecessary attack submit himself to unnecessary work, and incur the odium of summoning all his friends from their rest? In the midst of the doubts as to the new and old ministry, when the political need was vacillating so tremulously on its pivot, pointing now to one set of men as the coming government and then to another, vague suggestions as to an autumn session might be useful. And they were thrown out in all good faith. Mr. Mildmay, when he spoke on the subject to the Duke, was earnest in thinking that the question of reform should not be postponed, even for six months. Don't pledge yourself, said the Duke, and Mr. Mildmay did not pledge himself. Afterwards when Mr. Mildmay found that he was once more assuredly Prime Minister, he changed his mind, and felt himself to be under a fresh obligation to the Duke. Lord the Terrier had altogether failed, and the country might very well wait till February. The country did wait till February, somewhat to the disappointment of Phineas Finn, who had become tired of blue books at Killaloa. The difference between his English life and his life at home was so great that it was hardly possible that he should not become weary of the latter. He did become weary of it, but strove gallantly to hide his weariness from his father and mother. At this time the world was talking much about reform, though Mr. Mildmay had become placidly patient. The feeling was growing, and Mr. Turnbull, with all his friends, was doing all he could to make it grow fast. There was a certain amount of excitement on the subject, but the excitement had grown downwards, from the leaders to the people, from the self-instituted leaders of popular politics down, by means of the press, to the ranks of working men, instead of growing upwards, from the dissatisfaction of the masses till it expressed itself by this mouthpiece and that, chosen by the people themselves. There was no strong throb through the country, making men feel that safety was to be had by reform and could not be had without reform. But there was an understanding that the press and the orators were too strong to be ignored, and that some new measure of reform must be conceded to them. The sooner the concession was made, the less it might be necessary to concede. All men of all parties were agreed on this point. That reform was in itself odious to many of those who spoke of it freely, who offered themselves willingly to be its promoters was acknowledged. It was not only odious to Lord Deterrier and to most of those who worked with him, but it was equally so to many of Mr. Mildmay's most constant supporters. The duke had no wish for reform. Indeed, it is hard to suppose that such a duke can wish for any change in a state of things that must seem to him to be so salutary. Workmen were getting full wages, farmers were paying their rent, capitalists by the dozen were creating capitalists by the hundreds. Nothing was wrong in the country, but the over-dominant spirit of speculative commerce, and there was nothing in reform to check that. Why should the duke want reform? As for such men as Lord Brentford, Sir Harry Coldfoot, Lord Plin Liman, and Mr. Ledge Wilson, it was known to all men that they advocated reform as we all of us advocate doctors. Some amount of doctoring is necessary for us. We may hardly hope to avoid it, but let us have as little of the doctor as possible. Mr. Turnbull and the cheap press and the rising spirit of the loudest among the people made it manifest that something must be conceded. Let us be generous in our concession. That was now the doctrine of many. Perhaps of most of the leading politicians of the day. Let us be generous. Let us at any rate seem to be generous. Let us give with an open hand, but still with a hand which, though open, shall not bestow too much. The coach must be allowed to run down the hill. Indeed, unless the coach goes on running, no journey will be made. But let us have the drag on both the hind wheels, and we must remember that coaches running downhill without drags are apt to come to serious misfortune. But there were men, even in the cabinet, who had other ideas of public service than that of dragging the wheels of the coach. Mr. Gresham was an earnest. Plantagenet Palliser was an earnest. That exceedingly intelligent young nobleman Lord Cantrip was an earnest. Mr. Mildmay threw perhaps as much of the earnestness into the matter as was compatible with his age, and his full appreciation of the manner in which the present cry of reform had been aroused. He was thoroughly honest, thoroughly patriotic, and thoroughly ambitious that he should be written of hereafter as one who in the end of a long life had worked sedulously for the welfare of the people. But he disbelieved in Mr. Turnbull, and in the bottom of his heart indulged in aristocratic contempt for the penny-press. And there was no man in England more an earnest, more truly desirous of reform than Mr. Monk. It was his great political idea that political advantages should be extended to the people, whether the people clamored for them or did not clamor for them, even whether they desired them or did not desire them. You do not ask a child whether he would like to learn his lesson, he would say, at any rate, you do not wait till he cries for his book. When therefore men said to him that there was no earnestness in the cry for reform, that the cry was a false cry, got up for factious purposes by interested persons, he would reply that the thing to be done should not be done in obedience to any cry, but because it was demanded by justice, and was a debt due to the people. Our hero in the autumn had written to Mr. Monk on the politics of the moment, and the following had been Mr. Monk's reply. Long Royston, October 12, 1860 My dear Finn, I am staying here with the Duke and Duchess of St. Bungay. The house is very full, and Mr. Mildney was here last week. But as I don't shoot, and can't play billiards, and have no taste for charades, I am becoming tired of the gayities, and shall leave them to-morrow. Of course you know that we are not to have the autumn session. I think that Mr. Mildney is right. Could we have been sure of passing our measure? It would have been very well. But he could not have been sure. And the failure with our bill in a session convened for the express purpose of passing it would have injured the cause greatly. We could hardly have gone on with it again in the spring. Indeed, we must have resigned. And though I may truly say that I would as leaf have a good measure from the Lord De Terrier as from Mr. Mildney, and that I am indifferent to my own present personal position, still. I think that we should endeavor to keep our seats as long as we honestly believe ourselves to be more capable of passing a good measure than our opponents. I am astonished by the difference of opinion which exists about reform, not only as to the difference in the extent and exact tendency of the measure that is needed, but that there should be such a divergence of ideas as to the grand thing to be done, and the grand reason for doing it. We are all agreed that we want reform in order that the House of Commons may be returned by a larger proportion of the people than is at present employed upon that work, and that each member, when returned, should represent a somewhat more equal section of the whole constituencies of the country than our members generally do at present. All men confess that a fifty-pound county franchise must be too high, and that a burrow with less than two hundred registered voters must be wrong. But it seems to me that but few among us perceive, or at any rate acknowledge, the real reasons for changing these things and reforming what is wrong without delay. One great authority told us the other day that the sole object of legislation on this subject should be to get together the best possible 658 members of Parliament. That, to me, would be a most repulsive idea if it were not that by its very vagueness it becomes inoperative. Who shall say what is best, or what characteristic constitutes excellence in a member of Parliament? If the gentleman means excellence in general wisdom, or in statecraft, or in skill in talking, or in private character, or even excellence in patriotism, then I say that he is utterly wrong, and has never touched with his intellect the true theory of representation. One only excellence may be acknowledged, and that is the excellence of likeness. As a portrait should be like the person portrayed, so should a representative house be like the people whom it represents, nor in arranging a franchise does it seem to me that we have the right to regard any other view. If a country be unfit for representative government, and it may be that there are still peoples unable to use properly the greatest of all blessings, the question as to what state policy may be best for them is a different question. But if we do have representation, let the representative assembly be like the people, whatever else may be its virtues, and whatever else its vices. Another great authority has told us that our house of commons should be the mirror of the people. I say not its mirror, but its miniature, and let the artist be careful to put in every line of the expression of that ever-moving face. To do this is a great work, and the artist must know his trade well. In America the work has been done with so course a hand that nothing is shown in the picture but the broad, plain, unspeaking outline of the face. As you look from the represented to the representation you cannot but acknowledge the likeness, but there is in that portrait more of the body than of the mind. The true portrait should represent more than the body. With us, hitherto, there have been snatches of the countenance of the nation which have been inimitable, a turn of the eye here, and a curl of the lip there, which has seemed to denote a power almost divine. There have been marvels on the canvas so beautiful that one approaches the work of remodeling it with awe, but not only is the picture imperfect, a thing of snatches, but with years it becomes less and still less like its original. The necessity for remodeling it is imperative, and we shall be cowards if we decline the work. But let us be specially careful to retain as much as possible of those lines which we all acknowledge to be so faithfully representative of our nation. To give to a bare numerical majority of the people, that power which the numerical majority has in the United States would not be to achieve representation. The nation, as it now exists, would not be known by such a portrait. But neither can it now be known by that which exists. It seems to me that they who are adverse to change, looking back with an unmeasured respect on what our old parliaments have done for us, ignore the majestic growth of the English people, and forget the present in their worship of the past. They think that we must be what we were, at any rate what we were thirty years since. They have not perhaps gone into the houses of artisans, or if there they have not looked into the breasts of the men. With population vice has increased, and these politicians with ears but no eyes hear of drunkenness and sin and ignorance, and then they declare to themselves that this wicked, half-barbarous, idle people should be controlled and not represented. A wicked, half-barbarous, idle people may be controlled, but not a people thoughtful, educated, and industrious. We must look to it that we do not endeavor to carry our control beyond the wickedness and the barbarity, and that we be ready to submit to control from thoughtfulness and industry. I hope we shall find you helping at the good work early in the spring. Yours always faithfully, Joshua Monk. Meneas was up in London before the end of January, but did not find there many of those whom he wished to see. Mr. Low was there, and to him he showed Mr. Monk's letter, thinking that it must be convincing even to Mr. Low. This he did in Mrs. Low's drawing-room, knowing that Mrs. Low would also condescend to discuss politics on an occasion. He had dined with them, and they had been glad to see him, and Mrs. Low had been less severe than hitherto against the great sin of her husband's late pupil. She had condescended to congratulate him on becoming member for an English borough, instead of an Irish one, and had asked him questions about Sol's becastle. But nevertheless Mr. Monk's letter was not received with that respectful admiration which Phineas thought that it deserved. Phineas foolishly had read it out loud, so that the attack came upon him simultaneously from the husband and from the wife. It is just the usual clap-trap, said Mr. Low, only put into language somewhat more grandiloquent than usual. Clap-trap? said Phineas. It's what I call downright radical nonsense, said Mrs. Low, netting her head energetically. But indeed, why should we want to have a portrait of ignorance and ugliness? What we all want is to have things quiet and orderly. Then you'd better have a paternal government at once, said Phineas. Just so, said Mr. Low. Only that, what you call a paternal government, is not always quiet and orderly. National order I take to be submission to the law. I should not think it quiet and orderly if I was sent to Cayenne without being brought before a jury. But such a man as you, would not be sent to Cayenne, said Phineas. My next-door neighbor might be, which would be almost as bad. Let him be sent to Cayenne if he deserves it, but let a jury say that he has deserved it. My idea of government is this, that we want to be governed by law, and not by caprice, and that we must have a legislature to make our laws. If I thought Parliament, as at present established, made the laws badly, I would desire a change, but I doubt whether we shall have them better from any change in Parliament which reform will give us. Of course not, said Mrs. Low. But we shall have a lot of beggars put on horseback, and we all know where they ride to. Then Phineas became aware that it is not easy to convince any man or any woman on a point of politics, not even though he who argues may have an eloquent letter from a philosophical cabinet minister in his pocket to assist him. According to Simon Evans, Phineas Finn by Anthony Trollop, chapter 36, Phineas Finn makes progress. February was far advanced, and the new reform bill had already been brought forward, before Lady Laura Kennedy came up to town. Phineas had of course seen Mr. Kennedy and had heard from him tidings of his wife. She was at Salisbury with Lady Baldock, Miss Borum, and Violet Effingham, but was to be in London soon. Mr. Kennedy, as it appeared, did not quite know when he was to expect his wife, and Phineas thought that he could perceive from the tone of the husband's voice that something was amiss. He could not, however, ask any questions accepting such as referred to the expected arrival. Was Miss Effingham to come to London with Lady Laura? Mr. Kennedy believed that Miss Effingham would be up before Easter, but he did not know whether she would come with his wife. Women, he said, have so found a mystery that one can never quite know what they intended to do. He corrected himself at once, however, perceiving that he had seemed to say something against his wife, and explained that his general accusation against the sex was not intended to apply to Lady Laura. This, however, he did so awkwardly as to strengthen the feeling with Phineas that something assuredly was wrong. Miss Effingham, said Mr. Kennedy, never seems to know her own mind. I suppose she is like other beautiful girls who are petted on all sides, said Phineas. As for her beauty, I do not think much of it, said Mr. Kennedy, and as for petting, I do not understand it in reference to grown persons. Children may be petted, and dogs. That is too bad, but what you call petting for grown persons is, I think, frivolous and almost indecent. Phineas could not help thinking of Lord Children's opinion that it would have been wise to have left Mr. Kennedy in the hands of the garottas. The debate on the second reading of the bill was to be commenced on the 1st of March, and two days before that Lady Laura arrived in growner place. Phineas got a note from her in three words to say that she was at home, and would see him if he called on Sunday afternoon. The Sunday to which she alluded was the last day of February. Phineas was now more certain than ever that something was wrong. Had there been nothing wrong between Lady Laura and her husband, she would not have rebelled against him by asking visitors to the house on a Sunday. He had nothing to do with that, however, and, of course, he did as he was desired. He called on the Sunday, and found Mrs. Bonteen sitting with Lady Laura. I am just in time for the debate," said Lady Laura, when the first greeting was over. You don't mean to say that you intend to sit it out, said Mrs. Bonteen. Every word of it, unless I lose my seat, what else are there to be done at present? But the place they give us is so unpleasant, said Mrs. Bonteen. There are worse places even than the Lady's gallery, said Lady Laura, and perhaps it is as well to make oneself used to inconveniences of all kinds. You must speak, Mr. Phine. I intend to do so. Of course you will. The great speeches will be Mr. Gresham's, Mrs. Orbanes, and Mr. Munk's. Mr. Palliser intends to be very strong, said Mrs. Bonteen. A man cannot be strong or not as he likes it, said Lady Laura. Mr. Palliser, I believe, to be a most useful man, but he never can become an orator. He is of the same class as Mr. Kennedy, and, of course, higher in the class. We all look forward for a great speech from Mr. Kennedy, said Mrs. Bonteen. I have not the slightest idea whether he will open his lips, said Lady Laura. Immediately after that Mrs. Bonteen took her leave. I hate that woman-like poison, continued Lady Laura. She is always playing a game, and it is such a small game that she plays. And she contributes so little to society that she is not witty nor well-informed, not even sufficiently ignorant or ridiculous to be a laughing-stock. One gets nothing from her, and yet she has made her footing good in the world. I thought she was a friend of yours. You did not think so. You could not have thought so. How can you bring such an accusation against me, name as you do? But never mind, Mrs. Bonteen, now. On what day shall you speak? On Tuesday, if I can. I suppose you can arrange it. I shall endeavour to do so as far as any arrangement can go. We shall carry the second reading," said Lady Laura. Yes, said Phineas, I think we shall. But by the votes of men who are determined so to pull the bill to pieces and committee, that his own parents will not know it. I doubt whether Mr. Maldmayer will have the temper to stand it. They tell me that Mr. Maldmayer will abandon the custody of the bill to Mr. Gresham after his first speech. I don't know that Mr. Gresham's temper is more enduring than Mr. Maldmayer's," said Phineas. Well, we shall see. My own impression is that nothing would save the country so effectually at the present moment as the removal of Mr. Turnbull to a higher and better sphere. Let us say the House of Lords," said Phineas. God forbid, said Lady Laura. Phineas sat there for half an hour and then got up to go, having spoken no word on any other subject than that of politics. He longed to ask after Violet. He longed to make some inquire respecting Lord Chilton, and to tell the truth, he felt painfully curious to hear Lady Laura say something about her own herself. He could not but remember what had been said between them up over the waterfall and how he had been warned not to return to Loch Linter. And then again did Lady Laura know anything of what had passed between him and Violet? Where is your brother?" he said as he rose from his chair. Oswald is in London. He was here not an hour before you came in. Where is he staying? At Marenes. He goes down on Tuesday, I think, to see his father tomorrow morning. By agreement? Oh, yes, by agreement. There is a new trouble about money that they think to be due to me. But I cannot tell you all now. There have been some words between Mr. Kennedy and Papa, but I won't talk about it. You would find Oswald up Marenes at any hour before eleven tomorrow? Did he say anything about me? Ask Phineas. We mentioned your name, certainly. I do not ask from vanity, but I want to know whether he is angry with me. Angry with you? Not at the least. I'll tell you just what he said. He said you should not wish to live even with you, but that he would soon have tried with you than with any man he ever knew. He had got a letter from me. He did not say so, but he did not say he had not. I will see him to-morrow, if I can. And then Phineas prepared to go. One word, Mr. Phine, said Lady Laura, hardly looking him in the face, and yet making an effort to do so. I wish you to forget what I said to you at Loch Linter. It shall be as though it were forgotten, said Phineas. Let it be absolutely forgotten. In such a case a man is bound to do all that a woman asks him, and no man has a truer spirit of chivalry than yourself. That is all. Look him when you can. I will not ask you to dine here as yet, because we are so frightfully dull. Do your best on Tuesday, and let us see you on Wednesday. Goodbye. Phineas, as he walked across the park towards his club, made up his mind that he would forget the scene by the waterfall. He had never quite known what it had meant, and he would wipe it away from his mind altogether. He acknowledged to himself that chivalry did demand of him that he should never allow himself to think of Lady Laura's rash words to him. That she was not happy with her husband was very clear to him. But that was altogether another affair. She might be unhappy with her husband without indulging any guilty love. He had never thought it possible that she could be happy living with such a husband as Mr. Kennedy. All that, however, was now a past remedy, and she must simply endure the mode of life which she had prepared for herself. There were other men and women in London tied together for better and worse, in reference to whose union their friends knew that there would be no better, that it must all be worse. Lady Laura must bear it, as it was borne by many another married woman. On the Monday morning Phineas called at Moreny's Hotel at ten o'clock, but in spite of Lady Laura's assurance to the contrary, he found that Lord Chilton was out. He had felt some palpitation at the heart as he made his inquiry, knowing well the fiery nature of the man he expected to see. It might be that there would be some actual personal conflict between him and this half-mad Lord, for he got back again into the street. What Lady Laura had said about her brother did not, in the estimation of Phineas, make this at all the least probable. The half-mad Lord was so single in his ways that it might well be that he should speak handsomely of a rival behind his back, and yet take him by the throat as soon as they were together face to face. And yet, as Phineas thought, it was necessary that he should see the half-mad Lord. He had written a letter to which he had received no reply, and he considered it to be incumbent on him to ask whether it had been received and whether any answer to it was intended to be given. He went, therefore, to Lord Chilton at once, and I have said, with some feeling at his heart, that there might be violence at any rate of words before he should find himself again in the street. But Lord Chilton was not there. All that the porter knew was that Lord Chilton intended to leave the house on the following morning. Then Phineas wrote a note and left it with the porter. Dear Chilton, I particularly wanted to see you with reference to a letter I wrote to you last summer. I must be in the house to-day from four till the debate is over. You'll be at the Reform Club from two till her past three, and we'll come if you will send for me, or I'll meet you anywhere at any hour tomorrow morning. Yours always, P. F. No message came to him at the Reform Club, and he was in his seat in the house by four o'clock. During the debate, a note was brought to him which round as follows. I've got your letter at this moment. Of course we must meet. I hunt on Tuesday and go down by the early train, but I'll come to town on Wednesday, which are required to be private, and I will therefore be at your rooms at one o'clock on that day. See, Phineas at once perceived that the note was a hostile note written in an angry spirit, written to one whom the writer did not at the moment acknowledge to be his friend. This was certainly the case whatever Lord Chilton may have said to his sister as to his friendship before Phineas. Phineas crossed the note into his pocket and, of course, determined that he would be in his rooms at the hour named. The debate was opened by a speech from Mr. Malmay in which that gentleman at great length and with much perspecurity explained his notion of that measure of parliamentary reform which he thought to be necessary. He was listened to with the greatest attention to the close, and perhaps at the end of his speech with more attention than usual, as they had gone abroad a rumour that the Prime Minister intended to declare that this would be the last effort of his life in that course. But if he ever intended to utter such a pledge, his heart misgave him when the time came for uttering it. He merely said that as the management of the building committee would be in a fair of much labour and probably sped over many nights, he would be assisted in his work by his colleagues and especially by his right honourable friend, the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. It was then understood that Mr. Gresham would take the lead should the bill go into committee. But it was understood also that no resignation of leadership had been made by Mr. Malmay. The measure now proposed to the House was very much the same as that which had been brought forward in the last session. The existing theory of British representation was not to be changed, but the actual practice was to be brought nearer to the ideal theory. The ideas of manhood suffrage and of electoral districts were to be as for ever removed from the bulwarks of the British constitution. There were to be counties with agricultural constituencies purposely arranged to be purely agricultural whenever the nature of the counties would a bit of its being so. No artist at reform, let him be conservative or liberal, can make Middlesex or Lancashire agricultural, but Wiltshire and Suffolk were to be preserved inviolable to the plow, and the apples of Dermondshire were still to have their sway. Every town in the three kingdoms with a certain population was to have two members. But here there was much room for cavill, as all near new would be the case. Who shall say what is a town or where shall be its limits? Bits of counties might be borrowed so as to lessen the conservatism of the county without endangering the liberalism of the borough, and then there were the boroughs with one member, and then the groups of little boroughs. In the discussion of any such arrangement, how easy is the picking of hulls, how impossible the fabrication of a garment that shall be impervious to such picking? Then again there was that great question of the ballot. On that, there was to be no mistake, Mr. Maubare again pledged himself to disappear from the treasury bench should any motion, clause, or resolution be carried by that house in favour of the ballot. He spoke for three hours, and then left the carcass of his bill to be fought for by the opposing armies. No reader of these pages will desire that the speeches in the debate should be even indicated. It soon became known that the Conservatives would not divide the house against the second reading of the bill. They declared, however, very plainly their intention of so altering the clauses of the bill in committee, or at least of attempting so to do, as to make the bill their bill rather than the bill of their opponents. To this Mr. Palliser replied that as long as nothing vital was touched the government would only be too happy to oblige their friends opposite. If anything vital were touched the government could only fall back upon their friends on that side. And in this way men were very civil to each other. But Mr. Turnbull, who opened the debate on the Tuesday, thundered out an assurance to gods and men that he would divide the house on the second reading of the bill itself. He did not doubt, but there were many good men and true to go with him into the lobby, but into the lobby he would go if he had no more than a single friend to support him. He warned the sovereign, and he warned the house, and he warned the people of England that the measure of reform now proposed by a so-called liberal minister was a measure prepared in concert with the ancient enemies of the people. He was very loud, very angry, and quite successful in hallowing down sundry attempts which were made to interrupt him. I find, he said, that there are many members here who do not know me yet, young members probably, who are green from the wastelands of private life. They will know me soon, and then maybe, there will be less of this foolish noise, less of this elongation of unnecessary necks. Our Rome must be aroused to a sense of its danger by other voices than these. He was called to order, but he was ruled that it had not been out of order, and he was very triumphant. Mr. Monk answered him, and it was declared afterward that Mr. Monk's speech was one of the finest pieces of poetry that had ever been uttered in that house. He made one remark personal to Mr. Turnbull. I quite agree with the right honourable gentleman in the chair, he said, when he declared that the honourable member was not out of order just now. We all of us agree with him always on such points. The rules of our house have been laid down with the utmost latitude, so that the course of our debates may not be frivolously or too easily interrupted. But a member may do so in order as to incur the displeasure of the house and to merit the reproaches of his countrymen. This little duel gave great life to the debate, but it was said that those two great reformers, Mr. Turnbull and Mr. Monk, could never again meet as friends. In the course of the debate on Tuesday, Phineas got upon his legs. The reader, I trust, will remember that hitherto he had failed altogether as a speaker. On one occasion he lacked even the spirit to use and deliver an oration which he had prepared. On the second occasion he broken down, woefully and past all redemption, has said those who were not his friends. Unfortunately, but not past redemption, has said those who were his true friends. After that, once again, he had arisen and said a few words which were called for no remark, and had been spoken as though he were in the habit of addressing the house daily. It may be doubted whether there were half a dozen men present now who recognized the fact that this man, who was so well known to so many of them, was now about to make another attempt at a first speech. Phineas himself did initially attempt it to forget that such was the case. He prepared for himself a few headings of what he intended to say, and on one or two points had arranged his words. His hope was that even though he should forget the words, he might still be able to cling to the thread of his discourse. When he found himself again upon his legs amidst these crowded seats, for a few moments there came upon him that old sensation of awe. Again things grew dim before his eyes, and again he hardly knew at which end of that long chamber the speaker was sitting. But there arose within him a sudden courage. As soon as the sound of his own voice in that room had made itself intimate to his ear, and after the first few sentences all fear, all awe, was gone from him. When he read his speech in the report afterwards he found that he'd strayed very wide of his intended course, but he'd strayed without tumbling into ditches or falling into sunken pits. He had spoken much from Mr. Monk's letter, but had had the grace to acknowledge whence had come his inspiration. He hardly knew, however, whether he had failed again or not till Barrington Earl came up to him as they were leaving the house with his old, easy pressing manner. So you've got into form at last, he said. I always thought that it would come. I never for a moment believed that it would come sooner or later. Phineas Finn answered not a word. But he wade home and lair-wake all night, triumphant. The verdict of Barrington Earl sufficed to assure him that he had succeeded. End of Chapter 36 Recording by Simon Evers Chapter 37 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 Simon Evers Phineas Finn by Anthony Trollop Chapter 37 Rough Encounter Phineas, when he woke, had two matters to occupy his mind. His success of the previous night and his coming interview with Lord Chilton. He stayed at home the whole morning, knowing that nothing could be done before the hour Lord Chilton had named for his visit. He read every word of the debate studiously postponing the perusal of his own speech till he should come to it in due order. And then he wrote to his father, commencing his letter as though his writing had no reference to the affairs of the previous night. But he soon found himself compelled to break into some mention of it. I sent you at times, he said, in order that you may see that I have had my finger in the pie. I have hitherto abstained from putting myself forward in the house, partly through a base fear of which I despise myself, and partly through a feeling of prudence that a man of my age should not be in a hurry to gather laurels. This is literally true. There has been the fear, and there has been the prudence. My wonder is that I have not incurred more contempt from others because I have been a coward. People have been so kind to me that I must suppose them to have judged me more leniently than I have judged myself. Then, as he was putting up the paper, he looked again at his own speech and of course read every word of it once more. As he did so, it occurred to him that the reporters had been more than courteous to him. The man who had followed with him had been, he thought, at any rate the reporters himself put to this orator less than half a column had been granted. To him had been granted ten lines in big type, and after that a whole column and a half. Let Lord children come and do his worst. When it wanted but twenty minutes to one, and he was beginning to think in what way he had better answer the half mad Lord, should the Lord in his wrath be very mad, they came to him a note by the hand of some messenger. He knew at once that it was from Lady Laura, and opened it in hot haste. It was as follows. Dear Mr. Finn, we are all talking about your speech. My father was in the gallery and heard it and said that he had to thank me for sending you to Lowton. That made me very happy. Mr. Kennedy declares that you were eloquent, but too short. That coming from him is praise indeed. I have seen Barrington who takes pride to himself that you are his political child. Violet says that it is the only speech she ever read. I was there and was delighted. I was sure that it was in you to do it. Yours, L. K. I suppose we shall see you after the house is up, but I write this as I shall barely have an opportunity of speaking to you then. I shall be in Portman Square, not at home, from six till seven. The moment in which Finnis refolded this note and put it into his breastcoat pocket was, I think, the happiest of his life. Then before he had withdrawn his hand from his breast, he remembered that what was now about to take place between him and Lord Chilton were probably the means of separating him altogether from Lady Laura and her family. Nay! Might it not render it necessary that he should abandon the seat in Parliament which had been conferred upon him by the personal kindness of Lord Brentford? Let that be as it might. One thing was clear to him. He would not abandon Violet Effingham till he should be desired to do so in the plainest language by Violet Effingham herself. Looking at his watch he saw that it was one o'clock and at that moment Lord Chilton was announced. Finnis went forward immediately with his hand out to meet his visitor. Chilton, he said, I am very glad to see you. But Lord Chilton did not take his hand. Passing on to the table with his hat still on his head and with a dark scowl upon his brow the young Lord stood for a few moments perfectly silent. Then he chucked a letter across the table to the spot at which Finnis was standing. Finnis, taking up the letter, perceived that it was that which he in his great attempt to be honest had written from the inn at Loudon. It is my own letter to you, he said. Yes, it is your letter to me. I received it oddly enough together with your own note at Moroni's on Monday morning. It has been round the world, I suppose, and reached me only then. Withdraw it? Yes, sir, withdraw it. As far as I can learn without asking any question which would have committed myself or the young lady you have not acted upon it. You have not yet done what you were there threatened to do. In that you would be very wise and there can be no difficulty in your withdrawing the letter. I certainly shall not withdraw it, Lord Chilton. Do you remember what I once said to him? This question he asked very slowly, pausing between the words and looking full into the face of his rival towards whom he had gradually come nearer. And his countenance, as he did so, was by no means pleasant. The redness of his complexion had become more ruddy than usual. He still wore his hat as though with studded insolence his right hand was clenched and there was that look of angry purpose in his eye which no man likes to see in the eye Phineas was afraid of no violence personal to himself, but he was afraid of what I may perhaps call a row. To be tumbling over the chairs and tables with his late friend and present enemy in Mrs Bunce's room would be most unpleasant to him. If there were to be blows he too must strike. And he was very averse to strike Lady Laura's brother, Lord Brentford's son, Violet Effingham's friend. If need be, however, he would strike. I suppose I remember what you mean," said Phineas. I think you declared that you would quarrel with any man who might presume to address Miss Effingham. Is it that to which you allude? It is that," said Lord Chiltern. I remember what you said very well. If nothing else was to deter me from asking Miss Effingham to be my wife you will hardly think that that ought to have any weight. The threat had no weight. It was not spoken as a threat, sir, it was said from a friend to a friend as I thought then. But it is not the less true. I wonder what you can think of faith and truth and honesty of purpose when you took advantage of my absence. You whom I had told a thousand times that I loved her better than my own soul. You stand before the world as a rising man and I stand before the world as a man damned. You have been chosen by my father to sit for our family borough while I am an outcast from his house. You are friends while I have hardly a decent associate left to me in the world. But I can say of myself that I have never done anything unworthy of a gentleman while this thing that you are doing is unworthy of the lowest man. I have done nothing unworthy," said Phineas. I wrote to you instantly when I had resolved there was pain for me to have to tell such a secret to any one. You wrote, yes, when I was miles distant, weeks months away. I did not come here to bully rag like an old woman. I got your letter only on Monday and know nothing of what had occurred. Is Miss Effingham to be your wife? Lord Chilton had now come quite close to Phineas and Phineas felt that that clenched fist might be in his face in half a moment. Miss Effingham, of course, was not engaged to him, but it seemed to him that if he were now so to declare such declaration would appear to have been drawn from him by fear. Said Lord Chilton, in what position you now stand towards Miss Effingham if you are not a coward you will tell me. Whether I tell you or not you know that I am not a coward," said Phineas. I shall have to try, said Lord Philchilton, but if you please I will ask you for an answer to my question. Phineas paused for a moment thinking what honesty of purpose and a high spirit would when combined together demand of him, and together with these requirements he felt that he was bound to join some feeling of duty towards Miss Effingham. Lord Chilton was standing there fiery red with his hand still clenched and his hat still on waiting for his answer. Let me have your question again, said Phineas, and I will answer it if I find that I can do so without loss of self-respect. I ask you in what position you stand towards Miss Effingham. Mind, I do not doubt at all but I choose to have a reply from yourself. You will remember, of course, your only answer to the best of my belief. Answer to the best of your belief. I think she regards me as an intimate friend. Had you said as an indifferent acquaintance you would, I think, have been nearer the mark but we will let that be. I presume I may understand that you have given up any idea of changing that position? You may understand nothing of the kind, Lord Chilton. Why, what hope have you? That is another thing. I shall not speak at any rate not to you. Then, sir, and now, Lord Chilton advanced another step and raised his hand as though he were about to put it with some form of violence on the person of his rival. Stop, Chilton, said Phineas, stepping back so that there was some article of furniture between him and his adversary. I do not choose that there should be a riot here. What do you call a riot, sir? I believe that after all you are a paltrune. What I require of you is that you shall meet me. Would you do that? You mean to fight? Yes, to fight, to fight, to fight! For what other purpose do you suppose that I can wish to meet you? Phineas felt at the moment that the fighting of a duel would be destructive to all his political hopes. Few Englishmen fight duels in these days. They who do so always reckoned to be fools and a duel between him and Lord Brentford's son must, as he thought, separate him from Violet, from Lady Laura, from Lord Brentford but yet how could he refuse? What have you to think of, sir, when such an offer as that is made to you? said the fiery red lord. I have to think whether I have courage enough to refuse to make myself an ass. You say that you do not wish to have a riot. That is your way to escape what you call a riot. You want to bully me, Chilton? No, sir. I simply want this, that you should leave me where you found me and not interfere with that which you have long known I claim as my own. But it is not your own. Then you can only fight me. You had better send some friend to me and I will name someone whom we shall meet. Of course I will do that if I have your promise to meet me. You can be in Belgium in an hour or two and back again in a few more hours. That is any one of us who made chance to be alive. I will select a friend and will tell him everything and will then do as he bids me. Yes, some old steady-going buffer. Mr. Kennedy, perhaps. It will certainly not be Mr. Kennedy. I shall probably ask Lawrence Fitzgibbon to manage for me in such an affair. Perhaps you will see him at once then so that Culpeper may arrange with him this afternoon. And let me assure you, Mr. Finn, that there will be a meeting between us after some fashion. Let the ideas of your friend Mr. Fitzgibbon be what they may. Then Lord Chilton purposed to go but turned again as he was going. And remember this, he said, my complaint is that you have been false to me. Damnedly false. Not you who have fallen in love with this young lady or with that. Then the fiery red lord opened the door for himself and took his departure. Phineas, as soon as he was alone, walked down to the house at which there was an early sitting. As he went there was one great question which he had to settle with himself. Was there any justice in the charge made against him that he had been forced to his friend? When he had thought over the matter at Salisbury, after rushing down there that he might throw himself at Violet's feet, he had assured himself that such a letter as that which he resolved to write to Lord Chilton would be even chivalrous in its absolute honesty. He would tell his purpose to Lord Chilton the moment that his purpose was formed and would afterwards speak of Lord Chilton behind his back as one dear friend should speak of another. Had Miss Effingham shown the slightest intention of accepting Lord Chilton's offer he would have acknowledged to himself that the circumstances of his position made it impossible that he should, with honour, become his friend's rival. But was he to be debarred forever from getting that which he wanted because Lord Chilton wanted it also? Knowing as he did so well that Lord Chilton could not get the thing which he wanted. All this had been quite sufficient for him at Salisbury. But now the charge against him that he had been forced to his friend for years and made him unhappy. It certainly was true that Lord Chilton had not given up his hopes and that he had spoken probably more openly to Phineas respecting them than that he had done to any other human being. If it was true that he had been forced then he must comply with any requisition which Lord Chilton might make short of voluntarily giving up the lady. He might fight if he were asked to do so even though fighting were his ruin. When again in the house yesterday's scene came back upon him and more than one man came to him congratulating him. Mr. Monk took his hand and spoke a word to him. The old Premier nodded to him. Mr. Gresham greeted him and Plantagenet Palisar openly told him that he made a good speech. How sweet would all this have been had there not been ever at his heart the remembrance of his terrible difficulty the consciousness that he was about to be forced into an absurdity which would put an end to all this sweetness. Why was the world in England so severe against dueling? After all, as he regarded the matter now, a duel might be the best way, nay, the only way out of a difficulty. If he might only be allowed to go out with Lord Chilton the whole thing might be arranged. If he were not shot he might carry on his suit with Miss Effingham unfettered by any impediment on that side. And if he were shot what matter was that to anyone but himself? Why should the world be so thin-skinned so foolishly cherry of human life? Lawrence Fitzgibbon did not come to the house and Phineas looked for him at both the clubs which he frequented leaving a note at each as he did not find him. He also left a note for him at his lodgings in Duke Street. I must see you this evening, I shall dine at the reformed club, pray come there. After that Phineas went up to Portman Square in accordance with the instructions received from Lady Laura. There he saw Violet Effingham meeting her for the first time since he had parted from her on the great steps at Salisbury. Of course he spoke to her and of course she was gracious to him. But her graciousness was only a smile and his speech was only a word. There were many in the room but not enough to make privacy possible as it becomes possible to a crowded evening meeting. Lord Bredfoot was there and then the Bonteens and Barrington Earl and Lady Glencora Palliser and Lord Cantrip with his young wife he was manifestly a meeting of liberals, semi-social and semi-political. So arranged that ladies might feel that some interest in politics was allowed to them and perhaps some influence also. Afterwards Mr. Palliser himself came in. Phineas however was most struck by finding that Lawrence Fitzgibbon was there and that Mr. Kennedy was not. In regard to Mr. Kennedy he was quite sure that had such a meeting taken place at Lady Laura's marriage Mr. Kennedy would have been a pleasant. I must speak to you as we go away said Phineas whispering a word into Fitzgibbon's ear. I've been leaving note of you all about the town. Not a duel, I hope said Fitzgibbon. How pleasant it was that meeting would have been had there not been that nightmare on his breast. They all talked as though between them and perfect confidence. There were there great men, cabinet ministers and beautiful women, the wives and daughters of some of England's highest nobles and Phineas Phine throwing back none again a force to kill a low find himself among them as one of themselves. How could any Mr. Low say that he was wrong? Honest say for near to him said that he could almost touch her foot with his, and as he leaned over from his chair discussing some point to him Mr. Malmay's bill with that most inveterate politician Lady Cancora Valet looked into his face and smiled. Oh heavens! If Lord Chilton and he might only toss up as to which of them would should go to Patagonia and remain there for the next ten years and which would have Valet effing him for a wife in London. Come along Phineas, if you need to come. said Lawrence Fitzgibbon. Phineas was of course bound to go. The Lady Cancora was still talking radicalism and Valet effing him was still smiling ineffably. End of Chapter 37 Recording by Simon Evers Chapter 38 of Phineas Phine 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 Phine by Anthony Trollup Chapter 38 The Duel I knew it was a duel, by dad I did said Lawrence Fitzgibbon Phineas had half told his story. I was sure from the tone of your voice, my boy. We must at least come off that's all because we can help it. Then Phineas was allowed to proceed and finish his story. I don't see any way out of it. I don't indeed said Lawrence. By this time, Phineas had come to think genius had come to think that the duel was, in very truth, the best way out of the difficulty. It was a bad way out, but then it was away, and he could not see any other. "'As for ill-treating him, that's nonsense,' said Lawrence. "'What are the girls to do if one fellow may not come on as soon as another fellow is down?' "'But then, you see, a fellow never knows when he's down himself, and therefore he thinks that he's ill-used.' "'I'll tell you what now. I shouldn't wonder if we couldn't do it on the sly, unless one of you is stupid enough to hit the other in an awkward place. If you are certain of your hand now, the right shoulder is the best spot.' Phineas felt very certain that he would not hit Lord Chiltern in an awkward place, although he was by no means sure of his hand. Let come what might, he would not aim at his adversary. But of this he had thought it proper to say nothing to Lawrence Fitzgibbon. And the duel did come off on the sly. The meeting in the drawing-room-importment square of which mention was made in the last chapter, took place on a Wednesday afternoon. On the Thursday, Friday, Monday and Tuesday following, the great debate on Mr. Malmayer's bill was continued, and at three on the Tuesday night the house divided. There was a majority in favour of the ministers, not large enough to permit them to claim a triumph for their party, or even an ovation for themselves, but still sufficient to enable them to send their bill into committee. Mr. D'Orbany and Mr. Turnbull had again joined their forces together in opposition to the ministerial measure. On the Thursday Phineas had shown himself in the house, but during the remainder of this interesting period he was absent from his place, nor was he seen at the clubs, nor did any man know of his whereabouts. I think that Lady Laura Kennedy was the first to miss him with any real sense of his absence. She would now go to Portman Square on the afternoon of every Sunday, at which time her husband was attending the second service of his church, and there she would receive those whom she called father's guests. But as her father was never there on the Sundays, and as these gatherings had been created by herself, the reader would probably think that she was obeying her husband's behests in regard to the Sabbath after a very indifferent fashion. The reader may be quite sure, however, that Mr. Kennedy knew well what was being done in Portman Square, whatever might be Lady Laura's faults, she did not commit the fault of disobeying her husband in secret. There were probably a few words on the subject, but we need not go very closely into that matter at the present moment. On the Sunday which afforded some rest in the middle of the great reform debate Lady Laura asked for Mr. Phine, and no one could answer her question. And then it was remembered that Lawrence Fitzgibbon was also absent. Barrington Earl knew nothing of Phineas, had heard nothing, but was able to say that Fitzgibbon had been with Mr. Rattler, the patronage secretary and liberal wib, early on Thursday, expressing his intention of absenting himself for two days. Mr. Rattler had been wroth, bidding him remain at his duty, and pointing out to him the great importance of the moment. Then Barrington Earl quoted Lawrence Fitzgibbon's reply. "'My boy,' said Lawrence to poor Rattler, the path of duty leads but to the grave. "'All the same. I'll be in at the death, Rattler, my boy, as short as our son's in heaven.' Not ten minutes after the turning of this little story, Fitzgibbon entered the room in Portman Square, and Lady Laura at once asked him after Phineas. "'But, Dad, Lady Laura, I've been out of time myself for two days, and I know nothing.' "'Mr. Phine has not been with you, then?' "'With me? No, not with me. I had a job of business on my own, which took me over to Paris, and as Phiney fled to—poor Rattler—I shouldn't wonder if it isn't an asylum he's in before the session is over.' Lawrence Fitzgibbon certainly possessed the rare accomplishment of telling a lie with a good grace. At any man called him a liar, he would have considered himself to be not only insulted, but injured also. He believed himself to be a man of truth. There were, however, in his estimation, certain subjects on which a man might depart as wide as the poles or asunder from truth, without subjecting himself to any ignominy for falsehood. Indeeding with a tradesman as to his debts, or with a rival as to a lady, or with any man or woman in defence of a lady's character, or in any such matter as that of a duel, Lawrence believed that a gentleman was bound to lie, and that he would be no gentleman if he hesitated to do so. But the slightest prick of conscience disturbed him when he told Lady Laura that he'd been in Paris, and that he knew nothing of Phiney's Finn. But in truth, during the last day or two he had been in Flanders and not in Paris, and had stood as second with his friend Phiney's on the sands at Blankenburg, a little fishing-town some twelve miles distant from Bruges, and had left his friend since that at a hotel at Hostend, with a wound just under the shoulder from which a bullet had been extracted. The man of the meeting had been in this wise. Captain Culpepper and Lawrence Fix Gibbon had held their meeting, and at this meeting Lawrence had taken a certain standing-ground on a par-half of his friend and an obedience to his friend's positive instruction, which was this—that his friend could not abandon his right of addressing the young lady should he hereafter ever think fit to do so. Let that be granted, and Lawrence would do anything. But then that could not be granted, and Lawrence could only shrug his shoulders. Nor would Lawrence admit that his friend had been false. The question lies in a nutshell, said Lawrence, with that sweet conult brogue which always came to him when he desired to be effective. Here it is. One gentleman tells another that he is sweet upon a young lady, but that the young lady has refused him, and always will refuse him for ever and ever. That's the truth anyhow. Is the second gentleman bound by that not to address the young lady? I say he is not bound. It's a damned hard treatment, Captain Colpepper, for every man's mouth, and all the ardent affections of his heart were put to be stopped in that manner. By Jesus, I don't know who'd like to be the friend of any man if that's to be the way of it. Captain Colpepper was not very good at an argument. I think they'd better see each other, said Colpepper, pulling his thick grey moustache. If you choose to have it so, so be it, but I think it's the hardest thing in the world. I do indeed. Then they put their heads together in the most friendly way. And declared that the affair should, if possible, be kept private. On the Thursday night, Lord Chilton and Captain Colpepper went over by Calais and Lille to Bruges. Lawrence Fitzgibbon, with his friend Dr. O'Shaughnessy, crossed by the direct boat from Dover to Ostend. Phineas went to Ostend by Dover and Calais, but he took the day-route on Friday. It had all been arranged among them, so that there might be no suspicion as to the job in hand. Even O'Shaughnessy and Lawrence Fitzgibbon had left London by separate trains. They met on the sands at Blankenburg about nine o'clock on the Saturday morning, having reached that village in different vehicles from Ostend and Bruges, and have met quite unobserved amidst the sand heaps. But one shot had been exchanged, and Phineas had been wounded in the right shoulder. He had proposed to exchange another shot with his left hand, declaring his capability of shooting quite as well with the left as with the right. But to this both Kilkullpepper and Fitzgibbon had objected. Lord Chilton had offered to shake hands with his late friend in a true spirit of friendship, if only his late friend would say that he did not intend to prosecute his suit with the young lady. In all these disputes the young lady's name was never mentioned. Phineas indeed had not once named Violet to Fitzgibbon, speaking her always as the lady in question. And though Lawrence correctly surmised the identity of the young lady, he never hinted that he'd even guessed her name. I doubt whether Lord Chilton had been so wary when alone with Captain Kilkullpepper, but then Lord Chilton was, when he spoke at all, a very plain spoken man. Of course his lordship's late friend Phineas would give no such pledge, and therefore Lord Chilton moved off the ground and back to Blankenburg and Bruges and into Brussels in still living enmity with our hero. Lawrence and the doctor took Phineas back to Ostend, and though the bullet was then in his shoulder, Phineas made his way through Blankenburg after such a fashion that no one there knew what had occurred. Not a living soul, except the five concerned, was at that time aware that a duel had been fought among the Sandhills. Lawrence Fitzgibbon made his way to Dover by the Saturday night's boat, and was able to show himself in Portmouth Square on the Sunday. Know anything about Phineas Phineas? he said afterwards to Barrington Earle in answer to an inquiry from that anxious gentleman. Not a word, I think you'd better send the town crier round after him. Barrington, however, did not feel quite so well assured of Fitzgibbon's truth as Lady Laura had done. Dr. O'Shaughnessy remained during the Sunday Monday at Ostend with his patient, and the people at the inn only knew that Mr. Phine had sprained his shoulder badly, and on the Tuesday they came back to London again by Calais and Dover. No bone had been broken, and Phineas, though his shoulder was very painful, bore the journey well. O'Shaughnessy had received a telegram on the Monday, telling him that the division would certainly take place on the Tuesday, and on the Tuesday at about ten in the evening Phineas went down to the house. By God, you're here! said Rattler, taking hold of him with an affection that was too warm. Yes, I'm here! said Phineas, wincing in agony, but be a little careful. There's a good fellow. I've been down to Kent and put my arm out. Put your arm out, have you? said Rattler, observing the sling for the first time. I'm sorry for that, but you'll stop and vote. Yes, I'll stop and vote. I've come for the purpose. But I hope it won't be very late. There are both Dormney and Gresham to speak yet, and at least three others. I don't suppose it'll be much before three. But you're all right now. You can go down and smoke if you like. In this way Phineas Finn spoke in the debate and heard the end of it, voting for his party, and fought his duel with Lord Chilton in the middle of it. He did go and sit on a well-cushioned bench in the smoking-room, and then was interrogated by many of his friends as to his mysterious absence. He had, he said, been down in Kent and had had an accident with his arm by which he'd been confined. When this questioner and that perceived that there was some little mystery in the matter, the questioners did not push their questions, but simply entertained their own surmises. One indiscreet questioner, however, did trouble Phineas Soley, declaring that there must have been some affair in which a woman had had a part, and asking after the young lady of Kent. This indiscreet questioner was Lawrence Fitzgibbon, who, as Phineas thought, carried his spirit of intrigue a little too far. Phineas stayed and voted, and then he went painfully home to his lodgings. How singular would it be if this affair of the duel should pass away, and no one be a bit the wiser but those four men who had been with him on the sands of Blankenburg? Again he wandered at his own luck. He had told himself that a duel with Lord Chiltern must create a quarrel between him and Lord Chiltern's relations, and also between him and Violet Effingham, that it must banish him from his comfortable seat for lightning, and ruin him in regard to his political prospects. And now he had fought his duel, and was back in town, and the things seemed to have been a thing of nothing. He had not as yet seen Lady Laura or Violet, but he had no doubt that they both were as much in the dark as other people. The day might arrive, he thought, on which it would be pleasant for him to tell Violet Effingham what had occurred, but that day had not come as yet. With the Lord Chiltern had gone, or what Lord Chiltern intended to do, he had not any idea, but he imagined that he should soon hear something of her brother from Lady Laura. That Lord Chiltern should say a word to Lady Laura of what had occurred, or to any other person in the world, he did not in the least suspect. There could be no man more likely to be reticent in such matters than Lord Chiltern, or more gushore to be guided by an almost exaggerated sense of what honour required of him. Nor did he doubt the discretion of his friend Fitzgibbon. Even his friend might not damage the secret by being too discreet. Of the silence of the doctor and the captain, he was by no means equally sure, but even though they should gossip, the gossiping would take so long a time in oozing out and becoming recognised information, and to have lost much of its power for injuring him. Were Lady Laura to hear at this moment that he had been over to Belgium, and afford a duel with Lord Chiltern respecting Violet, she would probably feel herself obliged to quarrel with him. But no such obligation would rest on her, if in the course of six or nine months she should gradually have become aware that such an account had taken place. Lord Chiltern, during their interview at the rooms in Great Marble Street, had said a word to him about the seat in parliament, had expressed some opinion that as he, Phineas Finn, was interfering with the views of the Standish family in regard to Miss Effingham, he ought not to keep the Standish seat, which had been conferred upon him in ignorance of any such intended interference. Phineas, as you thought of this, could not remember Lord Chiltern's words, but there was present to him an idea that such have been their purport. Was he bound, in circumstances as they now existed, to give up Lighton? He met up his mind that he was not so bound, unless Lord Chiltern should demand from him that he should do so. But nevertheless he was uneasy in his position. It was quite true that the seat now was his for this session by all parliamentary law, even though the electors themselves might wish to be rid of him, and that Lord Brentford could not even open his mouth upon the matter in a tone more loud than that of a whisper. But Phineas, feeling that he had consented to accept the favour of a corrupt seat from Lord Brentford, felt also that he was bound to give up the spoil if it were demanded from him. If it were demanded from him, either by the father or the son, it should be given up at once. On the following morning he found a leading article in the People's Banner devoted solely to himself. During the last debate, so rang on a passage in the leading article, Mr Phine, Lord Brentford's Irish nominee for his pocket-burrow at Lighton, did at last manage to stand on his legs and open his mouth. If we are not mistaken, this is Mr Phine's third session in Parliament, and hitherto he has been unable to articulate three sentences, though he has on more than one occasion made the attempt. For what special merit this young man has been selected for aristocratic patronage we do not know, but that there must be some merit recognisable by aristocratic eyes we surmise. Three years ago he was a raw young Irishman, living in London as Irishmen only know how to live, earning nothing, and apparently without means, and then suddenly he bursts out as a Member of Parliament and as the Friend of Cabinet Ministers. The possession of one good gift must be ceded to the Honourable Member for Lighton. He is a handsome young man, and looks to be as strong as a coal-porter. Can it be that his promotion has sprung from this? Be that as it may, we should like to know where he has been during his late mysterious absence from Parliament, and in what way he came by the wound in his arm. Even handsome young members of Parliament, fated by titled ladies and their rich lords, are amenable to the laws, to the laws of this country, and to the laws of any other which it may suit them to visit for a while. Infamous scoundrel! said Phineas to himself as he read this. Vile, low, disreptable, blaggard! It was clear enough, however, that Quintus's slide had found out something of his secret. If so, his only hope would rest on the fact that his friends were not likely to see the columns of the People's Banner. End of Chapter 38 Recording by Simon Evers Chapter 39 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 Anosimum Phineas Finn by Anthony Trollop Chapter 39 Lady Laura is told By the time that Mr. Miltmay's great Bill was going into comity, Phineas was able to move about London in comfort, with his arm, however, still in a sling. There had been nothing more about him, and his wound in the People's Banner, and he was beginning to hope that that nuisance would also be allowed to die away. He had seen Lady Laura, having died in Grossner's place, or had been petted to his heart's content. His dinner had been cut up for him, and his wound had been treated with a tenderest sympathy. And, singular to say, no questions were asked. He had been to Kent and had come by an accident. No more than that was told, and his dear sympathizing friends were content to receive so much information and to ask for no more. But he had not as yet seen Violet Effingham, and he was beginning to think that these Romans about violent might as well be brought to a close. He had not, however, as he had been able to go into crowded rooms, and unless he went out to large parties, he could not be sure that he would meet Miss Effingham. At last he resolved that he would tell Lady Laura the whole truth. Not the truth about the duel, but the truth about Violet Effingham, and ask for her assistance. When making this resolution, I think that he must have forgotten much that he had learned of his friend's character, and by making it, I think that he showed also that he had not learned as much as his opportunities might have taught him. He knew Lady Laura's obstinacy of purpose, he knew her devotion to her brother, and he knew also how desirous she had been that her brother should win Violet Effingham for himself. This knowledge should, I think, have suffice to show him how improbable it was that Lady Laura should assist him in this enterprise. But beyond all this was the fact, a fact is to the consequences of which Phineas himself was entirely blind, beautifully ignorant, that Lady Laura had once condescended to love himself. Nay, she had gone farther than this, and had ventured to tell him, even after her marriage, that the remembrance of some feeling that had once dwelt in her heart in regard to him was still a danger to her. She had warned him from Lovelinter, and then had received him in London. And now he selected her as his confidant in this love affair? Had he not been beautifully ignorant and most modestly blind, he would surely have placed his confidence elsewhere. It was not that Lady Laura Kennedy ever confessed to herself the existence of a vicious passion. She had indeed learned to tell herself that she could not love her husband, and once, in the excitement of such silent announcements to herself, she had asked herself whether her heart was quite a blank, and had answered herself by desiring Phineas Finn to absent himself from Lovelinter. During all the subsequent winter she had scolched herself inwardly for her own imprudence, her quite unnecessary fully in so doing. What could not she, Laura Standish, who, from her earliest years of girlish womanhood, had resolved that she would use the world as men use it, and not as women do? Could not she have felt the slight shock of a passing tenderness for a handsome youth, without allowing the Finn to be a rock before her, big enough and sharp enough for the destruction of her entire bark? Could not she command, if not her heart, at any rate her mind, so that she might safely assure herself that whether this man or any man was here or there, her course would be unaltered? What, though Phineas Finn had been in the same house with her throughout all the winter, could not she have so lived with him on terms of friendship, that every deed and word and look of her friendship might have been open to her husband, or open to all the world? She could have done so. She told herself that that was not, need not have been her great calamity, whether she could endure the dull monotonous control of her slow but imperious Lord, or whether she must not rather tell him that it was not to be endured, that was her trouble. So she told herself, and again admitted Phineas to her intimacy in London. But nevertheless, Phineas, had he not been beautifully ignorant and most blind to his own achievements, would not have expected from Lady Laura Kennedy assistance with Miss Violent Effingham. Phineas knew when to find Lady Laura alone, and he came upon her one day at the favourable hour. The two first clauses of the bill had been passed after twenty fights and endless divisions. Two points had been settled, as to which, however, Mr. Gresham had been driven to give way so far and to yield so much, that man declared that such a bill as the Government could consent to call its own could never be passed by that Parliament in that session. Immediately, on his entrance into her room, Lady Laura began about the third clause. Would the house let Mr. Gresham have his way about the— Phineas stopped her at once. My dear friend, he said, I've come to you in a private trouble, and I want you to drop politics for half an hour. I've come to you for help. A private trouble, Mr. Phine, is it serious? It is very serious, but it is no trouble of the kind of which you are thinking, but it is serious enough to take up every thought. Can I help you? Indeed you can, whether you will or know is a different thing. I would help you in anything in my power, Mr. Phine. Do you not know it? You've been very kind to me, and so would Mr. Kennedy. Mr. Kennedy cannot help me here. What is it, Mr. Phine? I suppose I may as well tell you at once. In plain language, I do not know how to put my story into words that shall fit it. I love Violet Effingham. Will you help me to win her to be my wife? You love Violet Effingham, said Lady Laura, and as she spoke, the look of her countenance towards him was so changed that he became at once aware that from her no assistance might be expected. His eyes were not opened in any degree to the second reason above given for Lady Laura's opposition to his wishes, but he instantly perceived that she would still cling to that destination of Violet's hand, which had for years passed been the favourite scheme of her life. Have you not always known, Mr. Phine, what have been our hopes for Violet? Phineas, though he had perceived his mistake, felt that he must go on with his course. Lady Laura must know his wishes sooner or later, and it was as well that she should learn them in this way as in any other. Yes, but I've known also from your brother's own lips, and indeed from yours also, Lady Laura, that Chilton has been three times refused by Miss Effingham. What does that matter? Do men never ask more than three times? And must I be debarred forever while he prosecutes a hopeless suit? Yes, you of all men. Why so, Lady Laura? Because in this matter you've been his chosen friend, and mine. We have told you everything, trusting to you. We have believed in your honour. We have thought that with you at any rate, we were safe. These words were very bitter to finish, and yet when he had written his letter at Lafton, he had intended to be so perfectly honest, chilverously honest. Now Lady Laura spoke to him, and looked at him, as though it had been most basely false, most untrue to that noble friendship which had been lavished upon him by all her family. He felt that he would become the prey of her most injurious thoughts unless he could fully explain his ideas, and he felt also that the circumstances did not admit of his explaining them. He could not take up the argument on Violet's side, and show how unfair it would be to her that she should be debarred from the homage due to her by any man who really loved her, because Lord Chilton chose the thing that he still had a claim, or at any rate a chance, and Phineus knew well of himself, or thought that he knew well, that he would not have interfered had there been any chance for Lord Chilton. Lord Chilton had himself told him more than once that there was no such chance. How was he to explain all this to Lady Laura? Mr. Phine, said Lady Laura, I can hardly believe this of you, even when you tell it me yourself. Listen to me, Lady Laura, for a moment. Suddenly I will listen, but that you should come to me for assistance. I cannot understand it. Men sometimes become harder than stones. I do not think that I am hard. Poor blind fool. He was still thinking only of violet, and of the accusation made against him that he was untrue to his friendship for Lord Chilton. Of that other accusation, which could not be expressed in open words, he understood nothing, nothing at all as yet. Heart and false, capable of receiving no impression beyond the outside husk of the heart. Oh, Lady Laura, do not say that, if you could only know how true I am in my affection for you all. And how do you show it, by coming in between Oswald and the only means that are open to us of reconciling him to his father, means that I have been explained to you exactly as though you have been one of ourselves? Oswald has treated you as a brother in a matter, telling you everything, and this is the way you would repay him for his confidence. Can I help it that I have learned to love this girl? Yes, sir, you can help it. What if she had been Oswald's wife? Would you have loved her then? Do you speak of loving a woman as if it were an affair of fate over which you have no control? I doubt whether your passions are so strong as that. You had better put aside your love for Miss Effingham. I feel assured that it will never hurt you. Then some remembrance of what had passed between him and Lady Laura Stannish near the falls of the linter when he first visited Scotland came across his mind. Believe me, she said with a smile. This little wound in your heart will soon be cured. He stood silent before her, looking away from her, thinking over it all. He certainly had believed himself to be violently in love with Lady Laura, and yet when he had just now entered her drawing-room, he had almost forgotten that there had been such a passage in his life, and he had believed that she had forgotten it, even though she had counselled him not to come to love linter within the last nine months. He had been a boy then, and had not known himself, but now he was a man and was proud of the intensity of his love. They came upon him, they came upon him some passing drop of pain from his shoulder, reminding him of the duel, and he was proud also of that. He had been willing to risk everything, life, prospects, and position, sooner than abandoned the slight hope which was his of possessing Violet Effingham. And now he was told that his wound in his heart would soon be cured, and was told so by a woman to whom he had once sung a song of another passion. It is very hard to answer a woman in such circumstances, because her womanhood gives her so strong a ground of vantage. Lady Laura might venture to throw in his teeth the thickness of his heart, but he could not in reply tell her that to change a love was better than to marry without love, that to be capable of such a change showed no such inferiority of nature as in the capacity for such a marriage. She could hit him with her argument, but he could only remember his, and think how violent might be the blow he could inflict. If it were not that she were a woman and therefore guarded, you will not help me then, he said, when they had both been silent for a while. Help you, how should I help you? I wanted no other help than this, that I might have had an opportunity of meeting Violet here and of getting from her some answer. As the question then never been asked already, said Lady Laura, to this Phineas made no immediate reply. There was no reason why he should show his whole hand to an adversary. Why do you not go to Lady Baldock's house? continued Lady Laura. You are admitted there, you know Lady Baldock. Go and ask her to stand to her friend with her niece. See what she will say to you. As far as I understand these matters, that is the fair, honourable, open way in which gentlemen are want to make their overtures. I would make mine to none but to herself, said Phineas. Then why have you made it to me, sir? demanded Lady Laura. I have come to you as I would to my sister. He is sister? I am not your sister, Mr Phine. Nor were I so, should I fail to remember that I have a dearer brother to whom my faith is pledged. Look here, within the last three weeks Oswald has sacrificed everything to his father, because it was determined that Mr Kennedy should have the money which he thought was due to my husband. He has enabled my father to do what he will with Soulsby. Papa will never hurt him, I know that. Hard as Papa is with him, he will never hurt Oswald's future position. Papa is too proud to do that. Violet has hurt what Oswald has done, and now that he is nothing of his own to offer her for the future, but is bare title. Now that he is given Papa power to do what he will with the property, I believe that she would accept him instantly. That is her disposition. Phineas again paused a moment before he replied. Let him try, he said. He is away in Brussels. Sent to him. Bid him return. I will be patient, Lady Laura. Let him come and try, and I will bide my time. I confess that I have no right to interfere with him if there be a chance for him. If there's no chance, my right is as good as that of any other. There was something in this which made Lady Laura feel that she could not maintain her hostility against this man on behalf of her brother, and yet she could not force herself to be other than hostile to him. Her heart was sore, and it was he that had made it sore. She had lectured herself, schooling herself with mental sackcloth and ashes, rebuking herself with heaviest cendures from day to day, because she had found herself to be in danger of regarding this man with a perilous love, and she had been constant in this work of penance till she had been able to assure herself that the sackcloth and ashes had done their work and that the danger was past. I like him still, and love him well, she had said to herself with something almost of triumph. But I have ceased to think of him as one who might have been my lover. And yet she was now sick and sore almost beside herself with the agony of the wound, because this man, whom she had been able to throw aside from her heart, had also been able so to throw her aside. And she felt herself constrained to rebuke him with what bitterest words she might use. She had felt it easy to do this at first on her brother's school. She had accused him of treachery to his friendship, both as to Oswald and as to herself, on that she could say cutting words without subjecting herself to suspicion even from herself. But now this power was taken away from her and still she wished to wound him. She desired to taunt him with his old fickleness and yet to subject herself to no imputation. You're right, she said. What gives you any right in the matter? Simply the right of a fair field and no favour. And yet you come to me for favour, to me because I am her friend. You cannot win her yourself and think I may help you. I do not believe in your love for her. There, if there were no other reason and I could help you, I would not because I think your heart is a sham heart. She is pretty and has money. Lady Laura, she is pretty and has money and is the fashion. I do not wonder that you should wish to have her. But Mr. Finn, I believe that Oswald really loves her and that you do not. His nature is deeper than yours. He understood it all now as he listened to the tone of her voice and looked into the lines of her face. There was written there plainly enough that Spreete and Julia Formé of which she herself was conscious, but only conscious. Even his eyes, blind as he had been, were opened and he knew that he'd been a fool. I am sorry that I came to you, he said. It would have been better that you should not have done so, she replied. And yet perhaps it is well that there should be no misunderstanding between us. Of course I must tell my brother. He paused but for a moment and then he answered her with a sharp voice. He has been told. And who told him? I did. I wrote to him the moment that I knew my own mind. I owed it to him to do so. But my letter missed him and he only learned it the other day. Have you seen him since? Yes, I've seen him. And what did he say? How did he take it? Did he bear it from you quietly? No, indeed. And Phineas smiled as he spoke. Tell me, Mr. Finn, what happened? What has to be done? Nothing has to be done. Everything has been done. I may as well tell you all. I am sure that for the sake of me as well as of your brother you will keep our secret. He required that I should either give up my suit or that I should fight him. As I could not comply with one request, I found myself bound to comply with the other. And there has been a duel? Yes, there has been a duel. We went over to Belgium and it was soon settled. He wounded me here in the arm. Suppose you'd killed him, Mr. Finn? That, Lady Laura, would have been a misfortune so terrible that I was bound to prevent it. Then he paused again, regretting what he had said. You have surprised me, Lady Laura, into an answer that I should not have made. I may be sure, may I not, that my words will not go beyond yourself. Yes, you may be sure of that. This, she said plaintively, with a tone of voice and demeanour of body, all together different from that which she lately bore. Neither of them knew what was taking place between them. But she was, in truth, gradually submitting herself again to this man's influence. Though she rebuked him at every turn for what he said, for what he had done, for what he proposed to do, still she could not teach herself to despise him, or even to cease to love him for any part of it. She knew it all now, except that word or two which had passed between Violet and Phineas in the rites of Soulsby Park. But she suspected something even of that, feeling sure that the only matter on which Phineas would say nothing would be that of his own success, if success there had been. And so you and us would have quarrelled, and there has been a duel. That is why you were away? That is why I was away. How wrong of you, how very wrong. Had he been killed, how could you have looked us in the face again? I could not have looked you in the face again. But that is over now. And were you friends afterwards? No, we did not part as friends. Having gone there to fight with him, most unwillingly, I could not afterwards promise him that I would give up Miss Effingham. You say she will accept him now. Let him come and try. She had nothing further to say, no other argument to use. There was the soreness at her heart still present to her, making her wretched, instigating her to hurt him, if she knew how to do so, in spite of her regard for him. But she felt that she was weak and powerless. She had shot her arrows at him, all but one, and if she used that, its poisoned point, would wound herself far more surely than it would touch him. The jewel was very silly, he said. You will not speak of it? No, certainly not. I am glad at least that I have told you everything. I do not know why you should be glad. I cannot help you. And you will say nothing to Violet? Everything that I can say in Oswald's favour, I will say nothing of the jewel, but beyond that you have no right to demand my secrecy with her. Yes, you had better go, Mr Finn, for I am hardly well. And remember this. If you can forget this little episode about Miss Effingham, so will I forget it also, and so will Oswald. I can promise for him. Then she smiled and gave him her hand, and he went. She rose from her chair as he left the room, and waited till she heard the sound of the great door closing behind him before she again sat down. Then, when he was gone, when she was sure that he was no longer there with her in the same house, she later head down upon the arm of the sofa and burst into a flood of tears. She was no longer angry with Phineas, there was no further longing in her heart for revenge. She did not now desire to injure him, though she had done so as long as he was with her. Nay, she resolved instantly, almost instinctively, that Lord Brentford must know nothing of all this, lest the political prospects of the young member of Fullofton should be injured. To have rebuked him, to rebuke him again and again would be only fair, would at least be womanly, but she would protect him from all material injury as far as her power of protection might avail. And why was she weeping now so bitterly? Of course she asked herself, as she rubbed away the tears with her hands, why should she weep? She was not weak enough to tell herself that she was weeping for any injury that had been done to Oswald. She got up suddenly for the sofa, and pushed away her hair from her face, and pushed away the tears from her cheeks, and then clenched her fists as she held them out at full length from her body, and stood, looking up with her eyes fixed upon the wall. As, she exclaimed, full, idiot, that I should not be able to crush it into nothing and have done with it. Why should he not have her? After all, he's better than Oswald. Oh! Is that you? The door of the room had been opened while she was standing thus, and her husband had entered. Yes, it is I. Is anything wrong? Very much is wrong. What is it, Laura? You cannot help me. If you are in trouble, you should tell me what it is, and leave it to me to try to help you. Nonsense, she said, shaking her head. Laura, that is uncurches, not to say unjudiful also. I suppose it was, both. I beg your pardon, but I could not help it. Laura, you should help such words to me. There are moments, Robert, when even a married woman must be herself, rather than her husband's wife. It is so, though you cannot understand it. I certainly do not understand it. You cannot make a woman subject to you as a dog is so. You may have all the outside, and as much of the inside as you can master, with a dog you may be sure of both. I suppose this means that you have secrets in which I am not to share. I have troubles about my father and my brother, which you cannot share. My brother is a ruined man, who ruined him. I will not talk about it any more. I will not speak to you of him or of papa. I only want you to understand that there is a subject which must be secret to myself, and on which I may be allowed to shed tears if I am so weak. I will not trouble you on a matter in which I have not your sympathy. Then she left him, standing in the middle of the room, depressed by what had occurred, but not thinking of it as of a trouble which would do more than make him uncomfortable for that day. END OF CHAPTER 39