Donald Bean’s Pony
Phineas liked being told that the pleasures of opposition and the
pleasures of office were both open to him,--and he liked also to
be the chosen receptacle of Mr. Monk’s confidence. He had come to
understand that he was expected to remain ten days at Loughlinter,
and that then there was to be a general movement. Since the first day
he had seen but little of Mr. Kennedy, but he had found himself very
frequently with Lady Laura. And then had come up the question of his
projected trip to Paris with Lord Chiltern. He had received a letter
from Lord Chiltern.
DEAR FINN,
Are you going to Paris with me?
Yours, C.
There had been not a word beyond this, and before he answered it he
made up his mind to tell Lady Laura the truth. He could not go to
Paris because he had no money.
“I’ve just got that from your brother,” said he.
“How like Oswald. He writes to me perhaps three times in the year,
and his letters are just the same. You will go I hope?”
“Well;--no.”
“I am sorry for that.”
“I wonder whether I may tell you the real reason, Lady Laura.”
“Nay;--I cannot answer that; but unless it be some political secret
between you and Mr. Monk, I should think you might.”
“I cannot afford to go to Paris this autumn. It seems to be a
shocking admission to make,--though I don’t know why it should be.”
“Nor I;--but, Mr. Finn, I like you all the better for making it. I
am very sorry, for Oswald’s sake. It’s so hard to find any companion
for him whom he would like and whom we,--that is I,--should think
altogether--; you know what I mean, Mr. Finn.”
“Your wish that I should go with him is a great compliment, and I
thoroughly wish that I could do it. As it is, I must go to Killaloe
and retrieve my finances. I daresay, Lady Laura, you can hardly
conceive how very poor a man I am.” There was a melancholy tone
about his voice as he said this, which made her think for the moment
whether or no he had been right in going into Parliament, and whether
she had been right in instigating him to do so. But it was too late
to recur to that question now.
“You must climb into office early, and forego those pleasures of
opposition which are so dear to Mr. Monk,” she said, smiling. “After
all, money is an accident which does not count nearly so high as do
some other things. You and Mr. Kennedy have the same enjoyment of
everything around you here.”
“Yes; while it lasts.”
“And Lady Glencora and I stand pretty much on the same footing, in
spite of all her wealth,--except that she is a married woman. I do
not know what she is worth,--something not to be counted; and I am
worth,--just what papa chooses to give me. A ten-pound note at the
present moment I should look upon as great riches.” This was the
first time she had ever spoken to him of her own position as regards
money; but he had heard, or thought that he had heard, that she had
been left a fortune altogether independent of her father.
The last of the ten days had now come, and Phineas was discontented
and almost unhappy. The more he saw of Lady Laura the more he feared
that it was impossible that she should become his wife. And yet from
day to day his intimacy with her became more close. He had never made
love to her, nor could he discover that it was possible for him to
do so. She seemed to be a woman for whom all the ordinary stages of
love-making were quite unsuitable. Of course he could declare his
love and ask her to be his wife on any occasion on which he might
find himself to be alone with her. And on this morning he had made
up his mind that he would do so before the day was over. It might
be possible that she would never speak to him again;--that all the
pleasures and ambitious hopes to which she had introduced him might
be over as soon as that rash word should have been spoken! But,
nevertheless, he would speak it.
On this day there was to be a grouse-shooting party, and the shooters
were to be out early. It had been talked of for some day or two past,
and Phineas knew that he could not escape it. There had been some
rivalry between him and Mr. Bonteen, and there was to be a sort of
match as to which of the two would kill most birds before lunch. But
there had also been some half promise on Lady Laura’s part that she
would walk with him up the Linter and come down upon the lake, taking
an opposite direction from that by which they had returned with Mr.
Kennedy.
“But you will be shooting all day,” she said, when he proposed it to
her as they were starting for the moor. The waggonet that was to take
them was at the door, and she was there to see them start. Her father
was one of the shooting party, and Mr. Kennedy was another.
“I will undertake to be back in time, if you will not think it too
hot. I shall not see you again till we meet in town next year.”
“Then I certainly will go with you,--that is to say, if you are here.
But you cannot return without the rest of the party, as you are going
so far.”
“I’ll get back somehow,” said Phineas, who was resolved that a
few miles more or less of mountain should not detain him from the
prosecution of a task so vitally important to him. “If we start at
five that will be early enough.”
“Quite early enough,” said Lady Laura.
Phineas went off to the mountains, and shot his grouse, and won his
match, and eat his luncheon. Mr. Bonteen, however, was not beaten by
much, and was in consequence somewhat ill-humoured.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” said Mr. Bonteen, “I’ll back myself for
the rest of the day for a ten-pound note.”
Now there had been no money staked on the match at all,--but it had
been simply a trial of skill, as to which would kill the most birds
in a given time. And the proposition for that trial had come from Mr.
Bonteen himself. “I should not think of shooting for money,” said
Phineas.
“And why not? A bet is the only way to decide these things.”
“Partly because I’m sure I shouldn’t hit a bird,” said Phineas, “and
partly because I haven’t got any money to lose.”
“I hate bets,” said Mr. Kennedy to him afterwards. “I was annoyed
when Bonteen offered the wager. I felt sure, however, you would not
accept it.”
“I suppose such bets are very common.”
“I don’t think men ought to propose them unless they are quite
sure of their company. Maybe I’m wrong, and I often feel that I am
strait-laced about such things. It is so odd to me that men cannot
amuse themselves without pitting themselves against each other. When
a man tells me that he can shoot better than I, I tell him that my
keeper can shoot better than he.”
“All the same, it’s a good thing to excel,” said Phineas.
“I’m not so sure of that,” said Mr. Kennedy. “A man who can kill more
salmon than anybody else, can rarely do anything else. Are you going
on with your match?”
“No; I’m going to make my way to Loughlinter.”
“Not alone?”
“Yes, alone.”
“It’s over nine miles. You can’t walk it.”
Phineas looked at his watch, and found that it was now two o’clock.
It was a broiling day in August, and the way back to Loughlinter, for
six or seven out of the nine miles, would be along a high road. “I
must do it all the same,” said he, preparing for a start. “I have an
engagement with Lady Laura Standish; and as this is the last day that
I shall see her, I certainly do not mean to break it.”
“An engagement with Lady Laura,” said Mr. Kennedy. “Why did you not
tell me, that I might have a pony ready? But come along. Donald Bean
has a pony. He’s not much bigger than a dog, but he’ll carry you to
Loughlinter.”
“I can walk it, Mr. Kennedy.”
“Yes; and think of the state in which you’d reach Loughlinter! Come
along with me.”
“But I can’t take you off the mountain,” said Phineas.
“Then you must allow me to take you off.”
So Mr. Kennedy led the way down to Donald Bean’s cottage, and before
three o’clock Phineas found himself mounted on a shaggy steed, which,
in sober truth, was not much bigger than a large dog. “If Mr. Kennedy
is really my rival,” said Phineas to himself, as he trotted along, “I
almost think that I am doing an unhandsome thing in taking the pony.”
At five o’clock he was under the portico before the front door, and
there he found Lady Laura waiting for him,--waiting for him, or at
least ready for him. She had on her hat and gloves and light shawl,
and her parasol was in her hand. He thought that he had never seen
her look so young, so pretty, and so fit to receive a lover’s vows.
But at the same moment it occurred to him that she was Lady Laura
Standish, the daughter of an Earl, the descendant of a line of
Earls,--and that he was the son of a simple country doctor in
Ireland. Was it fitting that he should ask such a woman to be his
wife? But then Mr. Kennedy was the son of a man who had walked into
Glasgow with half-a-crown in his pocket. Mr. Kennedy’s grandfather
had been,--Phineas thought that he had heard that Mr. Kennedy’s
grandfather had been a Scotch drover; whereas his own grandfather
had been a little squire near Ennistimon, in county Clare, and his
own first cousin once removed still held the paternal acres at Finn
Grove. His family was supposed to be descended from kings in that
part of Ireland. It certainly did not become him to fear Lady Laura
on the score of rank, if it was to be allowed to Mr. Kennedy to
proceed without fear on that head. As to wealth, Lady Laura had
already told him that her fortune was no greater than his. Her
statement to himself on that head made him feel that he should not
hesitate on the score of money. They neither had any, and he was
willing to work for both. If she feared the risk, let her say so.
It was thus that he argued with himself; but yet he knew,--knew as
well as the reader will know,--that he was going to do that which he
had no right to do. It might be very well for him to wait,--presuming
him to be successful in his love,--for the opening of that oyster
with his political sword, that oyster on which he proposed that they
should both live; but such waiting could not well be to the taste
of Lady Laura Standish. It could hardly be pleasant to her to look
forward to his being made a junior lord or an assistant secretary
before she could establish herself in her home. So he told himself.
And yet he told himself at the same time that it was incumbent on him
to persevere.
“I did not expect you in the least,” said Lady Laura.
“And yet I spoke very positively.”
“But there are things as to which a man may be very positive, and yet
may be allowed to fail. In the first place, how on earth did you get
home?”
“Mr. Kennedy got me a pony,--Donald Bean’s pony.”
“You told him, then?”
“Yes; I told him why I was coming, and that I must be here. Then he
took the trouble to come all the way off the mountain to persuade
Donald to lend me his pony. I must acknowledge that Mr. Kennedy has
conquered me at last.”
“I am so glad of that,” said Lady Laura. “I knew he would,--unless it
were your own fault.”
They went up the path by the brook, from bridge to bridge, till they
found themselves out upon the open mountain at the top. Phineas had
resolved that he would not speak out his mind till he found himself
on that spot; that then he would ask her to sit down, and that while
she was so seated he would tell her everything. At the present moment
he had on his head a Scotch cap with a grouse’s feather in it, and he
was dressed in a velvet shooting-jacket and dark knickerbockers; and
was certainly, in this costume, as handsome a man as any woman would
wish to see. And there was, too, a look of breeding about him which
had come to him, no doubt, from the royal Finns of old, which ever
served him in great stead. He was, indeed, only Phineas Finn, and
was known by the world to be no more; but he looked as though he
might have been anybody,--a royal Finn himself. And then he had
that special grace of appearing to be altogether unconscious of his
own personal advantages. And I think that in truth he was barely
conscious of them; that he depended on them very little, if at all;
that there was nothing of personal vanity in his composition. He had
never indulged in any hope that Lady Laura would accept him because
he was a handsome man.
“After all that climbing,” he said, “will you not sit down for a
moment?” As he spoke to her she looked at him and told herself that
he was as handsome as a god. “Do sit down for one moment,” he said.
“I have something that I desire to say to you, and to say it here.”
“I will,” she said; “but I also have something to tell you, and will
say it while I am yet standing. Yesterday I accepted an offer of
marriage from Mr. Kennedy.”
“Then I am too late,” said Phineas, and putting his hands into the
pockets of his coat, he turned his back upon her, and walked away
across the mountain.
What a fool he had been to let her know his secret when her knowledge
of it could be of no service to him,--when her knowledge of it could
only make him appear foolish in her eyes! But for his life he could
not have kept his secret to himself. Nor now could he bring himself
to utter a word of even decent civility. But he went on walking as
though he could thus leave her there, and never see her again. What
an ass he had been in supposing that she cared for him! What a fool
to imagine that his poverty could stand a chance against the wealth
of Loughlinter! But why had she lured him on? How he wished that he
were now grinding, hard at work in Mr. Low’s chambers, or sitting
at home at Killaloe with the hand of that pretty little Irish girl
within his own!
Presently he heard a voice behind him,--calling him gently. Then he
turned and found that she was very near him. He himself had then
been standing still for some moments, and she had followed him. “Mr.
Finn,” she said.
“Well;--yes: what is it?” And turning round he made an attempt to
smile.
“Will you not wish me joy, or say a word of congratulation? Had I not
thought much of your friendship, I should not have been so quick to
tell you of my destiny. No one else has been told, except papa.”
“Of course I hope you will be happy. Of course I do. No wonder he
lent me the pony!”
“You must forget all that.”
“Forget what?”
“Well,--nothing. You need forget nothing,” said Lady Laura, “for
nothing has been said that need be regretted. Only wish me joy, and
all will be pleasant.”
“Lady Laura, I do wish you joy, with all my heart,--but that will not
make all things pleasant. I came up here to ask you to be my wife.”
“No;--no, no; do not say it.”
“But I have said it, and will say it again. I, poor, penniless, plain
simple fool that I am, have been ass enough to love you, Lady Laura
Standish; and I brought you up here to-day to ask you to share with
me--my nothingness. And this I have done on soil that is to be all
your own. Tell me that you regard me as a conceited fool,--as a
bewildered idiot.”
“I wish to regard you as a dear friend,--both of my own and of my
husband,” said she, offering him her hand.
“Should I have had a chance, I wonder, if I had spoken a week since?”
“How can I answer such a question, Mr. Finn? Or, rather, I will,
answer it fully. It is not a week since we told each other, you to
me and I to you, that we were both poor,--both without other means
than those which come to us from our fathers. You will make your
way;--will make it surely; but how at present could you marry any
woman unless she had money of her own? For me,--like so many other
girls, it was necessary that I should stay at home or marry some one
rich enough to dispense with fortune in a wife. The man whom in all
the world I think the best has asked me to share everything with
him;--and I have thought it wise to accept his offer.”
“And I was fool enough to think that you loved me,” said Phineas. To
this she made no immediate answer. “Yes, I was. I feel that I owe it
you to tell you what a fool I have been. I did. I thought you loved
me. At least I thought that perhaps you loved me. It was like a child
wanting the moon;--was it not?”
“And why should I not have loved you?” she said slowly, laying her
hand gently upon his arm.
“Why not? Because Loughlinter--”
“Stop, Mr. Finn; stop. Do not say to me any unkind word that I
have not deserved, and that would make a breach between us. I have
accepted the owner of Loughlinter as my husband, because I verily
believe that I shall thus do my duty in that sphere of life to which
it has pleased God to call me. I have always liked him, and I will
love him. For you,--may I trust myself to speak openly to you?”
“You may trust me as against all others, except us two ourselves.”
“For you, then, I will say also that I have always liked you since I
knew you; that I have loved you as a friend;--and could have loved
you otherwise had not circumstances showed me so plainly that it
would be unwise.”
“Oh, Lady Laura!”
“Listen a moment. And pray remember that what I say to you now must
never be repeated to any ears. No one knows it but my father, my
brother, and Mr. Kennedy. Early in the spring I paid my brother’s
debts. His affection to me is more than a return for what I have done
for him. But when I did this,--when I made up my mind to do it, I
made up my mind also that I could not allow myself the same freedom
of choice which would otherwise have belonged to me. Will that be
sufficient, Mr. Finn?”
“How can I answer you, Lady Laura? Sufficient! And you are not angry
with me for what I have said?”
“No, I am not angry. But it is understood, of course, that nothing
of this shall ever be repeated,--even among ourselves. Is that a
bargain?”
“Oh, yes. I shall never speak of it again.”
“And now you will wish me joy?”
“I have wished you joy, Lady Laura. And I will do so again. May you
have every blessing which the world can give you. You cannot expect
me to be very jovial for awhile myself; but there will be nobody to
see my melancholy moods. I shall be hiding myself away in Ireland.
When is the marriage to be?”
“Nothing has been said of that. I shall be guided by him,--but there
must, of course, be delay. There will be settlements and I know not
what. It may probably be in the spring,--or perhaps the summer. I
shall do just what my betters tell me to do.”
Phineas had now seated himself on the exact stone on which he had
wished her to sit when he proposed to tell his own story, and was
looking forth upon the lake. It seemed to him that everything had
been changed for him while he had been up there upon the mountain,
and that the change had been marvellous in its nature. When he had
been coming up, there had been apparently two alternatives before
him: the glory of successful love,--which, indeed, had seemed to him
to be a most improbable result of the coming interview,--and the
despair and utter banishment attendant on disdainful rejection. But
his position was far removed from either of these alternatives. She
had almost told him that she would have loved him had she not been
poor,--that she was beginning to love him and had quenched her love,
because it had become impossible to her to marry a poor man. In such
circumstances he could not be angry with her,--he could not quarrel
with her; he could not do other than swear to himself that he would
be her friend. And yet he loved her better than ever;--and she was
the promised wife of his rival! Why had not Donald Bean’s pony broken
his neck?
“Shall we go down now?” she said.
“Oh, yes.”
“You will not go on by the lake?”
“What is the use? It is all the same now. You will want to be back to
receive him in from shooting.”
“Not that, I think. He is above those little cares. But it will be as
well we should go the nearest way, as we have spent so much of our
time here. I shall tell Mr. Kennedy that I have told you,--if you do
not mind.”
“Tell him what you please,” said Phineas.
“But I won’t have it taken in that way, Mr. Finn. Your brusque want
of courtesy to me I have forgiven, but I shall expect you to make up
for it by the alacrity of your congratulations to him. I will not
have you uncourteous to Mr. Kennedy.”
“If I have been uncourteous I beg your pardon.”
“You need not do that. We are old friends, and may take the liberty
of speaking plainly to each other;--but you will owe it to Mr.
Kennedy to be gracious. Think of the pony.”
They walked back to the house together, and as they went down the
path very little was said. Just as they were about to come out upon
the open lawn, while they were still under cover of the rocks and
shrubs, Phineas stopped his companion by standing before her, and
then he made his farewell speech to her.
“I must say good-bye to you. I shall be away early in the morning.”
“Good-bye, and God bless you,” said Lady Laura.
“Give me your hand,” said he. And she gave him her hand. “I don’t
suppose you know what it is to love dearly.”
“I hope I do.”
“But to be in love! I believe you do not. And to miss your love! I
think,--I am bound to think that you have never been so tormented. It
is very sore;--but I will do my best, like a man, to get over it.”
“Do, my friend, do. So small a trouble will never weigh heavily on
shoulders such as yours.”
“It will weigh very heavily, but I will struggle hard that it may not
crush me. I have loved you so dearly! As we are parting give me one
kiss, that I may think of it and treasure it in my memory!” What
murmuring words she spoke to express her refusal of such a request,
I will not quote; but the kiss had been taken before the denial was
completed, and then they walked on in silence together,--and in
peace, towards the house.
On the next morning six or seven men were going away, and there was
an early breakfast. There were none of the ladies there, but Mr.
Kennedy, the host, was among his friends. A large drag with four
horses was there to take the travellers and their luggage to the
station, and there was naturally a good deal of noise at the front
door as the preparations for the departure were made. In the middle
of them Mr. Kennedy took our hero aside. “Laura has told me,” said
Mr. Kennedy, “that she has acquainted you with my good fortune.”
“And I congratulate you most heartily,” said Phineas, grasping the
other’s hand. “You are indeed a lucky fellow.”
“I feel myself to be so,” said Mr. Kennedy. “Such a wife was all that
was wanting to me, and such a wife is very hard to find. Will you
remember, Finn, that Loughlinter will never be so full but what
there will be a room for you, or so empty but what you will be made
welcome? I say this on Lady Laura’s part and on my own.”
Phineas, as he was being carried away to the railway station, could
not keep himself from speculating as to how much Kennedy knew of
what had taken place during the walk up the Linter. Of one small
circumstance that had occurred, he felt quite sure that Mr. Kennedy
knew nothing.