Mr. Kennedy’s Luck
After the holding of that Cabinet Council of which the author has
dared to attempt a slight sketch in the last chapter, there were
various visits made to the Queen, first by Mr. Mildmay, and then by
Lord de Terrier, afterwards by Mr. Mildmay and the Duke together, and
then again by Lord de Terrier; and there were various explanations
made to Parliament in each House, and rivals were very courteous to
each other, promising assistance;--and at the end of it the old men
held their seats. The only change made was effected by the retirement
of Sir Marmaduke Morecombe, who was raised to the peerage, and by
the selection of--Mr. Kennedy to fill his place in the Cabinet. Mr.
Kennedy during the late debate had made one of those speeches, few
and far between, by which he had created for himself a Parliamentary
reputation; but, nevertheless, all men expressed their great
surprise, and no one could quite understand why Mr. Kennedy had been
made a Cabinet Minister.
“It is impossible to say whether he is pleased or not,” said Lady
Laura, speaking of him to Phineas. “I am pleased, of course.”
“His ambition must be gratified,” said Phineas.
“It would be, if he had any,” said Lady Laura.
“I do not believe in a man lacking ambition.”
“It is hard to say. There are men who by no means wear their hearts
upon their sleeves, and my husband is one of them. He told me that it
would be unbecoming in him to refuse, and that was all he said to me
about it.”
The old men held their seats, but they did so as it were only upon
further trial. Mr. Mildmay took the course which he had indicated to
his colleagues at the Cabinet meeting. Before all the explanations
and journeyings were completed, April was over, and the much-needed
Whitsuntide holidays were coming on. But little of the routine work
of the session had been done; and, as Mr. Mildmay told the House
more than once, the country would suffer were the Queen to dissolve
Parliament at this period of the year. The old Ministers would go on
with the business of the country, Lord de Terrier with his followers
having declined to take affairs into their hands; and at the close of
the session, which should be made as short as possible, writs should
be issued for new elections. This was Mr. Mildmay’s programme, and it
was one of which no one dared to complain very loudly.
Mr. Turnbull, indeed, did speak a word of caution. He told Mr.
Mildmay that he had lost his bill, good in other respects, because he
had refused to introduce the ballot into his measure. Let him promise
to be wiser for the future, and to obey the manifested wishes of the
country, and then all would be well with him. In answer to this,
Mr. Mildmay declared that to the best of his power of reading the
country, his countrymen had manifested no such wish; and that if they
did so, if by the fresh election it should be shown that the ballot
was in truth desired, he would at once leave the execution of their
wishes to abler and younger hands. Mr. Turnbull expressed himself
perfectly satisfied with the Minister’s answers, and said that the
coming election would show whether he or Mr. Mildmay were right.
Many men, and among them some of his colleagues, thought that Mr.
Mildmay had been imprudent. “No man ought ever to pledge himself
to anything,” said Sir Harry Coldfoot to the Duke;--“that is, to
anything unnecessary.” The Duke, who was very true to Mr. Mildmay,
made no reply to this, but even he thought that his old friend
had been betrayed into a promise too rapidly. But the pledge was
given, and some people already began to make much of it. There
appeared leader after leader in the _People’s Banner_ urging the
constituencies to take advantage of the Prime Minister’s words, and
to show clearly at the hustings that they desired the ballot. “You
had better come over to us, Mr. Finn; you had indeed,” said Mr.
Slide. “Now’s the time to do it, and show yourself a people’s friend.
You’ll have to do it sooner or later,--whether or no. Come to us and
we’ll be your horgan.”
But in those days Phineas was something less in love with Mr. Quintus
Slide than he had been at the time of the great debate, for he was
becoming more and more closely connected with people who in their
ways of living and modes of expression were very unlike Mr. Slide.
This advice was given to him about the end of May, and at that
time Lord Chiltern was living with him in the lodgings in Great
Marlborough Street. Miss Pouncefoot had temporarily vacated her
rooms on the first floor, and the Lord with the broken bones had
condescended to occupy them. “I don’t know that I like having a
Lord,” Bunce had said to his wife. “It’ll soon come to you not liking
anybody decent anywhere,” Mrs. Bunce had replied; “but I shan’t ask
any questions about it. When you’re wasting so much time and money
at your dirty law proceedings, it’s well that somebody should earn
something at home.”
There had been many discussions about the bringing of Lord Chiltern
up to London, in all of which Phineas had been concerned. Lord
Brentford had thought that his son had better remain down at the
Willingford Bull; and although he said that the rooms were at his
son’s disposal should Lord Chiltern choose to come to London, still
he said it in such a way that Phineas, who went down to Willingford,
could not tell his friend that he would be made welcome in Portman
Square. “I think I shall leave those diggings altogether,” Lord
Chiltern said to him. “My father annoys me by everything he says and
does, and I annoy him by saying and doing nothing.” Then there came
an invitation to him from Lady Laura and Mr. Kennedy. Would he come
to Grosvenor Place? Lady Laura pressed this very much, though in
truth Mr. Kennedy had hardly done more than give a cold assent. But
Lord Chiltern would not hear of it. “There is some reason for my
going to my father’s house,” said he, “though he and I are not the
best friends in the world; but there can be no reason for my going
to the house of a man I dislike so much as I do Robert Kennedy.” The
matter was settled in the manner told above. Miss Pouncefoot’s rooms
were prepared for him at Mr. Bunce’s house, and Phineas Finn went
down to Willingford and brought him up. “I’ve sold Bonebreaker,” he
said,--“to a young fellow whose neck will certainly be the sacrifice
if he attempts to ride him. I’d have given him to you, Phineas, only
you wouldn’t have known what to do with him.”
Lord Chiltern when he came up to London was still in bandages,
though, as the surgeon said, his bones seemed to have been made to be
broken and set again; and his bandages of course were a sufficient
excuse for his visiting the house neither of his father nor his
brother-in-law. But Lady Laura went to him frequently, and thus
became acquainted with our hero’s home and with Mrs. Bunce. And there
were messages taken from Violet to the man in bandages, some of which
lost nothing in the carrying. Once Lady Laura tried to make Violet
think that it would be right, or rather not wrong, that they two
should go together to Lord Chiltern’s rooms.
“And would you have me tell my aunt, or would you have me not tell
her?” Violet asked.
“I would have you do just as you pleased,” Lady Laura answered.
“So I shall,” Violet replied, “but I will do nothing that I should be
ashamed to tell any one. Your brother professes to be in love with
me.”
“He is in love with you,” said Lady Laura. “Even you do not pretend
to doubt his faith.”
“Very well. In those circumstances a girl should not go to a man’s
rooms unless she means to consider herself as engaged to him, even
with his sister;--not though he had broken every bone in his skin. I
know what I may do, Laura, and I know what I mayn’t; and I won’t be
led either by you or by my aunt.”
“May I give him your love?”
“No;--because you’ll give it in a wrong spirit. He knows well enough
that I wish him well;--but you may tell him that from me, if you
please. He has from me all those wishes which one friend owes to
another.”
But there were other messages sent from Violet through Phineas Finn
which she worded with more show of affection,--perhaps as much for
the discomfort of Phineas as for the consolation of Lord Chiltern.
“Tell him to take care of himself,” said Violet, “and bid him not to
have any more of those wild brutes that are not fit for any Christian
to ride. Tell him that I say so. It’s a great thing to be brave; but
what’s the use of being foolhardy?”
The session was to be closed at the end of June, to the great dismay
of London tradesmen and of young ladies who had not been entirely
successful in the early season. But before the old Parliament was
closed, and the writs for the new election were despatched, there
occurred an incident which was of very much importance to Phineas
Finn. Near the end of June, when the remaining days of the session
were numbered by three or four, he had been dining at Lord
Brentford’s house in Portman Square in company with Mr. Kennedy. But
Lady Laura had not been there. At this time he saw Lord Brentford not
unfrequently, and there was always a word said about Lord Chiltern.
The father would ask how the son occupied himself, and Phineas would
hope,--though hitherto he had hoped in vain,--that he would induce
the Earl to come and see Lord Chiltern. Lord Brentford could never be
brought to that; but it was sufficiently evident that he would have
done so, had he not been afraid to descend so far from the altitude
of his paternal wrath. On this evening, at about eleven, Mr. Kennedy
and Phineas left the house together, and walked from the Square
through Orchard Street into Oxford Street. Here their ways parted,
but Phineas crossed the road with Mr. Kennedy, as he was making some
reply to a second invitation to Loughlinter. Phineas, considering
what had been said before on the subject, thought that the invitation
came late, and that it was not warmly worded. He had, therefore,
declined it, and was in the act of declining it, when he crossed the
road with Mr. Kennedy. In walking down Orchard Street from the Square
he had seen two men standing in the shadow a few yards up a mews or
small alley that was there, but had thought nothing of them. It was
just that period of the year when there is hardly any of the darkness
of night; but at this moment there were symptoms of coming rain, and
heavy drops began to fall; and there were big clouds coming and going
before the young moon. Mr. Kennedy had said that he would get a cab,
but he had seen none as he crossed Oxford Street, and had put up his
umbrella as he made his way towards Park Street. Phineas as he left
him distinctly perceived the same two figures on the other side of
Oxford Street, and then turning into the shadow of a butcher’s porch,
he saw them cross the street in the wake of Mr. Kennedy. It was now
raining in earnest, and the few passengers who were out were scudding
away quickly, this way and that.
It hardly occurred to Phineas to think that any danger was imminent
to Mr. Kennedy from the men, but it did occur to him that he might as
well take some notice of the matter. Phineas knew that Mr. Kennedy
would make his way down Park Street, that being his usual route from
Portman Square towards his own home, and knew also that he himself
could again come across Mr. Kennedy’s track by going down North
Audley Street to the corner of Grosvenor Square, and thence by Brook
Street into Park Street. Without much thought, therefore, he went
out of his own course down to the corner of the Square, hurrying his
steps till he was running, and then ran along Brook Street, thinking
as he went of some special word that he might say to Mr. Kennedy as
an excuse, should he again come across his late companion. He reached
the corner of Park Street before that gentleman could have been there
unless he also had run; but just in time to see him as he was coming
on,--and also to see in the dark glimmering of the slight uncertain
moonlight that the two men were behind him. He retreated a step
backwards in the corner, resolving that when Mr. Kennedy came up,
they two would go on together; for now it was clear that Mr. Kennedy
was followed. But Mr. Kennedy did not reach the corner. When he was
within two doors of it, one of the men had followed him up quickly,
and had thrown something round his throat from behind him. Phineas
understood well now that his friend was in the act of being
garrotted, and that his instant assistance was needed. He rushed
forward, and as the second ruffian had been close upon the footsteps
of the first, there was almost instantaneously a concourse of the
four men. But there was no fight. The man who had already nearly
succeeded in putting Mr. Kennedy on to his back, made no attempt to
seize his prey when he found that so unwelcome an addition had joined
the party, but instantly turned to fly. His companion was turning
also, but Phineas was too quick for him, and having seized on to his
collar, held to him with all his power. “Dash it all,” said the man,
“didn’t yer see as how I was a-hurrying up to help the gen’leman
myself?” Phineas, however, hadn’t seen this, and held on gallantly,
and in a couple of minutes the first ruffian was back again upon the
spot in the custody of a policeman. “You’ve done it uncommon neat,
sir,” said the policeman, complimenting Phineas upon his performance.
“If the gen’leman ain’t none the worst for it, it’ll have been a very
pretty evening’s amusement.” Mr. Kennedy was now leaning against the
railings, and hitherto had been unable to declare whether he was
really injured or not, and it was not till a second policeman came up
that the hero of the night was at liberty to attend closely to his
friend.
Mr. Kennedy, when he was able to speak, declared that for a minute
or two he had thought that his neck had been broken; and he was not
quite convinced till he found himself in his own house, that nothing
more serious had really happened to him than certain bruises round
his throat. The policeman was for a while anxious that at any
rate Phineas should go with him to the police-office; but at last
consented to take the addresses of the two gentlemen. When he
found that Mr. Kennedy was a member of Parliament, and that he was
designated as Right Honourable, his respect for the garrotter became
more great, and he began to feel that the night was indeed a night
of great importance. He expressed unbounded admiration at Mr. Finn’s
success in his own line, and made repeated promises that the men
should be forthcoming on the morrow. Could a cab be got? Of course a
cab could be got. A cab was got, and within a quarter of an hour of
the making of the attack, the two members of Parliament were on their
way to Grosvenor Place.
There was hardly a word spoken in the cab, for Mr. Kennedy was in
pain. When, however, they reached the door in Grosvenor Place,
Phineas wanted to go, and leave his friend with the servants, but
this the Cabinet Minister would not allow. “Of course you must see
my wife,” he said. So they went up-stairs into the drawing-room,
and then upon the stairs, by the lights of the house, Phineas could
perceive that his companion’s face was bruised and black with dirt,
and that his cravat was gone.
“I have been garrotted,” said the Cabinet Minister to his wife.
“What?”
“Simply that;--or should have been, if he had not been there. How he
came there, God only knows.”
The wife’s anxiety, and then her gratitude, need hardly be
described,--nor the astonishment of the husband, which by no means
decreased on reflection, at the opportune re-appearance in the nick
of time of the man whom three minutes before the attack he had left
in the act of going in the opposite direction.
“I had seen the men, and thought it best to run round by the corner
of Grosvenor Square,” said Phineas.
“May God bless you,” said Lady Laura.
“Amen,” said the Cabinet Minister.
“I think he was born to be my friend,” said Lady Laura.
The Cabinet Minister said nothing more that night. He was never given
to much talking, and the little accident which had just occurred to
him did not tend to make words easy to him. But he pressed our hero’s
hand, and Lady Laura said that of course Phineas would come to them
on the morrow. Phineas remarked that his first business must be to
go to the police-office, but he promised that he would come down to
Grosvenor Place immediately afterwards. Then Lady Laura also pressed
his hand, and looked--; she looked, I think, as though she thought
that Phineas would only have done right had he repeated the offence
which he had committed under the waterfall of Loughlinter.
“Garrotted!” said Lord Chiltern, when Phineas told him the story
before they went to bed that night. He had been smoking, sipping
brandy-and-water, and waiting for Finn’s return. “Robert Kennedy
garrotted!”
“The fellow was in the act of doing it.”
“And you stopped him?”
“Yes;--I got there just in time. Wasn’t it lucky?”
“You ought to be garrotted yourself. I should have lent the man a
hand had I been there.”
“How can you say anything so horrible? But you are drinking too much,
old fellow, and I shall lock the bottle up.”
“If there were no one in London drank more than I do, the wine
merchants would have a bad time of it. And so the new Cabinet
Minister has been garrotted in the street. Of course I’m sorry for
poor Laura’s sake.”
“Luckily he’s not much the worse for it;--only a little bruised.”
“I wonder whether it’s on the cards he should be improved by
it;--worse, except in the way of being strangled, he could not be.
However, as he’s my brother-in-law, I’m obliged to you for rescuing
him. Come, I’ll go to bed. I must say, if he was to be garrotted I
should like to have been there to see it.” That was the manner in
which Lord Chiltern received the tidings of the terrible accident
which had occurred to his near relative.